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Oasis wasn’t supposed to exist. It was meant to only be a whisper carried on the desert winds, a legend of a sanctuary where the endless sands gave way to life. Survivors once scoffed at the idea, dismissing it as nothing more than a cruel mirage conjured by thirst and hope. Yet, the legend persisted, and now, the reality stands as a testament to the indomitable will of mutant kind, and those who chose to protect it.
The city sprawls like a living tapestry, woven from the cultures and trades of countless clans. Roads converge upon Oasis from every corner of the desert, creating veins through which the lifeblood of goods, stories, and alliances flow. Every step closer to the city is a sensory revelation; golden dunes fade into patches of fertile dirt, and the lifeless air hums with the sound of bleating goats, clucking chickens, and laughter echoing from children darting between lush gardens.
A sacred law binds the city together, a pact as old as Oasis itself, forbidding all disputes and bloodshed within its borders. To break that peace is to invite the wrath of every clan and trade caravan alike, for Oasis is not just a city. It is the heart of survival.
At the center of it all stands a robot.
A relic from the days before the world became a desert. An original founding member of the Red Stripe Army, the ones who found Oasis. He is the last member, as even the youngest of the army—Mira, a quick-witted meerkat—had been gone for decades.
He is no man, yet he carries the wisdom of countless lifetimes. A bulky, yet graceful figure of metal and circuitry, his body well-maintained but undeniably worn, evidence of him leading not through dominance, but through quiet wisdom.
His mechanical voice resonates with the patience of someone who has seen lifetimes come and go, teaching the city’s youth, using diagrams and stories to pass on the knowledge that built Oasis—sometimes even indulging them with stories of old, when the world was covered with skyscrapers and planes.
When traders bicker, his presence alone is enough to settle disputes. Not only does he quiet the arguments, but he goes even further, devising fair solutions that benefitted all parties involved, no matter where they had hailed from. He walks the streets daily, his lumbering gait a reassuring sight to the citizens who revere him as a symbol of the city’s enduring strength, the most important pillar of their community.
They call him "The Don”, a title of respect. And yet, it feels lacking, like something is missing, as if he’s meant to be called something more. Perhaps it’s because he doesn’t really remember his name, the one given to him before the apocalypse. He deleted it long ago from his memory banks, prioritizing space for the knowledge needed to build and sustain Oasis.
He doesn’t mind.
What remains, however, are the names of his brothers: Leonardo, Raphael, and Michelangelo. Their faces live on in his memory, their voices faint echoes in his circuits. He knows the truth, though. He isn’t truly their brother, not really. The original, his creator, was mortally wounded when the mutagen bomb detonated, the same one that reduced the world into sand and chaos.
The original transferred a copy of his mind into this mechanical body, succumbing to his wounds not long after. The Don remembers it as well as he could, the pixels bleeding around the edges as his circuits began to boot up, the sight of the original’s last breath leaving his torn body.
It’s The Don’s first true memory, his own and not a copy of someone else’s, one that he keeps to not forget who he is. Who he really is. It would be so easy to delete it, to make it so that he thinks that he is the original. But he doesn’t. And yet, The Don carries their bond in his heart—or whatever approximation of a heart his mechanical core can manage.
As long as he still remembered them, he could still move on, still lead to protect their city.
At first, the signs were slow, creeping in like a faint sandstorm on the horizon. The Don initially brushed them off, focusing instead on the ever-growing demands of Oasis.
It started while he was repairing the city’s main solar array. One of the mechanical apprentices had joined him, eager to learn the intricacies of energy storage and distribution. As The Don adjusted the tilt of a damaged panel, the apprentice asked, “Was there someone you used to work on things with? You seem... I don’t know, familiar with teaching.”
“I would hope I’ve gotten good at teaching, with how long I’ve been doing this,” The Don joked.
“True. Who was the first person you did this with, though?”
