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Chapter Text

"Can I please pass out candy this year!?" a sleepy-eyed Michelangelo was begging as he clung to Donnie's leg like a toddler.

Donatello hobbled determinedly forward, dragging hundreds of pounds of 'little' brother along as he aggressively strove to reach his morning coffee. "I already said it's a needless exposure of one of our best disguises-"

"At a house no one knows is ouuurrsss...!" Michelangelo crowed, head thrown back to wail like a child.

"Aren't you supposed to be picking up our guest at this hour!?" Donnies were best left undisturbed pre-caffeination.

"I sleeeptt innnn...!" Mikey wailed. "Leo didn't wake me upp, he just weeennntttt insstteaaaaddd!"

"That's no one's fault but yours!"

"It was costume-induced-depression, yo, not my faaaulllt!"

As ridiculous and over-the-top as this conversation was, the family's youngest member found it hard to laugh: Hamato Sandro sighed and sat down on the back of the couch. Eventually, he flopped back upside down onto the cushions.

Halloween was coming up on Wednesday, and Sandro was understandably nervous.

See, it was traditional for the turtle family to head out to Casey Jones' house for a big Halloween party. Uncle Donnie and Uncle Leonardo were always the first ones on the premises, to get the cloaking field activated over the meager backyard, and to properly trap the premises.

And, for the purpose of that party, Sandro was worried about his costume, which Wildcard hadn't made a peep about in over a week. Was it too much to expect a status report?! Was it going to be late? Would it be on time? Was there any chance in hell they might convince his parents to let him out trick-or-treating? That'd be the first time ever! She couldn't just show up at the last second with everything, if that was her plan! Mom, in particular, was going to need some time to dwell on the idea before she gave her 'okay!'

Sandro rubbed his face with both hands. Having effectively five "parents" was a bit much to deal with sometimes.

Raphael looked up from where he'd been packing alcohol mixers. The actual alcohol would get picked up en-route to the party, along with copious amounts of ice, because apparently cold alcohol was better or something like that. Sandro wasn't an expert. "Ya look stressed," Raphael noted. "Got somethin' on ya chest?"

Sandro stuck out his tongue in a mute 'Blah,' but then decided maybe he liked feeling grumpy in a juvenile way over completely harmless stuff, instead of getting wrecked by anything more serious. "Nothing major this time." He looked over at his father, who was raising a scaly brow like he wasn't sure whether to let it drop. Sandro grinned. "Promise."

Raphael reached over and tugged on the ties of his bandanna! Then he went back to packing mixers. Sandro watched with a giddy smile probably more appropriate to a kid half his age, unable to articulate how... bubbly he felt, actually getting some kind of affection from his father again. Sandro prayed things didn't go backwards. Maybe they wouldn't. Maybe the truth was he'd been in some kind of protracted fight with his parents for over a year, and it had finally ended.

The front door swung open. "Sandro!" Miniature Chaos Incarnate bellowed as she entered. "Time to break out the SFX supplies!"

"YES!" Sandro roared with a clap, before momentarily being stuck upside down because he was top heavy and his shell and gravity were working against him here. Instead of sitting back up, he rolled off the couch and bounced around to join her. "Finally! You've got everything!?"

"That is correct!" Wildcard/Ana/Miniaturized Nonsense/The New Family Maniac announced in her dynamic hero's pose, with a duffel bag strapped across her chest. Leonardo entered far less explosively behind her, and quietly closed the door. "I even have a full costume. Mikey snuck me some family fabric patterns and Dad put me to work all week." She patted her duffel bag victoriously.

"You made clothing for me!?" Sandro cackled, trying to get in to that duffel bag early. Wildcard had been trying to dress him since she'd met him, and he didn't know whether to be eager or terrified.

"Shoo, shoo, shoo, don't give away the surprise!" she laughed, shoving at his plastron. "If it doesn't fit, we might have to get your seamstress involved, and then I might start laughing uncontrollably, so let's hope I followed all Dad's instructions correctly!"

Leonardo came up and coughed politely behind her. "Your shoes, Kinpōgekun."

"What? Oh!" Wild recalled those were supposed to be left by the side of the door, as opposed to dragging raw sewage germs all over the house. "Woopsie!" She hopped on a foot at a time to remove them, and filed them in the shoe rack. 

Sandro helped her balance somewhat unnecessarily and asked: "And do you have-?"

"Yes I do," she growled with a haughty lift of her chin and grinning eyes. "And you're going to have to not smile at all while I'm applying it. I also picked up two extra tubes of full cover foundation just in case, and fresh fake eyelashes, and there are these henna tattoo styled eyebrows I want to give a shot because it'll speed things up. It's still going to take like two hours to apply. Are you ready for a commitment of that level!? We need to test everything!"

"I will be a saint," the family's tiniest turtle gushed, nearly hopping in place.

"Ya picked up what?" Raphael asked from the couch. 

"That's about how long breakfast is going to take to be ready with this moron on my foot!" Donatello was roaring like a dinosaur after gulping coffee straight from the pot. "I stayed up all night and he was supposed to-!"

Wildcard leaned back from the surprisingly draconic genius and glanced over at Sandro as if she were asking 'Is this normal for him?!'

"Come on!" San urged her towards the hallway so they could get the other supplies out of the lab and hopefully not block up the family bathroom for any longer than was absolutely necessary.

"No one peek!" Wildcard hollered back across her shoulder. "Nobody but Mikey, he's special!"

"Woo!" fist-pumped an Orange Turtle from where Donatello was trying to pry him off with a Bo as if it were a crowbar. 

"Hey, wait a sec-" Raphael called, rising from the couch in confusion, but, nope, Sandro and Wild were already gone.

Donatello was a little calmer with half a pot of coffee in him and had put together a rudimentary breakfast for his family. Michelangelo was pouting and bombarding him with puppy faces from across the table, which Donnie was affecting not to notice out of principle.

"Has anyone seen the kids?" April asked as she came in the room, tying up her hair with a scrunchy. "Anastasia's here, right?"

April was probably the only person who still referred to their tiny guest by her given name but, to be fair, April was something of the family normality anchor. To everyone else in that little girl's life, she was Mini-Meme, Mouse, She-Casey, Loudmouth, Arson-Risk, Dear-God-No!, Kinpōgekun, Squirt and/or simply 'Wildcard.' 

"They disappeared into the bathroom about an hour ago," Michelangelo mumbled glumly.

April paused, eyes widening in confusion and some trepidation. "To...gether...?" she asked, because these were two fourteen year old children, after all.

"Well," Donatello growled, "seeing as they first fetched a wig and quite a thick purse of makeup, I'm going to have to assume they are not having sex on the sink, and are instead playing dress-up with one other. Ala Michelangelo in the Salsa Dress."

"Oh!" April dropped her hands, instantly relieved.

Raphael, who had been a little confused about what he'd previously overheard but not entirely alarmed, suddenly whipped around to stare at Donatello with an expression of utter and unadulterated horror. For a moment he just sat there, reeling. By the look on his face, they might as well have assumed his entire life was flashing before his eyes. Or, at least, traumatized memories of Mikey in Drag.

Then Raphael stood up with a sharp scrape of kitchen chair on tile flooring, grabbing at the table with a clear attack vector in the direction of the bathroom, as if he needed to get there in under five seconds to stop the world from imploding.

"Ahh!" Mikey cried out, scrambling out of his chair to intercept. "Raphael! Don't!"

"Get outta mah way!" Red Turtle wheezed, like he'd been hit in the solar plexus, even though Mikey was just hanging on to his shell. 

Leo stood blinking in the kitchen like a deer in headlights for a moment, before frowning and striding forward to where his two fire-banded brothers were wrestling. "Raphael, if your son wants to play 'dress-up,' regardless of reason—be it be for Halloween or merely for fun—on what grounds do you presume to stop him?"

"GET OUTTA MAH WAY!" Red Turtle roared, throwing Mikey down with an elbow to the face.

Leo abandoned his breakfast in alarm, diving to slam Raphael into the wall and protect the children.

"Raphael!" April protested. "There's nothing wrong with a boy trying out a wig-!"

Expletives filled the air at such a volume and fury that April momentarily leaned backwards, blinking rapidly. Then she scowled, pushed up her sleeves, and stalked up to the pile of turtles to begin a beat-down.

Donatello smile cruelly over his coffee, diabolically pleased. This was Purple's reward for Mikey hanging all over him all morning.

The sound of the bathroom door swinging open made every scale on Raphael's shoulder and arms stand on end, and he shot Michelangelo and Donatello dirty looks. "I can't believe you all actually made me agree ta dis," he groused bitterly.

"Oh, chill, you didn't agree to anything," Donatello snarked back. "Michelangelo and Leo merely sat on you until your wife successfully shamed you into silence."

"Fuckin' exactly."

"Raph, shush," April warned, because Sandro might be able to hear them already, and their son had been very forward with talking to them about a lot of very sensitive topics lately. The last thing they wanted to do was 'hurt' him over something so ridiculous. 

"Raphael," Leonardo sighed, "if your son was inspired by Michelangelo's dress prank, there is nothing wrong with that, and-"

"Stuff it Fearless, ya've said it six times, and you, Mike, Ah'ma take ya head and stuff it down-"

Leonardo went slack beside him for half a second and then hit him with an elbow so hard Raphael nearly stumbled. 

"What!?" Raphael snapped at him, and then noticed Leonardo's wide-eyed stare. Oh boy. Raphael dared to look at the figures approaching them. What he saw made his shoulders uncurl and his hands drop to his side. He docked his head.

"So," a handsome, six-foot, and completely human looking boy greeted them in explanation, wearing Chinese styled clothing that looked about appropriate for Lu Xun or Liu Bei, from The Romance of the Three Kingdoms.  "I cannot open my mouth more than about two centimeters without risking breaking the illusion, but the whole thing's designed  to be worn with a scarf and potentially a hood for that reason. We, um, we originally figured it out as a sort of fail safe."

What looked like completely normal lips were parting and curving softly over what appeared to be normal teeth but obviously couldn't be. (Right?)

April stood there in shock for a second and then put a hand over her mouth, and her eyes went glossy.

"Holy schnickerdoodles," Donatello blinked rapidly. "The plaster cast. I didn't think... Wow."

"The plaster cast!" Wildcard agreed, unnecessarily streaked with makeup beside him. "It's my most masterful application of foam latex to date! It's covering his snout and beak—you're probably going to need to feed him by protein smoothie or something, I forgot he'd need to eat. Also remind me to buy contact solution for him, I totally forgot."

"This is better than food," Sandro growled happily, the bridge of his nose wrinkling very slightly with his enthusiasm. Suddenly he had his mom's nose, and her brown eyes. He looked human, he looked like a half-Asian human boy. He had thin exercise gloves on to hide the skin color of his hands. He lifted them up to tighten his topknot, and there was nothing about it, nothing, which gave away that it was a wig. Nothing about the prosthetic ears looked fake, it all fit.

Raphael moved first. He crossed the floor and came up to Sandro, lifting his hands to cup and touch hesitantly at this new and yet eerily familiar face. He brushed his knuckles against the prosthetic nose and ears, trying to find the difference in texture. The smooth cake of makeup made it almost imperceptible. Stunned, Raph touched the crease of the lip and Sandro parted his beak a little more to show off the blacked-out ridges of it behind ceramic gloss, proving that this was, indeed, only a clever use of foam, latex, and paint, and not some kind of crazy mutagen transformation.

"Holy shit," Raphael murmured, a giddy smile stretching his mouth wide. "Holy shit. That... that wantin' ta 'feel normal' bit you was talking about, you don't do things halfway, do ya?"

"I have a nutcase to help me," Sandro said smugly. "Try to find another girl who can talk a dude raised by you into entering a makeup boutique with her." He shoved his dad's shoulder. "Whole time I was thinking 'Raphael would hang himself if he found me here. No questions asked, just dead.'"

Raphael busted out laughing. "I-that-that's what ya was thinkin'?"

"The whole time," Sandro moaned. "Hemmed up at a dumpster as she smeared peach on me. ‘I am an embarrassment to the family, I am letting a girl put makeup on me, can I imagine telling Dad, hey Dad, I sat still for an hour while someone penciled on eyebrows for me,'" Sandro shook his head. "Then she showed me the end, and then I'm like fuck you Dad, I look smokin' hot, you aren't taking this from me cause it's girly or whatever."

Raphael kept laughing and hugged him.

"So!" Wildcard grinned toothily up them. "Can he go trick or treating with me for Halloween!?" 

"What!?" April burst, but then she, too, had to come forward and have a look at her absolutely handsome boy, because this was the closest she and Raphael would ever get to seeing what their kid would have looked like if he'd turned out human, and much as they loved him exactly the way he was, there was still just something amazing about that.

Chapter Text

Four, enormous turtle mutants stood around the kitchen of that modest suburban house in lower Greenville where Casey Jones had elected to settle down to raise Shadow. All were in various state of camouflage, and engaged in preparatory tasks. They'd arrived early, all of them, with the sun still hanging above the horizon outside. A fifth and smaller turtle—their child—waited eagerly between them. He was the subject of their military-grade nervousness.

"Perimeter cameras are clear," Donatello continued to report with a swipe of his holographic wrist bracer displays, as Leonardo placed the finishing ornamental touches on two silver spray-painted foam swords. Each fake weapon contained an actual tonfa in it's composition, which could be removed with a firm twist in the event of an emergency.

They were all worried. Worried and eager, like they'd be somehow be vicariously succeeding at some personal, life-long wish through him.

"Shit that is crazy," Casey marveled approvingly, leaning over as he got a good, long look at Sandro's spectacular 'Halloween costume.' "Who are you supposed to be, by the way? Looks awesome!"

"Thanks! You wouldn't know the character," Sandro absolved, talking carefully so as not to stretch or pull his prosthetic 'mask.' 

"You don't even look like the same person," little Shadow Jones complained, because she was quite fond of how different and scary her turtle family members looked.

"Sure he does," Michelangelo snickered as he tugged on his nephew's hair. "Hey, yo, remember not to eat any candy prematurely! It has to be inspected for poison, right D?"

"Okay, first of all," Donatello preemptively forbade, "candy inspection is not an excuse for you to eat half his spoils, Mike. Secondly he can barely open his mouth, if you've forgotten."

"Don't worry, I'll test it for him!" Shadow quipped mischievously as she slipped on her white Storm wig which, in contrast to Sandro's black hair, did not look even remotely real.

Raphael stepped forward, leaning over with a safety pin and ducking to reach underneath the heavy green cape he'd rigged up on wire to 'flow' enigmatically behind Sandro. This was an extra but unneeded layer of obfuscation. Sandro's shell hugged tighter against the profile body than his relative's did, and Wildcard had chosen thick fabrics for the design, mimicking a video game rendition of the character so everything looked extra big and imperious. It had only taken a little bit of trimming the inner layers to render the shell invisible.

Leonardo presented Sandro with both finished 'swords,' and Sandro spent a moment re-familiarizing himself with them, and how to get the tonfa loose if necessary.

"Everyone stick closely to their part of the plan," Leo then intoned. "And yes, I do mean you, Michelangelo. We have no reason to believe the Foot know anything about Sandro or about this location. The last thing we want to do is make a scene being overly protective and tip them off." 

The doorbell rang, and Casey straightened with a frown. "Ape and the girl aren't due for another fifteen minutes. Right?" he asked, and more than one turtle was impressed he hadn't just laughingly strolled up to the door, thrown it open, and extended a beer to whomever might have been beyond. When it came to keeping his daughter safe and secret from the Foot, Casey could be a different person. 

"Right." Donatello was peering thoughtfully at his display. A grin overtook his face. "Oh, we definitely know who this is!" He looked up. "You can let them in."

Whelp, that was good enough for Casey, who—despite the trepidation and tension displayed by the other three turtles—shrugged and sauntered up to the door to find out what sort of unexpected guests he had that fine October 31st. The first thing he did was offer a beer. Mr. Visitor took the beer. That was also good enough for Casey, who called, "C'mon in!" and rejoined the turtles.

Yet another absolutely enormous burly dude stepped in to a kitchen that wasn't really meant for so many seven-foot persons. He was easily as big as Raphael, and concealed in a very familiar fashion with winter clothing that wasn't quite justified by the cool autumn air. With his head tucked down and his hood lowered, he might have gone unrecognizable half a minute longer—if not for the tiny quadruplets following him like a train of ducklings, each only three feet tall, and wearing matching winter coats in lavender, pink, baby blue, and yellow.

"Leatherhead!" Michelangelo realized with a start, sniffing at the air to be sure. "Girls! Do you recognize me!?"

Peep? Peep!

A chorus of delighted peeps and growls exploded from the duckling daughters, and then four tiny children had pounced upon Michelangelo and were hanging off every part of him, growling and purring and squeaking and rubbing themselves all over him like monkey cats instead of reptiles.

"ITS A HALLOWEEN MIRACLE!" Orange Turtle sobbed as he fell back onto the counter and snuggled with four alligator children.

"Oh no," Sandro lamented as Shadow rushed past him to see the kids. "I'm going to look like a stranger to them."

Leatherhead paused in pulling down his hood. "Is that... Sandro?" he disbelieved, and then untucked his snout and leaned closer to inhale.

Sandro perked up. "Yes sir!"

Sniff. Snifff. Snniiiiifff. Leatherhead leaned back. "That is positively uncanny..." he assessed.

Sandro beamed. Raphael started laughing and slapped Leatherhead on the back. Donatello and Leo both greeted him, and their Halloween party grew just a little bit larger.

'Ding-Dong' went the bell, and this time it was the at the appropriate time for April and Wildcard to be arriving by. The two of them entered, April wearing a black wig and tucking away sunglasses to keep her identity undercover, and Wildcard wearing a white hoodie over whatever boxy sort of costume she'd elected to wear. 

"We got your call," Wildcard reported, holding a very large crate of meat over her shoulder. "Did we get enough extra hamburger? What happened, do we have guests? Did a cooler break? Did-!" She went silent, staring past Raphael to where four miniature albino alligators were blinking in confusion at an extremely well-disguised Sandro.

"Baby Toothy-Rawrs!" Wildcard squealed.

Mikey looked towards her. "I know, right!?"

"Did da Mouse insist on carrying dis?" Raphael asked of April as he levered the beef off of a girl who only came up to his hip. Wild, of course, lit out like a firecracker from under the weight to go join the party.

"Her exact words were that it was an 'important opportunity through which to display her machismo,'" April confirmed.

Raphael only grinned to himself, like he thought that was twice as fantastic as it was absurd.

April shook her head and sighed in bemusement.

"They look like Shiny Salazzles!" Wildcard was squealing hysterically.

"Oh my god," Donatello apparently agreed because he was groaning. "They do."

"Alright, ya kids are gonna be basically walkin' on ya own," Raphael reminded them. "Ya do exactly da route we have planned and then ya skedaddle ya asses back straight here, got it? Shadow, you's the Queen of dis neighborhood, you keep an eye out dat the three of ya don't 'accidentally' go too far."

"Aye-aye!" Shadow saluted. 

"Kinpōgekun," Leonardo said. "You will adhere to the rules as we have set them out?"

"Yeesss Sseeennnseeeii," Wildcard droned. "Or I end up in Hashi until Thanksgiving's over and don't get to meet anybody..."

"Exactly," Blue Turtle agreed without pity. 

"We'll be on surveillance from back here," April explained with a pat on Donatello's shoulder. "And Casey will be parked out on the cul de sac in the truck, so you won't have far to go if something unexpected happens."

"Why can't the girls come?" Shadow whined with a gesture towards where four tiny alligators with color-coded kerchiefs were watching them curiously. "They know how to be stealthy."

"Because that is an uncalculated risk we did not have time to plan for," Leo answered.

"Also, they, uh, they squeak when they get excited," Sandro reminded Shadow. 

"Yo, Mini," Michelangelo tugged at her sleeve from where he was getting dolled up in his King Kong costume to hand out candy. "What's your costume?"

"Ooh. I almost forgot," she unzipped her hoodie. "Nice save, Mom! Thanks! I picked it up at the store before coming over—check this out!"

'Mom?' Leatherhead visibly wondered.

"You were at a sewing machine for me for a week," Sandro asked, "and walked in a dime-a-dozen Halloween store as an afterthought at the very last possible second to buy something for your-?"

But Wildcard had just revealed she was wearing green tabi, skin-tight green fabric, brown knee pads and elbow pads, and a fake yellow and brown foam shell. "Why yes, Princess," she chirped dutifully as she kicked off her baggy pants and rolled them up. "That was the only way I could excuse this as an 'impulse buy' despite scoping it out weeks ago!"

"Ya fekkin didn't," Raphael muttered in disbelief.

"Oh my god," Sandro croaked in disbelief. "You did."

Shadow and Casey busted out laughing.

"Hmm," said Leonardo.

Leatherhead raised a scaly brow and looked in bafflement over at Donatello, who remarked, "In retrospect I feel we should have seen this coming. She's-um, well, I'll fill you in later."

"Oh-Em-Jee," Michelangelo uttered, grabbing at her with both (gorilla-gloved) hands. "Mini! Mini this is very important! What color did you buy!?"

"The red and purple ones were sold out!" Wildcard roared irrepressibly, as if this meant everything had gone according to plan. "And so were all the fake katanas!" She whipped out over sized foam-padded nanchaku and an orange bandanna and held them high. "Economics made the decision for me! I am Mini-Mikey!"

Michelangelo shrieked triumphantly, pounced upon her, and scooped her off the ground and whirled her around. "MIniii-meemmmee!" he squealed and she laughed hysterically into him and hugged him tight around the neck and kicked her feet.  "I loooovveee youuuuu!"

His enthusiasm got them swarmed by tiny alligators again.

"Hurry up!" Shadow insisted, grabbing both older kids' arms and yanking on them. "We're going to get less candy! You dorks are hopeless." She turned around and ran ahead, apparently already forgetting she was Sandro's chaperone. That was okay; Wild was an old pro at turtle safety.

"Are you going to talk to me?" she asked as she tied her orange bandanna on, amused by his glare.

Sandro scoffed, refusing to look at her. "I can't believe," he growled, "that you are actually going as a turtle."

She turned her nose up to him. "Oh yeah? I can't believe you're going as a human."

Sandro thought about that. He thought about it for a long moment as they went up the driveway and stood in line behind kids of various shapes, sizes, and levels of costume quality. Then he snickered, and grinned and straightened up again. "Okay, you totally got me there. Touche. I won't complain."

"Dat's my San-san," Wildcard cooed, tapping him on his prosthetic nose. 

Sandro lowered his head out of reflex as they reached the house, and then suddenly he was in front of a total stranger who was complementing his and 'his sister's' costume and giving them a handful of Mini Snickers a peice. His throat locked up as he looked this stranger straight in the eyes, with his face fully exposed, and they only smiled back at him.

No fear. No, 'Ah, a Monster!' No, 'Aliens!' or 'Dear God, what is WRONG with that boy!?'

His heart was racing and there was a slight quiver to his steps as he followed Wildcard away from the house. Shadow was waiting for them with crossed arms, and angry glare, and a pillowcase that apparently had way too little chocolate in it for her liking. By the nearness of Mr. Jones' pickup truck, he'd driven near to have some words with her out the car window.

"Don't worry!" Wildcard drawled, "C'mon! Let's go to the next house Mrs. Sulky, Sansan just needed a minute or two to warm up. He's new at this! Remember?"

"Ugh. It's so easy," Shadow said with a toss of her head as she headed towards the next house with a flip of her pillowcase over her shoulder like it needed to become a big bag of money stolen from a bank. "Come on slowpokes!"

"Eight-year-olds; so much attitude," Wildcard chirped mischievously to Sandro, and they hurried after her.

They got to the second house, said their 'Trick or Treat!' gave thanks for their chocolates, and cut across the lawn with Shadow to appease their tiny moody matron. They were just about to walk up to the next house when they were suddenly confronted by a line of four tiny people.

"GASP," Wildcard gasped. "Wait a minute, how'd they escape from under the eyes of all the parents? They aren't ninja-babies, are they? Donnniiieee. Your algorithm needs work."

All four girls were wearing their hoods up. All four were also wearing masks partially over top of the hoods. Unicorn masks: A purple unicorn mask, a pink one, a blue one, and a yellow one. These masks looked to have originally been white and made of thick, sculpted, recycled paper, and were now colored in with crayon and glued with glitter and yarn in disorganized scribbles and chaos.

"This was not in the plan," Sandro said. 

"Hey slow-!" Shadow cut off and hurried back to them, and stared down in disbelief at their four tiny unicorns, all of whom had apparently procured empty pillowcases and were holding them out exactly the way they saw every other child doing. "Oh no. What do we do?"

"We wing it," Wildcard said. 

"Noooooo," Sandro grieved. "We can't wing it. They'll never trust us outside again. This is our maiden voyage, Wild..."

"Well the parents would have called us if they knew what to do," Shadow said, looking hesitantly at her phone. "Maybe they haven't noticed? Maybe they're panicking?"

"Trust me, I have a plan," Wildcard said, and then looked at each and every girl. "You have to be completely silent, okay? Otherwise Daddy'll get in trouble." 

Sandro gulped, lifted up a gloved finger in front of his face, and said, "Shhhh," since Wild was apparently forgetting these kids were toddlers.

All four girls lifted up a single gloved finger in front of their faces and, simultaneously (and slightly creepily) said 'shhhhhhhhh!'

"Good enough for me!" Wildcard said with an upraised hand. "Follow me and don't fall behind Sandro! Aaaand march!" she lead the way and, well, the kids followed, shuffling along upon their itty bitty toddler legs in their unicorn masks with pillowcases held out and open in front of them.

"Trick-or-treeattt!" Wildcard belted out as they reached the doorway, and Sandro and Shadow belatedly remembered to chime in, too. Wild smiled genuinely, Sandro just tried not to break out sweating, and Shadow smiled exactly like she'd been caught with an entire empty bag of Oreos in her bedroom and was trying to make up a story that didn't begin and end with 'I ate all of them.'

They stood over their gaggle of toddlers, but went almost entirely unnoticed because the kindly-faced neighbor-lady was too busy oohing and aahing over the four adorable pudgy little girls.

"They're our cousins!" Shadow blurted unnecessarily, because it wasn't important to explain why four equally sized adorable toddlers were with you when everyone was happy to focus on how adorable they were.

"We're still trying to teach them to say 'thank you,'" Sandro whimpered. "They're shy."

And that was perfectly okay.

A piece of candy went into each bag, which the girls watched with rapt attention, and then, without any further explanation from the older kids being necessary, all four girls tottered back away again after Wildcard, totally sure of themselves, and hilariously good at being ducklings. The fourth one—Applejack—nearly tripped, and Sandro dove forward to catch her and to scoop her back up and put her back on her feet.

"You need to learn to lie better," Wildcard called back in a loud conspiratorial whisper to Shadow.

"Okay!" Shadow agreed this was probably a necessary life skill.

"Pay more attention to the kids!" Sandro rebuked Wildcard scathingly. "If one of them is about to fall or bonk into someone, tell me!  And don't go so fast! They have tiny legs! Haven't you seen their tiny legs?!"

"Oh. Roger!"

Off they went, one giant turtle boy, four tiny alligator toddlers, and two normal human girls; to get their candy and participate in the holiday spirit.

None of the parents called them. Maybe they were terrified of throwing the kids off their game, or drawing any more attention to the spectacle than had already been drawn. At least Leonardo and Raphael were out on the rooftops and street corners somewhere, keeping an eye on them, so hopefully that would be enough.

Sandro had never previously felt so responsible in his life and, from the look of her, neither had Shadow.

Shadow had told Sandro she'd been thinking of swooping by an extra house on the corner or two, the places which she remembered were a little wealthier and where the house owners tended to give out full-sized candy bars. 

That idea was gone! Completely gone!

They completed their circular route of the neighborhood, dutifully hitting houses on either side of the street, and in one instance chasing after a toddler who became distracted by a Halloween decoration in the likeness of a giant dragon and who tried to wander off to go interact with it. Her sisters chastised her with tiny grunts and squeaks until Sandro managed to hush shhh shhh them back down into revered silence.

They reached one incredibly well-decorated house with tombstones bearing puns on them, and anamatronics everywhere. The girls became very concerned at a pair of pants and shoes sticking out from under the closed garage door, worried someone had been crushed. They tugged Sandro's pant leg and pointed. Sandro tried to explain it was all fake, like on a television, and couldn't hurt anybody. He saw one of their hoods—Rainbow Dash's—was drooping down, and he tugged it back up and adjusted her mask.

Shadow paused. "Uh, little kids sometimes go around this house," she said. "Cause they think it's scary."

Wildcard glanced over her shoulder and grinned charmingly. "Nah, I think they've got this one!" And so the little train of gator ducklings snaked through the prop and spider-web covered sidewalk up to the front door, probably feeling like they were on a real horror movie set (the world had to be so much bigger from down there at knee level...!) and possibly huddling closer to one another. 

At the door, they were greeted by a fabulously dressed witch and a bowl of candy that tried to grab your hand with its own, severed, Frankenstein hand when you reached for candy. Wildcard didn't even jump. She took a whole Reese bar. The toddlers watched her and then one of them—Pinkie Pie—edged forward first. She absconded, unharmed, with an Almond Joy! The other three girls shared a look and then mobbed the candy bowl, pulling out a trophy a piece!

The neighbor lady cackled and told them they had the bravest little babies they'd ever met, and let them take a second piece. 

The girls tottered back down the scary path after Wildcard seeming positively gleeful with their successful quest.

The three older children got so much into the 'groove' of babysitting their four little ones—catching the ones who tripped, re-tying shoelaces, pausing to stare at interesting costumes, admiring the scenery, and dodging other kids—that looking around and realizing they were on their last house almost surprised them. But, indeed, when they peered one lawn over, they could see Mr. Jones' house was next, and Gorilla-Michelangelo was busy being King Kong on the doorstep and handing out candy to the children ahead of them. 

Sandro had completely forgotten that he, himself, was undercover. He, well, he'd ended up feeling completely unremarkable next to the safety of the four babies, ha! Thinking back, he did remember seeing quite a hell of a lot of different houses. Their candy bags had gone from empty to bulging with chocolate booty, so much so that the toddlers' bags were dragging on the ground just a bit. 

"Well this was a resounding success," Wildcard mentioned to him.

"Do not count our eggs until we are all safely back inside that building," Sandro groaned. "You'll jinx us." 

"Yeah," Shadow agreed.

"I don't believe in jinxes," Wild said, and Sandro resisted the urge to slap her upside the back of the head.

They said their 'trick or treat' and got their final candies, and then hurried up the sidewalk to their goal post.  End zone! Touchdown! Biscuit in the basket! Something!

"Oh thank God," Michelangelo moaned, standing up and reaching out to them. "You guys are back. Everyone panicked. Are they all okay?"

"No sweat, Sunshine, it was easy!" Wildcard reported in, patting Mikey upon the arm. (Wildcard had at least three or four separate names for Mikey, and the nicknaming was mutual.) "They are tiny unicorn angels."

"They aarreeee," Mikey whimpered. "I don't even know how they know what trick-or-treating iiissss... Where did they get pilllowwcassess...?"

"They're very observant," Sandro groaned, herding his ducklings up the staircase past Michelangelo and into the house. "They figured out everything."

Wildcard pushed open the screen door and led them inside. She and Sandro heard Donatello say something to the affect of, "Leath, it's okay, it's okay, they're coming up the front porch right now and they're back-" and then an alligator had taken the turn into the atrium so fast it would have given a comic book panel whiplash just to feature him in it. Wide-eyed and looking positively terrified (for something so enormous, so fearsome, so toothy), he bolted up before his girls, skid to his knees, and threw his arms around them.

"Aw," Wildcard peeped wondrously, trying to keep out of the way so as not to ruin the moment, which was probably a good idea because a very anxious Dad with sharp teeth had never met her before. In fact, if Wildcard was being delicate about this, chances were she foresaw some kind of future in which Leatherhead did lash out at her.

"It's okay, sir," Sandro reached out as he entered second-to-last, placing his hands on the gator's shoulder. "They're all okay, we watched them like hawks, not one of them got so much as a scraped knee..."

Then Leatherhead hugged him, too.

Chapter Text

The gator girls had made out like bandits, was the first thing Raphael saw as he slid aside the rear patio screen door and slipped inside. They were sitting in a ring on the floor, rifling excitedly through their bags of colorful shapes and smells, sniffing and sorting things into piles with squeaks and titters.

Raphael watched them trade Michelangelo a Reese cup for a park of Smarties, and he nearly smacked Mikey for giving babes what didn't know better shit trade ratios, when it suddenly dawned on him the kids couldn't have milk chocolate. Lactose intolerance. Huh. Well that was a shame. If he'd of known, he'd have ordered some dark chocolate stuff. Raph preferred his cocoa bitter, himself.

"Those kids are effing smart," ended up being the first thing he did say, as he rounded them and entered the kitchen, stripping off gloves and coat. "That there was a coordinated escape plan! One of em stood lookout at the gate, and another took a knee ta boost her sis up ta reach the lock, saw it myself!"

"Really?" Donatello asked, incredulous, because they were talking about kids fresh out of diapers who couldn't talk.

"Yeah!" Raphael emphasized, throwing down his gloves. The sight of Leatherhead gave him pause just there, cause the big guy looked more dangerously upset than Raph had seen him in at least a decade. Ape'd been playing down his reaction over the phone.

Course he's upset, dumbass, Raphael scolded himself. These are his baby girls, his flesh and blood and his only damn family in da world. How would you feel? If ya had no brothers, no wife, and Sandro went missin? Kami only knows what he's been through already for em; wouldn't tell us shit at Northamptom.

"Well," Donatello cleared his throat as he pushed a tall thermos of something hot into Leatherhead's claws, and chafed reassuringly at a shoulder. "They have a very intelligent father."

Leatherhead huffed, almost despairingly, like he found that morbidly funny. Raphael shifted uncomfortably, glad Donatello was on the case and wondering if Mikey shouldn't get over here. Orange might as well have had magic powers when it came to getting LH to chill. God knew Raphael and Leo'd never had any luck at it, and Donatello needed him to be at least mentally present enough to discuss science and shit. Raphael watched a bit longer. LH's gaze stayed fixed on the girls half a room away, watching them like they were the only thing in the whole damn world worth doing right by.

Kay, time to fire up the grill and have it hot and toasty by the time Casey got back to help him. Weren't nothing like beef to put a person in a better mood.

The Hamato family had very nearly forgotten inviting Leatherhead and his girls to winter with them in the Lair that year, but Leonardo recalled the invitation as he reentered the domicile through the upstairs window and made his way for the staircase down. There was little other explanation for why Leatherhead had come out to the party; he wanted to know if the invitation still stood. It did, but Leonardo would have to make the situation with their daily visitor clear to him, to ensure everyone was comfortable with it. 

And speaking of 'daily visitors,' this one needed a stern talking-to.

"Where is Kinpōgekun?" he asked the family as he alighted on ground floor. Hmm. A quick scan revealed neither teenager. 

"Why does everyone have a different name for the tiny chick?" Casey asked on his way towards the rear door. "How do any of you know who each other are talking about? The hell does 'Kinpōgekun' even mean?"

"My daughter is the Lass of Many Nicknames!" Michelangelo asserted. "It's just her shtick, yo!"

"She's not even your kid! No, no, that's not the strangest part," Casey pointed with a beer. "Why does she call you Mom!? Is there something no one's telling me!?"

"She's already got a dad!" Mikey protested. "It was the only open position! I was unqualified but hey you know what they say, you've gotta submit your resume anyway!"

"That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard!"

"Where is Sandro?" Leo supplemented his inquiry. 

A hand popped feebly up from beyond the back of a couch, "Here uncle," an exhausted-sounding turtle nephew groaned. "Nap required. Half hour. Too much responsibility. Adrenaline crash."

"Oh my god," Shadow agreed, looking up from Michelangelo's side with a haunted expression that suggested she, too, might need to curl up on a comfy arm chair for fifteen minutes or so if she was to enjoy the actual party. "That was so stressful. I can't even keep a pet goldfish alive...!"

"Ooh," April popped up to comment. "Casey confessed something to Raphael about that goldfish."

"Did he kill Popeye?" Shadow growled. "I knew it! I knew that tank was different!" She twisted around and shouted out the patio screen door. "Fuck you Daaadd! You're a murderer!"

"Ape!" Casey wailed. "Why!?"

"Language," Mikey said under the wide-eyed stares of several adults who couldn't believe Shadow had just cursed at her own father.  "We can't teach the gator babies bad words."

"Oh! Uh. Yeah." Shadow blushed guiltily, even as they could hear Raphael roaring with laughter.

Hmph! Well. Leonardo was somewhat mollified the children had understood the severity of the situation they'd been presented with, and hadn't acted out of some selfish or heedless impulse. And, indeed, the result had been that four extra children—children who rarely got to do anything 'normal'—had successfully been able to blend into the crowd and enjoy a holiday. 

"Where is your 'sister,' Sandro?" Leo still prompted, because at least one teenager had been having far too much fun, and she, at least, required a proper chastisement. 

"You mean Mini-Mikey?" Sandro's thin voice was already half unconscious. "Yeah, she's already out. I got 'er."

Leo paused, blinked, and then strode across the house and looked down over that couch to inspect matters. Both children were flopped into the left corner, half over the arm rest, half kicked up onto the middle cushion. Sandro was upright, and Kinpōge was sprawled half over his knees with an arm draped over her eyes, snoring. In a foam shell, still.

Well. Sigh. At least they'd managed not to accidentally end up looking like a couple this time around. Leo sighed, and patted Sandro's shoulder to let him know he could doze off. Perhaps it was better that no one got lectured while Leonardo was still angry, anyway.

Leo turned only to find April there at his elbow, coming up with a concerned expression to assess teenager configuration for herself. Her concern abated almost immediately, and she gave a little laugh.

"Are, um," she asked quietly, leaning near Leo so he could hear her without risking disturbing Sandro. "Are they usually this cute?"

"Yes," Leo said instantly and without hesitation, because the children's mutually affectionate behavior had looked to be a topic both Donatello and Michelangelo had been nervously trying to raise with her without knowing where to begin, or how to make the conversation less peculiar. "The connotation of their familiarity might change in a year or two, but—for now—they are reminding us keenly of ourselves. Siblings."

"In retrospect, it makes perfect sense why he needed a friend so badly... why he needed one he'd picked instead of... one we had. He's just as isolated as the four of you ever were," April admitted, even as she smiled admiringly down at her son and that disguise that gave them all that rare peek at Sandro-as-human. "No matter how much we tried to give him more than we had."

Leo studied her and then lifted a hand and set it on her shoulder. "We did not turn out so terrible," he said.

April smiled up at him, and then slipped an arm around his shell and hugged into him. "That's true." She admired her sleeping boy and the rest of the family.

Hamato Leonardo tried to figure out how he was supposed to respond to being hugged by his sister-in-law who was, by now, truthfully as close to him as his own brothers. Objectively speaking, it did indeed seem peculiar that the answer no longer came naturally to him. Be happy, he suggested to himself. Smile. He let himself do so, and woodenly eased an arm around her. She laughed a little at him, but still hugged close and did not immediately leave.

Apparently he'd been at least partially forgiven for what he'd said to her about Sandro, during the drama earlier in the month.

They are coming home to stay in December. She and Raphael, both. They are coming home to stay. No more commute. No more living and working in New York on every day but weekends. 

Leo relaxed a little more, settling down his guard to appreciate the interpersonal contact for a bit.

He had missed them. 

Chapter Text

"Wait," Wildcard had realized as she shimmied out of her foam shell. "The tiny alligators are going to be moving in with us!?"

"I regret to inform you that you and I don't live together," Sandro had to remind, hands in his pockets.

"Details, details!" she waved away, enthusiasm mounting. "This means we get to keep the tiny toothy rawrs!"

"Just for the winter," Sandro reminded more. 

"That's like forever!" Wildcard squealed, only for dread to sink her countenance. "Oh no. What if I end up doing something they copy? I'm not ready for this level of commitment. Sandro! I can't be responsible all the time! I don't know how!"

"Yup," Sandro agreed with small nods. "They'll be leaping off of tall buildings and planning bank heists by the end of the week. We're doomed."

"This isn't right! Salazzle doesn't have Prankster! That defies its entire idiom as a sweeper!"

"I have no idea what you just said."

She plopped her hands on her hips and squinted at him. "How is it possible that half your uncles play Pokemon and you've barely even heard of it?"

The Lair's smallest turtle gave a big shrug. "They can all apparently beat box, and I can't do that either. Isn't that the bigger crime?"

"Oh yeah. Man, talk about let downs when it comes to passing on wisdom to future generations."

"Ayup. Wait a minute. Do you even own a Nintendo system? Isn't that what Pokemon is? Nintendo? Handhelds?"

"Gonna tell it to you straight, San, I totally played it on phone emulators under my desk during school when I was supposed to be listening to the teacher."

"Oh. Well. That makes more sense."

Despite the Trick Or Treat Incident, the repeated Pokemon references, and the small maniac coming in to and out of the Lair everyday, Leatherhead had shown zero hesitation in asking whether Leonardo and Donatello's offer to winter with the turtles still stood.

Turtles very nearly climbed of one another to answer him first. Leonardo confirmed, in no uncertain terms, that Leatherhead and the children were welcome. "I assure you Donatello could use the intellectual stimulation of good conversation. And Michelangelo... well, Michelangelo remains Michelangelo. But I must warn that my apprentice is still very new to our circle," Leo'd intoned, all formal and stiff like Leo usually was, "and that her father has no preexisting connection to us."

"Your nephew trusts her. You trust her. I trust your judgement."

Michelangelo fist-pumped behind Donnie, who let out a silent breath in relief.

Back at the Lair Michelangelo had all of Wildcard's enthusiasm, and zero of her trepidation. He showed the children every room of the Lair and then ended up playing tag with them. Furniture was disturbed in great quantities, albeit mostly by Michelangelo himself. The children, as it turned out, were as polite about leaving objects undamaged as four-year-olds could possibly be. In fact, the girls had been in the house no longer than a single meal before it became clear they had impeccable manners.

And from that, Donatello got more than just intellectual stimulation. He got peace of mind. 

The girls stayed in their seats. They squeaked at appropriate points for 'thank you' and 'please' while being served. They put their napkins in their laps, and ate with their silverware. When one of them got mashed potatoes on her nose, the other helped wipe it off. As far as toddlers went, they were almost frighteningly low-maintenance, and Donatello couldn't decide if this was an aspect of their upbringing (Leatherhead was very polite), related to their animal genes (alligators were born more immediately capable of complex physical activities than humans), related to mutagen (which enhanced learning), or simply a lucky roll of the dice. No other four year old with whom Donatello was familiar (his sample size was admittedly small) was anywhere near as independent (or interdependent) as these angels were.

Or maybe Donatello and his brothers had been similar, owed to having three of one-another and only one caregiver? Splinter wasn't around to tell them one way or another. Raphael had definitely been moody at an early age, and Michelangelo had been a magpie and prone to breaking things, but Donatello's oldest memories suggested they'd all been able to groom themselves and look after one another. His earliest memories were probably of Baby-Leo lecturing the rest of them to wash their hands before Splinter got home with food. Back when their voices had all been high-pitched. Heh.

Donatello watched from his seat and took a long slow breath through his nose. This is good, he mentally calculated. All of my long-term observations have been good. They were able to recognize names and characters from fictional media, to identify with colors and personality types, to observe and mimic behavioral patterns, to devise goals and plans for reaching those goals, and then carry those plans out, to recognize themselves in mirrors, and to understand concepts such as dirty, clean, theirs, not theirs, fictional, and real. 

And now he had them all in one place, safe, in the Lair, where he could continue to make observations, take notes, run simulations, and—hopefully—advise their father. Donatello knew Leatherhead would be fiercely protective of the girls, but if he was reading between the lines properly, their conception had been something of an accident. That said, it was a little too early and impersonal for Dontello to be recommending tubal ligation procedures, regardless of whether they'd be reversible.

Still, humming anxiously in the back of Donatello's mind was the warning: They had four children, none of whom could speak English, all at risk of going native in the Florida Everglades ten years from now and spreading super-intelligent alligator genes throughout the wild population. The ecological—not to mention personal or political—ramifications could be dire. Donnie could imagine gators swarming the USA, uneducated, under-nurtured, wild children in animal bodies, cunningly hunting down everything from bears to children to police officers. Donatello could imagine swat teams, or mafia goons, or who even knew what else, combing through the country on mutant-hunting sprees, whether to eradicate them or to harvest their DNA or mutagen.

The difference between Sandro and the girls' was this: Sandro was more human than Raphael. By contrast, the girls' mother had clearly been a wild gator. Sandro had picked up on it. Donatello had picked up on it. And then Leatherhead had essentially confirmed it by explaining the girls' had been part of a larger clutch, all of whom had been cannibalized while their mother had carried them to safety.  Donatello had then been able to tick off the warning signs left and right: The girls could not speak; They had no lips; It was unclear how well they understood spoken language; They often moved around on all fours at a 'skitter' instead of a 'crawl,' suggesting they found a quadrupedal gait more natural than an upright totter; They could swim like they'd been born in the water; Etc. etc. etc.

He'd been gravely concerned about their intelligence. Their mutagen. Their futures. He'd been gravely concerned about their ability to procreate, and exactly how early in life they'd become sexually mature, and whether they'd understand modesty, temperance, or their responsibility not to leave vulnerable super-mutant gator eggs all over the southeastern United States.

But now, watching them play and interact with startling cleverness, Donatello felt more at ease. This felt like a problem he had control over. The prognosis was steadily proving less severe than he'd initially feared. He'd be able to help and protect these children, this way. He'd be able to contribute to their growth. 

Leatherhead's sexual preferences weren't Donatello's business, and neither was any philosophical or ethical dilemmas which resulted from what couldn't actually even be called zoophilia. Leatherhead had been mutated as a sub-adult, and it made perfect sense that he found alligators attractive. Leatherhead struggled to identify with humans or with his own humanity, regardless of how intelligent he was. They looked alien to him. Furthermore, even Donatello would have supposed that if mutant + human offspring were viable, mutant + animal offspring would not be. 

Apparently mutagen would roll up its sleeves regardless of what sperm hit what egg.

...Dear God in Heaven and By All the Protector Kami, do not phrase it like that! Donnie, you'll give yourself nightmares! That's not how it works! Otherwise, there would be ecological risks associated with masturbating in the shower! What if mutant sperm met up with fish or amphibian egg and- Stop thinking about it! First of all, human DNA from April matched up with some human DNA in Raphael. There was a point of commonality for mutagen to latch on to, and it had to take in a second sperm to complete the couplet on some of Raphael's genes, and the duplicate some of April's genes, just to make full working sets of both types of chromosomes.

Likewise, alligator DNA from the girls' mother fitted with Leatherhead's original DNA. The small traces of latent mutgen in our bodily fluids activated to repair the ovum's partial genome match. It is therefore likely that mutant turtles can breed with natural turtles, and mutant alligators can breed with humans, but mutant turtles can not breed with natural alligators and vise versa. Too little mutagen, and no point to start the work from.

Furthermore, sperm cells are extremely short-lived and fragile and will be destroyed and eaten by most cells of other organisms. If fertilization just worked with literally anything, you'd be accidentally reproducing with flu viruses and the fungal rot going on Raphael's shell and random gut bacteria, which hasn't happened (though maybe take cultivars to reassure yourself), because even though mutagen seems like magic sometimes, even magic has rules—they're just harder to study in a scientific context.

Well.

Yeah.

That is all very true.

But maybe just be neurotic about the whole thing for your own personal comfort, and check how much chlorine you're presently mixing with our sewage. And then go play video games with Michelangelo all evening to level your brain out again so you don't go to bed in an anxious fit.

It was time for the baby gators' first pediatric exam.

Michelangelo entertained three sisters, while Leatherhead scooped up the fourth and settled down on the cot in the family clinic with her seated upon his knee. By the pastel color of her scarf, Donatello recalled this one had been dubbed 'Rainbow Dash' (or 'Blue' if one was trying to save on Raphael's sanity).

"Is she shy at all about interpersonal attention?" Donatello asked, selecting an otoscope and a tongue depressor.

"No," Leatherhead answered. "They were skittish in infancy, so I groomed them daily to encourage social behavior. By all measures, it has worked."

"It's definitely worked. They're adorable together," Donnie agreed, coming over to present 'Blue' with a plush chameleon, so she'd forgive him for shining bright lights in her eyes. "It's a pity they don't have hair to style or something like that." 

Leatherhead chuckled.

Eyes, nose, mouth, ear membranes; Donatello had a good look at her five senses with an otoscope while her father reassured her and distracted her with books, dolls, and tickles. Donnie had the sense that Leatherhead might have been on the move most of the girls' life. Despite lacking proper equipment out there in the world, he did have an extensive background in mutant biology, and all four children were clean, plump, and clearly well provided for. If there had been any serious problems with any of them, Leatherhead would have known. 

"Their tongues are inflexible and do not rest against the roof of the mouth," Leatherhead explained to Donatello, and took the tongue depressor gently from his hand to demonstrate. "Unable to touch it to the roofs of their mouths to change air flow, they cannot make consonants."

"Mn," Donatello leaned over to peer between those triangular little teeth and see how much of the tongue was rooted to the jaw floor. "The problem with plosives was obvious: No lips, and not even any hard covering like beaks..."

"But this compounds it," Leatherhead agreed as his daughter touched her own tongue in bewilderment and then went back to playing with a stuffed bear in his lap. "I have heard only the simplest of affricatives. No dentals. No aveolars. They have the 'N,' 'S,' 'H,' and some near relatives, few of which will help them with English. I do not believe they will learn to speak."

Donatello was already thinking about solutions, rubbing his palm across his beak and jaw as he. The children were beautiful, and not just aesthetically speaking, the way some of Sandro's python morphs were beautiful. Rainbow Dash was beautiful in the way children were—all children—with cherubic faces, big eyes, and heads full of colors and questions. She might have been facing a future that tried to label her as government property or some kind of animal. Speech—the spoken word—was still the metric by which many humans seemed to evaluate intelligence. That the girls couldn't speak to defend their sentience felt ominous, like a tragedy waiting to happen.

"I'll look into it," Donatello said, trading an otoscope for a stethoscope. "I was originally going to ask you if I could take some blood samples, but instead I think I want to vaccinate them. The last thing anyone here needs is to accidentally become Patient Zero for mutant chickenpox..."

"Here here."

He took notes on breath sounds, baseline temperature, heart rate and blood pressure (he did indeed have a child-sized blood pressure cuff, from when Sandro had been this tiny), capillary refill, and skin texture, and then he examined their hands and feet. He was looking for the similarities and differences with regards to human biology; in general, human biology was what most medical science research papers were published on, and anything that differed from human norm would be something of an enigma. 

The fingers were grubbier and felt more suited for traversing muddy riverbanks than fine manipulation, but he tested the grip strength and the range of motion of the thumb and found them very satisfactory. 

The examination of each child went rather the same, and, so close to them, Donatello could make out subtle differences in their features, stature, and personality. Blue was taller, assertive and focused; Pink was rounder, scatter-brained and affectionate; Yellow was mellow and patient; and Purple-

"Oh!" Donatello chuckled in surprise as his otoscope was grabbed by a tiny five-fingered hand. He looked down to see her bright stare fixed on the otoscope; the stuffed animal sat discarded to the side. "Oh you're curious about my doctor's things, are you?"

She squeaked, lifting both hands eagerly up.

Donatello leaned close and raised a hand to shine the light upon his palm, showing her how the otoscope worked. Naturally she then wanted to operate it, but a light jostle from her father put her back in an obedient mood, and she held very still as Donatello peeked in her ears, eyes, nose, and mouth. Then she waited eagerly to see what he'd do next, so, naturally, he showed her the stethoscope and let her use it to feel the heart of everyone in the room. The look on her face as she realized what she could hear was priceless. Four-year-old glee was one of the purest forms of enthusiasm in the world.

By the time Donatello was jotting down his notes and his patient was trying to steal his notes to look at them, an impression had been made. Trying to keep her from mimicking her doctor and scribbling nonsense into every white line available, Leatherhead tried to distract her with toys and stickers. When that did not work, Donatello hesitantly reached out with both hands, and Leatherhead transfered the child to him, and Donatello sat her sidesaddle upon his hip (there was no other way to fit a child there owed to the shell) and gave her a spare pair of spectacles to play with.

"Is she always like this?" Donatello asked.

"Mn. She has correctly selected her color," Leatherhead agreed with a sigh, which was his first recorded acknowledgement that any of his children had received names and/or color affiliations.

The little girl peeked up at Donatello from behind the glasses, her eyes comically magnified, and she blinked rapidly and went cross-eyed.

Dontatello checked her knee, ankle, and elbow reflexes while she was distracted. Then he had to hand over the reflex hammer for her inspection. He checked her feet and cappilary refill and hands. So she started examining his hands. "I think I might accidentally fall in love," he admitted as a tiny alligator child read his palm.

Leatherhead started laughing.

Chapter Text

The silver rental sedan crept up to first place in the left-hand turning lane at eight-thirty in the morning, waiting for the light to change.

Tapping her hands nervously on the steering wheel, April O'Neil flipped down her sun visor to take another look at her hair in the vanity mirror. She mussed through the black curls and turned her head from side to side, and sucked in a deep breath. Okay. She'd done this before. Between the wig, colored contacts, and casual clothing, she was invisible.

"I barely recognize you, mom," reassured her son from the passenger seat, where he was trying and failing not to show off how giddy he was to even be in the passenger seat. "Do new cars always smell like this?"

April laughed. "I've actually had very few 'new cars.' You should have seen the old jalopy I drove to get to and from college. That thing ran exclusively on prayers and your father's ability to perform a rapid oil change."

"Really?" Sandro blinked over at her, the cream of his makeup application barely visible through his hood in this lighting. "Donnie couldn't build anything better?"

"I started college the spring after you were born," April explained, closing the vanity mirror as the light turned green. "I was lucky they let me defer my scholarships. We'd just gotten back into the Lair, which had been trashed when the Foot drove us out of the city. Donnie was trying to salvage what little remained of his lab, and the Shellraiser was too valuable to risk on an open parking lot. Leo saved my break lines from being cut twice, and the Foot very nearly got away with tying explosives to the ignition. I stuck to night classes and kept a tanto up my sleeve at all times; you can imagine why."

"Holy chalupa," Sandro assessed. "And you were... eighteen? And had a baby."

"A very fussy baby, too," April agreed with a laugh. "But I wouldn't have changed how it all turned out for anything. We made it by sticking together, playing off each other." She gave him an apologetic smile. "I think you're right, you know. I should have come home earlier."

"It's..." Sandro shrugged gently and smiled. "You're here now." Then he blinked and became distracted peering at storefronts through the window. "Are we—are we driving through some kind of Little Italy?"

"Mn-hmm! And your father is adamant we pick up fine Italian sausage on our way home, or he will be very, very, very cross with us. Which may or may not be his way with dealing with the stress of letting us out on our own." She winked. "Are you nervous?"

"Yes I'm nervous, how could you not warn me we're going on a shopping trip through Little Italy after our trip to the zoo!? Wild's going to combust from joy at the sheer quantity of butter, cheese, and noodles contained within a five meter spread around her. It could be dangerous. I'm under prepared!"

"Well this is a cute neighborhood," Wildcard remarked of the adorable plazas, attractive brick roads, and glassy buildings around them. "I would not mind being a pedestrian shopper here. Where are all the drive by shootings and drug deals?"

"The child has gone skipping through Gotham's Narrows in the twilight hours, and here is teasing the Bronx," her father, 'Mr. Hamilton,' drawled as he slurped on his McDonald's coffee. "Like she hasn't lived in inner city ghettos all her life."

"Hey, Greenville is very nice compared to everywhere else I've ever lived. You're spoiling me."

He laughed.

Wildcard perked up at the sight of trees, mantled in the red, brown, and yellow of late fall. 'Fordham University' said a placard around a beautiful black-gated campus and old stone buildings. She peered curiously at them, and wondered about that trip Sandro would be taking in the spring, that trip to see Jean Grey's school. Would it look like this? She wished she could go, but one place Wild could definitely not go was within a hundred meters of a telepath...

"Ooh!" she pointed and hopped in her seat and pointed to the great bronze letters proclaiming BRONX ZOO on the left, and the beautiful ornate turquoise (aged copper?) gates framing the quaint parkway they'd turned onto. "Ooh, we're there! We're almost there!"

"Say," said one driver across the roof a bright orange Hyundai hatchback as he squinted mischievously. "You look familiar, stranger."

The other driver twisted about in surprise, laughed and waved as she shouldered her purse. Wildcard hurried past to find out where her brother was.

Sandro and Donatello had planned the stuffing out of this trip, for the optimal excursion experience. They'd purchased their tickets ahead of time for about ten dollars more a piece than general admission. A premium fee of 23$ per vehicle had them parking directly around Rockefeller Fountain in a quaint little circle at the heart of the zoo, at the oldest and best manicured entrance, to ensure they'd been able to enter right as the door were opening.

They'd joked that if Casey Jones was late, Sandro might break rank and storm the gates with his mother digging her heels in and helplessly trying to stop him. 

"There you are!" Wildcard threw open the passenger door to the sight of Sandro storming nothing and rocking himself through a panic attack. "Come here!" she demanded, opening her arms to receive him.

Sandro fumbled out of the car like he had no idea how legs worked, but then stooped to squeeze her off her feet. "I'm scared," he breathed where his mom couldn't hear him. 

Of course he was scared. His last major trip outside had been for a single hour, with uncles and parents deployed on every side like a paramilitary special ops contingent. This was different, this was almost like before, back when they'd been sneaking out during the day as a last ditch effort to hide their friendship from discovery one more day, back when they hadn't known how his parents would react, or if they'd completely freak out that he'd been seen by a stranger at all.

"Pssh!" she redirected him, "That's just cause I haven't checked your uncles' handiwork yet!"

Sandro set her down and hunkered over to let her do just that. Mikey and Donnie had been responsible for today's makeup and prosthetic job, and they had been practicing all week. Donnie's approach was to note Wild's procedure step by step down to a granular level of detail. Mikey's approach was to wing it and forget half of everything. With their powers combined, they'd managed to reproduce the full masterpiece.

The beak-occluding prosthetic they'd used for Halloween wouldn't cut it for today; Sandro was going to need to eat before this trip was over. Instead, Wildcard had cast a copy of the prosthetic, and edited it to separate the lower and upper jaws. THe most important parts of it were the false nose and upper lip, which hid the shape of his snout. With a high collar and hood on in chilly November weather, and being naturally tall, he was still completely indistinguishable from a human.

And that was important, because Sandro had to be able to lift his head to look around if he was going to enjoy a zoo in any meaningful capacity! He just needed not to lean over to see inside an exhibit while talking, because his beak shape, width, and inflexibility would really quickly break the illusion.

"It's good," she confirmed, and he closed his eyes and nodded through some deep breaths. "San," she murmured, leaning forward and touching her forehead to his. San you've got me. You stick to me like glue, kay? Like before, except that you look perfect, and you can hold your head high. Okay? Okay?"

His fingers tightened on her arms. She lifted her chin and stood on her toes and smooched his forehead.

"Hold my hand till you calm down," she said.

The silly adults wouldn't even notice; they were too busy basking in how bizarre it felt to meet during the day time in a public place like they were all normal.

"I found them!" said Shadow, who could recognize the teenagers if not the adults, and she bolted ahead of her father to give Sandro an arm punch of greeting. "Hey! You sent me a billion texts. Control-freak much?"

"It's my one day out a month," Sandro sassed back with a jab of his finger. "But, uh, thanks for sending me your ETA. Appreciated that."

"Case!" April waved him over, excitedly, and both fathers—Jones and 'Hamilton'—got their first looks at one another.

They were not of entirely dissimilar builds or heights, though Mr. Jones was about a size larger. When they shook hands, it was with a visibly firm grasp, and callouses were something they had in common. Whatever Raphael had liked about Andrew Hamilton at first glance, Casey must have been on the same wavelength, because there wasn't any of his usual wariness about strangers when he kicked things off with the charmingly impolite:

"So you're the crazy girl's dad, huh?"

"I am," Andrew Hamilton agreed, full stop, and Casey reacted with a laugh. 

"Well! At least ya know. I've got this little fighter, here. Shadow!"

"Hi," Shadow waved distractedly, completely disinterested in the new adult, and much more interested in the older kids. 

"Yo, get over here, kiddo!" 

April cleared her throat, "She has her father's manners," she confided to Mr. Hamilton with a wink. 

"Naw, my mamma always told me to be nice ta her guests, and ta say my pleases and thank-yous and my 'it's very nice to meet yous,' so I must be teachin' something wrong," Casey admitted, as he leaned over to ruffle his daughter's hair. 

"Hey Dad!" Wildcard had to break the tranquility by preying on Shadow's unsuspecting father. "Mr. Jones is also a single father! You should ask him o-"

"I've got her, Mr. Hamilton, Sir," Sandro had performed a headlock maneuver, indifferent to the fact that Wildcard had probably been trying to get Jones back for Shadow's comments about Mikey, or maybe for Donatello. This was his day out as a 'family' and dammit everyone was going to get along! "Your dignity is safe for the next two to three minutes."

"Oh, well, that's plenty of time to distract her." Mr. Hamilton looked to Mrs. O'Neil with a long-suffering expression to explain: "My lack of romantic inclinations has clearly been a lifelong puzzle to this child; there is no other explanation for why she's been joking about setting me up with people from the time she's been old enough to speak. Male, female, she's indifferent. It's part of her idiom; just ignore. She means no harm."

"She's definitely an idiot," Shadow agreed, albeit fondly, and with the wrong ending consonant.

"C'mon, let's go already!" Wildcard took issue with their priorities as she managed to get her brother's hand away from her mouth. "Places to go! Animals to see! Sandros to tease!"

Whereupon the children led the way like they knew what they were doing, and the adults followed at a parental stroll, like they knew what they were doing—as if leisurely visits to the zoo with their children and parent circle weren't completely new to all of them—and they struck up a conversation about how nice the autumn foliage still was this November. 

Chapter Text

April was wearing a hidden camera that allowed some anxious family members to keep tabs on her from a city away.

"How's the signal holdin'?" Raphael called across the house, trying not to take too much interest in the setup because it was just going to make him twitchy. If something happened, Donatello would obviously let him know.

"Splendidly," Don reported. "Told you it would."

"Audio quality's awwessommmee," Mikey praised. "Totally neat algorithm, bro!"

From almost twenty yards away, the camera picked up Sandro's theatrical-grade pronouncement: "These - are - sealions."

"Duh, it says that right in front of you!" Shadow complained. "I thought you were supposed to be smart."

Sandro twisted to look at Wildcard and ignored the insult. "Sealions," he repeated. "Do you understand what this means?" He grabbed hold of Wildcard. "Sealions are real."  He began to shake her. "They don't just exist inside the television!"

Donatello and Michelangelo both looked at one another. Then they fell into one another and busted out laughing. Someone was throwing the seals their breakfast for the day and Sandro went almost berserk babbling about the adorable sea lions catching thrown fish, up until he realized other animals were getting breakfast too. 

"Oh my god it's penguins!" they heard their nephew squealing. "There are penguins! Look! Penguins! Wild! Wild they are birds that swim! In Antarctica! They can't fly! It's also real! That means Antarctica is a place!"

No word on what Wildcard thought of this yet, even though she was getting dragged around by the arm from exhibit to exhibit to have extremely obvious things pointed out to her by someone who was acting at a level of enthusiasm better befitting a five-year-old.

"Uh, is he okay?" Casey asked.

"Hush now. That boy is the most pure and innocent thing to be brought into existence by a human being since the invention of the Welsh Corgi," Mr. Hamilton said. April looked his way. Mr. Hamilton slurped his McDonald's coffee, clearly rethinking that statement. "Don't tell Sunshine," he finally added.

Donatello and Michelangelo were sobbing into one another they were laughing so hard. Apparently Michelangelo was now dubbed 'Sunshine' by two people.

Raphael came up and looked between the two of them. "What the hell?" he demanded, because unabashed hysterics was not what he'd been expecting from a trip to the zoo.

Then the camera swiveled back to capture the family's incognito young turtle, who had finally found his komodo dragons. He leaned over the habitat wall, fixated on gigantic lizards who were easily six feet from nose to rump. After a long, silent appraisal, he looked back to his mother with this enormous, laughing smile. He looked so happy. Unexpectedly, when he looked down at Wildcard, his giggles twisted into visible tears.

Both his uncles quieted down to peek, and Raphael's grumpiness crumpled. April took a step forward in alarm, but Wildcard was already on hand and reached Sandro's and took his face in both hands and held onto him for a brief moment until he could breathe. Then he pounced on her, and hugged her to his side, and looked back to his dragons with her arm around the back of his shell and his resting on her shoulders.

"Awww," Mikey warbled. "He's so overwhelmed...!"

"This is a good experience for him," Donatello murmured. "He's got some of the same issues we had, different parts of him growing up at different rates... He should be able to calm down from here."

The kids backtracked past the parents to get to the next exhibit, and Wildcard somehow managed to get detached from Sandro for a moment. It sounded like Shadow and Sandro were talking off camera. Wild looked up at the parents with a valiantly straight expression and they got insight into her opinion of the whole situation when she said:

"Nobody stop him, or I'll pee in their afternoon lemonade."

Casey started laughing. 

"I'm trying not to hover," April explained, "but I'm worried he's not thinking about his safety right now."

"Oh he's not," Wild agreed. "I've grabbed his arm to keep him from bowling someone over mid-exhibit twice already. This is clearly going to take another ten to fifteen minutes before it filters out of his system." 

"Do I need to stick closer to him?" April asked, half of the girl and half of the other adults with her; it was understandable she was disoriented, as her preexisting assumptions about her parenting skills had recently been blown up in her face.

Wildcard only saluted. "Naw, don't worry Sandro's Mama, he's got me! There exist no penguins of sufficient cuteness to distract me from the mission, I will defend your hysterical offspring with my life." Then she got grabbed from off-camera by the boy in question, who dragged her off because:

"Rhinos, there are rhinos!"

And Donatello cracked up laughing again, because this was exactly how he and Mikey would have reacted to a zoo at Sandro's age. 

"Uh-oh," Michelangelo was twisted around in his seat. "Donnnnieee? We may have attracted audience members in addition to Raphael."

Four tiny white alligators popped up all around him. The one in front reached out for the keyboard with both open hands, and Donatello yelped and had to grab her before she accidentally somehow caused the apocalypse with nothing more than space bars and the tab key. Heavens knew how it might happen, but he'd watched enough cartoons as a child to be sure it was possible.

"Hey LH!" Mikey cooed as the front door opened and two members of the household returned from their surveillance of friendly territory. "Hey Leo!"

"How goes the zoo trip?" Leatherhead inquired as he politely changed his shoes at the door, respecting their culture as their guest. 

"Help we're having a mutiny at the control panel!" Donatello wailed, holding one gator by the scruff as another escaped Raphael's hands like a bar of soap.

Wildcard watched the crowd like a hawk. She had no intention of slapping Sandro out of his intense happysplosion. That made it her responsibility to protect him from crashing into wheelchairs, tripping over strollers, knocking down toddlers, and/or charging headlong through other people's family photographs. 

She kept an arm firmly on his elbow to steer with, dug her heels in for a second to slow him down, and bumped into his hip to redirect him. When he turned to her to gush about penguines, she smiled and bobbed her head because she was too busy watching kaleidoscopic information about the future to hold a decent conversation.

Thank goodness for Shadow. Shadow was only eight, so animals were still awesome. She'd given up trying to tell Sandro how retarded he sounded (you take that back, Shadow, he's adorablez), and now they were now reading the animal bios together. The komodo dragons were the turning point at which Sandro peaked, cracked, oscillated accidentally all the way to 'sad,' needed a brief face-cupping to recuperate, and then flew back up to 'excited' again.

By the Rhinos, Sandro was slowly leveling out. Keyed to his tone of voice, if not his words, Wildcard felt confident he'd soon be able to enjoy the zoo at a more leisurely and intellectual pace. They set off for the next exhibit only for Sandro to halt mid-pathway with a puzzled turn of his head to the space behind him. Wildcard was already looking over to see what was going to catch his attention.

Sandro had just realized there was  children's petting zoo over there, nestled beside but not quite in view of those spectacular komodo dragons. He looked thrown for a loop. Wildcard speculated it had to do with how un-exotic everything was Sheep, lama, chickens, cows, horses; these were things you'd find in a barn, and not so much on the African Savannah. 

"Huh," he said.

Wildcard glanced behind her at the komodo dragons, reflected on how little time Sandro had actually spent looking at them, and decided they ought to stall for time because he'd regret leaving with only fifteen seconds given to his favorite animal, and no selfies taken in front of them.

"You want to go in?" Wildcard asked him of the petting zoo.

He blinked rapidly at the entire elementary school class presently exiting, and seemed to notice the little gate leading inward, flanked on either side by dispensers of hand sanitizer. "Can... can we do that? Are we too old?" he asked.

"What are they going to do, ticket us?" Shadow asked, always so bad-boy for someone so cute. 

Sandro let them drag him along with a certain amount of trepidation on his face. 

"What exactly is going on here?" Mr. Hamilton demanded not five minutes later.

"I'm feeding lettuce to a sheep," Sandro reported with the same reverence one would give a church. "I didn't have the foggiest conception what wool felt like until this moment."

"I'm taking video," April reported.

"I'm suckering my dad out of cash so I can ride on the pony," Shadow testified. "Yeeehaw!"

"I'm getting suckered out cash," Casey agreed. 

"This miniature tortoise is staring at Sandro," Wild assessed of an exhibit at hip level.

Sandro blinked and turned around. A tiny tortoise only four inches long was pointed his way.

"Ten bucks says she's thinking 'dat ass,'" Wild decided.

Sandro shrugged. "She hasn't seen my father."

Wildcard cracked up laughing and slapping her leg at that running gag, falling to the ground behind Sandro's heels. She was summarily dived by six chickens, all of whom wanted her to feed them. 

"Ya need any help down there, let me know, Loudmouth," Sandro drawled charmingly as he went back to petting anything that would get close enough to take his lettuce, which was everything.

Wildcard clawed her way back up to the tortoise, sloughing chickens. "Oh hi, handsome! Never mind, it's a boy tortoise! See? We're french kissing."

Sandro stiffened incredulously and whipped around to glare at where Wildcard had touched her nose to a tortoises's nose.

"Eskimo kissing!" Sandro roared at her, throwing his hands up. "Not French. Eskimo!"

"Sshh, I'm working here!" she chastised with an evil wink, still mutually nose-booping her new romantic liason. "The lack of lips makes him very insecure, I gotta get it right the first time!"

Sandro glared indignantly, and then he picked up a rooster and plopped it on her head and she squealed and fell over again. 

"Aaah! Dear Alfred Hitchcock, why!?!?" Wild wailed, choking on shrieks and laughs under a barrage of wings.

"Try not to get cloacally kissed!" An angry turtle boy thundered over her.

That was about the point they got kicked out of the petting zoo. Well, all of them but Shadow, anyway.

Michelangelo was laughing into his hands so hard he was almost crying. Most of the gator girls were on top of him and clapping excitedly at all the commotion on screen.

Raphael was wincing with little 'ooh's at each thing that went wrong, because some of these things were definitely things you didn't say in earshot of parents, and there was also a rooster 'attacking' a person and some highly offended zoo keepers. 

Donatello had given up and was lost in a face-palm, slowly shaking his head back and forward.

Mr. Hamilton, Casey, and April were all talking to each other and trying not to laugh, because it was scarcely thirty minutes after the park had opened and already there had been AN INCIDENT. An incident which was presently getting compared to literally everything the original Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles had ever done.

After a moment the Leatherhead slowly turned and look at Leonardo, whose eyes were close to slits and who was watching the screen with a thin-lipped expression.

"This girl child is your apprentice?" Leatherhead required confirmation.

"I'm looking forward to Thanksgiving," Leo said tightly, in a way that suggested he was requesting someone to please knock him into a coma until sometime mid January. 

Chapter Text

Lunch was approaching, and the queues stretching out from the food kiosks clustered around the Dancing Crane Plaza which served as one of the big zoo nexuses. Naturally, as adults, the adults volunteered to both save a table and stand in these lines on their children's behalf, so long as the children remained some place easy to find.

Casey picked table duty and then asked if the kids wanted to ride on the Bug Carousel, but Shadow took one look at that oddly themed merry-go-round, and then gave her father a disgusted expression. "Dad, that's, like, for five-year-olds."

Sandro and Wildcard weren't entirely sure they felt the way Shadow did, seeing as it was likely the only time in their life they'd get to jump on big plastic insects and ride them around in a circle. Nevertheless, the line for it was also insanely long, and they figured either the parents would get their food before they got on it or, worse, there'd be no one to take pictures of Wildcard ignoring all safety precautions and belt buckles and doing a hand-stand on top of the rhinoceros beetle's head. That would be a tragic waste.

"What about the reptile house?" Mr. Hamilton suggested as he peered over at April O'Neil's map of the zoo.

Sandro and Wildcard jumped to attention. "Where do I sign up for that plan?" asked the boy who owned at least thirty snakes.

"The 'World of Reptiles' is down that way, but it's out of sight behind some trees," April gestured, before giving a stern eye to all there children. "Will you three behave yourselves? There's to be absolutely no splitting up. You go right there, and then you meet us right back here at this table."

Sandro saluted his mother with a crisp nod. 

"Sure whatever!" Shadow was already abandoning ship. "Come on slowpokes!"

"Wow. With her around, who needs me?" Wildcard wondered. "It's like I'm Sensei today or something, but I don't have half the brooding aura. I should work on that." Then she must have struck a pose or made a specific facial expression.

"That's a smoldering aura," her father admonished with a glance over the map. "Try again."

"Curses. See, this is why I need practice. Oh!" Sandro had grabbed her hand and was dragging her along. "If we're late, it's cause Sandro's ogling the poison dart frogs for unreasonably long durations of time!"

"Not reptiles!" her father jumped in horror.

"No, but same building, I checked!" hollered his child back reassuringly.

"Oh." Mr. Hamilton looked to his companions and sighed in relief. "Thank goodness. Do we all actually know what our children eat at McDonalds? Or... what else is here?"

"Duh," Casey replied with a raised brow, because he and Mr. Hamilton were on the same basic economic playing field as one another. "Boy's Happy Meal with chicken nuggets and barbecue sauce, and Orange Crush."

"Usually I get the Happy Meal for myself, give her the toy, and get her Two Cheeseburgers, pickles included, and a strawberry milkshake."

"That's all you can eat?" Casey was surprised.

"I'm nearly fifty," Mr. Hamilton muttered dryly.

"Oh, uh... 'scuse me."

"Don't worry, you'll get here, too. All in due time."

April, who had been silent for the last minute and a half  rapidly scrambled for her phone, hoping to get hold of Sandro before he made it to the first exhibit.

Sandro was finally calm enough to actually enjoy his trip to the zoo, which meant it was probably good the World of Reptiles had been placed so far from the zoo entrance. As two teens caught up to Shadow, it was to stare at a collection of absolutely gigantic American Alligators, who, despite the nippy time of year, were already out enjoying their outdoor exhibit.

The kids all paused, struck by both a fascination with the animals themselves, and by the eerie similarities and differences to LeatherHead. Like: LH himself had very simple, scaled lips, and normal reptiles just didn't. He and his daughter had domed foreheads to house intelligent brains, and unlike him, the girls had thinner, less muscular, almost birdlike necks which curled down from the backs of their heads to meet humanoid torsos, and this area gave their heads a rounded, cuter and more cherubic appearance than any normal croc or gator.

"You know," Shadow said wondrously, "everything else is extinct. This is what we've got. This is the only scaled animal left that's as big as a person—"

"This is much bigger than a person," Sandro murmured breathlessly with a glance at the information card. "About twice as big."

"—twice as big as you. It's LH's size, its you guys's adult size!"

"Shhh," Sandro hushed her with a glance behind him. Wildcard was already standing lookout for trouble, and no one was nearby."Shadow, but think about it. The Foot and other Mobsters live in New York and have families too. What happens if, like, someone's nondescript wife and kid are here and overhear you?"

"Oh," Shadow realized. "I gotta really not say stuff in the reptile house."

Sandro nodded, and took one long look at the crocodiles before turning his excitement towards the building.

"Wait, wait, wait!" Wildcard called them back. "Wait."

"What?" Shadow protested. "Is one moving? Nothing's happening. They're exactly the same."

"Wait," Wildcard insisted.

Before Shadow could protest again, a panel in the roof of the exhibit opened, and all of the crocodiles moved like lightning—terrifyingly quickly, like packed fish, like they were in fast-forward—and twisted about to the size of gigantic hunks of pink meat coming in through the ceiling panel on hooks.

The crocs jumped for the meat. Shadow whooped and began urging them on like pro wrestlers.

"Wild." Sandro stared. "Daisuki desu."

"Hee, I know."

His phone bleeped, and he took it out and passed it to her to please answer it for him.

The World of Reptiles had very dim overhead lightning, which helped when Sandro had to lean over or crouch down to get a good look into the glass apertures of some of the smaller exhibits. He made sure his hood was high, his collar was upright, and his gloves were raised to act as 'blinders' to keep out excess light so he could get a perfect look through the glass. Wildcard stayed at his elbow like an over-attached girlfriend.

"Are you tuned in?" Sandro asked her. "Come on, I'm doing good, right?"

She grinned. "Much better than earlier." She acquiesced to his request to pay more attention to the animals. "I don't think you own one like this."

"Nope," Sandro mimed drawing the fan of skin around it's neck. "That's a King Cobra. People don't usually flush exotic or illegal snakes so much as they either just stop feeding them or... abandon them somewhere in the forest, which is usually a death sentence, or, rarely, an ecological disaster. Fish are like the only exception, we get lots of rare fish."

"Is that where Sensei's koi came from?" she realized.

"Some of them," Sandro lowered his voice. "Usagi gave him the first two, but I'm sure the added help prevent inbreeding. There like fifty now."

"Who or what is 'Usagi?'"

Sandro looked up from the display. Wildcard was conveniently in the way of any possible viewer. Both of them knew that; they were back in the jive of hanging out together topside. "We need to start telling you more stories," Sandro said.

"Yes," Wildcard agreed flatly and automatically. "Double triple quadruple yes."

"Usagi's like... well, his peer, as a swordsman? But also probably his best friend. They're very similar to eachother," Sandro explained. "But he lives in Japan, so they mostly communicate by post."

"Sensei has friends?!" Wildcard whispered in disbelief. 

"One. Who lives in Japan."

Wildcard thought about this. "Oh." It seemed strange to her, this part of her Sensei's life rooted on a very real Earth which she knew nothing about. Friends she knew nothing about. "Do they ever see one another?"

"Usually at Christmas parties," Sandro specified as the moved exhibits.

"Cue my Grinch Smile," Wildcard murmured wondrously.

"You said 'red-eared slider' was a random thing for the comic books, right?" Wildcard whispered as they huddled together looking from exhibit to exhibit of turtle. "Obviously none of you have the facial patterns, flat shells, or red ear marks."

"Yeah, but it's the most familiar domesticated turtle in America, so it made sense," Sandro explained. "We shouldn't talk about this in here."

"I'm being careful. No one's behind us." Wildcard looked up. "The East Asian Wood Turtle," she uttered. 

"You remember that?-Oh!" He'd looked up, too, and realized Wildcard wasn't just remembering. 

For a very good reason, neither Sandro nor anyone in his family had ever seen an East Asian Wood Turtle in person before. They were the closest things the turtles had to ancestors, but they were veritably unknown outside of China, unprotected, unstudied, and presumably on the verge of extinction. Donatello had explained there'd been some ill-fated conservation effort to revive them over thirty years ago, and that the leftover breeding stock from that lab had been used as the starting point for mutagen research. The turtles themselves were genetically-engineered piecemeal hybrids, made from snappers, sea turtles, box turtles, and everything outside and between, but it had all started from an East Asian Wood Turtle ovum.

So... Holy crap. This was uncanny. "They're so orange and black," he whispered wonderously. "I mean I knew they must have been, they live in fallen leaves and hunt bugs, but... Wow."

"Their pointed noses are adorable. 'Part of an intern-national c-conservation effort,'" Wildcard read. "'W-wood turtles are as smart as rats!'"

"You're kidding me. It actually says that?" Sandro blurted, looking to the animal card. "'One of the most intelligent reptiles in the world, the terrestrial wood turtle can solve mazes with the same success rate as rats. They can find their way home even if artificially displaced by many miles. Wood turtles have an unusually high adult survival rate, but juveniles and hatchlings are more at risk. Owe to slow reproduction rates, some populations are endangered.'"

"Oh my gawd," Wildcard wheezed.

"'Wood turtles become sexually mature between 14 and 18 years of age.' Ha, Wild, listen to this: 'Although males establish hierarchies, they are not territorial.'"

"Oh my gawwwddd," she was laughing into her hand. "W-we need to photograph this...!" Sandro cleared his throat, and Wildcard looked at him. "What?"

"Oh, just... the last line's about looking closely because it's spring, and you might see courtship behaviors which involve several hours of dancing and face-biting."

Wildcard held a straight face. Yessir! Poker face, right there. Totally straight.

Thankfully(?), Shadow distracted them.

"Guys!" Shadow shouted right as a new set of families was trying to enter the turtle room, and several mothers leaped in alarm. A child started crying. Shadow was oblivious.

"Shad," Sandro droned dutifully, turning around. "C'mon, voice down."

"Honestly, what do you need me for?" Wildcard whispered as she took a quick picture of the East Asian Wood Turtles and their placard. 

"Something's wrong with this turtle!" Shadow complained loudly of one of the large exhibits filled with larger Red Eared Sliders. "It's got some kind of fish or leech stuck on it, look at it!"

"I'm sure it's fine," Wildcard said, but when she turned around and found Sandro staring across the room at the exhibit with his head cocked to the side, she raised a brow and decided he was safe enough standing in place for the time being and she could hurry over and see what had upset him and Shadow both. Was it possible one of the red-eared sliders had shell rot and some of it was hanging off? That might explain it.

"It's this one," Shadow waved her over and pointed, and Wildcard docked her head in examination of one of the tank's largest turtles. It appeared to be face-to-face with another large turtle, long front claws extended to tap rather gently at it's tank buddy's face. That was weird, but it wasn't what Shadow was talking about. "What is that? Is it a leech?"

"Holy crap!" Wild ducked slightly. "I have no idea. What-what is that? It looks like a flower from the bottom of the ocean decided to randomly anchor onto this dude's carapace."

"Oh my god it's like the Kraang." Shadow whispered loudly, sounding very much like Mikey in that moment. "Is the turtle going to be okay?"

"I dunno, it's almost as long as the turtle is! It's as thick as it's leg."

"It's like a giant evil purple alien space worm," Shadow agreed.

It was the word 'worm' which settled in upon Wildcard's brain and echoed there for a bit.

There, before them, wheezing open and closed like some kind of symbiotic, monstrous flower, or a gramophone at the end of an old record player, or a frighteningly large leech, or a comically gigantic piece of bok choi; and colored everything from a white lavender to a dark octopus purple to a rich inky black; and on second glance attached to the tail  and not to the carapace itself; was what appeared to be...

Wildcard turned around slowly, nose and brow wrinkled thoughtfully, in perplexed disbelief, in denial. She turned hesitantly to look back across the room and hoards of unsettled people at Hamato Sandro. She pointed hesitantly at the turtle, and tilted her head in mute question. Sandro didn't answer. He was standing there like a deer in headlights: In shock, unthinking, head slightly tilted as if in disbelief, looking almost on the verge of a panic attack. He was suffering from so much tunnel vision it took him about fifteen second to even notice she was looking at him. 

'god plz strike me ded,' Sandro's face said. 

Zoogoers were terrified in great numbers that fine noontime, not because their children were subjected to the sight of turtle mating dances, but because Shadow had nothing on to the Crown Princess of Laughs when it came to obnoxiously loud volumes, and Wild, well, Wild pretty much lost it. 

Chapter Text

"Hmm," Mr. Hamilton peered suspiciously over at April's phone as she placed her order. "Do you have phone screen that can only be viewed from a single sweet spot?"

"I do indeed," April confirmed, a little dryly. "Comes with the family job plan. Did you want to see something?" She turned her phone so he could.

"Oh-ho. As I suspected, that is not your son replying to you," Mr. Hamilton said with an authoritative tilt of his chin. "'Four salads, no dressing,' can only be the work of one individual. No one else would be so diabolical as to get their best friend an extra large serving of iceberg lettuce, soggy croutons, and paltry carrot shavings from McDonald's, whilst simultaneously knowing she has two cheeseburgers waiting for her that she'll be able to soften the prank with by sharing."

April hesitated and eyed the text. "I had a feeling something was up with that," she admitted at a mutter, sounding disappointed and distracted. "Hey, can you take those off the order?" she asked the cashier. "Let me just text the fam instead."

Mr. Hamilton was pretty sure the Hamato family would have had difficulty bringing Sandro to a McDonald's in the past, and might take a minute or two to compile a hypothetical order. He glanced back at the long line of disgruntled middle aged persons and crying children behind them, and then gently tugged on April's arm.

"Why don't you wing it," he suggested, "and surprise him? Your kid can put away at least half as much again as my can, right? Why don't you just pick on of the big sandwich value meals, like the quarter pounder, and top it off with a normal salad with chicken tenders?"

"Sounds about right." She thought back, possibly to times in which his father and uncles had been young enough to have similar metabolisms and then grinned at him. "Hey. Thanks, Andrew."

"Oh, think nothing of it," he dismissed with a flutter of his eyes and a flick of his hand. "With my troublemaker on the loose, we're going to need all the help we can get. Should I be warning Mr. Jones?"

April laughed. "Casey's his own terrible influence," she said with a wink. "If the kids end up in a belching competition over lunch, we'll know exactly who done it."

They heard Wildcard before they saw her, and Mr. Hamilton looked up from the order he'd been checking. "Speak of the devil," he remarked. 

