You Guys Know One Thing That Grinds My Gears A Bit About Tmmt 2012?

Leo's annoyed faces will never not be hilarious

He's so sassy

Ahhh thank you! I also think Donnie would love quick and easy foods like that, especially when pulling an all nighter at the lab :)

I draw too

He's so cute

Welcome back to a re-written 2012 Donatello analysis!

I have posted a 2012 Donnie analysis here previously discussing his obsessional behaviour, and it was quite well received. However, it is not as put together as I would've liked it to be. Vague ideas were mashed into a post after I ranted about aspects of his character to an online friend.

But, I've had some more time to think - this will be a bit longer, and cover some different scenes and ideas, as well as repeating some of the things in my previous analysis - in general, hopefully a more concise and enjoyable analysis of his character.

: IMPORTANT NOTE : To make it clear, I do not support stalking/obsessive behaviour - whatever the reason behind it may be - and I do not want to make it seem like I am infantilizing Donnie in this analysis.

The whole point of this analysis is that I like to be aware of characters' less-than-ideal traits and discuss what the root cause of them might be. The possible/suggested causes does not excuse this behaviour, rather explains it. And people should still be held accountable if they have made another person upset/uncomfortable.

Without further ado, onto the analysis.

I think Donnie's biggest issue is how he looks.

In the 2012 iteration, we never really see any of the turtles have a strong desire to be human, to change how they already are. Mikey sometimes doesn't understand that humans will be scared of him, (Like when he tries to return a cat to its owner, dismissing his brothers when they warn him the owner would be scared of him) but Mikey never has a big moment and lashes out like, ‘I want to be a human so I can make more friends!’

We also see Mikey wonder what he'd look like as a human in an episode after Donnie creates retro-mutagen, in which Mikey assumes he'd turn into a human instead of a regular turtle if he were to use retro-mutagen on himself. It is played as a joke though, as he is seen smiling in the scene following and doesn't seem to show any true disappointment/distress etc towards being how he already is - a mutant.

Raph openly declares himself as ‘handsome’ in Season 1, Episode 2 - so that rules out Raphael, and I don't remember any scenes with Leo being upset or having a negative view attached to being a mutant but please correct me if I'm wrong.

Interestingly enough, Donatello seems to have the most trouble coming-to-terms with the fact that he's a mutant and can't change that out of his brothers.

Outside of being a mutant, it is implied that Donnie already has a fragile self-image anyway.

Remember the episode Turtle Temper? I think it's the third episode of the first season. But at one point, the other turtles are instructed to shoot arrows at Raphael while he has to try and avoid them - Splinter makes it clear, however - that the others are allowed to insult Raphael.

I've seen a content creator say that the insults they throw at Raphael could be more internalised opinions they have on themselves rather than genuinely thinking these crude things about their own brother - think of it like bullying, in the sense that you're often told ‘bullies like to make fun of others because they're insecure themselves’.

People often take out their anger about their insecurities and place them onto other people if given the chance.

Leo says, ‘And you're always whining, poor me, nobody understands me.’ While this is easily applicable to Raph as an insult from Leo, Leo has also had his own fair share of moments where he has gone to Splinter complaining that the others aren't respecting or listening to him, that they don't understand the burden he holds as leader.

Mikey tells Raph he moves like a bloated buffalo. In other words, you're slow. You can't keep up.

And Donnie says, ‘Oh! You can't keep your back straight during Omote Kote Gyaku! And you're ugly!’ I think the first part of this insult is what really hints this is more so them projecting views of themselves than genuinely insulting Raphael. Donnie, out of all of them, is most likely to feel insecure about his height, a lot of teenagers can feel awkward or uncomfortable as a result of their growth spurts, tall individuals are also more prone to slouching.

Donnie also probably spends quite a lot of time hunched at his lab desk, which could also contribute to his posture. I'm pretty sure he is also called ‘scrawny’ in an episode by Karai, but if not Karai, some other character, and Donnie responds, ‘And I'm not scrawny! I'm svelte!’

Raph has also insulted Donnie's looks before, and, although it is unclear if it's a common occurrence, knowing Raph's character it has most likely happened on more than one occasion.

Donnie : And why do you keep grabbing me by the face? What is wrong with my face?!

Raph : Do you want me to list the reasons alphabetically or in descending order of grossness?

So regardless of being mutated or not, it seems like Donnie just has a generalised lack of confidence and some issues surrounding how tall he is.

But onto his issues regarding being mutated.

Donnie might’ve previously not had any issues with being a mutant. Before, it might’ve been just a general lack of confidence, as I have already said. Before April, his brothers would've been the only thing to compare himself to. He lived in a home with only mutants for fifteen years of his life - so had normal teenage issues of going through puberty and insecurities. Tons of people dislike their growth spurts, which is why Donnie's issues at first might seem like normal things for a teenager to worry about. Donnies biggest issue was how scrawny and lanky he saw himself.

But when they meet April, there is a glaring difference.

Suddenly, there is somebody in his life who isn't a mutant like him. It becomes abundantly clear to Donnie that from somebody else's viewpoint, their biggest issue with him wouldn't be his tooth gap or his height, but the plain fact that he's so different. Inhuman. Out of the ordinary. A mutant.

In ‘Mutagen Man Unleashed!’ Donnie says, ‘I'm worse than a nerd - I'm a freak! We're all total and complete freaks-’ This shows that Donnie went from having individual and relatable insecurities to believing that simply being a mutant inherently means you are ugly.

Especially when you consider the fact that, individual-traits-wise, Donnie and Casey both share the same traits, they both have issues with their teeth, and they’re both scrawny and fairly tall - realistically Donnie should believe they're on somewhat equal grounds of ‘unattractive’ qualities, but Donnie seems to believe Casey is naturally at an unfair advantage because he’s human.

As I said, Donnie has begun to associate his very being with ugliness, and so sees Casey as a threat thinking April will lean more towards Casey for the sole fact he's human. Donnie doesn't think that perhaps Casey's behaviour or the way he treats April is what might potentially win her over - when Donnie is ranting to Mutagen Man about why April might be hanging out with some punk kid (Casey) the conclusion he comes to is ‘because he's human, that's why.’

With a smile on his face and a look of anger in his eyes, the way he phrases it and his expression almost comes across as, ‘I knew it.’ It's like he's self-validating his presumptions at this moment.

Donnie tends to get scarily territorial over April, even going as far to try and forcibly push the two apart when April and Casey hug at the beginning of ‘A China-Town Ghost Story’, seemingly oblivious to the fact he could also possibly harm April in his shoving.

If he genuinely loved and cared about April as a person, he'd be more concerned about the fact he could hurt her - instead his eyes are on Casey this whole scene - his competition, the threat, the thing that might make his fears a reality.

Looks are a very important part of gaining a partner in society, Donnie might not love April as a person. Rather, he sees her as a piece of evidence that could potentially soothe his insecurities. If he wins her like some prize, it'd be like saying, ‘Look! I'm not ugly after all because someone wanted to be my girlfriend!’

If he loses April to Casey, it’d be confirming his idea that mutants, as a whole, are ugly.

This whole root cause of his obsessive and almost protective nature over April and wanting to keep her away from Casey really comes to light in the Season 2 episode, ‘Fungus Humungous’ where mutated fungi spreading across the sewers make our heroes hallucinate their worst fears.

Donnie has two scenes displaying his fears. The first is one of April, with sharp teeth and white eyes, and is a lot bigger than him. Which creates a feeling of inferiority, ‘Levels’ is a technique used in theatre. It refers to the use of different heights and positions to convey certain messages. It's often used to indicate status or communicate character relationships.

Here, it's a perceived relationship that Donnie has between himself and April. Donnie doesn't think mutants and humans are equal, Donnie truly believes that mutants are smaller or not as important as humans and his fear represents that visually by the way his vision of April quite literally looms over him.

Donnie doesn't think mutants are good enough. It's like the nerd not being good enough to hook up with the pretty, popular girl - reflecting back on what Donnie said earlier - ‘I'm worse than a nerd, I'm a freak.’ If we think of it on a ladder of ‘not being good enough’ he thinks being nerdy puts him below on that ladder, but right at the bottom, worse than being a nerd, is being a mutant. And that's why his vision of April is so ginormous. She's right at the top of that perceived hierarchy that Donnie has built up.

This vision of April calls Donnie an ‘ugly mutant freak’ it's unlikely April actually thinks this, but it's what Donnie thinks she does.

The next scene we see is a vision of a bunch of tiny April's kissing Casey.

I think it's noteworthy that the ‘ugly mutant freak’ part comes before the kissing Casey part. The two scenes are quite literally split into ‘Words’ and ‘Actions’. In the first scene, April has a sharp tongue that is used like a whip, going through Donnie's heart and subsequently breaking it.

‘To have a sharp tongue’ means being critical of someone, speaking in a way that is unkind though often clever. I think this shows that, over anything, it is April's words that break his heart more than her actions like kissing Casey. Mutants being seen as freaks is his actual biggest fear. He just doesn't want those fears to be confirmed - which is why that scene of April kissing Casey comes after.

This fear of humanities' dislike and rejection towards mutants existed before Casey came into the picture, he just became a threat and therefore added to Donnie's worries which is why Casey makes an appearance, but he isn't the main problem.

The first scene is what truly makes Donnie crack, he starts screaming, runs away, and shouts that he ‘doesn't want to hear anymore.’

-

In Season 3, an episode titled, ‘A Foot Too Big’ when Donnie starts to apologise for his behaviour, he says ‘I'm just… a mutant.’ The word ‘just’ implies that being a mutant is all Donnie has boiled himself down to, he doesn't think his other traits are worthwhile, like him being loyal, inventive, and funny because at the end of the day he thinks nobody will be able to see him outside of being a freak and therefore doesn’t care about other aspects of himself.

When April kisses Donnie at the end of this episode, he doesn't even seem to enjoy it like he usually does. Which is odd for Donnie, as he normally gets excited or gloats about being kissed by April to Casey. I know people say he's confused because April has a habit of leading both Donnie and Casey on, but I think the words she says right before she kisses him is what confuses him.

‘You're not just a mutant, Donnie, you're my mutant.’

The whole point of the episode is that Donnie is supposed to get a taste of his own medicine, where Bigfoot is following Donnie around. But Bigfoot is a monster. Donnie’s behaviour is being parallelled in a monster.

When Donnie is told, ‘now you know how April feels’ by Raph, he partly comes to the realisation that April feels like he is clingy and love bombs her with gifts, (Like how Bigfoot follows Donnie around and consistently makes Donnie soup) but Donnie also acknowledges that April is being followed around by something inhuman and that might play a part in making her uncomfortable.

If we, as the audience, are meant to look at Bigfoot as a parallel to Donnie, that should also include Bigfoot's other traits and the way other characters act toward her that prove Donnie feels ugly.

Bigfoot wants to look better and feels ugly. When she believes she is not good enough for Donnie, she asks April to help her give herself a ‘makeover’ before trying to show Donnie affection again.

Other characters, such as Leo and Casey, also make fun of how Bigfoot looks, with Casey asking, ‘You think she's his type?’ As a crude joke. Donnie has had his looks made fun of before, and his brothers seem to share similar sentiments that Donnie doesn't have a shot with April and thinks of his crush to be a waste of time - the other characters react the same way to Bigfoot's crush on Donnie.

And so when Donnie apologises to April, he not only feels the need to acknowledge his overbearing nature, but also to apologise for simply being the way he is, knowing she might feel embarrassed or uncomfortable that a ‘creature’ that has no shot with her is drooling over her and following her around.

After all, Donnie felt embarrassed when Bigfoot kissed him, and all of his peers laughed at him.

