I have an exciting announcement to make at some point, but I have to wait until the organization in question gets their site updated. Until then, a few neat things about this series.
First, this Arc has the longest chapters overall by a lot – almost 2,500 words more per chapter than Arc 4. I had a lot of arguments with myself about whether or not to shorten them and add another chapter, but ultimately I like the flow of this better. I hope you agree!
Second, user Luck-of-the-Irishmen on FF and 1readerVB on AO3 has commissioned art for this series!
FANART!
Ahem.
The art was commissioned from a user on Tumblr named Sassatello and there is a picture for every chapter in Arcs 1 and 2 so far. I will be uploading them to the ends of each appropriate chapter as soon as I have the time. Tonight would be ideal, but it's unlikely. I'll try, though!
Anyway, all my thanks and love to Luck-of-the-Irishmen/1readerVB and Sassatello for this amazing contribution to the story.
Enjoy!
Chapter 2: Help
When Donatello woke from his sleep, the sun had changed position, but was still high in the sky.
I wonder how long a day is here, he thought. Then, Am I really here at all? Or am I still in the dojo dreaming?
I hope I'm really here. I'd like to get my head in order so I don't have to worry about whether I'm hallucinating or not.
Worrying state of my mental health aside, wondering if I'm imaging things every ten minutes is not the most productive use of my time.
Don roused from the bed reluctantly; the mattress and blankets had been so wonderfully warm. Reptiles were all prone to basking, and even mutated, Don's whole body yearned to curl up in that warmth and never, ever leave it.
I bet I get more sleep here than I did at home. Hard to resist my own personal sun-warmed paradise.
Once back on his feet, Don slipped his bo back into place on his shell.
I'm sure they're waiting for me. But…
It's not that I don't want to figure out my new life here. But...well. Maybe not just yet.
He shuffled to his desk and opened his duffle bag. Slowly, reverently, Donatello removed each item, setting it where he thought it belonged. His laptop, of course, went on the desk. Pictures began to line shelves between notebooks and keepsakes and a few small gadgets Don had thought too fragile to be stacked in the main boxes. The portal stick, after several moments of thought, he put with the Fangs under the bed.
Lastly, he pulled out the butsudan altar for Master Yoshi. He had modified it from a small cupboard so that it had two doors in dark, highly polished wood that swung open, but all packed up it was scarcely bigger than a shoebox. Within the altar was a small package of sticks of incense, a carved bowl for offerings, a tiny vase for flowers – Or whatever equivalent I find here, he thought – and a picture of Hamato Yoshi with his name in kanji to either side.
After a moment to consider, Don placed the altar on the floor against the window wall directly across from the meditation mat.
Even with that little work done, the room suddenly felt much more homey. More real.
More his.
Okay. Let's get this show on the road.
Don stuck his head out of his door. He was almost expecting to be hailed as however-many eyes turned to him, and he was very grateful that no one seemed to have spotted him yet.
From his room's porch, Don could see almost the entire apartment, everything but what was directly below him. On the long, foam-looking thing that bore a passing resemblance to a couch, Leatherhead sat, spreading out what appeared to be small balls of varying colors. Mortu hovered across from him, offering commentary as Leatherhead examined each item. Closer to the door, Zayton was opening and sorting their boxes into piles specific to each person's belongings. No one else seemed to be present.
Even so, Don slipped to the floor of his porch and ducked his head over the edge so he could check the area beneath his room, just in case. It wasn't that he expected any kind of ambush here on the Utrom Homeworld, let alone in his own apartment with his friends so relaxed nearby, but Don didn't really like any blind spots in a strange place.
No one was there, and Don resolved to put a mirror in place so he could see the area from his door without having to crawl on the ground. Then he got to his feet and walked down his steps to join the others.
Leatherhead noticed him first. "Greetings, my friend. Did you rest well?"
Don actually relaxed anew at the very memory of that bed. "Oh yeah. Is your bed warm, too?"
Leatherhead's grin was wide and almost dopily happy. "Extremely. I have never slept in such comfort, even when I lived with my Utrom family on Earth."
Mortu smiled at them both. "One advantage of the Homeworld is the presence of so many peoples from other planets. We have access to some luxuries from places with species more like yourselves."
"What, is there a planet of mutant turtles and crocodiles out there?" Don asked.
"They are more like what you might call a gecko on Earth, but yes."
"Space geckos. Huh." Don reached the bottom of the stairs. "Good to know I'm not the weirdest thing around anymore."
"Not even remotely," Leatherhead assured him.
"So what's all this?"
Zayton abandoned the unpacking and moved to join the others. "Some of your many options." Then he tipped his head. "If you do not yet feel ready to approach everything, we can begin with whatever interests you the most and wait on the rest."
Don shifted to perch on the couch-thing beside Leatherhead where he could see all the balls laid out on the table; it was soft in sort of a thick way, like sitting on a tube of gel. "Well, what are the things I have to decide?"
Leatherhead pointed to one set. "Those are all the Utrom-equivalent of brochures advertising the different options for translators. Next to them are similar packets of information about breathers. Over here we have a small number of excellent doctors, any of which will be able to help you navigate your cognitive recovery using both normal conversational therapy and more direct medical means."
"Does all information on the Homeworld arrive in baseballs?" Don picked one up and adjusted his assessment. "Or maybe giant bouncy balls?"
