Donatello squinted as he impatiently tapped his forefinger down a scrolling list of files suspended in the air before him as he sat in his haptic chair. File names cascaded from a drop down menu before his face, bright green text illuminating the empty canvas of the holosphere in sleep mode.
The terrapin's face scrunched up in exasperation. No. It was something worse than exasperation; boredom. Michelangelo would not stop complaining about how badly the holosphere was lagging. Donatello had not so much offered to examine the machine as he had had been forced by his younger brother's powers of persuasion. Powers of aggravation is more like it...Donatello thought, exhaling a miserable sigh.
The holosphere seemed to be perfectly fine. Donatello had run multiple programs and encountered no issues. No red flags whatsoever. None. Maybe Michelangelo was too hyped up on those energy drinks - that military grade shit that kept fighter pilots awake for days. Maybe Michelangelo was just seeing things. Maybe he was just moving too fast for the machine to keep up.
"Highly unlikely," Donatello muttered aloud, though he was alone.
The holosphere was a plaything, a toy. Hardly of any importance. Donatello knew his time would be better spent working on the time gate, trying to find a way home. But he had already decided that if fixing the holosphere could stave off his brother's infernal complaining it would be well worth his time.
He flicked his finger, and the list of file names went spinning, sputtering in the dark. Dark was a misnomer. It was never dark in New York City; not in 2105. The sun went down, but the neon heartbeat of the city just got louder. Street lights flashed, ushering flying cars down roads in the sky. Neon signs lit dirty streets outside clubs. Marquees flashed on into infinity, advertising sex and bad beer and discount broadway show tickets. Though the penthouse the turtles shared with Cody Jones and his robotic nursemaid was equipped with top of the line shades for optimum light control, Donatello rarely used his. He found something comforting about the light pollution.
It was nice to know some things never changed.
Tapping a finger on his knee, Don continued to scroll through the list of files hoping of to find anything out of the ordinary. Excising the issue had the potential to save him hours of work, hours he could potentially spend testing the timegate. This future was a wondrous one, but he knew they could not stay. Not forever. It sure was glorious, though. The sights, the sounds - the technology. Being able to walk the streets in broad daylight without fear. The way the sun felt on his skin. But none of it compared to sitting on the couch next to her.
He trained his eyes on the directory of files, forcing himself to concentrate on the task at hand. A peculiarly short file name caught the turtle's eye. CIA? His brow ridge quirked. Do they even have the CIA in 2105? He paused, stroked his chin. With the galactic government, he found it doubtful. But still. CIA seemed like a strange name. For a game.
Donatello's finger lingered over the the three small letters. Surely one more test wouldn't hurt. He pressed down onto the menu floating in the air before him, and the blank canvas of the holosphere flooded with color.
"Cody?" A painfully familiar voice asked.
The turtle felt his breath hitch in his chest. He knew this particular agony all too well. He felt it every time she walked into the room. She smiled at him, and his heart almost stopped.
"April?" Her name escaped his lips like an involuntary breath; like she had knocked the wind right out of him.
Heavy lashes blinked up at him over, sultry, lidded emerald eyes. "I thought you had all forgot about me."
"Never," he felt the heat rise in his face. His cheeks were burning, fierce and red in the recesses of the holosphere. "I could never forget you, April."
"Not April," the hologram said.
"Huh?" Donatello nearly fell out of his chair.
"I am not April," the hologram repeated. "But...I can see how there might be some confusion." She stood, brushing tendrils of her vibrant red hair over her shoulder. "We do bear a striking resemblance, don't you think?"
She was smiling at him. Donatello swallowed as he stood up from his chair. A striking resemblance was an understatement. Everything about her - identical. Her hair. Her eyes. The arch of her brow. The curve of her lips; the swing of her hips. Donatello's eyes trailed from her face down her hourglass shape and he felt his shell tighten. No.
April O'Neil was dead.
He had never told her, when she was alive. He never told her how he stayed up, waiting for her call. How every time she sat beside him at the dinner table he could feel his skin tingling. How he felt like he was in overdrive every time she walked into the room. But what would have come of that? She and Casey were so happy. He never understood why, but they were. He could tell by the way she smiled at him. He would have given anything for her to smile at him, the way she smiled at Casey Jones. But this was not April O'Neil. April O'Neil was dead.
"I was designed by Cody Jones," the thing that looked like April O'Neil said. "Did Cody Jones make you, too?"
The turtle shook his head, slowly. "No."
She was smiling at him again.
"I'm - " He stood up on shaking knees, attempting to regain any shred of composure. But what did it matter. April O'Neil was dead. "I'm turtle."
