In so many ways, he is you. Not just in the shape of the face and the color of the eyes and the tone of rippling scales, but in the ripple of the muscles, the flows of the steps, the little feints and weaknesses that belong to you, or should have.
As the two of you battle back and forth across the shifting landscape, it really does feeling like fighting a mirror. Not even the look of his eyes throws you off, although you wish it did. You wish you didn't know that look of rage and brokenness and deadly, vicious hunger as well as you do.
When you hit him, you almost expect to hear glass shattering. Or maybe you're the mirror, and pieces of you are falling away with every blow he lands.
"Sloppy, Hamato," he hisses in Japanese, shoving you backwards. "You've let us go."
Have you? It certainly feels like it. It's almost as if the black and red gear makes his blows land harder, helps him to shake off the pain from his own injuries a little quicker.
You flash back to the training you had in the Foot Clan, more brutal than anything you ever had at home, more brutal than what most of the others soldiers were receiving, even. You remember feeling like one big bruise, remembers how the wilt of your katana rubbed against your hands until they cracked and bled.
You remember being made to hurt, again and again and again, until you couldn't breathe from it. You remember how, slowly but surely, the pain started to matter less as time went on. Shredder broke every one of your barriers with frigid efficiency, until you felt yourself changing every time you left the dojo.
In the darkest part of your mind, you've wondered what you would have become if you'd stayed, if you'd let Shredder continue remaking you into the ultimate weapon. Now that dark part is standing in front of you, trapping you in your head, and you understand all too well.
He's wearing you down, you can feel it. You don't know how long you've been fighting, don't know where this world ends or begins, don't know how to win this kind of fight, and the aches and pains from your other mental battles don't help either. Your blades seems to grow heavier by the second, so that every swing takes more out of you.
"Master Shredder would be disappointed," he teases. Cruelty is another thing the Foot taught you both, and he's learned it well. He knows exactly how hearing the words Master Shredder in his voice--your own voice--would hurt you, how the memories sink sharp teeth into your heart.
You only flinch for a microsecond, but that's all he needs. His blade rips across your hand, blood splitting your palm, weapon spilling from your grip and you let out a cry of pain. You shift to a two-handed grip on the remaining sword, wincing as your bloody hand meets hilt, and struggle to regroup, to tame the panic as it flares hot in your chest.
"Oh, you would have gotten in so much trouble for that if Master was here," he teases. "What would he have given us? A nice hard spanking, maybe? Or the wax?"
And that was another thing unique to your training regime, wasn't it? Shredder preferred to give up more intimate punishments, as if the shame of your failure wasn't bad enough. Cruelties that arouse and horrify you in equal measure when you look back, and hard as you try you can't help looking back. 
You can picture yourself lying on your stomach, vulnerable, helpless, unbound because Shredder liked seeing you that way. You can remember the hot burn of the lash, the crack of the whip, the bruises you covered beneath the folds your armor as if you could ever do anything about the memories.
"Shut up," you rasp, the usually comforting Japanese stilted as you struggle to get enough air. You know he's baiting you, you know, but it's so much harder to control yourself in this place. You lunge with a howl and he laughs, dancing lightly across the grass as the tails of his mask snap in the wind.
"But maybe that's what we need, isn't it?" he wonders. "Some nice, hard discipline. You ache for it."
You do, don't you? God help you, God help you both. You dream of being allowed to give in, to let go, to suffer for your failures and sins and be purified. You hate that Saki and Kitsune were the one who discovered this part of you, that they tainted it, tainted you. And the grubby stains from their fingers have come to life.
With a howl you lash out, kicking him in the stomach. His hand blurs as he falls, claws activating with a shhk, and you realize you've been baited as the claws twist the last blade with your grip. His legs tangle with yours, dragging you both down.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. He's messing with your head, only he is in your head, which just happens to be an incorrigible mess.
The two of you roll across the ground, hitting and scratching, knives plucked from your wrappings flashing. He lets your knife scratch along his knuckles as he reaches out, fingers slamming into your throat.
Numbness. Saki punished you with a nerve attack once, letting you limp on the floor while he kicked you around, spat on you, spilled his seed over your face. You were not as scared then as you are now, because you know who are you, know this place is only as real as it needs to be and that is real enough to trap you. You are entirely yourself, and that is not enough.
"It's okay," Your otherself kneels over you, tracing his claws lightly down your chest. He snaps them into place, the sound as final as a condemnation.
