(n.) the ambiguous intensity of looking someone in the eye, which can feel simultaneously invasive and vulnerable.

The small pyramid of pebbles coincided quite nicely with the Empire State Building. If he leaned down and craned his head enough, Donnie could almost imagine the stack as an ancient structure of Giza, towering from amongst the Wall Street skyscrapers.

He worked methodically, feeling around blindly on the ground around him, with only the faint light of the full moon guiding his movements, and selected the smooth, flat shards of granite from the roof. Carefully, he placed each in its designated position, supporting and relying on the others until he had a nicely shaped pyramid of makeshift, minuscule bricks. He estimated 3 inches in altitude, and judging from the looks of the base, 16.7 square inches in area, give or take.

He should be home. He should be conducting another experiment on Faline's DNA back at the lair. And instead Donnie was here, creating useless three dimensional shapes with roof debris, displaced by that stupidly amazing red-haired angel and her stupidly vexing boyfriend.

Boyfriend. Her boyfriend. The thought of Casey with her sickened him. And when he considered the two of them continuing what he'd seen them starting that night he'd exposed them...

Don't think about that unless you want to puke.

He blinked hard, clenching his fists and staring at his knuckles. Green. Enveloped in wrappings that didn't succeed in masking the scars on his hands. The skin of his joints were paler from years of punching, striking, and accidentally striking his fingers when his bō fell out of his control. Not to mention the tiny marks on his fingertips from the scorches of Bunsen burners, cuts from shards of metal he happened upon in trash bins, and small, almost unnoticeable bruising from where he'd stricken the phalanges with a hammer. An inventor's hands, a warrior's fists.

Ugly and outlandish and clumsy.

Donnie tore his eyes away. He'd analyzed his appearance more than he cared to admit. His skin was scaly around his shoulders and on the tops of his feet, unsightly reminders of a reptilian heritage. His teeth were unevenly spaced, the largest gap being revealed any time he spoke or smiled, moving him to limit both actions for fear of attention being drawn to the diastema. He was tall, unusually so, with lanky legs that ended in large, three-toed feet and arms that were gangly compared to his brothers' impressive biceps.

Even by mutant terms, Donnie wasn't impressive.

The self-loathing made his cold brown eyes harden. He smacked the pyramid of pebbles to smithereens, rocks scattering onto the ground and instantly blending into the darkness. Donnie turned his attention to the horizon, hoping to find solace in the skyscrapers. The sliver of Times Square he glimpsed from his spot wasn't comforting. It only made him feel insignificant.

Insignificant and incompetent.

Gravel crunched behind him. In a heartbeat, he was over the edge of the roof, his toes desperately gripping at the ledge of the decorative frame on one of the windows beneath him, the tendons in his arm straining and flexing while he held himself steady by his fingers, pressing himself to the exterior of the building and swaying precariously. The sound of the street came to his notice, and he panicked when he realized passersby would easily spot him hanging there. He shuffled himself into the shadows created where the light from the street lamp didn't quite reach.

Idiot, why didn't you just hide someplace on the roof?!

Because I was stupid enough to choose the only roof in New York with nothing on it but a lousy pigeon coop!

He ignored his own internal bashing, muscles straining as he pulled his eyes up to peer over the ledge. All clear. No sign of movement, or sound of trespass. But he'd sworn he'd heard something. A good portion of the rooftop was still concealed in darkness. A foe could easily be using the night to their advantage.

Nonetheless, he couldn't stay dangling like this by his fingers...

Donnie grunted bemusedly, pulling himself up and at the same time unsheathing his bō. Scan the area. Check for silhouettes. Listen for shurikens or airborne artillery. Smell the air — vanishing powder not the wind making goosebumps on his skin, determine the gusts are a natural phenomenon or indicating movement of one not yet revealed.

Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Donnie cursed his paranoia, lowering his weapon and wiping his hand down his hand, trying to calm his bristling nerves. He did another once-over of the surroundings, finally convincing himself that there was no imminent threat —

A rustling sound and a loud squawk made him jump once more, and for lack of a better hiding place, he retracted inside his carapace, his bō clattering to the ground, his compacted and cramped body falling alongside it.

