A/N: Hiya all!
Okay, I'll admit it. This is the crossover nobody ever asked for.
The truth is that I wrote this in January-February of 2015 when I was in the midst of a 5-year depressive bipolar downswing. To keep myself going and afloat, I turned to two of my most trusted and beloved fandoms – TMNT and Gundam Wing. I'd long wondered about what happens when you put two such groups together; both fighting teams with badass teamwork, but entirely different mentalities when it comes to honor versus killing their opponents. And this was the time.
My beta says that I shouldn't be bothered about the crazy premise of this story given stuff that is canonical to TMNT anyway. Ultimately, whether or not this story is stupid, I wrote it and it helped me, and I enjoyed myself a ton doing it. So you get this story anyway.
If you don't know Gundam Wing, you can probably limp along with this story, though a read-through Wikipedia might be worth doing. If you don't know TMNT, this will be harder, but you can also probably limp along with some Wikipedia help. Or, you know, poke me with a review/comment and I can give you a brief backstory.
In terms of my other works, this is very much a sequel to The Silken Cord, though the Quests will not be appearing in it – however, the psychic connection that happened in that story is very, very relevant to this one. This is not specifically connected to any of my existing TMNT works, however; for timing, the TMNT events take place in the aftermath of the Turtles Forever movie.
In general, warnings for canon-appropriate violence but that's about it.
I hope at least someone finds something worthwhile here. But either way, this story got me through a very dark time and for that I am extremely grateful.
Enjoy!
Part 1: The Path That Leads to Nowhere
It should have been a normal day.
For once, all five of the former Gundam pilots had been in the Preventers office on L1 at the same time. Even Quatre had taken a day to catch up with his Preventers paperwork, which was the only reason Duo bothered to show up. Wufei couldn't threaten Duo into completing his own no matter how he tried, but Quatre had a gift it – and a propensity for bribing him with pastries.
They'd spent most of the day working on their own tasks. Wufei had a separate office from the one Heero and Duo shared, and he had made room at a side-table for Quatre while Trowa 'kept the peace' next door. That was what people thought, anyway. No one outside of the five of them could have understood that Heero and Duo sharing an office was neither a punishment nor a cruel joke nor a desperate move by Une to try to keep her most unpredictable elements in balance. Only the Gundams knew better.
The empathic link that bound them had grown in the year since it had manifested from Quatre's gift. Quatre himself was still the center of it, but the others were beginning to experience echoes of one another as well, echoes that didn't necessarily pass through Quatre at all anymore. And Quatre had mastered the art of leaving a low, humming connection open between all five, a running status and awareness that lived in the background of all their minds. So when outsiders cringed at the thought of Heero and Duo sharing an office – and for whom they felt sorrier depended on the day – the Gundams understood. They were already beating to a single heart-beat, breathing to a single rhythm. After that, loud arguments about file cabinets and garbage-can basketball were just games to keep them entertained.
It should have been a normal, even quieter-than-usual day.
When the low tremor of concern and confusion began to permeate the awareness of Heero, Duo, and Trowa, none of them worried. Wufei was often concerned, and if he had a case worthy of the emotion, he might well be confused by the actions of whatever evil had arisen in the course of his investigation. And Quatre had been in the room with him all day and hadn't sent anything notable across, so no one gave it much thought at first.
Until they retreated from the office to the house on L1.
"What's that?"
Duo's question was light, playful almost, but only to those who didn't know how to read him. His gaze was focused and icy, and his hands were behind his back where he could reach his braid and the equipment he kept concealed within it.
"It came this afternoon," Wufei answered, meeting Duo's expression steadily. "Preventers Tech cleared it."
"But you're not sure." Trowa stood leaning against the wall, nonchalance in his pose and not at all in his eyes.
"Quatre and I thought everyone should take a look at it in a secure location. It feels wrong somehow." Wufei shrugged. "It was addressed to me, and it seems to have come from my home colony, but…" He did not finish. They all knew there was no longer a colony from which to send anything, just a field of debris and painful memories.
