Hello everyone! I'm sorry I'm a day late with this – the past weekend was more taxing than I realized and I'm still tired 10 days later. Oh well. Onto Act 3!

There's a lot I want to say about this Act, but on reflection, it's all better served in subsequent chapters. So for now, let me express how amazing the feedback on this series has been thus far. I've had more comments since the end of Act 2 than I get on most everything I write. And you are all so interested, so supportive, and so kind. I am overwhelmed and supremely grateful for all of you.

Unfortunately, I'm about to betray you by breaking your hearts some more. But you saw that coming.

Enjoy!

Chapter 1: Nowhere

The Way of Silence.

The Way of Invisibility.

The Code of Bushido:
Righteousness, Courage, Benevolence, Respect, Sincerity, Honor, Loyalty, Self-Control

Hamato Clan

Donatello's hands almost shook as he finished the last stroke of the paint on the final banner. The kanji for the Hamato Clan had been the very first Donatello had learned at his father's knee, and though his skill with proper calligraphy would never rival Leonardo's, he had always worked to perfect the symbols that meant their family.

He stared hard at the last stroke. Maybe it wobbles a very little at the end. But nobody will notice.

Nobody who could tell the difference will even see them, probably.

That thought was old and landed on a callus where Don's feelings had once been raw. Almost ignoring the near-constant companion that was the bite of despair, he turned to his Moving Book and checked off the entry for "Dojo Banners."

Well, they have to be hung still, but they have to dry first. And I think I wrote down "Hanging Dojo Banners" a couple of pages later anyway.

The small notebook was familiar against his skin as he tucked it into his belt, pressed to his plastron. He could barely remember not carrying it, not checking it every minute of the day.

He could barely remember a life before.

The Way of Silence. That's pretty much it. Though maybe I should have made a banner for The Way of Structure or The Way of Scheduling. The Way of Micro-Managing Every Minute to Stave Off Insanity.

As if hearing his thoughts, his Shell Cell beeped.

Time to go. Donatello left the banners to dry and moved across the lair to his workstation. The heavy duffle bag sat waiting right where it was supposed to be on the end of the table. Don packed it up almost without thought. Instead, he considered the bag's origin.

-==OOO==-

"Hey Donnie!" April's voice was a little too high and cheerful as she stepped through the door. "How are you?"

Don looked up from where he had been working. The middle of the floor was littered with the parts he had scavenged which were streaked with grease. He wiped his hands on a towel and rose to meet her.

"Hi April. I'm okay. What brings you here today?"

She held out a brand-new, sturdy duffle bag. It was black with grey zippers and trimmings on the seams.

April's smile was a little too bright.

"I know you've been wanting one, and I saw this one in a store window while I was out running errands this morning. I thought it might come in handy, and it gave me an excuse to come see you!"

Donatello tried to return her smile, but he could feel its stiffness. "Thanks, April. You really didn't need to do this."

"Of course I did!" Then, her face falling, "I want to do whatever I can to...you know. Help out."

Don took the bag from April's hands and ducked his head. "I appreciate it."

He didn't want to see the loss and sympathy in her eyes so he kept his head down when she sighed.

"I wish there was something I could do," she said quietly. "I wish…"

"I know," Don said, hoping his voice didn't catch on tears the way hers did. "But there isn't. I wish, too."

April was quiet for a moment. Finally, she took a deep breath and Don could hear her pulling herself together. "So, Donnie. Casey's been watching all those cooking shows with me lately, probably because he feels guilty for making me watch wrestling with him."

That was a strange-enough non sequitur that Don had to look up at her.

April's troubled eyes lit with slight triumph. "Now he wants to start trying some of those recipes. But they really are too much food for the two of us, even with how he eats. I was thinking about making it a weekly project. Cook a big meal on Sunday afternoon and then there would be leftovers all week. But I'm afraid we'll end up with a full fridge and leftovers that go bad."

Don felt the trap curling around him, but he let her spring it anyway.

"Maybe you could help me out?"

"Help how, April?" he answered as he was supposed to.