Okiku, that is the name you gave the weapon. The vengeful girl of legend, the monster you were trying to be. Ruined and ruiner in one, only know you are split, and if he is the ruiner your role is all too clear. 
My son... The voice reaches in, lifts you out of your bruised, bloodied, beaten haze. Your mother's fingers brush your face, her flowery scent filling her nostrils, and you stiffen. You must--
He snaps his fingers and the voice, the scent, disappear like a light switch flicked off. "None of that, now. We don't need that old cow anyway. She's not going to be sneaking up on us anymore."
The rage flares up in you, bright and hot. "Don't talk about her that way!"
"Why not?" He smiles, that mocking smile you used to show to enemies cowering at your feet, back when you were him. "We grew up just fine without her, didn't we? Well not fine, but," he shrugs. "You know what I mean."
He sits back, pressing his weight on your chest, looking down on you thoughtfully. "That was where I was born, you know. When old Mumsy darling kicked the bucket, with the smell of her shit in the air and her blood on our feet."
You flinch at the memory, and he chuckles. "Rough, isn't it? You did such a good job locking all that ugly stuff away for all those years. Played the good, noble soldier boy, only got your hands dirty once in a while, like with poor dumb slash. And then the witch clicked her heels, bibbity bobbitty boo, and I became we, and we were free."
"This isn't real," you growl, throwing every fragment of yourself into breaking the spell, into turning the lights back on and waking up. You need to get out of here, now. Whatever you came here to learn, it's not worth this.
"Oh, I think you can learn plenty," he says, grinning at your shocked expression. "What? If a turtle's not allowed a bit of omnipotence in the privacy of his own mind, where can we have it?'
"Go to hell." Your voice is shaking, hard as you try to keep it steady. He smirks.
"Already there, darling. But if you really want to go places, I think we could do with a change of scenery." He claps his hands over his head and the environment changes, easily as clicking through channels.
You look, and you have to remind yourself to breathe.
It's a bedroom--your bedroom, in so many ways. You see the mat, the scrolls, the training equipment, the weapons, the polishing kits. But there are other things too--whips, paddles, chains, dildos, little bottles of stuff that you know can make you freeze or shake or beg for cock. Things you learned about at Saki's feet, things that clutter up your head with the glories and terrors of submission.
There are pictures, too. Morgue photos off the bloodied pieces of men you've killed. Karai bleeding on the training room floor. Kitsune offering you an exposed breast and a taunting smile. So many shots of Shredder's face--proud, glowering, twisted in ecstasy. Pictures of a pass you tried so hard to leave behind, brought back to roaring life.
It dawns on you that you can move again. Not that it would do you much good, considering the shackles tied around your wrists and ankles, bolted to your floor. You reach for your lock picks, but they've disappeared. In fact, everything has, including your mask, leaving your face uncomfortably bare.
Your wrists are cuffed over your head, you realize. Your legs are spread wide by the placing of the ankle restraints. It's a very familiar position, and that's when the full implications of what's happening here really, truly hit you. You wheeze. "How...."
"Anything's possible in a dream. Like the new digs?" He rolls gracefully of off you--he's still clad, you notice--and saunters to the line of pictures. "Ah, the memories."
Focus, you tell yourself. Focus, focus, focus. Take back control. But hard as you try, it just slips away between your fingers, vanishing under your feet.
He taps the picture of Saki's come face with a sigh. "That was always one of the best parts, getting the Master off. Don't you remember how good it felt? How proud you were? Sometimes it was enough to make us come on our own."
He turns back to you, smirking. "But Saki isn't here, is he?"
"No." You stare back up at him, refusing to beg. You know it won't work. It never did for the men you killed, after all.
"No." He gracefully slides to his knees between your legs, resting soft hands on your thighs. "But that doesn't change the fact that you're lost and confused, abandoned by Daddy Ratty all over again and for real this time."
He leans closer to you, his breath warm on your face. You can faintly smell the mouthwash you and your brothers use and you know if you get out of this alive, you're going to have to throw it out.
"What you need is a good, hard fucking," he purrs. "And lucky for you, I'm nice enough to give it."
You lunge, trying to bite, but he just grabs you by the throat and forces you back down with a giggle. "Easy, tiger. You don't want me to put a gag in our pretty little mouth, do you?" The thought of being rendered even more helpless freezes your veins, and you force yourself to hold still.
