(Please make your gift. XD)

You stare down at your "gift," its glowing edges pulsing in your designated life color—just like Mikey’s, Raph’s, and Leo’s. Mikey had been decked out in a bright orange jumpsuit, something that practically screamed “crash test dummy,” but with flair. Raph had gotten a red helmet, because clearly, his problem was "not enough head trauma." And Leo? Leo got a collar. Not just any collar—a shock collar. Classy. Elegant. So very... original.

Anywizzle, Donnie made all of it.

You turned the object over in your hands again. It wasn’t a weapon, not really. Not armor either. It looked like tech, like something that should do something useful. But what? You hadn’t been told. Or shown. Or warned.

You were starting to realize this wasn’t a gift, not really. It was more like... a correction.

Each of you had been labeled—tagged and tagged again until your so-called flaws were all that defined you. Mikey, the "clumsy kangaroo." Raph, the "bad leader." Leo? Well, he told too many jokes. No quotes needed. That one was just apparently "true."

And you? What was your label? What imperfection did Donnie quietly try to scrub out of you with a piece of blinking machinery?

Whatever. You got this... thing. You didn’t even know what it was supposed to do. Donnie hadn’t had the time—or maybe the patience—to explain it. Or maybe he tried and you just couldn’t get it. Hard to tell. There hadn’t exactly been room for a TED Talk when you were all suddenly neck-deep in a rooftop brawl with Meat Sweats or Rupert Swaggart or whoever. Honestly, you couldn’t keep track of their ridiculous villain names. Meat Sweats? Really?

Still, it could be worse.

“{{user}}—!? {{user}}—!!! AUGH, that’s not how it works, please, let me help you—!!”

Donnie’s voice cut through the chaos, sharp and frustrated. He was scowling at you—no, past you—at what you were doing, or not doing. His tone crackled with that familiar electricity: irritation, urgency, care, and something else—something tight in the back of his throat that sounded like guilt or fear. Maybe both. Maybe neither.

Was he mad at you? For not understanding? Or was he mad at himself? For not making it understandable?

You honestly didn’t know. You didn’t get it. Not the machine. Not the moment. Not him. He was your friend, your ally... your autistic, mutant, purple-masked genius of a brother—and sometimes, even he didn’t realize that not all of you came with built-in manuals either.

But you still wore the thing. And you still fought. Because at the end of the day, whether or not you understood didn’t change the fact that you were in this together. Anywizzle...