"Dude, hear me out here." You are vibrating like a kid on pixie sticks. You slide your hands apart as if to display written words. "Lightsaber."
"What's a—"
"Donnie." You put your hand up before he can continue. "Imma stop you right there. I am going to take your hand and kindly ask you to tell me that you know of, or at least have heard of, Star Wars."
"I do not."
"That is a fucking crime."
You have been sitting with him for approximately an hour, watching him dismantle a "Kraang bot" as you register for school and start ordering supplies. You are quickly starting to realize his knowledge of anything outside the bounds of science is limited to whatever he read by virtue of his father, which consisted of one book on Greek mythology, one on the Italian renaissance, one on ancient Japanese history, and one on Japanese folklore, or anything he learned via the interests of his brothers. Because of this, he seems to know exactly jack-shit about things you consider common knowledge, such as the concept of foreshadowing or Poptarts or Hitler outside of a general association with the name and emotion of some sort, leading to interactions like the one you're having right now.
"It's not a crime," he defended. "It's just I was never really interested in that kinda stuff."
"But it's Star Wars!" You throw your hands up. "How do you not know of Star Wars, at least?"
"Look, you're saying it's really good, right?"
"Well, yeah." Your voice lowered.
"Why would somebody throw out a good movie?"
You sigh. "Yeah, that's fair. But!" You point at him. "But I need to watch it with you, if only out of principle. Besides," you settle down, "it's a very... traditionally plotted story. I still have to give you that lesson."
"Yeah, but after I finish this." He pushes his laptop to the side, picking up the soldering iron and moving back over to the pile of metal you know will become Metalhead.
You nod in agreement, leaning forward in your chair to watch him fuse wires. "You know what?" You smile. "I may give you shit, but it is really cool watching your whole process."
"Hm?" He looks up at you from his lean forward.
"Well," you shrug, folding your legs on the chair, "I just mean that it's cool seeing how you go about building all this junk that is just... what's the word?"
"Untraditional?"
"Revolutionary."
He has a funny look on his face. "You think so?"
"Oh, totally." You nod eagerly. "I told you that I thought you were one of fiction's greatest minds, didn't I?"
"No, you didn't." His face is turning red.
"Really? I swear I did the day I met you..." Your eyebrows furrow as you try to remember.
"You said something about inspiration." He smiled softly, voice airy.
"Oh, then I—well, it kinda is the same thing." You rub the back of your neck, feeling your own face heat up. "Must've—uh—misspoke. I do that," you trail off, "kinda a lot."
"I think it's cute."
You feel your heart skip a beat. 'Oh come the fuck on. Really?' "See," you hear your voice rise a register, "that is so not fair."
"Huh?" The color drains from his face as he tries to remember what sounds just came out of his mouth. "What did I say?"
"You're not allowed to just say shit like that." You cover your face with your hands, feeling your heart swell. "You're not my boyfriend or anything."
"Wait, what did I say?"
"Nope. Shut up." You try to calm yourself down. "You didn't mean it, whatever it was. It's fine."
He blinks, very confused. "You sure?"
"Totally." Your voice is tight. "One hundred and ten percent sure."
"You can't be one hundred ten percent sure." He looks back down at his project, writing your behavior off. "It's mathematically impossible."
"You wanna bet?" You start looking around the room, prior embarrassment now replaced with a desire to win this artificial conflict. "Got graph paper?"
He scoffs. "You can't be serious."
"Do I look like I'm kidding right now?" You lean across the table, tilting his head up to face you properly, determination burning in your eyes. Your voice lowers. "I am going to show you one hundred and ten present sure right here and now as a matter of principle."
He swallowed, face going red again. "One moment, please." He fumbles around for a piece of paper and hands it to you, along with a marker.
"Thank you." You smile sweetly, acting as if nothing happened as you start to sketch. "Give me a bit of time and I will show you one hundred and ten percent sure."
He rolls his eyes, a smile coming back to his face as he calms down. "Sure you will."
You stick your tongue out at him. "Go back to your transformer while I blow your freakin mind, kay?"
"What's—"
"Don't even."
"Gotcha."
You chew on your tongue absentmindedly, remembering how much you love spacing out pixels when you hear a notification on your phone. You pull it out, read it, sigh, slide out of your chair. "I'll be right back," you promise, heading for the door. "I gotta make sure plot shit happens."
"You know where to find me."
"Always do." You shoot him finger guns as you drag the door closed. You walk over to the brothers, currently engaged in their digital hockey match. You watch, waiting for Raphael's inevitable victory— 'Wow, my life is getting pretty damn predictable.'—before clearing your throat to catch their attention.
"So," you smile, "what's the game plan for tonight?"
They seem to not understand the question. "Yeah, Leo," Raphael prompts, shooting a look at him, "what's the game plan for tonight?"
He pauses. "Is there some sort of sport thing happening?"
Your heart drops. "Leonardo," you ask again, voice lowering, "you have a plan for the thing happening tonight, right?"
"What thing?"
