"What's this?"

As the shuddering hiss questioned the neko ninja forcing him into a kneeling position, Donatello cringed. He knew this voice. He had never heard it before, at least not in the conscious world, but he knew it just the same. He felt that he heard it many times, whispering past his face just before breaking into what would turn into a roar had he not woken himself up. This voice was not a voice at all, but a heavy, foreboding presence. This voice was the material interwoven between the threads of every nightmare.

The allusion hardly reached his mind when caught sight of the dark creature crawling out of the shadows. Donatello's skin itched as he looked at the being that was undoubtedly the source of his brother's current night terrors. He hardly felt at all surprised to see a large, gray spider scuttle towards him.

"You fools," she screamed/hissed at her ninja. "This is not the one called Leonardo! You have brought me the wrong kame!" She seemed to tremble for a moment, just before a sudden bright silver light swept the room, like lightning emanating from her body. Against his better judgment, Donatello cried out and shielded his eyes, ducking his head down.

The normally-silent ninjas at his side shouted in what seemed like a mixture of pain and terror, making Donatello sick to his stomach. So, this was what Hebi was up to. Somehow, Usagi was given the wrong piece of chalk (or, perhaps, misinformed as to the chalk's purpose), and told to bring Leonardo here. Once in Akumu's clutches, she would be able to get rid of both Leonardo and Usagi, saving Hebi the trouble. Two for the price of one.

But was that really what was going on?

Donatello had a dim memory of when he had first met Usagi in the Battle Nexus. The rabbit had been fighting Leonardo during the tournament, and Leonardo suddenly fell to the ground, unconscious. He had been injected with a poison and nearly died. Later on, it had been revealed that the Daimyo's son was to blame, ridding Donatello of the distrust he bore towards Usagi since then. Now, that distrust had come back. Perhaps Usagi hadn't been tricked. Perhaps he was in line with Akumu. Perhaps he knew very well what the chalk would do, and feared that Donatello and the others would stand in his way of doing Leonardo one last turn. After all, how else could Donatello explain having been captured so easily, whereas Usagi was nowhere in the vicinity? Could he… could he possibly have reopened the portal and be bringing in the rest of his brothers, one by one, before dealing with Leonardo?

Donatello shook his head fiercely, trying to get these atrocious thoughts out of his head. They were atrocious, weren't they? Usagi was their trusted friend, and Donatello himself had said that he would never again doubt him after the samurai proved his innocence in the Battle Nexus affair.

The turtle had not been aware that his eyes were squeezed shut until he slowly pried them open. Looking downwards, he could see the shadow of the spider creature known as Akumu, and was horrified to realize that he didn't dare look up. A decayed, charred smell had filled the room, and Donatello briefly wondered if this stemmed from Akumu or from what she had done to the misguided neko ninja. It did not take him long to conclude that it was a mixture of both.

"Ah, but this one may just serve me better," the hiss came again, lower, almost seductive. "You are called Donatello, correct?" When he didn't answer, something that sounded like the rustling of dry leaves trickled out of her mouth. Donatello disdainfully realized that this was her version of laughter. "What, have the neko caught your tongue?" She allowed a moment of silence to pass before slinking another step closer. Donatello embarrassedly noted his wince at the movement. "But of course," she said. "I must appear daunting. This is no way for us to carry on a conversation."

Still looking downwards, Donatello saw a strange mist begin to rise from the ground. An odd sound arose, wet and disgusting in nature. Concentrating on the shadow before him, Donatello saw that the being in front of him was changing. A shapeshifter. That was all he needed. He shuddered to think of what sort of horrible creature Akumu would turn into, and decided that whatever it was, it had to be better than the furry creature with the eight long, spindly legs and unimaginable red eyes.

Daring a glance upwards, he saw that he was wrong.

The last of the spider's gray hair just finished tucking itself away in a bun of bright red. The eyes maintained their luminosity and unsettling quality, but there were only two of them now, both a deep shade of green. As though these two features didn't seem colorful enough for the bleak setting, a purple halter top and khaki cargos were just done being fitted over the new figure. With a lump in his throat, Donatello realized that he was staring up at his longtime friend, April O'Neil.

"Well, that's better," the creature said in a perfect imitation of April's voice, looking about herself and seeming to dust herself off. "I'd rather you look at me dumbfounded than not look at me at all." Seeing no reaction from the turtle, the April clone hunched down over her knees, eyeing him with what seemed to be concern. "Donnie? You okay?"

