A/N:

Hey guys! Hamato Michelangelo here serving up Chapter 2! Thank you so much for your encouragement so far, I really do appreciate and cherish every review that I receive!

This chapter is also long like the first one, but don't worry, the next one won't be so monstrous.

So, let's dive into Chapter 2: Solidifying Identities, shall we?

XXX

Chapter 2: Solidifying Identities

Condensation painted the glass like a heather gray sky, his mind clouded as he felt like he was walking through a billowing fog. This wasn't a new concept—of course that thought had snuck into his heart a few times, but it had never struck him so hard. He rested his forehead against the cold window.

Perhaps it was because of how the thought came to be, how it was ripened by someone he hadn't expected. He could definitely imagine Leonardo planting the seed into him, maybe even Raphael, but he never forecasted little Michelangelo to utter such sullen words.

You know, this whole thing could be like a sign. Maybe we were meant to do this! Protect the innocent civilians of Manhattan! Helping people! This could be our whole life's meaning! We've got to help them!

And it was those words that had fallen from Michelangelo, that sapling of an idea that he had long buried, that had rooted and taken home in his fragile soul.

Donatello stared at the black tinted window, wishing it weren't so opaque so that he could reminisce in the candied childhood memories that were locked away inside.

The building was sold and bought months ago, the obsolete facility still being renovated to revolutionize into something entirely new. He felt his heart twinge—usually Donatello wasn't the sentimental type, consistently searching for ways to ameliorate and advance; to rive and reconstruct so that it was more productive. And he understood that keeping the building would do nothing but harvest remaining feelings and drain their finances, and that its new owners would put it to good use. Yet the heart-striking thought that his father's dojo would no longer exist...

Donnie took a step back away from the old children's dojo and sighed. Digging into the past, he plowed and churned and grounded up the flourishing soils that his collection of memories with the dojo thrived in.

The bell would chime every time someone entered the Hamato Clan's Dojo, a sound that now only reverberated in his hollow chest. He recalled all those early mornings walks when him and his brothers were young; taking little Michelangelo by the hand as their father led them inside, teaching them all the fine art of ninjutsu.

We're all going to be ninjas. Such an idea had always enamored the boys, and to Donnie, it was something that would be considered cool. Ninjutsu seemed to be the only cool aspect of him in the whole spectrum that was Donatello, the number one trait that he was overt and unashamed about.

Blue mats had patterned the floor of the dojo, and Donatello would always stand on the one in between Raph and Mikey—father liked it that way. Oldest to youngest, and vice versa.

Bruises, bandaids, trips, and falls; ninjutsu didn't come as easy for him as it did for Leo. Leonardo was a natural, truly talented he was. And Donnie couldn't help but feel that pang of jealousy whenever he saw that spark of pride in Yoshi's eyes, but they wouldn't shine in his direction. Success was an idea that Donatello had desperately craved ever since he was a boy, and he couldn't function with failure. Despite this fault, for the times he did mess up, the times he did utilize his bo staff incorrectly, and for every time he did fall, his father was there to pick him back up. He wasn't just a father, but a sensei. A master.

Yoshi had known exactly what he wanted to do with his life. He knew himself, his passions, his skills. It was almost as if he was born with his life planned out, like he was destined to master and teach ninjutsu to young people. He knew his calling, and he knew his life's meaning.

Petrichorsweetly wafted in the afternoon air, evidence of last night's rain being in almost every sense. Donatello was aware that he should be leaving soon, he didn't want to keep her waiting too long.

Trigonometry tutoring was to be on Tuesday evenings, a wedge in his busy schedule dedicated to nurturing and connecting dots—but he would gladly sacrifice every second to aid her, even if it was just mathematics.

You have a gift, you know,his teachers would inform him. Intelligence way beyond your years! You should be extremely proud!

And he would be lying if he said that he was humble about his intelligence. He was even granted the opportunity to skip junior year, in which he seized and ravished the golden wish of moving out of high school.

Encouragement, rewards, praises—success—he was addicted, even intoxicated on his self-pride from time to time.

He wondered if there was such thing as too much of a good thing, and even something as treasured as human knowledge could turn from gold to dust. Humanity hindered perfection, even for Donnie, as his understanding of science proved to turn against him now and then.

You are too focused on the mind, and not on your physical strength; you must become as powerful as the mountain.

Sensei taught him that, and it was then that he had become fully aware of the growing mentality, that his heavy reliance on being a 'genius' was becoming a crutch he couldn't bear to live without. A weakness that if stripped away, would crumble his delicate identity.

He was a genius, but once that was gone, he was only a shell of a human being. Gutted out just like the empty dojo in front of him.

Shoving his cold hands into his pockets, Donnie departed from the sight, heading for his true destination and hoping he wouldn't get distracted again. He gazed up at the overcast sky.

