2020/I'm not your dummy, Dummy.

I'm not your dummy, Dummy.
Date of Scene:	15 August 2017
Location:	Unknown
Synopsis:	Summary needed
Cast of Characters:	Donatello, Raphael

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Donatello has posed:
On a warm and muggy evening, in the fresh and funky smelling sewers of New York City, it's business as usual for the mutated teenage turtles.

Or, well, Donatello, to be specific.

He's currently hard at work in a dome-shaped room, reminiscent of an oubliette with its grated ceiling, but since an open archway leads out, it defeats the purpose of using it as a dungeon. Training, however, is another story. This is where four brothers would often practice ninjutsu together in their youth, but now sees one or two visitors at a time, at most. Some shirk their exercises more than others, much to their guardian's dismay.

At the centre of the circle, dug into a small mound where Splinter would instruct them, sits a sturdy metal post. The dirt has been shifted recently, suggesting that it was scooped out and then replaced, in order to pack in the base of the new addition. Impaled on the pole in an awkward way through what may be its back is a makeshift dummy. It's a weird Frankenstein creation by Donatello, using canvas and patches of burlap, with bits of dirty stuffing peeking out from between the mismatched material where it wasn't expertly sewn.

To be fair, handicrafts aren't his thing.

The dummy is fat. Incredibly so. Its impressive circumference is to prevent a well-placed kick from connecting with the pole lodged within. A few heavy dents in the fabric denote that the density of fluff has already been dutifully tested, although perhaps not to the extent that Donatello would prefer. That's to come soon, he hopes.

Aside from the new inanimate presence, additional changes to the 'training hall' include video surveillance cameras, ranging from obnoxiously huge to tiny spy types, typically meant to be carried on a person. Pieced together from broken bits and junk, some of the lenses are cracked, but the little red lights blink! They work! The wires fanning out from the training room are pellmell, a jumbled mess of cords that eventually run directly to Donatello's workstation. He has rigged a fan using a butchered lid from a trash to keep the entire unit cool.

Finishing touches are placed on the dummy after hours spent in the room alone, with nary a soul to disturb him. It's a mystery why it needs a face or a suggestive red bandana on its head, but maybe that's to help with visualizing? I don't even know. Padding over the knots of cording into the main tunnel, Donnie scans the den of the lair he and his brothers call home. His hazel eyes, magnified by a pair of glasses held together in the centre by sellotape, seek a very specific test subject: Leonardo.

Why Leo? Well, while Don is closer to Michelangelo, Mikey has this annoying habit of showing off. Statistically speaking, his participation would disrupt any and all careful calculations and preparations. The eldest brother is the most balanced, ergo, the best candidate.

Unfortunately, poking his head into Splinter's trophy and meditation room, that turtle is nowhere to be found or is otherwise indisposed. Donatello clicks his tongue, returning to the den with nothing but his own disappointment.

He heaves a great sigh, almost looking as though he were adjusting the plastron of his shell as he cracks his neck. Who else is there but himself, which is a poor way of conducting an experiment. Who but... Oh, Raphael, currently taking up real estate on the couch, TV presumably tuned in to some obnoxious sort of program or another. With hesitancy apparent in his soft footfalls, mentally noting all of the minute adjustments that will need to be made, Don approaches the back of the sofa that reeks faintly of mildew and peers down at his older brother.

Donatello has posed:
Lifting his glasses from his nonexistent nose, because noses are a human thing, Donatello uses his forehead to hold them for the time being. He clears his throat, "Raph, you got a minute?" The tone isn't as timid as his posture, and after a second, excitement cannot be contained. Perhaps Leo wasn't the ideal test subject, because an offensive fighter generates more data! His eagerness to begin bubbles up to the forefront, compelling him to somehow win Raphael over with quick babbling, "There's something I want to try. It'll improve your technique at least by one hundred percent, I promise. I'm using a complex camera system to transmit recordings to my computer. The program I designed will use the video to create a three-dimensional representation of you in action, and from there, detect any weaknesses and openings in your attacks." Defences, too. But only Raph's personality is defensive. Zing! "You just have to practice some katas in the training room on the dummy I made, that's all. Finito."

Neeeeeeeeerd.

At least the explanation was relatively simple.

Raphael has posed:
"A BRAND NEW CA-"

    clk

"Gurl, who do you think you're talking to?"

    clk

"Judgment in favor of the plaintif for 3,000 dollars. Plea-"
    clk

"In, Out, Around, Through-!"

Only a few words managed to escape each time Raph trudged through the plethora of channels that they managed to tap into through less than legal means. Even so, wasn't it just the luck that amongs hundreds of channels-

"Virtually unchanged for millions of years-"

Tclk

There was nothing on. Raph jabbed his thumb into the channel button over and over, his eyes glassy and distant as he peered at the TV. It had become more about just changing channels now than finding something to watch, a desire to onow what was on that could have been sated by a tap at the guide button... but that would be too simple.

