It’s been almost a decade since JCA ended, and while all my old JCA fanfics are no longer available on this site, I figure I’d redress that with a brand new one based off some of my older ideas, but spun into a completely fresh story. Hope you all enjoy the ride.
TEENAGE MUTANT NINJA TURTLES:
WRITTEN BY ZARIUS
Note: Yet another short story set in the world of my TMNT novella series. Read them if you want to catch up on some developments in this
Disclaimer: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles are trademarked by Nickelodeon. No profit shall be made from this
Bernard Flanagan checked to see if there were any flies hovering about.
The window to the left of him was open.
One would think something bigger flying in would annoy him, like a Pigeon.
But no, he was most paranoid about flies.
It was probably the fault of all the practice runs with the new molecular teleporter his folks were working on, the one powered by priceless razor-tipped diamonds, he didn’t want any bothersome buzzers getting in the way of the machine when it was powered up.
He’d seen one too many movies where the worst case scenario unfolded.
And he knew what kind of world he was living in.
A world that would entertain so many children on weekend morning if they so happened to tune in.
A world where crazy town bananas could run down the street curbs
Where giant androids could dismiss a skyscraper with a simple flick of the wrist
Where buildings could be levitated to great heights, come crashing back down, and conveniently slot back into their original place without crashing down in heaps of rubble and pillowed wisps of concrete.
So much of this world made sense, so much of it could frighten anyone who lived on the outside looking in experiencing life here for the first time.
He liked to think they could be entertained.
So that thought pacified him.
He would much rather simulate personal insecurity than be faced with a daily real reminder of actual insecurity. Pretending there was a saner world kept him, in turn, sane.
There was a knock at the door. Flanagan composed himself as one of his assistants opened that door, allowing a tall slender woman with a fine build, purple heels, mink skirt, and an emerald green sleeveless shirt to enter the premises.
“Ms. O’Neil, good to see you” said Flanagan from his chair as Channel Six reporter April O’Neil pulled up a chair of her own and placed a microphone and tape equipment out of the purse she was holding.
“Sorry it took me so long, I was covering the fight outside” April said.
“The f-fight?” asked Flanagan.
“Look out the window and peer down” said April
Flanagan rushed over to the open windows. Flies be darned, there was actual commotion going on, greater fears were being realized. Something important was going on. He suddenly had no time for small insecurities
He looked out at the sight on the street below.
Four colorful mutant amphibians clocking in a dazzling defense of the perimeter surrounding his building, pitted against fifteen or seventeen robotic Foot Soldiers.
One, in a blue bandana, spun feverishly around, cutting into the soldier’s heads with his twin Katana blades in a precise propeller motion.
Another, in red, swiped his sais left and right, severing the hands and fingers of some of the soldiers. At one point, he leapfrogged over one that was advancing on him, used two soldiers behind him as platforms for his feet, stood atop their heads, and dived into the last one following in line, plunging the sai deep into its chest, and then, with the sai still in place, used the Soldier as a battering ram against the ones he had leaped over and walked across.
Another, in purple, twirled his ridged bo staff around, two soldiers came forward and grabbed both ends of his stick, the Turtle jumped in the air, stood atop the staff, and with a swift kick to the chin of one of the two, sent it backwards, he walked over to the vacant side, lept off of the Bo, grabbed the end of it, snapped off the half, and plunged it into the chest of the one he had knocked aside, and then exchanged with the other solider in a battle of the bos.
Taking a brief break from the mock ‘swordplay’ on hand, this Turtle took a small capsule from his belt buckle, and applied a grey liquid to the splintered remains of the piece he was holding, when the bos clashed again, the piece slotted back into place, the Turtle hoisted the staff out of the soldier’s hands, and with a swift spin, decapitated the soldier with it
There was one other, more laid back, who simply perched the back of his shell on the ground, took out a grappling hook, shot the line around of the Foot Soldier’s legs,
“You have nothing to worry about Professor, the Turtles are professionals at holding evil at bay”
“Yes, you would know all about that wouldn’t you? I’ve seen you on some of your little play dates with them” noted Flanagan. “Your courage in the face of public criticism regarding those outings is admirable”
“Oh I’m quite the topic, which makes any story I cover a guaranteed spike in the ratings leads, so give a Turtle lover like me something to really attach myself to. Tell me what you can about the Spirited Mentality project”
“In detail?” asked Flanagan
“I work in news. Describe it like there’s the slightest chance the sky will start falling, we want the anti-Illuminati types staying vigilant on tumblr”
Flanagan took off his glasses, breathed a little bit on them, polished them up with a napkin taken from his right pocket, put them on again, cleared his throat, and began
“There exists in our head very vivid pictures. Not just pictures. Purpose. A very clear vision for what could be. Places, people, not of memory, but of invention. We write about them, we can illustrate them, we can put the spoken word into their lips and we can animate their very movements…but the one thing we have never done, while we have a sense of true symbiosis with them in our mind’s eye, is never match them with our real eyes”
“Not getting the shakes here, put some fear into it” said April.