He leans down, nibbling and lapping softly at your neck. Little bursts of pleasure flicker through your body as he reaches all your sensitive spots, accurate and merciless as a missile. You try, you try so hard to tame yourself, but it has been so very long. You squirm, breath hitching, and not all of it is in discomfort.
"That's it, sweetling," he murmurs in your ear. "I knew the stoic act wouldn't last long."
"Sh-shut up," you growl, willing yourself to remain still. "Shut up and get the fuck away from me."
"Or what?" He peers down at you with genuine curiosity. "You'll kill me? Kill us? What exactly do you think you can do, Leonardo?"
You swallow hard. You think of all those nights sitting on your bed, a knife in hand, thinking of how quickly and easily you could open your own flesh. You never quite managed it.
"I might," you say, trying to sound sassy and devil-may-care and all the things you quietly wish you could be. It doesn't seem to carry well.
"You can't," he says firmly. "Even if you were selfish enough to leave them, which you're not, I wouldn't let you." He gently tilts your chin, peering into your eyes. "All you can do, really, is lie back and think of England. Good thing you have so much experience with that."
And before you can think of an answer he's crushing his lips to yours, his mouth hungry and vicious, his hands digging into your sides with bruising force. It's a dizzying sensation, being kissed by yourself, feeling a mouth that is so familiar and yet so alien dry to devour you.
When he finally comes up for air you're both gasping, faces flushed. He smirks at the look on your face, grinding up against your crotch, and you groan at the sensation.
"You really need this, don't you?" he asks. He shakes his head. "It's a damn shame, really. Having to lie all cold and alone in your bed, while those brothers of ours chase pimply white boys and jack off to shitty porn, and they don't even know what they've got, the treasure right under their snouts--"
"Don't talk about them like that." He can say whatever he wants about you, but your brothers are off limits. He knows that, of course, he just doesn't care.
"Why not?" He laughs, cold and mean. "Don't tell me you've never thought about it. In fact, you can't tell me you've never thought about it."
"They're just thoughts," you protest. More proof that you're sick and broken and wrong, yes, but you already knew that. You'd never do anything like that to them.
"Seriously? I'm just a thought, old sport." His hands slide down your sides, reaching down to cup your ass and caress your tail. "It would be nice, though, wouldn't it? To take a load off, to play?"
You shake your head, but he just keeps touching you, all while continuing to rub his hips against your crotch. His forces purrs in your ear, dark and silky, and the arousal flares in your guts because you're a fucking wind-up doll and you've never been able to stop any of this.
"Donnie in the lab, of course. We'd come in for a checkup, oh doctor I'm feeling so blue--blue, haha. Get him to bend us over that desk, he'll probably recite a fucking formula or some shit while he does it. And then later on we'll get him to use some of those cute little medical toys of his."
He drops down with a soft churr, and you wince as his warm, heavy weight slides across your chest. You're getting hard, stirred up by his fondling and his movements and his terrible words. It takes everything in you not to scream with frustration.
"Mikey darling would probably like a pet. We could do that, couldn't we? Master Shredder did a real good job of teaching us how to bark and wag our tails. Mikey could give us scratchies and take us on walks and give us nice big helpings of come. Wouldn't it be lovely?"
It would be. It would be, because these fantasies of his are yours, too, just as he is yours. You've dream of being examined by Donnie, of being cared for by Mikey. You know who he's going to talk about next, because that's the one which haunts you the most.
"And Raph...our little Raphie would be for discipline. He certainly hates us enough, doesn't he?" You try to shake your head, but your brain is swimming with Raph's furious face, with him calling you traitor and liar. You swallow hard.
"Oh yes, you know it. He'd keep our ass as red as his mask, bend us over his knee every night just to try and keep up with our fuck-ups." He abrupt snaps his hips against yours and you yelp, feeling an answering bulge in your slit. "He'd tell us how worthless we were, what a fucked-up little failure, and then he'd throw us into the dirt afterwards to lick our own damn wounds. And we'd love it."
One hand keeps playing with your ass while the other moves to your crotch, gently rubbing over your slit. "And you know what the best part would be, baby?" You stare up at him, only for your try for defiance to shatter as he gives your tail a brisk tug.
"You wouldn't have to hide anymore. I mean, even in the Foot Clan you had to deal with some bullshit, but with our brothers they'd know just what a vicious little cockslut you are. Good only for fighting and killing."
