It had been a shock at first, what had happened to him, to them. Realizing they were more than turtles, that they were children now. As difficult as his own… change was, coming to grips with suddenly having four children, four lives to have to care for…
It was, trying, to say the least. His own life had been a drift, a leaf in the wind since the demise of his clan, the loss of she who was most important. Perhaps this was a gift from the heavens, a new purpose in life. He would take it as that, raise them and do the best he could for them.
Holding their small bodies against his own, he peered out into the street-lit night, past the shadows where he hid and lurked. The shadows brought safety, sanctuary, something that was all too important for a man of his training. They would need a safety that shadows alone would not bring.
Steam hissed from a manhole cover, drawing his attention. Ears perked, catching sounds that he would never have heard before, even with the care fullest of his training. It was disturbing enough that he did not immediately register the sound for what it was. A stain against everything he had worked for. The sound of steps made him press back into the darkness in the alley. Now was not the time for quiet contemplation; he had been lucky that the children had not yet made a sound. Taking advantage of that and the encroaching person, he hurried along, shifting and moving with the darkness in the alley and then out into the street, sliding down and pulling the cover of the manhole aside with an ease than belayed his own strength. Down the hole and into the sewers he fled, mindful of the cargo he carried.
He came to a stop near the heart of the city, the nature of the sewers allowing him to only go certain ways. Something other than the wear of the day made him draw pause. Years of training, and perhaps something more than that made him turn, a faint light not of the sewers drew his focus and he stepped towards it almost absently before he fully realized what he was doing. Frowning at his own lack of control he took a moment longer to peer past the grate and to the forgotten and built over subway station beyond.
A safe haven.
Smiling, he shifted the small, yet far larger than they had started children and crept to the small enclosure, sliding himself and the small ones in. The silence was engulfing and finally one of the children stirred and fussed, an unhappy cry coming from the little one with bright green eyes.
"Hush child, all will be well." Murmuring steadily, he rocked his armfuls carefully and moved further into the sanctuary, passing into the main area. Tile had been torn and worn away, exposing bare dirt where a stubborn tree had taken root and managed to thrive. The turtle-child quieted, but there was stubborn pout to his lips. A wry smile came to his own and he moved to the tree, leaning against it's strong and wide trunk. "I suppose you really will need proper names now… I doubt that 'Spike' is appropriate for a child, even one raised in America.
"Something graceful, yet traditional." Sliding lower and letting the tree cradle him, he tipped his long, furred head back and stared at the ceiling. There, flaked and old, a painting spiralled across the expanse of the stone roof. Another sign, he was sure of it now. "Raphael, Michelangelo, Donatello… and, Leonardo." The names felt right and he smiled at them, pulling the folds of his hakama out a little to wrap around them, the night was cool yet and would require more than just their huddled forms. He would do his best for these children, his sons.