Donatello blinked, unable to do much else but gawk at the figure before him. Even her mannerisms matched that of April's perfectly. That look in her eyes… and she had called him Donnie… how else could she…?

But no, Donatello's logical mind quickly came up with an answer. If Akumu could manipulate the subconscious images in a person's dream, then she could just as easily make him think that the creature in front of him was April. Perhaps she was actually little more than a blank-faced mannequin, and it was simply his memories of April that were coloring the experience. If he imagined a scar on April's forearm, perhaps this pseudo-April would develop a scar as well, only to match his mental suggestion.

However, he knew before he even tried anything that this wouldn't be the case. It was the subconscious that Akumu attacked. And for all of his knowledge, Donatello couldn't alter what his subconscious knew. His unconscious mind knew what April looked like, and no matter how much he consciously tried to interfere with the mold Akumu had created, he could not fight against it. His senses were going to be assaulted.

Jumping to his feet and backing away, Donatello remarked, "Nice trick, Akumu. But I'm not biting." He reached behind him for his bo, but quickly remembered that he had lost it during his brief battle with the neko ninjas. He still had his bag slung over his shoulder; if he could only reach in and grab something useful before he was forced to use brawn instead of his brains….

The thing with April's face looked up at him with an air of perplexity. "Akumu? Don, I think you hit your head too hard." She stood, grabbing something up off the floor. "Here. Looking for this?" As she asked the question, she tossed the large item towards him. Surprised, he instinctually caught it. Looking down, he saw that she had just given him his bo staff. Clenching it hard, he realized that it felt just as real in his hand as the duffel bag felt resting against his side. He didn't know whether that relieved or distressed him.

"Man, you all right, bro?" Donatello whirled around at the sound of the familiar voice. As he turned, he saw a painfully well-known sight: he was in their old lair, before Karai had it destroyed. He was home. Standing in front of him was a reluctantly-repentant Raphael, a concerned Leonardo, a vaguely-bemused Michelangelo… and… and….

"Sensei?"

Standing just outside of the perimeter of the training area, Master Splinter returned his gaze worriedly. "Yes, Donatello?" The words were simple enough. Two words, one sentence that he had probably said more times than Donatello had realized. And yet… yet they were the first words he had heard his sensei say since that awful day months ago. He couldn't even remember what Splinter's last words to him had been, and the comfortable voice that suddenly came back to him in five syllables hurt more than he could have imagined.

The world before him wavered, and the uncomfortable and troubled looks from those closest to him informed Donatello that he was crying. Sobbing, actually. He felt a hand on his shoulder, and without turning around, he knew that it was April. But he couldn't look at her. Something in the back of his mind bothered him, and he knew that he wouldn't be able to look at her. Not now. Not yet.

"Way to go, Mr. Can't-Take-a-Joke," Michelangelo remarked to Raphael. "I'm way over here, and yet you managed to bean Donnie on the head hard enough for him to lose his marbles."

"Quiet, Mikey," Leonardo sternly scolded. "Go read a comic book or something." In a softer voice, he asked Donatello, "Donnie, are you all right? You're not hurt, are you?"

"He landed on his bag," April said from behind him. "I think he got the wind knocked out of him and just got a little disoriented or something. Is that what happened, Don?"

Without thinking, Donatello turned around and faced April. She was still gazing at him with that sort of perplexed concern. In that quick instance, Donatello couldn't remember why he hadn't wanted to look at her before. She was his best friend, and something about her always made him feel better. He dropped his hand to a spot on his abdomen, and sure enough, he felt a dull pain edging away. "Yeah," he responded. "Raph just threw me off-balance. It's gonna ache for a while, but so long as my equipment's fine, I should be okay."

"Then I would suggest," Splinter brought up, "that you and Miss O'Neil take inventory of the contents of your bag someplace that would put some distance between yourself and your sparring brothers."

Donatello looked at Splinter for a long time, wondering why he had begun bawling like that. Raphael offered a smart aleck sort of apology, but Donatello was too wrapped up in trying to remember why he had called for his sensei just a few moments ago. As April called for him to follow her out of the room, Donatello shook his head and tagged along behind her.

He discarded his feelings as remnants of a bad dream, and nothing more.