Dying is not fun.
I do not know if you knew that until last night. Maybe you figured that since it was romanticized so much that it would not suck as much as it so clearly and obviously did. Maybe you dreamed of dying relatively peacefully, surrounded by your loved ones. Alas, those dreams were dashed last night when you, oh so wise Y/N, decided that you were going to try baking and forgot the most essential step; taking the thing out of the oven. You remember that night so clearly, the screams of your family begging for their lives still bouncing around in your ears like a torturous golf ball that made a habit of forcing itself into your throat, the feeling of your hair catching alight as your skin bubbled and charred, and rational thought became a foreign concept. You do not remember if you had died from a heart attack or hyperthermia or smoke inhalation, but you had a general idea that, yes, that night had been your last on Earth.
So, where the fuck are you?
You pull yourself into a sitting position, your back pressed against something hard as your eyes struggle to adjust to the darkness. The air smells like rotten food and exhaust engines as you pull yourself off the concrete, looking around the alleyway that you had found yourself in. It's small, narrow, unremarkable in every way, with graffiti-covered dumpsters near the entrance. Dazed, confused, and generally out of sorts, you make your way to the entrance, patting yourself down for injuries you did not seem to have.
You rub the side of your face with your hand. 'My head is killing me.' You slip your hand into your jacket pocket, feeling a key and a piece of paper. 'God damn it's cold in this alley.' You zip up your jacket, walking out into the open as you pull the note out, beginning to read.
"Dear Y/N," you mumble as you read, "we are pleased to inform you of your acceptance into our transference program, yadda yadda yadda, whoop-de-doo..." You skim ahead of some introductory jargon before getting near to the point of the note. "From this point forward, enjoy your permanent residence at ten West.. fifteenth street... apartment number six two two... New York, New York?" You blink. 'I... that's not my address.' You pull out the key. 'Wait, hold on.' Your eyebrows furrowed. 'New York? Wait, I was dead, wasn't I?' Your eyes become unfocused. 'I don't live anywhere near NYC. Where am I?' You look around for some sort of landmark, street name, anything to give you some idea of where you are.
You hear a car squeal to a stop on the street corner in front of you, snapping you out of your stupor. As identical men start climbing out of the back of the vehicle, all marching deliberately towards you, a fifteen-year-old girl, your immediate reaction is to run like hell. Unfortunately for you, apparently your speed was not comparable to that of the men who quickly apprehend you, scooping you up and dragging you kicking and screaming into a van. You hear vaguely familiar voices outside, but your focus is less on the mayhem and more on the more pressing matter of getting yourself out of the van. You pound at the door, feel for any sort of locks on the inside, something, anything to get you out of the van, still screaming your head off as you hope whoever was outside had the common sense to call nine one one. You feel your eyelids droop as your breathing slows, your voice dying as your pounding becomes less intense. You slide to your knees, eyes closing even as you mentally scream at yourself to get up, keep at it.
You pass out.
--
You wake up laid on the floor this time, the pulsing of electricity above your head almost soothing as you open your eyes. You stagger to your feet, looking around your well-lit enclosure, pink fluorescent lights lining the ceiling and walls like arteries. After taking note of your new bruises and checking to see if you still have your few personal belongings—you do—you ran over to the door, eyes fixated on the mind-boggling, ridiculous scene taking place in front of you.
'Oh, for fuck's sake.' You back away from the slot in the door, trying to process the blatant larping headassery. You had not thought that you would honestly be able to say that, apparently, you were kidnapped by the mother fucking Kraang, yet, in some stroke of tomfuckery on behalf of whatever deity controls your universe, you have, obviously, been kidnapped by some seriously hardcore cosplayers. If nothing else, you must admire the obviously advanced setup.
You run your fingers through your hair, chuckling almost manically. "So," you say to yourself aloud, "I got kidnapped by TMNT fanboys. Great. Fantastic, even!" You pace around the room, throwing your hands up in exasperation. "I guess this makes me April O'Neil, then? Cool." Your voice is extremely tight as you shake with intense, mostly negative emotions. "So, I'm somewhere in New York, kidnapped by the Kraang in the worst convention ever. Let me guess," you laugh, losing your mind a little as you speak to nobody. "I'm gonna have a run-in with the Teenage Fucking Ninja Turtles next, right?"