Besides, it was worth it for the relief in her face. "Come over on Sunday and help us eat this stuff. And you can take some leftovers with you, too. That way I'm not stuck with them and Casey gets his wish to try to out-cook the cooking channel."

Donatello didn't sigh, but he felt it in his chest. "Okay. What time?"

"Why don't you come over around noon and we'll eat when we're ready? And if you wanted to, you could help me outvote Casey and watch a real movie for once, too!"

"Sure, April."

She hugged him, and they both felt the tremor in her arms, the too-tight grip. Donatello leaned into it for a moment before he drew back.

He tried to smile more genuinely. "Thanks for the bag, too, April. This'll help a lot."

-==OOO==-

It's been a month. I've had this bag a month, and I've been to April's on Sundays for four weeks.

Which means it's been almost two months that I've been alone. Feels like a lifetime.

Feels like I've never lived any other way.

Or maybe I never really lived at all.

Mechanically, Donatello zipped the bag shut with a sound that echoed in the silent lair. Then he grabbed for the big boots he had modified. They laced halfway up his calves, cut to the shape of his feet, and they were still waterproof. But, more importantly, they could stand up against the frigid temperatures of November in New York, and they kept out the freezing dampness of the sewers. Next came the coat and hat to keep off the chill of the wind, to say nothing of sleet or snow. Finally, he slid his bo home into the belt he had added to the coat.

One last check of the list and I'll be good to go.

Today's list was written down in the Moving Book, too, but he had made a copy in the mid-afternoon so he could keep the Book protected inside the coat. The copy sat on his desk in its designated spot next to the bag. Don read over it twice, checking it against his mental list of the tasks for the next few days.

Looks about right. Not even a lot of big stuff these days. Just harder-to-find stuff.

Donatello pulled the bag over his shoulder and strode for the door to the lair, pausing only to key in the security code to lock it down in his absence. He could almost feel the subsonic hum of the system as it stirred to life, feeding power to the automated defenses and sealing all the possible entry-points. Then he re-synchronized his Shell Cell with the day's passcode and headed out into the sewer, the reinforced door closing and locking behind him with an almost soundless hiss of pressure.

Donatello set off into the underground.

Sensors haven't shown any motion bigger than a stray cat down here in two days, but that's no guarantee. With my luck, an entire set of city mutant hunters will be holding a convention down here.

For the first several blocks out from the lair, Donatello consulted his Shell Cell periodically. It was tapped into the lair's sensor net and could tell him if there were any sources of motion or heat that could herald danger in his vicinity. Once he left the range of the lair's sensors, however, he could only rely upon his own senses.

There was an almost meditative quality to the process of gauging his surroundings, listening and looking closely and stretching out with the sixth sense that he had been cultivating through ninja training for as long as he could remember. It was what allowed him to fight in total concealment and never lose track of his opponents or his allies. It was what warned him he had missed something in a calculation before he made a fatal mistake. It was what had always told him how to find his brothers no matter what.

But now that he was almost always alone, the sense was almost entirely dedicated to watching his back. For nothing else did.

Moving in silence and staying alert to any possible threat, it took Donatello about thirty minutes to reach his destination. There was a small scrapyard along the docks on the West Side he hadn't checked in a few weeks, and he happened to know that they closed early on Wednesdays. It wasn't one of his go-to junkyards because of its location, but today an exception had to be made.

A manhole led him to the alley beside the scrapyard, providing cover of darkness as well as from the icy wind.

In and out. No delay if I can help it. I really don't want to hang around here too long. And let's hope the neighbors don't get curious either.

Don waited for a particularly brutal gust of wind that would cause any on-lookers to flinch and sprinted from his hiding spot for the fence which he easily leaped. He ghosted into the scrapyard and headed straight for a pile of recent acquisitions.

