A silent scream ripped through Donatello's subconscious.

The turtle bolted upward, his entire being drenched in a cold sweat, the couch cushions sticking to clammy flesh. It was just a nightmare, he told himself. Just a nightmare. Though he could not seem to shake how familiar the horrible sound that had wrenched him from his sleep had seemed. He peeled one of the tails of his purple bandana off his neck, then rubbed his eyes. April's living room came into focus around him, lit by low lamplight. An old episode of How It's Made drolled on the television.

Other than his unusually high heart rate, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. He had just fallen asleep on the couch watching some show on Netflix. Unperturbed, the cat stretched languidly beside him. An arm of the clock on the adjacent wall shifted with a barely audible tick, and Donatello realized it was only half past midnight. Getting old, Donatello thought begrudgingly. That or the total lack of a sleep schedule is finally catching up to you. The turtle decided it was likely a little of column a and a little of column b, and shut the television off with the remote control and a flick of his wrist.

Without the white noise of the television, an unnerving quiet fell over the apartment. Donatello rose slowly from the couch and drifted down the hall. Outside, he could still hear the rain. It had not let up at all. Maybe that's why he fell asleep on the couch instead of returning to the lair earlier that evening. Rain pelting his carapace, darting over rooftops with lightning on his heels – that had all been exhilarating, once. Now it just sounded exhausting.

The turtle wandered into the bathroom and ran the hot water in the sink. He untied the knot at the back of his head and peeled away his banana. Without it, his reflection was even more shocking. The dark circles beneath his warm brown eyes were even worse than he thought; his bandanna concealed the majority of their circumference from view. Sighing, he splashed his face with warm water, trying to wash away the unsettling feeling the cold sweat had left on his skin, an ugly feeling that lingered over prickling gooseflesh.

At his ankles, Kahn entwined herself between his legs, mewling plaintively as if to say it was too damn late to be awake. We'll just have to agree to disagree on that one, Donatello thought, giving the cat a quick scratch behind the ear. Though a cup of coffee certainly wouldn't hurt. He wondered if Kirby's old coffee maker was still in the bottom cabinet. There was probably still half a bag of coffee beans in the recesses of the freezer. The bitter, dark stuff that April never had a taste for, but he loved. Before his coffee fantasy progressed any further, the turtle shook his head. Stopped himself. This was still her place. The thought of rooting around in the cupboards and digging out the back of the freezer felt like a violation. Like he was disturbing the diorama of her life.

Instead, he retreated to the old office, where he slumped in his old computer chair. With a few quick taps of his thumb over the space bar, the monitor brightened, illuminating the small dark room. When his inbox populated the screen, he frowned. Inbox: 23. Donatello: 0. Before he had drifted off to sleep on the couch he had gotten it down to four. Tech support was like the worst game of whack a mole ever; deal with one issue only to have three more crop up in its place. Donatello moused over the oldest message, but before he could even click, he heard his phone buzzing loudly in the living room.

Long legs took quick strides to the source of the sound. He just hoped it wasn't Raph or Mikey with a midnight pizza request. Or that their father didn't need anything. He could make drug store runs, but even in his sweats, he still drew more attention to himself than he felt comfortable with. His phone was still vibrating on the coffee table when he got there; April's name illuminated the home screen.

"Hey," he smiled a tired smile.

"Who is this?" barked an unfamiliar voice on the other line.

"Excuse me?" Donatello bristled. "Who are you and why do you have April's phone?

"You're April's emergency contact in her phone," explained the caller.

"Y-yes," the turtle felt his stomach drop. "This is Don. Is she alright?"

"This is her Aunt Robyn," the woman said, her words rushed. "She was assaulted. We're at LA County General. They need to know if she's on any medication."

His heart stopped. Everything around him became unnaturally still. Impossibly quiet. "N-not that I know of," the turtle sputtered.

"Does she have any allergies?" Robyn urged, thousands of miles away.

"Sulfa," he choked. "She's allergic to sulfa." Donatello stood in April's apartment, rendered totally helpless. There was nothing he could do.

"Got it," April's aunt acknowledged brusquely. "They think she's gonna be ok, but it's too soon to tell about the baby."