"Only until we can establish you the Collective equivalent of an email account and an online profile," Zayton said. "Then you can transfer your data to digital formats."
"Sounds good. So, what about these?" Don asked, gesturing at the largest pile.
"Those," Mortu said with a pleased smile, "are various institutions which would like to offer you the chance to earn your accreditation with them as well as many offers of placement either before or after you complete your academic work."
"Shell." Don leaned back, taking in the size of the pile. "They...all want me?"
"As well they should," Zayton said with some force. "I have not yet looked at them myself. I believe there are a few in there that I would opt against just because they are not as prestigious as I think you deserve, but you may, of course, choose for yourself."
Don laughed breathlessly. "Talk about an overabundance of riches."
Mortu hovered closer to him. "If this is too overwhelming for you, we need not answer them all today."
But Don shook his head. "I can't...I can't hold back. If I'm going to do this...I need to start now. Like ripping a bandage off. If I go slow, I'll...I might lose my nerve.'
Leatherhead patted his shoulder. "I understand, my friend. Then, where would you like to begin?"
"Tell me about the breathers and the translators."
"Easier to show you." And Leatherhead lifte one sphere from the set for breathers. When he squeezed it, it began to glow. Then, as the glow brightened, it began to project a three-dimensional image in front of them.
Don watched, amazed as the recorded spiel played, complete with words running down the side and details and labels for the diagrams. They words were in the Utrom language, but Leatherhead simply read them aloud.
In this way, Donatello learned about breathers and translators and how varied the options were. The breathers fell into three basic categories; first, there was an external filter much like what he'd worn on the Triceraton ships, though more streamlined and certainly more comfortable. Then there was an internal mechanism that was separate from the body, like installing a showerhead on a pipe, but held inside the sinus or throat, depending on the physiology of the being. The third, which Leatherhead had already chosen for himself, was an entirely bio-technological solution that would be grafted directly into his respiratory system; it was the most robust in terms of what it could filter and how seamlessly it would integrate with the host.
Similarly, there were three categories of potential translators: an external system, a non-invasive internal system, and a version which would become biologically wired into the brain.
"The advantage," Leatherhead said of the most advanced translator, "is that with the one surgically implanted in the brain, it works for more than just spoken language. The one installed in the ear canal works for all spoken language, but it will not help you with reading. It just absorbs what you hear and turns the words to something your brain can comprehend."
"Does it impact my auditory senses?" Don asked, looking at the model. It reminded him of an ear-plug with some wiry extensions.
"A little," Mortu said. "For the average person, it might not make much difference, but we always recommend that all musicians or those whose survival depends upon their keen hearing opt for the brain implant."
"What about the external one?"
Zayton shook his head. "It has greater drawbacks that make it even more unsuitable, in my opinion, because it is entirely reliant upon a remote signal. It is based off the same technology used on D'Hoonib and the Triceraton Homeworld as well as in the High Council's chamber here."
Don's eye-ridges raised. "What do you mean?"
"Think of a wireless computer network on Earth. Now imagine it could be tuned to a frequency that it could actually interact with and adjust one's brainwaves. Effectively, that is how it is done. Because D'Hoonib is a planet frequented by many species across the galaxy, including some who do not yet employ translating technology, it is necessary for the planet to provide a worldwide option. That is how you were able to understand the people of D'Hoonib when you arrived."
"But I don't remember understanding everyone we met," Don said. "There were lots of beings who spoke their own language."
Zayton tipped his head. "Ah, true. To be included in the D'Hoonib language field for general access, the government must have open diplomatic relations with the people of each dialect – or a security reason to ensure civilians can communicate as in the case of the planet's enemies. The same is largely true for the Triceratons."
Mortu spoke up. "The downside of a planet-wide system like that is that it is subject to governmental control, which, at times, could mean tampering or censorship. We utilize it in the High Council chamber when we have guests without translators of their own, but otherwise you will find no such field here."
"Then how do you update the bio version of the language database when you meet a new culture?" Don wanted to know.
Mortu smiled. "The language, once learned and programmed by those who manage the implants, is encoded into a pill which you can swallow. The information will be passed into your bloodstream in the form of a genetic code the implant can read."
"Wouldn't it just be easier to put an antenna on the thing and send an update like computer software updates distributed over the internet?"
"Easier, yes, but more vulnerable to abuse as well. You would not want any government, even mine, to be able to program something in your brain without your knowledge."
"I guess that's true."
It took Donatello another hour of comparing the options before he decided on both the most advanced implants for the breather and translator, the same options Leatherhead had chosen for himself. Among other good arguments for both, the technology fascinated him.
Next, they intended to press on to the matter of doctors. However, in this case, Donatello had much less to say.
"Look. I don't...I don't know enough about what's going on with me to know what I need to do about it." He looked up at the three faces around him, two regarding him with solemn, understanding expressions – the third tipping his robotic head just slightly to the side as if to convey the same emotion. "Can you guys just...pick the one you trust the most for me?"
"We can do that," Mortu said. "I have a particular candidate in mind, but I will have Leatherhead as well as Professor Honn'i'kedt vet her first before we arrange an introduction for you. Will that be acceptable?"
"Perfect." Don sighed with a bit of relief. "Thanks for that."