An hour later, Donatello's hands were cold to the bone, but he had collected most of what he had been hoping to find. That done, he opened his bag and examined the items he had brought with him. It was the part of the process his brothers had never understood – replacing the things he took with other things. But Don knew that all junkyards and scrapyards only made money by selling what they had either to recyclers or as usable parts, so anything he stole would have been money he took from them; therefore, Don left behind his own broken materials or scraps of equal value for what he acquired. Most commonly, Don traded bits of copper piping he replaced in the sewers, as the copper was very valuable but easy to carry in small amounts.

Don mentally totalled his findings and pulled two thin copper pipes from his bag, carefully hiding them amidst the unsorted scrap so they would be discovered in the morning. If the things he was acquiring didn't quite fit in his bag, he had two more pipes he could leave behind, paying forward for the next trip. Don maintained a mental list – which he had also copied into a spreadsheet on his computer – of the tallies from every junkyard and scrapyard within twenty miles of Manhattan, and overall, he was very fair with his exchanges.

Of course, it helped that cleaning out a new lair tended to unearth a lot of scrap metal, conveniently right when he needed the most in the way of materials and parts. When he'd cleaned out the lair before the pump station, he'd found such an overabundance of old pipes and things, he'd actually had to sell it directly, hooking up with his favorite scrapper online and having Casey pose as him when they came to collect it. That haul had fed a huge chunk of money into the online bank account Don had created, which had been very important for buying those items he just could not find or make from garbage.

If I start running low on funds again, I should go strip the pump station. There's at least a few thousand dollars' worth of stuff down there, and scrappers won't care if it's busted. I'd just have to pick a time Casey and April could come with me in case the Foot decide to visit.

Having completed the trade for his finds, Donatello loaded up his bag, zipping it shut with even a little room to spare.

So much easier when I don't need to make trips or figure out how to get a wheelbarrow in and out of the sewer. Even if I do have the only folding, hovering wheelbarrow on the planet.

Don had just reached the fence and was readying to leap over it when his sixth sense blared a warning.

Shell. I knew they were watching my favorite spots. I didn't think they'd come all the way out here.

Don paused.

I can't stay here all night. I'll have to try to outrun them.

He secured his bag by tightening its strap and drew his bo. In one smooth motion, he vaulted the fence and landed in a run.

There was a shout and a crowd of Purple Dragons spilled into the street.

Advantages, me: I have a head start, I'm faster on the ground, and I only need to get to the manhole – they'll never find me down in the sewers.

Advantages, them: they have numbers, maybe guns, and they don't have to hide.

A roar sounded from down the block.

Oh. And they have wheels.

Don skidded to a halt just before he reached the alley with the open manhole – the alley which was now lined with Purple Dragons lying in wait. He spun on his heel and was getting ready to sprint down the street, but the headlights of motorcycles were already advancing.

His mind raced at better-than-lightning speeds.

The streets are cut off and the only way up to the roof is through this crowd. I'm not going to win a footrace against their bikes. And there's no way I can fight this many. I have to strike hard and create an exit before the whole gang converges on me, then double back underground when I lose them.

Better make this fast.

Donatello exploded into forward motion, diving with his bo extended in a sweeping strike. The first row of Purple Dragons blocking the alley went down fast and hard.

His world narrowed to his primary objective – the escape-ladder that led to the roof which was closer than the open manhole. Anything that threatened to keep him from the ladder met his bo with force. There was no time to think, no time to plan. He could only react.

When he was close enough, Donatello jumped, springboarding off the head of the nearest Purple Dragon, and grabbed onto the ladder. He fixed his bo into place and started to climb.

Suddenly a sharp, jarring pain exploded across his head.

Don felt himself falling. He could do nothing but flop back to the ground, though the impact seemed far away. His head was spinning, lights were flashing, his ears roared with nameless sound.

Then he fell again.

I didn't know I could fall twice.

Oh. They kicked me. Right.

Gotta...get out of here.

The instinct was deeper than conscious thought. Donatello stretched out a hand and met a boot that vanished. Pain bloomed across his side.

Is that me rolling? Or is it just my head? Can my head roll without me?

Suddenly one hand fell farther, as though there were a hole in the ground.

Hole. Manhole. Sewer. Sewer!

