Experience Tumblr Like Never Before
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."