Sandro reached the dining plaza sight carrying Wildcard over his shoulder like a burlap sack. He had a tight grasp fastened on her hip so she'd stay up there, and his knuckles probably would have been white had they been visible. Everything about his posture and determined stride said he was presently feeling explosive; his eyes, when they got a glimpse in his hood, were livid. Wildcard was laughing like a person really oughtn't laugh in public, or, at least, not while trying to avoid attention.

"Sandro?" April asked, standing up to intercept him with a worried expression.

"I need five minutes," he said as his companion wheezed for air over his shoulder.

"To do...?" April prompted.

"Five minutes," her son growled inarticulately, and then stomped past them to go find some secluded corner where few other people were.

April looked to her fellow parents in alarm. "Should someone go with them?"

"Hell no!" Casey answered. "Did you see his face? Kid needs five minutes, Ape!"

April threw her hands in the air, trying to figure out why two separate people seemed to think 'five minutes' was a valid explanation for where her child was going to be, when she was supposed to be keeping him safe without four superhuman ninja relatives around for backup, and needed to be completely on top of the day's plan! She grabbed for her phone and began rapidly texting with her husband. Then, suddenly, Shadow had skid to a halt at the table, demanding, "What happened!?"

"We were just about to ask you," Mr. Hamilton admitted.

"I don't know! We were at a turtle exhibit and something was wrong, the turtle had this giant Kraang worm thing growing off of it like a man eating plant—"

It was at this point April was jarred off her security planning and rapid texts with family members. For a second, she thought she must have misheard. Then a rosey glow crept up on her face, and her stare went dead and glassy. She gave a shake of her head, cleared her throat, scratched at her brow to half cover her face, and looked away. 

"—And then she just went crazy, laughing, and he grabbed her up and charged off without saying a thing!" Shadow complained. "What happened, do you guys understand!?"

"Ooh," Mr. Hamilton winced sympathetically down at the little girl, over at a bashful April, and then back at a still-completely-lost Casey. "Tag. Not it."

The laughing had fallen to normal decibel levels soon after the initial outburst, but persisted for so long and at such a hysterical cadence, that Sandro managed to wait in line at an ice cream truck, purchase two waffle cones of vanilla ice cream, pay for them, thank the man, grab extra extra extra napkins, and stomp back over to where he'd left her sitting on a curb bordering a green lawn, flower bed and some tidy bushes. She was sighing heavily in and out to herself, and had probably nearly passed out from lack of oxygen.

He passed her her cone, made sure she wasn't so light-headed she dropped it, and then sat down next to her and licked his ice cream in brooding silence.

When she could breathe properly, she licked around her ice cream cone to prevent it from dripping.

They ate their ice cream side by side, with Sandro using discretion and napkins to hide the lower half of his face.

"I need to apologize," she finally said. "That was mean of me."

Sandro grunted.

"No, really," she insisted. "I'm sorry."

"Yeah, yeah," he answered, paving over embarrassment with annoyance. "Whatever, Ana."

"Uh oh, I'm in trouble. Well look here: I'm not sorry I reacted to such an awkward topic by making it hilarious, that's my usual shtick."

He turned a sour eye on her. "What the fuck are you sorry for, then? Cause let me tell you, that was the least-"

"Two things," she said with a raise of two fingers.

Sandro eyed them doubtfully, but let her continue.

"One: I know that being different from other people has a large, pervasive, negative impact on your life, and so laughing at turtle anatomy in front of you was like the very definition of insensitive, and you deserve better of your best friend."

Sandro eyed the ground, and then glanced back up at her, and then went back to his ice cream. "N'kay," he growled, agreeing that she had something there.

"Number Two: I think there's a poll somewhere proving Man's biggest fear is Woman laughing at what he's got in his pants." 

Sandro tensed up angrily.

"Like, you don't even want to discuss kissing, and that isn't just because your beak shape makes you insecure; it's also because you also don't really want to be kissing anyone. We've talked about this. Our mutual affection-stuff isn't romantic, and we don't like anyone insinuating it is. There's like a whole spectrum of reasons why me laughing right then was morally wrong." Dramatic pause. "That was a penis, wasn't it?"

"Yeah," Sandro croaked, fight gone out from within him. "That was absolutely a penis."

"I had no idea anything in the animal kingdom would be configured to look and operate like that," Wild said dazedly, eyes widening at her memories.

"Can we not talk about it?" he asked, uncomfortable.

"Why?" she asked him in alarm. "Did you not see that thing, that was tremendously colorful, enormous, exciting, and terrifying, how can I not have commentary?! Maybe just tell me what not to say so I don't offend you."

He recoiled, and said nothing.

"Wait: Are you actually going to leave me wondering about your...? I mean, it's your call, but I'm not sure that's safe, I might ask someone else in a fit of mania; imagine how that'd go down. Poor Donnie, I can see it now."

Sandro shifted his weight from side to side, grimacing through a hard blush, staring at the pavers between his feet.

"I mean obviously you were conceived, so obviously nobody swung full turtle biology on that one. Uh. San? Sandro?"

"I. I-I don't actually know," he mumbled. She blinked. He shrugged a little, very uncomfortable. "What it looks like. I don't know."

"Oh." Her brow furrowed and she titled her head. "Wait, cue me in how that's possible?"

"Like I sit on toilets to pee," he explained bitterly, "that's not something it's used for."

"Oh. Ohhhh," her eyes widened. "And we're only just reaching the age where... you might eventually meet it. Because of. Special dreams. And you haven't, yet."

"Yeah."

"I see." Pause. "Anyway, despite being morally wrong, I totally had to laugh, no regrets," Wild suddenly re-transgressed, and Sandro nearly punched her in retaliation. "There was no way to react to anything that unexpected except to laugh! It was the only thing I could do! The awkwardness was too great. It was the only way to shield our innocence! Also, it kept us from having to explain the matter to Shadow. Don't you glare at me, I had a moment where I realized I'd been getting flashed, I'm allowed to be anything from shocked to traumatized to valiantly amused, dammit!"

Sandro sniffed angrily, once. Then he sidled closer to his companion, and put an arm around her shoulders. She took his napkins and helped him shield his face.

"If I'm being honest," Wild said, dabbing vanilla off his chin, "I don't know much about myself either. Your uncle is the family doctor, right? He's got to have suites of diagrams laying around."

"Yeah," Sandro supposed, bitterly. "Who's to say I'm not different?"

"Well, it'd give you a ballpark guess," she had to say, "at least then you don't have to worry and wonder about it or anything."

"Why the hell would I even think about it after this conversation stopped?" he growled.

"Gee, Sandro," she nestled into him. "I don't know. Why would anybody possibly be concerned about their bodies? God knows I'm not! It's not like I'm four-foot eleven and still don't have boobs or anything."

His grouchiness fragmented, and he took in a deep breath and huffed it out. "I'm plenty ugly, already got that down pat, don't need to ask for an exact inventory on what showed up on the freakazoid roster."

"Sandro!" she protested, brows creasing as she looked up at him. "C'mon, you're totally handsome."

"Just shut up, Wild, don't need to hear it, get enough of it from my mom. I don't have enough facial attributes to be handsome with. The only reason anyone here isn't running and screaming from me is because I'm caked in a liter of makeup."

She stared at him for a surprisingly long length of time. Long enough that Sandro started feeling self conscious about it, wondering what she was thinking (and what she saw).

"Say something," he begged, regretful.

She tapped his arm, and turned, gesturing with her elbow to a gaggle of older girls with nice hair, nice winter coats, and nice shoes and jewelry, who seemed to be gossiping together with eye-rolls and glances towards parents and younger kids. One or two of them had been glancing as if with annoyance in his direction, he now realized, but now suddenly several of them perked up, and all of them smiled and glanced to one another. He stiffened.

"Do you see them?" she asked. "See how their death glares all mysteriously turned into excitement?"

"What's it mean?" he asked, wary.

"They're flirting with you. They'll muss their hair and bite their lips a lot. See? Told you," Wildcard explained with a winding gesture of her finger, and Sandro's stomach turned over in disbelief. "You have a voice as rich and lovely as red-velvet cake, and you are tall and broad-shouldered and have a lovely bone structure from your tight waist, to your long limbs, to the shape of your eyes."

Sandro looked to Wild, shocked.

"But the way you and I are sitting and sharing food all cuddly-like makes it look like I'm your girlfriend," Wild stated matter-of-factly, with a wink past him at where those girls were sitting. "So they're jealous. Ha! She just stomped off. She already tried to sneak a picture; I got napkins in the way and she got pissed."

He swallowed. "Boy," he muttered shakily, "would they be disappointed to learn the truth."

"All of that is the truth," she said. "You really are handsome. If they don't find your shell equally attractive, that's their loss." She tapped his prosthetic nose. "Your ice cream's dripping, bro."

Chapter Text

Awkward silence permeated the Lair, broken only by Discovery Channel narration and four chirping children who were now off watching a National Geographic program entirely about alligators.

Mikey's chair creaked loudly as he turned around to peek up at the older two brothers.

Leonardo probably would have slunk off a long time ago (no interest on spying on his family members, yo) if he wasn't secretly really worried about Sandro and April's safety half a city away. Right now, Blue Leader was buried in the world's most sympathetic face palm. 

Beside him, Raphael had one half of his mouth turned up in that sort of half-wincing expression reserved for times when something was kinda hilarious and absolutely horrible at the same time. His face could have been captioned with 'well that escalated quickly.'

"I'm going to call him," Donatello finally spoke, as he reached around himself for his phone, and Mikey whipped around and grabbed prohibitively at his elbow.  

"And say what?" Raphael wondered incredulously, lifting both hands to cup the back of his own head, elbows out. "Exactly what d'ya think ya could make dis less awkward?"

"Something, anything! We haven't even done the birds and the bees conversation with him yet, he's flying blind out there!"

Mikey choked inhaling on a laugh, and sputtered 'so were we!' as Donnie fought for that phone.

"He's gonna light up red as Christmas just ta realize ya know what happened!" Raphael scolded, still watching the screen. "He ain't gonna wanna talk ta you!"

"Well then you call him!" Donnie offered him the phone.

"With this friend right there?" Raphael creaked, lifting both hands like his brain had just been blown. "What am I gonna say, 'na don't worry it ain't that bad, chillax' ?"

"I-I could text him then! Numeric specifications, very dry!"

"Why in the name of all our ancestors," Leo uttered, "do you think that would be comforting?"

"He's Donnie," Mikey explained, "numbers comfort Donnie."

Donatello looked back at that phone, rapidly dialing. "He's humiliated, confused, uninformed, and a girl is laughing at him; I have to do something!"

"He's in a public place, dis ain't da time ta-! Hey! Put that down before ya hurt yaself!" Raphael grabbed Donatello. "Or I hurt ya! Don't ya dare call him, ya nut! Not - Helping!"

'Honey? ? ? o.o'  ' April spammed confused icons into their chat, wondering at the abrupt radio silence.

'Yo, had to fight Donnie. Leo and Mikey are sitting on him until he stops trying to call Sandro." 

April choked a laugh, and glanced over at where a very red-faced Casey was awkwardly explaining everything Shadow needed to know to Shadow. 'I understand where the urge comes from.'

'Where we at?' Raphael asked. 'Did you say anything to him?'

'I'm giving him some space. Opposite of controlling, right?'

'Right.' Pause. 'Do you know where he is?'

Nervously she admitted, 'Nope.'

Long Pause. Then Raphael blew up the phone with a wall of text that said 'dontpanicdontpanicdontpanicdontpanic' over and over and over again, with a tiny panicked face afterwards. April snickered, and breathed in deep, feeling the same, but—at the same time—telling herself that Sandro was old enough to look after himself for a little bit, and that he'd managed to do so in the past. 

"Are you really texting?" Andrew Hamilton asked her. "I don't think I've ever seen someone compose bulk messages with their thumbs that fast."

April laughed, and smiled over at him. "Hubby and I don't actually get to see each other much over the work day," she explained, "but we're always tightly coordinated and we chat a lot. If you think I'm impressive, you should see him. Good thing, too, or he'd be miserably bored."

"I've seen Mikey, and that's already impressive," Andrew admitted. 

April was trying not to wear her nerves on her sleeve. "You really helped put Mikey in a dress?"

"And did the eye shadow, naturally," he agreed with a wink. 

She laughed, and wondered if Mr. Hamilton wasn't just a little bit more effeminate talking to her than to Casey. "I never properly thanked you for the foam latex cast you made," she recalled. "For Sandro."

Andrew scoffed agreeably. "That boy deserves to be able to play outside," he conspired with her, "and if my mediocre knowledge of special effects makeup can help you and him out with that, then it has been an honor to serve. Mn! I think you have another message."

'What's your plan?' Raphael's accent was also imperceptible in text conversations; he'd long ago given up fighting auto-correct. 

'I think I need not to be embarrassed on his behalf,' she hurried nervously to text. 'I don't want him to feel invisible, but I think respecting his 'space' is what he actually wants.'

'Yeah,' Raphael agreed. 'If he's moody as fuck when he gets back, just be ultra hands-off. Sometimes it takes going to the opposite extreme to shift back to center. If his mood's really bad, don't even try to joke with him or comment on the weather or shit, just let him cool off into the silence.'

'Quick question: What if she's still teasing him? Or being inappropriate?' April wondered.

'Damn. Gonna have to say let her dad handle it," Raphael decided. 'Sandro's got to be ready to hear your voice before you risk saying anything, or he'll just convince himself you aren't listening. This isn't a single day fix.'

'I agree,' she concurred. 

'If he's not back in five minutes,' Raphael texted.

'Don't panic <3,' April texted back.

'I'm going to panic,' Raphael lamented meekly.

Sandro led the way back to the lunch table, subdued and introspective instead of embarrassed. He caught sight of his mother, looking like she had ants in her pants, and he took in a deep breath and straightened.

"Did five minutes help?" she asked as she stood and waved them close. There was a smile at her mouth, like she'd actually looked at him, and seen he was calm, and was fishing for whether he could laugh about the whole thing yet. 

Whatever Sandro had thought to say, it turned into a heavy exhale instead. Then he cocked his head and smirked. "Yeah. Thanks, mom. Was enough time for this idiot to calm down, too"

"I apologized!" Wildcard announced factually. "And managed to rescue my all-essential BFF status after an admittedly dubious first reaction to the subject matter! Man, I'm awesome, not many people could have pulled that off, did you guys hear me? Phew! Hey! Food!"

Sandro rattled his head with a roll of his eyes, and gave his 'little sister' a light hit upside the back of the head, but ultimately just shoved her forward so they could both eat. 

April welcomed him to the table, and pushed McDonald's bags in front of him like she was hoping to see his reaction. Sandro raised a brow and looked down at the bag. The only logical explanation dawned on him, and he turned to look at Wild in alarm. 

"Did Mom text me?" he asked the miniature monster whom espoused to be his best friend. "Did she ask what I wanted from McDonald's?"

Wildcard looked up from her cheeseburgers and gulped. Then she smiled broadly and tossed up her arms. "With friends like me, who needs enemies!?" she squealed.

Sandro pulled back a fist.

"Rest assured your lunch was saved from sabotage," Mr. Hamilton drawled, amused, as Wildcard squealed and shielded her head. "Your mother didn't take the bait."

"Turtles eat salad! I know, I watched him feed Spike!" Wildcard said from half under the table.

"Spike's a tortoise!" Sandro scolded and kicked Wildcard, but then glanced in surprise to his mom, and hesitantly took the bag to peer inside. He told himself not to let his expression fall, even if he didn't like what she'd gotten for him. He wasn't exactly sure what his mom would order. In his limited experience, she'd go for a 'healthy' option, whether he liked it or...

It was a perfectly good burger, fries, extra ketchup packets and napkins, and an extra salad with breaded chicken. It was literally every possible option, and lots of it. He lifted his head and grinned up at her. 

"Thanks mom," he said, and he meant it, and it felt real when she smiled back and didn't feel the need to say anything more. 

"I would have shared my cheeseburgers," confessed Wildcard from under the table. 

"Yeah I'm sure you woulda," Sandro growled as he unwrapped his burger. "If only to save me from breakin' ya nose."

She giggled and crawled back up to sit beside him, and 'the incident,' for the most part, was forgotten.

Except for the part where Shadow was shooting them both weird looks over the table. Casey must have told her not to ask them a ton of questions. Casey sure didn't ask any questions. He busied himself with a burger and seemed vicariously embarrassed on Sandro's behalf, which only made Sandro want to laugh.

By closing hour, they'd seen quite literally everything in the zoo, from the jungle world to the savanna lions, and taken close to a zillion selfies. Mr. Hamilton X-ed off the very last exhibit from the itinerary and showed April, and together they were impressed by their children's successful wholesale coverage of the zoo's sights. 

"Well," Andrew said, as they made their way back to the parking lot, "I'm to understand there's a small trip through Little Italy planned?"

Wildcard froze. "There's a what?" she demanded. 

"Cheese," Sandro said, draping an arm comfortably over her shoulder, and gesturing out with the flat of his hand to indicate a world of possibilities. "Cheese and noodles everywhere."

"Oh my gawd," Wildcard stood in awe of the imagined world of possibilities. 

"Are we gonna grab some dinner?" Casey wondered.

"Not this time around," April said with a tilt of her head towards Sandro. "Not in a small bistro in Little Italy. But we've a late dinner planned when we get home. Would you and Shadow like to come?"

"Yeah," Shadow said. "Duh! I love hanging out with you guys!"

"I think we're in," Casey agreed. "What about you?" he asked Andrew Hamilton. "Your family free for dinner?"

Andrew shrugged and gave a discrete glance out the corner of his eye at April, wordlessly asking for her to signal how she actually felt about this and whether Casey was allowed to invite people over to other people's houses. She smiled. Today had been a very nice outing, and she was feeling a lot more confident both about Sandro's trips topside and the family of the little girl he'd befriended.

"Why don't you come?" she encouraged. "Both of you."

"Well," Andrew said. "I will have to leave early to arrive in time for my work shift, but I can come over for about an hour. If," he raised his voice so his daughter could hear, "we don't overstay Little Italy."

"Ooh," Sandro winced sympathetically, looking down at Wildcard. "Having to choose between ogling fresh handmade pasta and your own father."

"Are you kidding, I think this means your uncles are making Italian tonight, let's grab the handmade pasta and the best cheese in the city and go!"

"And sausage," April said. "Raphael was adamant about the sausage."

The same dirty joke occurred to Casey and Wildcard simultaneously, and Sandro pulled on the hair of the only one he could reach.

"Yeah, only Raph needs his wife to give him some sausage," Casey muttered, and Wildcard pointed and threw back her head and sagged into Sandro, laughing too hard to actually laugh. 

April heaved an exasperated sigh, and then threw a half finished water bottle at Casey's head, getting a bunch of laughter and curses for her effort. 

Chapter Text

Everyone had left for the day and most of the family was winding down for the night. Raphael eased open Sandro's door and leaned in the threshold. Kid looked to be going through his pictures of the day and deleting unnecessary duplicates.

"Hey," Raphael called. "I know ya kinda had a full day today already, but... got time ta talk fah a bit?"

Sandro was a little surprised. "Sure. What about?"

"World of Reptiles."

Sandro turned scarlet. More red than green by a long-shot, a more normal blush than any of the older turtles had. "Oh."

"S'kinda my job as ya dad," Raphael explained, "ta eventually say somethin' or another on the subject. Talk with ya about it."

"It's the digital age," Sandro tried to head him off. "I have the internet."

"Yeah, well, ain't we both in luck Wikipedia ain't got the manual on the 'teenage mutant turtle' bit."

Poor kid panicked. "Uh, look, I-I don't wanna-"

"I know," Raphael said, and left it at that for a second, gathering his thoughts. "S'not exactly somethin' people want to talk about with their parents, but, uh... I'm quite literally the only person there is in the world ta ask who can say anythin' authoritative on the topic. Uh. Well, that or ya mom, but I'm sure that ain't any better."

Sandro looked like life had just given him lemons, and he was hating every tongue-curdling bite of them. "You. You don't have to."

"I know I don't have to, I survived my own da not knowing much about what ta tell me. But figurin' it out ourselves, even just the puberty part... yeah, parts of that were real rough."

Sandro was silent, staring at the ground, still looking completely, like, mortified.

"Look," Raphael cleared his throat. "I know this ain't a conversation you're wantin' ta have, but... uh... I'll tell it like it is. Shit I wouldn't usually say, not in normal everyday conversation, stuff I wouldn't even admit ta my brothers. S'up ta you, kid. You got a question, I'll answer."

Kid was quiet a minute more. Like a full sixty seconds, that type of minute. Then he lifted his head and winced up at Raphael almost pleadingly. "Can this conversation wait another year?" he asked. "I appreciate, and I kinda do get why it's important, even if I'm embarrassed, but  the truth is I don't really want to have it yet. I don't even want to think about... that."

"Sure." Raphael lingered, hesitant. "Anythin ya did want ta ask, before I go mark 'awkward talk with Sandro' on my calendar sometime November 2019?"

Sandro chewed the edge of his beak and looked down.

That sort of looked like a 'yes but it's gonna take me a second ta say it out loud,' so Raphael waited.

"You..." Sandro took in a deep breath. "You got a lot taller from sixteen to twenty-one," he blurted.

"Uh... yeah." Raphael had a feeling he knew where this question was headed. "Final adult growth spurt was almost closer ta twenty-two for me. Mikey shot up right at twenty-one."

"And that wasn't... you know," Sandro asked, "a problem?"

"Took, um, took some getting used to." Raphael would have been as red as his bandanna if he hadn't been green to start with, "Have ta realize I was a head shorter than ya mom at sixteen."

Sandro looked up at him in surprise.

"Yeah," Raphael confirmed. "Weighed more! But... she hit her adult height way before us. We age a little slower than humans. We hit full adulthood a little slower, too. And ya ma ain't short."

"But it... worked."

"Well obviously."

"And it still works. It's not like I'm on... on some kind of timer," Sandro concluded nervously, confirming what he'd been worried about: size differences.

The answer to the whole question was kind of important. "Look, um, Sandro... Not gonna lie ta you, and nevah tell ya mom I said dis by the way, but I'd imagine it's a little easier pickin' up the basics before ya got ya full height."

"The basics?"

"How ta start n' how ta finish n' what ta do in between. With the average young person, there's so much unnecessary sexual tension in everything, s'like releasing a wind-up toy, zip, off it goes! I didn't have ta know what da fuck I was doin da first time, just um," cough, "stuffed it all together whatever way it seemed ta make sense. When ya thirty and six hundred pounds, takes a bit more understandin' of the principles. All that said, it ain't somethin' ta be scared of, ya don't have to be in a rush the second ya turn eighteen. If it takes a bit, then just take it in baby steps."

Sandro suddenly frowned at him.

"What?" 

The kid shifted slightly in place. "You and mom were both sixteen."

Raphael bristled. "We had no business doing what we did, we was kids."

Sandro continued to frown at him, like he'd just heard something he wasn't sure he was okay with but also wasn't entirely ready to fight about. "It's not like I want to have sex with anyone," he preemptively defended himself, like he wasn't arguing against no more than hypocrisy. 

Parenting was hard. Raphael let out a hard breath through his nose. "Seventeen," he growled. "Any earlier and I'mma kick ya tail so hard ya won't be havin' sex again till ya fifty."

The kid considered this and then seemed to feel it was a good compromise between retrospect and reality. "Fair. If, you know, if there even is somebody."

Raphael eyed him up and down. "I don't think we'd need ta even have this talk if there weren't already 'somebody.'"

Kid looked back to him in a flash. "It's not like that," he said, face darkening.

"Not yet, I should hope not," Raphael snickered. "But, kid-"

"It doesn't ever have to be like that!" Sandro said with a jump to his feet, like he was ready to fight about it. 

Raphael lifted both hands placatingly. Whoa there, easy tiger! "Ya ain't got feelings for ya Mouse?"

"No."

"Don't lie ta me kid."

"I don't have any sexual feelings for her. Nothing."

Raphael wasn't so sure, but he backpedaled as a thought occured to him. "N'what about, like, ya know, just romantic?"

Sandro hesitated, not sure how to answer. Maybe he hadn't expected anyone to decouple the two things from eachother.

"A'ight," Raphael shrugged. "Ain't gonna put words in ya mouth. Didn't have any kind of feelin' ta ya ma at fourteen either. Took me awhile just ta warm up to her."

"It took you time to warm up to her?"

"Ha!" Raphael grinned. "Takes me awhile to like anybody. Not sayin' I was any kind of desirable! Hell, what ya ma sees in me, that I might nevah know."

Sandro frowned. "When... when did you tell mom you loved her?"

Raphael was surprised by the question. Then, embarrassed, he admitted, "Like aftah you was born. When she woke up from the coma."

Kid's snout wrinkled. "When did you tell her you had feelings for her?"

"I didn't," Raph blurted. "My feeling's for your mom was in the vein of 'Raph, ya throwin yaself under a bus wantin somethin ya got no business wantin, when ya best friend an ya brother are both in love with her."

"But then what happened? You got together with her. Obviously."

"Yeah. I left the farmhouse after an argument to go cool off. Figured I'd rub one out in the barn. April followed cause she weren't done arguing, had another bone or two or five ta pick with me about 'my behavior,' and when I finally couldn't take smelling her in the same room a second longer, much less tryin' ta argue back, I shouted for her to get the fuck away from me, fuck off,  and go bother Casey or Donnie before I untailed right in front of her. Then she kissed me. And then we fucked ourselves sore in the hay and I asked her WTF just happened afterwards."

Sandro's face went slack and he blinked. "Oh," he said quietly. "Ew."

"Yeah," Raphael grimaced. "And then we had you on the way. Not that we knew that for another couple months."

"It was then!?"

"Yeah, that or later that week I guess. It wasn't iffy at all, your conception. Mutagen woke up and went 'turtle human baby? hold my beer, i done this before.' I didn't even know what a pregnancy test looked like. Donnie did, but all he did was run up ta her and shout 'that's not possible!' as he took it and read from it, and I'm like 'chill don, what could possibly be so exciting about a stick, does she have cancer?' Casey explained it was a pregnancy test, that it said April was pregnant, and then Mike congratulated Casey, who was all like 'don't look at me, I ain't done it!' Mike was like 'doonnnnniee?' and then April just points at me and Leo speaks up for the first time that week to ask super quiet, 'is this real life?'

"Meanwhile I'm just steadily more gone. Just gone. Fixated on the word, 'pregnant' echoing over and over in my head. I'm pretty sure I effectively blacked out about there. Like, I was physically present, and I was awake, but I don't really remember what happened, and I don't think I did anything meaningful or said anything."

"...And this is why I don't have any siblings my own age," it finally all made sense to Sandro, who was staring off into the void reassembling memories of things Raph had previously said. "You weren't even dating."

"Yeeeahhh," Raphael confirmed. "Not gonna lie, probably shoulda planned ta give ya some younger siblings when ya was five and not for when ya was fifteen, but eh... hindsight's twenty-twenty."

"Are you?" Sandro looked up at him. "Are you and mom going to have more kids?"

Raphael hesitated. "You... did say ya'd give ya blessin, but ya was kinda on the spot at the time. Should probably double-check you're okay with the idea."

"I don't want to take care of them," Sandro repeated his terms. "I'm their sibling, not one of your brothers. I won't babysit them, I won't... be obligated to do anything for them. Then it's okay."

"I get it," Raphael told him. "Ya want it to be how it would have been if you'd been born closer together. Then, uh... yeah. Yeah, me and ya mom is gonna give it a shot. Assuming we didn't get baked by too much radiation the last time we ended up in space," he winked, "and you weren't a one-time-only miracle baby, should work about the same."

"Cool." Sandro smiled a bit. "Thanks for talking to me, even if... you know."

"It was as awkward as fuck? Yeah. No problem. I'll still have my calendar marked, 'November 2019, second stage of awkward turtles, humans, birds, and bees conversations.'"

"Don't actually write that anywhere in the Lair," Sandro told him. "Because Wild will somehow see it."

"Oh, wouldn't dat be fun."

Chapter Text

"I can't believe that you managed to get off work on a major holiday," Wildcard chirped blithely as she skipped along beside her father with her crowbar upon her shoulder. "Isn't the bar still open?"

"I'm building my report with the owner," her father explained. "And he accepted my demands to have off Thanksgiving and Christmas. Not many people can handle watching over an establishment that seedy, you know, and the old tender was slipping for years."

Wild looked up at Joker wondrously. "Can you just magically make anybody like you?"

"Asks the child who knows all the same tricks," he drawled affectionately, ruffling her hair. "You'll get there, and, what's more: you'll be twice as cute doing it."

She stuck out her tongue. "What about Raphael, or Mr. Jones? They took a liking to you like that!" she snapped her fingers. "Trusted you almost immediately!"

"Oh that was easy." He waved a hand. "Snagging the mother was the real trick."

"They're totally suspicious of new people!" she disagreed, stopping beside the manhole she'd selected for the evening and hooking it under the lip. "How was it easy?"

"Both men have a few important things in common with the kind of raw muscle which once composited my, err, 'following.' I've had the recipe for that seduction baked into the formative substance of my character by now."

"Oh. Yikes."

"Mnhmm. The same thing that attracts thugs can reel in almost anything in the same weight category, if you cook in the right kind of empathy."

"Empathy?" 

"Of course, Squirt." He descended the ladder first. "Never let a TV special on sociopaths lead you into the erroneous belief that 'evil people' can't exercise empathy. Empathy leads to very personalized and disturbed crimes. Citations redacted. I share more than a blue collar, lower class, suburban upbringing with Mr. Jones, and more than a cursory knowledge of boxing with Mr. Hamato; the three of us are also fathers."

"But Mrs. O'Neil was the hard sell?" Wild wondered down after him.

"College educated, with a broader horizon, more options, and the mind of a journalist baked into the sheer force of character needed to metamorphose into a major media magnate; plus I had to win her and her husband at the same time, with the same body language and vocal inflections, and she has good standards. But I was in luck: I know what it's like to be insecure about one's skill in parenting. Try not to sabotage anything she does for Sandro, by the way... It'll go a long way for you and her to be on the same 'side.'"

Wildcard pursed her lips thoughtfully as she dragged the manhole cover over them. Then she slid all the way to the ground. "How's the yams?" she asked.

"Secure! I can only pray there's enough," he confessed of the giant Tupperware he was carrying. "And that Sunshine doesn't inexplicably pig out on all of them before dinner even starts. You know, Squirt, the way people see you really is up to you," her father told her, no longer eager to compare relationship maintenance to manipulation. She hadn't been impressed the last two times, and he was a faster learner. "It's not enjoyable being at the mercy of some message you unknowing send out. Seizing control of that message isn't immoral; it's a form of self-awareness."

"I guess that makes sense," she agreed with a mischievous smile as she pulled out her white bandanna and pulled it on over her head. "What should I practice being seen as today, do you think?"

"Something scandalous, naturally." Joker winked at her. "We can't have any new 'family members' getting the wrong impression about whether Sandro's met a nice girl, can we, 'Anastasia Hamilton?'"

"Tehe-hehe-heee!"

'Mr. Hamilton' frowned.

Their first indication something was most likely wrong came when Michelangelo didn't intercept them halfway to the turtle homestead to walk them the rest of the way. They reached the front door on their lonesome, with no one to welcome them in. Interesting. No defensive turrets, bullet holes, or other signs of external confrontation were visible. No one had messaged him with any kind of rain check or heads up. Wildcard was clearly nervous, and stealing glances at her own phone.

"Should I just open the door?" she asked.

"What kind of Hoodlum have I raised? Naturally, one should always knock first upon arriving at another person's house."

"Dad, I think it's like six inches of blast resistant and sound proofed steel. Donnie has the place set up like a bunker to resist spying or intrusion"

"Well how else are you going to be able to honestly, and in good conscious, tell them 'I tried knocking,' if you walk in on a murder or some humorous state of undress?" he protested.

"This is really unlike them. Normally Sensei remembers to give people a heads up even when literally every one else forgets."

"Ah. Well, I suppose that means he's embroiled in it."

"In what?" she wondered. "Do you know what's going on?"

"It's Thanksgiving, Squirt," Joker specified. "Maybe someone broke the golden rule about politics and/or religion." 

"What's that mean?"

"Let's join them and find out.

"After knocking of course."

"Naturally."

The air was filled with over-the-top volume levels of raw, emotional screaming rising up in crescendos over soft pleas and hard, firm shouts. The epicenter of the commotion seemed to have detonated halfway down the hallway where the older turtles had their bedrooms. At first the sheer pitch and fervor of the noise—screams, shouts, and everything in between—seemed to render the screaming unintelligible. They realized that this was an argument, and that one of the primary voices—the loudest and shriekiest one—was female. 

To top it off, they could hear a baby crying. Somewhere. Several pretty big individuals were in the way, blocking vision of what exactly was going on.

Mr. Hamilton & Daughter politely shuffled in the door, closed it behind them, and began taking off their shoes.

La Angry Female sounded hysterical, accusatory, and kind of out-of-her-mind, and both Hamiltons quickly ruled out April as a potential candidate for the source of all this communication. It was possible this was an extended family member, then. Whoever she was, she was angry. She was more than just angry. She sounded like she felt surrounded, unwanted, caged, deceived, patronized, and wronged on every conceivable level from emotional to moral to psychological. She sounded furious and vindictive and destructive about it, like she was going to lay out twenty years of grievances all over the place and perform a righteous smack down like the world hath never seen before. 

Wildcard raised a brow slowly up at her father, at a loss for how this was happening.

Mr. Hamilton shrugged gently. "My money's on postpartum."

As their ears had time to adjust, they were starting to pick out more words: "Like any of you have any idea what it's like to be completely alone fighting-" Not all of it made perfect sense, probably because the woman was referencing ancient history and a breadth of incidents/misadventures which the two Hamiltons had minimal knowledge of. They did overhear several savage personal insults in there, ad hominems, one of which Wild was sure was directed at Donatello. It was about intellectually handicapped mouth breather computer addicts who wouldn't know what to do with a woman even if she was gift wrapped for them S&M style.

"Robyn-!"

Apparently this sounded as over-the-top whacky to the Hamato/O'Neil family as it did to Wildcard, because Donatello didn't dignify it with a reply, didn't stop arguing this woman was making a scene and needed to calm down, and didn't even sound humiliated. He sounded like he was getting frustrated and fed-up, if anything. It seemed like Donatello and April were both in the inner circle response team, along with another low, firm, tired voice Wild didn't recognize.

Baffled, Wildcard knew she had to sneak forward to get a better look. So that's what she did, using her small size to her advantage and squeezing around the legs of giants. She heard Shrieky Angry Pants ('Robyn?') turn about with an 'And You!' before she started  debriding Leo up and down, saying lots of true-ish things about his emotional IQ, lots of things Wild didn't really understand, and some things that definitely involved words like 'father,' and 'children,' and Splinter's name. Like: "You'll never be a father and with good reason, so shut the fuck up and don't you ever, ever patronize me again by-!" 

Wildcard's stomach bottomed out as she realized Donnie hadn't been the original person 'Robyn' had detonated on. With brown eyes furious, her face flushed, her shoulders squared, shaking with her anger, and a baby clutched to her side, Robyn O'Neil was right in Leo's face. 

Leo's eyes were cold, piercing as he stared at Robyn. The expression might have looked completely unfeeling if you didn't count how his chin was defensively tucked, his shoulders were artificially squared, and his back was up against the threshold of his room, like he'd been cornered and plastered there by a deluge he'd been helpless to fight back against. Leo had shut off to cope.

Wildcard didn't care what this argument was about.

She didn't care who this new woman was. She didn't care about babies. She had zero curiousity. She had tunnel vision. She ran across the hallway to reach her Sensei's side, grabbed hold of his hand, and pivoted around to hug her support into the side of him, never mind that she only came up to his hip.

Sensei was startled out of his icy stillness, and looked down at her. She squeezed his hand—what she could fit in her own, which was just one finger—and glared.  The suddenness of her appearance made 'Robyn' shut up for a sec as new insults needed to occur to her. Wildcard eyed the woman up and down, from the designer cut of her clothing to the baby slumped over her forearm, clasped against her almost like a rag doll, with one hand tight around its midsection but the rest of it looking terribly unsupported. She looked kinda like April, but missing was that aura of competence and legitimacy. No, instead: This woman was trash, and knew she was trash, and she knew everyone else knew she was trash, and still she wanted them to pay for it. 

"Yo!" Raphael apparently had seen and heard enough. He thrown down the kiddy gloves he usually handled human family members with, and waded forward to thunder at the hysterical woman himself. That got her attention away from Leo. Raphael was a boom at any distance, and her ear-bleeding shrieking, which had been blowing loud and hard over top of everyone else like a whirlwind no matter how fiercely or calmly or firmly they spoke to her, just couldn't hold up enough volume against Big Red shouting her down. "Ya fuckin' outta ya mind!?"

Shriek shriek shriek, went the woman in response, her words unimportant.

A three-fingered hand closed around Wildcard's. She glanced up at Sensei, and was surprised by the stern gleam in his eye as he hooked her gaze. He gave a quick shake of his head, forbidding something.  Wildcard grimaced.

"Ya completely outta control and acting insane!" Wildcard heard.

Shriek shriek! responded the woman. ("How dare you try to turn this against me when he's the one who-!")

"Someone tried ta do ya a fuckin favor and ya tryin' ta tear his head off!" (Shriek shriek shriek-!) "Ya don't want me ta pick ya up and hang ya from da raftahs fah the next hour, ya gonna zip ya mouth shut and sit ya ass down!"

She was vaguely aware of a tumbled commotion, like someone had tried to attack someone else, and then a loud, crisp slap echoed across the room.

Wildcard looked slowly back down, back over at that woman. Raphael had slapped her. With remarkably care, one imagined, seeing as she looked more shocked than instantly dead.

In relative silence, the previously shrieky banshee (Robyn) stood there, rebuked, quaking with the wrath of god in her veins, holding the side of her face with her shoulders scrunched together in moral indignation. Then her feelings caved inward like a hollowed caldera, imploding into sensations which had possessed her and made her their puppet. Hurt by herself more than by them, the woman started crying. Big crying, too, like a toddler at the end of a massive era-defining temper tantrum, or like her heart had been cut out, or like the whole world was ending, right then, right there. Losing big, gulping, traumatized sobs, she folded inward. 

Her family shuffled awkwardly around her, initially uncertain whether the episode had ended, the demons had been exorcised, and their loved one now required tender loving care; uncertain whether coming close to hug her would be giving a passively manipulative person exactly what they wanted. Then their hesitation ended rapidly, one member after another, and people embraced the woman, and helped her with the baby, and got her headed towards the kitchen so she could sit down and they could give her something to drink. 

Wildcard's vision hand blurred. She wiped her face, and clung to her sensei's hand, and he anchored her there with the unspoken instruction not to judge. 

Something was wrong with Robyn, but it wasn't necessarily her fault.

...

Attention steered away from the hallway, making breathing room.

Sensei ushered Wild just in the threshold of his door, and stooped down to hide her with his shell as he addressed her: "Are you alright?" 

"Are you?" she huffed back, glancing around the bedroom and realizing a great many things were odd about it:

There was a very neat futon across the room, and sloppy duffel bags, messy blankets, a pram and diaper bags featured on the regular side. Light bulb! With Leatherhead staying in the guest bedroom, and Raphael and April home for the holiday, there weren't any spare rooms in the Hamato household. Leo, who for hammock-related reasons probably perceived his own room as only one-half maximum capacity, had chivalrously given half his own personal (immaculate) space up so Robyn (a slob from the look of things) would have a place to stay. Heck, it looked like Leo had even given her his bed, and had elected to camp out on the floor instead.

Sensei had seen her attention go roving and waited for her to determine the story for herself. Then he fetched her chin back. "Startled," he admitted, pushing up her bandanna to rub away moisture from her face. "But that is all."

She didn't quite believe him, but maybe he was trying to tell her this wasn't an appropriate time to discuss it. He didn't talk to her about Robyn at all, actually, whether to justify her actions or critique them. He waited for Wildcard's breathing to calm down, and righted her bandanna. Maybe there was some sense in that. Maybe Wild and her faith in humanity were more Leo's business than interpreting Robyn.

"Are you alright?" he asked again.

"Yeah," she mumbled, composing herself. "All that stuff she was saying was garbage. You would make a great dad, Master Leonardo." No past tense about it.

He didn't answer that, but inclined his head lightly as if he wished to express appreciation of her sentiments. Then he stood back up, and turned to free up the exit to suggest they move to the kitchen as well. "Would you make us some tea, my padawan?" he asked her. "The 'Tension Tamer' blend may not be FDA approved by our resident genius, but it will at least sooth my nerves with its 'placebo' effects.

"Hee." She smiled, the situation resolving itself internally for her. "Kay," she agreed, and hurried ahead of him to do so.

Chapter Text

Leo watched from the hallway.

Father and daughter moved almost as if independent invitees to the Thanksgiving party that evening. Mr. Hamilton had slipped unobtrusively into the kitchen and was placing a water pitcher into April O'Neil's hands almost before she'd turned around to go fetch it from the refrigerator. He stayed mostly with the human family members and speaking quietly and politely with and around Robyn. Meanwhile, Kinpōge interacted exclusively with turtles, throwing a hug around Sandro and waggling her brows Donatello to earn a scowl and a gentle swat with a Bo. 

If the father found it strange that his daughter had run straight into the middle of the confrontation which had had nothing whatsoever to do with her, or taken the hand of an unrelated adult, he gave no indication.  He did not regroup with her to ask if she was alright, or to hear the story of the event from her mouth, and she seemed to see no immediate need to inform him. Their behavior was just vaguely similar to how two operatives on a infiltration mission might behave, neither getting under the other's feet and both affecting not to know one another. 

Everyone else was much too preoccupied with Robyn to be concerned with such things, but Leonardo had a vested interest in determining exactly what relationship existed between the 'Hamiltons.' Kinpōge's autonomy here underscored her independence, while simultaneously confirming she'd been heavily sculpted by living in tight knit proximity with her progenitor. That the father had simply rubbed off on the daughter was unlikely; their mute, parallel coordination suggested he'd formally tutored her in everything from knives and explosives to the art of going unseen in a crowd.

No Primordial Aura of Chaos woke up to fan itself at Leonardo today; today was a day for flying silkily under the radar. This man was deliberately and deftly ingratiating himself with April and Raphael. That itched to watch; yet he had the clear motive of facilitating his daughter's acceptance, almost like one might encourage a promising hobby. Leonardo was letting it slide disturbingly past.

That didn't mean he enjoyed watching something so malignant slithering around his family members, making himself at home. It didn't mean Leo wasn't watching, and waiting, or that he wouldn't be ready in the event of a change. Yet there were allowances Leonardo was prepared to make to keep his apprentice, and one of them was erring on the side of peace, allowing her dark parent in over the threshold to a place where he could perceive himself as trusted and his hosts as ensorceled. As long as the snake held back on the urge to bite, Leonardo would do likewise and reign in on the urge to nip him in the bud.

The last thing he wanted was Kinpōge left friendless and alone, in isolation with and at the mercy of the mindset and tutelage of her unwholesome parent. For that he would feel out this delicate balance between vigilance and silence, and stay his hand until—should it be needed—the last conceivable-

Kinpōge-kun hurried up before Leonardo, holding up a mug of tea. "I laughed," she said, "cause the stuff you asked for comes in a tea bag! Doesn't that remove it's mystical power and stuff?"

"Come now, I am not that orthodoxical," Leo protested. "Full leaf tea may taste less processed, but the bagging process does not magically render it impuissant."

"You need to teach me more English to go with my Japanese!" she chirped, slurping on matching tea. "It tastes like hot tooth paste," she reported.

Leo chuckled.

"Hey everybody!" Casey Jones hollered as he got the door open, carrying a hefty cooler over his shoulder as Shadow pushed along another upon a dolly. "The cheap booze is here!"

"Are you alright?" asked a wryly concerned older adult.

"I... just..." Mikey tried to articulate, still gazing vacantly out at nothing, left behind, feeling spooked. She got mad so fast. Why?

Fingers snapped and Mikey jumped and looked down to the realization that someone whom he actually liked quite a bit was talking to him: Mini's Dad.

"H-Hi!" he brightened a bit, always happy to have anyone's attention.

"You look positively devastated," Mr. Hamilton said, eyes shut to slits as if to study him better. "Might you have been expecting more baby snuggles and fewer emotional meltdowns?"

Mikey's eyes widened and his shoulders drooped. He looked back to try and guess how far Robyn was away from him, and then turned full back to Mr. Hamilton. "I don't get what happened," he confessed, hoping somebody could explain this all to him.

Mini's Dad nodded like it made perfect sense to him, and reached up about his shoulder to pat his shell and pull him a bit away from the kitchen (and probably away from Robyn, yikes, had she overheard him? He could be quiet!) Mr. Hamilton glanced that way too, like he was just being extra careful and nothing was wrong, and kept his voice down as he said, "Some mothers experience mental sick periods after a baby is born. The normal window of onset is something like, oh, three months or so."

"That just happens?" Mikey disbelieved.

Mr. Hamilton nodded. "It can range from depression, to physical illness, to very wild and dangerous mood swings. Look, it's not really my place to suggest anything, and I'm going to get strange reactions if I do, but—between you and me—that looked like BPD: Miserably sad and then miserably angry, and frustrated out of her skull as to why either is happening. She probably needs an anti-psychotic. Assuming they work for her and kick in fast enough, it'll level her out—might leave her feeling like her head is stuffed with cotton, but the sheer amount of fucks she will not give for the next month or two while her hormones level out are going to be very relaxing compared to what she's currently experiencing."

Whoa. Mikey wasn't entirely surprised Mr. Hamilton knew something about this, but it instantly hooked his attention. "I-I know she's on some kind of anti-depressant. Something safe for babies."

The man clicked his tongue, green eyes gleaming knowingly. Mr. Hamilton had weirdly sharp eyes even when he looked bored or tired. "Thought so. She probably needs to get off of them, many types can worsen mood swings. You can't give anti-depressants to anyone with mixed cycles like that, it makes the aggressive episodes sort of hilarious. Similar-sounding illnesses to laypeople; radically different chemical causes and treatments."

Something told Mikey to pay close attention, and that Mr. Hamilton's casual knowledge of this meant he'd somehow knew more about this Donnie, or, at least, had seen more of it in person. But how to talk to Donnie about it without rousing suspicions Mr. Hamilton was weird? Mikey tried to think of how he could pass this 'advice' along to his more medically capable family members. He reached into his pocket to grab hsi phone. "Give me something to Google," he suggested.

"Ah. I think it's something like 'postpartum psychosis,'" Mr. Hamilton leaned closer to help him spell. "There. Look, an article on how postpartum depression and postpartum psychosis differ."

Mikey swiped and scanned rapidly. "'Thoughts of hurting herself—or her child?'" he read aloud, looking in alarm to Mr. Hamilton.

Mini's Dad gave a scarily solemn nod and said, "This is the time period in which women have successfully pleaded the insanity case to infanticide. That doesn't mean that's what'll happen here. It just means it would be smart if someone were tuned in to watching her ups as well as her downs. If she seems on cloud nine one second, it could prelude a crash."

"Is..." Mikey hesitated. "What can I do?"

"Are you feeling particularly convincing? She probably needs a break from the baby at night so she can get some sleep in, if she isn't presently wrestling with insomnia to boot. Do you think you can get her to entrust it—him/her—to you for a few hours in the evenings without flipping any paranoid 'you're just doing this because you think I'm a bad mom' detectors?"

"I'm very convincing," Mikey agreed, looking back at the phone. "I'll show Donnie. Hey. Th-thanks."

Mr. Hamilton smiled a little more genuinely than Mikey expected, and patted his shell. "No problem, Sunshine, you looked broken and that was no good at all." Awww. Mikey maybe blushed a little. "By the way, Raphael was asking if you and I could baste the turkey, and Donatello still seems too deep to show off websearches to, so how about we handle turkey maintenance first? Should give you a few minutes to calm down while we're at it."

"Ooh! Yes! I did my super secret broth for it this year!"

"Oh dear, are there marshmallows in it?"

"Noooo. That would be silly. There's maple syrup, pistachio, and avocado!"

"Ava- Do you want to ruin all our waistlines?" He plopped his hands on his hips to scold but then waved a hand and fluttered his eyelashes. "No, no, show me, now I simply must know. I've never heard of such a thing and it must be witnessed."

"I invented it, yo!"

The chaos had settled down, the food was all presently safe and ready for dinner, and now they were just waiting on the last part, the butter rolls, which were in the oven. Beers and other drinks were being cracked open.

Sandro eyed the couch, where Robyn's hair was just visible over the back of the couch. She had settled down and looked much calmer as she presumably breastfed her baby. Leatherhead was sitting with her, and his girls were giving Robyn a respectful berth while trying to peek at the kid.

The baby.

The baby was a boy and Robyn had named him Damon. Sandro wasn't sure if he had (or wanted) any type of emotional connection to him whatsoever. The sight of the little guy, all pudgy and pink and wrapped up in a blanket, had left Sandro in a state of bizarrely agitated confusion, which hadn't gotten properly resolved before Robyn had gone ballistic nearly bitten off three different people's heads.

It was like she'd been possessed. One second she was the flawed but affable aunt Sandro knew and loved; the next second she was trying to eat people alive. Now Sandro was almost slightly scared to be attached to the baby, but not necessarily because he feared her reaction. He just... he just hadn't been given any time to digest that this tiny pink thing was related to him.

"So, who is she?" Wildcard whispered.

"My aunt," Sandro whispered back. "She's not usually like this. She's kinda a mess, but she's always been a good person."

"So that's your cousin?"

"Y-yeah. Not the shelled kind." Damon was his cousin. He finally had a cousin, and that cousin was zero years old and green-eyed with flaming red hair, just like mom. Damon looked more like April than Sandro did.

"Well that'll be interesting," Wild said. "Who's the older guy talking to your mom and my dad?"

"The older-? Oh!" Sandro had nearly forgotten, he'd been so shell-shocked. "That's my grandpa."

Wild gaped. "You have a grandpa?" she asked after a minute of open-mouthed silence. "I mean other than the one on the butsudan?"

"Yeah," Sandro nodded, easing a hand over to take hers. Wildcard hurried to accompany him, and the two of them made their way into the kitchen to wait politely for their elders' attention. 

Grandpa O'Neil turned and smiled from Sandro, whom he'd already greeted that evening, to Wildcard. "Why I don't believe I've met your friend," he prompted.

"This is my new little sister," Sandro introduced, grinning a little shyly. "I adopted her. Sort of like a free puppy, only more annoying."

"Oh I see!"

"Wait does that mean I get a grandpa!?" Wildcard was amazed. "Hi! I'm Loudmouth! Or at least that's how Sandro prefers to refer to me! But you can call me Ana, because that sounds normal!"

If the grin on Grandpa's face was any indication, this was a welcome break from Robyn and family troubles and he was really stoked for Sandro to have company. "I see, I see. And how did you meet?"

"Oh I rescued him," said Wild.

"Hey," Sandro elbowed her. 

"Well I did! He's my damsel in distress, you'll have to excuse him, I'm going to be the ninja and he's going to study law and end up a world famous prosecutor, and I'll be the one body-guarding for him, naturally."

"I hate you, Wild," Sandro said. "All of that was fictitious."

"All of it?" she asked with an eyebrow waggle.

"The damsel part was fictitious on technicality," Sandro informed with eyes half-lidded: "I am not a girl."

"Doh!" She snapped her fingers. "He's got me there. Damn. I mean darn! I mean shell. Something. Words, yes, words."

"Awww," Sandro grinned up at Grandpa O'Neil, who—along with Mom and Mr. Hamilton—looked on the verge of laughing. "Look, I think she's shy. This almost never happens! Soak in it, Grandpa, soak in her shyness, you may never see it again...!"

Chapter Text

One of Donatello's gauntlets beeped, and he paused in setting the table to consult it. Sandro and Wildcard both perked up in curiousity. They saw him quickly set down the remaining silverware in a pile. His first intention might have been to grab Michelangelo, so he simply broadcasted, "I need a portal security detail!" when sibling choice #1 turned up busy with a baby.

"Can I be on that?!" Wild demanded. Portal! What portal?

"Do we have more guests coming?" Sandro realized.

'Oh boy,' said Donatello's expression, but, well, Wild had been meaning to ask about the giant cloth-covered structures in the northeastern corner of the lab sooner or later! He took a steadying breath and then nodded, waving both teenagers to accompany him, and that got him Leo tagging along as the actual security detail he'd been asking for.

The four of them headed into the lab, where Donatello did indeed go up to that northeastern corner and throw a canvas spread off from over top of a computer console at it's side. He tapped in commands, went through with what appeared to be a quick iris scan, and then motors activated overhead, pulling up the rest of the cloth coverings with cranking of chains.  Wild wasn't sure what to make of the shape it revealed. It didn't look like what you'd think of when you heard the word 'portal,' which was—traditionally speaking—some kind of oval-shaped door. It looked like a big ball of layered metal, like some kind of vice or pressure chamber.

"Dimensions are a thing," Wild realized, grasping at her head and doing an imitation of her brain exploding with the word 'pssheewww!' She was very Michelangelo in that moment, because he did the same thing all the time. 

"First thing's first," Donatello said, "the portal and everything around it are completely off limits to you, Wildcard. I've been proofing it against tampering for a decade, but I will still throw you out of my house if I ever catch you near it."

"Heed him," Leonardo instructed.

Wildcard looked surprised from turtle to turtle, and then to Sandro, who nodded that she ought to take this threat seriously. "Oh. Gulp. Okay," she agreed, bunching her hands behind her back. "Ixnay on the portal touching."

"Most of this," Sandro gestured to indicate the spherical shape, "is actually a super advanced containment field. For when things go horribly wrong, or if someone is trying to hijack the portal."

"People can do that!?" Wild demanded.

"Turns out you can't just build a portal all la-di-da and assume it'll never bite you in the tail or anything," Donatello sighed, hands on his hips. "So now I have it running on it's own internalized fusion reactor, and it's booby-trapped out the wazoo. It's password protected, it's retina protected, it's fingerprint protected, it has manual levers because no amount of hacking can ever override that regardless of whether inter-dimensional you uses all the same password schema and shares your biology and someone killed him and stole his notes, fingers, and eyeballs.

"This thing's filled with sensors and calibrators, I have sixty-three separate cleansing devices installed from a gentle anti-bacterial mist and sealant to burn it all with fire and eject it into a black hole. It's successfully resisted someone's attempt to shove a small neutron star through the portal lens. I won't tell you it's specifications, because, as far as I'm concerned, the means of overriding it's safety features should probably go with me to my grave. See near the top, there?" he pointed to show her. "That's the actual top of the portal arch."

"I'm starting to get the vibe that portal ownership is a massive responsibility and commitment," Wildcard decided, mildly intimidated by how many ways someone like her (or Mikey) could boom this. 

"Oh you don't know the half of it," Donatello muttered. "It's not a toy. Trust me, I know: I built it, and I was giddy about it, and I played with it, so it may initially feel like I'm being hypocritical, I understand. But after watching random people repeatedly get sucked through it to who the hell even knew where—myself included!—and being on the receiving end of a hostile army of cloned assassins, I had to step my game up." He turned to her. "Wild, I'm telling you, plain and simple, this thing is the most dangerous device in the entire lab. It's nearly gotten us killed twice as often as it's saved the world. And the reason it's still standing today is because of the important roll it plays in warning us about nuclear warheads and zombies."

Wildcard looked from Donnie to the portal and back again. "I feel honored to be seeing it."

"Yes, well," he muttered dryly, "after your reaction to the girls showing up over Halloween, I also feel morally obligated to point out that in the event you ever end up sucked back in time—I can only imagine how, but stranger things have happened—that you should try not to change any more major events. The less damage you do, the less likely it is Temporal Authorities will show up to incarcerate you."

"Naturally there are time police men," Wildcard decided, folding her hands behind her back. "It makes perfect sense that if people can mess with time, you need to have time police men."

"They're a little like time wizards," Sandro clarified, pulling her hands free and holding one. "Thematically, at least."

"If you ever have to break me out of Time Azkaban," she told her companion, "I guarantee you it will be because you died and I was inconsolable and went back in time to save you."

"That's sweet of you," Sandro decided. "But seriously, don't get any ideas."

"Oh, I don't think I will. Clearly there are lots of rules to doing this correctly without obliterating yourself and/or your home dimension. I don't like to be seen doing anything I don't know I'll be wicked awesome at. Mikey said something about time travel, and Donnie said something about nuclear warheads, but then there was apparently also evil clone armies...? What's the portal actually do?"

"It's multipurpose," Donatello specified. "Non continuous temporal movement and cross dimensional movement operate on the same basic displacement principles. So we get time travelers, we get the occasional freaky experience of having to work with versions of ourselves from other dimensions, we get jellyfish people who have been the victims of inter-dimensional piracy... sometimes we even get Jehovah Witnesses."

"There are a lot of different kinds of dimensions," Sandro tried to explain, even though Wild was presently more concerned about those Jehovah Witnesses. "Different types of dimensions require different portal algorithms to access. And there's different natural connections between dimensions which makes them easier or harder to access. You can almost think of dimensions sitting on a map relative to each other."

"So, go North," Wild supposed, "and you find all the dimensions that don't have the same laws of physics as your own, where walking into one will just cause you to vaporize? But go south and you find everything vaguely familiar, with weirdo desert jungle and volcano planets, where everyone kinda looks human, or maybe like monkeys, and speaks a language you've never heard and it's more or less like you're in a sci-fi thriller? And go East and you find the alternate universes, who have all the same characters and same basic timeline as your own universe?"

"Exactly," Donatello agreed, with a smirk her way, easing up now that it did seem Wildcard wasn't possessed by any irrepressible urges to screw up the multiverse. "Remind me, and I will actually give you a thorough primer on dimensional theory later, okay?"

Wildcard was pretty much in awe, but the full implications of all of this still hadn't hit her and probably wouldn't for awhile. "I'd really appreciate that. What's coming through the portal today?"

"A friend," Donatello explained. "No interdimensional and/or temporal authorities involved; this is one of those 'directions' of dimensions that it's safe to connect with." He tapped a button on the console. "You're clear to arrive, Professor!"

Sandro got excited. He clearly knew whoever their guest was, and was eager to see them. 

Wildcard wasn't much surprised to see Leonardo actually draw and hold at ready both his katana. She doubted their expected visitor was a danger to them; after Donatello's explanation of how dangerous portals could be, she could see why a security detail was necessary for opening one!

A great, deep, bone-permeating whirring began to emanate from deep inside the sphere, and Wild wondered if this was the portal itself or merely the sound of raised defenses. She heard a shimmery sound, like a person walking through a waterfall of very tiny metallic chimes, and then the whirring began to die down. Puffs of air likely supplied that anti-bacteria cleansing factor, and a big iris opened up in the side of the sphere, making a doorway inward. Wildcard and Sandro waited...!

A robot stepped through!

A genuine, upright, android!

Well at least they wouldn't need any more turkey than they already had, right?

"Professor Honeycutt!" Sandro waved, obviously recognizing this person. "You made it for Thanksgiving?"

"Sandro?" a frazzled and very absent-minded-professor-like-voice came out from the android, and Wildcard blinked rapidly as this brought to mind an eccentric well-meaning scientist with wild white hair all over the place. "I think I must have lost track of the 'Thanksgivings,' you are significantly taller than I remember...!"

"You've missed about three," Sandro agreed with a grin. "I remember you though!"

"Wait wait wait," Wild interrupted everyone. "Hold up just a sec, Mr. Professor Sir, can you please say 'We need to go back to the future?'"

Sandro blinked, and looked down at her and raised a brow, obviously not getting the reference. Professor Honeycutt probably would have blinked, if he'd had normal eyes. Hell, even Leo blinked, and he was supposed to like Sci-Fi, and Back to the Future was like five years after the first Star Wars movie.

Wildcard slapped a hand over her face. "God, everyone here is too young," she complained. 

Donatello rounded the portal. "I have a DeLorean in storage in Texas I'm trying to get shipped up here," he confessed wryly to Wildcard as he passed, with a reassuring pat on her head, "to mount overhead as an ornamental feature."

"I love you, Donnie-Senpai," she sniffed, placing a hand over her heart. "Really and truly." 

Sandro hit her upside the back of the head and then tugged her forward to greet Professor Honeycutt with Donnie and Leo.

Chapter Text

Joker leaned back on his heels and reigned in on the urge to applaud. 

Michelangelo was a pro. He'd approached Robyn with the flawlessly adorable body language of a shy toddler: all bow-legged and scuffing the floor bashfully with one toe. Guileless and hopeful, he asked if he could pretty please hold the baby for a bit, and then he hastily promised not to drop the boy, and oh, oh, oh please oh please oh please could he feed him a bottle, pleaassee?!

Robyn O'Neil got to hand over her son like she was bestowing a magical gift upon someone, educating him in all the wise ways of motherhood, and not like her parenting skills or homicidal inclinations were being put to the microscope.

Sometimes, subtle was the name of the game. Other times, laying it on thick just looked amazing. Particularly when one didn't have to lie and barely had to stretch the truth to make it work. Michelangelo's natural enthusiasm gave him an attack vector on buttering up nearly anyone. And while the rest of the family looked stressed and concerned for the baby now that the full implications of Robyn's abnormal emotional state were weighing in on them, Michelangelo looked like he now wanted to be Robyn's best friend for the rest of forever. 

Mikey no longer looked shell-shocked, dragged out thin, or lost for words, and none of the charged and/or defensive she said to him put a damper on his spirits. All he'd needed was someone to calmly explain what was eating her, and empathy had burst to life like a bonfire. She couldn't hurt him at all, now, and that made her feel safe with her baby in his arms, like she'd been tossed a buoy she expected she'd be able to find her way back to if everything went belly up again for her mentally.

Plus that expression of utter adoration and delight on his face the instant he had the baby in his arms was obviously genuine. Mikey, clearly, liked small adorable things in a way Joker had definitely never had (Citation: His own child had taken a few years to grow on him). Sunshine spent the next fifteen minutes bouncing in place like the world's best and most professional baby-rocker, looking at absolutely nothing but that baby, love-struck with miniaturized life totally regardless of its amazing capacity for producing poop. And when it did poop, he asked Robyn to teach him how to clean the diaper despite very obviously already knowing how (No one got the tape right the first time. No one.)

Joker tapped his fingers upon the crock pot lid as the turkey finished cooking. 

He firmly quashed the urge to phone up the nearest pet store and place a rush order for about five hundred kittens, bunnies, and freshly hatched chicks. (But seriously, could one imagine? Teheheheheheee! He'd probably roll about in them! Kittens and yellow poofs, everywhere! Buahaha!)

The sudden appearance of a robot and Wildcard darting up snagged Joker's attention. "I met a dimensional portal today," his daughter said quietly. "And I think I need to not talk about it even with you because it's so special."

"Oh dear. I'll make a note not to ask. Who's our visitor?"

"Professor Zayton Honeycutt," Wild informed. "He's like a super long-time friend of theirs and helped with the whole evil interdimensional alien warlords stuff. Which is real, by the way, and not at all like Santa Claus."

"Of course it's real. Goodness, you have a skeptical mind. I'm very proud of that, by the way, suits reality," He hugged her close with an arm, and then patted her. "Well, I guess I'll go introduce myself."

"Roger! Where's Sunshine, by the way?"

"Helping with the baby," Joker pointed.

"Oh." Her enthusiasm plummeted. 

Joker blinked, wondering if she was angry with Robyn. "Squirt?" he asked.

"Oh I don't know anything about babies," Wild said, eyeing Michelangelo like he was holding a giant alien sea slug instead of a baby. Only with less enthusiasm. She might have liked a giant sea slug. She did not have any instinct to go up and make goo-goo faces at that baby whatsoever.

Joker cleared his throat. "Well don't make any any time soon and you'll be in the clear."

"What? Eewww! Dad!"

Parenting success!

Dinner - Was - Delicious. 

Completely delicious. The first bites of mouth-watering and sinfully delicious turkey and ham had everyone in a better mood, and the beer bottles and cups of wine scattered around at every seat weren't doing any harm either. Seating everyone required that the family pull out some extra tables. Leatherhead sat with his girls so that he could mind them and fold their napkins and help with any dropper silverware. Robyn needed an extra chair so she could put the baby down in a carrier and mind the baby while she ate. Everyone chatted with everyone, in a variety of different conversations up and down the table.

April poured Sandro half a cup of wine, which was more than a taster. He perked up curiously at the red liquid and thanked her.  Wildcard, who wanted to do more or less everything Sandro got to do, looked to her Dad to see if she could have some wine with dinner, too. Mr. Hamilton and Mrs. O'Neil shared a look over the table, and Mr. Hamilton smiled, and Wildcard got a respectable inch of red to try. They were lucky Shadow was distracted talking to the gator girls and Grandpa O'Neil, or Mr. Jones probably would have stuffed a beer into her hands and yelled 'have at it!' That would have gotten funny!

"It's sour," Sandro realized after his first taste, and his mother chuckled.

"Do you like it?" April asked him.

"I don't know."

"It's fermented grapes, of course it's sour," Wildcard admonished, sniffing at the wine before taking a mouthful onto her palette. "This is more of a steak wine, though" she decided.

Sandro turned in his seat to stare at her. 

"What?" Wild asked her bro rhetorically with an arch of her brow. "My dad cooks and tends a bar, you don't think he's let me have a thimbleful of wine before? Where do you think I hang out when I'm not with you?"

April looked to her and then to Raphael, who shrugged and said smugly, "Toldja shoulda gotten the Beaujolais Grand Cru," as if agreeing with Wild! She giggled evilly and Sandro threw a napkin at her that covered her face.

"Omigod I'm more cultured than you on one thing," she realized, still napkined.

Sandro harrumphed, though whether it was because she'd gotten to do 'adult stuff' before he had or whether it had anything to do with culture, who could say?!

She reached out for Sandro's cup, since he didn't seem to want the rest of it, but her dad shot her a look over the table, and she immediately withdrew. No more than a taste, then. Dad was very much against drug abuse, and underaged tipsiness would totally count.

"The cranberry jam is delisshhh," Shadow called across the table.

"I know it is," Donatello agreed smugly, because obviously he'd made it.

"I'm going to eat myself into a food coma," Wild told Sandro. "You'll save me from passing out into my turkey gravy, right?"

"No, I'll take pictures of it and harass you with them for an entire year," Sandro promised.

"BFFs forever," Wild agreed this was the right thing to do, and the two of them butted elbows and clasped forearms in a secret handshake variant.

"Turkey's great," Raphael complemented, and Mikey and Donatello shared a hi-five over the table. Apparently Raphael's approval of the largest source of protein in the room was a badge of approval. "Ham's a little dry though."

Donatello did a 'doh, curses,' gesture, and Mikey giggled and waved a spoon at Donnie with a 'told you soooo.'

"Thanks to all the chefs," Grandpa O'Neil praised copiously, remarking on each and every dish and wow the work it took, and April wiped her mouth of mashed potatoes to second his sentiment and thank all her boys.

"What are you drinking?" Wildcard suddenly demanded as she propped herself up on the table to get a look out of the little bowl her Sensei was using like a cup. 

Leo nearly coughed, because now several people were staring at him and grinning. "Sake," he said, and held out the bowl so she could inspect it. She gave a sniff. "Rice wine."

"You drink?" she demanded of the most uptight person she knew, scandalized at this relevation. 

Somewhere in the background, Raphael and Casey were elbowing eachother and snickering over their beers, and April was trying not to choke laughing.

"A single cup of sake..." Sensei protested, martyred to their amusement, "is not enough to dull the senses."

"Na, it's definitely not," Raphael agreed, leaning over to pick up a bottle of something and to pour more off-white liquid into Leo's bowl. "Have some more, Fearless!"

Leo looked at his bowl like it had been violated by failing to contain exactly the traditionally sized portion of alcohol which he desired to consume. Now he was no longer interested in even sipping on it, much less finishing it.

"Is it warm?" Wildcard was horrified.

"It is traditionally consumed warm," Leo confirmed. 

Wildcard dumped the rest of her wine into Sandro's cup without even looking, and held out the glass to solicit a taster of whatever this horrible substance was that her mentor was drinking. 

Her sensei, she failed to notice, did not meet her father's gaze like April had, to ensure they were on the same page or to solicit approval. Leo looked only within, and at her, and at Raphael, and then, with great dignity, he reached over to gently pour a little sake from his cup to hers. A few people did pick up this was strange. Mikey, for one, glanced from her to Leo, and then back at her Dad. Mr. Hamilton only discretely lowered his eyes and said nothing, half-smiling, half-politely listening, all not drawing attention to the situation.

Wildcard sank back into her chair (which was much too large for a human butt, so she always knelt while eating at this silly table), and sniffed and sniffed at the sake and finally took a sip. "It's aawwfful," she exclaimed, and then took another sip. "Eeewwww."

"Well stop drinking it then!" Sandro elbowed her.

"I can't, it's like a car wreck, I need to see the whole thing," she lamented to the laughter of several adults and Sensei's mute and amused head-tilt. "I think I'm growing desensitized. It's getting less gag-reflex-inducing...!"

"You may be laying it on thick, child," Sensei remarked over a sip of his own. "Though, like any other alcohol, it is an acquired taste."

"Acquisition of taste is being attempted, haven't you heard!?" Wild chastised back. "Wow this is weird."

"You neeeeeddd to teach me how to make these," Mikey moaned approvingly down the table as he scooped up yet another portion of candied yams. "These are amazeballs."

Her dad wasn't buying it. "Hmm, Truly? Because I honestly think you would eat anything with marshmallows melted on it," Mr. Hamilton accused.

"Nnnoooo," Mikey insisted, leaning over the man in question to grin right in his face, for they were seated beside one another. "These are so good."

Mr. Hamilton narrowed eyes at him, like he found this invasion of personal space amusing but was about to make Mikey regret it nevertheless. "Tell me, Sunshine, did you sneak alcohol while no one was looking?"

Mikey jumped, realizing it had been smelled upon his breath. "Crap!" Several turtles looked up in alarm. "It was only a sip!" he protested, raising both hands to defend himself. "Honest!"

"Mental note," Mr. Hamilton penned on the air, "single sip of wine makes Michelangelo tipsy."

"No! No it didn't I'm fine!" Mikey bristled. "You gave Sandro wine, I weigh more than twice what Sandro does! Look at Mini, she just drank sake! I'm fine!"

Donatello shot Mikey a look and went back to eating. "Single sip of wine gives Michelangelo a placebo effect, that's for sure."

"That's very common," Mr. Hamilton agreed with a dismissive wave of a hand. "Sometimes I serve woogirls pure mixer if I know they're bar-hopping and wont notice. Saves a bundle on vodka, and I don't have to decide whether to cut them off yet."

"Is that legal?" Wildcard asked, still making faces at her cup.

"If I put it on the menu with non-alcoholic ingredients," Mr. Hamilton replied. "You think they read? Just name it something cute like a 'Pink Bikini,' add grapefruit and a dollop of ginger, and price it with a fifty percent markup. Easy."

"Oh great," Mikey sighed sadly at his plate, "I'm a woogirl," and at that Mr. Hamilton cracked up laughing and clapped.

"I'll-I'll give you the recipe for the yams," Mr. Hamilton promised when he was done laughing at Mikey's expense, and he picked up his own wine and gave a well-meaning wink as he drank from it. Mikey stuck out his tongue, and went back to shoveling yams. 

"This turkey is good," Honeycutt abruptly interrupted them from where he'd been joining in the discussion beside April and Donatello, but naturally hadn't been eating. "I took a sample and compared it against a dictionary of flavor samples. It's in the upper second percentile."

Mikey squealed and gave a victorious whoop. "Woo! Go me! I mean us!"

Donatello had heard the slip, and looked up vindictively. "I'm the one who basted it the whole afternoon! You never finish anything!" A napkin was thrown; Mikey ducked for cover. Giant mutant ninja turtles nearly got into a rowdy fight over their turkey. Mr. Hamilton started laughing again.

"Guys, the sake isn't horrible anymore!" Wild reported excitedly of her cup. "I've lost my taste buds to it, we're all good!"

Chapter Text

Sandro edged closer.

"Auntie?" he hoped.

Robyn turned a surprised look up to him and then smiled. She lifted both arms. "Hey Sandro!"

Sandro decided he was absolutely going to supply that hug, and hurried forward to squeeze her. "Hey Auntie," he greeted, and was tight and authentic about his hug. "How was the hospital?"

"Oh, with the baby?" she asked, pulling back to smooth hair out of her face. "Turns out I had a bad reaction pain medication they give you. The epidural?"

"Ooh," Sandro winced.

"Yeah they had to pull me off of it because mine and the baby's heart rates both plummeted. It was all Au Naturale after that."

"Was someone with you at least?"

"Yeah, there was a really sweet nurse and then Dad—Grandpa—he managed to get off. Thank God, because it took nearly three days, and I was shot to peices at the end." 

"That sounds terrible," Sandro agreed, wondering if Robyn had been going berserk those three days, or if she'd been okay. Even though he'd overheard his parents and grandfather talking quietly with one another, he still didn't understand what was going on with his aunt. Maybe he ought to flag down Mom later on, when Robyn was asleep, to let her know he was feeling a little freaked out and needed, like, some kind of orientation so he wasn't scared of his own relatives. "The TV tells me it's super painful. Giving birth?"

"It's... it's definitely up there," Robyn agreed, smiling like she could laugh about it now that it was over. Robyn had a long history with pain management. "It triggered a lot of old muscle cramps. Afterwards the doctors tried to give me pain medication to help me calm down, but get this: It was an opiate."

"You're kidding me." Sandro was sure anyone who had Robyn's chart ought to have known better than that! 

"Nope! At the last second I recognized the tail end of the scientific name," Robyn said proudly. "It was okay, Dad brought me special brownies, I lived to tell the tale! We filed one hell of a complain with the hospital, though. With how crazy opiate addictions are in this country right now? Half the east coast is drowning in heroine, and I have this super long history with pain medication and escalating dosages, all of it available to them, they have all my old records!"

"Did they put anything like that in you with the epidural?"

"No, thank Jesus, even though its common to put opiates in the epidural! Whoever was in charge of that, did it right. But whoever was next must have glanced at my history wrong, and saw 'use these' instead of 'no way in hell should you use these.' Someone later said I could sue for that, but it just didn't seem right. Taking money out of the hospital like that, for something that didn't actually go wrong? That's a research hospital, I don't want to eat up their budget for Joe Schmoe's dyslexic mix-up or whatever."

Robyn was still Robyn. Maybe stressed out of her mind, and way too alone, and having some troubles, but she was still the Aunt and human being who Sandro had grown up loving from afar. The same person who'd put her life on the line for her mutant family members loads of time. "It's the same hospital Grandpa works at, right?"

"Yeah. I don't even want anybody fired, I just want somebody slapped and to have 'wake up!' yelled in their face. Relapses are serious business, they can ruin lives. Said a little prayer to Saint Margaret and the Virgin Mary I got spared that, on top of everything else." She breathed out thoughtfully. "Have I ever told you much about the medication I'm usually on?"

"We talked about it last year," Sandro confirmed, to her 'oh thats right,' "because at first  I was confused about whether that meant you smoked pot or what the whole legitimacy of that was, but then I went internet surfing to figure out what I could and I wanted you to tell me some more."

"Right, right, right. Well you remember I usually just take the time release capsule, right? Yeah. It's not remotely recreational, I don't get 'high,' I don't intake any THC, I'm not at higher risk for lung disease, I don't self-dose, I'm on a very strict medicinal regiment for a very well-established problem. There's lots of crazy things about my life, and my relationship with cannibanoids isn't one of them. There are eighty-eight different kinds of cannibanoids, did you know that?"

"Are you not on anything right now?"

"Well. Not right now. Research right now says there's probably no negative effect on fetal development or lactation, but I kinda wanted to play it super safe for little Damon, so I went off my pills most of the pregnancy. Which... which is why I ended up in such a bind after the problem with the epidural. I caved and ate my special brownies, that was rough. I needed to take a moment. I was beat. Dad understood, that was super sweet of him, and he even carried me a brand new research paper on the subject, and seriously told me 'now eat your brownies' and honestly what woman is going to argue with brownies?"

"Ha! That sounds like something Donnie would do. I think that's cool, that you really research it all like that."

"That's cause we're all clever people in this family," Robyn agreed, tapping Sandro fondly on the snout. "We don't just sit back and let people make all the judgement calls for us! Just you watch, you'll be the same. It's inherited. It's called being proactive! Anyway I'm not on anything right now by an antidepressant right now, because I'm a worry wort and I'm still breastfeeding."

"Any pain?"

"Yeah, a little bit," she confessed. "But the first milk a mom has to give her baby, it's called colostrum, and it's super important for their health, and I'm not quite out of the transitional phase for that yet, and I want to get through that before maybe switching him off to powdered formula. I can hold out for a few more days; I've made it this far! Oh, hey... would you like to...? Would you like to maybe hold the baby?"

Sandro looked hesitantly down at where the tiny life in question, little Damon O'Neil, was as small as a loaf of bread beside her leg. "O-okay," he said nervously. "Okay, yeah."

Robyn beamed at him, and scooped up the baby, and turned and slowly offered him out.

Sandro stiffened as he lifted his hands. "What do I do?" he asked. "How do I not drop him?"

"It's actually not as hard as it looks," she said. "You want to keep one hand under the head, and just sort of wrap the whole other arm around him so he's sort of in the elbow."

"I... um..." The baby got eased into his arms, "okay..."

And then Robyn was pulling back, and Sandro found himself holding his cousin for the very first time ever. Damon looked sleepily up at him, and waggled one elbow, and then almost immediately went back to sleep with his face turned into Sandro's plastron like Sandro were the comfiest plush pillow in the world and not an armor-plated turtle. Damon had a complete head of flame orange hair. He was slightly comical, and completely fragile-looking, and so soft.

"Oh wow," Sandro gushed, staring wonderouslyat tiny fingernails that were only as big across as the head of a pin. "He-hey Damon. It's Damon, right? I don't... I don't think I really knew what a baby looked like, even after seeing tons on TV."

Robyn laughed. "I guess you didn't have a chance to hold many, huh? I got to try out a few when friends at work had kids!"

"Maybe Shadow once, but I don't remember." Sandro looked up at his aunt, and then grinned big. "He's like... red as carrots...!" he whispered conspiratorially

She kept laughing. "I know! He came out all red and swollen and looking like he was on fire!"

"He's so cute...! Hi Damon!"

"Ape," Raphael whispered sharply, waving her hurriedly over and then discretely pointing with his chin at what he wanted her to see. 

April looked across the house to see Sandro standing with the baby in his arms, looking almost as delighted as Mikey had been. 

Awwwwww...! April nearly melted.

Both parents stood there, admiring their beautiful boy and the big smile on his face as he cradled his itty bitty cousin. He was going to love being an older brother. Even if the age gap would obviously be very big, he'd still get to enjoy watching them grow up, and being and important part of their lives. First thing was first, though, they had to make absolutely sure they'd be able to keep their promises about coming home and putting their relationship with him back to rights. 

Sandro looked up at them, saw them standing there, and smiled. 'Oh boy this is a BABY,' his face said. 'Look, mom, dad! A baby!'

Raphael coughed a chuckle, and grinned down at April. 

Wildcard was not at all thrilled to see where Sandro was. She'd turned her back for ten seconds, and now he was over there with... the baby. That meant Michelangelo was unoccupied and she could pounce him with demands to tell her stories about inter dimensional adventures and turtles through time and what exactly was true about those zany comics and what was fiction!?

But with another few glances at Sandro, she was almost feeling jealous, like she didn't want him to be over there doing whatever it was he was doing with the baby (being interested in it?) without her being able to do the same exact thing (or maybe she didn't like the baby stealing attention?). Maybe she wasn't jealous so much as she was weirded out that something was going on over there that she didn't feel she was allowed to be a part of. Cause, usually, Sandro and her did things together.

Pouting, Wildcard watched him with the baby.

Then, marshaling up her wary courage, she hesssitttantly crept up towards him. It wasn't like she had to know what to know anything about babies to simply occupy the space to Sandro's left, right? Um.

Sandro wasn't the one who noticed Wildcard first. Robyn laid eyes on her, and Wildcard hurriedly skittered up to Sandro's side to indicate her affiliations. 

"Hi!" the previously exploding but now deceptively plesant woman greeted. "I don't think we've met."

Wild still wasn't sure what she thought about this. Sensei hadn't talked to her about Robyn. Nobody had. "I'm Ana," Wild said.  "Short for Anastasia."

"Oh!" Sandro had finally noticed her. "Auntie, this is my best friend—er, 'Anastasia.' She's got a lot of nicknames though. Ana," Sandro wasn't sure why she was uncomfortable, but he was using the name she'd provided for herself, "this is my Aunt Robyn, mom's sister."

"Nice to meet you," Robyn greeted, and Wildcard gave a shy evasive smile.

I don't really want to have met you, Wild did not say.

"And thiiiissss is the new baby, my cousin," Sandro said, turning to Wildcard eagerly, and AH WHAT WAS HE DOING!?

Wildcard went stiff as a board, because Sandro—for some reason—was handing her a baby. "San," she breathed, trying to communicate monosyllabicly that this was A TERRIBLE IDEA.

"Okay, just hold his head like this," Sandro was instructing, and for all that he'd made it look as effortless as a flower, Wildcard felt like an awkward wiggly jelly bag puppet had been handed to her and it was going to roll off or inward or in some strange direction and fall through her arms like soap. "There, you've got it!"

Nope. No, Wild did not have it. She stared up at her brother in lock-jawed silence, and then looked horrified to the mother—who did not seem to feel it odd that her baby was being passed around to random strangers who may or may not have killed three people to even end up knowing this family. What is WRONG with you!? Don't you have any idea how unsafe this is!? Have you no sense!? I could be a mass murdering psychopath, how would you know!?  Never mind that people also passed babies around in movies, obviously this could not be normal, obviously, not when alarms were blaring inside her head ERROR, ERROR, THIS IS A BABY.

"What do you think?" Sandro asked, bemused by her facial expressions, and clearly not tuned to the same wavelength today.

Wildcard gaped at him and then looked horrified down at the thing he'd bequeathed onto her. "It's very nice now take it back please," she whispered stiffly.

"What? Wild. It's okay, you're not going to drop it-"

"Yes I am."

"Wild. I've never seen you drop anything. You have the fastest reflexes I've ever seen on a person our age."

"No you do not understand, I am not responsible enough to be doing this, this, whatever this is, this baby sharing ritual, something is going to happen, take it back before it explodes, or evaporates, or turns inside out, or falls, or-"

"Wild, I think you are exaggerating, I didn't get a certificate prior to being handed him-"

"In the name of all of your ancestors, help, someone please help me...!" Wild whimpered, voice cracking, staring to tear up in sheer terror and abandonment. "I can't do this...!"

Someone was laughing at her, loud and booming, and then suddenly Sandro's dad had pounced the situation from behind, and was hoisting up the baby in one massive arm. "Whaddaya know," he laughed. "Da Mouse has somethin' in common with Fearless aftah all!"

Wildcard hyperventilated in the aftermath of what had surely nearly been a near disaster either equal to or in excess of the severity of a nuclear scare.

Sandro looked oddly from her to his dad, and then back down at her. He got an arm behind her and rubbed her back. "Whoa, hey," Sandro murmured. "What's up, what's wrong?"

"You handed me a baby," Wildcard rasped.

"Uh. Really?" Sandro asked, steering her away from Raphael and Robyn. Robyn didn't sound too thrilled to have Raphael holding the baby, but accepted Damon back in a stiff and dignified manner. She didn't shoot any evil looks Wild's way, and didn't seem offended Wild had flipped out when presented with her offspring. Sandro craned over to look at her face. "You weren't just being a goof?"

"It was horrifying," Wildcard wheezed.

"Wow. Do they have a name for that phobia?" Sandro wondered, bringing her back over to the kitchen table.

"Brephophobia is a fear of infants, in specific," Professor Honeycutt suggested helpfully from across the room. "Though it may include dislike of children, as opposed to just fear of them, such as a dislike of noisy children."

"I was just scared of breaking one," Wild whispered, staring dazedly at her empty hands.

"Leo does the same exact thing," April remarked over their heads, and both kids looked up in surprise.

"What?" Sandro asked on their behalf.

"Freezes, if you hand him a baby."

"I mean," Donnie butt in, voice wry as he smiled down at Wildcard, "he doesn't actually say 'please help me, it's going to explode,' but that is pretty much what ends up instantly written all over his face. It made him the butt of many jokes Sandro's first few years of life. Thanks for actually putting it into words."

"Ha! Yeah, Fearless ain't got no parental instincts at all, just goes straight as a board till someone 'rescues' him!" Raphael was laughing hard as he came back. "Chill, Mouse, ya ain't like him," A massive, rough hand ruffled Wildcard's hair and her bandanna tails. "Lot's of people start off nervous around babies, specially when they's ain't had em around much as kids.  People get used ta it. Dun worry 'bout it."

Between Donatello, Sandro, April, and Raphael all teasing and reassuring her, Wild was sort of calming down. She peeked bashfully out around shells to see Mikey with the gator girls, helping them color. He give her a big smile and wink, and mouthed something like 'its okay!' Honeycutt (the new person in the room!) seemed a little bewildered. Grandpa O'Neil was smiling; her own dad was snickering. Leatherhead was usually hard to read, having that kinda stereotypical gator grin at all times, but he was usually pretty zen and didn't laugh at people.

Leo had his gaze down and seemed halfway between annoyed and resigned, and said absolutely nothing to defend himself, which one supposed meant reports were true. He did freeze!

An image tickled up into Wild's mind, of Donatello obliviously handing Leo BabySandro as he walked by, asking 'can you feed him this time?' and Leo going ramrod straight in mortification and panic, staring at this tiny life he had just been entrusted with, trapped woodenly in place until Donnie came back and found him there. She grinned a little, and then giggled up at Sandro. Sandro smiled and squeezed her.

