I know you're probably sick of hearing this, but I'm sorry it took this long to update.

I haven't been in a good place mentally or emotionally because of the, ahem, unspecified virus of unknown origin (kudos if you know where I got that from), but I've been trying to get my writing back on track. And this interlude was pretty challenging to write, because of the multiple POVs but I managed to write it out anyway.

Oh, and major info dumps ahead. We need the lull periods of mind numbing text walls because round 4 is just around the corner.

Unbeated as usual. Don't be surprised if I edit a few things here and there. You all know how this goes. :winkwink:

十人十色: Ten People, Ten Colors

By Bishop's estimate, it would have taken Mikey about two to four weeks to get back to fighting form again. But since when has the little turtle ever been the one to meet expectations?

With sheer grit and a pain tolerance not many would have thought Mikey possessed, he ploughed his way through the painstaking process of reconstructing his limbs and their rehabilitation.

(More often than not, Fugitoid or Leatherhead had to put their foot down so Mikey could remember that resting is also part of rehabilitating.)

So it was on New York's first snowfall of the year—barely past a week after the attack at the Lair—that Fugitoid had to concede that Mikey, against all odds, was ready to fight again. Mondo, much like everyone else, expected—hoped, even—for him to break into bright jubilation the day Leatherhead returned his nunchuks. Instead, Mikey accepted his weapons with a smile that visibly didn't reach his eyes before throwing himself completely into business.

It was a small thing, but it worried Mondo nonetheless.

He can understand how others could mistake Mikey as the weakest among his brothers, being the smallest turtle on top of being loud, naive, childish and easily distracted. But even at the height of danger and tension, Mikey tended to be the most unshakeable turtle in mind and heart. Even at the worst times, he had an air of optimism, a kind yet firm calm free from the anger, pride and stubbornness aplenty in one or all of his brothers. It made him see what many others would not or unintentionally overlook. It was what Mondo admired the most about him.

(That also made Mikey a bit of a pushover at times, although that is neither here nor there.)

But with everything that has happened, Mondo was worried that Mikey was drawing closer and closer to his breaking point, and he was afraid of what could happen if his skating buddy was pushed past that edge of no return.

Because everyone ought to know, if it's not the quiet, then it's the happy ones who tend to be dangerous when they snap.

"Mikey?"

Said terrapin blinked with a deft swing of his kusarigama when Mondo and Pigeon Pete walked into the training room. As soon as he was given the go signal, Mikey had holed himself in there kicking virtual ninja butt to return back to tip top fighting shape. Mondo didn't need to be a doctor to know that his friend was physically getting better by the day, but that's not what the gecko was worried about.

"Yo, Mondo, Pigeon Pete!" Mikey waved with a smile so beaming it was almost blinding. Mondo could not help but return it.

"'Morning, dude. Looks like them virtual bots got nothing on you, huh?"

"'Course not!" The turtle scoffed as he traded high fives with Mondo and Pigeon Pete. "As if I'd let myself get kicked down again so soon after I just got back. So what's up?"

"Oh, uh, nothing big, really. Just, err," The mutant lizard would have kicked himself if he could over how pathetic he sounded. Jeez, what was wrong with him? It's just Mikey, one of his good friends and one of the coolest turtles in the known universe! Why was he acting...as if he were…? "Just wondering if you're free later, around three or four ish? No offense to the great Ulixess, but like, it's just so brain busting being stuck in here for days and, like, I totally need to stretch these legs." He raised one up for emphasis. "Look at 'em, my man! They're shrinking and they're already short to begin with!"

"Haha, short legs." Pigeon Pete clucked. "Shorty! Shorty!"

"...You are so not getting that toast later, Pete."

Mikey's smile turned wistful. "Really wish we could, Mondo, but with the way things are right now, I don't think it's a good idea. The Foot is still out there, and it would be really bad news if they catch some of us off guard." The smile dipped down. "Especially since they have a huge advantage."

"Aww, come on! It'll just be for like a little bit, board 'round the sewers and the Foot will never know!"

But Mikey shook his head. "Sorry, dude, no can do. But I promise, once this whole thing blows over, I'll totally take you on that. Hey, I know, why not just spar with me instead?"

Pigeon Pete let out another cluck while Mondo blinked owlishly. "Huh? Me? Mikey, dude, I know I'm awesome, but not in that way! I'm like so not in the ninja mojo."

"Who says you have to be a ninja to spar? I do it with April and Casey a lot too, and they do pretty well." Mikey argued. "You're pretty fast on your feet, Mondo! I bet you can get some good hits if you try!"

"Bwak! Bwak! Try to hit! Quick on your feet! Bwak!"

The youngest turtle patted Pigeon Pete's head affectionately. "That's the spirit, Pigeon Pete! Want to have a run with me after my spar with Mondo? Oh, wait, maybe we could all go together! Like a one versus one versus one!"

"—Bwak?!"

"I know, right? Isn't that exciting?"

"Eek! No! Bwak! Bwak! BWAK!"

"B—But I don't fight, amigo . You know that." Mondo scratched his head. "I mean, I'm just like the distraction. The board's the only thing I'm really good at."

Mikey waved a hand. "Don't sell yourself short, Mondo. You're pretty good on your feet. I don't think I'll be able to get you easily if you put your mind into dodging me. But just in case you find yourself in a corner, we need you to be able to fight your way out of it. Don't worry, though. We'll start easy until you get the hang of it."

Mondo, however, was still unsure. He had never figured himself out as a fighter, even back when he was a human. He had always been the scrawny one that the bigger boys in school turned into their punching bag for either a free lunch or just entertainment. It was why he had to learn how to dodge and outrun so well in the first place.

But more than that, he knew firsthand what fighting did to people. The vigilante stuff, he could handle, but something dangerously close to a full-scale war? When his father returned from his deployment to Iraq several years back, the once cheerful and laid back man became jumpy and edgy, haunted by the ghosts he left behind, finding threats in even the most innocent of corners.

And the anger. So much anger that his father didn't know what to do with it, or who he should even aim it at; drove his father to drink himself to death, leaving Mondo with a stepfather who was a grown-up version of the bigger boys in school, and a mother too weak to do anything...

"I can't, Mikey."

"Mondo…"

"I'm not a fighter, dude. I'm a coward. I only know how to dodge hits, not give them back. And I'm freaking flimsy! I'll just get in your way if I tried. And…" Mondo shook his head. "I'm not as strong as you are, dude. If any of the shit you're going through happened to me, I...the least I can do is not be in the—"

But the orange masked turtle grabbed Mondo by the shoulders, cutting him off. "Don't. You. Dare. Finish. That. Sentence."

"M—Mikey?" There it was again: the dark, barely restrained shadows of anguish in Mikey's baby blue eyes, dimming the light behind them to the point of barely existing.

And the anger. So much anger…

It made Mondo's blood run cold in dread. "Hey, Mikey! Amigo!"

"BWAK!"

"...OW! What?" But just like that, right after Pigeon Pete gave Mikey a peck on the head, it was gone, and the terrapin backed away with an apologetic look on his face. "Sorry, Mondo, Pigeon Pete. Didn't mean to lose it back there."

