LOG 1: EXPERIMENTATION

Donatello was close to the finalization of his masterpiece. His magnum opus, his life’s work, his grand finale ; everything he had been working towards came down to this: the milky white liquid in the vial he held in his large hand. He was terrified and in awe, scared of shattering the fragile tube in his big hands. This was the only thing that had mattered to him for so long, he could scarcely believe that he had nearly perfected the formula. Sleepless night after sleepless night, Donatello had slaved in his lab, researching and testing, researching and testing. He didn’t bother to sleep; he didn’t need to sleep, not when his salvation was so close.
All he needed was a new specimen; a spiny softshell, the same species as him, which he’d purchased through the Yokai’s pet market. No one dared to ask why the giant mutant turtle was buying so many spiny softshells, not when he openly presented himself as a threat. It almost saddened him to think about the ones that came before; how the transformation had ultimately been too much for their small, fragile bodies. The Gift he had given them was simply imperfect at that time, but now… he was near the end. The finish line was just within reach, so close that he could reach out and touch it.
Of course, he couldn’t account for his human DNA or how it would react—it was a risk he was going to take, a risk he had to take. He needed Salvation. He needed to be perfection .
Donatello turned to the turtle tank beside his desk, resting on an old bedside table that Donatello had repurposed to hold the enclosure. Reaching a large three-fingered hand into the tank, Donatello carefully scooped up the turtle, hesitating a moment before he placed it on the desk in front of him. His heart pounded in his chest, the weight of the moment dawning on him.
This was it.
It was time to see if he’d finally managed to perfect the formula; if he’d finally finished the only thing that had been giving his life meaning the past few months. Carefully, he filled the syringe with the milky-white liquid, the liquid that was hopefully perfect, as he intended it to be. Donnie removed any air that would interfere with the process, carefully pinning down the tiny softshell with one large hand, so large that he almost was scared he would crush the little creature. Gently, Donatello turned the turtle over in his palm, searching the turtle’s soft tummy for the brachial venous sinus. His thumb carefully probed around, pausing as he finally found the vein.
Steadying his hand, Donnie injected the liquid into the tiny softshell turtle, flipping it back over and placing it onto the desk once he had completed the task, his yellow eyes trained on the small reptile as he waited for something to happen. Hell, he even found himself begging internally for something to happen, for his work to finally be complete.
The reptile seemed confused, moving about in an almost drunken manner. Its maw opened up, a gargling pained chirp ringing through the air as it fell, legs writhing in pain as large bulges on its back began to twist and move underneath its soft shell. It was disgusting to watch, but Donnie couldn’t look away. Was this it? Had he brought his Salvation into the world? Would he finally be able to become Holy, to become what the world needed? Was this the moment that he could finalize his transformation?
Quickly, he swiped the mess of papers and cups off of his desk, clearing it of any clutter and ignoring the mess he was making as he gripped the desk in both of his hands, knuckles pale as he stared intently at the turtle. His hopes were high as he watched the mounds underneath the soft shell stretch, the shell ripping as six wings burst out of its back, feathered like a fully grown birds. The wings were stained red with blood, muscle and sinew hanging off of the appendages that flopped limply to the side, the turtle unable to keep them upright due to the amount of pain it was in.
Two more legs ripped from the turtle’s sides, between the front and back legs, razor-sharp little teeth sprouting from its mouth. The turtle, if one could even call it that anymore, closed its eyes, too weak to stay awake any longer. Quickly, Donatello picked up the baby Seraph, rushing it over to the anesthesia chamber and quickly hooking it up to a few machines before shutting the lid and turning on the airborne anesthesia.
The poor creature, terrified, barely moved as it was put into sleep for the time being. After all, the transformation was nowhere near complete; Donnie still had things to study about the transformation, though he didn’t think that he would have to tweak the formula again.
He would simply have to remain in his lab for a few more days, keeping his brothers out of his business. They would know soon; the time was coming near. The Final Day was coming, and the world at large would soon know his name.

LOG 2: REST PERIOD

Donatello had run himself thin during his observation period. Night after night, day after day, he monotonously poured over the vitals of his creation. In a strange, sick way, he’d even begun to think of it as his son. He tried to use what little he remembered from his childhood, trying to be better than Splinter had.
Unfortunately, his ‘son’ wasn’t quite healed enough to wake yet, which posed another issue. If the recovery period were to be this long for Don as well, it would hinder the process of the Final Day. If he could only find a way to speed up the healing process…
Don leans back in his chair, his back popping in protest as he pulls at the purple hoodie he was wearing. It smelled like Mt. Dew and Doritos, which was enough to make his nose wrinkle. He needed to do laundry. He needed out of the lab, away from all the stress that it brought him. As much as he didn’t want to abandon his work, he knew that it was only a matter of time before the isolation got to him.
Which brought him to his current predicament, where he was engaged in a standoff with his dear twin Leonardo.
His red-rimmed eyes were narrowed, thick yellow-striped arms crossed in front of him. If Donnie were stupid, he would have thought his brother was trying to intimidate him. Don knew better, though: he knew that his brother was pissed. He could see it in the subtle twitch of his brow, in the way that he squeezed his hands into shaking fists. Donatello’s brothers were easy to read; Leo was the easiest by far. The ‘fearless leader’ never learned how to properly hide his feelings from his twin, or anyone else for that matter; he’d always been an open book. His emotions were scrawled on the pages in big blue letters for all to see.
“Donatello.”
The dreaded full name. Donnie could see that coming from a mile away. It was only to be expected that he would be hit with this after his… rather inexplicable behavior.
“Care to explain why you’ve been locked in your lab for a month?”
Ah, there it was: a slight waver in Leo’s voice. Of course his twin was concerned about him. Why wouldn’t he be? Don would have been more worried if he wasn’t.
“Leonardo.” Donnie’s tone was flat, deadpan even, aware of the oncoming interrogation he was going to have to endure. Of course he shouldn’t have planned on having a relaxing evening; he should have known better. If Leo hadn’t decided to corner him, it would have been Raph. “I’ve been working on some new tech, nothing unusual, calm down.”
Lying wasn’t Donatello’s strong suit, and he knew it. Even as a young turtle tot, he couldn’t keep a secret to save his life. He knew that Leo could see right through him, but that didn’t stop him from continuing to bluff. Masking his little tics were easy, but under high-stress situations like this one, they occasionally slip out.
Don nervously taps a finger against the wood, one of the telltale signs. He knew that he was only making things harder for himself by lying to his twin, but was it really so selfish to want to be left alone? To just pretend that things were normal for a little while, and relieve himself of the inexplicable burden that had been placed on his shoulders?
“...You’re an awful liar, Don.” Leo sighs, his shoulders drooping as his arms fall to his side. He shakes his head from side to side, disappointment evident in his expression, hands balled into trembling fists. A pang of guilt shoots through Donatello, welling up in his throat like bitter vomit, words threatening to spill out.
Donnie turns away from his brother. He can’t bear to look at his twin for a moment later. If he spends another second looking at the hurt on his twin’s face, the hurt that he caused, he’ll break. Don has to stay strong; he has to resist.
He can’t let his brothers get in the way.
“Stay out of my lab, ‘Nardo. What I do in there stays in there.” Don’s tone makes it clear that it’s not a suggestion. As he goes to open the fridge, a heavy hand is placed on his shoulder.
“Don.” Leo’s voice cracks, his grip tightening on his twin’s shoulder. “Please. We’re worried about you. Shit, Casey’s worried about you.”
Donnie clenches his teeth, shoulders tensing as he pauses in the middle of his move to grab a soda. His eyes are trained on the floor, a complicated cacophony of emotions evident on his face. Shame, irritation, anger… His feelings were tangling together like a train crash, waiting to burst into flames.
Don knew things would be difficult. He knew that things would be tense. He hadn’t anticipated his family to care so deeply about his absence, though.
“...I just want a day to relax, Leo.” Don’s voice is quiet, vexed even, as he grabs the cold can of off-brand soda. “Don’t ruin it for me.”
Leo’s hand drops with a sigh. It’s clear that Leo wants to press further, to pry into his head, to wrench open the safe containing Don’s secrets and scatter them on the floor like scattered paper. Leo knows when to stop, though; he knows when he’ll be getting nowhere. He’s stubborn, but he’s not stupid.
“...Casey’s drawing in the Atrium with Mikey. You could go spend some time with them,” Leo suggests, hope evident in his voice. Don can feel guilt coursing through him again, a bitter poison on his tongue. His face contorts into a scowl as he ponders on his options for a moment. He hadn’t planned on spending time with Casey. Don wasn’t… good with kids. His bitter disposition and short fuse often left children in tears, which only infuriated Donatello more.
“I’m not good with kids, Leo. You know that,” Don mutters, staring down at the can in his hand, brows furrowing. He’s a genius, capable of building anything he puts his mind to. For fuck’s sake, he created a seraph!
But kids? Kids are completely out of his wheelhouse. It infuriates him to no end.
“You’ve seen what happens when I’m around kids, Leo.” Donnie’s tone is bitter, almost envious. He was supposed to understand everything. He was supposed to be good at everything. So why was it so hard for him to not make a kid cry? To show children the same kindness that Splinter had showed him as a child?
“You’re better with Casey, Don. You’ll be fine.”
Donatello’s heart aches as he looks up to see his twin smiling at him, his eyes so full of hope that it makes Don want to punch him. How can he just look at Don like that? How can Leo still stand to look at Don with that stupid, stupid hope still left in his soul? Hadn’t Don disappointed him enough? Hadn’t he hurt him enough?
Defeated, Donnie sighs and finishes his soda, tossing it in the overflowing trash can nestled near the fridge. “Don’t blame me if Casey starts crying, ‘Nardo.”
Leo shrugs in response, brushing against his twin as he leaves the kitchen. His brother’s soft churr and look of relief tells him everything he needs to know.
He’s off the hook, for now at least.
Don can feel himself growing more and more irate with every step he takes towards the Atrium. He wanted a simple day off. He wanted to relax and de-stress, but Leo had to come in and make him feel bad about not spending time with the little street rat Leo decided to take in. Don knew how this would end; he knew what would happen as soon as he spent five minutes in the same room as Casey. He’d say something wrong, or lose his temper, and the little shit would run away in tears. For so long he’d minimized his time around the child, acting apathetic around him. Unfortunately, with the stress of the Final Day weighing on his shoulders… he wasn’t sure that he could hold his tongue this time.
Donatello found himself surprised as he entered the Atrium, looking around in confusion. It looked nothing like he remembered. How much had been changed during the month he was locked in his lab?
The skate ramps had been removed in favor of a swing set for Casey along with several chairs, supposedly for the brothers to sit in while Casey played. The brothers were getting older; it makes sense that they’d have replaced the skate ramps, now that they’d likely put a hip out while trying to recreate the tricks of their youth. Nevertheless, the ramps held memories, and it felt almost… blasphemous to throw them out.
Numerous toys and stuffed animals, likely belonging to Casey, were scattered on the floor. In the middle of it all, the little man himself was laid on his stomach, various crayons scattered around him, his chubby little hand wrapped around a green crayon as he colored in one of his… rather primitive drawings. Don thought that cavemen probably could have done better. He had to bite his tongue to keep himself silent.
Mikey glanced over at Donatello as he approached the two, the joy on his brother’s face sending a pang of frustration and guilt jolt through him, a knife to the gut. Hurting his brothers was the hardest thing he’d ever done. He knew it was for the best, that they would understand once things came to completion, but… in the moment? It felt like he was driving a blade into their throats.
Swallowing his feelings, Don approached Mikey and Casey, the latter having raised his head to look up at his uncle with a grin. The pure child-like innocence in his eyes both infuriated and pained Donatello. He hated that Casey couldn’t open his eyes and see the world for what it was. He hated the rose-tinted glasses that the child wore. He hated that he couldn’t be like that again.
What he wouldn’t give to see the world as a place without sin once more.