Chapter Text

"Mikey," Donatello leaned in the doorway of the bedroom. "Can I talk to you for a second?"

"Sure," Mikey bounced off his bed, leaving laptop and headphones behind. "What's up?"

"It's been over a month since the introduction. The parents are considering reintroducing rules governing how long Wildcard stays over."

"She's already only here half of the day," Mikey protested. "Like eight hours sleeping, eight hours here, eight hours not. That's not good enough?"

"I was thinking we might suggest either Saturday or Sunday to be a family only day."

"Sat does make a bit of sense, yo. Mini's a strong personality to come home to every weekend," Mikey admitted with unexpected sympathy, which meant he'd been reading the situation for awhile. Excellent, he'd have the right advice. "Sometimes work's rough, yo, and those are their only rest days. Plus they're usually running on fumes when they get in the door."

Donatello shrugged worriedly. "How do we talk to Sandro? He'll dig his heels in. He'll hate it just because it sounds a certain way."

Mikey had been thinking about it. "People aren't supposed to do literally every second of every day together. You miss out on fun stuff, like have one person good at skateboarding and one person good at building nuclear reactors. And you have no stories to tell each other, that's double no fun!"

"We can't tell him he 'isn't supposed to' xyz."

"What if we treat them like they're both our responsibilities on those days?" Mikey wondered. "So, say the parents want some chill quality time with Sandro. Sandro might be chill with it if, for example, he knew I was hanging with Mini for that duration of time. He wants to be sure she's taken care of. That's not crazy of him."

Donnie chewed the inside of his cheek. "Wildcard might be game," he decided. "She behaved herself while Sandro was visiting his parents' apartment."

"Oh yeah! I was really surprised you let her stay!" Mikey grinned.

Donatello shrugged. "She's proven herself a very respectful guest to the lab, and that's much more than I could have asked for."

"Is that what she did most of the day? Stuck with you, watching your projects, doing her spider robot thing?"

"And listening to podcasts." Donatello straightened. "But for a few hours, she dragged Leo out of meditation and cajoled him into spending time with her."

"No way." Mikey's eyes widened. "How?!"

"I have no idea. I came out to check on her, and found the two of them playing soccer in the dojo. He talked with her till his voice was sore, and she kept asking questions."

Mikey's birthday might as well have come early, he gushed so much excitement out of every pore. 

The second Raphael entered the house that Friday evening, Sandro's scales prickled with instinctive awareness of the charged mood in the air. Lit dynamite had entered the house, big and red and fiery, ready to blow at the slightest provocation. It loomed overhead like a storm cloud, and leveled all Sandro's excitement for the weekend. He stood silently near the door, listening to the older turtle remove his shoes and greet his brothers.

Sometimes, it baffled Sandro that no one else seemed to be able to tell Raphael was in a bad mood. Sandro could feel it in every bone and nerve the second the two of them were sharing the same air as one another. Maybe his uncles were desensitized, had learned how to ignore it, and had accidentally forgotten how to look for it. That made more sense than to think they were callous or neglectful. And more sense than to think Sandro could see something invisible.

Mom greeted Sandro, and he forced an old fashioned fake smile for her. She smiled back, but her general expression and demeanor confirmed that the work week had been rough. She needed to wind down too, albeit much more peaceably, and over conversation and coffee.

A volcano passed behind Sandro and brushed a hand affectionately across his shell. Sandro flinched.

Sobered, he glanced over at where Wildcard was finishing breakfast, and then, as early as he could, wove his way over into the kitchen. He leaned over Wildcard and placed a hand on each of her shoulders so she could tell he was being in earnest, lowering his head beside her ear. "Head home," he instructed.

She twisted to look at him in surprise. "What?"

"I don't want you here right now," he told her.

"Tough luck, Sensei doesn't let me skip Ninjitsu," she retorted with a frown.

"Tell him you want to give my parents a short vacation from you so they can spend time with me," Sandro replied.

She tilted her head, and then—cunningly—her gaze darted over towards Raphael.

"Please just do as I ask," Sandro breathed into her hair. "Don't fight me."

"One freebie," she growled. "And if I don't like how it turns out, or you try to lie to me on debriefing, you'll regret it."

He crushed a fraternal kiss to her temple that Mother didn't see because she was glaring holes through her coffee.

"Yo! Get ya kama, boy, ya late fah a date in the dojo!" Raphael joked. "Ya forget?"

"I'm just seeing Wild off," Sandro said calmly and without inflection. Michelangelo was helping her pack, looking nervous or something. Donatello perked up, wide-eyed and confused from the table, frowning over April's head.

"Sure, whatevah, hurry up-" Raphael's snout wrinkled, and he shot Sandro an annoyed scowl. "Wait, what da hell? She leavin' early or somethin'?"

"Preexisting engagement," the Mouse agreed. "Have a fun family day without me!"

Raphael looked between both younger uncles, both who were acting weird like they was hiding something, before turning to Leo. "She come early for practice or somethin'?" 

"No," Leo answered him like he was nervous, or off-kilter or something. The hell was with everybody? "I do not know what to do."

"Da fuck ya talkin' about?" Raphael straightened, cause Leo weren't one to admit to shit like that. "What's going on?"

Leo looked weirdly trapped.

"Yo!" Raphael shoved him with a low growl. "Ya gonna leave me in da dark? Again? Aftah last time?"

Leo ran his tongue over his beak ridge, and kept his voice at a whisper. "My best guess is that Sandro is steeling himself for Ninjitsu practice, because he believes you are in ill humor. He is sending her away. He does not want her to see you angry. You are his father, and perhaps—in his mind—his to face in the dojo. Alone."

Raphael sneered. Anger built up in his throat and came out in a slew of cuss words, and he shoved Leo back, this time towards the dojo, this time reaching threatening for Sai.

Wake up. "Last thing Ah need from you is-!"

Wake up! "Ain't we had dis conversation before!? Wit you tryin' ta start somethin about-"

WAKE UP, you ANGRY INSANE FUCKTARD! Add shit TOGETHER! Use ya FUCKIN EYES! Leo ain't a LIAR, and you ain't some IDIOT what can't use his BRAIN!

Leo wasn't fighting him, wasn't standing up to him, was just reeling there like it had given everything out of him to make a peep, much less stomach out full sentences. He looked like he felt guilty, and on thin ice, and like he had no idea where to put his feet, and Leo just never looked like that. And maybe that was it, maybe that fear or panic or misery, or whatever it was, coming from what little any of them had left of Splinter Junior, maybe that was what did it. 

Raphael stared silent and seething through him for a moment, and then rounded on the rest of the house. His gaze flicked to Donnie, who looked put on the spot, like air raid sirens and other warning bells were going off in every corner of his computer brain but he didn't know what to do. Raph looked at Mike who was tip-toeing like he was trying to fly invisible under some radar, saying nothing, and not joking neither. His expression looked spooked.  Raphael looked to Sandro, whose face was placid, stony, dry, cold, eyes half-lidded, no emotion there at all.

Dis is ya relationship with ya kid. With ya brothers too.

Round and round in a circle ya ain't endin', like ya some kind of abusive alcoholic, good one day, bad da next. Ya brothers can fight back. Can manage it.

But what about ya kid? What's he supposed ta do? Leo said it completely right. Can't you see that? Sandro's handling *your* bad temper. Ya think Dad'd be proud ta see this? See ya bummin' off ya own boy's self-control? Dependin' on him ta soak your fire when he don't stand a chance against ya in the ring? That's what it is. You're gonna be creamin' him like ya wish ya could cream Leo or a Foot Ninja, and he's gonna take it because ya ain't given him any other choice. And because he *loves* ya.

He's fourteen years old. 

Da fuck is this his job for? 

What's wrong with you?

You's da parent.

Sandro couldn't hear exactly what his father was saying, but he could hear by the hisses and growls that Raphael and Leo were having an argument halfway down the hall.

He retained icy composure and watched to make sure Wildcard didn't change her mind and insist on 'protecting' him from Raphael like she'd half-hinted at the day she'd met him. Wildcard tugged her boots on, and didn't look up. Maybe they were both on the same page about this kind of thing. That made sense. If Wildcard's father was the one in a bad mood, and she mandated Sandro leave the house, Sandro would absolutely obey her. There were things you didn't want to show the outside. Things you didn't want to be judged. Things which nobody could help you with, because they could only be solved by you. 

Nothing bad would happen today. Sandro would stay calm. He knew how to handle his dad, and had been doing so for years. He knew when to be quiet, and when to push himself, and, by the end of the practice session, Raphael would calm down.

Wildcard shot a glance up at Sandro. 

He breathed deep, recognizing pugnaciousness in her face. If he didn't convey that he could handle things—if he looked even remotely frightened—she'd stay and she'd try and chew out Raphael herself. Tiny, tiny, tiny her. She'd listen to all the things Raphael would say, and she'd judge them, and watching her turn against Raphael (because how could she understand?) would haunt Sandro. It wasn't something he wanted.

Fortunately, Sandro was not afraid. "Have fun," he told her. "Stay out of trouble."

"No promises," she mouthed more than said. 

Sandro heard only the scuff of feet on flooring, but he felt the tectonic force rushing up behind him. MOVE! FIGHT! Sandro grabbed for a kama on his back and spun around to stand his ground and meet the charge. He had a split second to register that both Raphael's sai were sheathed.

Then his father had pounced him, getting both arms all the way around the back of his shell. This wasn't an attack. This was an embrace. Sandro froze from head to tail, kama still half drawn from its holster.

"Ain't no dojo practice today," Raphael promised from overhead, voice hoarse. "C'mere, c'mere. Ah'm sorry. Ah almost didn't catch it. Please, Sandro, ya don't have ta- Ah'm sorry. Ah'm still as sorry as Ah was."

He'd 'caught' it?

Sandro didn't twitch. His half-sneer facial expression lingered, a byproduct of a half-invoked fighting trance. He felt a palm stroke over the back of his head and then linger there.

This version of reality had never happened before. It wasn't a valid conversational option. It was impossible. No one ever stepped in to help him; no one ever intercepted the adversary; and Raphael was the miniboss to be overcome, not a fellow player, not someone who could potentially choose differently. Everything about this was always up to Sandro. Only Sandro. Suggesting otherwise trivialized and insulted the sheer experience of living through it.

"Yay!" Wildcard squealed, bolting up to them and throwing her arms around Sandro and part of Raphael. "Achievement Unlocked! Level Up! Weeee!"

The kama slipped from Sandro's shaking, numb fingers, and sagged back into its holster. He reached hesitantly around his father, to cling to his armor. When Raphael didn't push him away, Sandro squeezed as tightly into the embrace as possible. Raphael let him. Tears beaded. Raphael rocked him in place, and Sandro finally dared to lose his composure, his control, his head for judgement calls, his death grasp on 'calm.'

This was all still new.

It was still surreal.

Years and years of managing the emotions of someone older, bigger, and mean, took form in the shape of sobs, and wrecked him to the point where he couldn't have held his feet on his own.

Poor Mom was probably so confused.

Raphael didn't end up needing a punching bag or anything else that morning. Whatever Act of God had beamed compassion into his brain, it had flipped him away from focusing on all the bad and frustrating stuff which had happened to and around him during the week, and now his brain was fixed entirely on his son. Raphael chilled out almost completely, like a full bonfire tossed clear into a lake, from FULL FLAMES to psseewwwwnothing in the snap of fingers. Yeah, he'd been a little shaky and stiff and tense on hugging Sandro, after-effects from being so mad at whatever had pissed him off, but then that drained away, too.

The two of them left the center of the house and ended up going to the weight room, where father and son could have a bit of privacy from all the anxious brothers and/or women. 

Wildcard did not end up leaving. After sharing a victory dance with Michelangelo, she crept down the hallway to find out what had become of her Ninjitsu instructor, who, as far as she was concerned, was no longer off the hook with regards to teaching her that morning. Somebody had better entertain her, lest she contrive to entertain herself!

She found him in the altar room, praying. He looked a little gray. She hurried up beside him, and took seiza, clasped her hands, and closed her eyes.

"Dear Splinter," she prayed obnoxiously and out loud, "Thank you for Sensei, he's a hero.  Sincerely, Wildcard."

A big deep breath, and a big deep sigh rattled the internal chambers of a turtle shell beside her. 

"Should I have signed it with something else?" she wondered. "Yours Truly? Love? From? Yolo? Amen? I'm not sure how these things work. I'm still a prayer newb." 

She had not previously been aware she was stressed. She had not deigned to consciously notice the weird echos of her own parent problems in Sandro's. At least Sandro had two. Parents. And a loving host of uncles, and a grandpa, and...

An elbow looped around her from the side, and she got pulled in under the arm of a kimono and squeezed there for a bit. Her stress imploded and she started shaking and burrowed into the little alcove of space which had been given to her, needing what Sandro needed, needing it from someone, reflecting his emotions like a mirror, like a twin.

"Thank you," she finally mumbled, feeling tiny.

She was tiny. Sensei patted her gently to let her know she was excused a lecture on personal space this time around. He seemed less ill than he had been a second ago, too, and that warmed her up and calmed her down and promised her that she was in exactly the space she ought to be, and that she hadn't stolen that space or delusionally imagined that it was allotted for her. 

Outside, Mikey used every grain of his super awesome ninja stealth to actually get a peek in the shrine without alerting Leo to his presence and sending Mr. Propriety and Order back into Aloof Mode. 

Mikey didn't grin. He slumped and clasped both hands to his chest and curled his fingers into a little heart. Maybe he didn't have the words to describe it like a professional, like Donnie, but Orange Turtle was pretty sure this apprenticeship here was good for two people. Like medicine, like chicken noodle soup, for loneliness. And Mini was even getting dosages before adulthood hit and things got harder.

He wouldn't talk about it with April and Raph and stuff. He wasn't sure they'd understand. They got out more. 

But! If it was going to work long term, Mikey probably ought to figure out what was up with Mr. Hamilton... and why he and Leo kinda acted weird around each-other all Thanksgiving. 

Chapter Text

Joker was mixing sauce for lasagna when his Animal-Themed-Ninja-Is-Watching-Me senses began tingling. He raised his head, blinked skeptically out into his household, and then turned around to find a very large turtle hanging upside down outside his window sill (quite like a bat), trying to disarm the bola launcher trap with a stick before it misfired on him.

Click! He succeeded, and levered open the window. 

"Hi!" Michelangelo greeted Joker winsomely. "Can I visit?" 

"I do believe I told you that you were to use the door from now on," Joker was nevertheless quite impressed Mikey had worked out how to disarm a bola launcher. Those things were crazy unintuitive.

"N'aw, that was only if I'm visiting Mini," reminded a turtle as he made climbing headfirst into a sink through a window look positively graceful, which was a hard feat for someone who was three hundred pounds of walking, talking armor.

"So, you're visiting my... tulips then, are you? Well, I don't mean to brag."

Michelangelo paused. "Huh. That's kinda weird. Leo said you had lovely tulips, too, what's with that?"

"Your brother has excellent taste in flower cultivars," Joker muttered over wooden spoon and sauce pan.

What Joker did not expect Sunshine to ask was, "Like buttercups?"

Joker gave a semi-intentional bob of body posture, and turned about to eye Michelangleo up and down (or down and up, seeing as he was still upside down.) "Pardon?" he fished, brow raised.

"Buttercups," Sunshine repeated.

Joker was unamused. (Or at least that was what he told himself.) He put down his spoon and dried off his hands. "I'll bite. You get to come in if you tell me what you're referring to."

"Aww yeahhhh!" Mikey cheered, and then slithered in completely through the window, and plopped himself on the counter top.

"Well?" Joker pushed, displeased.

"Okay! Right. You know how Leo has a nickname for, uh, Anastasia?"

"Exactly like everyone else does," Joker agreed, drawing out fresh onions and reaching for the knife rack. "You can call her 'Minimeme,' I don't find it offensive."

"Oh cool! Thanks! Um. Where was I? Oh! Well, 'Kinpoge' is Japanese for 'Buttercup,'" Mikey explained, kicking his legs off the side of the counter like a child. "Which totally doesn't fit the whole ninja training montage theme!"

Joker knew he was being buttered up, and that Mikey was baiting reactions out of him, but he still sucked in slow breath between his teeth at his daughter's indiscretion. "Well that was risky of her," he muttered to himself.

"Where's it come from?" Mikey chirped, like he already knew the answer and was playing along to have it served to him. "It's too cute, dude, it just didn't make sense that Leo would be pick out something like that. It had to have been something she called herself. Is it a pet name, like 'Squirt?'"

Damn you, Sunshine. Go away. Or at least stop saying 'dude.'

Mikey beamed.

"No," Joker smiled thinly, and set to chopping those onions. "'Buttercup' is the name on her birth certificate."

Sunshine didn't seem thrown off or astonished at all. "Not 'Anastasia?'" the turtle prompted anyway.

"'Anastasia' was the name she picked for herself when we moved here from Gotham." He chopped those onions.

Big baby blue eyes widened curiously. "What was her name in Gotham?"

"Terra."

"Terra...?"

Joker minced those onions. Patiently. Calmly. "Smith. Terra Smith."

"So what's your name?" their plucky sunbeam wondered.

"Ah-ah-ah," Joker waved the knife and glanced back at him. "That's not your business."

Mikey leaned back, tucked his chin, and looked absolutely adorable. "Leo seems to know," he pouted, eventually.

"Doubt it." Onions traveled on the flat of a knife, knife full by knife full, into the sauce.

"I mean, Leo seems to know that she's not exactly who she says she is, and that neither are you," Sunshine suggested. "You aren't worried?"

"It's not his business either," Joker waved dismissively. "Lots of people use aliases to escape from old lives. Or jealous ex-girlfriends."

Hook set! Joker had plenty of lies pre-built to distract and titilate. Most were constructed from the entrails of real stories, but changed, exaggerated, and understated to twist them completely. In one example, the story of Harley was transformed into an explanation for where Wildcard's 'mother' was, describing her as an obsessive and neglectful individual with a restraining order put out on her.

"Mini's close to him," Michelangelo said, instead of taking the bait.

Joker glanced back, impressed by his focus. "Pardon?"

"Leo," Mikey elaborated. "He's close to her. Does it bother you?"

"Why would that bother me?" Joker honestly wondered. (Exactly how much had this golden fluttermuffin put together without help? Clearly no one else was so informed, or there'd have been backlash starting from Donatello and ending at the actual parents... Or at Batman.)

"I'm not sure it should," Michelangelo confessed, "except Donnie really rode my tail hard about getting 'close to' an unrelated kid, like it made me a stalker or something. And you got mad at me, too." He scuffed one foot bashfully against the other.

Joker scoffed. "I threatened you because I had to. It's in the Ultra Protective Dad Manual. Chapter six, paragraph three. I checked."

"So you don't hate me for that?"

"What? How could anyone possibly hate you? That's probably against some kind of international regulation against animal cruelty. Also it's impossible." Hmm. Sunshine still looked nervous instead of giddy. "How close are you to her?"

Michelangelo writhed uncertainly back and forth, before confessing to a very candid and informative: "Sometimes she has hella bigga cries where only I can see."

Oh-ho-ho. Joker guiltily put that knife safely off to the side.  "That's probably good for her." He didn't say more.

"So it really doesn't bother you? I can... ya know, have heart-to-hearts with her and stuff?"

Oh dear, engage flippant defensive protocol. "Sunshine, there are many times in life when a parent has to relinquish some of the illusion of control to another care provider. First it's babysitters, then it's elementary school teachers, next it's other peoples' parents when they have the kids over for a sleepover, then it's coaches, field trip chaperones, doctors, or correctional officers, and then one day they leave you and move out and have their own lives. If you're lucky, they still love and/or like you by the end, or they go to college and at least stay dependent on you another decade."

"Ooh, we never did that," Mikey pointed out almost gleefully, taking the morale-boosting-bait like it was made for him and he was happy for a diversion. "We stayed together! Actually we'd probably still be living with our dad if he hadn’t, ya know, gone to visit Buddha."

"Mn. Well... you have unique circumstances that make bonding together clannishly beneficial for your mutual survival," Joker pointed out with a wooden spoon instead of a knife. "Green and so forth. Anyway, your brother is two birds killed with one stone. He has my seal of approval as a 'coach.'"

Blue eyes sharpened. Joker raised a brow.

"He's ignoring you," Mikey said, with a little edge. "He's being all kinds of impolite, pretending like she doesn't have parents. But instead of getting mad, or jealous, or, like, weirded out, you almost seem to like it. Like it's funny or something. You keep smiling, not like a mad smile, but like a 'I'm trying not to laugh smile.'"

Curse turtles who knew the difference between different kinds of smiles! Curse fluttermuffin manchildren who somehow simultaneously had attention defficit disorder and absolutely insane levels of observational skills! Joker gave a 'You cheat at this game' glare.

Mikey looked seemed somewhere between 'innocent,' 'amused,' and 'I'm an African Cheetah and just cornered my meal for the evening,' which the person he was talking to recognized and found hilarious and completely respectable.

"It is funny," Joker finally agreed, turning back to his sauce. "He thinks I'm the enemy. That he has to fight me for her, drag my 'claws' out of her or something." Joker shrugged with both arms and hands. "I don't know where he gets it from; who does he think read her Aesop's fables for bedtime stories and gave her Disney movies as a child?"

"Whoa. You get those vibes but it doesn't bother you?"

Joker waved a hand to bestow offhanded absolution. "He's young; he'll learn."

"Naw, it sounds serious to me, what gives?" Mikey insisted, pushing himself to the ground and coming up curiously to peek around at the kitchen's chef while simultaneously keeping a wide (respectful) berth. 

"As long as he stays quiet about, why should it bother me?" Joker wondered aloud while simultaneously levying instructions. "If anything, it just means he's going to do his job twice as well."

Mikey's snout scrunched up. "What's his job?"

"Training an up-and-coming superhero," Joker answered, tasting his pasta sauce. "And keeping her safe, naturally."

Mikey thought about that. "Heh. Yo, he totally will keep her safe, it's like his middle name. Can she keep up?"

"Ask him."

"Hee! Why Leo, though?"

"He stuck. I'd tried pushing her into a better role model before. She'd gotten bored."

"I guess they are both pretty stubborn."

"Mn, and imagine my delight when she finally met her match. In retrospect I suppose his interest in training her is unusual, but once he'd decided to do it, he pounced on that chance like a cat on nip. Now she's doing her own laundry and, really, what more could a parent want? Ten out of ten, would submit child for apprenticeship again. I'm not one of those people who needs to be liked in order to appreciate a job well done."

Either 'stumped' or 'satisfied,' Michelangelo sat back against the cupboards, and tilted his head to the side like he was thinking.

"I'm also not messing with providence with the childrens' friendship on the line." Joker mentioned. He added spices. Bit of this, bit of that, few flakes of this, hefty shakes of that.

"You, um," Mikey hesitated, rubbing bashfully at an arm, "you really do like Sandro?"

"I don't have a choice. If my daughter was a hound, she'd have pissed on every inch of him and then bitten me in the leg to make sure I knew where her territory was. But," Joker tossed Michelangleo a bemused look, "yes, I think Sandro is not only an excellent influence on her, but also extremely adorable. The zoo was bliss, I had to remain in normal parent mode and not start crying from laughter."

Mikey perked up and seemed interested and elated as he soaked that up and believed it.

"I wouldn't have known it before she found him, but a friend was exactly what she'd been missing her whole life," Joker added.

"Is she home enough?" Sunshine asked, suddenly. "You get time with her, right?"

"Some." Joker thought on that, and then shared a slight grimace of confession with the turtle. "I'd like to have more, but she's in that weird stage of life she she's pulling away from me and defining herself as independent. It's not Sandro. I've seen her more since she met Sandro. She's just... a teenager. I know it's manifested a little hilariously by her glomming onto your entire family, but I like to think the result is just that she'll be less aloof, alone, and/or callous than she might otherwise have turned out."

"I kinda got that impression too," Mikey admitted, looking slightly nervous. "I just wasn't sure what you thought."

"I quite like your brother," Joker admitted, albeit for a certain definition of 'like.' "He reminds me of an old friend. Don't worry so much. I promise he won't get knifed in a dominance spat. I'm grateful for the role he's playing in helping my little troublemaker decide what she wants out of life. Though... maybe don't tell him that." Wink. "He might lose his intense protectiveness of her, and I'm counting on that to keep her safe."

"Hehe! Don't worry about that, that's Leo all the way! Uh. You... You still want more time with her though," Sunshine could tell. "Can I help?"

"Mn. I probably won't be getting more time with her unless it's also time I'm getting with Sandro. And I'm not sure if April and Raphael will ever be entirely ready to trust letting the children out with such minimal supervision, so..." he shrugged, and went to start the noodles. "One can dream. The children have thrived outside on their lonesome before; perhaps they will again. I might not be able to keep her in one spot, but Sandro—oh, sweet Sandro—I'm sure I can seduce him home with food. He's too polite to refuse."

"So..." Mikey pushed himself off the counter again, and came over. "So, yo, is her real name some kind of secret? Like I can't tell people?"

"Please refrain from using the words 'yo' and 'dude' in my presence, as your completely artificial surfer-boy-rapper accent sometimes grates my nerves when it gets too thick. And yes," Joker confirmed. "It's not a common name, and there are... people masquerading as 'good guys' who would be very excited to hear she'd been found. I worry about that more than I worry about the silly social ploys of aloof samurai ninjas.

"Are you in trouble with any actual good guys?"

Joker chuckled a little. "A few," he admitted.

"Who?"

"Oh, you don't want to know, Sunshine." He pinch one green cheek, like a grandmother, and tugged affectionately. "It'd ruin our friendship."

Mikey winced and then giggled slightly and turned rosy. A text message reading 'omigodihasanewfriend!' might as well have popped up in a thought bubble over his head. Then, clearly delighted, the turtle leaned over to peek inside that sauce pan. "What did you put in this? It smells fantastic."

"Portobellos, but I was very careful with them," Joker explained, leaning back to eyeball his sauce. "They're very rebellious mushrooms. They like to ruin and/or make things spectacular, all willy-nilly, whatever strikes their fancy." He looked up at Sunshine to confess, "It's why I like them."

"It it a lasagna sauce? A vegetarian lasagna sauce?"

"I was in the mood for a challenge."

"Ooh, let me tell you what I do, the secret's in how you complement the noodles. Do you have any nutmeg?"

The tulips were missing out.

Chapter Text

"Can I talk to you about something?" Donatello asked, leaning in the bathroom doorway as Sandro was brushing his teeth.

"Sure," Sandro spit and turned on the faucet to wash the paste down the drain. "What about?"

"It's been some time, and your parents are considering introducing some rules governing how long Wildcard stays over."

Sandro frowned, but admitted, "Wild and I have been talking about it."

Donatello blinked. "You have? Er... how so?"

"Well she kinda agrees she wished she had a day reserved to hang out with her Dad a bit more," Sandro explained, proud to have been proactive on the matter and to already have solutions to propose. "Which would have to be Tuesday, because that's the day he gets off work every week. And then both she and I agreed it might be a good idea to give my parents a break from her loud obnoxious blathering every Saturday. You know, so they can relax after they get home? We just haven't talked to Uncle Leo yet, but I'm pretty sure he'd give her two days off from Ninjitsu each week."

Donatello shook his head, murmuring, "Color me impressed, I thought you wouldn't budge an inch."

Sandro tucked his chin, not sure whether to be embarrassed or belittled or proud.

Donnie waved a hand and stood up to approach him with a smile. "I'm on your side," he said. "I think you've come up with a really good compromise to suggest to them. I also wanted to suggest to them that these just be tentative guidelines instead of hard and fast rules. I don't want you to feel like she's been kept from you."

"It's..." Sandro took a deep breath. "We don't have to do literally everything, and we don't have spend every second together. I like literature, she likes podcasts... Plus I have to let her get some crazy stories to bring back to tell me, right?"

Donnie smirked. "Yeah. Well, hopefully we can get you some crazy stories of your own. Mikey and Leo have been suggesting Raphael take you out agility training. Just you. I'm also going to suggest to your parents them that if we want to spend one-on-one time with you outside of these two rest days, that Wild is still welcome to come to the dojo and to the lab and to board with Michelangelo, whoever it is who isn't busy with you. It'll be good for her schedule, her father's babysitter concerns, and it'll keep her underground and not space jumping off buildings."

Sandro perked up and smiled back a little. "You're... you're going to let her over? Like you did when I was visiting New York?"

Donnie nodded.

Sandro liked that, liked it a lot. Wild needed the kind of structure to her day which a solid family could provide to her, and she needed that structure not to be getting interrupted. For his uncles to take a stand in evening out her education plus everything out like that... it showed they cared about her. It showed they cared about him and what mattered to him. "Thanks. Like... a lot. What did you mean about you wanting to spend one-on-one time with me, though? You... can already, right?"

"I-I'm not sure if you realize, but sometimes people—especially your mother who gets to see you less and who isn't used to Wildcard yet—people feel a little like they're interrupting you if they approach while she's over. And we're never sure how to suggest activities to only one of you. Like you said, you like literature... she likes science. Etc etc etc. So! Without disturbing you too much, I'm hoping to help you two loosen your death grasp on each other, and to get you moving freely in and out of activities with one another and with other people, unafraid of being separated."

Sandro thought about it, and nodded. "I understand, uncle."

"You do." Donatello seemed relieved. "Well. I also don't want anyone enforcing some idea of 'normal' on you arbitrarily and from afar, without them being there for you in the day-to-day. That'd just be a trip back in the opposite direction again. If it doesn't work—if these 'break days' aren't gentle or natural enough and you're feeling agitated out of your shell again—I will suggest to April to drop the idea entirely. Better 'codependent' than angry and miserable, right?"

Sandro snickered and blushed a little. "Guess so." He felt cared for, and he felt noticed. "Okay. I'm game. But as a trial, okay?"

Donatello smiled and leaned forward. They touched foreheads. "Got it," his uncle agreed.

When April O'Neil moved home to Jersey City, the local news made a surprisingly big deal about it, enough that it showed up on Wildcard's news feeds.

Apparently it was a big source of Jersian pride, or New Yorker nose snubbing, or something hilarious and unimportant that nevertheless got people excited and talking. She'd opened up a branch office, given an interview about wanting to take a step back from the melodrama of New York and focus on the little things like optimizing work culture and logistics, or maybe even sending the message that people need personal time now and then, and the internet had blown up in a storm of interest.

It was like Joker had told her: April's company did a lot of Pro-Super coverage. Her 'stepping back' (ie: leaving oh-so-special New York to travel fifteen minutes next-door) was being inspected for whether it was a sign of comfort or weakness. Lots of people were writing speculative option pieces on it.

Wildcard was thinking about offering to stay home the first night April and Raphael actually got to come home so they could hang out with the fam for a proper, quiet, weekday evening. Whenever that happened to be. Right now April had a ton of work to do to get the new branch office up and working, and was fighting off paparazzi, and had to go 'home' to her new Jersey City penthouse every night and pretend to be normal. Donatello had set up the flat ahead of time with defensive systems, but Raphael hadn't even risked sleeping in the building the first night and had traded off defensive positions with Leonardo for a few hours of shut-eye.

At least this heightened period of activity and attention wouldn't last very long for them. April was a Business Woman, not a fashion, music, or movie star. They'd stop snapping their pictures—hopefully with no turtle ninjas getting caught in frame, period!—and wander off to more sensational things, and Mom and Dad would be able to chill and enjoy their new surroundings for a week or two before Christmas hit them like a train. Cause that was the thing about Christmas: Christmas took a lot of energy from adults! It was a lot of work! And from the way Sandro was telling the story, and by the looks of how the Lair was getting all fancied up, The Hamato Family Christmas Parties were big news. Just how big, Wild wasn't entirely clear yet, but people were coming from Japan so all bets were off. As far as Wild knew, there'd probably be aliens and superheros visiting. 

(Thank Splinter that Joker had worn masks and face paint his entire super-villainous career, right? Cause he'd passed the Test of Thanksgiving with flying colors (and wildly successful Yams) and now was on the visitor list for that Christmas Party, and he'd already gotten the invitation card hand-delivered by Michelangelo and everything!)

Anyway. Offering to give Mr. And Mrs. Sandro's Parents a break! She'd have to bring the idea up to Sensei, he was militant about her Ninjitsu schedule. If she was five minutes late, she'd end up ten minutes in Hashi. That was just how it was! Tardiness was a crime! And it was Leo's dojo, and Wildcard had submitted herself to the rules of Leo's dojo, so the rules simply had to be obeyed unless she wanted to fire him and go find another sensei. Which she did not.  Good senseis were hard to f-

Wild paused flicking through her news feed and stared baffled across the sharp blacks and whites of the wintertime concrete jungle before her. She'd been sitting in a nook between two buildings and knew she was rather well concealed, and her night suit layers gave her good insulation against the snow, but that didn't mean she wasn't keeping one eye out for trouble. 

There, ahead of her, climbing slowly across a rough brick wall with no handholds to speak of, was a child-sized individual in an unassuming hoodie and sneakers. This kid was literally climbing across the wall like gravity was sidewards. Like a gekko. Like a-

"-spider," Wildcard breathed to herself, pocketing her phone and creeping outward from her hiding place to try and get a closer look at this fantastic phenomena.

What on earth is he-or-she doing in Jersey? Sandro says Spiderman lives in Queens!

She pulled herself up onto a building. She army-crawled and skittered across a rooftop. She'd lost her quarry, but managed to to track the barely-perceptible-dark-shape from one building to another. What a jump this kid had cleared! Right across the street; Wild wished she'd seen it happen. She herself had to run across a tightrope of steel cables holding a street light aloft just to keep up without losing any momentum.  She got one more building over, slid down a gutter pipe, ran like complete dare devil jumping from window sill to window sill, and finally stopped right beside a corner...

...and was waiting there, already grinning, the instant her quarry climbed around that corner.

"Hi!" Wildcard gushed, startling this precious little Spiderling so hard that (she/he/it?) almost fell, slipped down the bricks, and had to hug tightly on to the corner with both arms. "I'm Wildcard! Nice to meet you!"

She couldn't see much of the face under that hoodie. Just a thin neck and a thin chin, and a mouth parted in the aftershocks of terror. 

Uh oh. Maybe Wild should have waited for Spiderling to get a little further around the corner. "I won't come any closer," she added urgently, trying to tip the encounter in a better direction. "Please don't run."

"W-who are you?" Spiderling demanded, and her/his/its voice did nothing to suggest at a gender. 

Wildcard considered her answer. "Well I'm wearing ninja tabi, a cat suit, and a face mask that makes me look like The Dread Pirate Roberts, so I must be awesome."

Spiderling was ill convinced of this awesomeness, but she/he/it did seem to pause and give some thought to exactly how dangerous Wildcard could be if she was comparing herself to Princess Bride characters and discussing fashion on top of fire escapes at midnight. "I don't know you," s/he said crossly, and at the same time like s/he was about to bolt. 

"Well naturally that's why I had to introduce myself," Wildcard said. "Because it's not like I'm anybody you'd just know off the top of your head or something."

Spiderling looked her up and down. "You're a ninja," she accused like 'ninja' was a dirty word (Wildcard was going to go with 'she' for now, although she would be completely happy no matter what gender her new friend turned out to be). 

"Well I'm not a bad ninja," Wildcard protested her innocence.

"Is there any other kind?"

Wildcard considered. "Batman," she concluded. "Batman's a good ninja."

"He doesn't live here," Spiderling argued. "Only Foot Clan ninja live here."

Wildcard clutched her heart and staggered on poor Michelangelo's behalf. "Nickelodeon would like to have a word with you..."

"It's not a cartoon," Spiderling mumbled from her perched up there on the corner. "I know to be on the look out for them. I know not to talk to people like you."

"I'm just some kid breaking curfew who likes climbing walls," Wild protested. "Do I look like I have evil organization logos branded anywhere on me? There is the compass on my back but that's just a subtle youth rebellion motiff."

Spiderling, all crumpled and half-hiding in a really cute way around the edge of that bridge, fidgeted in place and seemed to reconsider the whole meeting and what Wildcard's objective could possibly be, looking her up and down. "I-I..." she hesitated, like she wanted to make contact, before suddenly rocking and place and chattering something like a mantra: "I don't get seen, I don't talk to people, I don't want to meet whoever you're with!"

Wild crossed her arms and looked away. "Well fine, don't be my friend. I thought you were cool."

Spiderling went deadly silent for a second. "You thought I was what?"

Wild looked back suspiciously, pretending to be a little offended. The reality was that Spiderling had just opened like a book, and all those lessons from Joker about reading people now made the story plain to see. Spiderling attended a normal school, was a social outcast, and wistfully wished she could be cool or even just normal. She was outside in secret despite the cautionary tales imprinted on her by loving and protective parents, not because she was angry at them, but because she needed air. She needed to be good at the thing which set her apart. Wild understood. "Cool," Wild said. "It's okay, Spiderling, you don't have to be my friend," she turned away and sat herself down on the fire escape. "I'm used to it." 

Hook. Line. Sinker. Wildcard didn't even have to be looking at her (him? it? should she rotate genders so that she didn't end up surprised in the future?) to keep her attention. In fact, turning away created the illusion that Spiderling had a choice, and that Wild wasn't already in control of the situation. 'The only difference between winning over friends and callous manipulation,' Joker had said, 'is how well you maintain your toys.'

"Wh-what did you call me?" Spiderling asked. From the sound of things, he (Wild was going to use 'he' for awhile) had climbed a little closer. Sandro is going to be so proud of me!

"Spiderling," Wildcard said without looking back. "Do you like it?"

"I-I'm not! No! I'm not a spider!"

"Lizardling?" Wild wondered.

"No! I'm not that either!"

"I like Spiderling," Wildcard decided, leaning back on her palms and kicking her legs. "It just sounds like a good name. Like it's  cute, but—look out!—it's only a matter of time before it's gonna end up badass! That's what they call juvenile tarantulas, 'slings,' it's a combination of 's' for spider and 'ling.'"

Silence echoed behind her.

Be patient.

"Y-you like t-turantulas?" he asked, and it sounded like he was even closer. 

"Well, my only friend raises snakes. I know it's not the same thing at all," Wild explained, flopping back against the snow-covered fire escape and pulling out some harmless-looking glitter grenades to juggle them, "but there's a lot of overlap between reptile enthusiasts and arthropod and other insect enthusiasts, so in the end I just ended up watching YouTube videos on tons of different exotic pets."

"Does, um, does your friend climb buildings in the dark, too?"

"Nah," she waved a hand. "He's a mutant. I have to visit him where he lives." 

"O-Oh."

I'm gonna get Sandro and me another frieeee-eeennnd!  Somewhere in the distance a garbage truck clanked loudly as it picked up it's burden.

"I-I gotta go," Spiderling blurted in a rush. "It was nice meeting you, bye!" He darted around the corner.

"Hey, I come out on Saturdays!" she whispered loudly after him.

And instead of him simply ignoring her, he called out the most adorable little acknowledgement of, "Okay!" 

Chapter Text

In order to get some intelligence on the usual whereabouts of her subject of interest, Wildcard went to her old stomping grounds at the rec center and asked at the counter if they had one of Ms. Jane's business cards.

She was in luck. The card revealed Wild's ex-Aikido instructor taught at a large number of public rec centers across the greater New York, New Jersey, Newark, and Hoboken areas. She was in high demand for everything from pole fitness, to gymnastics, to martial arts; and she also seemed to be involved with a local performing arts center, which meant she was also a thesbian. What a lady!

Come to think of it, could Spider-Man work a steady job? Right, so maybe it made sense that she had to work double time to keep bread on the table for her entire family and put money in Spiderling's college fund and what-have-you. Heck, didn't Spider-Man probably make his own super hero costume? Add 'plasma canon resistant spandex' to her standard grocery bills, or whatever!

Back in October, Sandro had gotten her off alone to the side to inform her that her two favorite childhood cartoon franchises actually knew each other in real life. Spider-Man's name was 'Peter Parker' which lined up perfectly with intelligence Wildcard had gotten from her father that 'Ms. Jane,' had actually been Mary-Jane Parker, Spider-Man's wife. But Sandro had also told her that the Spiderfamily lived in Queens, which was not only across the Hudson but quite a distance north, so what had Spiderling been doing out and about at midnight in southern New Jersey? There was a considerable sized river and lots of miles between those two locations! Something didn't line up!

Wild had some guesses, some more feasible than other. The possibility that Spiderman and his wife were legally separated crossed her mind (oh no!) but then Raphael and April wouldn't have been inviting them over to their condo as a married couple. There were plenty of other possibilities. 1) Private School, 2) A second house that served as a hiding place in case any long-term nemeses were afoot, 3) Visiting with family relatives over the holiday, etc.

Unfortunately, she only had so many weeks until Christmas break rolled around and, of those weeks, the only school days she had on which to practice her investigative skills were Tuesdays. She was booked with Ninjitsu lessons the week! Maybe she could sneak in a peak at a school in that time frame, but the average opening and closing hours for institutions of learning fell darn close to the hours she was supposed to be underground, and if she was late to practice by five minutes, Sensei would put her in Hashi for ten. And then get suspicious of her. After which he'd stalk her and totally ruin the surprise. Surprises like this deserved to be bundled up all in one hyperenergetic go!

So! If she wanted to maximize her chances of success, the first order of business was to guess Spiderling was older than ten. That would land him/her/it in middle school, which would be way easier than if he/she/it was in elementary school, because there was usually about a three-to-one elementary school to middle school ratio in the states (or at least in all the ones Wild had spent any considerable amount of time in). That solved a big quadrant of the overall mathematics problem from her, but the geographical distance between Queens and Greenville still left Wild with a large number of learning institutions to loiter around at closing hour. She couldn't visit them all in time. 

Wildcard checked the online yellow pages just to see if any easy intel was available, but it turned out that there were a heck of a lot of Parkers everywhere. For all she knew, Spider-Man was unlisted, or even bumming a more thorough information security white-out off the Hamato family, courtesy of Donatello, with the kids none the wiser. 

Hmm hmm hmm hmm hmm. Well! Ms. Jane wasn't rolling in cash, but she'd always been neat and presentable, so Wild spent one evening looking up all the schools in the boroughs of Jersey City and New York City, public and private, and made a ballpark guess about what kind of neighborhood they might live in. She threw on a hoodie, jeans, and her yellow rain jacket on over her usual ninja kit, headed out the door with the sun pretty low in the sky, and sat and she headed across the Hudson for an hour or two to eat ice cream and see if she could spy the familiar salt-and-peppered hair of Ms. Jane as she picked up her as-of-yet-gender-unrevealed child.

Her first try was a bust, and she didn't find anything at all.

And, worse, she didn't catch hide or hair of Spiderling that Saturday, either. Phooey.

Wildcard strolled down the avenue, dodging secondhand maryjane smoke (Wildcard was feeling a little ironically punny), glancing across the chain linked fence that protected the recess yard, and watching as kids shuffled out of the building towards the waiting fleet of large, yellow school busses. The area had been plowed recently, and with all the pedestrian travel around the school, the snow had been reduced to little more than packed mud. Some of the high-schoolers who'd been let out an hour ago, were waiting for younger siblings. Other kids walked home, either solo with skips to their steps as they tried to outpace nightfall, or in packs that chattered and played with one another.

Ah, school. Wildcard had liked it once, but that had been before middle school. Back before teachers, students, parents, and administrators slowly grew jaded with the problems around them. Back when being in the PTA was still something parents got excited about, and all your homework was in a workbook with comically big font, and, if you had questions, someone was happy to answer them. 

Wild kept her eyes peeled. So far, no luck. It was impossible to eagle-eye each and every single one of the zillion students at the establishment, and many of them were as thin, androgynous, and hooded as Spiderling had been. Hadn't Ms. Jane driven an old Toyota? Silver. Had a dent on the rear bumper. What if she/he/it wasn't even at school today? Meh, you win some, you lose some. Half the fun of games is playing them.

'It is not necessary to see everything, Kinpōgekun,' Sensei had explained atop the city as they'd crouched and watched Foot agents bringing young recruits on a training run. 'Then all things blur into white noise, and one effectively sees nothing. What one does is trains the intuition to notice the oddities. The subtleties. When something is out of place, incorrect in number, or moving wrong.' 

A herd of kids near enough to her own height surged past. They were running like they were trying to catch up with something, and they were laughing and jostling one another like people did when playing. Sentences like, "In trouble this time," and "Getting away," and a number of different names floated out of the conversation, hooking Wildcard into pausing. She blinked thoughtfully to herself. She pivoted on heel, and sauntered slowly down the way towards crowded shopping marts, whistling to herself.

Pitchy and out-of-tune, Twisted Nerve by Bernard Herrmann floated down the street. He was too busy to remember why that ought to make anyone feel unease.

"Hey nerd," Jason drawled in the center of the crowd. "Aren't you supposed to be smart? That was really dumb, right Jay? Heheh! Pick yourself up, freak! C'mon, why don't you read your way out of this one!"

Who is whistling that? 

"Let me go home," he begged, rubbing dirt and gravel off of his cheek and reaching nervously for his books.

"He said get up!" Damiqua taunted, grabbing his hair from behind and making an effort to drag him to his feet. He cried out in pain.

"Go on!" Jason taunted. "Throw another paper wad at me!"

An un-intimidating figure moseyed up with hands in pockets to review the state of things, still whistling at that grating pitch, still whistling Twisted Nerve. She didn't do anything to help, and the bullies didn't look twice at her, and they weren't scared of being watched.

Right, because they were all 'good kids.' Clean clothes, multicultural, bright smiles, high grades, honors classes, lots of volunteering. They expected the adult world to agree with them: their victim had wronged them, and they were rightfully upset about it.

By contrast, he  was presently dirty, disheveled, and controversial. He was dressed in a pro-Wikileaks hoodie, carrying weird books, and had anime pins all over his backpack; apparently to the world that was some kind of crime. "I didn't," but he had, "I promise I didn't!"

"Yeah you did, everyone saw it. You think you're better than me? Than us? Do you know what really happens to freaks like you?"

"You all end up dead with AIDS on the girls' street!" Jay howled. "And a hole in your butt a mile wide!"

He'd have blushed red if he wasn't already red from exertion. The kids around him all busted out laughing and giggling, eager to all 'prove' that they understood the adult insult, even if they probably didn't.

"Well that escalated quickly." The newcomer tipped her hood back and grinned wide, and she had a broad and creepy grin. "Helllloo kiddes! Let go of the 'freak,' beating him up makes you look bad!" 

What? He looked to her. Disbelief welled up inside him. Did he recognize her? Not her hair. Not really her face. He recognized that uncanny smile. 

"Get out of here," Damiqua said to her, for she was overstepping her bounds and therefore repulsive to them. "You don't even know what you're talking about."

"Says the person who just laughed at the undercover goatse reference." The newcomer feigned a dramatic gag. "Jay's parents have to clean their browser history more thoroughly, or at least to stop being hypocritical bigots about it, yeesh!"

"Who the heck are you?" another kid rounded on her. "You don't get to talk like that!"

"You his girlfriend, maybe wanna join him?" Jay taunted.

"Let's back up two steps before I get distracted arguing it's a free country," the creepily-smiling-girl said, far too delighted by her situation. "I told you to let go of him, and you're gonna do it, or you're going to regret making me angry. I'm kinda like the Hulk when I'm angry. Just less, you know, super powers. More insulting your intelligence."

"Uh, I don't think so, weirdo?" Monika was disgusted. "He's a troublemaker, and apparently you are too, so get out of here. Go run off to your little druggy friends or whatever."

"How about this, chicky-poo," the new girl compromised, and then—out of nowhere!—punched Monika in the face. And Monia fell to her butt in such disbelief that neither she nor anyone else could cry out for a second. The world seemed to slow down and stop. When Monika busted out screaming, one of her friends grabbed for the new girl, but New Girl just grabbed her back, flipped her onto the concrete with a crunch, and then swept out the legs of the people who came at her next, sending them tripping all over the place!

Jason, Jay, and Flitch rounded on her. They came at her the way they'd come at the opposing players during Football, in the same way the liked to herd him into walls and slam him there (when he always had to suppress he knew they were coming). Instead of being overwhelmed, she grabbed Flitch's left arm, twisted it around to get control of his whole body, and shoved him between her and his friends at a painful angle. She tripped up Jay, and threw her elbow into Jason's nose.  Crunch! She shoved Jason back to make him stumble. She grabbed his ankle out from beneath him with her heel, and she pushed him onto the ground.

"Get her!" someone yelled, but no one immediately tried, ha! Eh, middle schoolers weren't usually hardened gang thugs by this stage of their life, and were actually quite terrible at swarming people if fights turned scary for them.

Capitalizing on that, Wild stepped over the lead bully, pulled him up to a seat, dragged his back up against her knee and threw an arm around his neck. She drew out the pocket knife, tossed it up in the air as it snapped open, and caught it. Someone screamed.

"D-don't hurt me," the boy mumbled, while still glancing to her elbow like he was going to make a wrestle out of it. 

"Your nose already hurts, right?" Wild asked, and then grabbed the broken cartilage and twisted.

He shrieked, grabbing at her, and she held on tight. 

"Keep fighting, and it'll keep hurting," she mentioned.

He went slack.

"At's a good boy!"

"Psycho!" a girl was puffed-up red with tears and stress. "Get someone! Get an adult!"

Wild gave a shrill laugh, arresting everyone. "I don't go to school here!" she squealed. "You bitches will never find me! Now pay attention, or else I'll cut marks on his face you kiddies will be seeing for the rest of your lives, every day of school till the day you graduate, and you'll know each and every day it's your fault because you could have stopped me if you'd just shut up for six seconds."

Everyone stared at her, eyes bugged. 

"Good. Isn't it funny, not a single one of you thought, 'oh yeah, we're not supposed to attack random people in ally ways,' but suddenly you all think it's wrong now that you're the ones who're hurting? Sound like you don't wanna take what you dish out. Weak-sauce."

"Please d-d-!”

She got off the boy, and she dragged him to his feet and kept a hold on his collar. "Be good, from now on, huh?" she told him. "No beating up freaks, nerds, or pretty boys. Got it?"

"Uh huh," he whimpered past his new busted lip and purple nose. "Uh huh!"

She let go and pushed him back to his friends, who turned around with him and ran, screaming things over their shoulder at her. That left her alone with an extremely androgynous, absolutely mortified pre-teen boy huddled against the storefront, and he gaped at her.

"Hiiii," Wildcard drawled as she put away her switchblade. "Don't mind me, just a bit of civic service...!"

"Wh-who are you?" he whimpered, horrified.

"Name's Wildcard," she greeted blithely. "I've been looking for you, sweetie, how have you been?"

The kid gaped a moment. "Y-you..." He stepped towards her, and his face contorted in anger. "You ruined everything!" he screamed.

Wild blinked, recoiling slightly. She looked wide-eyed from him to her folded knife, and then quickly stuffed the latter in her pocket. Poof! Gone. "Huh, that's funny, cause you looked like you needed help!"

"I didn't need help! It was my fault, I provoked them! I need them to stop hating me, so I can survive going to school with them, and you just made everything worse and they're probably going to tell teachers and stuff, and they're never g-gonna let me live this down!"

"You have a black eye!" Wild protested her innocence. "Was I just supposed to sit there and let them wail on you when I could have done something?"

"I could have done something!" he screamed at her. "Why don't you think I did!? Nobody can-! You can't just-! The whole school is going to hate me! I could get suspended!" he choked on his anger, on a sob. In bright lighting, she could see his androgyny hadn't been a trick of the darkness. He was pretty, and he had long hair and freckles, and he was very thin and slight of build. 

Wildcard stood there, awkward and tense, not sure what to do. She'd literally climbed out of windows at her school before, and all she'd gotten was detention. Or complete apathy. "Um," she cleared her throat. "It's not like they can prove anything."

"Their bruises aren't enough!? What if they say I did it!?" 

"Pfft, have you seen yourself in a mirror lately?" Wild snickered. "No one's going to believe that."

"You don't know that! You don't know anything! Why are you here, are you stalking me!? Are you insane!?"

"Yes!" Wildcard agreed, glad to know the answer to a question. "Which is clearly not helping!"

"No! No it's not helping!"

"Can't win them all!" she gave a tremendous, smiling shrug.

"It's my life you stepped in! You screwed everything up!"

"Hey, I've learned a very valuable lesson from all this! Now I know to stand by while people get attacked by entitled future frat boys! Mind my own business, and all that! Heavens forbid I step in and defend them when they're all alone in the universe! And to think, here I was trying to heroically rescue you! Won't make the same mistake again, promise!"

"Y-you...!" His gaze flicked side to side, and then back at her. "Were... were you whistling the... the Whistle Song?"

"As it was whistled by California Mountain Snake?" she asked rhetorically.

"She's a bad guy," he said. "The character."

"Huh. Well, that's fair. I might be uh," Wildcard lifted a hand, waved it a little, and coughed, "fuzzy on the details of how to do the good guy thing. Still learning! Apprentice good guy, veteran badass, that's me!"

Spiderling stared at her. He sniffed weakly, dabbing at one of his eyes. It was about to bloom into a beautiful shiner.  "You aren't after me? Y-you... you saw me climbing, you recognized me. And then you showed up here?"

"Hey, technically I just heard them gushing to one another about how they were going to beat the stuffing out of someone. I had no proof it was going to be you."

"It was a coincidence?!"

"It was at least fifteen percent coincidence," she agreed sagely, except with a wink. "The other part was jumping on a bus from Jersey to Queens."

"To here. You know where I live?" Spiderling winced gloomily at her. 

"Maaaayyybe!" Wildcard looked down the street, and then back at him. "Ya know, I'm kinda worried they're going to jump you the second I turn around."

He grimaced and sniffled a little.

"Can I walk you home?" she offered. "You can say no. I respect boundaries! Sometimes. Normally I need an incentive to respect boundaries, but not getting yelled at for trying to help someone officially qualifies. Incentive present!"

He didn't say anything, but he hesitantly looked down the street, and then shuffled sort of diagonally between the wall and her. Wildcard took the not-resisting for a form of implied consent. She trotted up next to him and accompanied him down the road.

"How old are you?" she asked after he'd had a few minutes to chill.

"Twelve," he mumbled.

"Fourteen," she supplied. "Are we legally old enough to babysit you?"

"I don't know," he said as if it were a stupid question. "No one's going to hire you to babysit me."

"Eh, it can't be that hard! I'd do it for five bucks. What? I'm a growing girl with an unusually active lifestyle! Those five dollar footlongs don't buy themselves, you know!"

"You really are insane!"

"Hey, if that's how you feel, just remember it could never be as bad as me turning in a random direction and initiating a fourth-wall break, narrating a flash back, or commenting on things in someone else's thought bubble. Or could it? Dun-dun-dun! Find out next time! Also, yes, I can read your mind. No, I can't. I'm bluffing. That was just a logical guess based on your most likely reaction. Ha! See how I did that? You were totally freaking out. Ha! I'm fantastic at this! Sandro's going to be so proud, I'm making friends and everything!"

Spiderling seemed to finally realize where he stood with her, because he slapped a hand over his face and initiated a facepalm, and dammit if that wasn't just beautiful.

Chapter Text

Sandro sat there with a hand over his face, rubbing his brows and the bridge of his nose as he listened to the retelling of this story on Wednesday. "Wild, for future reference...." he growled, "why exactly did you think threatening a bunch of twelve-year-olds with a switch blade was the appropriate course of action for the situation?" 

"Escalation! Punches were old news, I had to bring out new and advanced technology! Also, most of them looked older than twelve. For reference!"

He looked at her between his fingers. "You turned a low-key physical scuffle into an armed assault. Are you unaware of the difference? The one gets you a detention, and the other puts you in jail. And you did it in full view of... how many witnesses, exactly?"

Wildcard waved a hand dismissively. "It's still just a scuffle, which no adults saw, and across state boundaries!"

"Crossing state boundaries just means the FBI could get involved!"

"What! Pfft, c'mon Rapunzel, the FBI doesn't even get involved in all the drugs and gang violence going on in Queens. There was pot and proper dope all over the campus doorstep, and you think they're going to chase ghost stories of a kid with a pocketknife who didn't actually even cut anyone? There's not even proof Spiderling and BullyBoy didn't just get in a fist fight!"

"Well sorry for having to go off television to assume people might take knife threats seriously! What if they describe you to someone who can do suspect portraits?!" That was a semi-legitimate concern, seeing as a number of superheroes which most certainly included Batman had computers monitoring whatever intelligence the police made publicly available, but:

"Never going to happen! Police department is already overloaded, understaffed, and broke AF! And, just because I could, I totally wore colored lenses, a wig, a padded bra, and a boat-load of makeup. My eyeliner wings were on point." She kicked up her heels on the table. "So no sweat!"

"Just... just..." Sandro sat back under his hand, and waved to her. "Continue with the story. Go on. Then what happened."

"Did something happen?" Donatello asked, stepping into the room with a suspicious glance Wildcard's way.

"I am glad you asked," Wildcard segued with great gusto, and since Sandro doubted she was going to tell Donatello or any other adult about this just yet, he reasoned she was about to whip up a half-lie, all-truth, fantastic diversion off the top of her head.

Then the front door slammed open. Leonardo entered at an aggressive stomp, shut the door with unnaturally accurate control and precision, stepped off each jika tabi to leave it in it's position at the door, and crossed the house at a pace. He reached the kitchen as he took off his snow poncho and hat, and he threw both garments onto the table, planted his hands on his hips, leaned over Wildcard, and stared down with an expression as hard and sharp as flint. 

Wildcard folded faster than a card castle in a windstorm, bravado evaporating, dripping down until she'd nearly disappeared under the table. Donatello raised a brow. Sandro blinked, pulled out his phone, and snuck a picture.

"Err... Yes, Leo, can we help you?" Donnie prompted.

Silence.

"o hi sensei" Wildcard breathed from table level. 

Leonardo didn't answer. His glare sat upon her like an inverted mountain, pointed downward. 

Wildcard looked at her hands upon the edge of the table, and then back up at a very angry blue turtle. "In my defense," she whispered, "I was never taught any different."

Ooh-hoo, Sandro sat back, turning away the grin which lit up his face. Straight to the teacher. Sis, you don't just go down with the ship, you light it on fire while it's sinking.

Wildcard withered away and dripped under the table with a plop.

"Hashi," Leo announced.

"Yes Sensei," she said, springing to her feet and rocketing out of the room at Mach-5. "Right away, Sensei!" Leo followed on her heels like an ominous cloud, silent lectures already overflowing from his personage, and Wild scampered like she was outright terrified of being swallowed whole.

Donatello, who had no idea what was going on, twisted about to watch. He looked down at Sandro. "Doesn't she usually resist authority figures?"

Sandro gave a knowing tilt of his head and reached for the milk. He'd just have to wait patiently for the rest of the story. "Uncle Leo clearly filed for special scolding permits."

"Apparently. Is she frightened of him?" Donatello frowned, trying to put the math of the situation together, and (bless him) willing to fight Leo, if need be. 

Sandro smiled and gave a little shake of his head, pouring his milk. "No, she's fine, she's just done something to get herself in huge trouble. No idea how he knows what she's been up to, but—if I'm being brutally honest?—I find it extremely satisfying that he does."

Donatello raised a brow. "Satisfying?"

"Yeah, I like to imagine him deep in meditation before bed, only to look up, staring mystically out into the void, with an ominous caption floating over his head, reading, 'Mentor senses tingling,' swiftly followed by, 'In father's name that's the sixth time in the past hour, what could she possibly be doing up there!?'"

Donatello coughed, and started laughing.

Sandro pulled the rest of Wildcard's breakfast to himself. She clearly wouldn't be eating it.

Hahahahah! That look on her face! Today's pic had gone into Sandro's favorites: Uncle Leo homing in like an ultra perceptive mother who'd somehow heard shenanigans from six rooms away, Wildcard ducking for cover automatically, hot-footing it without any need for an explanation for how this was possible, just trying to abandon ship before the judgmental glare could arrive.

As dawn ticked nearer, Michelangelo was tardy in returning from patrol. Donatello made a comment about him probably being off messing around in the sewers, and Sandro heard him offer to walk Wildcard home instead. She hummed and hawed over Donnie's offer, despite really not needing any chaperone at all, and then suddenly asked if Sandro could walk her instead.

Sandro perked up, rethinking his evil plan to maybe forward pictures to Wild's Dad. He'd been grounded from leaving the Lair since August.

"Alright," Donatello decided. "But, Sandro? You bring her to the manhole and come straight home. No going topside."

Sandro jumped up and quickly pocketed his phone. "Yup!" he agreed. "Thanks!"

He and Wild didn't actually do or say much as they walked the Lair, he with his coat on and his kama over his back and his hands in his pockets, her skipping along in rain boots and a jacket. "Is it cold up there?" he did ask when they'd reached the ladder.

"It's getting there," she agreed as she pulled a thin scarf around her face. 

"Are you gonna be warm enough?"

"Heh." She turned and gave him a big hug. "Now I will be!"

D'awww. He squeezed tightly back.

When Wildcard arrived at the domicile, Dad gave her got one of those sultry, heavy-lidded, 'I know you broke the rules and I am in angry cougar mode,' looks. What was it with the parents around here!? They just magically knew everything, except for when they were completely clueless!

"Sensei already wiped the floor with me!" she exclaimed. "I got an etiquette lesson and everything! I still can't feel my left elbow!"

"I see," Joker said, fingers tight on the back of the couch chair. "How about you start off at the beginning and tell me the whole of where you were Tuesday afternoon?"

She eyeballed him. "Only if you tell me how you knew I was anywhere at all."

"Deal," Joker agreed.

A completely unexpected and very familiar voice interrupted with: "Whoa, seriously?"

Joker shrugged and looked towards the kitchen. "How else is she supposed to learn how to lie between her teeth if I don't let her practice on me?"

"Ooh good point, we always got to practice on eachother-!"

"Sunshine?" Wildcard disbelieved, rushing forward to peer around the corner and into the kitchen, where she found—of all people!—Hamato Michelangelo sitting on the counter top in her house, right next to where a quiche was baking in the oven. He had a deck of cards in hand and was shuffling. "What are you doing here!?"

"Creaming me in rummy," Joker admitted. "He's a dirty cheat, by the way, no holds barred at all. And to think, he write childrens' comics."

"Children goof off, Mr. Hamilton!" Mikey stuck out his tongue, winked at her, and bridged that deck of cards.

Gasp. "YOU told him!" Wildcard shrieked in betrayal. 

Mikey busted out laughing, and Wildcard looked in horror from him to Joker. For reasons unknown, Dad's expression had just mellowed out considerably, like he found everything about this situation vaguely amusing. Fifteen minutes into explaining herself, Wildcard wondered if maybe it wasn't a relief to have someone else there besides herself and her Dad, taking the edge off off everything with jokes and jibes she couldn't get in trouble for. Dad sure seemed way calmer about this instance of 'Meeting a Super Hero' than he had about her bumping in to Tony Stark, and that had been a complete accident!

"So naturally I offered to walk poor Spiderling home," she explained. "As was only gallant of me."

"Oh naturally," Joker pulled out a chair at the kitchen for her.

"And then what happened?" Michelangelo prompted, dealing her in to a game of rummy as Dad poured them drinks.

"Well... So it went something like this:"

"Man. Where did you even come from?" he(she/it/schlee/Wild still wasn't 100% sure she'd heard correctly) grumbled to himself. 

"Well, when a man really loves a woman," Wildcard began.

"Not what I meant!" Spiderling exclaimed, clearly horrified by where that could possibly go. "Don't you go to school or something!?"

"Nope, homeschooled!"

"Of course you are. You'd have to be, to be this crazy."

"Unless Ninjitsu and building robot spiders counts? I do head over to Sandro's house for that!"

"Who is 'Sandro'!?" 

"My only other friend except for you!"

"I'm not your friend!"

"No but you will be!" Wildcard assured, throwing an arm over his shoulder and squeezing, to his eep. He was stronger than he pretended to be, and much stronger than he looked; she could feel it in the tension of his fingers on her arm, like he was scared she'd strangle him. "Ha! You're so jumpy! Don't worry, Spiderling—"

"—My name is Shawn!"

"Shawn, Shhaawwwwn, Sha-aaawwww. Wait! This is very important: S-e-a-n or S-h-a-w-n?"

"The- I-I like the second one."

"That's the girl version!"

Cringe. "I know."

"Well quick reference check, are you a girl or a boy? Pfft, nevermind, it doesn't really matter! Don't worry, Shawn, I only punch bullies. And Sandro, but that's owed to our mutual sibling roughhousing agreement. True story, we wrote an amendment for it and everything! Can you tell I'm studying for a history exam? I know the word 'amendment!'"

"Oh my god, you're stupid, too."

"Pfft, if I were stupid, would I be admiring the book on String Theory you're holding? By the way, It's all garbage, trust me, I've had a dimensional theory primer from the best of the best."

"Who, your mom!? You're apparently home-schooled!"

"Close, but no! His brother. Actually, I don't really have a mom, but I do loan one out for special occasions and to help me out with dresses, and he is very supportive of my pranking sense!"

"How do you manage to put so many words together so fast that don't make any sense!?"

"Easy! I always make sure it's all completely true and then take out the key words that would anchor people with regards to what the sentences actually mean!"

"Wait." Shawn looked suspiciously up at her. "You actually do it intentionally?"

"Well of course, what did you take me for, a dime-a-dozen corner thug?" She gave a dramatic roll of her eyes. "Come now, Shawnling, would an idiot have been able to track you down?"

"Uh."

"Anyway!" she released him and gave him a hearty pat on the back that nearly knocked him over, "it's very useful for keeping people off balance when you want to get the measure of them, or escape without getting your eyebrows singed!"

"What... what...? Just... What?"

"Exactly."

They'd stopped at the white picket fence of a very tidy little suburban house in a halfway decent neighborhood (for Wildcard's standards at least). There were flowers blooming around the house, and a well-pruned tree, and everything was well-maintained and cared for.

Shawn was staring through her like he was trying to discern whether or not she had brains and, if so, why she was so bad at using them. It was a gaze she was fondly familiar of receiving from Sandro and Donatello, and therefore she decided everything had gone quite well. But no sooner had they been there for an instant than the barest hint of movement caught Wildcard's attention through the blinds of the house.

The front door creaked open, and Wildcard got a queer shock as a very shy-looking, doe-eyed man slipped out onto the porch. She'd been banking on meeting Ms. Jane and, in retrospect, that had been a hilarious oversight. Ms. Jane worked, and that made her husband the stay-at-home parent.

Peter Parker had an utterly meek look to him. Like he was a frightened deer who might bound off into the woods at the slightest twitch. His shoulders were pinched, his posture was submissive, his eyelines looked perpetually moist, and his lips were full but pressed flat, like he was already ready to be shouted at and like he'd always respond with meek bobs of the head and whispers of, 'yes sir, no ma'am, yes ma'am.' He looked like that stereotypical sensitive little boy in art class who had a crush on the teacher, and never spoke, whose smiles were always fearful and hopeful, and who looked utterly heartbreaking when on the verge of the tears. 

Youthful. He looked young. Shawn's father must have been at least thirty years old, or even forty, but his skin was still plump with youth, with what people called 'baby fat' because all the flesh was still pert and rounded and didn't cling tight to the bones. Wild had never had much baby fat, she'd always been angular. This guy had a more youthful curl to his chin and mouth than a kid less than half his age. 

He was also deathly silent, checking off a warning signal at the side of Wild's brain. Neither foot made a sound upon his welcome mat, and not a creak emerged from an ancient wooden porch. He didn't call out to them, even as Wild had clearly seen him. Between this and the eerie brown stare he had locked upon her, Wild had to imagine his neighbors found him peculiar. Like the 'adults think he's slow, kids think he makes lampshades of human skin in the basement' type of peculiar.

Technically, for all Wild knew, he did. Not everything could be as simple as it was in cartoons!

"Hi, I'm a juvenile delinquent! Nice to meet you, Shawn's Dad!" 

"Dad!" Shawn realized, and spun around and pushed through the gate at the front of the house to get to his parent. His father stepped forward—just one step—across the porch to 'meet' the boy. His gaze never left Wildcard.

Hehe, it's okay Mr. Predatory Animal, Wildcard tried to reign in on her smile. Your poor baby sling's safe with me. 

"What's up?" father asked son, voice almost lost in the ambiance. "Is your eye okay?" Weiiird thing was he hadn't even looked down.

"Y-yeah," Shawn dabbed at his bruises. "It'll be gone by tomorrow. Some kids ganged upon me. J-jason. Um. This, this girl showed up and drove them off."

"I see," said Peter Parker, voice still as soft and harmless as water droplets. "Thank you, Miss." 

Oh? Ooh! Ooh that was for her. She was a 'miss!'

"D'aww, no prob," Wild said with a bashful 'it was nothing Great Idol of my childhood' wave of her hand. "Beating up beanpole nerds is a cardinal offense against humanity, so I broke a nose and chased them off with a knife, which was completely sensible, but you might get some weird phone calls from concerned parents in the community. If it makes you feel any better, their kids were totally assholes they deserved it!" Wildcard gave a winning shrug.

Peter Parker gave a small, timid smile. "Thank you," he repeated, earnestly. "I'll talk to the school." He always spoke without moving his mouth or facial expression much, reeking of shy, shy, shy, shy, shy. Like he was delicate and could shatter if you pushed him, and underneath would be only terror. 

Shawn nervously rubbed his hands together. Wildcard recognized a tell. He wasn't just scared she was going to mention seeing him in Jersey. He was scared something else was going to happen, and he had seen it before, and he was equipped with enough moral reasoning skills to know it was bad. He hadn't told his father anything about her maybe being in on their family secret. That meant he was protecting her. 

That's sweet. Wildcard's grin won. That's very sweet. 

"Well I guess I should be on my way," she segued blithely. "Ooh! But, before I forget," she leaned on the picket fence with tremendous echoing sweetness. "If I find Spiderling climbing around the bad side of Jersey one more time, I'm adopting him and we're going to rob banks and eat ice cream and do space diving sans any appropriate safety gear, and pretty much just in general, I will be a terrible influence. You were warned." 

Shawn cringed. Peter blinked a few times, a smile tickling his lips. "Would you, um," he smiled like a nervous child, breathing out through his nose, "Would you like to come in for snacks, maybe?"

Wildcard shuttered her eyes. "Hmm. Depends! Do you or do you not have carrots and celery?"

"I do, actually."

"With chip dip?"

"Yes."

"Sold!" she agreed, and vaulted the fence. 

Chapter Text

"Squirt," Joker disapproved as he drew a card. "You waltzed into the spider's parlor?"

Wildcard paused in storytelling and peered baffled between her parents. "That's what Sensei said. 'Little fly, you walked knowingly into the spider's parlor.'"

"That is so weird," MIchelangelo gushed as he laid off cards into their melds. "You and Leo should not think the same things as often as you think them, you are totally nothing alike!"

"Told you, he reminds me of an old friend," Joker just purred. "It's only a poem."

A poem! Hmm. "Calling it now, Mom's going rummy," Wildcard advised her father as she laid off what cards she could.

"I know," Joker sighed, "it's not like he even has any tells. Where did you learn to lie like this, Sunshine? It's a thing of beauty."

Michelangelo only giggled conspiratorially as his turn came back around. He laid down all his cards and dusted off his hand victoriously. Wild and Joker both groaned and dropped their cards for a full accounting. 

"How is it someone can beat us at cards?" she asked her father in amazement. "I was sure our family had this market cornered!"

Joker just shook his head unknowingly and gave a big shrug. "It's a plesant surprise we don't."

"We must rectify it immediately! He's not leaving till we beat him!"

"Finish the story, Mini!" Mikey insisted as he scooted his chair back and went to check that quiche.  

As all sensible people would, Joker adjusted the score behind Mikey's back. By the look of the rummy score paper, the two of them were in an arms race making up ludicrous and numerically impossible scores whenever the other one's back was turned. Wildcard tried to not to start laughing, thrilled to see her father 'playing' with someone! What was Mikey up to?

"Well when last we saw our dashing protagonist," Wildcard narrated, "she had just agreed to a vegetable platter..."

The Parker homestead was, for lack of a better adjective, homey. The walls were built up in textured layers of yellow paint. There were family portraits along the hallway inward, and bright macro photography of flowers. Peter didn't linger behind threateningly, either, or lock any doors; he entered ahead of them at a brisk pace to get to the kitchen chairs and straighten them. Guests! Guests clearly meant everything had to be tidy! His nervous facade didn't crumble, leading Wildcard to believe it was genuine—

"—Now be honest," Joker said. 

"Pardon?" Wildcard blinked.

"What did you actually foresee?" he requested casually.

Wildcard's eyes widened. She glanced at Michelangelo, and then back to her father. 

"Don't do that," Joker scolded. "Never give away intel to a third party, not even intel about what you find to be strange or out-of-character; it can jeopardize a pivotal bluff. Come on, Squirt, you know this, what's with your body language? Whether someone is telling you to hand over the truth, the briefcase of money, or the cure to the zombie plague, either say 'no thank you,' or shrug like it's all the same to you, and jump right in. The only time you should be shooting speechless looks back and forward is when you're intentionally trying to play up an act."

Wildcard slumped in disbelief onto her elbows on the table, and gestured to Michelangelo with both hands.

Mikey's brows were peaked curiously, and he was blinking curiously between them both. He settled on Joker, surprisingly, and asked, "That's the kind of stuff you teach her?"

"She's training to be a ninja, right?" Joker asked almost rhetorically. "A ninja affiliated with four older, more experienced, adult ninja?"

Wildcard sat back in her seat, contemplating the fact that her father had just told her to casually explain her second-largest life-long secret to Michelangelo. Her father was the one who'd exploded on her for daring to tell Sandro anything!

Michelangelo looked worried and hesitant, as if he was about to say 'oh you really don't have to tell me anything.'

"You trust him, don't you?" Joker asked with a heavy-lidded drawl. Like this was a test. 

Wildcard grimaced, trying to decide what the right answer was. She glanced at the rummy score card, and then took in a deep breath. "Well maybe it would be more accurate to call Peter Parker skittish instaed of shy. Because—"

—There were a hilarious number of futures in which she died. Like, extremely abruptly, too. Faster then you could snap your fingers. Just, pop: dead. All it would take for her to off herself was one quick, ambiguous movement towards Shawn, like if she tried to throw another companionable hug around him without signaling her intentions. There wasn't even a split second nestled in there for her to try and react, nothing. She'd land on the floor, blood spurting wildly over walls and upholstery, staring up at her own severed arm, and the Superhero who'd just torn it clear off her body.

But honestly, how could anyone hold that against him? She was armed, she was around his kid, and she knew he was Spider-Man.  It was super easy to imagine Raphael might have done a similar thing if he'd been the one to catch Sandro topside playing with her. Like if they'd been playing at throwing-knife deflection? Oh yeah. Big Red would have signaled his arrival by splattering her. So this, by comparison, was a very generous reception!

"Have a seat," her host said, giving a hilariously skittish person's best 'inviting smile' before scurrying over to the refrigerator. 

Shawn lingered in the hallway, staring at the kitchen table, still wringing his hands. Wildcard knew what she was looking at. She knew this meant Shawn dad's had killed someone in front of him before, and that it had left a very lasting impression on him. She snickered at his face and ribbed him with her elbow, because doing so was safe as long as her hands didn't leave her hoodie pockets. "Hey if you think this is awkward, think how fun it's going to be introducing your first girlfriend!"

"What!?" Shawn squawked, coming back to the present with a flounder and a blush. "That's not-!"

"Or boyfriend? Whatever floats your boat, yo! Sandro's off limits, though, he's my damsel."

"Who the heck is this Sandro person!?" Shawn blurted.

"My only friend but you, weren't you paying attention the last two times you asked me?"

"I'm not your friend!" Shawn shouted in her face. 

"No but you will be, I guarantee! Wow it's like de sha vu around here, did someone accidentally print double of the same page?"

"You-just-this-!? This is not the time to not make sense!" Shawn finally articulated. "D-do you have any idea what-"

"Pfft, you worry too much, Sling, ooh, are those oranges?" she plopped into a seat at the kitchen table and stole an orange. Shawn followed her in, clearly more angry at her than afraid. He slapped his hands down on the table like he was trying to startle some sense into her, and leaned over to demand:

"Who are you?"

"I already answered that, too! Wait, are you like Drew Barrymore's character from Fifty First Dates? Do you have short term memory loss?!"

"No!" Shawn was getting more and more loud, more and more angry, and more and more hilariously adorable. He'd clearly never vented on anyone before in his life and was an utter amateur at it, and she wanted to pinch his cheeks and hug him to death and die laughing as she did so. "No, I don't have short term memory loss, you're the one being stupid and dense on purpose, and when you're meeting someone for the very first time, that's extremely impolite, so I don't know why you think I should just magically like you and want to be your friend!"

"Oh my gaawwwd," she complained, "you're holding a book on String Theory, nerd, you are supposed to be able to put two-and-two together! Are you going to make me spell it out for you? I have spoonfed you everything!"

"You haven't said anything at all! Cut the crap!"

"Point me to the nearest feces!"

"STOP IT! You called yourself a ninja, you stalked me in Jersey, you keep name-dropping someone like a mafia kid would, you attacked people to get to me; who are you!?"

She gave a tremendous roll of her eyes, scoffed, and sat back and peeled her orange with a pocketknife. "False, false, false, false, and false."

"None of that was false!"

"One: You are the one who called me a ninja. You called me a Foot Ninja and I was horrified and mentioned Nickelodeon, which should have been a clue, Two: I live in Jersey, you don't, and when a random new interesting person showed up on the rooftops, I obviously wanted to meet this kindred spirit and introduced myself; Three: the person I name-dropped, I also told you was a mutant, and you obviously didn't put One and Three together; Four and Five: I didn't know where you live, you bailed on me last Saturday after I told you where I'd be hanging, so I thought I'd check around local middle schools for you and see if you were okay; I followed some bratty kids who were after a nerd, found you, overheard them insinuate that either your sexual orientation or gender-identity were atypical as they vowed to do terrible things to you; I heroically rescued you, and then—after yelling at me for helping you because you're apparently a martyr who has to handle all these things completely alone—you led me here."

Shawn stared at her.

Wildcard took one half an orange peel, popped the orange slices back in it, and tossed it across the table to him. "Have some citrus, Sling, it's good for the immune system!"

"So why Queens?" asked a voice directly from behind Wildcard, and she nearly jumped out of her skin and turned to the sight of Peter Parker laying down that beautiful vegetable platter. 

"Pardon?" she asked.

"If you met Shawn in Jersey," Peter Parker asked in that cute, quiet, quiet voice, "and if you live in Jersey, why did you come looking at schools in Queens?"

Wildcard squinted at him. "Do you have no eye teeth?" she wondered.

Peter Parker blinked at her several times in rapid succession, a smile curling hesitantly at the corners of his mouth. Then he slowly dropped his jaw, and two long, beautiful, wickedly curved and pointed fangs slipped down from his hard palette and came to rest exactly where fangs ought to rest.

"Oh sweet Splinter," she gushed, "That's so cool," she looked back to Shawn, who was sitting in his chair and nervously wringing his hands again, eyes flicking up and down. "Can you do that!?"

Shawn's eyes widened slightly and he slumped forward a little, staring through her in disbelief that she could be excited at a time like this. 

"That's so awesome," she looked back to Peter Parker. "I read that that's a basal trait in spiders! The fangs swiveling back and forward instead of from the sides? I ended up reading a lot about spiders because I'm building a spider robot, even if technically it's a hexapod, but I'm pretty sure it still counts because it totally looks like a spider."

Fangs folded non-threateningly back away. "H-hexapods really do look like spiders," he agreed nerdily, dark eyes searching her. "You didn't answer the question, though."

"Oh, that," she explained, "your wife used to teach me Aikido, she has business cards and they put her all over the Hudson River Delta area. Everywhere but Queens, which makes sense given that she is using an alias. 'Ms. Jane' right? So I made an educated guess that turned out to be right."

"Y-you know my mom?" Shawn asked nervously.

"The bigger question!" Wild turned to Shawn, "Is how the heck my sensei knows her, because it's just occurred to me a secret acquaintanceship with her would finally explain why he mysteriously knew I have an aversion to joint locks and pins!"

"What!? Why is it strange for two martial arts instructors to know one another!?"

"Uh, because my sensei is a giant mutant turtle, duh," she rolled her eyes. "It's not like he gets to socialize with normal people much. Or at all. Come on, Shawn, Keep up!"

Shawn straightened. This was the first moment in which he looked shocked in a 'nervously excited' way, like he'd realized something good might be happening. "Who... What is Sandro?"

"Old enough to babysit you, so don't get any ideas!" Wildcard asserted. "But since you're only two years apart, and neither of you have any friends—except me—I'm going to have to assume the only sane and rational explanation for this state of affairs is not that your parents want you both to be lonely and miserable growing up, but instead that neither set of parents has told the other that they have children yet, because Safety. Woops? Over-protectiveness for the win? Regardless, that brings me to the point of my visit today!"

She spun back to Peter Parker. Peter Parker blinked rapidly at her. 

"There's no possible way Raphael didn't invite you to our massive Hamato Christmas Party. Even if he knew you'd refuse! I know how it is with them, you can't play dumb! So now that you know he and April have a kid, you should drop whatever you were going to do and come! Because Sandro and I and Donatello will love your poor baby Sling to death and teach him how to play Dance Dance Revolution and show him our robot spider and the dojo and all Sandro's pet snakes.

"Wait, Shawn is a boy, right? He never answered my question. Eh, doesn't matter, he can correct me if he'd prefer another pronoun; goodness knows sometimes I do! Anyway, I'm going to play a prank on my Sensei and it's going to be amaze-balls if you know anything about me, which you don't, but your kid would have a great time, and you'd be an asshole if you denied him that, so ha! Guilt trap!

"Also coming to the party will help counteract the terrible influence I will end up being on your son by introducing him to Sandro, who is an excellent influence on anyone, and can more than offset my terribleness!

"And- wait. I think that's everything. Yup! That about covers it. My piece is said," she dusted off her hands. "Ooh, carrots!"

Chapter Text

Michelangelo was slumped over their kitchen table, unable to keep his rummy hand straight, and cracking up laughing. Dad would have been using that to win, but he presently had his chin propped up on one hand and was watching her with a gleaming twinkle in his eye somewhere between the polar extremes of 1) 'We are moving to Hawaii and you are grounded until you're thirty' and 2) 'The vegetable platter, hEhEHeHehE, that's my girl!'

"In all fairness," Wildcard gave a winning shrug, "I knew from the start he was going to react to any mention of the turtles, so it was less a death trap, and more of a game on how to get Shawn pumped for the idea. I was like... ninety-five percent sure I wouldn't end up that evening's entree."

"You based this assumption on his reputation as a decent human being—as features in cartoons," Joker admonished in a gentle but ominous growl, as Mikey finished off those laughs with snickers. "Cartoons which depict him as a fun-loving, goofball, wisecracking teenager. Which you had just seen was erroneous."

"No, I pretty much based it off the fact that Raphael and April like him and his wife," she corrected.

"They also like me," Joker delivered in monotone.

"Okay, yup," Wild sucked in a breath, "Point ceded. I acted on someone else's character judgement. On the supposition they knew everything there was to know about the skeletons in their friend's closet."

"When both families weren't even talking about each other's children yet."

"Right," Wild rubbed guiltily at the back of her neck. "But, Dad, I could tell what I needed to do, and I could tell exactly what would set him off. His objective was the same as yours or anyone else's would have been: He wanted his baby safe."

"Whom you'd put at risk just by knowing about," Joker intoned.

Wild wilted back a little into her seat, and dropped her hand into her lap. "You don't get it," she said. "You've never wanted friends. You've never been lonely."

Her father's eyes narrowed a little, and she almost thought she saw a wince somewhere back there in the shape of them, but then it was gone. He didn't say anything.

Mikey reminded them both he was sitting right there (though how they could forget someone so enormous and colorful, who could say?) by winning the rummy hand. "Mini," he scolded as he laid off his final card, "That was mean."

She didn't say anything. Then her eyes widened. She looked at Mikey, and she looked at Joker, who perked up at her expression. Wild speant a moment being surprised, and then gave a big, knowing grin and looked away and started whistling. Mikey was confused and his gaze shifted between them. 

"What's-?" he asked, only to be interrupted by a crack as the chair he was sitting on gave up the ghost, all four legs broke, and it collapsed to the floor.

Wildcard burst out whooping like a hyena with laughter. "AHAHA! AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH!"

Dad at least affected to be surprised, but leaned over a very startled turtle with heavy-lidded eyes. He said, "I'm not sure whether to blame Ikea's engineering team or your body mass index."

Michelangelo colored up burgundy, or at least as far red as anyone who was normally sort of turquoise green could color, and scrambled to his elbows atop the table. "You could tell what was going to happen," he realized, looking at Wild. "When you said you knew what to say to Spider-Man, when you said 'there were futures in which you died' —?"

"She can see a very short distance into the future," Dad explained conversationally; Wildcard had contracted hiccoughs. "Somewhere between sixty seconds or five minutes, or some such. It's why she's a secret."

Michelangelo's brow furrowed and he looked Joker's way. "What good is sixty seconds?"

"Enough to know a chair is going to break," Joker looked back to her. "Enough to move out of a sniper's scope. Enough to know whether to raise or fold in a poker match. Enough to know when to pull a trigger. Enough to know if a room is trapped. Enough to know whether you'd be able to win a fast knife fight, or escape a hostage situation. Enough to unmask a disguise without actually ever unmasking it. Enough to know if the next thing you say is going to get you killed. But," he tossed his hand down, grabbed up the score paper, and started tabulating points, "it didn't tell her how that meeting would end."

"That's not true," Wild snickered, trying to swallow those hiccoughs. "If I die it makes a really, really big empty spot! It's easy to focus on what's left!"

"You had no idea how that meeting was going to turn out. It could have resulted in your death, in dangerous phone calls to outsiders, in you webbed to a building and left for the police; etc etc etc."

"I am an excellent judge of character," Wildcard disagreed.