The pigeon and gecko exchanged troubled looks. Since when had Mikey ever, like, really lost his cool? "...Mikey, are you OK?"

He waved a hand. "Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. Probably just tired. I didn't mean to snap."

Mondo wrung his hands, brows furrowed while periodically gnawing his lower lip. "Maybe...maybe you should lighten up a bit with all the training, and everything you've been doing? I...sorry, it's not like I don't think your bros matter or anything like that, but…" The gecko ran a hand over the back of his neck. "Mikey, amigo, I...I saw what getting too deep into fighting did to my dad."

Mikey blinked in confusion. "Your dad?"

"It's like he became this totally different person when he came back from Iraq. Scared. Wild. Angry. Died literally drowning in beer. I know you don't do no beer, but," Mondo shuddered. "You can't turn into him, Mikey. You can't end up like him."

From Mikey's right, Pigeon Pete crowed before resting his head on the turtle's shoulder, his orange eyes wide and shining with something akin to concern.

"...I'm really sorry, dudes. You must have been worrying about me for a while, huh?" The way affection softened Mikey's face made Mondo's chest clench while Mikey clapped a hand round both mutants' backs. "You guys are awesome, you know that? What'll I be without you?"

Pigeon Pete clucked merrily while Mondo sighed. "...Wish I'm as radical as you think, but I'm really just deadweight."

"No, Mondo, you're an important part of this team, and I won't have any one of my friends talking themselves down like that." The small turtle took a moment to exhale before speaking again. "Tell you what, I've got some time before Slash and I spar every afternoon. What say you and I give it a try? Maybe you and I can go boarding a bit too?"

"Woah, really, dude?"

"Absolutely!" Mikey said with a thumbs up. "And who says skateboarding is all fun and games? It builds agility and balance!"

"If you're sure."

"Yes, I'm sure! But we also need to work on you learning to fight."

Mondo groaned. "Dude, I just told you—"

"No, it's OK. I get it. You and Pigeon Pete are not the charge-with-your-fists-or-weapons kind of guys, err, mutants, and that's cool. Actually," Mikey grinned. "That reminds me of another fighting style that will totally suit you."

Mondo and Pigeon Pete looked at each other, this time in puzzlement. "A fighting style...that doesn't involve fighting?"

Mikey winked at them. "Absolutely. Just leave it to me. Your old buddy Mikey's got you!"

It was supposed to cheer him up, Mondo knew, but the quip just made the gecko's worry grow further.

I know we can leave it to you, Mikey, he thought somberly. But sometimes, I think we're relying on you a little too much...

"Agh!"

It was with no small amount of sympathy that Muckman winced when Mikey took a tentative step while holding onto the parallel bars, only to nearly buckle while his face twisted in agony and effort. From behind Mikey, Leatherhead's face became pinched but resolute. "Come on, Michelangelo. Just a few more steps to go."

"Got...f, five more, right?" Mikey laughed despite the audible tremble in his voice. "No...no biggie. Just, urgh...one foot after the other. No biggie, Leatherhead. I got…" He swallowed. "I got this."

As Mikey got up to try again, Muckman leaned back on the chair with a sigh, the two boxes of pizza and the soda bottle on the table in front of him looking less appetizing than before.

Since the damage from that last skirmish with the Foot damaged a bit of Mikey's spine, the little turtle had to do rehabilitative exercises to ensure that his limbs will retain optimal function. Sessions were scheduled three times a week for at least half an hour long with varied range of motion and stability exercises under the watchful eye of Leatherhead and someone else, usually Fugitoid or April. But since the latter two are occupied at the moment and with Muckman and Joe Eyeball technically on break from recon, the mutant duo volunteered to help out.

Going through rehab was a nightmare, Muckman would know. Back when he was still with the local sewage cleanup crew, he slipped and fell off a ladder that ended up breaking his leg and causing spinal injury. Thankfully, Muckman recovered enough to be able to walk without help, but damn if it didn't hurt like a bitch on drugs to get to that point! He could still remember how painful and miserable he had been at the time, how prone he was to lashing out on everyone around him then how even more miserable he'd be afterwards.

So color him impressed when Mikey was able to not only push through rehab with unwavering grit, but also do it without lashing out like a whiny, short-tempered brat, which Muckman honestly expected. Not to say Mikey hadn't had his outbursts of frustration and frayed temper every now and then, but they were always directed at himself, or more often than not, his uncooperative legs. To everyone else, Mikey remained his cheerful, positive self, never without a merry greeting or joke to liven the air, always apologetic for his temporary disability and always eager to help in whatever way he can.

Or at least, that was what Mikey tried so hard to be.

There are moments when Muckman knew Mikey thought he was alone that the young turtle's grin would slack off like rain against glass, face chillingly blank, and baby blue eyes becoming dark and distant with a hardened edge Muckman never thought Mikey—or any of the turtles for that matter—were capable of having. So different and ill-suited on the Mikey they all knew.

Because Mikey had changed, since that horrible night that put Splinter into a coma. Perhaps, ever since the older three turtles were brainwashed into the Foot clan's fold, even. No matter how much some of their other friends—the humans, Mondo and Leatherhead—wished it were otherwise.

"—man? Muckman?" Muckman was awakened from his musings when he saw a hand wave in front of him. "Err, sorry Leatherhead. You were saying?"

Leatherhead scratched his head with an apologetic smile while Mikey grinned from behind the alligator mutant. "Apologies, my friends. Professor Honeycutt needs my assistance with an urgent matter so regretfully, I cannot accompany Michelangelo back to his room with you. But since Michelangelo has finished with his exercises, you may help yourselves to the refreshments before you go."

Muckman and Joe traded a quick look before the former shrugged. "No problem. Joe and I can handle the little guy."

"It's no big deal, Leatherhead!" Mikey said merrily with a thumbs up. "Fugitoid wouldn't have asked for you while we're doing the exercises if it's not something major. Don't worry, we'll save you a pizza slice or two. Actually, you wouldn't mind if it's just a slice, right?" He scratched the back of his head. "Might, eh, get carried away, because you know me…"

"We know." Muckman couldn't help the snide remark. "That's why we already hid some of the slices. Out of sight, out of your bottomless hole's mind."

"Hey, I resent that!" Mikey huffed with arms crossed. "I may be a glow...glub...glueton, but I have standards!"

"It's glutton, Michelangelo." Leatherhead corrected with a fond pat on the turtle's head. "Thank you, my friends. I will see you later at dinner?"

"You bet!"

Mikey, Muckman and Joe waved at the departing alligator's back until the airtight door closed behind him, after which Mikey plopped onto the empty chair across Muckman with dramatic sigh. "Finally, break time!"

Joe squeaked. "Mikey, careful!"

Too late, Muckman thought right after Mikey barely hid his wince with a grin. "Sorry, old habit. Not helping with my back, I know."

"Well yeah, but from what I've been hearing, you're recovering pretty well. Soon, you'll be back to top form and you can do those crazy flips you're always doing when Joe and I see you."

