Reboot

by LuckyLadybug

Threeshot. 1987 series, my Exit the Fly verse. Putting the pieces together after Shredder and Krang's failed lightning gun scheme is not easy for anyone involved.

2. Chapter 2

Notes: I had intended for this to be a twoshot, but it got too long. A threeshot should wrap it up nicely, though.

The next several days passed in much the same manner. Baxter went to work, Burne screamed for a story, and the news crew scrambled to come up with something good. Vincent assisted wherever possible and Burne was slowly coming to accept his presence.

Shredder and Krang had not surfaced since the lightning gun disaster. And without their inside contact, no one knew what their enemies might be planning. They hoped that the next plot would lean towards the ludicrous again, instead of another deadly one. Usually after the defeat of the far more dangerous schemes, Krang would retaliate with something bizarre.

Some nights Baxter and Vincent stayed in and commiserated and mourned, but other times, they went to the Turtles' Lair. The truce continued, albeit it felt somewhat strained at times. But Raphael was determined to make it work for Baxter's sake. Vincent seemed nice enough and Raphael wanted to believe that the alien computer wouldn't suddenly decide to take over the city. He was grieving too, after all-something that definitely gave Raphael pause and made him uncomfortable. He had never met a machine that acted so human.

Michelangelo continued to hope, although by now even he was wavering. A week had passed and Barney had not returned. But nor had the search-and-rescue crews found anything in the wreckage of the Dansing Building. Michelangelo clung to that even though he knew the most logical explanation was that there was nothing left to find.

Leonardo had resumed his ninja practice while Donatello had returned to his inventions. Baxter hadn't felt like examining the power source taken from the Floxy Theatre, so Donatello didn't either. That had been their shared project and he would keep it safe until Baxter had the strength and desire to work on it once more.

Splinter observed all of his loved ones with a sad sigh. They were all dealing with their loss in different ways. Although Barney hadn't been the Turtles' friend, he had become an ally, and in any case, him being Baxter's brother certainly caused his death to have a deep impact on everyone who loved Baxter. Splinter hoped that as time went on, they would all be able to recover from this tragedy and move on. But he also knew that even as wounds healed, they often left scars. The wound from a death always did. Even if things basically returned to normal, no one would ever be exactly the same.

xxxx

Baxter shuffled into the living room, blinking sleep out of his eyes. "Good morning," he mumbled to Vincent, who was already awake.

"Good morning, old pal," Vincent greeted. He hesitated. "Your mother called a few minutes ago."

"Oh no." Baxter stumbled over to the telephone and pressed the button for the answering machine.

"Baxter, Dear, I know you've felt that the grief was just too fresh for you to really think about my idea. But we should really do it while the memory of Barney's sacrifice is still fresh on everyone's minds. I've gone ahead and arranged for a memorial service to be held this afternoon. I know you have work, but please try to be there."

The message ended with the specifics about the cemetery location. Baxter groaned, rubbing his forehead.

"She does have a point, Baxter," Vincent said. "If we wait too long, people will move on and start to forget."

"I know that." Baxter turned back. "I guess . . . for me, the memorial service is the last blow, the final . . . well, nail in the coffin. When we say Goodbye to Barney with a funeral, he . . . he'll really be gone. Deep down, part of me has longed to believe as Michelangelo does, that without a body there's still hope. Even though I know that's foolish and illogical."

"What are you going to do?" Vincent asked.

"Of course I'll go," Baxter said. "We'll go." He gave Vincent a weak smile. "But maybe you'd better masquerade as a regular laptop while we're there. I know my mother won't be able to accept the idea of a living computer. I don't feel like arguing about it with her right now."

"Alright, Baxter, old pal," Vincent agreed. "I won't come out. It will be enough just to hear what's going on."

Baxter gave him a smile and reached for his Turtle-Comm. "I'd better let the Turtles know. They and Splinter will want to come. At least, I think they will. I know Michelangelo will. . . ."

It was Michelangelo who answered, but he seemed downcast. "Hey, Baxter," he greeted. "Uh, I guess you're calling about Barney's funeral?"

"Yes, I am," Baxter blinked. "But how did you know?"

"It's all over the news, Dude," Michelangelo said. "Your mom has really gone all-out about it."

Baxter's eyes darkened. "Of course. She's turning it into a publicity stunt. I should have known."

"I think she just wants everybody to honor your brother and see him as a hero, same as you did," Michelangelo said. "But yeah, it's looking like it's gonna be a pretty big deal. We'll definitely be there, though. Splinter said that maybe we should come in disguise so as not to take the focus off of Barney."

"That's very thoughtful of him," Baxter said. "Alright. Thank you, Michelangelo. I'll see all of you there."

He hung up with a sigh. "Now to ask Mr. Thompson for the afternoon off when I get to work."

"Knowing Mr. Thompson, he'll want April O'Neil to cover the funeral," Vincent said.

". . . You're right," Baxter realized. He sighed. "Oh well. . . . Maybe this really will help to get Barney recognized as a hero even more."

"He already is," Vincent said. "People have been leaving flowers at the site of the Dansing Building."

"I know." Baxter had dared to drive past the wrecked building several times in the past week, hoping against hope to see Barney having returned and stumbling out from the shadows, alive and well. Instead, he had seen the citizens' acknowledgements of Barney's sacrifice for their safety. It had deeply moved him, even though at the same time it had twisted his heart.

He turned to go back into the bedroom. "I'd better take a suit to work and change there when it's time," he determined.

"Do you own a suit?" Vincent sounded surprised.

"I bought one shortly after I joined Channel 6," Baxter said. "I felt so underdressed the first time I met Derrick Matthews at a fancy restaurant. I don't use it much, but it's . . . nice to have it on hand." He swallowed hard. "I just wish this wasn't one of the occasions to have it on hand for."

"So do I," said Vincent.

xxxx

Baxter was right that the funeral resulted in a large turnout. Much of the crowd, he noted in dismay, consisted of the media. But there were also scientists, some he recognized and some he didn't. Even Professor Willardson had come. Baxter wondered if his feelings on Barney had changed any.

He also saw much of his parents' social crowd. They milled around, offering condolences to his mother and some to him. Whether or not they were sincere was something Baxter didn't know. But his mother certainly seemed to eat up and hang on their words.

His father was noticeably absent. He looked around, wondering if there was any chance the man had come and was staying in the limousine.

"What's wrong, Baxter?" Vincent asked. He kept his voice low; neither he nor Baxter wanted anyone but Baxter to hear him.