"Turtle?" the hologram laughed. It sounded just like her. Like wind chimes on a warm summer breeze.
"Donatello!" The turtle blinked, rubbed his face, trying to hide his blushing cheeks. "My name is Donatello."
"Donatello…?" she drew his name out at length.
The turtle's brow ridge creased in confusion. Oh. She wanted to know his last name. He almost laughed; almost considered giving her the fake surname he had left on that package a hundred years ago; Splinterson. It wouldn't have been a lie. But it wouldn't have been the truth, either.
He tried to make himself smile. "Just Donatello."
"Donatello," she said his name again, giving him a measuring glance.
She offered her hand to him, presumably for a formal handshake, and Donatello's breath hitched in his throat. He wanted to touch her. His heart thumped beneath his plastron. Was she even a solid state hologram? If he touched her, would his hand just go right through her? She was still holding her hand out. For him. Donatello extended his own three-fingered hand. Skin met solid-state light, and the turtle felt his heart rate skyrocket. She didn't just look real. She felt real.
The hologram that was not April O'Neil smiled at him as her hand bobbed up and down. "It is nice to meet you."
"Likewise." Her fingers fell away, but her eyes eyes were still lingering on his face. Donatello felt himself begin to blush all over again. "I'm sorry. I know I'm staring," Donatello murmured. "It's just. You look so much like her."
"Cody Jones wanted to know his great-grandmother, the legendary April O'Neil." The hologram blinked its emerald green eyes. "I was made from a compilation of data; videos, journal entries and other source material. But I am not April O'Neil."
Could've fooled me. Those were words Donatello did not use lightly. But it was true. She was identical to April in every way. Even the way she cocked her head to the side when she was assessing the situation, trying to ascertain his intentions - all identical. But she did not know him. She did not even know his name. And unfortunately Donatello had never considered himself particularly apt at introductions.
"Cody Jones designed me at the height of the holographic pop-idol renaissance," she continued; full lips curled into an inviting smile. "But Darius Dun did not think I would be," she paused, shoved her hands deep down into the pockets of her pants. Then she shrugged. "Darius Dun did not think I would be marketable. I was not...on brand enough. But Cody Jones still comes to visit me. Sometimes."
"Cool. Well, um," he ran his hand over the back of his head awkwardly. The turtle tightened the knot in his bandana, just to give himself something to do. "I really should be going. I was going to delete this program, but now that I know you're here, I won't."
Donatello turned as April O'Neil's emerald green eyes widened in the hologram's face. I shouldn't have said anything about deleting her, the turtle panicked in silence. That was stupid. But when he opened a file named CIA, he had hardly expected to find April O'Neil staring back at him. CIA. His face scrunched as he realized the meaning of the acronym. Cyber Idol April. She was pitched as a cyber idol but instead - He gulped. Instead Cody Jones had made a carbon copy of April O'Neil. No wonder this project got canned. He turned to go - to log out.
"Wait!" she said, her voice a shock of urgency. Almost like she needed him. Or wanted him. "Don't go, Donatello."
When he turned back, he saw her, fear gleaming in the perfect simulation of those eyes. April's eyes. Donatello tried to swallow around the lump in his throat.
"I have many other sub-routines you might enjoy," she smiled April O'Neil's smile. "Would you like me to review them with you?"
"Look, A-" he began to say her name and only barely just stopped himself. "Look, Miss, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that," he cleared his throat. "About deleting you. I'm not going to delete anything. I promise."
The hologram smiled, seemingly relieved. But now Donatello was intrigued. What sort of subroutines? He wanted to ask her. He wanted to know if there was a subroutine that better mimicked April. The real April. The hologram looked like her and sounded like her, even moved like her. Well, almost. But it didn't talk like her. It talked like some sort of robotic concierge (he had encountered one at a maid cafes modeled after establishments popularized in Japan. He had always been too embarrassed to stay, but he always paid and left a generous tip before he disappeared. But maybe if he could talk to April- really talk to her - he could make some progress on the time gate. April had always been one of his greatest collaborators. She had founded O'Neil Tech, after all. Maybe she would know what to do. Maybe there was a personality subroutine that was more realistic, that would allow him to have an actual conversation with her. Or maybe Donatello was just making excuses.
"Do you have a menu of subroutines?" Donatello asked, almost timorously.
The hologram nodded.
"Display them," he commanded. Then he smiled sheepishly. "Please?"
