You have learned three things today.

First, you are incredibly weak. You have been standing for about twenty minutes— which is not long at all— and you are already feeling it. Your arms are tired, your head aches and you are almost worried that your knees are going to give out under you. You doubt that, if you sat down, you would be able to get up for a while.

Second, you look older than you are. Nobody batted an eye at a sixteen-year-old waltzing into the building alone, or, if they did, they felt the urge to hide that they did, and in your experience, people made very little effort to hide their disdain when it was felt.

Third, and most importantly, you are a terrible shot.

You glare at the hanging poster at the end of the room, taunting you with its unscathed vitals. Bullet holes litter every side of the silhouette, and a couple had managed to sneak their way to its shoulders, but not a single shot hit any of the intended targets. Not for lack of trying; your stance is as good as you could get it with YouTube as your guide and while the sound of gunfire makes you want to vomit up your eggs you had forced down your throat that morning, you could not commit to the shot any more than you already have. No, this is an experience thing, and you hate that it is.
Your hand drops to your side as you try to regain feeling in your fingers. You have been here for about two hours, now, too long for any reasonable person to be shooting a poster. Your license has finally been approved; you are legally allowed to handle and use a firearm. Thanks to the power of the TIS website you have, for some reason, never exploited, as far as the government is concerned, as much is totally legal despite your age and history and lack of experience and mental state and everything else.

You need to be able to use it. The piece of metal dangling by your side is your key to having a chance against half the people you interact with; this has to work.

You put the safety back on the weapon, sliding it into the waistband of your jeans. It is not the safest place to store a gun, you know, but there's something empowering about the whole thing. It's certainly better than a kitchen knife in your pocket. You laugh at the thought, fixing your shirt; you have certainly changed a bit since you first got here.

The walk home— to the sewer— what a life you live— is not nearly as stressful as it usually is. You would not go so far as saying that you feel safe with a pistol at your side, but there is a certain power that comes with it, you think. At least you do not have to worry about being stuck up.

You are unsure if your boyfriend knows about this recent development. You make an effort to spend time out of the house, and you have never explicitly told him about your intentions to learn marksmanship. It's not something you have ever offered up information for, either. Probably not.

You hear a splash of water behind you.

Your gun is out of your waistband immediately.

Karai rolls her eyes, putting her hands up. "I don't remember you having a gun last time," she grumbles. "You think you know someone."
"What do you want?" You act as if your hands aren't shaking around the handle.

"You aren't going to hit me if you fire." She gives you a once-over. "Your form is wrong."
You repeat the question.

"For you to put your toy away, first of all. If I wanted to kill you, I would have done that before."

You do not budge.

She sighs. "Fine." In a flash, she is behind you, taking the gun from your hand. "You're slow."

You spin around, grabbing for it. She sidesteps you, gently pushing you into a wall.

"Who are you planning on fighting, anyway?" She grins. "Me? Xever? Even he'd kill you in a fight. Ah," she raised on her toes, holding the gun over your head, "go on, try to grab it."

Your face flushes red. You repeat your question.

"Well," she tosses the gun into the water, "I'm supposed to be trailing you to find where the other Hamatos are; in what I'm sure was a masterfully planned escape from a clearly formidable enemy, what should have been your corpse was determined to be a pile of potatoes."

You glare. "Then what are you doing right now? Isn't it a bad idea to let people know you're following them?"

"Bothering you, clearly."

"Why?"

She leans against the wall. "Well," she sighs, "you said a lot of stuff while you were out of it. I want confirmation."

"Did I now?" You point at her bandage. "What's with the eyepatch?"

She waves it off. "You took my eye, which is currently not the point."

You laugh. "How'd I do that?"

"Luck." She crosses her arms. "Did my father murder my mother?"

You blink. "What?"

"Did Shredder murder my mother?"

You consider lying. "No." You stick your hands in your pockets.

"Did he cause her death?"

You sigh. "I mean, kinda? Sorta? I dunno man; it's a Tuesday."

She slips a knife out of her waistband, fiddling with it. "I need you to be more specific."

You stare at it, words slow. "He was there." You take a step back. "There was a house fire or something. Whole place went up. He just happened to knock over the lamp."

"Then why did you phrase your answer the way you did?"

"I barely remember the conversation." You stood up straight. "What do you care?"

"What do I care?" She scoffs. "Am I not allowed to take interest in my family's history?"

"You are, but you don't." With unwarranted confidence, you grab the gun, shaking the water out of it.

"How would you know?"

"You follow your father unconditionally." You shrug. "You're loyal."

"The implication being that I shouldn't be?"

You groan. "I just want to go home, Karai; it smells bad in here and I want to eat my stupid, watered-down soup."

She snorts. "Your what?"

"Stupid, watered-down soup."

"How do you water down soup?"

"Where there's a will there's a way." You huff. "See, now I gotta find a new way home because you are for sure going to follow me now. You see the things you put me through?"

"You mean the sewer." She smiles. "Would you like non-watered down soup?"