Joker dropped the score pad with a heavy thud. 

Wildcard went quiet, and sulked, throwing her cards down so they could be scored. The hiccoughs tried to ruin her broody expression, but she successfully ate them and they died.

After a long silence, her father said, "You are supposed to be invisible. Certain people, nosy people, people with the right networks; they need to handled one of three ways: They need to be avoided, they need to be tricked, or they need to be trusted. The more people you put in category three, and the less you know about those people, the more you risk losing everyone else you've put in there by exposing them and yourself to danger. You are only fourteen years old. You can handle yourself with everyday thugs, but you stand no chance against the underworld of bounty hunters, billionaires, and assassins waiting on the upper tier. They have no idea we survived. They have no idea they ought to be looking for you. And somehow nothing I say can compel you to play things safe until you're older."

"Peter Parker is borderline autistic," she gushed out in anger, not lifting her head, "because his Spider Sense overwhelms him the same way my foresight overwhelms me. Acting weird and skittish doesn't make him an animal, it just makes it hard for him to meet new people! His son's lonely, and I could fix it, and it was easy, like it was criminal not to help, and I played the conversation fine, but you don't believe me so what am I supposed to say to defend myself?!"

"You consider that to have been 'playing the conversation?' No. What you did with Tony Stark was a good play. This was hysteric and sloppy."

"No, I picked something familiar, I mimicked someone I know he knows to set up expectations!" she argued at the top of her voice.

"Who? What do you actually know about Peter Parker?"

Wildcard looked up angrily, gaze sharpened, pulse elevated, ready to fight, ready to bite and tear and resist by any means necessary.

"Deadpool," Mikey realized aloud, startling her out of a viperous curl. "She mimicked Deadpool. His Twitter account has selfies of himself with Spider-Man. Like the 'taken while falling towards an active-volcano' 'being chased by a dinosaur' or 'there's a nuclear bomb going off in the background' sort of selfies."

Joker raised both brows and thought about that for a moment. "Oh." He sat back, calculating possibilities. "Well, now. That's just brilliant."

Wild's insides felt blank as paper, blank as marble. She stared at Michelangelo, and then at the table. Everything felt blank. Throbbing, cold, agitating, and blank. She got up, and pushed her chair away. "I-I need to..." she tried to articulate, turning away.

"Squirt-?"

Sandro sandro sandro. "I need a minute," she whispered, copying Yin as she fled towards the stairs, and mounted them as fast as she could, trying to reach the relative isolation of her bedroom.

Nobody stopped her.

Watching her go, a cringing Joker rose slowly to her feet. He winced when her door slammed, and stood there with his gaze fixed on the ceiling between himself and her. He sucked in a long, slow breath, and then muttered 'Shit' and leaned on the back of his chair.

"It's... it's okay."

Joker looked disbelievingly towards Michelangelo.

"Messing up," Mikey clarified, eyes round and sympathetic. "It's okay." He glanced towards the stairs. "But you come down on her hard, yo. Real hard."

"I have to," Joker disagreed, kneading the chair back. "She won't take anything else seriously; she won't think about her own safety. She won't think about anything bigger than the moment. Sunshine, I've watched that child dive headfirst into a gun fight. For no reason. Just because she wanted to see if she could win."

"... Did she?"

Joker leaned most of his weight back at the chair back and smiled thinly. Blue eyes widened at him, appreciative of what it meant. "That's half the problem," Joker said. "People talk about children who can win gun fights."

Michelangelo remained quiet, now visibly thinking, gaze shifting back and forth. He looked towards the stairs. "You need help," he realized.

"I need help," Joker agreed immediately.

Mikey gnawed on the edge of his beak.

Joker went to make sure the quiche didn't burn. 

"Hey, uh... I know you've raised her a certain way," Mikey began to suggest. "And this is just a guess, based on some side stuff I ready while looking up what Robyn was going through. Maybe something about the way you break down safety feels wrong to Mini, like it's from a part of the past she didn't like, and she's scared of falling back there. I dunno. Leo already put her through the ringer, and she didn't fight back at all. She got her tush into Hashi like the Devil was after her. And Leo, he didn't just yell at her for waving a knife around, I'm pretty sure he talked to her about it being dangerous, and about revealing secure stuff like Sandro's identity, so it was kinda the same sort of lecture, only... different?"

"Maybe that's it," Joker realized, staring through memories. "Maybe she needs the moral component embedded in it anymore, for it to make sense. I can't do that bit very well. If you didn't have a very strong moral compass, and you struggled to tell right from wrong, but you wanted to head in one specific direction... Wouldn't it feel reassuring to hear all the right indicators and vocal inflections indicating the teacher acknowledged and cared about morality?" 

"Dude, sometimes you even talk like Leo."

"Were there not rules about 'dude' and 'yo?'"

"Woops! Uh. Heh. Do you want me to talk to her, maybe?"

Joker turned to him. "Would you?" he hoped.

"Yes! As long as it's not weird! I'm on the job! Trust me, there will be heartwarming hugging by the end of the hour, I'm a professional!"

Joker couldn't help but laugh slightly as an orange turtle hurried his enormous shell up a very tight spiral staircase.

Chapter Text

The Hamato family Christmas parties were usually lavish affairs. Christmas was the one time of year, every year, when Sandro could feel completely surrounded by people. From far and wide, from across the world, from off planet, and sometimes even from outside the dimension, family friends flocked to the Hamato family doorsteps, all to have a massive dinner together and catch up on each other's lives.

Now, because the residence in question had insufficient rooms for housing so many guests, arrangements usually had to be made. Some people were 'normal' and could rent hotels, provided everything was done discretely and carefully (and in a hotel which Donatello had bugged to help protect it against Foot infiltration). Others people end up sheltering in an old, dry, seldom-used space in the sewers of New York City, which also belonged to the Hamatos and which had its own automated defense system. Still others would end up camping on the living room floor on futons through the evening. 

Traveling over the Christmas holiday was usually expensive, and some people had other engagements, so not everyone arrived or left on the same day. For the most part, though, the chunk of time between December 24th and January 1st was an elixir against the isolation which permeated most other parts of the turtles' lives. Donatello and Leonardo planned it out to an obsessive level of detail. Raphael and Michelangelo started impulse-buying fantastic decorations and fixing up the house. Sandro helped with everything. Their tree was always lush, gigantic, and coated foot to top in ornaments; wreathes and stockings hung from the walls; angels, and paper cranes and ornamental snowmen adorned every end table. The turtles—young and old—positively adored Christmas. 

Leo was certainly no exception. Christmas was one of those rare times where his skills in logistics and planning were needed outside a combat scenario, and he took tremendous pride in ensuring everything was perfect and that his household was positively gorgeous betimes his guests began to arrive. The task list he handled himself was extensive:

Food needed to be selected that accounted for everyone's different diets and allergies, portions needed to be calculated, bulk quantities of ingredients needed to be ordered, and often (owed to how frequently the turtles ended up roughhousing at their own kitchen table) fresh cook and dishware needed to be purchased. Budgets needed to be made. Rooms needed to be booked, gifts needed to be carefully selected, tabulated, compared against the budget, and ordered, tremendous quantities of festive products, ornaments, and decorative lights needed to be checked and often replaced; and an incredible number of linens needed to be aired out and prepared ahead of time for the people who would be sleeping in them.

Uncle Leonardo had a hand in all these things, which meant he was now talking more than usual, involved more than usual, and lingering by everyone's elbow to figure out what they needed, whether there was any of that in storage, who might already need or have recently purchased something similar, and what still needed to be ordered when to compensate. 

But as the days went by, everyone began to notice Hamato Leonardo appeared appeared to be looking forward to Christmas with the same degree of anticipation normal people looked forward to root canals. He was so grim-faced and reticent. He looked almost ill.

Sandro seemed to be the only person clued in to the obvious: This was the Hamato Family Christmas Party, Leonardo was the Head of Household, and presently their Miniature Chaos Incarnate was invited to attend. If someone had to randomly guess the one day of the year when Wildcard could manage to whip up a prank that well-and-truly embarrassed her sensei, that blew him out of the water and got him back for all the times he'd ever gotten the best of her, this would be it. Leo was the face of the Christmas party, and she could annihilate that face with any number of hilarious antics. Her options were unlimited. Heck, you didn't even have to factor in that Usagi would be coming.

But if you did, oh, well then, it was easy to imagine Wildcard showing up in a bright pink Easter bunny outfit and blathering, 'I messed up my Christian-Pagan holidays again, lol! Oh hey look, we're twins, he must have forgotten, too! Look!' right in front of someone (Usagi) who was a rabbit spirit. 

Poor Uncle Leo. He looked miserably resigned to it all.

Donatello was the next to home in on the realization Wildcard might be up to something. It wasn't like she was concealing her diabolical nature or anything. Weeks leading up to Christmas, she was already breaking out into maniiacal giggles in her tea at lunch time, and goodness only knew what the heck was going through her head. 

Donnie started hounding her steps, chastising her in proactively, suspiciously warning her against all the things she was absolutely not allowed to do which would ruin Christmas for everyone. Wild played innocent at first. Sandro snapped a picture of her face while maniacal-giggling, and used an online meme-generator to caption it with the word, 'Soon.' He showed it to her. She cracked up laughing, Donatello scolded, and Wild waved her arms rapidly to absolve herself. 

"I'm only after one man this Christmas!" she hinted with a wink.

Donnie wasn't a genius for nothing. As soon as he realized neither he nor Sandro's parents would be the target, he stopped bothering Wildcard at all, didn't warn anyone, and turned a blind eye to when she started conspiring with Michelangelo.  Sandro wasn't sure he wanted to know what shennanigans might be afoot in the near future, and plus he liked watching her and Mikey spend time together. He felt a little bad for Uncle Leo, whose only sin was in valuing things his brothers didn't value, like presentation and good face. Iit didn't seem exactly right to declare Open Season on him all year long just because other people felt these things were 'boring.'

But, then again, Mikey and Don seemed to prank Raphael a lot for how little Raphael was around, and the brothers definitely pounced on Mikey when a good opportunity rolled around. Heck, only Donnie himself seemed to avoid coalitions of brothers ganging up on him in the pranking roulette. Probably because he fixed everything for them. And cooked half the food. And had raised Sandro. And hadn't moved out to go be professor of a mutant college somewhere, abandoning them all. Ya know, that kind of thing.

Or maybe Donnie was just great at never doing the part of a prank that would make blame fall on him. There was also still the possibility that Uncle Don had lingering issues with Uncle Leo that hadn't been ironed out yet, and that he was unusually fixated on causing Leo distress. Hmm. Well, anyway-

"Hey," Sandro mentioned to Wildcard. "Have we talked yet today?"

"I don't think so," she concluded with a startled grimace, dropping her pen. "I asked you to pass me a water bottle during practice, but then I've had some seriously tough Chemistry homework I need to get out of the way, and you've been getting the house ready with your family."

He started laughing. "The more normal it is to have you around, the less we spend every second together."

She raised a hand in agreement and they knocked elbows and hi-fived. "Psychology, bro! It's a thing!"

It was the Tuesday before Christmas when the package arrived, and plenty of creatures were stirring, probably including mice!

By Decree of Sandro and Wildcard, who were being proactive so as not to get dragged around by well-meaning parents, Tuesdays and Saturdays were rest days. Rest days meant Wild did not go to the Turtle Homestead, not even for Ninjitsu or school lessons (Sensei's permission in this whole scheme had been vital, naturally). Saturdays were days for Sandro's parents to chillax without any loud maniacs around and, hopefully in the near future, spend time with Sandro. Tuesdays were usually Joker's day off work at the bar, giving Wildcard and Joker back time they'd sort of lost when she'd gotten a new friend and he'd gotten himself employed. 

Wild was practicing her Dance Dance vs. Sandro on the interwebs when she had to call their gaming time short, because,

"Squirt! There's a large cardboard box sitting outside with your name on it! It's not a missile launcher, by any chance, is it?"

"It's arrived!" Wildcard cackled befitting a holiday two months previous, darting away from a song Sandro was now going to beat her at and tease her with. "It's arrriiiivvveeed!" She dove onto he porch, which (thanks to the awning) was not covered in twelve inches of snow, and she grabbed hold of the cardboard box and heaved it inside. It weighed more than she expected, which was still not anywhere near enough to weigh her down.

She brought it inside, tore it apart with a ubiqitous kinfe, and grinned down at the ingredients within.

Joker came up and gave a low whistle. "That's purdy," he admitted. "You're really going to go through with it?"

"I must," she said, rubbing her hands together like a proper villain. "It's the only way! Nothing else would be quite so perfect!"

"Well have at it kiddo, it's going to take you two or three hours just to get familiar with how any of it works."

"Oh yeah," she agreed, reaching in. "Definitely. It needs to be perfect from top to bottom, not like I just slapped it all together at the last second. This right here, this will be some of my finest work!"

That night was mighty chilly. 

The wind blew stiff across the city, and hurried up faster in the tight spaces between streets, chasing people to move faster than they usually would. The snow had come down four inches yesterday but a blizzard was rolling in that evening that might lay down anywhere from eight to ten inches on top of that. 

In this kind of weather, cold just moved around you like a liquid substance, sinking in to whatever you were wearing and permeating it. Snow plows were loading up with salt and ready. Everyone had a shovel waiting near their door for morning, in case they needed to dig their way to a car, bus, or taxi. Everyone with half an ounce of sense in their hands was bundled up on a couch that evening, drinking cocoa and blasting the heat. 

Kinpōge, lacking for that aforementioned ounce, climbed up onto the arcade roof. She was wearing catsuit, gloves, banana, and scarf, with two layers of insulation on underneath. She pulled her hood down hard, tugged up her turtleneck, and tightened her scarf.

"Man I need to put on some more pounds," she snickered to herself.

She found the tiny alcove behind the neon letters with all the spikes of rebar thrust across it, and shimmied her way down into a hole that would never have fit a full grown man, getting herself out of the wind. She reclined lazily down there on a bit of rusted steel down there, polishing up some of her knives and making sure everything was properly sharpened. Snowflakes made it difficult.

A shape perched overhead and blotted out the stars, as darkness found the hole via magical means known only to the darkness, hunkered down over it, and reached down.

Kinpōge took hold of a leather-gloved hand and climbed out of her little alcove and into the silhouette of a dark armored bird.

"Ohayō gozaimasu, Sensei!" she greeted quietly beside him, using 'good morning' because the turtles usually did, regardless of time. "Yoroshiku onegai shimasu!"

"'Yoroshiku?'" her protective wind barrier inquired, feeling along her night suit and gloves as if displeased with something. "Hmm. I did not teach you this word."

"It fits. Right?" 

"It is unusually polite of you," he explained. "Your vowels are sliding. I can tell from your pitch accent that you have been perusing Kyoto-Ben podcasts. You will sound like you are saying 'chopsticks' when you mean 'bridge' and 'bridge' when you mean 'chopsticks.' Practice your different 'o's for a moment." 

"Kinpoooou-ge. Yoroshiku. Oha-yooou. O-negai." A cloth weight dropped over top of her shoulders and she blinked, surprised to find faux fur in her face. Apparently she now owned a coat. "I'm okay," she insisted, looking at it's black and white camouflage pattern. Huh. 

"Kaze o hikanaide kudasai. If your toes become chilled, you will inform me at the first available opportunity. This is agreed upon?"

"Hai, Sensei. Atatakai. Watashi wa atataki desu, atataki mara."

"Betsu no ichininshō o oshienakereba naranai..." he muttered to himself.

Wild snaked along in her mentor's shadow and buttoned up her new jacket.

"Snow plays tricks on the eyes," he exposited. "It can reveal much, it can hide much, and it changes the mindset of those working through it."

He didn't say anything at all about the Christmas Party. Not to inquire; not to forbid; not to warn.

Wildcard smiled wide. 

Soon.

Translations and Notes:

"Ohayō gozaimasu, Sensei! Yoroshiku onegai shimasu!" ~ "Good morning Sensei! Please teach (and guide) me!" Although these are standard phrases, they are only standard for one's first meeting, they are in polite form, and there are some subtleties to yoroshiku which imply respect for a senior persons's wisdom, making it a sweet thing for Wildcard to greet her mentor with.

"Kyoto-Ben." ~ Did you imagine Leonardo was chastising Wildcard for sounding like a country hick? He is actually discouraging her from mimicking a dialect which is perceived as feminine elegant and feminine ;)

"Bridge" and "chopsticks" are both transliterated as "hashi."

"Kaze o hikanaide kudasai." ~ "Don't you dare catch a cold."

"Hai, Sensei. Atatakai. Watashi wa atatakai desu, atatakai mara." ~ "Yes Sensei! (I feel) warm. I'm warm, and warming up." (As an elementary speaker, her Japanese is still single words, phrases, or has very unnatural grammar; she is also playing around with what is likely a new word for her, 'atatakai,' trying to fit it with other words she's learned.)

"Betsu no ichininshō o oshienakereba naranai..." ~ "We must teach you a personal pronoun other than 'Watashi.'"

Chapter Text

It was the Eve of Christmas Eve. Christmas Eve's Eve.

Staring out across the dimly lit Hamato household, with its flickering candles, Wildcard felt some soft, glowing kind of pleasure.

Wildcard had lived through plenty of Christmases, and they'd always been a nice family holiday, but one had to factor in that Wild had only ever had one family member, and that she spent plenty of time with him all weeks of the year. No matter how many presents they crammed under the tree, those presents were still only for two people. And while the warehouses they'd lived in had been able to fit some extremely enormous trees, they'd never had a cache of ornaments to doll it up with that went back all the way to anybody's childhood. Heck, they'd been lucky if they'd had the ornaments from last year. 

This was very different. 

The turtles had arts and crafts from every year of Sandro's childhood all over that tree, and some that had been around even longer—from their own childhoods. Stockings, six of them, stood out on a makeshift mantelpiece over the juke box, each one embroidered with names  and all kinds of adorable Christmas motifs like rocking horses, sleighs, trees, snowmen, and reindeer. They were ordered by seniority: April, Leonardo, Raphael, Donatello, Michelangelo, Sandro. Around them, on the counter tops, stood little ceramic Precious Moments figurines, some of which had been edited to wear tiny shells, depicting quintessential winter moments. If one peeked in the shrine, Master Splinter's portrait was up on the butsudan, usually with incense lit. Fresh poinsettias were pouring out of every nook and cranny of the homestead. Live wreathes hung up on the walls, some of which Wild had watched Raphael, Sandro and Michelangelo put together by hand.

Tomorrow would mark the start of the big Christmas Party. The most important days were Christmas Eve, Christmas, and New Years. This room would be filled with people, people whom Wildcard had never met, all of whom were connected to Sandro, Michelangelo, Leonardo, old Master Splinter, and the rest of the turtles. She was gonna get to participate in this party, in this family. So was her Dad, and that was the crazier bit!

It still wasn't her home, exactly. That somehow kept coming back to her like a boomerang. She'd throw it away, and it'd come back and whack her again, and leave her feeling a little insecure, a little hollow. Still, it was close. She wished she'd be spending the night, but, hey, she'd be here bright and early tomorrow! (Or dark and early? Meh, when you were nocturnal, sometimes you just had to steal normal people's Morning Vocab and re-purpose it for your own lifestyle!) And there was the added fact that she needed to set up her 'prank' and deliver it just perfectly! 

She slipped on her new black and white splotched coat (Sandro had told her she'd looked like a cow, not like a camouflaged assassin, heehee!), and she got her backpack on one strap at a time.

Michelangelo hurried out of the rear room, holding pins and a nail clasped in his beak and carrying something over his arm. Wildcard glanced over at him in surprise. He hopped up to the mantelpiece, and there, on the far end, in the most junior position, he lifted up a brand new stocking adorned in poinsettia patterns, and he pegged it into place with that nail. He backed up, and she saw 'Kinpoge' sewn down the side.

Ba-dump went Wildcard's heart, swelling by ten sizes that day. 

Michelangelo looked back at her and winked. "Gee, I dunno how this got here, it must have been Leo, eh?" 

She darted across the living room and pounced the world's most lovable turtle, and Mikey caught her and heaved her up and spun her around and gave her a big hug.

"The prank good to go?" he whispered. 

She gave a mute thumb's up, too overcome with Tremendous Love For Orange to say anything at that moment. 

He squeezed her tight. "Love ya Mini," he promised, and gave her temple a big smooch. 

Christmas Eve!

Guests were arriving left, right and center. It seemed no sooner had Sandro fetched a drink, put out a platter of shrimp, or helped an uncle pull something out of the oven and put something else in, than another set of faces had shown up at their door!

Employed in keeping the house running, Sandro hadn't yet gotten enough time to figure out just who was there, who wasn't, and who'd shown up this year who hadn't been able to show up in awhile. It seemed like one second he'd turned around to only Grandpa and Robyn being present, and the next their atrium, living room, dining room, kitchen, and dojo were flooded with people who were all eagerly greeting one another, hugging, striking up conversations for the first time in a year, and asking after friends, children, and distant relations.

Raphael had taken over the job of greeting everyone who entered, albeit much more casually than the Master of the House would have handled things. When he got distracted talking to Casey, Mikey switched off with him.

And Leo? Eh. Maybe somebody needed to go over and shake poor Uncle Leo, or... give him a pep talk. He'd ended up ceding the job of welcoming his guests almost immediately, and was roaming the gathering in a state of nervous agitation. The more guests arrived, the more crowded the room grew, and the more visibly distressed Uncle Leo became.  When Sandro glanced over at him, he was pretty sure Leo looked ill. Like slightly-more-green-than-usual styled ill.  When people greeted them, he smiled at them like smiling caused him pain, and kept his illustrious and elegant greetings clipped down to quick, 'it's nice to see you.' He lingered at a few conversations, but looked incredibly twitchy. Oh boy. 

"Here," Donatello interrupted Sandro's thoughts, handing him three wine bottles. "Get these over beside the punch bowl so guests can start helping themselves."

"Got it!"

"I don't suppose you've seen my apprentice?" Leonardo asked Raphael.

"Eh? No, but her Dad showed up about fifteen minutes ago and asked if we'd 'mind' if he mixed a few drinks."

"We told him he's not supposed to work at a party he was invited to," Case grinned, "but we ain't complaining about the booze. Look at this!" he showed Leonardo a cup.

"Delightful," Leo uttered with zero delight whatsoever.

"I figured she was already here by then?" Raph took a sip of his drink. "She's always fuckin' here, first second she can be!"

"That is true," Leo agreed tightly. "I'm just not certain where, at present."

Raphael laughed at him. "Yo, lighten up, Leo! Have some saké, for Christ's sake! Kid's'll be kids, she probably with Shadow, making faces at Sandro while he's tryin' ta talk ta people!

Leonardo gave a martyred sigh.

"You two need to get out there and have some fun," April laughed, coming into the kitchen with a big grin and tickling Donatello to stop him from checking in on the green beans for the thousandth time. "It's a party and you are going to work straight through it!"

"Well the food doesn't prepare itself!" Donatello chastized back in exasperation.

"Sandro hasn't even gotten to see anybody yet," Robyn scolded, coming in behind her sister. "Come on, me and Dad can handle the food for awhile, you need some margaritas in you!"

"Oh, Sandro," Donatello realized. "She's right, you should be having f—margaritas? We don't have mixed drinks."

"We do now!" Robyn snickered, grabbing his arm and pulling him off to obtain one.

"I'll hold down the fort!" April called. "Send me Honeycutt if you find him, he's looking for something he can do to help!"

"Pardon me," Leonardo butted very gently into a natural lull in the conversation nearest the punch bowl, while Robyn and a number of super-heroic guests were just finishing laughing. "Have you by chance seen my apprentice?" he asked her.

"Not yet," Robyn thought back. "She must be around here somewhere, I don't imagine she'd be late..."

"That's what I was thinking," Leo agreed almost gloomily.

"Well she's definitely not babysitting for anyone, I can tell you that," Robyn recalled slyly. "Doesn't she usually stick to Sandro like glue?" 

"Usually," Leo agreed glumly.

"Is something wrong?" he was asked.

"Oh no. Par for the course," Leo responded. "Do excuse me." He wove out of the conversation again.

Sandro had found Shadow in all the hubbub, and the two of them were trading friendly insults and shoves.

"Heh!" he gave her a one-armed hug and a gentle noogie. "Have you seen Wild?"

"Yeah she slipped in the second Mikey took up door duty. Is she up to something?"

"When isn't she?" Sandro asked rhetorically, grieving for Uncle Leo's loss. Something hilarious was going to happen, and Sandro hoped Michelangelo's involvement meant Wild's prank had been toned down to socially acceptable levels, and wouldn't be going overboard or devastating her poor sensei or anything. 

"Right. Uh. San?" Shadow cleared her throat. "I don't remember most of these people. I-I mean I know I've met them before and I recognize a lot of faces..."

"Oh, okay," he leaned over, hands on his thighs to talk to her more directly. "Who were you wondering about? Him? That's the Silver Sentry."

"Oh yeah... I remember him! Who's the totally derpy looking normal dude?"

"That's, uh, that's Timothy. Long story. He really is a totally derpy normal dude."

"Heh! And the giant spikey shelled guy, his name is 'Slash,' right?"

"Good eye, I didn't see him back there. Wow. I haven't seen Slash since I was almost as short as you. Let's go over and say 'hi,' he must be in a halfway decent state of mind if he not only made it all the way here but got past Dad at the door..."

"Uh. Is he less gigantic and crazy-looking from the height you are now?"

"Ehhhhh." Sandro made a so-so gesture.

"Leonardo-san!"

Leo went ramrod straight and quietly closed his eyes.

"There you are, Leonardo I have been looking for you!" 

With a deep breath to center himself, Leonardo gathered the inner peace he'd need to deal with whatever happened next. He turned a warm smile onto one of his most meaningful friends, and found Usagi standing there, largely unchanged over the years, ears still tied back and out of the way like a traditional Japanese topknot. "Usagi-san," Leonardo greeted with a bow. "O Hisashi-buridesu, another year has been too long. O-genki desu ka?"

"Ha! Okagesama de, genki desu,"  the white rabbit bowed in return, "Your Japanese remains impeccable. My English suffers, I do not know how you manage to keep these skills unrusted."

"It helps having three brothers," Leonardo admitted. 

"I imagine so! I have read in your letters, the year has been peaceful for you and your family. This continues to be so?"

"In a manner of speaking," Leonardo agreed, trying to keep the tightness out of his voice. 

"Ah, you have been blessed. Peace has been getting turned repeatedly on it's head for my family."

"You had mentioned. I am sorry to hear."

"Oi, do not worry about it now, not yet! It is hardly all bad news. I wanted to introduce you to someone." Usagi turned slightly, and gestured behind himself, and that was when Leonardo had to accept the existence of the shorter, younger, equally white rabbit standing just behind him. "This is my chōnan." 

His eldest son. 

Leo felt a wistful pang. The emotion did not show upon his face. He smiled attentively as the boy stepped forward to greet him with a bow. "Hamatosan. Hajimemashite, Akihide desu. Douzo yoroshiku."

"Hajimemashite," Leo greeted him back in kind. "Welcome to America, Akihide. Your father has nothing but praise for you in his letters. Is it your first time across the ocean?"

"Yes," the boy answered with a boyishly charming gleam in his eyes. He was tall, and a year older than Sandro, and looked every bit the proud young ronin. "We-"

It was precisely then that a high-pitched, sing-song-ish coo of, "Ooohhh Seennseeeiiii!" drifted through the throng of guests.

Usagi straightened in surprise.

Leonardo took another long, patient breath in through his nose. With a prayer to Father for endurance, he turned defeatedly, bleakly, and with excellent posture towards towards her arrival, acknowledging that the call for 'sensei' belonged to him. At more than a full head shorter than nearly everyone, she was temporarily invisible but for the sounds of footsteps and rustling fabric. 

And then there she was. Leonardo froze, and all expression, stony or otherwise, fell slack off his face in disbelief.

Kinpōge stood there with a gigantic, live, white lotus bloom perched atop her head like a bow. Rich, emerald, gold-trimmed, velvet ribbons spiraled through her hair. She was dressed in a thickly layered and immaculate furisode. It looked to be silk, dyed a royal green layered with gold leaf embroidery. The sleeves dripped like wings to the floor. The layers beneath were layered in gold and bright white, and the knot at the back of the kimono was elaborate and flawless. She was at least two inches taller than usual, which meant she was also wearing traditional wooden sandles. 

"O-matase-shimashita, Leonardo-sensei! Okurete sumimasenn!" she greeted in an elegant dialectal form Leonardo had never taught her to speak in, apologizing for tardiness with a tremendous bow that nearly had her level with the floor. Her balance in completely unfamiliar footwear was commendable. As she righted herself, her hazel eyes blazed green with all the color brought out of them by her dress.

Leonardo caught himself standing there, many seconds later, head tilted to the side; he'd been returned to his senses by the sight of Michelangelo snapping a picture of whatever it was his face presently looked like. He blinked rapidly at her fiercely victorious smile, and then turned back to a baffled Usagi and a perplexed eldest son.

"Did I hear correctly?" asked someone whose ears worked better than all of theirs. "'Sensei?' You are tutoring another in the art?"

"Usagi, please allow me the pleasure of introducing my apprentice," Leonardo said, gesturing subtly that she should approach. She did, gliding up to stand beside his hip, and he placed his hands on her shoulders to claim her. "This is Kinpōge. She is new to ninjitsu, and you must excuse her Japanese; she has only been studying for three months now. Kinpōge, this is my good friend, Miyamoto Usagi, and his son, Miyamoto Akihide."

"Hajimemashite, Miyamoto-sama! Uchi wa Kinpōge-chan desu, yoroshiku onegai shimasu!" she greeted and bowed again, perfectly mimicking a voice she had picked out from anime or other resources for exactly this purpose. "Ushi nihon-go ga mada heta desu!"

This child! She was referring to herself by an feminine pronoun from the birthplace of geisha culture to apologize for being unskilled in Japanese! Hahah! 

"Hajimemashite, Kinpōgechan," Usagi greeted her, apparently having consumed her act, hook line and sinker. "You are Leonardo's pupil? I see. And is he an excellent master in the dojo?"

"Hai!" she agreed firmly, all smiles, radiating light, innocence, and beauty up to their guests. "I am still learning the basic kamae. My footwork is terrible."

"Your footwork is much improved, child," Leonardo purred reassuringly, patted her head, and straightened to cross his arms back behind his midshell. "Why don't you go help Michelangelo welcome our guests, and then join your sibling in meeting those who have already arrived?"

"Of course, Sensei!" she cooed. "It was nice to meet you, Usagisama, Akihidehan!" she bowed out her farewell, and then off she went, floating like a little boat, having mastered the art of elegance in one committed month of proving she was an unchallenged master of toppling situations on their heads. Leonardo watched her go, and when she glanced back once his way, he tilted his head to cede complete victory to her; in the face of all the stunts she could have pulled, this, alone, he had not expected. She grinned and disappeared into the crowd.

Leonardo looked back to Usagi. 

"Where on earth did you find such a charming young woman?" Usagi asked him, as baffled by his choice of apprentice as Leo presently was.

"The slums," Leonardo answered, at peace.

Usagi tossed a raised brow his way. "She certainly cleans up well."

"Mn," Leo did not bust out crying with laughter, "a 'diamond in the rough,' for certain." 

Chapter Text

Unable to find her in the crowd, Sandro had apparently sent a fleet of peeping gator corgies after her, because Kinpōge was pounced first by one, then two, then all four tiny toothy rawrs. She laughed and had to have Michelangelo try to detangle them, and while half of them became obsessed with her dress, felt all over it, and peeked inside her sleeves, the other two tugged on her, and she managed to find her brother in the crowd. 

"What are you wearing!?" Sandro demanded immediatley, looking as stricken and panicked as if he'd walked into a theatre of barfing cats, hundreds of thousands of them, with no possible way to stop them all.

"Konbanwa, Sandrohan!" Kinpōge cooed with a bow.

"Oh my god," he gushed, soundeding as disgusted as if he was ankle deep in that cat barf. "Your prank. This was it?"

"I don't know what you mean! Clearly I am an elegant fairy, gliding to and fro like a little boat, welcoming people to our humble abode!"

"You still don't live here..."

Shadow was horrified. "Can I punch her?" she asked seriously.

"Not this time," he moaned, "not even though she deserves it."

"Oh come on!" Kinpōge broke character to hold out her arms and plead, "at least tell me I'm pretty?" A bunch of gator children squealed.

"Comparatively..." Sandro sobbed through a face palm. "How'd Leo react?"

"Oh I got him good," she snickered. "Don't blow my cover with the visitors, by the way, I am treating that turtle to a hilarious reversal of being Kinpōge-chan in exchange for all the days I got to watch him sick with dread!"

"I don't get it," Shadow snorted. "This isn't a prank, it's just being nice. Isn't it?"

"He's probably hysterical," Sandro confirmed this was definitely a prank.

"Pranks don't have to be mean," Kinpōge giggled, adjusting her lotus bloom. "They just have to work! Oh! Hey. Sandro, why didn't you tell me Usagi had a son?"

Sandro lowered his hand and blinked. "He has a big family. At least, I think."

"Well one of them is here," she perked up. "And he's just a little older than us. Maybe fifteen or sixteen?"

"Really?" Sandro perked up, looking around through the throng. He could see farther than her, and his gaze steadied on a certain direction. "Holy crap. I've never met him."

"Sensei introduced him as 'Akihide.'"

"'Akihide?'" Sandro's nose wrinkled with amusement. 

"Uh, does it mean something?"

"Yeah, it means," he swept a hand dramatically across the air, "'Dawn Hero.'"

Silence. Yin and Yang shared a look. Then they both cracked up laughing, till the latter decided: "I-I definitely prefer 'Shadow!'"

Shadow gave a fist-pump, possibly in imitation of the two of them, and they let her in on their secret handshake.

"Oh!" Sandro laughed harder. "Oh, you got introduced as 'Adorable Tiny Yellow Flower Girl in a Furisode' to 'The Dawn Hero!'"

"Why don't you go introduce yourself to The Dawn Hero, Golden Boy," Kinpōge joshed, punching his arm through laughter. "You two can argue about which one of you is the protagonist of this story while woefully underestimating me!"

Sandro saluted through laughter.

"Sandro!" Raphael's voice carried fantastically, even in the heavily populated room.

All three children looked up, startled, to see a surprisingly large number of turtles at the front door of the house, where Mikey had been welcoming in guests.  Yang and Yin shared a look, and then both hurried up to see what all the hubbub was about, leaving Shadow behind with the toddlers. 

"Sandro," Raphael's eye contact and the tilt of his head compelled him forward, and all of that wide body language easily made space for the household's littlest turtle to squeeze past bigger relatives. Then his father was settling a hand on his shell and introducing him to their newest visitors. "This is our son," he said, and the emphasis was the vital clue.

Sandro recognized Mary-Jane Parker immediately, because that one afternoon she'd given him with Wild in the Aikido room after practice had left a lasting impression. Instead of focusing on her, Sandro's gaze snapped immediately to the kid whose shoulders she was squeezing. Shawn Parker was as skinny as a rail, pale with dark eyes, and had a long, pin-straight sheet of red hair. Not auburn red like April's hair, either, this was red like carrots, red like Baby Damon's hair.

Both kids stared at each other, eyes widening in a moment of mutual, fearful, excited delirium deserving of its own caption: "You're real."

"It's a pleasure to meet you," Mary-Jane was doing the talking for her family. "We've heard a bit about you."

Sandro felt Dad straighten a little, and it occurred to him nobody might have told him or Mom about the Parkers' second invitation to the Christmas Party. Fortunately, Raphael didn't have to respond, because, " I heard you had a run-in with my maniac," Sandro blurted, still staring at only one person. "My condolences for your burnt neurons."

Shawn made a tiny laugh that was almost like a flinch, like he was 80% terror and 20% bravery, and the latter was only born of desperation. He seemed frightened of Sandro, and Sandro got the immediate read that it had nothing to do with generalized social anxiety and even less to do with how unreal Sandro and his turtle relatives all looked. 'You're built like a high school quarterback,' Wild had told him.

"The Mouse," Raphael uttered, twisting about in search of a child who presently could not be seen (possibly because of height; possibly because she had the good sense to duck behind someone).

"It was fine," Peter Parker unexpectedly piped up, almost lost in the background of his own family. 

"Can we maybe," Mary-Jane turned a little to address Apri, "talk with you in private for a few minutes? Just so everyone's up to speed."

"Of course," April wanted to do just that.

Peter nudged Shawn. "Do you want to go ahead of us?" he asked gently. To the party. A room full of strangers. Where the other kids were. 

Shawn hesitated. That was understandable. He had a long history of not faring very well in these situations.

"Wanna see my reptile collection?" Sandro gushed, hoping this would be dorky enough to seem non-threatening. "Snakes, turtles, tortoises, lizards... mostly snakes. I have a dwarf crocodile, about..." He lifted up his hands to indicate the length from butt to nose. "Without the tail."

Shawn stared at him a moment. "Okay." Small smile (yes!) "Cool."

Sandro beamed, and stepped to the side a bit. Shawn got one more reassuring shoulder squeeze from his mom, and then hurried across the space between them, and Sandro turned shell to keep it protectively between  this kid and the universe and ushered him encouragingly past all the parents and through the crowd.  "I'm so sorry," Sandro mentioned, "that you had to experience Wildcard on full blast already."

"Is she always like that?" Shawn asked him.

"She's got a hell of a lot of personality," Sandro confirmed, pushing his bedroom door open. "Sometimes more than one." He stepped in and put his hands on his hips, looking around for his crocodile. He had to get down on hands and knees to find her under the bed. He pulled her out and scooped her up like his baby, and turned back to find Shawn standing almost petrified at the threshold, like he was scared of entering. Sandro glanced behind himself, almost expecting the boogieman. Then again, this was a personal bedroom. Not that Wild had ever noticed. He returned to the doorway so Shawn didn't have to decide whether it was safe to enter, and smiled reassuringly.

"Here," Sandro offered a hand palm up. "Give me your hand. I'll show you how to pet her."

"Do you have the package!?" Kinpōge-chan demanded, once more out of character as she threw herself across the doorway to Sandro's room.

"Package secure, Agent W," Sandro reported with a thumbs up and a wink. Shawn had gone giddy peering into every terrerium and picking his brain with a thousand questions about his collection. The kid was now holding a ball python like the world's more precious kitten, petting her luxuriously. 

"Oh hiiiii!" Wildcard gushed, coming into the room with every intention to smother. Shawn stiffened like a deer in headlights. Sandro grabbed her by her kimono knot and hauled her backwards.

"Whoa there, crazy," Sandro forbade her. "Take it easy, kid's already been traumatized by you once this week."

"I didn't traumatize him, I rescued him, weren't you paying attention!?"

"Yeah well not everyone's happy to be a damsel in distress. Kay?"

Wild thought on this. "You're right. You're the only damsel for me," she agreed solemnly.

Sandro slumped. "Says the girl in the furisode."

"Oh yeah, look! My gender isn't ambiguous for once!" she agreed, holding up her skirts to admire them.

"Your gender's never ambiguous, you're just a bombastic nutcase with a height complex," Sandro sassed back, before it occurred to him that he did not know what gender Shawn was. Wild was using 'he,' right?"  Sandro looked back to Shawn, jerked his thumb towards Wild, and figured he'd reintroduce them on lighter terms. "This is my surrogate sister. Her name's technically 'Anastasia' but no one uses it. And yes, yes she is always like this. Definitely an acquired taste."

"Hi." Shawn mustered a wincing smile and a tiny wave.

"I just wanted you and Sandro to have more friends!" she pleaded her case, but then tucked her chin and tapped her forefingers together. "Sorry if I did it wrong, I'm still learning."

"You did it the same way you do everything, which is like a bullet train pushing a steamroller," Sandro muttered.

"It did work," Shawn mentioned quietly. "I begged my parents to come." Oh. "That... that... um... it's a really nice dress."

"Ha! Onegai shimasu, Shawnhan!" Wildcard responded with an elegant bow.

Sandro pushed her over and she squeaked and laughed and regained her footing, and punched his arm. He elbowed her. She grabbed his mask tails. He got her in a headlock. Both of them snickered and struggled until they finally noticed Shawn looking stricken between the two of them.

"Oh," Sandro blinked, straightening a little with her still in the headlock. "Hey, we're only really rough with one another, that's our thing, we're not going to be rough with you."

Shawn didn't answer. 

Sandro released Wild and she peeked out past his arm and then shared a concerned look with him.

"Okay," Wild extended a hand up to him. "New rule: No punching eachother in front of the new kid until he stops looking at us like that."

"Yeah, no kidding, deal," Sandro shook her hand. "I've never previously been part of anyone's post traumatic stress flashbacks, and I've no desire to start now."

"I-" Shawn stammered, "I-I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-"

"No, it's okay," Sandro waved both hands. "Wild mentioned you don't get treated very well out there."

The kid gnawed his lip. "Some days are better than others."

Sandro was quiet a moment. Then he looked to Wild. "Okay, now I want to punch whoever these assholes are."

"Thank you for saying that!" Wild gushed, raising both her hands towards their guest. "You see it now? Shell! Everyone's been treating me like a sociopathic crazy person for wanting to rescue this poor creature, isn't he the prettiest, sweetest looking thing you've ever seen?"

"Uh. It is 'he' right?" Sandro asked Shawn. "I have an excuse for being unable to tell: I'm a turtle."

Shawn flushed. "I'm. I'm a... a... a-a boy." He dropped his head as if in defeat.

Sandro listed back on his heels, appreciating how something big had just gone unsaid. He glanced to Wildcard, and then hesitantly, using the most nonthreatening body language he could muster, Sandro approached Shawn and turned his shell slightly to use it like a shared barricade. "What do I call you out loud?" Sandro asked. "And what do I call you in my head?"

"Out loud it's 'he,'" Shawn answered immediately, looking between the two of them. "In-in private it's..." he bit the bullet, he trusted them, he put his faith in the possibility people might like him despite everything odd about him, and he did it less than an hour after meeting one of them, which made him the bravest person in the room: "It's neither," he confessed. "Neither, or both. Y-you can use 'she,' if you need something, because it's the opposite and sounds better than 'it.' But not out loud, just..."

"Okay," Wildcard agreed.

"Sound easy enough," Sandro concurred.

Shawn looked up at them like he/she'd just been handed the moon. 

Sandro cracked an understanding smile. "It's fine. Nobody can make Wildcard into a six-foot-seven watermelon-breasted Tyrannosaurus Rex lumberjack. Or turn me human. If all you need to feel like you're in the right skin is acknowledgement of a non-binary gender, then consider it our honor."

The visible, hard gulps Shawn was taking probably meant she was going through something very emotional right now. Sandro gently touched her back, trying not to be too invasive of eprsonal space while at the same time offering some comfort.

"Speaking of that, good thing we just taught Shadow why using the word 'fruit' is wrong, so there aren't going to be any hilarious conversations on the topic in front of you," Wildcard blathered aloud to herself. "Thank Splinter for conveniently timed learning opportunities, amirite? Oh! Sandro. Shadow's looking for you, us, all of us, she's mad she's gotten stuck doing coloring books with the girls, I told her I'd send help!" 

"Right! Well then, Shawn, want to help us go color My Little Pony characters with four anthropomorphic albino alligators whom we technically shouldn't be responsible for babysitting right now?" Sandro asked.

"Yeah," Shawn whispered tightly. "I'd love that."

Chapter Text

"Hey, Robyn, give me just a sec, would you? Hon," April patted Raphael. "Can you see them?"

"Dammit,not again." Raphael complained from overhead of something only he could see. Mary-Jane and Peter both blinked at him. "The hell's it always unicorns for?" 

Robyn snickered. April sighed heavily. "Because that's what the toddlers like, Raph."

"Yeah well someone should introduce them to something else," he argued petulantly.

"You're going to take away the kids' favorite cartoon now, are you now?" April asked dryly, hands on her hips.

"No." Grumble mutter soccer dragons race cars grumble mutter grumble.

April shook her head, gave her guests an apologetic eye-roll, and pushed her husband and his enormous shell through the crowd to make a path for herself, Peter, and Mary-Jane.

What they found exceeded their expectations by a long shot.  A once-friendless boy was sitting casually, comfortably with all of the other kids, laughing and trading jokes about the Star War's prequels as the gang of them worked on their A Pony Pony Christmas coloring book.

Children, plates of appetizers, and coloring pages were strewn all over the place, with only Anastasia—was that Anastasia? Oh goodness—sitting in formal seiza to keep her outfit unwrinkled. One child scribbled aggressively on every interesting object; one child colored diligently in the lines; one child layered every interesting color over every other interesting color in a mess; and the last, the mellow and pragmatic girl in yellow, put green and blue in the background of her picture while Shawn neatly colored in the foreground characters for her. 

"Psst," Shadow passed Shawn a brownie, "how long do you think before they get bored of this and we can do something fun?"

"For shame," Sandro pointed with a purple crayon. "I'll have you know, I'm leveling up mad Crayola skills over here."

"Is she scolding me for not staying inside the lines?" Anastasia wondered aloud as a lavender-scarfed child took her crayon away, picked up her drawing, and waddled over to Sandro to solicit his help instead. "But... but...! You're four!" Twilight Sparkle turned around and gave a tremendous, sassy eye-roll and then submitted her picture to Sandro for repair work. "This is mutiny! I'm calling my lawyer! It's bad enough everyone's name begins in 'S' but mine, and now this!"

Sandro and Shawn had started laughing, with the latter nearly choking to death on his brownie, and the former reaching out to pat his back to clear his airways.

"I wanna play Mario Carts!" Shadow complained. "I'm going to be Bowser and crush all of you!"

From afar, Peter whispered to Mary-Jane, "Let's let them be."

"There you are, Hamato-san! I've been looking forward to meeting you."

Ooh! Sandro looked up at the unfamiliar voice, and then quickly enforced a pause of the Mario Carts (he was Player One)  and gained his feet as a white rabbit approached them. Miyamoto Akihide looked to be about fifteen, maybe sixteen. He wore fine Japanese garb and carried a sheathed katana and wakazashi at his belt, and stood a few inches shy of six feet tall. 

"Hi! Hajimemashite, Miyamotosan!" Sandro greeted with a light bow. "Sorry if I've been hard to find."

"Hajimemashite, Sandrosan," Akihide echoed with a smile. "Don't worry. In lieu of a formal introduction, I'll make my own! Though it did take me a bit to find you."

"Heh. You should have headed towards the video games sooner," Sandro teased.

"I don't game much, myself. No time for it. I do admit it surprised me to find you surrounded by... quite so many women," Akihide mentioned, with a glance around at what surely appeared to be a gender imbalance.

"Did you just presume my gender, Akhidehan?" Wildcard asked, back to being Kinpōge-chan and talking cutesy. 

"Shawn's not a girl," Shadow interjected.

"My apologies," was the smooth reply, accompanied by a charming smile and a tilt of the head, before Akhide looked back to Sandro. "I am glad we have this chance to talk. I am interested in hearing how your study of martial arts goes here in this foreign and subterranean setting."

"Sure," Sandro agreed, glad to have someone else his and Wild's age who had experience in a dojo. "Do you want to join us?"

Akhide glanced briefly towards the rest of the gang before suggesting to him alone, "I was wondering if we might talk as one chōnan to another?"

"Oh." Yin didn't glance back towards his Yang, but he felt her gaze narrow thoughtfully like they were connected by telepathy, like she was putting together a situation report of warning signs to brief him on:

1) Met Wild first but wasn't interested in talking shop with her, 2) Expressed disapproval over finding a boy in the company of females, 3) Attached social significance to being chōnan, 4) Wrote off Shawn and Shadow as irrelevant, 5) Exhibited no reaction towards the quadruplets, whom most people find adorable.  

"Of course," Sandro decided, switching from 'glad' to 'careful.' He smiled and held out an arm to indicate the rest of the household. "Why don't I show you the dojo?"

"I'd love that."

Behind him, after the two of them walked away, Shadow turned to Wildcard, all flustered that they'd just been called 'a bunch of women,' and probably wondering why Sandro had abandoned them. Hopefully, Yang could hold down the fort and reassure the rest of the group while Yin handled the niceties and not-so-niceties.

"This is our dojo," Sandro explained as they entered. 

"You have a tree in here," Akihide noted with an impressed chuckle. "I see the indoors have not treated it well."

That Sakura had survived seventeen repottings, two rounds of rambunctious turtle children, and multiple sieges upon the household. Leonardo explained that it had gone dormant during their exile, when it had been left alone to the dark; on their return, they'd found it barren of leaf and apparently dead. But Donatello had repaired the lights around it before any other fixtures in the household, and Leonardo had given it clean water, and it had sprung budding back to life and was flowering in time for Sandro's first birthday. The tree spiritually symbolized their dead aunt, Miwa, and flowered almost year-long. It had allegedly been raised from a single seed which had clung to the fur of Sandro's Grandfather after the death of Tang Shen and Hamato Yoshi, which he had kept as a memento for years before daring to try and plant it, and it was older than the mutagen incident—older than any of Sandro's surviving relatives. 

"We have many trees down here," Sandro noted conversationally, with a gesture around at the bonsais. "It's one of my Uncle Leonardo's lesser-known hobbies."

"They look in decent health, for dojo ornaments. We too, have bonsais," Akihide told him with a smile as they walked around the perimeter. "The most beautiful of them is over four hundred years old."

"That's an impressive piece of history," Sandro noted. "Some of our things are old, but none of them are that old."

"You've done what you can with the setting," Akihide absolved. "Down here it is nearly impossible to mimic the feeling of a traditional house, with its connection to nature and the open air, with walls that let in the glow of morning, and sliding doors to let in the breeze. Here is the opposite. Cloistered. Humid." They stopped between the weapons wall. "What weapon do you prefer, Sandro-san?"

"Oh, usually the kama," Sandro answered. "But I actually haven't picked a hard specialty, I can use tonfa and butterfly swords pretty well."

"I see. Ah, you should convince your elders to bring you to visit Japan, sometime, Hamato-san. We have thousands of Sakura, each of them more beautiful than the last."

"You get outside much?" Sandro wondered as they resumed walking.

"Yes, there are hidden communities nestled in the mountains that still belong to spirit people. Though I have never met an actual kappa before."

'Kappa' were turtle-like humanoid creatures from Japanese folklore. Sandro smiled tight. "Well, seeing as I don't have to balance a dish of water on my head to keep my powers," he joked, "and my arms aren't detachable, I'm not really much of an 'actual kappa.'"

"You certainly seem interested in human women," Aikhide drawled to suggest it was a joke, but Sandro's liver and stomach all went taut. "Legend has it the kappa came to the surface to steal horses and rape women, and that the offspring of such pairings were such an abomination to behold they had to be buried to appease the spirits."

"Well," Sandro allowed, "I'm not pretty, but thankfully my mother didn't have to resort to infanticide." 

Akihide laughed. "You have an excellent sense of humor. The girl Leonardo-san introduced as his 'apprentice...' She is a little homely under all that clothing, isn't she? I suppose it doesn't matter seeing as you'll never find out."

Sandro stopped walking.

Akihide raised a brow at him and then smirked. He leaned in close over Sandro's shoulder to whisper the taunt: "Though she does seem a little loose, so perhaps I am wrong. You know, I bet I could steal a kiss before the night is out. How much would you still want second place, then? Or will you settle for the sewage of others?" 

Sandro didn't reply. He eyed Akihide. The rabbit smiled, pulled back, and folded his arms behind his back in a subtle indication of dominance or superiority. 

"It was nice meeting you, Sandro-san," he said with a charming tilt of his head, and turned to rejoin the party.

Yin was a perfectly self-contained ocean storm, invisible to the outside, and said nothing as he watched the rabbit go. 

Chapter Text

When Yin finally left the dojo, it was to the sight of Akihide talking to Yang. She twirled around to show off her dress, and Akihide complemented her like a fine dessert item. 

Sandro stopped short. He pulled a breath in through his nose, nostrils flared.

He watched Akihide speak charmingly to Shawn and Shadow, both of whom were blushing. That rabbit made sure Sandro saw him there, turned a smile back to him, and then he bid the group of them farewell with a steep bow, patted one of the quadruplets on the head, and left them surely swooning as he went off to meet the rest of the gathering.

But the instant Akihide's back was turned, Yang's cherubic anime smile switched off. She stared after him like a sniper fixed on a called hit. 

Ai shiteru. Sandro let out the heavy breath he was holding. Then he jogged up to her. Her deathly stare slipped up to him, and she waited till he was in her personal space and had shut out vision of the party with his shell. Then she cupped his face, and Sandro leaned over her and butted his forehead to hers, breathing in deep. He better not have touched you. I'll break his fucking arms.

"What did he say to you?" she growled, unafraid and unmolested.

"I'm not going to tell you," Sandro uttered in a low voice. "It'd only make you mad. This is Christmas Eve and he's not going to ruin it."

"Then I'm not crazy? That guy was a narcissist." Shawn huffed, coming unexpectedly close to their heartfelt moment. They turned slightly towards him her, welcoming her into a triangle. "For a second back there I thought I was being paranoid. Are you okay?" he she asked Sandro, specifically.

"Yeah," Sandro almost laughed, coming down off his adrenaline rush. His group, his-and-Wild's group, no one had been stolen, hurt, touched, or tricked. "Yeah, I'm fine. Are you all okay?"

"I lied convincingly!" Shadow reported as she popped up under his arm. "I've been training."

"'atta girl!" Sandro gave her a hi-five.

"The babies don't seem to like him either, they're, like, conspiring over there and shooting glares his way," Shadow jerked her thumb.

"The mute children are good at reading body language. But bunny boy over there ain't a narcissist," Wild mused. "A bonafide narcissist would have gotten upset at being denied something. I signaled pretty subtly that he wasn't allowed to touch me, and he adapted like that was perfectly fine." She looked to Sandro. "You know what he is? He's a romantic. You know, like the definition you taught me for Language Arts?"

"He's a jerk," Shadow interjected. "I remember what he said about 'women,' I don't forget this stuff! Someone should punch him in the face, and Sandro has a good punch."

"Akihide's planning it that way," Wild suspected. "He doesn't just want to beat Sandro in a fight, he wants to look good doing it."

Sandro drew a thoughtful breath, and blinked thoughtfully out over their heads. "Like a classical hero," he realized. "Like his father. Being challenged to duels by monsters and famous knights wherever he goes, and obliterating his slow-witted opponents with superior speed, skill, and wit."

"Right," Wild agreed. "But if you won't play your assigned role in his story, he's apparently fine with goading you into it. Don't give him the satisfaction of being his story's protagonist. Treat him like he's unimportant. Your refusal to fight him will bother him for years, because deep down he won't know if you could win."

"Can he win?" asked Shawn, looking Sandro up and down. He was still new to this whole 'people fighting people as a legitimate form of establishing social hierarchies' thing, and Sandro was pretty damn impressive.

"I don't know," Sandro frowned at them. "I've never seen him fight. I don't know anything about this person except that he's a sexist douche. And I only just learned that. Kinda disappointed, but then it's not like I'm going to have to see him with any frequency, so... Oh well?" 

"I know something about him," detective Wild was on the case. "He wasn't able to sneak up on me, and his footsteps aren't as soft as his dad's, but the wear and compression of the leather on his katana hilt indicates it's used daily. He appears to have a sharpening kit on his person, so he goes everywhere armed. I 'accidentally' dropped a game controller, and he plucked it out of the air to impress me. His motions are extremely fluid and his reflexes are sharp, sharper than yours, but maybe only by a notch or two. He's shorter than you, and I doubt he's anywhere near as strong, but he's also at least a year older and a lot lighter on his feet and I will bet he takes this all very seriously and that he pushes himself super hard. Based on how he took you off to the side to size you up alone, I'd say he's done this to someone before."

Shawn raised a brow at her and then Sandro, who shrugged slightly to signal that, yes, Wild did study people like this and they should probably listen.

"And you've never fought a real duel against anyone. So, I'd say the odds are completely on his side," Wildcard concluded. "He's prepared. If you fight him, he'll win. So don't do it."

"Well that's no fair!" Shadow protested. "What if this guy keeps talking trash every time the adults aren't looking, do we just have to listen to it?"

"We could record what he says to us," Shawn suggested, drawing out a phone and shrugging.

Sandro shook his head. "He was really clever in how he spoke to me. He used a fable, and only dared to insult me directly once, at a companionable-sounding whisper. He's not going to let us catch him talking shit, and if his father doesn't believe us, or just says, 'oh, boys will be boys,' or anything approximating that, it's not going to end in Akihide learning his lesson. It's just going to drive a wedge between our parents. Usagi—his father—is one of my Uncle Leo's only friends. We can't do that."

"Usagi's nice," Shadow testified for Wild and Shawn. "He always brings presents for me and Sandro. Last year he gave me giant green hulk boxing gloves, and told me I'd be a great warrior like my dad. Maybe he doesn't know Akihide's a jerk? But parents don't always believe their kids are jerks. Trust me. I've seen it, at school."

"Here-here," Shawn muttered, giving her a hi-five of solidarity.

Wild tapped her chin. Then she looked up at Sandro with a gleam in her eye. "Can I handle it for us?" she asked with great solemness.

Sandro took a deep breath. Bait and switch. The whole rest of their lives, they'd be a team, the two of them, but for a moment he couldn't manage to speak. 

"I can do it, can't I?" she asked. "I'm Leo's apprentice. I have the right to ask for a friendly spar, and it would be an insult to my sensei and look bad on his father if he refused."

"Only if you'll swear to me you'll win," Sandro uttered, hoarse.

"I won't 'in' on a fight I can't win," she confirmed. "I never do. I wait for the right moment."

"No. Listen." Sandro leaned over her and grabbed her shoulders. "I'm not mad at him," he told her. "Just disgusted and mildly annoyed. I'm not my dad. I don't need to murderpunch anything to feel better, I don't have that kind of temper. But you do. I know you. I know when you're pissed at someone. And lemme tell you right now, Wild," he gave her a shake, "what I can't handle is watching you lose. You're the underdog, you got it? You're under trained, you're younger, you're pure human; the only thing you've got on him is the element of surprise pitted against his overwhelming sense of self-importance. You've got one chance. If you get overeager, and you mess up, and he wins—if talks down to you like all his gloating's just got validated—that's gonna be the moment I lose my temper. If you dare to get in the ring wit dat fucker, it ends only one way: You win. Clear?"

Wildcard sucked in a deep breath, leaning backwards on her heels. Then she gave a curt nod. "Clear."

Shawn giggled, and they blinked over at him her. She shrugged. "A lady's gotta defend her brother's honor," he/she said with a wink.

"Damn straight, only she ain't no 'lady,'" Sandro agreed with a sniff, straightening up to drop a hand on his hip and throw the other out in a gesture at his sister. "And has zero honor for me to defend, so I'll take what I can get."

Wild agreed with a cackle, clasping his hand and knocking elbows with him. 

"Alright!" Sandro cleared his throat. "Let's not worry about this any more right now, that bastard's going to expect me to simmer on this all holiday and then challenge him once the festivities die down for a bit between Christmas and New Years. That's plenty of time for us to enjoy ourselves and Wild to get out of this stupid albeit very nice dress."

"I vote we convince Shawn to let us play with Shawn's hair," Wild about-faced.

Shawn turned red.

"Why would we do that!?" exclaimed Shadow. "This is a party and the girls aren't nagging us for attention anymore, let's dump them off on someone else and go meet all the giant mutants and crazy super heroes!"

Sandro contemplated the situation and looked to Shawn. "I can french braid," he offered. Wild didn't even like playing with hair. 

"Okay," Shawn agreed immediately. "Apparently nobody who meets me will find that weird because they can't tell I'm a guy."

"The six foot reptile boy likes touching hair," Wildcard reminded their new friend. "You don't have to explain yourself to him."

Sandro snickered a little bashfully. "And the only person who thinks cosseting one's friends doesn't qualify as a legitimate form of play, is technically the prettiest female present."

"Right, so let's just have some kind of 'screw gender roles' warcry which we conclude every meeting of this congress with. All in favor?!"

Shadow wrinkled her nose. "I'm pretty!?" she demanded, scandalized.

"Almost as pretty as Shawn," Sandro confirmed to her utter disgust.

Chapter Text

After a great deal of chewing and deliberation, Raphael pronounced the Christmas Honey-Baked Ham to be flawless.

Donatello and Michelangelo did a victory dance, the former still wearing a 'kiss the chef apron' and boogieing with a wooden ladle. That signaled the beginning of dinner, and guests flocked to the tables which had steadily been encroaching on the rest of the floor space. Sandro and Wildcard Kinpōge-chan had been salivating hungrily over the ham the instant it made an appearance, and their appetites landed them (and Shawn and Shadow) seats at the main table. They proactively left zero room for any rabbits. Excellent social management tactics!

And oh, what a feast! Not even all the dishes were out on it yet, but there was at least half of Thanksgiving's best foods somewhere in there, getting utterly swallowed up by strange Asian dishes Kinpōge-chan had never before tried! She snatched up her chopsticks, only to have her hand slapped by Sandro. 

"Wait for everyone at the table to be seated," he hissed.

"Oh right." Family dinners were still pretty new to her, but the family had 'said grace' before Thanksgiving, too, now that she was thinking back, which had been a Japanese Politeness and Catholic Prayer combo. 

"And eat like a normal human being, and not like a wolf," he told her, while straightening her lotus.

"Right."

That thirty seconds it took the main table to fill up were excruciating, and then still nobody ate because Leonardo, who's seat was naturally at the head of the table, remained standing and watching as his guests found their places. She sat on her hands and schooled herself not to fidget. You can do this, Kinpōge-chan. You are a professional. 

Oh gawwwddd I'm so hunnnngrrryyyyy...!

Her expression surely glazed over with self-control as she listened to Sensei call for attention, and as several guests took their turns at 'saying something' inspirational over the table about Christmas, time together, mangers, Sandro, Splinter, Amen, guardian angels, etc etc etc—

Wait, there it was!

"—Itadakimasu!" Kinpōge-chan chimed in perfectly with the rest of the Japanese-speaking audience, bringing her palms together in thanks.

And then it was a free-for-all of people grabbing for food! Okay, not a free-for-all, her starving imagination was just getting the best of her! Everyone served themselves from the dish closest to them, and passed dishes. Kinpōge waited her turn. She needed one of everything!  She picked back up her chopsticks (to her her father's bemused eyebrow raise, from across the table) and loaded up (daintily) on food from everywhere, even if she couldn't identify what she was looking at. There were apparently twelve different styles of fried potstickers and boiled dumplings on the table somewhere, and she required a sample from each bowl!

"What is that!?" she gasped wondrously, for Donatello had leaned across the table and placed a great platter filled with an enormous fish. An entire fish! It had its head! It had its scales! Eyeballs were looking at her! 

"That," Sandro said with tremendous satisfaction. "Is Donatello's famous, whole baked, Jiangsu-styled, black carp."

"Jiangsu is a province of China," Donatelo educated her with a lick of sauce from his thumb as he went to get another platter for another section of table.

"China's a completely different country than Japan, I checked a map," she argued.

"Oh yo, Min! Master Splinter was originally from China," Mikey explained as he got a platter of finely cut sashimi and another of gray-brown egg slices in over her head and placed them securely in the center of the table. "Even if he considered himself Japanese!"

"Gasp." This was confusing new information! "Do any of you speak Chinese, Hamatosan?" she wondered.

"Donnie does," Raphael chuckled. "Rest of us just know what, 'Where did I go wrong?' sounds like when someone's shakin' dere head, muttering it to themselves, walking away from da latest food fight, eh, right Mike?"

"And any word dad kept misplacing the Japanese and English for!" Mikey agreed. "'Dirt' was always 'didu' for some reason!"

"Electricity was 'dié-tsai,'" Donatello recalled fondly.

"Remember dat one, too!" Raphael agreed. "Anythin' technology: diétsai-this, diétsai-that," out came a fantastic imitation of a Japanese-Chinese-American accent, "Donatello, my son, the diétsai-picture antenna have one again been broken by your brothers!" (Ha! Donatello moaned as if in pain.)

"Wh-well how does one eat a whole fish?" Kinpōge asked, reigning in on the urge to poke this terrifying fish with her chopsticks because that would not fit her present persona. 

"Like," Sandro leaned over the fish, using a fork and his chopsticks to detach the head as he licked his beak from side to side, "this."

He picked up the head.

Oh of course Sandro would love the one dish that was Donatello's specialty. 

Shawn and Kinpōge slowly gaped, not really in horror, but more in amazement, because that was a fish head he'd just put on his plate, and when he bit into it like it was a double-deckered cheesecake, so positively sinful was his delight, the two of them had to consult Shadow's facial expression to make sure this had happened before, and that the universe hadn't just turned inside out. Shadow stuck out her tongue in disgust. Yup, this was normal Christmas behavior!

"It is sweet." Leonardo-sensei unexpectedly deposited a large filet of fish meat, scales and all, onto Kinpōge's plate. "See how you find it. Here." He gave a smaller portion to Shawn, ever the gracious host.

"Spit out any bones," Sandro advised, crunching through who even knew what over there. Cartilage?

Kinpōge, who was always ready to unravel the world's culinary mysteries, gave Shawn a reassuring 'I'll handle this' expression, and then took a bite first.

She blinked, and sat back. Then she looked over her father, who started laughing at her facial expression.

"That good, huh?" Joker asked her. (Apparently this was as close as Joker and Leo were going to come to socializing.) 

"It's like a cozy winter curled up with a book, with a fireplace glowing in the background, listening to an oriental violin, next to a snowy window, with an apple blossom tree visible outside, sometime in early spring," she explained quietly. "Except in fish form. I think I detected a note of ginger."

That must have sold Shawn on the whole idea, because he/she shrugged as if saying 'well if it's all that' and immediately tried it.

"I'll stick with ham, thanks," Raphael muttered.

"Your loss!" Donatello taunted from across the room.

They ended up destroying that fish with Sandro. Leo nibbled on it with them. By the time they'd gotten to try even half the dumplings available at this smorgasbord, all that was left of Mr. Fish was his skeleton. People had to keep heaping new portions of it onto her plate because her furisode was at risk of getting dumped in sweet sauce. What a fish. What. A. Fish.  

As dawn crept up towards the horizon, the Hamato Household grew quieter and more subdued. Some presents were exchanged, between individuals who had plans the following evening and wouldn't be able to make it to the Christmas Day segment of the party. Someone had given Leo ninety nine brand new white pillar candles. Wildcard Kinpōge concluded a proper prankster would have individually wrapped each of them, so they must have been given in earnest. She wondered if there had ever been a hundreth candle or if ninety-nine was numerically significant.

Kinpōge had also finally met Slash! Sandro had caught her staring at those octagonal shell patterns for the thousandth time, and reminded her staring wasn't polite. Slash was intimidating and had an involuntary tic that made him look incredibly twitchy. His claws were enormous. But he happily turned to let her touch his shell, and smiled at them like he was already convinced to like each and every one of them.

He was also apparently a vegetarian, being a tortoise and all, and lived in Hawaii in a palm tree grove in the caldera of an inactive volcano. Ya know, cause, where else would have been a great place for a giant mutant tortoise's secret palm tree getaway? The palm trees appeared to be an important part of this whole thing, actually. He showed them a miniature palm tree bonsai, which he apparently took everywhere with him in a small pot. He explained some shinto priests had made it that tiny for him.

Now to be entirely truthful, Kinpōge had never entirely liked crowds, and though she'd been very polite in 'greeting' anyone, that was all the connection she felt to them. It wasn't like how she felt with the turtles. But armed with the Wacky Tale of Slash, her interest in stories was rekindled, and she wanted to know how everyone had come to be there that day, and Sandro took some time to introduce her and Shawn to the people he privately thought were the best. 

Afterwards, when they had the pleasure of realizing Akihide and Usagi were not spending the night in the lair and were actually residing in the New York Holdings, when Akihide left, the gang trekked back to the TV to get fat on leftover desert servings and relllaaxxxx. A few flicks of the remote landed them on an old stop-motion animation holiday flick about Jack Frost, and they slowly flopped together on and around the couch. 

Most people had begun the process of heading out.

"I think Auntie Robyn's heading off to sleep," Sandro mentioned as he scaled the volume down. "That was our official 'it's quiet time now' milestone in the Christmas Eve plan."

"Everyone who came here today knows about you," Shawn realized slowly, looking over at Sandro. "How is it you're still a secret?"

"Well, I know my family wonders about that. Worries about that," Sandro explained. "But this is a small crowd compared to everyone my parents have ever worked with, compared to everywhere they've ever been. Back when the Kraang were a more active threat, they worked a lot, sometimes on multiple corners of the globe simultaneously."

"So this is the cream of the crop?" Shawn was humbled to have made the cut.

"This is... these are the discrete or quiet or loyal people. The people with stable lives and reliable track records for playing cards close to the vest. Your parents are even more careful than mine are. Kinpōge-tan over here found out on her own. You can imagine how that went."

"It involved knives," she clarified for Shawn. The undercover maniac was slipping back into Wildcard Mode now that The Dawn Hero had finally left. "So not everyone gets an invitation to this party?"

"No," Sandro admitted almost guiltily. "I read once that kids pick their parents' friends for them, but this is still kinda extreme. My parents have tons of close friends I've never met, names I hear over and over and over again in their stories. My Dad likes to joke about this fox spirit who'd allegedly sell us all out in a heartbeat if she knew, and not think anything of it. I think she's technically his good friend. And Mikey... I think Mikey actually had a falling out with someone he used to skateboard with over it. Didn't make Donnie's whitelist criteria."

"Why are you such a secret again?" Shadow asked as she flopped into Wildcard.

"So the Foot don't know where the weak scale is," Sandro said, easing an arm around her and Wild along the back of the couch. "Self defense in Ninjitsu isn't just about combat expertise or laying the right traps; there's a lot of information control."

"If no one knows we exist," Shawn murmured gloomily, "nobody can be out there looking for us."

"Oh I get it," Shadow realized with a stretch. "Like when we went to the zoo. No one knows to get suspicious if they see a boy Sandro's size with his face covered." She frowned and tilted her head back to eye Shawn. "But what's special about you?"

"We'll tell you later," Sandro lifted a pinky promise for her to take. "After Christmas is all over."

"Are we gonna see you again after that?" Shadow asked.

Shawn rubbed her fingers together hesitantly, and looked the three of them up and down. "I-I hope so." Then she shifted awkwardly over into Sandro's opposite side, leaning into them like she'd never snuggled with anyone but her parents in her life. Sandro got an arm around her. Wildcard dragged down the couch fleece and tossed it around all four of them.

That's where Mary-Jane and Peter Parker ended up finding their child as they got ready to leave for the morning: half asleep and bundled up in a sports-printed blanket with three other kids. Shadow was already snoring on top of them. Sandro looked to be mastering the art of sleeping while seated upright. Wildcard was humming along with Christmas tunes, completely off-key. Shawn was curled up into the other children with her/his feet on the couch and her/his knees curled up to her/his chest, looking calm and at peace with her/his location. To say they didn't know what to make of the day's developments—or how perfect they'd been—was an understatement. They patted their son/daughter's arm to get his/her attention, and he blinked rapidly and pushed himself up. 

Wildcard and Sandro blinked awake and eased out from under a comatose Shadow to see their Spiderling off and thank his parents for bringing him over. Yin and Yang asked if Shawn would be able to come over the next day, or even if 'he' could spend the night. His parents answered that they had plans with family. So the kids asked if Shawn would be able to come over New Years.

"We'll have to think about it."

It felt a lot like a no.

Shawn shuffled back towards the two of them one last time, after she'd gotten her shoes on, and on her face was a lonely sadness they both recognized. "Um. Thanks for having me."

"Hey don't worry," Wildcard grinned big. "We're not evaporating the second you walk out the door. We won't replace you, either!"

"My only other friends are a maniac and an eight-year-old," Sandro elaborated. "Last time I counted that only makes three of us, so consider the fourth Mario Carts controller reserved indefinitely waiting for your return.

That sadness twisted into a bittersweet smile, and then lifted up into a more genuinely hopeful expression. 

"Oh!" Sandro perked up. "Shit! Hold up! Hold up, I almost forgot! Wait here!"

He hurried away from them to his bedroom. Shawn's parents looked to Wild. Wild gave an enormous shrug with both hands. 

Sandro returned, holding something or multiple something's behind his back. He pulled it in front of himself, and Wild was horrified to realize it was a brightly wrapped package. He'd had no way of knowing Shawn was coming! He'd just found out about Shawn's existance that week!

"I wasn't sure what to get," Sandro said. "And I didn't have a lot to go on, but, um..." he handed over the gift. "And, um, h-here, this is probably the better gift. You're going to have to buy food for her, so hopefully your parents don't hate me for this, but..." He produced one of his ball pythons, one of his his pet snakes, and he stepped closer and eased her on top of the present, still in her neatly coiled little bee hive. "From both of us." (Bro! You do love me!)

Shawn looked between the two of them as if he/she was about to cry. Then she threw her arms around Sandro's neck, and hugged him tightly. Sandro listed for a moment in surprise and then hugged back.

"D'awww," Wild approved tremendously, and hugged both of them. "We wuv oooo tooo, Shawwwwnn!" Shawn hugged her back, proving he/she didn't just love her for her Sandros.

"Who did dat ta da poor boy's hair?" asked a Red Turtle from somewhere above them, and Sandro busted out laughing at his priorities.

Translation Notes: That was likely a Wu dialect of Chinese. 

Chapter Text

Wildcard woke up! (That was a lie, she'd been laying there awake.) Uh, well, she got up! Was it the appointed hour? The alarm clock seemed to think so! 

She got dressed! She rushed to the bathroom and brushed her teeth! She combed her hair and got it all tidy and presentable! Today she didn't have a lotus bloom, and her flower from the day before looked rather wilted. Drat. She hadn't expected to need the furisode any longer, but now it was going to help her maintain the illusion of...

"...Daaadd!" she hollered, rushing out of the bathroom to his sleepy exhausted blinking over his coffee. "My dress has wrinkles in it!"

"That does happen to clothing after its worn, or so I'm told," Joker replied.

"What do I do, can I fix it!? Does it need to be laundered, I don't have the time to launder it, is it special because it's expensive, what if I break it?!"

"Hmm. I thought it was only for the prank?" 

"Oh, the rabbit dude is a super famous samurai warrior, but his son's a cheap rip-off trying to copy the feats of the original article, and that kid's said vulgar things to Sandro, things  which Sandro won't tell me about because he's too good a person, and now I need to challenge him to a duel in sensei's dojo tomorrow to recover my brother's honor, but I won't be able to hide my violently homicidal feelings unless I keep up the act of being a super adorable kunoichi whose only purpose is to look good while poisoning people's sake at the behest of her master."

Dad blinked slowly as if in deep thought. "Are you allowed to use grenades in a duel?"

"What? No. Dad. It's like I have to hit him with an unsharpened weapon or something."

"Smoke bombs?"

"Man wouldn't that make it easy, but no. Focus, Dad! The dress! Is it fixable? Is it? Sniff!"

"Hmm. I have a plan," he announced dramatically, and stood up and beckoned for her to follow. They went to the laundry room, where the magic would hopefully happen, and from the closet he extracted a device she had often seen in TV shows but never understood. "Allow me to introduce you to the poor man's secret weapon: The common household iron and ironing board. With it, even the lowliest of tuxedos can be rendered orderly. Unless it's stained. Or a person owns cats. Then that's an entire extra kettle of fish entirely."

"Teach me everything," she demanded. 

"Hey!" Mikey met her halfway through the sewers, sleepy-eyed and yawning. "You ready for presents?" 

"I am so ready for presents," Wild gushed, taking his hand and skipping along beside him, her backpack heavy with freshly ironed furisode. "I just wish we'd been able to afford nicer things for you guys! Being poor sucks."

"Aawwww, don't worry at all," Mikey laughed. "We've got everything we need. We make our own stuff! All that's left is the thought people put into gifts, ya know?"

"Hee!" She nodded. "You got me something, right?"

"Omigod, what would you do if I said no?"

"I wouldn't believe you!" she answered herself, throwing herself onto him and getting swung up onto his shell. "Woot! Turtle steed!"

Wild skid into the Hamato household and flung herself over a sleepy-eyed Sandro who was still in his pajamas. "Merry Christmaasss!" she squealed.

"Did you sleep?" he asked.

"I usually can't sleep Christmas Eve," she confessed.

"So you went home, laid in bed for four hours, and then came back here?" Sandro asked.

"I told Donatello twenty times it made more sense for my to spend the night," Wild protested. "Sensei had three extra futons in reserve, even after allocating two for Shadow and Mr. Jones in what he called the extremely likely event the latter would end up far too drunk to drive home; I helped him allocate and launder them, I know! But no, no, Donnie insisted said your parents would freak out, I asked why!? It's not like anybody's gunning for nookie over here, we're just talking practical logistics! I was going to have to sleep on the floor in front of the couch in the same room as your Grandpa for goodness sake, what's so scandalous about that?!"

Sandro groaned and slapped a hand over his face. 

Behind him, three O'Neils and one very hungover Mr. Jones peered sleepily over at them and blinked slowly. Wild beamed at them and waved. "I suffer from insomnia!" she greeted. "It's chronic!"

"Volume," Casey groaned. 

"Okay," Mikey yawned as he came into the household. "That's enough of Mini talking before Mini eats breakfast. I made pancakes!"

"He dyed them with food coloring," Sandro agreed, pulling her along. "And made them into Santas."

Wildcard looked around. "Where's Donnie?"

"Yo," said Raphael uninformatively from the kitchen counter top, while gesturing to an appliance with what appeared to be a soldering iron in hand.

"The coffee machine broke," Robyn elaborated. "We had to put him back to bed and give him a tab of Valium to hopefully put him out for another hour."

"Ohhhhhh," Wild winced.

"It was getting dangerous in here, shots were fired, we made a tough call," Mikey confirmed as he obtained those pancakes for her.

"Let me call my dad," Wild offered, reaching back for her phone. "McDonald's is still open on Christmas, i'm sure he can get something."

Several adults instantly flipped from looking at her like she was The Loud Annoying Demon They'd Just Woken Up To, and were now looking at her like she was Mother Mary.

"Extra black," April requested hopefully.

"Can I have a frappe?" Robyn wondered.

"I made black tea," Leo piped up sadly from the back of the kitchen, but everyone ignored him for reasons that made sense only to adults. 

"One super-duper order of twenty-four extra large coffees to go has just arrived," said Mr. Hamilton, the day's secular savior (hopefully, secular, because Wild had a feeling if her dad ever started a religion it would all go swimmingly until he got bored and convinced everyone to drink Kool-Aid so they'd leave him alone), who had arrived less than thirty minutes after the initial distress beacons had been lit.

He was carrying bags of drink holders stacked on drink holders, and managing like the talented clown that he was. Nobody was lucid enough to wonder how the heck he'd gotten them down a ladder without dropping any. They mobbed him at the door, relieving him of his burden and gushing tremendous thanks. Raphael even gave up on fixing the coffee machine to go over and get a booster, and then he lingered there to express his thanks.

Sipping on her extra dark black tea with sugar, and eating Santa faces with Sandro,  Wild couldn't understand what all the hubbub was about. She looked to her bro to see if he understood. He shrugged unknowingly, poured himself some more black tea, and popped in another sugar cube. 

In an act of selfless martyrdom, Leonardo selected a cup and crept off down the hallway. They heard a period of commotion, hard thuds, and the foulest and most creative cuss words that had ever graced Wildcard's ears, all followed by another abrupt silence. 

Donnie was able to join them not a minute later, dark circles under his eyes, glaring holes through the coffee maker as he slurped on extra dark coffee. When a frazzled Leo emerged from the hallway behind him, Sandro and Wild both gave a thumbs up. You did good, Blue, you did good!

Shadow showed up for food eventually, like a zombie. She wanted a soda as her preferred instrument of caffeination. Donatello had to be prevented from swatting her with a staff for wanting an unsuitable breakfast beverage. Donatello needed at least one to two more cups of coffee. 

Leatherhead was the last to join them, perhaps because he had four tiny children to wake up and dress for the day. They went to the bathroom to brush their teeth and wash their hands and faces, and then joined the family in the kitchen for fishstick pancakes, which was Mikey's newest invention. These pancakes also looked like Santa. At first the children were horrified to be eating Santa, and Pinkie Pie started crying. 

Wild's dad was more awake than anyone else present, and had apparently seen this before, because he swooped in to demonstrate that the pancake could be broken in half and that the inside was recognizable as food. "See?" Mr. Hamilton coaxed. 

"It's just pretend," Leatherhead elaborated.

The girls were relieved as Twilight Sparkle took one half and Pinkie Pie took the other, and soon they were able to joyously consume their brightly decorative pancakes as Mikey had originally intended them. 

By then, Sandro and Wildcard were already plopped on the couch and peeking through their stockings together, giggling at the silver dollars, knickknacks, lottery cards, and Hersey Kisses they uncovered. Wildcard told him both lottery cards were losers. "Man," he said very quietly, "you must be awesome at poker."

"Oh-ho, when we get old enough to visit our first casino, you're going to have to cut me off before the house gets suspicious."

"Instruction set received. Did you manage to get Shawn's number, by the way?"

Wild shook her head. "I forgot."

Sandro winced. "We might never see her again," he realized sadly.

"Don't say that. I know where he lives!"

He shook his head. "If her parents don't let her come over... you can't stalk him again."

Wildcard fidgeted in place, but the nodded, understanding. "You're right. It's up to them. I won't stalk her. I promise."

They privately congratulated one another on their excellent handling of that conversation; they'd managed to alternate every other pronoun!

Sandro had looked away from Wild for what felt like a single second to laugh at a joke. When he looked back, she'd crossed the living room and was sitting before the tree, shaking presents.

"Hey!" he hissed, hurrying after her. 

The gifts under the tree had been there for almost a week, and stood in an absolutely beautiful arrangement under the boughs. They included all the gifts Wildcard and Mr. Hamilton had bought for one-another, and any gifts the Hamato family had bought for Wild, so needless to say this was not the first time he'd caught her poking around the tree trying to count how many presents belonged to her.

"What!" she complained. "We're going to open them anyway, right?"

"Not like that!" he growled, taking the gift from her and putting it back.

"Well how, then?"

"There's a person who's designated 'Santa,'" he explained to her the ritual. "Usually my dad. Because, you know, it requires a red Santa hat. And then Santa finds and passes out one gift per person, and then we go around in a circle opening them individually or in small groups, saying who each one is from, and then we thank that person after we open it."

"This is like the opposite of actual Asian gift giving culture!" she determined.

"Well we're Americans celebrating a Western Holiday!" Sandro scolded in exasperation.

"And also inefficient!"

"It's not supposed to be efficient! Once you open up the presents there's nothing left to do!"

"Ohhhhhhhhh," Wild got it. "We're savoring Christmas."

"Yes," he huffed in relief. "That's a good way of putting it."

"Is there anything we can do right now? To help with Christmas, I mean. The adults seem kinda flustered. Robyn kaboomed on Thanksgiving, and now Donnie!"

Sandro thought about it. "You know, I think we have sugar cookies which Donnie stashed away somewhere so Mikey wouldn't eat them all. Hmm," he peered around, "usually we have music playing."

"Where does Donatello usually hide stuff?" she wondered. "The lab?"

"No. Mikey would check the lab. Naturally the safest places to hide anything from Mikey are in the laundry room, the vacuum closet, behind Leo's stuff, or under Mikey's actual bed, because he never cleans down there."

"I'll check the cleaning products!"

"I'll hit the bedrooms. Hmm, the data port on my phone doesn't match what we have set up for the house sound system. Do you have a Christmas playlist on Spotify by any chance?"

She whipped out her phone and twirled it like a pistol. "Duh, you helped me put one together, I've been using it as study music. Is the port right?"

He peered at the bottom of her phone, and then gave her a thumbs up.  

Chapter Text

On her way back from the linen closet with sugar cookies in arm, Wildcard peered in Leo's room to intercept Sandro in his search. Before he could leave, she hurried up and put a chaotic nugget of tape and wrapping paper on a shelf, where Leo would see it. He'd probably have to cut it with a katana to get it un-taped, hehehehe.

Sandro raised a brow at her and grinned knowingly. "Did you give him something you're embarassed to let anyone else see?" he asked, poking her playfully in the ribs.

"It's another one of my wood carvings," she admitted sadly. "It's terrible. And I only realized after-the-fact that it's kinda a stupid idea to give random ornamental nick-knacks to a person whose taste in decor is minimalist with a clear vision. "

Sandro started laughing. "He'll appreciate the thought. I have your Crocodile Buddha carving right up on my dresser, you know."

She sighed melodramatically. "I should have just given him a giant box of 75% off partially crushed bulk Lipton Tea bags."

"Now that woulda been funny," Sandro agreed with a big grin.

The kids' wildly eclectic taste in Christmas music, from orchestral instrumental pieces to 50s ballads to modern pop, rolled gently over the house. They'd laid out platters full of mouthwateringly delicious sugar cookies shaped like stars, angels, reindeer, and bells. Slowly, bit by bit, the family migrated into the living room.

Donatello had his goggles with him and was activating the passive recording function, apparently intent on making a home video. He'd mellowed out and was smiling contentedly to himself with a tall mug of freshly brewed, non-McDonalds, dark roasted coffee in hand as he slid into one of the armchairs. The kids gave up the furniture so the adults would have places to sit; they preferred to sit on the floor closer to the action anyway.

And yes, Raphael was naturally Santa. He teased the unicorn girls that this was because the full name was 'Santa Claus Claws' and brandished a sai that had them (and Wildcard) giggling. Hey, it was a pun. Who didn't like a pun?

"Okay, these four go ta da girls," came out the first wave of presents. "Dere ya go, not sure which one's supposed ta go ta which, ya might have ta trade or somethin' aftah ya open em."

Wildcard had been forced to shop at Dollar Tree. It was that or stuff she could ship from Amazon for under 10 bucks. Her tiny budget had disappointed her and she'd kept begging to buy a 15 or even 20 dollar item. But Dad was right: They had to keep up the illusion that they were quite poor. As a result, there was nothing she'd been able to get anybody which really approximated the level of her appreciation towards them, but, man, she'd worked at it.

