The war room was busy tonight, with people organising missions and patrols. April’s voice rang out clear and firm over the general murmur of other voices as she coordinated the various efforts. Michelangelo was beside her, leaning against the map table as he examined his particular patrol route for the night. He exchanged a few quiet words with April, who replied in kind, gesturing at the map and nodding. 

That settled, Mike gave her a teasing salute and headed out of the war room, the door swinging shut behind him and cutting off the murmur of voices. He took a moment to lean back against the wall and take a deep breath, then let it out slowly as he gathered his thoughts and focused on his upcoming patrol. 

ghosts don't talk

Angel stood in the hallway of the old building, the resistance occupied recently, and observed her surrounding with a thoughtfull frown. Nobody gave her attention and she was good with that.

The evidences for a mole in the resistance were growing lately, since the foot seems to know more often which supply transports and buildings they were planning to attack. The problem was, that the mole could be anyone and Angel hasn’t any clues about his identity yet. But she was assuming, that he could be one of the new members.

But there are too many new faces around her….

Angel closed her eyes with a long sight. This was going to give her a major headache.

Memories and Pigeon Puppets

Missions were underway, patrols were patrolling, reports had been filed, and April finally had some time to herself to sit back in peace and quiet. She left the war room and retreated to her own quarters - one of the only ones in the base that had its own little side room, where she and a small handful of close friends could kick back and relax in relative comfort and privacy. 

Being the Resistance leader didn’t actually come with many perks, but one of the few it did come with was right in that side room - a worn but well-padded and comfortable couch, complete with a couple of threadbare pillows. A matching armchair was nearby, and a small, rickety coffee table sat between the armchair and the couch. 

April slipped into her room, leaving the door to the main corridor half-open, and flopped down into the armchair with a weary sigh. Hopefully nothing would go wrong tonight.

turtlelostintime has stumbled into the lair

“D-Donnie?” Raphael said, completely in shock. This Donatello was younger, much younger then the one in the lab. Raphael blinked a few times. No…he couldn’t be real. No way, “Yer…young.”


The mess hall in the Resistance’s current base wasn’t really much of a hall, but it certainly looked a mess. Various tables, chairs and benches of different sizes and styles, salvaged from wherever they could be found and repaired where necessary, were scattered around in haphazard clumps, arranged in whatever fashion the groups or individuals who came in to eat felt like at the time. At this early morning hour though the mess was mostly empty, save for a couple of individuals sitting by themselves with their attention on their food, and a pair of mutant turtles at a table in one corner.

Michelangelo was sitting with his back to the wall and a good view of the rest of the room, but most of his attention was on his brother seated nearby. “Seriously, don’t think too hard about what we’re eating,” he advised with a grin, gesturing with his spork. “It still tastes better than some of the stuff we’ve had through here recently." 

My muse just took a fatal blow for your muse. Tell me how they respond.

For turtlelostintime:

I’d only just gotten him back.

Michelangelo stared, dry-eyed, down at his brother, absently crouching a little lower behind a chunk of debris as a laser blast whined overhead. Don was lying still and lifeless where Mike had dragged him to cover, the terrible, bloody wound from the fatal blow that had been meant for Mike gaping up accusingly at him.

After so long, I’d finally gotten him back. And now he’s gone again.

Michelangelo rested his hand flat against Don’s blood-stained plastron, and it seemed as if he could feel the warmth fading away, just like his brother’s life had. More laser blasts began burning past, chewing away at their cover and sending bits of shrapnel flying, some slicing across his cheek.

But he just dropped from his crouch to his knees and huddled a little lower, ignoring it all. That death-blow had been meant for him, but at the last moment Don had shoved him out of the way and taken the hit himself.

He’s gone again, but this time… there’s no hope of him coming back.

It felt like a yawning, gaping black pit had opened inside of him, threatening to swallow everything. But with it came a sudden sense of clarity and focus and purpose, sharp and bright and diamond-hard, gleaming in the darkness.

The flurry of laser fire was dying down, and he could hear wary, hesitant footsteps approaching; the enemy wondering what had happened to them, wondering at the lack of resistance, wondering what they’d find behind the debris.

I have nothing left to lose.

Mike grabbed his nunchucks in a white-knuckled grip and wiped the back of his hand across his face, the blood from the shrapnel cuts across his cheek smearing across his skin. He could taste it, salty and metallic, as he licked his lips and lowered his hand again.

Then he waited, still on his knees beside his brother’s cooling corpse, his bloodied knuckles resting against the floor and his head bowed. The cautious, wary footsteps drew closer, and he tensed in preparation, his eyes closed and his breathing steady.

Cowabunga, dirtbags.

As the enemy came around the edges of the debris, Michelangelo’s eyes suddenly snapped open and a feral, blood-smeared grin split his face. The soldiers had only the briefest moment to register the expression before Mike was suddenly moving, a green and orange blur.

Shouts of alarm and the stutter of laserfire was swiftly punctuated by the whir and thud of nunchucks, the crunch of breaking, shattering bones, the dull thumps of collapsing bodies, and the shouts turned to cries of pain or went suddenly silent.

Mikey has left the building.

Return laserfire sliced through the air, but Mike didn’t even notice if any of it hit him. He was moving faster, reacting more swiftly, hitting harder than he’d ever done before in his life. There was no mercy, no remorse, no regret left in him. All that was left was vengeance.

And you are all going to PAY.