With about 7.125 billion people in the world, more than 1700 discovered planets, and almost one billion trillion stars, finding meaning in life was something he struggled dealing with. Vines of self-doubt tangled and constricted, thorns jabbing and piercing into him until he couldn't breathe. Donnie tried to not let his emotions poison his logic or damage his health, but sudden moments like last night with Mikey would make his whole world spin.

Walking along the pavement, soggy leaves stuck to his shoes, wind blowing through his thick cinnamon hair and causing him to adjust the scarf around his neck. It seemed pretty cold for September, but maybe the universe was just solicitous about all the things weighing down on Donatello's head.

Autumn is expressed as the season of change, the season where life leads you to a fork in the road. It was when school started, when temptation would appear at every corner, when the ease of summer roughly threw everyone back into reality. And Donnie wondered if he needed to change to find that meaning in his life, or if he needed to wait for life to do that for him.

Trees bared bright reds and oranges and browns, and he thought it was ironic that people often only found leaves beautiful once they were dead. He gripped his backpack straps tightly.

After a few minutes into his brisk stroll, Donatello reached the address he had memorized since he was eight years old. The red bricked apartment complex helped suppress his depressive mood, the familiar sight automatically lifting his spirits.

Out of routine, Donatello beelined straight to the slick fire escape, gripping the ladder tightly to not slip from old raindrops as he began scaling the apartment. Sure, he always could just go inside and to the front door, but she had claimed that it was more adventurous if he came in through her bedroom window. It was tradition ever since they were mere children.

With every passing moment of his ascend, Donnie could feel his youthful happiness elevate higher and higher knowing the princess that was waiting for him at the end of his climb.

The stairs groaned from under him, but the noise went hardly noticed. Heart now pounding in his chest, the corners of his lips curved as he approached her bedroom window.

He gave it a few raps, anticipating for her to warmly greet him.

April— a name, originating from Latin, derived from the word "aperire", meaning open—and it was the perfect description, considering she had always been the person he could open up to the most. Soft as a budding rose, her eyes shimmering like crystals and a comforting aura seemed to blanket him. April O'Neil was the one on the other line of his three a.m. calls when insomnia plagued his shadowy nights, the arms that kept him afloat through every wave of anxiety that crashed on his shores, the lighthouse that guided him out of foggy times such as this.

The O'Neils had been friends with the Hamatos for almost a decade, supporting the small family during its most difficult crisis. With Mr. O'Neil being a psychologist, Donnie's family was probably his number one client with the tornado of a life they've had. But April and her parents were a loyal trio, a true solid foundation when the winds of tragedy would buffer and bend their dwindling strength.

And Donnie knew April would always be there when he needed it, arms open wide.

April had even been there for him when his father died.

Donatello tapped the window a little harder. Squinting his eyes, he peered through the space between her buttercream curtains, her bedroom mysteriously dark and seemingly empty. Nothing moved, everything deathly still. Pressing his face against the glass, he wondered for a split second if she had forgotten about the tutor session. He lifted his hand to knock again, when suddenly a pale face separated the two curtains, jumping right in front of his view. Startled, Donnie stumbled a bit, catching his balance before anything disastrous could happen as he stood two stories on a fire escape.

With pupils the size of pins, she scrambled to open her bedroom window, obviously racing for him to come in.

"April?" the window opened, Donnie stepping closer to the frightened girl, "What's wrong—"

April clamped a hand over his mouth, shushing him and yanking him by the sleeve. Questions and demands were proven useless, his voice muffled as she continued to tug and pull him in through the window. After not-so-gracefully tumbling into the bedroom, he finally pried her hand off his face.

"Nice to see you too," he said sarcastically. But April didn't sense any humor, going and slamming her bedroom door, discombobulated and flustered. Fiery red stray hairs spewed in all directions and dark circles were under her glossy blue eyes, and Donnie could deduce that her previous night was restless. Rubbing her hands together, her signature yellow jacket didn't seem to warm her shivers. Donatello's eyebrows knitted together with concern—he had never seen April so shaken before.

It put him on edge—she was usually so levelheaded, hardly ever lost her cool like this—and yet at this instance, she was behaving incoherently. This must be something of great proportions—at least in April's world.

Composedly mincing up to her, he placed a hand on her shoulder, "April, relax. Did something happen to you?" His mind began to run wild with ideas and theories of what could be wrong. Examining her, his eyes trickled up and down, scoping for any bodily injures that may have been inflicted onto her.

April took a deep breath, shutting her eyes and reducing her nervousness. "I...I have to tell you something. Something I haven't told anyone else." She fidgeted with one of her pigtails, a cute quirk Donnie had detected some time ago.

"Alright, just please calm down, it's going to be ok." He directed her to her queen-sized bed, the two of them instinctively sitting beside each other. Donatello grabbed one pillow out of the plethora, watching her twiddle her thumbs and stare at her blue tennis shoes.

