CONTENT WARNINGS
None. NONE CAN YOU FUCKING BELIEVE THAT SHIT

NOTES
Written for a Mike zine whose title escapes me. Somebody was kind enough to suggest this piece for the yearly awards thingamajig. It occurred to me way back then that nobody could find this story, and I probably should have posted it, but then I didn't, for a variety of reasons. Mostly because I didn't care? Which sounds terrible, but at the time... I don't know. I think I was planning to post the polished chapter that followed the Leo kidnapping one, and didn't want to screw up order. I don't care right now because that chapter is a mess and it's probably never going to happen at this rate. Again, because I don't care.

Anyway, I was dared to do this piece for the Mike zine by howdoyoudofellowkids, and did, FAST, like in an afternoon, and forgot to title it, resulting in its absolutely horrid placeholder being its identification. It was meant to be a piece in the Saya universe, but I'm not sure it actually fits in chronologically. Oh well life goes on

I don't know how I feel about this one, to be honest.

A MIKE BIT

Mike's messenger bag beat a tattoo on his thigh. There was a thick pad of paper inside and a collection of colored pens. He'd started a number of journals, partially influenced by Don, who organized his thoughts in a series of color-coded notebooks before losing them one by one in the clutter of his laboratory. One was his personal journal; another was for his stories, their research and his creative ideas; the last was for sketches. It didn't matter if he actually used them or not. He just liked having them nearby.

He'd left Shadow back in the farmhouse with Donatello, who had just woken up with a big mug of coffee to take care of his own concerns. He'd be sure to watch Shadow for a good two hours or so; Shadow had turned on the N64 and lured him to a controller for a match of Super Smash Brothers. Long enough for a getaway.

The days had been growing progressively warmer, warm enough to melt the ice on the pond and bring out a few grumpy birds. Still overcast, but the weatherman had said no rain. And that meant one thing: Mike was gonna get his art on.

He propped up his easel by the cairn and jammed its feet into the mud, then kicked open his lawn chair. He withdrew his markers. Sepia seemed about right. The trees were blackened claws against the sky and the earth was muddy. He felt a bit muddy, too. A very muddy day and a very muddy month and a very muddy Michelangelo.

Droplets spattered over the blank page. It wasn't clear if it were from the trees or the sky. He ignored it. Same as he was ignoring the elephant in the room. No use bringing it up now. Leo would inevitably summon it later that evening and Don would probably get sassy instead of dealing constructively. Raph... Raph would hopefully not show up for a while yet.

"Hey, Pops," Mike said to the cairn without looking at it. "I am here to draw again, believe it or not. Did you see my last bit? Yeah. Not very good. I let Shadow draw a dinosaur fight on it. It was epic."

He gingerly sat down. The lawn chair sank into the earth until his ass touched the ground. The cold wet patch made him jump. He staggered back up to his feet.

"Standing it is," Mike said, shaking out the tail of his coat. "Okay. Okay, we can do that. Sitting too long is bad for you."

He started with his favorite tree. It had been struck by lightning three summers ago, but like some kind of tree zombie, both halves of its split body sprouted right back to life. Part of it hung almost parallel to the pond. Shadow also found this tree particularly fascinating. Sometimes she would tiptoe to the very edge of the felled trunk to peer at her reflection. Other times she just sat down on its terminal end, humming, while trailing branches and long strands of grass in the water. And then there were the times she would scream dramatically and run back to the shore, pounding her feet on the wood as hard as she could.

That kid. Damn. Mike wished there were ten of her. Now, if Casey and April would just get busy, man. He'd already told them he'd be their official daycare. All they had to do was feed him. And they didn't even have to feed him good shit. Just throw him a crust of bread every now and then. He could live on good vibes alone. And kids were nothing if not good vibes.

He followed the checkmark bend of the trunk with his tongue pinched between his lips. The three seasons had already softened the jagged wounds so that they were more rounded, darkened by age and time. Still had to be careful about splinters if you were going to climb over it. Or at least, that's what Mike told Shadow about it.

"Splinters!" she'd said brightly. Her eyes had lit up.

Mike had wanted to cry a little. She still thought Splinter was out there. You could point down at the cairn until your arm fell off. Sure, she'd accept that he was in the ground right away, but she also clearly believed that he was still out in the world somewhere. A Schrödinger's Sensei. When she did this, Mike always envisioned Splinter in Las Vegas in front of a slot machine. It cracked him up.