A moment later, Quatre and Heero entered the room. The sitting room which was normally bright and cheerful felt strange to the empath, smoky and shady, and he repressed a shiver. But none of the others missed it.
Heero looked at the package and moved towards it. "You brought it here," he said, "so it doesn't respond to external pressure or motion."
"It isn't a bomb." Wufei shook his head. "Tech would have noticed that at least. It's something else."
"It's something, all right," Quatre said. He looked up to Wufei and met his eyes. "May I?"
"Yes."
"Quatre." The warning was growled in unison by the other three in the room. Trowa finished their thought, "Be careful."
Quatre smiled reassuringly. He moved to the table, aware of the others crowding closer, both to see and to intervene, not that any of them knew precisely what to expect. The box was a thick metal, the clasp already undone by the Preventers inspection. Quatre pushed back the lid and peered inside.
Another box, this one an even thicker metal, filled the space. The feeling of oddness in the room doubled.
Gingerly, Quatre lifted out the heavy box. It was plain, like one of many thousands of shipping containers used in space for two generations, but there was a keypad lock on it that was no more than ten years old. Scratched above the lock were a few Chinese characters.
"Bushido home?" Heero translated, tipping his head to the side. "Can that be right?"
"It's the combination," Wufei answered. "There are seven virtues of Bushido, and the temple at which I studied the virtues was on L5-142864. So the combination is 75142864."
He keyed it in over Quatre's shoulder. There was a soft beep and the box opened.
The scent of wood, paper, and chalk spilled into the air. It was an old, heady scent, and Wufei found it taking him back to his days as a child in the temple of L5, learning the ways of a warrior at the feet of his master. His great-grandfather had been his first, best teacher. It was from that man he had learned the use of the dao, the skills of hand-to-hand combat, and the ways of honor.
Quatre lifted yet another box out and set it on the table. This was a wooden box, beautifully inlaid with jade in the form of a dragon. Balanced on top was a scroll. Without a word, Quatre handed it to Wufei and politely turned his eyes away to let his friend read privately.
Wufei appreciated the kindness, but he opened the scroll and began to read aloud anyway. He had come this far – there was no point in keeping a secret now from the other four in the room.
"Chang Wufei,
I send this to you, to be delivered on the summer solstice after your 20th birthday. Of all my pupils, only you may be worthy of this legacy of the Long Clan. It is my hope that my son will survive me to explain its meaning to you in full, for there is much to explain. But to guard against fate, I leave you this knowledge.
Yours is a world of science, but once our family knew the secrets of what you would call ancient magic. Technology may someday replicate the powers of the items in this box, but never will science understand them fully. You know that ours is one world of many possibilities. This box contains the key to open a doorway to another such possibility.
Every three years by our count, warriors gather from many different worlds in a grand tournament, a battle of skill against skill for only the most worthy. The Long Clan has sent more than one warrior to this nexus to compete, and we have comported ourselves with honor and skill on each occasion. I myself have traveled to this other world to seek a worthy opponent.
The solstice falls but two days before the beginning of this tournament, my great-grandson. So the year in which you receive this box you are eligible under the traditions of our Clan to make the journey if you so wish. You will meet creatures of worlds and appearances you cannot imagine, and you will learn for yourself how powerful you are.
You, Chang Wufei, are the only true heir and inheritor to my teachings of all our Clan. To you alone I give this choice. If you seek to prove your strength, or if you seek to learn the meaning of strength, I bid you to attempt the journey. Our name is known, and if you speak of Long Ming you will find the students and heirs of my own allies.
Serve our Clan with honor and strength, Chang Wufei. Health and good fortune be with you."
There was a very long silence.
"Um," Duo finally managed. "Um…okay…"
"Wufei?" Heero looked over.
"I don't…" He was shaking his head. "I don't know what…"
"Open the box, Wufei," Trowa said softly.