Together they sat in silence, Donnie's persistent tendencies for social awkwardness now clinging onto his nerves. Waiting for her to share her worries, he studied her habits and focused in on her delicate face. Allured by the freckles that lightly peppered April's cheeks, he often got lost in them, counting and connecting them like they were tiny constellations. She was a galaxy all on her own, and right now, she had poured herself into his cracked hands. He held the pillow close to his chest.

With her thoughts clearly jumbled, he decided not to say anything to her, and to let her open when she wished to.

Looking around the teenage girl's bedroom, a flow of memories came to him.

Donatello had watched April's room transform from fairy princess pinks, to Hot Topic and black curtains during that phase in middle school, up to now, a beige, modern look with a youthful twist to it.

Textbooks, notebooks, pencils were all in their organized place on her polished desk, her bookshelf completely shelved with stories of mystery and science-fiction, and on display was her tessen. His father had been the one to push her into dabbling into ninjutsu, and she had instantly fell in love with the art. But how she would ever graduate to kunoichi, Donnie didn't even know.

All four walls were decorated with band posters and string lights and polaroids. Donnie smiled a bit at the photographs. Some were of April and her parents, some with her girls, but most were of her with him and his brothers. The childhood memories of the dojo may have been sold, but at least he found security in the O'Neil's and their apartment.

Memories of him and his brothers playing in April's room as children, hiding under tables and behind planters in games of hide and seek, the time Raph and Leo accidentally made a hole in the wall—oh, was dad furious.

Before Donatello could laugh at remembering that whole fiasco, April beat him to it.

"I'm being so ridiculous right now," she said exasperatingly, wiping away tears that managed to fight to the surface. When was the last time he saw April O'Neil cry?

"April—"

"I know, I know," she threw her hands up, "it's just all a little overwhelming." The bed creaked when she stood up and she began to pace.

"Donatello?" her eyes glistened, her voice croaking and failing to hide her fear. "I'm telling you this because you're the smartest guy I know. And...and I just need some reassurance."

Donnie nodded affirmatively, prepared to soak in the information she was about to give him. He crossed his legs, making himself comfortable on her bed.

April laughed to herself, "You're going to think I'm freaking crazy. But..." she took a deep breath, baring a brave face, "On Friday night, I had...a dream."

He cocked an eyebrow. "A dream? Or a nightmare?"

"No, no. It wasn't just a nightmare. It felt...it felt like I was there, Donnie. I felt the rain roll off my skin, I felt their hot breath hit my ears, felt their hands rip and tear at me, they grabbed me Donnie, except it wasn't really me, I-I don't—"

"Woah, woah, April slow down," Donnie said, "Just tell me what happened in your dream."

She played with her hair apprehensively, "You're right, I'm sorry."

April ambled over back to her bed, gently sitting in front of Donnie with her knees tucked softly under herself.

"It was late at night," she explained, "and I—or rather, he—got attacked by these guys."

"He?"

"Well, while in the dream, I was aware that I wasn't myself...I was some boy, if this makes any sense." The comforter crumpled under them.

Donnie nodded, understanding the complexity of dreams.

"And I just excused it as being some crazy nightmare. But then I went to school on Monday, and then I saw the news last night..."April began to shake again, Donnie resting a comforting hand on her lap.Whipping her head up, she gazed into his eyes, Donnie inwardly awed by all the stars that shone in them."You heard about Peter Brood, right?"

And the stars fell. Donatello clutched the pillow on his lap, his stomach knotting at the mention of Pigeon Pete. "Y-Yeah, he was a friend of Mikey's. But what does that have to do with—"

"I was Peter, Donnie," she motioned towards herself, "I could tell. It wasn't just a dream...it was a vision."

Donnie was stupefied, all running thoughts coming to an abrupt halt. Before he could even form words on his tongue, April continued.

"Not only that," she looked away, fingers twitching but voice thick as molasses, "but I can just...sense things sometimes. Like, where something is, or when something bad is going to happen..."

"April, what are you—"

"I think I'm psychic."

The grip on the pillow was freed, his face contorting into an expression that he was aware was probably inconsiderate. Eyes wide, brows raised, and a bent frown. However, Donnie was dumbfounded at the unfathomable statement. April was an intelligent young girl, very bright and logical—for her to be suggesting such a stretch as to being psychic seemed almost like mockery to her own self.

"Psychic...?" The word crumbled as it fell from his mouth.

April smiled sadly, blinking away the rest of her tears, "I know, it sounds completely nuts. But I thought if anyone could explain this all to me, it would be you."All of April's walls had fallen, every emotional barrier being stripped away and leaving her entirely vulnerable, which was something Donnie knew April hated. Sympathy coiled in his gut.

