Chapter 3: The Aftermath
The medical bay's fluorescents hummed like angry hornets, bleaching the room into something sterile and unreal. Mikey lay on the examination table, fingers gripping the edges until his knuckles turned white. Donnie's instruments gleamed too brightly—scissors, probes, things with needles that made Mikey's throat clench reflexively.
"Relax," Donnie muttered, adjusting his goggles. The lenses magnified his eyes, making him look insectile under the lights. "I'm just gonna take a look, okay?"
Mikey nodded. His pulse thudded in his ears, loud enough to drown out the machines.
Donnie's gloved hands tilted his chin up. A penlight flicked on, blinding. "Open wide."
Mikey obeyed. The light probed deeper, igniting flares of pain where the needle had gone in. He flinched.
"Easy—easy," Donnie murmured. His breath smelled of coffee and exhaustion. "Okay, so. Bad news first."
Mikey's stomach dropped.
Donnie snapped off the light. "The vocal cords are intact. No physical damage." He tapped a screen, pulling up a 3D scan of Mikey's throat. The image rotated, glowing blue. "But there's some kind of... biomolecular binding agent coating the tissue. Like epoxy."
Mikey's hands moved shakily: *Can you fix it?*
Donnie exhaled through his nose. "I can try. But Stockman wasn't lying—this stuff is *engineered*. It's not just suppressing function; it's replicating the structure of paralyzed tissue. Like your body's being gaslit into thinking it can't speak."
A shadow filled the doorway—Leo, arms crossed, leaning against the frame. His mask was frayed at the edges, his jaw set. "So undo the gaslighting."
Donnie shot him a look. "Oh, sure, let me just—" He mimed flipping a switch. "Voila."
Mikey kicked Donnie's stool lightly.
Donnie sighed. "I'm working on it. But we're talking molecular-level sabotage here. It's not a code I can hack."
From the hall, the rhythmic *thud-thud-thud* of fists hitting leather punctuated the silence. Raph, working out his rage on the heavy bag. Each strike landed with enough force to shake the pipes overhead.
Leo's gaze flicked toward the sound, then back to Mikey. "What do you need?"
Donnie chewed his lip. "Time. Lab access. Maybe—" He hesitated. "Stockman's notes."
Leo's expression darkened.
Mikey grabbed Donnie's arm, shaking his head violently.
"I know, I know," Donnie said, raising his hands. "But he *designed* this. If anyone knows how to reverse it—"
"No." Leo's voice was flat. Final.
Mikey slapped the table. The sound echoed like a gunshot. He signed, sharp and clipped: *I don't want his help.*
The punching bag let out a particularly loud *crack*.
Leo's shoulders sagged. He moved to Mikey's side, placing a hand on his shell. "We'll figure it out. Without him."
Mikey exhaled, long and shaky. He pointed to Donnie, then to his own throat, and pantomimed typing—*Keep trying.*
Donnie managed a tired smirk. "Wasn't gonna stop."
Leo squeezed Mikey's shoulder. "Rest. You're safe now."
Safe. The word tasted wrong. Mikey's fingers twitched, wanting to argue, to explain that nowhere was safe while Shredder knew how to hurt them like this—like taking the laughter right out of his chest.
But his hands stayed still.
Leo left, footsteps swallowed by the lair's familiar hum.
Donnie busied himself with the scanner, its green laser tracing Mikey's throat again. "Okay, new plan. I'll synthesize a solvent to break down the binding agent. Might take a few days, but—"
Mikey grabbed his wrist. Pointed to himself, then to the door.
"You wanna bail? Dude, you *just* got back."
Mikey rolled his eyes. He mimed sleeping, then pointed emphatically at the door again.
Donnie relented. "Fine. But if you start bleeding from the mouth or something, I'm blaming Leo."
Mikey flipped him off with a grin.
The dojo was dim when he slipped inside, lit only by the flickering glow of the TV left on mute. *Jupiter Jim* played silently—the one where he crash-lands on the ice moon. Mikey's favorite.
