Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

This is not the story of the turtles you know and love. This is a story of identities, of masks, and of the same color coding, but this is not a story of family bonding and fighting together. This is of found family. Of foes becoming friends. Of relations left unexplored, of togetherness, of toughness.

This is the story of the teenage mutant vigilantes... who still ended up as turtles one way or another.

Welcome to TMVT.

—

Donnie has always been different.

An orphan separated from family members he can't remember, he's been ostracized and outcasted all his life. The only thing he hasn't been is outclassed; his skills in tech remain unmatched, even if his materials consist of scrap metal and whatever the glorious junkyard can provide him. Tonight though, will be different, as he stands on the precipice to the natural history museum.

He's been only the tech guy (... in the chair, anyways) to the Purple Dragons (popular on the interwebs as a well known powerless villain group) for too long. Today is the last goddamn straw.

See, the plan was this:

Kendra goes in, announces that the museum is closed while her other two lackeys lock the doors. Donnie deploys the Iridium Quality Drill — the IQD, genius invention made entirely by him through regular work periods and through crunch, named for the purple sheen his signature metal has — and it causes a major disrupt while... whatever his name steals about half the exhibit on computer history for... some reason or another. His brain's not normally this foggy, but something did bite him earlier today. Or maybe it's the fact that Kendra is a bitch.

The plan was going perfectly! And then she has the gall to say that the drill was hers! The nerve!

So, despite the itching on Donnie's spine, he is going to go solo. This is not... entirely impulsive. This has been coming for a while in Donnie's opinion. It's about damn time he gets treated with the respect he deserves for implementing failsafes into everything he produces for the Purple Dragons.

... all of which he never got credit for. Fucking Kendra.

"And do you all want to know what we're doing here?" He reads Kendra's lips; a skill he's developed since young. Helpful, which is why the Dragons don't know about it. "I'm here today to showcase my beautiful work of art, and if any of you try to stop anything else we're doing..."

He readies his microphone. He's supposed to come in if there's any problems, and he thinks this counts as one.

"It will be—" they speak in unison, and Donnie finishes the script with, "curtains."

The crowd erupts into muttering, if the way they all turn to each other is any indication. "Sorry, ladies and gentlemen—"

"Esteemed guests, I thought, was the agreed upon script?" It wasn't, but it was Donnie's suggestion that ultimately got canned despite the nonbinary pin that is proudly on his backpack.

"We appear to be having some audio glitches," Kendra sends a glare directly to his place on the rooftop, but Donnie's already gone.

... Donnie doesn't really like using his power, but he thinks it should be something applicable here.

His power on paper described is nothing special; he can open up a physical window and arrange a small box that affects him and him alone. Basic stuff, of course; mass, velocity, and speed are the default ones. He's working on biotechnology, currently, to try and see if he can augment whatever other variables he wants and stuff them in via Unity, but so far there's not been any success.

This allows him to decrease his mass to jump away, then increase his mass to break through the glass while not breaking through the drill as he uses it as a landing pad.

The shattering of glass hurts his ears even through his headphones, but he powers through it. Kendra gapes at him, and for good reason. He... may have switched up his style a bit, exactly for this entrance.

His eyes are blocked by a visor, the red to blue gradient blocking from the outside while leaving the room visible and dimmed. The mask he wears is a simple black, matching his top and his shorts; technically all one piece, but the techwear-styled purple hoodie he wears over it blocks the audience from knowing that. Two belts, one around just under his bust, the other around his waist, are both in purple and holding his backpack firmly to his back. Translucent pants harken back to 1970's space age, the pockets interiors being visible from the outside; Donnie used that to his advantage, stuffing all sorts of useless stuff in there. And a fidget sphere. Sue him. The laced up black platforms are only the cherry on top, and he thinks he looks sick.

There's notably a lack of a dragon on the back of the hoodie.

His hair is specifically tied up specifically for this; the dark brown-to-purple twists are normally down, the tight coils twisted in about one inch diameter rolls reaching his shoulder blades. But, today they were stuffed into a bun-ponytail, with two being left in the front. He... sorta looks like a purple themed Lucien. But that's fine, because he looks cool. Not much of his cool umber skin is shown off, but the fingerless gloves and lack of anything on his forehead do a good enough job.