"Then let us move onto the most exciting of our choices and discuss your future," Zayton said. "I must admit, my boy, I am eager to discuss these options with you."
Don chuckled. "Sure. But do you think we could take a break for some food first?"
"You make an excellent point, my friend. It is well past time for us to eat by either Earth's schedule or the Homeworld's," Leatherhead pointed out. "Let us, therefore, embark on a small adventure first."
Don quirked a smile at him. "How adventurous are we talking here, LH?"
"To be honest, I've no idea. But I am certain we will find out."
The four friends exited the room, following Mortu back into the communal areas of the building. This time, as he piloted the conveyance down, he showed the controls to Donatello and Leatherhead and explained what Don called "the rules of the road, or, in this case, the air."
Once down on the bottom level, Professor Honn'i'kedt gestured to the many stalls around. "Normally, one would have to be associated with the Institute to eat here without paying monetary compensation, but as I do not eat at all, I have passed my credentials into your names until you are settled."
"Sure but, uh, what can we eat?" Don asked. "I mean, what's the definition of 'food' around here?"
Mortu smiled. "It is rather different from your own, at least for my people, but as you can see, we feed many species here. So, perhaps the better question is – what would you like?"
Don almost spoke the word 'pizza' but froze before he could form it and instead said, "Something new and different."
Leatherhead shrugged. "I, too, am curious to try something unfamiliar, but I trust you to choose it for me."
Mortu floated towards a stall marked in a violent shade of yellow. "Then I would suggest beginning with the native foods of the Homeworld. Though this is not of the highest quality, it should be a good sampling of flavors and textures, and none of it will trouble your digestion."
Donatello tried to focus on listening to Mortu order and not at the many curious eyes turned his direction. There was no suspicion or disgust in the gazes he could see out of the corner of his eye, but the interest was palpable nonetheless.
I wonder if this is how human kids feel when they go to a new school.
Then there was a large bowl being pressed into in his hands and Mortu was leading him to a set of benches of varying heights. Don realized that he could sit on one and place his bowl on another like a table and chair, but Mortu could sit on the higher bench and be able to eat from his own, smaller bowl while at Don's eye-level. The four settled around the benches, and Don examined his food.
The large bowl was deceptive in that it was deep with steep sides, but many small dishes had been slotted into it, almost like how a bento box had sections, but these were removable and piled vertically. By unstacking the various littler bowls from the larger one, Don saw he had what he guessed was some sort of sampler platter. Some foodstuffs seemed like mashes or pastes, while others were clearly chunks of plant material, a pile that reminded Don of noodles, and, perhaps strangely enough, several large, solid bits that had been cut into the approximate shape of buildings – Don recognized the High Council building. And the foods were all different colors.
And, strange as they looked, something in the bowl smelled savory and spicy and delectable.
"Please," Mortu said, gesturing with a foreleg, "enjoy yourselves. Whatever you like or do not like, we will get you a different set next time."
Leatherhead picked up one of his own shapes – this one of the Institute – and popped it in his mouth. His eyes immediately lit up with pleasure and he began to eat heartily. But Donatello examined his food more critically.
"There's no meat here, is there?" he asked.
"You are correct," Zayton said. "The Utrom do not eat meat. As their entire planet is, in one sense, a single organism, they choose not to consume other living creatures that serve to keep it healthy. But the flora of the Homeworld must be pruned to keep all in balance, and the excess serves its people well."
"Huh." Don examined his food more closely. Then he blinked. "Is that...ketchup?"
"It is a close approximation, yes," Mortu said. "The Legacy Guardians from Earth have been here long enough for their own tastes and preferences to have become something of what you would call a 'fad' on the Homeworld. You will find that many stalls around here carry things which are quite similar to favorites the Guardians helped us recreate for them."
Don thought about that while he took his first bites. Though some combinations were strange to his palette, and many introduced flavors he could not begin to name, most agreed with him at least enough to finish the portion. The one that looked like mashed berries and tasted like coconut, mustard, and toe jam, however, he could not actually stomach. Don noticed that Leatherhead left his bowl of that one alone after a single taste, too.
Now that he knew what to look for, Don could spot analogues of tacos, pizza, even fries in the food court around him, though the fries were orange and the tacos were made of bright blue shells. He spotted one stocky, yellow-furred alien trying gamely to eat its tacos without them collapsing in its hands and he chuckled.
"So, are the Guardians popular in ways other than their foods?" he asked. "I bet their dramatic appearance with you guys after generations of defending you turned them into superstars at least for a while."
"Oh, it did," Zayton agreed, "but that has largely passed by now."
"Though they continue to add to the culinary diversity of the Homeworld, as well as its martial training," Mortu added. "Their instruction in the ways of combat have served our planet's defenders well."
Don frowned as he munched on something crunchy that tasted like banana-pepper gravy and did some mental math. "Let's see. The time differential between time here and time on Earth is pretty significant. I already calculated that I have to head back to Earth to talk to April in about two years and a bit by Earth reckoning to catch up with her at the five-month mark on her side. So, that means…hmm...the Guardians have been here more than twenty years!"
"Not quite," Zayton said. "The time differential becomes less significant as one gets farther from the point of teleportal travel, so in actuality it has been closer to fifteen years from their perspective."
