That night, Splinter slept fitfully. Curled into a ball beneath his woolen blanket, he tossed and turned, shaking from whatever terror gripped his dreams. The water in the sewers rushed, a constant hum of power that flowed ever on. Above, a subway train rattled past, the heavy thrum of its wheels on the track adding to the unceasing sounds that always perforated the small family's sanctuary.

Splinter's journey to this relative safety had been difficult, tiresome, and long. His sons and students, the three turtles who slept in the room beside his own, had no idea of the hardships their father and mentor had endured to give them the shelter that was their underground lair. Through journey's impossible, and challenges innumerable, he had clawed his way through adversity, and scratched out a living for the ones he loved. It was the memories of those long years that haunted his sleep, that night. Memories from long before he had been called Splinter.

The old rat's slumber was broken abruptly, as an unfamiliar sound reached his solitary rodent ear. By his internal clock, Splinter figured it was still the small hours of the morning, though this deep underground it was hard to be sure. His single ear twitched, his mind now fully awake, as the sound repeated itself. At first, it seemed like a low humming, but as he closed his eyes and extended his senses beyond their natural capability, he heard the intrusion for what it was.

Voices.

Without delay, Splinter rose, the weariness in his old bones present, but unimportant. He donned his long cloak and deep hood, lifting his staff in one hand as he moved, silent and wraith-like, out of the lair. He made sure his features were well hidden inside the shadows of his cowl, and stuck close to the natural darkness that clung to the sides of the walls of the sewers. The voices grew clearer as he approached the source. As he began to make out the words, Splinter's heart skipped a beat. He ceased movement.

The voices (there were three) spoke in a language that Splinter had not heard spoken aloud in a very long time, aside from a few phrases during training, and certainly not with this dialect.

"/Why would Shinzo be down here?/" One voice, a deep feminine, asked, in Japanese. The people were walking parallel to Splinter, and he crouched, back to a wall, stealing his breath so that it was inaudible. His large ear turned slowly, following the small group. The second voice was higher, and carried a heavy weight of authority. The leader, Splinter deduced.

"/I don't think that he is,/" he said, "/but we must exhaust every option. Lady Karai has given us orders./"

The party may have talked more, but before they could, a new sound broke the relative quiet. A foreign sound, akin to hundreds of raindrops landing on a rooftop. The sound struck a faint memory in Splinter's mind, but he shook his head, furrowing his brow. The raindrop sound echoed through the sewer tunnels around them, sending chills down the necks of both Splinter and the unknowing trio of people who stood just a few feet away.

"/Perhaps we have looked as well as we could,/" the final voice said, a slight layer of annoyance seeping into his words. The agreement must have been silent, as there were no more words. For one with less honed senses than Splinter's, the trio's exit would have gone unnoticed. Splinter, however, made out the faintest pitter-patter of padded feet on damp concrete. The near-silence of their movements concerned Splinter deeply.

The old Master waited a few moments longer, to be sure that none of the unlikely group had stayed behind to catch any followers, and then quickly and quietly ghosted back down the maze of tunnels that led to his home. He made his way back with purpose, though his mind was deeply troubled by everything that the previous events told him.

As Splinter entered the lair, hanging up his cloak and hood, he began muttering a quiet mantra to himself. His long, wrinkled hands worked symbols, lightning fast, fingers interlacing and then parting, palms finding purchase on one another, until the mantra was complete, and with a final syllable uttered, each and every candle that had rested dormant in Splinter's room flickered to life, the gentle flames dancing in the darkness. The old rat grunted as his weary joints thanked him for finding a seated position on his many cushions, and crossed his legs, his staff laid to the side for the time being. He closed his eyes, breathing in the air that was slowly being filled with the thought-focusing smoke of his candles, and began to meditate, deeply, on what to do next.


Leonardo woke up, to his annoyance, at the sound of the television crackling to life. The eldest turtle frowned deeply, turning over onto his side and covering his head with his pillow, trying to shield his ears from what he new was inevitable.

"There's no use fighting it Leo," grumbled Donatello, whose voice was muffled beneath his own pillow. "It's Saturday."