When Donnie was kissed in Target: April O’ Neil, it was directly after Donnie was thanked for his actions in saving April, and it made him feel good about himself in general, shouting ‘I looooove being a turtle!’ which is a rare instance of Donnie showing a positive attitude towards being how he is. Being loved in itself and being thanked for something understandable made him feel confident.

Donnie believes April likes Casey for being human, so when April says she likes him because he's mutant - for what he is, not who he is, it confuses him. Donnie thinks April doesn't care about who Casey is either, but Donnie thought he'd never be on equal grounds with Casey in terms of what he is, again, because he thinks mutants are lesser than.

He believes and everyone else around him believes that because he is a mutant he had no chance, at the beginning of the episode Raph said, ‘She's a girl, you're a giant talking turtle.’

Donnie believed who he was didn't matter because he thought what he was would make people dislike him.

And in April's words, who he is still doesn't matter, but she's showing a positive attitude towards him being a mutant. That's what confuses him so much.

April doesn't forgive Donnie’s apology for his obsessive behaviour, she forgives his apology for being different. April doesn’t say something like, ‘But you’re smart, loyal, determined,’ before kissing him, she says, ‘You’re my mutant’ before kissing him.

Donnie has never received positive comments from April about good aspects of his personality, or even comments about enjoying spending time with him - times Donnie has been kissed, hugged, and/or received comments of praise from April has been directly after acts of service where Donnie puts himself in danger for her wants/needs;

(Operation: Breakout, Season 1, in which Donnie goes on a solo mission to rescue April's father) When Donnie works tirelessly to resolve her wants/needs, (Donnie's several attempts to make retro-mutagen for her father) or when Donnie has literally almost died, (waking up after Donnie came close to dying in Dream Beavers, and after coming back post being molecularly scattered in ‘The Power Inside Her’)

This creates an extremely negative correlation in which receiving affection comes after self-sacrificing behaviour, putting her needs over his, or near death experiences, especially when you consider how Donnie's more tame and realistic attempts at affection are met with abandonment, dismissal, or odd looks.

When Donnie tries to offer hugs to April, she looks at him oddly, and Donnie quickly switches to ruffling her hair, and he seems to go stiff and looks anxious/awkward after. When Donnie calls her a nickname she agrees to ignore what was just said. When Donnie makes her a music box at the beginning of ‘A Foot Too Big’ she makes the excuse of needing to train and leaves Donnie by himself instead of addressing the issue if she didn't like the gift.

Hugs, nicknames, and gift-giving are met with negative responses that create negative feelings in himself as well.

Self sacrificing behaviour is met with positive reactions from April, as well as positive reactions from those around him as the action usually resolves some sort of problem (like Donnie rescuing April's father, the creation of Retro-mutagen) and even Splinter telling Donnie to ‘never give up hope’ in regards to pursuing April.

So Donnie now has two things to associate kisses/hugs with:

Self sacrificing behaviour.

Being a mutant.

And he doesn't understand.

-

I honestly think Don Vizioso is a physical manifestation of how Donnie feels. I always thought it to be a bit weird that a villain and a main character shared similar names, as Donnie has also been called ‘Don’ in the series as a nickname before.

Don Vizioso believed that mutants are freaks of nature that don't belong, a scientific mystery to be studied, which is scarily the same ideas that Donnie has about mutants.

Don Vizioso’s restaurant is the only building we see in the whole series with a ‘No Mutants’ sign. Donnie has a preconceived notion that the whole world is against mutants, in truth, barely anybody knows about them to say that’s true. All that hatred for what mutants are and the belief that mutants shouldn’t be accepted anywhere is all contained within Don Vizioso’s restaurant. Contained in Donnie’s mind.

I find it no coincidence that Donnie is the one to be put into a dehumanising situation and almost be dissected by Don Vizioso.

‘Vizioso’ translated into English, means things like depraved, vicious, immoral, and the next time Donnie has a run in with Vizioso, how is his actions perceived? Immoral. Vicious. He's quite literally going on a killing spree to face his own ideas, to confront Don Vizioso, his own anger and violence.

When Donnie is about to kill off Vizioso, Leo tells him to not lose sight of who he is, which makes Donnie pause.

Donnie believes mutants aren't ever going to be accepted by humans, that they're freaks. And nobody wants to believe that, he wants to erase those violent thoughts toward himself and other mutants by killing Don Vizioso, a manifestation of his own opinions - but if he kills, he is just going to prove what he thinks humans assume mutants are. Vicious monsters.

And that isn't who Donnie is, Leo reminds him of that. Maybe those negative thoughts of him being a freak won't go away, and maybe humans would actually think they're monsters if they ever got exposed - but if Donnie feeds into violent behaviours he's making those thoughts into true statements.

Donnie knows a killer isn't who he is, and in that moment Leo reminds him of that, he comes to terms with his mindset and realises he has the power to change how he thinks in a more healthy way, deciding not to kill Don Vizioso.

If you're part of a minority/marginalised group, you may struggle with things like internalised homophobia, racism, and ableism because of the way the society around you has built negative stereotypes around those groups. You may hate your own thoughts and hate the world for making you think that way.

It can be hard. If you act out in violence, unlike white, or straight, or able-bodied people, you are more likely to have your differences blamed for your violent behaviours. You feed into people’s stereotypes and negative ideas of certain groups unintentionally. If you struggle with internalised ableism, racism, homophobia/transphobia, the first step is coming to terms with your mindset, and finding a healthy way to accept who you are, and know that stereotypes and preconceived notions don't change you.

Never lose sight of who you are.

-

END SUMMARY:

2012 Donatello is a character with a complex and negative perception of who he is, with many things contributing to that fact.

At the end of the day, Donnie doesn’t seem to actively be after love or April as a person, rather simply a feeling of equality and confidence in general.

He wants to prove his thoughts that mutants are ugly wrong by gaining April as a girlfriend, aware that in society looks heavily contribute to having a romantic partner. Donnie seems to be afraid of humans rejecting mutants in general, but because April is the first human he has a personal relationship with, it’s shown through her.

As for equality, in relationships it's expected that you are treated equally and that no one is superior or inferior to the other, you both have equal say. Donnie is shown to feel that mutants are inferior and not good enough for humans, as shown by how much larger April is than him in his hallucination, and may also crave some sort of feeling of equality by getting into a relationship with someone he deems to be superior than him.

Donnie has also claimed April as some sort of thing to own, in the episode, ‘The Gauntlet’ by saying ‘There's a creature out there trying to hurt my April’ but apologetically changes it to just ‘April’ after he notices April's raised eyebrow at the choice of words. However, when April calls him ‘my mutant’ in ‘A Foot Too Big’ she doesn't stick around to see if he even likes it, or still wants to be in a potential relationship with her after the apology, quickly walking away.

And Donnie definitely doesn't seem to like it, being left confused and upset.

LEAVING NOTE : Thank you for reading, and I hope it was a bit more in - depth and well explained than the last analysis! I just want to say this isn't an attack on April’s character either - the writing isn't great in 2012, each character has noteworthy flaws and I don't think one character's behaviour is ultimately worse than another, including April's. Both her and Donnie are flawed, just like other characters, and I love them both.

Donnie while saying 'Because he's human, that's why.'

Donnie, at the end of 'A Foot Too Big.'

Master splinter be looking kind of different :0 lol can't believe he used to voice 2012 splinter haha

“But if you forget to reblog Madame Zeroni, you and your family will be cursed for always and eternity.”

Statistical Improbability ♡ DonBot x Reader 《 Part 1 》

Summary: You are a lone human survivor in this apocaliptic wasteland. You've made it this far by avoiding any unnecessary conflict with the mutant savages of the desert. Slowly, your drive to survive, the idea that things might get better - more bearable - gets more distant every day as you continue to search for your lost family members.

Just as it seems barely getting through each day is the only thing left for you in this world, your radar picks up a strange reading in the middle of the desert.

Context: This takes place in the wasteland warrior alternative reality/arc. Reader is the last human in the wasteland, and she survived all these years in her futuristic trailer, which she calls Big Bertha.

For some reason, the reader was aware of the Kraang before the mutagen bomb went off. She's repurposed some of their tech for her prothestic arm as well as her trailer.

I have also taken some creative liberties with how DonBot came to be, in the show he is essentially a copy of Donnie's consciousness after his body was destroyed, which is a super dark SOMA-looking plot-point. But I wanted a different flavor of existential angst, so instead DonBot has Donnie's actual brain inside of him! How does that work? Science *jazz hands*

Warnings: Be warned, this is my first TMNT fanfic ever, read at our your discretion. Mixed POVs. Slowburn? Mentions of blood, mentions of a brain in a glass tank, alcohol, a whole bunch of swearing, strangers to reluctant friends trope ( to eventual lovers ), mentions of reader's mysterious backstory, filled with some general trauma and angst.

Word Count: Some 8k+ words

Reader's POV:

"Come back here, I'll turn you into my next leather jacket!" The shrill voice taunted you through a speaker, and you gritted your teeth, grabbing the wheel until your knuckles turned white.

From your rearview mirror you could see the savages closing in from all sides, until your mirror was blown away by a shotgun blast. You grit your teeth and turn the wheel sharply, Big Bertha buckled and groaned as you went off road.

"You want a piece of me?" You pull a speaker from your panel, answering the taunt with one of your own. "Gonna have to catch me first, jerks!"

A savage lunges onto the side of your trailer. He elbows your window, and pieces of glass rain down as the maniac cuts and slashes at your neck.

You dodge just in time for the machete to imbed itself in the leather of your chair. With a primal growl, you kick the door open full force, slamming it into the mutant's face. He staggers and claws at the door, but with a swift boot to the face, he crashes onto the harsh desert sand.

"Maybe taunting the people you stole from was not such a good idea." Bertha's sweet voice hums through the speakers.

"NOT NOW!" You slam your working fist on the middle of the steering wheel. A hidden emergeswith a mechanical *click*. You punch it with all your might, your trailer creaks and shakes as just outside a hidden compartment opens up, a minigun sliding into place, it's barrel spin with a deafening whine.

With near perfect precision it blasts round after round of high powers lasers at the brutes chasing you down. Motorcycles explode and are torn apart in a violent scene. Riders are blasted off from their bikes in a shower of metal parts and flying blood, until the minigun starts to fail, sputtering in a pathetical whirring.

"Bertha, the spike strips!" You scream.

"On it." Beneath your license plate the spike traps are deployed. The spikes cover the ground of the desert, puncturing the tires of the mutants closest to the trailer. You can hear the sickening sounds of screams and screeching as the bikes are torn apart, but the tribe of savages is still hot on your tail, even after most of your tricks.

The rythmic thuds of bullets hit your trailer like rainfall. Were it not for your bulletproof plating you would be swiss cheese laying on the side of the road by now.

A honey badger mutant in an impossibly large motorbike closes in to you, giggling maniacally as it fires a bunch of crossbolts through your door.

A sharp thwack pierces your window, missing the target, but the second dart flies through the window and pierces you through your prosthetic arm and onto your side. The crossbow bolt embeds itself deep as you let out a painful cry.

Your robotic arm glitches and spasms against your will, and the steering wheel jerks out of control. Gritting your teeth, you hold the steering wheel with all of your willpower and force yourself to keep the vehicle on the road.

Out of frustration, you let out a strangled wail and slam the trailer on the motorcycle, sending the mutant flying through the air and tumbling through the rocks and dirt.

"There's too many of them." Bertha warns as her scanners show at least a dozen more savages and you're out of surprises. Despite their persistence, backing down wasn't an option.