Raph didn't look up from the heavy bag. His wraps were frayed, knuckles split. Sweat darkened his mask.
Mikey plopped onto the couch, grabbing the abandoned controller. The game paused—Raph had been mid-level, judging by the frozen swarm of pixelated enemies.
"Fuck off," Raph grunted between punches.
Mikey unpaused the game.
"You're *supposed* to be resting."
Mikey spun the joystick, making the on-screen character do a ridiculous victory dance.
Raph's next punch sent the bag spinning. "This isn't *funny*, Mikey."
Mikey paused. Set the controller down. He walked over to Raph, stepping into his line of sight.
Raph wouldn't meet his eyes. His breaths came hard, chest heaving.
Mikey reached out. Touched Raph's bruised knuckles.
Raph flinched. "Don't."
Mikey didn't back down. He pressed his palm flat against Raph's fist, feeling the heat of split skin, the tremble beneath.
Raph's throat worked. "I shoulda been faster."
Mikey shook his head, sharp.
"I *should* have." Raph wrenched away, pacing. "Shredder had you for *three days*. Three *fucking* days, and we—"
Mikey grabbed his arm, forcing him to stop. He pointed at Raph's chest, then his own, then made a circle with his hands—*brothers*.
Raph's face twisted. "Yeah, well. Brothers don't let brothers get *muted* by some psychopath in a blender costume."
Mikey huffed—a silent laugh. He mimed Shredder's helmet, complete with dramatic claw gestures.
Raph didn't smile. "You think this is a joke?"
Mikey dropped the act. He shook his head, slowly. Then he tapped Raph's sternum, right over his heart, and pointed to his own throat.
*I'm still here.*
Raph's breath hitched. He looked away, jaw clenched.
The TV's glow painted them both in shifting blues.
Mikey picked up the controller again. Hit restart.
Raph hesitated. Then, gruffly: "You're gonna die on level two. Your reflexes are shot."
Mikey grinned. Challenge accepted.
Raph snorted, stripping off his wraps. "Fine. But when you lose, you're eating my anchovy pizza."
Mikey flipped him off with one hand, already mashing buttons.
Raph slumped onto the couch beside him, close enough that their shells knocked together. Familiar. Solid.
On screen, the pixelated hero blasted through enemies.
Mikey's throat ached.
But for now—for this moment—it was enough.
---
Splinter found Stockman in the makeshift cell Donnie had rigged from an old storage closet. The scientist sat on a cot, clutching his bandaged shoulder, staring at the wall like it held answers.
"You're awake," Splinter observed.
Stockman jumped. His glasses—replaced with a spare pair from Donnie's drawer—slid down his nose. "I—yes."
Splinter studied him. The man reeked of fear-sweat and antiseptic. "Tell me about the procedure."
Stockman swallowed. "It's called neural quiescence. A synthetic compound that—"
"I did not ask for its name." Splinter's tail lashed once. "I asked what it *does*."
Stockman's fingers plucked at the cot's threadbare blanket. "It... convinces the body that the vocal cords are inert. Like a key breaking off in a lock."
Splinter's claws flexed. "And the key cannot be removed."
"Not easily." Stockman adjusted his glasses. "But—but it's *possible*. The binding agent has a half-life. In theory, introducing a catalytic—"
Splinter turned to leave.
"Wait!" Stockman lurched forward, wincing as his wound pulled. "You *need* me. I can fix this."
Splinter paused. Without looking back: "You will remain here. You will answer my son's questions. And if you lie—" His voice dropped to a whisper. "I will show you what silence truly feels like."
The door clicked shut.
Stockman exhaled, shaky. On the ceiling, a single flickering bulb buzzed.
Like the one in Mikey's cell.
He closed his eyes.
---
Leo found Donnie in the lab, elbows-deep in holograms. Chemical structures rotated above the workbench, their formulas scrolling too fast to follow.
"Progress?" Leo asked.