Almost numbly, Wufei carefully lifted the lid from the wooden box. Within it was a piece of white chalk, an empty bowl made of bone, and two etchings that appeared to be made of gold, everything at least several centuries old. Wufei lifted the first one, on which was written an ancient meditation chant. The other bore a strange symbol.
"How does it work?" Quatre asked.
"If…if it works at all," Wufei shook himself back to sense, "one would inscribe these symbols on a wall using the chalk. Then a bowl of water would be placed before it and the chant would be recited." He scowled. "Magic. Impossible."
"Is it?" Heero asked. He shot a smirking glance to Quatre, and all at once a feeling of warmth and connectedness and security filled every heart in the room in response to the obvious request.
"Winner." Wufei frowned warningly in spite of the feeling.
"Even science cannot explain my empathy," Quatre replied. "Nor can it explain what happens in meditation when we join our minds."
"Do not dismiss what you do not know only because you do not wish to know," Heero added.
"Are you asking me to do this? This superstitious, meaningless ritual?" Wufei crossed his arms and glared.
"Hey, what's the harm?" Duo asked. "If it's a dud, it's a dud. But if not, it could be worth seeing."
"Besides." Trowa stepped up close and looked over the items. "It's from your family. That should mean something to you, Wufei, even if it's also nonsense."
Trowa met Wufei's suddenly stricken look with a calm one of his own. It wasn't often that they spoke of it, but there was no denying that family, or, rather, the lack thereof, mattered to all five ex-Gundam pilots. Three had been raised as orphans, sheltered sometimes by caring individuals, but ultimately alone. Wufei had lost every member of his family, his entire Clan, during the Eve wars. Only Quatre had any living blood-kin, but he was still without father or mother.
Wufei turned back to the items. His fingers ran over the familiar calligraphy of his great-grandfather's writing. He remembered the temple once more, and all the secrets of ancient wisdom that had been lost with its destruction. He remembered being a child and never wanting to return to his "real" home on L5 because nowhere felt as real to him as that serene place.
"All right."
Wufei took up the items and moved through the sitting room to the door that opened to the small garden. In terms of one of Quatre's houses, the L1 place was much less ostentatious than the Winner family home on L4, but it still afforded a private portion of land hidden from the outside world by high walls and taller trees. Wufei dipped the bowl into the little pond on his way to the back wall.
Wufei set the bowl down and took the chalk in one hand. Then he called over his shoulder, "Well? Come on."
The other four had remained inside, and at the distance might not have heard his words. But Quatre was listening to Wufei's emotions, and he heard the invitation for what it was. Part of Wufei's heart was sorrowful, repeating a sacred practice that reminded him so much of the family he had lost, and that part would be sadder still when – if – it proved not to work. But part of Wufei's heart also knew that his family now was with the once-Gundam pilots, and this was a burden he wanted to share.
So Quatre nodded to the others and they joined him.
Wufei drew the shapes carefully before settling before the image on the soft grass. He did not glance back at the other four as he folded his hands and began the chant.
And then the water began to glow.
When the water leaped out of the bowl, crawled up the wall, and formed into a shimmering doorway, all five soldiers were more than a little surprised. Battle-hardened reflexes had them all jumping backwards and, in the case of Heero and Duo, drawing weapons instinctively.
"Um. Uh, this…well…huh," Quatre managed, in utter contradiction to his usually quick mind.
"That…" Trowa smirked, "was unexpected."
"Zengzufu-laoshi," Wufei breathed. Then he turned to the others with sharp decisiveness. "I must go. It is my duty and honor to fulfill my family's wish and become a part of this tradition."
"Man, we already know that." Duo shrugged, returning his gun to its holster. "We kinda figured it out after it actually worked. We get it. You don't have to convince us. We just need to know if you want us to come with you."
"Remember to alert Une that you will be absent from Preventers for some time," Heero added. "She will not be pleased if any of us disappear again without warning her."