Don and Leatherhead exchanged an eager glance. "Can you show us the equation for the temporal distortion and its declining variable?" Leatherhead asked.
"Of course!" Mortu laughed. "I am so glad the two of you are excited. I hope, when you are both practicing such advanced science on a daily basis you will lose none of this enthusiasm."
Leatherhead laughed, too. "Did I lose such interest in the years I studied with you on Earth?"
"Not that I recall. I believe I said once that I did not know if one with Earth genetics would retain such energy. I was pleased to be wrong then, too."
Don turned to Leatherhead. "Hey. I sorta skipped it during the whole arriving-on-the-planet thing, but you're one of my guardians, right? So how is it that you're a legal adult and I'm not?"
Leatherhead smiled at him. "I am approximately thirty-four Earth years your senior, Donatello, and even now stand just barely across the threshold of what the Utrom call adulthood. Our unusual mutation grants us rather long life and stretches out our youth significantly. My parents calculated that I will not begin to lose strength or vitality for at least another two centuries. I imagine you will be rather similar, though your lifespan could be greater than my own due to the influence of terrapin genetics."
Donatello went still, his eyes wide.
Mortu leaned in, concerned. "Donatello? Did you not realize…?"
Centuries. I'm going to live for centuries. And if I'm not careful, I won't even notice them going by on Earth. I...I could miss April and Casey growing old...having kids...dying…
Or I could go back and watch them die, and their children, and their children...
I could live for centuries alone.
Alone.
Fog and fire and madness grew in his mind, a whirlwind that cut him off from everything but the echoing, howling wound inside.
Donatello would never remember sitting perfectly motionless, hardly breathing, while his friends called his name with increasing panic. He would never remember Professor Honn'i'kedt declaring to the curious onlookers that he was having some sort of allergic reaction to the food. He would never remember Mortu summoning immediate medical attention. He would never remember Leatherhead carrying him out of the cafeteria nearly comatose, running for the arriving emergency responders.
Donatello knew only the ache of forever and the shards of his heart that would slice him apart within that void.
-==OOO==-
"Donatello? My friend?"
Warmth. And a familiar, low voice.
"Please return to yourself now. Your readings have stabilized. Do not be afraid."
I am not afraid. I'm comfortable.
"Open your eyes, Donatello."
I can do that.
As he gathered the energy to obey the request, more of Donatello's mind woke. His eyes showed him a room of soft, fuzzy edges and muted light, with Leatherhead standing at his bedside.
"Hey, LH. What happened?" His voice was weak and a little wobbly.
Leatherhead's eyes were dark with sympathy. "You had another panic attack. I believe it was my fault. I am so profoundly sorry, my friend."
Don winced, the meal and the conversation coming back to him. But the edge of insanity didn't seem to creep over him this time.
"Not your fault." Then, feeling himself slurring, "Am I on drugs?"
"A few, yes. Does it trouble you?"
"Not really. Kinda floaty." He blinked at the room. "Mortu? Professor?"
"They are finishing their interview with your doctor," Leatherhead said. "Once Zayton gives his approval, we will be ready to introduce you to the person we would like to help you with this." Leatherhead's eyes closed. "I do not ever wish to see you so beyond yourself again, my friend."
"Yeah, me either. And I didn't even see it."
That drew a smile across Leatherhead's snout. "You should continue to rest, Donatello. You cannot begin treatment until the drugs wear off and you are of fully sound mind."
"Mmmkay." Don let his eyes slide closed, but he reached out a hand. In a tiny, almost childish voice, he whispered, "Stay?"
Leatherhead grasped the hand between both of his own. "I will not leave you. Rest. I shall watch over you."
-==OOO==-
Donatello woke entirely later, his thoughts clear. He found that Leatherhead had not moved and still held his hand.
And though now in the light of drug-free clarity it was embarrassing, Don was grateful for the kindness.
"Hey," he said, yawning. "Thanks for staying with me."
Leatherhead smiled. "So you are truly awake now?"
"Seems like it."
"Hmm." Leatherhead looked up.
Donatello looked up, too, following his gaze. To his left, the bed's frame became a panel that went up the wall displaying dozens of data-points. Don immediately recognized his own pulse beeping steadily, and he could see his breathing displayed as well. But the rest was incomprehensible without knowledge of the Utrom language.
Don sighed. "I need that translator so bad."
Leatherhead gave him a wry smile. "Would you like me to tell you?"
"Yes, please."
So Leatherhead began reading off each measure one at a time and explaining them. Every possible variable of his body was being tracked and displayed, from temperature and blood pressure, to the current balance of nutrients in his system, to his rate of cell regeneration, to his brain function. Don was amazed that the mattress and blanket could take such exact information from his body without diodes or samples.
He was also relieved that most of his body's readings were normal compared to the baselines he expected.
But Donatello was sure there was no way the spiking of his brainwaves was healthy given what it did to his serotonin levels when it jumped.
When he finished detailing the display and all that it showed, Leatherhead looked more closely at his friend. "Are you prepared for more guests?"
"Let me guess. Zayton, Mortu, and the doctor?"
"Correct."
Don glanced at the readings for his brainwaves and sighed. "Sure. Since I could go without freaking out in public ever again for the rest of my life, yeah. Let's get this started."
Leatherhead nodded and touched a new device attached to his belt. "Mortu, we are ready for you."