Donnie didn't look up. "Define 'progress.'"
Leo leaned against the table. The glow lit his face from below, carving shadows under his eyes. "You'll crack it."
"Will I?" Donnie's stylus snapped. He tossed the pieces aside. "Because right now, all I've got is a bunch of pretty molecules and a brother who can't *laugh* at my terrible jokes."
Leo said nothing.
Donnie rubbed his face. "I need Stockman's research. The original formulas."
"Not happening."
"Leo—"
"No." Leo's voice was steel. "We don't trust him. We *won't*."
Donnie exhaled sharply. "This isn't about trust. It's about *data*."
Leo pushed off the table. "Find another way."
The door slid shut behind him.
Donnie stared at the holograms. The binding agent's structure taunted him—elegant, efficient, *brilliant*.
His fist went through it, scattering pixels like fireflies.
---
Mikey woke gasping.
The dream clung—cold metal, hands pinning him down, the needle's bite. His fingers flew to his throat, checking for blood, for scars.
Nothing. Just skin.
The lair was quiet. Raph snored on the next cot, one arm dangling off the edge.
Mikey crept out, padding barefoot to the kitchen. The fridge's light spilled across the floor as he rummaged for leftover pizza. His hands shook.
Behind him, the scrape of a chair.
Leo sat at the table, a steaming mug between his palms. "Couldn't sleep?"
Mikey shook his head. He grabbed a slice, cold cheese stretching as he pulled.
Leo pushed a second mug toward him. "Chamomile. No caffeine."
Mikey sniffed it. Made a face.
"Yeah, yeah. Humor me."
Mikey sipped. The warmth seeped into his bones. He signed: *You should sleep too.*
Leo's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Soon."
They sat in silence. The clock ticked. Somewhere, a pipe dripped.
Mikey's fingers tapped the table—no rhythm, just motion.
Leo watched him. "You're thinking loud."
Mikey hesitated. Then: *What if it doesn't work?*
Leo's grip tightened on his mug. "It will."
*But if it doesn't—*
"Mikey." Leo reached across the table, covering Mikey's hand with his own. "We'll fix this."
Mikey wanted to believe him.
The tea cooled between them.
Outside, the city groaned—a subway train rattling distant tracks. A siren wailed, then faded.
Life, moving on.
Mikey exhaled.
Leo's hand stayed where it was, warm and steady.
For now, that was enough.
The refrigerator hummed too loudly, the only sound in the kitchen aside from Leo's slow sips of tea. Mikey watched the steam curl from his own mug, tracing patterns in the air with his finger. His throat ached with phantom words.
Raph's voice startled them both from the doorway. "The hell you guys doing up?" He rubbed sleep from his eyes, his right knuckles still swollen and split. The angry red marks stood out stark against his green skin.
Leo didn't move his hand from Mikey's. "Plotting world domination. You in?"
"Bite me." Raph yanked the fridge open, chugging orange juice straight from the carton. He wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist. "Mikey, you look like shit warmed over."
Mikey flipped him off with his free hand.
Raph's grin faltered when Mikey's fingers brushed his own throat after. The juice carton crumpled in his grip. "Donnie still working on it?"
Leo nodded. The silence stretched a beat too long.
Mikey pushed back from the table, chair scraping. He mimed stretching, then pointed to the dojo.
"You're not training," Raph said. "Not with your—"
Mikey kicked Raph's shin. Hard.
"Ow! The fuck—"
Mikey jabbed a finger at his own chest, then toward the dojo again. His eyes burned.
Leo sighed. "Five minutes. Light katas only."
The training room smelled of sweat and old wood. Mikey inhaled deep, letting the familiarity settle his nerves. He'd spent half his life in this room—first as a kid tripping over his own feet, later as a warrior who could flip across rooftops without a sound.
Now he couldn't even scream if he fell.
The first stance came automatically. Weight balanced, knees bent, arms loose. Muscle memory took over where words failed. His body remembered what his voice couldn't say.