"And you've got bigger problems." A warning flashes on your screen and Bertha shows a simulation of a rapidly approaching abyss. "We're approaching a deep chasm in 500 meters, at least a mile deep. You should turn around and find an alternate route."

"And get captured by those losers instead?" You lick your dry lips. "Ain't no way, Bertha."

You suck in a sharp breath, spitting blood and dust out of your broken window. Staring down at the rapidly approaching abyss.

"Give up, girl, and we'll make your end shift!"

Furrowing your brows in concentration, you awkwardly grab the crossbow bolt with your metal hand, snapping the end of the dart to free your arm. You pull down your helmet over your head and buckle your seatbelt.

"I'm gonna jump." You state flatly.

"Wait, that's too dangerous!" Bertha protested through the speakers. "Based on the previous damaged I've sustained, there is less than a 62% chance that-"

"Good enough for me! You got any other bright ideas?" You scream out, but before you get any answers you're cranking the gear shift. "Didn't think so!"

You grab the steering wheel like your life depends on it and hit the pedal. You open another compartment in the panel and smash the turbo button with your malfunctioning hand. The trailer rushes at an impossible velocity, pushing you back into your seat as you approach the edge of the abyss.

The trailer groans as you jump over a well angled rock, going airbone. You let out a strangled scream as you almost hit your head on the ceiling and can hear everything that wasn't chained down falling and hitting the walls of the trailer behind you.

Everything slows down to a stop. People weren't lying when they said you could see things in slow motion when you were about to die.

This is it. This is the end.

You close your eyes as tight as you can, your heart skips a beat or two as your life flashes before your eyes. Every single failure, every single mistake. Oh god, you'll never get to see them again, say sorry for everything that happened, how you wish you could go back. You forget to breathe as you embrace for impact.

The trailer lands harshly on the ground, and everything that wasn’t neatly tied to a wall falls and clatters to the ground. Bertha herself blows a tire from the impact and the fall almost crushes the hull completely on the front, she slides through the ground, creating a cloud of dust as the trailer hits a big rock that turns it on it's side.

The world spins around you as you push your door open, struggling to breathe not just from the dust in the air but your own near death experience.

You try to leave, but your seatbelt pulls you back. You groan in frustration and almost rip the fabric off of you, crawling through your window, away from the near totaled trailer. Gasping for air and struggling to swallow with your dry mouth, you fall to the ground, breathing heavily. You spit some blood and saliva on the rocks, and then out comes whatever’s left of your lunch.

Slowly, you stick your head up. Your double vision still allows you to see one of the savages tried to follow you, only to plunge into the depths of the earth bellow. The rest of the gang stops just at the edge of the abyss, staring daggers at you.

"We'll get you yet, you filthy human!" The tribe of savages shouted obscenities at you from the other side, blaring their horns at you, shaking their weapons and shooting at the sky. Tires screech horrible against the rocky ground before they ride away.

You let yourself fall into the ground, exhausted. On the bright side, the heist paid off. Fuck, who knew getting water could be so life threatening?

-----

Thankfully, the bolt didn't hit you too badly, as your metallic arm took most of the damage, but it still hurt like hell. You winced every time you had to move, and with the amount of repairs you had to make to Bertha, it meant you were wincing a lot.

"Okay, Bertha, prepare yourself." You say as you finished putting the last hydraulic jack into place, you scootch back and stand up slowly, holding your side to ease the pain. Once you're at a safe enough distance, you take a device from your pants and push a button.

The jacks groan loudly as the trailer is slowly pushed back onto it's wheels, for a second it seems like it might slip and crash back into the sand, but at the end the futuristic looking jacks push it with enough force to push the van back upright.

The door to the trailer creaks loudly as you open it up, almost falling off its hinges as you walk inside. It takes a lot of effort from you to get the spare tires from the back and change them.

You sigh, looking back at the abyss you jumped over to escape your mutant pursuers just hours ago. Getting Bertha functional took the better part of the evening, and you were still completely exposed underneath the desert heat.

From far away, you could already see a monstrosity forming on the horizon. Growing at an alarming rate, threatening to engulf everything in its path, a gluttonous entity that would destroy anything that didn't find proper shelter when it finally arrived. A sandstorm, and one of the bigger ones you'd seen.

You hit your clothes to clean them off, but it doesn't do much.

"Bertha?" You asked, using the side of your truck as leverage to get yourself back on your feet.

"Yes?" Her voice sputtered and glitched, the outer speaker damaged from the fall.

"How long until the sandstorm hits us?" You point towards the horizon, as if Bertha could really see you.

"By my calculations," She stays quiet for a couple of seconds. "We've got roughly 12 hours and 23 minutes before it reaches our current location."

With the sandstorm approaching quicker than you anticipated, it wouldn't be enough time to fully repair Bertha. Thankfully, the upgrades you’ve made over the years held up well, but this brilliant escape maneuver certainly put Bertha on her last legs. It didn’t help that the sandstorm brewing might tear her apart before you can make any further repairs.

Defeated, you threw a small wrench into it's toolbox. Getting back to your hideout was of the upmost importance in order to fix Bertha completely, but with the savages and the sandstorm looming on the horizon, you were one crash away from your end. The risk was too great, you needed to wait out this storm somewhere safe.

"Bertha, remember those big rock things we passed by years ago?" You ask as you start to recollect your tools.

"Oh yes, I remember. It was quite a lovely scenario." She chirped.

"Make a route for them," You clap your hands to get rid of the dirty in them and take your tools back to the trailer after getting Bertha functional. "They should only be a couple of hours away. It should shelter us from the worst part of the storm."

----

You struggle to keep your eyes open as you lay in bed. Tossing and turning you grunt every time you put too much pressure on your side and decide to lay on your back, one hand behind your head and another holding your gun close to your chest.

Just as you're about to doze off, you're suddenly thrown a couple inches in the air and fall from the bed, faceplanting onto the ground.

You groan, annoyed. Kicking your legs, you throw off the sheets away from the bed and fall completely to the ground, holding onto the bed to catch yourself as Bertha drives over a bumpy rock and you hit your knees onto the steel floor.

"What's going on, Bertha?" You scream out, "I'm trying to sleep over here."

"The radar's picking up some interesting energy readings."

"Interesting how?" You throw the covers back onto the bed and walk to the front of the trailer, putting a hand on your chin and analyzing some of the bullet holes in Bertha.

"I think you should check it out." You stop in your tracks and frown.

Walking up to the front of the trailer in nothing your pants and a dirty t-shirt, you sneak your head into the passenger's seat. "What?"

"It's some kind of unidentified energy reading about a mile north," The radar shows a small dot in your map, close to the caverns and mountain ranges you were headed off to. "Could be dangerous, should we avoid it?"

You look behind you to the mess of wiring on the ground. You hop onto the passenger's seat, and through the rearview mirror, you can see the sandstorm is coming closer. "How far away is this reading?"

"About a 30 minutes drive."

"No, let's go check it out," You walk to the back of the trailer, slipping into your boots and grabbing your gear. "Could be useful."

After a short drive you finally reach your destination, which seems to be an old town's ruins, bleached under the unforgiving desert sun, battered by the repeated harsh winds of the sandstorms, its once-sturdy walls crumbling into dust and mixing with the desert.

There was nearly nothing left of the decaying buildings. The main street couldn't even be seen, several years without care had cracked it beyond repair, and it was covered in dirt and sand. In the distance, a surviving windmill creaks, what's left of it's blades spin aimlessly in the hot breeze.

The whole trailer shakes and groans as it slowly comes to a stop, just close enough to the ruins that you could see a strange object reflecting the sun from far away, your curiosity peaks, and you tell Bertha to keep what's left of the guns ready.

You swing the doors open, and your heavy boots land on the rocky ground. You huff irritated as the sunlight hits your eyes. The annoying light seems to be coming just further up through the ruins.

Even though the evening draws near, the desert heat immediately hits you full force, it feels like the very sun is trying to cook you alive then and there. You open your waterskin and chug down a generous gulp of the water you stole from the savages. It was all the more refreshing in this scorching heat.

You walk through the ruins of the town, the silence is eery. Reaching what's left of a small house a small object in the sand picks your interest, kneeling down you swipe away the sand and debris, pulling what seems to be a girl's doll from the wreck. You grip it tight in your hand, what was once a bubbling town full of laughter and noise is now a ghost town, the only noise being the whisper of the wind and the occasional scurry of a mutant cockroach or bug beneath the wreckage.

You put the doll inside of your bag and carefully make your way to the strange object laying against a far away crumbling wall. It's metal reflecting the light of the evening sun. You keep your blaster ready to shoot.

As you get closer to the target, you see something that makes you stop in your tracks. A low, sickly hue of purple and pink that glows from the strange object. It was unmistakable.

The telltale sign of Kraang tech.

You dash behind a low wall and grab your blaster. Despite your calculated movements, you could feel your heart pounding in your chest as you sneak a peak, but the thing doesn't move an inch. A million thoughts race through your mind.

Were they really back? Why would they be back? Would it even matter if they came back to finish the job?

You stole a glance up from your cover, analyzing it more intently. It seemed like the strange object was a humanoid figure, laying on the ground close to the wall. Perhaps a broken droid? No. There's no way such a thing could have been made by the Kraang.

You could never forget it, the last time they came through their giant portal and brought their spaceships and guns and weapons of war. All of their machinery was sleek and polished, industrial, shiny to a sickly degree. From what you could see through your cover, this thing looked like it was made out of scrap and garbage, battered and worn down with time.

Crouching down from a safe distance, you start to pull the wrappings from your left arm until it is bare. Your prosthetic. It’s a crude thing, cobbled together from scraps and scavenged parts, far from sleek or efficient. You run your hand over the alien metal that you slapped together with iron and titanium, a makeshift arm that got the job done but constantly reminded you of your failures.

Trailing the slight glow of pink and purple markings in your hand, you almost lose yourself in thought. You breathe in deeply and struggle to close a malfunctioning hand before glancing back at the same faint glow in the machine that stood just a few feet from you.

If you could have found a way to utilize this technology years ago, perhaps others probably found a way as well.

Slowly, you grab a small rock close to your feet, throwing it over the wall. The rock hit the robot's back with an undignified "clunk" and fell to the ground in between its legs, unceremoniously.

"Huh," you think, standing up from behind the wall and making your way to the strange object. Now you could finally see it more clearly. It looked like some sort of robot... No, it was a robot of a humanoid looking turtle... man?

The metal was dark green and weathered by the harsh desert, battered and rough, but weirdly well taken care of considering the circumstances. There were several scratches and imperfections. It looked like it had seen quite the story, but the most curious aspect of the robot's anatomy was its shell, where the letters NYC still read clearly.

NYC. Ground zero.

That was a place you hadn't heard of in years, and now it stared back at you from the top of the manhole cover turned robo-turtle shell.

"Who would build something like this?" Your brows slowly furrowed in confusion.

Gently, you poke the robot on its side with your boot, not really expecting anything, but you keep your good hand on your gun.

Nothing.

You place your boot on its shell and press harder. "Yo, you good?" You tilted your head to get a better look. You prod it beneath its arm - then its face, but the hunk of metal remained motionless.

You wipe the sweat off your brow with a leathery hand.

"Yep, it's dead." Figures.

"If someone abandoned this thing by the road it was probably for a good reason," You say out loud to yourself. "Perhaps it is best to just use it for scrap."

There was just the slighest chance you could get it back online, reprogram it, and you could use a hand or two with big Bertha. An AI assistant was great but a full-on robot?

You hum as you run over the pros and cons through your head. If you leave it here, it'll definitely be torn apart by the sandstorm. The thought of getting mauled by a rogue robot you fixed was something out of a blockbuster horror movie, but the thought of such a fascinating piece of tech being abandoned ate you up inside. What was the saying again? Curiosity killed the cat?