Within moments, a door opened from the curved wall and Mortu appeared beside Professor Honn'i'kedt. In their wake came someone the likes of which Donatello had never seen before.
Easily a head and shoulders shorter than Master Splinter, the doctor had bright blue, slightly luminous skin and a shock of white hair that reminded Don of every picture he had ever seen of Albert Einstein; it stuck up in random, messy directions, very little of it lying flat at all. The eyes were a darker blue than the skin and unusually round and large for the face, but the face did seem at least vaguely human-like with eyes, nose, and mouth in predictable places. The nose, however, was fat and hooked, and membrane-like folds around the mouth in place of lips made it slightly taller than it was wide.
Leatherhead rose and gestured. "Donatello, please allow me to introduce Poly-Doctor Krian'daren of the Hoolann system. She has been working with the neurological recovery of some of the Collective's most valued allies for many years and is well versed in unusual biology."
Don pushed himself to a sitting position – which meant he would have been towering over her if standing – and bowed as low as he could. "It's an honor to meet you. I'm Hamato Donatello."
The diminutive doctor crossed the floor to him. She made an expression that lifted her cheeks without showing her teeth, which made her lip-folds bunch under her nose – Don guessed it must be her version of a smile. Still, her eyes were bright and overwhelmingly kind.
"It pleases me to meet you," she said in a slightly nasal voice.
It took Don a moment to realize he understood her.
"You speak English?" he asked.
"Some words, yes. The Guardians taught me and I taught them. I speak it for those who wear no translator to help them." She held out her hands. "Your friends have told me of your greatly trouble, young one."
Don looked at the four-fingered hands before him. He placed his in hers, her hands vanishing in his much larger grip, but he could still feel the pads of her fingers against his skin. They were a little sticky and curved, as if the faintest mimic of the suction cups on an octopus's tentacles.
Don sighed and relaxed into her grip. "Yeah. I'm in pretty bad shape."
"Yes," she said. "But as long as you keep courage, there is nothing a bright mind cannot heal. Even with scars, you survive and thrive again. With help, too."
Don thought of Leo's shell and nodded even as a slice of pain winked through him. "Right."
But the doctor saw it in his eyes. "Heavy is the suffering you have known, Donatello. Not the worst I have seen, but worse than you imagined you could endure, no? We cannot begin your healing too early."
He nodded. "No arguments here. What do we do, Poly-Doctor?"
She smiled at him again. "You may call me Krian'daren if you like. Some of Guardians call me Aunt Kria, if you like it too. Whatever makes you most comfortable with me."
"I've never had an aunt before," Don said. "I don't...didn't...don't have a lot of family."
"On my planet, the sister of one's progenitors is a very important person of a young one's early life. She serves as caretaker and guide when more close kin are away, and as confidant. She also regards how well the kin are caring for their young one, and if she is not pleased, others will intervene while the kin relearn how to raise a child healthy."
She looked into Donatello's eyes. "Your Utrom guardians have offered me the position of doctor and healer, but I can guess from your heart that you need more than only fixing of mind and thought. You need love as well."
Don flushed and looked away. "I'm a grown turtle."
"Everyone needs love," she said firmly. "Perhaps the grown mostly of all, for it is they who least often are reminded."
Before Donatello could manage a response, Krian'daren turned. "I would care to request some time alone with my patient, please."
Don peeked without lifting his head and saw Mortu and Leatherhead exchange glances. But it was Zayton who nodded. "Very well. Come, gentlemen. We will be right outside if Donatello needs us." And he steered the much larger crocodile and the hovering Utrom away.
When the door shut, Krian'daren let out a breath. "They mean well, your guardians. But they upset you when they see your sorrow. There is enough upset in you without more."
Don gave a slight shrug. "It's just...I feel like I should be okay even though I know I'm not. And, they're good friends, but...I mean, don't get me wrong…"
Krian'daren made a soft cooing noise and without dropping either of Don's hands, hopped lightly up onto the edge of Don's bed, sitting beside him. "They are not your family, as I am not. You have lived a guarded life, young one. Those instincts run deep and live in all things of you."
"Yeah, they probably do."
"I guess from your face when I entered that you do not know others of my world, yes?"
The easier question brought Don's head up again. "No, you're the first. Why?"
"My people have some gifts unusual to most. Many of my kind are what you call telepaths, but I am not one."
For an instant Don's heart had seized up in terror, but upon hearing that Krian'daren could not hear his broken thoughts and feelings, he relaxed. Anything was better than that.
"Oh?" he asked, trying to cover his momentary discomfort.
"The word in your language would be a physiopath."
Don frowned. "Phyisio...you read the body the way a telepath would read thoughts?"
She gave him her strange smile again. "Yes. I cannot see what you keep in your mind, but I can see your mind. I can feel its movements."
She squeezed his hands and Don remembered what he had thought about her fingers and how they reminded him of suction cups. Guess I was on the right track after all.
Don took a breath, now aware that she could feel the act. "So...how is my brain?"
"Fast," she said, and Don blinked. "Also deep and complex. But, yes, there are areas damaged by old wounds. And there is the scar of the Triceraton device, too." She closed her eyes and Don imagined he could sense her rooting around in his body even though he probably couldn't really. "Your mind has made changes to compensate for the hurts it suffered as all brains do. But it crowds you out of areas which are barren and should not be. It also makes further hurts more dangerous. A second experience with the mind device would shatter you."