As if on cue, you hear laser blasts and shinking metal. The high-pitched beeping on an alarm sounds as you hear people—'Male, teenagers... fuck my life,'— talking about power or something as their footsteps approach your room. You pound on the door. "Hey! Over here!"
You see a brown set of eyes look in through the window. Your suspicions are confirmed: 'Definitely TMNT larping.'
"We found her," the owner of said eyes, the one cosplaying as Donatello, calls to the others. Lasers shoot by his head as he turns to stare death in the eyes.
"We'll hold them off. You pick the lock." 'Leonardo.' You breathe a soft sigh of relief; if nothing else, you are apparently on the side of the people trying to get you out in this game. You hear footsteps going towards the firing.
"Don't worry," "Donatello" reassures you, voice tight with apparent anxiety, "I'll have you out of there in a second!"
"Thanks, Donnie." You give him a half-hearted thumbs up, trying to see what he was doing through the window. "Take your time."
His eyebrows furrow. "Wait, how do you know my name?"
You sigh. "Look, man, I don't know the script for the first episode by heart. You're gonna have to cut me some slack for not being off-book."
"Off—what?" He stares at you blankly.
You purse your lips. "I'll explain if you let me out," you promise. "Just pick the lock before the blue one gives you shit."
"Oh, right! The lock!" He nods, grasping onto the logical thing you say and leaning down to start working on the alien technology. He pulls the cover off a control panel by your door, starting to fiddle with the wires.
You lean against the door, watching him work curiously. You hear the battle cries of "Michelangelo" and the toppling of robots as he works, clearly focused on his task. You zone out again. "This is some serious shit," you mumble.
He mutters in frustration. The one dressed as Raph marches over, more impatient. "Oh for the love of—get out of my way," he snarls, proceeding to take a very real-looking sai out and stabbing the panel with a very in-character ferocity. You almost feel the urge to applaud the acting, and you might if this weren't such a high-stakes situation.
The door in front of you and behind you open at the same time and, deciding against getting captured again—you remember something about hanging from a helicopter in that scenario and you want nothing to do with that—you run alongside the turtles like your life depends on it, stumbling to a halt once you reach outside and slamming the doors closed behind you, blocking it with your back.
Your feet scramble to gain some traction on the cement. "Donnie," you snap, almost impressed by the force used to pound against the doors, "put your staff in the handles of the door. We gotta go ASAP."
"Wait, hold up." The one dressed as Raph jabs his thumb towards you. "How do you know his name?"
You groan. "For fucks- it's Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, not fucking Happy Sugar Life. Get the thing in the thing before the vine thing kills us!"
"The what?" Donnie and Raph seem much more confused than before, staring at you inquisitively and angrily respectively.
"Uh, guys?" Mikey points. "I think she means that vine thing."
From the shadows emerges a towering creature made of plant life, its vinelike limbs draping across the ground like roots as it rears its ugly head. Its exposed, pulsating heart pressed against what remains of the creature's ribcage. "You did this to me," it growls. "Now you're going to pay!"
"It's-"
You cut Leo off. "Snake guy. Mutated into a weed. If you wanna kill it, go for the heart."
He looked back at you, joining the other two pairs of piercing stares. "Cut that out."
"Then don't monologue and kill it before it has mobility!"
"On it." Raph charges at its lumbering form, and within moments, it falls to the ground in a heap.
The pounding against the door is getting more intense. "Donnie! Staff!"
"Right!" He runs over, sliding his staff in between the door handles.
You stumble forward, the pounding already starting to crack the wood. "Alright, now we can leave." Without waiting for the others, you sprint away from the building like your life depends on it. The others, clearly confused, follow.
You get a fair few city blocks away before you slow down, breathing heavy and palms stamped with the outline of the key you were holding desperately onto. "You run really fast for cosplayers," you pant, "with all the-the paint and all."
"Yeah, about that." Donatello stops next to you, a thousand questions apparently swimming around in his head. "How do you know our names?" His mouth moves a mile a minute. "How did you know the weakness of that vine creature? What do you mean, cosplay? Who are you? Who were they?"
You cut him off. "One question at a time, hot stuff. Deep breaths."
His pupils dilate. "H-hot stuff?"
Leo cuts in. "How did you know what we were—uh—cosplaying?" he asks tentatively.
