Chapter 3 -Lost-
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Michelangelo rolled out of bed with a groan. He sat up stretching, wincing as his joints popped and cracked as they slid into alignment.

I wonder if Don's back yet. He should've been here yesterday. That was his plan. That's the trouble with Don, he's so stubborn about sticking to a schedule but he gets distracted. Maybe he found some weird species of plant to study. Ah, shell, bro. I wish you'd taken your phone with you so I could at least call an' remind you to come back. If you're not home today I might hafta call Leo, and he's gonna hand us both our shells. We're not ever supposed ta go out on our own like you're doing. But after so long cooped up in the Lair, I guess I'd want to get away too. I just wish Austin was here. I miss her. I even miss Raphie. The farmhouse isn't fun without the guys.

Mike got up, scratching and slipped on his pads, belt and mask. He tucked his nunchucks into his belt and headed downstairs.

"Don! Hey, Don, are ya here, bro?" he called. His voice echoed through the empty rooms. "Don! Hey, Don-a-tellllooo!" he yelled, checking the bedrooms for good measure. No purple banded brother appeared. Mike made his way into the kitchen. The coffee maker stood sad, silent and empty.

Michelangelo sighed. Don's definitely not here, he thought. The first thing he'd do is make a pot of coffee. I wonder if he's going into withdrawal without it. It's been like five days already. He said he'd be home in four.

Donatello had been so ill recently; Mike was starting to worry.

What if he had a relapse, out there in the woods? What if he's still really sick? April said he was finally over the pneumonia, but he only started training again a few weeks ago. Sensei said the fresh air up here would be good for him. I hope he was right. Ah, shell, Donny. I know you said not to come after you and not to let Leo know you were goin' on this Spirit Journey thing, but you've been gone too long. I'm bored and there's nothing to do and I miss Austin. It's time to go home, Don.

Mike stood on the porch, wavering. Finally he went inside and grabbed a small duffle bag. He started tossing in supplies.

Better take some snacks. An' a first-aid kit, in case Don hurt himself. Maybe my Game-Dude in case I get bored…

The bag packed, he headed out the door in the direction his brother had taken. It didn't take long to pick up the trail. Fortunately there hadn't been any rain all week. The leaf litter obscured Donatello's footprints, but occasional small wounds on saplings showed where his shell had scraped the bark and bent-over grass marked where the purple-banded turtle had walked.

Mike moved swiftly, hoping his brother hadn't gone too far, but knowing Don probably covered a lot of ground in the time he'd been gone.

I hope it doesn't take me five days to find you, bro. I have a bad feeling about this. But you probably weren't moving very fast. You like to stop and look at the bark on the trees an' stuff like that.

Mike noticed a small patch of white stems where Don had collected some mushrooms. He grinned.

Typical Don. Collectin' samples. I hope you know what you're doing. We all know not to eat mushrooms out here. And I guess if anyone would know which ones were safe, it'd be you, bro.

He hurried on through the trees, moving as swiftly as he could without losing the trail. A sound to his left made Michelangelo turn, startled. He crouched, snatching his nun-chucks from his belt. A very startled mother fox flashed him a golden-eyed stare before disappearing into the brush. Mike relaxed with a grin.

Oh, man. I wish Austin was here. She'd love to see something like that, he thought with a pang. I miss ya, Baby. I miss you so much.

Michelangelo shook his head sadly, and started walking again.

The faster I find Don, the faster I can get home to you. I wonder what you and Ann are doing tonight. It's your night off. Maybe you guys are watchin' a movie… I wish I was there with you. Or you were here with me.

Mike's thoughts were distracted. When he looked down again, he realized he'd lost the trail.

Oh no. Oh man. How'm I gonna find him now? He turned slowly on the spot, looking all around. There was nothing to indicate another mutated ninja had ever passed through the patch of woods he was standing in.

Oh man. Leo's gonna kill me if I lose Donny.

Michelangelo walked back the way he'd come, searching the ground for the smallest crunched leaf or grass blade out of place, but the thick foliage above his head only allowed the most filtered sunlight through, keeping the grass from growing on the forest floor.

A flurry of movement a few feet ahead had his gaze snapping up in shock. A mouse dashed across the leaf litter, past a broken twig. Once Mike's heart came down to a more normal rhythm, he edged forward to examine the branch. It was a tiny, bent twig, pointing north, but there was a thread trailing from the ragged bark, a tiny trace of the binding that kept Don's leather knee-pads stitched together. Michelangelo breathed a sigh of relief. He'd found the trail once again.

More carefully this time, he went forward, watching for any other sign that his brother might have changed direction or veered off to examine some interesting piece of flora or fauna. He saw no sign that Donatello had turned aside, so he kept going, praying to whatever divine entity watched over mutated turtles that his brother was not far ahead and more importantly, that he was ok.

The day was stretching into evening when Mike realized the light was getting too dim to see the trail properly. He'd been walking for an entire day. Mike looked around the darkening trees, swallowing hard.

These woods are a lot spookier at night. Colder, too. Maybe I'd better stop here. But I don't wanna sleep outside, without even a tent. If I sleep in a tree, I can build a sort of nest… but then I can't have a fire. Fire is good. Light and warm are both good. I guess I'd better build a shelter like Leo taught us. I hope I can make it stay up. I hope bears don't like fires. Or wolves. I wonder if there are any wolves out here…

Michelangelo shivered.

He walked a short distance into the woods, searching for large branches to form the basis of his shelter. Soon he found several lengths of sturdy locust. Avoiding the thorns, he lashed them together using spare leather thongs from a pouch in his belt.

