[Author's Note] FINALLY. TURTLES. BROTHERHOOD. Been waiting for this...!

"Okay, okay Mikey, you gotta tell him," whispered a turtle to himself. "Just blurt it out, yo."

But Michelangelo only bounced in place outside of Donatello's lab, shaking jitters and trying to get pumped past the point of nervousness.

"Just say: Donnie, there's something I gotta tell you about Sandro! Yeah. That's all it'll take!" But knowing that suddenly horrified him. Michelangelo paused, hesitated, and then turned away and grabbed at his face and groaned. "He's gonna freak out, he's gonna so freak out, what do I do, how do I do this...?!"

Michelangelo slapped himself. "Come on, Mikey, what would Leo do?" He'd freak out, Mikey, just like anyone but you. "No, he'd totally stay all cool, and stuff, and say things in a level tone of voice." O Rly? Well then why don't you tell him first before Donnie? "I can't do that, he'd freak out." Even Mikey could see this was going in circles. He lifted his hands as if visualizing a football goal.

"Look, just tell Donnie what is up, Mikey. Okay? Only maybe don't just blurt it out. Tell him, uh, slowly and carefully, the way Donnie likes to hear difficult things." Michelangelo mentally pictured himself standing before Donatello, but their imaginary conversation immediately devolved into a lightning-paced spew of random inconsequential details. "Shell."

There was more at stake than family drama. It had taken Le Tiny Chick for Mikey to finally realize he'd never heard Sandro yell before. Michelangelo had been rooted in place on that rooftop, gaping and looking rapidly between the children. With awestruck delight, a realization had dawned: There was a Tiny Raphael in that boy after all.

Michelangelo had then watched Sandro like a hawk from a safe distance (hello borrowing Donnie's binoculars without asking!), and observed a hefty amount of (wait, had he returned those or lost them somewhere?) sneaking into places they weren't allowed to go, reading in the park, skateboarding, pranking, mischief making, and honest-to-god snuggling.

"Was a-d'awww-rable," Mikey complained miserably into his hands, feeling utterly beleaguered (he should probably find those binoculars before Donnie asked). For if he screwed up the delivery of this news, Michelangelo would fail the universe in it's entirety. You hear that Mikey!? The fate of the universe rests on your shoulders! Someone's universe, anyway.

But if Michelangelo put Sandro on the spot in front of Donatello and tried to get him to tell the truth, it would be like freakin' dominoes, man! Sandro would shut down and bottle up (and freak Mikey the hell out, because that was unnatural, and (by the way) someone needed to eventually say so out loud), and of course then there was nothing that freaked Donatello out more than lack of information, and if Donatello called in Leonardo for advice, Leo would freak out about 'safety,' and if Leo's sibling loyalty made him tell Raphael, well, Raphael would kill everybody. Probably citing child neglect. Only he'd kill Sandro most of all.

"Come on Mikey!" Michelangelo hopped in place. "Just say something. Donnie'll understand. Donnie always gets Sandro best." Mikey took several deep breaths. "Just turn the corner into the lab and blurt it out. On the count of three. One... Two... ... Two and a half." He was inching farther away from the door, not closer. "Two and three-quarters... Oh shell, DO IT, this is for Lil Bro!" He charged towards the lab door–

–only to skid to a halt as the door was thrown open and he was confronted by an exasperated Donatello! Michelangelo fell dumbly silent and blinked vacantly at his older/taller brother, who was surrounded by notes and flicking agitatedly over a mobile tablet. Don was exiting the room, it seemed, and glanced up just before he might have walked straight into Mikey.

"Oh, there you are!" the older brother hissed exasperatedly, and by the tone of voice he wasn't mad at Mikey so much as at an upsetting mystery. "I'm glad you're here. I need to talk to you: I'm convinced Sandro is up to something dangerous."

Michelangelo went ramrod straight and smiled without opening his beak. "O-oh? You don't say...?" he managed. Sweatdrop. "What makes you think that?"

