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You're doing your nightly market rounds with your friends, browsing for potions and herbs, when you see a flash of purple in the corner of your eye. You turn, curious, and recognise him the moment you set eyes on him.
You feel your lip curl over your fang, fur bristling under your cloak, as you watch that turtle take a seat by the fountain in the middle of the bustling square, clad in an oversized purple hoodie—an outrageous garment popular among humans—surrounded by his chattering kin, all clad in similar outlandish human clothing. The autumn chill must have finally set in above ground, as the halfbreeds never usually bother being fully clothed.
Your claws pinch your skin where your fingers curl tight into your palms. The sight alone makes you ill—human culture integrating with yours through these yokai imposters, tradition and the purity of your underground haven once again disregarded—but it's the purple one (Donatello, your memory helpfully supplies) comfortably sitting by the fountain, wearing bulky, black things over his ears (headphones? Earmuffs?) and click-clacking away on that infernal human device, ignoring the wealth of culture and magic surrounding him that makes your blood boil as it had when he and his equally unruly human companion nearly destroyed your home.
You haven't forgotten. It's only been a year since the incident, and he's a hard face to forget, even if he hasn't shown it about Witch Town since his banning.
You can smell his arrogance from here, as palpable as ever. It's rank.
You wonder for a moment how he can stand to return to a place brimming with the mysticism he'd so vocally despised back then, how he can so casually walk among true yokai like he's lived here his whole life. Like he has any right to after his actions in your home town.
Then you recall the invasion—how the Council of Heads had officially declared them heroes of both the human and yokai world for their brave, selfless actions—and you groan to yourself.
Figures. The one fool who had scorned your way of life and beliefs is now your supposed 'saviour'.
You feel a shift in the air and look up in time to see Donatello wave one hand towards an orange-banded turtle you've never seen before without looking up from his device. It's a casual gesture, yet your jaw drops like a stone when purple pixels appear in his palm—an unfamiliar shape of magic, but still magic—and seep into the identical, orange-painted device the littlest turtle is holding.
The little one cheers, making a symbol with his hands. Donatello replies with a one-handed symbol, still looking at his device even when the littlest of the bale leans in to mime kissing his cheek.
You and your friends gawk.
That hypocrite. Preaching about the glory and superiority of human science to their faces, yet is now actively practising magic?
You're not petty by nature. You don't go out of your way to expend precious energy over trivial matters like grudges or spats between peers or strangers. But this?
You share a smile with your friends and think you can make an exception. Your potions can wait a little longer. Putting this dalcop in his place is, in your eyes, far more important.
You wait until his bale go their separate ways—something about grocery shopping, mystic training, whatever. The blue-clad turtle with stripes like blood over his golden eyes is the last to depart; he waves once in front of Donatello to get his attention before gesturing with his hands. You think it's some non-verbal communication spell, but you've never seen or read about it. Donatello replies with one short, clipped gesture that makes the Blue one smile before he finally leaves. The purple turtle settles on the fountain's edge, crossing his legs, fully engaged in his little device.
Lazy and a hypocrite. You roll your eyes.
The three of you wait two minutes before breaking free of the crowds milling the stalls. You don't care for subtlety as you and your girls surround his hunched form. Taking a moment to look him up and down, you notice he's not wearing that monstrosity of a fake shell under his clothes; the curve of his spine resembles that of any human or shell-less yokai. You had wondered why he bore such a cumbersome thing when you first saw him. Then you see the lip of a leathery carapace peeking through the gap between the hood and his neck, and you grin.
Using technology to hide what your species is lacking, you think. Pitiful.
You cough pointedly into your fist. Donatello doesn't pay you any mind, rocking slightly back and forth, thumbs flying across the glass screen, fully engrossed. You cough louder. “Ahem.”
