In his dream, he was back in the infirmary. He was playing chess against Master Splinter, and playing it badly. His friends were ranged around the room - Casey, the Daimyo, Traximus - and every time Splinter captured one of his pieces, Leonardo slaughtered someone brutally. Sydney, Angel, the homeless professor.
I don't want to play anymore, he said.
This is not a game, Raphael! Leonardo shouted at him. This is real!
No, he said. I don't want to play. He put a finger on his king, to tip it over and forfeit. As soon as he did, Leonardo's sword was at Splinter's throat.
You can't quit the game, Leonardo said.
He took his finger away. He moved a pawn instead. Leonardo moved among his friends. Silver Sentry, Usagi, Mr. Mortu.
Splinter made an illegal move with his queen, threatening both of Raphael's rooks.
You can't do that! he complained. The queen doesn't move that way!
Make your move, Raphael, Splinter said icily.
He looked up. Leonardo had drawn his other sword, and poised both of them. One over Mrs. Morrison. One over that kid. Tyler.
He brought his hand up and flung over the board, scattering the pieces across the floor. His queen came to rest at April's feet.
Calmly, Splinter reached his hand inside his robes and drew out a pouch. He shook the contents into his palm, and, with a breath, sent the powder swirling through the room.
His friends began to cough, choke, and die. They fell, tumbling on top of each other, while Leonardo stood passively.
Leatherhead, only just saved from the hunter.
Professor Honeycutt, who had fried his circuits to end the senseless war.
Zog - brave, honorable Zog – whose sacrifice had been in vain.
No! He scrambled to pick up the pieces, but they melted and slid through his fingers...
He woke in a dark room. The young man was there, as bright as ever. It was as if he moved around in his own personal spotlight.
"Hey," Raphael said. "I gotta lot of questions for you."
"Ask," said the bright man.
He was momentarily dumbfounded. He had expected the man to dodge, to obfuscate. He cast a net over his thoughts before they escaped.
"In the alley," he said. "When did you get there? And why did the Foot run away?"
"I was manifest," the young man replied. "I sent visions to drive them."
Visions. "You made them see things that weren't real?"
The man watched him passively. "I do not understand."
"Real. You know. Actually existing." He sat up. His visitor didn't react to the decreased distance between them. "Are you real?"
"There are many truths..." he began.
"Forget the mystic mumbo," he interrupted. "Just tell me if this is happening. Are you here? Is this a dream?"
"I am real to you, Raphael."
That's it. I'm insane. "What did you make me drink? Was it a drug that makes me hallucinate you?" He realized as he said it that the statement would crumble at the first touch of logic. He went back to the thought he'd had earlier, the hook that held his ideas in place. "Are you with the Foot?"
"I am not 'with' anyone."
"Everyone is with someone." In the world as he knew it, that was truth. "Did the Foot put a tracker in me? Is it messing with my brain? When did this really start?" When you were blind. "How long have they been watching me?"
"I am not your enemy, Raphael," the young man said. "I am not your ally. I serve my own nature."
This scared him more than the idea that his strange visitor was a new plot by his old enemies. "Which is what?" he said. "To be obscure?"
"I cannot explain these things," the man said. "I am ineffable."
"What does that mean?"
The young man shook his head. The same bottle from two nights ago was suddenly in his spotlit hand. "You must drink this."
Raphael shot his hand out and knocked the bottle to the floor. Chess pieces scattering... "Why should I trust you? If you're imaginary, you can't help me, and if you're real, you aren't helping me. You're doing something to my family. You're hurting them."
The young man bent to pick up the bottle where it had rolled under the bed. Watching him, Raphael saw the fishing pole, exactly where Leo had left his crutch.
"It is not my nature to hurt," the young man said, straightening up and offering the bottle again. "You must drink this."
"Then why did you keep my father from me when I called him?" His gaze darted to the gong at his bedside, and he calculated how quickly he could grab the mallet. "Why didn't you come when he stayed with me?"
"These things are not as they appear to you," the young man said. "These are things you must face alone."
His friends falling by the sword. "Why?"
"It is the only way you can come back to yourself. It is the only way you can help the ones you care about."
His friends falling by the poison. He took the bottle. "Don't hurt my family," he whispered.
He drank.
He woke in a dark room. He felt himself falling, and flung out an arm. He was suddenly aware of the lumpy mattress against his back and legs, and wasn't sure if it had been there half a second ago.
He was breathing heavily.
It took him a minute to figure out why that felt wrong. Then he realized - he hadn't breathed like that in days.
His ankle was burning as though he had just slammed his leg against the bed, and it distracted him from the pleasant sensation of air flowing effortlessly in and out of his body. He sat up and rubbed the sore joint gingerly. Pain sparkled around his touches.
It was eight o'clock on Sunday morning.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed, kicked up the crutch with his good foot, and stood. He decided it was time to look like a healthy person again.
He navigated through the drifts of cushions to where he'd left his gear and bent down to disentangle his mask from the pile. His fingers brushed against his phone, and on a whim he picked it up. He flipped it open and pushed buttons to bring up the call history.