The Don paused, his servos clicking softly. The question brought an image of Raphael to mind—his brother’s broad hands helping secure wiring as they bickered over the right way to fix something. The thought was comforting until he realized he couldn’t remember Raph’s laugh.
It had always been there, in his mind, a sound so deeply tied to his memory banks that he never imagined losing it. But now it was just... gone. It had been loud, hadn’t it? Deep and full of life. Or was it more of a chuckle? The absence left an ache that lingered long after the two had finished the repairs.
A few weeks later, while upgrading the irrigation system near the city’s central gardens, The Don overheard a group of children talking about their favorite stories. One of them mentioned an adventure in space, something about heroes flying among the stars.
“Leonardo,” he murmured aloud, stopping mid-repair.
“What’s that, Don?” asked one of the council members assisting him, a hawk-like mutant with sharp eyes. The name sits familiar among his circuits, so close yet so far.
“Nothing,” he replied, his tone even. But it wasn’t nothing. He knew it was about Leo—his brother had been obsessed with a space show when they were younger, always talking about starships and cosmic battles. But now The Don couldn’t remember the name of the show, nor the excitement in Leo’s voice when he spoke about it.
Another crack in the foundation.
Not long after, while adjusting the water purification filters, he thought of Michelangelo. The system’s rhythmic bubbling reminded him of Mikey’s laughter, so infectious and full of life. But when he tried to picture Mikey’s eyes—the way they used to sparkle when he cracked a joke—nothing came to mind. He couldn’t even settle on a color.
Were they brown, like warm earth? Or a light hazel that caught the sun? A piercing, haunting blue? The Don could only recall a neutral gray. Not like a storm, but dull, lifeless.
April’s hair… it was red, wasn’t it? Or was it brown? He couldn’t be sure. And Casey. Casey always had a catchphrase, something he’d shout before leaping into a fight. But now, all The Don could summon was static.
The final straw came one night as he worked late on the city’s outer defenses. Alone under the stars, he found himself thinking of Splinter. His father had always been his guiding force, the voice of wisdom The Don carried with him through every challenge.
But now, when he tried to summon Splinter’s face, all he found was a void. No lines of wisdom, no warm expression, no hint of the father who had shaped them all. The emptiness hit him harder than any malfunction ever could.
He stood there for a long time, staring into the desert, the sound of the wind a hollow echo in his auditory sensors. His memory banks were degrading, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. Each lost detail of his family felt like losing them all over again, piece by piece, until there would be nothing left.
The next morning, as the sun rose over Oasis, The Don made his decision. He couldn’t allow himself to deteriorate into a husk of what he had been, leading without purpose, without the memories that made him who he was. It was time to act.
He sent out the summons for a council meeting. He would ensure that Oasis thrived, even after he was gone. But more than that, he would honor his family by letting go before their memories slipped away entirely.
The council chamber of Oasis was quiet, the stillness broken only by the low hum of The Don’s servos as he stood at the head of the circular table. The metal of his shell caught the sunlight streaming through the open windows, casting long shadows that seemed to stretch into eternity.
Around him sat the council, a mix of figures from every corner of the city. At his right was Miko, a gray-furred meerkat hybrid whose sharp eyes mirrored his grandmother Mira’s, though they were clouded now with age.
When The Don spoke, his voice was calm and steady, yet heavy with purpose.
"My friends," he began, his visor sweeping across the room, "thank you for gathering on such short notice. There is... a matter we must discuss."
The council members straightened in their seats, sensing the weight of his words.
"As you know," he continued, "I have served Oasis since its founding. I have given this city all I could—knowledge, guidance, and the stability it needed to grow. But my systems are failing."
A ripple of murmurs broke through the room, followed by wide-eyed stares.
"I can no longer ignore the degradation of my memory banks. I can’t remember simple facts about my brothers. My father's face is gone to me. The memories I swore to keep safe are slipping away, and soon, there will be nothing left of who I was... or why I mattered."
"No!" Miko’s voice rang out, sharp and angry. "That’s impossible! You’ve been fine—leading us, teaching us! You’re fine!"
