The mess hall in the Resistance’s current base wasn’t really much of a hall, but it certainly looked a mess. Various tables, chairs and benches of different sizes and styles, salvaged from wherever they could be found and repaired where necessary, were scattered around in haphazard clumps, arranged in whatever fashion the groups or individuals who came in to eat felt like at the time. At this early morning hour though the mess was mostly empty, save for a couple of individuals sitting by themselves with their attention on their food, and a pair of mutant turtles at a table in one corner.

Michelangelo was sitting with his back to the wall and a good view of the rest of the room, but most of his attention was on his brother seated nearby. “Seriously, don’t think too hard about what we’re eating,” he advised with a grin, gesturing with his spork. “It still tastes better than some of the stuff we’ve had through here recently.”