(Author's Note: Yay, they're HOME. Man, the final scene of "The Ever-Burning Fire" had me in tears. Plus, Mikey falling toward that lava, and Leo saving him Spider-Man style, that made me sob and cheer. Aww, they love each other!
Since the show itself still has a bunch more episodes for Season 4, let's pretend my story is set in a slightly different universe where I say stuff happened. And Splinter learns some things about it. And I am having so much fun writing it.)

Chapter Twenty-Five

"What happens when people open their hearts?"
"They get better."
― Haruki Murakami

"It has been said, 'time heals all wounds.' I do not agree. The wounds remain. In time, the mind, protecting its sanity, covers them with scar tissue and the pain lessens. But it is never gone." ― Rose Kennedy

"Before you can live a part of you has to die. You have to let go of what could have been, how you should have acted and what you wish you would have said differently. You have to accept that you can't change the past experiences, opinions of others at that moment in time or outcomes from their choices or yours. When you finally recognize that truth then you will understand the true meaning of forgiveness of yourself and others. From this point you will finally be free."
― Shannon L. Alder

"As my sufferings mounted I soon realized that there were two ways in which I could respond to my situation - either to react with bitterness or seek to transform the suffering into a creative force. I decided to follow the latter course."
― Martin Luther King Jr.

Back on the Ulixes, there was shouting, there was anger, and April's fury was a whirlwind. Crowded around the unconscious Michelangelo's infirmary bed, the turtles considered waking him up just enough to create a force field just against her rage.

A week went by. Michelangelo remained in his deep healing sleep as machines breathed for him. Oxygen mask working overtime, dozens of stitches along his sides, somehow the scar along his left leg had burst open again; more stitches and also panic. There was no poison or venom in his system, and they assumed the psionics pushed it out somehow. They assumed the psionics also must have pushed his heart to pump and work again, because Donatello had been getting so tired and Raphael had dropped into a trance and gone into Mikey's soul, they had to assume the psionics made him alive because they had been so scared...

April was still upset, but once the story was told, she calmed herself. She went to the kitchen and took a folded-up, blood-stained sheet of paper from a box on the counter. She laid it out as neatly as she could, and she waited.

Mikey woke up, and carefully eased back to consciousness with Donatello's help, fully aware of everything. He sensed the clashing emotions of everyone on the ship and called them in for a chat, a long long chat, in which he recounted everything. How he had taken down as many reptilians as he could just by flinging them against walls. How he had run up against a soldier so strong that it had taken both nunchucks and telekinesis to bring him down, dragging Michelangelo's own strength. How that final battle with The Alchemist had been a knowing risk, a completely aware sacrifice, as the scars along his body had ripped open and his own power had tried to burn him from the inside out before the strange, new, purple energy swept in, protecting him while giving him strength to rip The Alchemist's very mind away in a fit of pure wrath.

April relaxed as soon as she was able to register Mike's puppy eyes, the raggedness of his breathing, the pallor of his skin, the knowledge that he had technically died on the battlefield. She burst into tears, threw her arms around him. The voice of professor Honeycutt pulled them back. They still had a huge mission to finish. Mikey nodded, pressed his hands together, took a deep breath, and began glowing.

Afterwards, after the cold sweats and trembling had passed, he hopped off the bed, unhooked himself from the machines. Barely taking in the stunned looks, he shrugged. "What? We have a job to do. I wanna see Dad again." And he strolled out of the infirmary, head high. He went straight into the kitchen, and finally made the special dish they had been served in the Risal restaurant so many, many months ago.

It was delicious.

Hours and hours and hours later, the group stood on the familiar, beautiful concrete of New York City, buried in the robes of their sensei and father, exhausted and cried out, promising a grand story once they had gotten sleep.

The four turtles, April, and Casey slept for nearly an entire day.

Splinter made his rounds twice, gently, silently, checking each room, as though somehow his children might disappear on him again. He stood the longest in Michelangelo's room, the last room, sensing extreme, extraordinary changes swirling deep inside his youngest, like electric storms constantly waiting. He knelt at the boy's bed. Resting a hand on his forehead, Splinter swiftly slipped into a light trance, just to check, just to—

Oh. Oh, my Michelangelo.

Hunh? Wh—Daddy? Father? What… what are you doing in here?

My child. What happened to you? What has happened to your spirit, your essence?

Heh. Long story, sensei. Long, weird, crazy complicated story. Can we talk about it later? I'm so tired…

Echoes of Leonardo's plea from the day before, but with that jovial undertone that was forever and unequivocably Michelangelo. Of course, my son. I have all the time in the world.