"Hello, W.I.P." Kendra said, gritting her teeth as she does so. He never did like that name, always implying that he'll never be completed. A waste of scrap. "I thought you were supposed to be doing lookout."

"I am always doing lookout, Number 11." Kendra's callsign. K is the 11th letter in the alphabet. "I am simply done with it. Finished, as is my name and my responsibilities to this team."

He relishes in the shocked look in her face, even as it turns furious. Donnie's (totally definitely (not) natural) eyebrows only increase in smugness; the one indicator on his face he kept visible for emotional purposes.

"W.I.—"

"Work In Progress. That name does not fit within the parameters of the variable 'name', please try again with the component 'dotAPK', thank you very much." He hops over the top of the drill; a practiced motion as his backpack shows off it's true nature as eight metallic arms expand and let him land on the stage to share with Kendra. "I will be taking my drill now," a gasp from the audience as the people no doubt recording make a mental note to expose the Purple Dragons for stealing his tech, assuredly.

"And I will also be singlehandedly stopping you from stealing the wonderous technology found in this museum, you all are welcome." He turns to the audience before turning back to Kendra. He didn't lose his ego just by exposing himself. It's the one thing he's famous for; it's why he's breaking away.

"You—!" Kendra growls, grabbing her walkie talkie and switching it on with little regard for the microphone clipped to her chest. "W.I.P., you seem to be misremembering who made the drill in the first place. I came up with the concept. I deserve the credit."

"You did not even make the blueprints!" He burst out, something itching under his skin that he is distinctly ignoring. "I was the one who crunched time to work on the Drill, I lost valuable time searching for secondary education scholarships, all because you wanted me to work exclusively on the Drill." The days and nights of tireless work, causing him to get injured, miss class, hell, he was seeing hallucinations at the end of the last work week. He is done.

Kendra is silent. He'll take that as an indicator he can continue.

"And you know what? Your petulant fallacies span the entire team, your gaslighting tactics could fill up this entire room in petrol, and your vitriolic spew does nothing to help your sugarcoated lies." He's going for it. Anger is coursing through his veins, and judging by the audience huddling together and Kendra backing up, her expression morphing into something else, the anger was working and it was visible. "Your two faced, utterly incompetent falsehoods have become too much for I to bear, and I am sick of it! I am leaving! This is me quitting cold turkey, you irradiating, Gödel's error, fraud of an inventor."

He points to Kendra, and it's only when he does so (and his anger begins to cool off) that he notices that his skin is turning green.

... and that his back is in pure and utter revolt.

Kendra is already sprinting away by the time Donnie realizes what is going on. The crowd is either leaving, or they're recording on their phones. No one sees a mutation in broad daylight anymore, after all.

...

There are two cities.

Above New York, there is the relatively normal society. Below New York, there is the relatively... abnormal society. What has been dubbed the Mystic City. Around 30 years ago, there was a leak between the two that left a breach between the two worlds. Mystic energy seeped into the waking world, and that was... shockingly well accepted.

And then the Oozequitoes got out. Caused mutated humans across the sphere via Mystic Brand Ooze. Ever since, there's been heroes popping up, villains, vigilantes, trying to either take advantage of the chaos, or trying to stop it.

... or trying to be superstars. Fuckin' Primetime.

The path of advanced genetics, breeding, and the EPF only being so effective has only increased the presence of the bugs. That must be what bit him earlier today.

But he's not much focusing on that right now.

Right now he's focusing on his spine bending and breaking to fit the mold of something else; his ribs breaking and remolding to transfigure his body into something else entirely. He watches as his skin turns into teal green mottles of leather, and the crash of something (his robot limbs? Moved him. Back wall) against his back only made it burn more. Pain erupting anew is not a good feeling, shocking. Bones fusing, muscles switching activities, his head hurting, aching, crying—!

...

Silence.

—

When he came to, he thought it had been about half an hour with the pain he felt. In reality, it had only been about five minutes, but that was more than enough time for even the most diehard mutant observers to get bored and leave. Not to mention more than enough time for the Purple Dragons to pack up their equipment and ditch the place.