LOG 3: RECOOPERATION

“Uncle Tello!” Casey shouts, eyes lighting up with pure glee as he tosses the crayon aside. Quickly, he snatches up the drawing; his little meaty toddler hands, normally clumsy, are extremely careful not to crumple the paper. Donatello can’t help but raise an eyebrow at that fact. He’d seen Casey crease many drawings before, his careless youth likely to blame. What made this drawing so different? “Look! Look!”
Casey sprints with utter joy towards his uncle, holding up the drawing, smiling ear to ear. Donatello sees something behind his grin, something that Donnie is all too familiar with.
That never-ending search for validation has found its way into Casey, infecting him like it had Donatello and his brothers. Donatello feels his throat tighten as he reaches down, taking the paper from Casey’s little hands, scanning the drawing quickly. A cocktail of emotions, most of which Donatello can’t recognize, crashes over him like a wave. His bottom lip wobbles as he stares at the drawing, his eyes stinging with tears.
Casey had drawn him.
Donatello didn’t know he was capable of caring so much about such a small act of kindness, let alone from Casey. Why was Casey so kind to him? Why, why, why ! It pissed Donnie off, but at the same time, it hurt all the more.
Quickly, before Mikey and Casey can see his vulnerability, Don pulls on his impenetrable apathy. He doesn’t break down in front of his brothers. He doesn’t break down in front of anyone . Vulnerable is something that Donatello is not, and will never be.
“...what am I supposed to do with this.”
Donatello’s tone is flat as he speaks, a rather confused (and almost disgusted) look on his face as he looks at Casey’s drawing, then to Casey. His lip curls slightly as Casey’s face falls, round little eyes filled with confusion, hurt and… disappointment.
“I… don’t know,” Casey says quietly, his little eyebrows furrowing as he looks down at the ground. Don has to stop himself from snorting at how pathetic Casey looks right now. How pampered . Casey’s never had to face the hardship Donatello has. He’s always had Leo, always had a father since he was a baby.
Donatello had no one . He loved his brothers to death and back, but they were incapable of understanding him. He didn’t miss the concerned looks, the irritation, the way their eyes would scream ‘ JUST BE NORMAL! ’
Part of him wants him to stop, to crouch down and hug Casey, to be the father to him that Splinter never was. Another part of him, a bigger and louder part, keeps pointing at the child, whispering in Donatello’s ear like a devil on his shoulder.
Are you going to let a child live better than you did? It whispers in his ear, with a sickeningly sweet voice, like it’s mocking him. You’re better than that, Donatello. He doesn’t deserve it. He doesn’t deserve what you didn’t have.
“Don, I think you should go.” Mikey’s hand is suddenly on Don’s arm, squeezing him gently. Donatello shifts to look at his little brother, floating cross-legged beside him, a mix of concern and pain on his face. Donatello’s chest hurts, guilt going straight through him like a bullet. What was he doing? Why was he doing this ?
Why was he hurting his brothers? Why was he hurting Casey ? None of them had done anything to wrong him, but he found himself driving a dagger into their throats every time he opened his mouth. He couldn’t help himself.
Or, at the very least, that was what he told himself.
He knew, deep down, that part of him didn’t really care about his brothers. Deep down, a part of him wanted them to hurt too, to feel what he feels inside. Don wanted to share his pain. He wanted to share his turmoil.
He wanted to share salvation with them, so he could truly care without guilt.
Donatello found himself frozen in place, hand trembling as he looked back at the drawing, swallowing the surge of emotions that had charged straight through him. His throat felt tight, his mouth uncomfortably dry.
He needed to go back to his lab.
He needed to work, he needed to have something to show for all his time spent in the lab, he needed to save his brothers, he needed—
He needed his lab.
Donatello needed his lab.
Robotically, as if in a daze, Donatello pulls away from his brother, Casey’s drawing still clenched in his fist as he leaves the Atrium, returning to his sanctuary.

LOG 4: DREAMS

Donatello always had vivid dreams. They were so realistic, so normal , it felt like he could reach out and pull them back to the waking world.
It was a gift, and also a curse.
It’s what makes his nightmares so terrifying.
Donatello shoots up in bed, sweat rolling down his skin, his chest heaving as he struggles to gasp for air. His thoughts race at a mile a minute, it feels like he’s suffocating, oh god—
Don doubles over, choking down a sob, his fingernails digging into his arms as he squeezes his eyes shut. Why, why , why ! Why was he the only one that was burdened with dreams like this? Why did he have to be the one stressing over his brothers at any given moment, begging to whatever god was listening to spare them? It wasn’t fair ! He wanted to be able to sleep , he wanted to be at peace , but every time he shut his eyes he was haunted by the images of what had occurred while he slept.
It was the same dream, it always was the same dream.
Donatello stood in front of a mirror, wearing strange priest-like clothes in an unfamiliar place. He always feels at peace, despite the circumstances, always looking into the mirror, only to be forced into a nightmare the moment he does.
His reflection is never really his .
It’s him, but it’s not him .
Donatello doesn’t have six wings covering his eyes, or six arms, or six wings coming out of his back. Donatello doesn’t have six eyes, he doesn’t have six of anything , so why does his reflection?
Mirror Donatello always, always opens his mouth, filled to the brim with too many teeth , dear gods why are there so many teeth , and begins to speak.
His voice is the single most terrifying thing Donatello has ever heard in his entire life. The sheer volume of mirror Donatello’s voice sends him to his knees alone, all six voices intertwining into one, a cacophony of familiarity and unfamiliarity. He sounds just like his siblings and himself, and at the same time he sounds nothing like them. Maybe that’s what scares him the most.
“ Do you know what a Seraph is? ” that horrible, horrible voice says to him, every time, every fucking time.
Before Donatello ever has a chance to reply, his reflection laughs at him, like seeing him in fear is the most hilarious thing it’s ever seen.
“ You will soon. The Final Day is waiting .”
Every time, without fail, Donatello is pulled into the mirror, those clawed terrible hands gripping his arms hard enough to leave bruises. Every time, without fail, he wakes up, reacting like he is right now.
Donatello stifles his sobs into his hands, his eyes squeezed shut. Even the comfort of his weighted blanket can’t help him now, the pressure of it feeling more like a prison than a hug, suffocating him.
“Shelldon,” Donatello croaks, pushing his blanket to the side, climbing out of the wall compartment that serves as his bed frame. He swallows down another sob, chest heaving as he nearly trips over his own feet in the dark of his lab. “Coffee, ASAP.”
“Coming right up, Master Donatello,” the robotic voice replies as the lights flicker on. Donatello’s heartbeat slows down at the sound of his brain child’s voice, exhaling a breath he didn’t even know he was holding in. “Your heart rate is at 135 bpm.”
“Well aware of that, Shelldon,” Donatello mumbles, slowly making his way to his work desk to look over the various parts scattered across the cold metal surface, vision blurred with sleep and leftover tears. The smell of coffee soon fills the room, the smell quelling whatever anxiety had still been bubbling in his chest, quenching it like baking soda on an electrical fire.
“Is there anything else you would like, Master Donatello?” Shelldon asks, his voice crackling to life through one of his desk speakers.
Donatello opens his mouth, and then pauses, picking up a stray screw eye and staring at it for a moment.
“...Shelldon, run diagnostics on the angel hierarchy.”