He shifted more comfortably on the bed, leaning back onto the bedpost. "Are you sure you shouldn't ask your dad about it? I'm positive he's a much better dream interpreter than me, he is a psychologist after all."

"No, Donnie please don't tell anyone about this. He won't take me seriously," she grabbed ahold of his hands, his cold, chapped skin feeling warm under her's, "I thought that this could just be a secret between you and me."

Blood rushed to his face as he bit the inside of his cheeks. A secret. Just by the hearing the word alone, Donnie could feel the bond between them beginning to strengthen, and their overall unspoken connection becoming much louder.A secretwas the gateway to a whole new world that would only explored by the two of them, and the two of them alone—an idea that Donatello had wished for long time now. Isolated by themselves to map out and navigate the deepest corners of their relationship, as well as the problem that plagued April.

And Donnie couldn't help but feel honored that out of 7.125 billion people, he was the one she chose to confide this secret to.

"Do you think I'm crazy, Donnie?"

A voice as sweet as vanilla extracted him from his wandering daydreams, but the question she had asked left a bitter taste in his mouth.

"Of course not April, the idea of psychics has been around since ancient times, and technically science has yet to fully debunk it—"

"Do you...do you think you could look into it for me?" she smiled innocently as if she knew that Donnie would be tripped by her adorable charm. The roots of self-doubt that had invaded his soul began to wither and break away, budding confidence blooming in his lungs and inviting a swarm of butterflies.

Donatello sat up straight, smiling wider than he had in a while. "Of course, anything for you April."

April sniffled, wiping her nose with her jacket sleeve as she began to laugh off her embarrassment. "I'm sorry I totally freaked out and practically dragged you inside."

"Don't worry, I'll live," Donnie smirked playfully.

"I guess with having to write about Pete for the school newspaper, I got a little worked up about it." Laying down and sprawling out on her bed, she stared directly at the ceiling. "I really do think he was kidnapped, vision or not. It all adds up when you think about it."

"Well, just don't tell Mikey that, he'll never let it go." He lied beside her, craving to intertwine his fingers with the space in between her's.

"Donnie?"

"Yeah April?"

"Are you worried about the Purple Dragons?"

Donatello blankly stared straight ahead, digesting the question and dissecting his debris of emotions. It was all just another tangled mess he didn't want to uproot. He pressed the pillow against his chest.

"I mean, I guess they're a little threatening, but Leo says the police are all over it." He sat back up, removing the backpack from his back, "Anyway, let's get to Trigonometry, shall we?"

"You're right," April clapped as to dismiss the previous conversation. As soon as she grabbed her textbook off of her desk, she returned to the bed and lied on her stomach, book opened and displayed in front of her, diving into her studies.

"It's funny," Donnie pulled out a pencil from his backpack, "You're allegedly some strong psychic, and yet you're failing trigonometry."

Without hesitation, April stole the pillow from Donnie, smacking him in the face. "Shut up," she smirked, enjoying his playful teasing.

Before Donnie could dish out another quip, there was a knock on the bedroom door.

"Who's in there with you, April?" it asked, "It better not be that Jones boy."

Casey Jones: the boyfriend. Donnie, his brothers, and April had met Raphael's arrogant and flirtatious friend back in junior high, but it was only a few months ago that April had admitted to growing feelings for the guy. The two were a dynamic duo when it came to their romantic relationship, frictional personalities that just happened to create sparks. Sparks that Donnie just couldn't ever seem to ignite himself. Perhaps he just wasn't pressing hard enough, not moving passed shyness to get close enough for their souls to touch. Jealousy was his adversary, but Donatello managed to push his own personal feelings and keep them at bay. Whatever made April happy, he would remind himself. Still, each syllable of the boy's name made his gut clench, his blood boil, and his heart sink.

Laughing, April rolled off the bed and made her way to the door. "Don't worry dad, it's just Donnie."

Just Donnie—the phrase was like a hammer to his ribs, bones aching as his heart jumped into his throat.

Kirby O'Neil entered the room, hands in his pocket as he nodded towards Donatello. At least that was something Casey didn't have—full approval and trust from April's father.

"Hey Mr. O'Neil," he waved casually but with courtesy, "Just here to help April with Trigonometry."

"Like he does every Tuesday afternoon," April placed her hands on her hips, "How come you always seem to forget that?" she teased, her father playfully rolling his eyes.

"My mistake. I've just been a bit scatterbrained with all the new clients I've been having to keep up with," Kirby said, eyes wandering the room as if to make sure that Casey wasn't hiding anywhere. And suddenly, Mr. O'Neil's eyes locked with Donnie's. "You know," he told him, "It's a really kind thing for you to be helping April out like this. With everything that goes on within your life, I'm surprised you even find time for it. Are you sure you don't want a little reward for it?"