"I can't read that," Raphael reported upon inspecting a poorly wrapped package, "but since it looks like an asylum inmate scrawled it," he nudged Sandro, "I'mma guess it's from ya Mouse." 

Sandro glanced lazily at it. "That's for Mikey," he determined with ease.

"No way that says 'Mikey.'"

"I think it's actually a picture of a sunshine. She's not a very good artist, either." 

Raphael looked at him a moment, shrugged an 'okay,' and happily passed the present to Mikey, who leaned forward curiously to take it. "Okay everyone! Kids go in two groups, parents go in three groups, a'right? Yeah, you with you. Youngest kids first!"

"My gift's from Donnie-Senpai!" Wildcard reported happily when her turn came, and then opened up what appeared to be a set of athletic gloves. In keeping with the theme of buying her things she needed for Ninjitsu, apparently? She rubbed them between her fingertips. They were thin, but she didn't recognize whatever layered, stretchy fabric they were made of. When she slipped one on, she realized they were very warm and the grips hugged the bottom of her fingers like they were molded for her. These weren't just gloves. These were I bet you are freezing your fingers off trying to do parkour at midnight in winter gloves. She beamed across the room at the resident genius, and he gave a tilt of his head in acknowledgement.

Michelangelo opened up his present curiously, assessed that it was a mug, turned it around, and then squeaked at the "World's #1 Mom" branded on the side. "Awwwww," he wailed, and opened his arms. "I need hugs!"

Hugs were supplied in liberal mieasure! Very few people in the house understood why this was so adorable, but, eh, they didn't mind not understanding Mikey's inside jokes. They didn't mind not understanding Wildcard just in general. Especially not this early in the morning after a party. 

As the rounds of presents went by, Wildcard quickly amassed a respectable collection of winter time athletic items, including snow boots and snow pants. Raphael and April had apparently jumped on the 'give the kid useful things' train, too, because she got a knitted scarf, a hat, and—

"Are these weightlifting gloves!?" she demanded.

Raphael laughed at her expression.

"Awesome!" she squealed, and threw herself at Santa to give Raphael the first hug he'd ever gotten from her. He tolerated it admirably! Sandro got a matching pair, woot, twins!

Donatello was skeptical when he opened up Wildcard's gift, which had actually been the cheapest gift she'd purchased and was quite small. He inspected the sheet of stickers she'd given him, and then started snickering and turned them around so the audience could see it was covered in Chibi Donatellos from the cartoon, all displaying different expressions and/or holding up signs to express their sentiments. "I love them," he told her. Two for two! Wild was winning! April squinted those stickers, selected and picked off one featuring a chibi Donatello with dark circles under his cartoon eyes, drinking from an actual entire coffee pot, and she stuck that sticker right on Donatello's cheek, and he snickered and blushed a little in embarrassment.

Wild's presents from her Dad were all clothing printed with her design, the design he'd engineered for her. About a year ago, Joker had started up the little online shirt design store to 'test out' superhero designs for her. The design that was presently selling like wildfire, the one he'd printed on the back of her night suits, was 'the unconventional compass.' It was a super simple design. Just a circle with a cross, where the top line ended in an arrow, just like a compass you'd see on the edge of a map. The only difference was the 'N' had been replaced with a 'W,' which meant nothing more than 'West' or 'Spelling Error' to anyone who didn't love the simplicity of subverting rules—in this case the rule that 'North' went on top—in such small and queerly satisfying ways. 

In sum, Dad got her two new hoodies, one black, one white, each with the design on the back; he also got her a few T-shirts to match. She got him the World's #1 Dad mug, and he and Mikey cheered one-another other with an, 'eyyy!' and a clink of mugs, to the bemusement of everyone else. 

Wild's gifts for Raphael and April weren't as remarkable, but she didn't think they'd expected them to be. She didn't know them as well as she knew the uncles. She'd had to pick up an old Sylvester Stallone movie for one of them, and some extremely fabulous sunglasses for the other. Sunglasses which Mikey clearly intended to steal if April left them unattended. 

Robyn had nearly been forgotten by Wild entirely until Dad had reviewed the gift roster and sent her back for one more present. And then Dad had told her not to 'write people off like that, no matter how tempting it is, especially not when they are biologically related to your best friend.' The notion of Robyn and Sandro being biologically related was a peculiar sensation to Wild but, anyway, she'd run back, pounced a baby aisle, dunked herself headfirst into a baby clothing bin about four feet deep, and—lo-and-behold!—discovered a bonafide TMNT onesie, all green with a brown belt, shell, and yellow plastron painted on.

Robyn started laughing so hard Wildcard gave her some forgiveness points, and everyone else groaned or started laughing, too.

Grandpa O'Neil wasn't somebody Wildcard knew much about, possibly just due to the accident of him being mentally connected to Robyn for her, but Sandro sure seemed to love him and Wildcard seemed to remember he was a doctor. He got the board game Operation, which probably wouldn't be of much use until his new grandson was old enough to have hand-eye coordination, but, eh, she'd tried, and she got a smile and a thank you in exchange for hr efforts.

For Sandro, though, Wild had gone all-out and demanded fifty bucks from her father. She'd begged and wheedled and finally bet him that she could win the money in a single night doing card tricks for his bar patrons. The Rhinoceros who worked as the bar bouncer had given her a twenty at the very last second and saved the day. When Sandro opened up his present, he beheld a do-it-yourself resin Millennium Falcon model, eagerly awaiting assembly. He turned a surprised grin up to her.

"I got it on clearance!" she squealed. "I hope all the pieces are there but I guess you know someone who can fabricate any missing ones!"

Sandro had prepared quite an unusual gift for Wild. When she opened it, and saw that it was a bunch of freshly bound books with titles in Japanese, she was initially confused at why he'd pick something she sucked so badly at. Then she opened the cover and found them to be filled with pictures of the human figure in different kamae and kata. These were martial arts manuals, the old inspiration for 'magic martial arts scrolls' in kung fu movies! They had elaborate notes written in the margins, entirely in Japanese, with words here and there she could just barely recognize. Each page was a fresh photocopy of something which likely belonged to the family, or even just to Sandro. She looked up to him in surprise. He grinned.

"I thought you could use some light reading," he teased. 

"I wuv dem," she attested, hugging her new stack of books to herself. "Ah wuv dem moah den ewy yoo-toobs ih existence...!"

"Good," he hugged her. "Because they're going to make you tryhard at Japanese lessons."

"Tryhard mode successfully engaged!"

Now then, her father, Raphael, and April exchanged nice, respectable, normal gifts of (ironically), coffee and wine. 

"I don't want to sound terribly cheap," her father said, "but the point of that wine is that it tastes exactly like a one-hundred and twenty dollar bottle of wine and it's only eighteen dollars. And I swear to you; it's exactly the same. There is no palette that will be able to tell the difference. I don't know if that knowledge will ever help you, but there it is."

"Hubby's got a surprisingly good palette for wine," April drawled, not at all offended.

"Then I won't even have to say the name of the wine it imitates; he's going to recognize it."

Raphael laughed and thanked him, promising to check that out later. 

Wildcard had gotten the Unicorn Crocodiles a coloring book each. Shadow had been the hardest person to shop for because Wild hadn't wanted to give her something which sucked. The solution had been some nice race cars. Shadow gave a curt nod of approval. 

That left only two people on Wild's shopping list, and both got their presents last: Mr. Jones, who got a mug that said 'I am hungover' and was (fortunately!) very amused, and Leatherhead whom... Wild had sort of been seeing each and every day for the past two months, but didn't really know anything about. He didn't talk much. And when he did, it only seemed to be to Mikey or Donatello. She'd resorted to getting him a book of sodoku puzzles, which had been right beside the coloring books.

"Thank you," said Leatherhead.

She grinned (like a crocodile?) glad to have not failed horribly.

Mission accomplished: Christmas bought and paid for on a budget! Go Wi-ild! Go Wi-ild! Woo-woo-woo-woooo-ooo!

Chapter Text

It was late. Like, 'dinner time' late. 

Kinpōge-chan had messed around too long playing with the other kids, and now she was in trouble. The first guests were arriving (and/or re-arriving), and if a white rabbit showed up before she'd resumed her costume, she'd lose an edge in the scuffle she had planned for early tomorrow morning. She got herself in the bathroom and pulled out her resplendent green furisode, and she tried to perfectly remember each step of applying it, despite the rush she was in. Darn it! She didn't have anything to put in her hair, and there was nothing about her hair which ordinarily looked oriental or even remotely beautiful.

Wait, don't focus on that! Focus on your kimono! Come on, now!

After trying six separate times to tie her obi knot herself, she desperately peeked out in the household, trying to glimpse—

—shi-i-i-i-ttt! Akihide and Usagi had already arrived! She retreated rapidly from view, prayed she hadn't been seen, pulled at her hair, and wondered why the hell she'd left her phone in Sandro's room (where she'd stashed anything that might give her true nature away, like her knives and training gear.) 

"This is what happens when you get too little sleep," she scolded herself at a whisper, slapping both hands over her face. "You forget how to awesome."

"D'ya need some help?" 

Kinpōge jumped out of her skin and blinked up, up, up at Raphael. "Can you tie a super impressive obi knot?" she asked the family's tailor, hoping for a miracle. "I have to look like an empress."

He fed a toothpick into his mouth like it was a substitute for a cigarette. "Any partic'lar reason why?"

Rapid mental calculation ensued. "I never get to be pretty," she said. "Just these days. Christmas. That's it. Then I go back to being me."

Raphael's face softened. He glanced over his shoulder, and then he leaned over, grabbed her by the back of the kimono, spun her about, and proceeded to tie something which put Michelangelo's creative skills to shame. Then he straightened her shoulders and her sleeves, and gave her a hefty pat. "Knock em dead, tiger," he encouraged, and Wildcard knew better than to throw her arms around his legs, clinging to him and wailing 'thannnkkk yoouuuuu!' at the top of her lungs. If Raphael ended up having a little girl next, if he and April did have more kids, he was gonna be the greatest daddy ever. 

Safe in the mantle of her elegant and girly alias, Kinpōgechan was ready to rumble. Or, well, the exact opposite of rumble. She was clothed in a second skin; she was to Kinpōgechan as Joker was to Mr. Hamilton. She floated through the party, helped some people find the punch bowl, and even stopped to say hi to Usagi and Akihide.

"Ah, Kinpōgechan," Usagi greeted with a bow. "Konbanwa! There you are. Have you seen your sensei?"

"Konbanwa Miyamotosama! Not yet. I'm a little vertically challenged," she looked around. "All I see is legs."

He chuckled. "You will need to excuse me. Had Leonardosan written to tell me of your tutelage, I would have arranged for a present."

"Oh! Oh, don't worry about it," she smiled her best innocent and radiant smile. "I don't need any presents. I'm in good company."

"Even so," Usagi smiled, drawing out a short wooden implement. "Can I resort to that most shameless staple of gifts from Eastern Asian?" he offered it to her with both hands and an incline of his head.

Well it had to be the worst form of impolite to refuse anything presented with an actual bow, so she mimed his body language to take the implement with both hands. It was a paper fan, she realized, and she unfolded it to find it covered in pictures of cranes. She beamed up at him. "I've actually never seen one before. Dōmo arigatō gozaimashita!"

"Charming child," Usagi praised. "Ah." his eyes narrowed and one ear turned. "I think I hear my quarry. Let me leave you children to have fun together; Leonardosan and I have only boring stories about a thing or two in Japan to talk about, and Akihide has heard the story twenty times already.

"Sure!"  Kinpōgechan piped up, fanning herself and half-shielding her smiling mouth, mimicking fictional characters.

Usagi departed, leaving her alone with her evil nemesis and duplicitous arch-rival (not that he knew that yet) under the expectation the two of them spend time together. 

"Konbanwan, Akihidehan! Have you seen the appetizers yet?" she asked.

"No. Why don't you show me?" he requested, even though they were in the same place they'd been yesterday. 

"Of course!"

He offered her his arm. "I am... to understand this is something customary in Western culture?" he asked.

She rapidly fanned herself, giggled, and took his arm. And so they did indeed walk together. Like a couple. 

"I saw yesterday you seem very close with many members of the Hamato family." 

"I like to help out," she admitted.

"Particularly close to Sandrosan. Did this acquaintanceship happen before or after you were chosen to study Ninjitsu?"

"Sort of at the same time," she cooed thoughtfully, tapping her lips. 

"I see. You are something of his... companion?"

She smiled at Akihide. " I get to train with him in the dojo," she confirmed. "Do you have brothers and sisters, Miyamotosan?"

"Over twenty," he agreed with a slight grimace, before winking at her. "Rabbits and all."

Was he boasting? About his father's sexual prowess or the implications this had on his own? Ah for shame, cruel boy. You're much too serious, and it's a laugh. 

"But I do not train beside my brothers any longer in the dojo. I am chōnan," he went on to explain. "It is a great responsibility."

"Like being an apprentice?" she wondered dumbly. 

"Well, no, not like you. Pardon, 'apprentice' is not usually how we translate 'soto-deshi,'" Akihide explained pedagogically, as if happy to help educate the less fortunate. "We reserve that translation for an uchi-deshi. An inside student. That is something very different. That is my responsibility as chōnan."

Kinpōge-chan giggled attentively. "How do you know if I'm one or the other?"

"Well, you can ask your master to explain, I'm sure, his grasp of Japanese culture is strong for an American. Hmm," he saw she was not satisfied and was obligated to alleviate her pout, "Ah. I know! What weapon are you learning?" he asked with a patient and warm smile.

She bit her lip and swiveled shyly in place. "The knife," she finally admitted.

"Mm, the tanto is the weapon appropriate to a woman," Akihide agreed like this was both expected and received his approval. "That and poison, for ninjitsu practitioners. Sometimes the paper fan is also used," he gestured to the one she held.

"And that means I'm not an apprentice?"

"If you were, wouldn't you be learning the katana?" Akihide let her down gently. "It is a pity to think mastery of so noble a weapon may never be passed to a new generation. Perhaps, some years in the future, I will come to study from him, that the knowledge is not lost."

Kinpōgechan smiled to light the room. 

I will shave you, skin you, tan your hide, and make a toilet seat covering from it, which I'll promptly install in a Men's public restroom. 

"That would be fun!" she tittered, and enjoyed fanning herself.

Sandro stalked up to them at the appetizers, rescuing her at the perfect moment when she'd have run out of polite things to say. Turtle Boy took a long, obligatory glower at Jerk Bunny. Then he grabbed tightly hold of her arm and herded her off towards the dojo. Akihide didn't protest, rush to her defense, or even frown. Akihide smiled with great satisfaction. That's all Kinpōgechan was: A cat toy for riling up his next opponent.

"Bye!" Kinpōgechan waved behind herself.

Sandro threw an arm around her and cut off sight with his shell. He breathed in to say something, and she could almost make out the future on his beak: Did ya have ta lay it on so thick?

Alarmed, Kinpōgechan hit on the idea of using one of the signs her sensei had taught her for 'silence!' on patrol.

Sandro remained mute. They got into the dojo, and into the little shrine behind it, where a short fat fellow was lighting incense for Splinter and seemed to be growing very weepy. He smiled at them and silently gave them a moment alone. 

Unexpectedly, Sandro had her phone on him! He passed it to her and then immediately texted her, "Rabbit ears," acknowledging the mistake he'd very nearly made.

"Mmhmm," she texted back. "He was scouting me out to see if he was overlooking anything. You almost gave me away."

"Won't happen again. How'd you get stuck with him?"

"His Dad's oblivious," she typed and swiped. "Probably wants him to socialize more instead of just following him around."

"No," Sandro typed with a grin growing at his mouth, "Akihide's very mature,  Kinpōge-chan. Geeze. Treat him seriously, he's not just some kid."

The two of them busted into snickers, leaning into each-other.

"I'm gonna pray for a bit," he told her out loud. It was a good plan; if Aikihide would pick just one time to snoop, it would be now, to see how Sandro treated her after finding the two of them together. Silence would be annoying and would get him to shoo. 

Her mind wandered as they knelt before the shrine. She glanced at Sandro and then picked up her phone. Wikipedia had an article titled, 'Uchi-Deshi.' The English entry was stilted and had clearly been written by a non-native speaker, which she supposed likely made it authentic from a Japanese Language perspective. 

"Uchi-deshi (内弟子, lit. "inside student") is a Japanese term for a live-in/apprentice student who trains under and assists a sensei on a full-time basis. Uchi-deshi usually live in the dōjō or at the home of the teacher, or in separate accommodations near the dōjō. He serves the teacher all day, every day. Duties may include cleaning and secretarial work. Historically, an uchi-deshi was typically chosen and groomed to become the next head of a school of martial arts when a direct family member was not available. Nowadays, the term is used synonymously as an apprenticeship."

 Kinpōgekun bit her lip. She flicked of her phone and twisted a little in place, catching sight of the weapons wall from around the edge of the shrine divider. A practice katana, sheathed, old, battered,worn and intentionally dulled to forego injury, hung there collecting dust.

"What weapon did your Grandfather specialize in?" she asked, looking to the picture on the butsudan.

"His cane," Sandro teased, "rapping on the shells of mischievous and rambunctious children." He saw she was serious, and frowned a little. "The katana, I think. Why?"

Michelangelo was unbelievably tricksy with Nanchaku, Donatello was a helicopter turbine with a Bo staff, Raphael was an outright super hero, and she'd gotten a glimpse of how those sai worked in battle, which was extremely unconventional and more like they were the Swiss army knife of the baton family. She sincerely doubted the world had any 'masters' of these arts who could steamroll any one of the four older turtles. They were all masters.

"I guess it doesn't matter," she convinced herself, or tried.

Chapter Text

'Andrew Hamilton' was on a mission. He pursued Michelangelo into the kitchen to help the chefs get the dinner laid out. Michelangelo played at zipping things out from under his hands right before he went to pick them up. Mr. Hamilton raised a brow, and then picked up seven different articles of food in rapid succession, forcing the family clown into a situation where he was precariously balancing everything on shoulders, elbows, hand, head, and shell-edge. Then he mimed giving Michelangelo a push. Fairly beaten, Mikey wisely scurried off to get those plates down on the table. 

"Donatello," Mr. Hamilton tried not to interrupt too badly. "Can I ask you for something?"

Donatello blinked down at him in surprise, toweling oil off his hands. "Me?"

Mr. Hamilton nodded. "It's about my little troublemaker's insomnia."

"Is she actually diagnosed with that?" Donatello asked.

"No, but she's always run on about four hours of sleep. Sometime's it's even patchy, a few hours here, a few hours there. When her schedule gets really regular, it sometimes stretches out to six. Well I can testify right now she's running off zero hours, and I'm starting to get concerned she might try to coast all the way to New Years on piss and wind, becoming steadily louder and more peculiar as she goes."

"Sounds like her," Donatlelo agreed, thinking about the issue.

"Right, and she forgets Raphael and April have just gotten home. Not everyone is ready to face her level of enthusiasm first thing in the morning after waking up.

The purple turtle snickered. "No indeed. Why ask me?"

"I wanted your semi-professional opinion. I haven't any insurance, and even if I did, I don't much like drugs to begin with," Mr. Hamilton explained. "But if I could give her just a little something tonight to take the edge off her nerves, it might help her reboot her normal sleep schedule. Thoughts?"

"Were you thinking NyQuil? Actual sedatives tend to be risky drugs, but if there's an underlying cause, such as nerves, a tab of Valium might do the trick," Donatello mentioned, before giving a self-aware little smile. "Same thing they gave me this morning. I'll see if we have one or two in the right dose."

"Oh would you? Thank you." Andrew Hamilton sighed.  "Here, let me get that for you."

"Oh you don't have to—thank you, I'll just get the beans, then. Third table, the other two already have one."

Kinpōge was waiting on Sandro to get back from the toilet, and watching over the toddlers.

Twilight Sparkle had apparently worked out how to turn the Nintendo and television both on, and now it appeared all four children were trying to teach themselves to play Mario Carts. Imitation was the highest form of flattery! From the look of things, only Rainbow Dash seemed to realize it was a racing game, but she was turned around facing in the wrong direction. Since Pinkie Pie was busy making friends with the scenery and giggling every time she ran over her own bananas, and Twilight Sparkle was busy experimenting with what literally every button did, this meant doe-eyed Applejack was presently winning by driving as slowly and carefully as conceivably possible.

There was a lesson somewhere in there. A lesson about tortoises and hares. 

Kinpōge's thoughts wandered, and she didn't notice she was frowning until an insightful, "You seem contemplative," came from overhead. Startled alert, she looked up to see Sensei daintily taking the seat on the couch beside her, holding a bowl-like cup of saké and sipping upon it. "What has your brow furrowed so?"

"Probably nothing important," she said. "Sensei, what's a 'chōnan?'"

Leonardo turned his head a little as if surprised, before shaking it subtly. "Something of high value only in historic or highly traditional cultures."

"Can I be one?" she asked bluntly.

Leonardo let out a breath in what looked like an almost wistful smile. He contemplated the innocent question, and then looked to her and settled a hand on her shoulder. She grimaced a little, maybe letting some of her frustration show.

"You do not need to be," he told her very earnestly. "And should someone place value upon being one, do not envy or argue with them, for you are their equal no matter what they believe."

Okay, that seriously cheered her up.  

"I hear tell through the grape vine that Sandro made an excellent impression upon a certain last-minute set of guests," Sensei remarked, releasing her.

"I did a good," she was sure. "With inviting Shawn. Shawn loved him. I knew he would."

"You did," Sensei agreed solemnly, watching the girls' learning their Mario Carts as he sipped his saké. "Even if your methodology requires extensive retooling."

She giggled. "Maybe so."

"Out of curiousity, child," Sensei asked, "what made you pick this sort of prank instead of anything, em," he plucked at her sleeve to indicate the dress, "crueler?"

"It's Christmas, Sensei," she chastised, like he was just plain silly for asking.

"Ah, I see. So this is my gift? That explains why you are as pretty as a present." 

D'aww! Sandro, the jerk, had called her 'comparatively pretty,' and only Akihide had complemented her, which obviously didn't count.

"This is silk and gold leaf." Sensei raised concerned eyes to her, brows furrowing.

What? Oh! He was worried about price. "Don't you worry!" She patted his arm. "Mikey helped."

That satisfied him. "I see. Were I to offer a gift in exchange, was there anything you had in mind?" he asked her.

She narrowed her eyes and thought about it. Then she held up her thumb and forefinger. "Well yesterday, I would have said, 'To see you very mildly tipsy on saké,"' she explained.

Sensei sat back, eyes widening appreciatively. "I dodged a bullet on that one," he concluded. "It would have put a dent in my wallet."

"I said 'very mildly!'" she cried.

"I heard you. I'm in excess of seven feet in height, and four hundred pounds in weight, with aggressive healing factor. That's a lot of saké."

Her eyes widened and a laughing grin lit up her face. "How and when did you figure out how much it takes to get you drunk?" she demanded

"Tipsy, tipsy!" Sensei chuckled. "I will tell you plenty of stories with time. You said this gift idea changed yesterday?"

"Yes, Sensei."

"And now?"

"Now I want you to let me challenge Akihide to a duel tomorrow morning after Ninjitsu warm-ups."

Sensei's gaze sharpened and his mood sobered. "No."

"I'm gong to do it whether you let me or not," she dug in her heels. "And if you try and stop me, it'll turn into an ugly verbal fight where you're trying to assert control over me in front of him and Usagi-san."

Steel eyes searched her. "Why."

"Because he wants Sandro to do it."

"To spar with him? That would be far more natural."

"Why? Because they're boys?"

"Because neither of them is a novice. It is natural for children to compete in friendly tests of skill along the way, but not when they have a scant three months of practice under their belts. Akihide has been training in the daisho since he was eight years old, child."

"That's the same age I started throwing knives," she asserted.

"Not in any formal capacity, you did not. And what is this about 'boys' I am hearing? Have I ever given you cause to believe I would deny you any part of a proper education owed to something as meaningless as gender?"

"No," the reassurance settled her belly. "So what are you afraid of? That I'll get hurt?"

"I am 'afraid' that you are a poor loser, child," he intoned with a warning edge. "And do not know when you are beat."

"I don't intend on losing."

"Ha. Then what is your 'intention' in winning? To prove something?"

She nodded curtly.

"This is not the forum. He is not your rival, and neither is he substrate on which to demonstrate your cheek."

"It's not about me," she recanted, falling back a little, frowning at the sustained disapproval. "He needs to be beaten by a woman, with the only weapon appropriate to a woman."

Pause.

Sensei set down his saké and leaned forward, brows furrowing. He searched her face. In the depths of that silence there were a dozen questions, and their answers, and there was something grave and ominous which billowed beneath the surface to cover everything, like a cloud; something that tasted sweetly of righteous anger. And after that long silence, her mentor said to her, "If you face him on equal terrain, as his equal, you will lose."

"How do I win?" she asked very seriously. 

"Priming," Leo uttered, staring through her, pinioning her there so she hung on his every word. "A spar in this context would be settled in three hits. Three 'touches' with the bokken or with unsharpened projectile weapons, or, in the event one of you is disarmed, with what remains to you. What you are able to pick up, his weapon or yours, or fists or feet. The fight mustn't go on that long.

"Akihide will not don safety gear against you because he does not fear you, but do not feel embarrassed or challenged in donning yours, not when I wear the same into live combat. If you are thrown to the ground, you must be able to feel your joints. Before the fight, in his brief, off-kilter moment to take your measure, he will know you are used to exploiting your agility against Sandro. Akihide is a rabbit. If you make for a wall run, he will see exactly what you intend and beat you at your own game.

"Furthermore, he is going to succeed in landing at least one strike against you. Perhaps two, so make them count. Get him into position. End it quickly, in one sequence of three shots, when he believes he has all the time in the world and his superior skill has been proven. Slip it in under the fall of his final bokken strike, if you must. The only blow you must land first, is your third."

"The only strike which matters is the third," she echoed.

Leonardo nodded. "If you lose," he warned, "do not let your disappointment show on your face. Turn your charm to its maximum setting and laugh everything off with smiles and complements. Leave him flustered he beat you, so the victory is unsatisfying. That will be your consolation, and will soothe the bite of how you feel in the aftermath."

"I won't lose," she said.

"That may not be up to you," her mentor warned her.

"I won't fight if I can't win," she promised. "It's my rule."

"And you are so perfect a judge of a situation that you can know the outcome before a battle is fought?"

"No, not by a long shot," she smirked. "But I can tell whether I stand a chance in hell, and that's usually a good starting point!"

"You are arrogant," he told her boldface, punctuating the words.

"I take after my sensei," she answered slyly. "So unless Akihide is a good tickle-fighter, I'm in the clear."

Leonardo let out a heavy breath slowly through his nose, quietly angry, and then patted her shoulder and stood, scooping up his cup. "Tomorrow morning," he growled. "Before practice."

"Hai, Sensei! W-where are you going?"

"To get more saké."

There was a massive present-opening ceremony after dinner, but before it had gotten even five minutes in, Kinpōgechan Wildcard was surprised to see her father beckoning her off to the side. He had her backpack and offered it to her.

"We should head home early tonight," he said. "We've already done our gift-giving and gift-receiving."

"What? But the party's not going to be over for hours!" she complained. "Why? Why do we have to go?"

"You need sleep."

"I can't sleep," she crossed her arms. "I'm not going. Do I have to?"

"Squirt." Her father leaned over and took her shoulders. "If you want tomorrow to happen, you need a clear head."

O-kay.... Okay. Dad had a point. "I won't be able to fall asleep," she disagreed. "I should try to tire myself out."

He glanced about and then reached into his pocket and drew out a packet of pills and tipped it into her hand.

Her eyes widened in disbelief. "You're going to give me drugs?"

"It's an anti-anxiety," he told her. "And ordinarily, no, I like your brain chemistry the way it is. But insomnia is a bonafide medical issue that does need a bit of management, or it affects quality of life. Whether you're excited, nervous, or simply off schedule, you're presently having an 'episode.' You didn't sleep last night at all. You didn't sleep the night before. You barely slept before that. You need eight to ten hours tonight. This is worth a shot."

She looked up at him, hesitant. "You're okay with this?"

"It was my idea," he reminded her. "Just because I can't teach you a new form of martial arts doesn't mean I can't be on your support team, right?"

She smiled a little, and then smiled more. "Right," she agreed. "Right."

"Did you warn BatTurtle you want to tango with the unny-bay abbit-ray?"

"I did. I got his permission."

"And did he give you an idea for how to approach the tango?"

She nodded quickly. "It was a good idea. You'd be proud of how realistic it was."

"Mnn. Alright then. Let's get you home so you can sleep on it, and see if this works. If it doesn't..." he took a deep breath, "well, there's always hitting you over the head with a club."

"Daaaaaddd."

Chapter Text

With a dark mood still hovering, Leonardo quietly eased open his bedroom door. Robyn and the baby were both fast asleep.

He eased the door shut, pausing briefly, as the crack of illumination from the hallway alighted on something out of place. He stepped up to his shelf, and extracted an object swaddled in a familiar pattern of wrapping paper. It felt relatively light, and like a singular weight instead of something more complex or capable of noise.

Pausing briefly at the baby's cradle to look—not to bother—he proceeded over to his futon, and knelt to remove his indoor footwear and dress down for sleep. The tourniquets of tape around the present might have been navigable by smaller hands than his, but still surely would have crinkled a great deal. He drew a katana out an inch, brought the wrapping paper up against it, and then replaced the weapon and unfolded the present from its cocoon.

It was an ovoid lump of wood, shaped not unlike a turtle shell, and blackened with some kind of wood stain. Painstakingly carved down it's center, and filled with white lacquer to make each stroke stand out, were the kanji "家族 ," the same as were etched in the exercise room (and still spray-painted here and there in peeling neon green paint over half Jersey and New York). The appearance of the calligraphy was so faithful, one imagined she had used a picture of the wall kanji as a template to trace the words onto wood beforehand.

家族, Kazoku, Family. One's immediate family members—siblings, parents, and children—or, more archaically, one's household, or one's clan.

身内, Miuchi would of been the more appropriate and modern word for the group of people intimately close to oneself, people who were as good as family to them, like how the turtles considered Casey and Shadow Jones family.

Leonardo stood, and exited the room. He dimmed the hallway lights as he went, walking through the empty dojo and into the shrine. He knelt at the todana to open it, and he found a suitable stand and brought it out to sit on the butsudan, where he placed the 家族 carving.

Kazoku.

...Family.

He knelt before the altar. Before the spirit of his father.

A fierce but vulnerable child sat there in her highly out-of-character dress, brows furrowed in troubled soul-searching.
Sensei, what's a 'chōnan?'
Can I be one?

Leonardo dropped his face into clasped hands, palms pressed tightly together, eyes closed. He rocked himself once, through something nameless, something like sadness or perhaps longing, and he breathed in hard and shuddering. For a moment, before his own parent, he could be weak and melancholy; regretful, disconsolate, natsukashii... 

...samishii.

Then the emotion passed on, as all things did, leaving tranquility in its wake.

He stayed to pray for some time afterwards.

The children were unexpected subdued at breakfast, eating sparingly instead of heartily, like their minds were on something else. They sat close together, almost facing one another, like some kind of solidarity or comfort was being exchange. Sandro was often subdued after big events, but Wildcard so seldom was anything other than Vivid and Loud that Donatello gave in to concerned, and came over to have a close look at her.

"Are you alright?" Purple Turtle inquired, very nearly tempted to pull out a pen light and insist on a cranial nerve exam.

"What? Oh," She smiled up at him and waved a hand to reassure him. "I just slept well," she supplied contentedly. "I think I was down for the count a solid eleven hours."

"She apparently talks more when she's tired," Sandro noted over his bowl of Miniwheats. "Opposite to sane people."

"Did you take a sedative?" Donatello wondered, but she shook her head.

"Nope, just whatever you gave my dad."

Raphael raised a brow from across the table. Leonardo paused in pouring his tea. 

Donatello didn't dignify them with a look; he was the family physician, and he'd matched the dose to her body weight and advised her father on all potential side-effects. "Well I'm glad it worked for you. If you're ever having another fit of particularly bad insomnia, you'll let me know?"

"Should I?"

He nodded.

"Will do, Donnie-senpai!" she saluted, some of her charm coming back.

He patted her head and turned back to get the milk out of the refrigerator. The rest of their family probably wouldn't be up for another three hours, and Donatello was thinking of laying back down himself just as soon as Usagi had arrived safely. Mikey had missed the early morning wake-up call entirely. 

"Usagi is joining you for morning practice, right? Like every year?" he thought to confirm with Leonardo, who nodded. Donatello thought about exactly what that implied, and glanced back Wildcard's way. "That should be fun." No kimono today. Leo's grace period was up. 

Leo raised a surprisingly heavy stare to him, looking as subdued as the children.

Donatello raised a brow and then just chalked this up to the pathway to enlightenment being filled with air and silence. Another three hours of sleep after cobbling together those exhausting dinners sounded like far more fun than two hours of listening to Raphael mutter about being outnumbered by boring uptight honor-types while Wildcard goofed off in attempts at 'impressing' the visiting ronin boy.

No furisode today. No night suit, for that matter.

She'd be facing no bullets or parties that morning. She wouldn't even be even facing a sharped edged weapon. One needed to dress for the situation at hand: Winter clothes for winter, lifting gloves for lifting, bullet-resistant night suits for heroic rescues of Damsels in Distress, and simple white training clothes for the dojo.

She pulled on her leg and forearm guards over top of them, wrapping the knees with practiced care, making sure they wouldn't impede her movements. She let the trouser legs billow out slightly over the tops, as she'd been taught. Her tabi were snugs. Two knives were selected as showmanship props, in the event that she might need to taunt Akihide a little. She secreted them on her person. Then she unpacked and lifted up her turtle mask for the first time in three days, and pulled it on over her head so it covered her hair. She tied off the tails.

Ready? 

She looked at herself in the mirror. A unattractive, five-foot girl, decked head to toe in the worst possible color for a ninja—white—smirked knowingly back at her.

Yang winked. 

Ready. 

"Hey," Raphael tapped Sandro's shoulder as Wildcard got dressed for practice. "Usagi was askin' me if you'd like ta have a friendly spar with dat son of his dis mornin'."

Sandro whirled on him, brows furrowing. "Did you say yes?"

Raphael raised a brow, not really having expected hostility. "Thought you'd enjoy a chance ta tussle with someone ya own level."

Sandro huffed a heavy breath out through his nose, like Raphael'd gone and ruined something.

Watch it kid. Don't get uppity before you've gone and explained yourself. 

"I'm not 'friendly' with Miyamoto Akihide," Sandro finally said. "None of us kids like him."

"What, on accounta dat stick up his ass?"

"He's trying to bait me into a fight like I'm some kind of bull."

Raphael frowned. "Usagi's kid?" Huh. "And that doesn't, ya know, make ya wanna kick his ass more?"

"I'm not getting into the ring with someone who's playing a game I don't understand," Sandro told him. "I don't have his measure."

"His measure? So what, the kid talks shit, acts all confident, and you just..." Raphael tossed a hand, exasperated and confused by this reasoning, "chicken out?"

Sandro flinched and swallowed hard, eyes narrowing. "Don't force me to fight him," the boy told him. "I'll forfeit just to embarrass you."

Whoa now. "You'll forfeit a fight with a entitled prick whose ass you want to cream to embarrass me?"

"I won't risk giving him the satisfaction of crossing 'kappa' off on his list of vanquished monsters."

'Kappa?' Raphael furrowed his brow and placed his hands on his hips. "Keep talking."

"His priorities aren't normal. I don't know if I can beat him, but I don't have to. I just have to deny him the narrative he wants. That's what I'll fall back on. If she loses."

"Narrative, huh?" This was starting to smell bad, worse than Sandro was even telling—Hold the phone! "If what?"

"Good evening, Leonardosan!" Usagi greeted, arriving promptly just before warm-ups could begin, because of course timeliness was next to godliness in this culture. "Raphael-san! I am not used to seeing you up so 'early!'"

"New Years resolution,"  Raphael growled sarcastically, as Leonardo came up to exchange actual pleasantries.

"Konbanwa, Usagi-san," Leonardo exchanged. "How did you find the party?"

"Oh, this year is as lovely a celebration as always. The food is honestly some of the best I taste in a year, every year."

"I shall pass the complements on to the chefs, my friend," Leonardo said with a bow and smile. "Are we to have our customary spar?"

Usagi glanced behind himself and then smirked back to Leonardo. "I had an idea that perhaps we two could wait until later... and instead let the younger generation have a little fun testing their mettle this morning, eh?"

Leonardo leaned back to consider, gaze heavy-lidded. "I seem to recall one of our students had a similar idea."

Usagi chuckled. "Boys will be boys."

"Indeed. Then, if Akihide would like to pose such a challenge...?"

Akihide had likely hoped to be challenged, as opposed to the other way around, but he had the flowery speech necessary to make up for it: "I am eager for such an opportunity, Leonardosan," Akihide agreed proudly, stepping forward and bowing. "It is a great honor for the student of one master of the art to test themselves against the student of another!"

"I was hoping you would say exactly that," Leonardo uttered quietly. He turned his head to call over his shoulder. "Kinpōge-kun!"

Akihide wasn't the only person who was startled.

"Hai, Sensei! Imasu!" A child bowed at the entry to the dojo and jogged up behind him, garbed all in white from the crown of her bandana to the toes of her tabi socks. The cloth over her head had been cut in the shape of a mask, the same as either Raphael's or Michelangelo's, and neatly covered her hair. In elbow and knee braces with shin and forearm guards, attired appropriately in styling for a ninja if not in palette, she was almost unrecognizable.

"Usagi, allow me to introduce my apprentice on a day when she's not pranking us by showing up to a Christmas Party talking with a Kansai lilt. This is Kinpōgekun, and I believe she has something to tell your son."

"I accept your challenge Akihide-san," she said, eyes alight.

Pause.

"Leonardo-san...?" This was not what Usagi had expected, either. "You mentioned she is still a novice, having trained only a handful of months... Surely Sandro is a more fit counterpart for such an occasion."

"Yeah," Raphael interjected, crossing his arms, "was kinda thinkin' that myself."

"Oh, I've nothing to prove," Sandro said, with sleepy eyes and a wave, earning him an incredulous stare from Akihide. "I'd rather watch. Besides, I'm not actually Uncle Leo's student."

"My apprentice can hold her own," Leonardo went on to explain conversationally. "And she is not so delicate as to fear a few bruises; we do not go easy on her, here. A proper spar would be educational."

"Many apologies, Leonardo-sama," Akihide smiled to mask displeasure with deference, "but I was hoping to try my skill against an equal."

"You wished to fight the student of another master, did you not?" Leonardo noted with a tilt of his head.

"Surely I must refuse," Akihide insisted, because there was exactly zero honor in swatting around an untrained girl.

"Well, if you wanna forfeit, that's entirely up to you," Kinpōgekun chirped.

Akihide looked to her quickly. "Forfeit?" he nearly laughed.

"You specifically challenged the student of the master. That's me. And I accepted your challenge," she reminded him innocently. "Sounds like you'd have to forfeit, or... go back on your word?"

Usagi looked to Leonardo with raised brows wordlessly wondering if this all deserved an intervention.

Leonardo shook his head to explain she was in earnest and to legitimize the challenge. "She has been looking forward to meeting her rival properly in the dojo."

Rival? Akihide could be seen to balk at the term. 

"Ohhhhh," Kinpōge feigned recognition. "I get it. You think you're gonna win! That's really cute."

"Please be silent," Akihide whispered to her like she had better stop this if she did not want to get slapped for insolence. 

"Ha! Lemme tell ya somethin' honey-buns," Kinpōgekun reached back, sliding jack knives out of her clothing and aggressively snapping them open to three feet in length. "I been gettin' in scraps over lunch money since I was a baby," snap, snap. "Exactly how many fights have you won against anything but your younger brothers and the students of daddy's other friends?"

Akihide's stare sharpened on her. Usagi was startled. Leonardo affected not to hear.

"Right," She grinned, licking the corners of her mouth,  twirling her knives over the back of her hands. "So ya gonna fight me or not, toots? I promise not to hurt ya. S'in the rules and everythin."

Akihide lifted his chin, contempt nearly naked, rank and privledge in full plumage. "Ukeire rareta kettō."

Cowa-bunga. Time for a tango. 

Chapter Text

The adults convened as the younger generation warmed-up.

Sandro sat between both upcoming combatants, peacefully preventing them from interacting with one another as they stretched.

So someone picked to interact with him. "I did not take you as sort of man to hide behind the skirts of a little girl."

"She's in pants." Sandro gave zero fucks, dignifying Akihide with only the most bored of expressions. "Aren't you wearing an andon bakama?"  An undivided hakama. A skirt.

They saw nods of agreement ahead of them, and the older generation returned to them with the command to rise. 

"Akihidesan, Kinpōgekun." Leonardo bowed his head lightly to each. "Because it is the first time one of you is partaking in a formal spar—" Akihide succeeded in not rolling his eyes, but the quick jerk of his chin gave away how he felt, "—and because one of you is a non-native speaker of English, I shall be highly specific in describing all relevant instructions so there is minimal potential for misunderstandings.

"First, the two of you will divest of your personal armaments. Yes, Kinpōge, even your favorite switchblade." She gave a thumbs up. "You will then select from the weapons wall. Be sure to make your choices carefully, as the wall will be off-limits to you during the fight.

"It was tentatively suggested that the two of you should spar only with wooden weaponry. However, as her master I am aware of Kinpōgekun's proficiency in projectile weapons, and that this rule would artificially handicap one combatant. Therefore, it has been judged in the interest of fairness, that the two of you will have your choice of wooden bokken and unsharpened steel. It is prohibited to strike with metal weapons at one another's faces, heads, or throats. You understand this, Kinpōgekun?" She gave a quick nod. "Good.

"The boundary of the spar shall be the walls of the dojo, excluding the section here, which is allocated for the safety of the sakura, weapons wall, shrine, and onlookers. You can see the dividing line. Please take note of your surroundings, including the water fixture bordering the room, Akihide. Recall from your lessons, Kinpōgekun, that you meet your opponent with a bow, and that combat begins and ends strictly with the words 'Hajime' and 'Yame.' No sooner, and no later. You will be fighting to three strikes. Is all of that quite clear?"

"Hai, Sensei!" agreed one child, as the other confirmed, "Hai, Leonardo-sensei."

"Then, because he is our guest, the first pick of weapon will go to Akihide. Kinpōgekun, please wait respectfully to the side until he has chosen."  Leonardo gestured to indicate the weapons wall, and inclined his head. "Akihidesan..."

Akihide's choice in sparring weapon ought to have been obvious.

Yet when Kinpōgekun watched him stride straight up to that lone practice katana and draw it forth from its sheath, she felt a pang of something intense and angry, something like jealousy. He felt across the edge of the blade to ensure it was unsharpened, and then swung it about to get the feel for it's balance. Usagi and therefore Akihide both specialized in the 'daisho,' which was a combo word for a katana paired with a shorter wakazashi. Which Kinpōge had actually known the definition of. Yay, anime!

This katana didn't have a matching metal wakazashi anywhere on the weapons wall, though there were plenty of appropriately sized bokken (wooden swords) to pair it up with. But Akihide didn't seem to feel he needed one.  He slipped his free hand behind his back, standing straight, and then turned back to them. "I select the katana," he said. 

"You may pick more than one armnament," Leonardo clarified. 

"I understand," Akihide answered, his gaze sweeping to her face. He wasn't going to pick anything other than that specific katana. The weapon of her sensei. If she'd had first pick, Kinpōge wouldn't have looked twice at the thing. She was looking at it now.

Kinpōge waited. She didn't jeer. She waited until her mentor looked back to her and nodded that she could approach, and then she walked up to the weapons wall and looked side to side. She must have seemed a little lost. She was calculating.

Akihide was trained in the daisho. Did this mean he'd be handicapped without the second sword? 

False. He does this 24-7. He's the son of a samurai. His father will have taught him numerous different strategies. The wakazashi is the the defensive blade, so eschewing it is an all-out offensive move, which is either extremely ballsy, seeing as he just heard I like throwing things, or it means he is extremely quick. The katana is made for a second hand and will move differently and with tighter precision this way. 

She thought about how hard or fast she could throw unsharpened throwing stars. Stars weren't knives. They weren't her preferred throwing weapon. They were shorter ranged, less aerodynamic, and comparatively clumsy. Their purpose was to disable, hamper, and occasionally hit things around corners; they weren't for death blows. Against super-agile-rabbit boy, she'd be able to guarantee hits at no greater than point blank, which meant she'd have to enter the katana's striking range.

Her eyes slid over two bokken shaped like katana. He's probably trying to bait you into picking them. That would just be stupid of you. Her gaze roved up. She approached the wall and drew a metal tanto from it's scabbard. She felt the edge, and then left it's sibling there, unchosen, and tied it solo to her side. She stood on her toes and plucked throwing stars free: One, two, three. She slipped them between her knuckles, flicking the metal of the first star up and down to fidget with it. Was that all she needed?

No.

Her gaze darted to the katana sheath, hanging abandoned there. She hurried to it, and pulled it free of it's tired, worn sash to examine it.

This. 

She turned back to everyone, holding the final ingredient like a proper katana bokken. "I've made my choice," she said. 

Master Leonardo's gaze was narrowed on her. Explain to me how you have just been manipulated into selecting a weapon you do not know how to use, his stare said.

"That's a scabbard," Akihide mentioned helpfully.

The person who spoke up on her behalf was not Leonardo. "It is a valid selection," Miyamoto Usagi said, and then did not add more. 

"Usagi-sama, Leonardo-sensei," she bowed politely to both of them. "I am ready."

Almost looking as though he was seething (ow) at her, her sensei turned and waved her silently towards her place in the dojo. She hurried past him close enough to brush against him. Trust me. Believe in me. 

She took her spot. Akihide took his. They bowed a certain number of degrees to one-another, with the appropriate, rigid, straight-backed posture. 

Priming. The fight must not last that long. The only strike that matters is the third. Make the first two count. 

Akihide glanced towards their audience. She knew he was looking at Sandro. Everything about the rabbit's facial expression was a taunt, like he was saying, 'Whatever happens to her now is your fault, for your cowardice.'

Kinpōgekun grinned an involuntary grin. It worked at her mouth, pulling her lips tight against her teeth, till it had won the full of her face, till it almost hurt. She thrust the katana sheathe through her sash at her back, storing it, and she sank back into low stance, favoring her shorter height.

"Hajime!" announced Usagi.

Sandro lurched forward an inch, his knuckles white on the hilts of his kama.

Akihide sprinted from his marks like a gunshot, like a character from one of Wild's animes, in a melodramatic battle with sakura blossoms floating past, who'd win in a single strike that cut the opponent clear in half.

But Akihide wasn't the only one moving, and Wild bolted to the side, stars leaving her hand in a flurry of steel. One star went long, missing its target entirely and gliding out like a Frisbee to eventually thud against a bonsai pot and plop into the bordering koi pond. The other two were aimed right. Akihide deflected the first away from his legs with the length of the katana, and knocked the last up over his shoulder using the pommel. 

Then the tanto was out!

Knives were Wild's thing, and this one came out spinning hilt-over-tip, fast and hard. It had so much force packed behind it that Akihide skid to a halt. Problem was, he did succeed at deflecting the tanto: He struck it out of the air, and it hit the wall to the far side of the dojo and lodged there, easily eight feet above the ground. It quivered in place there it had conserved so much energy between the two of them. 

The white rabbit actually looked surprised for the briefest moment. But then he smiled. 

Wild hadn't taken the second tanto. That one knife had been her ace, and she'd already wasted it. And she'd brought no more stars than three, despite Sandro knowing full well she could jump around like an acrobat carrying a solid twenty of the things. 

Eyes wide, Sandro looked uncertainly between the two of them. What now?  Why had she done that? Wildcard was now effectively disarmed. She was crouched there holding nothing more than two empty sheathes, on the complete opposite end of the dojo from every single weapon she actually knew how to use, one of which was in the wall, one of which had gone in the water, and the remaining two of which were lodged in a carpet somewhere, disguised by the spiral of woven patterns.

Why did you do that? You wouldn't have done that. She wouldn't have missed, she wouldn't have thrown away every single weapon like that while knowing she'd miss. Unless she hadn't seen any way at all to win, and this was just delaying the inevitable? No. She'd promised him. 

"It seems you've already lost," Akihide mentioned conversationally. "And I didn't even have to do a thing."

"Don't count ya eggs before they've hatched, Easter Boy," she taunted in that over-blown twang, still grinning like a maniac, holding the katana sheathe in one hand and pulling loose the tanto sheathe to carry it in the opposite hand. 

"You're going to fight me with two empty sheathes?" he asked, irritated by her more than anything. "This is a sham; why don't you forefeit?"

"What have I got to lose?" she chirped. "Just three big welts? Pfft! S'okay, Donnie's got healing ointment. But thanks for ya concern, toots."

That eyebrow twitch she elicited in her opponent was fantastic. Sandro settled back in to watch. He watched like a wolf, locked on both figures. She doesn't think she's going to lose. She just doesn't thing she can win by fighting normally, so she isn't going to try. Realization struck. She's going to pull a stunt. Akihide takes combat so seriously that he's never going to see some kind of 'prank' coming, and he isn't going to adapt well. He's got no concept of the fact she's setting up for something strange to happen. Sandro reached around behind himself, trying to find his phone. 

"Say, are you gonna to stand there gloating all day?" she asked him. "Are you scared I know something you don't?"

"Since you insist," Akhide ground out between his teeth. He charged.

Unafraid and insane, Wildcard ran headlong right at him. She jumped, and when katana came for her with the first sweep, it went under her back and stayed down with the press of her two sheathes.  She cleared the weapon and hit the ground with a roll. Trouble was, she'd lost forward momentum to pull that stunt off, Akihide wasn't slow, he wasn't easily disoriented by suddenly having his opponent behind him, and he had a long blade to make up for the time it took to spin around. He made contact with her before she'd managed to pick back up that lost speed. The first slash of his katana wasn't softened at all, regardless of his espoused views towards the fairer sex. It hit her so hard, in fact, and Wild was so petite, that the force gave her some of that lost speed back, and threw her forward into her roll.  Akhide missed the follow up thrust he'd intended to jab her in the back with.

Sandro winced, enduring the sight of all this, using the phone screen as a barrier to protect himself from the merciless desire to get his shell out there so he could protect her. It was rough being grateful someone had overestimated your best friend's weight, and hit her too hard. 

Wild was on her feet again, moving at full sprint towards the far wall, her gaze locked on that tanto lodged eight feet in the air. She was going to wall-run, and Akihide saw it, and Akihide flew after her.

She reached the wall. She jumped. She kicked off the wall. Akihide followed.

She kicked off wrong. 

Instead of toeing up four feet to snatch that tanto out of the wall, she kicked herself hard down with a splash into the surrounding koi pond. Akihide had been intending on following her up and cutting her straight out of the air, and when everything went topsy turvy, he had to skid to stop to reevaluate where she'd ended up (and decide whether he'd laugh at her for slipping so badly). Then something hit him, clear across the face, snapping his head to the side and sending him staggering back in confusion.

For a second, nobody watching could really digest what had just happened. Not Sandro, not Dad, not Usagi, and maybe not even Leo. Definitely not Akihide. 

Then, when the projectile weapon flopped about of its own volition, Reality and everyone who lived in it were forced to accept that Wildcard had grabbed a koi out of the border pond, and thrown it. A fish. A slimy, wriggly, live fish. Akihide had just been hit in the face by a five pound ornamental carp. 

That sure as fuck bought her the five seconds she needed to get her ass out of the pond she'd just fallen in, because Akihide was having a rough time coming to terms with the surreal sight of a koi on the dojo carpet.

Then Wildcard was on her feet again, pushing off the wall and sprinting towards her opponent. She flung a soaked throwing star ahead of herself with a wild underhanded gesture, revealing that she'd just recovered it from the pond. The pain of that thing hitting his back must have snapped JerkRabbit back to his senses because it seemed there was no time in between the impact and his sudden impetus to spin around.

Akihide was humiliated. Enraged. Faster than her.  He could hear the loud splash of her soaked footsteps, knew she was coming for him, and spun with both hands on his katana to thrust with the weapon. He was probably indifferent as to whether he might gore or even impale her on the end of a dull katana.

And Wildcard was holding her katana sheathe one-handed and the wrong way, with it's two-inch wide, millimeter thick mouth facing forward. The tip of the thing, which she ought to have been striking with, was captured firmly between her side and elbow. That hand she'd gone and flung 'wildly' up into the air now came down in a planned, controlled, hard, overhead slap, landing on the flat side of Aikide's oncoming katana. The tip of Akihide's sword went into mouth of it's very own sheath, which it fit, like a glove. 

In one, perfect, fluid motion of live action-comedy, Akihide sheathed his own katana.

Wild spun her back into him, locking that katana temporarily in place against herself. She drew the tanto sheathe from her sleeve in the same step, and stabbed Akihide in the ribs twice in rapid succession.

Three hits. Four, if the fish-to-the-face had counted, though that might have also landed her a penalty. 

"Yame!"

Chapter Text

Sandro sat there, grin curling at his mouth, eyes heavy-lidded, as he tapped his phone to stop recording. He imagined he looked incredibly smug. 

"Sensei's koi!" was the first thing out of Wildcard's mouth as she hurried across the dojo, arms extended down to the limp creature. "I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm so- Why aren't you flopping?" she demanded, as she knelt before the fish, gathered it up in her arms, and inspected it's face with great seriousness. "Are you dead? Fishy?" No bowing, no gloating, no acknowledgement of Akihide whatsoever; clearly the most important thing right here, right now, was the physical and emotional wellbeing fish she'd just been bludgeoning him with.

Raphael threw back his head and roared laughing like an industrial blast furnace. Leonardo and Usagi were reviewing the results of the match. Akihide slowly turned around, a haggard and violated expression plastered all over his face. Sandro soaked in the moment.

"The match goes to Kinpōgekun," Usagi announced on behalf of both masters, though to Sandro (who admittedly was being deafened on his left hand side by one hell of a loud father), it seemed they hadn't communicated with much more than some incredulous eyebrow raises. 

Upon hearing of her victory, the heroine of this story looked back at them all in horror, tears in her eyes. "I'm a fish mur-der-errrrr!" she abruptly caterwauled, clasping that unresponsive fish to her bosom like it was her firstborn child.

"I believe it is merely stunned," Leo confided as he folded his arms behind his back as best as his shell would allow. "You may try reintroducing it to its medium of choice and seeing if this revives it."

"Oka-a-ay!" she warbled, scrambling to her feet and rushing the fish to the border pond where she set it in. It floated there rather sadly, and at first the prognosis seemed grim, but with a twist of its tail it disappeared under the surface.  By the sob of relief which gushed out of her, this had been a legitimate moral crisis for someone. "Bye Sensei's koi," she waved to it. "Thank you for your services! I'm sorry for objectifying you! Wait, do you think they only speak Japanese?" 

"The f-fuck was with the f-fish!?" Raphael boomed, "Ha-h-how'd ya even end up holdin' it!? D'ya fall on it and pull it outta ya pants!? HahaHA!" 

Hard to say whether Aikihide found Wildcard's priorities, his own defeat, or Raphael laughing more mortifying. He seemed to be flinching slightly at every amplitude peak. 

Leo looked to Usagi. "I have neglected to inform the child that fights should also end with respectful bows to one's opponent. Please accept my apologies for the oversight, you and Akihide both, as I rapidly thank my ancestors she did not break out dancing, trash-talking, or shouting 'five points for Gryffindor.'" He gave a rapid little shake of his head.

"Let us speak only when no juveniles can hear us," Usagi told him quietly, and then reached out to beckon both students back.

"Naturally," Leo agreed.

Wildcard sprung to her feet and hurried eagerly back, beaming up at both adults with pride and enthusiasm, looking for approval 'Did you see me?' her face asked. 'It was good, right? I did good?'  . Aikide followed at a slow trudge, like he was walking to or from or in some direction relative to his own grave. 

"Thank your sparring partner for a good match," Leonardo instructed.

Wild jumped, spun to Aikide and bowed with tremendous flourish, one leg forward, both hands twisting, head inclined, dipping nearly to the floor.

Leo crossed his arms, closed his eyes, and rubbed his brow. "No. Not like that." 

"Right, Sensei! Sorry, Sensei! Thank you for the duel, Miyamotosan! Never had one so good!" She bowed rigidly this time, if much to quick, and then she hopped closer and tugged on Leo's sleeve and whispered loudly: "Was that better?"

Martyred sigh. 

"You both fought extremely well in a very tightly compacted span of time," Usagi said to them with a tight smile. "Leonardosan—"

"Exactly what," hissed a low voice from the hallway, "is so funny you felt you needed to wake everyone in the house up, Raphael?" Sandro glanced back in surprise. The way Donatello was holding that Bo suggested another unanticipated 'duel' might break out if he didn't like the answer he got. Somewhere in the distance, Sandro heard a hungry baby crying. Uh oh.

"The-" Raphael wheezed, bent double and slapping his knee, "-the fish!"

Sandro raised a brow at this sustained show of humor. Dad and Michelangelo had more in common than Sandro sometimes realized. He grinned a little, liking this.

"Ah, Donatello," Leo straightened and raised his chin. "Since you are up—" 

Donatello's stare dared him to finish that sentence. 

"It wasn't," Akihide uttered quietly, eyes fixed on Wildcard, earning him a swift look from Leonardo. "It wasn't 'a good match,' and you didn't 'fight well.' You only won by pulling cheap tricks that would never work a second time. Face me again."

Sandro tensed and leaned forward. He quietly hit the 'record' button on his phone, and wondered what Usagi's expression was. Both Masters were nearly quiet. (Raphael was still dying. It sounded like Donnie might be trying to smack sense back into him. Sandro tried to ignore them.)

"I don't have to," Wild answered after a brief pause.

"Of course you know you'd lose," Akihide declared with a victorious sneer.

"You can't lose a fight to someone you've already killed," Wild said without inflection. "They're dead."

"I'm not dead; if it were a fight to the death you'd have died after the first hit. You don't fight with honor, you don't fight with skill; you aren't the better martial artist, and you know it!"

"I didn't have to be," she said. 

"She's done," Sandro interrupted.

Akihide switched targets so fast it was a wonder the poor bunny didn't have whiplash, and Usagi and Leo parted slightly to both look back at him. 

Sandro stood up from seiza and rolling his shoulders and twirling a kama. "She hasn't the stamina for another fight. If you want a round two, you'll just have to settle for me."  (Dad's laughing had died down to silence, but Sandro wasn't looking to see his expression. His or Donnie's.)

"You think that's funny?" Akihide asked like he was surrounded by fools and couldn't understand why no one else was pointing it out. "Sending a girl to insult me before a match?"

"Dunno what you mean." Yin ambled up beside Yang, and lifted his free hand to her. "Just being a gentleman; ladies first and all. Nice win sis."

"Thanks bro!" she chirped, clasping that handshake and butting elbows. 

Akihide looked rapidly between them in flustered frustration, growing more and more constipated as he realized he'd just been played by a team. Only real shame of it was he still wasn't giving Wild the proper credit due her. Oh well. Other ways to rub the salt in.

"Hey," Sandro decided to exploit somebody's hilarious energy high. "Sis. Can I have a good luck kiss?"

Wildcard hopped forward on her toes, threw her arms around his neck, and pressed a fierce smooch to his cheek. He slipped her his phone behind their backs. 

"Cool." Sandro winked her way as she hopped back. "I'll probably need it."

"If you think-!"

"Akihide," Usagi interrupted sharply. "You have not bowed to your opponent."

The kids looked back in surprise. Akihide went rigid. A moment passed in silence. Then, like wood, Akihide bowed the exact proper amount of degrees required of him. 

"Thank you for the match," he whispered.

Leo's gaze slid over to Usagi, lingered, and then moved back down to Wildcard. "Child," he said, his gentle tone undermining everyone else's severity, "you are bleeding. Please step out of the dojo to have your injuries bound."

"I am?" Wildcard tried ineffectually to see behind herself, and Sandro winced at the sight of how the cloth clung to her back in a pink line. That katana had clearly left behind a deep welt. 

Leonardo placed a hand on her shoulder and whisked her out from under the mounting situation, propelling her back across the room towards Donatello, off where she could make no more social blunders with her brain overdosing on fighting hormones and glee. 

"Sorry father," Akihide said on righting himself. "Jibun jishin o fumeiyo ni shita." — I disgraced myself.

Raphael ambled up beside Sandro. "Ya sure ya wanna go two fights in a row without at least hydrating?" he asked Akihide, just as faux-chill about it all as Sandro was. Like nothing was wrong, like Akihide wasn't visibly cracking at the seams for anyone who knew they ought to be looking for something.

"I am neither injured nor winded," Akihide answered, like it was proof he hadn't really just lost his last fight. 

Raphael looked slyly over to Usagi. 'You alright with dis?' was his wordless question.

Usagi was watching Akihide, eyes narrowed, and did not look away.

Sandro decided this meant he could proceed. "I'm game for a friendly spar," he said, gesturing back towards the weapons wall. "Got some kama on the wall that don't have an edge. You want a wakazashi bokken?"

"I'd love one," Akihide said, tracking him. 

"Lemme just get that for ya." So it's completely fair when I'm bashing your face into the carpet.

"Donnie-senpai!" greeted a delirious voice from off in the background. "I didn't kill any fish!" 

"I don't know why I imagined today would be boring," Donatello remarked idly to himself later as he assembled snacks and breakfast foods for his human relatives plus Wildcard. 

"You're forgiven," Wild moaned from where she was flopped over the table. Her spine ached, her fingers stung where she'd gotten them pinched by a katana hilt, her shoulder blades were on fire, her tail bone hurt, and her thigh had big welts in them where she'd come down hard on the edge of the dojo while splashing herself into that pond. At least a very handsome doctor had patched her up, eh? She was wrapped up in compresses and ointment! "Where's Mikey, by the way?"

"Patrol," Donatello said. "For the sake of his safety, lets hope he doesn't check his phone."

"What happened to you?" Grandpa O'Neil asked over a bundle of baby. 

"Did Sandro do this?" Robyn wondered, scrutinizing her.

"What?!" Wild perked up from her slump, startled. "Oh! No, Miyamoto Usagi and his son Akihide are over. Leo-sensei's friend."

"And you..." April shuttered her eyes at Wild as she took the seat beside her, "Just decided you were Hamato Clan champion fighting for our honor against the Miyamoto clan to decide who was best, did you?" 

Ha! Sometimes Wild forgot April really was a Hamato. "Wellll, I am Sensei's only student, so..." Big charming shrug. "Mayyyybe?"

"Mnhmm. And how'd it go?"

"The outcome was a little fishy," Donatello chirped as he brought everyone sandwiches and made faces at the baby.

"Yo," called Sandro from the hallway as he rolled kinks out of his shoulder and ambled up to the kitchen table. It was about time! How long had it taken them?

Wildcard looked him up and down. He had a thick dark welt on his arm to match the one on her back, and the fabric of his shirt had a divot in it where he might have been stabbed. He had a comfortable sort of expression on his face though, and dropped into the chair behind Wildcard with an easy slump. 

"Did you win?" she demanded.

"No." He rolled his eyes, cracking his knuckles over his head and still wearing that contented expression. "We were fighting to three blade touches. They called a forced technical draw after a minute or two of us on the ground trying to beat each other senseless with our fists like real men. Which was a pity, because we'd just actually found the weapons again, so I don't imagine it would have taken much longer."

Several relatives raised brows. Wildcard looked left and right. "Where's Akihide?"

"In the infirmary," Sandro purred smugly. "Because his nose wont stop bleeding."

Woo-hoo! Wildcard gave him a fist-bump, and Sandro happily returned it. 

"I suppose I had better get in there to help, then. Why did either of you want to bloody his nose?" Donatello homed in on the situation, looking suspiciously between them.

"Oh, uh," Sandro shrugged, "don't worry, we handled it."

"With sweet, subtle, ironic justice," Wild agreed. "And some of Sandro's punches."

"And a fish," reminded a slowly more and more amused Donatello. It looked like he had an inkling of what snooty bunny boys might have done to deserve a comeuppance of this magnitude.

"Can't forget the fish," Sandro agreed, taking his phone back.

April was still on the wrong heading. "Sandro did you beat up our visitor for a girl?"

"Mom," Sandro protested with a jump and his tongue stuck out in a wide grimace. " I didn't have to beat up nobody for nobody. She beat him herself. Put him in a fantastic mood for me."

"It's like I softened him up," Wildcard agreed. "Except instead of 'softened' I mean 'provoked into a frothing rage.'"

"That kid does not channel anger well, by the way," Yin mentioned to Yang, "he got super sloppy."

"Knew it! Our methodology was flawless!" The kids shared another contented fist-bump. "Did you stay gentlemanly, by the way?"

"Oh yeah," Sandro assured with a flap of his hand and a 'pssh are you kidding?' expression. "Mighta trashed talked a bit in the middle, but the beginning and end, I assure you, you was Grade-A decorum. The finest!"

"Had to be!" 

"I'm... I'm still confused," April admitted.

"Well, check your phone," Donatello suggested. "Because Sandro caught the pivotal moment on camera and Wild was happy to mix a slow-motion repeat of it to 'Don't Worry; Be Happy' for the rest of us. And if I couldn't imagine a reason two kids might want to punch an uptight holier-than thou samurai boy in the face after being forced to socialize with him all holiday, well, then I'm just not being honest with myself." 

Wild had to answer her phone. "Hamato residence speaking!"

On the other side of the line, Michelangelo was just laughing.

"Hold please," she covered the reciever and looked to Donnie. "Sunshine might need help with that 'patrol' thing you mentioned."

Groannn.

Chapter Text

When April O'Neil turned around and stood as if to receive someone, Wild and Sandro looked up from their lunch platters to see what had happened.

Akihide had entered the kitchen alone.

With half his face bandaged, a little fur shaved from his arm so an unexpectedly deep hit from a kama tip could be stitched shut, and one ear taped down in a compress, one could almost feel sorry for him. Almost. Like, if his sour and humiliated expression had been any more authentically miserable. He looked completely out of his element. All the chairs closest to the hallway were taken, so he had to pass behind both of them to reach a chair. He picked the corner farthest away from them, sat woodenly down, made no eye contact, and said nothing.

Titillated by the realization he must have been sent ahead with explicit instructions, like 'wait for me at the kitchen table,' Sandro and Wildcard hid their grins with each other and tried not to laugh at him. Maybe it wasn't obvious to anyone else, but Akihide would have never come in here without Donatello, Raphael, Leonardo, and Usagi, and sat down with two kids who'd trounced him, two women, a baby, and an old man.  He was just too good for that, right?

Little did he know, he'd already made a faux pas, albeit not with either of the children. Another set of eyes had been following him from the moment he'd entered the room.

"Can I get a, 'Hi, Mrs. O'Neil?'"

Akihide looked up in surprise, eyes rounding out a little. He seemed genuinely put on the spot for once, and hastily scrambled to his feet. "I-I am sorry, Mrs. O'Neil. Please excuse my English. I fear I was—" 

"Ā? Osoreru na, Akihidesan,"  April O'Neil softly interrupted. "Nihongo o hanasemasu." 

Awkward pause.  Akihide bowed. "M-moushi wake arimasen deshita, O-O'neil-sama."

Sandro and Wildcard huddled close, trying not to bust out crying with laughter. It was too late for, 'I'm sorry, I feel terrible,' or any hastily appended honorifics; April would have been the one person guaranteed to listen fairly to all sides of the story, and Akihide had gone and walked clear past her, like he hadn't even seen her standing there.

"I bet you do," April said after a long pause. "Why don't you sit with the kids; I'll get you something to drink."

Akihide looked up quickly. The look she gave him as she strolled towards the refrigerator was beautifully imperious. Wild perked up, attentive, staring at the older woman. Most days it felt like she and April could occupy the same room with zero connection between them. This was different. See, if April had gotten him a drink without saying anything, he'd have simply ignored her. If she'd told him to get it himself, he'd have felt insulted. But with this command lingering in the air, April was establishing that she was the dominant force in the room, and Akihide needed to submit or there would be a problem.

Neither Wild nor Sandro were qualified to speculate on Mrs. Miyamoto's parenting strategies, but they had to wonder if he might be used to Mama Bunny waiting on him. Not Sandro's Mama! Sandro's Mama was famous, infamous, and self made.

"Of course, O'Neil-sama," Akihide squeaked out, shuffling over beside them like with a quiver of his hackles that suggested his fur was going to crawl off his body. Wildcard grabbed the seat beside herself, and twisted it about so Akihide had a seat. Akihide sat. 

"Psst," Wildcard leaned near the bunny to whisper (a little too close for Sandro's comfort, but way too close for Akihide's). "Don't you know anything? She owns a world-famous news company, she's the most important person in the building."

Akihide tried not to acknowledge that Wildcard existed.

"It'll be fine," Wild added reassuringly. "Just don't do that again. Do you actually eat carrots or is that racist of me?"

"What?"

"Carrots," Wildcard pushed—Sandro could scarcely believe his eyes—her plate and all her remaining food over to the rabbit. Yin bristled but said nothing, tightening one hand into a fist to keep calm. 

But, offended to be offered leftovers, Akihide recoiled and pushed the plate back to her so hard some food rocked off onto the table.

Wildcard gave a roll of her eyes and reached over Sandro to steal the last wedge of his sandwich. "You'd think someone who grew up in a family of twenty would know how to share, wouldn't you?"

Yin released that fist, relaxing, and stole the last of her carrots in reciprocation of her affection. "Maybe it's cause we're only children? Maybe he takes it for granted."

"I'm - right - here. For your information—"

April interrupted them by leaning over the table and pouring them all glasses of orange juice, and Akihide bobbed his head in reflexive deference to her.

"Thanks, mom!" "Thanks Ms. O'Neil!" "A-arigatо̄ gozaimasu..." 

The older generation of large anthropomorphic animals approached through the hallway, laughing about something and bantering.

"Akihide, I am leaving for a few hours with Leonardosan," called Usagi. 

Akihide couldn't have jumped up faster. Probably helped that he was a rabbit. "Of course, father, I'll get my-"

"You will remain here, Akihide." The words hung just a little longer than was necessary, enough for Sandro to wager it was a stealthy censure. Then came the softener, "We old friends have, ah, a little catching up to do."

"And apparently a patrol route to rescue," Leonardo quipped.

Akihide had frozen into a fluffy white ice sculpture. "Of. Of course. Father."

"Sit, sit," Usagi coaxed, "do not stand for me, eat! Have a good time with our friends while I am gone."

"Of course father." Akihide slipped back into the seat. The only thing stronger than Akihide's abandoned expression was the intense loathing for them—Wild and Sandro—rolling off of him in waves. He blamed them for this.

Sandro and Wildcard shared another glance. Sandro shook his head and rubbed the bridge of his nose, and Wildcard gave a tremendous roll of her eyes. Poor, poor, poor Akihide. 

Leonardo gave Wild a brief look as he and Usagi got ready in the atrium of the house. Then the two of them were gone.

"Do you think you did something wrong?" Sandro asked Wild.

"Pssh, c'mon, San, I could write a list," Wildcard admitted with charming self-awareness.

"Hey," Raphael called, coming up behind Sandro and gripping his shoulder. "Wanna talk ta ya."

"Did I do something wrong?" Sandro blurted, but Dad only shook his head and shooed him along towards the exercise room. Despite the wordless 'no,' he instantly worried. Wasn't Dad proud? What could he possibly want to talk about? Shit, time to be in the same boat as Akihide.

"Are you certain you wish for your son to be alone right now?" Leonardo asked after he and Usagi had relieved an incapacitated Michelangelo from patrol duty. "I am capable of this route on my lonesome."

"If he is alone whilst surrounded by friends," Usagi answered, voice unexpectedly severe, "then it is by his own doing."

Leo glanced the rabbit's way, concerned. He lifted his head back to the skyline to scan for threats. He did not ask. 

Usagi was quiet for a time. "So," he cleared his throat. "You are apprenticing a student."

"I am."

"She is incredibly peculiar."

"Yes."

"Nothing whatsoever like what anyone who knows you would expect."

"Correct."

"I imagine she is contrary, irreverent, and impossible to keep still for instruction."

"Also true."

"And despite all of this, the child still puts up with you. Leonardo, you've impressed me. I've no idea how you've done it. What is your secret?"

Leo blinked rapidly and then scowled, reached out, and swatted at Usagi.

The rabbit spirit dodged, wearing a big grin. "Ah, I am going to look forward to everyone's facial expressions upon meeting the apprentice of Hamato Leonardo for the first time. You will bring her to visit Japan at least once?"

"Perhaps when she is grown," Leonardo's expression quieted. "If she is still with us."

"There is doubt about that?"

"She is still young, and she is human. This life is dangerous. She can walk away from it in a way we cannot."

"Mn, you have ever been the mother hen, Leonardosan. Worry, worry, worry, fret, fret, fret.

"Still, I have seen many student, and I warn you now: You have a child on your hands who speaks with action more meaningfully than with any of her tremendous chatter. She may be a novice of Ninjitsu, but it is clear she has naturally striven to dominate the physical sphere. Now, you could argue she is matched to a queer choice mentor, that is true, perhaps even the wrong mentor; but, then she seems to have had more than one to choose from. That is true? At least one of your brothers? Well, then, that settles that. I cannot begrudge her the desire to learn from the best, even when easier tutors are afoot. Clearly, level of difficulty phases neither side of this equation. She will stay till the sun grows old."

"You insult me, you flatter me, how can I take your prediction seriously?" Leonardo grinned, but then shook his head. "Tell me about what we saw in the dojo, Usagi. I see your distress. It is not like you to hold these things so close to the vest, not with me."

Usagi took a deep breath. "Afterwards, before we return to your home. Let me have a cleared mind, first."

"I am afraid for him."

Leonardo stopped walking and looked back to Usagi. They had ended patrol without another word, and Usagi had been silent all the way almost up unto their front door. 

"For...?" Leonardo prompted.

"For Akihide. I suggested the duel because I felt he was overconfident and that he might lose against your Sandro. I hoped to teach him something with the experience. I did not expect the girl."

"I... I am sorry."

Usagi shook his head, shrugging sadly. "For what? I saw the same thing you did, Leonardo. I saw a young man who does not know the difference between face honor and what is right." He turned, looking thoughtfully down at nothing. "In truth, I had my suspicions that something was awry. That he might have been saying or doing something to somehow... cause some of the challenges he was receiving. But I had never seen it!"

"This has been a pattern?" Leo asked.

"Nothing like this, no; he has never lost before. They were of an unusual number, these duels, and he seemed to take unusual pride in counting them."

"That cannot alone have aroused your suspicions. Boys boast."

"It was a feeling, Leonardo, a feeling that haunted me as I instructed him, in the way he repeated lessons verbatim, perhaps, but with the wrong inflection," Usagi said, pacing. "I've known many of those boys he fought from an early age, and I recall that their tempers were not so hot or wicked as what they displayed against him in the dojo. Now I wonder if he did not wrong them in some subtle manner, some manner they felt it might be childish to speak up about. I should have taken care to find out! I asked, carefully so as not to offend, but if they were not willing to go to their own fathers with these issues, how could they have answered me? I might as well have not asked; I 'tainted my own data' as someone would chide us."

Leonardo did not know how to help. He stood poised there, watching a friend—a dear friend, maybe even a 'best' friend—worrying so intensely about his own child, and he felt strangely helpless to produce any advice or reassurances. Had he not been there Sandro's entire life? (Quietly, much too quietly, afraid to lose Raphael, afraid to lose them both.) "My... brothers may be more useful confidants on this issue," he admitted bleakly, because that was the best he could do, to defer to their expertise. 

Usagi waved a hand dismissively, still pacing. After a few strides back and forward, he paused, straightened, took a deep breath, and tilted his head to the side. "Did your apprentice say anything to you?"

"Very little," Leonardo hedged. 

Usagi turned to him, eyes narrowed. "Do not soften blows for my pride, Leonardosan. You would not have pitched a novice into a fight against a boy older and stronger than her."

"She said very little," Leo repeated honestly. "I was only sure that this was not her usual hubris."

"No. I know you. You worry. You would not have helped engineer that particular match-up without a reason. You were slick. You helped ensure it would happen, and you coached her in how to win."

"Briefly."

"Leonardosan, this is my son. Do you not understand? My chounin. You are not protecting me by sheltering him, you are leaving me blind and deaf, in the face of issues which I have not been privy to, issues which run deeper than I have been willing to admit. How am I to teach him if you will not help me!? How am I to stop a-a-a... a tragedy!"

"A tragedy?"

"I have a young man whose honor cannot be accounted for! Armed with lethal weaponry, I might add! I just watched him try to pick a fight with an injured girl half his size, while she was doing no more than joyously celebrating her win, all because he could not stand to lose! Must I truly enumerate aloud all the ways this could eventually go horribly!?"

"Usagi... He... he is not yet—"

"A man? No! No. But, oh," Usagi groaned, "Leonardosan, he will be. Sooner than we blink, he will be! He is little more than two years removed from adulthood. What am I to do? To turn a blind eye to the harm he is causing both others and himself, to pretend I can support this, to vouch for this? I should have listened to my instincts earlier. To have paid more attention! I knew, I knew when I elected to tutor him individually that something was not right. Baka."

"Have you spoken to him?" Leonardo asked.

"I have tried, but obviously I have failed to lance the issue dwelling beneath the surface. No, a lecture will not do. I have lectured him plenty, and he bends like a reed... but he does not understand, does he? And one day soon he will no longer be a reed. Grown trees do not bend much, no matter how the wind howls."

Usagi sounded despairing. Though he'd explained that the truth of Akihide's aggression had only today been bared to light, clearly this was not the only fear on his mind. Either that, or he had seen this same trait crop up before, elsewhere, or elsewhere, and he'd tried to treat it there on then, only to learn dangerously late that his efforts had failed. Leonardo was again plagued by a sense of incompetence; he was not sufficiently experienced to advise Usagi. All he could do was point out the obvious:

"You can tutor another, Usagi. You have more than one son."

"Ha!" Usagi slapped his thigh as if it were a joke. "Oh! Oh, coming from you, the eldest, the leader, the first?" Usagi shook his head vigorously with a big, sad grin. "You are not thinking of how you would feel, Leonardosan! It's not about me! Imagine it: I suddenly withdraw my support from him; cast him aside and take one of his younger brothers as my second! Can you not imagine his feeling of betrayal? Of abandonment?"

Leo ducked his head.

"You see now. Had I chosen one of his younger brothers as my second from the beginning, perhaps you would be right. Any of my sons might have made me proud. But that mistake is made, and it is too late. I'd not only turn Akihide against me, but against all his brothers. I'd split my family in half. There might even be blood." Usagi leaned back. "No, that is obviously a worst-case scenario, not to be entertained if there is any other means of resolving the situation, not unless I have somehow raised a truly evil child; and I should hope—I pray!—this is not the case!" He rubbed at his face. 

"You have not," Leo at least knew the answer to that, stepping close and resting a hand across his friend's shoulder. "You have not. But... as you said... you cannot go in there and allow him to believe you support what you have seen. You cannot vouch for that. Not in front of him, not in front of other students; not in front of your other children. They look up to you."

"I know," Usagi admitted with what sounded like dread. "But I am afraid. Privately lecturing him, coaxing him, nurturing him; these things have not helped. Publicly lecturing him, or fighting him... I could lose him all the same. I am gambling with a force I cannot even calibrate.."

"If it is what is right... Then..."

"You do not understand, but it is only because you have not yet been a father." Usagi smiled sadly. "You will. One day, you will Leonardo. We sometimes fall in love with our children. We become part of them, and they become part of us. Parts of them, parts of their whole life, linger in our souls. Akihide is still the gap-toothed six-year-old who took up a stick and made a semblance of a sword from it, following me eagerly down the path to our home, begging to teach him to be a great hero. Like... like me." His shoulders dropped.

And then Leonardo had great and sudden cause to wish he had a habit of carrying around a kerchief. Aside from a sleeve, he had nothing to offer, and since that would be incredibly awkward—and Usagi had perfectly functional sleeves of his own—he had to wait in silent solidarity. Usagi might have been his best friend, but they were not quite close in the way he and his brothers were, where they might hug in moments of intense emotional duress.

Translation notes:

As you can imagine, April told Akihide, "Oh? Fear not, I am fluent in Japanese," as he was attempting to cover up his mistake with the shield of UH I'M FROM ANOTHER LANGUAGE WOOPS SORRY.

Of course, with Japaense greetings being 10x as polite as English ones, April interrupting him in Japanese just means he boiled himself in even hotter water.

Akihide apologizes to her in Japanese with a formal phrase that literally means, 'I feel terrible.'

Instead of taking that as a well-executed, 'Sorry,' April answers, 'Yeah, I bet you do.' Which one supposes one could attribute to the bandages, having just lost a fight, being along with people he doesn't like or respect, or is just a general, 'You're going to have to do better than that, apology not accepted yet,' from her.

'Arigatо̄,' is another way of transliterating, 'arigatou,' meaning 'Thank you.' Just like if you don't want to go hunting for how to type an 'o' with a macron above it, о̄, you can write 'Kinpо̄ge' as 'Kinpouge' and maintain the data that it's supposed to be a long o sound.

'Baka,' the cuss Usagi used, literally means 'idiot.' It can be used as a pretty genetic negative exclamatory cuss-sword ranging in severity from a softer 'crap!' to a definite 'shit!' depending on how aggressively it is said, but in this case I think he means the full dramatic, 'Fool that I am!' or, 'I have been so stupid!'

I like to think Leo and Usagi would have had their individual conversation entirely in Japanese. But since certain dialog phrases, like the concept of 'falling in love with one's children,' do not translate verbatim into or from Japanese very well, I didn't just slap italics on there and say YEAH THIS CONVO HAPPENED IN JAPANESE LA LA LA because it felt ignorant.

Chapter Text

Wildcard was quiet as Robyn and Grandpa O'Neil got up for a baby diaper change. Donatello had gone back to the lab for something, and Michelangelo was due back soon. Wildcard was staring down the side hallway towards the exercise room. Wildcard was angry.

"Hey," she elbowed Akihide. "Follow me to the exercise room."

Akihide was trying to figure out why she was still trying to perform communication with him. "Stop touching me."

Wildcard flopped her head over to the side to level a look at him. "Buns, If I wanted to touch you, I'd be running my hands all over your fluffy self gushing about how cute you are. You're just not that interesting." She got up and pushed her chair in, "Now get off your lazy cotton tail and c'mon. We're going to see what happened to Sandro."

"Why the hell," the bunny asked her, half-standing just to loom over her. "Do you think I care what happens to the kappa?"

"Are you stupid?" she asked, turning back to him. "D'you think nobody saw the way your dad was looking at you?"

His expression froze half-sneer.

"That's right. If I pick a fight with you right now, your life is over. You can imagine you'd knock out my teeth and blacken my eye in retaliation, but you know what? There's not a thing you could say that'd save you from permanent and everlasting shame. Akihide the disowned, Akihide the coward who hits little girls. It doesn't matter what I do to start it. I smear superglue on your fur, I lob hot-sauce at you, I pull your ears; Daddy's not going to care, you won't look innocent."

"Neither will you."

She snickered. "Oh you think I care!" she blurted. "That's cute. Which of us do you think cares more. Me? Or you? Which of us has more to lose? I don't even live here."

If Akihide had been able to shoot laser beams from his eyes, Wildcard would have been toasted.

"Welcome to blackmail, toots," Wild told him, patting his arm. "You do what I say and Daddy comes home and you get to look fresh and smelling of roses, like you were a saint the whole time. You ignore me, and I will fuck you over. Clear?"

Akihide stared.

"Good. Now c'mon. This'll cheer you up."

"How," he breathed, "do you suppose that will happen?"

"Because you're going to get to see Sandro in trouble," she said. "The exercise's room where we do Hashi. The bridge exercises we receive for bad behavior. And there ain't no reason Raphael took him in there to 'talk' alone unless we're about to catch Sandro mid-punishment. That's not something I should be letting you see."

Akihide's gaze followed her. There was a small tilt of his head.

She was gentler with her expression now, and jerked her chin to indicate he really should follow, before leading the way. 

"He is only trying to make you proud," Leo suspected. "He just does not know the right way."

"Ah." Usagi smiled, eyes finally wiped dry. "Then heed this warning, friend: Your apprentice also wishes to make you proud, and she does not know the way, either. It was in her body language, in the way her eyes went to your face seeking your approval—and to mine, for she knows I am your peer. It was in the way she refused to rise to bait after she had won."

Leonardo had to think back about that, to try and ascertain whether it was true.

"Will you tell me whatever it is she said to you?"

"It is not what the little one said, Usagi. It is what went unsaid. The way she bluffed me that she would fight even without my consent, but then grew unsteady when I would not give it. The way her gender had made its way into the conversation. I knew that she had been told that she was inferior to a firstborn son. That she had been dismissed as relevant. I will admit, because you are asking me so directly, that this is what angered me, but it was not what pushed her to action. I knew that expression upon her face. Sandro was involved."

Usagi tilted his head. "In what way?"

"Someone she cared about had been attacked," Leonardo clarified. "That is what will put her in a fighting mood."

"Ah. So your apprentice is hot-headed on top of everything else."

"Which child wears which half of the Yinyang?" Leonardo asked rhetorically.

"You have excellent taste in raw materials."

"I'm sorry," Leonardo lifted a hand beside his ear. "Whose apprentice beat whose apprentice? You must speak louder, I haven't your natural gifts in the sphere of hearing."

"Ha. I dispute nothing, the result was better than I might have hoped, and I am only dismayed at what it revealed. Ah. When's the last time you've seen someone pull that kind of stunt with a sheath?"