Baxter shifted the closed laptop under his arm. "My father isn't here," he answered. "I know he acted like he would never forgive either of us and that he had disowned Barney in particular, but it will look bad if he doesn't even come to his own son's funeral. I can't imagine he'd stay away for that reason alone." His shoulders slumped. "What a terrible reason to come."

"But a reason that fits him."

Baxter turned at Raphael's voice. The Turtles and Splinter were approaching. All were wearing grayish-purple suits with fedoras pulled low over their eyes.

"Hey, Baxter Dude," Michelangelo said sheepishly. "Hope we don't look too much like gangsters or something. These were left over from our Cufflink Caper adventure. It was all we had in the way of funeral-appropriate threads."

Baxter managed a smile. "You're fine. I'm just happy you're here. Later you'll have to tell me about this . . . Cufflink Caper?" He raised an eyebrow.

"It's a real doozy, that's for sure," Michelangelo said. "So how's your mom?"

"Frankly, I haven't even been able to get through the crowd to speak with her yet," Baxter admitted in exasperation. "I heard her telling a friend of hers that finally some honor had been brought to the Stockman family again. I know you're trying to think the best of her, Michelangelo, and I am too, but it's very difficult for me to feel that she isn't using Barney's death to generate positive publicity for herself and my father's company. And I know Barney wouldn't appreciate that in the least."

"Gee, she really said that?" Michelangelo frowned. "I thought she was all crying and stuff when Barney died."

"She was," Baxter agreed. "I think she did feel some level of sorrow. Maybe she still does. But I'm afraid I also think that after she calmed down, she started thinking how she could use his death to her advantage."

"Man, that is seriously bogus," Michelangelo declared. "Are you gonna confront her and like, tell her off if she admits it?"

"I can't do that," Baxter exclaimed in alarm. "Not here, anyway. I certainly don't want it remembered that Barney's funeral was the sight of a family scandal!"

"Oh yeah, you're right," Michelangelo frowned.

Baxter sighed. "But maybe later, when we're alone . . . if we're ever alone today," he muttered.

Michelangelo shifted. ". . . So like, what are you going to . . . you know, bury?" he asked. All of them had wondered, but of course Michelangelo would be the one who would dare to ask.

"I don't know." Baxter looked weary and sad. "The police ran DNA tests on that piece of hair to prove whether it was Barney's. It was. I think my mother claimed it from them. And that's honestly all we have, unless she just plans to make this a memorial site without actually putting anything in the ground."

"Are you gonna talk?" Michelangelo wondered. "Like, deliver the . . . what do they call it?"

"The eulogy," Donatello supplied.

"Yeah, that," Michelangelo nodded.

Baxter frowned. "My mother didn't ask me to, but when I think of it, I don't want her to do it. How could she? She didn't really know Barney. I know he would rather I did it too. Of course, he would probably rather we weren't having a public funeral in the first place." He hurried ahead. "I'm going to try to talk to her."

Somehow he managed to push through the crowds and over to where Mrs. Stockman was just finishing talking to another of her friends. She looked up when she saw him coming. "Oh, there you are, Dear," she greeted. "I wondered where you were. I guess I just couldn't see you behind everyone else."

"I guess not," Baxter grunted, deciding to ignore that apparent jab at his height. "Mother, you haven't even talked with me about what you're planning to do for this funeral. The only thing we discussed was how you wanted to have a large tombstone."

"Yes, and you said Barney wouldn't even want that," Mrs. Stockman sniffed. "He always wanted recognition."

"For his scientific achievements, Mother. Not for something like this." Baxter ran a hand through his hair. "On something like this, Barney wouldn't want a lot of publicity and praise. He felt that he was doing what had to be done. I doubt he even thought of himself as a hero."

"Well, we know better, don't we. And Dear, please don't make your hair even more wild than it already is," Mrs. Stockman sighed. "I wish you'd go back to that shorter, more respectable style you used to wear."

"I prefer my hair this way." Baxter shoved his free hand in his suit pocket. "You still haven't told me what you're planning for today. I would really like to give the eulogy."

"Oh, didn't I ask you to do that?" Mrs. Stockman blinked. "I was planning to. You knew your brother so much better than I did. I wouldn't know where to begin, except to talk about what a wild terror he was as a child. And that wouldn't be very appropriate for this." She peered over the crowd. "The mayor is supposed to give a speech. And of course I asked our old pastor to dedicate the grave."

"What grave?!" Baxter cried. "We have nothing to bury!"

"I brought an urn. . . . Where did I put it. . . ." Mrs. Stockman turned around, studying the area with a brow furrowed in confusion. "Maybe I left it in the car. . . ."

"And what about Father?" Baxter demanded. "Isn't he coming?"

For the first time, a bit of sadness flickered in the woman's eyes. "I'm afraid not, Dear."

"Does he . . . still consider Barney disowned?" Baxter quietly asked.

"He's very conflicted," Mrs. Stockman explained. "I believe he is heartbroken over Barney's unfortunate death, but he covers it up by saying things like 'Well, he was just fixing the mess he got himself into' and 'Serves him right.'"

Baxter looked away. That sounded familiar. Apparently Barney took after their father without meaning to.

"Oh, here's the urn." Mrs. Stockman reached to the side of her chair and pulled up a white ceramic container.

Baxter saw it out of the corner of his eye, but he didn't turn to see it better. He blinked rapidly. He really hoped he wasn't going to cry here. Somehow he had held it together for the press conference, but he wasn't sure he could do that again. Especially when this felt so final, like slamming the last door of hope.

"And Dear, are you really going to carry that laptop through the entire service?!"

Now Baxter turned. "Yes, Mother, I am," he said firmly.

She shook her head. "You and that device have been inseparable for the last week. I'm really starting to worry. That can't be healthy."

"It was Barney's laptop," Baxter insisted. "He wanted me to have it."

"Well, but still. You could leave it in the car or even at home for something like this. I mean, you're surely not planning to actually use it right now."

"No, I'm not," Baxter agreed. "But it stays anyway."

Mrs. Stockman gave a resigned sigh, as though she was dealing with a stubborn child. "Very well. It's not like I can make you give it up. Oh, there's Karen." And she rushed off, urn in hand.

"Are you ever going to tell her about me, Pal?" Vincent asked.

"I don't know," Baxter replied. "As I said, I know she won't be able to accept you. She can barely accept mutants. Living computers, I'm afraid, would be too much."

"You're probably right. I'll stay hidden."

Baxter managed a smile. "Hopefully this won't go on too long and we'll be able to slip away again. . . . Maybe come back when all the crowds have gone."

"It does seem hard to properly mourn with this circus."

