Chapter Text
Postulate
verb
Suggest or assume the existence, fact, or truth of (something) as a basis for reasoning, discussion, or belief.
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“Seriously, guys? Robbing a bank?”
Two flame-headed Foot Clan lieutenants look up to see the four mutant figures stalking them from the ceiling entrance. Each wore individualized colors of red, blue, purple, and orange in the form of bandana eye masks.
“I mean, you guys never got away with your other schemes, but at least you kept it interesting,” the smug voice of the blue-banned figure rang once more.
The four figures, self-proclaimed heroes of New York City, had taken it upon themselves to patrol the city for crime. To their joy, middle child Donatello received an alert for a security breach at a nearby bank. The heroes, also teenage brothers, ninjas, and turtle mutants, quickly made their way to intercept the offenders. They were eager to let off some pent-up energy, and busting some Foot Clan goons was the perfect way to go about it.
“Oh, you turtles have no idea what you're up against.” The shorter Foot lieutenant growled, pointing threateningly at the brothers.
“Buddy, we’ve played this out at least a dozen times.” The largest turtle, clad in red, smashed his fists together and raised an eyebrow ridge. “It doesn't go well for you.”
“Can we just skip to the part where you guys surrender?” Jittery orange jumped in, “I left a roast in the oven!”
“Yes, yes. The sooner we get this over with, the sooner I can return to something more stimulating.” The monotone turtle dressed in purple chimed, tapping away at the same wrist device that alerted them to the crime.
Both Foot lieutenants could already feel their temper reaching limits. For months now, since that wretched day the turtles foiled their first scheme, it seemed like the Foot couldn’t complete a simple museum theft without interference from the terrapin teens. Always with such bravado and foolery, it brought shame to the ancient clan with each defeat.
Until now, the mutants had the Foot bested in terms of firepower and able bodies. Tonight, however, they were eager to shove that overconfident teen swagger back where the shell didn’t shine.
“Since you’re all so eager to dance, allow us to introduce our new partner.”
Confusion quickly morphs into surprise when the turtles all receive a swift kick from behind, knocking them off the ledge and into a pile before the two villains. The brothers groan in a mess of green limbs and weapons, scrambling to regain their senses.
“Meet Sakura, the most recent addition to the Foot Clan.”
Sakura stands menacingly above the group from the ledge. From his place under the turtle pile, Donatello flips his goggles down over his purple mask, zooming in on the mysterious female with his optic device.
At first glance, she seemed like a young female human, clad in flexible leather armor designed for dexterity. How a mere human could possess the strength to knock down an entire ensemble of mutants, he wasn’t sure.
Yet .
He counted two blade sheaths on her person, varying in length. While she did wear a mask, it only covered the lower half of her face, revealing sharp purple eyes. What drew his attention most was her soft pink hair, blowing gently in the breeze.
Donatello’s body tensed, feeling the steely gaze of those unique eyes that analyzed him and his brothers. The effects of this only seemed to become more prominent as Sakura jumped down from the ledge, landing with a solid thud of her boots on marble. The long material flowing behind her from her corset fanned out on the floor like a wave, rising with her as she stood, never wavering. She was beautiful.
The pinkette reached for the handle of the medium-length blade resting on her hip, drawing it out menacingly. Moonlight reflected off the stainless metal from the skylight above. She swept one leg behind her, pressing her weight forward.
“Donnie, move!” The voice of his eldest brother forced him out of his trance.
While he had been watching the girl, his brothers were already struggling against the veteran Foot opponents.
Donatello jumped up and inserted himself into the fight between Sakura and Raphael, the largest of his brothers that opted for red. Using his tech bo staff, Donnie blocks one of Sakura’s blows.
She was so close! Now was his chance.
“Did my heart love till now? Foreswear it, sight! For I ne’er saw true beauty till this night.”
The pinkette furrowed her eyebrows at his choice of words, deciding instead to kick the tortoise in the chest in lieu of replying.
Donnie goes flying into Raph, who stepped in to catch his brother as Michaelangelo backflipped behind them. The latter, dressed in orange and neon stickers, performed awesome acrobatics around the open bank floor. The taller Foot lieutenant threw out punch after punch, failing to keep up with the more agile turtle.
The shorter Foot lieutenant began folding origami Foot soldiers to overwhelm the turtle that favored blue. Leonardo slashed through each origami with his odachi blade, making sure to slide in as many paper puns as he could manage.
“Does being in the Foot Clan involve a lot of paperwork?”
“Didn’t anyone ever tell you that sword beats paper?”
Meanwhile, Raphael was juggling between fighting their new opponent and protecting his younger brother. Fighting two-on-one should have been cake, but the girl was a lot stronger than she looked, and Donatello was babbling Shakespearean compliment after compliment.
“Donnie, what are you doing?”
“I can’t help it! I’m in love!” Donnie sings.
“Love? Are you crazy? She’s working for the Foot guys! Oh, and she’s trying to kill us!”
“Just look at her, Raphael. Hair like the softest flower, irises like the rarest jewels. Those advanced martial arts techniques, executed with the poise of a dancer. She is perfection!”
“Look out!” Michaelangelo wailed, as he and Leonardo were launched into the remaining turtles.
For the second time that night, the turtle brothers were a groaning mess of limbs on the tile floor.
“Good work, Sakura. Let’s go!” The shorter lieutenant opened a mystic portal, escaping with his allies.
