I'm Waiting For You To Hurt Me

He didn't mean to do it, but after that night terror a few days ago, he didn't even know if he could trust his senses. He didn't tell anyone, didn't leave a note, but he made sure that his T-phone could be tracked.

Once on one of the rooftops, he practiced throwing his body across them, feeling the wind spiral around him. The first few were heart-stopping, literally death-defying, where he hung in the air between roofs, grasping at air, his mental muscles straining to hold all his weight and move it. He got easily distracted. Too many shiny things. At least that SNRI was still working. He could actually feel his neurotransmitters sparkling alive with every mental muscle flex.

That one revealing conversation with Casey Jones – before the hysterical laughter of course – had made him realize how deeply all this stuff reached, so deep down, and he couldn't really feel it unless he wanted to open too many doors, break down too many walls, and he had worked so so hard to stack all the memories in that corner, plus the locked doors and extreme walls. Right? It was still like that, wasn't it?

Casey had mentioned his younger sister's need to think happy thoughts to accept her nightmares. Mikey supposed he had always been able to do that. He did it now, so instinctive and automatic it was like spinning the kusarigama blindfolded. He thought about watching Donnie draw up plans for one of their vehicles, his tongue sticking out, his epic concentrated dedication an absolute fascination. He thought about Leo performing a brand new kata, sweat beading his forehead, how every muscle flexed and tensed, how his own mind began spinning with bouncing ideas on how to copy it. He thought about Raph punching a practice dummy, a casual snarl on his lips as if he didn't even know it was there, how his fingers were in perfect alignment to make those fists, how his legs stretched so specifically to widen and balance his stance.

He thought about the way Master Splinter's whiskers twitched a certain way when one of them walked past him. He thought about the way April's freckles merged with her blushing when one of them complimented her on a skill.

They really didn't believe he could concentrate on things, but sometimes that was all he could do. It was a different kind of distraction.

A scream cut through the air and he lost hold on his mental muscle. Thankfully there was a roof ledge at the edge of his fingers and he dug into it, hanging for a moment, focusing. It wasn't a human cry, probably a stray cat fighting for food or territory?

Or another mutant…

They were all over the city now, hiding in shadows and abandoned places, thanks to the mutagen canisters that had been dropped.

That he had spilled.

A quick moment of Mikey, you idiot! and then Kirby O'Neil was a mutant bat, and they all took the blame during April's pained accusations. But they were a unit, and, well…

He knew what that meant.

He flipped up and over and landed on his shell with an irritated Ooof! That was him. Mess Everything Up Mikey. That had been a long time ago. What, a year? Two? They were just about seventeen, their Mutation Day was coming up. But even now, even if they had stopped yelling at him, even though the slaps across his head were less frequent, he understood. It was too easy to say it wasn't his fault. It was his brain. He was not necessarily responsible for what his brain did. The last year had proven that. Psionics were really no different than ADHD or major depressive disorder – hah, did he really have depression, that was unbelievable! But medicated or dead famous comedians had been proof – and he need to work alongside his brain's oddities rather than treat them like shiny toys. Right? April, after her neurology class, had called it something brand new and weird. Neurodiversity? Neurodivergence? Anything that made your brain atypical, alternating from average brains. HAH! Well, yeah. Didn't people try to kill their kids who were like that? Should he feel lucky his issue was ADHD and not…

He was thinking too much again. What was he doing again? Right, rooftops. Jumping. Telekinesis. The weird scream from somewhere. He should investigate. Maybe. Probably. Should he? Wait, wasn't that what clairvoyance was for?

He looked up at the full moon. He recalled the noise. He felt his sight blur and fade a bit. Ah! It was a cat. A…calico? It was too far for him to—wait, was that…mutagen? There was a girl there, she had black hair, pale skin. She was grabbing the cat, she had mutagen all over her skin. The vision faded. He fell back, panting. No, they were too far away and it was too late. For all he knew it could have been Downtown Brooklyn. There was a sudden sense of someone pushing against his mind, someone with power, and he grabbed his head and everything was gone. He was cut off. He shook his head roughly, got up, and began running again. He cleared the gap between rooftops effortlessly this time.

He remembered when he pranked Raph a little too much last week, and Raph had twisted his arm enough to hurt, and by pure instinct his brain had lashed out and Raph had ended up halfway across the lair, sliding until he crashed into the dojo tree.

He had apologized for hours, until Raph had glared and growled that it was more annoying than the prank.

The tracker on his belt suddenly bleeped, loudly. He skidded to a halt. Had they been chasing after him? Did that mean he'd done something wrong? He always did something wrong and it always felt brand new when they yelled at him. He was worthless and hopeless anyway, so why bother arguing. Rolling his eyes, he sunk down, drew his knees up, and waited for his brothers to find him and scold him again.