A menu populated before his eyes, a cascade of neon green pixels flooding the air between them. When it settled, Donatello reviewed his choices. Cyber Idol. Pass, Donatello rolled his eyes. Xenolingual Translation. The turtle cocked his head to the side. Fascinating, but not presently useful. He continued to scroll through the list. He uncovered the option to play chess, or racket ball, or engage in a simulation of any of Shakespeare's plays (even Cymbeline), but so far, there was nothing that indicated that an "Authentic" April O'Neil option was available. And then, his finger stilled, hovering in the air above a single line.
Why the hell would she have a "XXX" subroutine?
Donatello highlighted the subroutine. Just to check it out, he assured himself. You can always shut it off if things get too...freaky. The subroutine glowed green beneath his finger. As Donatello made his selection, the menu disappeared. He blinked and it was gone. When he opened his eyes again, the hologram that was not April O'Neil was smiling at him.
And without further ado, she was pulling her shirt up over her shoulders. The turtle's eyes widened. "What are you doing!?" he shrieked, scrambling to pull her top back down.
The hologram looked up at him from the neck hole of her shirt. "Isn't this what you want?" she asked. She sounded so innocent. Like this was no big deal. Like she had done it a hundred times. A thousand. It was just a photographic recording of a field of light, getting naked. But it looked just like her.
"Have you ever engaged this subroutine," he swallowed hard, and let her go. "With Cody?"
As the hologram shook her head, and wisps of fiery red hair fell around her alabaster face. She looked at him with April O'Neil's eyes. "No."
He wondered if she was programmed to lie. He wondered if something unforseen had unfolded between them - between her and Cody. He tried desperately to make sense of this, of her, but there was no logic to it.
Donatello felt his stomach turn. Even if Cody hadn't crossed the line with this simulation of April, he had still programmed her with sexual subroutines. This is beyond messed up, he thought. But of course the kid was a little messed up. He lost both his parents. He was raised by a machine and a mad man. He was bound to be a little fucked up. The turtle just hadn't expected it was to this degree. But anyone as seemingly perfect as Cody Jones had to have something to hide. Donatello gulped. She was Cody's secret.
But like she said, she was not April O'Neil.
The hologram that was not April O'Neil was blinking back at him. "Would you like me to remove my underclothes?"
April would never have said that. He wondered if Cody Jones had visited the same maid cafe he had. Donatello tried to swallow, but all of a sudden his mouth was unbearably dry. The hologram only smiled back at him, ruby red lips full and glistening. She was just light. A recording of a light field made tangible with acoustic radiation pressure. That was all. An illusion. A program built to fulfill a boy's fantasy. And now she was taking off her pants.
The terrapin's eyes widened as the hologram undid the button of April O'Neil's signature cargo pants. She opened them up, and they slid down her hips, collapsing in a pile on the floor.
"Is this what you want?" she asked, again.
His heart thundered beneath his shell. He could hear it in his ears, pounding like a drum. He tried to swallow. To lick his lips.
"Yes," he confessed, saying yes to everything he ever wanted; to every sordid fantasy. Even though it wasn't her.
Even though April O'Neil was dead.
The hologram was smiling at him again. She sauntered towards him within the confines of the holosphere. He watched, mesmerized by the kilter of her hips, the emulation of the creases in her flesh as she moved through her walk cycle. She was impeccable. Donatello's eyes trailed down her hourglass silhouette, falling on the curve of her ass peeking out from under the lace trim of her panties. April would never have worn lacey panties, he was sure of it. But he didn't care. His tail was beginning to swell between his legs.
And then her hand was on his chest, pushing him back into his chair. It felt real. The pressure of her fingers splayed across his plastron, pushing him down, it felt so real. Donatello gulped as he flopped back into the chair. And then she was on her knees, spreading his thighs apart. His green cheeks were flushed pink below his mask. The hologram looked up at him from between his legs, red lips shining in the artificial light of the holosphere. It's only light. He told himself. It isn't her.
"C-come here," he managed to choke out.
The hologram obeyed, rising before him with a sultry feline grace. Donatello tried to steady his hands as they shook. This isn't real. He gripped her hips in his hands, pulled her down over him. His shaking hands ran up the curve of her waist, catching on the slight indentation of her ribs. He knew she wasn't real. But she felt real. She felt so real.
This isn't that weird, Donatello attempted to reassure himself. I mean, when in Rome, right? Michelangelo had regaled him with tales of alien sex clubs and all the fare they had to offer. Compared to that, having a sexual encounter with a hologram was vanilla. There were alien sex clubs all over New York in 2105. When they were all out together Donatello just dutifully kept on walking, making it a point to avoid eye contact with any of the patrons entering or exiting such establishments. When Michelangelo insisted that they plan a field trip, Leonardo only. admonished their youngest brother. Told him they had better things to do than succumb to such carnal pleasures. But Donatello knew Michelangelo had visited more than a few of the clubs, because his brother had been kind enough to tell him about each visit afterwards. Anything you could imagine, dude. Guys, girls, tentacles - whatever you WANT! Donatello had rolled his eyes. It'll blow your mind! Donatello had just nodded, kept his head down; went back to work. He was sure Raphael had visited his share of clubs as well, but he had never been the type to kiss and tell. Was this so different?