"Agreed," Wufei nodded at Heero. But he looked back at Duo and hesitated. "I don't…"
"It's all right," Quatre said, and he put a hand on Wufei's shoulder. "We understand. We'll see you off though, all right?"
"Yes, of course. I…I will begin to prepare at once. The letter said the tournament begins in two days, but I want to arrive early. I just…I need some things." Wufei tried to pull himself together with a visible effort.
"Wufei." Heero's voice was cold and sharp. That, and the steel beneath it, drew the last of the shock away into icy focus.
Wufei looked across to him.
"There is no way for us to secure this location," Heero said. What he didn't say – his worry, his deep mistrust of the situation – rang loudly through their connection.
"And no way to ensure you can return," Trowa added quietly.
"My great-grandfather obviously returned," Wufei argued. But before anyone could object, he raised a hand. "I know that means nothing. What we are considering…it is almost unfathomable." His dark eyes closed and when they opened, they echoed his certainty. "But I will go. I must."
The others nodded. They understood. With his resolve rebounding in their hearts, how could they not?
"Make a list of everything you could ever want to bring," Quatre said. "Whatever you don't have in your own supplies I can provide. Will tomorrow morning be soon enough?"
"Winner, there is no reason for you to – "
"There is every reason," Quatre cut him off firmly. "Every reason, Wufei."
"And while you guys pack," Duo put in, "we'll start running scenarios. Between the three of us, we'll try to come up with everything we can imagine and then some so you're ready for anything."
"With your imagination, I have no doubt we will be successful," Trowa told him with a wry smile.
"I will also attempt to track down any other record of this tournament," Heero said. "The more information you have going in, the better your chances of accomplishing your mission."
"My mission?"
They didn't answer him in words. But Quatre's heart gathered their feelings and opened them to him, emotions that were clearer than any words at all. To come back to us.
"Even if we can't go with you," Quatre said, "let us do this much for you. Please."
Their connection warmed and brightened, and Wufei knew he could not deny them this. Could not keep them from their own chance to protect him even from another dimension. As he would do for any of them.
"Very well."
-==OOO==-
Hamato Splinter looked around the lair appreciatively. It was a true testament to the strength and endurance and boundless optimism of his sons – no matter how many homes were destroyed or from how many lairs they were driven by enemies, his sons never failed to find a new space and remake it into their own. Within six months of the strange universe-hopping adventure wherein they had befriended two alternate sets of ninja turtles from different worlds, the pump-station lair that had been demolished was almost forgotten.
This time, Splinter believed his family had outdone themselves. While their first lair had been a small, disused portion of the original Manhattan sewers, their second had been a relic of an ancient people who had since retreated deep into the earth, and the third had been a spacious pump station under Central Park, the latest home had incorporated the best features of all three. Using some combination of research and gadgetry, Donatello had located another of the subterranean "watchtowers" like that which had been their second lair.
This one, however, was deeper still under the myriad layers of subway and sewer that defined the New York City underground – deep enough that even the most adventurous or most desperate human seekers rarely tread. It was handy to one of the older sewer runoffs, in an area that would never be considered for future subway expansions due to historic buildings on the surface, and yet it was still within easy walking distance of their friends. In fact, the newest lair was actually closer to both the Jones-O'Neil apartment and Leatherhead's own lair. Its only failing was that it lacked immediate river access.
But the advantages of this new lair were much more than mere geography. As one of the subterranean "watchtowers," it contained a small elevator to the surface – not as large as the previous which could even transport vehicles, but large enough for four turtles and their allies to share for one ride. Now knowing the chamber's origins meant Donatello had found ways to work with the ancient technology inherent in it, reviving some of its previous security measures and innate defenses. He had also infused the very walls with protective materials so the lair could withstand a far more robust explosion than what had destroyed the previous two.
Master Splinter did not understand all that his brightest son had done, but he knew enough to know that Donatello had tripled the surveillance and monitoring equipment out more than a mile in every direction from the lair, ensuring that anyone approaching would be caught on one of any number of alarm systems and backup alarm systems and backup-backup alarm systems.