Donnie rose to his feet and shook his head, "No need to waste any of your money on me, I enjoy doing it for free."

Money was tempting, seeming that it was necessity that his family was lacking these days. But getting money for aiding a friend didn't fit comfortably with him.

"I understand," April's dad said, clapping a hand to Donnie's shoulder and adding earnestly, "You're a good kid. Your father would be proud of you."

Empty words fell flat to his ears, but Donatello plastered on a saccharin smile anyway. "Thanks," he looked up at him, Kirby ruffling his hair before leaving the room.

"Well now that that interruption is gone," April grabbed her text book off the bed, "maybe you can tell me who this Ptolemy guy is."

As the two began their study, Donatello couldn't help but feel like a lightweight, his heart tied down by April so that he couldn't float away. There was no denying that he had feelings for April beyond platonically—it was simple chemistry. He would be anything for her, even if that meant being stuck as just the 'genius', just the Tuesday tutor, just her orphaned friend. He loved her. And April O'Neil would always be something he was proud and open about.

XXX

Bang!

Bang!

Bang!

Raphael distanced himself, the stance of folding his arms making the leather of his jacket pinch. Pressing his back against the bricks, amber eyes flicked back and forth from the aluminum cans as they were being struck, watching as they collided with the garage door at lightning speed. Fingers wrapped around the guitar strap against his chest.

Intuition made Raph cautious, staying near the mouth if the alleyway and waiting for the right time to approach the young man committing the minor crime of destruction of property. Inquisitive if he would ever realize he was there, the rugged teen blew the hair out of his eye.

Bang!

A cold wind snaked down is spine, subliminally reminding him of how chapped his lips were. Licking them, he glossed over and sensed the metallic taste of his piercing.

It was that motion that made Raph notice how his friend's lips were merely a tight line, as if it was taking every piece of him to keep in control.

The bemusement lost its touch, Raphael squinting and focusing on the features of his friend. Beads of sweat rolled off the bridge of his nose, his long black hair sticking to his face and contrasting from his reddened cheeks. There went another hit.

Bang!

Grunts came from the young man, Raphael observing him as he perpetually pummeled crushed soda and beer cans with his hockey stick like homemade pucks. He went down the line, swinging at each until there was none left.

Lividness had its hold on him, leaving Raph to wonder what force could possibly have the power to consume his friend like that.

Disturbingly, it was almost as if Raphael was staring into a mirror. Anger was a cloak he wore daily, latching onto him and fusing into his identity. To see it being worn by someone else just didn't look right. He couldn't pull it off. It looked ugly on him.

A prolonged moan suddenly creaked from the backdoor of the shop, a younger girl emerging from the dusty doorway with a stuffed bunny in her hands. Dark-colored, messy braids framed her youthful face, highlighting her tomboyish charm despite the plush bunny she would often carry.

She took one look at the teen and loured.

"Casey, dad says to knock that off, it's highly obnoxious," she clutched the animal tighter, her nose haughtily in the air to create some sense of superiority for herself.

Raph sniggered from where he was, almost always being entertained by this spunky girl.

But she was blatantly ignored, Casey Jones scouring for any other item to smash into the garage door. It was almost sad to see Casey seemingly implacable and so desperate as he searched for something to destroy.

"What are you even doing?" the little girl marched up to him, fearless to say the least.

Casey only blinked at her, eyes darting from her to the toy. She didn't have time to register the thoughts written on Casey's face before he smacked the bunny right out of her hands, the plush landing on the asphalt.

Raph sneered, but still didn't move. He wanted to see this play out.

The child gasped in surprise, but it didn't take long for her facial expression to harden. "If you dare hit Cotton Tail—"

And just like that, the childhood stuffed animal flew and crashed into the garage door, Casey insensate to the coexisting emotions that were obviously floating in the air.

Infuriating disturbance tensed inside Raphael.

"What's your problem Jones?" Raph blew his cover, striding over to his distraught friend. Casey whipped around, eyes wide to say how long have you been standing thete?. His little sister didn't seem too stunned, smirking at Raphael to hint that she was actually glad to see him.

As Casey only answered with ragged breathing, Raph plodded over to the girl's plush rabbit and dusted it off.

Handing it over to Casey's sister, she snatched it and brought it close to her chest, smiling curtly and hiding a subtle blush.

"I'll take care of this," Raph nodded toward Casey.

"Good," she headed back inside the shop. Before shutting the backdoor, she added, "Kick his ass for me."

Raphael threw his head back, a quick raspy chortle parting from his lips as his gaze attached to the pale sky.

"She sure has a chockful of personality, doesn't she?"

A pfft from his friend was heard from over his shoulder. Gripping his guitar strap tighter, the teenager stood tall and lumbered over to Casey Jones.