"Odd time to cut the act, but alright." Your heart rate lowers to a decent pace as your mind still struggles to comprehend what had just happened. You slow your breathing. "I mean," you explain, gesturing with your hands, "it's TMNT. It's iconic."
"Iconic?" He nods. "Well, since you know so much about it, why don't we test your knowledge? To see if you're a real fan."
"Y-you think I'm hot?"
"I don't see the point, but I'm down." You shrug, deciding to ignore the melting turtle for a second. "Shoot."
He thinks for a moment. "Who's the main character?"
You shrug. "You four, I guess."
Mikey jumped in. "What's the theme song?"
"Gonna have to be more specific there, buddy."
"Is it really a great idea to just talk out here in the open?" Raph crossed his arms across his front.
"Probably not." You look around. "Unless you have a map on you, I'd suggest we go back to your lair."
"Our—what kind of stalker—"
"Look, honey," you sigh, "if we're going to go over every aspect of their lives that I know about we're going to be here for a long time. For our purposes, just assume I know everything I need to know, and if you're curious about specifics, we'll go on a case-by-case basis." You start walking down the sidewalk. "I'm guessing you guys hang out in the sewer, right?" You feel almost tempted to say that they're just flat-out psychotic, their blatant conviction in their own characters almost frightening. 'I've heard of kinning,' you think, pulling up a manhole cover you see at the end of an alley and wincing at the smell, 'but this is ridiculous.' You blink at the surprising lack of weight.
"Yeah." Mikey—no, the Michelangelo cosplayer—walked over, already hopping in. "Our show must be super popular, right? Who's the favorite character? How long have we been running?"
"Oh, you guys are—" You stop talking. "Wait, what year is it?" You start climbing down.
"Two thousand and twelve. Why?"
You step off the ladder, starting to walk behind him as he leads the way. "Well, it's not twenty twelve where I'm from. It's twenty twenty."
"Wait, hold up." He turns around to face you as he walks. "You're from the future? That is so freakin awesome!"
You rub the back of your neck, trying to ignore the smell. "I mean," you confess, "being from the future would be cooler if I was from a better time, I think." 'I wonder where they—' You shake your head. "But, if we were running on the same time, I'd only be seven, I think, so it's pretty cool I get to be here, I guess."
"Dude, totally!" He turns a corner. "Our first day up top and we meet a time traveler?"
"Technically," a voice from behind you makes you jump, "if what she's saying is true, she somehow also knows interdimensional travel as well."
'Mother fucking ninj—cosplayers, focus. Don't let them pull you in, too.' "Well, I really wouldn't say—"
"Guys, is there not a clearly bigger concern on our hands?" You were already getting sick of not hearing footsteps. "Like, say, I don't know, the fact she's claiming we're fictional characters?"
"Look, man," you roll your eyes, "I already said I'm more than happy to answer any questions I can. In fact," you continued, stopping in your tracks as you stared the red—clad turtle in the eye, "I'll even stay put until we sort this whole situation out."
"Fine by me." Leo and Raph both face you, eyes boring into your soul as you stand there awkwardly.
"Let's start off with the basics." Leo's tone is awfully light compared to his blatant skepticism. "What is everyone's name?"
You force yourself not to roll your eyes again. "You're all Hamatos." You point at the tall one with the gap in his teeth. "That one's Donatello, the yellow one next to him is Michelangelo, you," you point at the red one with the broader shoulders, "are Raphael, and the sensei appointed leader is Leonardo. Easy."
Leonardo nods. "Okay, you got the easy one." It is at times like these when you wish you could read people. "What are we?"
"Teenage mutant ninja turtles." You don't have to hesitate.
"How did we become the way we are?"
"Splinter had a Kraang run in and you got ooze on you. Last thing you touched before you transformed was a person, so you became turtle/human hybrids." You rest a hand on your hip. "Oh, happy birthday, by the way."
A sea of blank faces face you. "Wait, you know who those things are?" Donatello is the first to speak after a pregnant pause.
"Well, yeah." You shrug, the reality of the situation not yet dawning on you. "They almost take over the world in at least two season finales.
"They what?"
"Yeah." You stick your hands in your pockets, fingering the key and note, confused by their apparent horror. "I mean, I'm still on the season three finale, but alien invasion is this show's bread and butter for the most part."
"I- what?" Raphael appears to be having a stroke. "What- bre- I- huh? What the-"
"Is he okay?" You look, completely unconcerned, at Donatello, who is swaying on his feet.
