Two a.m. finally arrived. Michio Haruka fell down onto her bed and sank into the huge mattress. She closed her eyes and let a few tears slide down her cheeks. Finally the voice was silent and the symbiont was still; Chett had begun her sleep cycle. Haruka turned over to wipe her face on the Egyptian cotton sheets and sat up. The creature's name was not Chett; whether it actually had a gender was unknown. However, Haruka's human mind sought to categorise everything in familiar terms, and so she did. She stripped off her work clothes and threw them on the floor beside the laundry hamper. The maid would get them in the morning. When she walked into the softly lit bathroom she caught sight of herself in the floor-to-ceiling mirror and shook her head. Her black hair was falling out of its severe bun and hung lankly around her sunken, streaky face. Her collar bones cast sharp shadows in the dimness, and just below the jagged scar on her belly her hip bones jutted out. She turned away and walked up the steps to the sunken bath. The shining taps sprayed steaming water into the tub, and Haruka sat down on the slatted wooden floor as she waited for it to fill.

Damn that Chett, she thought, for it was only now that her mind was free to keep its thoughts to itself. Damn her - it - for everything! If only I had ordered her killed when she first arrived. Damn it all to hell! Haruka reached up and with one abrupt swing swept the contents of a nearby counter to the floor. Bottles and pots of expensive, long untouched cosmetics crashed to the floor and rolled into the filling bath with a splash. Haruka fished them out and added some sweet-smelling bath elixir. She sank into the tub and turned the taps off with her spindly toes. Exhaustion washed over her as the hot water lapped around her small breasts and delicate knees. She sank down until her chin just peeked over the glistening surface and could no longer keep her eyes open. One hand reached up to her throat and her fingers stopped dead. Her face scrunched in anguish and she let her hand drop. Oh, God…

"Papa, what are you doing today?"

Michio Hiraku looked up from his endless reams of printouts, the green and white striped paper folding in on itself as it spewed from the industrial printer.

"Haruka, now what did I say about knocking and waiting at doors?"

The man tried to keep his brows drawn together severely, but his fatherly instinct overrode them and he couldn't help but smile as his eight-year-old daughter gazed up at him with those round brown eyes. She chewed on the end of her long black plait as she scrambled into his lap. She looked at the pages, the chemical symbols and scientific terminology; her little face stared intently as if she understood.

"Papa, do you think one day I'll be as smart as you and be able to help you with your work?"

Hiraku kissed the top of her head and squeezed her tightly.

"Nothing would make me prouder my little moonflower," he said. "One day I hope that you can take over from me, and run my companies better than I ever could."

Haruka twisted on his lap and gazed up at him, the plait falling from her mouth.

"Really, Papa?"

"Yes, really," Hiraku said, brushing his daughter's fringe from her eyes. "You are as smart as you are pretty, and you are a very pretty young lady." He grinned as she enveloped him in a tight hug. "I love you, my dear, dear Haruka…"

"…dear Haruka…"

Haruka sat up with a jolt and gasped as the freezing water lapped against her. Her breathing was sharp and shallow as she clambered out of the bath and reached for a towel with trembling hands.

"Dear Haruka, it isn't intelligent to immerse yourself in cold water for extended periods."

She wrapped the thick, soft towel around herself and stalked out of the bathroom. The bedside clock blinked in the dim morning light. Four hours had passed, and Chett was rested. Haruka let out a sob and buried her face in her hands as tinkling laughter echoed in her mind.

There was a gentle knock at the door and Leonardo crossed to open it. Donatello was lit only by the candle he carried, and Leo stepped aside for him to enter.

"Hey," he said as Don set the candle down on the rickety bedside table.

Don waited until the candle was steadied until he gave his brother a grim smile.

"How are you holding up?" he asked.

Leonardo sat on the edge of the bed and let his forearms rest on his thighs. The candlelight glinted yellow off the highly polished blades of the katana that were resting against the opposite wall. His gear sat in a neat pile beneath them, and his bandana was wrapped around one hilt.

"I'm okay, given the circumstances," he said. "It couldn't have been worse timing for something bizarre to happen to us."

Don chuckled dryly.

"It's the old turtle luck running true to form," he said.

Leo was silent, and Don crossed his arms over his plastron.