Don shuddered. "I don't ever want to go through that again, thanks. Even if it couldn't hurt me at all, it was…"
Her grip on his hands went painfully tight for a moment. "No mind should suffer such evil, and every sincere healer in the Collective would lay their life to the ground to save you from it. Fear it not, young one. Even the Triceratons give up its use as they remember their better ways."
Don nodded. "I'm glad to hear that. After Traximus said he was going to reinstate the Senate, I hoped things would be a little more, uh, humane over there."
"As they are." Krian'daren opened her eyes again. "Now. To discuss your future. Your guardians tell me you wish me to repair what I can in your mind. But I will hear it from you."
"They're right. I don't even know how many concussions I've had, plus the thing with the Triceratons and the Outbreak Virus. And then I just got poisoned a little while ago, and that had psychological side effects maybe, too. I feel like my brain is like a computer whose components got trashed and the only way it's holding together is with tape and hope."
"An exaggeration, but truth lives in it," she said.
Don glanced down at their joined hands. "You're reading me to see if I'm telling the truth, aren't you?"
Krian'daren smiled. "I cannot read truth from lie, but I can tell if your body knows fear. If terror floods into your blood, I will know we need to talk more."
"You wouldn't do the surgery if I was scared?"
"If you have fear in my hands, your mind is against me. I cannot rebuild what hides when I reach for it."
Don huffed. "Huh. I'm thinking your definition of surgery and mine are pretty different, then."
"Could it be else?"
That made him smile, too. "No, not really. Gotta keep remembering I'm on an alien world. Really alien."
But Krian'daren made a sound with her fingers against his hands. "Not so alien in spirit. Only the body."
A certain amount of tension went out of Don even if he couldn't have said why. "I guess that's probably true."
"Yes. Now, surgery. I know what I must do at first. But your guardians tell me you wish for the translator and breather as well. This is correct?"
"Yep." Don tipped his head. "So how many surgeries are we talking about here?"
"With your permission, but one." Krian'daren released one of his hands and gestured for his head, which Don had to bend down for her to be able to reach. "The implants I do not normally do, but it will be less pressure on your mind if we surprise it all at once. And with you already in my care, I can watch the breather to be sure it does not go in backwards."
Don jerked up in sudden horror. "Backwards?"
Krian'daren's cheeks billowed outward and she huffed in and out through her nose. After a few moments, Don realized she was laughing. He started to laugh too.
"Young one, your seriousness is too big. I cannot fix that while I plant the translator, but I will fix it after anyway."
Don shook his head, smiling. "I think I'd like that. It seems like I forgot how to really laugh for a while there."
"Not forgotten. Just hidden. I will dig it out while I do my other fixings," Krian'daren assured him.
With his hand not holding hers, Don rubbed at his head. "Okay. So, what happens next?"
"Next we talk to your guardians and tell them we are planning this. When they approve, we begin."
Don was surprised. "Wait, just like that? I don't have to go on a waiting list or something?"
Krian'daren peered at him with her round eyes. "A list?"
"On Earth, the kind of surgery we're talking about would have to be scheduled. It would be days or weeks before there would be an opening for me to take my turn on the table. A doctor like you would be very, very busy.'
"Ah. For others, yes, but not I. I am...I do not know word in your language." She twitched her nose. "I am...not in a schedule. My time is unstructured."
"You're on vacation?" Don guessed.
"That word I know. No, but a bit. To work here and now is not impeding my enjoyment. I work still, but only as I wish and mostly with you or on my specially projects. I am not resting, but I am not working as normal for me."
"So...like being on sabbatical, then," Don said. "You're still attached to whatever company or hospital or whatever it is you normally work for, but you've taken a break from your regular duties to focus on a new avenue of study."
"Yes. That is closest."
"You didn't...I mean, you aren't wasting your time off for me, are you?"
Krian'daren made a sound Don guessed was like a snort. "To heal could never waste. It is my to be honored to help you now."
"But." Don looked at her closely. "How did you know you would need to request a sabbatical? I only went a little sideways earlier today."
Krian'daren patted his arm. "Mortu has been speaking of you for many days. When he learned of your trouble while you were on Earth, he made the question to me."
"How did he know that Leatherhead and Professor Honn'i'kedt would approve you as my doctor, though?"
She gave him another of her smiles. "Should they not?"
"No, they definitely should." Don put his open hand on the one that held hers and squeezed. "I feel very safe with you. If you can really help me, I want you to."
"Mortu was certain you would feel this and your guardians also. He has great confidence in you with me." Krian'daren added her free hand to the other three. "As I do. We will make strong strides with you, young Donatello. Together. With some surgery and much more conversation."
"Yeah, therapy would be good," Don said.
"But only when your mind can heal in all ways," Krian'daren said. And then, with a quirk of her mouth, she added, "And only when you accept."
"Accept what?"
She blinked her blue eyes at him. "Use your thinking, young one. Why are we alone?"
"Because you asked the others to go. Uh, because I was embarrassed. Because…" Don's mind caught up with his memory. "Oh."
"Yes," Krian'daren said. "For most I do not push, but for you I see the help it will do."
