The next few weeks passed in a blur. Raphael barely knew what day it was, or how many days of his accelerated training had passed — there was only the knowledge he had gained, the skills he had learned.

He woke early in the morning, just as the sun was rising, and charged into the dining hall, which was usually still swarming with the genin who undertook their missions at night. He no longer paid attention to the glances he received, or the way that voices dropped when he passed. All his thoughts were bent on his training, and on planning the next agility exercise, on the stealth, the flight of items thrown from his hand, the solid logs that he could smash to splinters easily with hands and feet.

Until the sun set in the evening, he spent his time in the dojo, training with a relentlessness that had been missing from his education before. He broke only a few times in order to feed himself, but always plunged right back into the training as soon as he could. When Toshiro-sensei finally told him to stop, it was dark outside.

His muscles ached with every day that dawned, dull throbbing pains deep in his body that were never allowed to fully heal. He was hungry more often, thirsty all the time. Often he was trembling when the day's activities were done, though he forced himself to soldier on through them.

From there, he made his way to the locker room and washed away the sweat and dust of another day's effort. He let the heat of the water soothe the tense knots in his muscles, groaning softly as it cascaded over him. He no longer noticed if the genin stared at him in the shower, too exhausted and too focused on cleaning his body.

Finally, he made his way to his room, and collapsed into his bed, falling asleep within seconds. Sometimes it happened so quickly that he didn't have time to remove his wraps, mask and belt.

And then there was Mother.

He dreamed of Mother almost every night now — her gentle smile, her soft voice, the garden where she always waited for him until he fell asleep. His worn body was finally able to rest as he visited her, and his frayed nerves began to settle as Mother spoke to him. Privately he wondered if he would have made it this far if it weren't for Mother soothing and comforting him every night.

There was something odd about these dreams, though — they felt real. Nothing strange or surreal happened. They never faded in or out from other dreams. Even when Raphael woke, he remembered the dreams perfectly — the conversations with Mother, the things he told her about his training, the scents of the flowers, the feel of the grass under his feet. It felt less like he was dreaming, and more like his soul traveled to another place when he slept.

But he didn't care. All he cared about was that Mother was there for him.

The only thing that confused him was how Mother reacted when he told her what he did every day. Her large dark eyes grew sadder, and often she fell silent as he described the techniques he was learning.

"I wish you did not suffer so, my child," she said to him one night.

"I need to," Raphael responded. "I need to be a ninja as soon as possible. I need to prove that I'm not a pet or a — a thing."

She cradled his face in her hands. "I know. I know how important this is to you, my son. But you must always remember that those who truly care for you will not notice the vessel, only the spirit within. And to them, you will have nothing to prove."

"Yes, Mother," Raphael said faintly. But he didn't know how that was possible. He couldn't remember a time before the training, a time when he didn't have to prove he mattered to someone — to Master Shredder, to Toshiro-sensei, to the Foot…

She drew him into her arms, resting his head against her breast, and gently stroked his face. "And you must remember that no matter what you do, I am always looking after you, my precious child. Always."

"Now what?" Donatello said. He stood straight and alert on the edge of the rooftop, resting his hand on his bo staff as he looked out across the glittering city.

Leonardo followed his brother's gaze. He had been sitting on the edge of the rooftop, with the blade of one of his katanas resting across his thighs, admiring how it gleamed in the waning light of dusk.

It had been an eventful day — their father had left the night before, ordering them to go through their katas after breakfast, and continue until he returned. He had appeared sometime around the middle of afternoon, carrying a very large sports duffel bag full of things that clinked and jutted out awkwardly against the fabric.

The three turtles didn't have to wait long to find out what was inside. He had opened it nearly immediately, and handed them each weapons — Donatello had received a bo staff almost too long for the bag, Leonardo a pair of katanas meant to be sheathed on his back, and Michelangelo a pair of nunchaku. And with the weapons, he gave them a mission: they were to go out into the night, and find their long-lost fourth brother, lost and alone somewhere in New York's ugly streets.

Leo sheathed the sword, and stood up. "We find Raphael," he said at last.

"I dunno, man," Mikey said dubiously. "I mean, it's been months since Father saw him. After he mutated, he could have gone anywhere. Where are we supposed to even start lookin'?"

Leo didn't have an answer for him. The truth was, he knew nothing about Raphael, and remembered even less of him — he didn't know where he might have wandered, what kinds of places he might have gone to… or who might have either taken him in, or captured him as a freak or a lab rat.

He briefly wished that they knew a friendly human or two. It would be easier to find Raphael if they could ask around if anyone had seen a giant bipedal turtle-man — after all, people were unlikely to forget the mutant if they had seen him. The only problem was that they could only ask if they revealed themselves to the humans.

"We'll start in the alley where he was last," he said finally. "It's as good a place to start as any. From there we'll fan out and scout over the streets and alleys, checking everything that seems strange."

"I don't know," Donnie said, resting his bo across his shoulders. "It's been months, Leo. He could be anywhere by now."

"I know," Leo said. "But we still have to try."

They swiftly ran across the rooftops, jumping and soaring through the night air with ease. Their feet almost seemed to skim the concrete roofs, as though gravity had little effect on them. But they had gone barely three blocks when Mikey suddenly stopped, and peered down into an alley.

"What is it?" Leo said, swerving around. "Is it Raphael?"

"No, bro, it's some weird guy in a hockey mask," Mikey said, peering over the edge of the building. "He's fighting like five guys with guns down there. With a bat!"

"Mikey, we can't stop and —"

But his younger brother was already leaping down into the alley, his eyes alight at the idea of being a hero, like those from his treasured comic books. By the time Leo and Donnie reached him, it was too late — Mikey was sweeping through the alley along with the hockey-masked man, his nunchaku whirling like tiny cyclones.

"Okay, change of plans," Leo said grimly. "We stop the bad guys and extract Mikey, and then we find Raphael."

"At least we'll get something done tonight," Donnie said, gripping his bo.