The Don turned his glowing gaze to Miko, his tone unchanged. "I am not fine, Miko. My body may endure, but I am breaking down. My processors are slower. My circuits are corroding. If I continue to push my systems, I can lead for a few more decades. But it will come at a cost—one I am unwilling to pay."
Miko clenched his fists. "You mean your memories."
"Yes." The Don nodded. "Without them, I am just a machine. I refuse to let the last of them slip away."
"Then we’ll find a way to fix you!" Miko exclaimed, rising to his feet. "We’ll find parts, scavengers, anything! We can—"
"There are no parts," The Don interrupted, his voice firm but not unkind. "The desert has no resources left for a machine like me. And even if there were, it would only delay the inevitable. I have made my decision."
Miko sank back into his chair, his breathing heavy. Around the table, the other council members exchanged worried glances, some already blinking back tears.
The Don folded his hands in front of him. "When my time comes, I will be decommissioned. But I will not leave Oasis unprepared. My body will serve the city, even after I am gone. My solar panels can power the central grid for years to come. My batteries will provide energy storage during the long nights. My processors, though failing, can be salvaged and repurposed for Oasis’ communications systems. I will not disappear; I will become part of the city itself."
A soft sob broke from one of the younger council members, a fox with trembling hands. Others lowered their heads, unable to meet The Don’s gaze.
"But we need you," Miko said, his voice cracking. "Not your panels, not your batteries—you! You’re the foundation of Oasis! You’ve held us together since the beginning. If you go, we’ll be lost!"
The Don stepped closer to Miko, his towering form casting a shadow over the aging meerkat. Gently, he placed a hand on Miko’s shoulder.
"You are wrong, my child," he said softly. "I am not the foundation. You are. All of you are. Councilwoman Mira knew that, and so do I. Oasis is not built on me, it is built on the strength and unity of its people. That strength will carry on long after I am gone."
Miko’s hands trembled as he looked up at The Don, his anger giving way to a deep, aching sorrow. "I don’t want to lose you."
The Don’s eyes dimmed slightly, a gesture of compassion. "I know, Miko. And I do not want to leave. But everything has its time. This is mine."
Around the table, council members began to weep openly, their protests fading into silence as The Don’s resolve became clear. Miko slumped back into his chair, burying his face in his hands.
"I promise you," The Don said, his voice resonating through the chamber, "I will ensure that Oasis is ready before I go. My legacy is not in my memories or my body. It is in you. And I trust you to lead this city to a brighter future."
For a long moment, no one spoke. Then, one by one, the council members nodded, tears streaming down their faces.
The fox council member, though reluctant, managed a broken whisper. "We’ll make you proud."
"You already have," The Don replied.
Entering standby mode was one of the few ways he found reprieve—his processors hummed in low-power cycles, allowing him to rest while still staying alert for emergencies. He liked standing in one of the council’s inner courtyards, where it was relatively quiet, with plenty of sunshine at all hours of the day to absorb energy.
His motion sensors pinged faintly, registering the approach of multiple footsteps. At first, he dismissed it; the occasional passerby might wander too close, only to retreat respectfully. Everyone in Oasis knew not to disturb him during his charging cycles unless it was urgent. But the footsteps didn’t retreat. They drew closer.
The Don’s systems prepared to boot up fully, but before he could complete the process, a sudden electric jolt surged through his frame.
A sharp burst of voltage tore through a torn socket of his left arm—a recent wound he had yet to repair, one he had concealed from all but a few trusted council members. The electricity coursed through his circuits like wildfire. Though he lacked the capacity to feel pain as a being of flesh and bone would, the current overwhelmed his sensory systems, sending a cascade of errors flashing across his HUD.
Before he could process what was happening, his systems shut down.
When The Don reactivated, his vision came back in blurred pulses. His auditory sensors caught the tail end of frantic whispers.
“...he’s awake! What do we do?”