The most recent entry was an outgoing call to Casey, from a week and a half ago.
He dropped the phone, yanked his mask from underneath the crumpled sweatshirt, and straightened up. Now that his head and his lungs were clear, it was easy to balance on one foot. He propped the crutch against his chest while he tied the familiar fabric across his eyes.
Come back to yourself.
He was ready to face the day.
Mike was in the kitchen when he got there, prepping the coffee machine.
"Don didn't do that?" Raphael asked, as he rummaged in the refrigerator for juice. "He must have gone to bed late." Late-night crashes were the only thing that kept Donatello from his bedtime ritual. He was obsessive about the routine. He couldn't function in the morning until he had coffee in him, and prepping the machine was not on the short list of things he could manage pre-caffeine.
Mike didn't answer. He put the lid on, knelt, and buried himself in the cabinet below the counter.
Raphael reached for a glass, poured the juice, and carried it to the table. "You're up early," he commented, pulling out his usual chair and sitting in it.
Mike hummed noncommittally, extracting himself from the cabinet and reaching up to put a box of pancake mix on the counter.
"I like where this is going," Raphael said. He was determined to talk, even if Michelangelo refused to answer and was still avoiding his eye.
Donatello stumbled into the kitchen then, his mask slung over his shoulder. He swatted at the coffee machine until it turned on, and slumped into his chair.
Mike was busily mixing ingredients in the biggest bowl they owned while the griddle warmed on the stove. "Morning Donnie," he said.
'Morning Donnie'? What happened to 'Morning Raph'?
"Hey," Raphael said, poking Donatello's uncovered elbow. "You look wrecked."
"Nnnn," Don replied.
Splinter came in, looking characteristically unruffled. "Good morning, my sons." He sniffed the air. "What are you making, Michelangelo?"
Mike spooned the batter onto the pan, then turned from the stove, glanced shiftily around the room, and said: "Pancakes."
Within seconds Leonardo had appeared in the doorway, eyes wide, mask in hand. "I heard pancakes." The coffee maker burbled happily and he automatically reached to pour some of the steaming liquid into a mug, which he set on the table in front of Don. "I didn't know we had any more mix."
"Found it when I was cleaning up," Mike said. He set down his spatula to pull five plates from the cabinet. Splinter went to the silverware drawer and began setting the table while Donatello attempted to organize his body parts so he could drink.
He's talking to everyone but me, Raphael thought. Why is he still like this?
Leonardo put his mask on while he waited for Don to get down a few sips of coffee. "Any luck with the tracer?" he asked.
"Yes and no." Don snapped the purple bandana off his shoulder and fixed it around his head. "As I suspected, it's impossible to extract useful data from a broken transmitter. But I slept on it and I realized I've been going about it all wrong."
"How so?" Leo said, as Mike slid plates of hot pancakes onto the table.
Don meticulously cut his pancakes into bite-size triangles while Raphael simply rolled his up and started eating. "This isn't a hardware problem. I shouldn't even have been looking at the camera. I should be hacking the Foot's network and tracing the data stream from that end. By the way," he pointed his fork at Raphael. "I don't suppose you took your temperature before you started eating?"
Raphael, caught with half a pancake in his mouth, tried to swallow. "Was I supposed to?"
"It might have been a good idea." Don twirled his fork back into eating position. "Finish eating and wait an hour."
Splinter spoke into the break. "Did you sleep well, my sons?" His gaze lingered on Raphael.
They all murmured assent.
Later, Raphael said with his eyes.
"This hacking thing," Leo said. "Can you do that today?"
"I could have done it Tuesday," Don said. "I've been so busy, I just didn't think of it."
"Oh, and Sensei," Leo put down his fork to address their father, "Raph was saying that we should practice fighting with clothes on. I think it's a good idea."
Splinter looked mildly surprised. "I was under the impression that you normally removed your clothes to fight."
"Yes, but -"
"Takes too long," Raphael supplied. He flashed back to that desperate fumble, the handles of his sai hopelessly tangled in the capacious folds of his shirt.
"We will begin training again when Raphael is over his illness," Splinter said. "I will see how you move in clothes."
"And on the subject of illness," Don said, pushing his plate back and glancing at Raphael, "I want to listen to your lungs later, and your ankle should be looked at again."
"Oh, yeah." His eased breathing had faded into the background and slipped his mind. "You're gonna want to do that soon."
Don paused with his coffee mug halfway to his mouth. "Why?"
"Actually," he said, getting out of his chair and reaching for his crutch, "you're gonna want to do it now."
The infirmary looked strangely empty without the bed in it. Someone had taken away the extra chair, but the stool was unoccupied. He sat on it.
Don caught up to him a minute later, having paused to clear his place. "What's going on?" he asked, opening a drawer. "Do you feel worse?"
"Just do the thing, Donnie." He wanted an unbiased opinion. "And for god's sake, warm it up first."
Don disentangled the stethoscope from whatever else he kept in the drawer, and pressed the metal disk between his hands. "Have you thought any more about this dangerous thing you want to do?"
Too late, Donnie. "Sort of."
"'Sort of'?" Don fit the bulbs of the stethoscope into his ears. "What is 'sort of'?"