"We'll get home," he said. "We always do, somehow."

Leonardo clenched his fists and slammed them down on his legs.

"But what if we don't, Donatello?" he said. The words were a shock in the silence, and he toned his voice down. "What if we don't get home? What's going to happen to Mei, and my kids? My kids, Don."

Don didn't answer, simply because he had no words of comfort to give. He had walked to his brother's newly designated room in the huge apartment in the hopes of giving him some kind of support, but now he simply stood impotent, backlit by a flickering flame.

"We've been in situations like this before so many times it's not even funny any more," Leo said, digging his nails into his palms, "but we've always made it back. We knew we had to get home, but…this time it's different. I need to get home. I need to be with Mei."

"That's perfectly understandable, given what happened earlier today," Don said.

"It's driving me mad," Leo said. "It's just this intense desire to get home and be with her. I've never felt this way before. I don't think it's something you can understand, Don." Leo gently tapped his fists on his thighs. "I just…need to be with her."

Don dropped his chin to his chest briefly before uncrossing his arms and walking to the middle of the room.

"You're right, Leo," he said, letting his arms hang loose, "it isn't something I can understand. I don't know what to say. But if Master Splinter were here, he would tell you to mediate on those feelings so you can control them. Let them be your motivation for getting home."

Leo let out a long breath and attempted to smile at his brother.

"You're right, Don," he said. "I can't allow my feelings to cloud my mind."

"Right." Don placed a hand on the door handle. "I'll leave the candle here since I don't think you'll be getting any rest any time soon," he said.

"Thanks, Don," Leo said.

They bade their farewells and Donatello gently closed the door behind him. He lingered a little before treading softly back towards his room. He bypassed the door, however, and walked into the large living space they had gathered in earlier. It was all so much to take in. They were home, and yet not at the same time. It was New York, but… But not as we know it, Jim, he thought. It was as if they could simply pop open a manhole and jump right back into their normal lives. In reality, they couldn't. Don crossed to one of the large windows and leaned his hands on the glass. The streets below were not their streets. They were filled with a sordid depravity that was mostly underground in their world. Here it was out in the open and plain to see.

He felt the other presence in the room before it made a noise. Don turned from the window to see Desdemona picked out in the pale moonlight. She no longer wore her boots or lingerie, and instead was in bare feet with a gun belt around her hips. Her face was still made up, and her hair set just so. The moon pendant now hung around her scarred neck, glinting.

"Shouldn't you be asleep?" she asked, her thumbs tucked in the belt.

"I could ask the same of you," Don replied, glad of the bo strapped to his back.

"I sleep when I need it," Des said. "You're all anxious to get home, I assume."

"Wouldn't you be if the tables were turned?" Don asked.

Des walked past him and looked out the window. With her stance and her background, she looked like a queen surveying her realm.

"No, I wouldn't be," she said, "but that's irrelevant. I've sent out some messengers to brief my contacts on what to look for. They knew something big was going on, but couldn't find out what. Maybe now they will. They'll report back when it's safe; it may be a few days. Then we can work out where to go from there."

She turned to look him up and down. Her pale eyes seemed to drink in every detail. Don stood his ground and did the same.

"You look like you've been in a lot of fights in your day," he said as his eyes roved from one scar to another.

"I'd say you have been too, but you're a lot more careful than me," Des replied.

It was true that Donatello was not a scarred as his siblings, but it wasn't as a result of less combat.

"My weapon of choice gives me a long range," he said. "Enemies don't tend to get close enough to slice me open."

"I bet they don't," Des said. She fingered the holster at her side and stepped towards him. "It makes me wonder if I could get close enough for you to slice me open with that long weapon of yours."

Don gave the most imperceptible of gulps and stepped forward himself.

"I guess you'd have to try to get close enough first," he said, not quite believing what was happening.

Des stepped around behind him and slid her hand along the bo.

"Sounds like a challenge," she said, her husky voice even lower. "And I like to savour a challenge." She leaned close to her head and breathed, "Get some rest."

Without another word or look she left. Don stared at the space she left vacant and rubbed the back of his head. Did that actually just happen? And what exactly was 'that' anyway? He shook his head. This day has officially become the weirdest I've ever had. He headed back to his assigned bedroom and lay down, and soon drifted off into a bleak sleep.