Baxter went over to the seats for the family and sank down on one as he looked at the throngs of reporters, social butterflies, and political figures. Vincent's description was unfortunately quite accurate. "I can just imagine what Barney would say if he were here," Baxter said wryly.

"Maybe he is," Vincent said. "Maybe we just can't see him or hear him."

Baxter shuddered, sadly closing his eyes while the winter breeze nipped at his face and hands. "Oh Barney," he whispered. "I'm sorry about all this. I know you'd never want your sacrifice to be used as a way for our parents to increase publicity and recognition of the family name. I couldn't stop this. Please forgive me."

But he just felt empty and cold and he opened his eyes again. If Barney was there, Baxter really couldn't sense him at all. Not that he had really thought he would, but it made things all the harder.

"I wish Michelangelo was right," he murmured. "But it couldn't be. It couldn't."

"If we believe Michelangelo, we'll never give up hope that someday he'll return," Vincent said. "And we'll just be hurt more."

"I know." Baxter watched as people started to sit down. It was just about time to begin.

"Have you figured out what you're going to say?" Vincent wondered.

"I think so," Baxter said. "I want to make it different from my speech at the press conference, but I suppose it will end up having some of the same themes. I just hope I can keep the focus of this funeral on Barney and not on the Stockman family in general."

"Good luck, Pal," Vincent said.

"It seems a monumental task," Baxter smirked. "But thank you."

xxxx

He wandered down another random street, keeping his coat closed against the cold. The wind blew his red hair about, getting some of it into his face. Annoyed, he swept it back.

He was tired of this. Day in and day out, it was always the same. Wander, wander, desperately try to remember, look for a meal, look for a place to sleep, fall asleep and dream of fragmented memories. Then wake up and start the entire process over again.

The strangest things could make him recall a snatch here or a snippet there. Yesterday he had passed a jewelry store and idly looked in the window at the gold bracelets. For some reason, gold made him feel uneasy and he hadn't been able to place why. Looking at the objects had brought several confusing flashes of memory to his mind. Now, as he was passing by an art museum and looking at the statues' frozen expressions in the windows, those memories were starting to sort themselves out.

A goose . . . a golden goose. . . . A dangerous and deadly weapon.

Being held in the air, desperately trying to get the goose away from . . . someone. Whispering "Gold." Dropping to the ground, free, and taking the goose from . . . a statue? A turtle statue? Its expression was permanently frozen in shock.

Trapped in an office with the goose getting closer. . . . It hadn't been alive before, but now it was. He was tempted to throw his brother to it. . . . But he hadn't. He had let his brother go free. And he . . .

A flash of light, a cry of pain and fear. . . .

Trapped again, but far worse this time . . . unable to move, to see, to hear. . . . But he could still think. And think. And think. . . .

He turned away with a gasp, covering his face with a shaking hand.

The goose had been turning things to gold. Even people.

He had turned someone to gold using the goose. He had even tried to turn his brother to gold. And when he had finally done something right and let his brother go, he had got it instead. What poetic justice.

It had been a frightening, horrifying experience, still alive yet unable to function, thinking yet in a dazed fog. Trapped . . . like . . . Han Solo in carbonite.

How could he have condemned someone to that fate? How could he have even entertained the thought of doing it to his brother?!

"Who am I?" he cried in distress. "What am I?! Am I completely inhuman?!"

He looked up as the sounds of people walking filled his ears. Most were ignoring him, but a few were looking over, curious, wondering who he was and why he was having a meltdown in the middle of a Manhattan street. Finally, getting his emotions under control, he shoved his hands in his pockets and walked on.

The more he remembered about himself, the more he wondered if he really wanted to remember. He was a repulsive, wretched person. It had been asinine for him to ever once entertain the idea that he could have been the one who had saved the people from that lightning gun. If anything, he was probably responsible for setting it up.

Yet even thinking that, fearing that about himself didn't make him want to end it all. He wanted to live. It was a driving force that kept him going, kept him trying to remember, kept him longing for home. New York was a big city, but it wasn't endless. Sooner or later he had to run across someone who knew him and could help him get home.

A meow startled him and he came back to the present just as a black cat marched across his feet and almost caused him to stumble. "What . . ." He grabbed onto a nearby parking meter.

"Don't let Mr. Velvet run into the street!" a panicked voice yelped.

He bent down and lifted the cat, scowling at it as he did. "You almost tripped me," he scolded.

The cat meowed and briefly struggled before flopping in his arms, the tail whipping over his right shoulder and a front paw touching his left.

A young girl with her hair in long braided pigtails rushed out and reached up for the feline. "Thanks, Mister," she said. "Mr. Velvet's always getting in trouble."

He handed the cat to her. "You should be more careful."

"I know." She hugged the animal close. "We've been trying to keep him in, but today he got out." She looked up at him. "What's your name?"

He was caught. Somehow he had always managed to bluff his way around adults, but he didn't know how to bluff with a child. They always seemed to know when someone was lying. Not that the truth would make any sense.

Still, he managed what he thought was a good escape. "What's yours?"

"I asked first."

No wonder he had never been comfortable around children. "I . . ." He cleared his throat. "I'm a scientist."

"That's not a name!" the girl scolded. "That's your oc'pation."

He desperately tried to think of another way out, any way out other than saying he couldn't remember. "My name is a secret," he said at last. Children liked secrets, right?

The girl's eyes widened. "Are you a spy?" she said in a hushed tone.

"Maybe in a way," he said.

"Okay, Mr. Scientist." The girl held out a hand. "I'm Charley."

"Charley," he repeated, raising an eyebrow.

"Well . . . Charlotte, really." She scrunched up her face. "I like Charley better. Do you like your name?"

He couldn't tell if it was a sincere question or just another way to try to get him to tell the name that he honestly could not remember. But he humored her by shaking her hand. "I've never really thought about whether I like it or not," he answered.

"I have to think about it 'cause people say my name all the time," said Charlotte.

"Charlotte!" came a worried voice from a nearby window.

"Oh, there's Mom now. I'd better go. Thanks for saving Mr. Velvet!" And Charlotte hurried off, her pigtails bouncing around her.

He stood and watched her go before shoving his hands back in his pockets and moving on. After a block, the wind blew a piece of black fuzz off his coat and past his eyes. He stared at it in exasperation. "Cat hair," he muttered.

xxxx

Baxter was worn-out before the funeral ever ended. He was pleased with his eulogy, at least, and the mayor's speech actually moved him. But his mother decided to talk after the mayor. And talk. And talk.

"I thought your mother didn't want to speak," Vincent whispered.

"I guess she changed her mind," Baxter groaned. "Either that or she was planning this all along, which seems more likely."

