Chapter Text
It had been a week since Slash’s mutation.
Mikey still wasn’t sure how to feel about it.
Everything was supposed to be fine now. They had taken a break—time to recover, time to breathe. He was supposed to be feeling better.
But the fear was still there.
Sitting. Waiting. Heavy in his chest like something rotting.
And Mikey couldn’t figure out why it wouldn’t go away.
Things changed all the time. That was just how life worked.
Villains came and went. The city was always one bad day away from disaster. Training was just a thing they did.
And pain?
Pain was just part of being a ninja.
He had taken worse hits than this. Bruises faded. Ribs healed. Wounds scabbed over. He’d been beaten, burned, crushed, stabbed, electrocuted, thrown off buildings, nearly drowned— and all of it was just another Tuesday.
This?
This wasn’t like that.
Spike had been Raph’s pet.
Small. Harmless. Loyal.
Always listening. Always watching. Always there.
And now?
Now he was Slash.
Big. Angry. Different.
Mikey rolled his shoulders, testing the soreness still lingering beneath the surface.
Not the worst he’d ever been hurt.
But when he closed his eyes, it wasn’t just the pain he remembered.
It was the weight.
The grip.
The way Slash had held him down.
His stomach twisted.
His fingers curled against his palms.
He should’ve fought harder.
He was a ninja. A mutant. Stronger. Faster. Trained for this kind of thing.
So why hadn’t it been enough?
Why had his body locked up? Why had his brain shut down?
Why had his instincts failed him when he needed them most?
He was supposed to be able to protect himself.
But he hadn’t.
And the worst part?
Somewhere, deep down, he couldn’t stop wondering—
Had he even tried?
Mikey inhaled sharply. No.
No, that wasn’t fair.
He had fought.
He had struggled.
And it still wasn’t enough.
His chest felt too tight.
His breathing felt wrong.
His hands twitched—restless, uneasy.
He reached up, rubbing absently at his arm, fingers brushing over the thick bandages wrapped from wrist to elbow.
Not from training.
Not even from healing.
Not from Slash.
Because once the bruises started fading, once the pain wasn’t enough to drown everything else out—
Mikey had needed something else.
Something sharper.
Something he could control.
So he made his own marks.
Small, at first. Careful. Measured.
Just enough to pull him out of his own head, just enough to bring the focus back to something real.
Something he understood.
But small things got out of hand fast.
And now the bandages covered more than they needed to.
He even decorated them.
Painted them up. Added stickers.
Turned them into a joke.
Because as long as they were laughing—
They wouldn’t ask questions.
And Mikey needed them not to ask.
Because he didn’t have an answer.
Because if they knew—
If they really knew—
They would hate him.
They would see him for what he was.
A failure. A disappointment.