You bit your lower lip, mulling it over.

Kneeling next to the robot, you touch its arm. The intense heat has made the metal so hot you could fry an egg on it. It must have been there for at least a couple of hours. Were it not for your glove, you could have burned yourself. You turn it over carefully, inspecting the indents of the metal and texture. It doesn't seem too badly damaged—nothing you couldn't fix inside big Bertha.

"Looks like we've got ourselves some company, Bertha." Standing up, you hit your pants to get rid of the sand and grab the robot by its legs, taking in a deep breath.

"This is going to hurt." You say to yourself as you start to pull the thing back to your trailer, your side flaring up in excruciating pain with each additional pull.

-----

You haul the robot into your trailer, feeling light headed from the effort. It's heavy body falls to the ground with a thud as you shove it inside.

Slumping against the wall, you press a hand to your side, wincing as it burns and warmth seeps through your fingers. You exhaled, ragged, trying to control your breathing.

"What did you find out there?" Bertha asks as the robot hits the ground, lifeless.

"Just... just a..." You struggle to breathe. "Robot... fuck." Grunting you push yourself back from the wall and close the door.

"Are you okay?" Bertha asks concerned, noticing your labored breathing.

"Damn stitches came undone. I'll be right back." You leave the robot to cool down inside your trailer while you head to your room to fix the stitches.

Bertha rumbles beneath you accelarating, so you can actually reach your shelter before sundown.

You throw your leather gloves and googles on the table. Turning on the trailer's dim lights, they flicker, struggling to keep on as you dig out your supplies -needle, thread, an old bottle of whiskey. You take a swig first, wincing at the bitter taste that burns your throat before dousing a rag and cleaning your wound.

The pain hits sharp, and your side burns as you grit your teeth and start stitching. By the time you're finished, you throw on a cleaner t-shirt before coming back to check on your guest.

Kneeling next to the robot, you brush the back of your hand against its metal plating, noticing it has already cooled down enough for you to fix it up.

With a grunt, you push it into a sitting position on the floor, then crawl behind it, inspecting the faint glow pulsating from its markings. Thing's still got some juice, apparently, but clearly not enough to be functional.

Taking out your notepad, you take your time with the machine. Rough coal sketches take shape in your pages, its segmented shell, the way the kraang technology seems to have been integrated in its sides, and the delicate mechanics of the three-fingered hands. Your calloused fingers trail the edges of its shell and each scratch and bump from the years of use.

"Man, I really would like to meet whoever built this thing." You mutter, jotting down quick notes.

Bertha hums through the speakers, guiding you into the mouth of a cave that's just big enough to shelter you two. Well, all three of you. "Do you think it still works?"

"I guess we'll have to figure it out."

You take a look at its left hand. Some of the screws had become loose. You tighten them up with a few quick turns of your screwdriver. The joints creak as you oil them, and you clean the excess that trails down with an old rag.

With your curiosity peaking, you sit down behind the robot again and carefully take it's head in your hands.

"Time to see what hardware this thing's packing." You tap the back of the robot's head with your screwdriver lightly, but Bertha groans loudly. "Oh, get your mind out of the gutter, Bertha."

Slowly, you remove all of the screws from the head, carefully you peel the plating back-

It slips from your hands, hitting the floor with a hollow *clang.*

Your breath catches in your throath.

"What? Is everything okay?" Bertha asks, voice sharp with concern.

Your feet scramble and scootch backswards quickly until your back hits the wall. A trembling hand covers your mouth.

"Hey, are you okay?" When you struggle to respond, Bertha calls your name loudly, snapping you out of your shock.

You swallow hard, pointing at the robot. "It's got a brain."

Silence.

"What?"

"It has a brain, Bertha!" You push your damp hair back, trying to make sense of the scene in front of you.

The brain sat in a glass-like tank, suspended on a thick, yellowed fluid. Wires snaked inside and hooked it up to a strange spine-line mechanism at the back of what would be its skull. It seemed damaged, some faulty wiring, almost as if he had been hit over the head.

The whole scene looked like something straight out of a science fiction book, and it makes your already empty stomach churn.

Slowly, you push yourself up against the wall, staring at the robot - no, at *him* - slumped lifelessly in front of you.

Is it a person? Some kind of cyborg? Could it have been human?

This thing looked like it was at least two decades old, could it be from the time when the bomb hit?

You gulp, considering your next options. *If it has a brain, it's a person.* Right? And you don't deal with people - if you could even call the savage mutants of the desert people - not since you got tired of pulling knives out of your back.

"Is it a person?" Bertha asks, a tinge of curiosity in her robotic voice.

"I don't know, I mean..." You close your eyes. "Probably?"

"Is he alive?" She questions.

"Maybe?" You laugh nervously, throath dry. "I don’t know what to do." And then you admit.

"Remember your number one rule?" She murmurs.

You nod slowly. "People are trouble."

Bertha hums in agreement. "We can still throw him back into the desert."

Bertha was right, throwing him back into the desert was still an option, but that would probably count as murder, not that you were a saint, but the idea of throwing a helpless person into the wasteland didn't sit right with you. You huff and push yourself off the wall, walking back to the robot and avoiding your mess of tools.

You walk closer to the robot, your legs feeling unsteady with each step you take closer to him. Kneeling, you study his exposed brain, reaching out to touch the glass tank with your metal hand and inspect the damage he'd sustained.

The sandstorm was already coming in strong, the force of the winds outside could be heard from inside the trailer and a cloud of dust started to form through the window.

Your eyebrows furrow as you look at the brain in the glass tank, wondering what kind of person would end up inside a humanoid turtle robot.

You suck in a shaky breath.

Maybe...

Running to your mountain of tools, metal, and other thingamabobs laying on your floor, you rummage through the pile of scrap, throwing useless pieces to your side as your frustration mounts. "Where is it?"

"What are you doing?" Bertha asks, confused at your sudden movements.

"I'm thinking!" You hit your hands in frustration on the floor.

"C'mon, c'mon, tell me I didn't throw it away..." You throw some old pieces of metal and tools around as you frantically search for it, letting out a loud "aha!" Once you finally find it.

From the disorganized pile of tools, you yank out an old dusty kraang charger. It was the same kind they used for their kraang droids, you never even knew what you'd use it for when you found it in the ruins of a building in New York, but you were glad you didn't throw it away now.

"Are you going to turn it on?" Bertha questions. "Are you sure this is a good idea?"

"Maybe, I just..." Scootching closer to the robot. Cyborg. Thing sitting in the middle of your trailer, your fingers fumble, you pick up your tools and put the wires back in its place, being careful not to mess with anything important. "I want to see what kind of person he is."

"And if he's a crazy robot on the loose?"

"Then it's a good thing I've got you here." Once you're sure everything seems to be fixed, you put the metal plating back on its head, and then hook up the spare charger, securing the connection with a quiet click.

Nothing happens.

Your hands tremble in anticipation in your lap, but when nothing changes after a couple of seconds, your shoulders slump. You assume it would take the thing at least a couple of hours to charge up, or maybe you were too late to find it. It might be braindead by this point.

"Great." You close your eyes and push yourself up, rubbing a metal hand down your face. The stupid thing is probably already too far gone to

A sudden jolt. You barely register the whirring hum before it stands up suddenly.

"As- As I was saying, we need to find-" The robot stood up suddenly with enough force to hit you with it's flailing arms. You stagger back, tripping over your toolbox. You let out a sharp yell as you hit your side.

The robot looks around startled at your sudden noise, head snapping to look at you on the floor. A low, electronic hum cuts through the air as his systems kick back online. Glowing markings flickering to life with full power, illuminating the dim trailer in its eerie pulses of purple.

You stare up at it, unmoving.

"What the fuck." You breath out.

The machine shudders, its body humming as systems power up, the robot's limbs twich and readjust after being powered down for so long.

A pause.

Then, in a voice more human than you anticipated:

"Oh."

-----

DonBot's POV:

"As- As I was saying, we need-" A loud electric voice stutters as the robot comes back to life.

Suddenly, his systems kick back on, and his body jerks. He was just in the middle of finishing his sentence when everything went dark. It took a split-second before he readjusted and started to take in his surroundings. He wasn't in the desert, and Raph was nowhere to be seen.

Donatello has been left with his own thoughts for hours as his body powered down, unsure of what had happened, if Raph was even safe.

Alarms flare in his head. His sensors scan his surroundings, locking onto something fascinating and impossible.

A statiscal improbability staring right at him.

A human.

She stares at him with intense eyes, pale as a sheet, as if she'd just seen a ghost. Slowly, she rises to her feet stood slowly, one hand clutching her side, eyes narrowed.

"Uhm." She hesitates. "Hey. Robot, uhm thing, what are you talking about?"

He moves switfly. Before she can even notice it, the woman is being held against the wall with his tech-staff pressed against her throat. She gasps, eyes flashing with fear and anger.

"Who are you? Where am I?" Donatello's voice cuts through the air, synthetic but sharp. Human or not, this girl has just taken him into her trailer, and she might be a threat.

She scoffs.

"Who am I? The girl that pulled your ass from the sun before your circuits melted out there." She nods to the door. "And the girl with the automatic laser guns."

Bertha takes the hint. The walls whiropen, revealing a row of small but deadly laser turrets, all of them simultaneously locking onto the robot's forehead and shell.

"Please disengage from any further attacks." Bertha asks in a sweet voice.

He glances at the guns, then back at the girl's face. The odds were not in his favor.

"So," She starts. "I suggest you back off. And then, we can talk about this." Hands raised in front of her, she raises an eyebrow in question.

He hesitates for a second, but wagers she wasn't one of his attackers from earlier, or he wouldn't be talking right now.

He lets her go. She stumbles forward, coughing and rubbing her throat. That was going to leave a bruise.

She glares up at him. "Damn, some way to say thanks."

"What am I doing here?" His robotic voice demanded.

"Chill out, I found you in an old town's ruins and took you in." She rubbed her collarbone from where he hit her with the bo-staff. Ouch, damn thing came out of nowhere.

"I thought you were scrap or something, then I opened up your plating." She taps the side of her own head. "What the heck even are you?"

Donatello stiffens.

"I'm a person!" He stammers. "Well, turtle. Well, okay, turtle mind in a robot body. But, I-"

She furrowed her brows the longer he kept rambling, but it didn't make it any easier for Donatello to find the words to explain his current predicament.

"My body was destroyed, but I was cybenetically wired to Metalhead Mark II, a robot I designed. So, I transferred my consciousness into this machine." He gestures at himself.

She looked at him up and down, never did he feel so comscious about his new robotic body. The girl blinks slowly. It takes her a moment to process.

"Okay..." She rubs her temple. "So, you're not like an AI or something."

"No." He shakes his head.

"You're a person." She stated.

"Mutant turtle," He correct, "But well. Yes."

"Mutant turtle." She repeats and lets out a snicker. "Fine. What were you doing cooking out there in the sun, turtle man?"

Oh, that's right.

"Raph!" He lets out a scream, suddenly remembered what got him into this mess.

"What?"

"He's my brother, I need to find him!" He ran off to the door, but the girl grabbed him by the arm and yanked him back.

"Did your circuits get fried out there!?" She pushed him against the wall and pointed a finger to the window. "We're in the middle of a sandstorm!"

Outside, the sandstorm rages - thick, churning clouds of dust outside the mouth of the cave.

He pushes her hand off of him. "But I—"

“Fine,” She snarls, shaking her head and gesturing to the door. “You wanna kill yourself out there? Be my guest, but I'm not driving out there in this storm."

He clenches his fists, scanning the storm while she walks away, throwing her hands into the air before sitting down at her table and grabbing some tools nearby.