It of course wouldn't be bad if she would actually just talk about Barney. Instead, just as Baxter had feared, she was turning it into a discourse about herself and Mr. Stockman. She was making it sound as though they had done such an ideal job of raising their two boys. In private to Baxter, she had admitted they had done things all wrong. The longer she spoke, the harder Baxter was finding it to keep quiet.

"And so, today we honor and remember my darling Barney, the oldest of my twins. Even though he walked such a dark path for so long, he remembered Mr. Stockman's and my teachings at long last and returned to the light at the end."

Baxter clenched his teeth. "Our parents didn't have anything to do with it," he snarled. "Barney had more issues with them than I did! And it wasn't as though he suddenly decided to 'come back to the light.' What Shredder and Krang were doing with that lightning gun was never something he was alright with! And he was trying to do the right thing before they came up with it!"

"Then tell them, Pal," Vincent insisted. "I know you don't want to create a scandal, but how can you just let this go?"

Baxter frowned. Mrs. Stockman was finally finished. Now the audience was clapping. Who clapped at funerals? The Turtles and Splinter, he noted, were standing to the stand and looking rather appalled. So did April, who was still covering the story.

"I think I will," he said. "I can find a way to say it that shouldn't cause a scandal. There's no need to air our dirty laundry in public. But I can't stand letting her make it look like Barney did what he did because of some epiphany involving her!"

"Thank you," Mrs. Stockman was saying. "This is such a hard day for me and my other son, Baxter. Before Pastor Franklin dedicates the grave, Baxter will perform a musical number, one of our favorite hymns."

Baxter's jaw dropped. "I can't sing!" he gasped.

"I thought you could," Vincent said. "You used to sing around me."

"Well, I can carry a tune, but my voice isn't the sort you'd hear on the radio. And she didn't even ask me! Oh. . . ." He slumped into the seat. He had the feeling she either thought she had or that she would use that as an excuse again if he complained.

"At least it'll get you in the spotlight again to talk," Vincent said.

"That's true." Finally Baxter stood, looking nervously to the Turtles and Splinter as he did. Michelangelo especially was staring at him with questions in his eyes. Baxter could only helplessly shake his head and go over to the microphone.

"I'm afraid I'm not prepared to sing," he said. "I'll go through with it, but first I want to say a few more words."

Mrs. Stockman stared at him, her eyes wide and confused. Baxter looked to her and then out at the audience.

"It's true that my brother made some very unwise choices that set him on a darker path in life. So did I. It's been difficult for me to accept, but I have finally come to terms with the fact that I never truly lost my goodness. Neither did Barney. No matter how much he tried to insist he was horrible-and honestly believed it!-his goodness was always there. Maybe it dimmed for a while, but it always burned bright again before long, even while he worked for Shredder and Krang. I saw it come out many times, not just at the end. He fought against several of their plans before the one that took his life. And while he was with them, he always tried to look out for me.

"And now if you'll excuse me, I'm afraid I'll have to bring up the lyrics for the song on my laptop. I didn't have enough time to practice singing it by heart." Baxter lifted the lid and balanced the laptop with one hand while his other hand flew over the keys, searching for a hymn he remember singing in church as a child.

Michelangelo nodded in approval. "That was a gnarly save," he said under his breath. "Do you amigos get the feeling that she just sprung this on him?!"

"I am afraid she did," Splinter said.

"He's sure a good sport to go through with it," Leonardo remarked.

"I think if it wasn't supposed to be a funeral for Barney, he wouldn't," Donatello said.

"Can you believe the nerve of that lady?" Raphael snorted. "Making it look like they were the all-American dream family when she knows they weren't?! When she even admitted to Baxter that they weren't?!"

"It would be too much to expect that she would tell the truth to the entire world," Splinter said. "But it is a shame that she decided to tell a lie."

At last Baxter found the lyrics. He stared out at the audience, his knees suddenly knocking. He could talk just fine in front of a crowd. He could happily perform experiments. But he couldn't recall ever before singing in public. Suddenly he was nervous and downright alarmed. It had been so many years. . . . Maybe he wouldn't remember it well enough to be able to sing it on-key. But it was the only idea that had come to him, since his mother hadn't mentioned a specific song.

His voice quavered as he tried to begin. "God be with you till we meet again . . ."

That didn't sound too bad. Encouraged, he kept going, his voice growing stronger as he continued the first verse.

It was hard to focus both on keeping the melody right and paying attention to what he was singing at the same time. But the longer he sang, the more he thought about the words and why he was singing right now and the more he wondered where Barney actually was. His voice caught.

Maybe he wasn't going to be able to go through with this. Maybe he was going to break down right now, in front of all these people.

"You can do this, Pal," Vincent whispered.

Baxter gave him a grateful look. Yes, he could. He had to, now that he had started it. He wouldn't break down and have Barney's funeral remembered for that. He made himself finish the song while blinking back tears. Then he retreated to his seat before the audience could start clapping for him.

Listening to the dedication on the grave gave him a chance to get himself better under control while almost everyone either had their eyes closed or their heads bowed. By the time the pastor was finished, Baxter had quite composed himself. He rose and thanked the man before trying to quietly get off the stand.

"Baxter?"

He looked up as his mother came over to him. "Thank you for asking me to sing ahead of time, Mother," he snapped.

"Oh, now you're sounding like Barney," she sighed. "I meant to ask you, but then I forgot until right before I mentioned it."

Baxter frowned. Any time he had gotten snippy, he had been told that he sounded like Barney. He had always been expected to be the meek and mild one. His snippy comments were a part of his personality that his parents had never accepted, but he didn't feel like arguing about that right now. Actually, he probably wouldn't have mentioned anything about the song issue if not for how upset he was by his mother's speech.

"And what if I hadn't been able to come up with something on the spur of the moment?" he exclaimed.

"I knew you could," she said. "You've always been resourceful. And you did a very beautiful job. I'm sure even Barney was moved."

"I hope so." Baxter closed the laptop. "I need to go, Mother. I don't like my brother's death being turned into a three-ring circus."

"You can't go yet!" she cried. "What about the publicity photos?"

Baxter's eyes flashed. That was the last straw. "Barney is dead! This isn't the time or the place to try to whiten the family reputation! My poor brother sacrificed himself to save I don't know how many people in this city. There's not even a body! The only thing left of your son that you can bury is a tuft of hair in an urn, and you're standing here worrying about publicity photos! Well, I've had it, Mother. Maybe Barney was right about you. Maybe I shouldn't have let you back into my life either." And he stormed over to the Turtles and Splinter.

Mrs. Stockman stared after him for a long moment. Then she shuddered, sickened by the realization that there had actually been mutants at the funeral. She turned away, looking for the photographer.