Embarrassment attempted to diminish itself, but Raph could plainly detect the avoidance in eye contact and the red tint to Jones's cheeks. Shifting his weight, Raph flipped his hair out of his eye and smirked. "You know, I thought your cycle was next week."

That ought to stir a reaction from his troubled friend.

Casey chucked his hockey stick onto the pavement in defeat, rolling his coffee-colored eyes before finally spitting out, "Channel six."

Channel six. That's all Raph needed to hear to understand, but he allowed his friend to continue to vent.

"They're back—how dare they have the nerve to come back to my city. I made it pretty clear last time that they were unwelcome."

Raph scoffed. "You really think you intimidated the Purple Dragons? Listen, I hate them as much as the next guy, but getting wrapped up in their business again won't fix the problem."

"You don't understand," Casey shook his head, "This is personal Raph—they got wrapped in my life first."

"I know Casey, you don't need to retell me your sob story—"

"They messed with my parents, harassed them when we were barely making it by. It didn't just take a toll on the shop, it took a toll on my parents' marriage," the grieved boy bit his lip to hold back his spilling emotions, "It's been years since I've even contacted my mom. And that's not even all of it. You know what they did simply because my dad didn't pay his 'protection fee'?"

Raph's sigh was sympathetic. "The Purple Dragons burned—"

"They burned the shop down. Those bastards burned our store to the ground, and now they're back and still trying to ruin people's lives." The flare in his eyes must've burned brighter and with more painand hatred than the store fire that occurred many years ago. But Raph hosed off his own conflicting feelings—for once, he followed logic rather than jumping the gun with impulse.

He walked up to his friend, entering a new territory in empathy that made him uncomfortable. "Case, look, all of that happened a long time ago," he told him, locking his fiery eyes with his own ice cold glare, "Going back to your old vigilante days will only result in you getting your ass kicked and me having to worry that your stupidity will catch up to you."

Casey tore away from the polar stare, glancing upward to avoid eye contact and tapping his foot with impatience.

"I can't just do nothing," the familiar phrase seethed through Casey's teeth.

Voices of last night rolled in from last night, the dramatic scene from Michelangelo seeming to unfold itself right in front of Raphael for a second time.

"Geez, you're sounding like Mikey. I'll tell you what I told him—this is not your job. Leo said the police are on it."

"Police?" Casey gestured for emphasis, "The Raph I know, knows that they don't do shit."

There was a pause. He wasn't wrong—the two always shared that belief. But Raph swallowed his temptations.

Slowly shedding his usual cloak of anger, Raphael allowed himself to be stripped of what he was content and labeled with. The exposure alone was enough to rattle his bones.

Being vulnerable, the brusque teen admitted, "I don't want to have to find out one day that you got yourself killed because you got yourself in too deep."

Mushy confessions tended to leave Casey Jones feeling awkward as well, subduing him to silence.

The boys stood in the lot for a while, Raph trying to think of ways to push this subject far, far away.

"How about instead of throwing this hissy fit over these stupid Purple Dragons, we focus on our attention to something else. Say, our music?" Raph motioned to the guitar strapped to his back, "We still need a lead singer."

Again, no words for a sustained amount of time. Until a playful smirk tugged lightly at the corner of Casey's lips.

"Why can't I sing?"

"Because you sound like a cat in a garbage disposal."

"Ok, fine. We can have auditions or something—but I want to pick our band name," Casey said, walking towards the backdoor of the shop and expecting Raph to follow.

"Sure, as long as you promise to not go back to your vigilante ways."

"Yeah, yeah, I promise. How about the Cotton Tails? It's totally metal."

"Over my dead body."

XXX

Clattering dishes and thrumming conversations were enough to indicate the liveliness in the small restaurant, though an afternoon rush on a Tuesday was a rare occurrence for Mr. Murakami. Michelangelo's thoughts, however, might have been more bustling than 24/7.

With the recent events and exchange of dialogue hanging above him, words and emotions restlessly ricocheted in his skull.

Dad would've wanted us to do this.

The acidity that excreted from his voice made him physically wince with regret. It wasn't like him to go on a heated spiel like that. Maybe rants about Crognard the Barbarian, or cats, but not ones about epic destinies and assumptions about their deceased father. Forks screeched against ceramic plates.

Mikey blinked hard, attempting to widen his heavy eyes as he scrolled through social media on his phone idly. Leisure after-school times were moments he'd prefer to stay awake for. The padding from the seat stuck to his legs, Napoleon on the left of him chatting to Jason from across the table. This secluded him into slumbering silence, leaving him to continue recycling last night's thoughts in his head.

Someone is going to save Peter, right? The police will find out where he is—they have to. Why was he kidnapped in the first place? Questions rumbled and quaked in his mind, making it ache. It was just something he couldn't diminish, something he couldn't keep still. There had to be something he could do to stop this pain and keep it from spreading.