LOG 5: LONG-AWAITED AWAKENING

It’s been long enough since Donatello first put his child under anesthesia, the Seraphs’ wounds now healed and replaced by puckered scar tissue. In the time that his child had been asleep, it had grown to the size of a one-year-old human. Pride swelled in Donatello’s chest as he looked upon his creation, his child, his pride and joy. He had succeeded; he had made a flesh-and-blood Seraph, one that looked like him, despite the lack of purple markings adorning its scales.
Carefully, Don reaches into the glass box his child had been in for the past few weeks, removing the EKG stickers from their scales, cautiously removing the various wires inserted into their flesh and nose.
Slowly and gently, as to not wake them, he lifts the small winged turtle into his arms, holding them with the same tenderness and love that he’d never experienced at the hands of his father.
For a moment, everything is still as he stares at the face of the sleeping Seraph, peacefully unaware of its surroundings. It was beautiful. It was perfect. It was his .
Donatello fumbles for a moment, shifting the Seraph so that it lays on its stomach, placing it gingerly in his bed. Donatello couldn’t recall the last time he’d slept in it. Deciding that placing a weighted blanket on such a delicate creature might be a poor decision, he pulls a thin blanket over their tiny body, turning on his heel to quietly return to his desk.
As he removes his battle shell, placing it on the table as he sinks into his chair, he lets out a sigh of relief. His eyes flutter closed for a moment as Donatello relaxes into the plush foam of his custom work chair, cradling his sensitive shell oh-so-perfectly.
All this time. All this effort. All his work… had finally come to fruition. That tiny, baby Seraph asleep in his bed was physical, tangible proof that he was making progress. He can nearly hear the trumpets signifying the Final Day, bringing salvation to the world. Finally, he had something that he could reach out and touch to prove it.
Of course, that didn’t mean he was free to rest; the stasis pod still needed to be constructed, and the Seraph had to be trained in the necessary procedures so his transformation could be completed in a swift manner. With every second he’s not working, Donatello feels his anxiety boiling like a pot of hot water. The terror of losing his brothers before he can save them haunts his mind, like a ghost that he can’t exorcize. If the Kraang were to come back at this very second and kill them, they would have no chance of leaving for a better afterlife.
The very thought of his brothers being doomed to eternal suffering left a bitter taste on his tongue, like cheap vodka. With a sigh, Donatello removes his headgear and mask, rubbing his temples with a frown. He can already feel a budding stress headache, aching like an ever-tightening band around his skull, threatening to pop it at any second.
Of course, his stress wasn’t even starting to touch on how he was going to hide all of this from his brothers during his stasis period. Shelldon could only keep them out for so long, even with the mystic defenses Donatello had installed(with the help of some Yokai from the hidden city, of course). Things were working fine now , but could he trust Shelldon and the Seraph to take care of things while he was under? If even one thing went wrong, if one slip-up occurred, his plans for the Final Day would come crumbling down around him. He would be labelled insane by his brothers, he wouldn’t save them, they would be doomed for eternity, and it would be his fault-
“Shelldon,” Donatello wheezes, doubling over as he holds his head in his hands. “Put some coffee on and get me some ibuprofen.” He can’t have a panic attack, not now. His schedule wouldn’t allow it.
Pushing down his emotions, Donatello rubs his eyes, controlling his breaths. Everything would be fine. He can still fix things. He can deal with his feelings later.
“Espresso?” Shelldon inquires, his robotic voice crackling to life from the desk speaker. Donatello merely nods in response, his thoughts sluggish. How long had it been since he’d last slept? The days were starting to blur together into a foggy haze, his memory failing him.
He could feel himself starting to doze off, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment before shooting open as the smell of coffee begins to fill his lab. It’s comforting, like a warm weighted blanket covering him, pressing him into his chair. As his senses gradually return to him, he quickly pulls up the stasis blueprints, giving them a quick once-over as he reaches for the coffee that one of Shelldon’s drones brought over to him. Cautiously, as to not spill the liquid ambrosia, Donatello moves the mug to his other hand as he grabs the bottle of ibuprofen, twisting off the lid and dry swallowing four of the pills.
“Shelldon, run a security check on the lab,” Donnie commands, hands flitting between mouse and keyboard, sipping his coffee as he begins to tweak the blueprint. How had he not caught these mistakes earlier? Surely he wasn’t so tired that his work was beginning to suffer.
“Running security diagnostic,” Shelldon informs him.
For a moment, all Donatello can hear is his own breathing and the clicking of his keyboard. He can see the faint light of Shelldon scanning the mystic wards from the corner of his eye, the sigils glowing ever-so-slightly in the dim light. Shelldon is quiet for a moment, machinery whirring as he processes the results. As much as Donatello would love to upgrade his mystic scanning, he knows that he can’t divert his attention to that.
“Wards are intact, Master Donatello.” Shelldon’s drone returns to its port in the wall, the metal plate sliding shut. “Everything is stable.”
“Good.” Donnie gives the blueprint a final glance before turning around in his chair, cracking his neck.
It’s time to get to work.

LOG 6: WORTH

“Master Donatello.”
The dubstep blaring through Don’s headphones quiets as Shelldon’s robotic voice crackles to life through his headphones. Donatello has to push down the surge of irritation that crashes through him; what was so important that he was being interrupted in the middle of his work? Did Shelldon not know how important this was, not only to him, but to the world ? Did that foolish A.I. not realize that the salvation of others hinged on his work?
“Shelldon.” Donatello says flatly, pulling up his protective face mask, taking the opportunity to look at the section of the stasis chamber he’d been welding together with pride. “If this isn’t important, I’m putting childlocks on you for the next month.”
There’s a pause as Donatello fiddles with some of his wiring, re-arranging and bettering the functions. His patience is starting to wear thin with Shelldon, opening his mouth to speak again. He’s quickly cut off by Shelldon’s robotic voice reaches his ears.
“The Seraph is awake, Master Donatello.”
Donnie feels his heart yank down to his stomach in a violent manner. No, no no no no . Surely it wasn’t awake already ; hadn’t he just put it to bed a few minutes ago?
A quick glance at the clock tells him that his memory had failed him. It had been nearly six hours since he’d put the Seraph in his bed, more than enough time for the creature to wake up. His time management skills had deteriorated, it seems. Any hopes that he had for finishing the pod today was yanked out of his chest and crushed into a dripping, bloody mess on the floor.
Anxiously, Donatello looks down towards the unfinished stasis pod, quietly thinking for a moment. He needed to finish this today. It would put him behind schedule if he didn’t; but the Seraph awakening… posed a problem. If he were to begin training with the creature, it would drastically cut down the amount of time he could spend finishing the stasis pod.
Donatello’s decision had already been made by the time he opened his mouth. “Shelldon, take care of it,” Donatello commands as he flicks the mask down over his face once more, his free hand turning on the welding machinery as he continues to put the pod together. He could deal with the Seraph later; after all, it’s not like the creature was a real child; it wouldn’t matter if he left it alone for some time.
As Donatello continues to diligently weld together metal and tech components that become increasingly more complex, he’s vaguely aware of Shelldon and the Seraph conversing—well, as much as was possible, anyway. The Seraph was incapable of producing more than pathetic squeaks and baby babbles; perhaps Donatello had overestimated the creature’s maturity rate. The thought of having to deal with a baby was a daunting task; perhaps he could leave the thing in Shelldon’s care until he could find a way to make the creature older and more manageable. Briefly, Donatello turns his head to check on the two.
As Shelldon’s largest drone hovered in front of the bed, the Seraph lay on its stomach, staring up at the purple, turtle-shaped robot with childish wonder. Donnie curls his lip for a moment, turning back to putting the tech components into place. For a moment, just for a moment, he felt white-hot anger shoot through him like electricity. How could that creature sit there and stare at his tech like that? It should be looking at him , it should be looking in awe at its creator , not some shitty drone he made when he was sixteen.
Abruptly, in a fit of rage, Donatello shuts off the welding machine, throwing his mask onto his work table. It falls on the cold surface with an ominous clang, drawing the attention of both Shelldon and the Seraph.
“Shelldon, back to your port.” Donnie’s voice is low and cold as he stalks over to the bed, mouth curled into a sneer as his anger festers like a horribly infected wound.
“Master Donatello-” the robot attempts to protest, but before the sentence can even be finished, Donatello is hastily typing away at his holo-screen, manually shutting down Shelldon’s higher functions—turning on the childlocks . “ Go to your port .”
Shelldon, completely silenced and shut into a nearly toddler-like state, maneuvers the drone into the wall port, shutting down as the port’s panel slides closed.
For a moment, the air is still. Not a word is said, not a movement made.
And then Donatello turns to the Seraph, a cold, hateful look in his eyes. This stupid, stupid creature. It looked at him in shock, terrified of him, all of the wonder it held for Shelldon’s drone completely gone. Donatello curls his lip in disgust. His own creation didn’t even see him for what he was. He was Donatello . He was its creator , its GOD . He was the one that would bring salvation to the world. He was perfect, and the little shit was blind to it.
There’s a sudden blur as his hand shoots out in an act of pure, unbridled rage.
His hand wraps around the Seraph’s throat. He stares the disgusting, pitiful creature in the eyes, and squeezes.
For a moment, he watches the Seraph struggle. It brings a smile to his face. The idiotic creature doesn’t realize that he’s stronger. He’s better. He’s everything .
The Seraph goes still and limp in his hand.