Mikey shrugged while helping himself with a pizza slice. "God, I hope so. No offense to you guys, but doing nothing but walking three sets of five steps and strengthening exercises gets boring pretty fast. Especially when everyone's working hard and I'm just being...lame."

It was Muckman's turn to hide a wince. "Err, it's not that we're doing anything too complicated. It's just like Operation Recon in the past, and we've been lucky so far that we haven't run into any of the Foot."

Mikey's gaze shifted. "They still think Sensei, April, Casey and I are dead?"

The way Mikey's voice went from jovial to sharp, and the easy way Mikey spoke of their apparent demise sent a chill through Muckman's back. "Th—that's right. We did exactly as you said, didn't take them a week to fall for it, hook, line and sinker. We didn't even have to work too hard to appear convincing."

The little turtle's mouth drew a thin line. "...I'm sorry you and Slash had to get hurt for the plan. I knew it couldn't be helped but—"

"You're right, it couldn't be helped. So stop apologizing about it." Because hearing it a hundred times is more than enough, Muckman thought to himself. "We all knew the plan to act like raging Rambos gunning for revenge to convince the Foot that the Hamatos are truly gone could get someone hurt, and we took the risk anyway. And it paid off, right? Sure, the Foot are still looking around the city for us, but at least we're not those bastards' immediate concern. Hell, I think after they destroyed our old hideout, they went back to ignoring us again."

Muckman held out a hand. "And don't say that leading the Foot to the Mutanimals' old base wasn't necessary. We can always rebuild once this shit blows over. Because of that, those dickheads have let their so-called win get to their heads and have their guards down."

Joe winced. "Ah, no swearing, Muck! No teaching Mikey bad words!"

"...For crying out loud, what is he, ten?"

Mikey snorted. "So he's underestimating us again, eh? He needs to learn how badly doing that can screw him over." His baby blue eyes then hardened. "Then again, they say you can't teach an old dog new tricks..."

There was a pause before Joe hesitantly laid an appendage on Mikey's clenched fist. "M—Mikey?"

And just like that, the cheery mask was back on. "Ah, sorry, Joe. Must be stressed out from all the exercises I had to do. Didn't mean to ruin pizza time."

But Muckman was having none of it. He was not letting this slip past him this time. "Drop the act, Mikey."

"Huh?"

Muckman set his glass of soda down. "I get that you're trying to look like you haven't changed much, that you're still that cheerful, noisy, lovable oaf you've always been. But aren't you tired of pretending? Do you really think we wouldn't notice?"

Mikey didn't say anything for a bit before sighing. "I'm not saying that no one's noticed. I'm sure all of you had, at some level. You're all too smart not to. But…" He laughed humorlessly. "I'm not sure just how much you know…"

"You don't want us to know." Joe said softly. "You'd rather that we never will."

"Because I'm not supposed to be like this! I mean, you know how the four of us work! Leo's the leader, Raph's the fighter, Donnie's the techie, and I'm the clown! And...and that can't change. It shouldn't change! I can't let it! And once we save my brothers, things should go back to the way they were, because it was perfectly perfect that way! Why reinvent the wheel, right?"

Muckman's eye narrowed at the sudden idea. "...This...this thing, it's not recent, is it?"

Mikey flinched, dropping his gaze, but didn't say anything.

The trash mutant gazed imploringly at Joe, who gently tapped Mikey's tightened hand again. "Mikey, please trust us. I, Muckman and I, we can sense how hard it must be, with that cheerful mask over what you are hiding. And...if you wish to keep doing so, we...it is unhealthy. But we will not force you to stop. The matters of the mind and heart, their healing has to be your choice."

Muckman nodded. "But if you can let us see you without that fake smiley face of yours, no matter what's under it, we won't hold it against you. We...we just want to help…"

"Oh, really?" Both Joe and Muckman froze at the mocking, cynical edge in Mikey's voice. But both didn't need to look at each other to know that they're both not backing down.

"Yes." The pair said in unison, eyes steadily on the turtle's guarded expression. A standstill. A challenge.

Muckman was privately grateful that Leatherhead wasn't around to see this. As much as Muckman and Joe respected their friend, they knew that Leatherhead wouldn't be able to keep it together if he saw Mikey in this state.

To be honest, it would have been better if Fugitoid or Rockwell were in this position right now, as among them, they would have been perfect to help Mikey through his baggage. Slash would be too abrasive and confrontational, Bishop would be too logical, even cynical, and everyone else would be too emotional and confused.

But none of them were here right now. Only Muckman and Joe. But by golly were they going to do their damn hardest to be enough, because they owed Mikey that and much more.

"...I'm just tired, Muckman, Joe." For a second, it sounded like Mikey retreated to his shell again, but the raw exhaustion, the sheer pain and weight in those words were enough to make Muckman feel that the weight of the world was on his own shoulders. "I'm just so fucking damn tired."

Muckman kept his face blank. "Of what, Mikey?"

"Of constantly fighting my brothers? Of constantly failing? Of constantly not being good enough? Of constantly pretending that I don't know I'm not good enough?" Another bitter laugh. "Take your pick."

"All of it." Joe said without hesitation, making Mikey flinch. "We mean it, Mikey. We want to help. Even if it's just by listening to you. If that is all we can do, we will do it."

"And we're just keeping it between us. Nothing you say will be leaving the four corners of this room unless you want to." Muckman said solemnly. "Cross my heart, hope to die."

"I...No, don't say that, Muckman. You and Joe...you're too precious to die." Mikey's eyes softened, patting Joe's eye gently. "You all are. You're the reason I'm forcing my feet to move. I can't lose any of you."

And we can't lose you either, Mikey, Muckman thought resolutely. Not to the Foot or whatever shitty baggage you're pretending you don't have.

But now is not the time to nurse those mental and emotional wounds until they completely heal, and Muckman and Joe knew that they wouldn't be able to give that kind of healing on their own.

For now, if Mikey wants to continue wearing that glittery mask of a jokester painted with all the colors of the rainbow, Muckman and Joe would take away the muck and grime that made that mask budge out of alignment, wiping away the stains until it was clean, perfect fit again. Once his family comes back for him, then maybe that genuine, thankful smile will last longer than a second.

And this fleeting moment with Mikey, his gaze glittering while saying a shy thank you behind a slice of pepperoni and cheese? It was far from perfect, but it will have to be enough.

A day after Michelangelo regained his bearings, he immediately called for a meeting with his friends to plan on how to proceed. With Splinter still in a coma, the burden of leadership was now fully onto Mikey's shoulders and the turtle insisted on not wasting time twiddling his thumbs while his wounds and broken bones healed.

So putting their heads together, the group managed to come up with a working plan: the team will be back out again, seemingly enraged and seeking revenge for the Hamatos' deaths ("getting the feel of the playing field", as Michelangelo put it) while at least two members and either Bishop or Fugitoid will remain on the ship, both to watch over the healing Hamatos and to ensure that the Foot hasn't found the Ulixes yet. That plan remained the status quo for the rest of Michelangelo's rehabilitation with no real major developments.