A sob. Yeah. Yeah. We do now, sensei. We do.

In that psychic state, Splinter embraced his baby boy, who clung to his robes and cried until he was empty. Something reached out and washed over Splinter like a wave, and it was filled with brilliant light, the essence of joy, the very heart of happiness and love itself. He didn't want to let go.

I love you, Daddy. None of his children had called him that since they were toddlers. Tears fell from his eyes.

My sweet, wonderful Michelangelo. I love you too.

When he returned to his own room, Splinter curled up on his bed and cried.

It felt like a dream. It had to be a dream. He was home. He was home. But this was a dream.

He stood in the dojo, his dojo, the real dojo, staring up at the tree, and his breathing was soft and steady. Someone appeared next to him. He didn't turn his head, but he caught a glimpse of long, straight, strawberry blond hair and blue eyes as bright as his own, and gold armor that glinted by itself in the shadows.

"You know," came a slightly accented voice – Norwegian? – "when my father told me of my true birth heritage, I was furious for so long. My brother, who was not my brother, laughed at me. My child, who was my father's steed, did not look at me the same way. I felt fully out of place, alone, even in a world filled with my own kind."

Sighing, Loki turned to Michelangelo and pinned him with a long icy blue stare. "You are very lucky. You belong in your family with no question, no matter how different you might be now. Treasure that. Hold it close. You and I? We are one of a kind, we are creatures of mischief and trickery, deception and distraction, chaos and delight. I will be watching you. Try not to do anything stupid, please."

He was gone before Michelangelo could open his mouth.

Another figure appeared, and he didn't have to guess. He wanted to suddenly grab her by the hand, apologize for struggling against her. She raised that moon pale hand, turned to him, smiling, and her black eyes and her black hair shone under the shadow of the tree.

"I am a watcher and a warrior and a healer and a mediator, like yourself," Hecate explained. "I stand at the crossroads and I watch lives pass, I only step in when needed. I'm only here to offer you my guidance and my advice. You have two brothers who fight, one brother who shuts himself away, a parent who both sets you free and clings to you, friends who would give their lives. You alone are on a path that is unique. There are forks in your path that only you know how to travel. But don't be hasty, don't be risky. You will be overconfident and arrogant."

"I will not!" Mike snapped, finding his voice.

Her eyes snapped with laughter. "Silly boy," she said. "Call on me when your pain reaches a peak." And she was gone.

He stamped his foot, whining out loud. "Anyone else think they can tell me how to live?"

"Hah!" came a familiar, bitter rasp. "And now that you're all better, you wanna be king of your little world. You're not king of anything."

He didn't materialize, but Mike shuddered all the same. "You—you're s-supposed to be w-working on on on those webs," he stuttered.

"With you being all pouty because we kept you from dying? Dude, your entire brain can hear you complaining. These deity manifestations are sticking around just so you don't get in trouble and fuck up my house again."

"SHUT UP," Mikey snapped, close to tears, and for once Neural Mike was silent.

"Mikey?" someone else called, but this was much different. This voice shook the dream.

"Mikey? Dude, are you okay?" Pounding. Pounding. A door?

He struggled, swam up toward consciousness, broke through with a long deep cry. He found himself tangled in his bedsheets, punching out at nothing, moaning. His door opened. A body pressed against his own, hands on his wrists. "Mikey, easy little buddy, it's me, it's Raph!"

He whined, whimpered, gasped. "Nnn…Raph? Raph? Wh-wh… I was…"

"You were dreaming, bro. Just a dream. It's all right, it's over. You're awake. Okay? You're awake, I'm with you. We're in your bedroom, Mike. Open your eyes."

He lifted heavy eyelids, focused on shiny emerald irises. "H-hi, Raph…"

"Hey," his brother said with a smirk. "Are you okay now? Can you stop trying to hit me?"

Mike frowned, pouted, trembled…and burst into tears.

Raphael jerked back, jaw dropping. "Whoa! Hey! Easy, Mikey! Shit, what happened?"

There was clamoring at the doorway. The voices of Leo, Don, April, and Casey filled the room. Raphael just turned and stared at them, mouth open, completely lost.

In his dreams, Splinter slipped into a deeper trance, and below him was something intensely familiar: a bright, bouncing sphere of orange-yellow light, a tiny sun, dancing with images, radiating joy and delight, love and compassion, laughter and happiness. He reached out to embrace it, smiling, when it dropped and nearly vanished. Splinter cried out. But a pair of hands grabbed his, and he looked into the face of Quan Yin, kami of compassion. He was immediately soothed.

