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It’s so hot.
It’s so unbearably hot.
There are many things you never think about when pondering an apocalypse. Of course, the general atmosphere is that it’s dangerous and terrifying and overall horrible.
But it was seriously awful.
No one warned him about the dirt, sweat, and blood that caked every inch of his tired body. How you’ll never feel truly clean no matter how much you scrub and scrub and scrub with a damp washcloth (because that’s all they ever had anymore).
No one warned him about the pungent smell of death that wafts everywhere, attacking your senses and leaving a bad taste in your mouth. How at first the putrid smell in the air could make you lose your lunch and now it’s nothing but a passing thought. How you’ll grow used to it.
No one warned him about the excessive heat, how it makes your clothes stick and cling to your skin. How it’s never cold, either warm enough to be just barely uncomfortable or enough to be in a searing wildfire. How the constant sweat makes everything worse.
And definitely, no one warned him about the absolute loss he’d face.
Master Michelangelo gritted his teeth against the harsh conditions of the battlefield. The wind raged around him, mixing with the numerous sounds of war ripping through the air. The orange sky was set ablaze with fire and ash, clouds of smoke and death rising into it.
The final battle did not paint a flattering picture. Guns firing and final cries, sorrowful and angry and cathartic, rung throughout the air, mixing with the mechanical whirring of Kraang suits. Red beams flashed everywhere; it was hard to see with them. Decay filtered through the air as fresh corpses littered the battleground.
Some of them he recognized.
Still, Master Michelangelo pushed himself further than he ever had before; he couldn’t let himself dawdle on the dead. Even if he knew them.
Even if he spent his days drinking what leftover tea they had with them. Even if he fought beside them day in and day out. Even if they grew up together. Even if he loved them with every fiber of his being.
No, he couldn’t let himself slow down, lest he be taken by one of the kraang as well.
He urged his powers to make him go, make him fly, make him faster than ever before. He had more people to help and save before they were taken too. Fire there, chains here, incredible and damn near insurmountable strength there. He dashed and danced around the battlefield in a way only he knew how to. He helped every person he could see with the grace of a master molded by hardships and war.
It never seemed enough.
Despite his many, many efforts, the people he revolted with died anyway. The power of the Kraang grew far too great in the later stages of the apocalypse. Whatever the resistance scrounged up, the Kraang would return it tenfold. The raw firepower they wielded was simply too much.
Everything comes to an end, Master Michelangelo supposed. Even if everything he hoped, prayed, and fought for was to keep going, to reach some uncertain future where everyone was safe, happy, and alive. It was too late for wishful thinking like that.
He heard footsteps, a few grunts, and some words exchanged. He sensed a pull on his ninpo, a cry from the last person he held in that circle. A cry from his last remaining brother. He rushed towards it with a haste he hadn’t had since his prime.
Master Michelangelo used some last feeble shreds of his immense power to push back the snarling dogs and robotic Kraang-droids. He felt the surge of irate fire build in his veins, waiting just beneath the surface to be let out. He could feel the heat as he called upon his mysticism, a well-known friend by this point, and cast a spell large enough to wipe clear the surrounding enemies. The battlefield lit up in an amazing display of power, strong yet beautiful at the same time. It lit up all of the corpses of some of his loved ones, buried under the rubble and carnage.
He couldn’t focus on that, he needed to buy enough time for the two most important people near him right now — Leonardo and Junior. He turned and looked at his older brother, not hearing his compliment and surveying him quickly for any wounds he might need to—
Oh.
Leonardo was bleeding out from a deep puncture wound on his abdomen. His vision tunneled in on the gushing red smeared across his raggy clothes and robotic arm, not hearing the battle raging around him or the way Junior called out to him. He just focused on the fatal injury his one remaining older brother had.
He should be used to this by now, this horrible game of blood and death. The one where one is unsure if anyone will make it out alive. He should be used to the sight and smell of spilled blood and the heartache that comes with it.
He should be used to it by now.
(He never is.)
It was always different when it was his family.
Everything caught up to him at once.
“Help him, Michelangelo!” Junior pleaded, turning to him with terrified eyes. The rush of the fight around him flooded back in as he said, “He’s hurt bad!”
Master Michelangelo didn’t hear the words Leonardo said right then, too absorbed in searching through his thousands upon thousands of spells, charms, incantations, anything that could help his big brother heal. Anything that might seal the wound close enough to retreat to some haphazard base, just the three of them. Any workaround or last resort to piece him back together just enough to have him see just one more day, please.
