Fifteen Years Later…

The map of New York glowed with a soft blue light. She ran calloused fingertips across its smooth surface, noting times and places where Shredder's forces had struck and where they might strike next.

April smiled. Why think defensively when you could plot an attack? The map was filled with hidden vulnerabilities if you knew where to look. Her fingers slowed, rested on the tip of Manhattan. Reaching back, she tucked a lock of thick, graying hair into her bandanna. The fuel dump, of course.

There was a scent of change in the air, as sure as the smell of rain on a spring evening. Over the past few weeks, the dreams had been returning—old dreams, ones she hadn't had since the Asylum—racing through her mind each night, growing more intense each time. Each one filled her with a fresh sense of hope. She'd even visited the Vault a few times, going to the corner where Raph had stored His things.

Angel hadn't talked to Raphael in at least five years, but it was clear that he, too, had been visiting the small shrine-like corner dedicated to preserving Donatello's worldly possessions. Papers had been moved; photos lay scattered across a nearby table, the topmost featuring four brothers who used to fight as one.

April believed it was a sign. She and Angel had talked about it far into the night, lying on army cots pushed close together inside the husk of an old fallout shelter. Angel was too practical to believe that Donatello would come back. She worried about what she called "Raphael's obsession" with his missing brother.

Never mind Angel's doubts, April thought. At least I can count on her for some top-rate sabotage. Shredder's fuel dump is history.

After dispatching a young courier to deliver orders to Angel and her Commandos—God, this messenger is all of eleven years old, she thought with a grimace—April heard a familiar husky voice behind her.

"Hey, Rebel Leader…."

April turned, expecting Mike to deliver a report on the activities of Shredder's torture squads at the Midtown Prison. She would always reflect afterwards, even as she ran to Donatello's side, on the pure joy of getting what is expected least and wanted most.

And so it begins, she thought as her heart began to race, pressing her hands against her old friend's shell—solid—real—present.

Now.

THE END