"Six sodas isn’t exactly healthy?"
"Wow, really, Donnie? That’s a shame, because I always drink them all at once—”
"Oh, wait. No, I don’t.
The point is, they’re my sodas, and that means everybody else should leave them alone!”
"You are not very pleasant. Nor very open the sharing. Might wanna take a breather, Raph."
//wednesday marks the end of AP tests for me, so i’ll try and be on after that~
if i owe you (which shouldnt be too many people) let me know~
"Why don’t you turn on a movie?"
"Last time I checked, I’ve already seen everything we have.”
"What’s the problem with that? You can watch something more than once, you know."
Donnie wasted no time when he slipped out, heading directly for the kitchen to dig up whatever leftovers there were from the boys’ last pizza order. His brothers either uninterested in what he had been doing while locked in the lab, or they recognized that he was too focussed on it to want to chat — either way, no questions were asked when he passed. Which was for the best; the existence of another Donatello was a discovery that he wanted to keep to himself for as long as possible.
The pizza was cold, but that didn’t matter. There were plenty of options to reheat it in the lab, if his double could stay his hunger long enough to do so. He sidled back in, presenting the box with a slight air of triumph as he kicked the door shut behind him. “Mission accomplished!”
Pulling up a stool, he set their meal on the desk and tried to sort out the millions of questions that had risen in his mind. Inter-dimensional travel and the existence of alternate-universe selves make for millions of possibilities, but he wasn’t sure that demanding information from a turtle identical to himself would yield any answers that he didn’t already know.
"We should do some further testing on each of our transporters… just to be sure that this wasn’t a fluke," he suggested, grabbing himself a slice. "But if we really have discovered how to cross the barrier between our universes physically, rigging a telecommunication signal to do the same shouldn’t be that hard, right?
"I can’t tell you how many times I could have used a second genius on speed-dial."
"I’m relatively sure you wouldn’t need to, because I know the feeling very well," Donatello replied, taking a slice of the pizza for himself. He nodded at his counterpart, taking a moment to chew before replying.
"If we can travel across dimensions now, I’m pretty sure we can probably get our phones to work. I don’t want this to be the only time I get to see myself in anything other than a mirror."
Donnie leaned back in the chair, looking back towards their portal. They managed to create their own way of closing the gap, of bringing people closer together in a way that hadn’t been done before.
They were incredible.
"So… what do you want to do, Donnie? Go ahead and run the tests or…?"
David Guetta - Turn Me On (Feat. Nicki Minaj)
"How can someone with such huge fingers make this look so easy?" April snorted, her complaint contradicted by the hint of laughter that edged it. She would expect something like this from Mikey, but she had never pinned Donnie as an origami kinda guy. It made sense given his upbringing, though. Narrowing her eyes as she tried to fix the edge of what was maybe a wing, she stole another glance at Donnie's crisply-folded masterpiece and pushed her stool back from the counter in defeat. "I give up."
"No, no. Don’t give up, April. It takes a long time to master, but you’re smart. I know you can do it," he replied, setting the crane aside. He smiles at her gently, before his expression falls flat, "Hey, my fingers aren’t that big!"
classic || mkto
out of my league, old school chic
like a movie star from the silver screen
you’re one of a kind living in a world gone plastic
baby, you’re so classic
//i dont even know if the new episode is on yet but i havent seen it so *hides away from spoilers*
No answer. No answer. No answer.
Do not panic. For there were many reasons, surely, to explain how Donatello had missed his father’s call: he may have fled. He may be hidden. He may be fighting.
The Kraang, however, had not missed it; the pounding of their iron feet, their otherworldly scent, their monotonous voices — all had begun to grow terribly close, blood-curdlingly clear. No choice. No choice but to fight.
Fight, and find him.
Splinter had already coiled his every fiber; his hair bristled, his hand twitched beside the handle of his staff, and his jaw had become tightly clenched as he braced himself for the noise, for the pain.
Once more, he let himself peer about the corner.
He was met by the nose of a gun.
He had only just begun to bank away when the alien — one that had already prepared to fire — fell in a shower of metal and sparks.
Splinter had seen the silver flash that had caused it; small, sharp, and most certainly far from accidental.
He had seen what direction it had come from.
In seconds the rat was running as quickly as he possibly could, launching himself over the packages, skidding about the barrels, soaring over and under the bursts of heat and light that scorched the very ends of his fur, seared the tip of his tail. He barely registered the dull pain of driving his fist into the exposed flesh of a Kraang, splicing the sight of a weapon with a blade, driving his staff into a metallic skull, for he thought of little more than his search for a hint of green, a slip of purple.
But the next thing he saw was neither.
What he did see was black. Large. He recognized it; it was what had struck the match of his curiosity, what had sent them barreling into this mess in the first place. With a skidding halt that nearly tore the padding of his feet, he paused before it (ducking underneath the next flurry of enemy fire) and, with his ears twitching curiously against his head, he peered about its structure. Could he gleam something, perhaps, from the shape? The size? A label?
More gun-fire. Splinter needed no thought nor plan to lunge swiftly out of harm’s way; only when he had time to blink did he realize that he had pressed his back to his great, metal mystery. The hot pang of anger tore over his brain (or, was it a lazer?); he was wasting time.
'Find Donatello. Find him, and leave.’
More lights. The sound of marching. On instinct Splinter bared his teeth, and his grip, vise-like in his frustration, might have crushed the handle of his kunai as he drew it from his sash…
Tick. Tick. Tick.
All at once, Splinter’s body seized. His ears turned.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
It had come from the black box; immediately, his gaze fell upon it.
A shining, red screen. A monitor.
"No — !"
The panic had stolen his every thought; now he was bounding away upon every limb he had, and if he had been hit at all as he did — if he bled, staggered or bruised — he could not know.
Far too late did his son, crouched behind the iron bins, finally come into view. It was there he dashed and, in one final, desperate leap, he tried to reach him, to cast his body over him, to protect him somehow — !
The blast was infinitely louder than his voice.
His father jumping over his figure was the last thing he saw before the word turned a ghastly white.
Donatello’s breath had been ripped from his lungs, his ears were bursting with noise unparalleled to anything he had heard before, and his eyes were squeezed as tightly shut as possible.
The young turtle gripped onto his father and pulled him as close as possible as the explosion ripped a hole in the building; Splinter meant safety, warmth.
Splinter meant that Donnie was going to live.
The two mutants were thrown against the near wall from the shockwave, metal crates tumbling around them and onto them, piling on top of their bodies and creating a ‘shield’, if it could be called.
The mere seconds that it took for everything to be over were disguised as hours, and after what seemed like more than half the day, Donnie tentatively opened his eyes.
He had buried his face in his father’s chest, pressing against the warm, clean fur like he would when he was much younger. It smelled like home, like a fresh lavender.
It completely contrasted the scene around them.