His internal begging was cut short.
“Mikey, we need a time gateway,” Leonardo commanded, bringing him back to this awful present.
“It’ll take everything I have.” He replied on autopilot, his heart sinking but not daring to disobey any direct orders from the leader of the resistance. They had been through too much to do so. There was no time to disrespect his authority like that. They weren’t kids anymore.
Master Michelangelo got to work immediately, accepting his fate while doing so. He and his brother had already talked about this reality, this idea that was purely a last-ditch effort. That had been a rather grim day. His big brother hadn’t liked the idea and was sure they would never have to use it.
He supposed he had changed his mind.
He called upon that fierce heat once again, his ninpo and mysticism tied inextricably together after so many years of abuse. His power was stronger this way, in the same way one would develop scabs and blisters after being burned too many times. His power rushed back, hungry and loud, just as resentful as he.
Good, he needed every single shred of power he had to be able to pull this off.
…He could pull this off, right?
He needed to.
Once his stance was perfect, he began pouring every ounce of magic and fuel into this spell. All of the lingering mystic energy both within his own reserves and from the battle around him. He pulled anything he could call upon, all of his now dead friends and family and any of the ninpo he could feel from Leonardo, despite it feeling concerningly small. He brought all of his thoughts and feelings into his power, trying to fuel it any way he could. All of the sleepless nights, worried if their base would be found out or if a loved one went out on a mission and didn’t return in time for nightfall. All of the sorrow of realizing this was real life, that this wasn’t some dreadful nightmare, and even if they made it, things would never be the same. Of fighting the apathy that grabbed one by the ankles and dragged, because once one caved to the numbness, they would have lost their humanity along with it.
And all of the sparse tender moments between everyone he ever loved. Every good memory he had of raising Junior and growing up with his brothers, of seeing his sister find love despite everything. Everything that made this hell worth living through.
And how indescribably angry it made him that it all ended.
It all powered him just enough to start the cracks in the portal.
He could hear a hurried conversation happening behind him between Junior and Leonardo. He knew exactly what they were talking about. He has rehearsed it many times in his own head, thinking he might be there to explain as well.
He should have known he wouldn’t be allowed that luxury.
The heat was climbing rapidly, reaching a burning point in his chest and arms first before spilling out into every inch of his body. It was scalding, burning to where it felt that his blood was boiling right out of his veins. He could see his fingertips alight with bright golden light, those digits feeling the worst pain by far. It felt like his hand had been dipped directly into lava and someone was digging their nails into it afterward and scratching apart the charred flesh and bone with razor claws.
Everything within him begged that he stop but he couldn’t. The portal was still nowhere near done, only floating cracks in the space-time continuum.
He reached further within to use even the last of his magic, using whatever he could use as collateral. His body, his mind, his spirit, anything to get this open for Junior.
The scorching sensation had crept up his arms, far past his shoulders and leeching into his neck and face. His whole body felt like the sun, blazing and blistering, feeling two seconds away from coming undone and exploding with the amount of power he was wielding. It felt warm, hot, sweltering in a way he had never felt before. He could feel chunks of his skin and muscle flake and tear away, and it was excruciating.
The portal was only halfway done.
Master Michelangelo pulled and clawed and scraped at his reserves and power to keep pushing, keep pouring his very soul into this, he had to keep going—
Only to find there was nothing left.
An icy flash was the only warning he got before the barely forming ball of light in front of him exploded, and with it, he was flung across the small clearing and straight into his older brother with enough force to shatter bone. The only reason they didn’t break anything was because they were made for war, but that impact surely had not helped Leonardo’s injury at all.
“Mikey!”
“Master Michelangelo!”
Two calls rang out, both equally as concerned and horrified. There was a ringing in one of his ears, and the whole battlefield looked out of focus when he was able to open his eyes. It was all death and destruction and, and…
There was a lack of portal anywhere he could see.
“Mikey!” Came a voice, harsh and ragged. A cover-up for the intense grief behind it.
I looked behind me, where Leonardo was now fully on the ground and clutching his bleeding wound desperately. A loud grunt espaced him at the hit and he was gritting his teeth and breathing much heavier than he was before.
“What happened, Mikey? What happened to the portal?” He yelled out, face contorted in pain and seemingly angry. He knew he wasn’t, he was just scared of what that meant. He was desperate.