While Donatello had toiled on the lair's security and technical specifications, his brothers had managed the interior. Together – and with a modicum of peace between them for once – they had chosen rooms off the main, atrium-shaped space for bedrooms, which they then filled with what items could be salvaged from their previous home. Master Splinter knew it was no accident that they had given the room closest to Donatello's workshop to that brother, nor that they had designated the prettily-tiled room for himself. In fact, it seemed that they had prioritized the space first for Donatello's workshop and lab, then for the dojo, then for their father's studies, and only after that for their own bedrooms and communal entertainment areas.
But there was room enough for all. The atrium was more vertical than horizontal, with a parallel though smaller room attached to it that had become the dojo with a much-improved high acrobatics course above the matted floors. Between the two spire-shaped areas was the room given to their sensei. Off the main atrium were the large room for Donatello's workspace, a sizable bathroom, and the elevator. The kitchen and living areas were part of the communal round space on the main floor. One level up housed the four turtles' bedrooms and some storage in the two remaining rooms. The third floor, designated the "attic" by Michelangelo in spite of the fact that it wasn't attic-like in any way, was left open for now.
It had taken six months, but the new lair was as homey and filled with life as its three predecessors had been. The kitchen nook was as well-ordered as any kitchen shared by four near-adults and their father; the entertainment area across from it was strewn with discarded couches and cushions and a television that Splinter believed his son had designed and built from scratch. The dojo was beautifully appointed with a full weapons rack, the dedicated virtues of Bushido on long screens, and two different elaborate rope-and-platform courses, one above the other, suspended high enough to provide clearance for all the work normally done on the mats. The bedrooms had been furnished per the owner's preferences and even the walls were beginning to show posters and pictures again; Splinter's own room even contained a small pool of water and a tile mural depicting a tranquil seaside scene.
And everywhere were the touches of the family who lived here – Leonardo's sturdy candlesticks for additional practice were placed to one side of the entertainment area where he was near enough to be with his brothers even when he was the only one training, and Raphael had hung a punching bag nearby under an overhang for the same reason. Michelangelo had scavenged a ten-foot tower covered in carpet for Klunk, which he set right beside the kitchen where he could chatter happily with his beloved cat. And while Donatello's lab might be behind closed doors, his computer array sat filling the broad, arching alcove that led to it, so that he was within easy discussion range of his brothers and they could watch the security monitors themselves from almost anywhere in that portion of the lair.
Splinter padded on silent feet to gaze at the screens hung on one side, all showing footage of the many, many junctions and areas and possible entrances Donatello had covered in his unceasing focus on security. The screens flicked from one angle to another, green lines and dots highlighting motion or heat signatures or changes in pressure.
The center screen suddenly lit up with a display of Raphael and Leonardo making their way through the tunnels, arms loaded with grocery bags. Splinter noted that the pair seemed to be talking, but from what he could read of their body-language, their bickering was remaining at friendly levels for now. He watched as the pair made each checkpoint, signaling their status and their identities with code words, voice analysis, and even the presence of their shell-cell phones.
He turned to gaze at where Michelangelo was curled up in his new favorite spot, a comic book in his hands and Klunk purring on his feet. Beside him, Donatello was chattering mostly to himself as he tinkered with some aspect of the entertainment system that had not yet met his exacting standards. Then a low tone sounded and both glanced up to the security monitors to confirm that it was just their brothers entering the elevator. Within moments, Raphael and Leonardo emerged in mid-discussion of what appeared to be the relative merits of different brands of salsa. Michelangelo bellowed something from his seat and Donatello gave him a smack without even looking up while the other two turtles began putting away the groceries.
Such good boys, Splinter thought fondly. Such brave, honorable ninja. Such excellent sons.
He almost hated to break the friendly tableau, but his news should not wait.
"Before you begin dinner," he spoke, raising his voice just enough to be heard. At once, all four sons went silent and turned to listen.