"What doesn't make me think that!?" Donatello started pacing. "The unusual amount of minutes and texts taken up by his phone plan, wildly altering sleeping hours, noticeable decrease in requests to go out with us on patrol, decrease in regular training hours, reduction in gaming hours logged on his Xbox, not to mention he's suddenly developed an interest in cult classic movies and anime! There are forty-seven unexplained episodes on our Netflix recently watched list, along with titles like The Sound of Music and Little Shop of Horrors—I was convinced the only person in this house who was ever going to watch Attack on Titan was me, or I wouldn't have watched it alone!" He shuddered and added in a small voice: "I could have used the emotional backup."

"Um... Maybe it's puberty?" Michelangelo offered helpfully as his brain internally repeated: Oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit.

"That turns boys into pigs, Mikey! You cook nearly as often as I do, haven't you noticed he's skipping whole meals and leaving others merely stirred!? His loss in appetite is so large its been directly observable as a 9.5% dip in our grocery bills! I've calculated his rate of calorie intake and projected the results over a three month period, and I can guarantee with a 1.54% margin of error that he shouldn't even be able to maintain his current body weight! And right now he's out of the house—again!—and either he's out of range of my signal repeater—against the rules!—or he's deliberately deactivated his phone GPS—also very much against the rules!"

Oh sweet Splinter in heaven, I'm sorry big brother. Watching Mother-Hen-Donatello fluttering about like this, conducting analyses of every number available to him in an effort to understand the motivations of 'his' wayward child, made Michelangelo feel absolutely rotten. Plus, he knew it was only a matter of time before Donnie pulled out the more tech-heavy solutions to otherwise mundane problems, and those would probably cause unnecessary drama.

Much more calmly than he thought he'd be able to, Michelangelo confessed: "I know where he is."

Donatello turned a quick, sharp glare on him from the corner of his eye. "Had a feeling you might." There was honestly a little bit of cobra in Donatello sometimes. Went well with the Mother Hen; Probably there for counterbalance. "Had a feeling you covered for him during the hurricane, too."

"Look," Michelangelo pleaded, "the little guy doesn't have three brothers to make mischief with him, Donster, I gotta help him out sometimes, keep his secrets, redirect attention from his slip-ups...! Just, uh, not this time. This time you really need to know."

Donatello straightened up and slowly settled his things down. "Is he doing something dangerous?" Don asked seriously, but without venom.

"No- Yea- uh, Mayb- Okay, look. Don't tell Raph. Or Leo. Or April. Or Casey. Or anyone. You gotta promise, Donnie, okay?"

"I'm not making that kind of promise," Donatello retorted as if the notion were absurd, which Michelangelo thought was unfair. Donatello liked to resort to the defense of 'I tell April everything,' but that wasn't true when it was Donatello who felt Sandro needed something to go unsaid. Well... well okay, maybe that would help Sandro now, but then Michelangelo still had to get Donatello on Team-Le-Tiny-Chick. Donatello's sharp, "What is he doing, Mikey?" brought Michelangelo back to the present.

"Nothing bad, exactly!" Michelangelo hastened to describe. "Just, uh, definitely different..."

"'Different?'" Donatello's mind clearly went away to a range of terrible places, if his glazed eyes and traumatized grimace were any indication.

Michelangelo slumped his shoulders. "Okay, I totally get how a bad joke just happened owed to my poor word choice; But, seriously bro, you need to start making an actual concerted effort to avoid the weird parts of the internet. Cause I so don't use the word 'different' whatever way you just heard it. Like, ever. I was talking more like the hot-fudge-on-pizza kind of different."

Donatello came awake with a rapid shake of the head and a blink. "Oh." He cleared his throat and gave a slight blush and an apologetic tilt of his head to admit that, yes, his head had gone to some horrible, battle-scarred place, but fortunately he was back now. "Yeah, my bad."

