The wind felt hot and gritty in that other place, and everything smelled of something chemical, something like rubber or asphalt.

Mike grunted when Don asked about it. 'Environment's prettymuch fucked. It's fifteen degrees hotter than it should be. Awesome for roaches, not so much for anything else.'

Mike's mood had been black ever since April said she'd try to contact Raph and Leo, and for the two hours they'd been in the control room with April he hadn't spoken to or even looked at Don unless he had to. It stung a little, but Don noticed Mike wasn't talking to April either, or any of the members of her team who came in and out.

Mike ignored everyone and hung back to hug the wall, letting April run Don through what felt more and more like a post-mortem on this world.

The Shredder's operations were horrifying in terms of both scale and detail; work camps, mass disappearances, collapsed ecosystems, starvation.

She told him mutants could walk among the humans openly now, and then maybe because of something she saw in his face, April dropped her voice down low and told him some things a part of him had on some level always expected, things about fear and anger and exactly how careful he'd need to be around anyone outside of her people.

He ducked his head to scroll through some readouts, and then April put her hand on his arm. She was smiling sadly at him. 'Hey, it's okay. We have you now.'

Her face was all eyes, cheeks blades of bone under the sockets; there was no meat on her, on any of them.

'For what it's worth.' He tried not to sound as scared, or as incredibly, sickeningly out of his depth as he actually was. A thought beat insistently at the back of his mind: Leo. Hang in there until Leo gets here.

April squeezed his arm gently. 'It's worth more than you know."

A soft scoff came from the wall. April sat up, and said briskly, 'It's late. Mike, can you take Don to get something to eat and fix him up somewhere to stay?'

'Sure thing, boss.' Despite the edge of sarcasm, Mike detached himself from the wall. April's mouth tightened, but after she'd hugged Don and told him she'd see him in the morning, she put a hand on Mike's shoulder and squeezed once. Mike didn't look at her, and as Don followed him out of the room, watching the tightness of his shoulders, something clicked into place; he's ashamed.

They passed through corridors with peeling brickwork painted an insipid yellow. The basement of an old school, then. Smart.

'In here.' Mike led Don to a long, low room filled with benches and tables. It was lit by two flickering fluorescent tubes, and mostly empty, bar one small, ragged group who stared at them without speaking. No one here looked particularly pleased to see him. Or Mike, come to think of it.

The back of Don's neck prickled uncomfortably, but Mike sagged into a chair and waved a hand toward where a series of battered serving dishes sat on a table.

'Get something while you can, the next shift's due in soon.'

'Aren't you eating?' Mike didn't answer, taking a small tin from inside his jacket pocket, and starting to roll a cigarette. When Don raised the metal cover, the food was scant portions of greying meat and a few shrivelled potatoes. Everyone here was so thin.

Even though Mike had four inches on him, broader shoulders and a bigger shell, his skin had a waxy pallor, and it hung loose over his bones, like he'd lost muscle. Standing there with the cover in his hand, Don was acutely aware of how he must look to everyone here, of how his body – until now just a part of him, nothing remarkable or even noticeable about it – was almost offensively plush, almost gross.

He took a cup of water and a small piece of bread back to the table, and felt a rush of guilt even at that.

'Something wrong with the food?' The bread was dry as old sponge; Don struggled to get enough moisture in his mouth to swallow, his heart fluttering in his chest. It was just so goddamn hard talking to this Mike.

'No. No, it's fine. I'm. I'm just…'

Mike raised an eye-ridge. Don paused, shut his eyes and opened them again, trying to focus his mind, his thoughts and emotions that darted and raced like minnows. He tried a small, sheepish smile, the one that always drew an answering smile from Mike, or Raph, or even Leo.

'I guess I'm not really hungry.'

'Huh.' Mike tapped the edge off his smoke. 'Then you're the first one in six months. Put it back then and let's go.'

'Put… but I've already…'

Mike's expression darkened. 'Put it back. If you won't eat it, someone else will.'

Skin burning, Don got to his feet, walked over to the table, and placed the piece of bread back where he'd got it. The other group were still watching him. From this angle, he could see two of the women were pregnant.

He didn't sit down again, instead stood by Mike, and tried to keep his voice even against surging anger. 'Are we going then?'

'Yeah.' Without looking at him, Mike ashed his rollup and tossed it into the garbage can in a wide, perfect arc, and the brief flash of the incredible gymnastic ability that drove Leo so utterly crazy stung Don like a slap.

'C'mon, I'm tired.' Don followed Mike out of the canteen, down another corridor. Mike didn't look tired, he looked sick.

He was pale and clammy, and his eyes were intense, distant. Don felt a surge of unease, and because he couldn't think of anything else to say, and because he felt the need, sudden and raw, to connect with Mike, in any way, any way at all, he asked, 'How come you're not the cook? You were always so good at it back– uh, back home.'

'They don't want me to be,' Mike said shortly, and then, 'You didn't bring anything, right? You need a bedroll.'

Mike led him through a grubby door to a small, stifling store room. As Mike rummaged, Don looked around, and immediately saw one wall was almost wholly taken up with a jerry-rigged fuse box. Wires hung like trailing vines; without even trying he could see four loose connections.

'This is the power for everything?' Don moved closer; it got worse and worse the more he looked – and was that seriously gum?

'Mike, this is dangerous. Really dangerous. Has April seen this?'

'Dunno if you noticed, dude, but April's busy.' Mike pulled a bundle from a low shelf and tossed it at Don, already turning away. 'C'mon.'

'Mike. Mikey-' stumbling over his brother's name, his brother who wasn't his brother, who was all wrong, wrong in ways he could barely put a name to, Don grabbed his shoulder, pulling Mike round to face him.'Can you just – can you please just look at me?'

Mike stared at him, teeth bared. Sweat was sheening his face; he was trembling. 'I'm looking. So, what? What do you want?'

'I don't…' Don tries to get the words out, aware he's wringing his hands, a bad habit, an old habit, from when they were kids and the water in the tunnels echoing stopped him sleeping, and sees Mike's eyes go to them. Don drops them in a slow, palms-out, palms-down motion, projecting a calm he doesn't feel.

'I feel like I don't know you at all. Mike, it's me.'

Mike's face twists; it's an ugly look. 'You 'feel like' you don't know me because you don't. I brought you here because in twenty seconds more they would have wasted you. Then April asked me to do this, so I'm doin' it.'

He laughs. 'I've never been a subtle kinda guy, but I guess I've got to spell it out. I. Don't. Want you here.' He spit a smile at him, and turned on his heel. 'Bro.'

Don followed him, because what else could he do, and two corridors over Mike pushed open a door into a room that looked like a maniac's cell.

'Make yourself at home.' The trash was ankle deep, drifts of it deeper in some places – bottles, cans, papers, wet fabric, smashed brick, a mouldy mattress, the crunch of glass underfoot.

It stank, of filth and piss and despair, and Don was blinking and blinking, heart thundering because until right now, until right this second he didn't understand that no, he doesn't know this Mike, and he doesn't know this world, and he's a stupid, naïve little – Mike was laughing at him, at whatever his face was showing, perching on the edge of his mattress and pulling out – a med kit?

Don's mind tries to parse what he's seeing as Mike fills a syringe from a small clear bottle, pulls off the cap that covers the stub of his arm, the blunt nub of it shocking, and shoots it into the meat on the underside. Mike's already sinking back into the mattress, still chuckling, by the time Don has moved to grab him, too late, too late.

He slurs in a tone lazy with a golden, taffy-stretched high, 'Welcome back, brother of mine,' then harder, even as his eyes close and he goes boneless, 'Go an' fuck yourself Don.'