Defeated, he lets out a robotic sigh, unfortunately this stranger was right, the winds howled outside, even though it seemed that they had taken shelter inside some sort of cave, the wind that made it into the cave was still strong enough to thrash against the walls of the trailer.

The sandstorm is picking up intensity—howling gusts of dirt and debris hammer against the thin metal and glass. Inside, it's dim, save for the flickering lights and a lantern, as well as the faint glow of the old Kraang charger that was still connected to his body. His systems were still blinking to life slowly, his power had run way too low, he wouldn't make it far.

Donnie just hoped his brother could take care of himself a little bit longer until he got back.

Curiosity peaks again, and he looks at the human woman in front of him, she sat at the table with all sorts of tools, fiddling with her mechanical arm.

----

Reader's POV:

You try to ignore him, but your nerves are wrecking you. Having someone in your personal space was a bit unnerving after so long. Sure, you had Bertha, but she wasn't really a person.

You can feel his sensors scanning you, even though you’re not looking at him. You half contemplated shutting him down again, if that would even be possible. After all, he did attack you.

The storm outside thickens, the sand’s beginning to coat the glass, blurring everything outside into a hazy mess. The atmosphere feels thick—suffocating.

You glance back when you can feel his gaze hasn't shifted in a couple of long seconds. When your eyes meet his sensors, he averts his gaze. You let out a huff and go back to meddling with your still damaged prothesis.

He finally breaks the silence.

"So, how did a human end up in the wasteland? When the mutagen bomb hit, there was nobody left."

You sigh, turning back into your chair to look at him.

"A brilliant observation, I hadn't noticed." You reply sarcastically and snap your real fingers. "I just did, that's it." There's a bitter tone that you don't even attempt to hide.

In a way, you envy the mutants of the desert, your lonely life fit you, of course, but it also meant always looking over your shoulder, patching your own wounds, rescuing yourself all the time.

"That's not a real answer." He presses, snapping you away from your train of thought.

"That wasn’t a real question." You snap back. "What's with the interrogation?"

He shakes his head.

"Just trying to make conversation since you saved my life and all, and we're going to be stuck together until this sandstorm passes."

She glances up at him, narrowing your eyes. "Since when do robots make small talk?"

"I told you - I'm not a robot."

"Fine." You grumble, focusing on the upper end of your arm, where it connected to your shoulder. "Ever since the world turned into, well, shit. End of story."

He watches you, silent for a long moment, sat in a makeshift seat across the room. "Are there any others?"

"I've got no idea," you growl, but your voice lacks conviction. "If I knew you were this chatty, I'd have thought twice about hauling you into my trailer."

He flinches just slightly, and you feel a pnag of regret into your chest.

The silence stretched again.

The tension was so thick you could cut it with a knife. You tried to pay it no mind as you attempted to get your arm fully operational again. You swore underneath your breath as the screwdriver slipped from your grasp, clattering to the floor. Scooting over to the edge of your seat so you could pick it up.

Before you reach it, the robot beat you to it.

"Looks like you could use a hand or two." He offers you the screwdriver. "You know, I'd say I've got quite the experience."

You ponder it for a second, before rolling your eyes and nodding to the seat in front of you.

He almost seems excited when he sits down. Slowly, he starts to inspect your prosthetic with careful precision.

"Who built this?" He asks, turning your arm in his oversized three-fingered hand.

"I did." You answer flatly.

His eyes, or sensors brighten - literally. "Oh woah." He turns your hand around in his own. It was almost comical how small your fingers looked in comparison to his. "This is amazing! I've never seen technology integrated in a prosthetic like this before."

You blink.

"Thanks."

He inspects the faint purple glow in your prosthetic.

"Where did you get this tech from?" He questions as he starts to loosen some screws.

"This? I could ask you the same thing." She raises an eyebrow with a smirk, looking at the same purple glow in his mechanisms.

"Well, does saying it comes from aliens from another dimension make sense to you?"

You chuckle. "Uhm, yeah."

He starts to adjust some of the internal wiring, his movements swift and precise. You watch with interest at how much control he seems to have over his hands, even though he only has 6 fingers in total.

"I'm sorry, by the way. For earlier, for attacking you. And for the questions, I didn't mean to offend," it says softly. "It's just fascinating! I- I mean," he stutters as he tries to find the best way to put his thoughts into words, rolling the screwdriver in his hand as he explains.

You tense, caught in between shutting his next question down or brushing it off.

"You might be the only human left in the wasteland."

Your jaw clenches.

"Hooray for me." You say bitterly and ball up your real fist.

The robot’s silence is palpable, a weight in the air. For a moment, he doesn’t say anything, but you feel the intensity of its observation.

"Sorry." He apologizes softly.

You bite back your sharp tongue.

"Look. " You hesitate, "It was pure luck. When the bomb hit, I happened to be in a makeshift lab of mine. It was enough to get me to survive the bomb and then the, well, fallout."

"But enough about me, you're a person, right? What's your name, turtle-man?" You change the topic of the conversation before he could prod any further into your personal life.

"Donatello" He answers. "But you can just call me Donnie."

'"Donatello." You tilt your head. "You're italian?"

That gets a chuckle out of him. "No, my father just really admired the great artists of the Renaissance." He takes away a damaged piece and replaces it with a new one.

"What's your name?"

You hesitate, but it's not like this nugget of information would tell him much else about yourself, so you tell him.

You watch as he repeats it slowly in a low voice, testing how it feels in his voicebox.

"That's a nice name."

"Psst. Maybe," You say, "But nobody really calls me that anymore. These days, when I meet someone they usually just call me something like 'Ghost'."

"The Ghost?" He asks, confused.

"Yep, you know." You sigh. "Last human on the wasteland and all." He thinks for a moment, then nods in understanding.

"So you're the one who built this robot body you're in right now?" You question him, looking back in his eyes, sensors? It felt weirdly personal, so you averted your gaze.

"I built this battle robot once, his name was Metalhead" He nods and hums as he explains, "But he got destroyed, so I made another one. I would never have thought it'd end up saving my life but, here we are."

"Cool." You say. "Not the your body getting destroyed part but, erhm, you know..." You rub the back of your neck with your good hand, cringing at the way your own voice sounded. Who knew spending years only talking to an AI assistant would put such a damper on your social skills.

"What about the voice that came through the speakers early?" He points at the speakers. Seaking of the devil...

"It's rude to talk about someone that's listening." Bertha chirps in, Donnie looks flustered for a second and starts to stutter out an apology.

"That's Bertha,sdon't mind her. She's my AI assistant." You answer. "I programmed her so she could be my lookout and auto-pilot."

"Just your lookout and auto-pilot?" She feigns hurt. "And here I thought we were actual friends." You roll your eyes and smile at Bertha's dramatics. Donatello watches the exchange in amusement.

"That's resourceful. No wonder you survived so long in the desert." He points out.

You give him a small smile.

"You know," Donatello says after a moment, "It's been a long time since I've had a conversation with anyone other than my brother."

"What happened to him?"

His hands still.

"Oh brother, we were ambushed by a gang of savages, then I lost consciousness." He admits. "When I came back online I was, well, here. I hope he's okay out there."

You grunt, shifting in your chair. "Seems like you two have made it pretty far. Can he take care of himself?"

"It's not that," Donnie says, his voice is quieter this time "He's lost most of his memories before the bomb. I'm worried about what could happen to him... but mostly, what could happen to anybody in his way."

Stealing a look at your own wall, your eyes find the lonely picture frame of you back in high school, surrounded by your father and friends, the only spec of your old life you had left at this point. You sigh, letting your gaze fall on the ground as you reflect.

"Do you have any idea where to start searching?" You finally look at him as he inspects your fingers in his own.

"Once the winds die down I could try to triangulate his location." He puts your hand down, inspecting his work.

"Sounds like a good start." You answer, wanting to add that you would help, you before you could speak again, he had already finished.

"And there you have it!" He spins the screwdriver in his hands before placing it in your toolbox. "A not so brand new robotic arm, but completely functional nonetheless."

You flex your fingers. The movement feels smoother than before, as if you had never even been shot.

You glance at him. "Thank you, Donatello."

His head tilts slightly, almost as if he's smiling. "You're welcome."

He looks at you, waiting for you to add anything else. The moment lingers longer than it should as you don'treally know what else to say.

He clears his throat, rubbing the back of his head. "So, how did this even happen?" He looks at your prosthetic arm, but you can also see him glance at the bullet marks in Bertha's plating.

"Savages." You say, keeping your voice even. "Had a run-in with them, too."

He waits expectantly. You rub your neck.

"Are you going to elaborate?" Donatello asks, more confused than annoyed.

"Hmm. Nope." You shake your head.

"Oh, okay." You chuckle at his response, half expecting him to press, but glad he took the hint.

You get up, popping your joints and gathering your tools.

"Well, it's getting late, and I've had a full day, so..." You let out a yawn and point towards your room.

"Oh, right! Seems like this storm isn't going to die down anytime soon."

"Do you need anything?" You cross your arms, and shift your weight from one foot to the other.

"I'll be fine, you've already done enough for me. Thanks." Donatello replies.

"Right." A long silence stretches between you, filled only by the howling wind outside and the occasional scrape of debris against the trailer. The storm rages on, the moment feels awkward, but for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel so alone. "Aight, imma head off now."

"Good night."

"Good night, Donatello." You close the door to your room behind you.

Mutant apocalypse Donnie 🧪💜sketch

So it is very late and I should be asleep but I actually finished the second part of the secrets we inherit and I am so excited for how it is turning out but I gotta wait to post it, I need to at least pretend I proofread my shit before forcing it upon the world

Statistical Improbability ♡ DonBot x Reader 《 Part 2 》

Oh mi gosh it's been so many months... hahah

I promise I'm still alive! And I'm still working on these parts, slowly but surely

Anyway here's part 2

Summary: Reader has a nightmare, Donnie and Reader have some cute moments, there's a fight, a kid gets kicked somewhere during it, Bertha is sassy.

Warnings: There is a ghost of proofreading somewhere in between drafts, read at your own risk. Mixed POVs. Slowburn? Mentions of blood, swearing, strangers to reluctant friends trope, mentions of reader's mysterious backstory, some semblance of an action scene, this chapter is filled with some general trauma, self deprecation and angst on reader's part, she also gets shot. Reader is really going through it today™. The whole shebang.

Word Count: Around 7.5k words. Trying to keep these parts roughly the same size

Dumb.

Stupid.

Fucking idiot.

The words ricochet inside your skull, each new one made your heart throb. Breathing felt like a chore, almost as if a heavy anvil was pressing down onto your chest, suffocating you, killing you slowly.

The air felt like lead, thick and unyielding. Your head spun as the words echoed with each unsteady step you took down the cold, empty hall. Just a little further, you told yourself, but the hallway stretched on endlessly, twisting in impossible directions, a nightmarish labyrinth. The generator, the exit—it’s just there around the corner, I know it is.

But no matter how many doors you passed, no matter how many corners you rounded, you were trapped. The silence was deafening, only broken by the agony of his voice—raging, desperate, each yell like a blade scraping against your nerves. He was getting closer. He was almost right behind you.

"Come back here!" His screams of agony hurt your ears, but each new insult, each new threat, it was loud and clear.

The sound of metal crashing, doors ripped from their hinges— Nathan's fury echoed through the labyrinth of this forsaken place. You couldn't run fast enough. You shouldn't have been so foolish, to think you could find a solution, to think you could find a cure? What a sick joke, and now you've only made everything worse.

Holding back sobs and sniffs you try to make it through the twisting nightmarish halls of the abandoned laboratory, you had to make it to the generator. Your hands shake as you press them against the walls to stop yourself from tumbling over.