Raph leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. "Your form's sloppy."
Mikey threw a mock punch at him.
Raph caught his wrist. Held on. "I mean it. You're favoring your left side."
Mikey yanked free. Signed: *Been tortured, remember?*
"Yeah, well." Raph's jaw worked. "Excuses are like assholes."
Mikey rolled his eyes. The next kick flowed smoother, though fire licked up his ribs where the cattle prod had bitten deepest. He ignored it.
Leo watched from the shadows. His sword rested against the wall, untouched.
The wooden dummy creaked when Mikey spun into it. His elbow connected with a satisfying thunk. Again. Again. Each impact rattled his bones, but the pain felt good. Real. Proof he was still here.
His foot slipped.
Raph caught him before he hit the ground, hands rough under his arms. "Enough."
Mikey shoved him off.
"Mikey—"
He struck the dummy again. Harder. A crack split the air—the dummy's arm splintered.
Silence.
Mikey's chest heaved. Splinters dug into his knuckles.
Leo stepped forward. "We need to talk about Stockman."
Mikey wiped sweat from his brow. Signed: *No we don't.*
"He knows how this works." Leo's voice was calm. Too calm. "If there's a way to reverse it—"
Mikey slammed his palm against the broken dummy. The sound echoed like a gunshot.
Raph flinched. "Dude."
Mikey's hands moved fast, sharp. *He held me down while they did this.*
Leo's expression didn't change. "And now he's desperate. That makes him useful."
Mikey shook his head violently. He pointed to his throat, then mimed stabbing his own hand with a needle. His breath came too quick.
Raph's hand landed on his shoulder. "Breathe."
Mikey wrenched away. His hands trembled as he signed: *I won't be his experiment again.*
The words hung between them.
Leo exhaled through his nose. "Okay."
Just like that. No argument. No debate.
Mikey blinked.
Leo picked up his sword. "But we're not giving up."
Mikey nodded. He wouldn't ask them to.
From the hallway, Donnie's voice cracked the tension. "Um. Guys?"
They turned.
Donnie stood silhouetted in the doorway, goggles askew, hands streaked with something that glowed faintly blue. "So. Good news, bad news."
Raph groaned. "Spit it out, Donnie."
"The binding agent?" Donnie held up a vial of swirling liquid. "I think I can break it."
Mikey's heart stuttered.
Donnie swallowed. "But we'd need to test it. And there's a... nonzero chance it could make things worse."
The room swayed. Mikey gripped the dummy's broken arm to steady himself.
Leo stepped forward. "Define 'worse.'"
"Permanent damage." Donnie's gaze flicked to Mikey. "Complete vocal cord shredding."
Raph made a noise like a wounded animal.
Mikey's fingers found his throat again. The skin was smooth. Unmarked.
He signed, slow and deliberate: *How long to know if it works?*
Donnie adjusted his goggles. The lenses magnified the dark circles under his eyes. "Twelve hours. Maybe less."
Mikey looked at Leo. At Raph.
Then he reached for the vial.
Raph grabbed his wrist. "Whoa, hold up—"
Mikey shook him off. His hands moved with certainty now: *My choice.*
Leo's jaw tightened. "We should—"
*My. Choice.*
Silence.
Donnie chewed his lip. "I could... refine it more. Wait a few days—"
Mikey shook his head. He took the vial. The liquid inside swirled, catching the light like gasoline on water. Pretty. Dangerous.
He pointed to Donnie's lab.
Raph cursed under his breath. "You're really gonna—"
Mikey walked away. His brothers followed.
The lab smelled of ozone and burnt coffee. Machines hummed, their screens casting eerie green light across the stainless steel tables.
Mikey hopped onto an exam table. The paper crinkled under his weight.
Donnie hesitated. "We don't have to—"
Mikey popped the vial's cap off. Sniffed it. Made a face.
Raph barked a laugh. "Christ, Mikey."
Leo didn't smile. "Dose?"