It took some maneuvering, the double joints in Donnie's shoulders popping as he re-situated his among the tangle of limbs, his eyes peering out just above his plastron to catch sight of the newcomer.

The pigeon cooed before him, ruffling its feathers and staring at the turtle inquisitively.

"Are you kidding?" Donnie muttered to himself, his words muffled since his lips were still pressed to his knee pads. He'd been scared into his shell by a stupid rat of the sky. The pigeon hopped forward, beginning to peck at his plastron, directly where his skin had been slightly exposed along his sensitive scar (thank you, Bebop, his plastron would never be the same after that assault with those mohawk explosives).

"Get out of here!" he shouted, limbs and head sprouting out and startling the pigeon into flight, earning Donnie a face-full of feathers. How utterly embarrassing.

He scowled at the aviary creature, now perched atop what must've been its coop. He brushed himself off, sheathing his staff and stalking up to the pigeon, sheer pettiness compelling him to shoo the bird further away.

Donnie huffed, watching it wobble in the air like an air vessel operated by a drunken pilot, eventually settling onto the building across the street. He crossed his arms, his petulance not helping his already depressive mood. His gaze drifted to the pigeon coop, realizing the unusual decor. It had been abandoned a while ago, he could tell, and the chicken wire openings had been boarded up from the inside. But the designs and swirls of paint and pencil markings suggested some recent refurbishment. It was one of the larger coops he'd seen, and from the looks of the nails and random shingles jutting haphazardly from the roof, he guessed a less-than-skilled mechanic had been responsible for its repair.

He'd never been to this part of New York , he realized... well, of course he'd been to Manhattan, but never this far down 9th street. He hypothesized his glazed-over state of mind while escaping April and Casey had led him to the more unfamiliar part of the city.

It was nice here, down the street from a theater and an art store. You could even catch a glimpse of Times Square if you looked hard enough. The apartment he stood on now was pretty nice, at least compared to the one Fae had described as her former home. Unlike his friend's, this neighborhood had been subjected to gentrification and urbanization, the once low-income housing renovated into chic buildings where it seemed the artsy side of New York flocked to. The 'emerging from the ashes' aspect of this side of town made it attractive for the creative minds.

April's house was probably about five miles away, across Upper Bay. Her apartment on Delancey was an hour and forty three minutes from here.

"April." Donnie growled to himself, leaning his head against the coop. "April. April. April! Why can't you think of anything but that damned O'Neil girl, you imbecile! She doesn't love you! She's happy without you!"

His anger flared unexpectedly, and he bashed his fists against the structure kicking at the foundation. "She's happy, Casey won, your brothers don't care, get over it already!"

He punctuated his sentence with a ruthless punch at the plywood, sending his hand straight through the chicken wire and knocking off the wood nailed on to conceal the inside from view. Donnie cursed lowly, yanking his arm out and examining the long scratches gracing his skin, wincing when he heard something crash within the coop.

Sounded like something ceramic. Strange, why would anything fragile be stored in this old thing?

Donnie shrugged to himself, cradling his bleeding arm. Not too bad. If there wasn't too much rust on that chicken wire, there wouldn't be much risk for tetanus.

He sighed, dropping his arm and flexing his overly-tensed fingers, picking at the peeling paint on the coop idly. Black, with flecks of white spray paint, and a gradient blend of colors in the background of the design that were impeccable.

Donnie frowned to himself, stepping back slightly. The black symbol came into startling clarity with some distance, accompanied by a pair of imploring and unyielding eyes, surrounded by brilliantly intricate feathers.

鶹.

Donnie blinked, astounded how even in the starlight the mural struck him so beautifully. Definitely not your regular chicken coop. Curiosity gripped him, and all he could do was willingly comply to its call. He traipsed around the perimeter, finding a latched door and jimmying it ajar, eyes widening at the treasures within. He scrambled for his T-Phone, stepping inside the coop, which had been cleared of its nesting shelves. The light from his phone encased the objects inside with a faint glow.

The ceramic pot containing several paint brushes had toppled and was lying in pieces on the floor. A stack of sketchbooks reached to his hip just beside the entryway. A basket of expensive-looking pens swung from the ceiling, an unlikely chandelier decorating the small studio. Paints and pencil sets were splayed out on a tiny table in the corner, an easel set up beside it. The canvas mounted thereon showed a variant of the same mural outside, those same piercing owl eyes and the same kanji in the center, this time surrounded by a thin veil of white, making the entire piece seem angelic.