Don couldn't leap into the sewer, but he could certainly shift his weight towards the hole and fall.

Water. Water is good. Get me...out of here.

Can't go home. They'll follow.

Get out of here.

For one moment of clarity, Don was able to remember that he was in a tunnel which drained into a more swiftly-flowing part of the sewer. He could hear the Purple Dragons starting to climb down towards him. With all his strength, he pushed to his hands and knees and crawled along the water until he reached where the runoff hit a deeper channel.

Hope I...don't drown.

He tipped into the rush of water and let it carry him away.

-==OOO==-

Leatherhead's secondary perimeter alarm sounded.

"Something is in the water," he said, looking at the monitors alight with red warnings. Then he squinted. "But its shape…"

An instant later, he bolted from his home and out into the nearby sewer tunnel. His eyes were well-adapted to low light, so he had little trouble spotting the large anomaly in the water that was flowing by.

A turtle-shaped anomaly.

"Hold on, my friend!"

Leatherhead dove into the water and darted along, his tail providing him with the incredible speed of his crocodile heritage. In moments, he closed his arms around the unconscious ninja. He shifted his hold to ensure he could keep the turtle's head clear of the water.

"Donatello! Can you hear me?"

Leatherhead was gratified that Donatello's eyes opened momentarily, but he was just as quickly alarmed by the clearly uneven pupils within.

"I have you, my friend," Leatherhead said, holding the turtle carefully. "Rest. I will care for you."

Donatello's eyes fell closed.

Leatherhead wasted no time pulling Don out of the water and carrying him back towards his home.

At the entrance, he met his temporary roommate.

"Oh dear!" Professor Honeycutt exclaimed. "Is he all right?"

"He has an obvious contusion to the head and doubtless a concussion as a result of it," Leatherhead reported, carrying his unconscious friend past the Fugitoid and into the remains of his home.

Honeycutt moved in Leatherhead's wake. "He may be hypothermic. We must warm him up at once."

Leatherhead nodded and continued on towards his own dense nest of blankets on layers of mattresses which had been serving as his bed for the better part of a year. "Help me remove his wet clothes."

The pair stripped Donatello of his soggy coat and boots, pulling away his dripping bag at the same time. Honeycutt carefully opened the duffle to allow its contents to dry and propped the bo nearby while Leatherhead gently removed Don's other pads and set them aside, leaving only his mask which he knew carried more emotional significance than it would influence his body temperature. Then he scrubbed a towel over the turtle's body to dry him.

Donatello began to shiver almost at once.

"Bring the space heater," Leatherhead said. He held Donatello gently against his own chest to lend what warmth he could, though his own semi-warm-bloodedness and intolerance to cold was little more help than Donatello's own. He wrapped him in several blankets before lowering him into the nest and piling the rest around the turtle.

Professor Honeycutt reached his side with the space heater in his metallic hands. While Leatherhead positioned it beside Donatello, its heat directed at his plastron, Honeycutt plugged it into a long extension cord and went to retrieve their first aid kit. Between the two of them, it took little time to bandage the small gash on Donatello's head and put a cold pack on the lump to bring down the swelling.

"I will watch him," Leatherhead volunteered. "He should not be alone while he recovers from his concussion."

With no immediate other way to help, Honeycutt wandered to the discarded pile of Donatello's wet things. "Then as I cannot do much more to heal his injuries, I shall try to preserve his belongings."

Leatherhead flashed him a smile. "Thank you, Professor."

Honeycutt began with the duffle bag which had resisted much water, but was still soaked inside and out. He removed each item and passed a scrap of cloth over them to remove the worst of the wetness before he arranged them on the floor to finish drying. Then he hung Donatello's coat up where it could drip dry.

He was just turning to Donatello's pads when he noticed the small notebook that had been tucked in his belt.

"Oh dear. I hope it hasn't been ruined."

But the notebook's cover was plastic and its edges were curved inwards so severely that it had been spared most of the water's impact. Honeycutt opened it gently, intending to fan out any pages that were damp.