"Look," Mikey reanimated, "what I was trying to tell you—what I came here to tell you—is he's, um, he's topside."

"Topside!?" Donatello all but shrieked, mouth dragging low in a turtle's best emulation of an incredulous sneer (curse you lack of lips!) "Now!? It's already day outside!"

"Whoa-whoa-!" Michelangelo forestalled, raising his palms out to stop his brother from charging straight out the front door. "I been spying on him and he's got the basic art of it down! If we don't freak out we won't give him away, so it's not an emergency just yet!" Donatello looked to him incredulously. "But look, you really, really gotta see it to-"

Donatello all but leaped on him like a jaguar, fingers digging into his arms. "Where is he!?" the older turtle cut Mikey off with a hiss, and Michelangelo remembered Donatello could be a pretty terrifying 'parent' sometimes. "Coordinates! Now! Specifically, Mikey!"

Michelangelo braced himself, lifted both hands, and set them on his older brother's shoulders. "Bro? I'm not telling you anything until you calm down. Last thing Sandro needs is you having a shrieky fit and blowing everyone's cover while topside midday."

Purple Turtle's fingers tightened against his shell, curling angrily. Donatello set his mouth in a line, nostrils flaring, but then lowered his head and and took a long deep breath.

Michelangelo relaxed a bit and rubbed the older turtle's shoulders reassuringly. "Thanks bro, we all need you with a clear head."

"Seriously," Donnie looked up at Michelangelo, "seriously, Mike. Where is our Sandro?"

"Well that's kinda the weird part," Michelangelo admitted, dropping both arms to give a heavy shrug. "You gotta see it for yourself. He's at the park. Lincoln park."

Donatello straightened in disbelief. "In broad daylight?" he wondered aloud. "Why the park?" Parks didn't scream youthful rebellion. "Why the shell would he-?"

"Man bro, I don't quite get it either and I need your help figuring out what to do. But first you gotta see it for yourself. Uh, though we need disguises... and the old trench-coat-backpack-hat look's gonna be crazy weird on twinned giants. Not to mention he'll see us coming from a mile away, and you won't get to observe him in his natural habitat. We need something he's never seen before, yo."

Donatello snorted. "I've had something prepared for awhile," he turned and crossed the lab to find a specific crate. "Just, uh, keep an open mind and try not to get any traumatic flashbacks to Cowabunga Carl."

Michelangelo shrank back in a cringe, just like a 60's cartoon who had been confronted by a mouse (one leg in the air and everything!) So many screaming children...! So much miniature violence...! Working as a costumed entertainer at birthday parties to help support the family once had been rough, depressed clowns were proof! He warily eyed the crate Donnie was fishing in. But when Donatello extracted first one, then another, giant fake heads, the theme was pleasantly unexpected. Michelangelo slowly uncoiled. Oh!

"Exactly what are your comfort levels at right now?" Donatello asked anyway, because he was a good brother like that.

Michelangelo pointed and demanded, "Dibs. I get to be Mario. I called it."

Don shuttered his eyes at him. "Michelangelo, when have we ever played a single game of Super Mario Brothers, on any platform, for any reason, where I have not immediately agreed to be Luigi for you?"

It was true. Donatello really was the best brother ever sometimes.

"This is bad, this is bad, this is bad. By my calculations, there are fifty-seven people on this plaza alone-"

"Man, there's barely anyone here," Michelangelo hissed back with a grin. "You should see it on the weekends."

"And that was the seventh dog to bark at me!"

"Donster, you smell of bleach, animal, an omnipresent fearful paranoia, and hospital supplies. That's like the smell recipe for 'Inside a Vet's Office,' yo!"

Purple turtle was not amused: "Well taking care of our household certainly feels like working with animals some days! How are you so calm!?"

"Relax bro, I totally trust in the integrity of the costume you bought for me yourself." Donatello heaved a heavy sigh. "The mini fan was seriously thoughtful bro. Though maybe you need walkie-talkies if you want to talk to the whole time, heh."

