"We do not create our destiny; we participate in its unfolding. Synchronicity works as a catalyst toward the working out of that destiny."― David Richo

Synchronicity

Through the filth that hung in a miasma of pollution and the more distinct taint of despair, through the somewhat smudged lenses of his overly-large glasses, Donatello peered. And saw the stars. He marveled with a slightly gaping mouth at them; amber-brown eyes bright with awe. The stars, they were there, he knew, twinkling cheerfully in defiance to infinity. To death. Decaying in long lost cycles outside of the reach of man or any of his feeble dreams to race through the stretching empty expanse of space, but lasting still. Enduring, if only to shine for a little longer. For one last wish to be made before that delicate light was extinguished forever.

Raphael appeared from the side and gave him a nudge, nearly knocking him from the plastic crate he balanced upon the edge of; toes curled tight for extra support. He clutched at his textbook and frowned down at his younger brother. Though the ridges on their carapaces clearly marked Donatello as older by at least a year – and he argued often and persistently with Splinter that it was certainly closer to a two year difference, if one observed carefully, as he had utilizing mirrors; the extra line was clearly present – Raphael's size and girth made it appear otherwise. If Donatello hadn't had his growth spurt this past summer when he officially turned twelve, Raphael would have been taller as well.

Raphael gave Donatello another shove, less roughly, but just as annoying, with the meaty palms of his hands. "Move it," Raph grouched.

He turned and wrinkled his nose trying to adjust his too-large glasses. They remained askew. He wiped his nose with a roll of his shoulder and sniffed in irritation; pushing up the glasses with the knuckles of his right hand. "Another minute. I almost think I can see one."

Raphael went still. His focus immediately sharpened. "What? What is it?" Raph's bright eyes widened; glittering with the anticipatory light of curiosity and its shining paramour: discovery. His gaze darted over his shoulder. He noted that Mikey was still occupied with the two baby mice he'd found in a pile of garbage and his father and oldest brother were not paying them any attention. His slightly coarse voice dropped into a near-whisper as he drew closer to Donatello, resting his fingertips lightly upon Donatello's forearm, "Is . . . Is it a-a human?"

Donnie shook his head. Raph's face fell. Donnie pointed. The tip of one finger just poked between the wide metal grate. Raph rose up on tip-toe to see, disappointed but still curious. Then dropped back with a huff at his brother's answer.

"No. I mean a star."

He couldn't see one or any of them, not really, not with his eyes. He could see them with his mind. Because he knew exactly where they'd be. He mapped their location based on the thick textbook he'd studied. The one he'd carried through the maze of tunnels, tucked securely beneath one sweaty armpit, brought from home. The pages were carefully folded to mark the important charts and diagrams that he'd been studying. He knew all the constellations by heart. Had hoped to catch a glimpse of even just a part of one this evening after Splinter had announced they'd be getting out of the lair for a little exercise. This alcove set back from the drainage tunnel was a favored spot for their father. And Donatello particularly loved it for the view through the grate.

"There ain't no stars out, stupid. There's no stars in the city," Raphael said with a matter-of-fact voice. He crossed his arms and rolled his eyes. "They're only out in the 'burbs . . . and farms, too. But those are all out west of Jersey."

"Raph," he started in exasperation, but stopped and decided to educate his dim-witted brother the best way he knew Raph would understand, by showing him a picture. Donatello moved the book out from under his arm. Carefully balancing it open on one small palm, he quickly flipped to the pages illustrating the constellation pattern which would be directly over the city at this time of year. He moved to show Raphael but his brother gave him a shove. He fumbled with the book, but held himself in place; balancing one arm against the cool metal below the storm grate.

"Stop it," Donatello snapped.

"Get off. It's my turn to look. Get off," Raph insisted. He immediately turned to shoot a demanding plea for assistance at Leonardo. But he wasn't looking at either of them; his shell was to them. He sat in the dirt, across the space from them, hunched over, cross-legged, cheeks propped by the heels of his hands, captivated and oblivious to Donatello hogging the best view through the drain's barred opening. "Leo," Raph barked, "make Donnie move."

Leo remained fixed in place and deaf to his demand. He was watching his father intently with a slightly tipped head as Splinter worked through another strange set of motions in the wide alcove before him. Arms sweeping overhead, then brought back tightly against the sides of his body, his tail wiping from side to side only to fall still and rigid; legs parted wide with feet planted firmly on the cleared but dusty floor. Raphael frowned, trying to remember what Splinter had called it. Kittens. No. That's what Mikey was always bringing home. Katas.