He found himself reading instead.

The Professor read the notebook twice before coming to a decision. He finished hanging the rest of Donatello's belongings to dry before he made his way back to Leatherhead's side.

"I believe our friend is in more trouble than we knew," he said softly.

Leatherhead looked up from where he had otherwise been watching Don's face carefully. "How so?"

Honeycutt held out the notebook. "Though it is a breach of privacy, I would like you to draw your own conclusion before he wakes. If you think I am misunderstanding, I invite you to correct me."

Leatherhead rumbled low in his chest but accepted the notebook. "Is there really such cause for concern that I must do this without his permission?"

The Fugitoid's robotic head nodded slowly. "I would not ask you if I did not believe it was important."

"Very well."

-==OOO==-

Donatello woke in stages. He became aware at some point that he had been vaguely awake several times, though with an edge of delirium to his memories. At last, he realized he was again awake, but this time enough to recognize it.

It still took him several minutes to coordinate his brain enough to open his eyes, however.

Donatello looked up at an unfamiliar ceiling, but a very familiar friend.

"L...Leatherhead?"

"Slowly, my friend," rumbled the giant crocodile. "Give your mind time to settle."

"Wha...what happened?" Don asked, making no attempt to move his head. Already he could feel pain swirling at the edges of movement.

"It seems you were out scrounging and suffered some sort of ambush," Leatherhead said gently. "You took a great blow to your skull, causing a severe concussion. I found you in one of the sewer runoffs."

Don closed his eyes again to focus his thinking. He remembered the scrapyard and something about Purple Dragons. "I guess I'm lucky you found me," he said after a moment.

"I should say so."

That voice was familiar, but unexpected, and Don couldn't help but open his eyes and try to lift his head to look. The instant he did that, his vision swam and his heart thudded in his temples. He fell back with a low moan.

"I think...my brain...is still scrambled," he managed.

"I should think you are correct."

Donatello blinked his eyes and forced them to focus. "Professor...Honeycutt?"

The robotic body tipped its head. "Do you know any others in a modified Fugitoid body?"

"No, but…"

"Stop confusing him." Leatherhead threw a mild glare to his friend. "Donatello, let me explain."

Don wanted to nod but remembered just in time that it was a bad idea. "Okay."

"You recall that Professor Honeycutt utilized one of the Utrom teleportal devices to reach Earth in time for the wedding of April O'Neil and Casey Jones, correct?"

"Yeah. I remember we had to kind of scramble...since we would have invited you except we couldn't contact you...and then you called me out of the blue a few days before and...you had to compensate for the time distortion."

Leatherhead and Honeycutt exchanged glances. The Professor himself said, "Well, I decided to remain here for a time. I did not intend for my visit to be as long as it has been, but circumstances could not be helped."

"But...you didn't tell me you were here."

Leatherhead sighed. "It...is complicated."

Don sighed, too. "My brain's...too squishy for complicated."

"Indeed," Honeycutt said. "It shall be, I believe, several days before you are recovered enough for the entire tale."

"Is there anything urgent that requires your attention at your lair, Donatello?" Leatherhead asked. "You are welcome to remain with us while you heal."

"No...nothing…" Don said, his eyes drifting closed. "The guys...won't even…"

"Sleep, Donatello," Honeycutt said, leaning down and pulling a blanket up more closely. "All will be well."

"No," Don muttered. "Not...anymore…"

When he was well and truly asleep again, the two friends bustled around to make him more comfortable.

"I will call April," Leatherhead said finally, having settled Donatello into the nest of blankets and with the heater pouring out steady, restorative warmth.

Honeycutt looked across to him. "Will you tell her what we...discovered?"

Leatherhead shook his head. "No. If she is not already aware, it would only break his heart for this to be known by those he trusts. I will not further injure his pride if I can help it."

"Very well. I'll sit with him, then."

Leatherhead crossed his home to where his own Shell Cell sat. He rarely used it, but he was grateful all the same for the constant tie to his own surrogate family.

April answered on the third ring. "Hello? Leatherhead?"