Sirens and flashing lights of red and blue alerted the turtles to make their own exit, regrouping on the roof of a nearby building as police scoped the crime scene, bewildered by the sheer amount of scrap paper left behind.
“Donnie, what the heck was that?” Leo jabbed a green finger into his brother’s plastron.
The purple-banned turtle still had a love-struck look on his face. “How strong do you think she is? She threw both of you with no struggle, and that’s at least… three hundred? No, four hundred pounds.”
"I do not weigh two hundred pounds!"
“Dude, you really left us hanging back there.” Mikey pitched in.
“Is Sakura her real name? I should research her profile.” Donnie started tapping away at his wrist device again, although this time with a newfound enthusiasm.
“Donnie!” Raphael’s roar seemed to startle the tortoise out of his stupor.
The disappointment and anger on his brothers’ faces finally seemed to register.
“Are you all upset with me?” He asked incredulously.
“YES!”
“Get your head out of that digital cloud!”
“Read the room, my guy!”
Donnie winced at their volume, shrinking his head slightly into his shell.
“Alright, alright, I can hear you. I’m sorry.”
Raphael pinched the bridge of his beak with a huff. “Let’s just go home, guys. The Foot are long gone.”
The mutants sprinted across rooftops and slid through shadows, until making their way down into the sewers and back to the lair.
Leonardo grabbed his skateboard and took his frustrations out on the skate ramp, shredding the cement and wood with plastic wheels. Raphael opted for the punching bags and weights, believing that improving his strength was necessary if he was going to be able to protect his family. Michelangelo retreated into the kitchen to finish his roast. He had initially prepared the meal to celebrate their victory streak in preventing crime, but now it would seem the meal was more like salt in the wounds the Foot Clan left.
Donatello returned to the sanctum that was his laboratory. Despite their loss, his heart was afloat. A certain cotton candy-haired goddess occupied his every thought. He plugged his goggles into his computer, downloading the footage he captured on their mission. There she was, blown up on his massive monitors.
He could now better appreciate her bone structure and elegant form without his brothers berating him. Her sleeveless suit had to be composed of some sort of reinforced polymer, paired with knee-high boots. Donnie ran a simulation to confirm his suspicions. He applied the Fibonacci sequence and golden ratio to his footage, and Sakura was indeed perfect. Everything about her was aesthetically pleasing and he wouldn’t rest until she agreed to be his.
The task-obsessed turtle immediately went to work, formulating plans and running simulations on wooing the girl. Unfortunately, any research he inducted on the girl was fruitless. It seemed she went to a great deal to protect her identity. However, he was able to hack into a few Japanese police databases with reports involving a pink-haired mercenary. It was evident that the Foot Clan hired Sakura to hold an edge over the turtles.
Her reputation was inhuman, with many believing her to be some sort of demon or enhanced evolution of humanity. Rumors gathered she had the strength to lift entire vehicles with her bare hands and leap over buildings in a single bound. She’d sustained a completely flawless complexion, despite being exposed to gunfire, infernos, and all the occupational hazards of a mercenary. Donnie predicted she must possess some form of invulnerability or hyper-regeneration.
Maybe she’d like flowers.
Meanwhile, somewhere in uptown, manicured hands tapped away at an expensive laptop.
Sakura refused to stay in the provided Foot Clan accommodations, still holding reservations regarding her recent employers. Instead, she had leased out a small but luxurious loft in a secure building complex. Her accumulated wealth over years of dubious assignments allowed her to afford such habitations. The finest bedding and lavishing vanities, but most importantly, the expensive and thorough security system.
After the escape from the bank heist, Sakura originally turned to some intensive training to clear her head. Lifting home weights, going a few rounds with the punching bag, and the like.
The purple-masked turtle’s words had been looping in her mind since their encounter. She had expected insults, jeers, or even muted conversations during the fight. Never in her years of combat had someone pulled such a line on her. She was loathsome to admit it, but for a split second, he had thrown her off focus. Finally relenting and searching his lines online, she confirmed he’d used a line from Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet.
Sakura felt her curiosity piqued. The main reason she moved to America was to avoid the attention she was receiving in Japan. The unique job request to muscle for a mystic ninja clan felt too comical to be true, but a situation in which she had to fight ninja turtles? Sakura thought she had already been exposed to the extraordinary. It’s been some time since she’s faced anything other than humans. Against her expectations, it seemed she had even caught the infatuation of her enemy.
The mercenary knew she was attractive by physical standards. Genetic modifications and advancements came with their perks, and she wasn’t above using her feminine charms. It was all part of the job.
But this turtle wasn’t any type of criminal. This turtle never even attempted to land a blow on her; he was a poor fighter. He clearly lacked some degree of situational awareness- who opened with a bomb like Shakespeare in the middle of a fight? And why did he wear more armor compared to his allies? Didn’t they all have turtle shells?
She’d definitely have to watch out for the one in red, the largest of the assembly. She didn’t miss the way he’d cracked the marble column with punches aimed at her. Was he as strong as she? Then there was the seemingly weightless one in orange, who she’d just barely managed to catch mid-air, along with the egotistical one in blue.
She could understand why these three were threats. They met her with impressive skill sets and presented her with challenging fights. Purple struck her as more of a fool, self-occupied with prattling on in early modern English.
The pinkette leaned her head against her palm, fingers drumming aimlessly against the corner of her laptop.
Maybe purple would pique her interest again.