A/N: Hello fellow Turtle fans! It's been a long time since I've published here, but thought I'd get the creativity flowing again if I started simply with a one-shot. I've always been a die-hard Raphael fan, but I have become absolutely smitten with Donatello in the new Nick series! I've thought about the turtles' natural drive to help people in need, and wondered what it might be like for that to manifest itself while they were still too young to have begun their ninjutsu training. In particular, I wondered how Donnie's mind might respond to such a calling.
Disclaimer: I don't own any Turtles, unless you count small, lifeless figurines.
The lone turtle child stared through the slats of the grime-colored grate, squinting his eyes in response to the reflection of the bright, golden-hour sunlight off the tar-covered asphalt. He watched the old woman, as he had on so many days, stepping gingerly over the ruts and grooves in the sidewalk as though she was afraid she might blow over. Indeed, he thought it possible, as she seemed to teeter in mid-air with each step.
Ka-domp. Ka-domp. He ground out the familiar asymmetrical rhythm of her steps in his head, almost forming it into the beginnings of a tune, without consciously registering it. The shortened stride on her lame right leg was still almost too painful for him to watch, though she had clearly borne this affliction for years.
Glancing down at the object in his awkwardly large, three-fingered hands, he turned it this way and that, his tongue protruding from the side of his mouth in concentration as he critically evaluated his work. Holding the item at his eye level, catching the day's waning light at the edge of the grate, he glanced back and forth between it and the old woman as she turned off the sidewalk away from him. She headed predictably towards a bench nestled cozily beneath a proud maple. One or two of its golden leaves caught the setting sunlight as they wafted through cool air currents, heralding the onset of a harsher season to come.
He watched as the woman tenderly made her usual bedding arrangements on the bench. First, a foam pad that she'd carried in a roll. Following this was a thick blanket, and a small tattered pillow tenderly placed at one end of the bench, patted gently with her knarled hand. Wearily, having likely hobbled for miles, she settled on the bench and removed her worn shoes, placing them in a grassy depression beneath one end of her makeshift bed. He could hear a musical clinking as she stuffed a tiny bag of coins from her day's collection into the toe of the right shoe. Always the right shoe – he found her consistency of habit fascinating, in light of recent events.
His heartstrings tugged, as he felt the familiar connection with the homeless woman over her isolation from society. He'd watched as children had darted away from her when she approached, eyes full of fright over her awkward, crooked gait. On several occasions, his cheeks had burned in anger and shame, helplessly gripping the bars in the grate until his knuckles had turned white, as her meager earnings had been stolen while she slept deeply. Her precious bag of coins snatched from the shoe by a group of lanky teenage boys with mean eyes and purple dragons painted on their skin in various places. He had warred with himself each time they'd come, his father's stern demands that he never interact with people eventually drowning out thoughts of reckless abandon.
He slipped silently home so as not to be missed for dinner, and returned several hours later when his family had fallen asleep. The last of the workaholics and party-goers had vanished from the walkways, and the still silence lay like a blanket over the moonless night. Steeling himself with a shaky resolve, he pushed with all his might against the manhole nearest his lookout grate. He held his breath in terror as it whispered along the gravel until a hole just big enough to accommodate his shell was revealed. He waited five minutes before daring a glance over the edge of the opening. The only sign of human life in sight was the bulky form of the soundly sleeping old woman encased in her blanket, several yards away.
Heart thrumming in his ears, the turtle adjusted the small bag over his shoulder, and hoisted himself into the opening. Feeling nauseous with fear, he darted over to his target, feet padding silently over the grass. He performed the next series of movements from the relative safety of the underside of the bench, earholes straining for the slightest new sound. As quickly as his fumbling fingers would allow, he slid a smooth, foam rubber object in the rough shape and contour of a human foot from his bag. He next removed a vial of nearly-empty, discarded industrial glue, which he applied liberally to the underside of the object. Gently removing the bag of coins from the woman's right shoe, he gasped, his heart in his throat, as they tinkled slightly when he shifted them.
Waiting for several moments in absolute stillness, he convinced himself that nothing was stirring before proceeding. He then pressed his homemade orthotic device into the woman's right shoe, hoping he had estimated the height appropriately to accommodate her leg length discrepancy. Finally, once he was assured that the glue had set, he pressed a button on the orthotic's slightly protruding heel, disguised as a logo. The top third of the device slid backwards, revealing a small compartment inside. Gingerly, he laid the pitiful bag of coins into the secret space, and shut the orthotic so that the sole was once again in position. His work done, he returned the woman's shoe to its previous resting place, and subconsciously held his breath as he glanced furtively around. Satisfied that no one had approached while he'd been concentrating on his task, he slipped a piece of paper containing instructions for opening the shoe into the edge of the woman's pillow, praying she would find it when she awoke.
The next evening, when he returned to his usual position at the grate across from the park bench, he wasn't sure what sight he would behold. However, he was greeted with a break in routine that overjoyed him. Domp. Domp. Domp. Domp. Slowly, evenly, the old woman made purposeful steps over to the park bench. After arranging her bed, she sat. She removed her left shoe, and placed it in its usual spot in the grass. As she reached for her right shoe, the small turtle held his breath. Smiling, she pressed the button on the back of her shoe's heel, and slid a few new coins from her day's toil into the hidden space before continuing the rest of her preparations for bed. As she gazed around her in wonder before bending forward to deposit the shoe, he thought he saw a film of moisture glistening in her twinkling eyes. Indeed, she seemed to have a new life about her as she began to whistle while she patted her pillow into shape.
Donatello smiled, though his eyes betrayed a deeply hidden sadness. He had taken a considerable risk to help this old woman. It was absolutely worth it to see the look of renewed hope in her face today, but he'd definitely gambled with his safety. At times, the frustration was unbearable. His young mind was bursting at the seam with ideas, but how much more could he do for people if he didn't have to hide from them, forever a mystery to their kind.
Still ruminating, he sank into the depths of the sewers, reluctantly treading the monotonous path to his underground home. His brothers didn't really understand, but each would try to comfort him in his own way. Raphael, never one for many words, would tilt his head towards the carpeted room that would someday be their dojo, in a silent invitation to work out his troubles with a good old-fashioned rumble. Leonardo would throw an arm over his shoulder and undoubtedly quote his beloved television show, brightly exclaiming how the hallmark of a hero's duty was its independence from recognition. How someday, they would train in ninjutsu, just as their father had promised. How they would then be able to do more to answer their call to help those in need.
And Michelangelo, precious little Mikey, would approach him with a pleading blue-eyed stare, and present him with a set of "blueprints" scrawled in crayon. The diagram would be for something completely not-to-scale and outrageous, like a convertible spaceship or a turbo-powered grocery cart. However, the message it sent, loud and clear, was that his baby brother believed him capable of anything, regardless of obstacles.
By the time he had reached the turnstiles marking the entrance to his home, the brilliant young turtle's spirits were somewhat lifted. The hardships of the isolated life he shared with his brothers were made bearable by the complementary blend of their unique personalities as they sought to be there for one another. Sighing with renewed contentment as he settled into his own bed, Donatello drifted off, and began to dream about his plans for a sonar device for a blind man he'd seen from his grate just last week.