Donatello had to make a conscious effort to keep his jaw from dropping. There were more, smaller works of art taped up on the walls, a portrait of a little girl with pigtails clutching a blue elephant, a landscape of towering rock cliffs dropping sharply, rammed by glorious waves, a scene of a coffee table and an older woman, overwhelmed by the towers of papers but comforted by the middle-aged man kissing her cheek from behind.

And a surrealistic painting of a girl with black glasses. He saw it, and it was as if he'd been transported to the time and place the painting had been conjured into existence. The sea was a turbulence of crashing waves, brash winds, and unrest. But she remained content, feeling the angry ocean lapping at her bare toes, looking past her wispy chocolate hair toward the horizon, where the storm seemed to abate, and all was tranquil in the world once more. And the look of absolute peace, but of fiery vivaciousness and restless beauty, made him want to be with her, in the midst of the torrent of nature's sounds and sights.

It took his breath away.

Donnie's eyes wandered to the frames hung beside the drawings, of a young girl at a mic, playing a grand piano in a fluffy blue dress and looking like she was being her heart out. The same girl, Ocean Girl, he realized, holding the young pigtailed child from the earlier art piece and smiling at the camera, smiling at him with indecipherable eyes. He couldn't tell their color. And that girl again, next to a boy. Blonde, with blue eyes and a wild smile, and the way she looked at him with such devotion made his heart ache, and he felt he'd encroached on something personal, something that should've been between them.

The thought entered his head that he was breaking and entering, and wreaking havoc in this perfect little haven. Donnie averted his eyes ashamedly, beginning to back out when he caught sight of one last framed document.

1st Place Contestant in the 2009 Oregon Youth Art Competition:

Vienna Bardi

His heart did flip flops. That... that was the girl Fae had mentioned. The dream! With Ōkami Yamada, when Faline had asserted they had to find the second Freeformer.

...It had been Vienna, hadn't it? Perhaps Vivian, or Virginia...

"Hello?"

Donatello whirled around, shutting the door and holding the handle shut. Thank God his T-Phone had automatically turned off. His hand gripped the door, feeling nervous sweat beading on his forehead.

Great. Someone had to come up here, when he was cornered.

"Who's there?" the distinctly female voice called, wavering.

Go away, go away, go away.

Silence.

Perhaps the stranger had left.

Impossible, Donnie was never that lucky.

Was it another pigeon?

Couldn't be, that had obviously been a human sound.

How could he escape this—

"Are you in my studio?" the voice questioned again, and then eyes were peeking through the hole his fist had made in the plywood.

He ducked, still keeping a tight hold on the door, praying she'd leave. If this really was the second Freeformer, scaring the daylights out of her was not the best technique in making her believe he wasn't an enemy. He'd come back later. Or better yet, have Leo come back later. He was always the one who insisted on handling human affairs.

"Come out," she demanded.

No thanks, I'm good, Donnie answered mentally.

More silence.

He counted in his head, listening and gaging how long the lulls of silence lasted. One Mississippi, two Mississippi... one hundred eighty four Mississippi...

Alright, it had been over three minutes, and this was ridiculous. She had to have left by now. The amount of quiet in the air suggested no other presence. Donnie willed himself to stand, his knees creaking from stiffness as he did so. Cautiously, he released the door handle, waiting for a shout, a cry, a shriek of, "I KNEW YOU WERE IN THERE!"

Silence. Not even the wind answered his actions.

He blew out a breath, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck to relieve the tension. Well, at least now he could avoid contact and tell the guys—

The door swung open, and someone squealed, "Gotcha!"

Donnie yelped, not reacting quick enough to step back, and he felt fabric brush his face. Warm and soft, like it had just been wrapped around someone's body and had retained some warmth from—

Then the sweater's zipper caught the edge of his lip. He cried out, hands flying to his mouth as pain began to make his face throb, stumbling backwards, and then there was a tumbling sound and another squeak of surprise. Someone crashed into him, and then his ankle twisted. Donnie reached up, looking for anything to stop his fall, and caught the edge of the basket above his head. He was on the floor, the chandelier of markers crashing down onto him, and the girl was on top of him.