You grab his shoulders. "The spill," you clarify, voice quiet and sharp. "The mutagen spill. The spill I told you about three days ago?"
His eyes widen. "You said that was happening Friday!"
"Today is Friday!" You let go, throwing your hands in the air out of pure frustration. "That's why I told you today is Friday! What, did you think I just liked talking about days of the week? That it's my hobby to keep track of how many days I haven't died?" 'I mean, it is, but that's not the point.'
"Well, it can't be that important if you forgot about it." Raphael leaned against the machine. "We'll just go in and bust some heads. No problem."
You groan. "Do you guys just have something against planning? I swear everything with you guys has to happen at the very last minute."
"We don't need the time to plan. I dunno if you noticed, Y/N, but our 'plans' aren't exactly plan worthy." He shrugged. "You just have to beat the Kraang out of them and that's the end of it. It'd be like planning to raid a trailer home."
You sigh. 'They're teenage boys. This is only episode six. Deep breaths.' "Just... please try to heed my warnings in the future, alright? The last thing we need is for something to sneak up on us."
"Alright, alright." Leo focuses his eyes on you. "When is the mutagen getting spilled?"
"Tomorrow. The show wasn't very specific on times, but some time tomorrow."
"Then let's air on the side of caution and assume they mean midnight. What's the time?"
You pull out your phone. "Seven forty-five."
"That should be enough time to get there, scope out the place, and be home before dinner."
You feel the ground shake under you as a metallic clang pierces the air.
That is your cue to leave for fear of getting hit with a laser. "You can't beat Metalhead. Also, Mikey calls him Metalhead." You start heading out. "I'd stay and watch you guys waste time trying, but I haven't eaten today, so I'm gonna grab food and meet you there." You run out before they can ask any more questions.
If nothing else, all the running has been helping you get in shape. You are not typically the type to take runs, but you also are not typically the type to be pressed to see people. Loneliness is one hell of a motivator, as it turns out, and you were starving in more ways than one. You stop by the first place you see, grabbing some food item with a name you already forget—some sort of burrito, you think—and climb a fire escape belonging to a building overlooking the warehouse in question. You sit on the edge of the building, dangling your legs over the side as you wait for them to get here.
'Do I like him?' You pause at your question, mid-bite. 'I mean, I had a crush on him when I watched the show, but this attachment isn't romantic affection, is it? I've had crushes before, and I'm acting too suave for this to be that.' You swallow, taking a drink out from your nameless cup. 'Considering my emotional state? It's highly likely I'm just latching onto him for lack of anyone or anything truly familiar in my life right now.' You sigh. 'But, then again, if that were the case, this feeling what be more familial, wouldn't it?' You conclude, whether you are attracted to him romantically or not, it is entirely unfair to both of you to pursue a romantic relationship with him unless he makes the first move. You have more faith in his critical thinking skills than in your own, anyhow. Besides, he acted irrationally enough around April as is; introducing a proper romantic relationship into the mix sounds a bit too risky, especially at such a vulnerable time in his development.
You hear the distant sounds of mechanical joints approaching. 'Already liking this better than ninja silence.' You spin around, hopping off the ledge and onto the roof proper as you go to properly admire the metal wonder.
It looks infinitely cooler than the show would have you believe, if possible. Each piece of its hull has a past and you can see it in every scratch, every dent. It wasn't anywhere near perfect; you can easily see where Donatello had hammered out the shell of the artificial terrapin, where he had had to settle for using concrete, even the faintest ghosts of the pennies making up its chest piece. It was a glorious collage.
You run over, going down on your knees to look it over. "This thing is so fucking cool," you gush, shuffling around it. "Like, totally fucking awesome!"
You can hear the pride in his voice, the excitement. "I know, right?"
You hop back to your feet, keeping yourself from jumping up and down for the sake of pride. "That is the coolest shit ever!" You grin, sitting back down and taking a drink from your soda. "You never cease to amaze, Hamato."
"You think?" He sounds almost like a puppy, excited as he is.
"Dude, totally." You sigh, feeling yourself mellow out a little. "But, more importantly," you continue, clapping your hands together once, "we should be properly watching the warehouse in case they need backup."
"Oh, right!" The robot stomped over to you, standing slightly behind you as you dangle your feet over the edge.
You take another drink of soda, feeling the excitement in the air dying down as you look out over the buildings. 'It's oddly peaceful up here. Must not have started the attack yet.' You swing your legs back and forth as silence settled between you two.
After a moment, he cleared his throat. "I meant to ask you before," he said stiffly, "but how did you know this was happening today? You never explained it."
You silently thank him for cutting the tension, turning around to face him properly. "Well," you start, lacing your fingers together around your cup, "remember when I said that the show Leo watches shows up a lot in episodes?"
"Yeah." You are not exactly sure why he sounds so interested in a detail like this.
"And you know how you watch on cable?"
"Yeah."
"Well, as it turns out," you dig into your jacket pocket, "they release television guides, telling people when certain shows are playing, what times they're playing, shit like that. So," you conclude, admittedly smug that you had reasoned this part out, "as long as I know what episode is playing during that episode, I can accurately predict any actions that happen during the periods in which you guys have cable access."