Well. At least it had been eventful; could have gone worse. Kendra could've killed him.

But he should get going. The night is young, and now that the only place he can encounter the trio is at school (and Donnie is more advanced classes than all of them), logically he should cement his place as New York's newest villain.

... vigilante?

He'll think on it.

His body is still sore, anyways; he staggers up, taking stock of all of his limbs plus one. Apparently becoming a whatever-he-is includes a tail, because he can feel it swishing against his pants when his brain fires the neurons to do so. Weird. Moreover, his back is killing him; not literally, but it's to the point where he's surprised he can still move. He doesn't remove his backpack though; he's using his metal arms to stabilize himself, it'd be a strange choice if he removed it just because of a bit of pain.

He puts half of his weight on his metal as he stalks the halls of the museum. The lights are off; seems either no one's reported the break in yet, or Kendra's got an automatic police blocker.

Hah. Who's he kidding. He has an automatic police blocker, any calls within a 5 block radius that go to the police have been rerouted to the automated voice machine he made out of a fax machine and an old phone. Kendra just stole the idea without telling him, as per usual.

Whatever. He needs a mirror, this is the fastest way. He dips into the restroom; the family restroom, specifically. He doesn't want to even try the other ones, at least he's damn sure the custodians clean the family rooms. He needs to take stock of all changes done to him.

... starting with the obvious he noticed as soon as he closed the door. He has three fingers. That is. Hm. He flexes the fingers experimentally; it seems the pinky and ring (as well as his middle finger and his pointer finger) have fuuuused. Yikes. At least he still has opposable thumbs, so it's not too different.

Although he's already having trouble closing doors. He fully closes it using one of his metal arms, turning around to face the mirror.

He retained his hair, which makes sense because a majority of his hair does come from a wig.

... what? Did you think he just draws on his eyebrows for no reason? He's never really liked how hard it is to grow out his natural hair, so he buzzed it a couple years back and got a wig to replace it. Much easier maintenance. As for his eyebrows, they're too thin for his liking, so makeup brushes it is.

He pulls up his visor, blinking to adjust to the light. Ow. He will never forgive modern technology for making light dimmers only used in homes. His face, though, looks relatively normal; the eyebrows didn't transfer, which is... annoying, to say the least. Now it's just a giant expanse of forehead.

Hm. Maybe he should do something about that. A mask? That could work. Sharpie won't be directly on his skin, and given how much easier he's breathing, he might have achieved pharyngeal breathing.

... huh. Green skin. Back pain. Three fingers, no hair, skin breathing...

He shrugs off his backpack, setting it carefully down before tossing his jacket next to it. He then regrets the one piece design he decided on, doing his best to unzip the thing, before taking a glance at his back.

Yep. That's a shell alright.

It's not the typical kind; leathery, spotted brown covering the soft scutes. Donnie knows some stuff about turtles— childhood special interest, maybe some isn't quite the word— so he's well damn aware that his shell is natural and not damaged. Soft-shelled turtle, spiny variety if the spiked edge is of any indication.

Interesting.

He experimentally pokes a spike, only to be sorely disappointed when all it does is be easily pushed down and causing a bit of pain through the shell.

Doubly interesting. It seems his shell is like that of a hatchling, where the shell isn't quite bone yet; er, cartilage, due to species. It's supposed to be much harder than that.

No matter.

A wicked grin on his face splits all the same, even when he feels how his jaw and... beak? Click to fit the human expression. He can work with this. He can deeeeefinitely work with this.

He zips the compression gear back over his shell, stuffs his wig in his bag (as expected, he's completely bald), and puts on everything again as regular. He pulls up his window with a snap of his fingers, the holographic-like square coming in it's own brand of purple. Only to find, that—

There's been a new variable added.

"biteStrength", with a default of 30. Oo. He tries to set it at 15 — doesn't work. He tries to set it to 45.5 — it does work, so it's not an int variable.

Sick. He'll reset it to 30; not much of a point to keep it up, his jaw was clenching at 45.5, so he'll have to work more with that, maybe he can do something with how the bone works when it fuses to the shell, eventually. He'll have to see if he can mutate back to human; some mutants can, most can't, and scientists haven't exactly figured out how yet, but it might have to do with how diluted the ooze is by now.

