Prologue

Screaming. So much screaming!

Leather Head stood, vibrating and confused as he stared ahead, his gaze shifting between the openings of the three sewer tunnels before him. He felt his heart race and his head throb as he desperately tried to choose which tunnel will take him towards the cries for help that flooded his ears. A flicker of movement to the left had him racing towards the first tunnel. No amount of stealth could disguise his oncoming as his feet sloshed through the water, nor did he try to be discreet. Time was his enemy.

The scene before him had him stopping in his tracks when he neared the head of the tunnel. So much carnage. He felt the thick taste of bile rise in his throat. It was the mutant monster; half man, half some kind of grotesque insect he could not quite distinguish. It's enraged scream echoed through the tunnels, so shrill Leather Head clamped his large hands over his ears. In front of the creature was a man, normal and terrified, begging for his life. Leather head sprang forward, teeth barred, dangerous claws ready for battle. He didn't get far. Out of the darkness a swarm of bugs appeared, forming a barricade, blocking him from any rescue. He tried to march through them, but they pounced, knocking him to his feet with incredible force. He rolled, bucked, desperate to free himself of the invaders, but found himself powerless against their combined strength.

"Leather Head! Help me!"

He swung his head around, and found himself starring into the man's face as the creature reached, picking up the man in it's pincher claws before lowering its salivating mouth to his neck. The victim turned, quickly staring directly at Leather head, his eyes dark and accusing.

"How could you let me die!" he screamed.

"Nooooo!"

Leather Head shot upright so quickly his head spun. He found himself on the floor, in a tangle of flannel blankets, his heart pounding so hard, the irrational part of him was scared it would burst through his chest. His eyes focused and only when he finally convinced himself he was indeed in his lair, not in the thick of the tunnels, pinned by an army of bugs, did he dare move. He removed the blankets that wrapped around his legs and torso, tossing it aside. Slowly, he rose to his feet and instead of going back to bed, he made his way through the darkness towards the kitchen. Sleep was the last thing he wanted, for fear that the scene would return, replaying itself over and over. He made his way to the kitchen table, pulling the metal chord of the lamp that stood in the centre, lighting the room in its soft florescent glow. Next, he went to the cupboard, selecting the tea leaves, a special blend, he had received from Splinter. The Rat had promised him of the calming abilities of the mix of leaves and herbs. He prepared it exactly as he was instructed; one teaspoon, steeped in hot water for two to three minutes. He returned to the table, settling into one of the chairs with the warm cup held tightly between his tensed hands. Two cups later, and time meditating on past conversations with Leonardo, remembering his words, his techniques he learned from The Ancient One on how to harness his own out of control emotions and thoughts, he felt somewhat more settled. A long sigh escaped him as he pushed the cup away from him. He hadn't had that dream for some time now. Out of all the nightmares that plagued him, that one bothered him the most, stung through his thick skin.

He recollected what he done the day before, desperate to figure out what could have brought the memories to the surface. He had smartly declined Michelangelo's offer to watch his Monster marathon from his vast DVD collection. He had passed on Raphael's invite for a few rounds of friendly sparring. He even shrugged off Donatello, refusing to go over notes and samples of their latest project. He had felt on edge, more so than usual and he had no idea what brought it on.

Then it hit him. He remembered the faint smell of oranges and cantaloupe, that had greeted him as he travelled the tunnels earlier that day, scavenging for anything that could possibly be useful to him. He had recognized the scent from before. It was the calling card for one of the sewer workers he had a few chance near run ins with in the past. And it was a direct connection to his dream. For it was more than a random nightmare brought to life by a cloud of dark and sinister. The man had been real. The whole scene, for the most part had been real. He was there when the mutant, an unfortunate result from Baxter Stockman's viral outbreak, terrorized the tunnels. He witnessed him take down a man and was powerless to do anything in time to stop it.

He pushed his chair from the table and stood, picking the tea cup and carried it to the sink. After he rinsed it out and placed it upside down on a towel to dry, he placed his hands firmly on the counter, bowed his head and closed his eyes, trying to block out everything around him.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, in memory of the fallen man, feeling no solace in his own words. He sighed heavily and went to his living room, crossing the floor, stopping when he was facing one of the two book shelves pressed firmly against the brick wall. He raised a hand to one of the line of books, skipping over the physics and chemistry texts, reaching directly for a certain hardcover. He carried it to his favourite recliner, sinking against the soft material. The book automatically fell open to a certain page, a poem he had read many times before. Through out the beautiful and lyrical words, it told a short story based on a warrior and how, despite the grimness of war, had managed to see the light. A light that kept him from sinking into that certain darkness only the evils of war could conjure. Leonardo had shown him the book of poems and short stories, and gave it to him as a gift. He taught him how to search for peace and meaning within the words, and use it to help him understand that, they were much more than just prose of fiction. That, in life, there is light beyond the darkness and that he just had to learn ways to see through the haze.

He read the stories over and over again, loosing all sense of time until the ring of his shell cell broke the silence. He placed the book aside and returned to the kitchen once more, where he left it on the table.

"Hey, L.H. Care for some company?"Donatello's voice carried over the conection. "I'm trying to figure how to get this new gadget to work that I have planned for the battle shell...But Mikey keeps on insisting I make it bigger.. and cooler. Needless to say, nothing is getting done."

A light chuckle rose from Leather Head's throat and he smiled as he envisioned the scene of the turtle brothers. Perhaps a visit from his dear friend would be the distraction he needed.

"Yes my friend. Company would be good."