Stumbling close to the generator you grab your laptop. Focus, you tell yourself as your sweaty hands struggle to work. All you need is to divert the power, lift the lockdown. Just one more click, and you'll be out in no time.

But the generator sputters and dies, and the lights flicker, plunging you in an inky darkness that almost sticks to your skin, thick and heavy like oil. Your fingers tremble, sliding over the cold keyboard, too slippery with sweat to type correctly. You can feel your grip slipping, losing control as the reality of your situation closes in.

The laptop crashes to the floor, a dull thud followed by the sound of cracking glass as the screen shatters and the glitches. No, no, no... Panic quickly sets in as you take it back and try to get it to work, you groan in frustration and punch the screen, the glass digs into your knuckles and the laptop dies completely. The weight of the world presses down, suffocating, it's over.

You hold your breath, placing your hands over your mouth to keep yourself as silent as possible as you can hear his heavy footsteps running through the halls. *Maybe he won't find me.* Your heart races, and then you hear it—the claws, the scraping sound growing closer, more predatory. *He found me.*

A heavy weight slams into you from behind, throwing you to the floor with bone-cracking force, you can feel a sharp pain shoot through the entirety of your side as you hit the ground. You cry out and gasp for air, but the world spins wildly around you as dagger sharp claws sink into your skin, tearing, ripping through your flesh. Your scream echo through the lab, but there's nobody to hear them.

A flicker of light reflects in his claws, glinting sickly red in the darkness. You can see your own terrified reflection in his crooked glasses. You try to apologize, to beg, but your voice is lost in the storm of pain shooting up from your arm. His claws rise above you, poised to strike.

You shut your eyes, bracing for the end, raising your hands in front of your face as if you could prevent the final, fatal blow.

---

You shoot up in bed, gasping for air, your heart hammering in your chest. You could almost feel the taste of blood still in your mouth, the ghost of a metallic, sickly tang that doesn't leave.

Your hand fumbles for the gun beside you, gripping it so hard that the cold metal leaves imprints in your palm. Bloodshot eyes dart wildly around the room, the pitch black suffocating you in its oppressive silence. The sound of your own ragged breathing fills the room.

"Anybody there?" You say it no louder than a shaky whisper, barely audible in your dark room.

Nothing.

Your gun slips from your grasp, clattering against the floor. You raise your trembling hands in front of your face and grasp your prosthetic pulse, cold, shivering. You close your eyes, your heart beats against your chest so hard you can feel it against your ears. You slow down your beating, attempting to calm yourself down.

It's gone, he's gone, it was just a nightmare. I'm in Bertha, I'm safe.

But even as you repeat the words like a mantra, like a prayer in your mind, a chill runs through you that makes your stomach sink.

I'm not safe. I'm never leaving this hell.

You feel your breath hitch, and for a moment, you almost laugh at the absurdity of it all. What am I doing? You push the hair sticking to your face back, your hand slick with sweat. The day’s events replay like a cruel joke, from barely escaping savages to stumbling across a mutant turtle in a robot’s body—what was this, some kind of twisted science fiction book?

Every breath feels like it’s pulling you deeper, suffocating you with the weight of everything. The guilt spirals through you like a whirlpool, drowning you. Mistakes, regrets, all of it leaves you empty, and the cascading of silent tears starts to stream down your face.

The sheets, once comforting, now feel like needles, the fabric scratching at your skin, irritating. The symbol of comfort that used to be your refuge is now just another reminder of everything you’ve lost, everything you can’t escape.

You sit there, breathing raggedly, unsure if you’re trembling from fear, guilt, or something far worse. Maybe it’s all of it.

You're not sure how long you stayed like that for, the same thoughts spiralling through your head like a tornado of guilt, eating you up inside as each new mistake leads to a new wave of shame, and each regret you remember just fills you with despair.

You push the sheets aside, letting them fall to the floor.

It doesn’t matter. Nothing does anymore.

You get up from the bed before you could go over those dark thoughts any longer. You roll your shoulders and pop stiff joints as you shuffle toward the window. The blinds creak as you pull them open, and sunlight spills into the trailer in a soft golden flood. It’s warm on your face—gentle, like the world hasn’t gone to shit —and for a moment, it almost feels normal. Outside, the sand has settled. The storm’s over. You survived another night.

You linger there longer than you should, blinking into the light like it might make you forget of the darkness inside of your heart. But then your mind drifts— Donatello, he’s still here, somewhere in your trailer. That strange, unexpected guest. The memory of the nightmare loosens its grip just enough to let curiosity take its place. You drag your fingers through your hair and wipe at your face, muttering a quiet curse.

You make a half-hearted attempt to look presentable—just enough to avoid pity or prodding questions—then open your bedroom door and step into the main cabin.

Empty.

The trailer’s still. Quiet.

Your brow lifts slightly, suspicious. No heavy footfalls, no mechanical humming. Just silence.

Did he leave?

Your stomach tightens. You stride over to the cabinets and start checking—drawers, toolboxes, storage crates. The essentials are still there, mostly. A few tools missing. Not much else. No signs of a scuffle, no busted locks.

If he looted me, he did it politely.

Still, you frown. He wouldn’t have just wandered off with a toolbox in his hand—not into this wasteland. Not without wheels. Even someone like him wouldn’t last long alone in the open desert. And he didn't strike you as stupid.

You glance toward the door, heart beating a little faster now— Where the hell did you go, Donnie?

The low sharp hiss of something sizzling snaps you out of your thoughts.

You pause with your hand resting on the trailer door, thumb brushing the worn edge of your gun. Carefully, you step outside, blinking against the dry glare of morning sun. The storm had scrubbed the sky clean, and now it hung cloudless, a sickly pale blue. You follow the faint sound of whistling, trailing it to the front of the trailer.

He’s under it. Of course he is.

Metal legs jut out from beneath the frame, kicking slightly as he hums a tuneless melody. Your eyes drift to the open toolbox by his side—your toolbox—and your brows knit together. Unbelievable.

You cross your arms, tilt your head, watching in silence. He mutters to himself, something about rust patterns and heat damage and "whoever welded this should be arrested."

"Hey," you say, flat but firm.

THUNK.

A hollow metallic crack rings out, followed by a yelp. You cringe at the sound.

"Gah—desert apples!" Donatello slides out from under the trailer with one hand pressed to his forehead, a faint scuff marking the metal. The light of his visor slightly brightens, adjusting to the sun as he looks up at you, then he does a small head tilt. "Good morning. Didn’t think you’d be up so early."

You arch an eyebrow. "Didn’t think I’d wake up to someone crawling under my home."

He shrugs, unapologetic. "Thought I’d pitch in. You saved my shell, after all."

Donnie gestures toward the frame and taps it with a knuckle. "Figured your girl here could use some TLC. Judging by the way this thing's rattling, I’m guessing you mistook a cliff for a speed bump?"

You stare at him, arms still crossed, lips twitching.

"Something like that. What are you doing, exactly?"

He sits up and casually gestures toward the undercarriage. "Your girl’s suspension was practically crying. I figured I’d take a look."

You frown. "You could’ve asked me before tinkering with it."

He shrugs. "Didn’t want to wake you."

Your gaze lingers on the toolbox—how neatly he’s laid everything out. You walk closer to him and crouch near your tools: "What did you touch?"

"Only what was already broken." He raises his hands slightly. "Scout’s honor."

You glance at him sideways. "You don’t look like the scout type."

"And yet here I am. Fixing your suspension."

You press your lips together, trying not to let the hint of amusement show. You grab a wrench and nod toward the trailer.

"Fine. Let me make sure you didn't rig anything up to explode, and if anything else breaks after this, I’m blaming you."

Donatello chuckles. "Deal."

You both spent the next half hour working in near silence, the occasional scrape of tools and muttered commentary filling the air. You kept your distance, arms crossed, throwing sideways glances when he wasn't looking—or at least, when you thought he wasn't. He didn't say much, focused on his repairs, but there was something oddly calming about watching him work. Mechanical precision mixed with something more... thoughtful.

"You sure that’s the right bolt?" you asked, crouching nearby, arms crossed.

He slid out slightly and stared at you. "You're gonna have to be more specific. There's like… fifty bolts under here."

You arched an eyebrow. "The one you just dropped, again, for the third time. You sure you know what you’re doing under there?”

His voice floated back, smug. “Of course I do! I’m not just a pretty shell, you know.”

Before you could answer him, Bertha’s dashboard lights flickered to life, and her voice croaked online, dry and annoyed.

"System diagnostics: 74% operational. Suspension barely hanging on. Probably because someone thinks duct tape is an acceptable structural solution."

"Bertha,” you sighed, "It's good to hear from you again."

"Yes, well. Hard not to wake up when I’m being ‘repaired’ with the finesse of two raccoons in a toolbox."

"Oh, excuse you." You answer her back. "Sorry if we have to make do in the middle of an apocalypse, not professional enough for ya."

Bertha ignored you, voice feigning weariness. "Honestly. I’ve survived mutant raiders, electrical storms, and a sand vulture infestation. But this? This is the real test."

Donatello stifles a laugh as he wipes oil from his hands. "She’s... charming."

"She’s mouthy," you mutter, though there’s an edge of affection in your tone.

"Oh please, I'm starting to think you enjoy it."

Donatello looked at you, his voice clearly amused. "Is she always like this?”

"Built-in personality chip," Bertha said. "Came with ‘advanced diagnostics’ and ‘unfiltered sarcasm. At this rate, I’ll be road-ready in... oh, a week. Maybe two."

"Oh please, spare me the drama. We're almost done, you'll be fine." You answered her sass with some of your own.

Bertha sighed dramatically. "I’ll start drafting my will just in case."

You rolled your eyes, shaking your head with a grin and patting the trailer on it's hull. "Glad to have you back, Bertha."

"Of course you are," she said. "Who else is going to keep you two from turning me into a glorified tin can?"

After the light banter with Bertha it didn't take you and Donatello too long to get the trailer fixed up. Once everything was ready, Donatello helped you take the tools back to your trailer and you told him you could take him wherever he needed, he seemed satisfied to be left at the nearest village, so that's where you two were headed to.

He climbed in beside you on the trailer, you grinned as Bertha’s systems powered up completely and the engine hummed back to life.

----

You toss a scratched-up CD into the player. An old rock tune crackles to life as the trailer rolls out into the wide-open wasteland, tires kicking up dust as your home-on-wheels trudges forward.

The silence between you is thick. Not hostile—just awkward. Like two strangers stuck in an elevator, except the elevator is a solar-powered survival trailer in the middle of a sun-scorched desert filled with feral mutants, and one of you is a six-foot tall turtle in a robot body.

You keep your eyes on the road. What do you even say to someone like him? Nice weather for the apocalypse? It’s easier to just focus on the path ahead. Still, you steal the occasional glance. He hasn’t said much since you left.

Meanwhile, Donatello was stuck in a similar predicament, he sat stiffly in the passenger seat, fingers twitching in thought. He wanted to ask her a hundred questions—about her, what was her life like before, what she liked, how she built Bertha —but every time his voice threatened to start, the words got caught in his voice modulator. She didn’t seem like the type who liked being pried into, and he didn’t want to ruin whatever fragile peace was forming between them.

He let out a soft, synthetic sigh. You caught it, glancing over with a raised brow, but said nothing.

His mind drifted back to Raph. He tried not to let the concern take root, but he just couldn't shake the feeling. Where are you, big guy?

"So." A sweet voice derailed his train of thought and he looked at the human. He tilted his head in curiosity, "you said you're good with car repairs, right? Why's that, were you a mechanic before all of this?"

