Author's Note: This chapter contains references to suicide. If you will be upset by this please do not read. Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to any of these characters.

Leonardo. Raphael. Donatello. Michelangelo.

The four baby-like turtles had ceased crawling as their only mode of transportation. Now, they stumbled around on two feet occasionally.

Weeks had passed since Splinter had finally finished transporting all of his belongings that would fit into the sewers. He had set up the large chamber to make it as home-like as possible. He had even given each of his pets a little cardboard box, filled with his old clothes, to make a crib for them so that they would not escape during the night while he slept.

This proved difficult with Donatello, who routinely managed to defy his cardboard bed prison. Nearly every morning Splinter found him somewhere different, playing with whatever objects he had found. He was nearly ready to chain the little turtle to the tree.

Not that the other three did not present their own challenges. Now running around on two legs, Raphael was a holy terror. He had discovered any number of ways to make his brothers cry — and then he giggled sadistically upon accomplishing this task. Michelangelo was constantly injuring himself in some of the most bizarre ways Splinter had ever seen. The turtle managed to punch himself in the eye somehow when he was squabbling with Leonardo. He tripped and gave himself cut on his forehead — on the only remaining rock on the floor of a room that was almost 500 square feet. He sometimes pinched himself and started crying for no apparent reason. Splinter wondered what exactly was wrong with the little fellow, but Michelangelo was easily the happiest of the turtles. Leonardo followed Splinter everywhere, and was often so underfoot that Splinter had nearly stepped on him on more than one occasion.

One morning, as he lay on his mat, Splinter kept telling himself to get up. The depression had plagued him for weeks now, ever since he had looked at the picture of his dead family. He could hardly even motivate himself to meditate, let alone stay disciplined in ninjutsu. Only if he heard the turtles crying was he able to get up, and even then, it was difficult. They were running out of food. He would have to search for more at some point—hiding at night, scrounging through dumpsters—totally isolated from everyone.

Splinter thought he had never been lonelier in his life than when he lost Tang Shen. But even in New York, he was not cut off from humanity. Now he was—trapped in the filthy sewers of New York with only his four pets to keep him company. And as much as he loved them, as much they reminded him of little human babies, he knew that they would never be able to fill the void in his heart. Granted, they were the only thing that kept him going. He could not abandon the dear little animals. But they could never fulfill the need to be around people.

Splinter feared that he was descending into madness. Nearly every day, thoughts of suicide whispered in his conscious mind. The weapons he had brought with him seemed to call to him, promising relief from the deep depression that assailed him.

He felt that he did not deserve to live. He was an abomination. A perversion of nature.

He did not even cry anymore. Most of the time, when he was not tending the creatures, he did nothing but lay on his mat praying for sleep to hide him from his emotions. He was terrified that he might succumb to the suicidal urges. Who would take care of his pets? They seemed to lack some of the natural instincts of normal turtles. Would they die without him?

The impulses to end his own life were so strong some days that if he did not simply lay still on his mat he was afraid he would cross the line and simply fall onto one of his katanas.

This was one of those days. It was early. Sun was starting to peek through the grate high overhead, casting the tree's leaves with gold. He knew he needed to get up, to make sure that Donatello had not gotten himself into complete mischief. But the idea of leaving the sanctuary of his mat scared him.

A soft sound made him look up to see Donatello crawling over to the mat. The little creature had saved him the trouble. "Konichiwa, Donnie-bo," Splinter said heavily. Not even the sight of his little baby-like pet was enough to cheer him this morning.

Donatello crawled up and snuggled against Splinter's side. "Me," he said.

Splinter sighed. "What about you?"

"Me."

Suddenly, Splinter's eyes shot wide open. Was the turtle talking? Was that even possible? He sat bolt upright and stared and looked at Donatello. Surely his loneliness and desperation was causing him to hallucinate. "Did you just speak?"

Donatello giggled. "Me," he said. "I, me."

"Yes, you." He scooped Donatello into his arms and poked a finger against the turtle's chest. Could it really be possible? "What's your name?"

"Donnie-bo!"

Splinter was nearly floored. He knew the creatures were intelligent—but sentient? It was not possible. Yet, everything that had happened to him should not have been possible. He drew a deep breath and tried to think. The turtle's name was Donatello, but he had only actually said the full name once or twice. He usually baby-talked to his pets. It made perfect sense, in terms of linguistic development, that the creature would think his name was Donnie-bo. "And what's my name?" he breathed, wondering if the animal had taken notice of this as well.

"Me."

"Not your name. My name."

"Me! My! I, me!"

Splinter was taken somewhat aback. Had he never actually told the turtles his name? He never thought that they would be capable of speech or rational thought—what was the reason to tell them? He only ever referred to himself in the first person in front of them. Perhaps Donatello assumed that the pronouns actually were his name. Again, the linguistic development exactly matched human speech.

Donatello poked at Splinter's face. "Me. I, me!"

"No, no. My name is…"

Who was he, really? Hamato Yoshi had died in Japan. All that remained to him was the epithet that he had been given in grade school, by his best friend Oroku Saki. For years, he had gone by that name.

"My name is Splinter," he finally said.

Donatello gave him a doubtful look.

"I…am…Splinter-san," Splinter said carefully, pointing to himself. "You…are…Donnie-bo." He pointed to the turtle.

The turtle giggled. "Donnie-bo!" he shouted.

This woke up the other three turtles. With a groan, Splinter got up to feed them.

But a flame of hope had sprung up inside of him. If the turtles were not merely strangely mutated animals…if they, like him, were human spirits trapped inside of animals' bodies…

He was not alone.

And he never would be again.

That evening, after he fed the turtles the last of the meager rice supply, he snuck out to find food for the next several days. He didn't care if he had to scrounge. None of that mattered anymore. It didn't matter how isolated he was, or how degraded he felt by his present state. Four lives—and not just animals, but human spirits—depended on him.

The next morning, he rose early. He meditated. He practiced his katas for the first time in weeks and weeks. He stretched his sore muscles afterward.

His weapons still called to him—but they called out with months of disuse, begging for him to practice his fighting forms, to renew his inner warrior.

Maybe—someday, if the turtles really were human spirits—he would teach them in the ways of the ninja. If that happened, he needed to be ready.

He started over to his cache of ninja weapons and started to pick up the katana he had thought about impaling himself on. But now, the despair had fled away from it. Its blade shone in the light like a beacon of hope and promise to him. To his future.

He struck a forceful kata—and then was interrupted by hungry turtles. He sheathed the blade and scooped them out of their cribs.

"All right, children," he said playfully. "Just wait until you see all of the delicious things I found for you to eat."