Saturdays, as everyone turtle and rat in the small family knew, were Michelangelo's favorite day of the week. The youngest turtle's affection for the day stemmed from one thing: Saturday morning cartoons. While Mikey could tune into a variety of channels for cartoons, thanks to Donatello scrounging a spare antennae and connecting it to the fossil-like device they used for television, but on Saturday mornings, all of his favorites would come on.

To the two older brother's dismay, this week was a particularly special Saturday. Mikey had gone on about it for a few days now, which they would have known if they hadn't learned to tune out the majority of what their little brother told them at this point. This Saturday, there was a marathon of Mikey's absolute favorite comic-book-turned-cartoon, Silver Sentry. Silver Sentry was Mikey's favorite superhero, ever, and he couldn't have cared less about the unison groans that came from his brothers as the theme music for the show came on for the first of many times that morning.

Eventually, Leo and Donny gave up on any far-fetched ideas they had of sleeping in, and rose like a pair of zombies, shambling their way to the makeshift kitchen. Mikey had, graciously, left out the milk and cereal, so the two of them each poured a bowl and began to chew groggily, staring off into space as their bodies took the time needed to fully wake up. All the while, Mikey cheered and groaned as the outlandish and heroic exploits of Silver Sentry raged on.

After finishing his cereal, Leonardo withdrew to their room, retrieving his katana. He brought the pair of weapons to the main room, and knelt. He had kept them meticulously placed beneath his cot, and now drew one, inspecting the blade. There were a few knicks from his spar with Master Splinter the day previous, but the blade still shone brightly in the low light of their home. From a pouch at his side, Leonardo drew a small whetstone, and began running it slowly and deliberately down the side of the blade, sharpening out each small kink in the smooth, deadly curve of the sword.

While he did so, he began to look more closely at the weapon. It was of beautiful make, it's blade long and curved, one end sharp and the other dull. The handle was wrapped tightly in leather, in a criss-crossing pattern that helped insure against unraveling. The katana, he remembered from wielding it the day previous, while heavy, was balanced and manageable, once he had adjusted to it. WIth more training, his muscles would grow to swing the swords as evenly and effortlessly as he had once swung his wooden training sword.

Leo glanced at the rack of training weapons. Compared to the metallic death that he held in his hands, they seemed like children's play things. The weapon in his hands could take a man's life with a single stroke; an act the eldest turtle wished he would never have to commit. Leonardo believed in his father's teachings of peace, and that violence should only be used in defence of himself or those he loved. He glanced at his brothers. Donatello was engrossed in a textbook on Physics that had washed up in the drain, and Mikey was still watching Silver Sentry, his mouth wide open.

Yes, he decided, I would kill for them.

After sharpening away each notch in his katana, he sheathed them both, and slung both sheaths over his shoulder, for easy access. The motion was fluid, but the extra weight on his shell was unfamiliar, and for a moment uncomfortable. It took a few minutes for Leo to grow used to it. He went to ask Donatello a question, when he caught a brief movement across the room. He turned, and watched his Master Splinter emerge from the curtain that covered the entrance to the old rat's quarters. Leonardo quickly moved to stand in front of Splinter, placing his hands together and bowing deeply.

"Good morning, Master Splinter," he said. Donatello glanced up from his book, noticed what was going on, and followed suit. Once again, Michelangelo was the last to catch on. It wasn't until Splinter cleared his throat sternly that Mikey hastily turned off the television and joined his brothers before their father. Splinter leaned on his staff, looking at each of his sons one at a time.

"Good morning, my students," he said. Internally, the two younger turtles groaned. Whenever Splinter addressed them as his students, rather than his sons, it usually meant that they were in for some intense ninja training. Leo, however, relished in this fact, and awaited further instruction eagerly.

"As you know, one of the greatest tools in a ninja's arsenal is stealth. The ability to move, silently and undetected, allows you to gain knowledge of your enemy without ever having to confront him, and… Donatello?" Splinter turned to him expectantly.

"Knowledge is the strongest weapon," the turtle responded diligently. Splinter gave a satisfied nod before continuing.

"Precisely. When you know more than your enemy thinks you know, you gain the element of surprise: something that can turn the tides of any engagement," the old Master stroked at his tufts of chin fur meaningfully. "Today, I will see just how much you have learned from your training thus far."