“My project will make all what you see in the mind’s eye come out and scare the clappers off of you” finished Flanagan
“Juicy” said April, “So your imaginary friend would be free for dates?”
“Must you think about that trashy sort of press?” asked Flanagan
“We have an obligation to our sweethearts watching Professor ” said April.
“Ah, the young, exactly who I want to target with this…I want them to experience a face-to-face with their own personal muse, stare them right in the eye, and ask them ‘why haven’t YOU inspired me to get out and vote? And now that you have a physical presence…will you vote at all?'”
Everything these days was about election rates.
She slept-walked her way through the rest of the interview. She shouldn’t feel too bad, given that often had high ratings, but it simply wasn’t the audience she wanted for this segment.
Upon completing the interview, April walked out of the building to cover the fall out of the Turtles’ battle with the Foot Ninjas.
“How’d the interview go babe?” Michelangelo asked, kissing April on the cheek.
“Didn’t really have a beat to it, but it’ll work out well for a piece for our resident zero tolerance spinsters. That always has a big ratings figure. I should have been covering your tussle down here”
“Yeah, when you think about it, if we hadn’t intercepted the Foot when we did, your story would have proven more exciting” said Raphael, “Suddenly I feel there’s a down beat to this”
“A down beat to a beat down, how appropriate”
“But since they didn’t appropriate the device, you could say it’s an up beat beat up” joked Donatello.
“Cornballs” April said, smiling
“Now all we have to do is skip this beat before the cleaners come to sweep this mess off the streets” said Raphael
“Turtles, let’s make tracks” said Leonardo.
As the Turtles made their way to a nearby man hole, April grabbed Michelangelo by the arm,
“Not you mister, you’re buying me lunch, then you and I are going to work on combing out my hair”
“Are we going to have tea with Mrs. Nesbitt afterwards?” Michelangelo said, annoyed slightly at being invited to what he perceived as strictly gal activity, before giving in and following that up with something with sincerity attached to it
“…Because, like, the only baby doll required is you”
April’s eyes lit up and she smirked, placing a hand over her shoulder and stroke the edge of Michelangelo’s chin. She placed her hand firmly on his chest.
“See this?” she said, pointing at where her hand was placed and putting another hand on her own chest, “This beat you give me right here? That’s the one any story finds hard to top”
So here we come to series eight’s finale, a story I feel has a lot of edge, but sadly softens it’s blows a little too much by the end. Let’s go full Hinchecliff instead eh? Let’s have noone killed make it out alive. No Danny and no Osgood obviously, but also no Kate and no kid. Let’s bring The Doctor to a truly captivating and daunting choice..sacrifice Missy, or spare her and let her lead him home? It has all the makings of a classic cliffhanger conundrum…the day has been dark, and we leave the characters in their darkest hour, leaving it up to your interpretation. I fully intend my edit of Last Christmas to open in the aftermath of the choice…and you don’t see what it is then either.
So without the scene where The Doctor “finds” Gallifrey, do you think I would waste that impactful scene where Capaldi smashes the console in a fit? No way, all good concepts and moments exist to be re-purposed at our leisure, so instead after the title sequence, the pounding replaces Clara’s emotional blackmail. The Doc had a soft spot for good ol’ P.E after all!
Yet another one of those edits where it’s more about switching things around than really trimming. I took the flashback with Eleven and Clara investigating Sweetville and place it at the start to serve as part of an extended pre-credits sequence. I also cut out the ending where the kids Clara plays nanny for discover her time travailing. Episode ends on Clara saying “I am the boss”