Michelangelo glowered after her and laid a hand on Baxter's shoulder. "Hey, Baxter. You did real good. I didn't even know you could sing."

"It's not something I advertise," Baxter mumbled, hugging the laptop close. "Do you think anyone heard that altercation?"

"I don't think so," Leonardo said. "You were angry, but you weren't speaking too loud. We couldn't hear you over the sounds of the crowd talking and the photographers snapping pictures."

Baxter sighed. "But it was obvious I was angry. The tabloids will be printing that, you can be sure."

"Eh, they'll probably just think you were ticked off at having that performance sprung on you," Raphael shrugged.

"Most likely," Splinter agreed. "I am certain you do not have to worry."

"Maybe not," Baxter conceded, "but it will be a minor incident anyway. I didn't want to cause anything upsetting to happen. Then Mother was going on about the publicity photos and I just couldn't take it anymore."

"You had a perfect right to be angry," Donatello said. "It's something to be angry about."

"Come on, Dude," Michelangelo said soothingly. "Let's get out of this place."

"Yes. Let's." Baxter looked up ahead to the gate. "I don't want to come back until everyone has left."

Michelangelo blinked. "You're really gonna come back? Like, at night?" He gulped.

"I'm not afraid of cemeteries, Michelangelo," Baxter said. "Or the dead. What distresses me to no end is that this memorial for Barney is really meant as a beacon to the Stockman corporate empire and my mother's social status." He spat the words in disgust. "Poor Barney won't want any part of it."

"Then, like, why come back?" Michelangelo asked.

"So that at least I for one can try to use the memorial for what it should be used for," Baxter said softly. "And . . . just in case, for some reason, it would be easier to sense Barney here."

"I hope you will find some peace here when you return," Splinter said kindly.

"Thank you," said Baxter. "And I hope that if Mother genuinely cares about Barney, she will start thinking more about him than about herself."

"I suppose there is the chance that her actions here are simply how she grieves," Splinter said. "It is a different process for everyone."

"I guess," Baxter said, but he looked doubtful. "I'd like to believe that, and maybe I should, but unlike with Barney, I'm afraid our mother hasn't shown me any real reason why I should trust her."

"But if she did, I'm guessing you'd extend the same trust to her that you did to Barney," Raphael said.

"Yes," said Baxter. "When she first came to me, I felt that I owed her the chance to see if she was sincere. I'm afraid my faith in that has been shaken, but I would still give her another chance if I felt I was wrong or that she had changed."

"You're a good guy, Baxter," Vincent spoke up.

"Well, that's one thing HAL and I can agree on," Raphael remarked.

"What is this 'HAL' joke?" Vincent retorted. "Barney used one too. He said it had something to do with a computer in some old movie."

"Maybe you should get Baxter to show it to you sometime," Raphael said lightly.

"Oh, I'm not going to show him that," Baxter retorted.

"Good point," said Raphael. "We don't want to give him ideas."

"That isn't what I meant," Baxter said, rolling his eyes. With Raphael, it was always hard to know when he was teasing and when he was serious. Right now, Baxter imagined that he was teasing, but that at the same time, his distrust of Vincent was coming through. Baxter hoped that in the future, he could help Raphael to see that Vincent was not dangerous.

For the time being, however, he just wanted to go home and not think about this nightmarish disaster of a funeral.

xxxx

Splinter was somewhat surprised when he found Michelangelo in Donatello's lab that night. "Michelangelo, what are you doing here?" he asked.

Michelangelo's shoulders slumped. "I've been trying so hard to keep the faith, Sensei. . . . We don't have a body and I really wanted to believe that meant there was hope that Barney's okay. But . . ." He shook his head. "It doesn't seem like it. Not really. Especially after the funeral today." He blinked back tears. "I was looking for the dimensional radio. I thought that maybe . . . I don't know, that the Neutrinos would have another of those time-travel eggs and we could go back to the past and . . ." He swallowed hard. "Keep Barney from biting the big one. . . ."

Splinter gave the Turtle a kind but regretful look. "I know this has been a very difficult experience for you, my son. Neither you nor the others have ever encountered death before."

"We've seen people die before," Michelangelo mumbled. "That alien who crashed his ship way back when Shredder started looking for the Eye of Sarnoth. . . ."

"Yes, but that is not the same thing as the death of someone you have known and even come to care about," Splinter said.

"I know." Michelangelo half-heartedly brushed aside some more parts and pieces of Donatello's inventions. "That's why I want to find that radio. . . ."

Splinter sighed. "Time is not something to tamper with, Michelangelo. The only reason it worked before was because Shredder had set time out of alignment by sending all of you and Dr. Stockman through his dimensional portal to the future. By coming back here, you set time aright again."

"But why is it right for Barney to be dead?!" Michelangelo cried in despair. "Baxter's mondo bummed and that alien computer is too! And I . . . I never got to tell him I was sorry for lying to him about Baxter. . . ."

"I do not know why anyone has to die," Splinter said quietly, "only that death is a part of life. And sometimes we bring about our own demises. Barney's death came because of his choices."

"But . . . some people can get miracles." Michelangelo's voice was very small. "Why couldn't he, especially when he was trying to do the right thing?"

"Many people do not receive miracles, even when they are doing the right thing," Splinter answered.

"That's not right." Michelangelo shook his head. "It shouldn't be that way." He trudged out of the lab and over to Splinter.

After a moment of thought, Splinter spoke again. "Perhaps there were miracles, just not the one we had hoped for. Perhaps the miracle was in Barney's desire to do the right thing. Perhaps the miracle was in his softening heart throughout these last months. He made so much progress with his brother. After the way they have been so estranged most of their lives, that was most definitely a miracle."

"But if he's dead, does it really matter?" Michelangelo morosely asked.

"It matters a great deal," Splinter said. "I'm certain it gives Baxter some level of comfort. And wherever Barney is, perhaps it is helping him as well. Perhaps now he has truly found peace." He laid a hand on Michelangelo's shoulder. "We must hope and pray that he has. And pray that Baxter can find peace as well."

Michelangelo clenched a fist. ". . . I still want to pray that Barney's alive and he'll come back. Even with how mondo bummed I've been getting, in the end I just don't wanna give up."

"How could he be alive, Michelangelo?" came Leonardo's sad voice as he joined the conversation. "There was no place for him to go. If he made it out of the building, why didn't he come back then? Would he really leave Baxter and Vincent to suffer, knowing how heartbroken they'd be?"

"Well . . ." Michelangelo gave a weak shrug. "What if he was hurt or something? Like, not remembering who he is? He wouldn't know where to come back to!"