"Good evening, April. I hope I have not called too late?"

"No, not at all. What's up?"

Leatherhead paused for a moment. "I...was wondering about Donatello."

He could hear April's intake of breath. "Has he...spoken to you lately?"

"No more or less than usual, and yet there is something strange," Leatherhead admitted honestly. "We primarily communicate via email, particularly when he is engaged in something that requires his absolute focus. I knew he was busy with reestablishing a lair while his family traveled between dimensions with Usagi. But I now realize I have heard very little about him or his family for several weeks. I am...concerned."

"Leatherhead, I'm sorry, but I'm not sure how much he'd want me to tell you."

Leatherhead nodded even though she couldn't see the gesture. "I respect your concern for his privacy. Perhaps, however, it might be easier on him were you to tell me what I would discover for myself if I went over to visit. Then he would not have to explain whatever is the matter."

April sighed. "Okay. Well, the long and short of it is that the guys and Splinter are still in Usagi's world, and it's looking like they're going to stay there for good."

Leatherhead's eye-ridges went up in surprise. "Truly?"

"Yeah. Leo's been named the next in line for a Lord or somebody, and apparently Mikey's got a crush on a local girl and, well, you know Raph. Being able to live out in the open...so…"

"What of Master Splinter?"

"He's still sick with whatever got Donnie while they were over there. I don't think he's really been in any state to make a decision."

This was worse than Leatherhead had feared. "Then Donatello has been living alone for all this time?"

"Yeah." There was an audible catch in April's voice. "We...we've tried to be supportive. But it's...it's so hard to know how to help him. Especially when…"

"When you are in pain as well," Leatherhead said, understanding. "Of course. Your grief for this is as difficult to bear as his."

"No, it isn't," April said. "I mean, I feel like my family is falling apart again...and that's bad enough, but…" She breathed in sharply and Leatherhead could hear her fighting a sob.

Then there was the sound of rustling and a distant, "It's okay, babe. Let me." Then, "Hey, LH? It's Casey."

"Is she all right?" Leatherhead asked. "I am sorry if I have upset her."

"It's not your fault, man. And like Donnie keeps tellin' me, it's not really anybody's fault. Though I kinda wanna go over there and smack some sense into Raph for leavin' 'im an' us like that. But Leo told Don it was like them growin' up and gettin' out on their own and that someday it had to happen and I kinda see his point." He huffed. "I just never expected to be an empty-nester so young, you know? Thought I'd actually have kids first."

"Hmm." Leatherhead considered for a moment. "And, in the matter of Donatello, do you believe he is adjusting to the situation in a healthy manner?"

"Uh...it's hard to say, ya know? He comes over for dinner every week and he seems like good old Donnie, but how bummed out would you be if your bros all left you hangin' like that? I think we're all adjustin' as best we can. Me, I've been poundin' a punching bag in the basement. April...uh, she's been doin' a lot of crying but she don't want Don to see 'cause she thinks it makes him feel worse but I keep tellin' her that he wouldn't want her to lie and she ain't takin' my advice yet. I think he's been mainly fixin' stuff. You know, doin' what Donnie does."

"I see." Leatherhead glanced over at the turtle sleeping under the Fugitoid's watch. "I think perhaps I will try to speak to Donatello. Grief is a difficult emotion to manage alone, and while you and April may be able to support one another, he may need some additional help as well."

"Dude's still fixin' a lair ain't nobody gonna live in. He definitely needs some kinda help."

"I will do what I can. Please continue to treat Donatello as you have thus far. If he needs something else from you, it will become apparent; for now, I think having you both as a reliable fixed point may be what helps him maintain his own equilibrium."

"You got it, LH. I'm all for equally-brum."

There was a shift and April returned to the line. "Leatherhead?"

"Yes, April?"

"Please take care of him."

Leatherhead's resolve settled in his chest. "I will. To the best of my ability. As much as he allows me, anyway."

"He...he hasn't let me do anything. I hope you have better luck. He...he shouldn't be alone."