Donatello looks up. He takes in the three of you—Caitlyn, a young drow elf, Embessa, a raven yokai and yourself, a tabby yokai. You puff your chest out and lift your chin, protruding fang on full display. It always unsettles the freshmen and your prey-hailing peers, and you flaunt it now.
Three predators, looming over their lone, ignorant prey. Your magic thrums in excitement beneath your skin.
Donatello blinks at you and says, “Can I help you?”
You almost falter. He's not bothered by your presence in the slightest. Granted, some kappa are more predator than prey, but you'd hoped he'd be at least unnerved being surrounded by literal witches. No matter. You'll wipe that arrogant, disinterested look off his face soon enough.
“You've got some nerve showing your face around here, Donatello,” you say, clawed hands on your hips. “One might think a self-proclaimed 'man of science' wouldn't be caught dead in the Hidden City, much less the epicentre of mystic wares.”
Donatello's expression flattens, one painted brow raised (seriously, who does that?). “And you are...?” he prompts. His voice is just above a regular speaking tone but not quite a shout; the earmuffs must limit his hearing, yet he's too rude to remove them during their conversation. Your tail twitches irately.
“Oh? You don't recognize us?” Caitlyn asks, feigning coyness. “Doesn't our attire give it away?”
“To be honest, no,” Donatello says. He starts to rock again slightly, fingers idly tapping the sides of his device. “I've pissed off a lot of people in my short time on this blue bitch of a decaying planet, you'll have to be more specific.”
Embessa sneers at his language, beak clacking. “You really don't remember how you nearly burned our town to the ground because you had to make a point?” she barks.
And there's the recognition, dawning in his golden eyes like a disappointing sunrise. He stops rocking, fingers stilling. “Ohhhhh. You're residents of Witch Town. Perfect,” he drawls. He uncrosses his legs and sits up straighter like one might when they're preparing to fight or flee.
Honestly, you're hoping for the former; you can put his inferior magic to the test against yours, honed to perfection with over a decade of training in the ancient practice.
He sighs. “Look, you guys are rightfully pissed over what happened, and I was... wrong, there, see, I said it, and that's rare—but I have since made peace with the mystic stuff, including but not limited to discovering my own mystic heritage. I have already apologized, I have honoured the terms of my ban from your town and have not stepped foot in it since (not that I want to, the vibes there were rancid, just saying), and I will henceforth be more understanding slash patient with subjects, practices and beliefs I do not understand and do my best to educate myself before I accidentally blow up another town.”
He crosses his arms, tilting his head. “Does this appease you? Or are you intentionally channelling Mean Girls specifically to ruin my day?”
He doesn't meet your eyes when he speaks, looking somewhere off to the side; an obvious sign of deceit. His tone and expression scream unbothered, like his actions, your anger and frustrations towards him, mean nothing to him. And he still has those wretched earmuffs on—
Your whiskers twitch, a growl rumbling in your throat. “Can't you take those disgusting human ear coverings off your head or put down that phone when someone's speaking to you?” you snap, your patience rapidly thinning. “And perhaps look me in the eye when grovelling, at the very least.”
“Yeah, it's called respecting your betters!” Embessa turns her beak up. “Or do you still believe yourself superior to us true yokai?”
“One, I don't do eye contact,” Donatello says. “It's no personal slight against you nor is it me seeing myself as superior, I just don't like doing it. Two, I'm looking in your general direction, not my phone; I am merely holding it in my hands to give my fingers something to do while talking to you so I don't get distracted. And three, these are not 'disgusting human ear coverings'—racist much, BTW—they are 'ear defenders' specifically designed to muffle sounds for individuals either working in loud environments that could damage your hearing or those who suffer from sensory overloads. I can't hear you that well, but I can read your lips well enough to—”
Gods above, he doesn't know when to shut up.
Lightning quick, you snatch the headphones off his head before he can react. In the same breath, Embessa swipes his phone from his fingers.