The spider legs activate again once he puts the backpack on, hoisting him towards the wall and moving mostly due to him. Combination of AI and 'hoverboard' physics, he leans to where he likes; he's only got two hand controlled legs, with rings on his fingers that do so.

...

Maybe.

He thinks he has an idea.

He leans his way out of the bathroom, jettisoning through the halls as the police sirens finally fill his ears. Jokes on them, he's a mutant turtle now, and he has a titanium shell to go augment and spend a week straight on working on.

Chapter Text

Primeti— Leo was not doing well.

He woke up this morning with a terrible headache, he found more hair than usual left over in his brush (damn fake hair, he told his execs to get him better wigs), and they were out of his usual iced coffee flavor at his favorite Starbucks! His boss is going to be pissed at him!

And Big Mama's not really ever friendly. Even less so when one of her best heroes is in a bad mood.

So he plasters a smile on his face, the very one that's quickly worming it's way onto every social media feed and every billboard, and the up and coming Hero Primetime steps out of the company's restroom.

He takes great care in his appearance; the tawny terracotta and port wine stains on his face (despite the years of bullying) is displayed as proudly as it can be. He still needs to hide his appearance, though, so his hair gets tied up and polarized sunglasses covers his eyes with red. He fought for a lack of a mask, however, and he got it.

The rest of his outfit follows his visor; it's the standard training jumpsuit, so it's white in most areas, but the accents are in blue and he's very grateful for that. If it weren't for that he would not be wearing this garish thing. It contrasts so much with the rest of him naturally, but the wavy blonde hair he wears (that the public thinks is real) matches more with it than anything else, so he wears it.

He says hi to everyone passing by, keeping his simmering irritation below the skin as he walks across the hallway. Some people give only a short wave in response, some others say a tired 'good morning', and there's even a couple who chat with him a couple moments before he's on his way again.

A majority ignore him.

That's fine, he tells himself. It's all good. Maybe they're just having a rough day too. Remember the empathy classes he took in elementary school. Remember. Yes. Ignore the fact it's the same few faces that pass by him everyday. Co-workers who groan at having to deal with his antics in field that's all played off as 'good natured joking around' by the media. He loves being in the spotlight, don't get him wrong, but this? This he could do without.

He keeps going down. Getting down to the end of the hall, and stepping into the elevator with little more than a click.

... and then he can't breathe.

He sighs.

He presses his hands against the side of whatever's trapping him. He's just glad this is somewhat normal around the office— as someone likes to play tricks.

A giggle meets his ears when he can hear again.

"Did I getchya that time?" It's one of the older heroes; not too much older than him, maybe about 20 or so. She's covered in orange patches, her natural pale skin almost looking like the floor tiles in this light. Her hair is something of a frizzy mess, the white and blonde tied back and poofing all over the place. Red eyes denote the pale skin, and she grins an infectious grin as she quite literally swims in the air. "You figured it out rather quickly, so I hope you didn't."

"Good morning to you too, Piebald." Well-known mentor to the greatest hero-in-training (him, obviously), and the former sidekick of the most famous and greatest hero in the history of the last half-century.

Lou Jitsu.

Born before the Mystic Split caused powers, his skill in ninjutsu and his presence caused an uproar when he broke onto the scene in the infancy of the Oozequito break-out. He's been monumental in preserving the peace, and without him, several lives would've been lost to oblivion. He's an inspiration to kids everywhere.

Including Leo.

"Lee—oooo..." Piebald waves a slightly webbed hand in front of Leo's face. Leo blinks twice. "Another bad night? Or just not enough coffee?" She lightly teases. She's the only one who actually knows about Leo's insomnia; if anyone else did, he'd only be further giving them reasons to fire him. He gives enough just by being in the same room as any of them, so he'd rather not.

"Nah," he lies yet, "just a bit spacey. I'll get better once I'm out on the field, promise." The elevator door slides open with a pleasant 'ding!' Leo steps out before Piebald can stop him, and she just sighs with a bit of a smile on her face. She doesn't push.