Leatherhead's voice went soft. "He will not be. Thank you for your honesty, April."

"Thanks for being a friend," she replied before she hung up.

Leatherhead lowered the phone and crossed back to crouch beside the Professor.

Honeycutt looked up. "Well?"

Leatherhead wanted to sigh but he feared to disturb the young turtle so he buried the sound in his snout with the talent of his species.

"It is worse than we thought, my friend."

-==OOO==-

For the next few days, Donatello was asleep more than he was awake.

"Complete rest is the best natural remedy for a concussion," Leatherhead told him when he woke groggily and slightly annoyed.

"But I've got work to do," Don groused. "And I'm taking your bed away from you."

Leatherhead gave a soft snort. "Like yourself, I sleep as often in my lab as my proper bed. I am entirely comfortable in my alternate nest and would far rather offer this much to you in your time of need."

"And your work will wait for you," the Professor said. "I daresay you have been rather short on sleep of late going by the shadows under your eyes that remain even now. Please, my boy, let your body guide you and continue to rest."

"Hard to resist when all I can do is sleep."

"You are awake now, are you not?" Professor Honeycutt's voice was slightly robotic thanks to the body of the Fugitoid, but the inflection was clearly amused.

Don sighed. "Yeah. Okay, well, if I can't actually work, can you tell me if my notebook survived my inadvertent bath? I'd like to add some notes to it."

Leatherhead hesitated only a moment before he retrieved the little book from where it had sat with the rest of Donatello's belongings; he brought it and a pen over. "Is this it?"

"Yeah." Don took it and settled back in his bed. "It's okay. I'm so glad." He smiled at his friends. "Thanks for drying it out for me."

"May I ask what it is?" Leatherhead kept the question polite.

Don shrugged. "It's my Moving Book. I had a To Do list that got wiped out in the sewage flood, so I transferred the list here."

"It seems rather extensive for a task you have largely completed," the Professor observed casually.

"Oh. Well, here, I'll show you." Don opened the book and held it out.

On every left-hand page was a list of tasks which seemed to continue from page to page, sometimes scratched out and rewritten but always an endless, unceasing list. On the right-hand page facing it was a date and a hand-drawn grid. Every hour of the day was carefully delineated, and various tasks from the left-hand pages' lists were populated in each spot. There were also notations to eat and sleep. Along the margin, there were check-marks next to everything that had been completed.

"There's always so much to do when setting up a lair," Don chattered on, "so I need a really long list. Otherwise I'd forget something. So I used this to keep track of what needed doing and what I'd already done and everything."

Leatherhead glanced through a few pages. "Donatello, by your own account you have been working almost non-stop. And I note you have skipped far more meals than you should."

Don shrugged again. "There's not much else for me to do but work. And maybe I did eat and forgot to check it off. That happens."

Leatherhead's huffed through his nose but said nothing. He knew well that it was possible his friend had simply failed to mark off the act of eating, but he thought it unlikely; all the rest of the book was a pristine, almost compulsively accurate record of each day. It would not be like Donatello to relentlessly track every hour's activity and progress, yet leave so many blanks only when it came to nourishing himself. And that was all before any assessment of Donatello's limbs which seemed thin and frail in a way that was alien on the young, previously-fit mutant.

It was Professor Honeycutt who ventured the question they both feared. "Do you not see your brothers every day, then? Come to think of it, you haven't been home at all since Wednesday. Will they be worried?"

Donatello's eyes slid down and he focused his gaze on the blankets that covered him rather than the pairs of concerned eyes staring at him.

"Uh...well, we did for a while."

"According to your last emails, you were having at least daily contact," Leatherhead said. "And Raphael was staying with you as well. Is that no longer the case?"

"Raph went back a while ago...around the same time everybody decided to stay."

"But surely you still speak to them often," Leatherhead ventured.

"I used to call every day. But there really wasn't much to say and it got kinda weird."

"What about Master Splinter?" Professor Honeycutt asked. "I cannot imagine he would go so long without contact."