"Two milliliters," Donnie said, pulling a syringe from a drawer. "Intravenous."
Mikey held out his arm.
Donnie's hands shook as he filled the syringe. The liquid glowed faintly in the dim light. "This might hurt."
Mikey rolled his eyes. Signed: *No shit.*
Leo gripped the exam table's edge. His knuckles turned white.
The needle bit.
Mikey watched the blue liquid disappear into his veins. Cold spread up his arm, sharp as winter. His muscles locked.
Raph grabbed his free hand. "Breathe, damn it."
Mikey gasped. The cold reached his chest, his throat—
Fire.
He arched off the table, gagging. His throat clenched like a fist.
"Mikey!" Raph's voice sounded distant.
White noise filled his skull. His vision tunneled.
Then—
Nothing.
Darkness swallowed him whole.
---
Mikey woke to the taste of copper.
The medbay ceiling swam into focus. His throat burned—not the dull ache from before, but raw, searing pain. Like he'd swallowed glass.
"Welcome back." Donnie's face appeared above him, drawn tight with exhaustion. "You've been out for eight hours."
Mikey tried to sit up. The room spun.
"Easy." Donnie pushed him back down. "Your body's been through hell."
Mikey's hands twitched at his sides. He pointed to his throat.
Donnie's expression flickered. "It's too soon to tell. The compound needs time to—"
Mikey grabbed his wrist. Squeezed.
Donnie sighed. "Okay. Try... try saying something."
Mikey inhaled. The air scraped like sandpaper.
He opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
Raph, slumped in a chair by the door, didn't move. His face was stone.
Leo stood at the foot of the bed, arms crossed. "Give it time."
Mikey's fingers curled into fists.
Donnie adjusted an IV drip. "The binding agent might take longer to degrade. Or—"
Mikey threw a punch at the mattress. The impact jolted his IV line. Blood welled where the needle tugged.
Raph was there in an instant, gripping his shoulders. "Stop. You're gonna hurt yourself worse."
Mikey shoved him. Weakly. His arms felt like wet noodles.
Raph didn't budge. "I know. I know it sucks." His voice cracked. "But you gotta *breathe*, Mikey."
Mikey went limp. His eyes burned.
Leo's hand landed on his foot. "We're not giving up."
Mikey closed his eyes.
The machines beeped. The IV dripped.
Somewhere beyond the lair, the city moved on—cars honking, people laughing, life continuing.
Mikey lay very still.
The silence pressed in.
Heavier than before.
The machines beeped in arrhythmic pulses, each chirp a tiny knife twisting in Mikey’s gut. He stared at the IV line snaking into his arm, the blue-tinged liquid still dripping, still failing. His fingers twitched against the stiff sheets. Eight hours. Eight hours of silence coiled inside him like a living thing, thrashing against his ribs.
Raph hadn’t left the chair by the door. He’d stopped pacing two hours ago, trading restless energy for a grim stillness that made the air feel thicker. Now he just sat, forearms braced on his knees, staring at the floor like it owed him answers.
Donnie’s stylus tapped against his tablet, the sound too loud in the quiet. "Metabolic rates are stabilizing," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. "Could be another four hours before—"
Mikey snatched the tablet and hurled it against the wall. The screen cracked, spiderwebbing over Donnie’s precious data.
For a heartbeat, no one moved.
Then Raph barked a laugh—sharp, startled. "Damn, Mikey. That’s the most you’ve sounded like *you* in days."
Donnie blinked at the wrecked device. "That was synced to *all* my research."
Mikey flipped him off.
Leo sighed, rubbing the bridge of his snout. "You’re gonna regret that when he makes you recalibrate every single—"
The comm unit on the desk crackled to life. Casey’s voice, tinny and urgent: "*Yo, we got a situation. Foot activity spiking downtown—Shredder’s mobilizing something big. Like, ‘end-of-the-world-sale’ big.*"
Leo was on his feet before Casey finished. "Location?"