Not entirely idle, of course. Raph occupied one hand with a grip trainer. His fingers coiled around the handles, squeezing them in a almost unconcious fashion, the metal coil between the handles creaking faintly every time Raph's fingers constricted around the grips.

A voice that doesn't register as his father's speaks from just beyond the turtle's line of sight. His only answer is a inquisitive, "Egh?" that gives Donatello leave to continue. When he starts talking again, Raph dredges himself from the mire of the television. Craning his neck around, the turtle peers back at his brother over the ridge of his own battered shell. He considered the request, getting into Donny's egg-header often proved dull and fruitless but sometimes, like this time, it piqued his interest. His lips twisted absently in thought before his thumb shifted over and found the p;ower button, turning the screen ahead of them dark.

Remote and resistance grip were abandoned on the old, battered caple spool that served as their coffee table, "Ain't like i've got anything better to do." he reasons as he stands, slipping his thumbs beneath his belt to adjust it as he rose. "Sure, Donny, lead the way. I could use a good stretch."

Donatello has posed:
It worked!

Not that his request was irrelevant to Raph's interests, but it worked!

Rewarded with eventual consent, Don's tri-digit hands slap together in a harsh-sounding clap of celebration. "All right!" he exclaims, "Excellent!" When the other turtle rises to his feet, the younger brother spins on the spot to lead the way to the heavily modified training room. Until the destination is reached, he chatters breathlessly about the pieced together equipment and its origins, specific issues in the coding that require debugging, and a myriad of related topics that will likely be tuned out and aren't necessarily worth mentioning. He doesn't mind being ignored; in fact, he expects it.

Kinda sad, really. Only Mikey tries to pay attention.

Surprisingly, something worth acknowledging occurs after Donatello has taken up real estate behind a large and shoddy looking camera to man it personally, "If you really want a challenge, try taking the dummy's head off. Mind the pole." Further explanation follows in confidence that it won't be an easy feat, at least not for anyone but Leonardo. Is this intentional? IS HE PROVOKING RAPHAEL?! But, Donnie has a point that the amount of reenforcement through fluff, fabric and heavy stitching won't be effortless to poke through with a sai. Considerable force must be applied.

Peeking through the viewer that will now film outrage (at the comments, at the dummy's appearance) and subsequent pummelling, adjusting the focus of the lens to ensure that it captures each movement with stunning clarity, the 'brains' of his family also checks the range of motion of the device. Donnie drops the glasses back onto his 'beak' and hoists a thumbs up. "Ready whenever you are!"

Raphael has posed:
    "Yeah, uh huh. No? Really? Hmn, yeah that can be a problem. That always acts up. Naturally. Good idea. Uh huh. Yeah-" Raph pads after Donny, a leather hand sweeping over his bald pate as the other prattles. Donny liked to talk, he liked to talk quick. In his better moods, Raph could humor the chatter, offering fits of conversational spackle to make it sound like he was listening but really, he was just filling the spaces that Donny used to breath. They were few but present.

He figured it was nice to let the egg-head feel they were pretending to listen to him sometimes.

When presented with his rotund opponent, Raph stood with his hands folded over his chest, considering it. "So it's a Dummy." he observed after what seemed like half an hour of explination that even now continued to mount. He crooked a brow and scrutinized the dummy but anyway he looked at it, it was just a dummy... With a face, and a red bandana? Was Donny pulling his leg here? He fixed his brother with a side-long glance as explinations continued, his two toes starting to tap absently at the floor. So Donny was, what, practicing his stitching? Ah well, might as well get it over with. "Sure, sure. We'll see about that." he continued, lacing his fingers together and extending his arms, palms facing outwards as he pops his fingers in a short series of snaps and crack. He continued through with a few stretches, rolling his shoulders, rotating his neck, getting loose and limber before he finally approached the weapons rack.

He picked up his sais, the familiar weight resting well in his hand. Looping his fingers between tongs and blade, he gave them both a spin like a old gunslinger.

With this, final flourish, Raph took his position, weapons in hand, he faced off with his quiet foe, rocking absently at the balls of his feet before he stepped in and fired off a snapping kick, weight shifting to his left foot as the right struck out in a side kick that whipped out from his raised knee three times at the over-grown doll's hip, ribs, and head.

Donatello has posed:
For certain there are times when he can talk anyone and everyone into a gormless stupor, but that isn't always the case. He's a good listener, and probably the best of the four brothers to bounce ideas off of due to his inventive problem solving abilities. In addition to being intuitive and sensitive, the younger turtle isn't wastefully loquacious; Donatello generally doesn't speak unless he has something to say.

Or a lot to say, if it piques his interest. It's usually said quickly, true.

