April 2004

It turned out that Michelangelo was actually really good at learning about biology, when he had an opportunity to learn it by talking to someone who possessed the biology in question. He'd had no shortage of such opportunities over the past few weeks living with the Utroms.

Back in January, the Utroms, in their new mutant host bodies, had stood around the UN plaza demanding sanctuary until the National Guard rounded up some buses and took them all to a detention center. Meanwhile, Donnie's Uncle Stephen had made some phone calls and arranged for the "high-profile" mutants - the Turtles and Splinter and Unum - to be temporarily placed with foster families in remote communities across the country.

It had sucked being on a farm in Kentucky, away from his bros, while the nation went through a collective panic attack. But he had gotten to ride a horse, which was awesome. And Raph, it seemed, had formed an instant and lasting connection with his foster brother. Don and Leo hadn't talked much about where they went. As for Splinter and Unum, Mikey hadn't dared to ask.

Anyway. Following an agonizing discussion in Stephen's office, while they waited for some of the law firm's most trusted foster parents to indicate whether they could welcome a teenage mutant in their homes, they had all agreed that they should reveal the location of the Lair to the world, with a somewhat censored explanation of why they had been living in such squalid conditions.

And so, after the mutants were on their way to their new homes, where they would wait out the worst of the coming political storm, Stephen had led a cadre of media people to the den in the sewers, creating an immediate worldwide circus. But in the process, he'd retrieved Klunk and Snowflake - who by all reports were doing fine after living on their own for several days - and had brought them to stay with Emma for a while. So that was good.

Then the government had used something called eminent domain to seize a medium-sized office building in Arlington, Virginia. After booting out the previous tenants, they'd retrofitted the building into a kind of high-security dormitory. Then they'd bussed the mutants down there from the detention center in New York, and then they'd congratulated themselves for solving the problem of how to humanely house and feed several hundred mutants with nowhere to go.

Some taxpayers didn't think that the problem should have been solved using their dollars, and they said as much by marching in the streets and writing angry letters to their congresspeople. But their campaign didn't seem to be going anywhere.

To avoid drawing attention to Splinter and his sons as being different from the other mutants, Stephen had called them back from their foster families and helped them move into the Mutant Integration Center, as the office-cum-dormitory was being called. He had assured them that the facility was safe, comfortable, and pleasant. And indeed it was. But even more than that, it was good for them to all be together again.

It was only after settling into the MIC – as everyone soon began referring to it - that Mike had gotten a clearer explanation of what Splinter had been doing while he and his brothers had been in Stockman's lab. Yes, Splinter had said, when they had all gathered in his assigned dorm room, the story he had told them in Stephen's office really only accounted for one day. At the moment that he had told the Utroms his idea, the Turtles had probably been sitting on Lynn's bed, learning what Don had asked their father to do. ("See?" Don had said triumphantly. "Sometimes my predictions are accurate. He was discovering something about TCRI just then.") The next two and a half days had been spent in a flurry of activity - extricating the Utroms from their current personas, recycling their human host bodies, creating the mutant and scientist bodies, fabricating new lives and life stories for all the Utroms who would be involved in the ruse, producing the physical evidence that would back up those stories, dismantling the Transmat and the host-body lab and moving everything to another facility, communicating with the global Utrom network about what was about to happen, and otherwise preparing to pull off one of the craziest things the Utroms had ever done.

And then, they had marched.

Their plan had gone off without a hitch - at least, so far. Every day, the MIC was visited by journalists and by scientists of various disciplines and by social workers, and none of them had yet realized that approximately 98% of the mutants in the building were actually aliens in exquisitely engineered meat suits. The Utroms who had remained at TCRI, playing the parts of scientists, had been arrested, and were in jail awaiting trial. And Uncle Stephen was working closely with the prosecutors in that case to make the related argument that his clients, blameless victims of a reprehensible scheme, deserved to be treated with dignity for the remainder of their quasi-natural lives.

All of which left Mike with not a whole lot to do but hang around with Utroms.

He had especially befriended one named Xeinos, who was "personifying" Xiomara, a salamander-like mutant with six feathery, antennae-like protrusions roughly where her ears should have been. Mike had the impression there was a certain logic to the species the Utroms had chosen for their mutant personas, but he had decided not to ask about this one.

From Xeinos, he had learned that, far back in their history, the Utroms had been arboreal ambush predators on their ancestral homeworld. They had used their tentacles to climb their planet's equivalent of trees, where they had waited for prey to pass underneath. Then they had dropped down on the poor creatures and secreted a neurotoxin, which penetrated the other alien's skin and caused it to attack itself until it died. Then the Utroms ate their fresh kill.