LOG 7: MACHINE

Donatello had found himself… rather unaffected by the act of killing another living creature. He might even use the word apathetic to describe what he was feeling as he stood above his bed, staring at the cold corpse of the Seraph. He’d expected something , at the very least; excitement, anger, perhaps even anguish . His problem had been taken care of; surely he should be feeling something.
Donatello sighs softly, reaching down to push the Seraph’s eyes closed, lips curling into a grimace. The bitter rage he’d felt as he had strangled the breath out of it had left a nasty aftertaste in his mouth, like gasoline and vomit..
Thankfully, he still had some flavorless juice left in the lab’s fridge. He couldn’t risk exiting his lab for a mere drink.
Not with a corpse in his bed.
The cold burst of air against Donatello’s scales makes him shiver as he quickly grabs the flavorless juice, victoriously retreating to the heat lamp installed above his work chair. As he sinks into the plush seat, he takes a sip of his juice, relishing in the warmth that the lamp brought him. Nimbly, he kicks his desk, swiveling around and stomping his foot on the ground so he can look at his bed. As he stares at the pale corpse in his bed, he finds himself wondering how he’s going to dispose of the body. He hadn’t planned a scenario in which he would kill the Seraph, of course; it was supposed to serve as an assistant of sorts until he was fully converted. He’d even hoped that maybe he would grow a fatherly attachment to it.
Clearly that hadn’t happened.
Of course, there was always the option of sneaking out through the garage, but the likelihood of Leo or Mikey catching him was far too likely. He’d have to make that his plan Z. He could incinerate the corpse, perhaps? He did have an incinerator, after all, but the mere thought of the stench burning flesh brings filling his lab sends a shudder up Donatello’s spine. No, that was completely out of the question.
That left him with his final option.
Shelldon.
Donatello knew that Shelldon could make it out of the lab wholly undetected; after all, he had tunnels carved through New York so his drones could exit and watch over the city at any time. The A.I. saying no wasn’t an issue, either, since he was currently put under childlocks. He couldn’t say no to anything .
“Shelldon,” Donatello says, an overjoyed smile creeping onto his face at his own genius.
“Dispose of the body.”

Leo was quiet as he sat outside of Donnie’s lab, shell resting against the cold titanium door. The thing was locked tighter than Fort Knox. For what reason, he has no idea. He tried everything to get in; portaling, asking Raph to smash his way through… shit, he’d even asked Mikey for help.
Nothing worked. He was always put right back at square one.
He didn’t know what his brother was doing in there, and honestly? He didn’t care what Donnie was doing anymore. All he wanted was his twin back.
They were supposed to be a duo; they were the Disaster Twins , the pair that no one wanted to fuck with. They were attached at the hip, two peas in a pod.
Things hadn’t been the same for years now. Leonardo knows that things haven’t been the same for years now. Despite that, despite everything, he’s desperately clinging onto the delusional hope that things are okay, that nothing’s wrong between them. Despite the disgusted look on Donnie’s face when he walked through the door with Casey in his arms, despite Donnie starting to lock himself in his lab for longer and longer periods of time until he stopped coming out altogether.
Leonardo had known bringing Casey home would put a barrier between him and his twin. Leo had tried to ignore things(god knows he tried), but every time he sees Casey’s little face, he’s haunted by the knowledge that it was him that pushed Donatello away.
Deep down, Leonardo knows that everything—and he means everything —that’s happening right now is his fault in some way. Raph’s eye, Donatello’s isolation, Michelangelo’s unsteady hands, Casey’s lack of a normal life… even Splinter’s death had been his fault. Leo was the one that tipped the dominoes. Leo was the one that set things into motion.
It tore through him like a bullet. He was ripping his family apart, tearing what little light he had left into shreds. His hands were covered in blood, his arms aching, but still he kept grabbing and tearing away the flesh of his family’s bonds like a selfish fool.
Knowing that he was the one that ruined everything haunted him like a ghost.

LOG 8: GRIEF

Michelangelo’s hands have never been steady, always shaking, especially when he got nervous. Opening the portal to save Leo had made it so, so much worse.
Even on his calm days, his hands trembled like leaves in the breeze. His days of creating detailed and intricate paintings were long gone. Mikey couldn’t even remember the last time he picked up a paintbrush, let alone painted something. Every time he tried, his hands would start to shake, and the painting would be ruined by a stray stroke.
So why was he here, staring at an unfinished painting with a brush in hand?
Michelangelo still remembered the day that he started it, like it had happened yesterday and not years ago. He’d wanted to do a painting of each of his brothers, with Donnie being the last one. He’d only managed to capture the ever-tired look in his eyes before… everything happened.
Before they’d had to sacrifice everything to save the world.
Oh, how things had changed since then. Donatello’s forehead was constantly creased with wrinkles, his markings stretching across his body in places that they previously hadn’t. His gaze was marked with a bitter hardness, a distaste for the world and its inhabitants. He carried himself differently now.
All of them carried themselves differently, like they were each carrying the weight of the world on their shoulders.
Michelangelo was the most in-tune with his emotions out of his brothers. He knew they were hurting, he could feel it reverberating in his bones, running through his body into his trembling hands. What he couldn’t understand was why they refused to talk about their problems when it was so clearly tearing them apart.
Michelangelo tried everything he could think of; Doctor Delicate Touch, Doctor Feelings, he’d even tried giving them puppy eyes for fuck’s sake. Nothing seemed to work on them anymore. They’d closed off from him, from each other, receding inwards like a fish hook.
Mikey’s mouth pulls into a frown as his brush moves across the canvas, painting a shaky purple stroke across the messy pencil lines of Donatello’s mask. He could distinctly remember the last real conversation he’d had with Donnie, before he started spending less and less time outside of the lab.
It was movie night; Leonardo sat in Splinter’s old chair, cradling a baby Casey in his arm, prosthetic discarded for the event. Raphael had sprawled out on his stomach, readying himself for when Mikey and Donnie inevitably started a turtle pile.
Donatello was fiddling with the old projector, scowling, trying to get it to work. Splinter had always been able to get it to turn on with the first try; none of them had quite ever learned how he did it.
When the topic of what movie they should pick had come up, Mikey had suggested they watch Finding Nemo, since Casey should get to experience watching some classic childhood movies.
Donnie’s nose had wrinkled, insisting that they should watch Treasure Planet instead. Mikey told Donnie that it wasn’t appropriate to show it to Casey, and Donnie hissed at him.
That’s when they had started fighting.
The last time Michelangelo had a real conversation with Donatello, they got into a fight over a movie .
The paintbrush clatters to the floor as Mikey’s hands start to shake uncontrollably, his legs threatening to give out under him. A sob is stuck in his throat as he falls backwards, vision blurring with tears. A guttural, gross-sounding sob tears through his chest, tears dripping onto his pants.
God, he was so, so tired. He was tired of feeling guilty. He was tired of trying to be the glue. Mikey didn’t even want to make his brothers talk to each other anymore.
He just wanted things to be okay again.
He wanted to be okay again.

Raphael hasn’t ever been the type to talk about his issues. He’s the eldest; that means it’s his responsibility to take care of everyone else. It’s his responsibility to carry the heaviest burdens, to carry out the worst tasks. It’s his responsibility to keep his problems to himself.
In his teenage years, before the Kraang, he could go to Splinter and talk about his feelings. His father never judged him, never made him feel like a burden, only holding him tightly as he sobbed, listening as he screamed. He could remember the softness of Splinter’s fur, the way his hand would rub the back of his head, the way he would always promise he would fix things for Raph.
Now the only person in his corner is the beat-up sandbag he punches every morning and every night.
His fists pound rhythmically against the rough patchwork surface of the sandbag in a pattern he’s all too familiar with. It’s second nature to him now, as natural as breathing or sleeping. Punch . Inhale. Punch . Inhale. Punch .
It’s a pattern. It’s predictable. He knows what will happen when he draws back his fist.
Raph wishes he could say the same about life.
Every day he wakes up and is crushed by the weight of keeping his brothers and Casey alive. He constantly has to worry about everything, because that’s what his responsibility is. He has to wonder if the Kraang going to come back, if something bad might happen to Casey, if he might find Donatello dead in his lab.
Raphael shakes his head, as if to shake away the very thought of finding Donnie’s cold corpse.
No. He shouldn’t think of that. He shouldn’t ask himself that question. He needs to think positive, he needs to be positive. If he doesn’t stay positive, his brothers will feel worse, and it’s his responsibility to make sure that doesn’t happen .
Raphael’s fist collides a little too hard with the sandbag, the fabric tearing. Sand and dirt threaten to pour out onto the ground, but he’s quick to take it off the hook and lay it down so that the sand stays inside.
He stops for a moment, taking a deep breath as his hands reach out and press against the wall, his eyes closed as sweat drips down his forehead.
Calm, Raph, just be calm , he tells himself, ignoring the screaming panic in the back of his mind. Your brothers need you calm. You’re useless when you’re upset.
Raph inhales sharply, exhaling slowly as he straightens his posture, opening his eyes, his jaw clenched.
He was going to be strong.
He was going to be what his brothers needed him to be, just like he always was.
What other option did he have?