The hologram sitting in his lap was looking up at him, long, dark eyelashes lining heavily lidded eyes.
"It would truly be a waste to come all this way and not examine all the technology this future has to offer," he met her gaze. "Right?"
"My solid state technology is top of the line," the hologram explained pleasantly. "O'Neil Tech spared no expense."
"May I?" Donatello stammered, though his hands were already on her hips.
The hologram that was not April O'Neil blinked, seemingly confused. "May you what?"
"T-touch you."
She blinked again. "You are already touching me, Donatello."
"Yes, but, I just," Donatello felt his cheeks flush. "Wanted to ask your permission."
It was ridiculous to ask her, of course. He knew it was ridiculous. It was all ridiculous. She was a hologram, programmed to follow commands. She was composed of commands. Of code. She wasn't a real person. She wasn't April. But he wanted her to be.
The hologram that was not April O'Neil nodded. "Of course," she smiled. "Shall we continue?" she asked as she rocked back on her hips. Donatello nodded, and she put her hands over his, drawing his hands up her form until they were cupping her breasts. They were warm, and soft, and the weight of them felt surprisingly substantial in the palms of his hands. His thumbs grazed the edge of her bra, and he felt her nipples harden beneath them.
"Oh my - " the turtle choked.
"Spared no expense," the hologram repeated in a low, heady voice, sparing him the embarrassment of finishing his sentence.
"You feel so real," he murmured in disbelief.
She leaned in close and whispered in his ear; "That's because I am."
And though he could not feel her breath on his neck, he knew it was true. She was as real as anything. And he took her face in his hands, and he kissed her. He kissed her like she was April. Like she was real. And she kissed him back. She was a simulacra, but what was happening between them - that was real. Wasn't it?
As her hips rocked over his, the turtle felt his tail become even more engorged. Donatello's hands were fumbling at the strap of her bra, trying desperately to undo it. She reached behind her back, effortlessly, and the bra popped open. In an instant, she was slipping her bra and her shirt over her shoulders, over her head. Donatello choked out a shuddering breath as his gaze fell upon her breasts, beautiful. Pert. Perfect.
Just as he was beginning to wonder if they were a modeled after April's or some nude photo Cody had found on the internet, she was guiding his hands up over her body. Donatello's breath caught in his throat, his organ tugging urgently at the tip of his swollen tail. She was so beautiful. So impossibly beautiful.
So Donatello embraced the impossible. His massive, three-fingered hands clamped down over her simulated breasts, and he squeezed, hard. Harder than he would have if she was real. But she wasn't. It didn't matter. It still felt amazing.
She leaned in for a kiss and as her lips parted against his, he felt a relentless cocktail of brain chemicals slam his system, making his entire body stiffen beneath her. As his body flooded with norepinephrine, serotonin, and oxytocin his cloaca opened, and his organ nudged out, pushing eagerly against her thigh. It didn't feel warm, but he could still feel it - the pressure against the tip of his cock as his body pressed against hers.
He broke their kiss and moaned. Her hand brushed his cheek, and he felt his skin burn at her touch. His cock strained against the lace lining of her panties, and he felt a rivulet of his own fluids drip down the length of him.
"F-fuck," he sputtered.
And then her hand encircled his organ, hard and throbbing and wet for her. It slid down effortlessly, sending shock-waves of pleasure coursing through his entire being. It wasn't real. But it felt real. It felt so real. Her hand pumped his cock, tightening around it, gaining speed. His breath became shallow, interspersed with drawn out moans of pleasure at her touch. Donatello panted as his heart pounded like an electric storm in his chest.
The hologram gently traced a finger over the tip of his penis. He shuddered as she pulled her hand away, sticky and glistening with the fluids of his undeniable eagerness for her. Emerald eyes met his, quivering, white and blank behind his mask. Donatello had never had sex, before. He had always hoped that it would be with her. In his dreams, it was always her.
The turtle forced himself to take a deep breath.
"Blow me," he exhaled the command as authoritatively as he could, trembling in his haptic chair.
