4350/Brotherly...well, Something

Brotherly...well, Something
Date of Scene:	09 December 2020
Location:	Landmark Mall (TMNT Base)
Synopsis:	No description
Cast of Characters:	Raphael, Michelangelo

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Raphael has posed:
Chances are Raphael will never prefer a mall to the underground lair, but there may be some benefits to the place. There are a variety of spots that are unique, there's an arcade, a pool, and it's the kind of thing they could never have really imagined going to in the past.

It just took finding an abandoned place that shut down years ago in order to make it work.

His gym setup is working for him, making it easy to work out whenever he's in the mood, which is frequent. It's not just the turtles around, though he isn't the most sociable of the group. Then again, which of them really is, after Michelangelo?

Speaking of the orange-masked brother, Raph's on the lookout for him as he enters the food court in search of something to make. It wouldn't be surprising if an ambush was set up. King of the Food Court? Whatever.

Michelangelo has posed:
One with the shadows, king of stealth, the heir to a millennary tradition of warriors who strike unseen and depart unheard. Michelangelo hides in the rafters of the food court, taking advantage of the scattershot lighting. It's amazing some of these lights still work.

He keeps a firm hold of the grapple, calculating angle, approach, and possible vectors. Everything has been prepared and the skillful hunter has been waiting for at least two hours- which is quite an accomplishment for someone who allegedly has the attention span of a ferret.

"Come on, Raphy... right... there..." he whispers. When Raphael is right where he wants him, the young turtle tenses his legs, takes a breath, and leaps into the void.

The grapple line holds firm, and the youngest of the brothers is airborne and ready to describe an arc over Raphael. His free hand clutches his precious cargo, ready to release-

When, suddenly, something goes wrong! Something snags in the rafters above, potentially an outcropping he didn't see in the darkness, and his path is altered.

"WoOOAAAaaahH!"

Its not the most inspiring of war cries. The water balloons that were destined to drop from his net, once released, fall easily ten feet away from Raphael, splashing onto the floor and disarrayed furniture of the food court, while the painted orange turtle ends his abortive ambush colliding with the canopy of the old abandoned hot-dog stand. Michelangelo falls inside the stand in a bundle of red and orange stripes from the canopy, and a slew of creative language that is muffled by the cloth.

Raphael has posed:
There will always be the question: did Raphael know Michelangelo was up there? It may never be answered, for the descent was doomed from the start.

What if it was Raphael himself who was up there earlier, figuring something like this was bound to be attempted sooner or later? What if Raphael sabotaged the very spot that ruined Michelangelo's patience and planning?

The world may never know the truth.

About the time he hears the commotion from above, Raph nevertheless steps a couple feet to one side, but it isn't necessary to avoid whatever Mikey had in mind. The water balloons explode. Well, most of them do, with a couple of the more stubborn ones bouncing and sliding along the smooth floor until they lose momentum.

Eyes track the landing, if it can be called that, followed by the end result. He merely tsks, comments dryly, "Nice one, Mikey. Very graceful," and proceeds toward the Italian spot in the food court. A few things were brought in for not just pizza.

He leaves Michelangelo to untangle himself.

Michelangelo has posed:
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There is much rustling coming from the stand, and it takes Mikey several minutes to fully extricate himself from the mess he made. He slowly claws his way out and checks himself to make sure nothing's broken. Arms? No. Shell? No. Pride? Totally. He steps out and takes several steps before realizing the grapple is entangled around his thigh and leg, and trailing several cooking utensils. Clang. Clang. Clang.

"Raphael! No fair, you get back here and let me splash you!" he grumbles, marching steadily towards the Italian stand. "You! You did something to the rafters, didn't you?" he points an accusative finger at his brother, "How di-"

His flame is extinguished as fast as it ignited, as he peers into te contents of the stand. "... you gonna cook something?"

Raphael has posed:
Mikey got himself into the mess, and he can get out of it. Once Raph's moved behind the counter and display area, which is kind of pointless to have in an abandoned mall, he opens the fridge and checks to see what it's got while the sounds of Michelangelo's great escape continue on.