The techno-babble engine building steam is placed on hold with a small smile and the adjustment of his circle-style spectacles, hazel eyes magnified to ridiculous proportions. Raphael's sidelong glance isn't missed by them or the camera lens, but goes without any real assurance that the similarity was coincidental. Is it needed? Does he have to validate his older brother for this experiment? Clearly not, because as sais are retrieved and warm-ups commence, the brawn of the turtles launches into his own variation of basic exercises.

Wobbling, swaying, teetering, and rocking back and forth on its steel post, the dummy holds strong against the barrage of strikes, even when they are levied against it in increasing ferocity and intensity. Its features contort in pulverized mockery, grin splitting at the seams, and the red bandana flies off, having been dislodged during a series of flash kicks, palm strikes, and debilitating pressure points punctured by the tip of either sai. Donnie keeps up with the action, Raph always in his sight, and after a good twenty minutes of data collection, probably once the other has worked up a good sweat, he calls it off. "Okay, that's a wrap! Now to compile and upload in order to create a three-dimensional image. Let's go back over to my workstation, so you can see..."

Of course, the badly beaten and in some places leaking stuffing training dummy has managed to retain its head, just as Donatello predicted. Even if this was something meant to test Leonardo, the fighting styles of his brothers and himself were taken into account during its creation. He presses a button on the wall somewhere behind him, causing all of the red recording lights around the dome-shaped room to blink out in quick succession, including the manual camera.

Raphael has posed:
    It was odd being a turtle that could sweat, all just one of those magical little quirks of the Ooze. Raph did his damndest, though. Donny had done a hell of a job anchoring it's head in place! He had worked in several spinning heel kicks in his quest to pop it's noggin off but nothing gave... and his sais just weren't much for deep lacerations.

Pulling off his damp mask, Raph lets it hang from one finger while he sweeps a hand back acropss his features and over the dome of his head. "Jeez, Donny. You ,make this thing out of kevlar or something?" he uttered, cinching the tattered rag back around his eyes. It wasn't unenjoyable, but still, Raph felt minorly nettled. His attention turned to several other tools that clung to the walls or waited in racks. With a huff, he gave it up. It seemed almost taboo. hge returned his sais to their place on the rack, slipping their blades through little slots in a post to let them hanf, metal whispering against repurposed pallet boards and settling with a dull thunk.

"So you get all that?" he wondered of his brother as he plucked upo a towel from a stack near the racks, working it over his shoulders and down the lengths of his arms, blotting the beads of sweat from his body.

Donatello has posed:
... It's an idiom, or a turn of phrase. Let's not complicate it further.

Thinking of reptiles sweating and how mutagenic ooze makes that possible goes beyond even my suspension of disbelief.

"Pardon, did you say 'kevlar'?" He's so pleased at the comparison, the winding down whirr of the cameras enabling him to hear soft utterances all that much easier. "While kevlar fabric is found even in motorcycle safety clothing and shoes, it's not so easy to come by in a dumpster, or the sewer. No, that's layers of whatever I had access to. Canvas, burlap, even spandex. Did the trick, didn't it? Now, if only I had access to pressure-sensitive equipment..." Donatello, his favourite part almost upon them, nearly bounces his way back to the workstation, rambling to himself. Already the transmission is occurring at break-neck speed, but the 3D generation takes longer than milliseconds. How disappointing.

Watching the rather rough-looking turtle image come together on the screen, with the occasional pause as his monster of a computer takes time to think to itself, Donnie nods his bald head vigorously, "Just look, Raph!" He cycles through at least twenty different views faster than the eye can blin-- how the hell did Donatello get cameras in the goddamn floor...? "And when I do this!" It's a play button, so simple that even the least tech-savvy of their family could operate it. Once clicked, a kick is shown in slow-motion. The very first kick that branches into three, with numbers above in the acceleration equation.

While at the beginning, the whole thing isn't terribly impressive, upon switching to a camera that was filming lower, a red part is highlighted on the trailing leg. "There," using his finger as an indicator of the obvious, "a weak point. You need to increase the height of your jump by two inches and adjust the angle of your kick. Also, using three strikes would not be recommended as it would leave you vulnerable for an extended period of time." Not that Raph would bother to use such a move in a legit fight, Donnie... Right? Or is his brother that dens--er, angry? Judging from the green head turning, hazel eyes staring owlishly at the older, it appears Don's attempting to figure that very thing out.

A handwave. "Ah, um, and here's more!" The process is repeated, but since numbers can't speak for themselves to anyone but him, he's stuck translating, "This particular jab, you leave your left side completely unprotected, and your ankle was twisted. A sudden sweep would leave you on your shell." Donatello asked for this, but it doesn't sit well with him to start pointing it out. He's worried it could just end up pissing Raph off.