LOG 9: INTERVENTION

God, Donnie misses doritos.
He’d thought he stocked up enough, but clearly that wasn't the case, because he’s holding the last bag in his fist and it’s empty . Donatello’s jaw clenches as he inhales sharply through his nose, gaze raising to the ceiling as frustration courses through him like adrenaline. If it weren’t ten in the morning, he’d gladly be sending one of Shelldon’s drones out to steal him a few bags from a store. The sun being up, though, made it a much more difficult problem to solve.
Fortunately, though, his brothers keep doritos stocked in the cabinets at all times, treating the chips like they’re a staple of any diet.
Yet that came with a problem as well; specifically his brothers cornering him. He doesn’t want to deal with a repeat of what happened last time, but… the promise of those sweet, sweet chips is simply too enticing for him to resist.
Donatello’s light on his feet as he makes his way through the labyrinth-like hallways of the lair, thankful that the rat had at the very least taught him to be quiet on his feet. It almost excused every other shitty thing he’d done.
Almost.
The lair is by no means dark, fairy lights strung along the walls and ceiling of every hallway for the ease of anyone that decides to get up in the mornings. He almost feels like a kid again, sneaking to the kitchen for a snack while everyone else is fast asleep. The memories are almost bittersweet, like lemon and honey placed on his tongue. He places his hand on the wall, the paint of Mikey’s mural cold against his palm, the textured ridges providing something tangible for him to ground himself with. He didn’t have to turn to know what was painted.
It was a painting of the Hamatos. All of the Hamatos, even including Gramgram, Cassandra, April…
And Casey.
Donatello shakes his head with a scowl, shoving down the rush of jealousy and hurt the child’s name brings. He can’t be focusing on that brat right now, he’s got something else to do.
Donatello tiptoes into the kitchen, quietly flicking the lights on, wincing as the bulbs blinds him for a moment. Absent-mindedly, he reaches for the corner cabinet purely on instinct—only to be met with pudding, cheetos, and Lucky Charms.
“...what the fuck ?” Donnie mutters, brow furrowing as he stares in disbelief at the cabinet's contents. This was the chip cabinet, it’d been the chip cabinet since he could remember, so what the fuck was this ?
Donatello turns to the next cabinet, the soup cabinet to be specific, throwing it open with an irritated huff. The crackers and peanut butter jars stacked inside were most definitely not soup and were very, very out of place.
Donnie knew that his brothers had moved things around while he was in his lab; he'd noticed the moment he stepped in the atrium to ‘bond’ with Casey. But this ? This was blasphemy .
Donatello throws open each cabinet, furiously, forgetting that he’s supposed to be quiet.
Every cabinet, every single one , has the wrong contents . Did he need to start labeling the cabinets so his dumdum brothers could put things away properly? Did he need to hammer it into their thick skulls that the chip cabinet was not supposed to be filled with that child’s snacks ? Everything had a place, everything always had a place, and they had ruined the sanctity of the kitchen’s organization.
Donatello can’t help but wonder how much they’ve changed because of Casey. They’d become so accommodating , so sickeningly kind , and for what? So the child that doesn’t matter would love them? So the child that spent barely any time with his brothers wouldn’t hate them?
Donatello’s known them longer. Donatello cares about them more, he’s stressed about them constantly, he’s sacrificed everything he had for them time and time again.
And yet they treated that brat better than him.
Did he mean nothing to them? Was he really that meaningless?
As much as Donatello hates to admit it… it seems likely that it was the case. A lump forms in his throat as he hunches over the counter, fists balled up and pressed against the wooden surface as he forces down his tears.
“Donatello Purple Hamato.” Raphael’s voice booms through the kitchen. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that he’s pissed . “Do you have any idea what time it is?”
Donnie quickly takes a breath, composing himself as he spins around, leaning on the counter, a strained smile on his face. “ Raphael !” Donatello chirps, fake cheer scribbled poorly all over his face like a child’s coloring book. “How nice to see you. Pray tell, why is everything in the wrong cabinet?”
There’s something laced in his words, like another question he’s too afraid to ask out loud. Why did you replace me? Why are you changing things without asking me?
Why do you not love me anymore?
All of the questions he’s too proud to say out loud, every emotion he’s too angry to express—it’s all laced in one sentence. Raph sighs deeply, his shoulders slumping as he pinches the bridge of his nose, glowering at his notoriously absonant brother. “Leo,” Raph says, sounding rather exasperated as he squeezes his eyes shut, the chasm between his brows growing.
“Don’t worry about it.” Leo gives Raph a quick pat on the arm as he turns to look at Donatello with an expression that goes beyond anger. He’s furious , a rather rare occurrence in the Hamato household. The last time Leo had looked at him like this was years ago, when they were just teenagers.
“Donnie,” Leonardo says flatly, his eyes cold as he stares at his twin. The door is blocked by all three of Donatello’s brothers; there’s no escaping this.
Perhaps this is his damnation for killing the Seraph.
Perhaps it’s just his brothers staging an intervention.
“Please, just… tell us what’s going on.”
By the time Leo finishes his sentence, he looks drained, almost old . Donatello’s heart plummets as he looks at his brothers for what feels like the first time in forever. Had they always looked this old?
“I’ve told you everything I can, ‘nardo,” Donnie mumbles, facade crumbling away like chalk, completely drained. He feels like a child again, his brothers ganging up on him because he took something or ate the last pop-tart. It would be nostalgic, if not for the copious amount of secrets he’s holding close to his chest.
“Not what’s going on in your lab, what’s going on with you ! We don’t-”
Leo stops mid-sentence, choking on his words as tears well up in his eyes, threatening to spill. Donatello doesn’t miss how he furiously tries to blink the tears away, or how he clenches his fist at his side, exhaling shakily.
“We just want our brother back,” Michelangelo finishes, looking like a kicked puppy as he stares at the floor, hugging himself tightly. “We don’t care anymore, Donnie. We just want you back.”
Michelangelo squeezes his eyes shut as fat tears roll down his face, dropping to the floor. His shoulders tremble as he turns to Raphael, clinging to the eldest brother like a child seeking comfort.
Donatello feels hollowed, like someone had taken a spoon and carved out his insides, leaving nothing but bitter remorse behind. The happy facade is gone at this point, thrown in the trash like the rest of his excuses.
“You have Casey.” Donnie’s voice is quiet, nearly inaudible as he looks away from his brothers. He can’t bear to spend a single second more looking at them, not when he’s the one hurting them. “You don’t want me, Mikey. None of you do, so stop acting like you want me around.”
The kitchen is deathly silent.
Leo takes a step forward, his face contorted as he holds back his tears. He opens his mouth to say something, but shuts it just as quickly, unable to find the words.
Donnie has to stop himself from running past him, from leaving the kitchen to lock himself in his lab, away from all this. He doesn’t want to acknowledge the problem. He doesn’t want to ruin things further.
Hell, he can’t even look at their faces at this point. He’s never been one for eye contact, of course, but now ? If Donatello looks at them for even a second , he’ll break.
Donatello closes his eyes, tilting his head downwards as Leonardo walks towards him slowly. He doesn’t want to see what he’s done to his twin.
Leo wraps his arm around Donnie’s shoulders, pulling him close as his tears drip onto Donnie’s skin. “Dee,” he whispers, his voice cracking as he fights back a sob.
Donatello’s throat tightens as he wraps his arms around his twin, squeezing him into a tight hug as he squeezes his eyes shut, trying to repress the tears threatening to pour down his face.
Donatello can hear Michelangelo and Raphael approaching, the latter picking the three up easily and holding them in the air.
Donatello can’t hold it in anymore.
He breaks, shattering into a mess of tears and sobs, hiccuping as he struggles to catch his breath.
He missed this. He missed feeling wanted, he missed feeling like he belonged. He almost forgot how it felt to be held, to be loved , to be comforted. He almost let himself forget it.
It would be a turning point for him, if not for the looming threat of the Final Day.