"*Abandoned TCRI building. But listen—Karai’s intel says they’re not just stockpiling weapons. They’re moving* people. *Like, scientists. Whole damn think tank.*"
Donnie went very still. "Stockman’s team."
Mikey’s fingers dug into the mattress. His hands formed a single, jagged sign: *Trap.*
Leo’s jaw tightened. "Probably."
Raph cracked his knuckles. "So we walk in eyes open."
Mikey shoved the IV needle out of his arm. Blood welled, dripping down his wrist. He swung his legs over the bed, ignoring the way the room tilted.
"Whoa—*no*." Donnie shoved him back. "You’re not going anywhere. Your system’s still processing—"
Mikey grabbed Donnie’s lab coat, yanking him nose-to-nose. His breath came fast, silent, furious. His free hand slashed through the air: *I’m not staying.*
Leo caught his wrist. "You can barely stand."
Mikey wrenched free. He pointed to his chest, then to his brothers, one by one. *My fight too.*
Silence.
Raph exhaled through his nose. "Kid’s got a point."
Leo’s grip on his katana tightened. "Fine. But you stick to recon. No engagement unless—"
Mikey was already at the door, swaying slightly, one hand braced against the frame. He glanced back, eyes burning.
Leo met his gaze. Nodded once.
The lair’s tunnels swallowed them whole.
---
The TCRI building loomed against the night sky, its broken windows like missing teeth. Rain slicked the rooftops, turning every foothold treacherous. Mikey’s breath fogged the air, his body still running too hot from Donnie’s failed serum.
Leo signaled from the next ledge—*hold position*.
Mikey crouched behind a ventilation unit, the metal biting into his knees. Below, Foot ninjas patrolled the perimeter, their black armor glistening under floodlights. Too many. Too organized.
Raph’s voice crackled in his earpiece: "*Got a loading dock on the west side. They’re hauling crates marked ‘biohazard.’ Real subtle.*"
Donnie’s typing echoed over the comms. "*Thermals show at least thirty hostiles inside—wait. There’s a sublevel. Heat signatures clustered there. Human.*"
Leo’s whisper was razor-edged. "Hostages?"
"*Or lab rats.*"
Mikey’s throat tightened. He knew exactly what kind of experiments Shredder favored.
A new voice hissed over the comm—Karai. "*I’m in. East stairwell. They’ve got Stockman’s team locked in the basement, but there’s a catch.*"
Leo tensed. "What?"
"*They’re* waiting *for someone.*"
Mikey didn’t need to hear the rest. His hands moved on their own, signing to no one: *Bait.*
A shadow detached itself from the roof’s edge—Shredder, stepping into the light. His helmet gleamed under the rain.
Mikey’s pulse hammered.
Shredder’s voice carried, smooth as poisoned honey. "I know you’re there, turtles." He spread his arms. "Come. Let us finish what we started."
Leo’s hand gripped Mikey’s shell, holding him in place. "Don’t."
Mikey wasn’t listening.
He leaped.
The fall lasted forever. Wind screamed past his ears. The ground rushed up—
He landed in a roll, coming up inches from Shredder’s boots. The Foot soldiers tensed, weapons drawn.
Shredder laughed. "Brave. Or stupid."
Mikey bared his teeth.
Raph’s sai hit the concrete between them, sparks flying. "*Yeah, well, he’s our idiot.*"
Chaos erupted.
Leo and Donnie dropped from the shadows, blades flashing. Foot soldiers swarmed. Mikey moved on instinct, dodging strikes he couldn’t afford to take, his body sluggish with residual fatigue. A kick landed in his ribs—the same spot the cattle prod had burned. White pain lanced through him.
Shredder watched, arms crossed. "You should have stayed silent, Michelangelo. It suited you."
Mikey spat blood at his feet.
The comm crackled. Donnie’s voice, frantic: "*Mikey—sublevel! They’re—*"
An explosion rocked the building.
The ground fell out from under him.
---
Smoke.