He lowered his head so Don could slide the disk down the base of his neck. "Well, I kinda already did it."
"Breathe in, and tell me you did not go out chasing the Foot last night."
He breathed in. "No, I definitely didn't do that." The disk slid further down, stabbing against the sensitive place where shell fused to skin. "Ouch, Donnie."
"Breathe," Don said.
He breathed. The disk slid out and then Don was in front of him, pulling the stethoscope from his ears and crossing his arms. "Raphael," he said, very seriously. "What did you do?"
"Why?" he asked. "Am I still sick?"
"No, you have full lung function. Are you going to tell me how that happened?"
He grinned innocently. "You know. Immune system."
Don narrowed his eyes. "I don't care how many times you've had pneumonia, you don't get over it in one day."
"Well, it's that mind-over-matter thing." He stood up. "Splinter said I was doing a stellar job imagining myself well."
Don pushed him back down. "What the shell is going on, Raph? Why are you giving me these stupid excuses?"
"Hey, it's not my fault you're not at one with the whole spiritual healing thing."
It was a low blow. Once, when they were younger, Michelangelo had rearranged Donatello's chi to the point where he accidentally caused Don to come down with a strange malady that took all of Splinter's spiritual and homeopathic knowledge to cure. The incident had had the twofold effect of getting Mike to finally take his abilities seriously, and increasing Don's belief in the existence of unmeasurable energies, though he was left with a lingering discomfort with and mistrust of the whole concept.
"Neither are you," Don retorted. "Last time I checked, you were not a master of meditative regeneration." He threw the stethoscope, barely bothering to aim for the drawer. "Tell me what is going on."
No excuse in the world was going to help him now.
"Not here," he said. "And bring everyone, because I'm only going to say this once."
They assembled on and around the couch, watching him expectantly. Don, cross-legged on the floor, stone-faced and waiting for answers. Leo, unsure what was about to happen and ready to face any new danger. Splinter, who already knew most of the story. And Mike, hunched at his father's feet.
"First tell me what happened," Raphael said. "Between when I went out and when I woke up."
Leo glanced around, then spoke up. "I already told you part of it. After my phone rang, we took the Slider and followed you. Mike was first aboveground, and you weren't exactly hidden, so he was first to find you. He thought that you -" He paused, still uncomfortable with the idea. "Weren't with us anymore, but Don found a pulse. He worked on you while Mike stood guard and I cleaned the blood off the ground."
"No one else was there," Don put in. When Leo looked at him oddly, he just looked right back.
"When Don thought you were okay to move," Leo continued, "we brought you home. You were unconscious for two days. I think you know the rest."
"Okay," Raphael said. "Here's what I saw." He paused to gather his thoughts. One more moment of reprieve. "I was lying on the ground getting stabbed to death when all the Foot just up and ran away. I opened my eyes and there was this one guy still there. Yes," he said, when Don opened his mouth. "He had a fishing pole."
"What?" Leo said blankly.
"I knew it," Don said. "I was right."
"I don't understand," Leo said, looking back and forth between Raphael and Donatello.
"Let your brother continue," Splinter said.
"He stayed with me," Raphael said. "Then I heard you coming, and then I passed out."
Leonardo was calculating possibilities in his head. "Which way did he go?"
"I don't know. I never saw him leave."
"Once we were under the alley," Leo said, his eyes ticking back and forth as he thought, "it only took us seconds to get topside. He must have been very fast."
"I don't know," Raphael said again.
"What do you remember next?" Donatello prompted.
"I woke up in the sick-room," he said, ordering the images in his head. "I probably said something stupid. Stuff wasn't really making sense until later."
"Then skip ahead," Don said.
He fast-forwarded his memories. "Thursday night," he began, "I had some weird dream. Then I woke up and that same guy was there."
"Impossible," Don said immediately. "No one could get in here without setting off my alarms."
"Unless," he glanced at Splinter, "I was actually still dreaming. The first time I saw the guy - that might have been imaginary too."
"What did he do?" Leo asked. "Or what did you imagine him doing?"
"I called for you guys, but he said you weren't coming. Then he gave me an empty bottle and told me to drink it. And I did."
"Why would you do that, if you weren't sure it was only a dream?" Leo frowned at him. "You know how vulnerable we are to poisons. And you had no reason to trust him. That was stupid and dangerous."
"I know, but he -"
"Dangerous," Donatello interrupted. "You did something dangerous last night." His brow furrowed as he connected points A and B. "You tried to see him again."
He refused to be ashamed. "He's involved in all this, Don. There's something - I can't explain it. He might be the cause of what's wrong with us. He might be the only one who can fix things. I have to talk to him. I'm doing it for you, Donnie." His shoulders were rising with tension; he forced them back down. "I'm doing this for all of you."
"Go on," Leo said. "What happened last night?"
"I figured out that he only comes when I sleep alone," Raphael continued. "Which is why I wanted to sleep upstairs."
"You could have slept alone in the infirmary," Don said.