And it's true; despite his many (, many) quips, he does tend to do better in the field than in a stuffy office building. Hell, he can feel the adrenaline building even as he just steps into the garage; large, concrete, and half-used for heroes personal vehicles, half-used for hero transport vans. Which, really should be a liability, but it's not like he signed a contract to be here, so he's not sure if it is or not.

"I call drivi—" Piebald bubbles him before he can finish, a glare on his face immediately appearing as he turns to Piebald.

"You can't drive, you're 14." She seems tired suddenly, for whatever reason. Leo can't possibly fathom why. He rolls his shoulders and imitates a groan in response, once more popping the bubble with only a little bit of resistance from the surface.

"Fiiiiine. I call shotgun then!" He says, running off to their assigned patrol van. Really, there's no such thing as a shotgun or a driver; the vans are self-driving, for the most part. This is for the safety of the heroes, and to save on costs, since the back of the van is the only place that's armored. Leo hops into the van in the fourth parking spot down, and waits for Piebald to swim her way over.

Piebald is odd.

No one knows what is allowing her to swim. She cuts through air like butter, and can breathe underwater, and can make bubbles. Plus, she was only born a year after the split; unless she was Patient Zero for humans gaining powers, there's no logical reason for her just... existing. With a fish tail to boot, too.

But Leo loves her all the same; almost like a mother. Not quite, though; ever since he got his power and was subsequently taken in as a ward of the state by the company, Piebald has been the only one to be consistently patient with him.

Maybe an aunt? He knows she doesn't quite like kids. Something like that.

"C'mon kid," ah. He zoned out again. "Get the door closed, we gotta patrol to catch."

He grins, ignoring the pit of dread slowly pooling in his gut. Today will be perfect, and he knows this. It's just the lack of caffeine getting to him, he'll be fine.

And yet, he closes the door with hesitancy all the same.

—

Leo yawns, and Piebald half-heartedly punches his shoulder. A grumble.

"Wake up, kid, we've got somethin' hooked." Piebald has the radar up, news articles off to the side of the holographic screen. It's some laptop they scavenged off of one of the lesser villain groups. Branded 'GeniusTechSW'.

It makes Leo snort whenever he sees it. Can't be much of a genius if the heroes got it.

"Who is it? And nice pun, BTW." He glances over the screen, words taking a bit longer to register. Not because he's tired (totally not), but because the words are reversed. "Ah. Those guys."

"Do you remember the names of anyone we fight?" Piebald asks, but Leo just glances at her, then slowly looks away with comedic intent. He can read perfectly fine.

"It's the. The guys. The purple guys. The... lizards? Drakes...?"

"The Purple Dragons." Them! Yes. He vehemently nods.

"See, I remembered." Piebald just sighs, and sits next to him. Er. Floats next to him with her tail imitating how someone would sit on a chair. "What are they doing, stealin' Windows 76 machines again?"

"No, they're doing something rather..." she pauses, letting him read the headline better. "Out of character. They've been spotted outside the Walmart we're headed to, just... mindlessly stealing and beating up employees. They were apparently spotted at the Museum too, but the EPF took that one."

Ah yes. The EPF. Leo likes to call them the UFW; both because that's the sound he makes when they're brought up, and because the acronym of Utterly Fucking Worthless fits them so much better. Leo rolls his eyes (and, obviously, makes aforementioned sound), before leaning back in. "Aren't they all powerless? And non-mutants? Why were they called?"

"Beats me, the reports all went private as soon as I clicked 'em." Fuckers. He wants his gossip. "In any case, they're beatin' up on civilians now, so we gotta stop and maybe arrest them. Throw 'em in detention."

He grimaces, but the expression passes in a flash; it's well known that the Purple Dragons are all comprised of teenagers. He has... some reservations about beating up people the same age as him, let alone throwing them in prison (which, some of the other heroes often talk about wanting to do), but he guesses they are criminals.

... and also have plans of world domination and maybe some in-fighting if what he's heard over some of their comms is correct.

Fortunately for him, he has managed to keep some secrets about his powers.

He can make these cool light circle things. Not very big, but they can be used for a range of things; mainly as wormholes to grab small objects. On paper, that sounds absolutely amazing to heroes and villains alike. He knows this.