Mikey sidled up to Leo, arms held close to his mid-section. Within the cradle of his limbs, lay the two baby mice. He scooted until he teetered towards falling on top of Leonardo, stopping just before he did. Leo pushed against him for space with the side of his body and made a soft, irritated noise. Mikey paid him no mind. His face was trained on their father.

"Splinter can I please take these little guys ho—"

"No," came the reply. Stern and firm. His voice boomed against the walls and faded to a faint ringing buzzing in each of their ears. Softer, then, but still firm: "No pets."

Mikey's shoulders slumped. He turned away; hobbled back to his corner, all the while murmuring apologies to the mice as he set first one, then the other down in a crumpled pile of newspapers.

Raph took in a breath, filling his chest as he puffed it outwards. "Donnie ain't gettin' outta the way!" Raph exclaimed, throwing his hands up. But neither Splinter nor Leo paid him any mind. His face darted between the two authority figures of his life; absolute and conditional, respectively. Raphael huffed. "Don't ignore me!" Raph hollered louder, doing his best to imitate the roaring sweep of his father's tone. No response. "This ain't fair!" He kicked at the crate.

Donatello nearly toppled. His book slipped from his arm and clattered to the floor. "Stop it!"

"No! This sucks! You suck!"

"That is enough, Raphael," this from Splinter as his body glided into a smooth series of twists. As he moved, he shot a glare in his son's direction, making eye contact long enough for Raphael to duck his head.

"I'll get down in a minute, I just wanted to see –" His breath caught and the rest of the sentence was lost.

Raph turned to face Donnie who was back to gazing out the window again at stars that weren't there. He brought his hands back to shove him as hard as he could when Mikey gave a little squeal from the corner.

"Raphie! Come lookit this pigeon! He's so cute! And chubby! And I think he's puking a little."

Raphael froze. Torn between taking justice into his own hands and the allure of Mikey's find. A pigeon! Those strange feathered creatures with bodies so tiny and delicate that you had to be extra careful not to hurt them when handling them. He knew how to do it right so they wouldn't be harmed. He'd learned how to keep them safe when on the mend. He'd taken in more than a few injured birds in the past. Caring for them and keeping them safe in the hidden compartment just down the main passageway from the entrance to their home. Tiny feathers, soft and fragile. Tinier bones beneath the thin skin. Mikey was not careful.

"Don't touch it!" Raph cried and hurried to his brother's side. Unaware that his brother's body language and silence signaled fright.

Donatello's eyes turned to circles as a pair of boots clotted his view of the slip of sky between buildings. His body was frozen in place as the knees outside the grate bent and the very end of auburn locks drifted down as the human came even closer to where he stood; parted only by a few inches and the bars of the drain. He made a small inhaled hiss through his gritted teeth and inched back, afraid any move he made at this point would only catch her attention and yet, at the same time, he found himself riveted; unable to move. Not wanting to, actually, but wanting to see the face the silken strands of hair belonged to.

The angle she was posed at did not allow him to see much beyond the jeans and tan boots she was wearing. His knees bent a bit and he tipped his head forward, trying to get a better look in spite of the way his heart hammered and his palms grew slick against the bricks. He was just as curious about humans as Raph or Mikey and it was rare that they got a glimpse of one without Splinter pulling them out of sight before they got much of a look. His smudged glasses fogged as he jumped and gasped softly at the sound of another human close by.

A female voice called out from behind the woman crouching in front of the grate, but it wasn't addressing him. Small relief, but he took what he could get. And still he did not move from the spot, but instead tried to dip a little more to see better.

"April," a woman's voice said, "what are you . . . for goodness sake. Why do you do that?"

"What?"

The human had not moved away from the grate. And when she spoke, the sound of her voice was at once familiar and musical. It brought within him a keen jolt of homesickness that he couldn't understand. His heart sped. His mind scattered. It was as though he'd gotten a whiff of a scent that brought a flood of mismatched and fragmented memories. Nothing substantial emerged from the deluge but the sharp yearning for home. Donatello blinked rapidly from behind his glasses. Holding his breath. Listening.

"You know. Peek in the sewers like a-a . . . well, like a weirdo. Every time we're in this neighborhood. What exactly are you expecting to see down there?"

There was an oddly tense moment of silence between the women that had Donatello perplexed. He tilted his head slightly to one side, eyes scanning the lines and cracks of the bricks, the water stains and pock marks. Wondering. And an odd, slick sense of fear worked its way down the back of his neck. A paranoia; a sudden flash of vulnerability; a feeling of being watched, which was ridiculous, because she hadn't spotted him. She couldn't know he was there. All he had to do was slip back right off the crate into the surrounding shadows of the tunnel and she'd never know. She'd never guess she had a witness to this conversation.

Right?