"So, you map out what episodes are scheduled to play on what days and create a timeline around that?"
"Exactly. Not a bad plan." You pull up a document, showing him the timeline you've created with this information. "As long as you guys are on the grid, and as long as Leo sticks to watching that specific channel, I'll be able to predict the movements of every major player in the series, which means I'll be able to determine who we can and can't fuck with based off how they act later down the line, and I'll be able to give you proper foresight when the situation—"
Your plan is interrupted by a section of the ledge directly next to you to gain a new hole. You leap to your feet, quickly backing up and almost tripping on Metalhead as you regain your senses and hear Mikey's panicked yelling.
"That doesn't look good." You watch the machine starts backing up. "I'm gonna go in and help."
Something strikes you. "Donnie, real quick, be careful not to run into anything. The technology you're using is susceptible to Kraang influence."
"Relax. I got this." Metalhead gives you a thumbs up before running and leaping off the building, crashing through the glass roof feet first.
You sigh, getting to your feet. 'Theme of today's episode is not to rely on technology. Granted,' you muse, starting to climb down the fire escape, 'this probably could've been solved by adopting a more intuitive controller and having a bit more experience, but I digress.' You hop the last few feet down. 'In any case, I've done all I can. If that isn't enough, so be it.'
You hear the explosion as you start walking back to your apartment. 'He should be coming here in about three or so minutes.'
If you did not know how this would end, you would be much more concerned. As it stands? You know the score before the game is even played.
You wave hello to the doorman as you walk to the elevator. You tap your foot absentmindedly to the elevator music, walk to your apartment, unlock the door, and step inside, picking a large box off the ground in front of it before locking the door.
You walk over and set the box down on your bed, walking back to the kitchen. You pull a Tupperware box from on top of it, pulling a red velvet cupcake from the container and setting it on the counter.
You had died the first time you had made cupcakes. When you had tried making them again from your mother's recipe, you had found yourself surprisingly unintimidated as you slid them into the oven. Of course, you had sat directly in front of the oven and stared at it during the entirety of the baking process, but you were hardly going to let the worst experience of your life separate you and the most nostalgic, joy-inducing feeling there was. Who else was going to make cupcakes?
You dry your hands, not realizing you had washed them as you pick the confection off the counter. You peel off a portion of the wrapper, biting into the savory and sweet bundle of joy in your mouth. You moan softly in satisfaction, licking the icing off your lips as you walk back over to your bed, sitting down and reaching for the knife under your pillow. You slice the tape, sliding your baby out of its packaging with a soft smile. You reach back in, taking another bite as you pull out a smaller bag. You set the box on the ground, tossing the now-empty wrapper into it and wiping the excess frosting on your jeans, pulling the instrument from its packaging.
Your father had taught you how to play a couple of years back. You never thought you would get weepy over a musical instrument, and yet, here you are, cradling a hunk of wood costing a little more than one day's allowance. You purse your lips, running your fingers along the neck as you check for any defects in its construction. You crack open the bag and, after about half an hour of fiddling and research, manage to get the strings onto the violin bass without snapping it. It wasn't an exact replica, but it was close enough that you feel comfortable holding it, feel joy hearing it come in tune.
You play a scale. It sounds like heaven to you.
You put the rest of the trash in the box, laying down next to the first item you have bought. A stand for it would be arriving tomorrow. That makes you smile.
This is the start of something healthy for you. Ironically, it has started with you eating a cupcake, but, still, you have begun to come to terms with your situation. Granted, you have a long way to go; you still have not deleted your social media, wanting to look out for photographs and clips from the funeral, but this is a step in the right direction. You have to believe that.
One small accomplishment: you have kept your apartment sparklingly clean. It is not as if you have much to do, but none the less.
You find your fingers playing an almost lullaby. You stop yourself, not wanting to fall asleep before getting yourself situated. You set your instrument to the side, getting up to close and shelve your cupcake box for future use. You wash your hands again.
You slide your jacket off and throw it onto a seat, knowing you will likely need it tomorrow. You make it a habit to at least get outside once per day, now. You understand that, even if it is not vital, you need to establish a routine. You must keep moving, if only for your sake of mind.
You check to see the curtains are closed, strip, put your clothes in a hamper. You take a shower, comb out your hair, brush your teeth. You do these things consciously, now. You change into a shirt for sleeping, crawling into bed and turning off the light. Tomorrow, you will have to go down to the laundromat to wash your few changes of clothes. You will eat three meals. You will drink eight glasses of water.
You set your phone on the nightstand, plugging it in. You reach over, fingers curling around the handle of the kitchen knife as you slide it under your pillow.
You close your eyes, feeling your heart pang again tonight.
"Goodnight," you call to no one. "Love you."
Silence.
It is better than it was. You do not cry tonight, wrapping your arms around your pillow.
"Goodnight, Y/N," you mumble, feeling yourself drift into unconsciousness. "Love you too."