"Raphael!"

Don watched as Raph rolled his eyes and threw down the motorcycle magazine he had been reading.

"What is it now, woman?" Raph called as he stood.

Don winced and inched his fingers towards the discarded magazine. Perhaps he could use it to hide under... The tactless Raphael would never learn.

"How dare you speak like that to me?" Mona Lisa bellowed from the upper levels. "I am carrying your child, Raphael Hamato!"

It had been like this for what seemed like an age. Mona was now heavily pregnant and suffering for it. She was still wracked with sickness, and was frequently confined to bed with bouts of what Don could only assume was something like sciatica. With every problem she looked to him with trusting eyes, but in truth he was just guessing most of the time. His worst nightmare was that when Mona went to give birth, there would be some kind of disaster he could do nothing to help with. If she haemorrhaged, there would be nothing Don could do to stop her bleeding out. If the baby was born with the umbilical cord around its neck, or if it was a breach birth, Don simply didn't have the skill to deal with it. That was of course banking on the foetus not going septic inside Mona and killing them both.

As usual, however, Don kept his pessimistic thoughts to himself. It would do mother or baby – or father – no good to know of those dismal consequences. Raph stomped off to his and Mona's living quarters and Don carefully folded the magazine closed. He really was worrying too much. It was probably time for a mental cleanse with Master Splinter. Though as a soon as Don thought about his aged sensei, another worry popped up. The old rat was just that – old. His mutated body was not holding up the age in the same way that the Ancient One's did; every day brought more grey hairs, a deeper stoop, and a slower walk. By no means was Splinter on his death bed, but every day was another step towards the smoky depths of time's inevitable conclusion.

"Now where did that come from?" Don said. His voice echoed in the empty living area. "There is something seriously wrong with me."

"We knew that already, dude."

Don threw the magazine over his shoulder. The sharp 'ow!' told him that he had hit his mark. Michelangelo smacked Don over the back of the head with the mag before dropping down onto the couch beside his brother.

"What up, bro-han?" he asked. "You still pissed at us?"

"No," Don said, "I overreacted earlier. I'm just a bit on edge."

Mike grinned and laced his fingers behind his head.

"Dude, you were sharper than a zoot suit."

Don raised an eyeridge.

"Mike, do you even know what a zoot suit is?"

"Nah," Mike said, grinning wider. "It just sounds cool!" He shifted in his seat and stared at Don head-on. "So, how was your 'thing-that-was-far-more-important-than-watching-movies-with-your-favourite-brother' last night? Where didja go? Didja see Des?"

"What I did was none of your business, Mike," Don said, picking the magazine up again and thumbing through the pages, looking as nonchalant as possible.

"Aww, don't be like that," Mike said, giving Don his best wounded look. "I'm not razzing you. I'm happy for you!"

A retort about keeping one's beak out of other people's business was about to leave Don's lips, but he kept quiet when he saw a strange look pass over Mike's face. It was gone in a moment, but Don cocked his head to the side.

"Are you alright, Mike?" he asked.

Mike shook himself and leapt out of the chair, over the coffee table and onto the back of another couch.

"Of course I am," Mike said, back-flipping onto the floor. "Why wouldn't I be?"

Don waved a hand.

"Never mind," he said, but made a note to keep an eye on his brother for any more strange shadows passing over his face. "Well, to answer your question, yes I did see Desdemona last night. We had dinner together."

"And was that all you had together?" Mike asked, his face scrunched into a cheeky grin.

"Mike! Get your mind out of the gutter."

Don felt his face grow hot and dark, and he tossed the abused magazine aside once again. He felt his temper flare as flashes of his recent dreams come back to haunt him. He hasn't told anyone about them. No one needs to know.

"Just because she was a prostitute doesn't mean she's like that now!" Don bellowed, launching himself to his feet.

Mike blinked and stepped backwards, holding his hands up, his eyes round and confused.

"Whoa, Donnie, chill out," he said. "That is totally notwhat I meant. It was a joke."

Don flopped back down onto the couch and put his head in his hands.

"I'm sorry, Mike," he said. "I'm really not feeling like myself today."

"You haven't been acting like yourself for a while," Mike said. "You're way too stressed, bud."

Don pinched the tip of his beak and shook his head.

"I know, I know. I'm letting this get way out of control. It's not like me to get so…worked up. Stressed, yes, but not to this extent."

Mike nodded and crossed his arms.

"Maybe you should see Master Splinter," he said, "to try and help you clear your head. I know you can cope with more than the rest of us, but you've got to get some of it off your chest sometime."

Don rested his head on his hands, but closed his eyes against the horribly serious expression that had come over his jovial brother's face. Why couldn't they go back to the way things were when they were teenagers?

"I was thinking of seeing Sensei myself," Don said. "I can't go on like this or I'll explode."

"And I don't want to clean up that mess," Mike said, his humour returning. "Can you imagine how much brain would be splattered over the walls? Yuck!"

Don let out a sudden guffaw, and for a moment his chest felt lighter.

"Oh Mike," he said. "What would I do without you?"

