When The World Ends

The Fire Forged

Training now lasts all day.

They only stop when she physically collapses, and even then, one of them is usually barking for her to get back up. But now, there's protein on her plate—real food, heavy meals she downs with the desperation of someone who knows her fuel equals survival. She eats eggs by the panful. Meat. Bread. Sometimes even fruit.

Leo once handed her a banana and smirked. "Don't read into it."

She almost threw it at his head. Almost.

Jade's body is adapting. The bruises linger but fade slower. Her hands are always taped. Her ribs bound, occasionally. Her core aches constantly—but it's a good ache. She's moving differently now. Holding herself differently. These moments come in bursts. In between drills and bruises, there are shared eye rolls, sarcastic banter, tossed towels and exaggerated groans when Donnie ups the reps. Once, when Mickey tries to impress her by lifting both her and a training dummy, he strains too hard and drops the dummy on his own foot. She bursts out laughing—an ugly, hoarse, genuine sound that surprises them all. Even her.

That earns a pause. A glance. A flicker of something real.

"Head up. Engage your core," Donatello says, unmoved by the chaos. "Again."

When she collapses after the third set, Donnie tosses her a towel and says, "Three seconds faster that time. Don't get cocky."

Leo begins to talk more. Not loudly. Never loudly. But when they stretch or run drills, he slips in quiet instruction.

"Watch the hip. It's where their weight shifts."

"His elbow flares when he feints. Predictable."

"When you can't outmuscle someone, use their joints. Knees. Wrists."

She listens. Even when her lip is bleeding. Even when her cracked rib makes her flinch when she breathes.

They switch focus. Raphael takes her through full-body strength drills. Deadlifts, pull-ups, squats until she can't feel her legs. Then—when her muscles are shaking—he hoists her up and throws her onto Donatello's shoulders.

"Balance," he grunts.

"Balance my ass," she snaps, steadying herself with one hand on Donnie's head.

"I wouldn't recommend it," Donnie deadpans. "That's where I keep my brain."

She snorts, and they both almost fall.

They rotate drills—core strength, gymnastics, agility. Today, it's shoulder stands and aerial flips. Which means Jade ends up with her thighs wrapped around someone's neck more often than not. When it was Mickey, he'd made a crude joke the first time she wobbled—something about how if she squeezes any tighter, he might propose. She knees him lightly in the back of the head.

He laughs. Doesn't drop her.

"Romantic," Donatello says dryly. "Now focus, Casanova."

At one point, Mickey walks in and freezes.

"Didn't know we were filming a porno," he says. "Should I be charging admission?"

"I swear to God," Jade says from her upside-down perch, "I will suffocate you with my thighs."

"Oh no," Mickey gasps, hand to chest. "My one weakness."

They all laugh—real laughter. It's the first time it doesn't feel cruel.

Later, they're sprawled out on the floor, all shirtless and drenched in sweat. She spends most days in a sports bra, hair braided off her face, skin slick with sweat. The boys train shirtless—practical, really. The tunnels are hot. Cramped.

She sees their scars. They see hers.

She's wearing a new tank top and jeans that actually fit. Donnie handed them over earlier, claiming he "accidentally" picked her size. Leo arched a brow. Mickey claimed he stared at her hips for a solid minute to guess. 

"I went off vibes," he added proudly.

"You're all idiots," she muttered—but she wore them anyway.

When training resumes, Leo speaks more. Quietly. Strategically.

"You see the shoulder drop? That's the tell. Always aim for the ribs after that."

She listens, even while her lip is split and her knuckles are raw.

Donnie gives her new footwork drills. Fast. Exhausting. Her legs cramp halfway through. She collapses.

"Again," he says. No emotion.

Later, Mickey throws a dagger at her face. She catches it—barely. It nicks her cheek.

He whistles. "Damn. That coulda gone bad. Guess you're not as breakable as you look."

"Try me again and I'll return it between your legs," she snaps, and his grin only widens.

The next day, she throws it back. Nails the dummy in the eye. No hesitation.

Mickey doesn't whistle that time. He just grins.

Raphael watches, arms crossed. He nods. Just once. But Jade sees it.

But Jade sees it.

And she carries it like a trophy.

The bruises fade slower now. Her body is battered, but it's different. Denser. Sharper. She moves differently. Her stance has changed. There's no flinch in her anymore.

One night, while stretching out her aching back, she ends up stuck in a ridiculous position—legs over her head, one arm trapped. Mickey walks by, pauses, and says, "Look, I know we've gotten close, but if you wanted to pose like that for me, just say so."

She flips him off without untangling herself.

Leo helps her up. "Ignore him. He hit his head as a child. Several times, I think."

"I hit his head earlier," she mumbles. "Clearly didn't help."

That night, they sit around, nursing bruises with ice and beer bottles. She gets water. They clink drinks anyway.

"To the crazy girl who didn't die," Mickey says.

"Yet," Raphael adds.

"Y'all are adorable," she says flatly.

When she lies down that night, on the thin mat that's become her bed, she doesn't mutter "okay" like before.

She just thinks:
Tomorrow, I win.