#tommy turtle

“Two tails?” the turtle said, with a tone that didn't sound mean or rude at all. “What a coincidence, because I have three arms.”

.

. .

Huh?

Usually when people teased him like that, they did so with a sneer. This old guy seemed genuine somehow, but he couldn’t possibly—

“Hello.” A strange robotic hand waved at Milo from the turtle’s right side. Milo flinched, but the hand didn’t come any closer. The turtle’s gaze turned—sad?—before he moved out of sight.

What was this guy’s deal? Was he coming around to grab him from the side? About to throw nasty, leaky trash bags at him? Nu-uh! Milo chose this container specifically for it's lack of smelly stuff!

Milo scurried up the side of the dumpster to see where the stranger went. When he perched on top of the thick metal, Milo could see the turtle had merely stepped back a few feet. He was dressed in simple grey overalls, so he probably wasn't like, some Chaos Council lackey. Not to mention, he was . . . telling the truth?

The burn scars continued down the turtle’s right side, even down to the shell. His organic right arm ended at the elbow in a way that suggested he wasn't born like that. The robotic arm was actually attached to the shell. It waved again.

“What happened?” Milo asked, unable to stop himself. He adjusted his oversized shirt from where it drooped off his shoulder in his haste to climb out.

“The Chaos Council, what else?” the turtle said with a sigh. “My research team was working with nanites when they attacked the city. We were in the early stages of granting sentience, but of course the Council didn’t like that. They prefer their robots without free will.” He scoffed and while Milo shared the same feelings, he didn’t dare relax. People were more than capable of hating the Chaos Council and a two-tailed fox.

“They left after telling us to abandon our project,” the turtle continued, “but I knew they wouldn’t stop there. I grabbed what nanites I could and tried to escape with my team when the building exploded.” He made a general gesture to his burn scars. “What little survived fused to my shell, and they’ve been my arm ever since.”

It . . . okay, Milo couldn’t deny the old man’s story was cool. He’d never seen someone have a robotic body part outside of being roboticized. Somehow it didn’t seem as horrifying as he thought it’d be.

Of course, while the guy technically had three arms, his injured one wasn’t functional, so it wasn’t exactly the same as Milo’s situation, but . . . no one had ever tried to relate to him before.

Maybe this guy was . . . actually nice?

“My name is Tommy Turtle,” he said, which was also strange. People didn't just introduce themselves. Milo only knew the names of his regular tormentors through context clues. “What’s your name, sonny?”

Milo pursed his lips. He didn't owe this guy anything. In fact, what was he still doing here? Just because this "Tommy" hadn't attacked him yet didn't mean he wouldn't. Milo knew that could change in a heartbeat.

It was probably . . . this whole situation was unusual. A new set of variables for him to analyze! Yeah, that was it. Being adaptable was a crucial survival skill, so Milo needed to figure out this guy's angle so he'd be better prepared in the future.

After a moment, he mumbled, “Milo Ketre.”

“Milo Ketre?” Tommy looked contemplative then let out a snort. “Sweet Gaia what were your parents thinking?”

He . . . what did he mean by that? No one had ever . . .

It felt like instead of making fun of Milo, Tommy was making fun of Milo’s parents? Like the two of them were sharing a joke?

Milo sat up straighter. “It’s a stupid name,” he said slowly, staring intently to gauge Tommy’s reaction.

“Sure is.” Tommy gave him a—soft?—look. “The good news is you can choose a new name, you know. You don’t have to keep it.”

Milo scrunched his nose. What did . . . why—

“It’s your life,” Tommy continued. “When you’re born someone else has to name you, but once you’re old enough to talk? You can change your name as many times as you want until you figure out what fits.”

Huh. Milo had never thought about it like that. A tiny part of him felt like a dummy for not realizing that before, but who cared? He was going to change his name!

. . . once he came up with a good one, that is.

“Did you choose your name?” Milo asked. If he had, maybe it would give him some ideas.

Tommy shook his head. “Nah, I got lucky. I did consider changing it to Adam at one point, but it didn’t feel right.” He stretched in the way old people did when they’d been standing for too long, then reached into his shell. He pulled out a protein bar of some kind and unwrapped it.

“I get distracted working on projects and sometimes forget to eat.” Tommy chuckled. “Got worse in my old age, so I try to keep a few snacks on hand.” He broke the bar in half and extended the part still in the wrapper toward Milo. “What do you say to a pre-lunch snack?”

The tension returned with a snap! as Milo’s ears pressed against his skull.

He knew this trick. People got a laugh out of pretending to feed the “feral stray.” They’d either poison it—(wait, nope, Tommy just took a bite out of his half)—or they’d pull it away just before he grabbed it. Like he was some pet.

Although, the odds of this guy being able to move fast enough were pretty low, so he was probably just trying to trick Milo into coming closer. Too bad he wasn’t about to fall for any—

Oh.

Tommy placed the food on the ground, tucked into the wrapper and close to the dumpster before he moved all the way back. He leaned against the grimy alley wall and gingerly slid into a sitting position. Then he calmly continued eating his half of the food.