Which is why he keeps the more boring part of his power hidden away. That being, he can make a strange holographic dial thingy; he's messed around with it a couple times when he was younger, and he swears that he can remember showing like... one person, but that's wayyyy before the whole hero business. He has most of that, like... blocked out. His dials can change stuff like his volume and two other things he wasn't entirely able to figure out. He ended up crashing through the floorboards of the orphanage once, that was fun. But he hasn't fucked with them in a while.

Probably something to do with him being monitored near 24/7 now.

... hm. Well, he can think about that later. At 3AM. When he's trying his best to fall asleep; the key word there is 'trying'.

What was he on about, again? Oh yeah. He can hear through the portals, they're kinda like stationary walkie talkies. They're great for snooping about, even if he himself can't fit entirely through them. Real life Portal. He should play Portal again.

"Leo." Ah. Fuck. The van stopped. "Are you sure you're okay? I don't want you going into this if you keep spacing out like this."

"It's the unmedicated ADHD," he thinks thats actually it, this time. "I'll be fine." He hops up without a word, letting himself out of the van and ignoring Piebald trying to argue. For real, the brain fog might be a bit heavy today, but that's alright, he's worked through it before.

... and his back hurts, maybe, just a bit. He probably just sat wrong, it's fine.

The Walmart is, as always, dingy. The blue is grimy, the granite probably has piss somewhere along it, and plastic bags blow like tumbleweeds across a cartoon desert. The light on the 'mart' part of the sign is flickering. There's only a few cars in the parking lot; by which he means, about a quarter of the lot, maybe, is full. All that is normal, standard, just your everyday Walmart at 10PM.

The thing that's unusual are the barricades on the door; even more unusual is the fact that they aren't purple, considering who they're dealing with. They look almost... haphazard. As if the brawl that was reported inside is a crime of passion rather than organized crime.

Weird.

"Hey, the plant section entrance looks open," Piebald calls, and Leo blinks to her, jogging to catch up. Stupid fish tail. Being able to swim halfway across the parking lot.

Once he does catch up, he sees that Piebald was not lying (as if she'd ever do that, truly). The plant section had it's entrance into the store completely unblocked, which... explains, probably, why there are less people here than necessary. Doors were almost certainly wrenched open at one point, meaning Leo only just barely was able to get through it. Piebald, the dirty cheater, used yet another one of her powers.

She doesn't just have the bubbles; she also has the ability to like... wall meld? She melds into like paint or something, and whatever she touches she disappears into. He guesses that means she can't like. Sit down. Or sleep. But fish do neither of those anyways. She's too OP, she needs to be nerfed.

He snaps back to attention when he hears a scream not too far away. Mixed with... anger?

Leo nods at the goldfish currently on a painted succulent, and then runs off towards the noise with Piebald no doubt following him. The store was... a bit of a mess, the shelves disorganized and messy. No doubt due to the thievery the report talked about, and based off of the barricading outside the doors, he'd say this was impulse more than anything. Maybe a grab for control?

He stops at the sound of another shout, closer this time and very obviously a swear word. Probably one from Number 11, as the higher pitch gives that away immediately. 15 and 12 are both assumed to be men, and they haven't said anything to disprove that whereas 11 has, so the assumptions like should be true. Leo's tried to make a habit of sliding in a good way of asking pronouns in his jokes, but it's had middling success—

"Ugh! I can't believe he'd just do that!"

Shit!

He presses up against the aisle wall, hearing the voices nearby. It's really just more workplace gossip, but it seems like his infighting comment was right. That was easily 11, now that she was closer; her level of tone and her voice was just underneath Mean Girl levels enough to qualify her as a human being rather than a musical recording.

... also the other two don't talk as much as she does, and she is (as the kids say) going off.

"Seriously! Taking all the credit for the projects we worked on together, then just DITCHING us and turning into that thing!" A kick to one of the shelves nearby causes a distinct rattle, and Leo's fortunate that it's not the one in front of him, nor the one he's against. He slinks towards the end of the aisle the Purple Dragons aren't on. If he can get the jump behind them, then that's all the better. They have eyes everywhere, after— "Now we don't have cameras, we don't have gear, and we don't have a lookout!"