"Also I really hate that place." He refocused on his story. "I had this horrible dream about -" He didn't want to go there; he was sure that part had only been a dream. "Anyway the guy came again. I asked him if he was with the Foot and he said he wasn't with anyone. He said - I think he said he chased the Foot away, in the alley. But he said he wasn't our ally. So I don't think he's their enemy."
"So he's an independent entity," Leo said. "If he's real."
"Right. Then he gave me the empty bottle again and he told me I had to drink it if I wanted to fix things. So I did."
"All of which means what?" Don asked.
"I don't know." He glanced at Splinter, who was staring thoughtfully into his own lap. "I thought that maybe he was a manifestation of my subconscious, some weird focusing of energy. I imagine him and he helps me do things. Heal myself. Heal us."
"I don't believe it," Don said.
He ignored Don's expected reaction, plowing on with his theory. "But then I thought - what if he's real and in my head? What if the tracker's not in the camera?" He looked at them anxiously. "What if it's in me, and it's doing something to my brain?"
There was a stricken silence.
"I'll get the metal detector," Don said.
He sat rigidly on the lab bench while Donatello ran the metal detector over every inch of his body.
"Could be sending electrical impulses to your brain," Don rambled as he worked methodically up and down Raphael's limbs. "Electrical stimulation does have some beneficial effect on flesh wounds... maybe some kind of iontophoresis to accelerate reabsorption of the fluid in your lungs... though the amount of time between when they would have had to implant it and when it must have started working is ludicrously short..." He mumbled incomprehensibly to himself, then brought his voice back to normal volume. "There's nothing here, Raph."
"Are you sure?" He remembered the last time someone had asked Don that question. "Maybe it's not metal."
Don drummed his fingers on the flat place above his mouth, processing that thought. "If the Foot had anything like what you're thinking of, Stockman would have designed it. And while he has access to the Saki fortune and several kinds of alien technology, I don't think he can change the properties of matter. Nothing non-metallic could conduct electricity well enough to have that kind of effect on a complex organism."
"Aww, you called me a complex organism. You do care."
Don rolled his eyes. "Not now, Raph. Whatever's happening to you, it isn't electrical and it isn't chemical. So the most likely candidate is biological. And biological processes simply don't work fast enough to go from implant to hallucination in the space of a few minutes."
Unless it wasn't a few minutes. "What else is there?" he asked. "I know you've got a theory."
"I've got two theories." Don held up a finger. "Either this person is real, and he is both very fast and able to repeatedly sneak past my security systems, or," he held up a second finger, "he is completely a figment of your imagination, in which case you are imagining yourself well, and I take back everything I ever said about you having the spiritual resonance of a barbed wire fence."
He thought about the choices. He thought about the third option.
"Donnie," he said slowly. "There's one more thing I didn't say."
"What, that you're going to try to see that guy again? I already figured that out."
"Well, yeah." He picked at his leg. "The second time I saw the guy, he said... He said he'd been watching me way back when Splinter was missing. What if - could I have already had an implant then?"
Don's brow crinkled again. "When would the Foot have gotten it into you?"
He'd already thought about that. "What about that time Hun got me? Remember, when the invisible ninjas tried to follow me home? I was unconscious for a while. They could have done anything."
Don was shaking his head. "Raph, that was months ago. If the Foot implanted you then, they have the worst follow-through I've ever seen. And anyway..." He paused, remeasuring his mental angles. "The guy says he saw you. But did you see him?"
"Well, I was a little bit blind at the time," he sarcasmed. "But I never heard him, or sensed him, or anything."
"Then you didn't necessarily have the implant then," Don said. "The Foot might have heard about that incident, and somehow encoded it into an implant..." He looked at the mess of projects on his desk. "God, that would be advanced technology. To preprogram biological stimulation of specific memories... No. I'm getting mixed up." His fingers twitched, drawing his thoughts in the air. "They couldn't have implanted you on Tuesday, because it couldn't have started working so quickly, regardless of how amazing their biotech is. And if they implanted you way back when you got kidnapped, then they're not coming after us and the implant actually seems to be doing you more good than harm."
"Can you summarize that in small words?"
"Sure." Don held up one finger again. "There's a very fast and sneaky person whose motives we don't know, or you are the almighty god of the placebo effect, or you have a strange biological implant that accelerates your healing at the cost of occasional, mildly disturbing hallucinations. Which one do you like?"
"None of them." He picked up his crutch and limped back towards the couch, where the rest of his family was waiting. "But I want to know which one it is."
"Well, the second one is easy to rule out," Don said, as they exited the lab. "Stop imagining things."
"And the others?"
"Full-body exploratory surgery is pretty much out, and I don't know how much more secure I can make this place." They walked slowly across the room. "Besides, everyone knows you only manipulate one variable at a time."
"Oh, sure," Raphael said. "Everyone knows that." He sat heavily on the couch.
"Donatello," Splinter said, while Leonardo hovered anxiously and Mike attempted to make himself appear even smaller. "What have you found?"
"Smoke and mirrors," Don said. "Wild theories held together by the tiniest shreds of evidence."
"A simple yes or no would be nice," Leo said.
"It's a very probably no." Don quickly repeated his three theories, managing to skim over the extra bit of information that Raphael had confided to him.