Don nodded. "Okay." He took a breath and found it was unexpectedly tight in his chest. "Okay. I...I'm ready. Aunt Kria."
Krian'daren gave an enormous smile and her ears twitched with it. "Good! All that mind could not be so slow as to miss, Donatello. And now we will make it fast and easy again."
Releasing him, Krian'daren slid to the floor and went to the door. The instant she opened it, three heads poked into the room and Don couldn't help but chuckle.
If I had any money, I'd lay it all on them trying to hear through the door. And from Leatherhead's face, I don't think they heard anything.
Krian'daren made a gesture at them with both hands. "Come back. Decisions are made, but approval is yours to give before we begin."
Don spoke up. "And I'd like to begin as soon as possible, please."
-==OOO==-
In the end, the procedure, while long and clearly very involved from a medical standpoint, felt relatively simple to Donatello.
After all three of his guardians agreed on the combined surgery, Krian'daren gave them a few moments together to talk while she arranged for use of a room properly equipped and collected the assistants she needed. All three of the others looked at Donatello with such awkward, uncertain sympathy, he actually laughed.
"Guys, this is what I came here for, remember?" Then, his tone darkening, "It'll be all right. And it's what we all wanted for me, right?"
"It is what you need for yourself," Zayton said firmly.
"Thanks, Professor."
"We cannot be with you during the operation," Mortu said, his eyes wide and concerned. "But we will not be far. We can observe from a nearby room."
"That's okay," Don told him. "You all trust Aunt Kria and so do I. I have a feeling I'm in really good hands. And, trust me, if I'm going to be strapped to a table, trust is all that really matters."
Leatherhead nodded. "Krian'daren is one of the finest brain specialists in the Collective. When your more immediate need has been answered, I will submit myself to her for the same and will rest easily under her care as I have not rested since my last assessment with my own parents."
Don reached out and Leatherhead met his hand halfway with a tight grip. "See? If you would put both yourself and me into her power, then I know it's okay." A shadow crossed his expression. "I'm...I'm so glad that I have someone left to trust. I'm so, so glad."
Mortu shifted until he faced Don more closely. "No sudden declarations from you, Donatello. You will not tell us how you feel, not now. You will tell us when you wake and begin on the path to healing." He quirked a slight, distinctly human-like smile. "It is my experience that those who say grand, profound things expect to lose any opportunity to say them again later."
Don flushed.
Krian'daren spoke up unexpectedly, having reentered during their discussion. "Mortu is correct that you will have other days to speak your heart, Donatello." She moved between the others so she could be seen around their much larger sizes. "All is ready when you are also ready."
A sudden, terrified shiver ran through Donatello, but not of her. Just a general going-into-extensive-brain-surgery-oh-shell sort of terror. He managed a weak smile.
"I'm as ready as I'll ever be. And the more I think about it, the harder it is to just do it."
Krian'daren clapped once. "Excellent. This is what I said about your courage. With courage and strength, your fear has nothing."
"What sort of preparation is required for this?" Leatherhead asked.
She looked all the way up at him. "He should remove his head garment to keep it safe and clean. Then he will follow me to the chamber and we shall make him sleep. That is all."
"Simple enough," the Professor said.
Don had stopped listening once she mentioned his mask.
With hands that shook, he reached up to the back of his head and rested his fingertips on the knot there. The last time he'd taken it off had been in the lair on Earth.
Had been before his family broke forever.
Had been when the mask meant something.
No. It still means something. Even if...even if we're not close anymore. Even if...we're not Clan. Even if they cast me out. They are still...my family. And I'm going to be theirs.
I'm going to honor them for who we were even if it's not who we are anymore.
His hands went clumsy against his feelings, but Don carefully unbound the mask and lowered it. He looked up to see that all four of the others were watching him, but his heart was too caught up to let that mean much in comparison.
Donatello looked around at them while his fingers mindlessly wound the mask into a neat little coil. Before he could doubt himself, he held it out.
"Please hold onto this for me."
Leatherhead accepted the precious trust of the burden with both hands. "I will keep it for you, my friend."
"I know you will. Thanks...bro."
Krian'daren gave one of her smiles and clapped again – and Don understood that she clapped where a human would nod. "Now your mind is correctly aligned. Let us begin before it wobbles."
Don huffed a laugh and pushed his legs off the bed, not failing to notice that there were hands on all sides to support him should he stumble; even Mortu extended the metal claws that served as arms from his disc. But his feet were steady and he felt okay on them all on his own. Felt okay with what he had decided.
Felt ready to take another leap.
I owe it to my family to be myself. I have to keep my promise. And to be myself, I have to get my head on right again.
I'm never going to survive if I can't get better. And I owe it to myself to get better. I owe it to myself to be whole.
"Good," Krian'daren said from his elbow where she had put a hand against his shell. "Let us begin."
Donatello was barely paying attention as he was led to another warm, roundish Utrom room, this one with all manner of machines and appendages sticking off the walls, as much organic material as metal objects. In the center of the room was a reclining chair. Behind it, there was a taller chair within reach of the equipment.
Don did not mean to snigger at the height of the chair Krian'daren would need to be able to reach him even sitting down, but she swatted at his shell anyway.