Splinter gave him a sad smile. "I fear that sort of event only happens in fiction."

"But the search-and-rescue crews never found anything," Michelangelo protested. "No body, no . . . fragments of a body . . . nothing!"

"Baxter found the only fragment left," Leonardo gently told him.

"Yeah? And why was that piece of hair still around if nothing else was?" Michelangelo countered.

"Strange things happen in explosions," Splinter said. "Sometimes one or two fragments will survive, but nothing else will."

"What if the strange thing is the person getting out alive?" Michelangelo retorted.

Leonardo looked to Splinter. "Somehow I think that the more we try to convince Michelangelo that it couldn't be, the more determined he becomes to insist it could be."

Splinter agreed. "Your faith is admirable, Michelangelo," he said. "But when it is for something impossible, you will only get hurt."

"Then I guess I'll just have to get hurt," Michelangelo retorted. "Because I don't wanna say it's impossible yet. Barney deserves another chance. And I want to believe he's still going to get it." He headed over to the telephone. "I'm gonna start calling hospitals and find out if any red-haired dudes with amnesia have been brought in over the last few days."

Finally Leonardo gave a sad smile of resignation. There was no way to convince Michelangelo not to do this. So he said, "If you're going to do that, you should probably just describe Barney and ask if anyone like that has been brought in at all, amnesia or not."

Michelangelo paused. "Yeah, you're probably right." He grabbed the phone book.

xxxx

The cemetery was cold and dark that night. Baxter slipped over the low fence, clutching the laptop close as he stole among the trees and headstones, following the path that he had memorized earlier that day. He had to admit the place looked eerie in the nighttime. It was certainly easy to see how ghost stories could spring up with the unsettling shapes and sounds and simply the feeling of knowing that death was everywhere. But Baxter's words to Michelangelo were true. He wasn't afraid.

Of course, he wasn't alone, either.

He lifted the lid on the laptop as he arrived at the spot where they had held the funeral. It was so different now, without the crowds and people talking and cameras flashing. But it was right.

"We've come back, Barney," he said softly, setting the laptop next to him on the stone bench. "Are you here?"

The only response was the nipping of a winter breeze.

"What do we do now, Baxter?" Vincent asked.

Baxter looked down at the fresh dirt. "We . . ." His voice caught in his throat and he trembled. "We mourn properly, without the entire city watching." He bowed his head. "God be with you till we meet again, Brother. And until we do . . . we'll never stop missing you."

For a moment they remained silent, thinking on good memories of their loved one and absorbing the atmosphere of the cemetery.

"I know humans usually leave flowers at graves," Vincent said. "Did Barney even like flowers?"

Baxter had to chuckle. "He didn't dislike them. But he was usually too caught up in his inventions to think much on them one way or another."

"So what should we leave?"

"I don't think Barney would turn down any sincere gift." Baxter set a few flowers on top of the dirt.

"Do you think he really is here, old pal?" Vincent sounded wistful now.

"I don't know," Baxter said softly. "I've heard a theory that the dead know when they're being talked about and they'll come. But if that's true . . . maybe he's been with us all along." He sighed and stood, lifting the laptop into his arms. "Poor Barney. . . ."

He cast a last sad look at the grave before trudging off with Vincent.

xxxx

Several days later, Raphael was wandering down an old Manhattan street with a deep frown. There had been reports of Shredder in the nearby area and all the Turtles were trying to investigate. If Shredder was around, Bebop and Rocksteady likely were as well.

"No sign of them here," he muttered to himself. "I might as well . . ."

He trailed off at the sight of someone slowly limping up ahead. Someone who looked awfully familiar from behind. The white lab coat peeking from under a winter coat, the wild red hair that went past his shoulders. . . . The height and weight, the small body frame. . . .

"No way," Raphael gasped. "It couldn't be."

He ran forward. "Hey! Hey, you!"

The person started and turned. There was no recognition in his eyes, but as he took in the sight of a huge Turtle barreling towards him, those eyes widened in fear and he fled around the side of a building as quickly as he possibly could.

Raphael chased after him. But although he arrived around the same corner only seconds later, there was no longer any sign of the strangely frightened character.

"What's going on around here?!" His voice shook. "Who was that? What was that?" He clenched his teeth. "Maybe Shred-Head's trying out some new kind of holograms. That would be just like Krang to think of something cruel like that!" He gripped the edge of the building. "The only thing I know for sure is that that wasn't Barney Stockman. It couldn't be. I couldn't have seen a dead man. . . ."

But he felt an eerie chill go up his spine, and it wasn't from the winter weather.

xxxx

He pressed himself against the interior of the building, his heart wildly thumping in his chest. Who was that? What was that? A giant, talking Turtle? It had sounded so angry, so confrontational. . . . What could he have done to spark its wrath?

Turtles. . . . Talking Turtles. . . .

A Turtle telling jokes in an underground laboratory, hooked up to an invention of his that . . . magnified the jokes' laughability factor? What?

A Turtle leaping in front of his brother with two small but sharp weapons bared, glowering, protecting his brother from . . . someone. . . .

A Turtle screaming his hatred for someone having turned another Turtle to gold. . . .

Always the same Turtle. And . . . he was always the focus of said Turtle's anger. . . .

"I . . . we know each other," he gasped. He moved to open the door and look for the mutant, but two vicious spikes drilled into the door above him before he could do so.

"Well, what have we here?"

The voice was deep and menacing and filled with hatred. He looked up into the face of a very tall man towering over him. Or . . . what he could see of the face. Half of it was covered by a metal mask.

"I don't believe it," Metal-Face chortled. "It's you. The traitor." He reached down, grabbing him by the collar of his coat. "I never thought I'd see you again on the mortal plane." He lifted the struggling man off the floor. "You're supposed to have received a very explosive cremation, your ashes scattered all over the wreckage of that building. They gave you a very nice funeral the other day."

"Let me go!" he shrieked. "So you're responsible?! You tried to kill me?!"

"I?" Metal-Face brought him closer to his face. "You're the one who set off that explosion. You're the one who destroyed our beautiful lightning gun. You wanted to get rid of it so badly that you were willing to blow yourself up with it!"

"Why . . . why would I do that?" He hung there now, no longer struggling, honestly confused and perplexed and wanting to know more. He had already determined he couldn't have been that person. Not if that person was trying to save lives. . . .

"How should I know?" Metal-Face retorted. "The most likely answer is because all along you were never the bad guy we thought you were. You were one of them." And he threw his captive away from him, where he crashed in a heap on the floor.

"Them?" He rose up, his arms shaking as he tried to balance himself on them. "I am bad! I hate my brother. I could never be good!"