"No. I'll die."

She raises her eyebrows. "You'll die?"

"Mhm." you nod gravely, lying for the most part. "My body won't be able to digest it and then it will die."

"I see." She rolls her eyes. "How about tea? You can digest tea, can't you?"

"The last time we drank together you drugged me."

"That's the past."

"Barely."

She sighs. "How about this: you have a drink with me, and I don't torture the location of their hideout out of you."

You stiffen. "You really want to know about all this, don't you?"

She offers her hand. "I'll even pay you in advance so you don't think I slipped you anything."

You look back in the direction you were going. As good as sleep sounds, as little as you want to spend time with someone at all related to your prolonged imprisonment, you enjoy having fingernails.

With a great deal of reluctance, you take her hand.

She takes you somewhere nice; bright, clean, and smelling very notably unlike sewer. Quiet, but you can see the street; if you need to, you can make your way to the street fairly easily.

You crisscross your legs on the seat, cradling your cup. Steam gently makes its way to your face. "Can I ask you something before you interrogate me?"

She mimics you. "Sure."

You take a sip. "When you dropped me off, in some random alleyway, I got picked up. Who picked me up?"

She shrugs. "I didn't follow you."

You nod. "Neat. Unhelpful, but neat." You place the cup down, lacing your fingers together. "You have questions?

"I do." She leans back in her chair. "When you were out of it, you said something about being in a television show. Is that true?"

"It is."

She purses her lips. "And how do you know that?"

"Isekai."

"Of course." She crosses her legs, grabbing her own cup. "And that's how you know so much about me and my family? Because you watched a television show about it?"

"Yes."

She nods slowly. "Okay..."

You cock your head to the side. "Whatcha thinkin'?"

"I'm trying to make that make sense given what other info I have." She puts one foot up on the seat. "Because if that's the case... but that doesn't make sense."

"What doesn't?"

She sighs. "Well, if that's true I don't see how that applies to the Kraang; they know how to teleport already."

You take another drink. "Maybe they're just bored."

"How does something get bored of trying to destroy a planet?"

You scratch at your nose. "Their terraforming planets isn't exactly uncommon, you know."

She closes her eyes. "Wow. Hate that."

"Who doesn't?" You set the cup down. "And that is why I am no longer asked to give any context to my warnings."

"Then the turtles know?"

"Oh, yeah." You shrug. "They–"

"About everything?"

You pause. "Everything being...?"

"About my family history."

You blink. "Oh, that. I haven't actually thought to bring it up."

She looks down at the cup. "Good. Keep it that way; I'd like to have time to think about what to do."

You put your hands up, leaning back. "Hey, not my circus, not my monkeys; unless your family drama puts anyone's life at risk then I do not give a single shit about how you want to handle it."

She smiles wryly. "How gracious. Is it not already putting people's lives at risk?"

You shrug. "I guess, but that's nothing to do with whose kid you are and everything to do with a very old love triangle that I am sufficiently too bothered to deal with, and while I am now slightly tempted to try something because it would piss you off I feel like it's a lot of explaining and if they aren't ready to hear all the ways their dad could die–"

"We succeed?"

"Huh?"

She leans forward in her chair. "Are you saying that Father is successful in killing Hamato Yoshi?"

You purse your lips. "I mean, sorta? Kinda?" You scratch at the back of your neck. "I mean, he was sorta on his way out and the show never really committed to actually killing him for realsies for a solid while there, but Shredder got around to it eventually, I guess."

She stares at you.

You roll your eyes. "I don't see why it matters to you. I could tell you that you get married and that doesn't give you much to work off besides 'I get married at some point'."

She looks out the window. "You are very difficult to talk to."

You grin. "It's what I'm here for."

"Sure." Eyes trained on something outside, she leans her head against her hands, propping her elbows on the table. "You've died, then?"

You hum in confirmation.

"How?"

"House fire."

Her eyes drift closed. "Lame."

"Tell me about it." You move your cup closer to you on the table. "Though I personally think dying of starvation in a basement is a bit more pathetic."

She nods in agreement.

Silence.

She clears her throat. "You asked about someone picking you up. Why?"

You shrug. "I thought I remembered someone taking me home after you dropped me off is all."

"Donatello, you mean."

You look down at your lap. "I don't see how that's your issue."

"You talked a lot about him. Nothing particularly useful," she adds at your visible alarm, "but enough." She pauses. "That is a bit odd, though, now that I think of it."

You stiffen. "What, got a problem with the company I keep?"

"I couldn't care less. I mean..." Her brow furrow. "That's odd."

"What is?"

"Father went to fight the Hamatos the night I dropped you off." She sits up. "I had time to drive back for the battle."

You blink. "Then they couldn't've been back in time."

"That's not the point." She laces her fingers together. "There was a power surge on the other side of town. According to our reports, it was the result of Kraang technology– something about a teleporter and a giant robot. The problem was very quickly taken care of, but if it was another invasion attempt, who would get involved if not the Hamatos? And that makes sense out of context, but when they showed up, they didn't seem as if they had already done battle, but there's no way they could have fought the Kraang and fixed themselves up like they did in, what, two hours? It doesn't make any sense."

