A/N: Sorry it took so long. I had to graduate (high school for those who care) and do everything that goes with it. Been crazy the last couple days.

Questions are good. Ask them. I don't mind, I rather enjoy answering them.

monica: Leo didn't attack because if he'd moved, the creepy British guy would have shot Mikey in the head. Leo didn't really want that.

jordan: Rarely rarely RARELY do I do character death. And if I do, I warn the readers from the very beginning that it's going to happen. Sorry if that ruins it for anyone else, but I really don't like random major deaths. Rest assured.

Practice with three turtles was no less effective than it was with four, but it never had the same excitement to it. Usually because the absence of the one – whatever the reason – hung over the heads of the remaining turtles. It simply wasn't right when all four brothers weren't together.

Nevertheless, Donnie, Mikey and especially Leo agreed (a feat, to say the least) that Raphael was not going to join them today. They had all heard him throwing up last night; Splinter had told them he had a very high fever, and he looked as though about to collapse where he stood now. His tired eyes glared with a weak fierceness behind the red bandana. Drops of water from the cool cloth dripped down his cheeks. It was his cough that had grabbed his brothers attention; they turned around to see him leaning against the doorframe, fumbling for a sai.

"Raph?" Michelangelo asked, "Do you need something?"

Raphael pulled his sai out all the way and pointed it at them. "Nope. Hope you didn't get too far without me." His voice was confident (he was doing his best to sound tough) but hoarse and quiet.

"Don't be stupid, Raph," said Leo.

"Stupid?" the sick turtle rounded on Leonardo angrily. "You callin' me stupid?"

"Splinter says you can't practice today. You're too sick."

"I'm not too sick for anything," said Raph. "Try me."

Leo glared, but didn't move. Raphael started to cough. Mikey ran to get him a glass of water.

"See? You're too sick to practice. Go back to bed."

"Leo's right," said Don. "If you over exert yourself, you could get even worse. Severe pneumonia can kill."

Mikey reentered with a full glass. "I don't want you to die," he said quietly, handing Raph the cool cup. Raphael took it but didn't drink, his glare softening at his youngest brother.

"No worries, Mikey," he said. "I'll be okay. It's me, remember?"

"Arrogance is not a virtue," said Leo, giving Raph the leader's glare that the younger turtle loathed.

"Cut it out already," he snapped. "I'll fight ya if I wanna fight ya." He handed the glass of water to Mikey, who took it without thinking.

"Raph," Donatello pleaded. "Don't."

Raphael didn't listen. Letting out suprisingly loud cry for someone so hoarse, he took his sais and lunged at Leo. The older turtle blocked him so effortlessly that he neither changed expression nor moved his feet. He hid the fact that Raphael's lack of strength scared him well. His younger brother dropped his weapons, fell to the floor and dissolved into a fit of coughing.

"Raph?" asked Don uncertainly. "Are you okay?"

Mikey's eyes grew wide. He knelt down beside Raphael and set the glass of water next to them. All three boys looked scared.

At last, the coughing subsided, and Raphael was left breathless on the floor. Mikey put his hand on his shell, but his sick brother pushed it away.

"Don't touch me," he snapped. Mikey drew back. With a fierce glare, Raphael put away his sais and stomped off to his room.

The boys resumed practice.

That same kind of anger coursed through his veins at the man in the cap pressed the pistol to Michelangelo's forehead. Raphael clenched his fists and teeth, searching through every possible way he could make this man die a painful death. Unfortunately, every one of them involved moving, and if he did that, Mikey was history.

He chased that van with everything he had. Leo kept up with him, while April waited at the apartment. He ran until he couldn't run anymore, then kept going for a couple roofs after that. He only stopped, though the van had disappeared a while ago and it was pretty much aimless, when his knees gave out from exhaustion and he collapsed to the roof in the same way he had six years ago. Twice.

"My sons," said Splinter. "You have done well for today. I know you are worried about your brother, but I would recommend giving him some time to himself. His illness is making him angry, and Raphael does not channel his anger well."

The boys nodded.

"You are excused."

As each of the three young turtles went off to do his own thing, Splinter went to check on his sick son. Raphael, from what the boys had told him, needed a talking to.

He drew back in surprise when no small form squirmed on the bed at the sudden light. The room was empty. Splinter stepped back and looked around outside the room. No sign of him.

Not wanting to alarm his sons, Splinter quietly and discreetly searched the lair. Raphael had vanished. The older rat looked at the door between the Lair and the rest of the sewer. It was slightly ajar.

Oh, Raphael, he thought, his heart beginning to pound. This time, your rash actions have taken you too far. A sick ten-year old would not last long in the cold sewers. Splinter closed his eyes; if he lost one of his sons he didn't know what he would do.

"My sons," he called. "I need you to come here."

The boys came.

"Your brother," he informed them, "is not in his room. Nor is he in the rest of the lair." Their eyes grew wide. "I need you to tell me if any of you saw any sign of him between the time he attacked Leonardo and now, or if you have any idea where he could have gone." The boys shook their heads. "Very well. I must go look for him. Stay where you are, my sons, and do not leave this room until I return." Mikey and Don nodded, still looking scared, and sat on the couch. At his Sensei's beckon, Leo remained where he was.