Leonardo's mind singled out the solution he could deal with. "So you'll increase security?"
"No, I'm going to take a poke through the Foot's computer systems. If it looks like they're up to anything, then I'll throw this place into Defcon 4. But first," he shinned the table closer to the couch. "I want to see if Raphael's ligaments have miraculously reattached themselves. Put your foot up."
Raphael grabbed the cushion that had wound up behind his back and tossed it onto the table. He noticed the rest of the family hadn't taken Donatello's last statement as their cue to leave.
"What are you all staring at?" Raphael demanded. He was tired of feeling like the target of everyone's voyeurism. "Can we get some doctor-patient confidentiality here?"
Splinter stood up. "I will be in my room if you have anything to report," he said. "Leonardo, Michelangelo, give your brothers some privacy."
They dispersed.
Raphael lifted his ankle onto the cushion and Don knelt to unwrap the bandage. "You seem happier," Raphael said.
"Sure." Don worked out the knot and began to unroll the cloth from Raphael's calf. "You're recovering at an astounding rate and you've stopped being shifty and defensive. If you can get Mike out of his funk, I'll be the happiest mutant turtle in New York."
"Not a lotta competition there, bro." He tilted his head. "All these evil plots aren't bothering you? They'd be bothering me, if I understood half of them."
Don slowed his work as he got closer to the injury. "At least I can do something about them now. You know I hate being in the dark."
"I'm sorry, Donnie." He steeled himself against the pain that was happening. "I thought I was insane. I didn't want you to know."
"You're not insane," Don said. He worked the bandage around Raphael's heel. "But I'm insulted that you think I wouldn't notice if you were."
"So?" he asked, as the end of the bandage came loose. "How does it look?"
"A little swollen." Donatello gently manipulated Raphael's foot. "Does this hurt?"
His face stretched into a rictus. "Yeah." He squeezed his eyes closed. "Kinda a lot." He gritted his teeth while Don did whatever he was doing.
"The skin has healed," Don said, beginning to rewrap the bandage, "but there's still internal damage. I'll look again tomorrow."
He waited for the throbbing to ease off a little. Then: "Why tomorrow?"
"Please, Raph. I'm not stupid. You're going to talk to that guy again. And whoever he is, whatever creepy things he says to you, things always seem to get better after you see him."
He leaned forward. "You're not going to try to stop me?"
"No."
"Why not?"
Donatello worked the bandage under itself, knotting it tightly. "Because for some stupid reason, despite mounds of evidence indicating that you are a foolhardy dissembler, I trust you."
He took his foot out of his brother's reach. "Because I'm a what?"
Don sighed. "Because Master Splinter keeps giving me these looks every time I try to keep you out of what distinctly resembles trouble. And now," he stood up and cracked his knuckles, "I have some inferior security systems to hack."
Foolhardy dissembler? "Hey Donnie," he said, just before his brother disappeared into his lab. "Do we have a dictionary around here?"
"Sure. Why?"
Why do you think? "I gotta look something up."
Don wasn't moving. "What's the word?"
"Just bring me the damn book, Donnie."
A few minutes later he had a dictionary in his lap. He waited pointedly for Don to go away before opening it.
He looked up ineffable.
Then, for good measure, he looked up manifest.
He was watching something non-war-related on the History Channel when Michelangelo crept in and tucked himself into the opposite corner of the couch. He thought about saying something, but decided it was better to remain silent and let his brother sit, than to open his mouth and scare him away.
Lewis and Clark had just sighted the Pacific Ocean when Mike said, "Leo doesn't know."
Raphael poked the mute button, shutting up the overwrought voice actor who was desperately pretending to be Meriwether Lewis. "What doesn't Leo know?"
Mike looked determinedly at the floor. "What he said, about what I thought. I wasn't wrong."
It took him a minute to figure out what Mike was talking about. He thought you were dead. "No, Mikey," he said. "No. I was okay." That was a ridiculous lie. "You must have missed my pulse."
"I didn't even look for one," Mike said miserably. Whatever he was trying to say, it was costing him a great effort to say it. "I smelled death on you."
Raphael understood immediately what his brother was telling him. It wasn't a physical odor Mike was referring to. It was one of the smell-sensations that his brain came up with when it tried to make sense of an energy field.
"I know," he said. "I felt it coming. But I didn't let it in."
"It was in." Mike twisted his hands in his lap. "It was all inside you. Everywhere. It ate your energy."
He was dumbstruck. "But - I'm alive. It must have been, you know, that stopped-heart thing. Clinical death." Even that scared him.
Mike was shaking his head. "Everything was gone. Your you-ness was gone."
Translating his talent into words had always been hard for Mike, but Raphael needed him to be clear now. "I don't understand, Mike. Tell me from the beginning."
Mike drew his legs up to his chest and buried his face between his knees. "When I got there," he said on a shuddering breath, "you weren't there. You weren't in yourself. Then some of you came back. Then Don got there and said you were alive. And then we went home. And more of you came back, and you woke up. But you're still not right."
"What's wrong with me? Where was I?"