What . . . what kind of trick was this? Why was he . . . none of this made any sense!

Maybe it was . . . Tommy did look pretty old, so he probably had a lot more patience than most people whose favorite game was kick-the-freak.

“If you’re allergic to chocolate brownie I have different flavors,” Tommy said, weirdly not looking in his direction.

Chocolate brownie?

Milo leaned forward before he could stop himself. Chocolate was always . . . well, it obviously wasn’t poisoned, and Tommy was sitting out of reach, and his tummy was hurting, so maybe . . .

Milo carefully lowered himself to the ground, his eyes locked onto Tommy. The moment the turtle did anything more than eat Milo would bolt. He took one step after another until he was nearly on top of the food. He spared a second to check for any hidden traps. There were none, and Milo crouched down. His paw hovered over the food and he glanced at Tommy once more, who still wasn’t looking at him.

And . . . NOW!

Milo snatched up the food and ran back to the side of the dumpster. Tommy made no movement toward him, so Milo took a chance to look at his prize. He brought the food up to his nose and sniffed for anything that wasn’t chocolate brownie.

The moment he registered the tantalizing smell, Milo’s hunger took over. He shoved the food into his mouth so fast he nearly ate the foil wrapper. The taste was heavenly.

It was over far too soon, and Milo’s tummy got all grumbly. Idiot! He should have—he should have eaten it slowly; should have savored it and made it last. Milo knew better!

His eyes burned and Milo was powerless to stop a few tears from falling. There was a sharp pain in his chest and Milo slammed a paw over his mouth.

Stop! Don’t cry! Don’t be a baby!

Why was . . . he wasn’t normally—It was all the stupid turtle’s fault! Him and his stupid weird behavior, not making any sense and doing so well at pretending to be nice and stupid Milo for wanting it to be true for—

“Care to join an old man for lunch?”

Milo blinked at the question and snapped his attention back to Tommy. The turtle was still sitting, his food finally finished, but his kind expression hadn’t wavered.

“. . . What?” Milo managed to croak out.

“Care to join an old man for lunch?” Tommy repeated, with no trace of irritation in his voice. “Now that our pre-lunch snack is finished, all that's left is our proper lunch.”

At this, Tommy started to push himself back on his feet. He seemed to be struggling, but Milo couldn’t bring himself to help. Tommy didn’t seem bothered by the lack of support though. Upon standing, he merely smiled and gestured out of the alley with his nanite arm.

“There’s this great burger joint that—”

“STOP IT!” Milo pulled on his ears. “Please just . . . stop!”

“Stop what, sonny?”

Milo growled and stomped his foot. “Stop—stop pretending! Stop pretending to be nice!” His eyes continued to burn and he hastily scrubbed his face. “Just . . . just get it over with already!”

“Get what over with?” Tommy asked. As if he didn’t know.

Milo wanted to rip his fur out. Was this guy really going to make him say it? Literally beg for it to happen? . . . Fine. He steeled himself and with all the energy he could muster, screeched—

“HURTING ME!”

At that, Milo felt all his strength vanish in one fell swoop. The tears fell and Milo shook as he tried to speak through the sobs that tore at his throat. “Sometimes people pretend to be nice but it always ends the same!”

Milo clutched his chest and fell to his knees. He knew he was making himself vulnerable, but he couldn’t bring himself to care anymore. If this is what Tommy was going for, Milo might as well get it over with.

“I’m just a freak!” he wailed, pressing the palms of his threadbare gloves against his eyes. “I’m all alone and no one wants me so just hit me with your robot arm and—leave—me—ALONE!”

Utterly spent, Milo sobbed like the total baby he was and curled up on the filthy concrete. He tucked his tails into his chest so they wouldn’t be pulled and crossed his arms around his face. Sore and bloody forearms he could deal with; broken noses not so much.

Time passed as Milo braced himself for blows that never came. Eventually, he wore himself down to little sniffles. He took a moment to scrub at his face with his shirt that was a size too big for him. He wasn't sure why Tommy never took his chance to hurt him, but maybe his stupid crying scared him away? It hadn't worked when he was younger. Maybe it's because he was so pathetic—

“I’m sorry life has been so cruel to you.”

Milo instinctively curled up again, then peered through a small gap in his arms. It . . . Tommy was sitting down on the ground in front of him, just out of reach. Not only was he still here, but he was—crying?

Not all gross and snotty like Milo; just silent tears down his face. This didn’t . . . a person couldn’t fake cry, right? He’d seen little kids throw temper tantrums when they didn’t get their way but this was—this was different.

Milo sat up and pulled his legs to his chest, wrapping both his arms and tails around them. Tommy said nothing else, just looked at him like he was sad and sorry. Like he was apologizing for something he didn’t even do. Milo buried his face into his knees and whined, "Why are you still here?"

A brief sigh, then Tommy said, “Just because the world’s fucked up doesn’t mean I have to be.”

Milo snapped his head up and gaped at Tommy. Old people knew how to swear?!

Tommy laughed at that, but like before, it didn't feel like he was laughing at him. "Initially I thought I'd just try and be a friendly face,” he said, “but . . . you really are all alone, aren't you?"