"Oh, that tired routine won't work on me anymore!" Metal-Face stood over him, arms akimbo. "We know you don't hate your brother. You love him so much you're haunted by what you did to hurt him!" He kicked him in the ribs, causing him to fall flat on the floor again. "Now, do you know what I do to traitors?"

"Kill them, probably," he muttered.

"Very good!" Metal-Face dug his fingers into the long red hair and jerked the man's head painfully back. "But I like to have a little fun with them first."

He braced himself for the worst, even as he desperately wondered what to do to get out of this mess. If he screamed for help, would anyone hear him? Would that Turtle hear him? Would dealing with him be any better than dealing with this character?

. . . Well, the Turtle obviously cared about his brother, so that surely meant that he and Metal-Face were on opposite sides. . . . His brother wasn't a criminal, and this person surely was. . . .

"Hey, Boss!"

He looked up with a start. Two more mutants were coming into the room. But instead of turtles, these seemed to be . . . a rhinoceros and a warthog. They looked rather stupid, but they were big and strong. He cringed. He was doomed.

"What is it, you fools?" Metal-Face snapped.

"One of the Turtles was just hangin' around," said the warthog. "We'd better clear out of here."

"Fine. We'll take care of this wretched traitor elsewhere." Metal-Face let go of the hair and straightened. "Bebop, take him. Rocksteady, go out and make sure the coast is clear!"

"Sure thing, Boss." But the rhinoceros paused. "Hey! Is that really . . . ?!"

"Yes, it is!" Metal-Face growled. "He isn't in a million pieces after all. But after we're through with him, he'll wish he really had died in that explosion."

"We're gonna hurt him?" Rocksteady blinked.

"That's the understatement of the year," Metal-Face snarled. "Now stop wasting time! Go outside and look!"

"Okay, Boss." Rocksteady departed.

Bebop came over and knelt next to him. "You really are alive," he said in amazement. "We all thought sure you was dead."

"I . . ." He backed up with new fear. "Do you really want to hurt me the way your . . . boss does?"

Bebop shrugged. "Nah, not really. I don't hate you or nothin'. Even after what you did. But I'd like to know why you did it."

"I . . . I don't remember." There was nothing else he could say, no way he could bluff his way out of this the way he had tried to do with Bebop's boss. . . . The way he had tried to do many times with that man . . . and also with a little pink creature . . . an alien brain?

That was in the past. Today, he was completely vulnerable.

"You don't?" Bebop stared at him. "How could you forget somethin' like that?"

He looked from Bebop to Metal-Face, who was peering out a window and not paying attention to them at all. Maybe . . . maybe he would have to take a chance and try to get this mutant to help him. Right now, it seemed to be his only chance.

"My memory is almost completely gone," he said. "I only remember bits and pieces."

Bebop looked shocked. "Your memory's gone?!" he gasped. "But you was a great scientist! So you can't be anymore?!"

"I can't be anything if your boss has his way," he retorted. "If you don't hate me, do you really want to see me harmed?"

"Me and Rocksteady just do what we're told," Bebop said. "We always liked you. But we're still workin' for the boss. If he wants you hurt, that's what we'll do."

"Does he often tell you to hurt people you like?"

"Nah. But then again, we don't like many people."

He looked to Metal-Face and back again. There couldn't be much time left to try to get the mutant on his side. Maybe it was futile anyway, but he wasn't one to give up easily.

"Why don't you hate me, if I betrayed your boss?" he asked.

"Gee, I don't know," Bebop said. "I was kind of mad at first. But then I figured you must have had a pretty good reason. You were tellin' Rocksteady and me about all the people who would die and I got worrying about my mom. I think that's why you did it; to save those people. I don't think you would've done it just out of spite or somethin' like that, even though you didn't like the boss. After all, you liked Krang better and you betrayed him too."

"If you don't hate me, then why not help me get away?" He spoke low now. "Just block your boss's view and allow me to get out that window or through that door over there. I won't just be hurt when he's finished. I'll be dead, and no doubt in some grotesque and gruesome manner."

Bebop frowned. "I don't want you to be dead," he said. "I don't want to have anything to do with that. You was a really strong guy. You made me and Rocksteady think. Well, me at least. When your memory's gone, I don't see what point there is in hurtin' you more anyway. That's already the worst thing that could happen to somebody." He stood and stepped in front of the window they were nearest to.

"Thank you," he said quietly as he pushed it open and started to climb out. His bruised leg was giving him a bit of trouble. But Bebop gave him a final push to help and then closed the window after him. He fell to his knees outside, but quickly struggled up and limped away as Metal-Face started to roar through the walls behind him.

xxxx

Raphael was still shook up when he regrouped with the other Turtles back at the Van.

"Raphael, what happened to you?!" Leonardo exclaimed.

"Yeah. Like, you look like you saw a ghost," said Michelangelo.

"What about Shredder?" Donatello wanted to know.

"Michelangelo is closer to the truth." Raphael folded his arms and looked away. "I saw a ghost. Or a hologram. One of the two."

"Raphael." Leonardo came closer, serious now. "What did you see?"

Raphael looked back to him with a start. "I saw Barney, okay?!"

Donatello gasped. "But . . . you couldn't have!"

Michelangelo ran over, his eyes wide in excitement and triumph. "Then he is alive!"

"No, he's not. For crying out loud, Michelangelo, he's not!" Raphael's eyes were flashing. "It's probably some cruel new hologram program of Shred-Head's. Barney didn't even know me. He turned and looked right at me like he was seeing a stranger. Then he just panicked and ran. It only took me a few seconds to catch up with him, and when I did, he was gone. There was no place he could have gone that fast! Not if he was alive! All the nearby doors were locked!"

"Maybe one of them wasn't!" Michelangelo insisted. "Raphael, why can't you believe it even when you're looking at it?!"

"Because there's no way, no way he could have survived!" Raphael boomed. Then the frustration was gone and his voice was very small as he continued, "And because if he did, it looks like he doesn't remember anything. And what kind of life is that?" He covered his eyes with a hand. "I'd rather believe he's dead."

Leonardo laid a hand on Raphael's shoulder. "But if he is alive, there's always hope," he said quietly. "He could get his memory back. We can't just sweep this under a rock and ignore it. We'll have to investigate."

"Are we gonna tell Baxter?" Michelangelo asked.

Raphael jerked his hand away from his eyes. "Are you nuts?!"

"I think we should try to find out for sure what's going on before we tell Baxter anything," Donatello said. "It would be horrible if it really is just a hologram program and we've got him thinking Barney is alive."