"You did it to me. My father did it to me. Karai did it to me. I tried once. You know what happened? I got stabbed. Fortunately I have a plastron. Unfortunately, no amount of being entirely unharmed stopped Raphael from brow-beating me for months just for trying. Nag nag nag, as if I were Michelangelo."

"This is like that... that movie, you know, with the chopsticks, and the fly? Wax on, wax off."

"Karate Kid."

"'Beginner's luck!'"

"Thank you for saying so, it makes me feel better."

"She was 'fearless' about trying it, too. And she does not have a plastron. Perhaps the apple does not fall as far from the tree as one might think."

"Hmm."

"I was surprised when Sandro deferred the first fight, but now I believe I understand: This is an unexpectedly mature child Raphael has raised. He refused to be baited. He understood it as a 'win' if Akihide did not get the fight he was asking for."

"I assure you, no one is more surprised by that than Raphael. You picked the right boy to pit Akihide against. He was not expecting a patient adversary who attached no special significance to proving himself. You saw his face? Mn. He only ended up baited out to fight at the end in order to politely remove her from the situation once she'd already won."

"By then the damage had been done and Akihide was unbalanced. The two commonly work as a team, your children?"

Leonardo nodded. "They likely reasoned that Kinpо̄ge stood the higher chance of catching Akihide unawares, would cede the least glory if she lost, and would have the highest affect if she won. Akihide had overlooked the bigger threat to his image."

"If your instinct was correct," Usagi said, "and your apprentice was told she was inferior, then Akihide did not overlook her. He saw to pull rank on her. To... diminish her in her own eyes. To keep her down. He presumed innate superiority. Based on gender? Hmm." Usagi thought on this. "Where could he have learned this except for from me? Strange that I do not remember teaching it. It is true that his sisters take after their mother, but this seems a strange interpretation of that."

"We do not know what was said. I am reading between the lines."

"I trust your intuition. Still, it brings me closer to a cause, but not close enough. Do you believe that you can get them to speak with me what happened? I wish to understand more specifics, so that I can try and discern the underlying motive. Or, at least, understand how severe the symptoms have become. This may be both the first and best opportunity i have had in a long while. And... I need to give them my apology, for my son's behavior.

"We can try," Leonardo said. "Sometimes children refuse to 'tattle.' Sandro is honest, but he may also be reluctant to insult you. Kinpо̄ge... hmm. It depends how bitter you like your tea."

"I think I can handle a child's opinion."

"Well this one brews verbal mochinokicha when riled. Should you get her started, please do not slap her no matter what comes out."

"That bad?"

"Yabai..."

Raphael was growling under his breath to Sandro, whose Hashi involved balancing and stretching his spine backwards as far as his slightly flexible shell would allow.

Like most bridge exercises, it's purpose was intended to overcome weaknesses by applying intense focus for long, if irregular, stints of time. It wasn't intended to humiliate anyone, so it also wasn't really supposed to be observed by outsiders. 

Akihide could probably hear whatever this argument was about—unless he had a headache from having his ears boxed; then the whooshing of his pulse might have rendered anything quieter than normal conversation inaudible. By the time Wildcard was stepping through the always-open shoji door, Raphael was turning towards her with a hostile expression

"Not the time, Mouse,"  he said, taking up space like a physical wall midway across the room. Maybe he just didn't want Akihide watching while his own kid was being punished.

But Wildcard's eyes narrowed. "What's Sandro in trouble for?" she asked.

"Ain't ya business. Now get out, both a yas." Raphael was not the turtle to stub a toe on politeness if he didn't feel like being polite. 

"Sandro, what's up?" 

"It's-it's nothing," Sandro tried to reassure, getting a little red-faced and confused she'd led Akihide to see him in such a vulnerable position. He wasn't turned towards them, but that didn't mean he couldn't see the bunny out the courner of his eye.

"Go play somewhere else," Raphael meant it this time.

But Sandro was upset about something more than Akihide, because he slipped her the answer: "I-it's something I said."

"Pssh, is that it? I told you we should have instituted that cuss-word penalty jar."

"I-it wasn't a cuss." And if it had been, Raphael would have been hilariously hypocritical.

"What'd you say?"

Sandro swallowed.

"Mouse, fah that last fuckin' time. I will pick you up and toss you out-"

"You won't touch me," Wild asserted, leaning back and looking up at Raphael darkly. 

Both his brows raised. 'Oh I won't, eh?' his expression said. "Listen here, Mouse," he began, low and deadly, but got cut off.

"I s-said," Sandro interrupted, "'P-put your s-sword where your mouth is, boy.'"

Wildcard's face twitched.

"Hey, you, do ya bridge exercise! As fah you, Mouse, I already said-"

"It is something you said. 'Put ya kama where ya mouth is, boy,' that's something you said to Sandro," Wild spat, flame on, looking up at Raphael.

Raphael's nostrils flared, and his eyes widened in surprise.

"Someone's in Hashi because your son copied you, and the person in Hashi is Sandro!?"

"I'mma give ya one last chance ta get ya ass out that door, pipsqueak," Raphael uttered. "And if ya don't, I'm throwing ya out da front door, and I ain't doin it nicely. You think I give two shits who thinks who is 'Mastah of da House?' "

"Dad," Sandro dropped out of the Bridge exercise, eyes wide, ready to panic; Wild had done the wrong thing, and she didn't care, and she would not stop.

Raphael turned to him. "Get ya tail back on that block."

"You're not protecting him from being mocked by me!" Wildcard accused at a shriek, to get his attention back on her, her voice dripping with venom, venom and hot, hot, hot steel. "You're protecting yourself! "

"Five," Raphael said, turning towards her. "Four."

"Sometimes I think how lucky that new baby is gonna be, I'm just cheering for it, because its dad is so fucking awesome," she uttered, shaking her head in disgust. "Sokay! I'm used to this." She turned away, and headed back slamming the always-open shoji door behind her.

Akihide wasn't cheered up. If he'd been able to bow in apology and flee like Raphael had wanted, he'd have been smiling. He'd have been laughing and taunting. Now he was dead silent and wore an ill expression as he followed her with definitely-not-silent footsteps.

"Why did you do that?" he asked when they were back in the center of the house. "It was dishonorable and foolish. Raphael-san was impressed with your actions in the dojo and you have turned him against—"

"I have no honor," she said, raising a brow at the rabbit, voice level, bored (pretending). "If I actually wanted to hurt Raphael I'd have stayed completely out of it and sent his wife in there. He'd be sleeping on the couch the next three weeks. But it's the holidays and that's a cruel thing to do to a man right before New Years. So I forfeited my own relationship capital, and gave him a chance to fix it himself." She reached for the vegetable platter, and took a carrot and popped it into her mouth. "Aren't I nice, Akihidehan?"

"Hey kids," Donnie said as he entered the room. "Was there enough food for- Where's Sandro?"

"Oh, I think his dad wanted to chat with him. Probably congratulating him over his first-ever duel," Wildcard supposed. "I mean, he didn't win, but he totally did what Raphael would have done, right?" Beat Akihide in the face.

Donatello glanced at Akihide and then shamelessly said, "Absolutely. You should see him and Leo fight. Let me see if I have any more fruit, you kids demolished the vegetables..."

"Do you have any alfalfa?" she asked

Donatello looked back at her. "What?"

"Alfalfa," she repeated. "Rabbits love it. I know. I've owned one."

Translation Notes: 

Mochinokicha ~ Japan/China's most bitter tea.

Yabai... ~ "Oh my god you don't even want to know..."

Chapter Text

The house was in a state of upheval when Leonardo and Usagi returned from patrol. Alarmed, Leonardo took rapid stock of faces, locations, and activities, and swiftly arrived at the conclusion that something had gone wrong with Robyn. He stepped forward only to see Raphael approaching him like a rocket from the side of the house. Raphael shoved into him like he wanted to start a fight, and said,

"You're gonna talk ta that 'apprentice' of yours, and had better be good. She pulls shit like that again, she ain't gettin' back in this house, and I dun care what the fuck ya have ta say about it."

Leonardo did not tell Raphael that said apprentice would be getting back in the house every evening promptly at four PM entirely regardless of how badly she offended anyone; nor that Raphael could go suck a doorknob if he disagreed. Leonardo clearly had plenty of other things on his plate right now. "What happened?" he asked, trying to get a read on the entire house.

"Ran her mouth, but that ain't what matters," Raphael snapped. "Any other kid'd be out the door in a heartbeat and I'd have some choice words fah dere parents ovah da phone. If she thinks she ain't gotta respect and listen ta me and April, or hell, any fuckin' adult in this house, she's got another thing coming. You understand?"

Leo's gaze slid to Raphael's. He stopped to remove his outdoor shoes. "Thank you for waiting for me."

Raphael knew he and Leo weren't exactly on the same page as who was in charge here, but the implicit promise Leo would attend to the matter was enough to satisfy him. He glanced behind himself, and seemed to notice the commotion around Robyn for the first time. They all looked to have arrived near to the tail end. Robyn was visibly calming down. Michelangelo and Donatello were both near the epicenter. Donnie looked pissed, but Mike was full of reassuring smiles.

"Raphael," Leo broached. "Before I speak to 'that apprentice of mine' about her unlawful use of fighting words, Usagi was hoping to talk to the children. Perhaps that should come first, before it grows stale."

"Eh?" Raphael looked to him. Hmm. It may have been Leonardo's imagination, but Raphael's anger looked a little thin. For someone who was threatening to throw someone else out a door, he seemed insufficiently fixated on whatever had offended him.

"I wanted to ask them about anything my son might have said to spark hostilities before the fight," Usagi explained. "Would it be possible to gather them together in the dojo for a few minutes?"

Raphael glanced at the issue with Robyn but then back to Usagi. "Yeah. Alright. Kinda wanna know what the heck was up with that myself." 

The children assembled nervously in the dojo, shooed there by elders who then failed to join them and instead spoke in hushed voices among one another just outside the room. Kinpо̄ge arrived last, discouraged from trying to talk with one of those elders prematurely by his stern expression and his deliberate loosening of her fingers from his hakama. She quickened her step away from that, and sat in the middle, between Sandro and Akihide. Neither boy spoke to her. 

All three of their heads' were elsewhere, and none of them were happy. Kinpо̄ge was glum. Sandro was agitated. Akihide was stiff.

"Yang," Sandro finally uttered, his tone complicated like he was angry, happy, worried, and slightly hysterical all in one breath, but, being the more mature of the two of them, he was ready to forgive. "After you left-" he had something to tell her. Something exciting? She had things to tell him, too, and maybe an apology.

But the olive branch came a second too late. Miyamoto Usagi had entered the dojo. He came up before them and sat facing them, like they were a lineup of naughty sons and daughters who'd been caught in a food fight and now needed to explain themselves. His expression wasn't angry, though. He inspected them one after the other before proceeding. 

"Akihide, my son," he said. "I will address you last."

"Of course father," whispered a bunny.

"Sandrosan, Kinpо̄ge..." Usagi hesitated, "is it indeed 'kun' that you prefer?"

"Hai, Usagi-San," she confirmed, barely looking up. "Did we do something wrong?"

The ronin shook his head. His ears, pulled back like that, perfectly emulated the shape of a topknot. It was a good look. "You are not in trouble, either of you. At least, not with me. "Your mentors—your father and uncle, Sandrosan—have allowed me to speak with you that I might ask you a few questions. Can I ask that you be truthful in your answers?"

"Yeah." Sandro cleared his throat but did not look back to the other adults for help or direction. "I-I will answer truthfully, Usagi-san. She's a liar."

'She' perked up a little from her malaise and elbowed him. "Am not, I can totally tell the truth."

"Well, see, now we're going to hold you to it," Sandro completed an excellent exercise of reverse psychology. She stuck out her tongue.

 Usagi gave them a slightly sad smile. It felt like he was grateful for their camaraderie and morale instead of annoyed or distracted. "I was wondering why you were so eager to challenge my son this morning, Kinpо̄gekun. Was there some cause?"

"Aside from how I'm his actual rival, not Sandro?" she asked thoughtfully. "Pride."

"Pride?" Usagi asked.

"Yup. I'm the best. Had to prove it."

"Hmm," Usagi said, and Kinpо̄gekun was pleased to hear he hadn't bought a word of it (even if it was slightly true). She didn't smile. She didn't feel good. She forgot to even look over to see if Akihide was ignoring her, or if he was growing steadily more angry. Usagi turned his gaze to Sandro. "Would you say she has answered truthfully?"

Sandro ducked his head respectfully. "Yes," he said. "She isn't really a liar. She usually tells the truth. She just tells it minus all the important parts."

"I see," Usagi. "But why would she or you give me an incomplete answer, when I have already established I am in search of the truth?"

Sandro swallowed. "Because we weren't raised to badmouth people we barely know in front of their family members, Miyamotosan," he murmured (pleadingly). 

"Ah. The three of you have resolved your disputes directly, as young adults," Usagi said, leaning backwards and lifting his chin. "For that, at least two of you now feel like you have grown a meter in a day. But in your haste to become independent from us, the three of you forget that we still have lessons to teach you. That we are still concerned with molding how you think. This is owed us as your elders."

"Well, I don't know about 'owed,'" Kinpо̄ge said. 

Usagi looked to her. "Not even your mentor?"

She lifted her head for the first time, meeting his eyes. "If Sensei had to tell me I 'owed' him something, it would mean he hadn't earned it but felt entitled to it anyway, so I'd disobey on principle."

"You," Akihide breathed, "have no respect for anyone. A student should feel honored to be chosen by a master. They who bring nothing to the table are the ones who seek to 'earn' the opportunity they have been given. Not the other way around."

"You," she echoed in the same ominous tone, "have no concept of supply and demand, and should really take a distance-learning course in macroeconomics." 

"When did you two start talking?" Sandro leaned forward to raise a brow at them both, too confused about that part to hit her upside the back of the head and yell for her to take it down a notch.

"I blackmailed him into hanging out with me all day," she confessed. "I told him I'd throw him under the bus with his dad if he dared to step out of line and made him play video games with me and stuff."

"Why?"

She shrugged, slipping back into her element. "Why not?"

"This girl is a yokai," Akihide uttered to Sandro over her head. 

"At which point was that rendered unclear," Sandro asked, "before or after she beat you with a sword sheath to be really unsubtle about underscoring how dated your comments about women were?"

"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about," Akihide snarled back. "If anyone—"

"Akihide."

Akihide jumped at his father's voice, and looked pleadingly to him. "Father, if I could-"

"Akihide, your behavior in the dojo was disgraceful. If you want that lecture now, in front of your peers, you may say your piece."

Akihide faltered.

That icky feeling welled back up in Kinpо̄ge's gut again, and her cocksure dance went and danced itself away from her. She dropped her head.

"Sandrosan," Usagi began again after a moment had passed in quiet between all of them. "Kinpо̄gekun. I ask that you be rude. My pride is not so delicate as to fear a few bruises. Please tell me what, if anything, my son said to you that led to this duel."

She felt Sandro's eyes on her. He must have been able to tell she was out of commission on explaining herself. That left him to do it on his own. She felt him worming there, very uncomfortable with Usagi's prompt but also unable to deny it. "Um," he cleared his throat, "He um. Akihidesan took me aside. He, he started... needling me, looking... well it seemed like he was looking for a soft spot."

"How so?" Usagi prompted. Akihide was utterly silent.

"He uh," Sandro hated this, hated having to throw anyone under the bus after the fight was already won, "he started real subtle. I'd show him the dojo, he'd insult it. I'd show the sakura, he'd insult it. Lightly, though, kinda hiding it under offers to visit Japan. I uh, I didn't say nothin. Just let it go. Didn't argue, seemed a weird thing to fight over. Then it got... more obvious, he started telling the fable of kappa and, for whatever reason, decided not to focus on their magic powers or that they repay their debts or anything like that, jumped straight to the raping women and casually mentioned the offspring of such unions needing to be buried alive.

"And uh, ya know, whatever, that's unflattering but... I didn't say anything. And um, that's when he started talking about w-, um, Kinpо̄ge. And I must have given it away that that was what was going to make me mad, because he leaned very close to me and whispered the rest of the taunt real quietly so he could be more obvious about it, and then he turned and walked off. I took a few minutes alone to chill out so I didn't do or say nothin."

"What was this 'rest of the taunt?'" Usagi asked.

"Stupid stuff," Sandro said, fighting the urge to comply with all posted instructions like the best child in the world, because he did not want to be the tattle-tale. "It wasn't really about her. Was just words."

"Such as?" Usagi wanted specifics. 

"I dunno," Sandro tried to feint, but then had to answer anyway because there was literally nowhere to go. He, at least, avoided mentioning Akihide's segue had involved a consideration of what Wild might look like naked. "He called her homely, loose, and said something about betting he could get her to kiss him. Stupid stuff."  

"Not so stupid you could resist proving him wrong..." Usagi concluded.

"I-I..." Sandro breathed out through his nose. "I wasn't going to fight. We were trying to figure out what to do, and she asked if she could handle it, and it was a good idea because it subverted the whole thing, so..." He shook his head. "I did anyway, I'm sorry."

"You do not have to apologize to me. What day was this you spoke together with my son?"

"Christmas Eve, Miyamotosan," Sandro answered, relieved to be off the hook. He'd hated doing that. 

"The next day, on Christmas," Usagi looked to Kinpо̄gekun, "I left Akihide in your company. Did anything additional happen then?"

Kinpо̄ge didn't flinch, move, bite her lip, or say anything. 

Sandro was trying to figure out how to get her to talk. And when she didn't, he tried to answer for her. "Akihide offered her his arm. I'm guessing the reason was to try and get me jealous or something, but Wild—Kinpо̄gekun—by then she already intended to challenge him, so we both knew she was playing him the whole conversation. I don't... I don't know if he said anything to her worth mentioning."

She had to get out of this conversation. "Miyamotosan," she mumbled. "I don't feel good. Can I please go get a glass of water?"

Usagi (and everyone else) was so startled that he said, "Of course." 

That was her freedom. She surged out of the room, bolted past where Raphael and Leonardo were watching and listening from the sidelines, and scrambled into the kitchen. But Robyn was there, Robyn and everyone trying to clam Robyn down. She backed up, fled into the bathroom, and had to find a footstool to climb up and reach for a paper cup to get herself some water. Heck, she had to climb onto and stand on the counter. She slipped back down and then in the mirrorsaw Sensei right behind her, standing there, looking down on her, with both hands on his hips and a cross expression on his face. She spun around, heart hammering.

"What are you doing?" he asked quietly.

"Getting water."

Sensei continued to stare. He did not blink. "I hear you had some sort of confrontation with Raphael."

"No regrets," she turned back to the sink.

Her efforts were already in vain. Sensei squatted down, picked her up, turned, sat her on the sink, and leaned over her with one hand on each side of it.

"Child, you will not get away with-"

"I want water."

Something warred on Sensei's face, like he was trying to reconcile some new and terrible concerns against the past and personal experience, and could not figure out where to draw the line.  She tried to figure out what side of this mysterious conflict she ought to be on, or what the sides even were, but in the end was just angry she posed an abstract philosophical dilemma.

She lowered her head, refusing to meet his gaze, and tried to push herself off the sink. She had to slip between his plastron and his arm to get down, but he did not stop her. She doggedly lifted the tap. He depressed the tap, shutting it off. 

"Unboiled sink water is not for drinking, it is for rinsing," he said. "And there is bottled water in the dojo."

She ground her teeth.

"And in the weight room," he remarked. "Perhaps that is a better forum for conversation."

"I don't want to talk," she muttered.

Sensei was silent a breath. "What if I listen?" he asked, quiet again.

She took in a hard, quick breath. "I'm already in trouble," she mumbled. "Is Raphael mad? He should be. He's an asshole."

Another pause. Sensei turned from the sink and squatted down over her. "You sound conflicted."

She didn't let go of her paper cup because it gave her something to stare at as her breathing got away from her. "Were you already angry with me?" she mumbled through sniffs. "Did I do something wrong with the duel?"

"What have I done to lead you into the belief that this was the case?" he asked her.

"You shot me a look when you were leaving."

Sensei let out of a breath through his nose, and then reached about her to touch gingerly at her bandages. "When the student wins any duel—much less their very first!—the teacher discusses the match with with them. What went wrong. What went right.  Why a fish. Why a katana sheath. Heading forward: what future exercises may help account for previously unknown weaknesses. How the student feels: good, ill, nervous, lucky, in-between. What the teacher does not do is walk out the front door on the heels of his best friend for an extended patrol sessions with not even a congratulations thrown over his shoulder!"

"Y-you were going to congratulate me?"

Sensei scoffed like she was being foolish. "Did you not win?" 

But. "Not like you would have."

"Not like-?" Silence passed. Sensei huffed, exasperated, and then tilted his head. "I must work on my, 'don't think I've forgotten you,' expressions to better delineate their moods." He lifted her bandanna. "Clearly they all appear equally stern instead of reassuring or apologetic."

Large, calloused fingers swept tears feather-soft from her face. She took in a deep, shuddering breath, rocking from foot to foot. "Sensei," she forced the question out, because it had hurt more than she'd allowed it to. "Am I a soto-deshi, or an uchi-deshi?" 

He paused, her face framed between his enormous hands, his gaze darkening. "What have I called you?"

"Your apprentice?"

"My apprentice. Are you not here every day? Do you not walk in that door at the same time each morning? Are your lesson's not one-on-one? Do I not instruct you both in and out of the classroom? Listen carefully, my padawan: I will not have you doubting me because because some upstart boy wishes to disempower you. You are ten of him, and that is even whilst factoring in your piss-poor moral reasoning skills. Do not fall for the same ploy twice. Is that clear?"

But the... the katana. Kinpо̄gekun swallowed, staring up at him with round eyes, and a frown that felt like it would destroy her face. Then she leaped forward, throwing her arms around his neck. It doesn't matter. He wouldn't lie.  It doesn't need to be the katana.

Sensei rocked back on his heels. Then he eased both arms around her, resting his hand on her back, and the side of his jaw leaned into her temple.

"It is important I mention," he muttered gruffly over her head, "you are absolutely going to end up in Hashi once I've extracted exactly what it is you've done to offend Raphael."

She hugged tighter. "Master Leonardo."

Turtle hugs always felt unique. The three-fingers at her back were alien, and something about that made them strangely soothing. They couldn't belong to just anyone. They belonged to someone who, months ago, she would have assumed fictional. Someone whose fictional character had failed to impress her. The real person, the real touch, the real smell of unnecessarily clean clothing and faint natural geosmin was some kind of psychological balm. Those fingers pressed into her back, holding her there.

"Are you better?" Sensei asked with time.

Sniff. "Lots."

"Good." He squeezed, and then pulled back to stand. His hand lingered atop her head. "If I may be frank, I did not expect you to be the reticent one in delivering a faithful accounting of all grievances against Akihide. Not when addressed so pointedly. You kept deflecting. Why was this?""

She rubbed her face, thinking. Her brain felt less constipated. "It's a story."

"I see," Sensei straightened her bandanna and then took her hand, folding it entirely in his, as if to guide her along until she felt less floaty. "Then first, let us get you that water. Come, come."

Leonardo was grateful, but for exactly what he could not have presented a definition.

In retrospect, he ought to have recognized the same behavioral pattern from when he'd confronted April in September. Kinpо̄ge had clung to his side then, too, and he then had been equally unskilled in interpreting it. Today he had misread her intentions, failing to recall that she had never once tried to beg, wheedle, or lie her way out of punishment at any other previous occasion. Her bid for his attention had been innocent.

What had happened, then? Where had his thoughts been? With Usagi. After speaking to his friend about the dangers of children who could not decipher right from wrong, somehow Leonardo had been quick to eye similar flaws in his own apprentice. Too quick. Perhaps this had been so as not to be blindsided later down the line the way Usagi had been blindsided. He had returned home to the mixed mayhem of Robyn's stress, Raphael's vague accusations and threats, Usagi's continued quest for answers, and a clearly troubled child whom then had gone neglected. If he had dared to approach her as Usagi was now approaching Akihide, he might have damaged the rapport he had built with her as fair, chastising her out of fear for the future, and for no real present reason.

Remove one support pillar and any structure could be toppled.

But so too it had been with Kinpо̄ge's fears, and now it seemed she could articulate freely again. 

"I was trying to figure out what's wrong with Akihide," she chattered as he presented her with that hard-won bottle of water. "Only I kept doing it wrong. Shawn had called him narcissistic, and I knew that wasn't right. So today I made him hang out with me trying to come up with the specific problem which makes him a terrible person. Sociopathy? Nope. Psychopathy? Nah, not even close."

"You had known this boy scarcely more than two days and already you were blackmailing him into playing with you so you could discern exactly which label to write him off with?"

"Well, scold me later. I was wrong in my initial premise." She produced her phone and swiped and tapped several times to unlock something. Then she lifted up to him, and he blinked and hesitantly took it from her. Most phones were unfortunately tiny in his hands.

"What am I about to witness?" he asked, realizing this was a video. 

"This is after Robyn exploded on Mikey. Damon started howling and nobody was there. Except, like, me."

"So you ended up tending to him?"

"Why does everyone assume that would be my first reaction to a crying baby?" she asked. "No, I valiantly ignored him. Or tried. Valiant ignorance covered my panic well enough."

"Well, fair enough," Leo had to agree that sounded familiar.

"But then the baby kept crying and crying, and it got louder and more 'this is the end of the line, I need somebody now or all is lost,' so I slowly freaked out, went over, looked down at him, and eventually went full spazz. At this point Akihide was still confused about why I would not pick up the baby, which confuses me, because exactly what about my character would suggest to anyone that I do babies?"

"Less than myself, even."

"Right! I figured I'd try to flag down an adult and maybe pull Mikey out from the middle of the shit storm. So I ran off. But under all the noise, I heard the baby stop crying. So I turned around," she tapped the phone screen, and Leo saw that she had surreptitiously captured a view of the baby's crib through a crack in the door.

The video showed Akihide standing there at the crib, Damon cradled in his arms like it was the most natural thing in the world, rocking him as if he—a fifteen year old boy—was a veteran wet nurse. Akihide sang under his breath to the little boy, an old Japanese nursery rhyme with archaic pronunciations of words that made them softer and more enchanting. Damon stopped crying like he had full confidence in the person who was holding him; like he could sense the proficiency at first touch. No small feat when Akihide was not even human. Leo was the opposite; children typically began crying when passed to him.

"He went to the baby," Leonardo realized, looking up to his student in surprise.

"I don't know what's wrong with Akihide," she said. "But it's not medical. I bet the secret's," she pointed at the phone, "in that, somehow. It doesn't match. It doesn't fit. That looks like a boy who's close to his mom, doesn't it? Who helped raise his siblings? The only thing I could think of off the top of my head is he might be in conflict with himself. Like this is the women-and-children behavior, so it's something he has to put away on his journey towards manhood. I don't know, Sensei, it didn't line up."

"There is a saying that we sometimes persecute most in others what we most believe to be deficient in ourselves," Leonardo told her. "Hmm. You have seen this before, but more subtly. In the way Raphael and Sandro interact. It is why you were sensitive to it."

"Sandro's a little nervous about looking too girly or emotional, maybe," she agreed. "But not that bad. Not where he couldn't even hold a baby until no one else was watching, but then rush up to do it like 'omigod tiny life i am here i will save you let me sing to you the song of my people.'"

"No," Leonardo agreed. "This is very different. Tell me, little one, what Akihide said to you yesterday; it was patently sexist?"

"Yeah," she bobbed her head. 

"And this is why you became hung up on explaining."

"Yeah, though it's possible he was just delegitimizing my claim to an apprenticeship to make his own more unique. Using whatever tool was most convenient. I could be connecting the wrong dots."

"True, I will keep that in mind. Can you send this to me?" He gave the phone back to her. "I will share it with Usagi in private. Ah, my number—" he reached back for his phone.

"—is Mikey's minus three," she said, tapping keys. "Don't worry, I won't put it on bathroom stalls with, 'For a good time, call,' scrawled over head. And even if I did, it wouldn't be your number. And even then, no one could read my handwriting anyway. So Raphael is safe from explaining awkward messages on his phone to the missus."

Ping! 

Chapter Text

Sandro was feeling completely bailed on with Wildcard disappearing like that. He was tempted to look back towards Raphael and make puppy eyes in the hopes he got rescued.

Usagi had turned to Akihide in Wildcard's absence and attempted to extract Akihide's version of events. Either Akihide was willfully dense about what he'd done wrong, or else he was outright lying, sticking to the explanation that he'd 'just been making conversation,' and that he'd said the thing about the kiss in jest and that Sandro must have misunderstood. Sandro didn't interject. He didn't care. He was barely listening. He wanted out of the dojo.

Akihide must have been reinterpreting facts on the spot. He was slick, but nowhere near as successful at it as Wild. Usagi had just effortlessly caught him in a logic trap, and it was kind of painful watching this all go south in slow motion. Sandro slumped, accepting that Usagi needed him there, needed him as a prop so that Akihide would eventually realize how serious the situation was, and that he'd not be escaping without forming an apology.

A flash of white interrupted his thoughts, and they looked to see 'Kinpо̄ge' had returned to the dojo. She bowed, waited to be invited back in, and then hurried up to sit between both boys. Sandro took in a deep breath. Something was different about her. Her pep was back.

"I am sorry you felt unwell, Kinpо̄ge-kun," Usagi greeted. 

"Some water helped," she answered. "Thank you, Miyamotosan."

Usagi looked past her, at Leonardo. They must have shared some kind of silent signal, because Usagi nodded to himself and looked back down to her. "Would you please tell me of your interaction with Akihide on Christmas?"

"Well, apart from giving me his arm under the pretense of being a gentleman," she said, and her mouth motor had clearly been restored to fully functioning order in her brief absence, "we mostly just talked. He asked if I was basically Sandro's companion; I asked if he had any siblings. We tried various appetizers. The shrimp were really good. Both times I talked to Akihide, he brought up that he and Sandro were eldest sons. And when I asked about eldest sons being apprentices, Akihide got politely flustered and apologized that 'apprentice' was not usually how one translated my role in Japanese, and that 'apprentice' was reserved for an uchi-deshi. 

"I didn't know the difference, and I am trying to learn more Japanese, so he suggested asking Leonardo-san, whose Japanese was not terrible for an American, to clarify. But, then, seeing I wasn't satisfied and would like a more in-depth explanation, Akihide hit upon the idea of asking me what weapon I used. I said 'the knife,' and he politely explained that a tanto was indeed the weapon appropriate to a woman! That and poison. And paper fans! He lamented my sensei had no heir to teach the katana to, which is indeed very sad, and then nobly suggested he might visit in a few years to briefly apprentice under Leonardo-sensei, so that the knowledge was not lost. All-in-all, very helpful and informative!"

Sandro stared at Wildcard's saintly smile. Then he turned subtly in seiza and dared to peek behind him.

Uncle Leo was back there, alright, and clearly he hadn't heard this story before either, not even in the brief time frame Wild had gone missing from the dojo in search of 'water.' Raphael still seemed absorbed in smug satisfaction that anybody who'd tried to talk down to his son or talk smack about family & friends had gotten a pummeling. But Leo? Oh, right now, Leonardo looked like an owl: eyes wide, brows severe, head lowered, and very much ready to swoop from his perch to snatch up a bunny rabbit and carry it off for dinner.

"Thank you for your testimony, Kinpо̄gekun," Usagi said quietly. "Was there anything else you thought might be important?"

Wild made a great show of thinking about it. "I don't think so," she said. Was she going to whip out a final zinger?

"Nothing happened today while were gone?"

"No," she shook her head. "Akihide and I did a bunch of chores and cleaned the dojo. And we played games together for a bit and stuff. It was pretty low-key." Never mind that Akihide had called her a Yokai earlier, and had likely been getting dragged ruthlessly from activity to activity whether he liked them or not, all under brutally aggressive threat of blackmail. She turned a big innocent smile to the younger rabbit now, draped an arm over his, and asked with a completely straight face, "You're gonna visit us next year, too, right? It was so fun having you!"

Akihide's breath might as well have been frosting in bitter black clouds in front of him. Some his fur visibly stood up on end.

Usagi apologized to Sandro and Wild on Akihide's behalf, telling them that what his son had done was wrong. Sandro accepted the apology with a mute nod of his head. Wild copied Sandro.

Then the two of them were dismissed! Huzzah! Whatever had changed Usagi's need for lecture props, Sandro was grateful! They bolted away from the dojo like lightning, completely disinterested in eavesdropping on whatever doom awaited their adversary. Akihide might have been an asinine bully, but he'd already gotten his comeuppance this morning as far as either of them was concerned. Clearly the combination of Sandro's humble plodding and Wildcard's best possible lighting had only made the situation uglier instead of brighter. On top of that, Wild had apparently driven him to the point of visceral, unnerved, hackles-raised reactions to her touch, so, yeah, that was enough bullying the bully. By this point it would have been just plain mean-spirited to take any additional pleasure in watching him squirming there under his father's stare. 

Also, Sandro needed to get ahead of Raphael for a second!

Once no adults were anywhere in sight, Yin grabbed hold of his companion, heaved her off her feet, and crushed her to him for a moment. He wasn't sure how long they'd be reunited before Raphael demanded that talking-to which Leo owed her. Wild squeezed him around the neck. Sandro closed his eyes, sank back on his heels, and breathed deep.

"So," he muttered, setting her back down. "How did a day with Akihide actually go?"

"Pretty awful," she admitted, sagging into him. "He just wouldn't give up having a miserable time doing everything. There were some highlights though. I remembered the snakes are overdue for a feeding, so I got him to help me with it.

Sandro was quiet a moment. "You forced a rabbit to help you feed live mice to forty-seven snakes?"

"Ayup," she agreed. "Boy has nerves of steel, he stomached his way through the whole thing. That's the kind of person who could pull a bullet out of his own wounds and stitch them closed with his teeth, I tell ya."

Well played, Wild, well played.  Sandro decided he'd forgive her for letting a stranger into his bedroom while he'd been indisposed. "How'd he like Smiles?" he thought to ask

"Eh, Smiles just seemed off limits to me," Wild explained. "She's your baby, so I fed her myself, put her on your pillow, and kissed her snoot. She watched him with magnanimous high regard for all living things the entire time and he shot glances at her every time she moved. T'was grand."

"Thanks." Dismay completely alleviated, Sandro leaned back and rubbed his face. "Usagi got off easy," he decided. "If you'd gone after his parenting skills like you went after my dad..." Sandro could just imagine the sweetly pointed questions: 'Which kind of bad parent are you, Miyamotosan? Neglectful, bigoted, or simply in denial?'

"Must have got it out of my system the first time! What, um, what happened between you and Raphael after I left?"

"Oh." Sandro glanced behind him, but Raphael had yet to make an appearance. Maybe he and Leo were taking this moment to go through exactly why apprentice-murder was necessary.

Sandro leaned near Wild, explaining that he'd immediately taken his bridge exercise back up, trying to bring the situation back into balance. He'd stayed quiet, praying to his grandfather and the saints and the kami and all possibly applicable spirits, thanking them that that whole confrontation hadn't gone any worse...

...because visions of Raphael smacking sense into her had been flashing before Sandro's eyes, no foresight required. And worse (so much worse, but that was just his imagination, hyperactive with stress and fear).

Smacks from Raphael tended to result in severe whiplash, but that's not where the story would have ended. Wild would have gotten tossed on her ass, stood up, dusted herself up, cracked her neck, and then strutted around wearing the bright red mark on her face like a source of pride, like someone's dirty laundry.  She'd have made sure every person in the house saw it. When Wild was feeling vindictive, she worked every angle like it had been gift-wrapped for her explicit and individual use.

And what would have happened then? With Donnie, Leo, April, hell, even Mikey?

And what if Raphael had done worse than simply smack her, what if he had-? He wouldn't have seriously hurt her. (Hush thoughts.) Sandro instead held his Hashi form perfectly, still praying, counting the seconds since Wildcard's departure from the weight room.

"You sure know how to pick em," said Raphael in a low voice.

"I'm sorry," Sandro blurted.

"Th' hell ya sorry for? S'a complement, ain't it."

"Was it... s-sarcastic?"

"Hnn."

Then he heard the scrape of wood over the ground, and the click of wooden sticks. And something weird had happened. For Raphael had balanced a board upon a ball, stepped up onto it, taken a crouching one-legged lotus position, and—tossing a roll of what appeared to be yarn up onto his shell, he'd begun to knit.

It took Sandro's brain—which had previously been looping insane, wobbly circles at Mach-5 over everything Wildcard had done or could have done or could have had done to her—to slowly digest the fact that his father had just put himself into Hashi beside him. Which apparently involved knitting. Sandro remembered hearing one or two allusions to that, but naturally he'd never seen it. His father had obviously never been sent to Hashi by any other member of the household; Sandro could only imagine Raphael's laughter had someone (especially Leo) even tried. When Raphael did something 'wrong,' Raphael usually did go to the weight room, but it was always to box with the punching bag there. 

"What?" Sandro's mouth couldn't handle what his eyes were beholding, and went off in search of confirmation.

"Ya friend's an idiot," Raphael said.

Sandro swallowed and looked down. "Yeah," he agreed without contest. 

"Fuckin' ballsy, but a complete idiot. N' clearly spoiled n'used ta people bendin' ta her when she pulls out her angry voice. Ain't got no concept of the fact she's a guest, and there's ways people behave and ways they don't, and that ain't just pomp and circumstance, there's reasons fah that. If she weren't comin' here inta my house every single day, she could talk smack about any of us and we'd nevah know. Sure. Kids do dat sometimes, even just ta vent. But ta my face? Expectin she can get away with it just cause she's too small ta hit and ain't my own kid? She's a fuckin idiot. She does it again she's gonna have plenty of time ta think about why, seein' as she won't be gettin in the house for a month. Leo can pick a convenient rooftop ta train her on if he tries ta pull rank."

Sandro looked slowly back up. Only a month? Not forever? Not threats to murder her?  Raphael wasn't mad. Raphael was measuring out metered punishments for Wild's fundamental misconceptions on whom she was allowed to stage dominance plays against. The world wasn't ending. Maybe. If Wild backed off when Sandro told her all this.

"Y-you..." Sandro hesitated. Raphael glanced over at him. Sandro gestured with his head towards the effortless, slumped, and casual way Raphael was holding a nearly impossible posture on top of a rolling object. "You're really good at that."

"Yeah? Oughta be. Had lots of practice." 

Lots of practice at getting in trouble. There was something warm in Raphael's expression, a candle light under which Sandro's heart melted. He nearly slipped out of his own exercise.

"Careful. Listen. Dun want ya hangin' out with that snot-nosed dumbass of yours fah the rest of the day, so she gets the message. After Hashi, I want ya hangin' with Donnie and I'll clue him in he's to keep her outta the lab. Then when ya recovered, I'll take ya out on a walk, n' later we can do some weightliftin'. Fair?"

"Okay." Totally fair. Very fair. 

"Aright." Raphael sniffed, and was quiet for a moment. Then he snickered, and Sandro looked up to him. He shrugged. "Ain't nevah seen anybody dat size with that kinda personality before," he confessed. 

All the slow-simmered anger from earlier, when he'd been originally putting Sandro in Hashi, was gone. Sandro cleared his throat. "Why'd you say I 'know how to pick em?'" he asked his dad.

Raphael gave him a weird look, like he found the question itself to be strange. He didn't answer immediately but then shook his head and said, "People don't get in mah face, Sandro, not over shit they can afford to lose. Not unless their name's Casey Jones. She ain't got that safety net, she's takin' that gamble boldface and it ain't cause she woke up this morning and said to herself, 'Ya know I wanna lose some teeth today, I'm gonna start fights with the biggest, meanest SOB I can find.' Now maybe she don't know where the limits are talkin' ta a friend parents, but she only jumped in fah one reason, and she didn't even blink once she had it."

Sandro wasn't sure what that meant.

"Dat girl loves you, kid," Raphael looked back to the knitting. "And ya lucky ta have somebody on ya team like that, someone ya own age; cause that's a person what can't be bought and won't run scared. Everythin else wrong with her notwithstandin; you're right, dis life gets lonely without a friend or two. Even the blockheads what don't know when ta stop talkin."

"Thank you," Sandro mumbled.

"Fah what? Puttin ya in Hashi?"

"... F-for calming down. For not yelling."

Raphael was quiet a bit. Knitting did not look easy with only six fingers. "Yeah," he finally said, and left it at that...

"...He put himself in Hashi?" Wild asked, eyes widening.

"Yeah," Sandro confirmed. "And the only way he's gonna forgive you is if A) you never let on that I told you about this, and B) Leo skins you alive."

"Well." Wild sniffed. "The important thing is I've forgiven him."

"What? No,  Wild, listen." Sandro took her shoulders. "What you did scared me and I did not like it."

She blinked rapidly at him. "I wasn't scared. I got your dad to—"

"Listen!" Sandro insisted. "These are my feelings, okay? And you can't change them by being nuts! Just because everything turned out okay this one time does not mean I ever want you pulling something like that again! Not on him. Okay? I-I don't want you angry with him, I don't want him angry with you!"

"He was hurting you," she growled.

"Not... not really. Look. I understood why you feel that way, but I also understand why he didn't want me bouncing feelings from that fight onto anyone else, ever. He's already apologized for what he's done. He was put through the wringer months ago, okay? That wound's healing, and today I definitely wasn't feeling abused by him. But, Jesus, Wild! I was terrified of all the things you could have broken throwing your anger around like that. With him, with you, with... I didn't like it—at all. I'm grateful, but I'm not okay with the choice you made."

She tucked her chin, frowning. "But..."

"I love my dad, Wild, same as you love yours. Sometimes... I do need someone to jump in and help me, that's true. But that wasn't today, and you've gotta be able ta tell the difference or else you've gotta err on the side of caution. Cause I ain't ever gonna blame you for the lack of backup, I'm used to him and he's even getting better! You know what I'll blame you for? If you make them hate you. What can I possibly do to fix that?"

Her fists tightened at her sides. "I don't know if I know how to act any different," she said in monotone.

Sandro straightened, thinking about what to tell her.

"But I'll talk to Sensei about it," she grit out, shaking a little. "And I'll ask him if he can break it down for me."

Sandro heaved out a heavy breath and decided that might be the best. He nodded. He took her hands to worry his thumbs into the balls of her fists. He got her to hold his hands. He butted his snout to her hair. "I love you Yang."

"I love you, Yin," she mumbled, face heated. "Hey, um... Even if I look stubborn... I know I should have done something different. I couldn't even play with Mikey when he got home because I felt like I didn't deserve it, so I stuck with Akihide..."

"What, like you were punishing yourself?" Sandro snickered. "S'okay. I forgive you."

Still trying to shake this afternoon's negative experience with Robyn, Dontello noticed it was well past dawn, and, while Usagi and his son had left some time ago, Wildcard's shoes were still beside the door. Concerned, and wondering if any control-freaks were overstepping their boundaries, Donatello slipped slowly, silently down the hall towards the weight room, walking carefully on the balls and toes of his feet.

Leonardo was awful to try and sneak up on. Donatello at least had the cover of background noise. Donatello could be very quiet when he wanted to, the same as any ninja, but it'd certainly help him go unobserved if Leo turned out to be distracted. Purple eased across the hall to get a glimpse into the exercise room from a distance. He learned Wildcard's Hashi was the same as Michelangelo's: A handstand on a chair.

Her bandanna was askew. By the mild gloss on her brows, and pink pigmentation around her eyes, she'd briefly teared up sometime in the last forty-five minutes since Leo had chased her in here. That wasn't the case now. Now she looked calm and at-ease, soaking in her lecture and perhaps taking it at face value. 

Her hands were wrapped tight around the armrests of the chair, her elbows were slightly bent to prevent numbness, and she wasn't shaking with strain. By her age, Donatello and his brothers had been proficient at maintaining Hashi for hours at a time, and this was the easiest of all four bridge exercise, but she had less testosterone, no mutagen, and nowhere near the same training to fall back on. The fact that she was holding up fairly effortlessly was worth notin. All that said, it wasn't the factor that dominated the scene.

That honor was given to how Leo had dragged a stool up in front of her, sat himself down there. He was leaned over and talking down to her, face just a few feet apart, maintaining constant eye-contact, voice so low that Donatello couldn't make out the words. (Curse their lack of external ears). And Leo had also grasped her elbows, as if he'd needed to steady her at one point.

Donatello's gaze swept from his brother's face, to their guest's. Wildcard had a raised a brow and was saying something skeptical. Leo didn't answer automatically, appearing to give some thought to structuring his reply. Whatever he said made her solemn again, albeit nearly sad, with a dissatisfied cast. He added something, and her face lit up in a laugh. Leo looked not-so-secretly smug. He released her arms slowly to make sure she could stay up, and then sat back with the matter apparently settled and the lecture 'successful.' His next words to her were audible at a distance, and had to do with how long she'd be in Hashi.

Donnie retreated so as not to be seen. He folded a hand over his mouth, thinking.

"Hey," Raphael asked from where he was apparently cooking dinner. "He's actually putting her through it, right? Ain't goin' easy or some shit?"

What? Oh! Maybe Donatello had been overthinking in the wrong direction entirely. "What happened?"

"Little cunt tried ta start a fight with me ovah nothing."

"Dad handled it very well!" Sandro testified.

"Language, Raphael!" Don protested, gesturing with both hands to four curiously blinking gator children.

"Oh. Yeah. My bad, girls, sorry 'bout dat. If ya evah learn, like, ya know, English... 'cunt' is totally a bad word."

Donatello slapped a hand over his face and shook his head.

"Wait," Wildcard protested later when their guests had left for the 'night' and she was upside down in Hashi. "I thought of another fringe case scenario!"

"Child," Leonardo sighed, returning to his stool with tea in hand, "you have no business getting into a fight with someone who could squash you into jelly by sitting upon you."

Wild considered. "Raphael could totally eat me, couldn't he?"

"Oh undoubtedly," Leonardo agreed, leaning comfortably backwards. "Turkeys larger than you have been put away by him in a single sitting."

"I'm so small...!" she wept.

Sensei chuckled. "Do your bridge, child. Another hour and a half to go, and then you will apologize to Raphael."

"I can't. What do I apologize for? I'm not genuinely sorry! Not for what he wants me to be sorry for, anyway."

"And you think you know what he 'wants?' How did you ever manage to bow to Akihide in the dojo with this mentality?" Leonardo flicked a hand at her. "Why was this not a point of contention between you and I, this lack of respect for your opponent?"

"Oh I totally just bow to the impressive historical and spiritual presence of all the ancient masters of martial arts," she said. "That one was easy."

"You are not even mildly religious!" Leonardo exclaimed.

"I'm more than mildly superstitious," she pointed out.

"Oi. Child, Raphael wants Sandro to be happy, and you put him in a very awkward place where his self respect, age, and weight category told him he could smoosh you, but to do so would be to indirectly harm his own child. He calmly instructed you to leave, gave you repeated warnings, and then did not take out his anger on anyone, Sandro included.

"Be thankful for the little things. Apologize for taking advantage of his morals, even as deep down you take satisfaction in holding him to them. Not all apologies are one hundred percent shows of submission. Sometimes they are fifty-fifty or altogether illogical, but they are important tools for balming wounds, and one needs to be able to mean them with some part of one's heart or head, even if the other parts may be puzzled or dismayed. Care about him. About Raphael. For Sandro's sake."

"I do care about Raphael." She huffed and rolled her eyes. "When did you get wise?"

Leonardo shrugged unruffled like the pretty bird he was. "Comes with age."

"How, um," she cleared her throat, "how did everything with Akihide end?"

"Ah." Sensei sipped his tea. "It hasn't, child. Informed discussions between Father and son have only just begun. But your nick-of-time insight saved him from a public shaming, and for that... I am grateful to you on Usagi's behalf. I had supported Usagi in a tough love approach, in being stern, but only because I had not considered the boy might be under some intense internal pressure. This outcome, it was better; but it is still only the beginning."

She waved her weight from side to side, keeping her balance as she thought. It felt kinda wrong, this idea that she might never know what happened to Akihide. Maybe once she bothered to pay attention to a person, it was hard to let them go. That might explain why she had trouble making casual friendships. Maybe, later on, she could ask Leo if Usagi wrote anything about Akihide in his letters. "Oh hey!" she suddenly recalled. "Shouldn't I get a lecture over that wanton use of blackmail?"

Sensei slowly grinned, a long, slow, wide expression made even better by his broad mouth and snout. Oh God, Sensei had a dark side, and it was adorable and filled with sassy one-liners, precision-timed innocent recollections, and thought bubbles dominated by evil overlord finger-bridges whenever someone was served just desserts!

"How about you just thank your lucky stars my koi emerged unscathed?" Leonardo suggested serenely. 

"Hai, Sen-sei!" she cheered.

Chapter Text

Apart from hearing how Wildcard's dad had reacted to being shown the duel with Akihide, Sandro hadn't thought much of what might happen on December 27th. In his mind it had been slated as a rest day. No Akihide, minimal visitors, and lots of Mario Carts with the gator girls.

But something was amiss.

Auntie Robyn's thoughts seemed to be bent on something important, some... great and weighty reality which she had stood up to face down with grace, heaviness, and resignation. There was a change about her, in hear bearing maybe, or in the light of her eyes. She wasn't this happy, bouncy, messy, immaculately groomed sparkle of creative energy. She wasn't oblivious, ignorant, in denial, or too frightened to stare into the void. She looked like she was staring into it now. Sometime, soon after they'd all woken up, she'd asked Michelangelo if she could entrust him with the baby for the day, the whole day, and Mikey had agreed. 

But Robyn hadn't used that bought time to go out partying, shopping, or sight-seeing. She'd walked the sewers (carefully and with a flashlight), and then lingered about the home after Ninjitsu practice, often in the dojo. She sat under the Sakura tree for hours, it seemed, thinking. 

Auntie Robyn wasn't the sort of person most anyone in the Hamato household would have called 'self-aware.' Brave? Yes. Loyal? Also yes. Responsible? Depended on what exactly you meant by the question. Well, Auntie Robyn looked self aware, now. Sandro caught her in the bathroom, leaning up against the sink, staring straight into her own reflection, dead quiet. 

Sandro felt a little heartbroken for her. He wasn't sure exactly what was wrong, but he guessed it had something to do with her 'explosions' and maybe with the general hardships involved in raising a baby. Alone. Alone except for her own father, he worked and who was getting on in age. Sandro quietly tiptoed away and left Auntie Robyn and her reflection—and that heart-to-heart they were clearly having—in peace for a little while longer. He asked Wild not to talk to her, just in case. And when Casey came over later on, he asked Shadow to be polite and respectful, too, if she should bump into her. 

"Can I talk to everyone?"

Turtles and people looked up in surprise. Everyone was gathering in the center of the house for dinner, and Robyn already had a decently circle shaped ring of people around her. Leonardo had just been entering the house and was still in his catsuit. Mikey and Leatherhead were getting up from the couch. Donnie was in the kitchen. Raphael and Casey had been coming from the weight room. Sandro and Wild had just gotten back from the dojo where they'd played with throwing stars.

Robyn's shoulders were squared, but her face was tired. Whatever she was about to say, it wasn't being said lightly or as a result of a slump. She'd thought about it long and hard, and she'd possibly been thinking about it for over a year, or maybe even since before Damon was even conceived.

"Sure," April solicited. "What's up, Robyn?"

Robyn took a deep breath, and spent a moment collecting her first words. "I know this isn't remotely new information to anyone here, but it's probably the first time I've admitted to your faces that I never really made the transition into adulthood successfully." 

Donatello immediately rubbed his face and looked away because, 'Oh boy didn't you,' was written all over his expression. Donatello, it had to be said, was not very good at pretending other people lacked flaws.

"Robyn," Grandpa O'Neil tried to say as he rose, but she gestured that he should remain seated.

"Please. Dad." Robyn shook her head. "I live in your basement. That's the classic definition of 'failed to launch.'"

A hush fell over everyone.

"Just let me talk," Robyn asked them. "Because these are things I've tried not to admit to myself, and I've tried not to admit to other people, and even if my idea for how to deal with them is headed in the wrong direction, it will help me to... be honest. With everyone. With me." 

No one stopped her.

"I tried," Robyn smiled weakly. "I tried a lot, and I tried a lot of different ways, and I kept picking myself back up no matter how hard or how long I'd fallen, because I knew if I didn't keep trying, I'd never succeed. And I knew I was getting 'better' at it, at taking care of myself, providing for myself, things like that. But it was slow. It was... unnecessarily slow. It was painfully slow. I watched my sister, who is only a few years older than me—"

"—Robyn," April tried to stop her, which was fair, because most people couldn't pull off privatizing a major news organization no matter how long they lived, but Robyn rapidly waved her hands.

"—I watched my sister build a life for herself, a job for herself, a name for herself; I watched her raise a boy through extreme—absolutely extreme—difficulties, and I watched this family battle off real threats left and right: ninjas, samurai, demons, aliens.... robot-samurai-ninja-aliens... dinosaurs... The only thing I haven't seen are actual pirates, now that I think about it; you throw that in there you'll have a complete set. I watched everyone grow up but me, and I got stuck behind somehow, and no matter how much of my heart I put into trying to do very basic and simple things, like... put away my socks, or... hold a minimum wage job, or... write a book... all that happened was I stayed in almost exactly the same place I had always been."

There wasn't a soul in that room who knew what to tell her. 

"Maybe, even though I feel like I kept trying, I was really just smashing my head into the same wall from different angles, and the very obvious pathway around that wall was just somehow invisible to me. Maybe what's broken inside me isn't all these other things, maybe it's just one part, the part that understands what kind of thing to try next, and gives you the strength to go through it without getting so frustrated you just shut down and think, 'This isn't the way,' and giving up. But it's not like I didn't have help, I had therapists, I had Dad, I had all of you, even if it was at something of a distance. I made friends. I dated. I had people around me who were helping me." 

This story was making Sandro sad. He looked at Wild to find she didn't look moved at all. Her expression was impassive and judgmental. At first he was a little shocked to see that. Then he reasoned Wild wasn't perfect either, and if there was going to be one thing in all the world she struggled to understand, that would definitely be any illness that made it difficult for a person to do the things they'd put their mind to. Wild had trouble stopping herself from doing the things she'd put her mind to. 

Robyn continued, "And even though in retrospect it must sound horrible, I think there was really a part of me that believed having Damon would be the trigger which finally pushed me into growing up. For him, to raise him because I love him and I want to be a good mom." She took a deep breath, "I wasn't expecting magic, I wasn't expecting to change who I was overnight. I read about it a lot, and I knew that women who had unrealistic expectations towards motherhood sometimes had trouble bonding with their children, so I went into this with both eyes open. Maybe I should specify I didn't get pregnant intentionally, and that part was an accident, but I did choose to keep Damon. And not to get an abortion or give him up for adoption."

"Anyway... I was praying to the saints that the urge to protect him and to nurture him would give me that extra little bit of help I needed to finally move forward. And it did... in a way. But when it pushed me forward... It was like pushing a card castle. I couldn't safely be moved, not without falling apart and starting all over with nothing. It highlighted everything fragile about me, and it made me weaker, ironically because I so desperately wanted to be stronger for his sake. I didn't fail to bond with my son. I just hated myself, very quickly, for all of my failures. For being a terrible mother. I brought this child into the world as a single parent who can barely earn enough money to support myself, who... who can't even keep the room he sleeps in clean, or take out the garbage so the whole place doesn't stink of dirty diapers."

People wanted to stop her and comfort her. 

"I love my son so much," tears were rising up, and her face was getting heated. "Every time I go to bed, I hear my own voice in my head repeating over and over again how selfish I am, and that it would be better to give him up for adoption, that he'd be happier. But I can't. I won't. He's my son. I love him too much. Selfishly much, maybe."

Robyn wiped her face and took long, slow breaths. She wanted to say more. She had to calm herself so she could square her shoulders again, so that her voice wasn't shaking.

"Dad's going to be able to retire soon," she finally said. "And I'm tired of being a leech. I can move out, and file for disability. There's a... a safety net for people like me, who can't... take care of themselves very well. It's not big, and I'll have to keep supplementing it with whatever I can earn... And we'll always be poor. Real poor. And I'll need to give up my dogs and most of everything else. But I'll still be able to do it. I'll make ends meet. I'm just... I'm scared of being alone. I'm scared I will crumble, and I won't be able to pick myself back up, and something with happen because I couldn't even look in the right direction to see it coming. I have to move out, but I don't want to be alone."

"Robyn, you don't have to move out," her dad, Grandpa, he was saying.

"I do," she disagreed.

"Dad's right," April argued. "You just admitted that having a baby to try and force yourself to be more responsible didn't really work; so you should know better than to think moving out on your own is going to fix everything.

"I'm turning thirty," Robyn said. "I'm a mom. I finally have my pain managed. I finally have a job. I... I don't have stable boyfriend, unfortunately, and that would have helped. And maybe I won't make it. But I have to try one more time to leave this nest before giving up for good. And it has to be now, because I have to figure out if I can give me baby a good life or... or if I can't. Once Dad has retired, he will have more free time, so it may just happen that Damon will end up going over Grandpa's House to be babysat a lot because Mom can't bear the idea of him sitting in her filthy loft a second longer. But right now, while he's still small, I have to try."

"Good on you," Casey Jones said, and she looked to him in surprise. He shrugged. "I mean it's a long shot, I've known you for, what, over fifteen years? But you're a fighter. Good on ya for never giving up."

"Thank you, Case." She wiped her face and took another deep breath. It looked like she had more to say. "Um. Instead of bumming off Dad, I've considered moving back east. I realize that would just have me bumming off of my sister, which is no better. But there's actually been something else I've considered doing. Something I've considered offering. I'd thought about it before, but I thought about it a lot these last few months, especially when Damon's dad just disappeared on me, like he was revolted. And..."

Robyn smiled, some of her spirit coming back into her face. She didn't want to be sad for this. "I wanted to ask the remaining three unmarried Hamatos if any of them would consider having me."

Dead Silence.

"This family has always been good to me, and to my sister, and to Dad. Master Splinter was always good to us. And this year in particular has once again shown me that any of you would give me the shirt off your backs. And I... know any of you would be good fathers, even to a child who isn't yours. And even though I usually only see you on Holidays, I know the rest of the year, you're pretty alone. So that's what I wanted to offer."

The silence was interrupted by a creak, and then Donatello's nasal and skeptical, "What exactly is it you're offering?"

Robyn looked to him in surprise. "Myself."

"As a... girlfriend? Wife?" Donatello asked with a raised brow but nothing disbelieving about his tone.

Robyn faced him. "Yes."

"Okay, I'm not trying to attack you, but: You don't cook, you don't clean," he counted off on his fingers, "you don't bring in a substantial income, you don't bargain hunt sufficiently to compensate for not bringing in a substantial income, you have no trained skills, your shampoo costs fifty dollars, you exclusively purchase designer clothing..."

"You're trying not to attack me?" she asked. 

"I'm just asking what exactly it is you intend to bring to the table in exchange for someone supporting you," Donatello said, sitting on the counter. "Seeing as you appear to be viewing this as a strategic move for yourself, you can't blame me for doing likewise."

Her face turned a little red. "Am I wrong... and the answer's not obvious?"

"So sex?" Donatello asked. "Sex and good looks? You are very beautiful Robyn, both naturally and as a result of excellent hygiene. I'm not just being an ass."

Robyn was quiet a moment, swallowing down whatever anger or insecurity Donatello had just dragged out and all over the place. She lifted her chin and said "You're right. That's the only thing I have that's desirable, because it's the only thing that works exactly right: my body. I'm not afraid of any of you. I'd give any of you a family, if it meant having one of my own."

Bam. That was the proposition, served cold and real:

I can stand to look at you, I can see the humanity in your alien faces, I can appreciate your nurturing instincts as fathers, I accept you. And: I will let you touch me. I will not run scared at the sight of your terrifying, gigantic, violet penises. I will not be disgusted at the sight of you rutting over me like beasts. I will make love to you, and you can have all the things life was going to deny you: Sex, comfort, a warmth beside you in your bed at nights, and children to love and nurture. All you have to do is take care of me, and love my preexisting child as your own.

Donatello leaned back, and the expression on his face said he was impressed with her answer. And to be entirely fair, Robyn strongly resembled April, only younger and much more attractive. But he shook his head very quickly all the same.

"I can't handle you," he confessed. "I don't do drama well. I'd inevitably resent you and the sentiment would be mutual, and that would definitely be a bad situation for your son to grow up in."

Robyn let out a breath and nodded. She looked over at Michelangelo, who was very still and clearly thinking incredibly hard.

Mikey was the one presently holding her baby, and he was absolutely in love with the little guy. As a person, Michelangelo was energetic, charismatic, good-looking, cheerful, upbeat, helpful, loving, and at exactly that point in his life where he was looking for love. His crush on the pizza lady notwithstanding, Michelangelo was desperate for feminine attention, and if Robyn had gotten to that button first, well, it was the pizza lady's loss. 

"U-uh," Mikey's voice cracked, surprising at least one person with his instant hesitance. Then he darted forward to talk with her directly. "Robyn, I'm not responsible. I mean, wow, it would be awesome, but-!"

"It's okay!" she immediately answered, concerned, reaching out to touch his arms. "You're not taking advantage of me—"

"And I really like you and care about you!" he confirmed. "But, I'm not gonna make you a better person, or push you, or make you clean, or know how to help you out of your rut. I'm just going to make it easier for you to stay exactly where you are: stuck. In a basement. With your life never really starting. And Robyn, you love people! You're like... what's the word..."

"A social butterfly," Donatello said.

"Right! And you wouldn't get that down here. We could try and get you topside often, or even rent an apartment for you during the week, but then it'd get worse cause I'd be kinda jealous of you, you get to leave and go to parties and sunbathe and hang out with a bunch of friends on the surface and... I'd be left behind. Plus we'd be worried about your safety all the time..."

Robyn swallowed.

"I think it's a bad idea," Mikey said. "Even if it sounds great at first. I can't. All I can do is be an awesome uncle for your kid and help with babysitting if you move back to the area. But I'd totally help with that. You-you understand?"

"You're right," she said tightly, because there was nothing else to say.

Sandro was surprised at how that had just played out, though Wildcard still looked impassive. Huh. Either Mikey was unusually attached his present crush, or else he'd gone and thought about proposing to Robyn at some earlier point, and decided against it. Maybe that made sense. Mikey had obviously seen Robyn was struggling, they all had, and Wild was right Mikey looked to be revving up for relationshiphood and parenthood, and of course Mikey was very giving. But he'd decided against it. And his reasoning was sound.

Of course Mikey did look really wretched to be rejecting her. It needed to be noted this might be his only chance at ever having someone. There was no guarantee his pizza lady or any other woman in the universe wouldn't run scared at the sight of him. "I'm sorry, Rob..." he pleaded to her.

She shook her head. "Don't be," she forgave.

Mikey oozed empathy, sorrow, and affection. He hugged her little baby to himself, and then hopped forward and gave her a quick hug. She appreciated. But at the end of the hug, Robyn was still left alone and unspoken for.

She slowly turned towards the door. The door and the final Hamato brother.

The head of the family, who as of yet had no family of his own.

The eldest and most responsible.

The leader. 

"And you?" Robyn asked, already resigned, already sad. "What's your excuse?"

Sandro felt everything in Wildcard tense, and he reached down quickly and grabbed hold of her just before she could surge forward and try to interpose herself between them.

"I cannot afford you," Leonardo said bluntly. "I bring in no wage, and live off the generosity of my younger brothers. On the occasion I loot cash from a well-supplied adversary, it is my habit to donate all proceeds."

She gave a weak shrug. "I'd have to put up with cheaper clothes."

"Robyn," April tried to interrupt. "It's not fair of you to put them on the spot like this, asking them to spontaneously develop feelings for you when-"

But Robyn ignored her, stepped closer to Leo, and gently touched his hand to let him know she was being earnest. "Will you help me? Please. I'll still work. There are hair salons everywhere, not just in Colorado. I'll pull my weight, or as much of it as I can."

Sandro had to hold on. Tightly. Wildcard pushed and twisted hard against him. She wanted to be at Uncle Leo's side. It was like she wanted to protect him.

Leonardo lifted his chin, taking in a low, slow breath through his nose, and turning his gaze off to the side. He did not look at her as he spoke. "It is true that I could fulfill the basic duties demanded by a matrimonial union. That I could supply stability; structure; food and shelter; sexual services, if required, and just as neatly redress and return to patrolling the city. It would be a cold partnership, Robyn O'Neil, and I am not desperate for the touch of a woman. If you have any affection for me whatsoever, then, as my sister-in-law, please do not ask me a second time."

Robyn said something else to Leo, softer this time, and Sandro barely caught the sight of his uncle's face creasing up in pain. Then April had stood up and was walking towards the situation.

"Robyn, stop." April was going to get Leo safely out of this marriage proposal, one way or another.

"Hold my beer," said Casey Jones to Raphael, with one last swig before he parted with it. He strolled across the room, pushed April gently out of his way, and tapped on Robyn's shoulder. When Robyn O'Neil turned around, Casey captured the small of her back with a hand, dipped her, and planted a full open-mouthed kiss right on target. 

Robyn grabbed hold of him so she didn't fall over while he was dipping her, eyes wide.

Casey stood her back up, paused a moment like he was gauging her half-revolted, half-intrigued expression, winked like he was saying 'its gonna be okay hot stuff,' and then turned inclusively around to incorporate everybody else, lifted a hand, and promptly volunteered with, "I'll take her!"

Wildcard's struggles fell slack.

Casey Jones: The Man - The Legend - The Hero of the Hour. 

The house dissolved into chaos.

Chapter Text

The New Years Party had several noteworthy attributes which set it apart from the Christmas gift exchange.

There was a bigger crowd. There was also a lot more alcohol. Everyone was louder and much more boisterous. Dancing happened!

That last bit apparently hadn't been planned, but Michelangelo fired up an eclectic mix of dance tunes at the juke box, half his brothers darted up to help, and soon everyone was waltzing, break-dancing, swinging, salsa-ing, polka-ing, doing the macarena, and someone even convinced Dr. Honeycutt that, yes, 'doing the robot' during the electronica song was indeed a perfectly acceptable form of socializing with the rest of them. Leo had precisely enough sake to nod and tap a foot to the song without actually joining in, but, sadly, not enough to let them know whether he could hold his own against Mikey in a shell-spinning competition. Alas!

Three months ago, nodding and foot-tapping would have been all Wildcard and Sandro could have done without a Dance Dance mat and a long list of arrows, not unless they'd wanted to seriously embarrass themselves. As the dancing activity exploded into popularity with their party-goers and took over the whole living room such that all the furniture had to be moved aside, the two children shot each other looks, wordlessly considering the pros and cons of joining in the next upbeat pop song that came along. Were they ready for this!? Long before they'd reached a consensus, a new song began with an arresting, high-pitched violin whine, a great tremor of an acoustic guitar, and the snappy rumble of a snare drum.

Raphael surged past the two of them, tossed what appeared to be a long red rose into the air, and caught it by the stem in his beak. Wearing sexual charisma like a mantle, molten gold eyes aflame, he was met mid-floor by his wife, who glued her chest to his. He captured her hand and pressed the small of her back with one massive hand. She hooked her arm around the back of his neck. The next rumble of the snare drum had them moving off in what appeared to be complete spontaneity, strutting, twisting and touching ankles to ankles, striking with heels on the floor, spinning rapidly, dipping low, all with eyes locked on each other like they were the only two things in the room. People whooped and whistled and clapped. There were howls of 'Yow!' like onlookers were being scalded by the intense steam. 

Sandro stared at them with his head tilted to the side and jaw on the floor, like his brain was going to fall out one ear and kersplat there. Raphael dipped his lady so far over her hair nearly touched the ground, and then a quick but passionate kiss happened in which that rose changed ownership. Wowza. Wildcard got the impression that this type of smoking, saucy, alcohol-induced romantic display had never previously occurred where Sandro had been able to see it.

Ah, la amor.

Joker was noticeably missing, because he had to work (All hands on deck, all hands on deck! New Years Eve is here, people! This is not a drill, I repeat, not a drill!), but April O'Neil had been able to attend for the first time in apparently forever because apparently she had a phenomenally well-trained look-alike to do networking ops at her company party. Who else attended? Well Usagi and Akihide showed up for the first time since December 26th.

But the most important thing which happened that New Years was neither Akihide trying to say a very nice 'hi' to them without his face curling in on itself, nor Sandro's parents making G-rated love to one another out on the dance floor. The most important bit was that News Years gave them Shawn back.

Leonardo called to Sandro from the doorway.

Sandro turned to look, and then Sandro's face went from confused/nauseous/dazed to absolute giddy in the space of a heartbeat. Mid-sprint, he slapped Wild's back to get her attention, and he got to the door so fast he really did kinda skid to stop his forward momentum. He didn't have to say a thing. His face was a treatise.

Shawn, poor Shawn, adorable Shawn; he was so inexperienced in looking forward to see somebody that he had no idea how to even greet them. His giddy expression matched Sandro's. "I'm back," he whimpered and then, Bereft of other ideas and possessed of a tremendous need to communicate how happy he was, he staggered forward and threw his arms around the turtle boy like they were cousins.

Sandro, being the sweet, lovable, totally-not-afraid-of-emotions boy that Sandro was,hugged Shawn right back. Wildcard pounced a shell from behind, climbed over her twin's shoulder, and flopped over both adorably emotional boys from above. "Weeee miiissseeed youuuuu!" she proclaimed on everyone's behalf, feet kicking in the air.

"I'm getting a new mom!" Shadow reported the latest big development as she popped up underarm like a daisy, as previously only Wilds had ever done. "She's not great but she'll do!"

"So how was Christmas?" Wild asked over their tiramisu.

"Christmas was 'fine,'" Shawn explained with a stressed shrug and eyes turned upwards as if asking the universe to forgive him for saying anything negative about a holiday with the family, "and it's not like I wasn't looking forward to seeing my family—I was!"

"Yeah, I know that feeling," Sandro admitted as he returned with a bunch of sodas and passed them out. "When people visit you, it's a nice vacation from life, but they don't stay, so it can feel weird."

"Yeah," Shawn grimaced. "And my parents were really on the fence about whether this," he gestured to the whole holiday party with his fork, "was a good thing to risk twice. The first time was practically just to confront your parents one-on-one to make sure nothing had leaked."

"I caught a ton of heat over that," Wildcard confided.

"I should hope so," Shawn burst on her in exasperation, "but anyway, it was mind numbing pretending to be normal with everyone over, especially right after I'd just been here. I mean..." he gestured to Sandro, "look at you!"

"I know!" Sandro agreed with a lift of both arms and a look down at himself.

"And it's not like any member of that family outside my dad has gone to college," Shawn lamented, setting down his plate. "Nobody reads, and if they did read it definitely wouldn't be manga, high fantasy or physics. The only kids close in age to me are my cousins from California, who do music; that's different but at least we have some things in common, even if it's just a general sense of rebelling against the machine type of thing."

"Your fam doesn't know you're are special?" Shadow asked.

"They think my dad is a lazy bum who doesn't work," Shawn moaned, dragging his palms over his face. "Uncle Joe even got in an argument over mutant rights with my Aunt Sally all dinner. And then it got worse, because he started complaining about— Um. ...Look, you have to understand I love my Uncle Joe, but he's super conservative..." Shawn's voice got smaller until he ran out of volume and brass to say what had happened.

"Oh don't make me guess," Wild warned.

"Transgender bathroom rights," Shawn mumbled very quietly into the safety of them. 

Sandro chafed his back.

"Old people sometimes can't see out of their itty bitty narrow window," Wild tried to reassure. "They don't hate you, they're hung up on ideas."

Shawn was rubbing his face and sniffling. He nodded. "One time some kids stole my portfolio at school—"

"—what's a portfolio?" Shadow interrupted.

"Oh, just, something you carry sketches in—"

"You draw?" three artistically challenged children demanded.

"Um." Shawn blushed, eyes widening. "Sort of."

"That's so coooool!" Wild gushed. "We suck at art! Sandro's uncle Mike draws! Probably differently though, he's a cartoonist."

"Well maybe we could learn, Wild's tried carving. Anyway, we interrupted a story," Sandro recalled. "Some kids stole your artwork?"

"Yeah," Shawn nodded. "Uncle Joe was babysitting me that day. He went on a rampage calling school administration and parents till he tracked down what they'd done with it, and he got it back for me, and then told me if kids every did anything like that to me again, to give him a call." 

"Ooh," Wild realized. "That is love, that's not just what you say when you're supposed to love somebody related to you." Shawn kept bobbing his head in affirmative.

"Maybe we also know how that feels," Sandro suggested with an awkward clearing of his throat. "Loving an older relative with flaws is rough. You can handle the pressure for a bit, but it's gotta get laid off down the line somewhere, like when you're talking to your friends."

"I don't have any friends," Shawn snickered weakly.

"Sure you do," Sandro told him firmly with a ruffle of his hair. Shawn turned red and emitted invisible hearts.

"What about online?" Wild asked.

"Like with video games?" Shawn supposed. "A few and that's helped a bit but I'm not comfortable with trusting strangers at all, and there'd never be anyone I could trust talking to about, you know, certain stuff." He huffed. "I'm really hoping my parents let me visit once in awhile."

"Might be an easier pill for them to swallow when it's just us and you, no big crowds," Sandro suggested, reaching back to his pocket. "Which reminds me: We need to trade phone numbers and gaming handles this time. Wild and I had a panic moment when we realized you'd left us and we had no means of contacting you. I had to prohibit a maniac from any additional stalking. Choices were made!"

"I'd probably have hugged the maniac on sight," Shawn admitted quietly as he got out his own phone, and Wildcard whooped and threw her arms around him.

"Okay, four, six... Now before anything else happens, allow me to send you this video."

"Sure, of what?"

"Spoiler alert," Wildcard whispered. "I won!"

Shawn laughed and laughed and laughed. He laughed till he was almost blue in the face. The slow-mo remix of Fish-To-The-Face was everything a bullied child could ever want in life. They talked afterwards, and Shawn showed them a hundred pictures of the gifted ball python and asked one hundred and one questions about whether this, that, or the other was right, even though he'd clearly done extensive research on his own. Sandro was happy to alleviate all his fears.

Then they really did get their tails out to dance, and dragged their shy, dainty, spidernerd along with them despite his terrified protests he could not dance. No proficiency needed, they assured him, because no one was judging! They led him about the floor to his delighted squeaks of terror, and Shadow howled with laughter from the sidelines (but then complemented all of them on looking pretty awesome, huzzah!). Somewhere in the middle there, most of them ended up carrying alligator children on their heads, because the kiddies wanted in on the action. 

They wanted to bond with Shawn on a brainy level, especially after dragging him into a physical activity he knew nothing about, but they couldn't show him the lab because it was locked down over safety concerns for the party, and Wildcard didn't have her own schoolbooks on site. Hmm! A challenge! Eventually, they proudly displayed their hexapod... and promptly had six things wrong with their code fixed by Shawn within less than ninety seconds, during which they gave each other a look behind their spiderling's back that went basically like this: 'is dis our gen's donnie? i dunno. more data needed. yeah donnie kinda one of kind. hard to find successor. so cute, so much nerd!' Then they had to make funny faces at tragically bored Shadow who didn't care at all about all this stoooopid computer programming stuff, and then this all inevitably ended up segueing to YouTube clips of Morgan Freeman and Ian McKellen narrating random mundane things, as of course was only natural.

When Akihide awkwardly shuffled up to them and asked what they were doing, Wild was inclined to ignore him. It felt like a betrayal of Shawn's magic friendship safety bubble to let in a well-groomed bully. Also, why would Akihide care about robots? Plus the four of them were covered in unicorn-loving quadruplets; clearly a poor match for manly men like Akihide (rabbity rabbits?)

But trust Sandro to be a good person. After a moment of squinting at Akihide like he was measuring him, Sandro observed aloud that Shawn had never seen two giant anthropomorphic animals doing martial arts kata together, and would Shawn perhaps like to see Sandro and Akihide show off some of the very basic, absolutely-not-going-to-hit-one-another-or-start-fighting types of exercises that stood as fundamentals to the art? Shawn seemed to register he had a tiny herd of people who would protect him if Akihide so much as threw a mean look his way. He hesitantly agreed. 

So! While Shadow babbled to Shawn about martial arts, super heroes, Nightwatcher, etc; Wildcard and Sandro herded Akihide a few strides ahead of him. Bunny boy needed to be warned what the rules of this game were.

"Shawn's not a fighter," Wild whispered. "He gets physically and verbally bullied at school." By people like you, but she didn't say that. "And yes he is very effeminate, so don't comment."

"The first time he saw me and Wild roughhousing," Sandro explained, "he locked up like he was having a literal flashback. We know martial arts has never interested him before, even after ample exposure, so this'll be the first time we introduce him to anything involving our future profession as ninja. It has to stay super-light. It's not instructive. We're not tackling deep-seated problems right now. Wild here will be staying to the side with him to make sure he feels included. You can keep this low-key and friendly?"

"Yes," Akihide said, posture relaxing a bit. "I'm not a barbarian."

As far as Yin or Yang could estimate, there was a 99.9% chance their bunny was being graded on whether he managed to socialize peaceably with them. The good news (for Akihide) was that he seemed to have made the jump from seething indignantly to cool-headed strategist. Assuming he'd been watching them from afar ever since his introductory 'Hi' had failed to impress, he'd had long enough to realize Shawn was much more important to them than he was. So he ought to have noticed that Sandro had gone out of his way to accommodate Akihide by suggesting the only activity they all knew Akihide was good at but which had a high potential of accidentally upsetting their precious Shawn.

"Thank you," the bunny suddenly said, and he even probably meant at least 25% of it. 

Thank you. He was still an uptight ass who didn't understand why he was being forced into their company, but he needed their help to get back in daddy's good graces, and so they'd finally squeezed some droplet of honey out of him. Yin and Yang could work with that. His Dad would have to handle pursuit of the actual underlying issues.

An concern went up in the early morning hours. Not a loud thing, not yet, just a whisper from parent to parent.

At first it wasn't a big deal. They drank, they partied, they asked around. But as the festivities slowed down, and attendee after atendee began to leave, after Robyn and the baby were asleep and Casey Jones had somehow remained sober enough to bid her goodnight like a responsible good date, more and more adults became embroiled in something of a mystery.

Where were their children? 

They couldn't just walk around hollering for them, Robyn was asleep! (And waking Robyn up was dangerous, they all knew that.) Had they left the house? Gone playing in the sewers while all the adults' backs were turned? Oh dear. Parents started texting children. Children did not reply.

It was, ironically, Peter Parker who at last unraveled the secret to where the whole number of them had gone to. Whether this was through some previously undivulged sensory ability, or simply because he didn't know the lay of the house and was the most likely to peek in an open room which everyone else had dismissed, who could say? Amused or bewildered by whatever he'd seen, he went and fetched the rest of them, and quietly beckoned for the other adults to come have a look.

The kids had holed up together in the shrine room.

A tablet was propped up on a gorilla-pod so they could watch old Star Wars reruns in marathon-form. They'd stolen all the couch cushions and a couple sleeping bags and everything had clearly devolved into a nest. Plates were stacked high, indicating a great deal of pizza, horderves, soda, and custard-flavored desserts had been consumed. Comic books, coloring books, and actual books were splayed open. Crayons were everywhere. Half a model Millennium Falcon had been assembled. And there amid those plates and upon those cushions, and half-under those books were all the children, all of them, ages four through fifteen, turned in all ways and all different orientations, snuggled with and flopped over one another with limbs thrown across pretty much every neighbor.

And who was at the center of all of this?

That was right:

The fluffy boy.

Right, smack in the middle, Akhide was curled up in a tight, neat, rabbit-worthy little knot, with his knees all the way up to his nose. Three out of four alligator children had chosen him as their sleeping location for the evening, burrowing into white fur and going partially camouflaged. He was completely smooshed, and didn't seem to give a damn, and his face was the picture of tranquility. His head was pillowed on Sandro's thigh, his foot was on an alligator, he had somebody's leg flung up over his shoulder and their bare foot on him, and Shadow was sprawled up back-to-back with him with the train of his hakama half over her like a blanket.

But only a splash of red hair revealed where the heck Shawn was: he'd been sandwiched between Yin and Yang so thoroughly that happy maniac and turtle shell nearly occluded him. From the right angle, one could make out he and Wild both were tucked under Sandro's chin, with Wild's arms bundled tight around Shawn's neck and her face stuffed in his hair; Sandro was curled over both of them like they were his teddy bears and required his protection. Meanwhile, Twilight Sparkle was flopped on her back across the three of them, and must have been dreaming, because she was kicking at the air and making happy coos.

Adults—with hands on their hips, alcohol in their blood, and baffled expressions upon their faces—glanced to one another and tried to decide what to do.

Chapter Text

Wildcard woke up already high on adrenaline:

There was blood, pain, and screaming in the future, and Sandro wasn't the only person she had to protect.

Her arms tightened reflexively around the problem, bunching up mass under the chin to keep the mouth up high as she swung the weight of a torso half onto herself. Fangs shot out, black as ebony, thick and twisted, bared to the sky. Slender fingers pulled down on her elbow, trying to bend her arm in a way her arm wasn't supposed to bend. A hard drag of air helped her muscle through pain. Then she blew hard into Sandro's face. Sandro could sleep like a log. He wrinkled his nose in his sleep, and came groggily awake to two spiky prongs right in front of his face, beading with corrosive venom. 

Alertness was instantaneous after that. Wordless, soundless; Sandro clamped their problem to his plastron at the waist, and grabbed control of the lower jaw from her, forcing the head back even further. With Wildcard right there, no arching of the back could get anyone out from between them. And now Wildcard could release the neck and get her arm free. Slender fingers scrabbled for purchase on Sandro's arm instead. Wild they could hurt; Sandro they could not, not without a much better plan. Wild chafed the shoulders once before realizing what needed to be done: She covered the eyes and ears and squeezed, blocking out stimulus. The word went darker, quieter, safer. The only nearby tremors were the beating of hearts. 

Taut jaw muscles shuddered through cramps, and then slackened hesitantly. Lips drifted closed around stabbity gray pointy things, and a tongue rubbed them like it was surprised to find them there. Sandro's iron-glad grip eased up on the chin and throat. He'd left behind a few bruises on accident, but he'd had no choice. The mouth opened again—but slowly, almost sensually, not wide or bitey but rounded and soft. The fangs folded slowly back in over the tongue, one at a time.

Shawn hadn't made a single sound the entire time. No hisses, no animal grunts, no growls. Her/his spider species was aparently dead silent.

"Good morning," Sandro whispered.

Shawn tensed. She/he reached hesitantly for Wildcard's hands, so it was time for them to let go and let her see where she was. Shawn looked at Wild's retracting hands, and then up at Sandro in wide-eyed alarm. The reality of the last few seconds dawned on her. She'd woken up in full arachnid threat-display, trying to jab an oncoming predator before it could eat her first.

Sandro was only grinning warmly. "Warn us next time," he yawned. Sandro was a marvelous turtle being. With a Wild to desensitize him to the element of surprise, he could do anything!

"I'm so sorry," Shawn blurted feebly, like she was sure the world should be disintegrating around her and there was nothing she could do to hold it together; so how could Sandro possibly be calm? "I-I didn't know I might—"

"Heh. Well then we're just lucky you just have the world's fastest intuition sleeping behind you," Sandro absolved, mussing red hair, and then frowning at new marks. "I bruised you? Fuck, I'm—"

"It's—!" Shawn swallowed, her fingers closing on Sandro's hand. "It's okay."

"Yeah look at me!" Wildcard snickered quietly, pulling up her sleeve and showing off red marks along her arm.

Shawn whimpered miserably, touching the welts.

"Donnie's got balm, I'll be good," Wild nuzzled back into Shawn to doze for a little longer. "Crisis averted, we forgive you."

"Did I nick anyone?" Shawn begged for a negative.

"Nah. We're good"

"Just no more eating Sandro while I'm napping," Wild hummed. Not that Shawn had been trying to 'eat' anyone so much as slash them across the face with digestive fluids so she could escape and find a dark hole to hide in. 

"I've got you both," Sandro told them, both of them, as Shawn began to shiver in the fold between them both. Sandro pulled Shawn back into himself, and Wild came along with, and he pet red and blonde hair slowly up and down. 

If being squashed was a source of anxiety for Shawn, she didn't say so. She was very nearly electrified, vibrating with intense stress, until the press of being sandwich filling seemed to ease her gently down into a slump towards exhaustion. "Thank you," she whispered into his collar.

"We've got you," Sandro murmured, pulling the blankets up over their heads. He probably had the right idea. The less light, the safer their spider might feel. "You ever need us to let go in a hurry, you tell us. Kay?"

Nod nod nod.

They faded off without waking up anyone else, or wasting valuable nappy time worrying about how they'd ended up in a heap to begin with or where on earth all the adults were. 

Akihide woke up first, uncurling a bit and blinking blearily into the dim candlelight of the shrine. Small reptilian children yawned and tumbled slowly and gently into safer positions as he tried to make sure none of them landed on their heads. At least one woke up, and Sandro yawned. 

Akihide rubbed sleep from his face, and looked around to the (slightly guilty) realization he'd woke up... everyone, it seemed. He didn't recall having fallen asleep. Embarrassment surged. 

"Hey," Sandro greeted him.

"Morning Akihide."

Okay, this wasn't terrible.

"Do you eat all normal food?" Shadow asked him. "Like breakfast and stuff, I wasn't watching."

Akihide was quiet a moment, straightening out his kimono as he sat there. "Yes."

"Cool, don't let me give them milk, I always mess it up," she flopped an arm over one of the gators. A pink-scarfed child was climbing back into Akihide's lap and curling about his midsection like she hoped to remain there forever. 

Shawn scooted hesitantly to a seat between his guards as they rubbed their faces and oriented themselves. "Are we the only ones awake?" he whispered.

They listened to the house. Silence hushed them. Everyone looked at Akihide. It took a shamefully long stretch of time to occur to him that five people present had no external ears, and that he was a rabbit. "Nothing."

"Huh." Sandro thought about that. "Anybody wanna help me make breakfast for the house? Wild can't be left on hash browns duty, she gets distracted."