Donatello felt his knees buckle beneath him. "I don't understand," he rasped.

The baby. His knees gave way at the thought, and he collapsed on the 's why she invited him over. That night. The night he went on that blasted tirade about Casey Jones, and how he couldn't understand why anyone would ever want children. The turtle covered his trembling mouth with his hand. She was trying to tell him, and he was too stupid to listen. It was all there in front of him. The lack of appetite, the upset stomach, the decaf tea. It was all there. And he was too stupid to see it.

He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. The silence lingered as dreadful as a flatline. Until Donatello forced himself to speak.

"Do they know who did this to her?" he asked, his voice shaking.

"No. Someone got a phone snap of the guy, but the cops have no idea who he is," Robyn said, her voice slowing. "I don't think she knew him. She just keeps going on about her foot but her foot is fine."

Donatello's eyes widened in horror. "Not her foot. The Foot."

"What?" Robyn faltered.

"Nothing," Donatello shook his head. "Never mind."

"Sorry Don – gotta go," Robyn said. And then, more gently, she promised to call him when she had an update on April's condition.

Donatello hunched over himself. April. Pregnant. The thought hadn't even crossed his mind. He thought it was impossible. It had to be impossible.

Still, they had always been so careful. Maybe they were just going through the motions; another feigned attempt at being normal. Until that night in the library. That night of reckless abandon. That night they so desperately fought to reclaim what they knew they were losing all along. Each other. And now he was in jeopardy of losing her all over again.

The baby – it was ancillary. It was a clump of cells, not a person. Maybe it never would be. He did the calculations quickly in his mind. She couldn't be more than what - nine weeks? Ten weeks? They could make another one, if she survived. Donatello could not even bring himself to follow that trail of thought. He did his best to dismiss it immediately, but the dreadful possibility lingered at the back of his mind.

Donatello felt something hot and wet roll down his face, but he ignored it. Instead, he drew his t-phone to his ear with a shaking hand. He pressed a trembling thumb down hard, and waited. And waited. A tinny ring drolled on in his ear, and then – it ended. Abruptly. The turtle's breath hitched in his throat, hoping, stupidly, blindly hoping, that he had made it through.

Instead of Leonardo's voice, a standard issue voicemail recording chimed on the other line. As it regurgitated Leonardo's cell phone number Donatello felt sick. Now he understood why Michelangelo didn't even bother to call anymore, no matter how many times their father asked for their absent brother. He knew Leonardo and Karai were underground in Japan, but just how far – they obviously did not want them to know. It had been over a month since they had called. He sat frozen on the couch he and April had bought used when they moved into the apartment all those years ago. And despite how he sat, unmoving, the room felt as if it was reeling around him.

Leonardo had become increasingly cautious in his communiques back home. He never said where he was, or when he would call again. He always called from a blocked number. He never mentioned the Foot, especially not when their ailing father was on the line. But after what had happened to Casey in December, and now April, Donatello knew that Leonardo must be embroiled in Foot business back in Japan. And back in the states, the Foot was striking at their family. If they had wanted Casey or April dead, Donatello suspected they would be. The ninja clan was making a threat that could no longer be ignored – not anymore.

Donatello wanted to believe that Leonardo wouldn't have kept them in the dark unless he thought it was the only way to protect his family. Their family. Maybe he thought he and Karai were capable of handling it on their own. Maybe he just didn't want them to worry. It did not matter. Leonardo was wrong; blinded by bullshit self-righteousness. Keeping them in the dark had only left them vulnerable.

The turtle sucked in a shuddering breath. And then he blinked, realizing he was just sitting there in silence. He hadn't even said a word.

"They attacked April," he said to Leonardo's voicemail; to no one; to the dark. "They waited until she was alone, and they attacked her. And now she's in the hospital," he choked the words out, his chest heaving. Every word hurt, as if he was forcing it all out through a mouthful of broken glass. "They're back."

His words were swallowed by the silence.

"Please Leo," Donatello implored, his voice shaking in the emptiness of the night. "I don't know what to do."

Donatello heard a click, and his heart dropped.

The line was dead.