There was nothing unusual about the warehouse perched on the Harlem River. Perched on the Manhattan side, it was busy and bustling every day, with trucks rolling out to travel all across the state and beyond. It would have been gauche to use an abandoned warehouse as a cover. That was what criminals did; and Colonel H. Francis Cooper was no criminal. He was indeed the opposite. He was a war hero. He had achieved so much in his glorious career, until that one mistake. Cooper banged his fist on the solid oak arm of his chair. His aide jumped, nearly spilling the scalding cup of coffee he had just prepared. He rushed it over to Cooper, shaking his free hand against the searing pain of the burn. Cooper gulped the steaming beverage without hesitation.

The aide rushed out of the plush office as usual, and Cooper stared at the closed door from behind his elaborate desk. Soon his research team would cower in front of him, likely presenting another week of failures and a lack of progress. He gulped more coffee, the rim of the china cup disappearing under his thick salt-and-pepper moustache. True, the group had produced the improvements to military intelligence gathering technology that the retired colonel had swiftly patented and sold to the US military. They had also developed the personal safety equipment and home alarm systems that were shipped out from the very warehouse in which he sat, cocooned in his office fort. While the military improvements had gone some way towards repairing his reputation, it still wasn't enough. If the scientists could improve on their current idea, however, Cooper knew that he would be hailed as a hero once more. Under his moustache his lips curled into a tight grin. Oh yes, a hero once again.

The door knocked and Cooper slammed the delicate cup down on the hardwood desk.

"Enter," he bellowed.

One by one the members of his research cluster filed in, ushered into place by his harried aide, who was looking wilder with every new head that filed in. His name was Clark, or Clerk or something similar. Cooper didn't care. The scientists stood in silence, until Cooper permitted them to speak.

"Well?" the colonel asked gruffly.

Months before, each of the researchers would have jumped in, their words galloping over one another with no one person making any sense. They had since learned that this only made the fiery colonel worse, and so they now selected one spokesperson. The former army lieutenant Stephen Parker stepped forward as usual. His lab coat was almost painfully white in the bright office lights.

"Sir," Parker said with a snappy salute.

Despite neither man being in the military any more, both having been discharged under hushed up circumstances, the training ran deep and Cooper craved the respect.

"At ease, Lieutenant," he said. "What have you got for me?"

Now that Parker was worthy of Cooper's full attention, the old colonel noticed that the younger man was vibrating with excitement. This time, the quiver in his voice was not from trepidation. Cooper sat forward.

"We think we've done it," Parker said. "We think we've developed the compound to useable levels."

The man paused as if waiting for approval, but Cooper's expression remained cold. Parker gulped and turned to one of the other assembled scientists, gesturing for something. The third man produced a briefcase and almost threw it at Parker in his nervousness. Every person in the research cluster was a man. Colonel H. Francis Cooper's workplace was always as female-free as legally possible. After all, what did women know about science or hard work?

"Well, sir," Parker began, gently setting the case down on Cooper's desk, "we believe we're isolated the particular…bacterial strain, for want of a better term, that has the strongest effect."

Parker opened the briefcase and carefully pulled out a vial of a clear, inconspicuous liquid and a throwing dart. Cooper snorted.

"I suppose you want me to drink it and then score a bull's eye?" he asked. "That's hardly a conclusive test, when I can do that without help."

"Not quite," Parker said, unscrewing the top of the tube. "Yes, I would like you to throw the dart, but I don't want you to take the solution. That honour will go to Le Clercq."

"Who?"

At the back of the group Cooper's aide had suddenly gone deathly pale. He gulped as Parker handed him the vial.

"M-me?" he stuttered.

One of Cooper's bushy eyebrows twitched and he gestured for Parker to continue.

"I want Le Clercq to drink the solution," Parker said with a new confidence, "and then I want you, sir, to throw the dart at him. If we've been successful, there's a high probability that something will happen to stop Le Clercq from being harmed."

The aide was practically sliding down onto the floor as if his legs had been deboned. Cooper took the dart and turned it over in his hands. He grinned at Le Clercq from beneath his thick eyebrows.

"Go on," he said.

Le Clercq's fingers trembled violently as he held the little bottle and he winced as he gulped down the clear liquid. He coughed and gagged, and dropped the vial to grip at his throat.

"Bitter," he choked out.

"You must do it quickly," Parker said to Cooper. "It was a very small dose and it won't last for long."

The colonel grinned wider as he readied the dart. Le Clercq stood stiffly, though he trembled, and waited with his eyes tightly shut. Without another word Cooper drew his arm back and threw the missile. In a split second it hurtled across the office. Le Clercq remained in place with his eyes closed, but with inhuman reflexes his hand shot up and he caught the dart by the shaft.

There was a collective gasp as the assembled scientists took in what had just happened. Even Cooper struggled to keep his composure. Le Clercq opened his eyes and stared slack-jawed at the dart held firmly between his fingers. His already pale face went practically translucent

"I think, gentlemen," Cooper said, sitting back down and folding his hands in his lap, "that we can call that a successful test. You have finally done it; you have bottled luck."

The scientists were in too much shock to react to the first scrap of praise that Cooper had ever tossed to them.

"Only that substance could have caused this…worm to do that," Cooper continued. "He's a complete dolt, and what's worse, he's Canadian."

At that, Le Clercq collapsed onto the floor. He struck his head against the corner of an end table on the way down. It upset a vase, which fell and smashed over him as he hit the floor. The dart tumbled downwards and pierced the young man between the very finger and thumb that had just miraculously caught it. Cooper snorted, and Parker shrugged.

"I did say it was a weak dose."