Soon he'd built a small but sturdy frame. He set about gathering pine branches and laying them over the frame to form a mostly water-proof roof. Satisfied that the shelter would at least cover him while he slept, he began clearing a small space to build a campfire. He brushed away the leaves and debris to expose bare dirt.

Taking a small knife from his belt, he began carving small sticks, feathering the bark so they'd burn. He made a sloppy but effective little tee-pee with his sticks and tucked some dry leaves in around the edges. He lit them carefully, blowing on the small fire as it began to hungrily lick the feathered sticks.

When he had a small blaze going, he added larger branches, breaking them into manageable pieces by stepping on them. Soon he had quite a bright little fire. It burned hot, throwing very little smoke. Michelangelo smiled to himself.

Gee, Don, I guess I can see why you wanted to come out here. It's kinda nice. It'd sure be nicer if I had somebody to cuddle up to, though. I wish Austin was here… he thought again with a sigh.

Even one of the guys. They're not as much fun to cuddle with, but at least they'd be company. I hope I find you tomorrow, bro. I don't like sleepin' out here by myself.

He drifted off to sleep, the crackling warmth of the fire soothing him.

Michelangelo woke with a start and groaned. He was stiff and sore from lying on the ground. The fire had long since burnt out. The trees loomed around him in the early morning beginnings of dawn, tall and intimidating like a scene from a horror movie. Mike sat up, stretching, staring warily around. A sound made his hand jerk toward his weapons.

That sounds like… something walking… something big. Not far off, either. I'd better make myself scarce.

Moving quickly, he dismantled his shelter, scattering the pieces silently as possible. He kicked leaves and debris over the blackened spot, covering the remains of the fire. Hearing the sounds moving in his direction, Mike took to the trees, disappearing into the foliage. He watched from his perch for a long, tense time as the slow footsteps came closer. A figure emerged from the trees, dark and ominous in the growing morning light. A man, riding a large, sturdy horse, came into view. The horse snorted lightly as it came to where Mike's makeshift camp had been.

"Whoa, boy." The man gave the reins a little jerk, and the horse stopped, pawing at the ground nervously. The man dismounted, his gaze on the ground. Mike swallowed hard at the way the guy moved. There was something familiar about him…

He reminds me of Agent Bishop. The way he moves. So deliberate and… smooth somehow, too smooth. This guy's not your average citizen. Mike kept absolutely still and silent, watching.

The man knelt, touching the ground. He rubbed the leaf litter under his palm and sniffed his fingers.

I wonder if he's gonna lick the dirt like in the movies, thought Mike, and had to stifle a snicker. He watched as the man stared at the ground. He was hunched over, so Mike couldn't see his face, but the tense way he held his shoulders told Michelangelo he was focused, intent on finding whatever clues he could gather from the scattered forest litter. Suddenly Mikey wished he'd done a better job of hiding his campsite. The guy sent chills shivering down his spine.

Finally the man stood up. He looked around, scanning the trees. Michelangelo had the fleeting impression that he had x-ray vision.

Like Superman, thought Mikey. Dude, just don't look up here. I really don't feel like having to run this morning. It's too early, seriously. I haven't even had breakfast yet. Just move on out. That's it. Just get on your horse and ride off… there's nothing to see here…

Mike breathed a sigh of relief as the man re-mounted his horse and rode slowly off into the trees. His eyes widened when he saw the glint of a rifle stock, tucked into a scabbard on the horse's saddle.

Oh shell. The guy's a hunter. It's a good thing he didn't look up. I have a feeling he wouldn't hesitate to hunt a treed turtle if he got the chance.

He stayed in his place a while longer, making sure the man really had left the area, before climbing carefully down. After the encounter with the man, Michelangelo moved even more swiftly and carefully through the trees. He didn't whistle as he walked along, just kept sharp eyes trained on his surroundings and half an ear open for any sound that might indicate the man was returning the way he'd come. The woods were silent except for the calls of birds and the occasional sound of a small animal scurrying through the leaf litter.

Mike was beginning to think he'd lost Donatello's trail entirely. He was considering the wisdom of using his shell-cell to contact Leonardo when something about a branch lying behind a small copse of poplars caught his eye. The branch was too straight, too perfect somehow. Michelangelo's eyes narrowed behind his mask.

He approached as carefully as if the harmless bit of wood were a snake, ready to strike. When he came closer, a strangled cry escaped his throat. Donatello's bo lay abandoned in the leaf-litter, the purple wrapping stained with fresh dirt.

Mike picked up the precious staff, brushing slugs off. "Eeeww," he muttered, shaking one of the slimy creatures off his fingers. He tucked Don's bo into the back of his own belt and began casting around for any other signs of his brother. There was an obvious disturbance of the leaves.

Looks like a struggle. I wish Leo were here. He could probably look at it and tell exactly what happened and who fell where. At least there doesn't seem to be any blood. Still, Don wouldn't leave his bo. Not willingly. Not if he were able to hold on to it. Oh shell, Donny. What's happened to you? Where are you? Don't worry, Bro. I'm comin' for you. I won't let you down.

It didn't take Mike long to find an indentation in the litter that looked as though something heavy had been set down. Frowning, he studied the twin indentations.

It almost looks like he was… kneeling, he thought. Don on his knees? No way. No way… Michelangelo felt sick. He's in trouble. This is too big for me. We need help. I need help getting Don back. I'm gonna have to call the guys. But first, I've got to find my brother.