Chapter Text
Eleven Years
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Being only five, Donatello can’t recall exactly what had gone wrong that time, just that it had. He’d messed up again, he’d messed up really, really— that’s two ‘really’s—bad. His brothers were really angry with him, and he was also kind of distraught.
He’d tried really hard, he truly had. He always did. But it never mattered. He used to wonder if they even loved him with how much they always brushed him off, with how much they always seemed to get upset with him. Things he said, things he did, things he made—it was never right for them. But he doesn’t wonder anymore, he knows they didn’t and he doesn’t blame them. It wasn’t their fault, it was Donatello's.
That’s beside the point. The point was that he’d been upset, more so than usual. Maybe he’d had enough, even. Maybe he’d finally realized he’d never fit into their family ideal, but he hadn’t quite been ready to admit it then. Either way, he’d done the only thing he could think of.
In his distress, he’d written a note, something along the lines of an apology, a notice of his temporary leave, and a promise to return with a better understanding of what he was doing wrong. He’d broken that promise. He did not return, but that was for the better.
He’d left the lair, venturing into a rainstorm with nothing but a hoodie, a crude prototype of his current battle shells, and his phone. Donatello hadn’t meant to be gone longer than a few hours, enough time to calm down and contemplate what he'd been doing wrong. Then he’d come back to the lair, apologize to his brothers in person, and carry on with life a little wiser. He thinks they might’ve tried to call him, but he’s not sure.
He is sure that they would’ve been mad at him, though. Again. He never really did anything right by them. He knew that, but he’d meant to come back in a few hours anyway. Until he’d come across another mutant, who—despite knowing plenty about stranger danger—he’d followed back to a very tall hotel and met a woman he’d later come to call his own mother.
The woman had been nice to him, even back then. Oddly patient and kind. That had been strange to him, but Donatello had appreciated it nonetheless. She had grey hair, bordering closer to white than silver, and an oddly purple complexion. Donatello hadn’t questioned it much, though, he wasn’t too familiar with humans.
She’d seen the one invention he’d had with him at the time, that crude battle shell, and recognized his potential. She’d asked him what he was doing wandering the New York streets alone at such a young age, and he’d been honest with her. She had been easy to talk to, even for Donatello. In turn, she’d been honest with him. She’d told him that the problem didn’t lie with his creations, though she’d admitted they needed improvement. No, the problem lay with Donnie himself.
She’d informed him that his family didn’t love him, which had hurt but he wasn’t all that surprised. She’d even said it wasn’t their fault, because they couldn’t love him. He wasn’t made for love. Not from them. But she’d assured him that was okay, because he was made for something better. Donatello was made to be useful, and useful things are to be appreciated.
Then she’d made him an offer. Donatello could stay with her, in the hotel, as her faux son. She would appreciate him. In return, he’d continue inventing, honing his skills and abilities without hindrance. Then he wouldn’t be a burden to his former family anymore.
Admittedly, he’d been hesitant. But she’d promised him time to think it over, allowing him to stay in the hotel and out of the rain until he’d decided. He hadn’t meant to stay for more than an hour or two. Just until the rain stopped, then he would decide.
But a couple of hours came and went with the rain. A couple of hours had instead turned into days, into weeks, and then months until he’d officially decided he wasn’t going to leave. He couldn’t remember if he’d even wanted to leave. He thinks he might have at first.
He can’t remember what he’d done while he’d thought it over. Where he’d stayed. He actually. . . couldn’t remember anything from the time he’d spent thinking the offer over. Just that time had passed.
But he’d seen reason. This was for the best. So he stayed.
Maybe his previous family had been upset at first, or maybe they’d only ever been relieved. He hopes the latter. He’s certain they’d realized they were better off regardless.
Ten Years
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At six years old, Donatello had messed up again. He remembers how this time, though.
One of his earlier inventions had gone wrong—a toaster, a creation that would already be prone to catastrophe if it failed. It wasn’t uncommon for his earlier creations to have quirks or failures, even when he’d thought they were perfected. That’s how learning works, though. It’s gradual and riddled with failure.
That toaster had exploded in a spectacular ball of flame, it had kind of been pretty. But it had also kind of really burned. Second-degree burns had riddled his left hand where he’d had to reach around the inferno to grab the plug and yank it from the wall. The damage to everything but him had ended up being fairly minimal. But his new mother hadn’t been happy.
She’d been upset he’d gotten hurt. Really, really upset. She’d sighed and told him to pick a side, left or right? He’d been confused, a mix of pain and adrenaline clouding his thoughts a bit. Dutifully, he’d picked anyway. Left.
She’d backhanded him across the left cheek. It had stung. He’d been more emotionally hurt than physically hurt, though. He’d also still been confused. He thinks he might’ve cried.
But she’d patiently explained what he’d done wrong. Donatello’s project had malfunctioned, which was fine in itself, but it had done damage. Specifically, it’d done damage to him and that was bad. She’s warned him in the past and he clearly hadn’t listened. Even if it was only an accident that this had happened, it still happened. That wasn’t okay.
His new mother had told him she didn’t want to hurt him. But if he wasn’t going to listen, then he’d left her with no choice. Logically, he’d come to understand it was his fault. Donatello had voiced his understanding and apologized. She’d smiled and kissed him on the forehead, then sent him to bed.
That wouldn’t be the last time he pushed her to hit him, but it would be a very rare occurrence.
Nine Years
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At seven years of age, his mother began bringing him to see shows at the Battle Nexus. Only casual ones, a few more serious ones on the rare occasion, but never the death matches. He didn’t even know those existed until later on. But as of then, he never held much real interest in it.