Donatello blinked and looked at you. The question surprised him.

"Not exactly," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "I used to build some things before this... There was the Party Wagon, the Shellraiser…" He started counting on his three-fingered hand, and you had to stiffle a laugh at the names.

You quirked a brow. "The Shellraiser?"

He could hear the amusement in your voice, even if you were trying to hide it. “Hey! What's wrong with the name?"

You fought back a smirk. "Nothing! It's actually perfect, it's just, is everything you make turtle themed?"

"Hey, it's a great theme."

You gave a small chuckle, but quickly looked away, fingers tightening on the wheel. "Right. Speaking of which, you said you were a mutant before this. Was that before or after the mutagen bomb?"

"Always been a mutant." He replies flatly, but that peaks your curiosity.

"Really? Were you never human?"

"Nope." He shakes his head, "I started out as a baby turtle, me and my brothers got hit with the ooze and here I am."

"Huh, that's, interesting." So he was always a mutant, you wagered it wasn't much different from some of the younger desert folk, but it was still something curious. "So if you were a mutant before all of this— what was your life like?"

“Oh, it was the best. My father— Master Splinter, he taught me and my brothers everything we knew. Ninjutsu, discipline, philosophy... how to fight, how to think.” He gave a soft chuckle.

He leaned back on his elbows, exhaling. “Back before all this... before everybody went crazy and the sand swallowed everything... we fought to save the world from these things called the Kraang. Nasty alien brain-things. They tried to take over the Earth. We stopped them. Barely.”

You watched his body language shift—shoulders slumped, nostalgia softening into sorrow.

“I had a lab. Gadgets. Friends. Pizza. And my brothers—Raph, Mikey, Leo. We fought, we joked, we looked out for each other.”

"Seems like you all were quite close." You comment and he nods.

"We didn't always get along, but, we cared about each other." He shifted in his chair and left out a soft, glitchy sigh. "Raph and I had a big fight before the fall. Stupid stuff. Then we were ambushed. I lost him.”

Donatello looked over at you, a quiet fire in his visor. “I have to find him."

You nodded slowly. “If he's out there, we’ll find him, Donnie.”

His antenna shifted and with the way he tilted his head, it almost seemed like he was smiling, for a moment you both fell quiet again.

"And what about you?" Ah, of course he'd ask you.

"What about me?" You stole a glance at him, before looking back at the desert.

"What was your life like before all of this?"

You sigh.

"Well, I asked you about your life, only fair you ask about mine, I guess." You shift in your seat. "My dad worked at TCRI," you said, almost surprised by your own voice.

"He was a chemical engineer. Smart, kinda goofy, loved soccer and puzzles. He used to bring home all kinds of weird samples—crystals, spores, little things in jars that glowed when you shook them." You smiled faintly at the memory. "Said his research was going to 'change the world.'"

Donatello looked up, attentive but silent.

"I was just finishing my engineering degree when he sat me down one night. Looked pale like death. Said there was something wrong. Said the guys he was working for weren't who they said they were, that they were actually something called the Kraang, sound familiar?" She looks at Donnie for a brief second. "That he thought they were aliens from another dimension. I thought he had lost it. But then… he made me promise I’d run if anything happened to him."

Donatello's voice softened. “They took him?”

You swallowed and nodded.

"He was taken the next morning. By men in suits, in black vans. I didn’t even get to say goodbye. That was the last time I ever saw him."

Donatello didn’t speak, just listened.

"So I ran. Hid out. But I couldn’t let it go. I needed to know what happened to my dad," You gave a bitter laugh. "I thought maybe if I, I don't know, solved the mystery of my dad's disappearance I could stop whatever was coming. Maybe even find him."

She glanced over at him.

"Then the bomb hit. Just like that, all of it, gone. And, well, I was the only survivor, in a way."

"I lost my home that day too," he said. "My friends, my brothers. All of it."

Your brows knit together and you shake your head, voice low. "It sucks, right? Funny thing is, even after everything that's happened, I never stopped thinking about him. Even now, I wonder what happened."

"I'm so sorry that happened to you." He whispered your name at the end.

You looked at Donatello then—really looked. Even though he didn't even have any facial muscles to speak of, you could swear you saw a hint of something behind his visor. Different stories. Same pain.

"Yeah, well." You shrug, "Me too."

Donatello didn’t reply right away. But he reached out and gently placed a hand over yours. The metal was cold, but the gesture itself felt warm. He gave you a good squeeze and then took away his hand, he didn't say anything afterwards, but the silence didn’t feel as awkward anymore.

------

You’re cruising the desert highway, dust curling in your wake when something catches your eye—a cluster of suspicious movement in the distance. You squint. A little girl, strung up in the air, restrained and apparently asking for help by the way she was flaining wildly.

Donatello almost jumps in his seat and grabs the panel of the trailer, clearly having noticed the scene and wanting to do something about it.

Your stomach knots, you're almost driving over. Fingers tighten around the steering wheel. But then you see it—light glinting off something at her hip. Too shiny. Too deliberate.

You slam your foot on the pedal and jerk the wheel hard, veering away.

"What the hell are you doing?!" Donatello shouts, twisting in his seat. "It's a kid!"

"Might be bait," you mutter, eyes fixed ahead. "Savages pull this trick all the time. You stop to save the helpless kid, and suddenly your tires are gone, your supplies too—and if you're lucky, you walk away."

"You don’t know it’s a trap!" He protests.

"I know enough," you snap, offended. "And I’m not dying over a decoy."

Donatello stares at you like he’s seeing you for the first time. "Seriously? That’s it? Just keep driving?"

You glance at him, jaw tight. "It's not our problem."

His voice is sharp, angry now. "Not our—? Wow. I thought you were better than this."

You laugh, dry and bitter. "Better than what, exactly? You don’t know me."

"You're right," he says, quieter now. "Just... I thought you were better than someone who turns their back on a kid."

You look over, ready to fire something back—but the passenger door’s wide open, and Donatello is nowhere to be seen.

“Donnie?" you call, blinking in disbelief.

"He jumped. If that wasn't obvious enough." Bertha chimes in.

“Oh for—goddamn it. You want to die? Fine by me. Stupid, fucking, robot, ugh." You slam your fist on the steering wheel, cursing under your breath. His words echo in your skull.

"I spent whoever knows how long oiling that jerk's joints and now he wants to go out into this scorching heat and die over some, scavenger ambush, that's fine." You shrug and monologue loudly, biting the inside of your cheek in frustration and pushing your foot deeper into the pedal. "Totally cool. Cool, cool, chill. Awesome sauce."

Your grip tightens and on the side of your eye you catch a glimpse of the photo you keep close to the panel. It's a photo of you and your Dad, the only one you had left. You pick it up and look at him, a bittersweet feeling washes over you and you look outside of your window, Donatello's figure becoming smaller and smaller in the distance.

You think back to the last day you saw your Dad, the last time you saw Nathan, how both of those times you ran off, and never saw them again. You sigh in frustration, then whip the wheel around.

"Hey—uh, what’s happening?" Bertha chimes in, voice dry. "Because if this is another one of your spontaneous heroic breakdowns, I would like to register a formal complaint."

"It's not a heroic moment, it's a me doing something stupid moment," you mutter, flooring it toward the kid.

"Stupid, confirmed," Bertha replies. "Shall I ready the medbay? Or the flamethrowers?"

"Both, and ready the guns."

The trailer roars forward, kicking up dust and fury. When you're getting closer your see, the spikes they throw on the ground and the savages that ride in on their motorcycles when they notice you approaching rapidly, shouts rising and weapons fumbling in surprise as Bertha readies her own.

Your front tire burst with a deafening pop, the whole rig lurching sideways. You lose control as the trailer fishtails wildly across the cracked asphalt.

"Shit—!" you yank the wheel, but it’s too late.

Metal screeches. The trailer slams into the wall, the crunch of impact ringing through your bones.

Smoke hisses from the hood. You cough, blinking through the haze. Your fingers scrabble at the jammed seatbelt, adrenaline still spiking.

So much for this morning’s repairs.

You can hear the sound of gunshots and fighting outside, but you couldn't see Donatello through the clouds of dust.

You kick the door open and rip your seatbelt. Bertha’s guns whir to life, spitting fire at the circling savages as you bolt into the chaos. Sand and smoke sting your eyes. You pull a knife from your boot, heart hammering and cut the rope that was keeping the girl strung up in the air.

"Hey—easy," you call, crouching low as you reach the little girl on the ground. "I’m just here to get you out, okay?"

The little rat mutant hisses at you, feral but as you tell her your intent, she slowly stops flailing. She hesitates and seems to consider your words. Then she nods.

You slash through the ropes around her wrists, the tension in her limbs easing—but the second you cut the binds on her legs, she bites.

"OW—what the hell?!"

Her sharp teeth sink into your hand. You hope she doesn't have rabies. Before you can shake her off, she grabs your knife—and your gun. Fast hands for someone so small.

You spot a glint on her hip—another weapon—and realize too late: she’s pulling something. You kick her off instinctively, and she tumbles back with a growl.

"What the hell, kid?! Give me that back!"

"No way, you filthy human!" she snarls, scrambling up.

Called it. Your gut churns.

She kicks sand straight into your eyes. You scream, blinded—then a shot grazes your ribs. Pain flares sharp and hot. You hit the ground, groaning, crawling backward as a dust cloud swallows the fight. You can’t see a damn thing.

As you try to find your footing, sharp claws grab at your hair. You shriek, kicking, thrashing, but it’s no use. You’re yanked through the sand like a rag doll, away from Bertha—whose wheels now spin, shot to hell, her guns silent.

The savage drags you up by the roots of your hair, forcing you to your knees. Blood trickles down your scalp. He presses a rusted machete to your throat—close enough that when you swallow, your skin kisses the edge.

"It’s over now, girl," he growls, breath hot and rancid. "You and your friend thought you could steal from us and live?"

You glare at him. But the fear? Yeah, you're not hiding it as well as you'd like. He laughs when he sees it.

"Any last words?"

You eyes dart around the place, where did Donatello go? He was there for a second, and now he was gone.

He ditched me. Your heart tightened. *Of course he did, maybe he was with them, and this was all an elaborate ruse for me to let my guard down. Well, shit, joke's on me for having a bleeding heart.

You turn your gaze to the ground, and then look up with teary eyes, looking at the savage with what seems to be a regretful look behind your long lashes.

"Yeah, but I'm shy, come closer..."

The savagemoves closer, ever filled with malice, you almost vomit in your mouth from their stench, but you wait for him to get close enough until you land a heavy ball of spit right between his eyes.

Asshole.

"Go to hell."

Laughter rings around you. The savage wipes the spit off his face with the back of his mutated hand.

And then, everything goes back for a second—punctuated by the dull crack of the butt of the weapon slamming into your skull. You could feel the metallic taste of blood in your mouth.

This was it. You’d finally run out of luck.

You clenched your teeth, eyes screwed shut, bracing for the killing blow—bullet, blade, didn’t matter.

But nothing came.

No sharp pain. No final breath. Just... silence.

Tentatively, you cracked one eye open, expecting to see the afterlife—or nothing at all.

Instead, you saw Donatello.

He struck like lightning, his bo staff slicing through the dust with terrifying precision. One savage dropped. Then another. A third went flying into the wreckage. Every hit was calculated, every movement deliberate—fluid, graceful, lethal.

You stared, jaw slack. “What the hell…”

Bertha’s voice crackled through the static, distant but urgent. “Are you just gonna sit there drooling or maybe fight back sometime today?”

Snapped out of your daze, you scrambled for a weapon— anything, the savages flew around you as you crawled through the sand in search of something, there! An old pipe club half-buried in the sand. You kicked one of the scavengers in the gut, then swung hard, knocking another across the face.