They had to stop to pose for another picture with two small children and an enthusiastic aunt. Mario/Mikey, of course, got everyone's hugs.

"They're less rabid in small, self-selected groups," Donatello remarked afterwards.

"This is sooo much better bro," Michelangelo pretended to sob. "The amount of hugs I've gotten since we've been up here is seriously tempting me into doing this on a regular basis, for free." Donatello glared at him. "Whaaat? I can count the amount of hugs I've gotten from you over the last year on one hand." Michelangelo just had to keep him cooled down with banter a short while longer. They were almost there.

Donatello made an irritated and incredulous noise, "You hug me daily," he groused, "and for no reason at all!"

"Duuude, I said 'get from,' not 'give to.' Donster you are like hugging a tree. A tree who sighs at me."

"Dammit Mikey, Focus! Okay? Look, memo made: Hug Michelangelo several times at randomly selected intervals, after we get through this alive!"

"Awww. Gonna hold you to-Hey! Oh, oh, hey, hey, hey, I see them!" He quickly ushered Donatello to the side so they could spy without being obvious.

"Them?" Donatello hissed, alarmed. "Mikey, what 'them'?"

"See the coat? Look! Look, look, look!" And Donatello did look.

A boy and a girl crouched over a mostly-naked skateboard with a battery-operated hairdryer, box cutter, and long curls of frayed and discarded grip tape beside them. They sat there with backpacks, a stack of books, two tonfa, a small toolbox, and a stack of Subway Sandwiches; and their picnic blanket and parasol suggested they intended to camp in place for awhile.

Sandro—it had to be Sandro by the coat, though he was keeping the hood very low—was buffing the edges of the board and getting the remaining adhesive off, as the girl sat against him and pulled up the edge of a new page of grip-tape. Sandro waved her over, and together the two of them lined up the tape to the board. Sandro lifted up a heavy book—a Trigonometry textbook—and pressed the binding into the grip tape to help ensure a smooth and bubble-free application. The tape went on flawlessly, and then he lifted up the board and checked the nuts with a socket wrench.

Sandro turned and outright tossed the board to the girl as she stood, but she snatched it out of the air and quickly dashed over to the sidewalk and tossed it down. She leapt onto it, and leaned back so the nose of it stuck up in the air, and then proceeded to jump the board about it in a circle on one set of wheels. She gave a victorious whoop as Sandro stood up and came over to observe. The underbelly of the board was flame orange.

Sandro tapped her shoulder. A random pedestrian stopped to tell her that skateboarding was forbidden in this part of the park. Sandro stood back with his head down. The girl kicked the board up to grab hold of it, and gave a big apologetic curtsy. When the pedestrian hurried away in annoyance, she turned back to Sandro and and presented a hand for a marvelously gangster, three-step, secret hi-five-handshake-alternative. They turned back to their picnic blanket, and she plopped down with a book and threw a sandwich to Sandro after the boy put away their tools and wadded up their trash. He unwrapped the sandwich. She reached out to tug his hood further down, glanced about, and coaxed him into turning about to face the parasol as he ate.

Michelangelo waited quietly, wishing he could see through Donatello's giant Luigi head with X-Ray vision to gauge his expression.

But when Donatello spoke, his voice gave everything away because it was very soft and almost warbled on the spoken realization: "He has a... a friend."

"A girl friend," Michelangelo agreed enthusiastically, before realizing that maybe he shouldn't have added those words together like that. But then Donatello ought to have understood, because their first and arguably most important friend, ever, had been a girl.

[Author's Note] Cowabunga Carl and Mikey getting a job (and getting traumatized by large numbers of overly aggressive/enthusiastic children) only featured in the 2007 TMNT movie, but since I was having the two of them disguise themselves in big-headed costumes, it seemed remiss not to include a reference to it XD