... or maybe they don't. Looks like they have sand currently in those eyes, in fact. Better yet, the eyes are gone entirely. Removed. Out of their sockets.

"11, maybe you should chill...?"

Focus.

"Well if W.I.P. hadn't BETRAYED US maybe I COULD," she seethed, and Leo hears a sharp click and a shuffle. A spin and someone going back? Whatever it is, that's someone Leo's never heard of before; the W.I.P. guy. Guy slash genderneutral. Yeah. "Honestly!! None of these registers had anything valuable anyways, ugh. Can't believe this." He stays at the end of the aisle as he hears them walk through the aisle next to him.

A plan is being formulated.

He'll jumpscare them. Piebald will hear him, make her way over. They're emotional right now, less likely to have a strategy. He still has a headache, and his back is also starting to ache, so he'll have to rely on his legs and his ability to stall. He still thinks he can come up with words though— some sort of comeback, ideally. He'll let them speak first, then let them react to that.

He hears 11 kick the shelves on the next aisle. They're close.

"15, go check the next aisle since SOMEONE can't do it for us." Perfect timing. He's just gonna stay still, letting the sneakers squeak non-threateningly against the floor. He'll have to avoid being noticed by 11, but that won't be too hard. He'll only have to do that for about five seconds.

3...

2...

1...

A yellow visor meets red sunglasses, and Primetime puts a grin on his face.

15 is both taller and bulkier than him, but Primetime has the element of surprise. In a flash, 15 is against the back wall— Primetime takes care to not knock it over, lest there's people on the other side— and struggling. All he needs is the breath to be taken out of him, mainly because—

"Seriously?! First we lose a member, now the lameass heroes are here?!" 11 has enough breath for the both of them. Primetime turns around, intentionally looking with a bit of a 'and what are you gonna do about it?' look. Lips pursed, and one eyebrow going up.

"Oh noooo, sorry that I ruined your crime," He says, "but unfortunately I have to, yanno, do my job." Now that he thinks about it, police reports about the Purple Dragons at the scene of the crime were rare. Their extra member must've had a police blocker of some kind.

"You aren't even a real hero." 11 gets out through gritted teeth. Yeowch. Harsh. Someone's not having a good night. "Where's your mommy at, huh?"

"Eleven—"

"Shut up, Twelve." Wow. That is. Unbridled hostility. Including the mom comment. Damn.

"Primetime!" Oh cool, Piebald heard that, "Lemme take them, you should do some recon."

He gives a thumbs up to the general location of where her voice is coming from — above them — and he dashes and (intentionally slams) into 11. Because he's petty.

"Hey—!" She shouts, holding her shoulder. He didn't think he did that much damage. "What the fuck was that for, asshole?!"

He turns around, sticking his tongue out in a mock raspberry as he watches Piebald crash through from the ceiling directly on her targets. Out of that aisle, now, he feels like his head is going to split from the fighting. He should be able to find some people from around the store, it shouldn't be that hard.

He barely gets five steps before he gets a call from Piebald.

"Primetime! Get down!"

He manages to turn around instead, and pain instantly spreads through his back. He drops to the floor a second too late, eyes closing as he recontextualizes. He thinks someone threw something into his back, but from that angle, it should've been impossible to do so— unless it was just a lucky shot, but even then—

He can hear a near horrified 'oh, what the fuck—' as his consciousness swims in and out from both the radiating pain on his back, and his head, and his spinal column, and on most places in his body now that he thinks of it. His hand tries to find where the knife — probable, the Purple Dragons can't get guns yet — embedded itself, but finds his back smooth and... ridged? Why is it...

Why...

There's a thump, and his vision goes black with one last shout from who he thinks is Piebald.

—

He wakes to the faint sound of police sirens.

The Wal-Mart — oh gross, he's on the floor — is dim, someone must've turned out the lights, and he estimates it might've been 30 minutes since he blacked out.

His head is still hammering though. If this is what a hangover felt like, he wanted no part in it. Jesus.

He wobbles upright, offbalance due to the blood loss and... whatever the hell he feels on his back. And his... hands?