"In crushed purple velvet and a pimp hat," he said softly under his breath. "With a fucking Elvis impersonator."

Yeah. When you fight the afterlife, you fight it with style. And a little humor. You didn't want it to take you too seriously.

Another spatter of rain. Whether from the clouds or the wind-tossed canopy, it didn't matter. The droplet touched the topmost part of his tree and the ink bloomed out across the paper. He didn't bother trying to save it. It happened, that's all. It's a thing that happened. It's unfair that it happened. But it wasn't unexpected, either.

"It looks nicer this way, to be honest," Mike said. "Like a cloud."

Maybe he'd try spritzing the marker later. Maybe that would look nice. Of course, the paper was that basic sketchbook weight, not watercolor paper, so it would ripple and dimple, but... art was about experimentation, right? He jotted down a mental note. Ask April to buy him some watercolor paper. And maybe some watercolors in case the marker thing didn't work. I mean, it wasn't like he could attend an art class to find out what he was doing wrong, and the only computer attached to the Internet out here was Don's. And like hell would Don let him touch his computer.

Mike couldn't imagine why.

He colored in the bank, the overhanging lip, the split trunk's long and indistinct reflection, its outflung skeletal fingers. He could hint at the ripples in the water with an unsteady grip.

"Nice," Raph said over his shoulder.

"Yikes!" Mike whirled around. "Raph, for god's sake!"

"Eh." Raph leaned on his shoulder. "You're a jumpy guy."

Mike turned back to his piece. He'd jammed the marker right into the end of the branch's reflection and now the ink was puddling out there, too. Could definitely not call that one a cloud.

"You made me give my branch an afro," he said.

Raph laughed. "Looks like a dandelion."

"Huh." It kind of did. "I guess it's modern art now. Thanks."

Raph slapped him on the shoulder. The camaraderie slowly sank away, and his fingers clenched. Mike winced.

"You okay, bro?" he asked.

"Mike. Where's Leo?"

Raph's voice had lowered. Darkened. It was the voice he got right before he shanked people.

Mike grimaced. "Uh... I don't know. As of right now, I mean."

"Don said he was out here."

"Yeah, he was."

"Was."

"Look, Raph," Mike said, turning with a smile. "I'll bet you just walked up, so... I mean, it's a long trip from New York, so..." The rest of his sentence poured out at lightning speed. "So why don't you stop for some lunch before you talk to Leo, right?"

Raph blinked, leaned back. "Lunch? What the fuck are you talking about?"

"I mean, you sound tired."

"Oh, I see your angle." Raph leaned away. "Are you really trying to save Leo's ass right now?"

"No, that's not it. I mean you're tired and..."

"I didn't think you'd be making excuses for him," Raph snapped.

"I'm not."

"So where is he?"

"Meditating," Mike said with a shrug.

"Yeah, but where?"

"Same old meditation place, same old meditation channel."

"Mike! Stop bullshitting me and tell me where he is already!"

"Raph, we already lost Splinter!" Mike said. "I don't want to lose you and Leo too!"

Raph was quiet. Mike flung his arms out, grabbed his brother by the shoulders, threw him that crooked grin.

"Come on, bro," he said, shaking Raph. "Lunch, a little TV, a cold one. What do you say?"

"I came out here for one reason," Raph said softly, shrugging him off. "And it wasn't to watch TV."

More droplets on the paper. A little wind rocked the easel. Definitely rain. Rain was definitely coming. He could smell it; he could feel the pressure in the air. Leo would leave the stream and come in to escape it. Raph would be waiting in the kitchen. All the players were ready to act out their parts, the way Mike had seen from day one. He'd plotted their movements out in his journal and prayed it wouldn't come true.
Tragedy was awful, but a tragedy in slow motion? A tragedy you experienced alone?

Raph lifted his head. Mike didn't follow his gaze. He already knew. The cloaked figure moving out of the woods, the rain following him.

Raph shoved past Mike. Mike staggered. His elbow struck the easel and the easel tipped over. Just like that, the whole sketchpad, embryonic branch and dinosaur fight and all, went into the pond.

It happened, that's all. It's a thing that happened. It's unfair that it happened. But it had to happen someday. I mean, it was terrible that it had to happen this way, and worse, it was something you could blame on someone you loved, someone you thought you could trust. But it happened anyway and nothing can undo it, so why make it worse, right?