"I don't know," Mike said to his feet. He peeked up and made a box with his hands, slowly crushing it. "You're... inside-out. You're not with us."
"Of course I'm with you." He wanted to hold his brother, but Mike was so folded in on himself. "I'm here, Mike."
"You're not with us," Mike said again. "You're... disconnected." He finally looked up, and Raphael realized that Mike hadn't looked him in the eye since the attack, except for the brief incident with the remote. "Are you mad at us?"
"No, Mike. I'm not mad." He didn't know how to convey how much he wanted to be friends again. "I love you. I'll never leave you."
"Then why are you staying out?"
"Staying out of what?" He was completely lost. "Mike, I can't see what you see. I don't know what you're talking about."
"The web," Mike said in anguish. "You haven't come back."
The web. It was the name Mike had given to the tangle of energy that connected them. "I'm out of the web?" Suddenly everything made so much more sense.
Mike looked worried, confused. "You didn't know?"
"No, Mike." He tried to probe his energies, but only felt a vague discomfort where the pancakes were settling. "You know I can't feel it."
Mike slowly unfolded himself, turning sideways to face his brother. "I thought you would feel if it wasn't there." He froze. "You're not mad?"
"I'm not mad," he said again. He held very still, waiting for his brother to come to him. "I want to come back."
Mike reached out a tentative hand, his palm forward. "I can bring you back." He paused again, always hesitant since the incident with Don, always asking permission to move his brothers' chi. "Do you want me to?"
"Yes," he said, and found that it only took one word to say that he wanted everything to be all right.
He relaxed his mind and body as Mike focused on his hand, turning his wrist slowly. It all made sense. Splinter couldn't detect the web without Mike's help, couldn't have known what was wrong with them. Leo and Don, as chi-blind as himself, wouldn't have recognized the problem, but were nonetheless affected by the absence of their brother's familiar energy.
He was ready to come back.
Mike was frowning. "I can't," he said.
"It's okay, Mike," he said, trying to hold onto his quasi-meditative state. "I trust you."
"No, I can't." Mike closed his fist on invisible tendrils of energy. "It's moving away from me. Where is it going?"
"I don't know." Without thinking, he reached out and held his brother's hand. "I don't want it to go." Energy going away meant only one thing to him. "I don't want to die."
Mike brought his other hand up, joining it with the two already clasped between them. "I'm trying to hold onto it," he said. He closed his eyes, seeing the energy in his mind. "I'm not going to let you go."
They were still sitting like that when Splinter emerged from his room. "My sons," he said, "what are you doing?"
Michelangelo was sweating from the psychic effort, so Raphael answered. "It's my chi, Sensei. Mike says that I -" died " - that I fell out of the web. He's trying to put me back, but it isn't working."
Master Splinter unfocused his eyes, looking at something that could not be seen. "Your chi has been very inward, Raphael. It has been staying close to you while you heal." He blinked. "I do not see any difference."
"Please." Mike tilted his head towards his father. "Look."
Master Splinter placed his hand on Michelangelo's head. "Is it all right if I do this?"
"Hurry," Michelangelo said.
Raphael knew that Master Splinter was joining his mind with Michelangelo's. It was a skill Splinter made Mike practice, even though Mike hated it. He said it felt like bugs crawling inside his head. For him to ask for it...
"No," Splinter said. "Michelangelo, stop."
Mike let go as though Raphael's hands had burned him, throwing himself back against the arm of the couch.
"Now look again," Splinter said. He had not lost his physical or mental connection. "What do you see?"
Mike opened his eyes and stared through Raphael's chest. "It's not moving," he said.
"Was it moving before you touched him?" Splinter asked.
"No," Mike said in a small voice.
Splinter broke the connection. "Raphael's energy is not fleeing from him," he said. "It is moving away from you, Michelangelo. It is not ready to be taken from him."
"I -" Michelangelo looked at Raphael with eyes full of horror. Then he leapt over the back of the couch and ran into his room.
"Sensei," Raphael asked fearfully. "What's happening to me?"
"You are not dying," Splinter said, and Raphael understood that he and Michelangelo had had a long conversation inside their heads, where time was distorted. "You are healing remarkably well." He sat in the place Michelangelo had vacated. "Your chi is powerful and not easily controlled. Your brother is not strong enough to move it against its will."
"He was only trying to help me," Raphael said. "I wanted him to do it."
"Yes," said Master Splinter. "And when your chi is ready to move outward, Michelangelo will be the one to guide it back to the web. But for now, you should rest. His efforts have exhausted your energies."
He did feel tired, as if he'd been holding his breath too long. "He won't want to try again."
"He will," Splinter said. "The well-being of our family depends on the strength of the web. He will not allow it to remain broken." He stood up. "Rest now, my son." He went quietly away.
Raphael settled more deeply into the couch and turned the television's sound back on. Lewis and Clark had just parted ways at the Continental Divide.
The kitchen was too quiet. Michelangelo could not be cajoled from his room, and Donatello's "one more minute!" lasted nearly until the others had finished eating. Eventually he joined them, empty-handed.