In time, it had become necessary for the Utroms to develop a civilization. But this had not been easy for the solitary hunters. To make it work, they had created an elaborate system of laws and customs, which they taught their young to adhere to. Some Utroms were constitutionally incapable of absorbing this social training. They could be referred to, Xeinos explained, by the English term wild-type. Those who excelled at embodying the cultural teachings could only be called kthirr-uk-riah, an Utrom word which had no English equivalent.

The present generation, Xeinos told him, was shamed to count among its number a particularly incorrigible wild-type. A millennium ago by Earth years, a squadron of Utroms had been assigned to transport their untamable relative to a distant part of the galaxy, where he would be banished forever from Utrom society.

They had known it would be a dangerous assignment. They had been prepared for the risk. When the wild-type had escaped from his confinement cell, seized control of the ship, and crashed it on an unexplored planet, the Utroms had quickly assessed the situation, determined that the inhabitants of this world were centuries away from interstellar contact, and used the technology they had brought with them to disguise themselves as natives. Explained simply, that technology consisted of a kind of pop-up genetics lab which the Utroms could use to rapidly synthesize living but nearly-mindless organisms. A little reconnaissance around the crash site had allowed them to produce creatures that would blend in on Earth, and the Utroms' natural neurotoxins provided the perfect means for them to control their hosts.

This, while fascinating, left the question of why the Utroms hadn't simply brought a Transmat with them, so that they could instantly return home if anything went wrong. Michelangelo guessed that having a Transmat in the ship's inventory would have made it too easy for that conniving wild-type to send himself right back where he wasn't wanted, but Xeinos explained that this was not the primary reason for the lack of a Transmat aboard the ship. Rather, she said, Transmat technology had to be delicately tuned to every planet, moon, or asteroid it was used on. It could not simply be carried from one world to another.

"But you were so close to re-inventing it on Earth," Michelangelo had said. "Why did you give that up to spend decades helping us?"

"We were assigned to this mission because we are all kthirr-uk-riah," Xeinos had replied. "Of our Utrom brethren, we are the most difficult to corrupt back to our selfish and solitary ways. We wish to go home, yes. But if we sacrificed your family in order to achieve our own goal a little sooner, we would only be welcomed by a shaming ceremony. It is better to wait."

Mike had tried to adopt this attitude of patience from the Utroms. But, though it had only been a few months since mutants had first been revealed to the world, the deliberations about what to do with the mutants already seemed to drag on endlessly. While the serious news programs educated the nation about the procedural moves the government was using to avoid bringing a meaningful bill to the floor, the opinion shows were interviewing everyone they could find, inflating their ratings by airing as much content as possible about the arguments for and against mutant rights, regardless of how inane those arguments were.

"What would it mean if they're found to not be human?" an elderly but still wide-eyed host was asking, as Mike sprawled upside-down on the couch in the MIC's common lounge.

"Well," said the guest, "if they're not human, they're certainly not any other known species either. On the basis of their rarity and intelligence, the government would likely classify them as endangered. That would afford them certain rights - such as the right not to be hunted, and protection for their habitat. But it wouldn't grant them human rights - they wouldn't be able to vote, own property, or get married, for example."

"Most of them are children," the host pointed out. Mike seriously considered changing the channel, but the remote was not within reach, and getting it seemed like too much work. "What would not having human rights mean for them as they grow up?"

"That's a good question," said the guest. His name and credentials faded in at the bottom of the screen, but Mike couldn't read them at this angle, and he didn't care anyway. The guy's main qualification for being on this program seemed to be a willingness to blather on about any topic, regardless of whether he had any actual relevant knowledge. "Not having human rights would mean they couldn't buy a house or rent an apartment. But they could live with human guardians, as one of them has famously been doing all along. It would be similar to the situation of developmentally-disabled children, when they become adults."

"Not to be morbid," said the host, who in fact seemed delighted that she was about to bring up something gruesome, "but what would happen when their guardians eventually die? Who would they live with? Could they inherit their guardians' estate?"

"They could be adopted by a new caretaker," said the guest, as if this were a totally academic consideration. As if it were inconceivable that the mutants themselves might have any feelings about the matter. "As for inheritance, it's not unusual for people to name pets as beneficiaries in their wills. While of course the pets can't inherit anything in their own name, assets can be placed in a trust to be administered by a guardian on the pet's behalf. The same would go for these youngsters."

"Mikey."

"Dude," Mike said. "I think this dweeb just said you can't have your mom's clinic when she dies."

"On so many levels," Don replied, "not something I'm ready to think about." He leaned against the doorway of the lounge room the occupants of the MIC all shared, looking at his upside-down brother. "Tom just Skyped me. He wants to talk to you."

Something twisted inside Michelangelo. "I told you to screen my calls," he said.