"No." You can't believe it. You won't. You might.
"Oh yes, bluebird." The movements of his hands blur and you can't keep yourself in, you never learned how, never tried to resist unless Saki told you and even that it was always halfhearted. You spill free with a sob. "If they were smart they'd chain us up and only let us out to kill, because that's what we deserve, that's what--"
"Stop," you plea, because who were you kidding, you were always going to beg. "Just, just stop. Stop talking about them, stop...." Stop telling me what I am. "Just get it over with."
"Is that what you really want, baby?" he asks, shaking his head. "Well, it'd be rude to deny a lady's request." And then his dry finger is shoving inside you, and you're crying out with shock and fear (hell, even Saki put some time into preparing you).
But...it doesn't hurt? Your insides feel warm and slick in a way that makes no sense and feels all too familiar. Karai and Kitsune and Saki give you mocking looks from the wall, and you groan, because you know exactly what's going on.
"Well, look at that," he muses. "What a very pleasant surprise. We are really are such a loose little slut, aren't we?" You shake your head frantically, tears spilling down your cheeks even as your cock swells.
He's humming to himself, a tune that you don't recognize, his finger searching and scraping inside you. You close your eyes tight, willing him not to find it--but he does, of course he does, the universe wouldn't give you anything else. He presses down on that little spot inside you, hard the way the way Saki made you like it, and you fail.
"That's it." He's smiling, and in the back of your mind it's almost funny how unfamiliar that expression is on your face. "That's it, little whore."
You grit your teeth and try to rally. "Th-that means you're a whore, too."
But he just smiles. "I know. The difference is that it doesn't bother me, and it fucking kills you."
He kisses you again, nipping your lip playfully, before sliding back down between your legs. "No time like the present to go screw yourself," he says, winking cheerily. You look away.
"Uh-uh. Keep those pretty eyes on me, kiddo." He lifts his sheathed arm. "Or I might need Okiku's help to scrape all the extra customers out of you before I can have a go."
You don't think anyone can hurt you here--even if you feel hurt, feel broken--but you still don't know what to feel like. You make yourself look, do your best to brace yourself, even though you know there's no bracing yourself with this.
"Good boy," he says, and without any more preamble he simply shoves in, rough and brutal. You scream; you may be slicked up, but it still hurts to be entered that abruptly.
"Hey, hey, it's all right," he purrs, choking out with a groan as he bottoms out against you. "You were made to take this. Hush." He plants his hands on either side of your head, leaving little kisses along your chest, neck, and face. You make a fruitlessly attempt to squirm away.
"Missed it, yeah?" He rolls his hips experimentally, and you groan. Worse than the pain is the fact that he's not entirely wrong. A part of your body and your fucked-up brain have missed this, this sense of being filled, claimed, conquered. He knows, the way he knows everything.
"Do you remember when Master Shredder took our virginity?" he asks, breath hitching after he thrusts deeper and deeper inside you. He brushes your prostrate and churrs spill from your lips like blood from a cut.
"It was after we'd driven the rat and his cronies--or what we thought was just his cronies--away." He's got one hand wrapped around your hip and ass, digging hard enough to bruise the skin. The other's on your cock, shifting up and down the movements of his hips.
"He made us get on the bed on our hands and knees and we," he grunts, eyes rolling in his head, "we were so confused, so embarrassed. He just left us there for what felt like ages and we didn't know if we'd done something wrong, but we," he gasps, and you find yourself gasping back, your voices sounding the exact same, "we liked it."
You remember that. You were so innocent back then, so lost and hurt and confused. Saki had only begun to take from you, and you didn't even know it. Saki.....you hate him almost as much for you hate yourself, both versions.
"Then the questions." His hand on your cock honed by his intimate knowledge of your desires and the instruction you received during your time in the Foot Clan. You keeps you on the edge, brain boiling in a hot swirl of sensation until you think it might actually melt.
"What we thought about when we touched ourselves. Our fantasies, our desires. And we were so embarrassed, we were beet red. You know, you're blushing now, too."
Are you? Your cheeks are hot, but you can't grab onto anyone sensation is long. You are being split down to the atom, pleasure and agony dividing up every cell so neatly. You open your mouth, but all that comes out is another churr. You're not even sure what you would say if you could.