LOG 10: SKIN

Donatello’s heart settled in his gut as he apprehensively stared at the syringe in his hand, filled with a glowing white liquid.
This was it. This was the moment he’d been waiting for.
So… why did it feel so unfulfilling?
This was what he had wanted for so long, wasn’t it? This is his magnum opus, his final symphony. So why is the hole in his chest still aching? Why does he feel like he’s accomplished nothing at all?
The pit in Donatello’s gut is begging him not to do this, tearing at his insides like a wild beast, screaming and crying that this isn’t the answer to his problems. Part of him already knew that, he thinks.
Another part of him, a part of him far bigger and darker than the beast in his belly, already resolved itself to becoming the Seraph. It was overpowering, overwhelming, completely suffocating the way that it clutched him in its claws, cooing that this is what he needs. It tells him that this will make him whole, that he will feel better when it’s done.
Donatello can’t bring himself to fully believe that.
He hisses as the needle sinks into his skin, eyes screwing shut as his face pulls into a grimace, quickly injecting the liquid into his brachial artery. With a quiet whimper of pain, Donatello yanks the needle out, slamming it on the table.
For a moment, just for a moment, he feels nothing. He rises to his feet, walking towards the stasis chamber, his heart pounding in his chest. There was no backing out now.
He places a hand on the cold glass of the chamber, hesitating for a moment.
That’s all it took.
The pain hits him before he can step foot inside. It’s blinding, like someone had taken a rusty meat cleaver and begun to carve away chunks of flesh from his shell, tearing away stubborn muscle with bare, dirty hands, exposing his ribcage only to pour white-hot molten metal inside. A guttural scream tears from his throat, which erupts into an entirely different realm of pain, like someone was pouring molten gold down his throat. Donatello’s vision blurs with fast-falling tears that feel like fire on his skin as he falls to the ground, sucking in air only to let it out with another scream. His lungs are on fire, it hurts to breathe, it hurts to exist, it hurts .
His entire body is on fire, or it’s being torn apart by a meat grinder, he doesn’t remember why he’s in pain at this point. All he can think about is how much it hurts, how much he wants it to stop, how much he wants to curl up and die. He’s humiliated, he’s been knocked down so many pegs. He feels disgusting, like dirt underneath someone’s boots.
As his pounding headache growing a hundred times worse, Donatello lets out a guttural, nasally scream as the skin on his face splits open like someone had taken a scalpel and dug it into his flesh, roughly and clumsily carving a slit and forcing it open with their fingers, tearing open his face. Half-formed eyes dart around the room in terror, vision blurry with tears and the fact that there’s underdeveloped eyes being torn open on his face. He’s blind, he’s got to be, he can’t see anything clearly anymore, oh god—
His wail is cut off as another wave of pain hits, right at his temples. There it is again, the scalpel, someone’s cutting open the sides of his head and ripping something out, ripping his flesh away from his skull, exposing it to the cold air. He can see chunks of his flesh lying on the ground in front of him, green and bloody, god there’s so much blood .
There’s the sound of cracking bones and his skin tears again as something pushes its way through, an agonized wail tearing through his throat. He can’t take it, he can’t , he’s going to die here on the floor all alone.
His eyes widen as something in his back starts to move and writhe free of his own will. His breaths start to come quickly, in a panicked rhythm, tears streaming down his face as he tries to scream, terrified to find that his throat hurts too much to make any noise.
Oh god, the Kraang, the Kraang , Donatello thinks as his mind races, weakly sobbing as he tries to curl into a ball only for his body to erupt in a white-hot pain that travels through him like an electrical current. They’re under his skin, they’re grabbing and ripping his shell from the muscle underneath, oh god, oh god —
Six wings, blood-covered ,white wings, covered in what remains of Donatello’s shell and chunks of his flesh, rip free from his back with a sickeningly wet sound. Blood pours from Donatello’s shell freely, like a river, pooling around him. The wings are wrong , they’re so wrong, broken and misshapen from the effort it took to tear through him.
His sides feel like someone’s breaking apart his shell with a hammer, breaking his ribs and pulling flesh open for new appendages to make their way through. He can’t bring himself to make a sound as two arms tear through his flesh, lying limply at his sides, as useless as wisdom teeth.
Donatello can’t do more than lay on the floor, wishing he was dead. It feels like his skin had been peeled back from his body, like his ribs were broken and pulled out of his back, like he had been flayed alive with a butter knife. Everything, every single inch of him, feels like it’s been dipped into boiling water and held there.
Donatello can’t bring himself to move as he lays on the cold floor of his lab, in a puddle of his own blood and vomit. The bitter stench is awful on his nose.
He’s never felt so humiliated.
For a moment, the pain begins to ebb away, lessening enough that he can begin to think.
He hadn’t thought about the transformation taking place before he managed to get into the pod. He thought he had enough time.
An idiotic mistake..
Donatello moves to push himself off of the ground, but finds himself as clumsy as a newborn child, the movement sending pain arcing through his arms, like someone had just broken them and tried to pull apart the muscle at the very same time. Donatello can’t do anything more than scream hoarsely, slipping and falling back onto the floor, the rest of his stomach’s contents vacating.
This time, he can’t wash away the taste of vomit.
This time, he can’t run away from the pain.
This time, he has to face it and suffer.

LOG 11: FLESH

The water is frigid against Donatello’s skin, his eyes too weak to open. His body feels like lead, sinking deeper and deeper into the freezing water of the ocean, being buffeted and thrown around by wave after wave. He has to reach the bottom eventually. It has to get better eventually.
As Donatello’s shell sinks into the coarse mud of the seabed, the acrid smell of saltwater drowning his senses completely, he feels icy cold hands grip his wrists painfully tight, dragging him through the mud. His heart races, pounding against his ribs like a jackhammer, unable to move a single muscle; he’s at the mercy of whatever God is watching.
Donatello is roughly yanked through the sediment, painfully emerging on the other side into what he can only assume is a field, judging by the grass pressed against his skin. An overwhelming sense of calm and safety crashes over him like a tsunami, his heart slowing as he lies on the ground. Gradually, painfully gradually, Donatello can feel his body start to lighten as his muscle control returns to him. He almost feels prideful, but his curiosity as to where he is overtakes it.
Donatello shakily stands up, finding himself back in the same dream he’s had for so long now. A rational part of his mind screams danger, that he needs to wake up, but the calm of the field pushes it away. He doesn’t have anything to fear here, right?
The air on his skin is warm, a stark contrast to the frigid water he’d just been pulled out of. Fog curls around him like an aura, oddly familiar and comforting at the same time, like the familiar presence of a long lost relative. Donnie peers at the ever-present mirror, confused as to why no one has shown up in the reflection yet. The mirror doesn’t reflect him , it never has. It only shows what’s behind him, and what’s inside the mirror itself. He runs a hand over the cold glass, observing the frame with a furrowed brow. It was just an abundance of entangled vines, wrapping around the mirror like a sculpted frame. The bark is gray and sickly-looking, like it has some form of root rot. It’s out of place here, where the grass thrives and the atmosphere seems perfect for any creature. It’s as if the mirror isn’t native to this area.
Donatello’s fingertips push against the glass, an instinctive part of him trying to pass to the other side.
A cold hand shoots out, a hand that mirrors his own, gripping his wrist and roughly yanking him through the mirror. The surface ripples, and he passes through as if it’s water and not glass.
As Donatello is thrown to the other side, he whirls around as his anxiety spikes. He stares at his reflection for a moment, where it stares back at him. It looks everything and nothing like him, like something that shouldn’t have ever existed.
It looks like a Seraph.
Donatello reaches a hand out, barely able to touch the mirror’s surface before the other Donatello shatters the glass. He stares in horror as the glass and frame turn to a pile of ashes, blowing away in an intangible gust of wind until there’s nothing left, leaving Donatello alone in a black void.
Fear sets in as the feeling of safety and warmth leaves him, inviting in what he thought he was safe from. It was suffocating, like a pillow being pressed over his face, like he was drowning in his own blood. It was everywhere , and he couldn’t escape.
Donatello falls to his knees, breath coming in gasps, every sensation feeling amplified to a thousand.
He was never going to leave this place, was he?
Was this what his last moments were going to be like? Hollow, like a dead tree, filled with terror and emptiness?
Was this his legacy?
Mist curls around him, like a comforting hug, but it’s not enough to stifle his terror.
A hand is placed on Donatello’s shoulder, a hand that he hasn’t felt in years . He doesn’t have to move to know who it is, though the feeling of a dead man’s hand is enough to make even the strongest shudder.
Donatello looks up, setting his jaw as he stares into the round, kind face of his ‘father’. His hands clenched into fists, his fingernails digging into his palms as he holds back the urge to punch him in the face. That stupid rat destroyed his life.
Donatello, in secret, had disavowed the name ‘Hamato’ years ago, unbeknownst to his brothers. It wasn’t something he would ever tie himself to, especially when this bastard had cursed them with his burden.
“What do you want ,” Donatello hisses through his teeth, his jaw clenching almost painfully. He can feel his father’s eyes boring into him like drills, ripping him to shreds and exposing his most disappointing, vulnerable parts. Despite everything, despite every horrible thing Donatello has done… he knows Splinter won’t judge him. He knows his father will love him in spite of it all.
“Purple,” Splinter murmurs quietly, gently cupping a hand under his son’s chin. “What have you done to yourself?”
Despite how much he hates his father, despite his efforts to stay cold, Donatello’s muscles relax as he leans into Splinter’s touch. The familiar sting of tears in his eyes sends a wave of shame through him; he feels like a helpless child, crying over a scraped knee.
“This is not what you were meant to do, Purple,” Splinter murmurs dolefully, pulling his son into a tight hug. Donatello desperately wants to push him away, to insult him, to scream , but… part of him still loves his dad. Part of him, a part he had tried to bury, wants Splinter back and he hates it.
“I didn’t know what else to do,” Donatello whispers, his voice cracking as he buries his face into his father’s soft fur. “I don’t know what else to do.”
“...you have already committed yourself to your doom, Purple.” Splinter’s voice is laced with grief, like he had just seen Donatello die right in front of him. He had, in a sense; the Donatello he had raised died the moment he took on the Seraph. “There is nothing else you can do now.”
“...I hate you,” Donatello whispers, cold tears rolling down his cheeks as he clings to his father like a child. “I hate you.”
Splinter laughs quietly, almost bitterly as he rests his chin atop Donatello’s head. “I do not think you do, Purple.”
Donnie stays quiet, clinging to his father.
He knows he’s right.
He doesn’t hate him.
He hates that he died so soon.
“I must go, Purple.” Splinter says, gently prying Donatello away from him with a wistful smile. Donnie reaches out, grabbing his hand with a whimper.
“I don’t want you to go,” Donnie mumbles, struggling to choke back another sob.
“I will always watch over you, Purple. I am always going to be proud of you.” Splinter’s hand slowly feels less real, less tangible. Donatello opens his eyes, staring in horror as Splinter turns to mist in front of him.
Donatello stares at his empty hands, at the space where his father had just been, a hole torn open in his chest.
“I love you.”