The bloodshed, no matter how little, never really caught his interest. Though, he never said as much. Even if it seemed like his mother shared his opinion in that regard. Outside of maybe not seeing the appeal in the violence, it was clear she still very much enjoyed the arena. She took pride in it. She said, out of all of her businesses, this was the highest earner.
She took pride in her fighters, too, and the shows they put on. Because that’s what it all was to her, a show. Donnie didn’t see it, but she said it was an art form. Matching fighters with interesting opponents, introducing fun challenges, seeing what made the crowd cheer and what bored them. She said it was an art form she’d perfected. But she said she never felt quite as connected to it as she used to.
His mother told him she used to have a fighter of her own in the Battle Nexus, that he won every match he fought. He was the champion of the Battle Nexus, there used to be people who came just to see him. But he’d left, abandoned the arena and her, and it had never really been the same after that. She said she never missed him, but he missed what he was. She missed having a champion.
The crowds had never really been the same either. The stadium was never quite as packed, never quite as lively.
After him, anyone who came out on top in the Battle Nexus only ever seemed to last a couple of weeks before losing. The record holder after the Champion only held a streak of thirty before she, too, lost. That one had lasted a month and a half before she fell. But the Champion had a streak over a half of a thousand.
It wasn’t until years later that Donatello even bothered to suspect the ulterior motives of why she told him that. By that point, it didn’t matter. By that point, he didn’t care.
Eight Years
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At eight, Donatello had two battle shells. Still far more primitive than the ones he has today, but they were a great source of pride for him at the time. With their creation, he’d asked to be a part of his mother’s true pride and joy: the Battle Nexus. She’d turned him down.
He’d been devastated, but his mom had assured him it was not out of malice that she forbade it. She’d told him he wasn’t ready. He would be killed if she sent him out into the arena so ill-trained for it. Then, she’d formally introduced him to an acquaintance of hers. Donatello had caught glimpses of the man before, but it wasn’t until then that he’d properly met the yokai, Baron Draxum.
His mom struck a deal with the yokai. The details of that deal were unknown to Donnie, all he knew was that he’d be trained and was to do as Draxum told him. So Donatello was trained to fight, taught basic mystic magic at the yokai’s behest, occasionally participated in a minor experiment that never seemed to have any effects on him, and was able to build even more technology.
As for how he felt about the man, Donnie was never really certain. He was very single-minded, focused on the downfall of humanity more than anything else. But that was fine because Donatello had grown to be a skilled fighter—and mostly mediocre magic-user—under Baron Draxum’s guidance.
Seven Years
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At nine years old, Donatello’s mom had allowed him into the Nexus. She’d kept him to the casual rounds at that age, and she’d only agreed after a few months of having the softshell spar with her own guards to be sure he’d survive.
At that age, Donatello had lost more rounds than he’d won. But he’d begun to improve his combat significantly in the arena. The variety of fighters provided him with plenty of practice.
Six years
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Donatello, freshly ten years old, was only ever winning the casual matches now. Thus, he was moved onto official fights. Ones where people fought for more than just fun or sport. They fought for money.
These were harder. He won them anyway. He had no choice, he wanted to make his mama proud. So he fought like his opponents did: dirty and bloody. Even then, he could see his mom’s hesitance at allowing him into the ring. But her reservations had faded as he held his winning streak. One year of official fights, one year of not losing a single one, one year of little scars accumulating appearing across his skin, and one year of tiny fractures forming and healing on his bones.
He’d continued to improve, injuries grew fewer and further between.
Five Years
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His mother approached him about participating in his first death match. She’d assured him it’d be closely monitored, and he’d be pulled should his life be put at any real risk.
At eleven years, one month, and seventeen days old, Donatello killed someone.
Four Years
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At twelve years old, Donatello agreed to have all memories of his old family wiped. He couldn’t recall if it had been his suggestion or Mama’s, but he’d readily agreed to it either way.
All he was left with now was the blurry memory of that last day, leaving the lair at another ill-received gift. He couldn’t remember his brothers’ faces, names, or ages. He couldn’t even remember if he’d had a mother or father before Mama. It didn’t matter.
With the blurry memory of that day, he knew enough. He knew he’d done the right thing.
Three Years
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Donatello lost an eye at thirteen years old, two years after he began participating in almost bi-monthly death matches in the Battle Nexus.
He hadn’t been paying close enough attention. A scorpion mutant caught him across the face with its tail during a regular match—not even to the death. He’d won regardless, of course. Donatello had barely even felt it at the time, and the blindness in one eye was nothing compared to what the venom had felt like when it fully set in. For almost three weeks, he’d been stuck in a bleary, burning haze. That had been the worst part of it all.
Besides, he made himself a new eye just three months later and, with Baron Draxum’s help, he’d implanted a port for it. It made taking the thing out easy, he could upgrade it and perform maintenance without issue. However, being able to render yourself partially blind at will was never really an ability he got used to. One moment he’d have the eye in and he could see like he’d never lost his original, and then he could take it out and he’d only have vision in one eye.
It’s strange. It’s also a little unpleasant. But it’s incredibly convenient. Especially on days when it was too uncomfortable to wear the prosthetic.
Two Years
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Fourteen years old. Donatello was the official Battle Nexus champion. Most yokai and mutants referred to him as just that.
Champion.
One Year
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The fame put on Donatello from being Mama’s son and the Battle Nexus champion is still strange to him. He’s not sure he’ll ever be used to it. Not that it matters, he doesn’t care about the fame. He’d actually rather not have it if he’s being honest.
But Mama’s proud of him for his creations and his success in the Battle Nexus. That’s what matters to him. That’s all he really, really cares about. Making Mama proud.
He doesn’t think of his old family, he hasn’t in years.
Zero Years
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Donatello, aged sixteen, is not pleased when three random mutant turtles decide to start bothering him after a chance encounter.