A grey being that looked more like a lamppost than anything else Don could name gestured to the chair and said something Don couldn't understand, but he understood the meaning anyway. With a last glance to his friends, Don stepped away from their comforting presence and moved to sit in the chair. It was soft and warm and it made his body melt into instant relaxation without his permission. Don wondered if there were sedatives built into the very cushions being administered through his skin.
Way better than a needle. Or being gassed. I hate being gassed.
Oh, wait. Breathers. After this, I might not get gassed ever again.
That would be okay.
Definitely sedatives. But nice ones.
"We will not be far," Mortu said, hovering backwards toward the door. "Do not be afraid."
"Good luck," Zayton said.
"I will be waiting when you wake," Leatherhead held up the mask. "Rest well, my brother."
Don's heart thumped with emotion and he nodded. "Thanks, guys."
Krian'daren approached. "Trust me, Donatello. I ask?"
"I do trust you, Aunt Kria. Please go ahead."
"Close your eyes, young one."
Don did.
And fell into darkness.
But not a silent darkness.
What is that? Talking? The wind?
No…
The sound grew louder.
A heartbeat?
Not quite.
There's more than that.
Something in between…
A song?
He strained to listen and it brought the song closer.
It feels...warm…
Like...a lullaby.
For an untold time, he floated in the embrace of the song, an eternity of liquid peace.
I wonder if I…
He couldn't find his mouth or his throat or his lungs, but he tried to hum along.
It's harder than it seems. Like humming a whole symphony.
But it feels so…
The song grew brighter and more complex, still peaceful, but increasingly joy-filled.
Whoever is singing...I want to feel like that…
Maybe forever…
The song became a burst of light and sound and sensation with the force of a hurricane and the gentleness of a butterfly.
The brilliance of a rainbow, the life of a galaxy, the soft warmth of starlight.
The song went on forever and he sank into it completely without reservation.
Maybe if I keep humming...I'll learn to sing, too…
I'd like that.
I'll listen to this song...forever...if it will let me.
-==OOO==-
"Donatello?"
"Donatello? Can you hear me, my boy?"
"My friend, please wake. It is time to return to us."
Don opened his eyes, feeling the brilliance of the song's welcome slip away from him. The light that surrounded him was pale and empty in comparison.
"Huh?" he managed.
His vision was suddenly filled with three familiar faces.
"How do you feel?" Mortu asked at once.
"Do you have any dizziness or pain?" Leatherhead's eyes were bright with worry.
"Give the boy some air," Zayton said, glancing up from Don to the other two. "How could he possibly know if he is disoriented with all of us crowding him?"
A strange idea wiggled into his mind and Donatello couldn't help it; he broke out laughing.
Mortu frowned. "I am not certain that is a normal response."
"Sorry," Don gasped, still fighting giggles. "It's just…"
"Are you well?" Leatherhead leaned back over him.
"Can you not give him the chance to explain himself?" the Professor snapped.
Don saw Leatherhead blink at the Fugitoid uncomprehending and it helped him calm down.
"Guys, I'm...I'm okay. Sorry. It was just a weird thought."
"What was that?" Mortu asked, dodging Honn'i'kedt to hover on the other side.
Don took a deep breath. "Professor, what language are you speaking?"
The robotic face couldn't smile, but his voice warmed considerably. "The native dialect of my region of D'Hoonib, of course. And I take it that the translator installation was therefore a success?"
"Apparently," Don said, still smiling. "Because my brain hears every word like English. But...well…" He glanced over to Leatherhead. "Doesn't it sound kind of like extra grouchy German to you?"
Leatherhead barked a laugh of his own. "I suppose it does!"
Suddenly Krian'daren was there, stepping in to Donatello's side. She rested a hand on his shoulder and smiled; Donatello's translator told him that this smile signified a rather gentle and motherly warmth rather than a brighter sort of happiness.
"It seems, young one, that we found your laughter after all."
I'm not sure that's all we found, Don thought. But he just nodded. "I guess so." Then he quirked an eye-ridge. "Still English?"
"You are good for my practice. Except in a hurry I will continue your speech."
"Ah, okay. Works for me."
"Good. Now you rest and soon we will test the breather to make sure it does not forget how to do its duty in your face."
Don snickered and she poked him. "If my practice is funny, you will help repair it. Tomorrow we begin our discussions to fix the heart inside your brain. With my sabbatical as you name it, we can talk for much time in the days until your skin and bone close. Then we meet each morning until I am satisfied and you also."
"How long will that take?" Don asked.
It was Mortu who said, "With the advanced healing techniques of our people, you should have most of the bone replaced and as strong as ever in four or five days. The skin will heal even more quickly."
"And we'll stay nearby to keep you company," Zayton said. "We still haven't chosen where you will pursue your interests and in what capacity yet."
"Only when his heart is tired of mending," Krian'daren told him. "The rest he is with me alone. No one's heart can be healed with an audience even of kindness."
Don looked at the four of them, so different from his own family. And yet they cared about him, were looking after him, considered his needs and his feelings.
Four days, huh? Of getting poked and tested, of doing marathon therapy sessions if I'm not misreading Aunt Kria's intention, and of setting up whatever happens next.
Only a little while ago I was on Earth with nothing. Now I've got more than I know what to do with.
He smiled and his heart warmed with more hope than he could remember having in months.
But I'm not doing it alone.