Splinter reached into the deep pockets of his worn robes, and from within drew a trio of leather bands. Attached to each band was a small, metal ball. As Splinter held them, the balls jingled slightly, revealing them to be bells. He proceeded to wrap one band around each of the brothers' wrists. Mikey gulped as his band was secured.

"Each of you is now wearing a bell. You will hide yourselves somewhere in the sewer, and attempt to take me by surprise as I take my morning walk," he said. Donny caught a hint of mirth in the old rat's voice, as he hobbled over to the kitchen, and placed an old teapot over a small, gas-burning stove. The water in it was hardly clean, but it was the best they could manage, and had already been boiled several times.

"You have until my tea has finished brewing to find your hiding spots," Splinter said, grunting quietly as he took his seat by the stove. "I advise that you move quickly."


Michelangelo was panicking. His brothers had darted off; disappearing into the long shadows that swallowed the sewer tunnels, and leaving him behind. Now he was dashing through the tunnels, his heart racing. In exercises like this, Splinter usually made the first turtle to fail (which was usually Mikey) do some sort of chore or additional exercise. The youngest brother was getting tired of cleaning the lair in various capacities. After searching for several agonizing minutes, Mikey finally found a small sewer pipe, just large enough for him to duck into. He slipped inside.

"Move it, Mikey, this is my spot! Get your own," hissed Donatello in his ear. Mikey let out a sharp yelp, which was cut off by Donny clamping his hand over his younger brother's mouth. "You're gonna get us both caught! Get outta here."

With some urging, Mikey sighed, quickly exiting the pipe and venturing further into the sewer system. He hadn't been this far into the sewers since before he could remember, and as the walls and tunnels began to grow more and more unfamiliar, Mikey felt his nerves growing too. He needed a place to hide, fast. Surely, Master Splinter was already on the prowl, moving like a ghost of a rat, completely stealthy and waiting to make the young ninja clean out the refrigerator. This in mind, Mikey forged ahead into the deep and unwelcoming darkness that awaited him.

It only took a few minutes for Michelangelo to find his spot. At the end of a tunnel, he found what looked like a pit of some kind, a vast black maw that stretched downward so that Mikey saw no bottom to it. Water trickled in the drain to his right, and slowly poured down into the hole that Mikey now stood at the lip of. The turtle gulped. He wasn't afraid of heights, no good ninja could be, but huge, dark holes? Maybe he was a little scared of those. He shook his head. He needed to find somewhere to hide. He searched the circular chamber that housed the huge hole, his green eyes scanning it top to bottom.

The hole dominated the center of the chamber, with a small lip of cement wrapped around it, just barely wide enough to be walked on. The walls were brick, and only went a few inches above Mikey's head before ending abruptly in a solid cement ceiling. A particularly tall person would have needed to duck in order to fit. Finally, Mikey spotted what he needed: on the far side of the pit was a ladder, leading down into the depths. The turtle took a deep, calming breath, trying to use the meditation techniques he had been taught.

"Aw man, I wish I had my board right about now," he muttered, before giving up on the matter entirely. He shook his head, hopping from foot to foot lightly. "You got this, Mikey. You're a ninja, man, just do what ninjas do."

With that, he started forward, inching carefully along the small cement lip, his shell scraping along the wall as he clung to it, his heart pounding. He continued to whisper, attempting to inspire confidence in himself as he gulped back fear. It wasn't until he had reached the other side that he stopped and heaved a sigh of relief.

"See, Mikey, nothin' to it," he said, as he began to descend the ladder. Once he was a few feet down, he stopped and stayed perfectly still. To anybody entering the chamber, it would be very difficult to see him clinging to the ladder, partway down into the massive pit. To anyone outside of the chamber, it would by practically impossible. "Michelangelo, you are a genius."

Then, just as the last syllable left his mouth, he heard it. A sound like nothing he had ever heard before. At first, he almost mistook it for raindrops hitting the sidewalk above. He soon dismissed this idea: the sound was too alien for that. He focused intently, taking in the sound and analyzing it. What the heck was it? A thousand little… drops? No. Something else, something small, all hitting the cement within a second of each other, over and over. It was growing closer. Mikey swallowed, his throat suddenly very dry, as he discovered the direction that the sound was coming from.

It was coming from the bottom of the pit.