LOG 12: IMPENDING

Donatello wakes up in a cold sweat, lying in a puddle of his own dried blood and vomit. With every beat of his heart, it feels like a chisel is being driven further and further into his brain. The stench filling his nostrils is putrid and all-encompassing; it takes everything he has to not gag. He peels himself away from the floor, his limbs feeling like lead, everything aching. He was going to have a hell of a time cleaning up his lab after he’d recovered, that was for sure.
“Shelldon,” Donatello croaks, finding that speaking made everything hurt worse. His voice wasn’t his own anymore, a cacophony of voices echoing out amongst his, tangling together into a near incomprehensible mess. “Flavorless juice.”
Donatello’s wings drag against the ground, aching like overexerted muscles. It’s easily the least painful part. The worst was how it pulled on his very bones, like they were trying to topple him over and break him. His limbs, feeling like oh-so-painful gelatin, give out underneath him as he tumbles into his bed unceremoniously with a haunting whimper. Slowly, every movement sending searing pain through his body, Donatello up underneath his weighted blanket with his eyes squeezed shut. Thankfully, the lights in the lab were turned off; everything was too bright at the moment, like a flashlight being shone into his eyes.
Of course, that was likely because he had four more to work with now.
As Shelldon’s drone whirrs over, a glass of clear, ice-cold flavorless juice sitting atop it, Donatello finds himself almost missing Shelldon’s sass. Keeping the childlocks on is for the best, though; knowing Shelldon, he might have blabbed to his brothers for ‘Donnie’s safety’.
It takes a moment for Donatello to properly grasp the glass, his hand-eye coordination having taken a large hit. It felt like someone had gone inside of him and rewired everything, leaving him at a toddler-like state of movement. It was utterly humiliating . Donatello was almost glad he was alone in his lab, if not for the ache in his chest. It wasn’t a pain that could be treated; his dream about Splinter had reopened a gash he had long sewed shut.
For years, Donatello told himself he hated his father. He’d desperately tried to convince himself that he was unaffected by his father’s death, to find a way to justify his irrational anger. He’d silenced the part of him that cared, burying it deep underground, where he thought it would never come back.
And yet, it had dug its way out like a maggot, coming back to haunt him.
Donatello can remember the Splinter’s death clearly. He held his father’s hand tightly, watching him gasp for breath, chest rattling with each attempt. His father’s grip never faltered, squeezing his hand, giving him the small amount of comfort he could offer in this state. He’d watched, with a heart being cleaved apart again and again, as his father cried upon realizing that this was the end. This was his last moment alive. This was the last time he would ever see his son again.
His father had squeezed Donatello’s hand, unable to speak, though the message was clear.
I love you, Donatello.
Donatello hadn’t said it back, only watching as his father had flatlined. The anguish was wholly indescribable, like a raging wildfire leaving only burned corpses and destruction in its wake. He was helpless. He was utterly, horrifically helpless. His father had given them direct orders not to revive him if he died, despite their pleas. There was nothing to do but watch as his body grew cold and his eyes became glassy.
The wound in Donatello’s chest feels the same as it had that day. He’d never stopped to ask himself why he tried to hate his father, telling himself that Splinter was a bad person, that everything his father had taught him was a lie. He’d repeated it like a mantra, hoping that one day it might be true, and the gashes in his chest could one day heal. Donatello never thought grief was worth his time. It made it easier to move on if he didn’t linger for too long.
But the dream… it had been so eerie, like his father had come back from the dead to speak to him one last time. Bitterly, Donatello wished that Splinter had come sooner to talk him out of the Rapture. It was like his father had said, though.
Donatello had already committed himself to his doom.

It’s been a concerningly long time since April has heard from Donnie. Her texts are left on read, her calls unanswered, her questions towards the others inconclusive. It wasn’t entirely uncommon for Donnie to disappear off the face of the earth for short periods of time, but this was easily the longest timeframe by far.
So, of course, the very second April’s phone showed an infuriatingly cryptic message from Donatello, she was thoroughly pissed .
Bootyyyyshaker9000: NYC. Lair. ASAP.
Lesbiancowboy: DONATELLO PURPLE HAMATO WHAT THE FUCK.
Lesbiancowboy: YOU DO NOT GET TO DISAPPEAR OFF THE FACE OF THE FUCKING EARTH FOR MONTHS AND THEN JUST TEXT ME THIS SHIT.
Lesbiancowboy: EXPLAIN. NOW.
Bootyyyyshaker9000: No time. Emergency.
Lesbiancowboy: DONNIE.
Lesbiancowboy: GET BACK ONLINE NOW AND EXPLAIN.
Lesbiancowboy: YOU LITTLE.
Lesbiancowboy: I’M SO GOING TO BEAT YOUR ASS.
Within the ten minutes of waiting for a response from Donnie, April had already packed her things and bought a last-minute plane ticket to New York, headed to the airport in a taxi while furiously texting the other Hamatos to interrogate them about what the hell was happening.
Of course, the news she received from them was nothing short of concerning and infuriating. Her brothers had only given her bits and pieces, like they were afraid too much information would send her barreling back to New York with a belt in hand to threaten them with.
How many nights had she spent scrolling through the messages from Leo? How many nights had she spent awake, unable to sleep, stressed at the thought that Donatello had done something to himself? It was infuriating and horrifying, melted together into an abomination.
April doesn’t even know the last time she and Dee had a real conversation, one that was upheld on both ends. He used to be her closest friend, her right hand man, the peanut to her butter.
But now ? April doesn’t even know him anymore.

LOG 13: RAPTURE

Your worst sin is that you have destroyed and betrayed yourself for nothing.

Time passed much slower now that Donatello had ascended. Perhaps it was the ever-present pain of his body, or perhaps his inability to regain his coordination. It might have been a combination of both.
Mundane tasks such as brushing his teeth or washing his face had become embarrassingly difficult. How he was going to bring about the Rapture in this state was beyond him, but he would figure it out. Donatello always figured things out.
However, with every day that passed, he found himself growing to doubt his abilities. No longer could his hands hold steady to precisely weld together machinery, nor could he perfect his hand-eye coordination enough to complete complicated tasks.
It was proving to be… detrimental at best to the Cherub serum he’d been perfecting. The Cherub was taking far longer than the Seraph had. For the sake of keeping things on schedule, Donatello was starting to wonder if he should have Shelldon automate it for him.
That would be blasphemy, though. It had to be done by his own hand, with his own purity intertwined like a vine. It wasn’t the way things were intended.
Even now, as he prepared the needles and ensured that the machine he would use to restrain his brothers (and sister) would work, it was difficult to move his limbs in the correct direction. Part of him wondered if he should push the Rapture back, but another part of him, the part that was the Seraph, screamed that it had to be done.
Donatello had already committed to his doom, after all. It was his responsibility to see himself through to the end.
April would be arriving soon. With how angry her texts had been, there was no doubt she was screaming at some poor cab driver to break the speed limit and run red lights. At the very least, he hopes that’s what she’s doing. Things would only complicate further if she didn’t appear soon.
He had to finish this.

Casey doesn’t know why Aunt April is home so soon, since Uncle Leo had said she’d be gone for a long time. The excitement that tears through him shoves down any questions he might have had, though. Immediately, without hesitation, he’s running towards her, arms outstretched, a grin on his face.
“Aunt April!” his delighted squeal echoes through the lair like the world’s cutest airhorn. “You’re back!”
April’s tense, stressed face pulls into a smile as she sees Casey, her arms outstretched as she picks him up and spins him around. “Junior!” she exclaims, peppering kisses all over his round little face. “You’ve gotten so big!”
“April, you didn’t need to come all the way here,” Leo mumbles with a sigh.
He looks absolutely defeated . His eyes are dull, shoulders drooping as if he were Atlas. He hadn’t even bothered with his mask, wearing a pair of old sweatpants and smelling of sweat. April and Casey both wrinkled their noses at him.
“Leo. You have let yourself go ,” April retorts with an eye roll as she holds Casey on her hip. “Go take a shower right now and I’ll go figure out what in the ever-loving fuck is going on with Dee.”
“You stink,” Casey chimes in, squeezing his eyes shut as he sticks his tongue out at Leo.
“It’s not that bad,” Leo mumbles, raising his arm to sniff at his armpit. He immediately recoils, mouth pulling into a grimace at the stench. “Okay, it’s that bad.”
“Shower. Now.” April’s eyes narrow as her mouth pulls into a scowl. “You’re setting a bad example for Junior.”
Casey giggles, hugging April tightly as Leo grumpily slinks away. Casey hadn’t seen his Uncle look so relieved since Uncle Donnie went away.
Casey knew that Donnie didn’t really go away, but his Uncles told him that so he’d stop asking questions. Eventually he stopped asking altogether, mostly for the sake of his Uncles. They always got a sad far-away look on their faces when Casey brought up Uncle Donnie. Maybe now that Aunt April was here, things would be okay again!
At least, he hopes that’s the case.