"There's nothing," he said, serving himself from the pot of macaroni Leonardo had made. "No data streams, no reports on relevant biotech. No videos, aside from some footage of an empty alley, earliest date stamp Wednesday morning, and those are already being purged from the system. There's not even any interesting gloating." He sat down. "It was all just an opportunistic hit-and-run. There's no big plot."
"It took you all day to find nothing?" Leo asked.
"No, that took about an hour." Don poked at the bright yellow pasta. "But Stockman had these really interesting notes on some new robotics..."
"You are absolutely shameless," Leo said, completely failing to conceal his pride in his brother's curious nature.
"Thank you." Don took a few moments to actually eat the food in front of him. "So, now that we've eliminated Door Number Three, what's our next move?"
"What do you think, Sensei?" Leo asked.
"I still have not sensed any intruder in the lair," Splinter said.
"Then I pick Door Number Two." Leo gathered up his and Splinter's empty bowls and took them to the sink.
"Congratulations, Raph," Don said. "You win amazing psychic powers."
"Thanks, Don Pardo." Raphael held out his bowl. "How about some more macaroni, the New York City treat?"
Don took the bowl, went to the stove and ladled out another serving. "So," he said, "am I off the hook for a while, or do you have more work for me?"
"No, nothing else." Leo leaned against the counter, letting the cheesy dishes soak. "Thanks, Donnie. You were great."
"No problem." He set the bowl back on the table and returned to his own dinner.
"Donatello," Splinter said. "Am I right in understanding that Raphael is no longer sick?"
"That's right, Sensei." Don clapped Raphael on the shoulder. "One hundred percent disease free."
"Then we will recommence our training tomorrow morning at seven." Splinter rose from his seat. "Please wear your surface clothes. Raphael, you may observe." As he went out, he added, "I will tell Michelangelo."
"Where is Mikey?" Don asked. "He never turns down macaroni."
"He wouldn't -" Leo started, but Raphael interrupted.
"Don't talk about him."
"Why?" Don asked.
"Just - don't." Leo doesn't know. "Okay? Whatever you're going to say, you're wrong."
"Uh... okay." Leo looked at Don, who looked back blankly. Then he looked at Raphael again. "Are you done?"
In lieu of a reply, he pushed his empty bowl across the table. Leo transferred it to the sink with one swinging motion of his arm, and turned the water on. "So what do you guys want to do tonight?"
"Dunno," Raphael said listlessly. "I'm tired of sitting around here, but I'm not going far with a busted leg."
"We could go upstairs," Leo suggested. "To the garage. Just to get some air."
"Yeah." Air sounded like exactly what he wanted. "Okay." He looked at Don, who was still picking at his food. "You gonna come?"
"All I really want to do is go to bed," Don said. He gave up on the macaroni and slid his bowl away. "I haven't slept decently all week."
"It's okay," Leo said. He glanced up at the clock. It was six PM. "Go get your twelve hours."
Don pushed himself to his feet, paused at the nearer counter to dump some coffee grounds into the machine, then brought his bowl to the side of the sink. "Thanks Leo." He gave his brother a quick sideways hug around the shoulders. "Sorry I was grouchy."
"You had every right." Leo's hands were soapy, so he dropped a fraternal peck above Don's ear. "Night, Donnie."
"Night, guys." Don went out, his dragging footsteps fading up the stairs.
"I think I'm gonna puke," Raphael said.
"I love you too." Leo looked over his shoulder. "Just give me a minute to clean up."
The garage echoed with the buzz of the fluorescent lighting. Don hadn't gotten around to replacing it yet. He also hadn't had a chance to put insulation on the concrete walls.
"Are you warm enough?" Leo asked as he opened the back doors of the Battle Shell.
"I'm fine." Raphael sat on the edge of the van's floor, his feet on the ground. He lay his crutch down behind him.
Leo crossed the grey space and hauled the big garage door open a few inches. The evening air swirled in, scattering the brown leaves that always managed to find their way inside at this time of year.
Leo came back and leaned against the inside hinges of the van. "Let me know if you get cold."
Raphael didn't answer. He was always the last of his brothers to feel the cold. It wouldn't be him asking to go downstairs.
They sat for a while in silence. It was good to breathe proper, gritty, you-can-tell-it's-been-used New York air again.
"You know what we should've done?" Leo said at last.
"What?"
Leo changed the angle of his lean, turning to face his brother. "We should've gone up to Casey's house. Gotten away from all this craziness."
"We still could." Even though Massachusetts air was too thin, too... gaseous. It wasn't air you could sink your teeth into. "It was good for you."
"Yeah." Leo laughed. "I got Casey's house, you got healing powers."
"You think so?" He hadn't really gotten a feel for Leonardo's state of mind post-serious-discussion. "I mean, what do you make of all this? There's been so much talking, I don't know what to believe."
"I believe all of it."
"That's impossible."
"No, not really." Leo gestured with an open hand. "I believe you when you say that you've been seeing this person. And I believe Splinter when he says the person isn't real, and I believe Donnie when he says there's nothing wrong with you."
Which leaves what? "So you believe I'm a nutcase."
"No, I believe that you've tapped into some healing energies, and when you draw on them, you see them in your mind as a person."