That was, until Rockwell and Fugitoid said that they had urgent news. Something they had been working on triple checking with Bishop just to be sure before they agreed to make their announcement.

"As per your orders, Michelangelo, we continued with our reconnaissance efforts with the Foot." Rockwell began. Fugitoid noticed Michelangelo's beak turned slightly at the word 'orders' but kept his face neutral for the most part between Leatherhead and April. "As previously discussed, after the attack on the Lair, we decided to split the group to create temporary bases where we can commence our data gathering. Not as hard as it sounds, since the Foot has been more active lately, especially after the Purple Dragons have been officially put under their control."

"I can't believe Hun just handed over the reins to Razhar like that." Casey remarked next to Muckman and Joe. "Yeah, gotta hand it to the oversized mutt, he's the better leader between them. But I never saw Hun as the guy to just bow out like that—"

"You and me both, kid. That's why I looked into it a little more." Slash rumbled, trading a dark look with Leatherhead. "Turns out the Foot managed to, eh, convince him to step down."

"Convince him, how?"

The tortoise sneered in response. "No one's so much as heard from 'im since the first week of December. What do you think?"

After Casey had been blanched into silence, Rockwell continued. "During the first several days, we noticed that there has been an increase in arms trading around the gangs at East Side. But not the usual arms, mind you. At first we thought it was, but when Muckman and Pigeon Pete managed to intercept a delivery, we found these in the crates."

The holographic screen behind the chimpanzee mutant was filled with images of a futuristic looking gun: sleek silver with metallic grey grooves, about a meter long, with two different sized barrels and muzzles, and two triggers on the guard, one noticeably larger and fixed on the housing, as well as a spherical glass dome on the top barrel.

April scowled. "If that doesn't scream Kraang tech, I don't know what else will."

"Right you are, April," said Fugitoid. "This is a modified version of the standard issue Kraang rifles, with a few modifications here and there. Enhanced durability. Increased firepower and charge capacity. This nifty new feature added at the rifle butt that delivers a nasty electric shock ranging from 50 to 250 thousand volts at maximum setting per discharge triggered by this button right up the trigger guard—"

"Like a stun gun." Bishop translated helpfully. "Personally, I prefer tasers."

Mondo tilted his head. "Aren't they the same thing?"

"But the most fascinating—and disturbing—change is this," Fugitoid gestured with a laser point emitting from his robotic finger. "This dome casing, 0.25 meters by 0.5 by 0.2, 25 milimeter thick glass. At first, we suspected that it was meant to contain some sort of fluid which will be fired from the second muzzle here. But further study on the propelling mechanism suggests that the firing material won't be a liquid, rather a solid, set to shoot manually with a two second delay, one second for the recalibration process."

"To be precise, a solid that is about 10 centimeters by 5 by 5 in dimensions." Bishop added, gesturing with his fingers for emphasis.

There was silence for a few seconds until comprehension dawned in all of their faces at roughly the same time. Fugitoid expected this. Rockwell had the same, albeit more controlled, troubled expression upon coming to that conclusion.

"No way…" Muckman growled. "That casing's for the brainworms?!"

Rockwell nodded gravely, lips pursed in distaste. "It is the most plausible conclusion, especially based on what we know so far. There has been a spike of not only arms trading between the Kraang and the Foot, but also some undisclosed, top secret packages. So secret that not even the Foot doing the deliveries know what they are for. But clues point that they all came from the Foot's main headquarters. Specifically Basement 4, the basement where the drums of brainworms were found."

Michelangelo's frown deepened. "I don't think I'll like where this is going."

"None of us will." Fugitoid's tone was just as grim when the screen flashed again, this time to a map of New York City. "Our aggregated data on the deliveries showed that there are approximately 20 pocket bases throughout the city that have been receiving an average of 20 crates per week since last month. Including," The laser pointer flickered. "New York Harbor."

"Regrettably, we do not have further information on any possible shipments bound outside the state," added Rockwell. "But it appears that deliveries have been scheduled for all the late evenings starting this week up to the 24th."

"Someone's busy for the holidays." Casey mumbled scathingly.

"This also does not tell us much about what he is planning, only that it will be big." Rockwell paused. "Something beyond New York."

The following silence was deafening and hair raising as Rockwell let his friends mull the thought over. He and Fugitoid had already come to a hypothesis about this, but they both agreed that this was something they wanted the others, who they knew were brilliant in their own ways, to figure it out.

"They want to conquer the world."

"Michelangelo?"

Michelangelo met Fugitoid's gaze. "The Kraang wanted to conquer the world, and the brainworms mass produced can make it happen, right? What if that's what Saki's doing: shipping the brainworms all over the world, making it easier to spread with those high-tech rifles?"

Despite their grim situation, Fugitoid could not help a slight smile. He half-expected it, but it still impressed him that it was Michelangelo who first came to that conclusion on his own. The youngest turtle may seem flighty and childish at first glance, but as he came to know the terrapin better, especially after their recent correspondence, Fugitoid saw that what Michelangelo did not have in conventional smarts, he made up for with intuitiveness. Among his brothers, Michelangelo was the one who had the strongest knack for thinking outside the box and being in tune with his instincts. Traits that Fugitoid was barely capable of anymore after becoming a cyborg, but had never lost appreciation for.

There was something to be said about truths that cannot be explained by numbers and logic, after all, thought Fugitoid. Something Bishop had yet to fully understand, unfortunately.

"Oh my God." April's hand flew to her mouth in horror. "Of course! And with the combined number of the Kraang and the Foot, they can bring the whole planet to its knees with those things!"

"That is a very grave and highly plausible possibility." Fugitoid agreed readily. "One that hits too close to home from personal experience." The three-fourths robot gave the stoic Bishop a quick glance before continuing. "However, one thing that does not make sense, if this is indeed a part of the Kraang's plan to conquer this planet, is the Shredder's compliance."

Slash scoffed. "You think he'd care if the world turns into a literal hellhole just to get what he wants?"

"Oh, I do believe he is as cruel and merciless as you say. What I am getting at is that, from my understanding, both the Kraang and Oroku Saki have the makings of tyrants, dictators. And two things about tyrants is that one, they do not share absolute power readily; and two, they can easily tell if the other is just like them."

Leatherhead hummed in understanding. "So what you are saying is that there is no way the Shredder will allow himself to share power with the Kraang, let alone be under their rule."

"Exactly, which leaves me to think that there's something else we are not seeing. The missing piece that would connect all the dots."

That was another thing that bothered Fugitoid and Rockwell. The chimpanzee scientist emphasized that Shredder was not someone who would do anything without a purpose, let alone something he normally would not do. There was also the fact that the Shredder was frighteningly close minded when it came to pursuing a goal, to the point that he nearly damned the whole world—even Karai who he claimed to love as his own daughter— just for the opportunity to kill Splinter.

Perhaps this is something similar—Shredder throwing away all sense and reason just for his twisted need to prove that he was better than Splinter while not seeing the wide scale consequences? But, according to what the Mutanimals had gathered, Shredder appeared to think that the rat ninja master, his youngest son, April and Casey were dead. His revenge was fulfilled. So why is he still cooperating with the Kraang? The Shredder was not someone who will work with anyone without at least having the longer end of the stick, and will fight tooth and nail to have it.