"Dunno what you're talking about," he states, coming back up...with a chef's hat atop his bald green head. "If you leave me alone long enough to, yeah."

That's when he stops to stare at the youngest brother. "What the hell did you do to yourself now?" To him, what he's asking about is obvious as he squints with suspicion. To Mikey? Who knows? Who ever really knows?

Michelangelo has posed:
"Huh? Oh, these?" The turtle looks down at his plastron and grins. He takes a few steps back and poses in the classic 'ta-daaah' pose. "I'm just becoming the turtle I always meant to be, bro! I'm gonna be the next word on the street- I've been practicing with my paints. You oughta see- I'm planning to make a wicked mural! And look..." he points to his plastron, "I'm my own canvas, too, a walking work of art. The perfect mixture of sensitivity-- and bad-assery," he flexes his biceps and grins, "The babes love an artist bad boy, right?"

He jumps onto the counter and then sides over to be on Raph's side, "I'm gonna make my store a showcase of all my works. I paint with air-" he goes pssssshh and mimicks using a spraypaint can, "And with blocks- my lego masterpieces. And someday... my stuff will sell for millions!"

Raphael has posed:
The look Raphael gives Michelangelo is one of those that has been seen many, many times before. It's one that says 'I am barely tolerating this right now.' The narrowed eyes, the flat expression, the hands at his hips, all of it. Shaking his head, he turns back to digging up a few things. Noodles. A pot. Some meatballs. Sauce.

"All I can say is good luck, 'cause I think you're gonna need it. Before you ask, you can't come paint up my gym." Then comes a wicked smile. "All you gotta do is say a sentient turtle painted that stuff. People will believe anything these days."

Michelangelo has posed:
Mikey frowns. "Why you gotta be like that, Raph? You don't see me putting down your... all the stuff you do." The younger brother looks around and crosses his arms, pacing the area while gesturing with his fingers. "You can be such a joykiller sometimes, dude." He turns around and hops over the counter once more. "You know what your problem is, bro? You don't dream! You just..." he waves his hands, "You just want to swat at people's dreams like they were flies. Well, fine! You won't have this turtle to swat! I'm going to my atelier!"

When did he learn that word? Indignantly, he turns his back to Raphael and crosses his arms.

And then his head turns just a little, to look at his big brother over his shoulder.

Raphael has posed:
That's Raphael. Big meanie Raph, insulting his brothers whenever the opportunity is there. Does he care how they take it?

...sometimes. Maybe.

This doesn't appear to be one of those times. There is no apology forthcoming, just a long look at Michelangelo. "I'm trying to make sure we don't forget about the guy who forced us out of our home, Mikey. I don't have time to dream about..things." He catches himself before adding something more to that, just leaving it as is.

With Michelangelo looking like he's taking off, Raphael looks back down at the package of frozen meatballs. Nobody said it was gourmet dining, but it works for what it is. Catching eyes still on him, he glances up and exhales once. "Don't make up words, bro. Everybody knows atler..at..whatever you said ain't a real word."

Michelangelo has posed:
Michelangelo hmphs and turns around. "I haven't forgotten either! I don't have marbles for brains, you know." He is fuming a little less, and leans into the counter, narrowing his eyes at Raphael, "All work and no play makes Raph a dull boy, ya know. Duller. So dull!" he makes a face and glancs at the meatballs. Then up at Raphael.

"And everybody knows? Okay, then! Wanna have a wager? A bet? Whaddaya say, Rapho? You're so sure you know, then let's put your money where your shell is!" he smacks his hand his fist into his other hand, "Or are you... chicken?"

Raphael has posed:
"I'm way more interesting than you, that much I know," Raphael boasts. They may give each other hell, but they are still brothers, still teenagers. It's what they do, even if it seems biting at times. "Now do you wanna eat, or are you just gonna try to distract me the whole time? If you wanna eat faster, you can help get some of this stuff ready."

He ignores the offer of a bet. Look at him! He's a turtle, not a chicken! "You can get the oven going for some garlic bread. I was gonna make enough for all of us." He doesn't cook very often. It's easier to get pizzas, whether they're from a place or frozen.