The Hamato brothers had split into two sets. The youngest stood in the bedroom doorway, Donnie's arm wrapped tightly around their youngest brother. The eldest stood their ground in the main room, as a dozen thugs picked through their belongings and threw their furniture to the floor.

There was nothing Leo could do. Not now.

"Why are you here?" he asked finally, trying to hold on to the contact of his brothers, that would keep him brave. "I paid the rent last week, it can't be that."

"The rent," the largest man growled as he pulled open a drawer. "Not the debts that have piling up since your father's tragic passing."

"I'm working on the debts, it's hard to save …" Leo started, trailing off at the look he received

"Xever!" the thug barked, a thin, dark man digging in their clothing chest. "Any money?"

"Barely," he said, lifting his head. "But there are good weapons here, and old trinkets …".

"Stop!" Mikey shouted. They all turned, and Leo's stomach clenched.

The men paused, apparently as surprised as Michelangelo's brothers that he had spoken up. "Pardon me?" Xever asked, softly.

Mikey was holding fast to Donatello's arm (Donnie looking like he was about to throw up), his eyes wide and wild. "You can't touch that stuff, it was our father's from the legion! You can't! It's—"

Donnie's hand over their youngest brother's mouth silenced him. Michelangelo fought against his brother's grip, his jerking movements futile.

Xever smiled, and Leo shivered.. Then he gave the chest a hard kick, spilling its contents and grinding his heel into one of the finer tunics. They hadn't had the heart to sell those things, not yet.

Mikey squeaked, and Raph took in a sharp intake of breath, his fists clenching. Leo just barely swallowed back his rage.

"I'll give you what money we have," he said, voice as calm as he could force it to be. "And we can work out a way of payment, monthly or weekly if you want—"

He caught sight of Raph's face: incredulous, disgusted. But what other choice did he have to keep them all safe but to be diplomatic, like he had all this time with the tax collector, with the shop owners?

The broad-shouldered man laughed. And kicked over Donatello's desk, sending pigments, documents and candles flying.

"Too late for that, Hamato!" he said, motioning with his hand at his band of lackeys. Raphael's fists clenched and Donnie gave a soft cry at his possessions going flying. "There's a word for those whose debts get too high to pay. Slave."

The fire was already licking at their floorboards, and the panic was rising behind Leo's eyes. "Guys. Run!"

They were quick to respond, but so were the men: He saw someone grab Michelangelo's arm, and his youngest brother yelped as the rest of them surged forward.

Leo didn't remember much after that—the chaos, the leaping flames, a blow to the head … but the important things stayed. Raph disappearing in the crush of men. Donnie being knocked to the floor, away from Michelangelo. And his youngest brother trapped in the back room as the fire encroached.

There was no time to plan, to think, to stay together. He remembered stumbling out the door and the world going black

Leo woke up the next day, confused and far away from home. How had he gotten here? He had to leave the unfamiliar alleyway as a baker shooed him out, and he ran, back to the Subura, to the ruins of their house.

An old neighbour shook his head, pitying, when he found Leonardo. "They pulled several bodies from the fire," he said. "And those who were left are going on the next slave ship, as per the collegiate's orders. Too much damage."

Then he had been left to his grief. He'd cried, silently, for a day.

Another night in an alley, and he was at a recruitment desk. The legions were marching in a few months, north through Italy and into the Gallic mountains. Far away. That was what Leonardo needed.

He couldn't bear to be near their souls.