"Alien... invasion..."
You blink, walking over to him and placing your hand on his cheek. You were surprised at the feeling of skin under your palm. 'Not face paint..' You look his incredibly pale face over curiously. 'Not a mask...' "Oh." Your fingers slide down and off his jaw, falling slackly. "You weren't joking, were you?"
If nothing else, he seems less concerned than he did a second ago.
Leonardo—'The actual—hold on a minute.'—grabs your shoulder. "This isn't a joke." His face is stone. "You're being serious, right?"
You feel the blood drain out of your face. "Sadly? Yes." You force yourself to take deep breaths so as to not pass out. "But, on the bright side," you smile weakly, "I can guarantee your survival for at least a few months."
"What do you mean a few months?" Raphael is shaking as he yells, his voice roar echoing in the enclosed space. "How is it only—what the hell?"
"The show only ran over the course of an in-universe year." You fight to keep your voice steady as dread seizes your throat. "I don't know what happens after the year is up, or if it even lasts the whole year."
"So we have less than twelve months to live?"
"This is so not cool." Michelangelo is having a bit of a mental breakdown. "So, so not cool."
"Hey, it's not a guarantee!" You put your hands up reassuringly. "That's just how long the show runs. Besides, it's a kid's show. There's no way they'd kill off the main characters."
"The hell they—who the hell is they?"
"Nickelodeon."
"Who the fuck is Nickelodeon?"
You groan. "Look, I'm just saying that you four are definitely going to survive the next few months!" Your voice rises easily to his volume. "I don't know what happens after those months are up! I haven't gotten to that point!"
"Why the hell not?"
You run your fingers through your hair, laughing incredulously. "What, do you think I knew I was going to meet the IRL Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and had a chance to plan accordingly? No!" You throw your hands up in the air. "I died last night and now I'm here! Hell, I don't even know where the fuck I'm going to go, fuck knowing who's going to get the fucking ax between now and the series finale!"
"Will you two both cut it out?" Leo snapped, shutting you two up.
You put your hands up, still fuming and glaring at Raphael. He responds in kind.
"What's your name?" He looked at you.
"Y/N. Y/N L/N." Your breathing slows slightly.
"Alright. Y/N, you said you've seen up to season three, right?"
"Yeah." You nod.
"Meaning you know what's going to happen in the next few months, right?"
You nod at the leader.
He thinks for a moment. "Then we need to stay in contact. If what you're saying is true, your knowledge of our show could be extremely valuable to us."
You rub your eyes with your hands, sighing, trying to cool down. "I can do that." You put your hands down. "If nothing else, I'm more than happy to offer up emotional support. The next few months are going to be extremely physically and emotionally difficult for you guys."
Donnie pipes up. "Do you have a place to stay?"
You pull out the piece of paper. "I have an address and key, but I don't know my way around NYC." You smile slightly at the unintentional rhyme. "Do you guys know where ten west fifteenth street—wait, it's your guys' first day." You nod. "I forgot."
"It's alright." Donatello is oddly quick to say that. "I-if you want, I—we can help you find it."
You rub your arm, your previous indignance replaced with extreme embarrassment at your previous actions. "Nah, it's alright," you reassure him. "I'm sure I can find a map or something."
"It's really not safe to just wander around New York so late."
You pause at that. "That is an extremely good point." You nod. "Alright. But I owe you guys dinner or something for trusting me this far. Also," you smile teasingly, "what you're currently eating is legitimately revolting."
"Amen to that." Raphael, if nothing else, seems to have calmed down.
Mikey hopped in. "Oh, we just found this crazy awesome food—"
"I can order pizza," you reassure him.
He punches the air excitedly. "Let's go!"
"If you want, you can sleep on the couch for tonight," Leonardo offers. "It's going to get light pretty soon, and we really shouldn't be seen."
You shrug. "Works for me."
As you follow the teenagers down the sewer, conversing as you walk, you take a moment to reflect on all that has happened so far. A part of you, oddly enough, is almost excited by the prospect of spending time with these guys. But a stronger, darker part reminds you sweetly of the dangers you knew lay ahead.
You close your eyes. 'I'm never going to see my family again, am I?'
How that is the least of your worries, you don't know.
AN: Pregnant: Full of meaning; significant or suggestive