Then why did he feel as if she was precisely aware of his presence all of a sudden? Donatello eased back but then froze as the young woman cleared her throat. He couldn't leave; his natural sense of curiosity overriding logic.

There was an irritated sound from the older woman. Then, "We're late for your uncle Augie's birthday party. Lord knows he's probably already started without us." The last words came out with a clipped tone.

"I'm not peeking in the sewers, I'm, uh . . ."

Donatello held his breath as the toes of the boots shifted and a pale hand came down to brush at the end of one. There was a gold ring on one finger. He barely got a glimpse of what looked like hands holding a cup when the hand moved out of sight.

"I'm just fixing up my shoes. I got a, uh, a scuff when I got out of the taxi."

There was a huff of laughter, sounding oddly strained but also relieved. "Really, April. I know adolescents care about their appearance, but this is a little much."

"I'm hardly an adolescent, Auntie, I'm turning eighteen in three months. That's officially an adult."

"Right," her aunt replied. "I'll keep it in mind. Now, let's go!"

Donatello relaxed as the boots shifted and the legs straightened. But at the same time he felt bereft of losing out on seeing the face that belonged to the human who'd made him feel so many strange things in such a short span of time. Just as he made to move from the crate, though, he froze in shock as her whispering urgent voice drifted through the bars behind him.

"I promised I'd never forget you guys. I hope you're all okay. Somewhere. Leo, Raphie, Mikey and Donnie."

He gave a start of fright. His legs jumbled and kicked as the crate tipped and then upended. He fell back onto his shell with a crack and a loud grunt of surprise and pain. His glasses clattered to the ground near his head.

Leonardo twisted around and Splinter hurried to his side, skittering gracefully around Leonardo to crouch by him; placing a warm paw against his face and head, testing the skin, looking for injury.

"Are you all right, my son?"

He couldn't find his voice. Couldn't breathe. His eyes rolled around and he trembled and shook until Splinter eased him up to sitting. He draped an arm across his shivering shoulders.

"My son, what is wrong?"

Mikey and Raph were soon hovering just behind Leonardo who stood by, holding Donatello's glasses carefully between his thumbs and fingers. All of them looking concerned, worried and questioning. A small bird cradled in Raphael's hands. Mikey's eyes were huge and scared. He didn't want to scare anyone. He shook his head. His mouth opened and closed and he continued to utter only half-words and strained tiny grunts.

"Be still, my son. Be still. Breathe."

A tremor ran through him, leaving goose bumps along his arms. He took in a breath and released it. The panic ebbed as his father stroked his face and kneaded the tops of his shoulders with his fingertips. He took in another breath and released it. Better. He glanced around and felt his face burn with embarrassment. He was being silly. He couldn't have heard her right. He must have imagined it. Still, he glanced over his shoulder at the opening and gave one last shudder before he relaxed.

"I-I'm sorry," he croaked.

Splinter gazed up towards the grate, following the line of his son's earlier glance. His amber eyes gleaming; considering. They swept from Donatello to his other children before alighting once more on the opening to the street above. He stood, pulling Donatello along with him, but keeping his boy close and under one arm. He seemed calmer now. Leonardo offered the glasses to Donatello and he slipped them on with a nod of thanks. Leo smiled at him reassuringly.

Splinter scooped up his son's textbook. He turned with Donatello again under one arm to move down the tunnel. He ushered the other boys alongside him.

"Let us leave this place."

As they made their way back to the lair, Splinter continued to glance every so often at Donatello. A question in his eyes, but one unspoken. At last, just outside their home, he turned to him and gazed at him carefully.

"Did you see something out in the night, Donatello?"

He shook his head, determined to forget the entire episode.

Raphael came up, still carrying the injured bird so carefully in his cupped hands. "He was looking at a star," Raph said gruffly and when he noticed Splinter gazing at the bird he ducked his head. Hastily he blurted, "It's hurt! And . . . I won't bring it inside. I swear."

Splinter sighed and nodded his assent. Raphael grinned, widely and joyfully, and hurried off to wherever he kept the others, that secret makeshift animal hospital which Splinter was well aware of and tolerated only because the animals remained outside of their home. If he didn't keep it that way, between Michelangelo and Raphael's soft-hearted nature towards wounded mice, rats and pigeons, their home would soon be overrun.

He turned back to Donatello who stood by quiet and contemplative.

"Is that what you saw, my son? A star?"

Donatello wrinkled his nose, adjusting his glasses. They remained askew. He shrugged, looking ahead through the entrance of their home, into the lair, already thinking about the set of rocket scooters he was in the midst of inventing before Splinter called them all out for the walk and exercise.

"I'm not really sure, father."

Splinter hemmed, and gave him a pat on the back of his shell. He handed his son the book. "Well, maybe one day it will become clear."