Are those his? They must be, they're connected to his body, but... they aren't... they aren't his color.

They're lime green.

They're scaled. They're dry, the cracks between the fingers being a light yellow. They're all sorts of wrong. They're different. They're difficult. For the first time in his life, he wants his nails to be longer.

He only has six fingers.

Shit. Shit shit shit. This isn't just a case of slightly wrong, no, no— they aren't gloves. These aren't something he can take off. Shit.

He must've gotten mutated. That has to be it. But into what? Fuck.

He stands fully now, legs shaky on the ground. The police sirens are a bit closer, now, and he realizes belatedly that the Purple Dragons must've called them and dashed. Fuckers. He'll have to recoup with Piebald, she's on the walls somewhere, surely. If she wasn't, then—

Then—

...

He needs to get to a bathroom. See what's going on. Dress his wound. His back feels cold and warm at the same time. His nerves are going haywire.

Fortunately, he doesn't have to go far. He's right next to the tech department, which means he's right next to the bathrooms. The Men's room is blessedly empty, as judged by the lack of screams at whatever the fuck he looks like now when he entered the room. The lack of taunts on his body. The pointed staring away as he walks cautiously to the stall.

He limps to the mirror, and just... stares, for a moment.

His wig is, of course, a mess. He can't feel anything below it. He's never liked how fussy his hair gets, so he's had it shaved for god knows how long. Wigs are obviously better. But that isn't the worst thing about his complexion, because when he took off his glasses—

He realized his entire body is lime green.

His port wine stains are still there, in a bright red with more defined edges. His jumpsuit is dirty, presumably from being on the floor for... however long he was on the ground, and it was torn in one specific spot.

When he turns, he sucks in a breath. That would explain the whole... hot-cold sensation.

A dome rises from his back, and he can recognize the scutes from a turtle's shell almost in an instant. It had... something to do with a friend from his childhood. Friend? Some other kid at the orphanage. He had this weird phase where he would constantly talk about turtles, and Leo for some reason absorbed most of it.

So he would be then...

A red-eared slider. More like red-eyed, given the markings. But a slider of some kind. Shit.

The sirens have stopped moving, and Leo has to strain his ears (that are now interior, ugh) in order to hear what's going on out there. Shit. Shit shit shit.

He opens the door— the red-blue lights shine throughout the front of the store, and he can see flashlights beaming throughout the front of the store. Piebald is nowhere in sight, but she saw what had happened to him, right? She'd be able to corroborate his story without him being here, right?

Right?

He gulped.

He needs to run.

His eyes — wow he thought turtles had better eyesight than this in the dark — search for the exit, more so the bright red fire alarm puller. His back— shell??? Ugh. — still aches from the knife in it, but he needs to run. He latches onto the fire alarm right next to the employee door, and swiftly makes his way over to it. His shoes and still-shaky legs aren't doing him any favors, he suspects something there also changed, but he creeps his way over to the door all the same. Now all he needs to do is—

"There! Show yourself!"

Shit.

He flips the switch, and lets the strangely dull fire alarm pull over the building as he kicks the door open and runs.

The back room is messy, boxes having to be toppled at every last opportunity, and he just prays to god that he can dash fast enough for the cops to not find him once he exits the building. His heart is jackhammering through his– not chest, he's less bendy now. Plastic... something? Plasma? Whatever. It's run or get arrested.

He doesn't think the cops will particularly care for a mutant wearing his specific shade of blue.

... a plan is being formulated.

He reaches the exit door, and decides right then and there he'll have to jump up onto the roof. He just has to hope that he remembers which dial does which as he summons the (still blue, thank you) dial rings.

... there's an extra one. He pauses, mentally, then decides to look at it later. He slides the previous middle one slightly right.

He bounces less. Good.

He gets out the door, and ignores the guns cocking as he spins the dial left.

He practically goddamn flies up the wall, and while it may have left him with a nauseous stomach, it also left him safe. He can feel the bullet spray against his heels, but none of them even touch him as he hops over the top of the roof and twists the dial back to neutral. He can hear shouting from down below, to call in backup from the heroes, but he's a goddamned mutant turtle, for fuck's sake.

Sigh.

He needs to get another plan going. Now.