What was it that they were missing…?

"Be that as it may, however, your concerns warrant merit." Rockwell continued. "Whether or not the brainworms will be used for some other world domination plan, our main priority is to strip them of their devastating abilities both to stop the Foot clan and to save Leonardo, Raphael and Donatello."

A collection of nods followed that declaration.

"Have you found a way to get rid of those things then, Professor Honeycutt?" asked Leatherhead.

"Thanks to your successful retrieval of one of the brainworms, we were able to conduct a number of experiments to better understand their effects and how they exert their control over their victims." Rockwell changed the screen again to show an image of the slimy abomination

"As we all know, the brainworms invade their victims' bodies by burrowing into the scalp, past the skin and bone layers to reach the brain." The chimpanzee continued. "The exact mechanism is not fully understood. But based on simulations and our, ah, personal testomonies, it appears that the brain worms latch onto the victim's frontal cortex—that is, the region of the mammalian brain responsible for rational thought and higher level decision making—and tamper with its functioning while simultaneously increasing the function and power of the limbic system."

Mondo blinked languidly. "Uh, sorry, what?"

Bishop pushed his sunglasses up his nose. "It means that one of the brainworms' effects is to heighten the effects of the animalistic instinct while manipulating the mind's capacity for logic, reason and empathy, among other higher brain functions. And given its location and the range of the cortices affected by it, memory and perception may also be affected, although again how these effects were brought about is not fully understood. Something about these brain worms just seem to defy science."

"So simply put, the brainworms make you angry and hateful while stopping you from thinking before jumping, and even messes up with your memories a bit." Michelangelo summarized dryly. "Sounds like my brothers nowadays, all right."

Fugitoid exchanged concerned glances with Rockwell before the former spoke again. "Err, yes, anyway, while these worms have been vastly improved from our previous experiences of them, what hasn't changed is the fact that once the worms are removed from the victim's brain, all negative effects will cease and the victim will be able to function normally almost immediately." Fugitoid paused. "What has changed, though, is the brainworm's tenacity in latching onto its victim."

Rockwell pointed at the brainworm's star-shaped mouth with its four triangular, squirming appendages and small but sharp looking fangs. He expanded the image with his fingers to adequately visualize the smaller, needle thin teeth lining up the fleshy petals.

"These stingers are part of a defense mechanism the worm now has. If for any reason, it feels that it is being forced out of the host, the worm will inject through them a kind of short-acting toxin that sends both the limbic system and the endo—the system that produces adrenaline—into overdrive, causing the victim to feel pain, increased anger and hostility, as well as a temporary increase in strength, speed and endurance that is normally associated with an adrenaline rush."

Understanding dawned in Michelangelo's eyes. "So that was what happened back when Sensei used the Kuji-in!"

Joe's voice was quivering when he asked, "And what happens after that? If we keep on trying to make the brainworms go away?"

"You mean, we continue to forcibly try to make it release the victim?" Rockwell swallowed tensely. "The worm will continue stimulating the brain and the endocrine system until either the threat, which is us, is removed, or its host can no longer sustain the defense mechanism."

"What do you me—?"

"They die, Mr. Casey." Bishop answered bluntly, much to Fugitoid's chagrin. While the cyborg understood why his friend turned out like this, even he can't help but miss the times when Bishop allowed himself to show some compassion.

War really did terrible things to even the purest of hearts...

"Well, that's just great," Slash growled in agitation. "If it makes things a hella lot worse if it so much as gets a whiff of us wanting to throw it off, how are we supposed to get rid of them? Say please and make them want to get out of the turtles' brains themselves?"

"That is…"

"NO!" turtle sprang up, rigid, wide-eyed and rigid as a rock. "It can't come to that!"

Rockwell bit his lower lip. "Michelangelo—"

"There has to be another way. There just has to be. I refuse to believe—" Michelangelo shut his eyes. "What do you need me to do? Do you need more brainworms? Or something else from Buzzkill's lab? Even Buzzkill himself? Because if it will help save them, I'll do it! I'll do anything!"

"Michel—"

"What do I have to do? Tell me! TELL ME! " The young mutant's voice cracked and fractured like brittle glass in the bitter cold. "Just don't—don't say that—! I can't—!"

"Mikey…" April whispered in concern, her eyes shining with barely suppressed tears. That's a common sight lately, Rockwell noted with a sigh. All this gloom and sadness so thick it almost felt like despair. The scientist cannot blame his friends, though. Losing three of the turtles, the Lair and now Splinter to the Foot, it was hard not to feel that this time around, Oroki Sakai may actually be winning for good.

But he has not won yet. Rockwell knew it as certainly as he knew the earth was round, and the sun rose in the east. The Foot may have beaten them to their lowest, but this war is far from over. Because losing to the Shredder and the Kraang, it is an outcome that simply cannot happen.

However, Rockwell also knew, with just as much certainty, that the victory they need is not something he cannot lead them to. After all, he wasn't the one who brought them all together. Was not the one who planned on how to get them this far. Who fought on relentlessly even after losing so much to the Shredder.

Who was on the verge of falling apart before Rockwell's very eyes.

"Michelangelo." The gentle but firm tone in Rockwell's call made Michelangelo meet the scientist's brown eyes. The chimpanzee recalled a time when Mondo once quietly told him that maybe they were putting too much on the terrapin's shoulders, that they were asking for too much. And a part of Rockwell agreed, now more than ever upon seeing the grief, loss and helplessness in those once brilliant, childlike eyes.

Yet Rockwell also knew that their best chance of winning lay in Michelangelo, and having to accept that it could make those baby blues become more than a bit jaded twisted his heart with so much guilt. It was something he would never wish upon any of his friends, let alone someone so bright and innocent as the youngest Hamato brother.

But it was also something Rockwell cannot prevent, and something Leonardo, Raphael and Donatello will have to learn to live with, even if they'll never be able to forgive themselves for it.

So the least he and Fuigitoid could do is to give their all to make sure that Michelangelo stayed afloat, and that the turtle's sacrifices would mean something.

"I promise you, Michelangelo." Rockwell continued softly. "I— We —will do absolutely everything in our power to bring your brothers back to you. No matter how long it will take us. No matter what it will take."

"You've already worked so hard, Michelangelo, and you've already done so much." Fugitoid added. "So please trust a little more and leave this to us, because we are not giving up on them either."

"Wh—what? No, I—! I didn't mean to imply that—"

"It's all right, my friend," Rockwell patted his arm comfortingly, hiding sorrow over the fact that Michelangelo's first instinct is still to comfort and reassure his friends even while he was in so much pain. "We understand."

"I just...I just want them back, Rocwell." Michelangelo whispered so heavily it made Rockwell's gut twist. "I need them back."

"We know, Michelangelo," Fugitoid said, equally comforting and sad. "We know."