"Yes, Master Splinter?" Leonardo asked, a bottle of mustard still in one hand.
"There is something I would like to tell you. Please join me, my sons." And he moved to the very center of the room where the meditation mats were still set up from the day's training. Splinter took his place before them and waited for his sons to follow.
Leonardo went immediately to his place across from Splinter's right hand as befit the eldest son and heir to the clan. Beside him, Donatello settled into his spot as second-eldest and his brother's acting second-in-command, his technical expertise and unmatched intelligence responsible for the plans that kept the family safe or got them out of trouble. To his other side, Raphael dropped to the mat, tugging on Michelangelo's bandana as he kneeled beside him.
It was something of a draw between who was truly older between Donatello and Raphael, and in the end both did their part to serve the family in entirely different ways. But besides the natural gravitation the turtles had shown to putting their trust in Donatello's mind, Splinter had often needed to separate Raphael from Leonardo as children to stem their ongoing conflict, and so this placement had become tradition. They did not always sit in this order before him, but Splinter was pleased that they had all wordlessly interpreted his tone and were behaving accordingly.
"In all the excitement of our recent adventures," he began when they were still, "it is possible you have lost track of the date."
"Uh…happy birthday, Master Splinter?" Michelangelo offered hesitantly.
He shook his head with a twitch of a smile. "No, not that date."
Donatello's eyes widened in realization, but it was Leonardo who spoke after a moment of thought. "It's…it's been three years, hasn't it?"
"Yes, my son. And the time of the Battle Nexus Tournament is once again upon us."
Before Michelangelo could even begin to brag, Raphael reached over and pinched his beak shut. "Not a word, doofus, or you're gonna regret it."
Splinter serenely ignored them and faced all four. "Although past champions may compete, it is considered in bad form to attempt to extend one's legacy beyond a single victory. I always attend, of course, and many years I have entered my name in the rolls, but should I advance beyond the third round it would be honorable for me to remove myself from the competition." His eyes fell on Michelangelo. "I would expect you to do the same, my son."
"Yeah, that's cool sensei." He smiled. "Then you and me can cheer from the sidelines!"
"Does that mean you're going to let us participate again?" Donatello wanted to know.
"Yes." Splinter nodded. "You all proved yourselves in the last competition, and I know you all wish to attain some personal honor as well." And possibly win the crown away from your youngest brother so there is at last some balance in the family over it.
"Sounds good to me." Raphael cracked his knuckles with an eager look. "I'd love the chance to get back in the ring against a real opponent."
Michelangelo squawked in offense and things would have devolved into a brawl if not for Leonardo's throat clearing.
"How soon do we leave?" the eldest asked.
"Tomorrow at dawn," Splinter said. "As you know, you need bring little more than your weapons and your skills, so I hope you will spend this time preparing yourselves mentally for the challenge ahead."
"I'll call April and let her know we'll be gone, and I'll ask Leatherhead to stop by and look out for the lair and Klunk," Donatello offered.
"Since some of us don't need to compete, I'll pack some sandwiches for the rest of you," Michelangelo said with an innocent grin.
"I want to see you all back here two hours after dinner," Leonardo said, turning to his brothers. "Master Splinter's right. We should make sure to prepare mentally for this. All of us. Even you, Mikey."
Splinter noted that even Raphael did not bristle under the order. In fact, he seemed to be taking things quite thoughtfully. But that might also have been because Raphael was busy flicking Michelangelo in the head for whining.
"Go, my sons. I will be along for dinner in a few minutes." Splinter dismissed them with a fond smile.
And as they went, he closed his eyes and said a quiet prayer. May we honor your legacy, Master Yoshi. And should a Hamato again emerge victorious, may such triumph bind this family ever tighter together.
Opening his eyes to watch his sons tussle and laugh and call insults and jokes to one another as all four began preparing the meal together, Splinter's heart felt certain that at least part of his prayer had already been answered.