“Wha—hey!” he cries. He scrambles to his feet to leap at you both. Caitlyn intercepts, forming a double of herself and grabbing Donatello by each arm, trapping him. He bucks and struggles, but Caitlyn and her clone only giggle and hold fast.
“Let go of me!” the turtle shouts. “Give those back, they're mine—!”
“Oh, these?” Embessa hands you the phone and you lift both your spoils above your head, well out of his reach, grinning. “Such inferior human trinkets have no place down here. No better than the garbage they leave in foul heaps in their polluted streets.”
“They're not garbage! I made those for me, t-they're my—!”
“Oh, you made these? I had no idea! It would certainly be a shame if something were to—oops!”
You throw both the phone and the infernal headphones. They sail over Donatello's head and splash into the fountain. You watch with grim satisfaction as Donatello's face twists in shock, melting into anguish watching his creations sink to the bottom of the fountain.
Embessa caws and both Caitlyn's cackle delightedly. You swish your tail and chuckle to yourself. Serves him right, you think as the turtle whips his head around to pin you with a poisonous glare.
“W-Why—what—why would you do that?!” he cries, voice cracking. Your friends laugh, and his shoulders hike to where his ears would be. It doesn't take much to turn another proud fool into a stuttering mess once you remove his toys. “I—I already said I was s-sorry, I was wrong, why—hnng—why would you—?!”
Your grin widens, exposing your fangs. “See? It's not so fun when someone makes fun of your creations or breaks your things, is it?” You step closer, grabbing his chin between your claws and yanking forward, forcing him to meet your eyes. “Consider this your well-deserved retribution for Witch Town. Next time, think twice before messing with true bloods, halfbreed.”
“Aw, look! I think he's going to cry!” Caitlyn dismisses her clone and shoves Donatello to the ground. He lands hard on his knees, heaving breaths stuttering as he curls in on himself like a wilting flower. Caitlyn giggles behind a hand. “Not so tough without your superior technology, huh?”
“What's wrong, kappa? Still hard of hearing?” Embessa ducks her head low. “Do I need to speak LOUDER?!”
Donatello recoils from her with a shrill cry, pulling his hood over his head. Trembling hands slam over his ears as Donatello shivers on the cobblestone on his knees.
Embessa's shout garners attention, and a small crowd forms. Whispers float, people point, some recognizing the quivering turtle on the floor, others throwing you nasty looks.
Remorse and shame are the farthest things from your mind right now. They don't know what he's done, who he truly is behind whatever fabricated story the Council cobbled together to make this halfbreed and his patchwork mess of a bale look good in the eyes of the public. Looking at him now, fighting tears at your feet, you entertain showing them.
You don't smell the trace of ozone in the air or feel the tingle of residual magic along your fur as you reach for Donatello's hoodie, ready to tear the flimsy fabric off and expose his pathetic excuse of a shell.
A green hand, fast as a striking snake, grabs you by the wrist and squeezes.
You gasp in pain, whipping your head to glare and hiss at your assailant.
The sound dies in your throat when you meet the glacial gold stare of the blue turtle from before.
A single katana, clenched tight by the handle, glows brightly like a neon sign in his other hand, sparks of electric blue dancing along its honed edge playfully as if its master has no plans to use it beyond a flashy display of power.
(You really, really hope that's the case. Very few carry one mystic blade infused with that much power just for show, let alone two.)
Your friends stare at the new turtle, already several steps back, as far as they can get from both turtles without drawing Blue's attention away from you.
The other two turtles—the little orange one and a hulking brute in red, lashing tail dragging behind him—shove past your soon-to-be ex-friends to get to Donatello, crashing to their knees beside him. They don't touch him; the red one crouches as low as his massive form will allow, murmuring to Donatello's bowed form, an arms' length between them for all that the distance seems to pain him. Orange fishes Donatello's ruined phone and earmuffs from the fountain, looking close to outright sobbing as he takes in the stare of them and their creator.