You shrug. "Maybe it's time travel."

She pauses. "I'm sorry, what?"

"Time travel," you repeat calmly. "Like traveling backward through time."

She takes a deep, slow breath, holds it, exhales. "Would you repeat that to me again real slow?"

You shrink in your seat. "It's not impossible. It happens."

"Oh, yeah?" She leans forward, elbows on the table. "Does time travel happen, bakayarou? Does it really?"

"Yeah." You look down at your lap, not sure exactly what she just called you but fairly certain it was an insult. "A lot, actually. And ghosts."

"And ghosts?"

"And ghosts."

"Sure." She leans her head back on her hands. "How does it happen? Does a witch show up and give you her magic time staff?"

You feel your face flush, more indignant than anything. Your words, even to you, sound oddly defensive. "As a matter of fact, she does!"

Slowly, the smile leaves her face. "Oh, you're serious."

"I have never been more serious."

She blinks slowly, sighs, buries her face in her hands. "You know," she laughs, "when I was little, I went through the social wringer for not going to school and spending all my time in the old cult building. I made exactly one friend my age and the only reason I wasn't ruthlessly bullied is because other kids knew I snapped necks for the fun of it. I didn't think my life was going to get any more bizarre than being responsible for preserving the lineage of the clan, and yet here I am, talking about witches and time travel and aliens. What a life I live."

You relax slightly at the change in tone. "Welcome to the club, sister." You lean back in your chair, scratching at the back of your neck. Of course she would assume you were nuts; the situation was absolutely absurd. "Worst thing is that it only goes downhill from here. Triceratops are going to destroy the world with a black hole."

"Great. Do I die?"

"If not for the time travel, yeah."

"Wonderful." She looks up at you, fingers tugging the lower lid of her working eye down. "And would it be safe to bet Father has something to do with it?"

"He literally watches it happen and does nothing."

She lets her head fall before stretching her arms above her head. "Of course." She pushes her hair back, looking incredibly tired. "To prioritize the clan, my father, and the status quo, or to prioritize the world at large..." She picks up her cup again, taking a slow sip. She holds the tea in her mouth for a couple seconds before swallowing. "Does the Shredder die?"

You blink at the sudden question, nodding without considering the repercussions.

"If there were a shift in leadership within the clan," she continues slowly, looking through you, "would it fall apart?"

You shake your head no.

She purses her lips, exhaling out her nose. "Much to think about." With a sigh, she stands up, throwing what she owed onto the table. "I'm going to go now. For your cooperation, I won't be following you back to them."

"Thanks. I guess." You give an awkward thumbs-up. "Sorry about your eye, if I haven't apologized for that yet."

"Don't mention it." She moves to walk on, pauses. "You know," she continues slowly, "your form really was terrible."

You blink. "Okay."

"And you don't even have a holster." She sticks her hands in her pockets. "Your aim is all off and you have the agility of a drunk toddler."

"I'm feeling less sad about your eye now."

She brushes your comment off. "How would you like to learn to shoot?"

You sigh. "None of the guys use guns." You stand up, throwing your cash on the table. "Besides, they don't know I—"

"I'm not asking you to ask your in-laws." She leans slightly against the table while you gather your things."I'm asking if you would like to learn to shoot from one of— if not the— largest criminal enterprises on the East Coast."

"You mean from you."

"I'm professionally trained."

You glare at her through your eyelashes. "What do you get out of it?"

She gestures to you vaguely. "You're completely unfit for combat. If we're to be aligned in any capacity you need to at least be able to fire a gun. It would be a shame if you died needlessly."

"I took your eye."

"A fluke."

You stick your hands in your pockets. "You want me to learn how to shoot a gun from someone who has kidnapped me."

"And someone who helped you escape, yes."
You glance over at the door. "How will we be in contact?"

"We don't have to be." She shrugs. "All we need is a time and place. We establish as much before the date— now would be a good example— and we meet at that time and establish how long we'll be willing to wait for the other person. At the end of each lesson, we decide where to meet next. Repeat until you're competent."

You stick your hands in your pockets, considering it. "How do I know this isn't a trap?"

"What sense would it make for me to not just kill you in the sewer instead of going about it in such a roundabout way? If you'd rather, we can even meet someplace public."

You purse your lips. "And how would we ensure there aren't any leaks?"

"We don't leave a paper trail, naturally, and change where exactly we meet every time." She smiles. "Does that mean you're interested?"

You scratch at the back of your hand. "I suppose so."

"Excellent." She smiles brightly. "Here, nine pm in two days. Sound reasonable?"

"Can't." You shrug. "I have a date planned."

"Then the next day."

"Sounds like a plan."

She nods. "Until then." She walks past you, patting you on the shoulder. By the time you turn around to watch her leave, she is gone.