sewer stories
Apr. 23rd, 2025 08:09 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sidewaysTitle: Sewer Stories
AO3: Link
Rating: G
Series: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (TMNT)
Wordcount: 1,504
Summary: Drabbles set in the TMNT 2003 universe.
Remarks: Had a bit of fun drabbling recently, so cross-posting across the first batch.
AO3: Link
Rating: G
Series: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (TMNT)
Wordcount: 1,504
Summary: Drabbles set in the TMNT 2003 universe.
Remarks: Had a bit of fun drabbling recently, so cross-posting across the first batch.
Second Verse
Don presses a hand against the glass, thick and unbreakable, warping the world outside along its curves. "It feels like this should be bringing back memories."
"It is." Mike's throat bobs miserably, face still mostly buried in his knees. "I'm remembering roller coasters, and tilt-a-whirls, and April's driving, and-"
The hollow thok of Raph's fist against the wall is as ineffective the fourteenth time as the first. His glare is heavy but his feet stay light, shifting with the steady sway of their prison.
"Mikey, enough," Leo says firmly. His fingers keep moving gentle circles at the nape of his brother's neck, digging into pressure points. “What do you mean, Donnie?”
“Four turtles in a big glass jar?” Don smiles wryly over his shoulder. “Second verse, same as the first verse-”
The sudden lurch throws them all backwards. Don staggers, goes to his knees; Leo grabs the rim of Mikey's shell as he gags, flails, shoves a fist against his mouth. The world outside swings around wildly and falls away, stomachs collectively dropping with the elevation. When everything stills, it also darkens, a mountainous shadow falling over them.
On his back, Raph bares his teeth silently at the big, slit-pupiled eye peering in from the other side of the glass, wide with clear and alien fascination.
“Yeah,” he grinds out. “An’ it could get better but somehow we always end up with worse.
Exhaust(ion)
A grouchy demand too thick and drowsy for the desired effect: “If you're going to sleep here tonight, I'm going to need you to actually sleep.”
Leo maintains a dignified silence, but when Don palms his skull he imagines it warm and humming, a hard-drive overheating; relentless diagnostics searching for inefficiencies, editing software chewing through memory, the malicious self-consumption of malware.
“Can hear you thinking,” he murmurs.
Doing Time
Thirty-one hours in, Mikey decides the greater population of Triceraton cellblock Z-16 would benefit from a classic harmonica rendition of Folsom Prison Blues. This, despite not having a harmonica.
“Jeez,” Raph mutters. Thumping his head against the door hasn't managed to knock him out yet, and a crying shame it is - he realises he's doing it to the beat of Mike's warbling and gives up in disgust. “What do you think I gotta do to earn solitary?”
“Not funny, Raph,” Leo says shortly.
The cell's a quarter of the size of the old Lair. Two raised surfaces they assume are meant to be beds. Zero privacy anytime someone wants to use the contraption they're all sure as hell are hoping is meant to be a toilet.
Chances are the Triceratons want it to be punishing, cramming all four of them in here together. If they hadn't ticked everyone off so bad, it might be two of them to a room, or all of them split up and scattered throughout the prison, everyone bunking alone with some weirdo alien cellmate.
Yeah. Leo's right. Not funny at all.
Mikey hesitantly folds his hands down over his chest. “Sorry,” he says. “I'm just kinda going through some serious withdrawal over here. From, y'know, TV. Comic books. Earth. The little things.”
Raph sighs and turns around. Joke's on the hornheads. He's been surviving life with Michelangelo and a great big bucketload of nothing to do for sixteen years.
“C'mon, Cool Hand Mike,” he says, “you an’ me, invisible snap, first to thirty,” and watches Mikey brighten.
Differentiation
For a long time there is only still water, and broken glass, and each other.
They line up in a row, arms out, comparing: four with thick stubby fingers, stiff-jointed elbows, green pebbled skin. Only one with pale yellow blotching.
“Wrong,” Donnie says matter-of-factly, and Mikey cries for hours.
“No, my sons.” Splinter is gone for longer than usual that night, and when he returns it is with a plastic circle in hand, that levers open to reveal a sudden magic. He patiently holds the small compact mirror for each of them in turn, then each again, letting them marvel at the familiar strangers on the other side, pulling faces, touching tentatively at unknown marks. “In difference we find our own selves.”
Go Marching In
One thing they learned in space - besides the difference between floor wax and dessert, and how to count to ten in Acha'lyk, and the at-speed turning circle of expensive space cruisers - is that Triceratons like their protein. Unfortunately, Mikey's usual go-to of scrambled eggs seems like it could maybe end up being kind of insensitive, so after some dithering over the contents of their fridge, he goes with the safe bet and breaks open their last packet of hotdogs.
Zog chews through the entire packet with the same mechanical zeal he applies to everything. Like the fate of the Triceraton Republic rests on him inhaling a dozen of New York's cheapest processed meat tubes. Or maybe he really is just that hungry; it's not like there are a whole lot of protein options in the sewers. They're probably lucky he decided Splinter was general and not dinner.