With Casey tucked away in bed, sleeping peacefully, April and her brothers are free to confront Donatello. Her heart pounds in her chest, anxiety and anger fused in one horrific abomination rearing its ugly head at her. Every step she takes towards the lab feels like a step closer to death. It feels odd; Donatello is her brother. He wouldn’t do anything to hurt her, right?
As April raises a hand, her knuckles about to make contact with the cold metal of the door. For a moment, she hesitates. Does she want to know what’s behind the door? What’s lying in wait for her? Does she need to see?
Yes, yes she does.
Her knuckles barely graze the cold metal of the door before it opens.
The lab’s lights are off, the bite of bleach stinging the air. April almost wants to question it, but bleach isn’t her first priority.
“Donatello Purple Hamato,” she shouts, her voice wavering as she steps into the dark room, fumbling around for the light switch. She curses under her breath, finally switching on the lights. She feels like a child afraid of the dark, like there are demons lying in wait for her. “Donnie, what the—”
Her voice falters as she sees her brothers, clamped in place by a metal contraption. The air leaves her lungs as something cold and hard grabs her, pulling her in and clasping her in place. Her heart pounds against her chest, the lights still off. Her back brushes against a spiky shell, grazing her back enough to leave a scrape. They’re trapped, like livestock in a slaughterhouse.
Her heart pounds painfully against her chest, like a jackhammer trying to puncture through her ribs. It hurts, almost; the fear hurts.
“Donnie!” Raph shouts, struggling against the metal, his teeth gritting. “What’s going on?”
For a moment, the lab is silent, the only sound being the struggling of the four.
A bright light comes to life overhead. It’s blinding, surrounding the four of them in a circle of bright fluorescent light, the shadows past it like a sea of black nothingness.
A green foot moves into the light.
The rest follows.
April’s breath hitches in her throat, eyes wide as she stares in horror at the mutant she had considered her brother. His body was hidden by a gilded white robe, flowing like an angelic painting. A circular halo floated behind his head, beams of light protruding like Casey’s drawings of the sun..
It was horrible.
It was beautiful.
As Donatello strides forward, his wings drag on the floor behind him, a pearly white color. His eyes are sunken, his body noticeably thin and his coordination slightly off.
The Donatello that April had known was dead and buried. He’d been replaced by… whatever this thing is.
“Be not afraid.”
The voice that booms through the lab isn’t Donatello’s. It’s an amalgamation of different pitches and tones, hilts and airs. A cacophony of sounds, all crammed into one. It was like a song and a scream all at once, horrific and beautiful. It was unnatural and horrific in every conceivable way.
April wants desperately to cover her ears, to scream, but her arms are pinned at her sides, useless to her. She struggled nonetheless, though, desperate to silence the horrible noise.
“You are not in danger, brethren. I simply wish for… assistance,” Donatello coos, stepping out of April’s sight.
Metal creaks loudly as something cold clamps over her mouth. By the angry muffled cries of Leo and Mikey, the others have been silenced as well. “Your participation in the Rapture is valued deeply.”
For a moment, nothing happens.
The light goes out once more.
April jumps, letting out a shocked shout as a needle punctures her flesh. The sound is quiet, muffled by the metal.
It feels as if acid is being pumped into her body, burning away her flesh and blood vessels, filling her with a burning sensation as it destroys every nerve ending, wiring her only to feel agony. By the writhing of the other three, the feeling is mutual. She feels weak, her vision dancing with bright white spots as she lets out another agonized scream, her muscles spasming. She feels wet and dry at the same time, her flesh writhing like worms. She’s acutely aware of the wet sounds going on around her. The sounds of something melting and dropping to the floor are loud, painfully so. For a moment, April wonders if there’s a leak in the lab’s roof.
Something rolls down the back of her neck. At first it’s just one drop, and then the floodgates open as she realizes there’s no leak.
April’s body collapses to the floor, a gurgled scream ripping from her throat.
She tries to move her arms, to crawl away, but…
She can’t feel them.
She tries again, screaming. The sound fizzles out into a wet pop.
Nothing.
She feels wet and cold, like she’s been dunked in ice water, her thoughts becoming clouded and loud. The pain is wholly too much for her to bear. The gurgling screams and sobs of her brothers aren’t enough to keep her afloat.
Her vision goes white.
She remembers nothing.

Donatello stares in a mixture of horror and awe at his creation, his mouth pulled into a disgusted frown. The creature lying on the ground, wailing and screaming, was no longer April. It was no longer Raphael, or Michelangelo, or Leonardo.
It was the Cherub now. His siblings had died alongside the sinful creature he used to be, reborn into a holy vessel.
Albeit a disgusting vessel, but a holy one nonetheless.
The flesh of the four had melted, turning into a grotesque viscous liquid that fused together into deformed and hideous limbs. Their bodies had melted together, shells lying on the floor, having sloughed off like rotting flesh. Green scales mixed together with brown skin, puckered like scar tissue, lumpy and deformed. With every rattling tortured breath the Cherub takes, it screams in agony, its very existence painful and horrific.
Donatello’s lip curls, the very creature evoking disgust. Perhaps he should have tested it more, to make something he would enjoy looking at. He can scarcely stand to keep his eyes on it as he quickly looks away, holding back the urge to dry heave. It’s unholy in many ways, so unlike him. It’s wrong , but it’s what was intended.
It screams again, interrupting Donatello’s thoughts. For a moment, he wonders if he should slice the creature's vocal chords to keep it quiet, but with how the anatomy is melted together, he might kill it. Unfortunate, of course, but he could deal with screams.
The Rapture would finally start today. His life’s work, his symphony, was finished . He should feel happy that the world would know Him, that the world would be rid of sin. His siblings were now with him, forever, assisting him in cleansing the world of sin. That should mean something, at the very least.
…
….
…..
……
…….the hollowness in his chest persisted.

BONUS CONTENT(chapter notes, music, memes, ect.)
first of all! writing seratello was a trip and a half. i never expected for it to get popular, or so long, and seeing people enjoy this fucked up little thing i wrote makes me very happy! i projected a lot of my personal issues into this fic, mostly religious trauma, and daddy issues, and i think you can tell. it's very raw (to me at least). but also this fic is so fucking hilarious because i wrote about donatello rottmnt turning into jesus christ and oh my god that's so funny

these chapter notes are in order of each chapter! enjoy :)

dont blame me for what you're about to read this shit is gonna get fucked up real fast

bwuh huh whuh
oh jeez here's another chapter i guess uhhhhhh

suck on my big fat man tiddies bitches raaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah anyway here's some food for y'all there'll be more to come soon

i had a poll over on my tumblr on when i should upload new chapters and its overwhelmingly just. 'whenever the fuck you want homie'. so get chapter'd.

HRNGHFHGNDSFHDGLKDSFKLSDLRGEWSDAKDFASDGAWEKLFD;SDFEKLAJOXJIOJIOEWNFOJOIJIOEBNSD

WARNING FOR INFANTICIDE.

every day i wonder 'what would seratello do' and i immediately pick the most fucked up option
anway HAHA you guys thought i wouldn't be bringing back the seraph's death didn't you B) well joke's on you guys, it was supposed to die from day 1, i just thought it would be better to save it until later. i had a poll on this on my tumblr but in the end it felt more impactful to kill it than to keep it alive yk? also i just can't see donatello interacting with the seraph in a kind way, maybe i'll rewrite the original scene and publish it someday so you can see what could have been. maybe

WARNING, WE'RE GONNA BE TALKIN ABOUT CORPSES BRIEFLY.
whoopsie, i dropped leo and now he's sad.

danger tried to ban me from jolly ranchers but i said no and got my jaw stuck closed on a jolly rancher again while i was writing this

this chapter is dedicated to the guy that came to my job, shouted 'blackberry' into the speaker in a very very souther accent, and said nothing else
in other news its my birthday yahoo i guess??? idk i dont like being old psis off

warning for gore, nasty nasty descriptions, and all the shit that happened in the first chapter. its gross. not exactly required reading, but things might be more clear if it's read. idfk. i'm not your dad

im uploading this chapter in the middle of ccd(chris chan documentary) night
its movie night
but worse

we're getting closer and closer to the end, lads.

tysm to danger for waiting for me to pull this outta my ass ily

and now you get exposed for saying gabagoo wrong
i like maggot metaphors. i like gross metaphors. im a littel nasty guy i like the nasties.

i'm leaving what happens to junior up to you guys, have fun with that!

also HEEHEE gooped
also i want to thank everyone that's stuck around to finish this shitfuck, it started out as a really really self indulgent thing to explore my religious trauma through horror, and then it turned into this. i've said this a few times but seratello wasn't supposed to be this long, it was supposed to be only one chapter or two at the most. it was meant to be something short. the story grabbed me by the throat and wrote itself you know?
i never expected anyone to read this or even enjoy it, but honestly knowing that people have and are invested in the fucked up guys is. it's honestly really fun. anyway this is dedicated to my car because i haven't checked the oil in about a month and i keep forgetting and i probably won't check it until it starts making gun noises again LOL
this is also dedicated to my boyfriend i love youuu
if you wanna see me draw and update my latest fics, you can find my tumblr through that link :3

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