A flurry of nunchuks came flying to Slash's direction, but the tortoise gave as good as he got with his strikes and blocks. It was time for Michelangelo's daily training session, usually with him, Bishop or Leatherhead. But since the other two are occupied, it was just him and the little turtle today.

Not that it was a bad thing. Sparring with Michelangelo was good exercise, since he was one of the, if not the fastest, mutant he had ever crossed weapons with. It helped with Slash's agility while he in turn helped Michelangelo rebuild strength and endurance. Not to mention Michelangelo's unpredictable fighting style kept Slash on his toes.

The more they would spar, the clearer it became to Slash why Splinter always said that it was Michelangelo who had the most potential out of the four turtles.

While Leonardo was the best fighter in form and technique, Raphael, in terms of raw power, and Donatello—whose strengths lay elsewhere—was the best at defense, Michelangelo was a quirky combination of the three. He wasn't what you'd call a master, but as a jack-of-all-trades, he could easily shift from attack to defense to evasion, whatever the fight called for. From fluid like a river to powerful like a tsunami.

But, according to terrapin himself…

"Aww, why am I still so weak?!" Michelangelo groaned from the floor, legs splayed out while bracing his torso up, nunchuks on the side.

Slash scratched his head after resting his axe on his shoulder. "Seein' how you came from a beatin' that coulda left you paralyzed, I'd say you're recoverin' faster than most."

Michelangelo snorted. "Faster than most is not good enough, is it?"

"Face it, Michelangelo. You ain't gonna be as strong as Raphael or Leonardo. You ain't built that way," said Slash. "What you got goin' for you is speed. Even if the Shredhead can break rocks, it ain't gonna mean shit if he can't hit ya. And at least you're still as fast as you used to be."

"That's the thing. I'm only as fast as I used to be . Even after all the training and rehab! I'm supposed to go faster!" Michelangelo sighed, crossing his arms. "And even if I can dodge everything the Shredder throws at me, it also won't mean shit if I can't give as good as he does."

"We talked about this, Michelangelo. What you don't have in strength, you make up for with 've been workin' on the ones you read about before the moment could use your chuks again. You've been doin' better at 'em, and I'd know, they pack a good punchin'. 'Specially that last one." Slash's bottom lip turned. "Still remember how you reduced them drones to diced metal."

Michelangelo frowned. "Well, hopefully, I won't have to use it on anything other than bots. Much as I think the Foot deserve it, I...I don't really want to cause that sort of pain to anyone."

Slash suppressed the grimace after quickly glancing at the scars littering the smaller mutant's arms, results of Michelangelo learning and attempting to perfect his new techniques. It freaked Leatherhead out once when he saw the multitude of cuts. He could understand the concern, since Leatherhead has always had a bit of a soft heart. However…

"Slash? Michelangelo?"

Ah, speaking of the alligator. "Leatherhead." Slash nodded in greeting while Michelangelo visibly brightened and waved. "Yo, Leatherhead! You done with the recon mission already?"

"Yes. And so far, things aren't looking better for us." Leatherhead sighed. "With the Purple Dragons under the Foot's control, the Shredder has not only sped up shipments of the arms and what we suspect are the brainworms, but he appears to be...taking control of New York underground."

Slash raised an eyeridge. "You mean, like taking control of the other gangs? Like what they did with the Purple Dragons?"

Leatherhead nodded grimly. "And he seems to be succeeding. Although there are still non-Foot as leaders, we suspect that they are mere puppets. We just saw Fishface lording over one of the smaller gangs downtown. And Muckman and Mondo saw Rahzar and some of the Kraang with one of the leaders of some drug dealers."

"So the Shredder's gainin' stronger ground, and we still don't know what the bastard's endgame is." Slash scowled. "Just fuckin' great."

"But what about supplies? Were you able to get anything?"

Leathead nodded at Michelangelo. "We managed to acquire the additional materials and even some equipment. Muckman had fun pissing off Rocksteady with our last attempt. But we can talk more about that later. How are you?"

Michelangelo smiled slightly. "Bit better than last time. At least this time, I didn't paint my arms red."

The alligator mutant frowned. "Are you still trying to do that move? I already warned you not to."

"I'll be fine, Leatherhead. I think I'm getting a hang of it already. Besides, I'm not doing it on my own anymore, after what happened last time. And even if I do, it's only with the dummy sticks."

"The kid's fine, Leatherhead. He's got a point, he needs to push 'imself to get better with his fightin' form. And he's gotten the new moves down, mostly. Gotta do somethin' unexpected to shake those Foot idiots down."

"But you have seen how dangerous those techniques were." Leatherhead said in a long suffering voice, this being a long standing disagreement between the two for a while now. "We have been lucky so far that Michelangelo has survived through everything that has happened. You know what I said about us pushing this luck too far!"

"We ain't doin' that, and we're making sure to remind this pipsqueak not to," said Slash. "But we can't stick to playin' it safe anymore, not when we got too much to lose and not a lotta options. I know you know why we're riskin' our necks for the Recon missions, yeah?"

"Uh, Slash, maybe—?"

"There's calculated risk, and just blindly charging in and hoping for the best results!" Leatherhead cut over Michelangelo. "We're already in enough danger as it is! Michelangelo is in enough danger as it is! How many times do I need to say it? He is barely healed! His injuries may have been treated, but his overall condition is not yet back to optimal level! It could take only one fatal mistake to waste all our efforts and even risk his life!"

"But Leatherhead, I can—"

"It's not simply a matter of whether you can or cannot do, Michelangelo! Lately, you are becoming less capable of distinguishing the difference between the two! Do not think I am not aware of how brutal your training sessions have become, even without you coming to me or Rockwell afterwards!" Michelangelo's cheeks flushed, his expression openly guilty. "Do you think the others would be concerned about it if it weren't something to be worried about? Don't you remember how terrified April was when she saw what you did to your arms? Or do you honestly not care if your misguided attempts will cost you a limb?!"

Slash blew out a loud breath. This argument wasn't anything new, given how protective Leatherhead was of Michelangelo and how, despite his strength, the alligator would rather avoid conflict or anything dangerous whenever he could. Very much like Donatello, which may also be the reason why Michelangelo got on with Leatherhead so well.

The argument would typically end with Slash and Leatherhead presenting each other's points—Leatherhead emphasizing on caution while Slash on being practical—until the latter would just bow out because he didn't know how to say what he really wanted to before.

But not this time.

Frankly, it wasn't as if Leatherhead did not have a point. You'd have to be an idiot to not notice the change in Michelangelo lately, as even someone like him who wasn't the most empathic mutant in the block could tell. He also can't say that he wasn't worried about it. He and Michelangelo may not be as close as he was with Raphael, but even Slash couldn't help but have a soft spot for the kid. He may be a bumbling hyperactive brat, but with a heart too big for that pint-sized turtle body, Michelangelo would always go out of his way to help and protect his family and friends.

And in Michelangelo's eyes, everyone was a friend until their blatant cruelty slapped him in the face. That included gruffy, burly tortoise mutants who nearly beat the shit out of him one time. It was a surreal concept to live with. Slash could still remember how his first encounter with Michelangelo without the other turtles left him at a loss for words.

