Baxter Stockman—no, the man who had become him—leaned back in his chair, staring at the partially drawn blueprint before him. His fingers tapped rhythmically against the desk as his mind raced through possibilities.
I need funding. I need materials. I need time.
Stockman's original trajectory had been simple—working for the government, then selling out to Oroku Saki, who would strip him of everything, piece by piece. That wasn't happening this time.
This time, he was playing for keeps.
With his newly gained intelligence, foresight, and knowledge of what not to do, his first step was clear: securing independence. He would never put himself in a position where a man like the Shredder could dictate his fate.
He turned his attention to the ancient desktop computer on his desk. It was slow, outdated by modern standards, but for this world, it was a tool he could work with. He flexed his fingers and got to work, dismantling the security protocols Stockman's past self had put in place.
As expected, his past self had been a paranoid control freak—firewalls, encrypted files, redundant servers. It was impressive for someone with no knowledge of modern cybersecurity advancements.
But to him? Child's play.
Within minutes, he bypassed all the encryption and gained access to his own research files.
Project Mouser—Active Development
TCRI Research Logs—Classified
Stockman Industries—Financial Reports
He smirked. Stockman Industries—it sounded grander than it was. Right now, it was a small research and development company, struggling for stable funding and barely scraping by with military contracts.
That was about to change.
Pulling up the financial reports, he quickly spotted the biggest problem—Stockman had been spending recklessly on research while failing to secure profitable contracts. The man had been too arrogant, too certain that he would be recognized as a genius.
Amateur mistake.
Reaching for a notepad, he started listing out new priorities:
1. Secure funding—but on his terms. Private investors would be a liability. The government would demand oversight. Instead, he needed disposable sources of cash.
2. Build a sustainable business—not just military-grade robotics, but consumer technology. Get a foot in the door of the tech industry while developing his real projects in secret.
3. Prepare for the inevitable—the Foot Clan, the Turtles, and the madness of this world would come knocking. He needed defenses. Weapons. Contingencies.
An idea clicked into place. A very profitable one.
He opened a blank document and started drafting designs—not for weapons, but for medical technology. Specifically, prosthetics.
This world lacked the advancements of his own. Prosthetic limbs were still clunky, ineffective, and required years of adaptation for the user.
But with his knowledge? He could change that.
He began designing an artificial limb—a sleek, lightweight prosthetic capable of full articulation, powered by a self-sustaining energy source. Something years ahead of what the medical industry currently had.
And once he proved his innovation? The medical world would throw money at him.
He was so focused that he barely registered the sound of knocking at the door.
Who the hell…?
His fingers tensed. He didn't have visitors. Stockman was a recluse, a man who had burned every bridge he had.
Standing up, he cautiously moved to the door and peered through the peephole.
A familiar face stared back.
April O'Neil.
For a brief second, he hesitated. April had been a thorn in Stockman's side in the original timeline—an outsider who had questioned his research, snooped where she wasn't wanted.
But he wasn't the same man she had known.
Smirking to himself, he straightened his posture and opened the door.
"April," he said smoothly, as if greeting an old friend. "What a pleasant surprise."
April looked mildly suspicious. "Dr. Stockman. You've been ignoring my calls."
Ah. Right. His past self had been avoiding her. Likely because she had been getting too close to his illegal Mouser project.
Time to change the narrative.
"My apologies," he said, stepping aside. "Come in."
April hesitated before stepping inside, her eyes scanning the room, taking in the disorganized blueprints and research notes scattered everywhere.
"I wanted to check in," she said, crossing her arms. "I know you've been working on something big. But you've been dodging questions from me and the lab."
Stockman—no, he—smiled. "I've been... reevaluating my priorities."
She raised an eyebrow. "Oh? Last time I checked, your priority was designing pest-control robots. You know, the ones you haven't been submitting reports on?"
Ah, right. The Mouser project.
He could shut her down, scare her off like Stockman originally did. But that wouldn't be smart.
Instead, he went for a different tactic.
"You're right," he admitted. "I've been keeping secrets. But not for the reasons you think."
Her skepticism deepened. "Really?"
He turned to his desk, grabbing the preliminary blueprint of the prosthetic limb he had just sketched. He held it out to her.
April took it cautiously, eyes scanning the design. Her brows furrowed.
"This isn't... a Mouser."
"No," he said with a grin. "It's something better. Something that will change lives."
She looked up at him, curiosity replacing suspicion. "What is this?"
"A self-sustaining, full-range motion prosthetic," he explained. "Something lightyears ahead of what's on the market. I've been rethinking my approach. There's more to science than military contracts and pest control."
April looked intrigued. "You're serious?"
"Dead serious."
She studied the blueprint again. He could see the gears turning in her head—April was a scientist at heart, and more than that, she was a journalist. She had an instinct for spotting real innovation.
"If this is real," she said slowly, "it could be huge."
"It will be huge," he corrected. "And I need someone smart enough to help make sure the world sees it."
April glanced up at him, and for the first time, he saw something in her expression other than doubt.
"Alright," she said finally. "Tell me more."
A New Path
Stockman—no, Iron Stockman—smiled.
This was it. The first step toward independence. Toward power.
April O'Neil had no idea what she had just stepped into.
And neither did the world.
---
End of Chapter 2.