The mutant kid—the one you tried to save—still had your gun, and she was trying to make a run for it. “Give it back!” you barked.

"No way! Die, human scum!" she shrieked, firing. The bullet grazed your prosthetic arm. You growled and smacked the weapon out of her hands with the club.

She dove for it, but you were quicker this time. You caught it and turned it on her. She froze, wide-eyed.

You hesitated.

She was just a kid. A snarling, weapon-stealing mutant brat—but still a kid. Maybe in another dimension, if she hadn't been cursed by being born in this apocaliptic hellspace, maybe she could have been a regular kid, laughing with her friends, talking about makeup and boys or whatever kids would have been into, rather than trying to kill you.

You pointed vaguely to the horizon. "Go."

She hissed at you, then bolted, sand kicking up in her wake, you could see her one of the motorcycles from the savages and drive off into the distance.

Breathing heavily, you turned toward the wreckage. The savages were either unconscious or fleeing. Donatello stood in the center, bo staff resting on his shoulder, breathing steady.

"I didn't think you were coming back. What, did you have a sudden change of heart?" He asked sarcastically, but underneath it you could feel a hint of something else. You weren't sure, and you didn't feel like asking.

"Yeah. Yeah, whatever you pulled at my heartstrings and I couldn't watch you die to an obvious trap. You sure took your sweet time saving my ass though," you muttered, brushing sand off your shirt as Donatello came closer.

He smirked. "I think you meant to say ‘thank you." And then he looked at the way you stumbled over your feet and the way your held your side. "Are you okay? Did you get hurt?"

"That damn kid tried to kill me." You touched your side and groaned. "But that happens twice a week, I'll be fine."

"Can I take a look?" He seemed regretful, even if he hadn't apologized for the ordeal. You sighed and rolled your eyes. "I'm fine. Really."

Donatello took a step backwards, he almost seemed ashamed as he lowered his bo-staff.

You squinted at the mess around you.

"What the hell did you do to them anyway?"

“Let’s just say... being a robot ninja turtle in a desert full of psychos comes with certain advantages.”

You stared. “Show-off.”

He shrugged and you both started gathering gear, with Donnie tugging one of the savages' motorcycles upright. Donatello checked the engine, nodding. “This one’s salvageable. I guess I'll take it and uhm, get out of your hair.”

You raised an eyebrow “Wait,” you said.

He paused.

You kicked a rock and looked up at him. "Look. You may have gotten me to drive into this... whole situation, but you saved my ass. And I don’t exactly have a five-year plan... so if you wanna find your brother, I'll help you, if you want.”

His body language shifted—just a subtle lean forward. “Really? That’d be amazing!”

"Yeah, and it's gonna give you time to male up for almost getting me killed." You gave him a crooked smile.

Together, you patched up Bertha quickly before any back-ups could arive, you replaced the tires, and Donnie hooked his brother’s tracker to your radar. The signal was weak—but it was there.

Soon enough, you were both riding out across the open desert.

----

"Just let me take a look at it!" He protested, following you around the trailer with a clean rag and a half empty antiseptic in the other.

"I've got stabbed more times than I can count, I'll be fine!"

He crossed the short distance between you. His metal joints whirred softly as he followed, as you tried to leave he walked into your path, everytime you stepped away, he was there. You groaned in frustration. "Come on, it's my fault. Let me help you. You got bit and you got shot, I swear I'm a decent medic."

"Oh my god." You threw your hands in defeat at the air. "Fine, I give up."

You groaned and relented, pulling your jacket off and unwrapping the crusty bandage you had put together earlier. He leaned in, his visor narrowing in concentration as he inspected the wound. His fingers were careful—gentle, despite the cold metal.

“Bullet just grazed you,” he said quietly. “Could’ve been worse.”

You winced as he sprayed the last of your antiseptic. "Could’ve not been at all."

"You did save a kid—even if she tried to kill you afterward."

"She tried to kill me before I saved her," you muttered through gritted teeth.

He chuckled softly, then carefully wrapped your side with clean gauze. "You didn’t have to come back. But you did."

"I wasn't gonna let you get killed after I put so much effort into saving you." You retorted, and he let out a soft laugh.

His hand moved to your bitten palm, and you flinched as he wiped the wound clean.

“She got you good,” he said. “I’m starting to think she was half piranha.”

You smirked. “I think she was mostly brat.”

He got some needle and thread that you kept in your medkit and started to stitch the wound together, you both remained silent while he patched you up, once he was done he sat back with a satisfied hum. "There. Not perfect, but it’ll hold. And you won’t die of infection, so… win-win."

"What about mutant rabies, hm?" You look at your bandaged hand, you had to admit he really was good at this. It made you wonder how much 'practice' he had. "Did you think about that?"

"She didn't look like she had mutant rabies to me, I think you're gonna be fine."

"I wouldn't bet on those odds."

You flexed your fingers, looking at the clean bandages. "Thanks," you said, a little softer than usual.

He tilted his head slightly. "Anytime."

You pulled your jacket back on, trying not to look flustered. "That doesn’t mean you get to play nurse every time I scrape my knee."

"No promises," he said, leaning back with a smirk. "You’re kinda accident-prone."

You snorted, tossing a pebble at him. He caught it mid-air, just to show off.

You rolled your eyes and returned to the driver's seat, Bertha had been driving while you were away and apparently nothing interesting had happened so far, so you settled into place and Donatello followed suit, sitting in the passenger's seat.

-----

"I got it! His phone's signal is close by." Donatello almost chirped when the little dot on the radar became stronger. You two had been driving the entire day, the sun was almost setting when you finally reached Raphael's signal.

"It leads right into those ruins." He pointed at what was left of an old road town, now beaten and battered by constant storms, desert raiders and sandworms.

"Let's be careful. It could be another trap."

You park close enough to the town that you and Donatello could bolt to Bertha if things turned south, but not to close she would be vulnerable to any sneak attacks.

You keep your gun drawn as you and Donatello make your way through the ruins, your finger just barely grazing the trigger as you round the corners, the sand crunching beneath your heels. Everytime you heard somethint louder than a whisper you would instinctively hold your gun tighter and feel the back of your hand burn.

You and Donatello were quiet as you cleared the town, the only residents left were bone and dust, if anybody ever lived here, they were long gone by now.

You made your way around a particularly tall wall, ready to shoot at anything that seemed like a threat, but instead you saw a big graffiti on the wall, it looked recent.

Coming closer your eye caught a glimpse of a reflection from the ground, it seemed like a small phone half buried in the sand, it's screen black. You made your way over the phone and picked it up with your metal hand, swiping away the dust and the sand— the tiny phone had a rounded backside, resembling a turtle's shell. Yep, definitely Raphael's phone.

"Hey I think I found something." You call out to Donatello.

He rounds the corner, you place the phone in his oversized three fingered hand and he looks it over carefully.

"This is Raph's phone." He confirms your suspicions and turns it on, the screen flickers for a second before a glitchy voice comes from the tiny phone.

He stares at the screen for a moment longer, then tilts it slightly so you can see. The video file flickers to life—grainy, damaged, but it plays.

You can barely see anything through the damaged screen, but through the parts that are still semi-functional, you can see the loose shape of a large green man. His face is covered with dirt, blood crusting his temple, eyes red-rimmed. He looks angry. But underneath that... he looked tired.

"Don… if you’re seeing this, I guess you're going through my stuff again." He let out a chuckle that turned into a strained cough. "Look, I know we don't always agree on how to go about things, I guess you'd say that's always been on brand for me."

"But listen… things got messy after our fight. I don't even know if you're out there still, but if you ever come across this, I shouldn’t have walked out, but I needed space. You were right, we should’ve—"

The phone glitches out, the sounds unintelligible before it sputters back to working, but the video gets more and more glitchy as it keeps going.

"If you come looking—" The video cuts and you can barely understand the next words coming out, "The old radio tower—" it cuts again "I'm waiting, little brother—" and it dies.

Donatello tries to turn it on, but finds no success. He let out a frustrated sigh.

"Is it broken?"

He shakes his head, "I don’t know."

"I have some tools back in Bertha, maybe you can fix it in there." You try to be a bit optimistic, noticing the shift in Donatello's mood. "You might find more clues."

He doesn't answer you at first, staring at the black screen in his hand before turning his attention to the wall, which had been forgotten by both of you until now.

"That's the symbol of the muskrats." Donatello points out.

"What?"

"They're a bunch of thugs me and Raph ran into a couple of months ago. They almost trashed my truck." He touches the wall and then rubs his neck. "If they took him, oh boy..."

You hesitate, but put your hand on his shoulder and pat him awkwardly at first, but then give him a good squeeze.

"He looks tough, I'm sure he's fine. Look, he said something about an old radio tower. I have some old maps, and maybe we'll find something on that phone. Do you think you can fix it?"

"Maybe. If I can turn it on, I might be able to find something else."

You watch the emotions shift through him — relief, guilt, hope — all tangled in silence.

"Let's hunker down for tonight, Donnie."

---

The fire had died down to low embers, casting long, flickering shadows across the sand. The desert wind had quieted for the night, save for the occasional rustle of grit brushing against Bertha’s worn hull.

You tried to pass the time fiddling with Bertha's panels, but Donatello insisted — insisted! — that you get some rest so as to not ruin your new stitches.

It was funny, in a way, you barely knew each other but he seemed so protective of you, in his own way. Fixing your trailer, patching you up, so even though having someone telling you not to tinker with your own trailer was annoying, you begrudingly complied— for now.

You leaned back on your elbows, legs stretched toward the dim glow, a mutant cockroach and a fat beetle on a stick barely caught your attention.

Donatello sat a few feet away, one knee drawn up. He was quiet. You watched him for a moment before speaking.

“Is something on your mind?"

He looked over. "Just thinking about Raph."

"I get it." You nod. "But we'll find him."

He nodded.

Silence followed. You grabbed a stick and started poking the fire, stirring up sparks.

“This… whatever it is between us. It’s weird,” you muttered, not looking at him.

Donnie looked up at you. "Because I’m a mutant turtle in a robot body, and you’re a grumpy desert scavenger with a death wish?"

You smirked. "I'm not that grumpy."

You could hear Bertha's mock laugh coming from behind you, and you threw a pebble at her, which earned you a fake 'augh, the pain—it's unbearable!' from her. You rolled your eyes and ignored her theatrics.

"I haven’t talked to anyone like this in a good while, unless you count Bertha. It's....odd."

Donnie chuckled softly. “I dunno. I think it works. You’re tough, resourceful. A little intense.” He tilted his head. “In a good way.”

You let out a 'psst' sound. Not letting yourself believe the compliments entirely. Your gaze dropped to your hands, fingers tightening unconsciously. There was a long pause. You could feel his eyes on you but didn’t look up.

"I’m glad we ran into each other," he said softly.

You didn’t answer right away. Finally, you muttered, "I’ve had worse company."

"You’re terrible at this, y’know that?"

The corner of your mouth twitched, almost a smile. You both turned back to the fire, saying nothing. The beetle popped, spitting juice into the coals.

Eventually, you said, "Get some rest, Donatello. Big day tomorrow."

He nodded but didn’t move. "Yeah. You too."

One of my handcannons for the guys is that as they get older and get in contact with more humans, they actually start to wear clothes more often

We know that at least Mikey has some human clothes in his bedroom, but I always thought it was kind of weird how nobody points out they are naked all the time, lol

I feel like someone would make a comment ( probably Casey ) that sort of gets them to realize how weird it looks to humans when they are walking butt naked everywhere, and that's when they at least start wearing pants