"I don't even know what a hash brown is, but if she can't do something, then allow me."

"Ooh, tell him I can't fly."

The kitchen was sizzling and alive with the sounds of breakfast, and the welcomed start-of-day sounds trickled out languidly to the household, inviting them to wakefulness.

Leonardo, who ordinarily would have been the first person up after a party, came out to find a miniature army in the kitchen, tiptoing around and giggling amidst itself. He peered down at the commotion.

Tiny knee-high children had formed a line for passing plates from the cupboard down to floor level, where one of them would run upon chubby legs to go and deliver those plates, one a time, to Shadow. A cloth-covered mountain of waffles was steaming away in the center of the table, accompanied by two large cans of whipped cream and a bowl of fresh blueberries. Kinpōgekun was standing on a chair to finalize a cauldron's worth of scrambled eggs and feed them into a large glass salad bowl. Akihide was sternly inspecting the browning of finely grated potato hash. Sandro was peeking over everyone else's shoulder and offering quick suggestions, before retreating to unload yet another waffle from the iron and pour more batter. And there, too, was their very special and unexpected addition, the child they'd been lucky to have with them at all, with his hair pulled back in a fiery ponytail so that he could smash overripe strawberries for those waffles with a fork and not risk loosing hair in anything.

Sandro was to be commended. Akihide had obviously never made a western breakfast or nearly anything involving potatoes before, Kinpōge had not started up a food fight, everyone looked tightly coordinated, and if the tall trash can full of potatoes, egg shells, and more than a little flour dragged out behind was to be believed, everything had been hand-made from scratch.

Akihide noticed him first, straightening and bowing quickly. "Leonardo-sama." 

"Morning Sensei, remember not to touch anything," a mischief-maker whispered loudly, "you'll break breakfast!"

Leonardo cleared his throat. "Oh yes, I shall simply busy myself elsewhere, perhaps sharpening something, and never mind the curious absence of coffee pattering away in the background..."

"Ooh," Sandro and Kinpōge looked up with grave expressions. "Good call," Sandro briefly departed his waffle iron to ensure coffee happened, and happened in liberal qualities.

"Is that how you normally talk to your master?" Akihide asked Kinpōge, since they were elbow and elbow at the stove and he had the advantage of being tall enough to reach it without a step ladder. Akihide had missed Leonardo had already won the exchange.

"Duh, of course not; that's how I normally talk to everyone."

And yet: There on the far end of the counter top, where it was accessible without truly entering the kitchen, and yet positioned artfully off to the side, stood a scalding hot tea kettle already steeping, and one cup, already poured to the brim, with flower petals of jasmine dancing amid steam tendrils as it cooled. When Akihide looked back to try and understand why it was Leonardo had not called her to order, nor scolded her, nor protested the lack of respect, all he found was a very pleased sensei enjoying a very fragrant cup of tea. 

No partying happened that humble News Years Day; their gathering was just a small number of good old friends and relations sipping coffee and nursing hangover remedies together, saying long protracted goodbyes over a fantastic breakfast. If Mary-Jane or Peter or anyone else had been expecting to leave promptly with Shawn once morning came, wellll, a big old pot of coffee, and waffles covered in whipped cream and fruit, all provided free of strings attached by the kids for the parents, was far too much seductive R&R for any adult to hold stern against. Sandro knew just how to treat people. Wild took notes!

Soon April and Mary-Jane were talking and smiling over breakfast, Usagi and Leonardo were enjoying their tea, Sandro was lovingly feeding extra dark coffee into a sleepy-eyed Donatello's hands, and Raphael was scratching his head over a mound of bacon trying to work out why any child of his was such an angel.

Peter Parker (Picked a Patch of Pickled Peppers—oh wait Wild was distracted) had slid into the chair beside Shawn to check up on her soon after waking and to share meaningful looks long before any of the other kids even noticed he'd joined them. When Dad-Spider finally did ask how s/he was doing, all Shawn could titter was, "I can't believe you let me stay over. I can't believe you let me stay over!" Glancing back their way, Wild got the impression Shawn would eventually bring up the, 'Uh everything was great except for the part where I tried to bite my friends when I woke up,' thing, but that conversation probably wasn't for here or now. That made sense, that could wait till the fam was safely back at the Parker Homestead, where Child-Spider could safely ask Dad-Spider if this sort of thing was normal or a panic disorder or what-have-you, and Shawn would probably fill them in later on if they'd have to be careful in the future.

Then children were shoveling waffles as fast as waffles could be shoveled, except Akihide, who ate with decorum but who—in front of his father and everyone else present—reached over with a napkin to wipe strawberry from Pinky Pie's mouth. Nobody told him this was strange. In fact Grandpa O'Neil was complementing Akihide on those hash browns, saying he hadn't had any so fine since he'd been living down south for awhile. Akihide took his newfound culinary star of approval with grace, especially when DadRabbit continued to smile occasionally at him and gave no indication that he'd done anything wrong.

"Head's up," Wild's twin whispered in her ear as he passed behind her. "Donnie's trying not to stare at Shawn so hard it's getting obvious he's going to bombard us with a zillion questions the second they're gone."

Wildcard snickered. She wondered exactly where any of the parents were in knowing what Shawn's emotional/physical/gender statuses were, or how the parent-parent explanation of Wildcard's tracking shenanigans had gone down. Eh, it'd all come out in the wash soon enough! Her read of the energy hovering in the air was that the parents might have engaged in a long heart-to-heart about at least one of the kids the night before, and Wild had a funny feeling that kid had been Shawn; and Wild was speculating—still just speculating!—that Shawn's parents were more than a little confused/worried/concerned about their baby's sudden preoccupation with two older kids, who, last week, had been complete strangers to him(/her).

That was fair. April/Raphael were probably a little confused Sandro had fallen asleep while crushing another boy to his bosom. Nonsense, it all made perfect sense! Wild and Shawn and Sandro were possibly going to get to keep one another. Forever. That made each other special, and if the grown-ups didn't get that, then they just weren't thinking hard enough about it.

Mikey wandered out of bed and loved on her and Sandro sleepily until they got waffles into his hands (which was made by harder by him squeezing them off the ground), and turned him about and propelled him on his way to a chair. Leatherhead woke to find all of his little ones fed, but ushered them away briefly to groom them and change their clothes. Robyn and Casey woke very nearly last, and ended up talking quietly to one another while other people hovered about like mediators. Apparently the primary concern wasn't relationship compatibility so much as whether Robyn was going to max out anyone's credit cards overnight. Apparently the whole, 'I would have sex with you,' was taken for granted here. 

Wildcard wasn't sure if that was all somehow supposed to turn into some kind of actual marriage over there, because Wild didn't actually know anything about marriages. Nothing you couldn't learn from watching TV. If Raphael and April were going to be around more often, she'd get to watch them, and they seemed to have done remarkably well despite the less then promising foot they'd started off on. All that really mattered to Wild was that Leo hadn't needed to use his nifty color-changing night suit to camouflage into the cupboards and slowly creep off while Robyn's back was turned. Incidentally that just so happened to make Casey a hero (which was quite a step up from, 'That Dense Guy Who Taught Shadow Bad Words to Bully Mikey With') and Wild hoped he could handle whatever it was he'd just stepped in.

"You'll never be a father and with good reason," Robyn had been screaming the very first time Wildcard had ever met her.

Akihide was easy to forgive by comparison.

"Ooh. Ooh, Uncle Leo's going to tell a story," was all that needed to be said to put Wildcard's butt in motion, and she jumped up after Sandro in a heartbeat.

Leonardo having the capacity to tell stories wasn't a complete anathema to her, because the bits and pieces of his life he'd slipped to her through instruction during patrol had always been biting, crisp and vivid. Still this was the first she'd ever heard it said like it was some kind of role  or long-standing tradition. She hurried into the living room where Leonardo was seating himself beside the tree. Children, sleep-overers, and those few guests (like Slash) who'd come to see them that morning gathered round.

"This is a story," Leonardo prefaced as he made himself comfortable and set his tea off to the side, "that takes a little bit of belief to see it through to the end."

"I think I know this one!" Shadow elbowed Shawn while looking quite excited, so apparently Leo got full marks for holiday storytelling in the past, 10/10, would sit through again. The exact opposite of his lectures!

"It is the story of our father, Splinter, and the winding tale of how we all came to be Hamato Clan." 

If Wildcard had been her father she would have had some 3D Glasses and popcorn prepared to indicate she was entirely engaged. As it was, she'd just have to stuff her face with what remained of Sandro's waffles while Akihide grimaced over at them in clueless revulsion. 

Chapter Text

"A very long time ago, and very far from here, there was a prosperous river land known even today as the Land of Rice and Fish. And it belonged to a great ancient kingdom—The Wu Kingdom.

"Now the Wu Kingdom was wealthy, for in those days wealth was built upon an abundance of food and trade, and the Land of Rice and Fish gave both. But before you think matters were dull and peaceful, now, let me tell you:

"Some of the greatest stories of war, combat, love, heroism, and betrayal ever written were born in this time, in this land! For all around the Wu, without and within, great battles were fought by a thousand small princes, warlords, and politicians, all vying for control—for wealth, for power, for honor, and—many a time!—for vengance. 

"This was no simple epoch of history! This was The Time of Spring and Autumn: a great ancient season of change.

"Now in this period there was no formalization of religion, just as there was not in neighboring Japan nor Korea, nor with the Mongols to the north or any of the other highland raiders. It was a time when such things did not seem necessary. But that does not mean that the people failed to believe.

"No, no indeed these Wu People were an unusually literate people, and they left unto us all many great historical work. I speak not only of poetry or silly romances! No, let me give you a proper example: This was the first time in history any military general sat down his manner of thinking using the written word, instead of simply gloating about his exploits on stone monuments somewhere. This was the period in which Sun Tzu wrote down his Art of War, to train generations of thinkers to follow. And that Art was written, as you might imagine by our setting, in Wu. 

"And so it is, too, that we know of the common people. That they respected and gave worship to their ancestors. That they called on the spirits of animals, earth, water, and sky. That they sacrificed fruit and incense to the dragons who governed all powers of the earth, to the kirin and the phoenix and the spiritual lions, and they warned one another of ghosts, trickster spirits, and monsters. And we also know that they were aware of the spirits which cohabited upon the land with them, the spirits of beings great and small, much—in fact—the way the Native American knew of the spirit of the Buffalo, or in the way the Native European knew of the fairy, the selke, or the the troll. 

"And it was in this ancient time that our story begins, with the introduction of it's first character, and with a moment of Enlightenment.

"'Enlightenment' is what the Buddhists would later call it, a moment of intense spiritual realization, of oneness with the universe, and it is the moment by which an animal may transcend into the status of a fae, a spirit, a creature of wisdom and meditation and incredible longevity, oft with unusual powers such as flight, or human forms, or magic. 

"And the Enlightenment I speak of is the Enlightenment of a new Family Guardian, chosen to protect generation after generation of family members both within the house and without, in the day-to-day and in their times of greatest need.

"Now you may think this animal must have been fierce, to be a 'guardian,' no? But that was not the case. For as is often true with these fables and folk tales, it is the smaller animals, the overlooked, the clever, who have greater stories to tell.

"The Tang family was wealthy, but wished for no proud patriarch: No blue dragons from the west, no white tigers from the east, none of that; they were not proud. But neither were they excessively humble or complacent with life, and they had a habit of putting whispers where whispers needed to be put, so it was not appropriate to ask for the guardianship of the great oxen or sheep. Their guardian came with them from the tiniest of villages upon their fertile land of Rice and Fish: Their Laoshu, the old mouse, the rat. 

"How long do you think the rat served the Tang family? How long do you think he meditated upon the universe, or watched as Buddhism spread from the south to cover the land, vying with tengriism from the north and giving structure and shape to the folk beliefs of the common people? How long; as his mind grew from concerns only of eating and sleeping to something more, something outside himself? Ten years? Twenty? Fifty? One hundred?"

Leonardo raised both brows inquisitively to accentuate the dramatic pause, and then smiled.

"Three thousand years later—"

"—Three thousand!?" Shawn interrupted in amazement.

Leonardo only nodded. "From the knights and assassins of the BC, a thousand years before the birth of Christianity, past the time of the Ming Dynasty, in which great Chinese folk tales like the Legend of Madam White Snake were finally put down in writing, stories of animals, fairies, warrior monks, and men, past the Muromachi period of Japan, and even later on, into the sixteen hundreds, past when the Iga and Kōga were presumed dead in all but name, in all but their tremendous infamy, there lived a family in The Land of the Rising Sun which had immigrated from the ancient homeland of the Wu people, across the East Shina Sea, to settle in Japan, and they had carried their beliefs and ancestral guardians with them. In Japan, many of these spirits or principles or energies were called 'kami.' This was the Tang family.

"The Tangs were sworn blood-brothers of a set of families in Japan, none of them part of the samurai caste—the caste of nobility—all of them common people. They were together merchants, but they were more than that, for it was the case that the Tangs and their brothers had fought up and down the costs of Japan, China, Korea and the greater realms of Oceania. They were operators of anti-piracy frigates, masters of the sea, and patrollers of rivers from The Land of Rice and Fish to the networks of channels which supported the ecnomy of Japan. They were soldiers in secret, never called upon directly. And oft was their help needed under the Tokugawa shogunate, when Japan was unified and there were 'no wars,' while the samurai class grew fatter and had less and less and less reason to remember how to hold a sword. 

"It is only here, nearly three thousand years later, that the next character of this story enters the stage,

"And her name was Shēnshēn, which means 'luxuriously deep-colored jade.' Of course her nursemaids were more inclined to call her Shènshèn, which is essentially 'tiny terror.' Shēnshēn was a mischievous girl, she was no pale-faced maiden waiting in her kimono with the tea set out for strapping young boys to come and save her. At five years old she was proclaiming herself a pirate queen and leaping off the banisters to catch hold of flags and collapse them down upon her visitors, and—everywhere she went—she carried her trusty companion upon her shoulder, the rat she called Suìpiàn, which means 'little scrap' or 'little tattered cloth.' 

"Now Shēnshēn—Tang Shēnshēn as was her full name—had something of a problem. Her mother had died in childbirth with her, and her father's new wife had produced no children. And when her father died in a quick-thinking action to protect the heir of the shogun, Shēnshēn was left orphaned and in the care of her grandfather, who had no other sons. Now quite wealthy and honored, and having been awarded elevation to the samurai caste in clandestine exchange for her dead father's services, the Tang family was nevertheless in dire straits. No one was left to run the family businesses, day or night. To solve this, Shēnshēn would need to be wedded into a trustworthy family, a family who would aid the Tangs, and whom the Tang family would aid in turn.

"At first you may think this selfish of the grandfather, but you need to understand several things about the time. First, there were no retirement plans. If your children did not take care of you, you starved or froze to death. Second, when a woman married she usually became part of her husband's household, and while she did not change her surname, she still was only responsible for her husband's relatives. But last but not least, there is the spiritual element to consider. If a family goes without a son to carry on the name, then the family's legacy dies. Its ancestor spirits wander the earth, hungry and disoriented; its heirlooms go ungranted; its guardians are scattered; something intrinsic is lost.

"The grandfather needed to find a very special husband. This would not be a man who wanted a wife, it would be a strategic alliance, a mentorship, even, and the husband needed to be loyal, and forthright, and to stick to his vows. One could imagine even now the long list of criteria the grandfather must have had: A man who was a second son, or in some other peculiar tight-spot; a man who could be trusted not to drink or gamble the businesses into the ground, who could handle learning or at least handling running intelligence for the night-time activities, who was loyal to the shogun and to the Tang family, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. He thought about Shēnshēn and her happiness, hoping for a family where a sister-in-law or mother would be around to offer comfort and advice, but he had no choice; it was very likely that he would have to choose a man whose measure he already knew, and that Shēnshēn would be wedded to or at least promised to someone much older than her.

"But the grandfather had other problems. The Japanese households whom he had been close with were mostly common people, some of whom were jealous or at least unfriendly now that he and his family had been granted status. It felt like the Tangs had suddenly put on aires. And the samurai caste around them was not pleased a Chinese man and his quarter-chinese granddaughter were suddenly on the same level as them. Not pleased at all!"

"Why couldn't Shēnshēn just be trained to be a ninja?" Shadow interrupted. She was clearly getting a lot more in-depth intel on the story this time around, probably because Leo was telling it to many older kids.

"Oh there are many anwers to that. First, while Shēnshēn could in theory have taken over the family night business, she could not have been groomed to uphold the family merchant business without taking a tremendous risk. In that time, women did not have the same status as men. And as we've heard, Shēnshēn had little interest in learning how to entertain guests or broker important relationships, and the other merchant households of the time would not do business with a woman unless she were somehow the best. You must also remember Shēnshēn was newly orphaned. Her grandfather may have loved her, but he was insufficiently informed on everything from her character to her intelligence to make a gamble that enormous. The sensible thing for him to do was to try and find a male candidate.

"Now, as we can fairly picture, Shēnshēn and her little Suìpiàn were not a good pairing to have afoot if one was entertaining the broke but influential son of a samurai, or a merchant family from the capital, or anyone else who might fit the plan for an ideal husband. So her grandfather would send her away with guards, guards who it must be known were affiliated with the night business—"

"—they were ninjas," Shadow translated for anyone who might have been confused

"—and who could not help themselves but tutor her a bit. With that kind of help she became even more rambunctious, until, upon learning why it was her grandfather was sending her out like this, she decided to take matters into her own hands.

"Their visitors that day were... old friends. They were part of that original group, those sworn blood-brothers of the Tangs, who had also become part of the samurai caste by political acrobatics using marriage, bylaws, and conveniently-appearing long-lost documentation, and their status, too, had been a gift for services rendered to the shogun. Shēnshēn and Suìpiàn ought to have been out of the house. Her guards were looking for her everywhere. They bent to whisper in Grandfather's ear... but it was too late! Down came the bucket of latrine slop from the eaves, drenching their visiting samurai guests, getting poo and undigested bean husks and what have you in places such articles were never meant to be gotten. A mother's fine kimono was ruined. One ancient ceremonial obi sash, it is reputed, still smelled of feces fifteen years later!

Wild really did belong in this family after all.

"And while the eldest son of Hamato Yoshimo left in an insulted rage, it should be noted that he was obliged to commit seppuku some years later for embezzlement from government coffers, and would not have made a good husband. The important thing, the lucky thing, was that both younger brothers of the family, ten-year-olds Hamato Yoshi ahd Hamato Saki, looked down at themselves, over at each other, and then up into the rafters at the impish eight-year-old Tang Shēnshēn and her pet rat, and it was love from that moment and ever-after. Grandfather Tang had not just one new candidate for saving his family, he had two, and they were in a vigorous competition with one another, each trying to outdo the other to impress Grandfather Tang and win the hand of their beloved Tang Shen in marriage."

Leonardo had to stop to take a sip of his tea. His voice had grown raspy from use, and it was clear he was telling this story longer than was usual. Most of the adults seemed quiet interested; even his brothers, who'd obviously heard the story before. All the children, though? They were looking at Wildcard like they were asking her WHO DOES THIS SOUND LIKE. Wildcard shrugged with a big 'o well i dont mean to brag' plastered in a grin all over her face. 

"Who won?" Shawn prompted, even if it sounded like he wasn't sure what of this whole story was factual.

"Ah, I should not spoil it, even if this is not where the story ends," Leo smiled. 

"Well naturally, you haven't gotten to the modern era or turtles yet."

"Sshhhh," Shadow insisted.

"Now, both brothers loved Tang Shēnshēn and, due to her mischievous nature, they had been given opportunities to grow close to her and learn her secrets and display their vices.  Having forgiven her Grandfather, Shēnshēn told him of their strengths and their weaknesses.

"Which brother she loved most would be hard to judge. Yoshi was loud; Saki was soft; Yoshi was hell-bent on honing the self, and Saki was privately ambitious; Yoshi was brash, and Saki polite; Yoshi was fiercely loyal, and Saki would weigh a situation. If it could be said that one had an ideal trait for a son of the Tang family, then no sooner would it be proven that they lacked some desirable trait which the other brother possessed; or else they would both possess different aspects of a set of traits in balance, rendering neither of their skills better than the other. The competition was neck-and-neck. 

"Grandfather Tang, having grown close to both boys and to his granddaughter in this time, could not determine which to select. Believing Shēnshēn to have a unique sort of luck, told her to pose them with a trick question, a question that favored neither of them, a question she felt was entirely fair in that she would not know what either brother would answer. The right answer would win them her.

"Shēnshēn went away and thought about her question for a very long time. She considered a great many different things to ask, one time going through a thousand good questions in a single sitting, talking with her rat as she listened to the rain.

"And in the end she realized she wanted only one thing, and that this was never to be marginalized."

"What's that mean?" Shadow asked.

"Taken for granted and pushed off to the side," Sandro explained. "She didn't just want to be 'the wife,' she wanted to be a little bit more important than that."

"Well they already were ridiculously in love with her and actually talked to her repeatedly," Shawn mentioned, "which as far as period romances go, sort of puts this at the top."

"Ah, but this is not a modern story," Leonardo said. "The Hamato family," he explained over another gulp of tea, "was part of the samurai caste and also worked to bring in their keep. Their families were loyal to the shogun. Both boys were honorable, albeit in the fashion of a ninja. They were traditional. They were Shinto Buddhists, and followed the rites and rituals of their religion perfectly. That they were able and willing to join the Tang family to their own was entirely a function of the fact that they were not firstborn sons, and not intended to carry on the family name. And, were one of them to suddenly be sprung to that position, the other would still be free."

"So what did she ask them?" Wild prompted.

"Under the pretense of visiting her mother-in-law, who had almost forgiven Shēnshēn for the poop incident half a decade before, she waved to them while listening to a detailed exposition on the virtues of motherhood. It went something like this 'One always adored one's children, even more than one loved one's own husband, and none so much as one's firstborn son.'

"'What about mothers who are widowed and remarried?' Shēnshēn asked innocently, defending neither of her second-born suitors nor taking any offense. 'How is a father to feel about a son he must adopt into his household?' Now Shēnshēn did not know this at the time—no one knew this but the mother and father—but one of her two suitors, Saki, had been adopted. He was actually the mother's nephew. 

"Lady Hamato, who was a lovely and slightly odd woman herself, even just to be discussing this all out in the open where her sons could hear, and who was no antagonist in this story, answered that adopted children must be loved as one's own children. Even if the father would always look to his own first-born son with fondness, it was not right to take a previously married woman into one's household and try to put her existing child aside, for both woman and child required the shelter of the lord of the house.

"'I understand completely,' Shēnshēn agreed firmly, 'which is why I will always love my Suìpiàn first and foremost. Whoever my husband is, he must be willing to adopt him, my eldest son, as a Hamato.'

"Ah, well, you can imagine six or seven reasons why this was a, em, mischievous thing to say.

"And while the mother and boys sputtered and stuttered, Shēnshēn went on to explain, 'Suìpiàn has guarded my family since before I was born. He was with my great-grandfather when he was a prisoner of war, he was with my grandfather, he learned gongfu and proper writing with my father, and when my mother died he was in my cradle, rocking me to sleep. It is only right that he is given his due as a named member of my family; and so I shall take him as my own and put him in his siblings' cradles, that he might care for them as he did for me.'

"I believe the story goes that the Lady Hamato swiftly went to have a conversation with her husband about how Tang Shēnshēn was clearly insane and, if he should agree to go along with marrying his son to a crazy person for strategy then he should appoint ninjas to watch the girl day and night to ensure she did not murder her own child.

"Saki and Yoshi found the, ah, 'prank' Shēnshēn had just played on their mother to be badly timed but extremely funny, and forgave her. But Shēnshēn told them she was serious and would wed neither of them until they agreed."

"Well obviously one cannot, as a samurai, adopt a rat as one's firstborn son and heir and be treated seriously by the rest of the world. The boys assumed she was just 'being Shēnshēn' and would eventually forget all about it, particularly as the end choice as to whether she married was up to her grandfather.

"But that is not where the story ends either, for Hamato Yoshi went to the Shinto shrine afterwards, and he prayed long and hard, thinking about Shēnshēn and everywhere she went with Suìpiàn. A rat, you may already know, was one of the protective kami of several old ninja clans: Light of foot, clever of mind, unassuming in stature. Yoshi took an opportunity to ask Grandfather Tang  whether Suìpiàn had indeed been an heirloom pet of the family for so many generations. Grandfather responded that Suìpiàn had even been found once in Shēnshēn's cradle to the terror of her step-mother.

"Yoshi came to the conclusion that this had been some kind of test, and he went to Shēnshēn to tell her he would 'adopt' her Suìpiàn, if this was what it meant to love her.

"Shēnshēn chose Yoshi, and Grandfather Tang proclaimed he had won the competition for her hand in marriage. The wedding date was set.

"However, Yoshi was clever on other fronts and knew he needed to make peace with his mother and protect his hypothetical children from rat bites, just in case Suìpiàn was not always such a docile bed mate. And his mother planned to come and live with him, with a fleet of maids and sisters, to 'educate' Shēnshēn in how to be a good wife. Pressed into a hard position with all the important females in his life, and when his new betrothed would not give in to reason, Yoshi told Shēnshēn that the firstborn son of a Hamato would need to be trained by a Hamato, and in both the Hamato and Tang martial arts tradition and that, therefore, Suìpiàn was behind and would need to spend much time in the dojo. She was skeptical, saying that Yoshi did not truly believe her Suìpiàn was special, and wondering at his motive.

"Yoshi told her that Suìpiàn was special to her, so he would honor her by treating him as something special. He asked her to give Suìpiàn to him for training. By putting Suìpiàn in a small but clean cage in a position of reverence beside the dojo, he gained a measure of control back over the situation. All parties were appeased.

"Now this was not exactly a lighthearted arrangement. Hamato Yoshi was bitten repeatedly by Suìpiàn, who did not like being taken from his 'mother' or 'child' or whatever Shēnshēn was to him. Instead of call him 'Suìpiàn' which was Chinese and fairly neutral, Yoshi was inclined to call him 'Toge,' which is Japanese for a less than plesant fragment, more of a thorn... or a splinter. With more than a little sarcasm, he and the less-than-happy Hamato Saki referred to the little rat as Hamato Toge. The thorn in the side of the Hamatos. To Yoshi it was the one rough spot in the relationship with his wife-to-be. To Saki it was symbolic of Shēnshēn's love and trust for his brother, and his own failure to woo her.

"But trouble came.

"Conflict and shifting politics in the tectonics of Japan—the underbelly—separated the families, threw the nobility and merchant classes into chaos, and the marriage did not occur. The Tang family moved house. The Hamato family moved house. 

"It was nearly a decade later, when the now beautiful and elegant Tang Shēn, heiress and sole proprietor of her family's business, cropped up again. She was much too old for marriage, but  Hamato Yoshi and the newly dubbed Oroku Saki recognized her immediately. The Hamato and Oroku clans, I will explain, had been in a feud as long as time was old, it seemed. The story of Saki's true parentage had been revealed: Yoshi's mother and Saki's mother had married a Hamato and an Oroku respectively, and when Hamato Yoshimo and his brothers and men had slaughtered the Oroku clan, Lady Hamato had begged her husband to adopt little Saki, then only a babe, telling him she'd raise the child as Yoshi's twin.

"Yet with the discovery of the truth had come blood and heartbreak. The two brothers had fought, and torn the Hamato family asunder, and were now at odds—rivals in a dark sense of the term.

"Assembled at a great gathering of nobility, Oroku Saki asked for Tang Shen's hand in marriage; no amount of age had tarnished his love for her, and he did not care how old or browned she was.

"But Hamato Yoshi approached her as well, and, ah, you see, Yoshi had something special.

"After all this time, over all this time, throughout periods of strife, and hardship; piracy and military conflict; amid the destruction of his house, and on days when he had walked the streets in dirt like a commoner, like less than a commoner, walked them as his ancestors had done, and worked his way back up to prominence as a a ninja; through all this, Yoshi had kept Suìpiàn.

"And when she saw Suìpiàn, and tears came to her eyes, Tang Shēn knew that this was not merely the sort of love that drives a man to passion, or shows of devotion, this was a demonstration of true loyalty. A foundation upon one which could build mountains.

"Tang Shēn and Hamato Yoshi were married together, and had one daughter, Hamato Miwa, whom Yoshi allowed to be named in Chinese. He also did not forbid any rats from being put in any cradles.

"But so it came to pass, on the night of incident, that Hamato Suìpiàn was there, sleeping upon the infant's breast; he was there when invaders came into the house to assassinate Hamato Yoshi and take the baby Miwa.

"Yoshi was not there! Their intelligence was incorrect! But Tang Shēn was there, and she woke to the lightest of footsteps upon her floor, and fought like only a mother can fight for her baby. She killed four of them, and the fifth struck her so hard across the back of the head that she collapsed. In the scuffle, a lamp had been broken, and the house was engulfed in flame.

"Suìpiàn could not wake Tang Shēn. He tried to drag Miwa from the cradle. He fastened his teeth into her clothing. He was only a rat, but he pulled and pulled and pulled, and he got himself and the baby out of the door. But it was no use. The baby had drank in too much smoke. Her breath had stopped. Her heart had stopped.

"Hamato Yoshi arrived home to find his little girl dead out on the doorstep, and his house a roaring inferno too intense for any man to step in and try to recover what remained of his wife. 

"That was the location an enraged Oroku Saki found him.

"Suìpiàn smelled blood upon Saki's hands, and later reasoned Saki had slain the fifth house invader. He reasoned the invaders had been Saki's men, and they had failed him, murdered his love, and murdered the child he had intended to gallantly rescue and adopt for his own. Suìpiàn tried to warn Yoshi of the approaching danger, but Yoshi looked numb and did not respond. Saki approached him from behind. Suìpiàn leaped to Yoshi's shoulder, and threw himself at Saki, and so surprised his adversary that he tore a strip of flesh from Saki's face with his teeth! Saki threw him to the ground and slashed at him with a cry of pain and alarm.  Suìpiàn escaped, but when he saw how Yoshi only held his daughter and watched the house burn... He knew his master was gone. What Oroku Saki then killed was only the shell of a man.

"The Tang family was destroyed. The Hamato family was destroyed. A marriage which could have stood among the best of romances and business partnerships written in the oldest books of any of their ancestors had been destroyed.

"Hamato Suìpiàn fled into the sewers and gutters, onto the ships which had been Tang family ships, and then Hamato family ships. He sank into himself. Gone was the Enlightenment. Gone was spiritual purpose. Hamato Suìpiàn became nothing more than a rat again. A long-lived rat to be sure, but a rat. A rat that went wherever the ships took rats, and ate grain there, and eventually embarked again. He liked the rock of the ships; he remembered them from family member after family member he'd guarded, and ships felt like home. He listened to the world and learned many languages. He watched many battles, many lives, many deaths. He became as one with the background of the universe. Here or there someone fed him cheese, and admired the way he stood up on his haunches and tilted like he was bowing to receive it.

"Over three hundred years passed before he again thought about who he was, or why, or what had gone before; or remembered that his name had been 'little tatter, little thorn, little splinter.'

"For again there was a fire; a great, raging, chemical fire. And again there were little babies upon the floor. Most of them were dead, a heap of carrion and refuse and chemicals. But choking in the smoke, something was alive.

"And everything within the tiny guardian spirit that had been Hamato Suìpiàn came back to life, and he took those babies and he seized hold of their sturdiest parts in his teeth dragged them through the chemical spill and away from the death and flame, and he brought them to his den and hoarded food for them as only rats—and perhaps dragons or squirrels—can truly hoard.

"The chemicals, they were not kind to him. His bones ached within his body, his flesh stretched awkwardly, his fur fell out and regrew. He did not know what had happened just then, or whether he would survive it. It would take some time for the whole of his mind to return, and for some memories about the time he'd spent watching the laboratory and listening to its people to settle in on him, memories he would earn through meditation.

"Yet the chemicals did something important, something like what the moment of Enlightenment had done over three thousand years before. The difference was that this was happening on a dimensional and biological level instead of a spiritual one. The chemicals had made him larger. Over the days, as his skeleton crackled, they made him smarter. And when he could again move, he was able to comprehend that he had transitioned... well, not into a fully human form, as some of the ascended animals from ancient China could transform... but into something very human-like. Furthermore, he was not the only creature that had been transformed!

"Huddled before him were four children—not Miwa, but human enough to be sure they were four newborns—all of whom were weak and cold and slowly starving for want of proper food.

"At that moment occurred a new Enlightenment, a rebirth of an individual: It was the moment in which the very unusual adopted and eldest son of Hamato Yoshi adopted four very unusual boys, and loved them in honor of the families which had taught him everything he knew.

"And that is the story of the origins of Hamato Suìpiàn, Hamato Toge, or as he raised us in English to call him: Hamato Splinter."

Chapter Text

Their guests had left, seen off by plane, portal, boat, or alien spacecraft—whatever they were using to get home—and Pinkie Pie was crying inconsolably over a Discovery Channel episode about rabbits. She was hugging the remote control to herself and refusing to let anyone change the channel.

Donatello was at the kitchen table suddenly, hands pressed against the wood, leaning over to look down at both of them. Sandro was already waiting expectantly. Wildcard leaned back, amused and intrigued at just how intense Donatello could involuntarily appear.

"I have some questions," Purple admitted without change in expression, clearly trying to reign in the slightly terrifying brunt of his analytical mind, "about the new friend you've made."

"Is that a coy way of referring to Akihide," Wildcard teased, "or are we totally talking about our dearest darlingest Shawnling?"

"Shawn," Donatello said, like he was begging them. Begging for information? Begging them not to take offense at his interest? Begging the universe to make sense?

"Yo, genius, can't you take a rest far fifteen seconds?" Raph muttered, though he sounded half amused. "That's our friend's kid, in case you've forgotten."

"Oh I definitely haven't forgotten," Donatello intoned without looking away from either child. There were practically goosebumps on his skin, like he was getting brain-tingles from the severity of his curiousity.

"Let him do his thing, bro," Mikey swatted Raphael's direction, "he has to get it out of his system, it's not good for Donnies to hold in scientific inquiry. It's like gas! Starts getting stinky and comes out all the wrong times!"

Donatello was too busy taking the distraction he'd been given to dispute science's relationship to flatulence. "Is there reason to believe Shawn may also be a mutant?" Donatello needed to establish first.

"They don't know that," Raphael huffed dismissively.

"Oh we know that," Sandro disagreed. "I'm not sure exactly how the storytelling played out between both teams of adults, but the only reason Wild got so interested in Shawn to begin with, much less realized he had to be Spider-Man's kid, was because she saw him out climbing buildings. Sidewards."

"It was like his hands were primitive horse hooves and he was daintily applying the splayed finger pads to the concrete," Wildcard confirmed, miming the gesture. "He stuck there perfectly. Not like a gecko, not like he was hanging from his hands; he stuck like gravity was pointing sideways for him and him alone. His feet somehow had traction despite the fact that he was wearing sneakers. It was crazy awesome to watch."

Raphael sat up and sat forward. He was quiet a blink, thinking. "Sounds like Peter alright."

Donatello drew out his tablet and started rapidly sketching notes.

"And that's before we even get to the inch and a quarter gunmetal gray fangs I woke up to," Sandro continued.

"Whooaaaa," Mikey approved. "Awesome!"

April sat forward. "This morning?

"Yeah, Wild had locked Shawn's head up from behind but she needed some help keeping him still until whatever it was wore off. He woke up like that. His pupils and irises were dilated so wide that no white was visible, which I think is impossible for a normal human."

Donatello kept jotting notes.

"He was strong," Wildcard supplied, pulling up her sleeve to show off welts, "but he was also pretty delicate. He bruised me just by pulling down on my arms, but Sandro bruised him just by taking control of his head for a few seconds."

"That was clever, by the way," Sandro said. "I mean, nice save just in general, but covering his eyes clearly helped. He mellowed out the second it got dark."

"I figure he probably sleeps alone, right?" Wild supposed. "I don't think he had any reason to believe he might wake up in a panic like that."

"Well. You are two strangers to him..." April pointed out.

"Then what the hell happened?" Raphael asked, concerned about this story.

"Eh, we went back to bed."

"Ya went back ta bed?"

"Mnhmm," Wild corroborated Sandro's testimony.

"With—yo, with him crushed between ya like that? His parents told us he don't like people touching him, skin just about crawls off of him ta bump into people at sports, needs a lot of alone time."

Sandro and Wild shared a look, communicating thoughts by facial expression. "Sounds legit," Wild admitted. "But he hasn't been like that with us."

"I honestly got the impression he felt a lot safer that way," Sandro admitted. "Squashed like that? He definitely fell asleep again, and the second wake-up was completely normal. No... what was that term, Wild?"

"... a threat display!" Wildcard supplied. 

"The hell didn't neither of you get an adult for?!"

"We couldn't have!" Wild insisted. "When he's been rejected by people all his life?"

"Shawn trying to make friends is like a glass statuette dropping lead shielding," Sandro agreed.

"Ya had fangs in ya face!"

"We have the kiddie gloves on with Shawn, and were super careful with him the entire visit." Sandro told his father. "He didn't want to hurt us. We downplayed the episode instead of escalating it."

"He shook violently for about two or three minutes straight and then went to jelly," Wildcard reported on the outcome. "Sansan's right, he does seem to like being squished."

"Oh boy." April rubbed at her brow. "All of that sounds incredibly serious." 

"Look, he's obviously got to talk to his Dad in private to find out why this happened," Sandro agreed, looking to his mother, "but the good thing is he got to find out about it in a safe environment. Wild was already awake, and no one got hurt. The three of us are some of each other’s only chances at friends, and me and Wild are very concerned with getting Shawn whatever Shawn needs so everything works. The worst thing that could have happened was that I ended up clinic, bitten by someone whose venom somebody else in the house probably had an anti venom recipe for." Sandro looked back to Wild. "You mentioned his dad also has fangs, right?"

"How would she know?" April asked.

"Oh that!" Wildcard waved, "I got to see them when I asked why he had no eyeteeth while he was politely asking how I managed to track his son to Queens."

"That's called intimidation," Raphael corrected.

"Yeeeaaah," she agreed without regretting.

"Been meanin' ta ask about where Mouse got her intel from," Raphael said, eyeing Sandro. "Figuahed we'd need ta have a talk about stuff we tell ya in confidence about other superheroes."

"Pssh, sure, go ahead and blame the saintly boy. Never-mind that Mary-Jane Parker was my Aikido teacher before I even knew turtle mutants existed, and let's just wave away all the work I did using her business cards to draw up a ranking system for all the public school systems in the entire NYC-Jersey-Newark-Hoboken area and decide which buildings to stake out at opening and closing hour."

Both parents looked at her, brows raised, expressions surprised.

Wildcard opened her phone, flicked, swiped, and spun it across the table for them. "It's the fourth one on the list. I got lucky! I arrived just in time to see a bunch of bullies tearing his hair out, punching him in the face, and telling him he was going to end up working in the red light district with—and I quote—'A hole in his ass a mile wide.'" She got a wince from both parents. "I may have overreacted in my defense. I've been told by several authorities on the subject to nix the pocket knife waving. Will do my best to remember."

One adult's face sobered. The other eyed her a critically. "Yeah, we heard a bit about dat." But Raphael's ability to reprimand her for choosing the violent course of action was sort of hampered by the fact he would have done something similar, and so he ended up getting engrossed in puzzlement over all her detailed notes instead. "So... Sandro didn't tell ya?"

"Of course Sandro told me, he tells me everything, are you kidding, we're best friends, he knew I'd flip out my two favorite cartoon superhero families knew one another. But that was shared in innocence! I couldn't just throw everyone under the bus with the Parkers and hope they forgave the slip, I had to put a whole case-file together establishing how I deduced his place of residence, and I had to do it all before Christmas, and even then I checked out a school in Brooklyn first because it ranked higher on my list. Look, here's her business cards, she's using an alias, I know the make and model of her car, she and her son are both redheads, based on her likely purchasing-power these are the counties and neighborhoods she most likely fits into..."

April and Raphael shared a look. 

"Off topic, off topic, off topic," Donatello waved irritably, unable to be impressed with Wildcard's deductive reasoning skills because they weren't being applied to the project space taking up the majority of his brain. "Rotating fangs, high muscle contraction strength, unusual iris aperture maximum, basal instincts, and gravity defying climbing abilities. Do we know anything else?"

"We don't know anything about spider silk," Sandro hummed, vicariously pleased his Wildcard had impressed his parents.

"That's fine, as I'm not even sure we know whether the father produces web biologically," Donatello said, "or through some type of quick-solidifying chemical launcher in the suit. He is a chemical engineer, and spiders do not traditionally have spinnerets in their arms, so it would be a case of a gene traveling to an unrelated appendage. That said, it does happen, and one theory on the development of arachnid spinnerets is that they developed from additional limbs, so it can't be ruled out."  

"Shawn might have made a really big jump across a four lane street while I was tailing him that first time," Wild piped up, "but I can't be sure. He was only out of my line of sight for about thirty seconds, and that was a big transition."

Donatello nodded repeatedly.

"And his senses are different," she reasoned.

Donatello looked up from his notes. "In what way?"

"Mr. Parker looks zoned out ninety-five percent of the time, like he's focusing on something two rooms away. He will talk to people without looking straight at them, about things he hasn't actually seen," Wild reported. "He seems to know exactly what's going on behind himself. By contrast? Shawn gets jostled, bumped into, pounced from behind, and clearly has no idea any of those things are coming. So it looks like Mr. Parker has way, way, way, way stronger spatial orientation senses than his son."

"That sounds like an underdeveloped tremorsense," Donatello mused, writing his final notes. 

"Still a helluvalotta mutations to pass on ta the second generation like that," Raphael muttered, cuing Wildcard in to why Donatello was so curious.

"Is that rare?" she realized. 

"Passing on a suite of mutations like that?" Raphael asked. "Oh yeah. Hell yeah. Sandro and the gator girls are some of our only examples of any kind of newfangled 'mutation' doing something like that. Usagi's people the story's a little different. But in general, for all us new 'super freaks', it goes somethin' like this: not all mutants or mutates can even reproduce. Start cramming a shit ton of extra genes in there, and shit just doesn't line up at conception. X-gene mutants, they're a whole category of their own, but they usually only got one major mutation, on a specific part of one gene, which they all share in common. They ain't passing on a whole brand new species worth of new traits, up and down, left ta right. And most times their kids won't even develop the same mutation, cause the whole point of the X-gene is it's kinda random, and expresses itself differently."

"And," April added, "as the name 'X-gene' suggests, it's passed down through the X chromosome, meaning a father will pass it to his daughter, but not his son."

Donatello interrupted: "There are two-hundred and forty-two different documented origins of 'super powers,' full-genome conversions, and other terrifying or fascinating mutations. That's not even counting the outright aliens. We are hardly restricted to looking at just one of them. But when it comes specifically to cross-genome hybridizations—animal hybridizations—which are system wide and can be passed on successfully to the next generation despite the mutant parent only sharing a fraction of the normal parent's genome," he looked up at them, "that simply has Mutagen's MO written all over it."

"Ohhhhhhhhhh," Wildcard realized, sinking back. "You think that's what must have caused Peter Parker's spider powers? Good cause I was pretty sure it would be impossible for a radioactive spider bite to do that. The only thing special about a radioactive spider would be exactly how much cancer it has."

"Mn! Which leads me into an intense fit of curiousity over exactly what form he encountered mutagen, how it was administered to him, whether there's any lick of truth to that 'spider bite' origin story at all, and what in god's name happened to whatever people had been experimenting with it." 

"If you try and get that kid to give you a cheek swab," Raphael said, "without consultin' his parents, and his Da finds out, you're gonna wish ya was nevah born."

Donatello sucked in a sharp breath between his teeth. "Tempting." He scribbled a few more notes.

"I'm serious, Don. You treat dat shit reverently."

"Mn, regardless, should that child ever encounter a medical emergency in our care, it is imperative that I have a fast-acting test for mutgen, ready to go, so that I can be exactly certain what type of treatment I need to administer."

"Eh, well. Fair enough, but only then." 

Chapter Text

In the afterglow of the holidays, the turtle homestead was left somber and more than a little partied-out. The energy high had passed, a mildly lethargic slump was only natural, and the visitors had long ago been seen off at all the taxis, boats, trains, planes, and/or dimensional portals they intended to depart through. It was time to slowly take the decorations back down, and to go back to their normal regiment for them. 

Well not exactly. There was one last new development which had yet to be fully realized.

On January 4th, with all her tricks and diversions now fully installed, April O'Neil finally was able to move back from her into the turtle den. She brought a lot of suitcases. It was very clear this move was intended to be permanent arrange, with the above-ground apartment now only to be used in the event of pesky reporters or the occasional all-nighter spent on the job.

That move-in wasn't a celebrated occasion, but Wildcard made sure to know the exact date ahead of time so she could plan to stay out of the lair.

April and Raphael deserved there first night home to be restful. Particularly when no one knew exactly how the mixed nocturnal/diurnal scheduling thing was going to pan out. Besides, now everything was square! December 26th had been a Tuesday, and Tuesdays were days Wild was usually supposed to be out of the Lair, and nobody had gone and kicked her out or prevented her from whooping Akihide's bum, so she was just trading this Friday to be fair! 

January was bitter. The weather had turned really bad somewhere around December 28th or 29th, and now everything had icicles bleeding down it.

Kinpо̄ge was out practicing her wall runs long before night fell. The texture of everything was different; the snow and ice caking up the grips in her shoes made surfaces more slippery. She enjoyed the challenge, and her protective gear helped buffer out the times she fell on her elbows and knees. As the sun began to fade, a mean wind snaked in from Manhattan. Taking the diving temperatures at her cue, Kinpо̄ge rubbed her hands vigorously together and got her butt into position on top of the old convenience store as dusk started rolling in, she climbed along underneath old metal scaffolding that had never been torn down, and secreted herself down with the satellite dishes and antenna.

Fresh powder quickly obscured her tracks.

She waited. She listened. And she made out the mist of breath just before a voice emerged from above her:

"The child is always fond of hide-and-seek, and always loses."

Always! 

She rolled out from under the antenna and grinned up at him from the snow. He reached down, and she grabbed his hand so he could pick her up to her feet as easily as one picked up a tissue. She hopped up onto the parapets

"A moment of your time, child."

She looked back in surprise to see him his gesturing that she should rejoin him under the awning there. She skipped back.

"I must know something: How is it I escaped interrogation?" Sensei wondered as he checked her hat and scarf. "I gave to you no Christmas present."

"You gave me a winter coat the week before," she disagreed. "And Donnie mysteriously knew to make me winter things, and someone probably helped Sandro print those martial arts manuals."

Leonardo was surprised with her. "Surely I stand too much on ritual to neglect ensuring at least one brightly wrapped package had my name listed under 'From?'"

Kinpо̄ge's attention homed in on a satchel he was carrying over his shoulder. On him it was small enough to almost be invisible. On it's own, it probably would have made for a small barrel. 

Leonardo chuckled. "There you go." The satchel came down off his shoulder. "I am afraid it is no fault other than mine that I missed every single meaningful moment to actually give you this.

"No kidding, did it get lost in the mail?"

"Oh, no. No it did not. I went back and forth a great deal over whether it was an appropriate present." He untethered the drawstring of the satchel. Poking out from within was a large bundle of brightly wrapped Christmas Joy, days after the holidays had been presumed dead. "Should it offend you, I have a substitute prepared."

"What's so wrong with it!?" she laughed pouncing upon it. It was very sproingy! Oh boy. It was almost better late!

"Mnn," Sensei s sounded as if in pain. "Your words about being no one's little 'military cadet' came to mind, and you must recall I have long promised to help you maintain your intrinsic color. This..." he flicked a hand dismissively several times, as if offended by his own present, "it is not precisely suited to you, or your tastes, not if I am being terribly honest with myself."

This story was getting more hilarious by the moment. "Sensei! What happened on Christmas? Did you yank it out from under the tree in a fit of insecurity at the last second and hide it somewhere!?"

"I... was... going to give it to you during the evening exchange so that you were not put on the spot deciding whether you had to accept it or not, and I could explain my reasoning. I wanted to make sure you knew I would not suddenly expect anything different from you just because of it. Then you sprung the duel on me, and crossly I thought to myself, 'Fine, that can be her damn present, the pugnacious upstart.' I forgave you about a minute later, but turned 'round to find you had left the celebration early."

Kinpо̄ge was laughing so hard at him. "Well what about the day after?!"

"No, that would have made far too much sense," Leonardo shook his head, pulling down the sides of the satchel to expose the plump, cylindrical present. "A present as a reward for actually winning your first duel? Preposterous. Instead I had to go stalk enemy ninja with Usagi to bait out a conversation on his woes, leaving you in a state of sullen insecurity for hours. And then later after you'd delivered your testimony about Akihide's unkind words to you, it seemed just absolutely predatory to give you after that."

"Predatory! You were getting a marriage proposal from Robyn, the day after that!" Kinpо̄ge was choking on laughs.

Sensei spontaneously developed acute indigestion. "We shall not speak of that day. The event which is not to again be mentioned never actually happened. It is stricken from our memories."

Hahahahahah! At least he looked cheered by her sustained positive reaction to the belated Christmas present.

"Sensei! Sensei, did you get me a hakama?" she suspected with a knowing squint, repressing giggles, bouncing on her present. "Are you going to dress me exactly like you?"

"Mn." Leonardo backed up in his crouch, ducked his head, and waved at the present as if he were finished with it and wanted this whole matter to be over with and behind him. She wasn't fooled! She saw the nervous gleam in those steel eyes when he didn't look full away from her; he wanted to see her reaction. "Open it and see. Just recall I do have an appropriate substitute to mollify you with should this fail to impress."

"It feels like enough bubble paper for me and Mikey to roll around in for days!" she reported.

"Well naturally I could not have you discovering its contents should you go creeping about and find it early."

Let it never be said Hamato Leonardo had ever failed to think of everything. Sometimes too much everything, apparently! 

She rended into that paper with glee, and found that her assumption had been correct: the present's exact dimensions and qualities had been buffered out by a fantastic amount of bubble wrap. Brilliance! Two presents in one! With all that prelude, Kinpо̄ge was almost inclined to like whatever he'd gotten just out of principle. Had he bought her Japanese clothing? Textbooks? A bonsai? A koi aquarium? Answers needed to be had!

Like a cat with toilet paper, she pawed the roll to open. She stopped briefly to knead bubble tape between her fists and wiggle with the innocent pleasure of a bazillion pops. Then she was back to opening! What was it what was it what was it? She was banking on a hakama, that would be—No, the gift in the center was rolled up in white paper, she could see it now, and it was long instead of squat, which was the wrong shape for clothing. Puzzled, she rolled and pulled that thick white paper apart.

Within, the gift was wooden. Kinpо̄ge pulled some kind of scabbard out from the roll in surprise. With one last soft little crackle of curling white, that paper slipped back from a worn, leather-wrapped hilt, it's ornamentation glinting silvery.

Kinpо̄ge had seen it before.

Her tummy left on an unexpected vacation, leaving the spot inside her numb and filled with tingly static. Her hand floundered down to bare the full length of it, inch after inch after inch of laquered wood, making absolutely sure this was a katana and not anything smaller. Of course it was. She recognized it.

She looked up at Leonardo, who was shifting from foot to foot and visibly nervous. He was already trying to gauge her reaction, and did not yet know what to make of her pinch-browed silence,

"It... no longer has a mate," he explained slowly, as if apologizing on behalf of an inanimate object which could not apologize for itself. "It is quite old, but... I feel still in good condition. Unfortunately, I am no longer the size appropriate to a Japanese swordsman, and it, em, it's not sized properly for my use."

She'd seen it mounted on his wall, crossed over an empty sheathe. It’s scabbard had been lovingly cared for with resin; the modest steel ornamentation along it had been cleaned, restored, and refitted, probably numerous times. The leather wraps had been broken in but never extensively used, which she supposed meant the latest repair job had been done comparatively recently. Only old scratches, a millimeter of metal eroded through ages of sharpening, and a few missing fingers on the ornamental dragon embedded under the hilt, stood as proof the weapon had endured a lot of wear and tear in its long lifespan. Everything about it was lovingly detailed, she now saw. There were light dot patterns swirling across the leather, made to look like ocean waves, riverbanks, and maybe a crane. The hand guard had a symbol circumscribing the blade, and she only just now recognized it as a symbol she'd seen on the back of some of her Sensei's clothing.

Which would most likely make it the Hamato clan symbol. Which would make this an heirloom item? She had insufficient words in Japanese to describe or label all the special different parts of it... She teased the sword up from its sheathe, and saw Japanese characters etched down the center of the blade. She couldn't read them. They were all kanji.

"Why..." she looked up a him. "Why did you say it's not suited to me?"

Not to her taste, he'd said, but variations of those words radiated out now in the silent tingles of her belly and around her chest. 

Why is this special thing being given to me? 

Sensei tilted his head side to side as if almost to say, 'well... you know...' but she did not, she did not know.

"It," he drew out the word, "has historically been the weapon of the samurai caste. Knights, with all their traditions, pomp, and ceremony. It is an obvious armament, and straightforward in its use; not the type of thing one can hide in one's sleeves and pull out when least expected. It cannot be thrown. In ancient times, or to a boy like Akihide, it would be a great honor to receive a katana; but you... it would have been arrogant of me to presume you 'honored' by anything. And then I did not want to present it to you at a time where you might take it just to spite his words. That would seem... terribly wrong in more than one way."

Kinpо̄ge gulped, thinking about this. Thinking about clowns, and knights, and bats. "You're... you're a ninja and you use them. Other people use them, assassins use them," she brokered slowly, "and crazy people like Deadpool, whom I don't think were even taught anything about them; they're big in popular culture."

"That is true, for it was only ever the weapon of knights in the first place because steel was expensive," Leonardo agreed. "And in this day and era when no one is wearing steel armor any longer, it is undoubtedly effective against cloth and skin. But this is not Uma Thermon offering you this katana, it is me. And thematically you do find me... you know, boring."

I find you beautiful. 

"No," she distractedly mumbled, turning her katana over and over in her hands. "Was it yours, once?" It had to have been.

Leonardo let a long breath out through his nose, chin lifted, eyes narrowed. "Child, if you are still thinking about what that boy said to you," he said, placing his hands under hers on the katana and unsheathing it, "then do not accept this present." He reached up to her brow, plucked a single hair, and then flicked it down upon the blade. It split in two there. "For you will not enjoy the tedium it imposes on you."

"What happened to the other one?" she demanded. "It was part of a set. I saw it mounted in your room, but the other scabbard was empty."

"I had the misfortune of shattering it at a very bad time," Leonardo explained with a thin smile. "But I later did manage to recover most of the shards, so I have that to grow nostalgic upon should you disappear on me and pawn this."

She looked up at him in anger, and shoved at his chest. He obviously did not move, but his eyes widened subtly. "You need to teach me to take care of it," she told him sternly, and then looked down and carefully pushed the beautiful weapon back into its scabbard. "I've never owned a sword before, except a wakazashi once and it didn't count."

She didn't see her mentor blink rapidly in surprise. "What happened to that, and why would it not count?" he asked.

"Was just a big knife that didn't fold, got left behind in a move," she said with a surly, possessive shrug around the precious thing in her arms. "And it was carbon fiber and ceramic anyway, so not even slightly the same."

Silence echoed overhead.

Too wrapped up in the certainty this sword was ancient, and had somehow passed from Yoshi to Splinter to Leo, and wondering how a rat had ended up with the four-hundred-year-old heirloom swords of a dead man—if any word of that crazy Christmas story had even been real and not fanciful imagining to brighten an otherwise dull sewer life—it took Kinpо̄ge far more than a minute to realize that she'd made a terrible mistake: Poor girls with bartender fathers couldn't afford to randomly discard high-tech, ceramic-edged, carbon fiber swords because of sudden moves. 

Leo's voice was dark. "Your father mentioned he has moved you around a great deal in the past."

She looked up at her mentor, and the quiet, judgmental eyes resting upon her. "Not this time," she growled, fierceness rising her voice as she hugged the katana to herself. "This time I'm not going anywhere."

...Right?

Sensei's face softened, because that judgement wasn't for her. His fingers settled on her hair, always strange, always alien, always turtle; familiar rejuvenating, comforting by virtue of being nearly one-of-a-kind. Only one person was touching her right now, and for some reason he wasn't going to let her go, he wasn't going to break her friendship with Sandro, he wasn't going to light the beacons and ring the alarms to proclaim that something was terribly wrong. 

She rubbed her face, hugging that katana until it nearly fused with her hip and clavicle.  

"I do not think it was ever happy living in a wall," he said, and she was lost for a few seconds till she realized he was talking about the sword. There was a gentle smile in his voice. "I think it should like to be used again."

She trusted this person, this special person, her teacher.

"Here. Let's have you carry it across your back for the evening." Sensei went all business again, slipping the scabbard strap over her, and tightening it. He felt at her boots and legs. "This does not seem like enough insulation."

"Oh I am fine."

"Hmm. You will report to me at once should your toes goes numb?"

"Hai, Sensei!"

"Child, there was an agreement."

"You said toes," Kinpо̄ge disputed, fighting tears. "These are fingers."

At this point they might technically be popsicles, but the blinding pain as Sensei ran them under warm water and blew on them seemed to indicate they hadn't died of neglect and distraction.

"You are not to lose any appendages out on patrol with me, regardless of body quadrant!" Sensei scathed angrilly. "Make a fist."

She obeyed with a wince and he seemed to study the color under their dim overhead light before snorting and dabbing them dry with paper towel and stuffing them under the old hand drier. Vwoosh.

"How are your actual toes, now that I think of it?" he asked skeptically, filling another old water bottle with hot water from the sink.

"I can feel my toes," she said. "But they are kinda cold."

"Then bring them out for an accounting," he demanded roughly, pushing the hot water bottle into her hands and crouching down.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled, leaning back into the old tile wall of the bowling alley bathroom.

"The student is sorry? For what, precisely? Let her make a full retelling of it, for archival purposes!"

She winced. "Being ignorant of how to dress and then not realizing how bad it was getting!" 

Sensei didn't say anything for a moment as he inspected her feet. Then he said, "it is dangerous not to wear breathable fabric when it is cold. If you sweat, the moisture can cause a dramatic reversal, and temperatures nosedive."

"I didn't want to weigh myself down..."

"You wear how many knives in that cat suit of yours? All metal, all heavy? And you could not trade some for a layer of wool? You could not google appropriate outdoorsman wear for winter time?" He reached back on himself and drew out some fabric. What was-? Oh Sweet Splinter. Sensei had spare socks for her on his person. He changed her into them right there as she balanced on a single foot. She wondered which one of them could actually read the future.

"Padding makes it hard to bend," Kinpо̄ge pouted, even though she'd done this plenty of times in a hoodie and jeans, or even rain boots—way at the opposite end of the spectrum from tabi. No she really had no excuses.

And Sensei scoffed, knowing it. "People think strategy in war is troop placement, quantity, training, and attack formation. Strategy is morale, my padawan. It is proper boots, proper letters from home, proper rations. It is having a plan for how to avoid infection, rot, and leeches in the weeks after wading waist deep in swamp water in a third world country, with no more provisions that one can carry on one's back. When I ask you to mind your temperature, it is not because I like to hear the sound of my voice."

"Have you ever been in a war?" she wondered.

His gestures slowed for a moment, but then he gave a terse jerk of his head and said, "A story for another time." He made sure no lingering moisture was in her tabi, and then replaced them.

She sighed dramatically. "Well then, this was a less than terrible experience."

Steel eyes looked up at her.

She shrugged over her hot water bottle, rubbing tears off against her shoulder as she waited for her hands to dry out. "Better to have someone who cares about you telling you all these things as a kid, fussing over you like a hen and changing your socks, than figuring it out for the first time alone as an adult, right?"

Sensei stared at her like he could scold sense into her brain with staring; he didn't even look at what he was doing as he finished stashing her pant legs into her boots and strapping them in place. He stood again, eyed her for a long moment as he dried out her gloves, and then returned them to her, pulling them over her hands one finger at a time.

"I will have Donatello take another crack at sufficient gloves for you," he said her. "I forget you until recently attended school, and thus is not the case you are familiar with flitting about on rooftops in the evening hours when the weather grows this bad. For the time being, wear thicker fare in blizzards or until the temperature rises about four degrees or so, or else double up. And keep your core warm, as that affects your extremities."

"Yes Master Leo. I'm sorry. I guess my head was elsewhere."

"Ah," Leo straightened and thought to himself. "I should be amazed this is the first time that has ever happened on patrol. Well if that is just how today is, perhaps it is a sign. Come, child," he waved, "Let us cut our rounds short for the evening. The sky shall not fall, not any more than it is already. And. I want cheap Chinese Food, and I want it now, and I want it covered in that disgusting bright orange excuse for sweet and sour sauce."

She snickered. "Yes Master Leo." She hopped after him, tucking away that hot water bottle into her clothing, and climbing back out of the old bowling alley janitorial access after him. "Happy Garden or Wok U Lik?"

"Oh definitely the latter. The less authentic the better."

"They have fantastic wanton soup!"

"That is not wanton, child, and neither it is soup; that is some kind of pasta masquerading under the same name, pretending at having a scrap of meat hidden somewhere within its abnormally plump spiraled folds of dough." Haughty sniff. "Order me two servings."

Chapter Text

"Dad!" Wildcard called, bypassing their delicious-smelling dinner upon the kitchen counter and pouncing on her father over the couch back. "Dad I got a thing!"

Her father yawned, bar-tending shift well-concluded, and pulled her lazily by her shirt into his lap.

"Ooh!" he perked up immediately on realizing there was a katana across her back. "I see that. My, my, that’s not a cheap imitation, is it?"

"No it's my katana!" she sang, kicking her feet in the air. "I feel like a real ninja! Well, half. I strongly believe in the overlap between clown and ninja, you have to admit knives are very practical."

"Well naturally, but still! Look at you! Look who's moving up the apprenticeship ladder!"

"I knoooowwww! Wait," she spun to her feet and sat upon his knee. "Sanity check, are you upset?"

"Nonsense, either you actually care about this or else your manipulation skills with that silly BatTurtle are fantastic, either way I am so proud!"

"Thank youuuuu!" she threw her arms around a parent who was completely happy to support ventures of ambiguous goal and/or morality. 

"Connngrraaatttts! Ooh! Ooh, that's going to be hard to hide on your standard costume," Dad mused, scratching his chin.

"Ooh," she agreed. "Normally I can get away with wearing everything under a hoodie. You're right, I've got a billion reasons not to get seen carrying a katana around."

"Hmm... hmm hmm hmm hmm hmmmmm." He licked the corners of his lips, at the scar lines. He was interested. He wasn't angry at all. "Here, up, up! Let me see you. Is it meant to be carried across the back or at the side?"

"Ninjas like carrying them across their backs to keep their legs clear during acrobatics," she explained, for she had just received an excellent lecture on the topic. "And Leonardo could get away with incomplete sheathes for them because his shell protected him, which meant he could draw them very fast. But knights wore them at the hip for lots of reasons. Like, for the rest of us, it’s way faster to draw from the hip, less awkward, and doesn't expose your armpit. And it's easier to put just one of them away, if you need that hand free. Of course I only have one!"

"I'm seeing the trade-offffffss," her father cooed, leaning backwards and shuttering his eyes. "I'm guessing I'm not allowed to destructively edit the scabbard?"

"Noooo," she agreed, eyes wide. It's old. I get to love on this sword, it's a permanent thing-a-ma-bob, it gets special not-disposable privileges.

"Well that's going to be new for you, you're going to have to work hard not to throw it at someone on accident!"

"Hee!"

"Let me have a good look at it," Joker leaned forward, lifting his hands. "I might make one or two or thirty 'extra' sheathes for special occasions."

"Huh, come to think of it that might make it so much easier to hide I have one. Inconsistency." She was very slightly hesitant in turning over something given to her by Sensei to Joker, but Joker took it with care.

Dad wasn't going to come between her and the new parts of her life. Dad was going to help her. Her heart swelled as she stood there watching the concentration on his face. No offense, no jealousy, no loneliness, just pure logistics and creative problem solving. She smiled.

"Inconsistency of disguise is a fantastic tool, by the way," Joker mentioned. "Make someone think there's going to be a point of consistency across five disguises and then break with tradition for the sixth and suddenly the world is your oyster. Ooh, ooh, ooh, I will get this back to you before you leave tomorrow. Good?"

She bobbed her head, trusting him.

"One more question. Does this mean you want to be a knight? Because if so, I will need to have a conversation with you about why that might be difficult for you to pull off. Personality types and whatnot."

"Ah, father dearest," she grinned. "How did I win my very first duel as this 'knight's apprentice, again? Hmmm?"

Dad nearly cried. "Fish!" he squeaked, and then fell back cackling like a hyena, and had to get out his phone and watch the video of that all over again with her. Moments like that between them, in the early morning hours when he was teaching her for her schoolwork, or helping her refine her knife throws, or showing her another card trick, or showing off a mine or explosive—moments like they'd had before teenagerdome had taken over her brain and hit her with angry wanderlust—they calmed her down and glued the rest of her world back down to tis foundations, and things always made better sense afterwards. 

The Hamato family was having a sleep malfunction, and Sandro and Wild were getting a little anxious.

Donatello had darker circles around his eyes than was usual, and Mikey was sleeping at weird hours, and Sensei was getting more and more of those patrol hours he tended to workaholicificate, hours which were probably suffering from a bit of sleep-deprivation (even though he'd never actually say that). Wildcard made sure he always had a packed lunch. People who burned candles at both ends and didn't consume tons of caffeine needed calories. Meanwhile, Raphael was a cranky, mean, nasty, old turtle right now, and he knew it, and he was cutting practice in the dojo short left and right, which was extremely mature of him and deserved a polite round of applause. Later. When that migraine finally let him go. 

This was getting weird. Sansan and Wild were used to having some adult around to talk to, and between cranky Raphael, sleepy Donnie, unconscious Mikey, and missing Sensei, sometimes the Lair felt strangely abandoned.

And Wild was a demanding child! She sometimes needed an adult around to take her attention off Sandro for an hour or two. His homework load tended to involve a lot more essay composition, because he was in three separate language courses at high levels of proficiency, and he was religious about taking any and all practice exams, which could last a half hour or longer. By contrast, Wild tended to math fast, exhaust her reading tolerance fast, think 'meh, I get it' fast, and there was only so much Japanese she could steep in for a day without somebody to Japanese back at her.

Sandro was by far the higher achiever, and had a super great work ethic and lots of smarts, so it was her duty as his friend not to screw up his grades by perpetually distracting him.

April would never forgive her! 

Doh. Urge to Mischief rising...

Today Wildcard learned that Raphael and April's bedroom was soundproofed. And had been, for a very long time.

Ten guesses as to why that had been necessary!

But despite sleeping in a room conveniently proofed to a modest set of decibels for the preservation of everyone else's innocence, April and Raphael were having a rough time catching enough hours of rest. 

April was one of those people who always woke up once in the middle of the night to get water and go to the bathroom. Even though the inside of her Romance Cave was dark and quiet, and the denseconcrete even helped keep even low-frequency noises on the floor of the dojo out, she still had to go out into the brightly lit sun-shiny world that was the rest of the Lair, while everyone else was essentially enjoying the middle of their day, and flounder her way down the hall.

Apparently Raphael apparently slept like a gun trigger: the slightest noise and bam, he'd be on his feet with weapons drawn before he was even fully conscious. Donatello warned Wildcard ahead of time, before they even moved into the Lair, that she was never to sneak into that bedroom while anyone was sleeping to try and pull a prank. Raphael was unambiguously dangerous to wake up, which probably said something about his ability to unconsciously filter out the sounds of his wife getting in and out of bed. With April going in and out of a loud, bright environment though, he'd inevitably wake up with her, and then have to climb miserably back into bed and pull the pillow over his head. 

The family was talking about all these things when when she and Sandro finished that homework that afternoon. 

Sandro became concerned. He knew his dad was in a bad mood, but that didn't mean he wanted his parents to move out. Realizing it wouldn't just 'pass' and that something needed to be done about these poor sleep patterns before work suffered or the situation escalated, had him on the verge of panic almost immediatley. Were his parents going to have to go back to the 'bird's nest' some days of the week? 

"S'alotta shit to shift around—"

"When every other assassin from here to Japan primarily operates in the twilight hours—"

"The biggest danger to us ain't the docks, is the membahs we already got topside durin the daytime with—"

"Sleeping through the only hours we can actually go topside is kinda a waste—"

"How often do you 'go' topside, eh?! I go every fuckin' day in broad dayl—"

"Raphael, Mikey's not looking for a fight right now—"

"How the hell's anyone gonna start switchin' off guarding Ape with me like this? Who's gonna do it. You?"

"Wouldn't a diurnal schedule permanently split patrol into two shifts?" Wildcard innocuously asked.

Oh boy, trust Wild to know the magic words. Donatello came to attention, all indecisiveness fading. He smiled victoriously in Leonardo's direction.

Six o'clock in the morning was a very weird time for Wildcard to be meeting her alarm clock and frowning at it. Had she mixed up the AM and PM again? Oh! No. No, today was the first day of a new, er, trial-period of waking hours. She yawned, stretched, fed her sugar glider, rubbed her face vigorously so that she'd be awake and alert while slipping into the sewers, and then headed out from her house to skip down the lane. Some manholes were easier to get down unnoticed than others.

There was no way Michelangelo was going to meet her this morning, regardless of what his schedule looked like as far as patrol or anything else. Mikey and the basic underlying theme of waking up at dawn just sounded like they weren't intended to mix. 

What she did find interesting was that someone was waiting for her. Just before she'd pulled out her crowbar, a pebble dropped down into the alleyway beside her. It might have been a cat, or an enemy ninja, but it wasn't. She scaled up the wall, finding finger-holds on pipes and window awnings, and she reached the parapets just as six-forty hit, and the upper lip of the sun began to crest flaming and attractive up from behind the Manhattan skyline, out beating down at the ocean somewhere. Sensei was crouched there in his camouflaged armor with gray streaked over his face and shell. She hurried in under his elbow so as to be more invisible.

They were quiet for a bit. She enjoyed his enjoyment of the sunrise. 

"Rare have been opportunities for me to hone a habit of rising with the dawn," Leonardo mentioned.

"You had to trade a lot of patrol for it," she whispered conspiratorially.

"I did," he aknowledged. "What, now, will you do on Saturdays?"

"During the day?" she thought about it. Her 'rest day' no longer coincided with a convenient patrol schedule. "I don't know. Should I get inducted by a Foot training camp recruiter and practice my espionage?"

Leonardo very slowly looked down from the sunrise, and fixed her with an unexpected sort of stare, one that almost looked painful. "No. You are too young."

"That's kind of the point, they recruit young people! It's be excellent training for a budding ninja!"

"I will panic, attack the camp, and end up carrying you out on my shoulder like a bag of potatoes while you shout expletives at me for blowing your cover. Does that sound like excellent training in stealth to you?"

Wildcard considered this. "Thank you for your honesty, it's more effective than forbiddance or threats of punishment."

Sensei patted her head. "Your father works evenings," he mentioned. 

"Yeah," she agreed. 

"You will have no trouble procuring dinner on your own with this setup?"

"Well, I worry about my Dad," she conspired. "He only gets tiny break windows. Maybe I should bring him cheap Chinese takeout?"

"Hmm. Surely not every day, that is not good for the health."

"Oh man, I might have to pack lunches for three people. I might need your help Sensei, that sounds like too much menial labor."

Sensei sniffed thoughtfully. "Perhaps it is time to dust out the sushi freezer. I have yet to have a sashimi knife start a fire on me."

She grinned. "I'd like to learn how to make sashimi," she agreed. "It sounds like something I could actually make taste as good as it's supposed to taste."

"Ah," Sensei shook a finger, "the difficult part is sourcing quality fish and getting it from source to freezer before quality becomes impaired. No easy task when one is large and green."

Wild saluted. "That is so much better an idea for what to do with my humanness than Foot espionage training, it doesn't even compare."

"Because it can be eaten?"

Nod nod nod!

"I understand, entirely."  

Sensei's hours of patrol might have just gotten cut in half, but Wild's had just multiplied.

"What is this?" her father asked, peering curiously at the Tupperware Wildcard had just pulled out and shyly plopped upon the table.

"It's... you know," she cleared her throat. "Food."

"Frozen take-out?" Dad wondered, toweling off his hands and coming over to look. The break room was tiny and dreary, but Dad at least kept it very clean. It helped hide all the illegal booze hidden under the floor. 

"Nnnooo," Wildcard scuffed a foot. "I just wondered if you were eating well."

"Usually I do pack a sandwhich."

"Oh."

Perplexed, with an eyebrow raised at her, Joker peeled open the Tupperware like he was convinced it was some kind of slime explosive. Nope, not this time Dad! That was sooooo last November.

The extraordinarily neatly packed custom-made bento box which greeted him defied all preexisting expectations as to what sort of thing Wildcard was capable of bringing into existance. He looked up at her in amazement, and then down at his sushi, miso, and neatly fried dumplings and sauce.

"How." 

It was a decent question. Wildcard had grown up all her life in a house with a culinary mastermind and had never once been interested in cooking. Eating! Wildcard was interested in eating. This was different. This wasn't cooking. This was... some kind of organizational art form by which one made something delicious appear cute. 

"Well I got to practice helping out with chores at the Hamato house," she explained, conveniently leaving out that some time months ago she'd started making sure somebody packed Sensei lunches if he was on patrol, and if Donnie didn't do it, then she did. "And, um, now I don't feel like a complete newb, so I am branching out, or reportin back or...?"

Dad inspected his other tupperwares. Then he leaned back and put his hands on his hips. He knew even if she didn't have to tell him, that this activity had ironically not been a bonding-activity with cooks. It hadn't involved much input from Mikey and Donatello; it had been Sandro who'd taught her how to operate a rice cooker and heat up frozen dumplings. She'd done most of it herself. She'd mostly just assembled it more than cooked it. The layers of aesthetically splayed salmon sashimi and smoked eel were sensei's handiwork, but that had just been cutting and moving things around.

"Well it's not like I hand made the dumplings," she finally groused. "All I did was decorate the Tupperware with food from a freezer."

"I should have mailed you off to a samurai a long time ago," Dad exclaimed.

Her mood brightened. "Ninja, dad! Ninja!"

"Samurai, ninja, whatever!" he cackled, leaning forward and ruffling her hair. "I am awed!" Awwww! "I'm proud." Eeee! "But now you have to let me teach you how to hand-make pizza," he demanded, needing something in exchange. "We'll do it on a day Sandro's over. We need to somehow dislodge Michelangelo so he's unaware of the ace lying in wait!"

"Pizza!?" she was briefly staggered. "Making pizza with Dad and Sandro."

It sounded like the best day ever, and it hadn't even started yet. 

Chapter Text

Sandro's parents sat down with him over dinner. Mom looked a little worn. He wondered if two weeks sleeping at home hadn't been restful. He and his uncles were still getting used to the schedule changes.

"How have you been enjoying the new year so far?" April asked him over some decaf coffee.

"Having you around?" Sandro asked. "It's better."

"Even though we have really demandin' workloads?" Raphael asked. He was the one cooking, and for breakfast that basically meant bacon and sausage with other food groups as afterthoughts.

"It's probably best like that," Sandro admitted a little bashfully. "I don't feel smothered by tons of additional attention or anything."

His mother laughed. 

"I've been alright," he mentioned, realizing they might be fishing about his deeper feelings. "I'm not getting acutely lonely anymore. Have, uh, have we heard anything from Shawn's parents about whether he can visit?"

It had been two weeks since Yin and Yang had been able to see their Spiderling, but at least this time around they were in full electronic contact with one another. Shawn sent them pictures from school of everything from the terrifying to the mundane (what was even in that lunch!?) and while they couldn't respond with pictures of their own life for security reasons, they bombed him with spotify playlists, memes, and support.

"Peter n' Mary-Jane are still a bit on the fence," Raphael admitted. "But they's thinkin' of bringin' him over Sunday. Haven't told him yet, n' neither should you, 'case it doesn't pan out."

Oh boy. Sandro couldn't wait. "Am I still grounded?" it occured to him to wonder

"From what?" Raphael asked, like the answer wasn't obvious.

"Playing in the tunnels," Sandro frowned. He'd been allowed to roam them from a pretty early age, but he'd been grounded ever since he'd met Wildcard. August to January seemed like an excessive amount of time to be grounded for anything, even something which had turned dangerous. He'd obviously learned his lesson. Were they just going to keep this up forever?

"Eh, what about going topside again?"

"I don't have permission to go topside," Sandro hurriedly submitted.

"Dunno if dat convinces me," Raphael mused. "Ya Mouse might dare ya inta somethin."

Sandro had to think about that one. "I guess she could get me to follow her if I thought she was going to get hurt," he admitted. 

"Well there ya go. So no, ya ain't ungrounded."

"Dad, are you telling me Mr. Jones never baited you topside when you weren't supposed to go because it wasn't safe?"

Raphael cocked his head like he was sure he must have heard wrong, and then turned about and fixed Sandro with a look that said, 'Do you want to have a go in the dojo right now, kid?' 

Sandro bristled.

"Settle down, hon," Mom intervened, "he has one heck of a point."

"Naw he doesn't."

"He does. Raph. You didn't even try to tell Casey, 'It's not safe,' you just went because you wanted to. Are you suddenly Leo?"

Mom got Raphael to back down. She even stared at him for a bit, like she was daring him to dispute the facts of her argument, before looking back to Sandro.

"All that said, Sandro? We've been meaning to talk to you about the who grounded thing. We do need some kind of guarantee that if we trust you, you're not going to break the rules again. Can you promise us? If we do lift your grounding, will you keep your promise?"

"Well..." Sandro settled back, trying to calm his adrenaline. "Yeah, but on one condition, I need some help with one part."

Mom blinked. "Um... sure. What... what kind of help?"

"Okay... So... See, it's like this," he took a deep breath: "The last time I was sneaking topside, I was already breaking the rules just by letting Wildcard know I existed. So when she'd say, 'We need to see the new dinosaur exhibit at the museum,' I'd dig my feet in and hold my ground not because it was against the rules—I was already breaking those—but because I was concerned about my safety. Then she'd produce her plan, and her plan was often very good. 

"The reason I'd give in and go places with her wasn't because I was weak-willed, it was because there was no significant difference between being delinquent with her on top of a building and being delinquent with her inside the building, especially when her plans let me do things I grew up believing I'd never get to do.

"But all of that is different now. I'm not hiding anything from anyone, I'm not lying, people are taking me and her on trips, and I don't have any secrets I'm pathologically afraid of revealing. I've a very big incentive not to mess up again. If I get caught topside, and she was to blame, you could forbid me from seeing her. I'd never voluntarily risk that."

"So..." Raphael didn't sound in a great mood, but he wasn't ready to smack anybody like he'd been a second ago. "What part of dat do you need help with?"

"From my perspective, everything's changed. From Wildcard's—Anastasia's—maybe not much has. She's used to successfully wheedling me into trying anything, so I'm slightly nervous she won't appreciate the new gravity of the situation, and might go overboard trying to change my mind without realizing why it's wrong. And I might not convince her to stop in time! I don't want anything weird or outside of my control to happen to get me in trouble the first time I walk back out our front door to take a jog around the reservoir. 

"But if you—the adults—sit her down to explain the rules, she'll know exactly who she'll be answering to." Sandro then had to hurriedly turn a counterpoint into an advantage: "And she already knows she's on thin ice with Dad and it's going to take a bit to get back into his good graces."

"Oh she does, does she?" Raphael didn't seem to entirely believe that.

"What happened?" April asked.

"Wildcard had an attack of guard chihuahua instincts," Sandro explained smoothly. "And tried to tell Dad off. Dad was super patient Leo put her in Hashi for two and a half hours."

"Two and a half hours?" April was incredulous.

"Builds character," said Raphael, roughly appeased.

"Also if you just invite Uncle Leo into the same room while you're telling her the no-topside rule," Sandro mentioned, "and have him innocuously peeling apples in the background, she's going to act like the Devil himself is there witnessing her signing a contract. She won't disobey unless the sewers are literally filling up with lava."

Raphael busted out laughing. "Ta see the day anybody's legitimately scared of Leo! Ha!"

"He is her sensei," Sandro reminded, brightening.

"A'right. Well. What'd you think, Ape?"

"Well... barring some interesting insight on how long Hamato Leonardo thinks he can keep the neighbor girl in time out, I think this was the most articulate, realistic, and self-aware explanation for how to help a person keep their promises that I have ever heard come out of anyone, much less a teenager," Mom said.

Eek! Sandro'd done it? He'd successfully articulated a position to his mother!? In real-time, without any special—?

"Good job honey."

Weeeee!

"Let me segue into something, though. Your father and I have been talking about letting you visit Anastasia's house," April said, surprising the crap out of him. "It'd be with a chaperone, and only for a few hours at a time, and only at night. But we wanted you to bring up the grounding first, so that we could... get a read on whether you were on the same page as us concerning safety."

Egads.

"Did... did I do it?" Sandro asked worriedly. "Did I do it right?"

Raphael tousled his bandanna ties roughly. Affectionately.

After extracting Wild's saintly vow never to goad Sandro topside without adult supervision, the circumstances of the grounding were lifted just in time for Mr. Hamilton to call Wild, specify he'd gotten off work, and inquire if the two of them might have Sandro over that upcoming Wednesday for an early dinner. April and Raphael had immediately agreed, so long as Michelangelo went with them.

Wild and Sandro shared a look.

Wild's face said: 'I see! Clearly secret inter-parent collisions are happening under the table somewhere! Excellent, excellent, this has my permission to continue!' Sandro snickered.

There wasn't much to do at Wild's house, but Mr. Hamilton was a fantastic cook and he also deserved to see his own daughter more. Going topside with minimal supervision felt like like the latest evolution in their independence, like a stepping stone towards something bigger, and the kids jumped on the offer and swore to obey every safety instruction. And, hey, they'd have Mikey! Mikey was portable fun. 

They arrived at the house around midnight, with the instruction to be home by four, which obviously neither of them would miss because it marked the dawn of Ninjitsu instruction, and Leo would drag Wildcard into the house by the ear and line up another tow hours of Hashi. 

Michelangelo was subdued in sleepy from getting up so 'early' with them, but Sandro and Wildcard were wide awake and greeted Mr. Hamilton on sight. Dinner wasn't ready yet, so Sandro suggested they clean the cage of Wild's pet sugar-glider, Mumu. From the look (and smell) of things, that thing hadn't been cleaned since the last time Sandro had been there. For shame Wild, for shame. 

"Told you," Mikey cooed sweetly. "The parents thought it was their own idea and everything. Pay up!"

Joker sighed, extracted a fifty from his back pocket, and passed it over. Then his expression twisted wry and amused. "Did I lose a wager," he asked the air, "or did I get someone to lobby an isolationist government from the inside on my behalf for an absolute pittance?"

"Pssh," Mikey waved a hand. "You need more siblings, yo! You should see the things I get Donnie to bet me to do which I would totally do for free. I think deep down he knows, but he enjoys being clever about it anyway, and it's easier than yelling at me so obviously we're just a sibling-hood made in heaven!"

"But you don't need money," Joker protested. "You own a beloved children's franchise."

"It's not the money," Mikey was horrified. "The wager just makes it a game!"

And at that Joker started laughing.

"Kids!" Joker called. "Get down here before Sunshine eats all your food!"

"Incoming!" Wildcard rolled off the second floor balcony landing, landed on the couch, and pointed accusingly at Mikey. "Stay away from my food or I'll nibble your kneecaps off!"

"I don't even know what this is!" Mikey protested, slowly taking a seat (at the only chair which had recently been replaced and did not match the other chairs). "It smells amazing, yo!"

"Egg salad sandwiches!" Sandro had taken the winding staircase as fast as winding staircases could be took. "Thank you Mr. Hamilton!"

The kids assembled and took their seats. They were full of praise as egg salad sandwiches were eaten with ravenous abandon. 

"So, Sandro... Squirt... I want to warn both of you," Mr. Hamilton said as he finished his own sandwhich. "You are still in the honeymoon period of the whole 'parents moving home' thing."

Sandro looked up in surprise, wiping egg from his face. "Honeymoon period, sir?" 

"Your parents are used to having a lot of alone-time," Andrew Hamilton asid. "And I'm not talking about time away from you, or insinuating they hate company, I'm talking about how they've had very few stimuli coming at them in broad form. What they're presently acclimated to.

"My understanding is your father spent the majority of each day camped out on a skyscraper just in case your mother needed him. Alone. With a cellphone as his only mode of entertainment. The only person he's used to interacting with one-on-one on a daily basis is her. Meanwhile, your mother is used to 'home' being mentally quiet, a place where she and hubby can unwind and recharge for tomorrow."

"Do you think they'll resent coming home?" Sandro hazarded, glancing to Mikey.

"No, but... it takes time to adjust to any change," Mr. Hamilton tried to explain. "Think about it like this, you two: Every food they bought for themselves in the last ten years, they've been the ones who've eaten it. Every piece of trash, every object out of place, every chair, stain, article of laundry, and potted plant has been not only their responsibility but completely under their control. Nothing ever moved after they set it down. Definitely not the television remote, and I can tell you after having this one," he jerked his thumb at Michelangelo, "in the house a few times now, he has magical powers to lose remotes.

"In your home, everyone's living on top of everyone else. Your parents have missed the rest of the family, and this move may be good for them, but all changes take time. Conflict simply has to crop up, and to be resolved. Don't panic if it happens. This isn't a time for starting blood feuds, it's just how acclimatizing to a new environment works."

"Thanks for the heads up!" Wildcard said garbled through the muffle of bread and egg.

At the time, Sandro had found it slightly weird for Wildcard's father to be warning him about 'conflict,' especially with Mikey sitting right there and not saying anything.