If you do not enter the tiger's cave, you will not catch its cub.

The phrase entered his battlefield of thoughts, getting caught in crossfire. This strong, overwhelming desire to fight back was nipping under his skin, almost as if it were going to burst right out of him. It was clear that this intense force of sentiment was unfamiliar and new to him—he never felt more compelled to do something so impactful his whole life. And it was scary. Confusing, but also transcendently exhilarating.

"So, which issue are we on now?" Napoleon rested his leg on the seat, his shoe almost touching Mikey as he leaned back on the wall.

He couldn't shake out of his daze fast enough before Jason could answer for him.

"Number one spring issue," Jason waved his own comic for visual confirmation.

His friends had unintentionally forced him to acknowledge his world around him, to live in the present moment at 24/7 than to wherever Peter was. All his senses lazily kicked in, the restaurant sounds became more prominent as he remembered why they were here. It was their weekly comic book meet up, and as soon as he remembered that, he realized Renet had yet to make an appearance.

And just as if Mikey had closed his eyes and made a wish, the familiar voice stood out against all others.

"Hey guys, guess what!"

The boy swiftly lifted his head up to see Renet, her floral print skirt swaying with each step she took towards the booth. The bedazzlement that sparkled in her eyes prompted hope to shine its rays over the horizon. Mikey pressed his hands against the polished table and hefted himself up, transforming his attitude completely.

"Did someone find Pigeon Pete?!" he inquired with confidence, his smile stretching for miles.

The hope that he thought he saw slipped away and no longer shone, but was instead replaced with dull guilt.

"Oh, no," Renet fiddled with the pendant around her neck, "I was just going to say my dad got me a pocket watch, sorry." She smiled sadly as she opened her palms to reveal the gift she had received. It was golden, unlike his luck.

Mikey slumped his shoulders, allowing himself to fall back into place as he pouted. He should've known. The energy he had exerted was depleted, his lost hours now doing a number on him.

"You're still hung up over that?" Jason asked as he moved his backpack so Renet could sit down.

She slid next to him only to scold, "It's only been one day Jason, give it time."

Eyes crestfallen, the troubled boy reexamined his phone screen, scrolling through smiling faces and wondering how these people could carry on after everything that was revealed on Monday.

"Do you think making a hashtag would help spread the news faster? I've seen people do that with other missing people," he said, almost completely monotone.

"I mean, it wouldn't hurt," he heard Jason say, but hadn't had the strength or motivation to lift his heavy eyes.

"I guess that's one nice thing about being a social butterfly and having a lot of followers."

Mikey watched the light of the phone screen turn black.

"Now that Renet's here, can we order?" Though spoken as a question, Napoleon already made up his mind and squeezed passed him out of the booth.

Mentioning food made Mikey realize his own hunger pains. Renet and Jason had followed his lead, Mikey sulking behind them begrudgingly in a juvenile way.

After acquiring their wooden coins, the four friends shuffled over to the polished counter, clambering onto the stools and sliding the tokens to Mr. Murakami himself.

"Hey Mr. Murakami-san," Mikey greeted, attempting to make his voice sound sunnier than the rain cloud that dampened his mood.

Mr. Murakami was another one of the multitude of friends that he had made through the connection with his father. Yoshi used tobring him and his brothers to 24/7 when they were younger, Mikey absolutely astonished by the chef's culinary skills, given also that the man was blind. Murakami had even trained him to make some of his favorite orders when he was only nine years old—something that really cheered him up after everything he had recently gone through.

So, Murakami became another person to make it on his list of inspiring role models.

Said man grinned at the sound of his voice, recognition blatant in his posture.

"Hello Michelangelo, hello Michelangelo's friends," he offered a friendly wave, collecting the wooden tokens for their orders. Feeling the grooves under his fingertips, the man read the surface of the coins.

"Pizza gyoza, why am I not surprised?" The man headed towards his kitchen, adding over his shoulder, "You kids can't stay out too late; there's a new curfew, you know."

Mikey perked up at the remark, turning his stool to face his three other friends with a look of aggravation. "And you know why there's a curfew? Because people like Pigeon Pete have gone missing!"

"Can't you just think about something else, for like, five minutes?" Jason complained with a roll of his eyes, "Like comics or pizza or even that creepy gothic chick you seem to like so much."

Michelangelo cocked his head. "You mean Shinigami?"

"Jason," Renet interjected, placing on hand on Jason's shoulder and the other outstretched towards Mikey, "Obviously Mikey isn't going to leave this whole conspiracy alone, so we might as well just let him get it off his chest." She smiled at Mikey, sitting upright and waiting for him to proceed with what he had been trying to get out the moment he arrived.

Finally, he could release his dark realizations, something he hated keeping to himself and battling over. Mikey let out a well-needed deep breath.