"He had a relapse. Leo told me that someone even being in the room with him was making him run a fever. I guess the strain of healing made him even more susceptible to any sort of emotional strain. Leo asked me to wait until he gave the okay before I came to visit."

"So you have not seen your family in days?" Leatherhead tried to keep his voice neutral and only partly succeeded.

Don flinched. "Well...they're really busy over in Usagi's world. I used to go over sometimes in the morning for practice with Leo and Raph. But then Raph started riding out into the han more and more and Leo needed to handle some things for the Daimyo and…"

"Do you speak with them at all?"

"Yeah, just...every few days. Maybe once a week. When I can catch Leo between his duties."

"And you no longer train in your martial arts?"

Donatello swallowed. "No, I still do. It wouldn't be safe not to since I'm on my own running to the surface for supplies now."

"And when do you train with such a demanding schedule?" the Professor asked, gesturing to the book.

"Whenever I have a minute. You know. When I'm not doing anything else."

Leatherhead looked up and met Honeycutt's optics. They had both feared that Donatello was isolated and perhaps vulnerable; they had not imagined he could sound so downhearted.

Leatherhead handed the book back. "Please forgive us for our concern, my friend. We will let you rest."

Don nodded and accepted the book. Without looking up, he opened it and began to scribble in the back pages. Leatherhead did not try to read it, thinking that would be rude, but he noted it looked like some sort of mathematical formula.

Honeycutt gestured to the side and strode away, leaving Donatello to his work. Leatherhead joined him so they could have some privacy.

"I would estimate, given everything I know about Donatello's personality and from the state in which we first found him, that he is continuing his ninja training in the period he has marked time for sleeping," the Professor said quietly.

"I concur. And this is dangerous, unhealthy, even. But what can we do?"

"I do not know." The Fugitoid body crossed its arms. "First we must ensure that Donatello's concussion heals correctly. And then…"

"Perhaps I should attempt to contact his brothers," Leatherhead said. "Donatello sent me the schematics for his portal stick when he was backing up his computer system before wiping out the equipment at the pump station. I am certain between the two of us we could determine how to connect with the other dimension."

"Is that wise?" Honeycutt asked. "I am not averse to meddling in Donatello's affairs on his behalf, as I feel someone must ensure his wellbeing, but I fear driving an even greater wedge between him and his family if we make a misstep."

"Hey, guys?" Don called.

Leatherhead and the Professor turned at once and rejoined the turtle.

"I just thought of something," Don said, making a visible effort to sound at ease and unbothered. "It's possible that Leo did try to call me and I missed him while I've been here. I'm sure he's not worried or he would have come looking, but he might have left a message or something."

Honeycutt nodded. "Such would be the least I would expect from your brother."

"Right. So, maybe, uh...would one of you mind checking on the lair for me? Make sure it's still in one piece? And if there is something from Leo, you could bring it here?"

Leatherhead leaned down and put a hand on Donatello's shoulder. "Of course. I will go this instant."

"Let me just walk you through my new security."

It actually took more than an hour before Leatherhead returned, and only half of that time was spent in transit. The rest was devoted to Donatello explaining how to find the new lair, how to pass the security checks, and how to open the hidden entrance. Once Leatherhead arrived, he took a few minutes to explore the empty space to get a better idea for the life Donatello was living. It was in this exploration that he had found a scroll lying in the center of the floor. With this in hand, he returned to his own home as quickly as possible.

"You were correct," he said upon striding back into his rooms. "I found this."

Donatello's face lit up with a bright smile. "Great! Let's see what Leo says."

Leatherhead had not opened the scroll himself, and he did not wish to make his friend uncomfortable, so he handed it over and then looked away so as not to spy over Donatello's shoulder.

But he couldn't help but hear the sudden intake of breath.

"What is it?" the Professor asked, already leaning close.

"Is everything all right?" Leatherhead added.

Donatello's hands were shaking slightly but he took a deep breath and forced them still. He rolled up the scroll and tucked it beside himself. His eyes were hard points of light in his face, as though he were concealing a storm within.

"They're gone."