"And he touched us. It was so nice, wasn't it? Being seen as something worthy of desire, something that could fondled and used and given new purpose." His hand massages your ass, wrapping the trembling tail around your fingers. You understand what he's talking about. You understand everything.
You've having a hard time staying conscious. What would become of you if you passed out here?
Maybe you'd die. That might be nice.
"And when he fucked us...well, it hurt at first, but we like pain. It took us a long time to figure that out, but we did." His fingernails scratch down your cock and you bite your lip bloody, but can't hold back a whimper. "We were made to be destroyed, both of us. My power lies in embracing that."
His pace speeds up, the chains rattling frantically. Every movement drives more breath out of your lungs. "You were wrong, you know when you said Master Shredder's not here," he whispers. "He lives on in us. We're his masterwork, and it's high time to stop pretending this isn't you and start. Playing. Your. Role."
His third kiss hurts the worse, because it makes you feel so good, teases your already ravaged nerves to an exquisite amount. You groan, head flung back, and he chuckles into your mouth, the sound building into a roar as he comes.
He fucks you through the orgasm, his stinging hot seed filling you up and already dragging you over the edge. "You know you want to, sweet thing."
You don't. You do. You don't. You do. You don't. The truth is, it really doesn't matter anymore, if it ever has.
It hurts when you come, something splitting upon in your head. You hear a distant voice wailing, feel tears tracking down cheeks that might be yours. He's laughing, always laughing, stroking your face as more names spill from his lips: bitch, whore, plaything, cumslut.
You feel yourself falling back, drifting on a golden haze. For a heartbeat, the pain and shame and fear subside, and your head feels shockingly, blissfully, clear. You look up at him--at yourself, your dark, warped reflection crouched on top of you, cackling like a witch from a fairy tale. You see him, and this world he has created, so sharp and clear it threatens to cut.
In the moment before all the awfulness comes rushing back in, you realize how it works.
So when your emotions overwhelm you, you don't try to pull away. You don't try to focus them, either--this is not a place of focus, has never been. Instead, you just look up at your mirror, your monster, and let yourself feel everything you can about him. All the hate, all the misbegotten lust, all the confusion and terror and envy. You let it erupt.
There is pain, but there is always pain, and he has not so wrong when he says you've grown to love it. You cry out as your restraints snap and disappear, as you sit up with him still inside you, knocking him back. In the heartbeat before he can recover you're on him, snatching the knife you know he keeps in his wrappings.
You pluck it free and slice it across his throat. Blood spills across your hand, hot and bright like the seed dripping down your legs. Perhaps they'll both lead to the same thing, you think hysterically.
"I win," you rasp, your throat feeling burned out as if you've been screaming for hours. Perhaps you have been, somewhere, somehow.
He smiles up at you. One shaking hand reaches up, presses lightly against your arm. His fingers flex, and that's all the warning you get before his wrappings start to flow, slithering off his skin to wrap around yours.
"What?" You try to pull away, but the black comes with you. A familiar weight settles onto your chest and you grab for yourself--yes, that's the Foot armor. That's his armor.
It's not until you feel a mask on your face against that you starts to put the pieces together. You reach out, pull the tails away so they can seem in your hand. Black as starry nights and wicked plots, as a soul fucked out and dirtied beyond repair.
The turtle lying on the ground is still wearing a copy of the gear, but he's pale now, shrunken and thin. He gives a grin with a too many teeth, his eyes slowly bulging as his flesh melts away.
You open your mouth, you want to say no, but your vocal cords don't listen to you.
"Yes, darling," a voice--his, yours, the devil's, the dragon's--says. "We definitely did."
 
"Leo! Leo!"
He's curled on the floor, shaking, tears spilling down his face as he throws up. He hears April barging into the room and barely manages to roughly tuck himself away in time, but he can't hide the white stains on his sides anymore than he can hide the puke spilling across the floor.
"Jesus..." She's at his side, pulling him close and rubbing his shell. Leo's breath hitches at her touch, but he's trembling too hard to move, to push her away. She locks down at him, at his shame, and sucks in a breath. "What happened? Leo, what happened? Was it Kitsune?"
"N-no," Kitsune would have simply undone him. This is so much worse.
Leo glances down at his palm and idly notices that it's bleeding, blood dripping from where his fingers did into the scales.
"Donnie!" April yells. "Donnie, Leo's hurt!"
"No," he says again, quick and panicked. "I'm okay, I'm okay."
It's a lie, of course. Maybe it always has been.