Well, no duuuuh. “What gave it away?” Milo scoffed, rolling his eyes. “My ratty clothes? Bad fur? Freaky tails? Sleeping in a dumpster? My—”

“The pain in your eyes.”

Milo recoiled at that; ears folded back and he glared at Tommy. Great, so it was because of how pathetic he looked. He’d have to work harder at hiding how he felt.

“Look, sonny—I’ve been around long enough to know how shitty life can be, and it’s not fair that you’ve learned that at such a young age. But I’ve also been around long enough to know something else.” He paused, as if waiting for Milo to ask what it was, but before he had a chance to decide if he should, Tommy continued—

“That life can be equally beautiful.”

That was such . . . it was so stupid, such a naïve way of thinking! What did this old timer know? He was probably so old he was confusing reality with fairy tales.

Except . . . somehow? As much as Milo wanted to roll his eyes, there was something about the way Tommy said it that made Milo want to believe it.

“And I know you can’t believe me right now—” (what was he, a mind reader?!) “—but sometimes all you need is one person to reach out a hand and show you.”

Tommy slowly moved his robotic hand, thought better of it, then held out his left one. “If you’ll let me, I’d like to earn your trust, Milo.” He smiled, his scales crinkling at the edges. It didn’t make sense, but something about it made Milo feel a little . . . warm?

“We turtles are a patient bunch,” Tommy said, “so I’ll be here as long as it takes.”

Milo stared at the glove before him. It was the typical dark grey material, extra thick with grips at the fingertips. There was nothing special about it, and yet . . .

Past experience told him that trust was an illusion. That people were only ever in it for themselves, so there was no point getting attached. The moment an “alliance” was no longer useful you were now the enemy. Milo was only ever useful as a punching bag, an outlet for the injustices the Chaos Council inflicted on everyone.

But during this entire encounter with Tommy? The old turtle hadn’t laid a finger on him, gave him actual food, was offering to give him even more food, and didn’t leave when Milo cried like a baby.

Maybe . . . maybe he could try. Try to trust that after all this time, he’d finally found someone who cared.

Milo’s heart slammed against his chest like it was trying to escape. Sweat pooled in his gloves and the fear of just how badly this could go coiled at his throat; a gentle promise that he could very well die from this.

Here goes nothing.

Milo clenched his eyes tight and grasped Tommy’s hand like it was a matter of life or death. He clung to the glove with a vice-like grip and waited for everything to come crashing down. There was a rushing sound in his ears and it felt like every strand of fur was electrified.

.

. .

Nothing happened.

Milo slowly opened one eye, but to his shock it was still just him and Tommy. The turtle’s expression held a slight twinge of pain, like Milo was the one hurting him, but he didn’t let go. He was still smiling, and if Milo didn’t know any better, he’d say Tommy almost looked . . . proud?

“Thank you for trusting me, Milo,” he said, sounding oddly choked up. “I can’t imagine how hard that must have been for you.”

Milo let go of Tommy’s hand like the touch burned him, with only a small twinge of guilt. “Y-Yeah, uh—sure.”

“Well, I think the perfect way to celebrate is with some burgers! I do hope you’ll allow me to treat you to a proper lunch.” Tommy started to stand up, though without the assistance of a wall he was clearly struggling. His entire body trembled from the effort and Milo took a deep breath before he stood and held out his own paws.

It wasn’t even—it was such a small, insignificant thing, (especially since Milo hadn’t offered his help last time) but for whatever reason Tommy beamed. There were even tears in his eyes! One would think Milo had saved him from certain death.

“What a helpful young man you are.”

It shouldn’t have mattered, they were just a handful of words—but for some reason it felt like a balloon of warmth expanded in Milo’s chest. His tails even twitched in some strange, back and forth way like they had a mind of their own.

Once Tommy was fully upright, he gestured out of the alley once again and led Milo forward. Against Milo's better judgement, he decided to follow.

“Now, these burgers don’t hold a candle to any I can make," Tommy said with a hint of pride, "but they’ll do in a pinch. Don’t tell Ashton I told you that though, of course. I need to do some shopping, but I’d like to cook some for you when you’re up to it. The great thing about burgers is you can pile it with all sorts of toppings, especially ones good for growing foxes. My personal favorites are—”

Milo found himself listening with rapt attention, unaware he hadn’t let go of Tommy’s hand as they set off down the streets of New Yoke.

----------

Don’t worry, Tommy's gonna die soon. Sorry dude! You’re a brief but memorable blip in Nine’s life. At least I let him live to be an old man.

I hope this isn’t too weird. To me, it’s unrealistic to think that no one was EVER kind to Nine. Statistically speaking, someone had to take pity on him.

Plus, for any readers who know how my AU’s Rotor ended up being a mentor/inspiration to Sonic, I wanted to do the same thing for Nine. Have another person plant the seed about changing his name and having robotic limbs and cursing, oops. So many of my own choices/preferences came from watching other people. Plus, it’s also fun to pull from the vaaaast pool of lesser known Sonic characters.