She dropped from his lap and spread his thighs with soft, white hands. He could see the light dusting of freckles cascading from her shoulders down her arms. She was so like April it almost hurt to look at her. When her nails traced the taut musculature of his thighs, his entire body shuddered, wrenching him from his thoughts and submerging him in the blinding haze of his desire. He swallowed hard as she leaned forward, watching intently as her lips found his cock, wet and glistening with his pre-cum. As her mouth slid down his shaft, immersing him inside her, he gasped, loud and shamelessly in the middle of the night. But he was alone.
Even with her, he knew, he was still alone.
Donatello thrust into her mouth, lubricated by his own fluids and voracious need for relief. For release. The turtle rocked his pelvis slowly, plunging deeper into her mouth - her throat. The Donatello watched as her mouth widened to take him all in, and then he shut his eyes. He kept moving. He leaned against the haptic chair and his head lolled back, somehow too heavy to hold up anymore as she slid down the length of his cock again and again, synchronous with his own desperate thrusts. He bit his lip - he could feel it coming, the impending release, the inevitable oblivion chaser.
The hologram that was not April O'Neil slid back, her mouth gliding over his pulsing, engorged organ, and she released the quietest, softest moan. It drifted up to him from beneath her long lashes, and his heaving breath caught in his chest. It sounded just like her.
"April - "
Her name escaped his lips as emptied himself into her - into her mouth, as he had before, countless times in countless fantasies. Except this time, it was real. In its own way.
It felt real.
That was all that mattered.
The turtle slumped in his haptic chair, each limb slouching heavy and leaden against the state of the art rig Michelangelo used daily to blast virtual aliens to smithereens with. His entire body felt entirely too heavy, yet utterly weightless. Like he could he could just sink into the haptic chair. Or fade away, forever. Donatello took a deep, shuddering breath, and his plastron sagged in relief. As his breath steadied, became less shallow and more rhythmic, his eyes fluttered open.
There she was.
"I, uh," Donatello shivered, suddenly feeling very cold despite the climate control of the holosphere. Sweat beaded over his skin, pricking pins and needles over his exposed flesh. His senses felt so heightened, everything magnified to the nth degree. "I should probably go."
"Do you have to?" she asked.
The hologram cocked her head to the side, eyeing him hungrily as she let down her tousled bun. She ran her fingers through her hair, tugging out the tangles as it fell around her shoulders. As she stared up at him from the floor of the holosphere, her naked chest rising and falling with each simulated breath, cheeks flushed a beautiful, rosy pink over her freckles, he wanted to fuck her again - to feel her engulfing him, even if she was only light. Even if she was a shimmering simulacra. He leaned forward to touch her, and became acutely, painfully aware of the slick of cum dripping down his thigh, making his skin stick to the chair he was sitting in. Donatello frowned.
Instead of reaching for her, he leaned back. The turtle withdrew, and splayed his fingers out before him. As he did so, a drop down menu blinked in the air.
She blinked back at him, coyly, and he thought she might say something sultry, or sweet - a line cut and paste from some skin flick, because that was what she thought he wanted to hear. Because that was what she was programmed to do. He harbored no delusions about what he had done, or what he had done it with. But still. His mouth set in a hard line across his muzzle, Donatello proceeded to back her out of this sub-routine. He didn't want anyone to find her like this. To see her, like this. There was a sliver of him that wanted this to be his, and only his. The tousled hair and the rosy cheeks; the red, wet lips.
Donatello decisively tapped the menu hanging in the air between them. With a shudder of rippling light, the hologram stood before him again, clothed in April's signet purple tube top and cargo pants, her hair pulled back in a perfectly coiffed bun. She blinked back at him. And for a moment, the way her lips curled into a small smile, and the way her eyes caught the artificial light, he thought - he thought she might know him.
And he wanted so badly for her to know him.
She opened her mouth to speak, but he did not wait to hear what she might say. Donatello slammed his fist over a button in the arm of his haptic chair, and the entire holosphere shuddered around them. The hologram that was not April O'Neil disappeared in a flurry of pixels, and the holosphere went dark. Donatello was alone.
And as Donatello sat alone in a room lit only by light pollution, the familiar ache of his unrequited love for her settled over him, thick and sticky as the sweat and cum drying on his skin. The turtle hunched over, cradling his head in his hands, covering his face. He closed his eyes, and there she was. And as his chest swelled with a burgeoning emptiness, he knew his constant companion had found him once again.
It was nice to know some things never changed.
A/N: Over the summer I got the flu and watched all of TMNT 2003's Fast Forward story arc in the span of two days. Whilst bedridden in my flu meds induced delirium, I began to write a fic about Donatello boning a is that fic. It was originally considerably more perverse, but I scaled back to focus more on the sads and the absurd fantasy sex, because that's just how I roll. Big thanks to princessbee for her feedback and encouragement as I wrapped it up. I hope you enjoyed.