“Shock him again!” another voice hissed.
The Don’s processors surged to full power, his self-defense subroutines kicking in. This time, he was ready. As the taser came down toward him again, he shifted sharply to the side, his servo arm lashing out. His grip closed around the weapon’s handle, wrenching it from his attacker’s hands before they could react.
His optics focused on his opponent, a young vanguard, barely out of their first patrol rotations. The sight struck him like a blow. These were supposed to be the protectors of Oasis, sworn to defend the city and its leaders. Yet here one of them stood, taser in hand, betraying their oath.
“Explain yourself,” The Don said, his voice a low, measured rumble.
The young vanguard hesitated, glancing nervously at their comrades. Two more stood behind them, also armed, their weapons trembling slightly in their hands.
“This is for your own good,” one of them said, their voice tinged with desperation. “We can’t let you decommission yourself. The city needs you!”
The Don’s optics dimmed, as close as he could to replicate the narrowing of the eyes. His gaze shifted to his own body, following a trail of cables running from his frame to a laptop perched on a table nearby.
His administrative computer—one he’d cobbled together over decades—was connected to him, its screen flashing lines of code.
“You were trying to hack me,” The Don stated.
“We didn’t want to hurt you!” the youngest among them pleaded, stepping forward with hands raised. “You can’t leave us, Don. You’re the heart of Oasis. If you won’t stay, we’ll... we’ll make you stay.”
The Don’s servos tensed, the realization sinking in. They weren’t just trying to stop his decommissioning. They were attempting to control him. To rewrite his purpose.
His voice turned cold. “I will not be a puppet. If you think you can strip me of my autonomy, you are gravely mistaken.”
“No, you misunderstand—”
With a sharp motion, he tore the cable from his ports, sparks flying as he disconnected himself from the laptop. The young vanguard recoiled, uncertainty flashing across their faces. The Don’s imposing figure straightened, his visor glowing brighter as he prepared to fight if necessary.
Before the confrontation could escalate further, another voice cut through the tension.
“Enough!”
The Don turned to see Miko entering the room, his expression stern. His graying fur bristled as he fixed his gaze on the youths. “You’ve been sloppy. Too slow. I told you this had to be done before he woke up!”
The pieces clicked into place. The betrayal was not some rogue decision by a few misguided youths—it had been orchestrated by Miko.
The Don’s voice was quiet but heavy with disappointment. “You, Miko? You of all people?”
Miko crossed his arms, his expression hardening. “You’re making a mistake, Don. This city can’t survive without you. If you won’t do what’s necessary to stay, then someone has to make that choice for you.”
“I thought I taught you better than this,” The Don replied, his tone cutting like steel. “I entrusted you with the future of Oasis, with its people. And this is how you repay that trust?”
Miko’s jaw tightened, but his resolve didn’t waver. “You’ve been our leader since the beginning. Without you, this city will fall apart.”
The Don took a step forward, towering over Miko and the others. “If Oasis can only stand with me as its crutch, then I have failed in my purpose. My time is ending, Miko. You must accept that.”
The room fell into a tense silence, the young vanguard exchanging uncertain glances. The Don remained firm, his stance unyielding despite the pain of betrayal that lingered in his circuits.
Miko looked away, his voice dropping. “You’re wrong. We need you.”
“No,” The Don said firmly, his voice resonating with finality. “What you need is to lead without me. And you will.”
The Don stood unwavering as Miko’s words cut through the heavy silence of the room.
“You just don’t understand!” Miko shouted, his voice trembling with frustration. “You can’t see the bigger picture. Oasis needs you! We need you!”
The Don’s expression remained unreadable, his servos still. “I’ve already made my decision,” he said evenly.
“Do your memories really mean more to you than the city?” Miko demanded, his tone sharp and biting.
For the first time, The Don hesitated, the weight of the question settling in the air. He didn’t answer.