Or, you know, enemy. But so far that little charade seems to be holding. Score one for team turtle improv, and also the continued side effects of debilitating brain damage.
Don doesn't think they need to plan for it getting any better. That if anything, he'll probably keep slowly getting worse. It makes Mike's chest twist in a weird way to think about.
“Hey, soldier,” Mikey says. “Is there, um…” He glances over his shoulder. “Is there anyone, like, back home you'd want to send a message to? Not that we can right now, obviously, but just in case we ever fix the transponder, get comms back online and re-establish contact with the main fleet…” His Star Trek knowledge hits its ceiling. “Or whatever.”
The Triceraton sits rigidly in the two seats Mikey had pushed together to accommodate him, staring at the fridge opposite like he's reporting to a four-star commander and not a teenage turtle tipping out a saucepan.
“Goren,” he says thickly. “Egg-father.”
Mikey nods encouragingly. “Yeah? So like, your dad?”
“Egg-father,” Zog says again. “Our brood will carry the bloodlines of Tir-Garu to triumphant service.”
“Ohhh,” Mike says. “Okay. Guess that explains a few things.” Mostly why they'd never seen any ‘lady’ Triceratons. Donnie was going to love this - he stops, suddenly, saucepan in the sink, swallowing around the lump that's come up out of nowhere in his throat. “So… you have kids?”
Zog blinks, uncertainly. “Our brood will be strong, sir. We are proud to serve.”
“Yeah, no, that's cool. Soldier. Totally cool. A whole bunch of little soldiers, huh? Ten-hut.”
He can feel Raph's exasperated swat. Can o’ worms, Mikey - ever heard that one? He kind of wishes Raph was here right now. Or Leo. Or anyone else.
“We still might be able to get you home, you know,” he finds himself saying, all in a rush. “Earth doesn't have a lot going for it in the spaceship department, I know, but it only took the Utroms, like, a thousand years to build their transmat, I bet Donnie can do it in two…”
He trails off. Zog's eyes are hooded, hand up and cupping the rebreather as he drags in a laboured breath; the amber gaze slides towards Mike, reptilian and glassy. And maybe Mikey's just imagining it, just wants to see it there - but maybe for a second he really does see the glimmer of whoever Zog was before all this. Someone who knows just how messed up his situation is, but knows that they never meant for it to happen, and they're doing their best with what they have, which isn't a lot because they're a bunch of mutants in a sewer and not a hospital built for xenophobic alien dinosaurs who chased them all the way to Earth on the orders of some jerk Prime Leader who definitely doesn't even care about one lost soldier.
“We are proud to serve,” Zog says calmly.
“Okay,” Mike says after a moment. “Yeah. Me too.”
Don presses a hand against the glass, thick and unbreakable, warping the world outside along its curves. "It feels like this should be bringing back memories."
"It is." Mike's throat bobs miserably, face still mostly buried in his knees. "I'm remembering roller coasters, and tilt-a-whirls, and April's driving, and-"
The hollow thok of Raph's fist against the wall is as ineffective the fourteenth time as the first. His glare is heavy but his feet stay light, shifting with the steady sway of their prison.
"Mikey, enough," Leo says firmly. His fingers keep moving gentle circles at the nape of his brother's neck, digging into pressure points. “What do you mean, Donnie?”
“Four turtles in a big glass jar?” Don smiles wryly over his shoulder. “Second verse, same as the first verse-”
The sudden lurch throws them all backwards. Don staggers, goes to his knees; Leo grabs the rim of Mikey's shell as he gags, flails, shoves a fist against his mouth. The world outside swings around wildly and falls away, stomachs collectively dropping with the elevation. When everything stills, it also darkens, a mountainous shadow falling over them.
On his back, Raph bares his teeth silently at the big, slit-pupiled eye peering in from the other side of the glass, wide with clear and alien fascination.
“Yeah,” he grinds out. “An’ it could get better but somehow we always end up with worse.
Exhaust(ion)
A grouchy demand too thick and drowsy for the desired effect: “If you're going to sleep here tonight, I'm going to need you to actually sleep.”
Leo maintains a dignified silence, but when Don palms his skull he imagines it warm and humming, a hard-drive overheating; relentless diagnostics searching for inefficiencies, editing software chewing through memory, the malicious self-consumption of malware.
“Can hear you thinking,” he murmurs.
Doing Time
Thirty-one hours in, Mikey decides the greater population of Triceraton cellblock Z-16 would benefit from a classic harmonica rendition of Folsom Prison Blues. This, despite not having a harmonica.
“Jeez,” Raph mutters. Thumping his head against the door hasn't managed to knock him out yet, and a crying shame it is - he realises he's doing it to the beat of Mike's warbling and gives up in disgust. “What do you think I gotta do to earn solitary?”
“Not funny, Raph,” Leo says shortly.
