Donnie emerged from his lab, adjusting the strap of his bag slung over his shoulder. His fingers tightened briefly around it—a subtle sign of the unease gnawing at him. His mind churned with scattered thoughts, slipping away before he could fully process them. He exhaled slowly, forcing himself to maintain his usual composed demeanor.
"I'll be back in a couple of hours," he said, keeping his tone even. "Just need to grab a few things from the junkyard."
Leo nodded but frowned, his gaze lingering. "Maybe Mikey should go with you. Extra hands won't hurt, and… after what happened to Raph, I'd feel better if you weren't alone."
Donnie hesitated. He needed space to think. But arguing would raise suspicion. And deep down, the thought of Mikey in danger twisted his stomach. He nodded. "Okay. Let's go, Mikey."
Mikey perked up instantly. "Sweet! Junkyard adventure time!"
As the two headed out, Leo turned to Raph, a knowing look passing between them. Without a word, they stood and made their way to Donnie's lab, determination setting in.
At the junkyard, Donnie sifted through piles of scrap, carefully selecting parts and tossing them into his bag. Mikey, meanwhile, was more interested in poking around for hidden treasures.
"Hey, Don," Mikey called, holding up a rusted toaster. "Think we could turn this into a robot that makes toast and fights bad guys?"
Donnie gave a small chuckle despite himself. "Only if you want burnt toast and a rogue AI."
Mikey grinned, glad to see his brother responding, even if just a little. He still noticed the tension lingering in Donnie's shoulders. Hoping to ease it further, he held up a faded comic book. "Dude, check it out! Vintage!"
"Mikey, we're here for parts, not hoarding old junk," Donnie said, but there was no bite in his words.
Mikey shrugged and tucked the comic into Donnie's bag anyway. "Call it a bonus."
Before Donnie could argue, a sharp rustling broke the quiet—a metallic clatter, like shifting junk. Instinct took over, his grip tightening around his bo staff.
"We're not alone," he murmured. "Stay close."
Out of the shadows, Foot Soldiers emerged, swift and calculated. In seconds, they were surrounded.
"Guess they couldn't resist our charm," Mikey quipped, spinning his nunchaku.
The fight erupted, fast and brutal. Donnie's bo staff struck with precision, Mikey's nunchaku whirling unpredictably. But the Foot were relentless.
A blade slashed across Mikey's left arm. He let out a sharp hiss, stumbling back. The cut wasn't deep, but the sight of blood made Donnie freeze.
His mind flashed to a different Mikey—one-armed, struggling, haunted. The ghost of that memory clung to him, the phantom ache of loss tightening around his chest like a vice.
Something inside him snapped.
He moved with uncharacteristic aggression, each strike fueled by raw panic. Mikey barely had time to react.
"Donnie—whoa, chill!" Mikey dodged an incoming attack. "It's just a scratch, bro!"
But Donnie wasn't listening. He pushed Mikey behind him, blocking, striking, desperate to keep him safe.
They fought hard, but the numbers were overwhelming. Donnie's aggression carried them through, but even he knew they couldn't keep this up. He calculated their odds, and they weren't good.
"Mikey, we need to go—now!" Donnie shouted, shoving an attacker back with a forceful strike. His voice held an urgency Mikey wasn't used to.
Mikey didn't argue. As soon as an opening appeared, the two bolted, weaving through the maze of junk with desperate urgency. Foot Soldiers pursued them relentlessly, their footsteps pounding against the scattered debris. A throwing star whizzed past Mikey's head, embedding itself into a rusted pipe. Donnie shoved him forward, barely dodging another strike.
"Faster!" Donnie urged, his voice edged with panic.
Mikey sprinted ahead, heart hammering, while Donnie kicked over a precarious stack of scrap metal, sending it crashing down in their pursuers' path. It bought them mere seconds, but it was enough. They ducked through a narrow gap in the fence, the jagged edges scraping against Donnie's arm as he forced himself through. Only when they reached the sewer entrance and slipped into the shadows did the chase finally relent. The Foot didn't follow—but the tension in Donnie's gut told him they hadn't escaped unscathed. The sound of metal clanging and footsteps pounding against debris chased them, the Foot still lurking just behind. Donnie shoved a pile of scrap down in their path, buying them a few precious seconds. Only when they finally burst through a gap in the fence and hit the sewer entrance did the pursuit relent. The Foot didn't follow—but the eerie sense that they had accomplished something lingered, setting Donnie even more on edge.
The lair was quiet except for the rustle of paper as Leo flipped through Donnie's notebook. Raph stood beside him, arms crossed, tension radiating off him.
"This place is a disaster," Raph muttered. "How does he find anything?"
Leo ignored him, his focus locked on the pages before him. Blueprints, notes, calculations—and then something different. A list. His pulse quickened as he read through it.
"What the hell is this?" Raph demanded, peering over Leo's shoulder.
Leo hesitated, his fingers tightening around the edge of the notebook. His pulse drummed in his ears as he glanced at Raph, then back at the page. He exhaled sharply before finally turning the notebook toward him, pointing at a specific line. Raph's expression darkened. His finger jabbed at the words.
"Did he know I was gonna lose my eye?" His voice was low, unreadable. The words 'Raph loses his eye' were crossed out, like a cruel joke.
"Let's not jump to conclusions," Leo said, though his grip on the notebook tightened.
But Raph wasn't listening. His gaze had drifted further down the page. It said Mikey was going to lose his arm. The predictions for Casey and Splinter were worse. His stomach twisted at the scrawled-out fates awaiting them.
The lair door burst open. Mikey and Donnie stumbled inside, breathless but largely unscathed.
"We got ambushed," Mikey announced. "Foot were all over the junkyard. But we're good—mostly."
Leo and Raph turned sharply toward them, eyes narrowing.
"You're hurt," Donnie said immediately, reaching for Mikey's arm. Mikey blinked at him in surprise.
"Dude, it's barely a scratch," Mikey insisted, but Donnie wasn't having it.
"Let me check," Donnie said, his voice unusually firm.
Leo and Raph exchanged glances. It was normal for Donnie to insist that even the smallest of wounds get checked after a fight. But this sense of urgency was too much even for him. This wasn't just concern—this was something deeper.
Mikey sighed, finally relenting. "Alright, alright. Knock yourself out, doc."
As Donnie checked his arm, Mikey caught the tension still lingering in his brother's eyes. He wasn't telling them something.
Meanwhile, Leo and Raph, still clutching Donnie's notebook, exchanged a glance. Donnie hadn't noticed them holding it yet. They knew they needed to speak to him about it, and had a feeling this conversation was not going to be a positive one. The weight of the grim predictions that Donnie had recorded sat heavy between them. They weren't just looking for answers now—they needed them.