Miko let out a strained laugh, his voice breaking. “See? That’s what this is about.” He stepped closer, his gaze sharpening. “That’s what this has been all about... but don’t worry... I can—I can fix it.”
“You’re planning to erase my memories,” The Don said aloud, his tone calm but his voice edged with sorrow.
“I’m not planning to,” Miko corrected, his voice firm, though a hint of regret laced his words. “I am erasing them.” He turned sharply to the vanguard members. “Restrain him.”
The vanguards hesitated for a fraction of a second, glancing at one another, before surging toward The Don.
The Don moved swiftly, his lifetimes of experience outmatching their youthful attempts. Each grab or swing was sidestepped or deflected, their efforts growing sloppier with frustration.
“Why won’t you let me do this for you?!” Miko screamed, his fists clenching at his sides as the chaos unfolded.
“For who?” The Don countered sharply. “For me? Or for you?”
“For the city!” Miko spat, his voice cracking. “You just need to forget about them and you can stay with us again. For Oasis. For all of us.”
The Don straightened, stepping back toward the window. His voice was quiet, but the finality in it left no room for argument. “No.”
With a single, precise motion, he threw himself through the open window.
His metal footsteps dug into the earth as he ran away. He needed help. But who could he turn to? The Don realized he could turn to no one. If Miko, someone he had taught and nurtured, could think this way, how many others would agree? Who else would think they were saving him by stripping away everything he held dear? No, he couldn’t trust anyone. Not anymore.
The wind bit at The Don’s frame as he marched into the desert, the sun scorching above and sand shifting beneath his heavy feet. The ache of betrayal pulsed through his systems like a glitch, each step harder than the last as he replayed Miko’s words. His thoughts turned to Mira, to the way she had doted on Miko as a boy. A distant memory rose to the surface—Mira teaching Miko to write his name in the dirt, her laugh carrying on the breeze. It felt so far away now, dimmed by the sting of recent events.
For days, he marched on, the sound of his gears grinding as they fought against the sand. Oasis disappeared behind him until it was smaller than a grain of sand on the horizon, and even then, he kept moving. His energy reserves dwindled, his servos slowed, and his joints cried out for rest, but still, he pressed forward.
And then one day, he spotted a massive shape rising from the dunes—a giant whale skeleton, its ribs jutting into the air like a cathedral of bone. The remains had been covered in tattered rags and wooden poles from a long-abandoned settlement. It had once been home to travelers or perhaps raiders, but now it was empty, left to the mercy of the desert.
Inside the skeletal remains, The Don found a rusted safe, its bulk heavy and imposing but large enough to accommodate his frame. The metal creaked as he pried it open, the interior barren but secure.
Crawling inside, he sealed the door behind him. The hollow sound of the desert wind outside faded to a faint hum, leaving him in solitude.
He rested his head back against the metal, his vision dimming. A memory surfaced, unbidden but welcome. A birthday—his birthday, the one he shared with his brothers. They all sat around a massive cake made of moss, lopsided and absurd, crafted lovingly by Michelangelo. Splinter was at the head of the table, dressed in a dark maroon robe. His voice was warm, loving, as he addressed each of them.
“...Donatello...” Splinter said with pride, his voice ringing clear in The Don’s memory.
Donatello.
His optics flickered as realization hit him. That’s my name.
The electric shock that one vanguard had given him must have rewired something, shaken loose a fragment of himself he thought he’d lost forever. The warmth of the memory comforted him as his systems powered down for the final time.
Outside, the desert wind howled softly against the safe’s walls, the only sound in the stillness until silence consumed him entirely.
537 Cycles Later...
The district known as Whale’s Rest sat at the edges of the sprawling metropolis, a curious blend of old bones and new stories. It was named for the enormous whale skeleton that rose from the sands, half-buried but still an impressive sight. Scholars argued endlessly about its origin—some claimed it was a remnant of a great flood, others insisted it was a victim of the human extinction event. To the children of Whale’s Rest, though, the skeleton was simply a forbidden playground.