“I don’t… I don’t know.” Master Michelangelo replied, trying once again to reach his power to no avail. There was nothing left, just a frozen void that was chilling to his core. Never in his life had he felt this cold after unlocking his powers. There was always this undercurrent of heat, of familiar warmth that he hadn’t realized he had gotten so used to. It was so stark, the difference, to how he felt now. It felt wrong.
And his hands. He had been rather distracted by the adrenaline of the portal and accidentally hurting Leonardo more by falling onto him but when he finally felt the state of his hands, they hurt beyond anything he could imagine. The pain was deep and indescribable, even the slightest twitch caused intense pain shooting through every burnt nerve and up into his shoulders and neck.
They looked just as bad as they felt. They were mangled almost beyond recognition; sawed down stubs that bled profusely, exposing dirty bone and foul-smelling burnt flesh with bits and pieces missing. One whole finger was missing on his right hand with the stump covered in soot, crisped skin, and gushing red. Both arms were a mess of still-glowing spider-webbed cracks that dug into the green beneath it with cruelty, beads of blood pooling beside each rip and tear. There were entire chunks of muscle gone, peeled off his arms and hands and therefore exposing his muscle and ligaments. They were smudged in specks of blood and grime and ash.
And they hurt like hell.
It took everything in Master Michelangelo to not cry out in pain, tears threatening to spill already due to the overwhelming pain. He hadn’t cried from an injury in so long.
“Oh my— your hands!” Cried Junior, taking a closer look himself and wearing a horrid expression.
“I can— I can try—” Master Michelangelo tried to say, but the pain was so unbearable he couldn’t get anything more than a few more mumbles out. I can try again, he wanted to say. I need to try again.
“Mikey—” Leonardo began to say before he was cut off by a bright and blinding red light.
It was too late.
“They found us!” Junior yelled, grabbing his chainsaw hockey stick and immediately falling into a defensive position. Even Leonardo, with how much blood has already spilled from his stomach, rose to defend themselves as well. Master Michelangelo attempted to shift to fight back as well, but any movement ricocheted from his exhausted body and moved his arms and hands. He gave a singular hiss, trying to center himself again to ignore the pain and summon at least his chains to fight for him.
Yet, no matter how much he beseeched his power to come to him, there was nothing. Nothing but cold cold cold—
“Leo! My powers aren’t responding to me anymore!” He called out, even if that gave himself away as an easy target but he needed his brother to know that. He needed to know that he couldn’t fight, that he couldn’t watch his back no matter how hard he tried.
Leonardo looked back at him, critical eye poorly concealing his rampant concern. Junior was defending from the front, buying them precious seconds.
It was a split-second decision.
“Retreat!”
Junior immediately jumped back, ushering Leonardo and him backward. That jostled his arms a small bit, sending white-hot pain shooting up his limbs and blinding him for a second before they were running as fast as they could away from the ambush.
Every step he took shook his arms just that much more and he could feel himself very quickly tiring out. He had an intense pain tolerance, but he had never had to deal with agony such as this.
He slowed, just like his brother next to him. Junior tried his best to fend off the monsters as he was the most able-bodied, but it was simply too much for him. More and more Kraang spawn came rushing at them, nipping at their heels and snarling in their faces. Junior swung his chainsaw at them, keeping some at bay while Leonardo provided as much support with one arm as he could. Master Michelangelo began to kick and flail and distract but it was no use. Every movement sent him clenching his jaw from the horrible pain in his arms and his attacks weren’t effective at all.
More monsters and hellish creatures surrounded them, beginning to get full bites and slabs of meat off of them. The robots above shot at them, tearing holes in both their shredded clothes and skin.
It was beyond overwhelming, and even though he had known it since Leonardo asked him to make the portal, he was just now acknowledging they weren’t making it out.
Palpable sorrow and anger and all-encompassing grief filled his entire being. Even after all this time, even after everything they had gone through and suffered through together, they had lost. There was nowhere else to go, nothing else they could do. They did everything in their power to fight fight fight and it
It wasn’t enough
It never had been.
With his last strength, he turned to his remaining family. His brother and nephew.
“I’m sorry.”
He began tearing up again, this time the tears slipping past his chin unbidden.
“And I love you.”
Despite having to grow up quickly during the apocalypse,
Mikey never felt more like a child.
CRUNCH
——
A fifteen-year-old ninja clad in orange feels a sharp pang in his chest. He brushes it off as a growing pain.
Somewhere else in the city, a cult summons an alien race, unperturbed.