"Leonardo," said Splinter quietly. "You must keep an eye on your brothers while I search for Raphael. I will return, but I do not know how soon. It is your responsibility to make sure Donatello and Michelangelo stay safe until I return. Keep them safe, keep them warm, keep them inside. You are the oldest. This is a heavy responsibility for someone your age, but I trust you."

"Yes, Master Splinter."

When April and the two brothers arrived at the lair, having called and told everyone the news, they found a grim threesome surrounding an unconscious man (also wearing all black, with a camera on a strap around his neck) on the couch.

"The others ran off," Don told them. "We'll question him when he wakes up."

"How long will that take?" April asked.

"A while, probably. Casey hit him pretty hard. But he'll be all right. It may take him a while to be able to tell us anything useful..."

"I'll make it shorter," said Raph, his teeth clenched. "Scare him into it. Threaten him with – "

"Actually," Donatello interrupted him, "That will probably make it longer."

"I don't care!" Raph cried. "We gotta get him back. Whatever it takes. We're gunna get him back. He's sick. He can't hold his own very long out there. Being that sick... it does stuff to ya. I remember..." Raph trailed off, then shook his head. "We gotta find him!"

"Raphael," said Splinter. "Please calm down. Losing your temper will not help find your brother now."

Raph threw a sai. It stuck into the wall, cracking the area around it.

"Easy, Raph," said Leo. He put a hand on his brother's shoulder, and the two met eyes. "We'll find him. Whatever it takes. We will."
"How is your progress, Doctor Cartagan?" asked Sir Ratcliph. Cartagan didn't look up from the computer screen. Her fingers pressed a few buttons, and the digital picture of a brain on the screen grew larger.

"It's coming, sir," she replied. "Physical observations are mostly complete. I'm analyzing brain structure; if and when he wakes up I hope to perform psychological testing as well."

"Very well. What conclusions have you drawn?"

"That he is not completely unlike any animal I have ever seen."

"Oh?"

"He appears to be... at least a mutated form of a turtle, sir. I couldn't tell you how it happened, but he has a shell on his back, with the same design that a child's pet turtle would have. The arms and legs are not proportioned to a normal turtle, he has three fingers on each hand, and the face and head are shaped somewhat like a human's, but whatever he is, he stems from the same family. Except..."

"Yes?"

Dr. Cartagan turned around in her chair. "I cannot for the life of me figure out whether or not he is cold-blooded. His body temperature responds to change in air, but not as much as most reptiles do. And... this is the strangest thing... he has a fever."

"Mr. Miller informed me that he seemed ill, yes."

"I heard that, but still... a turtle, having a fever... this is one very odd creature. He's almost... half-turtle-half-human. I can't explain it. Cross breeding is out of the question; physically it's impossible. I don't know how it happened. But, while we're on that, Sir, I need to talk to you..." her demeanor changed from professional to nervous. "About something... about ethics, sir... if this... turtle... really is a human in the psychological aspect... how much can we...?"

Sir Ratcliph's expression suddenly grew cold. "Your area is in veterinary studies, Miss Cartagan–"

"Doctor..."

"Doctor, yes. That is why I hired you. I will take care of anyissues regarding morals. I am from England, Doctor, and will not be told what is ethical by an American. You will continue to do what I pay you to do, and I will take care of everything else."

Dr. Jeanie Cartagan looked as though about to protest, but closed her mouth.

"By the way," Sir Ratcliph set some photographs on the table. "These are some that Mr. Miller captured the other day. I do not know how much they will aid your work, but we did not want to leave you "out of the loop" as you would say."

"Thank you sir," Cartagan said uneasily. As her boss shut the door behind him, she gently ended the scan she had been working on. A quick, cursory glance at the top photo turned into a shocked perusal. The woman with them... that was... that was... but it couldn't be...

April?

The sound of coughing from the other room interrupted her. Something was very wrong with this creature – outside his normal abnormality – that was for certain. What Sir Ratcliph was planning on doing with him was beyond her, but his health came first in her book, despite what he was. She would have to start testing for illness next.

Jeanie Cartagan's fingers began to shake as she set the photograph back on the table. She entered the other room and, without thinking, took the three-fingered hand of the being on the table. The brain scans had shown him to be just as complex as the average human, the average adolescent human.

He's a kid, she thought, watching his face wince in pain, he's just a kid. What must it be like? Lost, alone, helpless and sick... The image of the two other turtles came to mind. Are they looking for you? Are they family? Friends? Is she looking for you? The feeling that all of this was very wrong started to sit on Dr. Cartagan's shoulders. Her fingers stroked the orange band around his eyes; something had stopped her from taking it off during the tests, though she couldn't explain what. What are we doing? she wondered, watching the young mutant's closed eyes drift in his sleep. What have we done?

The turtle stirred, giving a hoarse groan. Dr. Cartagan closed her eyes.

What have we done?