"Because you're Raph's friend, Slash. And I'd like to think you're mine too."

"Leatherhead, listen. I have all the respect in the world for ya, but you have to hear this," Slash took another deep breath. "As much as you, just like the other turtles, wish for it, Michelangelo here ain't gonna remain a baby forever. In fact, he really shouldn't."

Leatherhead's eyes narrowed. "That is not what I meant!"

"Really? Because ain't that what you're doin'? Always coddlin' him like he's built like a freakin' China doll! Tellin' him what he can and can't do!"

"You remember what happened with—?"

"Who doesn't? You're all always hangin' it over our heads! But Bishop's right! Sometimes, you really gotta stumble before you get better, at we ain't got the time to go slow and easy, do we? This ain't some TV show where the bad guys are gonna wait for us to get stronger before somethin' starts happenin'!

"And you gotta be real, Leatherhead. That's not really the worst of what's botherin' you, is it?" Slash sighed. "For all this talk of us needin' to help Michelangelo, and you beratin' him for losin' his sense of self-preservation, you sure ain't takin' any better of yourself, are ya?"

It was Leatherhead's turn to flinch when Michelangelo's baby blue eyes swivelled to his direction. "Leatherhead?"

"C'mon, Michelangelo, you ain't dumb. You gotta know what's weighin' Leatherhead down." Because it was so obvious. Slash knew that Michelangelo would eventually help, but he wasn't the only one. In one way or another, they were all damaged mentally and emotionally by everything that's happened. Even he would get nightmares about the three turtles with the Foot, Splinter drenched in blood and his own experiences with the brain worms. But of course, some are more hurt by others, and since everyone's eyes are fixed on Michelangelo, there are others who are being overlooked.

"I'm…"

"Fine? No, you're not." Michelangelo said softly. "Maybe...I was just trying to…" He swallowed. "I know I want things to be OK again. We all want it to be. But...but there's nothing wrong with you not being OK." Placing a hand on Leatherhead's arm, the turtle smiled. "It's not your fault...you couldn't wake Sensei."

"...I know, my friend. I know. And yet…" Leatherhead's eyes closed mournfully, emotions causing his voice to quiver. "I keep myself up late at night asking myself if there really isn't anything I could do. If there was something I missed. If I somehow made a mistake while treating him. If…"

"If nothing. You and Fugitoid worked so hard to save him, and you both did your best." Michelangelo said. "He might still be in a coma, but Sensei's still here. He's going to wake up, and by then, Leo, Raph and Donnie will be back with us and the Foot will go down."

"Which is why am I so worried. Even with our best efforts, we couldn't help Splinter. It's been weeks and he still hasn't woken up. Seeing him so still like that, as if he's just one breath away form his last," Leatherhead's voice cracked. "I can't let that happen to you, Michelangelo. I cannot. "

Slash hummed thoughtfully while Michelangelo quickly embraced their alligator friend. "I get it. I know we've been lucky so far, and we're still pushing our luck until now. I know you're just worried about Michelangelo bitin' off more than he can chew. But we gotta let the training wheels go now. Don' matter what we feel about it. It's already an all or nothin' right now."

"As you have said countless times, Slash."

"Which is why we gotta stop draggin' each other down with all this coddlin' and lollygagin'. Yeah, the situation's dangerous, but keepin' each other out of it ain't gonna help. The best we can do is watch out for each other and make sure that if one of us goes down too deep, someone's there to drag 'em back out." Slash gestured at Leatherehead. "And that includes you too. I don' care if it comes down to tradin' punches. If I need to knock some sense into ya, from keepin' yourself from bein' too much of a naggin' mother hen, to making you take the fuckin' break, Imma do it. Because you're my second-in-command, Leatherhead! Am not gonna be able to hold the damn fort if you ain't there to keep these brats in line!"

"...Hey!"

"Just callin' it as it is, Michelangelo."

Leatherhead let out a laugh as he pat the little turtle's head comfortingly. "Slash only means it in the most affectionate sense, my friend."

"Oi! Don't turn me into you, you big, gummy hearted water lizard!"

"...I still think this whole situation is too dangerous and risky. And it would be better if we had more time to perfect your new skills, Michelangelo. But…" Leatherhead sighed. "Yes, we really do not have the luxury of time or our side."

"That's true. But I'm not too worried." Michelangelo said. "I've got a long way to go, but at least I'm getting somewhere everyday, right? And I'm sure that you'll always be able to patch us back up again whenever we need it. You're still one of the best patch-uppers I know, along with Donnie and Fugitoid."

"You're...are you not putting too much faith in us?"

"No pressure, Leatherhead, but that's just how I see it." The small mutant shared a glance with Slash. "That's how we all see it. You'll never let me down, dude. I don't doubt it, not even for a second."

"...Michelangelo..."

WHOOSH!

"...Ah, there you are, Leatherhead, Slash." Said tortoise snorted when the ever stoic Bishop entered the training room, hands behind his back like some stuck-up rich arse. Even though the Utrom proved to be a useful ally, Slash still couldn't get comfortable with him.

Leatherhead, on the other hand, had taken easily to the stoic but blunt alien. "Bishop. What can we do for you?"

Bishop pushed up his shades. "We have come across important intelligence regarding the Foot. Rockwell managed to discover that the Shredder himself will be going out today."

"He is?" For the past weeks since the attack at the Lair, the bastard had lain low, leaving the actual legwork to his lackeys. Even the turtles hadn't shown up a lot lately, not even during their occasional attacks at Food headquarters. To hear that Shredder himself was heading out was big news, and they all knew it.

"It is not yet clear why he suddenly decided to move now, but we have a location. You'll want to see Honeycutt on the bridge for the rest."

Both Slash and Leatherhead looked at Michelangelo who held a thumbs up. "Don't you worry about me. I'll just come back here after I see you off."

"But—"

"I'll accompany him." Bishop cut in smoothly. "I need the practice after sitting behind desks and computers for so long."

Slash held Michelangelo's gaze for another minute before nodding. "You better not do anything stupid until we get back, brat."

"I know, I know. And you keep each other safe, OK?" The freckled terrapin smiled brightly. "And try to get us some pizza on the way back."

"...You turtles and your pizza addiction." Slash rolled his eyes. Leatherhead smiled fondly and pat their small friend's head once more. "We'll see you later, Michelangelo."

The group moved to follow Bishop on the way to the bridge, but then, when the Utrom and Leatherhead were a good distance away, Michelangelo said, "Slash?"

"Yeah?"

"...Thank you."

Slash raised an eye ridge. "For what?"

"For looking out for us, even when we're being difficult sometimes. I know it must have been hard for you too."

"Please. It's not as hard as you're making it out to be, if I'm bein' honest."

"Right. You know, I wanted to tell you this before, but I really admire you. You went through so much, but you're still so strong. You are one of the most reliable mutants I know. " A strange smile flitted on the terrapin's face. One that made Slash's gut cold for some reason. "I'm glad. I'm really glad. One less thing I have to worry about."

"...Where are you goin' with this?"