The cell's a quarter of the size of the old Lair. Two raised surfaces they assume are meant to be beds. Zero privacy anytime someone wants to use the contraption they're all sure as hell are hoping is meant to be a toilet.
Chances are the Triceratons want it to be punishing, cramming all four of them in here together. If they hadn't ticked everyone off so bad, it might be two of them to a room, or all of them split up and scattered throughout the prison, everyone bunking alone with some weirdo alien cellmate.
Yeah. Leo's right. Not funny at all.
Mikey hesitantly folds his hands down over his chest. “Sorry,” he says. “I'm just kinda going through some serious withdrawal over here. From, y'know, TV. Comic books. Earth. The little things.”
Raph sighs and turns around. Joke's on the hornheads. He's been surviving life with Michelangelo and a great big bucketload of nothing to do for sixteen years.
“C'mon, Cool Hand Mike,” he says, “you an’ me, invisible snap, first to thirty,” and watches Mikey brighten.
Differentiation
For a long time there is only still water, and broken glass, and each other.
They line up in a row, arms out, comparing: four with thick stubby fingers, stiff-jointed elbows, green pebbled skin. Only one with pale yellow blotching.
“Wrong,” Donnie says matter-of-factly, and Mikey cries for hours.
“No, my sons.” Splinter is gone for longer than usual that night, and when he returns it is with a plastic circle in hand, that levers open to reveal a sudden magic. He patiently holds the small compact mirror for each of them in turn, then each again, letting them marvel at the familiar strangers on the other side, pulling faces, touching tentatively at unknown marks. “In difference we find our own selves.”
Go Marching In
One thing they learned in space - besides the difference between floor wax and dessert, and how to count to ten in Acha'lyk, and the at-speed turning circle of expensive space cruisers - is that Triceratons like their protein. Unfortunately, Mikey's usual go-to of scrambled eggs seems like it could maybe end up being kind of insensitive, so after some dithering over the contents of their fridge, he goes with the safe bet and breaks open their last packet of hotdogs.
Zog chews through the entire packet with the same mechanical zeal he applies to everything. Like the fate of the Triceraton Republic rests on him inhaling a dozen of New York's cheapest processed meat tubes. Or maybe he really is just that hungry; it's not like there are a whole lot of protein options in the sewers. They're probably lucky he decided Splinter was general and not dinner.
Or, you know, enemy. But so far that little charade seems to be holding. Score one for team turtle improv, and also the continued side effects of debilitating brain damage.
Don doesn't think they need to plan for it getting any better. That if anything, he'll probably keep slowly getting worse. It makes Mike's chest twist in a weird way to think about.
“Hey, soldier,” Mikey says. “Is there, um…” He glances over his shoulder. “Is there anyone, like, back home you'd want to send a message to? Not that we can right now, obviously, but just in case we ever fix the transponder, get comms back online and re-establish contact with the main fleet…” His Star Trek knowledge hits its ceiling. “Or whatever.”
The Triceraton sits rigidly in the two seats Mikey had pushed together to accommodate him, staring at the fridge opposite like he's reporting to a four-star commander and not a teenage turtle tipping out a saucepan.
“Goren,” he says thickly. “Egg-father.”
Mikey nods encouragingly. “Yeah? So like, your dad?”
“Egg-father,” Zog says again. “Our brood will carry the bloodlines of Tir-Garu to triumphant service.”
“Ohhh,” Mike says. “Okay. Guess that explains a few things.” Mostly why they'd never seen any ‘lady’ Triceratons. Donnie was going to love this - he stops, suddenly, saucepan in the sink, swallowing around the lump that's come up out of nowhere in his throat. “So… you have kids?”
Zog blinks, uncertainly. “Our brood will be strong, sir. We are proud to serve.”
“Yeah, no, that's cool. Soldier. Totally cool. A whole bunch of little soldiers, huh? Ten-hut.”
He can feel Raph's exasperated swat. Can o’ worms, Mikey - ever heard that one? He kind of wishes Raph was here right now. Or Leo. Or anyone else.
“We still might be able to get you home, you know,” he finds himself saying, all in a rush. “Earth doesn't have a lot going for it in the spaceship department, I know, but it only took the Utroms, like, a thousand years to build their transmat, I bet Donnie can do it in two…”
He trails off. Zog's eyes are hooded, hand up and cupping the rebreather as he drags in a laboured breath; the amber gaze slides towards Mike, reptilian and glassy. And maybe Mikey's just imagining it, just wants to see it there - but maybe for a second he really does see the glimmer of whoever Zog was before all this. Someone who knows just how messed up his situation is, but knows that they never meant for it to happen, and they're doing their best with what they have, which isn't a lot because they're a bunch of mutants in a sewer and not a hospital built for xenophobic alien dinosaurs who chased them all the way to Earth on the orders of some jerk Prime Leader who definitely doesn't even care about one lost soldier.
“We are proud to serve,” Zog says calmly.
“Okay,” Mike says after a moment. “Yeah. Me too.”