Now, though, listening to April and Donatello arguing viciously over cantaloupes, Sandro was grateful he hadn't just been blindsided and left to quake in terror that something about his family was permanently and forever broken. Wildcard reached for his hand under the table at almost the same instant Sandro reached for hers. The two of them sat there, secretly hand-in-hand, holding their breaths as two ultra-logical adults worked out a completely illogical fight. If one read the situation right, they weren't actually arguing about anything in the physical world. They were trying to figure something out emotional.

Which apparently they both sucked at, because the argument started escalating, and some weird baggage was getting pulled out and whipped around.

Sandro was wondering how long humans could hold their breaths, and whether Wild was going to die of asphyxiation if he didn't breathe first, when Uncle Michelangelo suddenly bolted into the room, vaulted over a chair, pounced on April, lifted her up and spun her around to the tune of 'Singing in the Rain.' Both April and Donatello tried to yell at him, but Mikey was so irrepressible that April busted out laughing. He set her back down, spun to Donnie, and tried to boost him off his feet and twirl him around. The resulting hilarity ended up with everyone laughing so hard they were crying. They hugged on each other and on Mikey, wiping tears and apologizing. 

Sandro gulped for air, trying not to make too much noise lest he notify Donnie or April that the two of them were still in the room.

Mikey caught their eye from the center of the hug-fest, and winked at them.

'I got it covered,' he seemed to say, and Sandro wondered which 'two' of them Mr. Hamilton had been speaking to.

Leonardo-sensei must have said something to Raphael coming out of the shower, because, after a few bites of breakfast, Raphael flew at him clear over the table, plates and cutlery went flying, and the two of them ended up in a fist fight on the ground.

"You're going to have to try harder than that," Leo roared unexpectedly, startling Wildcard into a wide-eyed jump. "Meathead!"  Then Leo shouldered through a pin, rolled six-hundred-pound Raphael over himself and threw him down with a slam that made the chairs jump. Except Leo didn't leave it at that: He used the momentary high ground to throw two solid punches. Raphael caught the third punch.

"Makin' a note of dat fah when I cave ya beak in, ya fekkin uptight prick!"

BOOMCLATTERCRACKLE!

This was Wildcard's first introduction to Raphael and Leonardo's physical altercations.

If she'd been polled on her expectations previous to this moment, she would have expected them to use weapons and fight it out in the dojo till they were both sweaty and exhausted. She definitely wouldn't have guessed it might be settled on the floor with fisticuffs.

She scarcely knew what was happening. 

Who even was this person in the blue bandanna!?

As far as Wildcard was concerned, Hamato Leonardo was an elegant, patient, graceful creature. He was above this. His entire thematic idiom favored stealth, balance, acrobatics and silver feathers of razor-sharp steel. Now she was suddenly getting bombarded by the sight of a completely different version of Hamato Leonardo. A version who was presently trash-talking, haughtily-grinning, wrestling with teeth-grit in a violent and sloppy grapple all over the floor, knocking furniture in every-which-direction without concern for the upholstry. CRACK! There went an end table!

Huh. Everyone else simply seemed to know they ought to get out of the way! 

Wild was having a detached, 'Am I dreaming?' experience. Confused, she cocked her head to the side, trying to figure out what to do. An iota of sense presented itself, and she latched onto it: Raphael was better at enforcing holds, and Leo was quicker at exploiting openings the second they opened. Neither of them was being particularly efficient about the fight itself though. It was like they just wanted nothing more than to hit each other.

THUD! Raphael headbutted Leo, who reeled and then—oh was he going to? Ha!—BAM!—Leonardo headbutted him right back! They rolled off in a snarling, roaring, zinger-filled mess. Oh boy. Those roars. That wasn't a human noise. Sandro could sound a little like that sometimes, when he was particularly riled up: Hoarse with a rumbling that built up in the muscles around his throat. Still, she'd never heard anything quite as bone-rattling and adrenaline-pumping as this before. The air probably reeked of testosterone. 

Sandro waved in front of Wild's face.

"Hush, I'm busy," Wildcard chastised, unblinking, as she pushed his hand away.

"Soaking in the spectacle of Uncle-Leo-and-my-Dad-pummeling-each-other?" Sandro asked knowingly.

"Sshhhhhh...!"

Sandro eyed Wildcard as the two of them warmed up for Ninjitsu alone. Wild had been dead silent after staring at Blue and Red like some kind of jackal, like she'd been drinking in the sight of them, and Sandro still wasn't exactly sure what her brain had needed all that detail for. Wildcard tended to stare at two kinds of things: Things she found interesting, and things she wanted to stab.

"Hey," he reached over and poked her gently in the ribs. "Loudmouth. You're being quiet, it's weird."

Without skipping a beat, she asked, "Was that normal?"

"Uncle Leo and my Dad? I think so."

"You think so?" Apparently somebody need precision.

"Well you have to remember Dad hasn't been living here for years," Sandro explained conversationally, hoping to tug her back down into a less laser-focused mode. "I know they had a habit of fighting their whole lives—that's something I just picked up listening to everyone else talk about them—and I've seen them brawl a few times before, but it's never been that... 'perfectly shaped' before. You get what I mean? Like... they've never just plowed into one-another over absolutely nothing and gone full roaring macho turtle dominance thing on the carpet. Closest I've ever seen to it was when Dad needed to punch somebody during Mikey's drag prank, and Leo's was the face closest to him."

Wildcard shuttered her eyes and stared off into the void, not saying anything.

"Yaaaanng?" Yin called hesitantly.

She blinked, snapping back to the present and looking up at him.

"What are you thinking?" Sandro needed an accurate reading.

"I liked it," she said. She smirked a little. "I liked it a lot."

"Any particular reason why...?"

"It proves they both still know how to play."

Chapter Text

Somehow Uncle Donnie's master plan for resocializing Uncle Leonardo was always missing a crucial step: The actually socializing with Leonardo part. Sandro had yet to see his otherwise ingenius uncle step outside the lab to pester Leo, invite him to watch a movie, or even talk about either of their hobbies. 

Sandro, it must be said, had been paying a lot of attention since that whole relationship had been blown open in front of him.

The big important realization for Sandro had been this: Uncle Leo didn't dislike company, but he was never sure when company was desired. He was almost non-confrontational about it. He didn't want to bother anyone. He didn't want to take time that didn't belong to him. He was more than mildly nervous about securing too many of Sandro's affections. He wasn't greedy, and didn't want to make a mistake that would cause anyone distress, so he erred on the side of caution and left people alone. And, worst of all, he didn't seem to have much in common with Mikey, the only extrovert his own age who'd actually been in the house for the last eight years.

All signs pointed to Uncle Leo being an introvert. Unless Sandro was misreading these web articles on personality types, that meant Leo kind of needed extroverts to come to him, or, at least, he needed someone with slightly better social skills to meet him half-way.

Donnie had those slightly better social skills but he got so much stimulation from Michelangelo, who did everything from demonstrate physical affection to him, to offering to train in the dojo with him, to bombarding him with questions, to video gaming with him, that it probably filled Donnie's limited social interaction tanks to full every day; Unless things built up to the point where he missed Leo, Donnie was failing to notice how alone Leo actually was. And then he blamed Leo.

The only conversations they had were at mealtimes, and those didn't always go over great. 

The first time Sandro had ever noticed Donnie's contribution to the problem had been with help from Wild: She'd gone from zero to one hundred on enthusiasm for trying out tea in a heartbeat. Wild wan't great at understanding her own emotional responses to things, but she'd instinctively protected Leo from partitioning off to handle the negative reaction, and Sandro had noticed.

And then the hypocrisy had dawned on him: Donatello could gush mathematics and numbers at dizzying paces and everyone only listened or teased him. But when Leo started to hesitantly 'gush' about the mystical properties of jasmine, Donnie unambiguously confronted him and shut him down. 

That wasn't a one-time thing, Sandro had realized. That was a pattern. One of the underlying flaws in their relationship, one Donatello couldn't see yet, because as much as Sandro loved Donnie, loved him like some kind of third parent, Donnie wasn't perfect, and Sandro might have been one of the only people who could bring this to his attention one day: On the rare occasion Leo's interests were perked, and he started talking at length about history, tea, or incense, he'd inevitably bring up some kind of folk belief, and then Donatello would turn on him and lecture aggressively about pseudo-science—to get him to stop talking. 

Was it any wonder Uncle Leo's reaction had been to stop talking? He'd done exactly what Donatello had wanted.

But.

The older generation weren't the only players on the game board anymore. Now if Leo made an effort to bond with people and received a negative reaction, Sandro would always be there to make sure Leo got a clandestine thumbs-up and a wink. If someone were to tell Sandro that it was cute but ultimately misguided for a child to 'pretend' an adult required their reassurance, Sandro would have scoffed at them. Leo was incredibly alone for someone surrounded by family.

Or he had been previous to September.

Because Sandro hadn't even gotten to calculating the impact of the newest source of extroversion in the household. It had been big. Big enough to thank your ancestors for. If anything could have proved that Uncle Leo's social tanks were rock-bottom empty and that he could handle a lot more one-on-one interaction than his brothers realized, it was the new teenager who openly and unrepentantly demanded a ton of attention.

Whether she was diving out of the rafters to try and catch him off-guard, belching her ABCs while he was trying to meditate, trying every way of blocking a move except the one she was being instructed in, requesting a verbal dissertation on all the usages of a Japanese particle, melodramatically critiquing a single noodle, dueling rivals, or simply needed to tell a story of some shenanigans she'd gotten up to, Wildcard required attention. Lots of it.

All the time, too! Leo was taking her out on patrol at least two days a week to keep her out of trouble. She required patience, tolerance, a sense of humor, the ability to adapt, a stern guiding hand, a willingness to be pranked, the ability to make compromises; she required absolutely everything Donatello, Mikey, and Raphael seemed to feel Leo was terrible at.

Well, whether he was terrible at it or not was moot by this point, he must have been leveling up left, right, and center; because Wildcard wasn't dead yet, Leo wasn't dead yet, and the Foot Ninjas hadn't attacked. Apparently Wild really could focus if given the right incentive; who knew?

Regardless! Donatello had gotten Leo in the house, and maybe for right now that was just all he knew how  to do, but the two kids could make something from that.

Two days out of every seven, they had a blue ghost lurking around the Lair, and they'd been tag-teaming figuring out what to do with him.

The plan had begun in the first week October, and it had started off something like this:

Sandro and Wildcard would monopolize the dojo floor to do their homework on, and they always picked a time they knew Leo would be stuck there for a bit. Whether he was pruning bonsais, feeding fish, or meditating, they'd say "hi" to him, ask if they could join him to study, and they'd camp out on the carpets with their books sprawled all around them. 

At first, Leo had still escaped at the moment of peak politeness, often without them having any idea he'd left.

After a bit of that, Sandro muscled up his courage, vocabulary, and emotional reasoning skills, and told Leo that they found it jarring to look up from their books and realize he'd disappeared, and could he please say bye to them?

And since Leo didn't want to interrupt them even to say "bye" to them, this led to the amusing situation where they would essentially trap him with them in the dojo for an hour or two, which was, fortunately, one of Leo's favorite places to be. If Wild was reading and didn't understand a new word in Japanese or even in English, she could ask out loud, and Leo would often answer, and the sense of having him there, even if he was watering the sakura or sharpening his katana, felt natural.

It took a couple months of that for that to settle in. Like Uncle Leo needed time to steep in the concept that they wanted to spend time with him, even if it was indirect time, and to confirm that they received positive internal sensations to having him present, and would be very mildly sad were he to vanish without a farewell. 

Then some time in very late November—finally—they caught Leo peeking in on them while they were gaming. He didn't interrupt. He looked so shy and uncertain about whether he'd disrupted them, that they were scared to call out to him or ask whether he wanted to join. Instead they waved or smiled his way, but continued gaming, like he wasn't there.

So Leo continued to peek in on them. Never to spy, and that was important, because Sandro and Wild needed some alone time to have private conversations on occasion. No, Uncle Leo would always move or scoot something so they heard he was around. He'd leave his own habits and activities to come investigate what they were up to, and he'd watch.

Bit by by bit, up through through the Month of December, they'd started talking to him a little bit whenever he showed up. 

By January, Leo would come into the room and sit down with a cup of tea. He'd watch them play their games together, or work on their hexapod, or practice their dance lessons. Heck, he one time watched them fold laundry. He had noticed and reciprocated the desire to exist unobtrusively in the same space as other people.

Sandro chalked off another milestone on his mental calendar.

Uncle Leonardo seemed to like following their banter. Whenever something interesting happened on screen on a game, or in a YouTube video, or when Sandro was reading Shawn's incredibly long and witty walls of text out loud for Wild's benefit, Uncle Leo would wince with their howls and chuckle with their laughter. And should they break out into roughhousing, which it must be said they often did, he'd call out in an adorable monotone, 'Not the TV...' or, 'Be careful not to slip, the floors were just mopped...' (immediately before someone comically slipped).

Wildcard dared to pull a prank on him involving a whoopee cushion.

Uncle Leonardo didn't get scared or nearly jump out of his skin, the way most people would have upon being bombarded by that much excessively loud and sudden flatulence. He sat, and sat, and PBBBLWBBBWBBWBW went the whoopee cushion, until it finally squeaked out of air at the end. His expression didn't change. After a long, dramatic, silent pause, he said,

"Pardon, chili never does agree with us."

Wildcard perked up. Wildcard's jaw dropped and her mouth lifted in a laugh. Wildcard fell backwards, laughing almost silently, tears in her eyes, incapacitated upon the floor.

Was like ten solid minutes before Sandro managed to get her back up again, and he literally started fanning her so she didn't faint, in an attempt to remind her she needed to keep breathing. 

Sandro had started leaving the house with Wildcard.

Not for very long. Just to walk, at first, and then to run, and then to roughhouse, play hackysack, and goof off. They tried their hands at obstacle traversal.

The first time they headed out; it could be said, under a certain matter of definition, they had simply slipped out and hadn't told anyone.

It must be noted that Sandro had once been accustomed to going for random, unexplained walks in the sewers to clear his head, and he hadn't been obligated to tell anyone. He wasn't allowed to leave the area covered by Donatello's radio signal umbrella, but his phone warned him if that was about to happen. Donatello could literally look up his phone GPS at any time and find exactly where he was, on the dot.

They ended up getting ambushed by three glowering uncles while playing at the outtake pipes over the Hudson.

"Uh," Sandro had been confused, "my parents told you they ungrounded me, right?"

Donatello opened his mouth to begin the lecture.

"It was jarring to look up from what we were doing and realize you had disappeared on us," Leonardo growled.

"Yes," Mikey concurred. "Jarring."

Donatello decided that brief understatement would work.

After that, Sandro got the message, and never again left the house without warning one or two people that he was leaving, that he'd be with Wild, and the rough jist of where in the tunnels they were headed.

It was nice to get out. If he chased her out here, there was no house to contain them, and they could run long and hard trying to elude or grab or tag one-another. The only rough part of it was realizing just how well Wild could elude him in a more open space. 

Well then. He'd just have to practice. 

The Hamato family had to at least try  transitioning to a diurnal plan. If it helped, and nothing exploded, then they'd stick with it. Some of them might have to wake up earlier or later, it wasn't all clear yet.

Leonardo might have argued he could remain the family's lone nocturnal member, and no one could have argued against him from a pure logistics perspective; Uncle Leo was so quiet he could probably have practiced Ninjitsu over everyone's heads without waking them up. Someone might have tried to argue, 'You'd hardly see anyone,' and Leo wouldn't be wrong if he'd promised he could handle it.

But with the whole 'aloofness issue' still raw, and with Donatello metaphorically slavering across the room, waiting to take a bite out of Leo the second he moved wrong, it was clear turtles would have been punching turtles by the end of that conversation. With Raphael cranky, the entire room might have dissolved into a brawl.

Had that happened? No. Even Sandro had been surprised; Uncle Leo could be a predictably and selectively oblivious about offering anything for the good of the family, like handling late night security so everyone else could sleep safely in their beds at the best possible hours.

But this time Leo's offer of service went in he reverse direction. He said: "Raphael's concern is valid. Someone has to be acting as understudy for looking out for April, even now, and that requires at least one of us to be awake during the day. Raphael has made a solemn promise to be in the Lair during the week more often. He should probably be helped to keep it."

'AHA! SEE YOU DO WANT MORE HOURS AWAY FROM US,' Donatello's face had said for several seconds, before the initial knee-jerk reaction to be angry petered out, distilling everything down to guilt and disgruntlement. He shot an almost apologetic look Sandro's way, for being a little less than reasonable over something which—on top of everything else—involved time spent with the parents.

Sandro gave Donnie a reassuring smile. He knew what pervasive anger with a problem and person felt like. He knew why Donnie was having a rough time being entirely reasonable. His sympathy seemed to make Donnie feel even more guilty. That was probably for the best.

"I think I'd prefer you hanging out topside with Raphael than roosting unnecessarily out on rooftops at midnight anyway," Donatello had finally agreed with Leo, and some tenuous little polite moves towards a friendlier atmosphere had thus been made. 

Since October, Leo had been in the house two days out of every seven. He'd leave almost immediately after Ninjitsu practice, and not return until Wildcard was heading home for the night—right before sunrise. That was what Wild and Sandro had been given to work with. 

But now, starting in late January, Leo was home every single day.

On those days he worked with Raphael, he'd still leave immediately after Ninjitsu; but that was two days out of the week and Leo usually planned them on Tuesdays and Saturdays when Wild was not in the house to begin with.

 Yin and Yang strongly believed Leo had fallen in love with the dawn and was determined to see each day began promptly at sunrise. When patrol was instead scheduled, he'd exclusively pick the night shift, which had him leaving the house at the same hour as Wildcard, dusk, and returning at midnight. Often he'd take a single hour nap just before lunch.

On a related but tangential note, the turtle waking up in the twilight hours to take the morning shift was, unexpectedly, Michelangelo, whose stated motive was he'd get to pick up Wildcard to walk with her to the Lair each day. Mikey was so determined to do this he scratched out Donnie's patrol days and wrote his own name in.

Mikey then needed a bedtime which came earlier than everyone else, which he pouted about until the first day he failed to get up at twilight, and Donatello took the shift instead. Then Michelangelo took every excuse to get to bed early. Which, as Wildcard said, only made a tremendous amount of sense. Why would Mikey overlook a chance to sleep?

Anyway. Days Spent With Leo Nearby had just skyrocketed, leaping from two days a week to five. Now the family's blue ghost was always in the Lair, somewhere, and tentatively checking out how much haunting they'd be chill with. Spoiler alert: they'd be chill with a lot of it.

There came a day in early February when they caught Uncle Leo reading below the Sakura in the dojo, and they paused all other activities an hour early to bolt in and begin their homework in a sprawl partially on top of him. Leo might have deliberately selected to begin his reading at this hour to see what kind of response he'd get. They sure as heck gave him a good one.

So that was how it went through February: Leo would read beside them as they did their homework. They'd solve their math and write their essays. He'd often be turned partially away from them, and sometimes one of them would use his shell, thigh, or lap as a convenient place to lean. That wasn't unusual; they usually leaned on each other. Wildcard got bored of reading one day, climbed onto Leo's shoulder, hung herself on her back in an upside down 'U' up there, and read upside down. This apparently increased her ability to focus. Maybe it was all the blood rushing to her head.

Uncle Leo didn't need to share his book of haikus, although he sometimes did, and they didn't need help with homework, although they sometimes asked. It was nice just to breathe the same air as somebody else sometimes. No need for special collaborative activities. No need for much in common. 

February 13th they were eating chips and salsa on the living room when he came in to peek. He sat down three sodas: Orange Crush, Doctor Pepper, and Ginger Ale. That last was a clue; Leo was the only person in the house who drank Ginger Ale. They put the chips where he could reach. He munched some and never double-dipped. They offered him one of the Nintendo controllers, and he left the couch and sat down beside them. He creamed them at Mario Carts Battle Mode using Toad, which felt like it ought to have been impossible, first because it was Toad, and secondly because they could not recall ever seeing Leo play a video game before.

It was a good day.

And it proved more than anything that Leo wanted to be an involved member of his family, an involved uncle; that maybe that he wanted to spend time with them, in particular, because they were his children, his family's children, just like they were Donnie's and Mikey's. 

Chapter Text

Today was February 14th.

Sandro and Wildcard were booked for another house dinner with Mr. Hamilton, and were to set out after dusk. Then Casey called and told Raphael Mikey was behind on his comic deliverables again, and Raphael angrily grounded Mikey and appointed Leonardo as the outing's chaperone. This conflicted with Leo's patrol schedule. Leo visibly struggled over whether he'd help or hinder things by pointing that out.

The walk through the sewers towards the Hamilton Household was an anxious, awkward trudge.

As much as Sandro liked Wildcard's Dad and cared about Uncle Leo, and as much as both people were obviously important to Wild's continued mental well-being, they also came off as ingredients that ought not to be mixed. Super Observant Family Protector + Secretly Retired Archvillain? Uh. That sounded like a recipe for disaster.

"Oil and water?" Sandro asked his sister as he helped her out of the manhole.

"Oil and nitrate," Wild growled.

Sandro didn't get the reference.

"Basic ingredients of a fertilizer bomb," she explained. "A mixture of fuel and ammonium nitrate."

"Ah."

Looking up, Leo was already posted on the roof above as lookout.

"Hey Mr. Hamilton!" Sandro greeted as earnestly as possible, hoping his enthusiasm conveyed how much he did indeed like this otherwise questionable person.

"Sandro!" Mr. Hamilton hugged him. "There you two are!"

Honestly, Sandro didn't care whether that was a ploy to freak Leo out or in earnest. He hugged Wild's dad back. He'd be earnest about it.

"C'mon in, I have the ingredients all set up on the—Nice coat, is it new?"

"Oh! Yeah. Dad finally made me a second one. It's, ah, it' branded after this game franchise called Assassin's Creed."

"It's so awesome," Wildcard concurred, jogging past to arrive in the kitchen. "Don't tell Sandro I slipped his dad the idea."

"Since when are you and my Dad on speaking terms after the Hashi incident?" Sandro asked, chasing her into the house.

"Pssh, your dad loves me, he can't resist my charms!"

"No, your dad loves me. My Dad thinks you're a hilarious nuisance!"

"Guilty," Mr. Hamilton testified from the doorway, raising a hand. Then he titled his head a little, and glanced casually through the open front doorway. "Will you be joining us for dinner, or will you be keeping watch?"

The choice liberated all of them from a very uncomfortable situation. "Keeping watch," Leo answered, the first words anyone had on record of him ever speaking to Mr. Hamilton.

Maybe it was best this way.

Sandro hadn't forgotten Wildcard taste-testing his and MIkey's food for poison on first meeting her father.  

Mr. Hamilton got a phone call right after dinner, while the three of them were still coated in flour and gingerly nibbling into their hot, hot, hot, hot pizzas to taste the spoils of their labor. He stood up and walked away from the table to take the call. His tone turned less than amused. He composed himself, sighed wistfully, and came back.

"There was an accident, and I need to go in to straighten everything up," he explained sadly. "Wash up but don't worry about the dishes, I don't want your mother and father thinking I ditched the two of you, and I really need to get out the door immediately.

"Got it," Sandro saluted.

"That sucks," Wild protested.

"It does," Mr. Hamilton said, leaning over to smooch her brow in apology. "Hope you two had fun."

Mr. Hamilton got ready quickly. He headed out the door in a blue hoodie, and twisted about, calling, "I got called in to work." He gave a charming shrug, and left the front door open even though it was still winter time and very cold out. "I regret I have to hand them over early! Take care."

Sandro didn't actually expect to see Leo duck in under the low doorway but, by the look on his face, he wanted to see that they were okay. He glanced over his shoulder like someone who wanted to tail Mr. Hamilton. Then he stared at both of them almost mournfully, like he was a little nervous or braced, like he was rapidly trying to estimate the likelihood they'd been poisoned. Oh boy. How much did Leo know? What sort of things was he simply doing by gut and intuition?

"Don't worry," Wild announced with blithe irreverence, "I taste-tested all the food!" Sandro kicked her! Not the time! Not the person! Mikey could maybe find out a thing or two, but Leo was not the one to dangle problems in front of. He had a tendency to try and solve them!

Leo didn't say anything. He looked away from them and surveyed the house like he was archiving every conceivable location for explosives to have been planted. Like he was expecting an attack, or to need to escape. 

The two of them hurried with washing up. They did clean the dishes. With Leo standing right there in the parlor, they at least had adult supervision, and they needed a second to calm each other down so that Mr. Protector wouldn't jump to conclusions about whether or not they were afraid of Mr. Hamilton. They talked with each other as normally as Sandro could convince Wildcard to talk, throwing together speculations as to what might have happened at the bar, and whether someone had been thrown through the front window again. 

"Maybe it's the police?" Sandro asked. "Don't you literally have a mutant as a bouncer there?"

"Ivan is a darling," Wildcard dismissed with a wave. "And if it is the police, someone else in the bar is going to swagger up and start asking about their boss and how's he and his wife been lately and oh by the way, get the fuck out of doge or me and my buddies are going to blow up your police cruiser and steal all your clothing."

"Ooh." Sandro thought about that. "Are, um, are police a little outmatched these days?"

"Ehhh, topic for another time," Wild deferred. "There's at least three to four political theorists who have interesting podcasts on the topic, which we'll have to defer to because, ironically, I've never really had to talk to any. Police men. Oh-!" Wild turned around with wide-eyed surprise and then leaned out of the kitchen. "We've lost a seven foot turtle." She looked both ways across the A-Frame. 

"Did he step out?"

"Amateur! If he's not left, and he's not right; that usually mean's he's up."

"Your room is filthy," agreed Leo from the tiny second-floor balcony above them. "I cannot believe you keep an animal in such housing, much less sleep here. The odor is intense."

Apparently someone was finding inner calm through exterior orientation, and Wild's door had conveniently been open. The atmosphere of anxiety Leo had introduced to the house suddenly just back-flipped and now everything was in freefall.

"Why do you never clean up after Mumu!?" Sandro demanded, throwing down a towel, making the most of the subversion. "You are an irresponsible pet owner!"

"No, he and I are just better-marinated this way! Wow, is this a great time to be happy I took down my Leorai fan pinup," Wildcard muttered in relief.

Leo, who'd been surveying the room he'd discovered with a hand over his chin, turned swiftly and stared down at her with his brows knitted upward.

"Er, what?" Sandro again hadn't gotten the reference.

"Don't you pout at me," Wildcard lectured her own teacher, wagging her finger at the second floor balcony. "Until a year ago, you were fictional and we didn't exist."

One cleaned sugar glider cage later, (a process during which neither child called out the slightly adorable, slightly scary, and slightly scared Uncle who was poking curiously around the household), and they were still hours ahead of schedule for Sandro's return to the Lair. He was a little bummed. He'd hoped for more hours to spend with Wild. Still, Uncle Leo didn't seem like the right relative to try and wheedle into letting them stay topside on unscheduled walks on the docks.

Sandro didn't like to think about these hours. Hours after dusk.

Ever since the diurnal shift, everything had been better except for one issue: Wildcard was accustomed to coming home with dawn, when her father was already off work, and now she was often coming home to an empty house. Sandro hadn't asked her yet, what she did; if she went to the bar, like he hoped she did, and hung out with her dad at least until dinner time had hit and the two of them could grab some food from the corner deli. He did know he and Shawn could never get hold of her by text or by game console in that time frame, and that was usually bad news. If she had a fit of insomnia, or was hit by a case of the advanced shenanigans...

... but she did keep getting in their door at dawn every morning, so maybe Sandro was working himself up over nothing. 

To be fair, Wildcard had come a long way in stabilizing herself since the dawn of their friendship. Maybe it was time to stop anxiously worrying himself into a pit, and to just trust her. Maybe if he managed to calm down and stop worrying, he'd de-emotionally-constipate himself and be able to actually ask her about her evenings. 

"Can I walk Sandro back with you?" Wild suddenly asked Leo, and Sandro turned back to the house like a ray of hope was descending on top of him. She'd walked him back before, the last time he'd visited, but that had been with Mikey. "I won't ask to stay, I know the parents are already home, I don't want to intrude."

Leo gave a little wave that said she could. To be honest, Leo might not have wanted to think about Wildcard at home in an empty house—or on an open city—either.

 Leonardo looked like he planned to come in and at least get a bite to eat before patrol. Sandro said goodbye to Wildcard just outside the door, crushing her into his plastron. Leo turned back momentarily to lecture something about winter clothing.

"Oh!" Wildcard darted up to Sandro juat as he pushed open the front door. "I almost forgot to give you something!"

Noise, soft laughter, and the stink of something earthy assailed him. Sandro went ram-rod straight.

And then he stepped aggressively forward, lifting clawed hands up before himself, and exclaimed his protest at the top of his lungs, with all his tremendous disgust and righteous fury:

"WE EAT AT THAT TABLE!"

Wildcard had definitely glimpsed something terrifyingly alien which ran from white lavendar to black violet, like the raw octopus meat she'd seen at the sashimi store. In a flurry of cuss words, Raphael and April scrambled as fast as Ninjas could scramble to cover themselves, but with kilt and pants on the floor, the damage had already been done.  Then Leonardo's shell was between the kids and the spectacle, startling Wildcard back to her senses.

As Sensei stalked up to the surprised couple and their disastrously planned liaison, Wildcard thought to check on Sandro. Sandro was a seething, steaming, enraged ball of fury. He stood there, barely contained, like a smoking meteor that had been hurled into the earth, filled with pressurized trinitrotoluene.

They shouldn't still be here, him and her. Not for this, not when all that rage had to be founded on insecurity. Oh boy, at least certain components of this spectacle had only been caught out in the open, and not while embedded inside anything else.

To the background score of two cowed parents and Sensei's silent judgmental glare, Wildcard reached out and grabbed hold of the corner of Sandro's elbow. He whirled on her, glaring, but she kept hold of his elbow and grabbed his shell to guide him.

"What happened?" Michelangelo asked groggily from his background door before going rigid with alarm. Where was Donnie? The lab was sound-proofed. Where could they to go? Not Sandro's room, too private. Not the dojo, not private enough. Not to the lab, not when they'd have to tell Donnie what had happened. The only way to go was back out the door.

Sandro stumbled. He started walking. She kept pushing his shell, driving him back out of the room where they'd be safe. He picked up the pace, and the two of them escaped to the side of a reservoir. They sat on the steps, which were comparatively dry in a lime-encrusted concrete sewer.

Sandro had his hands balled into fists, slowly decompressing, letting that fight-or-flight reflex burn out emotions like mortification, dismay, and disorientation. Sandro began visibly wishing he could unsee what had just been seen. Then he remembered she was there, and his self-consciousness crept across his skin. He got goose-pimples the way humans did, and instead of lifting up the hair on his arms, it lifting up patches of heavier scaling along his elbows and shoulders, making them very mildly spiky.

Wildcard sat beside him, feeling nothingness that began curdling at the edges into questions and a weird wobbling between feeling crummy and indignant. She didn't feel violated exactly, but she felt like she was picking up on what the tail end of the emotion must have been like from Sandro. 

She also felt an unfamiliar, heart-escalated reaction that didn't feel like fight or flight. Raphael did not skip leg day. That image came back: A very large reptile standing over the edge of the table, with cream-colored legs draped over his forearms and heels on his shell, purring soft romantic nothings in a low voice that sounded like churned gravel at a distance, green, honed thighs staggered so that a thick, long, spine-covered tail could curl up between them and squeeze out—

"—That was gigantic," she broke the silence unintentionally. "And moving on it's own."

Sandro swallowed hard and looked to his feet.

"He couldn't have fit that whole thing inside her. Right? It doesn't work like that, right, there's only so much room?"

"I..." Sandro rasped, "I think evolution was compensating for how to get around the two awkward, thick, round shells balanced haphazardly against each other, when the guy has no hands and is a bit clumsy on land to begin with. So most of it's just for reach and structural support."

Wild sat straight again, thinking about the logistics of that. "So... so probably only the tip."

"Yeah," Sandro nodded rapidly in confirmation. 

They both sat there for a bit, basking in the mild relief of how much more sense that now made, albeit still agitated from having born witness to any of it at all.  

Hmm, this explained the graceful taper, if not the drapery of ruffles on the upper set of inches— But maybe further speculation upon the topic was best hand-waved away until another year. Blot it out of sight and out of mind. At least one thing was true, it sure hadn't looked like human equipment. Not even slightly. That made it almost like they hadn't just seen a penis! Oh boy.

Wildcard breathed in deep. What a day, what a day, what a day. She heaved out a tremendous sigh.

Still a little jumpy, Sandro looked quickly over at her. He seemed a little like cracked glass. Delicate.

"Hey, um... This was a stupid idea when I picked them up," Wildcard explained, reaching into her back pocket and picking out the lottery-sized ticket envelope, "and the spectacle at the house pretty much just ruined it." Still, she offered it to him. He leaned back, blinking, and then took it with some surprise. 

"What is it?" he asked.

"We gave them out to one-another back in elementary school," she explained. "You could buy a boxes of them every year. Walmart's filled with them. They're branded with basically any cartoon or franchise you can imagine. And! They're usually sold in sets of twenty-four so it's almost enough for a classroom, but not quite enough, and your parents have to pay for two boxes.

"I always thought they were a dumb idea because, first of all, the whole premise is you're supposed to give them to people you like, and then the school would make a big ritual out of the holiday such that it was kinda implied you were supposed to give them one to everyone—but there was no obligation to do that!—so we'd get all our paper bags back and some would be heavy, but then the bullied kids would only have like two or three, or they'd get them with mean words inserted in marker.

"Plus, what if you were poor or forgot or your parents didn't know about this stuff, and you didn't have any to hand out? But I wasn't the nice kid. If I'd been you, I'd probably have bought thirty extra sets and filled them out for just the unpopular kids so their bags were swelling with cards by the end. The whole thing was like a premature 'this is where you're going to be on the social pecking ladder from now on' exercise. But I thought, hey, you'd probably never gotten one before, because you'd missed out on a normal brick and mortar school experience... so why not?"

Sandro raised a brow. Still a little shaky, but grounded to this new puzzle Sandro slowly opened the envelope, and pulled out the little cardboard 'card' from inside and held it in both hands.

It was printed with the TMNT franchise logos, had a To: and From: just like a gift label, and she'd picked the one with tiny excited Michelangelo who had his arms thrown in the air and was gushing orange hearts.

'Be my Valentine!' it demanded.

Sandro studied his Valentine a lot longer than the Valentine deserved, especially given the traumatic experience that had just rendered the holiday slightly less than innocent for them. 

Then she watched tears bead up in those metallic copper eyes, and he sniffed in, trying to disguise the noise as something thoughtful. Alarmed, Wildcard wasn't sure how much touch was appropriate right now. Her foresight told her Sandro might jump or shy from her if she touched him, but then she saw him move, and she waited, and he turned in place and bundled an arm around her back, and pulled her to him. He leaned his temple into hers, and sniffled a little.

"Kay," he said.

Wildcard tried to decide what he was agreeing with. She looked at the Valentine as if it had all the answers. Then she realized it did have the answers: He was agreeing to be her Valentine, whatever that meant. Buoyed by the card's success, she eased her arm around him and chafed his shell.

He took a couple deep breaths, and then snickered. "I don't think I even knew when Valentine's Day was," he admitted. "You'd think I'd have noticed warning signs on the internet and TV, right?"

"Nonsense!" she snickered. "Then we might have guessed their ulterior motives in getting us out of the house tonight!"

"They have an apartment!" Sandro snarled at the universe. 

"And a sound-proofed bedroom!"

"AND A GODDAMN SOUND-PROOFED BEDROOM!" roared Sandro at full Hudson Delta accent. 

By the time anyone found them, Yin and Yang had recovered. They were laughing and throwing verbal jousts back and forward, giggling and snickering as they sat side by side.

Ultimately, the person the parents had to apologize to most was Donatello, who was also freaking out over the violation of that poor table.

By the time they could even get to apologizing to Sandro, it all was water under the bridge for him. He gave his Dad a sly look and said, "I'm still due for a birds and the bees conversation next November, right?"

Dad was so red. Mom was hiding in a deeply apologetic face palm.

"I'll write down some questions," Sandro drawled languidly, even if he'd be doing no such thing. Served them right; he never wanted to walk in on something like that for as long as he lived!

Chapter Text

Mary-Jane sat down at the little bistro that Sunday and stretched out her legs. Oh, what a week. What a week. She checked her phone. 

"Howdy stranger," April greeted as she slid into the chair across from her with two artisan coffees already in hand. She passed one across the table. April was disguised in a blonde wig with heavy glamour sunglasses that, at this time of year in New York City, were only justified as preventing glare from snow cover. 

"How's the move home been?" MJ asked. 

"Oh, you know. The boys got in a fist fight and broke a table. Everyone's schedule has been flipped upside down." She was quiet a pause. "Hubby and I got walked in on by our son and his equally under-aged friend."

Mary-Jane nearly lost coffee through her nose and fell back choking and laughing.

"I'm a failure as a mother," April groaned into her palm, "and deserve to be arrested for indecent exposure in front of a minor."

"Th-the same thing nearly happened us," MJ wheezed. "Peter and I ended up glued to the ceiling praying 'don't look up, don't look up!' My brother-in-law brought the kids over early! Without calling ahead!"

"On Valentine's Day!?" April demanded in solidarity.

"Who doesn't call ahead on Valentine's Day at night!?"

"Our brother-in-laws, apparently!"

Mary-Jane had to laugh long and hard and good. Being a parent often meant romance had to get delayed and delayed and delayed until finally there was some tiny window to squeeze it in, and then there was no shortage of last minute disasters to ruin it. "You're out of practice!" she said through belly laughs.

"It was the perfect day," April lamented. "It's been so awkward not knowing whether we can sneak away early at night without him realizing what's happening. If only we'd been in the bedroom! I never should have dared a seduction with chocolate mousse while still in the kitchen. Baka! We've had rules against gratuitous PDAs since I was sixteen!"

"Amateur m-mistake," Mary-Jane started laughing again. When it came to unusually romantic odd couples, one need look no further than the unlikely pairing of April O'Neil and her gargantuan red-banded protector. Raphael was ninety-five percent freight engine and five-percent charming romantic dare-devil. Somehow it all just worked perfectly that way.

In Queens, the culprit had been Peter, who'd leaned out doe-eyed and innocent from around the refrigerator and then promptly taken a slow, pursed-lips bite out of a bright red strawberry. Nothing said 'come hither, Mary-Jane' faster than her husband sensuously eating something at a mercilessly slow pace. And he knew it. Licked every damn finger in seductive slow motion.

The waiter came to take their order, and after that they'd sobered up a bit and April gave a long sigh. "Well. Enough of my humiliation and woes for the day. What did you ask to meet up about?

"Oh," Mary-Jane sat back. "It's Shawn. You know in general that Peter and I have been... more than a little surprise at how fast this friendship has developed, and just how invested he's stayed. We weren't sure exactly where his head was at, and were expecting some kind of disillusionment to settle in."

April frowned thoughtfully. "What would make you jump to that conclusion?"

"Shawn is... our little individualist, and we love that about him. But he's the sort of kid who embraces being a loner. He needs a lot of quiet time curled up in a corner against a window with a sketch pad and zero stimulus. If you talk to him, won't answer. To other kids, he usually comes off as aloof."

"You'd mentioned he usually wasn't open to meeting new people."

"Not at all," MJ confirmed. "He he can't even focus on them if you ask him to, all he can think about is 'when's it going to end, when's it going to end, when's it going to end.' It's like some kind of panic attack. He doesn't want to be interacted with. His first reaction to anyone saying hi to him is usually to feel threatened: he assumes they want something from him, or that they want to prank him, and he tries to escape, which sometimes involves sounding extremely unfriendly. I mean... April, he visibly squirms if forced into physical contact with a stranger."

"So, as you said," April realized, "definitely not the kind of boy you expect to catch curled up with two near-strangers on couch cushions."

"Twice, as Peter reminds me," Mary-Jane confirmed. "And Shawn doesn't always make things easy on himself, either. Does he deserve to be bullied? No. No, and god, he is mercillessly bullied."

"You mentioned."

"It's terrible, and we're working on it. But Shawn... he has no drive to go with the flow. None. He also acts like there's nothing likable about other children, like he wrote them off immediately after his very first impression. He usually expresses... almost like disdain. For the shows they watch, the ideas they express, the things they like talking about; if it's not brainy or artsy or meaningful—if it's shallow—Shawn doesn't like it, isn't afraid to let you know, and won't change his opinion."

"I might have known someone a bit like that..."

"You and me both! But we learned the ropes eventually, at least enough to climb midway up and out of the line of fire. Or, in your case, you learned all the ropes, every single one of them up to the top. And other people, they may be low on the totem pole, but have their own group of friends, you know? The thespians, the band kids... Even the people at the very bottom of the barrel usually have one or two misfits they get along with. Shawn's always had no one. Always. Zip. From kindergarten on, he didn't identify with anyone. If everyone was going left, Shawn had to go right on principle, and if a single other person was going right, he had to go backwards.

"That's just... part of him. He won't do a single thing to try and fit in, not for a second, and he definitely won't do it just to avoid hurting your feelings. In his opinion, your feelings should not be hurt by something so sensible and intelligent as whatever opinion it is he just espoused. It's made him a little bitter, almost, and skeptical of anything anybody else thinks is worthwhile."

April tilted her head from side to side, debating on how to respond for awhile. "I'm going to tell you something the hubby said," April finally allowed, "even though I gave him one hell of a filthy look for it. After New Years... Raphael said it sounded like Shawn might have felt like the freak show people were his people.

"What he meant was... Our son, Sandro, is so obviously different from a normal person physically speaking that it might have clued Shawn into looking at him and Anastasia differently. More closely. That he was willing to stake a lot on the possibility they might be where he belonged, finally. If it's true that Shawn is quite 'quirky,' and a little abraisive, it might be both other kids either liked that, or at least didn't take it personally."

"I'd buy that," Mary-Jane said, leaning back. "Yeah. I'd buy that."

"My brother-in-laws chimed in to remind the five of us that Sandro was actually behaving very surly, and like 'totally a teenager' before he bumped into Anastasia. And her father told us she'd been acting out, too. She was a bit like Shawn, she could have had friends, but she... she didn't like her options, for some reason. She and Sandro have been remarkably well-behaved and in good humor almost since we first started knowingly putting them together."

Mary-Jane nodded thoughtfully.

"Was something in specific wrong today?" April fished. "This week?"

"There was... another bullying episode," Mary-Jane explained. "Peter's still bringing Shawn over, but Shawn's not in a mood the kids or you have ever seen him in. He's.. he's at a dour low.

"The two of us will be watching to see how that pans out, and whether this is the point he's going to crash, or alienate everyone and try running away... We're not sure what's going to happen, or how your kids are going to respond, or exactly how strong these new feelings of friendship really are for him. We're scared that he wants them to be more intense than they really are, and is trying so hard to belong that he's faking some of it? Out of inexperience with trying to belong? We can't tell. Peter and I wanted to ask if you'd help us keep an eye on him, so if something happens we can try and calm him down and evaluate what to do next."

"I'll debrief my pit crew," April said firmly, leaning forward and already drawing out her phone to send a few preliminary texts. "Peter's bringing him over at ten?"

Mary-Jane nodded. 

"Hmm. That leaves plenty of time for us to finish these coffees and those fantastic scones I see are just about to arrive. By the way, I already gave then my credit card."

"You!" Mary-Jane sat forward and pointed accusingly. "This is not an expensive restaurant, you have to let me pay sometimes!"

April O'Neil gave a big grin and an unapologetic shrug. "Not this time!"

Shawn had a broad range of output settings.

When 'she' was incensed at the injustice of the universe and simultaneously found something absurd, they'd get pages and pages of hilarious ranting prose from her. Then there were other days, when Shawn went into quiet mode, and her texts consisted entirely of one or two emoticons. Wildcard had never really seen this before, perhaps owed to lack of close family and friends, and wasn't sure what to make of it.

"Does this mean she's depressed and just not telling us?"

Sandro had grown up in a house with Donatello and Leo, and had seen this before even within himself. "No, I don't think so," he explained. "Her energy levels just fluctuate, and sometimes no power's going to the production of words. Donnie's the same way, he'll just sit in the lab and not talk to anyone for a day, and just enjoy himself working. If Mikey talks to him, he'll listen, but he won't say much."

"So..." Wild didn't really have problems with conversational energy fluctuating; she was full blast all the time. "These might be art days?"

Sandro decided that this was probably a good vehicle for Wild to understand the situation, regardless of whether it it was true. "Might be," he agreed.

"Sensei's like that, too," she slowly reasoned. "Only he's quiet ninety-five percent of the time."

"Yeah," Sandro laughed. "Have you ever seen Uncle Leo on a day where it's almost obvious he can't put words together just yet, but he's still wrapped up in the conversation and is nodding his head, like he's very self-aware about his own silence and trying to tell you he can still hear you and hasn't disengaged?"

"Oh! Yup. Yup I have."

"It's like the opposite of Uncle Mike," Sandro was still laughing, "who can talk for a million years but is so busy jumping from thought to thought he can miss everything you said after the first sentence!"

Shawn had disappeared.

Her last contact with them had been on Wednesday. After that, no messages showed up whether they be long or short. The two of them texted question marks at her in vain.

She didn't show up electronically, whether to chat or game. Sandro and Wildcard got very nervous, wondering if they'd missed some big news broadcast which would have told them Spider-Man was dead/missing/being held captive by Dr. Octopus/moving to Guam. They thought about asking the adults, but when no one called off the visit planned for that Sunday, they decided to wait it out.

"I think I've figured it out," Sandro greeted Wildcard on Saturday morning, and they went to his laptop and started browsing Amazon. 

Everything was on sale, and he had Prime shipping. 

Shawn had never visited them in any state other than giddy enthusiasm, so when she showed up for the Sunday play date with a grim scowl etched permanently on her face, it was obvious something was wrong. Wildcard noticed both parents seemed very reserved, like they were waiting for a bomb to go off. Wildcard didn't know what this meant, so she alerted Sandro.

"I've got mental warning bells going off," he confirmed, as quietly as he could, from where they had been polishing off Harvest Moon.

"Like what?" she whispered.

"I don't think Shawn's naturally very friendly."

"She's not. Don't you remember the yelling at me for saving her bit?"

"Her parents have looked, acted, and planned as if everything Shawn's done has violated their expectations, from the moment she first walked in our front door on Christmas," Sandro said. "Take today very slow."

Wildcard nodded curtly, and let Sandro jog ahead to greet Shawn at the door. Shawn barely grunted a hello, but followed when Sandro gestured they should step inside. Meanwhile Donatello offered the adults coffee, and everyone congregated off in another room. That probably meant Sling's sour expression was on the conversational roster.

"Hey Shawn," Wild greeted, trying to mimic Sandro's somber and quieter tone and body language. "Any grievances to report?" It seemed a fair and neutral and cutely-phrased thing to say, but Shawn didn't answer. She sat down woodenly on the couch, dropped her backpack with an aggravated thud, and didn't reach for a controller. 

Engage Leo is Being our Ghost Mode. New Target: Shawn. Wild smiled back at her, and then passed Sandro's controller back to Sandro. Sandro, who it must be said was absolutely her twin, got the jist of the plan immediately. "Wait a sec," he said anyway, and then went to get a couple more snacks and another round of sodas, this time with one allocated for Shawn. He passed them out mutely, with a smile, and took his seat. Shawn's face did not smile back, and she didn't make eye-contact, but the way she turned her head towards Sandro as he approached suggested she was conscious of him and receptive of the gift and not intentionally hostile.

They tried to monitor Shawn just by listening to her, and thank goodness they were playing an extremely mellow game. After a few minutes, it became clear she was a lot more agitated than Leo would have been. Maybe it was the classic Donnie/Leo split: Leo could be tranquil inside his own head, but Donnie wanted something to do. Still, they weren't sure whether to actually pass her the third controller, which was waiting in plain view explicitly for her use. She'd have taken it if he wanted it, right?

"Hey, Shawn?" Sandro tried to help first. "If you don't want to game, you don't have to. We're not gonna be offended or anything."

"And you—" Wildcard did her best, "—you don't have to talk if you don't want to. I can talk for six people. But if you do want something, can you clue us in?"

Shawn looked between them almost sullenly, but then nodded a few sharp nods. They went back to their game. And after a bit they heard Shawn lean forward to pick up her backpack and unzip it. The soft sounds of paper and the scratch of pencil told Wildcard she was drawing. So Wildcard tried to look, and Sandro grabbed her head and turned her back towards the screen. The scratch of pencil paused.

"What did I do wrong?" Wild asked, not knowing.

"I'm not sure it was wrong," Sandro confessed, going off made-for-TV knowledge. "Isn't it some kind of sacred rule not to watch an artist while they're drawing unless explicitly invited? Makes them nervous or something?"

Shawn shuffled back on the couch, curling his knees up defensively and getting her drawing pad very close to herself. Wild didn't try to look again. 

The hour went by, oozing from high tension and buzzing uncertainty in the air down into a quieter, more mellower state.  Shawn eased up on her defensive matrix  up there, and her toes slipped along the couch and slowly came to rest against Sandro's shell. And, because Sandro's shell was awesome, the physical contact seemed to not only calm Shawn down but make her slightly playful. She had to line her feet up just right on matching scutes on either side. 

When Donatello called them in for dinner, Shawn still had what Urban Dictionary explained was called 'Resting Bitch Face Syndrome,' but the way her eyes lit up a bit suggested she was feeling considerably less sour. She sat between Sandro and Wildcard, and so they tried not to mess with each-other over her head so she wouldn't feel left out or in the way. It felt like she might let them in her bubble a bit right now, so Wildcard dared to hug on her for a second, and Sandro piled extra strange Asian food on both her and Wild's plates, promising, 'trust me, it's good.'

"What even is that?" Wild demanded, poking at it.

"Authentic Chinese food," Leonardo reported. "It is called a Thousand Year Old Egg."

"Don't worry, this recipe doesn't involve marinating underground in a pool of horse urine," Sandro reassured. 

Shawn lost something like half a snicker.

After dinner Shawn was calmer. She didn't show them what she'd been drawing, but her resting facial expression had improved considerably, and the two of them got the impression the visit had turned out happy for her. They felt like they'd made an achievement even getting that far. Maybe Shawn was a bit of work, but that didn’t mean she wasn't trying to meet them halfway (or double the way), and she sure as hell felt worth the investment. 

Wildcard ditched everyone on dish duty and ended up getting temporarily put in Hashi. Only five minutes! Easy! She'd rather do that than dishes!

She hopped back into the living room and skid to a halt. Sandro smiled at her from before the Nintendo, where he was standing with Shawn.

Uh oh.

Foresight indicated this was about to go wrong. Craaaap. Wildcard tried to vigorously shake her head to signal 'abort mission, abort mission!' but Sandro had looked away too swiftly. He reached behind the entertainment stand, and pulled out a fat brown paper lunch bag, and turned and presented it to Shawn. This was what he'd bought for her after she'd stopped texting them.

Shawn's reaction wasn't what either of them had hoped it would be.

She froze. Her expression turned from shocked, to incredulous, to almost livid or viperous or something. She grabbed the bag and shoved it back at him, refusing it. 

"Did Mom tell you!?" she shouted at them, hands balling into fists.

They heard adults perk up in the kitchen, waiting, watching, prepared to intervene.

Sandro blinked slowly. 

"I don't need you feel sorry for me!" Shawn screamed.

"Wild taught me," Sandro said.

Owed to the unusual sentence structure and content, Shawn was momentarily thrown off balance. "What?" she demanded.

"What Normal kids do for Valentine's Day," Sandro explained without inflection, his words drawing attention to his taupe skin, his broad shell, and his crisp lipless beak. "She bought me one, and explained it. She casually mentioned she thought it was all a stupid ritual because teachers and school administration essentially made a bit deal about a holiday that accomplished nothing and left some people with demonstrable proof they were alone. And then... well she specified kids handed cards out this way in elementary school, but you went quiet on Valentine's Day. So. I thought we'd do something for you that seemed related."

Shawn searched Sandro's face like it was a full panorama picture with a thousand things going on in it. She was trying to tell if he was lying, but she didn't know how, because she was so unaccustomed to talking with people that she didn't know what any of the signs of lies were. She didn't know what emotions looked like, and could not identify them. Her shaking fists tightened, and her angry expression flattened into something tight, something between rage, terror, and desperation.

Sandro casually pitched the bag over his shoulder, stepped forward, crouched down a little to keep them directly face to face, and reached slowly out to Shawn. Shawn leaned back stiffly. He touched her arms, and then her elbows, and then used that contact to pull her closer. Despite appearing unwilling to be pulled, Shawn did stumble into him. Wildcard bolted forward and hit into Shawn from behind, crushing their Spiderling between her and Sandro. Shawn shook violently from so many contradictory and compressed feelings. Sandro squeezed tightly hold of both of them.

"It's okay," Wild promised Shawn on their behalf. "You're here, not there. It's okay."

"No one told you," Shawn tried to confirm, voice undulating and garbled. 

"Sling, your parents don't even have our numbers. We were completely left in the dark. But Sandro's never been to real school," Wild said. "He figured it out because it was new to him. Then I realized he was right, you stopped talking February 14th."

Shawn breathed in deep, shaky, and hard. Shudder in, shudder out, shudder in, shudder out.

"And, hey, wait till you hear what happened to us on Valentine's Day," Sandro muttered.

"Sandro!" Donatello called from the kitchen, and Shawn flinched, because the three of them were apparently on display. "No talking about stuff like that!"

"I'm sure as fuck gonna be talkin' about that, and I'm gonna keep talkin' about it until I've recovered from my advanced trauma!" Sandro growled in disagreement.

"Language!" Wildcard reprimanded with a tap on his snout, keeping her voice down to a very loud hiss to try and signal that the adults should back away. "We are being spied upon, I demand we leave this room!"

"Excuse me, we're having a moment here," Sandro chastised her in equally loud whisper, "We'll go hide in the weight room once Shawn's insides stop centrifuging themselves. Go get h-him some water!"

"Got it!" Wild whispered loudly back, and gave Shawn a squeeze before bolting to the kitchen.

"I'm okay. I'm fine," Shawn growled.

"Ah, a fellow master, eh?" Sandro praised, heartily patting their spider and rubbing her back in circles. "At last! Few juveniles have perfected the art of being 'fine' quite as well as myself. I welcome a worthy challenger."

Shawn whimpered into him. It was probably supposed to be a laugh instead of a whimper.

The adults got the message and backed away, vacating the center of the house so that Sandro and Wildcard had Shawn alone. They sat their poor Spiderling down and extracted her confession over what had happened to her on Valentine's Day.

She'd preserved the evidence and had it in her backpack. It was, as Wildcard had described to Sandro, one of those 'paper-bag-cardboard-card-valentine' rituals. In it were more than one person's fair share of cards.

All of them were horrible. Someone had gone out of their way to make sure they were ruined first to last; there wwas no other possible way not a single positive one had been tossed in there mechanically, or out of pity.

The cards requested sexual services, made sexually suggestive jokes, contained near-complements followed by complete shut-downs, and, in some cases contained user names, and passwords, and subscription details for accounts, services, and job applications that had been made using Shawn's email and mailing address details, for everything from hardcore pornography to hook-up services and websites like Grindr.

Shawn had then been called by literally two hundred unknown numbers. Her parents were in the process of changing her number. They hadn't reported the incident to the police and were working with the school to figure out who exactly what responsible for this 'prank.' Shawn had eventually written an email script to recognize new newsletters and automatically unsubscribe him. She hadn't touched her email personally in days.

Wildcard got more and more angry. Eventually, she grabbed hold of the evidence and dragged their group to the shrine. She got out a spare brazier and the lighters. There, Sandro would read the offending material out loud, a slow, deep, oceanic anger building up in the curve of his mouth and the tension of his face; then they'd burn the damn thing, one after another after another. Only when the universe was cleansed of the filth was it safe to bring out the new paper bag of new valentines.

"I never had any idea people did that to each-other," Sandro mentioned afterward, glancing towards the ashes. "It just seems pointless. And excessive."

Wildcard wasn't feeling very articulate right now. She was playing with her switchblade. That thing rarely came out in the open in the house.

"If they only do one mean thing the whole year," Shawn supposed, slowly, "They do it to me. And there's hundreds of them and only one me. Lots of them don't know what they're doing."

"Then it's for the best we weren't there with you when this happened," Wild mentioned tersely.

Shawn looked up at her.

"She means we'd have landed half your grade in the emergency room and gotten arrested," Sandro said, and he meant every word of it, a maelstrom whirling behind his sneering expression and cold eyes. "An act rendered morally complex by how we wouldn't have necessarily known which half, and somewhere in there was a guy or gal who helped point an entire red-light district's clientelle to your phone." He looked from the brazier to Shawn. "You're twelve. If my parents ever let me out of the sewer, the two of us are going to walk you home from school from then on."

"I'd like that," Shawn said quietly, reaching in to her new bag of valentines. "But please don't get arrested, cause I need you."

They settled in together to enjoy proper valentines, real valentines, properly happy things printed on cheap cardboard the way consumerist America had originally intended. Wildcard stopped playing with her switchblade. Sandro didn't forget or forgive, but he started smiling again. Shawn pulled the cards out one at a time and read them. They were filled with Star Wars, Lord of the Rings, and Disney puns. They were all cute.

Chapter Text

It was Monday. Sandro and Wildcard gathered in the atrium of the Sewer Secret Lair at 1:45 PM. It was hours before she'd normally leave, and no adult in the house was the wiser about their current plan.

"You gonna be able to get there in two hours sharp?" Sandro asked. 

"You tell me," Wild quipped as she balanced in place and slipped on both shoes. "You're the one who planned out the bus route, the back-up bus route, the taxi route, the 'Tunnels and Bridges are all blocked, and now I need to walk across the bridge on foot' plan-"

"S'better you don't go early," Sandro recalled aloud, or maybe reaffirmed or reassured himself. "Smallest chance anybody can intercept you, and you won't get bored and wander off into trouble."

"Also to stay with you as long as possible!" she giggled, setting down her last foot and spinning around to peer up at him. "What's up? You nervous?"

"Course I'm nervous," he growled, wading closer to embrace her in a hug. "I'm sending both my normal-presenting friends above ground to hang without me, and the last time you were in Queens, you nearly stabbed five people."

"That's what the disguise is for," she chirped.

"You got the wig, everything? "

"Yuppers!"

"You remember: You can't draw a knife. You can't get seen with Shawn twice in two different disguises playing the same game."

"I know, I know!"

"And what do you do instead, if you get in trouble, and you can't draw a knife?"

"I punch them in the face," their maniac purred.

Sandro nodded sagely. "You fucking punch them in the face."

The outdoor world was an assortment of grays. There was hardly any virgin snow anywhere in Queens to begin with, which left most of it in unsightly, dirty piles, frozen solid on every second curb. It sure was cold, however, and breath frosted up in front of everyone. Wildcard was decked out for the weather: White snow coat, white hoodie, white jeans a size too big over yoga pants for insulation.

It was still cold, and she wanted to beat the internet's best estimate of how much time it would take her to arrive, and that meant reaching a bus stop faster than the algorithm imagined she could jog. Running helped keep her pulse up and her body heated.

The last leg of her bus journey cut through Jamaica, Queens, NY, and dumped her in the vicinity of Springfield Gardens. She found herself in a little commercial area, with ancient, little shops that couldn't help but look run down, as it was the eternal aesthetic of suburbs built too close to major cities. There were a number of little shops, including a Dunkin' Donuts-Baskin Robins hybrid that wasn't selling much ice cream today but had definitely made bank on hot chocolate and coffee.

Wild checked her phone. Enough time? Enough time. She snatched two cups of hot cocoa and was honored to receive a batch of doughnuts that had just come hot out of the oven and been freshly decorated. Then she had a short jog down the street, past a few more stores, after which she had crossed the link from commercial zone to residential zone, nothing but tiny house after tiny house, all much like her own A-frame. The chain link fence that enshrouded the public middle school was visible down the sidewalk, and an ugly pink and blue building peeked out over roofs and trees.

Public school?  Were charter schools also technically public schools? Wildcard wasn't exactly sure how the classification system work; Gotham didn't have charter schools, and although Tampa and other cities she'd lived did, Wild had been too young and disinterested to know much about the logistics of how she'd ended up at whatever school she'd ended up at.

What she did know now, thanks to Sandro's research, was that Shawn wasn't going to the bottom-of-the-barrel school Wildcard would have surely found herself at. No, Shawn was going to that sort of school you had to ace an entrance exam for, or maybe win a position through some type of lottery. It was still free, apparently, which was likely why Mary-Jane and Peter could 'afford' to send him there, but it was one of the better schools a boy in Queens could hope to attend.

The neighborhood around it said as much. Nice homes with cute little fences and gates. Tidy. Brightly painted. Not-wealthy-yet-still-proud. Wild would have liked the neighborhood under any other conditions.

Today she hated it and just about everyone in it, with a burning unquenchable fire. Woops!

New York City Public Schools always took a 'Midwinter Recess' after Valentines Day each February, which meant the kids were off school for a whole week. This was the week after that break. This was the first day after the break: The first day Shawn was back in school.

Shawn was normally very good at ignoring unwanted attention. S/he'd lashed out a few times this past year, sure. Maybe that was understandable. But even after how traumatic the week before break had been, and the indisputable horror of being solicited for sex by a full grown adult by phone, s/he'd honestly very nearly forgotten anything had happened at all by the time s/he walked back into the building that Monday.

Or s/he would have, if everyone who knew about it hadn't been acting differently. Her mother and father had both asked if she'd be okay. The vice principal had taken her aside to apologize on behalf of 'the students' (who of course had not yet been 'found') and promise her that nothing like this would ever happen again (even if, in Shawn's experience, it probably would). A few teachers said kind words to her after class.

And then, also, from every hall and every class and seemingly every seat, the stares had followed her. 

Everyone seemed to know. They whispered or giggled or hid their face to chat with one another as s/he walked by. How did word get around so fast? Completely unrelated groups of people all stared, snickered, or randomly stopped to talk to her and tell her things that were either supposed to be reassuring or sarcastic, and Shawn couldn't tell which.

The shock of the event was over. Shawn was mostly numb to it. S/he was in some weird, tranquil, detached little headspace. And calm enough, unexpectedly, to be trying to take a step back and make sense of it all.

For the first time in her life, the obvious dawned on her: Frequently encountering situations where someone might be trying to trick you or might be trying to make friendly overture, and no one was around to offer corrective feedback or safety, was just... not conducive to developing certain social skills. No matter what you picked to believe you were probably wrong; because what possible basis did you have for comparison? The safest route was the most detrimental in the long run: Turn everyone down as sharply as possible, and accidentally end up making them all hate you.

Wild had said something similar to Sandro when she'd thought Shawn had cried herself to sleep. She'd suggested that kids who always had to live on their guard never learned how to socialize. The way she saw it, bullied kids would lash out in paranoid defensiveness against anyone who tried to gain their trust, which resulted in them alienating kids who weren't ordinarily mean. But could you blame them, she'd asked? How can you possibly predict who is earnest and who is setting up an elaborate, cruel ruse? Kids could take their time in gaining one another's confidence, and betrayals could be legendary.

Wildcard had been talking about herself. She'd said as much. Shawn, who has been all cried-out, had accepted her at her word. Yes, she'd also been talking about Shawn. Obviously. But it hurt less, and felt less othering, to know she was speaking from experience: She herself had gone to public school, failed to make friends, and still repeatedly got into fights with random strangers their age. Bullied kids, Wild had said to Sandro, meaning herself in one way and Shawn in another, could become 'the problem' precisely because they were bullied: Being isolated did not teach a person how to make friends. This was an extra obstacle to acquiring social skills, she'd argued, if friendliness and people-reading didn't exactly come naturally.

People reading? Shawn didn't want to make friends or care about 'social skills.' He/she didn't like these people, or identify as similar to them, or care about any of the same things they cared about.

But what, actually, did s/he know about them? What percentage of the people around him/her were secretly nerds and watching anime on weekends, but masking to look normal so that they presented no vulnerabilities to assault? Who was weird behind closed doors? Or funny? Or passionate? Who'd be more into art if doing so was cool? And among them, which were so weak they'd be willing to trade information about you for credibility with popular kids if you told them you liked the very same things? On the converse, which of these kids could be trusted to hold your secrets and end up becoming a friend, or, at least, some kind of ally?

Shawn... didn't necessarily have a lot of empathy for people who compromised on what they cared about in order to be 'cool.' But what about people who compromised in order to be safe from abuse? Wasn't that... technically... something Shawn wanted? 'Safety from abuse'? On principle, one should be safe no matter who one was, and on principle one should therefore refuse to change for the pleasure of others or in order to 'deserve' safety. Safety was always deserved.

But in practice, with one teacher for every thirty kids, and some teachers inclined to feel any kid who ended up in sixty altercations a year simply must be 'the problem...'

What—for the sake of argument, and not because she actually intended on doing it—what would Shawn have to do differently to not just be left alone but to successfully camouflage? To disappear? To blend in with... some other group of students who, through sufficient numbers, did not so frequently end up the subject of abuse? And who would he blend in with, if he could?

Maybe... the theatre kids? He/she didn't have to go on stage; there was the back-stage crew, too. Was there a chess or programming club or something, where he/she/they could just show up and coexist with other social introverts? Or would she be looked down upon for being into art, if she tried? Joining a club would mean spending more time at school, when she'd really rather prefer spending as little as po-

Shawn stepped to the side around a bully who tried to shoulder-check her. He/she got a sneer and a comment he listened to as little as possible so it couldn't take root in his memory. He glanced to the side and saw a classmate, only instead of laughing at him, she was scowling after the guy who'd tried to intentionally bump into him.

Shawn.

Shawn didn't know how to connect with people.

S/he didn't want to connect with them. But what was that internet meme again? 'A person who is incapable of violence isn't peaceful, they're helpless. To be peaceful, someone must be capable of violence and choose not to use it.'

Shawn's refusal to read, predict, understand, or connect with people wasn't the choice s/he'd thought it was.

Standing there, wanting to know what was going through that random girl's head, but not knowing how to even begin—neither finding out the truth nor predicting what she might do to protect herself if she tried talking to her and the girl was faced with the social pressure of knowing everyone was watching...

Shawn was confronted with the fact she'd given himself a...

... a disability...

...in refusing to exercise a skill, all because she'd only ever noticed the problems with it and/or with the people for whom the skill seemed to be second nature.

"Hey, Toots!" greeted a voice from the left, and Shawn nearly tripped himself as thoughts rapidly shifted from one universe to another. Wildcard shouldered into him incognito with a bouncy mane of ringlet black hair. She pushed something—warm?—into Shawn's hand and he nearly-

He nearly exploded on her.

Why are you here, get out of here, you only ever cause trouble, what if someone recognizes you, do you realize how much trouble I'd be in, if you hurt one person, if you do one stupid thing, if you start whistling-!

"I got the package," Wild said into a phone app like it was a walky-talky.

"Roger," their chelonian third reported. "Leo disappeared and there's a non statistically insignificant chance you're the cause."

"Probably glowering at me from a randomly selected tree already," she said suspiciously and gave a dramatic shudder. "Putting you away for now!"

"Sandro?" Shawn fumbled.

"He sent me," Wildcard reported midway through pocketing a phone and biting through a doughnut. She showed off a dozen to him, and propped the lid so he could inspect the variety available. By the looks of things, Wildcard had canvassed the entire flavor spectrum. This was how she some times figured things out about people, he remembered. She put choices in front of people, and watched what they picked.

"Why?" Shawn blurted, wide-eyed. It was 3:45PM. Sandro would have needed to send Wild away at close to 2:00 for her to be there, and Wild would have needed to spend two hours in transit. 

"To walk you home," she told him blithely, and jabbed him with the doughnut box. "Want one?"

People were looking. They saw someone they didn't recognize being friendly with him.

"Yeah," Shawn decided, because right in front of hundreds of other students on the steps of the school would be a terrible place to throw a temper tantrum screaming at one of his only friends. He selected a jelly filled doughnut. Wildcard laughed! At him? Like he needed more of that!

"I didn't know," she confessed, "that anyone actually liked jelly-filled doughnuts."

"Well I don't like doughnuts," he coughed. "But I like fruit pastries, so this kind of works."

"Ohhhhhhh," she said, instead of mocking him for not liking doughnuts, which was certainly within the scope of things she could have easily and unknowingly done, "that makes so much sennnnsse... Danish next time?"

"I'm not sure I know what that is, but I'm open to trying," he decided.

They were walking away from school, new girl with the doughnuts, him at her side, curious stares following, 

"Surprised you didn't throw the doughnuts at me," Wildcard admitted after a few seconds of silence.

Shawn blinked down at her.

"Well you're rarely happy to see me outside of carefully controlled settings," she reminded him with a wink.

"Oh." He sort of almost had thrown doughnuts at her, or something similar. But then he'd realized, "You brought them as a gift, so..." He sipped on his hot chocolate. "I tried to take it as a gift."

"Awww," she giggled, and threw an arm around his back. "Thanks for not yelling."

For not yelling. Apparently that was something Shawn did: Yell. Enough that it was something even important people remembered about interacting with him. Lashing out. He hunched over a bit. Ill feeling twisted up in his stomach successfully at last. He didn't like it, now that he knew what he was looking for.

"You didn't have to come," he growled anyway.

"No, I know I didn't," she agreed. "And you don't have to be grateful I did. But, both of us, we didn't want you to be alone."

"This," Shawn gestured to her, to the ground, to the road, to this whole situation, "this isn't sustainable."

"Sustainable?"

"You can't commute two hours every day to come walk me home and then two hours back."

"I could if I needed to," she chirped defiantly.

"You don't need to. I don't want you to."

She thumbed her hood up to have a long look at him. There was an acidic gleam to her eyes that said she wanted to be there the next time someone tried to push him, and Sandro hadn't played his normal role in holding her back for once. Shawn set his/her foot down: "I need to be able to take care of myself. I- I can handle school. I can handle school as long as you guys are there waiting in my DMs and on our game chat when I get home."

"You don't have to."

"Everybody has to," Shawn disagreed. "Everyone has to be able to take care of themselves. At least, a little bit. This is just... wrapped up with the rest of school. It'd be like you coming in and sitting through my social studies class the last period of class. I'd just be more stressed."

Wildcard considered that.

"And Sandro needs you," he argued.

"Sandro's my friend. But you're my friend, too. You don't need me?" she wondered.

Shawn struggled to find the words to articulate his/her meaning clearly. "Not like this," s/he finally settled on. "I'm an introvert. I'm perfectly happy having relationships on the internet to come home to. I don't like having people in my space all the time."

She glanced behind them. No bullies were following today. "Okay," she said, after a long and uncertain quiet. "But I needed to come today."

He thought about that, when she didn't immediately explain herself. "For solidarity?" he decided.

"Yeah," she affirmed. "So every other day you walk into or out of this warzone, you actually feel you're not alone, and don't just know it."

Shawn breathed in deep and sighed it all out. After some thought, and a few glances behind them as the school disappeared and curious stares were blocked by buildings, he finally rolled his eyes, rolled his head, and threw an arm around her shoulders to hug her.

"Hee!" she hummed into him. "I'm glad you're feeling better."

Chapter Text

Wildcard peered up the wall of armaments hanging upon the dusty, musty little martial arts supply store sinking into the corner of Henrietta and Lane. She was by no means the only teenager to visit the store. Despite the weeds in the parking lot, and the flickering of the ancient neon sign overhead, all the nearby graffiti was attractive and filled with depictions of apple blossom trees and kung-fu superstars. Young people liked hanging around this place, and they also liked the comic book store sandwiched between the laundromat and the old Mediterranean doughnut shop. Just because a neighborhood was poor didn't mean all the young people vanished. There were collectible card tournaments up here almost every weekend.

She checked the bills she'd stashed in her hoodie. It was difficult to nick spending cash from unsuspecting suits in the pretty parts of town anymore; she didn't have the time for it. That was okay. 

Wildcard stood up on her toes, leaning over stage props, bins filled with athletic tape, practice gi, obi sashes, kendo gear, and a wide assortment of very real shurikens. The tips of her fingers settled on the smooth, polished wood of a daitō bokken, a wooden sword, and she pushed it up off it's hooks and got it down into her hands. Bokken weren't terribly expensive. Not like real katana, that was for sure.  This one was was slightly ridiculous looking, as the 'blade' was considerably wider than the handle, making it look like a big ship oar. "What on Earth am I looking at?" she wondered, tossing the heavy implement and catching it.

Normally, no one would have answered her. The shop proprietors were a kindly old lady who was incredibly hard of hearing and slept at the cashier until you woke her, and her mildly psychopathic forty-year-old son who never spoke to or looked at anyone unless they tried to steal something, and then he'd chase them down like he himself was a ninja. But they'd hired a string bean Chinese boy of about fourteen or fifteen to help them out over the summer, and today he shuffled awkwardly near, adjusted his glasses, and said with the aire of a person who was Much More Knowledgeable Than You And Liked To Prove It, "That's a suburitō. It's heavy on purpose to condition the arms against fatigue during solo striking practice."

"Ohhhh, it's not just a prop for looking adorably macho?" she realized

"No," sniffed Socially Aloof and Proud Of It Chinese Boy. "And it's not a 'Cloud Sword,' either, but if you're trying to buy something themed for your boyfriend, we have custom—"

"—I will swat you across the face with this giant sword oar, nerd child, so help me. You've seen me in here before. Don't play dumb. Recognize the fellow aficionado. Vocab word, by the way!" 

"I know what 'aficionado' means!"

"Well the more impressive thing is that I do."

He got worked up, indignant, and flustered as he tried to figure out if she'd actually hit him. Unable to cope with the tripped-up conversation, he then went straight back to enumerating facts in a strained pitch: "That's it's mythological origin, actually. The suburitō, I mean. They say Miyamoto Musashi whittled a sword out of an actual oar while traveling to a duel, but still killed the guy he was fighting."

"Miyamoto?" Wildcard repeated, nose wrinkling.

"Miyamoto Musashi. You don't know about him? He's only the most legendary Japanese swordsman in antiquity. You should study more history, you'll sound ignorant talking about martial arts. Not that anyone around here sounds informed. Have you heard how they use 'Ossu?'"

"Musashi... Usashi...? Usag-?"

"He invented the daisho style. He was so legendary he began fighting every duel just with his sheathes to make it fair.  Daisho means 'little-big.' Today that means a katana paired with a wakazashi or tanto, but historically the taichi was-"

"How old is that rabbit!?" Wildcard exclaimed.

"—Um. What?"

"Oh, right, money," she swung the sword over her shoulders to carry it out, and dug out the bills from her pocket and handed them over to the boy. 

Chinese Boy took a moment to try and determine what exactly she was buying. He stared at her for about ten seconds. Then he blurted, "Can I have your number?"

Wildcard blinked rapidly and nearly fell over as she whipped around to stare at him. "What, really?" 

Chinese Boy was turning as red as a tomato. He bobbed his head. 

Sandro was in costume and thoroughly enjoying being out and about with his parents. 

They were at an anime/sci-fi/fantasy convention, and everyone was in cosplay. That was the magic of the event for Sandro: He could be right there, right out in public, in the middle of New York, accompanied by both his parents, and no one in the world was the wiser. 

Mom was dressed up like Laura Croft, with a long brunette wig in a braid, and actual, real handguns strapped to her thighs, disguised as props. Mom was apparently not a bad shot, or so said Dad. And Dad? Dad was dressed up as The Predator. The original costume was meant to be worn by a seven foot actor. Here, only where fans of every flavor and variety were pulling off giant mech and dinosaur costumes using stilts, elevated legs, and puppetry, Dad could blend in seamlessly.

They weren't the only three members of their family at the convention, though. This topside operation had backup, scattered throughout the place! Donatello and Michelangelo were off signing autographs as Mario and Luigi. Uncle Leo was keeping a loose perimeter and, hopefully, enjoying the buffet of sci-if booths and graphic novels.

Sandro's phone rang as they moved through the stalls and pointed out anything neat. He reached into his pocket to pull it out and answer it. "Wild?" he wondered. "Where are you? The convention already started!"

"Help, the cute Chinese boy at the martial arts store wants my number, what do I do, can he have it?!"

Sandro locked in place so fast his Dad nearly fell over him. 

"Whoa. What's up?" Dad asked. "She in trouble?"

"Saaannndro?"

"No, Wild. The cute Chinese boy at the martial arts store," Sandro growled, "cannot have your number. He's asking because he wants to date you. You can't date yet. You're only fourteen."

"But he's like the same age, he won't understand! How do I let him down gently!? This was an act of bravery! It deserves to be commended! What if his confidence is shattered forever!?"

"HOW ABOUT I DON'T TIE HIM IN A PRETZEL FOR ASKIN' YA, IS DAT GENTLY ENOUGH!?"

"I'll let him know about your clemency!" Click.

Sandro glared at the phone and put it away. Then he looked up to see both his parents staring at him. "Uh." Sandro hesitated, eyes widening. "I... have to look out for her, right?"

"Ah guess he does take aftah me a bit," Raphael decided.

April eyed Raphael and then swatted him upside the back of the head. 

Wildcard arrived at the convention, jumping up and down on one foot as she hastily donned the remainder of her costume.

When Wildcard had first learned of the convention plan, she'd realized everyone, Sandro included, would be in cosplay. With her own miserly budget, she couldn't afford the same fantastic costumes the Hamato family could—not without explaining where they'd come from! Trapped, and not wanting to show up in normal clothing or, heavens forbid, in a costume which sucked, Wildcard had hit upon a plan: She'd hastily assembled an absolutely horrible costume from cut cardboard paper and glue and brought it to Donatello with an enormous pout.

Donatello had been unimpressed.

But Michelangelo, who'd been right behind her, started gushing excitedly about the possibilities, and Donatello's brain seemed to have built in fuel tanks for interesting projects thatran off Orange Sparkles passed to him by an overenthusiastic sibling. Anyway, long story short, Wild had a costume. 

She skid to a halt beside the massive Star Wars booth, looked left, looked right, spotted a fantastically realistic AT-AT cosplay, and ducked underneath it. 

"You are late," Sensei the AT-AT mentioned, as he leisurely imitated the slow and plodding gate of the spectacularly detailed Evil Empire hardware he was presently disguised as. 

"I know I am I know I am I know I am, I found a twenty dollar bill in the gutter this morning," she growled, 

"This is worth showing up late?" 

"Am I really late if I got here before all the free raffle drawings!? Okay. How do I look?" She rolled forward and quickly sat down in a ball with her knees up to her chin and her massive foam shoulder pauldrons locked down.

The AT-AT leaned over to have a look. "Like a ball of fake metal?" Leonardo could be heard to frown, before epiphany struck. "I seem to remember this. Ah, yes. You are the Metroid character."

"Her name is Samus Aran, you uncultured swine!" Wild exclaimed, startled out of her ball. "And she was the first ever female video game protagonist! With shoulders this enormous!"

"There you are," Sandro muttered, only to realize Wildcard might not be mentally 'there' so much as everywhere. By the look of her, her eyes were alighting on things on every side of them, left right, center, and back again.

"Are you Samus!?" Raphael laughed.

"I sure am! Looking good Mr. and Mrs. Sandro's Parents!" she didn't actually look at any of them. She looked slightly overwhelmed. Like they'd accidentally taken a mildly autistic person into this very crowded convention and, instead of needing to escape, she was instead attempting to hunt everything.

"Dee did a number on that costume," Raphael praised, fiddling with her foldable pauldrons. "Nice."

"Thanks!"

"Hey," Sandro pulled her over beside himself. "You okay? What happened, why were you at-?"

"I'm fine!"

He snapped fingers rapidly in front of her face. She nearly jumped out of his skin. He laughed despite his earlier concern. "Distracted?" he teased.

She was about to say something but then her eyes widened and she dove past him. "Hold that thought, I need to do a thing!" she vanished into the crowd to Sandro's protest and a holler from April not to get lost.

They were getting alien-themed food and drinks when she returned about five minutes later, breathless and holding something behind her back.

"Okay I got it!" she announced.

Peeved now that she'd been late and then immediately disappeared on him, Sandro crossed his arms and squinted at her up and down. "What did you 'get'?" he asked.

She danced in place. "Your favorite! There was only one! And it's at the start of the alphabet, so I had to work fast!"

He lifted a doubtful brow. "My favorite what?"

"Dinosaur!" she announced, and then whipped a figurine out from behind her back.

Sandro, it must be admitted, shrieked and then hugged it to himself like a girl who's boyfriend had just won her a giant stuffed panda. "Oh my god," he grinned fiercely down at the elegantly painted little thing. "It's articulated? You randomly remember my favorite dinosaur." Archaeopteryx was not a common dinosaur for people to make toys of! Not unless they were doing unnecessarily encyclopedic Jurassic Park promotions, apparently.

"Of course I remember your favorite dinosaur," she chastised him. "Why would I not remember something that important!?"

He laughed and hugged her to him with one arm. "I love it and it's going on my desk. Thanks, sis."  

"No prob, bro!"

Mom and Dad were probably lost but, eh, maybe that was half of why they needed to be taking him out to conventions more often.

Well! Time to check out anything and everything, squeal about a thousand and one franchises, cult classics, and kids series, big and small, drag the parents from one end of this place to the other and back again, and occasionally find and sneak Uncle Leo some food under the lip of that costume...

It had been a full day.

Everyone but Sandro, who'd gone as a character from games that never got very popular in America, had been asked to take a photograph with a fan or two or twenty, or, in Mario and Luigi's case, more like two hundred. They suspected Leo's AT-AT had been a bit of a hit, but he was just too modest to brag about that sort of thing. 

They had all gotten to go to a convention together. All of them, not just the kids. This was the first the older turtles had been able to pull off sneaking in via costume in over the decade. In the aftermath, they seemed quietly thrilled with it all. Awed, maybe.

When they'd piled back into the van and were headed home, Sandro looked exhausted. He took out his Archaeopteryx to balance it on his fingers, like it was flying. He seemed quite fond of it.

"Okay," Donatello spread out the merchandise he and Michelangelo had managed to snag over the course of the convention. "That's one, two, three, four... Four complete My Little Pony themed goodie bags. Complete with 'autographs.'"

"Dude, it has pink sparkle toothpaste," Michelangelo whimpered giddily. "Look at that. Can you imagine how rad it is being four and seeing that? It looks like magic. These are the best presents for kids ever...!"

They hi-fived each other to Raphael's annoyed huff. Apparently it was lost on Raph that they were being the mature adults of the situation, where Raph had gotten to walk the entire convention like a kid again the whole day.

"Guys, it was awesome being out in a crowd," Mikey said. "Can we do this more often?"

"We have a lot to discuss before anyone can answer that question," Leonardo headed him off at the pass while packing away the AT-AT. 

"Well can we LARP again!? Because I'm positive Donnie's been stockpiling costumes in the back somewhere. There are like six wizard robes back there, I am serious."

"Hmm, it depends," April eyed them. "Whatever happened to the Princess Leia bikini costume someone wanted to convince me was amazonian armor?"

"It was donated," Donatello reported victoriously. "Casey tried to hide it and failed."

"Ey, well dat's one less awkward thing he can ask Robyn ta wear for the wedding," Raphael quipped as April fist-pumped. "We ready to go?"

"Hey Sensei," yawned a sleepy Wildcard, rubbing her face and holding out a box of DVDs. Sandro had helped her win them at a trivia game. "I'm sorry for insulting your culturedness," she explained. "Please accept this tribute."

Leonardo glanced at what she'd offered him and then did a double-take. Then he straightened, and looked around like he was hoping no one had seen him, ignored Raphael's eyebrow raise, and quietly took the DVDs and hid them on himself. Autographed remastered Star Heroes episodes apparently had that effect on Leo. 

"Wait just a second. Where did you get that?" Donatello didn't care about DVDs or whatever scandalous materials they might contain (please, it was Leo); he was leaning over Sandro and the dinosaur.

"Oh" Sandro giggled smugly, showing the dinosaur off like it had something to say. "Wild won it for me."

Chapter Text

On the sixteenth of March, April (it was probably mildly confusing to be named after a month, and one imagined it would only get worse next month) O'Neil entered the house early, just as dusk was arriving, with a euphoric smile glowing on her face. "Sandro! Sandro!" She bolted across the house so fast she just about spun Wildcard round in a circle. Wow! Was this a fair switcheroo for a day! Had something happened? 

"M-mom?" Sandro blurted, confused as he stepped forward to meet her. 

Wearing a smile so bright it belonged in a Crest Commercial, April grabbed his hand, brought it to herself, and lifted up her shirt a few inches. This behavior was peculiar to Wildcard and Sandro both, who furrowed brows simultaneously. Donatello looked over from preparing dinner, and then jumped as if spooked.

Sandro jumped too, though for a completely different reason. His eyes widened. He looked down to his hand, up at his mom, and then pressed his hand in earnest interest to her belly. "Oh my God," he gushed. "Is that-?"

"Uh-huh...!" April agreed, biting her lower lip and nodding repeatedly.

Sandro's voice fell to hushed reverence. "What's it doing?" 

"Kicking me," April snickered. "We have a tiny dancer on our hands!"

DING! Wild's brain caught up. "You're pregnant!" she exclaimed, dropping her things to the ground and bolting up to Sandro's side.

Wildcard hadn't known April O'Neil long enough to gauge whether anything might be strange with her behavior, or what her energy levels ought to have been in the morning; she barely saw the woman during the week, and Wild had zero experience with pregnancies and wouldn't have known how to spot morning sickness unless someone had puked all over her at breakfast. Still, she'd had the niggling sensation that April had looked a little more pear-shaped than usual, and did recall Sandro giving permission for tiny turtles should his parents manage to move back into the house.

Now that she knew to look April up and down for signs, it was clear her belly was very mildly bloated—and rippling almost imperceptibly! Oh boy! Oh! Oh it really was kicking in there! Holy crap that was surreal!

Donatello stalked up to them, throwing way his apron, face curled in a horrified and livid expression. "You didn't tell me," he snarled, his voice quiet as air. "Do you not remember that your last pregnancy-!?"