"But I'm crap at meditation."
Leo looked at the ceiling. "I was scared of heights until I thought Master Splinter was in danger. Don didn't believe in telepathy until the Triceratons tried to tear his mind apart. You just needed a good enough reason to stop being... y'know."
"Crap."
Leo tilted his head, looking at Raphael sideways. "Have I ever mentioned that meditation is easier if you approach it with a positive attitude?"
"Few times, yeah."
They lapsed into silence again. Neither was in a mood to discuss Raphael's disciplinary shortcomings.
"So what does he look like?" Leo said. "Your spirit guide?"
"I don't know." He hunched up a little and looked at his feet. "Human-ish."
"Really?" Leo sounded intrigued. "Someone you know?"
"No. Why?"
"Sometimes when I meditate I see another me. And Master Splinter usually sees Master Yoshi. It's kind of odd that you would see a strange human."
"I wish I didn't."
"Have you tried asking him to change forms?"
He looked up. "Can I do that?"
"Sure." Leo was watching him steadily. "He's part of you. He's there to help you, but you're always in control. Never forget that."
Raphael reflected on that. Usually Leonardo told him that he was out of control. Actually being in control of something about himself would be a novel experience.
He hadn't felt in control of anything since the attack. There were two whole days he didn't even remember.
"Hey, Leo," he said.
"Mm?"
"Do you remember, at the farmhouse, we told you stories to help you find your way back?"
"I know you did," Leo said slowly. "I don't really remember what you said."
"You know. Just some old stories." He remembered the desperate words, the endless waiting. "Did... did you do that for me?"
"Yeah. We did. Master Splinter was there all the time, talking to you." Leo paused, shepherding his thoughts, deciding whether to let them out. "Mike came too. He didn't talk, but he came." He eyed Raphael meaningfully.
Raphael recognized the ploy. "I'm not going to tell you what he said to me."
"I won't make you," Leo said. "Just tell me he's okay."
He dropped his gaze again. "I can't tell you that."
"Is there anything I can do for him?"
Leonardo hated inaction in himself, loathed uselessness. Raphael could see him poised on the edge of motion, ready to listen, to talk, to fix, to fight. Whatever Mikey needed.
There was nothing he could do.
"No," Raphael said.
There was nothing.
There should have been something.
Leo exhaled loudly and paced away from the van. He'd taken his swords when they'd come upstairs, just in case, and he looked now like he wanted to draw them, to send them slicing through the air, the sharp edges sinking into something, whether or not that something had anything to do with what was wrong with Michelangelo.
There should have been something.
"Leo," Raphael said.
"Yes," Leo replied tersely.
"Why didn't the Foot have any video? Shouldn't there have been some of you and Donnie stealing the camera?"
"No." Leo was still facing away, but Raphael could see the tension all over his body. "Don guessed there would be a camera. We came over the roofs, and he disabled it from fifty feet away. One of his disrupter gizmos."
Raphael shook his head. "He is really something else."
Leo was stuck on the idea of Mike's problems. "Can Don do anything for Mike?"
"No."
Leo let loose then, throwing his fist out with all the strength of his pent-up frustration. He struck downwards, punching the wooden workbench. Metal tools jumped and clattered to the floor.
Raphael winced. At least it wasn't the wall.
Leo spun and caught the blowtorch with the side of his foot, launching it through the air. It flew across the room and impacted the Shell Cycle with enough force to knock it over.
"What the hell, Leo?" Raphael got up and hopped to his beloved bike. "You think that's gonna help?" He tried to lift the motorcycle, but didn't have quite enough leverage.
Leo stalked over and yanked the bike upright. "I don't see you doing anything!" he shouted.
"You're an idiot," Raphael said. "You have no idea what the problem is, and you sure as hell don't know what a solution would look like. So don't tell me I'm not doing anything."
Leo still looked like he wanted to break things. "Why won't anyone tell me what's going on?"
"Because sometimes we want to fix things ourselves." He hopped back to the Battle Shell and grabbed his crutch. "I'm going downstairs."
He was sitting on the bed in his room, reading, when there was a knock at the door.
"Come in," he said.
It was Leo. He came in sideways, staying close to the wall. "I'm sorry about earlier," he said. "I didn't mean to say that you and Mike were helpless. I think it came out that way."
"Yeah," Raphael said. "It kinda did."
"I'm sorry," Leo said again. "I just want to know that you guys are going to be okay. And I wanted you to know that I'm here if you need anything."
"I still can't tell you," Raphael said. "It's Mike's secret."
"I know," Leo said. "It was wrong of me to ask you to break that." His eyes wandered around the room, resting briefly on Splinter's gong. "So. I'll see you at practice?"
"I'll be there." As he spoke, he set the alarm on his mental clock.
"Okay. Good night, Raph."
"Night, Farmboy."
Leo left quietly, closing the door behind him. Raphael scooted to the end of the bed and flicked off the light. He lay down and tried to focus his mind, the way Splinter taught them to do for guided meditation.
I will see the guy with the fishing pole. I will ask him to change his form. I will be in control. I will not be afraid.
He put himself to sleep.