"Oh no," she mumbled into his neck, and he could feel his face reddening at her close proximity. She was soft, her hands bracing themselves against his arms, her minute weight feeling feather-light. Her hair smelled like new books and acrylics.

"I'm so sorry," she apologized as she pushed herself up, though she remained straddling him, "I caught you with my zipper, didn't I? You startled me, I didn't have anything else to defend myself with, and you really shouldn't be in here, but that wasn't cool of me."

Donnie realized she couldn't see him, and thanked the night for granting him mercy in this situation. "I'm fine," he croaked out.

"Oh no, my Copic markers!" she cried, and then paused. He felt hands grip the sides of the basket on his head, and heard a small giggle. "Did this fall on you?"

"I need to—" He was going to say he needed to go, but she lifted the fallen marker-basket-chandelier from his eyes and she saw her silhouette, outlined by the stars peeking through the doorway. A quaint figure. Judging by her weight, too skinny to have much physical fitness.

"Geez, are you wearing armor or something?" He felt her hands press against his plastron then. "Are you some kind of Warrior Cosplayer?"

"Er...yes," he lied, hoping the fabrication would impede her from further exploring his physicality, "I was just on my way home from a Comicon, and I really must be leaving, nice to meet you, farewell—"

"Hang on, I'm not letting the criminal escape without a sentence," she remained sitting on him, and Donnie watched her cross her arms, "You broke into my studio, you pay the price. And if you plan on killing or molesting me, the price will be even higher, I assure you, pal."

"Murder is not my goal, and neither is molestation," he responded quickly, deciding desperate times called for desperate measures, searching for her trim waist (gosh, she was so tiny, he could wrap both his hands around her entire midsection), gripping it, and shoving her off of him.

"Hey!" she protested, grabbing his hand before he could pull it away, "If you touch me again, I could charge you with harassment you know!"

"I'm sorry, I really am," Donnie pleaded, "but I really need to go—"

"No, you're staying, I need to see you and determine if you're worth turning in," he heard her shuffle around, muttering to herself, "I know there's a light switch in here somewhere... man, your hands are huge!"

"No they're not! And please don't!" It was his turn now to grip her wrists. "I can't be seen—"

"C'mon, Mr. Mystery, you can't be that ugly," she replied airily, wriggling out of his grasp, and then he couldn't find her, her slim form had melded with the darkness. Not the time, he was free from her, he had to get out—

"Found it!" The studio flickered to life, tiny string lights hung on the walls blinking and brightening the pigeon coop. He felt her hands on his shell, turning him around, and Donnie knew he should've ripped away from her touch and run as fast as he could back home. But something compelled him to stay rooted in place.

"Man, this armor is a thing of beauty." She hadn't fully registered his appearance, but forced him to face her. "Now I want you to understand—"

Their eyes met. Donatello's stomach churned, and knotted when he saw those eyes from Ocean Girl's painting come to life, right in front of him, and again he couldn't tell what color they were. Her face nicely-proportioned, nothing of real astounding perfection, with a slightly hooked nose and plump lips and arching eyebrows partially hidden behind her glasses.

"Uh...hi?" He asked, meeting her wide-eyed gaze. She stared at him, didn't scream, didn't cry for help, just ogled him with a look of wonder and shock.

She studied him. Silence. He was feeling uncomfortable under her gaze. And then she reached out and stroked his cheek, her cold fingertips sending shiver down his spine and making him start.

"I'm crazy," she whispered, a dazed smile creeping up onto those full lips of hers. "I'm bonkers."

"You're not crazy," he whispered back, stepping away to allow her air.

She was frozen in place, her hand still poised where his cheek had just been. Her eyes still staring in wonder at him.

"I'm crazy," she repeated, and then those brilliant eyes closed, and her body slumped.

She fainted, she's falling, CATCH HER BEFORE SHE HITS THE FLOOR!

He leapt forward, cradling her head and saving her from what would've been a nasty concussion. Donnie's mask tails swept forward, sweeping over her face and making her long eyelashes flutter.

He stared at her, now that she wasn't burning a hole through him with those unreadable eyes. She was pretty, humbly so. And she was out cold.

"Now what?" he grumbled to himself.