Blue doesn't take his eyes off you. He is a solid barrier between you, Red, Orange and Donatello, who hasn't moved from his crouch even with his bale surrounding him. His arms cover his head, damp face tucked against his knees. Truly, a sorry sight.
You look back up at Blue, helpless in his unyielding grip, and think you will be very sorry in a few seconds.
Then Blue smiles. It doesn't meet his eyes.
“You know there are around twenty-seven bones in the average wrist and hand?” Blue begins conversationally. “Very delicate bones, you see, allowing for a wide range of movements necessary for daily tasks and complex functions. The total number of bones in the whole arm is about thirty-two, one of the most fragile being the collarbone, which is, in a roundabout way, attached to the humerus. Got that from a textbook, real fascinating shit.”
His smile fades, twisting into a thunderous glare. He leans in close enough that you're all but nose to nose. Sparks of blue flash across his eyes, pricking your arm, testing you, daring you to recoil, to squeak in fright, to try and pull away. You hold your breath and don't move an inch, fingers twitching as his grip, imperceptibly, tightens.
“If you ever put your hands on my twin again,” he growls through his teeth, low enough for your ears alone, “I will break every single one of those bones. Not all at once. I'll go one by one until you're a blubbering mess on the floor, begging for mercy.”
Tail between your legs and ears pinned back, you hysterically wonder if he's joking. Does he have any idea what his so-called 'twin' has done? He—he deserves this, right? He nearly destroyed your home, he—
“Leo,” Orange suddenly pipes up. His carmine eyes are bright with fresh tears and no shortage of actual, blistering hate. It shouldn't suit an otherwise innocent face, and yet. “She thinks you're joking.”
You feel the blood drain from your face. The glow isn't just tears. He's reading your mind.
“Oh, really? You think I'm joking?”
Your legs barely support you with how they shake beneath you.
He shrugs a shoulder, glancing off to the side. “Eh, I might be,” he says. “Breaking bones is wickedly painful, I should know; I broke, like, all of them getting the shit kicked outta me that one time with this pink alien bitch. It was a whole thing.”
He turns back to you, and his empty smile returns. “Or I could be telling the truth, and I really will break every little bone in your arm for even daring to touch my brother, break his stuff and just—be a deplorable excuse for a yokai—or a person—I've ever seen since meeting actual murder aliens from space. Or I could throw everyone for a freakin' loop and do something far, far worse. I'm not as artistically inclined as my little brother, ask anyone, but I've seen some wild shit, I can get creative. Who the hell knows.”
His grip tightens again. You can barely feel your hand anymore. You fail to fight a wince, tears stinging your eyes. His smile shifts into a grin sharper than the blade at his side.
“Still,” he continues lightly, “better the devil you know, right?”
Your chin wobbles as the tears spill over, dripping down your cheeks.
“Now, take your petty grudge, that rotten cruel thing you call a heart and your flock of bitches back there. And. Piss. Off.”
He releases you with a shove. You stumble gracelessly, falling flat on your ass. You look up, trembling freely now from head to toe. He levels you with one last withering glare. You think you see your death in his eyes before he turns away, hurrying to kneel next to Red before Donatello.
He taps the ground with the knuckle of one finger, and Donatello finally, slowly, lifts his head from his knees. You can't see Blue's face, but whatever Donatello sees has him lurch forward into Blue's already open arms, shoulders shaking.
You don't realize you're staring until the big Red one turns his head just enough to look at you from the corner of his eye. The other two follow suit in seamless unison.
That alone kicks the animal in you into flight mode—but it's the promise of some undecided thing in Blue's eyes that gets you to your feet.
Caitlyn and Embessa shriek and follow after you, but you don't care enough to look back. You don't look back at all, ignoring the disdain and judgement from the onlookers you'd forgotten all about, and you don't stop running until you make it past the gates of Witch Town.
You are haunted by piercing gold eyes and unknown devils for weeks.
You don't go back to that square again.