Mikey coughed, blinking grit from his eyes. The world tilted, walls groaning around him. He was on his back, staring at a cracked ceiling.
Shredder stood over him, claws extended. "Persistent little pest, aren’t you?"
Mikey rolled, barely avoiding the downward strike. Metal screeched as Shredder’s claws gouged concrete where his head had been.
Raph barreled into Shredder from the side, sending them both crashing through a rotting desk. "*Run!*"
Mikey staggered up. The hallway ahead was collapsing, flames licking at the walls. Somewhere beneath the roar of fire, voices screamed.
Stockman’s team.
He ran toward the sound.
The sublevel door was sealed, emergency lights bathing everything in hellish red. Mikey braced against the handle—burning hot—and wrenched.
Locked.
A Foot ninja lunged from the smoke. Mikey disarmed him with a twist, snapping the man’s wrist with a crunch. The blade clattered to the floor. He grabbed it, driving it into the door’s control panel.
Sparks flew. The mechanism groaned.
The door slid open an inch. Stopped.
Hands reached through the gap—dozens of them, pale and trembling.
"Help us—*please*—"
Mikey wedged his shoulder into the gap, heaving. Muscles screamed. The door inched wider.
A shadow fell over him.
Shredder’s breath ghosted against his neck. "Always the hero."
Pain exploded between his shoulders—claws raking deep. Mikey gagged, the taste of copper flooding his mouth.
The door slipped.
He caught it. Barely.
Shredder leaned in, voice dripping mock-concern. "What’s wrong? Can’t *speak*?"
Mikey’s vision blurred. His arms shook.
The hands behind the door pushed.
Something in the ceiling snapped. A support beam crashed down, narrowly missing Shredder. The distraction was enough—Mikey surged forward, shoving the door open another precious inch.
People spilled out, coughing, stumbling.
Shredder snarled, rounding on Mikey.
A sai lodged itself in his shoulder.
Raph’s roar echoed down the hall: "*Get away from my brother!*"
Shredder wrenched the blade free, blood spraying. "How *touching*."
Mikey’s legs gave out. The floor rushed up to meet him.
The last thing he saw was Leo’s katana flashing in the firelight.
Then—
Nothing.
---
Consciousness returned in fragments.
The smell of antiseptic. The steady beep of a heart monitor. A weight pressing into his side—Raph, slumped in a chair, head lolled forward in exhausted sleep.
Mikey tried to sit up. Agony lanced through his shell.
Raph jerked awake. "Don’t you *dare* move." His voice was rough with sleeplessness, his eyes bloodshot.
Mikey’s hands twitched. *The scientists?*
"Safe." Raph scrubbed a hand over his face. "Donnie’s debriefing them now. See if they know how to undo..." He trailed off, gesturing vaguely at Mikey’s throat.
Mikey looked down. Bandages wrapped his chest, his arms. Fresh scars, fresh silence.
Raph’s jaw worked. "You scared the *hell* out of us."
Mikey reached out, flicked Raph’s forehead.
"Ow! What the—"
Mikey pointed to Raph’s own bandages—a gash across his ribs, poorly hidden under his shirt. *Pot, meet kettle.*
Raph huffed. "Yeah, well. At least I can *bitch* about it."
The door creaked open. Leo stood there, leaning heavily on one leg. Bruises mottled his face, but his grip on his katana was steady. "You’re awake."
Mikey raised an eyebrow. *No shit.*
Leo’s lips quirked. "Smartass." He limped forward, dropping something onto the bed—a cracked pair of goggles. Donnie’s.
Mikey frowned.
"Figured you’d want to apologize," Leo said. "Since you *threw his life’s work into a wall*."
Raph snorted.
Mikey picked up the goggles. The left lens was shattered. He traced the fracture, then signed: *Tell him I’ll fix it.*
Leo nodded. "He knows."
Silence settled, comfortable this time.
Outside, the city hummed—traffic, chatter, life rolling on.
Mikey closed his eyes.
The quiet wasn’t so heavy anymore.