Quan Yin shimmered and shifted, and he saw several faces: Pan, Greek god of joy and the wild. Loki, Norse god of mischief and chaos. Apollo, Greek god of medicine and music. Hecate, Greek goddess of magic, crossroads, knowledge, life, medicine, healing, choices. She stayed the longest. She was smiling, and Splinter was flooded with a sense of calm and purpose, of pure love and admiration, of pride and determination. Hecate suddenly embraced him. "He will be all right," she whispered, and her voice was the sound of soft bells on the wind at midnight. "Love him with everything you are and he will thrive."

Somewhere in the distance, Splinter heard a child crying. Not just any child. He turned abruptly, kicking at the darkness. "I am coming, my little one! Do not be afraid!" Worry was a stone in his gut; his baby's cries grew more frightened. As a child, little Michelangelo had been terrified of the dark.

Splinter found ground, and began to run, silent and swift. Someone appeared out of the shadows in front of him, someone appeared from the shadows. He drew to a halt, hissing in that way that angry, scared rats did.

"Don't bare your teeth at me, Daddy," the voice snarled, and Splinter drew in a sharp breath, a growl low in his throat.

"I've faced worse," the creature that was not his son shrugged, and he smiled, his cracked, scarred lips curling up. "I won't hurt you. But you're in my house now. Be nice."

Splinter blinked. The darkness faded, replaced by thick red curtains, black and white tiled floor…and a network of webbing that was shining blue, purple, and proud. "Of course," said the Not-Michelangelo, "he keeps plucking at the most random strings at the most extreme moments, and he keeps hurting himself. Can you tell him to go easy? We're still working out the arrangements here."

Slowly, Splinter sized up his companion. This…version…of his youngest was covered in oozing scars and gashes, eye sockets empty and dark, skin nearly gray. But he didn't sense any true animosity. "Why am I here?"

"Oh, because you need to see what's happening, of course. He's not out of the woods, you know. See how the psionics have altered his neural network? He's gonna start thinking he's practically immortal, just because he came back from death a few times and retained his telepathy and telekinesis."

Splinter tilted his head, his eyes widening. His baby was psychic? More than April O'Neil? He knew his children still had to explain their incredible space adventures…this, though, struck him to the core.

"Yeah, it really is an exciting story, though…" Not-Michelangelo tilted back on his heels and locked eyes – sockets – with Splinter. And Splinter's mind was suddenly flooded. Images of his sweet child being stabbed and injected by an alien reptile. Michelangelo wrapped in bandages, machines keeping him alive. Donatello and the robot endlessly working. Raphael sobbing as he watched over Michelangelo's comatose form. Leonardo losing control of himself. Michelangelo waking after three months. April helping Michelangelo work with his telepathy. Two reptilian friends helping the turtles. Michelangelo's long long recovery, his left leg failing him. A final battle, Michelangelo's body and mind bursting with pure energy; the monster called The Alchemist being stripped of his powers and his mind, at the cost of Michelangelo's own life; Donatello reviving his body, Raphael reviving his mind. All his children sacrificing so much just to keep the youngest from falling...

Splinter collapsed, panting. "STOP."

"Yeah, fascinating, huh? He did good, though. I'm proud of him. And hey, now you know some of the story! Anyway, Dad, why don't you get on back to awake. Your kids need you."

And a gust of wind picked him up, blocking all his senses, and he was jolted awake, his youngest son's name torn from his throat.

Something was wrong.

"One thing: you have to walk, and create the way by your walking; you will not find a ready-made path. It is not so cheap, to reach to the ultimate realization of truth. You will have to create the path by walking yourself; the path is not ready-made, lying there and waiting for you. It is just like the sky: the birds fly, but they don't leave any footprints. You cannot follow them; there are no footprints left behind."
― Osho

"If you desire healing,
let yourself fall ill
let yourself fall ill."
― Rumi

(Author's Note: I promise, I'm not done. We've got a few more chapters as Mikey tests the waters of PTSD-driven fake-happy risk-taking- which is an actual thing; when a fun-loving optimist gets PTSD, they try to overcompensate by amplifying what they think is happiness to try and cover up real fear and sadness. Sorry for this chapter's shortness, I really just needed to establish the fact that hey, they're home and hey, Splinter has an idea of Mikey's altered brain! So, I await your questions and such.)