"Look dudes, I know something happened to Pete!" he started, emphasizing with exaggerated hand gestures, "I know because—because the Purple Dragons took him!"

Jason and Napoleon raised their eyebrows, Renet toying with her pocket watch in stunned silence.

"The Purple Dragons?" Napoleon spoke up, sounding unconvinced, "What would guys like them want with a guy like Pigeon Pete?"

"I don't know! But I just know that they did, and Peter wasn't the only one," Mikey answered desperately, "And I have to stop them."

Napoleon, Jason, and Renet all traded side glances, but Michelangelo cut them off before they could reply.

"Ugh, quit doing that," he groaned, "Quit doing the 'Mikey is out of his Mind' look. My brothers already did enough of that last night. They don't believe me either."

Renet gave Mikey her attention, concern painting her face as the young boy failed at stifling a yawn.

"It's not that we don't believe you," she began, "It's just that we're worried you're a little too invested into this. There's nothing we can do but hope for the best."

"The worry card," the boy rested his cheek in the palm of his hand, "Leo pulled that on me too. He even put weird incense in my room to help me fall asleep last night."

"Did it work?" Napoleon asked with an odd amount of curiosity.

"Do you see these eye bags?!" Mikey pulled down his face dramatically. A sigh parted from his lips, "I just can't help but feel like I should be doing something. My brothers won't let me help, but I can't stand being on the sidelines." Discouraged, he folded his arms on the counter and rested his chin.

A delayed response was expected—Mikey didn't usually behave like this. Positive vibes and warm optimism was the persona he constantly wore. The last time he was this hung up over a serious topic was when he had lost his father.

The tired boy closed his eyes, but before he could even get the chance to doze off, Napoleon's voice startled him.

"It's too bad," he said, turning the pages of his comic book, looking more engrossed in what he was reading than what he was saying, "It's too bad you aren't a superhero like Wingnut. You could have a cool costume and everything, no one would know it's you."

Mikey jolted up, inspiration zapping his body and soul back to life.

"Kokestu ni irazunba koji wo ezu!" he suddenly exclaimed.

Napoleon lifted his gaze away from his comic book eyes squinted in confusion, "What?"

"I can become a superhero like Wingnut—or even better," Mikey motioned his friends to lean in closer as he whispered, "A vigilante like the Nightwatcher!"

The boys' eyes glinted at the concept Mikey was suggesting, Renet leaning back away.

"The Nightwatcher?" Renet appeared uncertain.

Jason swerved his seat towards her. "You know, the Nightwatcher?" he repeated the name in hopes that it would jog her memory. But she shrugged, clueless.

"He was a popular vigilante a few years ago back when last time Purple Dragons were being evil-y," Mikey explained excitedly, "After he got super famous, other people started taking on the role too. And the coolest part is that nobody ever found out who was the original Nightwatcher."

The Nightwatcher had also made his appearance on Mikey's list of role models when he was a kid, believing he was almost like Manhattan's personal Wingnut.

"Are you serious?" Jason scoffed, "Dude, those gang members would take you down before you could even blink."

"That's where you're wrong!" Mikey pointed at Jason, then taking his thumb and pointing towards himself, "Did you suddenly forget about my amazing ninjutsu skills? If I just finished my training and became a real ninja, then I can go out and save people from being kidnapped by the Purple Dragons! And the best part would be that my brothers would never have to find out." He folded his arms, proud of his plan.

"But wouldn't they notice you gone?" Jason challenged.

"Look, I'll work out the kinks later—but this is something I was born to do guys! I can feel it!"

"Well, I for one think it's an awesome plan," Napoleon voiced.

"Thank you! Finally, someone is on my side! Jason, Renet?"

Jason thought for at least a moment before a boyish smile fell through, "If you train and graduate to a full ninja, then I guess it'd be pretty rad."

Mikey beamed, leaning forward to see Renet down the counter. "Renet?"

The young girl looked away, "I don't know Mikey..."

"C'mon 'Net, pleeease?" he folded his hands together, batting his big blue eyes.

Renet gently glimpsed at him, biting her lip. Caving in, she sighed in defeat—Mikey was aware that no one could resist his cute charm. "I guess if you really feel like you were meant to do this—"

Mikey pumped his fist, his elatedness escalating to new heights.

"Then it's settled! Starting right now, Michelangelo Hamato will begin his training to become a ninjutsu-fighting-vigilante-hero of New York!"

The war in his mind had ceased, victorious celebrating chiming as he began to create his second identity.

XXX

Preview for Chapter 3: Searching for Guidance !

The girl closed her eyes, fingers lightly lacing the microphone as she allowed to get lost in the music.

A lie. I just told a lie, the words flashed like sirens in his mind.

Leo scrunched his nose. He couldn't have possibly forgotten to hand him and Usagi an assignment, could he?

Coming September 8th !

XXX

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