"Slash...there's something I need you to do for me…"

"I thought about what you said, Bishop."

The alien looked up from his charts to see Michelangelo at the doorway with his crutch. He titled his shades in bemusement. It was after Honeycutt and Rockwell dropped the bombshells about Shredder's plans and the changes in the brainworms. While the two were back in the lab for another attempt to find a safe way to remove the brainworms, he was back reviewing some files on the information they have so far that could possibly help.

Bishop hadn't been expecting company, but he was Bishop. Not only was he adaptable, he was also a multi-tasker. "What are you pertaining to?"

"You asked me once," The turtle went on. "If it meant saving my brothers, what was I willing to give?"

Ah, that conversation. Bishop had a feeling it was it. "And your answer?"

"...Mind if I ask something first? If it's too personal, just let me know."

"If it is about what happened with the Kraang, just ask." Bishop said bluntly.

A grimace slipped onto Michelangelo's face for a split second before it smoothed out. "When the Kraang invaded, it changed you. You had to change, right?"

"It was unavoidable." Bishop answered readily after gesturing for the turtle to have a seat in front of his desk. "Truth be told, you could say I was a little bit like you. Queen always said I had enough optimistic curiosity and naivety for the whole court. Back then, there was nothing I wanted more than to be left alone in my study where I can mix and invent to my heart's content. How truly different things have become."

"Really? That's...totally unlike you right now."

"As I have just said."

Michelangelo fidgeted. "...Did you...did you ever regret it? More of, did you ever wish that you could, uh, go back to how you were before?"

Did he now? Bishop leaned back with a thoughtful expression on his face. If he tried hard enough, he could still see glimpses of that bumbling Utrom who would be content to reading books and messing with his pipettes, parts and plans all day long; who would flinch at the slightest bit of blood; who could barely hold a gun with the intent to shoot; who once admired the bastard who became Kraang Subprime and thought of him as an older brother.

"Brother. Knight. Why did you betray us?! Why did you kill them all?! WHY?!"

But that image of him seemed so faraway and so unnatural to him now. And yet…

"You are aware that matter can shift states, yes? Water can turn to ice, and back again. Yet it is still, at its core, water unchanged. But when you add, say, lemon juice to water, you get lemonade. And once you do, you can no longer separate the lemon juice from the water. You cannot have just the water back, without it having the tangy taste of lemon."

"I cannot say I do not miss those days, Michelangelo. And perhaps, I always will. It is natural, I think, for us to wish for the more innocent years, after all. Where we have little to no trouble in the world. Where our realities were nothing but goodness and happiness." Bishop took his shades off to meet Michelangelo's eyes. "However, the truth is, once you're forced to make that step, and you have no choice but to keep moving forward, there comes a point where you can never go back, even if I wanted to. Not that I do."

"But why? You said it yourself that you missed those days."

"Because that would be disregarding everything I have gone through up to this point. It would make everything I have learned and experienced meaningless. And I refuse to do that, not when so many of my brethren gave their lives for me to get to where I am now." Bishop said. "It would not be fair to me either, because trying to go back to who I was before the Kraang invasion would only be a lie. And a lie to yourself never lasts. Either the lie breaks, or it breaks you, and none of those outcomes are desirable."

Michelangelo bit his lip in contemplative silence. Bishop waited.

"...And what about your family? Your friends? Did they...were they OK with it?"

So this is what he's worried about. Foolish child. Even when he is the one who has the most to lose out of this, he is still too focused on others. Bishop shrugged. "The opinions were...mixed, at best. Some had come to respect the Utrom I have become, while the others...well, I may have upset Queen at one point. But they have all come to accept that I had to do what was necessary, and the way I am now is a part of the sacrifice I, we, all had to make.

"And even if there are those who do not appreciate the changes in me, I have learned not to care. There will always be those who will not like you, no matter what you do or who you become. But to those who truly appreciate you, those who truly care about you, they will always be able to come to accept you.

"If your brothers do love you, then they will learn to understand and accept you. Because all of this pain, all of this grief, all of the scars you have come to carry inside you," Bishop stared dead straight into Michelangelo's eyes. "Is it not for them?"

"...Always."

Bishop nodded. "Then, I will ask you again,"

For a moment, before Bishop was not the little terrapin, but instead, his younger self. Trembling, tearful, with bruises and cuts littering his pink body, collapsed before chunks of debris and the corpses of his dead friends.

"To save your brothers, what are you willing to give?"

Younger Bishop's closed eyes flew open, and dark eyes were pierced by an all-consuming baby blue that glowed like the brightest galaxy in the cosmos, as two voices rang clear in Bishop's ears.

" Everything. "

OMG finally, I'm done. That's one bloody long interlude.

I don't have much to say this time, because writing this took a lot out of me. So many character voices I had to grapple with. I hope I did them all right. I wanted to make a Mutanimals centered piece because I think they are an integral part of this fanfic.

And I've come to love writing Bishop and how nuanced he is. It may not be canon (since I barely watched Season 5, where he appears more), but I'm sticking with this one.

Again, if you're still reading this in 2021 (and if you are, oh boy, you deserve an award), thank you so much! The end is still some ways off but I will see through HOTWO getting there.

Do leave some words if you liked this and hope to see you again in the next chapter. Because yes, I am still committed to writing this. Yay! :D

CHUCHI'S CULTURAL CORNER

- 十人十色 : (Jyuu nin to Iro, though if you're reading it literally, it says Jyuu Nin, Jyuu Iro) Ten people, ten colors. Everyone has different opinions and perspectives (i.e. stripes). Just like the Mutanimals, they have different views, concerns and opinions on the events that had happened and that are to come.

HEADCANONS AND OTHER EXTRAS

- Bishop's backstory: Bishop's story is not really fleshed out in TMNT 2012, so I had to improvise. I imagine he and Knight were very close, and Bishop looked up to Knight as his hero and older brother figure. Back then, Knight, while still quite arrogant and hot-tempered, did see Bishop as his protégé who he often bothered to join him in the Utrom army frontlines. It was why Bishop found Knight's betrayal as especially hurtful, but he gave as good as he got since he was scarred Knight's face and blinded his left eye. Knight, too, felt betrayed by Bishop, who he hoped would join him to serve Kraang. So yes, there's a lot of hurt and bad blood there worthy of another fanfic, but that's all we're getting for now.
Also, while Bishop is technically a more powerful chess piece, he is younger than Knight (and pawn, while the weakest chess piece, is actually the oldest).

- Mondo's backstory: Another something I had to improvise. Basically, Mondo's dad was one of the soldiers deployed to Iraq and survived to return home, but was so traumatized by the experience that he developed severe PTSD. But instead of getting psychiatric help, he turned to the bottle, and eventually died of alcohol poisoning. His mother remarried to an abusive jerk, which is why Mondo, who is already bullied at school, tries to stay out of home as much as he can. And before you ask, his mother is of no help, since she's too weak willed to stand up to her abuser. Sounds pathetic, but it takes great courage to stand up and walk out of an abusive relationship. Something not everyone (men or women) have.