Michelangelo cringed. "You're right, Dude. Okay, we won't tell him yet." But he smiled as he turned away. "But we'll tell him soon, because Barney is alive! I know it!"

xxxx

Baxter sighed as he sat in his office, typing up his report on his latest scientific investigation for the news. The news in general had been a dread since the funeral. His mother's insistence on using it to build her reputation had been working, and Baxter was sick of hearing about it.

Channel 6, at least, hadn't focused much on that element. April had tried to base her report more on Baxter's part in things, the mayor's speech, and those who had turned out to pay their respects to Barney. Baxter had been grateful.

"Dr. Stockman?"

He looked up at Vernon's voice. The news director was standing in the doorway, looking both sympathetic and hesitant.

"What is it, Mr. Fenwick?" Baxter asked.

"I . . ." Vernon shifted. "I just saw the footage Channel 9 has been running of the funeral. I can relate all too well; my family is the same way." He looked down. "I just hope that I'm not. . . ."

"You're not," Baxter said with a kind and touched smile. "You didn't try to twist the mirror incident around for your own benefit, not when someone was hurt. You wouldn't do it if someone died."

Vernon shifted, gripping the doorframe. "It must have been so difficult, watching your mother do that."

"It was," Baxter agreed. "I was very angry. I told her off after it was over. I haven't heard from her since then."

"You . . . you told her off?" Vernon stared at him in disbelieving amazement. "I could never do that with my family."

"I never thought I could do it either," Baxter admitted. "I thought it would be . . . disrespectful, I suppose. But the way she used Barney's death for her own purposes wasn't respectful!" His eyes darkened. "I couldn't tolerate that."

"What if she doesn't ever contact you again?" Vernon wondered. "Will you try to reach out to her?"

Baxter paused. "I've been wondering that myself," he said quietly. "I don't know. I guess maybe I should, just to see what she'd have to say for herself. . . . She might not contact me because of what I said right before I left. I told her that maybe Barney was right and I shouldn't have let her back into my life." His shoulders slumped. "Was I too harsh?"

"I'm afraid I'm not the person you should ask," Vernon said. "I'm horrified by the very thought of saying something like that to your parents. But . . . if they have always mistreated you and your brother and your mother is continuing to do so now . . . maybe she deserved your words."

Baxter slowly nodded. "That's what I've been trying to tell myself." He took off his glasses and rubbed at his eyes. "I'm trying so hard to be more assertive and bold when it counts. It's so hard. So very hard."

Vernon stared at him in surprise. "I never would have known you weren't always that way," he said. "You've always been that way with me. . . . Except there was that one time when you acted more like a kicked puppy after I snapped at you. . . ."

A wry smirk played on Baxter's lips. "I was having a bad day and slipped back into my old ways. Yes, Mr. Fenwick, I spent most of my life as a 'kicked puppy' until I finally just snapped. Unfortunately, then I went overboard the other direction. Now I'm trying to find a happy medium . . . but the part of me that's still a doormat keeps worrying that I'm out of line and I have no right. The other part insists that I do have a right when I or a loved one is being mistreated."

"I had no idea." Vernon shook his head. "You've always seemed like you have it together so well."

"I try." Baxter replaced his glasses. "I was always misunderstood and put down by everyone I encountered: family, acquaintances, strangers. . . . I always knew I was better than I was being treated, but actually putting that into practice was something else altogether. It took a lot of courage to not be everyone's doormat.

"I saw some of myself in you when I realized you were stronger than everyone thought you were. I wanted you to find your strength as I had tried to find mine."

"And you have helped me," Vernon said. "I'm still struggling, but I'm doing so much better than I ever was before."

"I've seen that," Baxter smiled. "So have Miss O'Neil and Miss Langinstein. You've finally started to let them in. They love it. And they like the person you really are deep down, the person you always tried to hide."

"Well . . ." Vernon looked awkward. "So I'm sure that you will find the answers you need. If you haven't already. Maybe it's not so much that you're searching for an answer as it is you're trying to make sure that the answer you've already chosen is the right one."

"You're probably right," Baxter said. "I really believe I was within my rights . . . and Barney's. But part of me still worries and doubts. Maybe I'll wait a little longer and see what happens. If I still don't hear from my mother, maybe I should try one more time to have a civil conversation with her. If at that time I see that she is behaving as shallowly as she seemed, perhaps then I will break things off calmly and rationally."

"You're far braver and bolder than I am," Vernon insisted.

Baxter tilted his head to the side. "You've shown you can stand up to people if you're properly motivated or provoked. If you're within your rights, someday even you may be able to stand up to your family."

"Maybe." Vernon sounded doubtful. "But I'll be happy to talk more if you need a listening ear."

"Thank you," Baxter said sincerely.

Vincent spoke once Vernon had left. "I've never heard you open up to him before."

"I haven't," Baxter mused. "I've tried to help him, but I've tried to keep myself closed off. And today I confided in him. Maybe I felt he would understand, since he also comes from a wealthy family."

"I always thought he was a dolt," said Vincent.

Baxter chuckled. "So did I at first." He leaned back and gazed up at the ceiling. "We've all changed so much since then. . . ." He sounded wistful now.

"That's good, isn't it?"

"For the most part, yes." Baxter looked to Vincent. "I still wish Barney was here to continue to share it all with us. I always will."

"Grief . . . never goes away, does it?"

"Not entirely." Baxter sat up straight and took a pen off his desk, turning it over and over in his hands. "We heal, we move on, we even find happiness again. But we never forget what we've lost."

"Having emotions . . . feelings . . . loving . . . is complicated."

Baxter smiled a bit. "It is for humans as well as computers." He gave Vincent a curious look. "Were you always the way you are? So . . . well, human, I mean."

"I was always curious, always wanting to learn more," Vincent said. "I had no set programming. The nature of my creation enabled me to think for myself, to grow and develop like any sentient species."

"That reminds me of the film Bicentennial Man," Baxter remarked. "It's about a robot that always sought to be human. By the end of it, he had made himself human in every way . . . unless, being artificially created, he didn't have a soul." He frowned. "His wife felt that he did, though. The question wasn't answered, but it's nicer to think that by being so alive and full of life, he had been granted one."

"How is one granted a soul?"

"I couldn't even begin to imagine," Baxter shook his head. "And I know it's probably sacrilegious to say it, but it's very hard for me to believe that you don't have one."

"Then I would like to think I do."

"I would too," Baxter said. "And I never once thought I would even think such a thing about a computer."

"You feel computers are inferior lifeforms then."

Baxter smirked a bit. "Just as you feel that humans are. However, there are always exceptions to those ideas."

"Yes," Vincent agreed. "There are."