"I'm not your secretary," Don said calmly.

"What does he want to talk to me about?" Mike hazarded.

"I don't know," Don said. "He said it was something you'd be interested in hearing."

"Ugh, fine," Mike said, and he somersaulted off the couch, leaving the talking heads to dissect the details of his life on public television.

When they got to the computer lab, Don pointed to the chair in front of one of the carrels. Mike understood perfectly well what that gesture meant. But he didn't want to sit in that chair. He could see Tom on the screen of the laptop, and he was fairly certain that, if he sat in the chair, Tom would be able to see him.

Right now, Tom seemed to be looking at the ceiling of whatever room he was in. His narrow shoulders moved as he tapped out an idle rhythm on his knees. It was way too much like Mike's own mannerisms when he had to sit around waiting for something.

"Talk to him," Don whispered.

"But what if he comes on to me?" Mike whispered back.

"Gosh, I don't know," Don hissed. "Maybe say 'sorry, I'm not interested.'"

Mike edged towards the computer, and sat in the chair.

Tom's face instantly lit up, before turning more red from the color coming into his cheeks. "Hi, Mike," he said. "It's - It's good to see you again."

"It's nice to see you too," Mike said cautiously. He hadn't seen Donnie's other brother since the Christmas party. He hadn't heard from him at all since that super awkward greeting card shortly after New Year's. With all that had happened, it seemed like longer. With how vehemently Michelangelo felt that he did not like the way Tom looked at him, it seemed like no time at all.

Tom leaned forward just a little, then sat back again. "Listen," he began. "A crazy thing just happened, and you need to know about it."

"Okay…?" Mike said. He really had no idea where this was going.

"So, there's this guy on my hall," Tom said. "In the dorm, I mean," he added, at Mike's blank look. "His name is Matt."

"Oh, sure," Mike said quickly. "You can ask him out. It's fine with me. I mean, we're not exclusive or anything."

Tom's face twisted up into the weirdest expression. "I don't want to ask him out," he said. "He's a homophobic jerkbag."

"Oh," Mike said, and then he didn't know what to do, other than feel terrible that he was kind of a homophobic jerkbag too.

"He's been hassling me all year," Tom went on, clearly trying to get to the point of his story. "He's a senior and he should be getting his own art supplies. But instead he just steals mine."

"What a… jerkbag," Mike said lamely.

"He came in today looking for some paper," Tom said, doing his best to act like he hadn't heard Mike's stupid comment. "He grabbed my sketchbook. And as he was tearing some blank pages out, your drawing fell out of the pocket in the back."

"Oh, shit," Mike said. Then he frowned. "Wait. So what? We're not a secret anymore. I don't care who sees that picture."

"I care who sees that picture," Tom replied. "In particular, I didn't want Matt to see it. Because sure enough, right away he starts yelling about how I'm a homo freak who fetishizes mutants."

"Um," Mike said. He had no idea how to respond to this.

"So I'm chasing him all the way across campus while he goes running to the dean's office with this picture," Tom went on. "And he bursts right in without even talking to the receptionist. So I followed him, and he starts telling the dean that I'm drawing lewd sketches of mutants, and probably I'm plotting to sodomize all the freshmen, and I should be expelled for my sinful ways."

"Wait," Mike said. "Wasn't it my sketch?"

"Yeah, exactly," Tom said. "When I could finally get a word in edgewise, I pointed out to the dean that the sketch was signed Michaelangelo. And they basically said 'yeah right, how did you get a drawing by one of the Turtles?' And I reminded them that my dad is your lawyer and I've known Don my whole life."

"So they're… not going to expel you?" ventured Michelangelo, who still didn't really understand why Tom had felt the need to tell him this story.

"Well," Tom said, "Matt still thought I should be expelled for being in possession of lewd sketches of mutants. But the dean was more interested in the sketch itself. He could see that it was really good."

"Um, yeah," Mike said. "I'm pretty awesome at drawing stuff."

"Mike," Tom said, "the dean wants to see your portfolio."

"… Huh?" Michelangelo said.

"Your portfolio," Tom repeated. "Examples of your work. He wants to maybe admit you to the art school."

"I…" Mike started. He looked helplessly at Don, but Don only shrugged. "I lost practically everything last summer. I haven't had time to draw more. You know, I've been a little busy lately."

"Then you'd better get to work," Tom said. "Here, write this down." And he gave Mike the address for the dean's office. "Just give your packet to my dad," he said. "He'll help you mail it."

"Yeah," Mike said. "I'll do that."

Tom smiled brightly. "Good luck, Mike," he said. And then he logged off.

Mike looked at the blank screen for a long minute. Then he looked at Don. "Holy crap," he said. "I'm going to college."