It was brittle, ancient, and historical, as every adult loved to remind them. Naturally, that made it the best spot for games.
“Tag! You’re it!” shouted a small mutant ibex, laughing as he chased after a raccoon child.
“I’m so not it!” the raccoon yelped, sprinting away.
In his haste, the ibex tripped over something buried in the sand, sprawling forward with a cry.
The others skidded to a stop around him. “Clumsy horns!” the raccoon teased.
“Shut it!” the ibex snapped back, brushing himself off. His hand came away wet, a thin trickle of blood trailing from his palm. His expression shifted from annoyance to intrigue as he inspected the thing that had tripped him. It wasn’t a rock at all but something sharp and metal.
“Guys, look at this,” he said.
Curiosity ignited, the group gathered around, clawed hands and hooves scraping away the sand. Slowly, they uncovered the edges of a large, square object. A safe. The kids worked with a mix of excitement and wild speculation, voices rising over one another.
“It’s treasure!”
“Bet it’s got jewels inside!”
“Maybe it’s an ancient bomb!”
“Should we get Carmine?” suggested a stout capybara mutant.
“Why Carmine?” asked the raccoon.
“Because Carmine’s got a blowtorch,” the capybara replied, puffing up smugly.
The raccoon rolled his eyes. “Oh, so you just have a blowtorch guy?”
“Yeah,” the capybara shot back. “And you don’t?”
Carmine, a feline teen with a streak of grease smudged across their cheek, was dragged from their workshop by the excitable pack of kids. Their tail flicked with mild irritation as they were pulled to the skeleton.
“This better be good,” they muttered.
The safe was unlike anything Carmine had seen—its surface weathered by time but still holding strong. Carmine crouched, inspecting the edges before flipping down their welding goggles. “Step back,” they said, igniting their torch.
The kids watched in awe as Carmine methodically cut through the safe’s lock. The metal groaned as the door finally gave way, revealing its long-forgotten contents.
Inside lay a robot, its frame dulled with age but still oddly majestic. The kids’ reactions were mixed—some gasped with wonder, others groaned with disappointment.
“That’s it? It’s just a robot,” the raccoon grumbled, already losing interest.
Carmine ignored them, stepping closer. “A turtle, maybe?” they guessed aloud, tracing the curve of the carapace.
“Then what’s with the ears?” asked the capybara. “Looks like a rabbit.”
“Couldn’t tell you, kid,” Carmine replied with a shrug.
With some effort and the kids’ enthusiastic help, they hauled the robot back to Carmine’s workshop, a mechanical haven that was cluttered but functional, filled with half-finished projects and salvaged tech. The robot was laid on a workbench, and Carmine began their examination. It was damaged, both inside and out. Scratches littered the surface of its frame, while blackened wires suggested someone sent raw unfiltered electrical currents through its circuits. But why?
Inside one of its arms, they found a date etched into a panel. It matched the human extinction event. Carmine’s ears twitched in surprise.
“This thing’s old,” they muttered.
The raccoon leaned in, wide-eyed. “Like, from when humans were still around?”
“Looks like it.” Carmine frowned. “But why isn’t it shaped like them? Why make it look like... this?”
As they continued their investigation, they uncovered a data chip embedded deep within the robot’s circuitry. Carmine held it up, studying the tiny piece of tech.
“This might have answers,” they mused, a spark of excitement lighting in their eyes. All the scientific knowledge. All the historical answers—maybe even settle the stupid whale bones debate their sister won’t stop going on about. “I could build something to read this—transfer the data to something modern. Maybe even preserve it.”
They turned back to the robot, their tail swishing with determination. The solar panels on its back and the rechargeable battery hinted at a self-sustaining design. Rusted to hell and back, but still salvageable.
“Looks like you’re my new project,” Carmine declared, grinning. “I’ll get you running again.”
The raccoon blinked. “Why?”
“Because,” Carmine said. “Maybe it can tell us everything itself.”