I am going to label this chapter T-16, just as a warning. There is nothing explicit, or even specific, said, but the intimation of more mature ideas is hinted at. And just to let you know, I've knocked Leo's feet out from underneath him completely. However, that means we can start working on some of the comfort. This chapter is also longer than I had planned, but I couldn't figure out a good place to separate it, so it what it is.

When Raphael shared his conclusions with his next younger brother the next morning after their morning workout, doubtful didn't even begin to cover his reaction.

"Bro, I would give anything for you to be right and this guy to be Leonardo, but we have to face facts: our big brother was killed ten years ago in that sewer flood," Donatello maintained. "We were all there. I certainly haven't forgotten how he got Michelangelo to safety, following his fall into the water, only to slip when he tried to pull himself out. Master Splinter searched for days, but finally concluded Leonardo got washed out to sea. You know all this, so why torture yourself with false hope?"

"Because it's not false," Raphael argued. "He's got the scar on his ankle. I know that scar; Master Splinter made me stitch it up to make me understand the consequences of my actions, since I was the one who caused the gash in the first place."

"That scar could have come from anywhere! The poor guy is covered in scars. That's not definitive proof," Donatello countered.

"Then what about the way he moved last night, his style of fighting? How many times did we see that exact combination he used when he first leaped between us and Bishop? Leo used to practice it over and over again, particularly that little twist at the end that let him land facing whatever direction he needed to. He was determined to get it perfected."

"I still don't buy it," Donatello said. "But it's not worth arguing over. Just, don't say anything about this to Michelangelo. You know he still has night-terrors about that day, and he's never gotten over the guilt that we lost Leo because our big brother was rescuing him."

"Agreed," Raphael concurred. He very clearly remembered those dark days directly following the accident. He wouldn't willingly open his baby brother up to that kind of pain. Until he was certain their big brother was home, he'd consign his suspicions to silence to protect their youngest sibling.

Any further discussion on the topic was put on hold as Michelangelo stuck his head through the doorway and, without preamble, announced, "He's awake."

TMTN

The young hunter gradually came back to awareness. He immediately knew he wasn't back in his master's care. For one thing, the air smelled different, more earthen and humid. Secondly, whatever he was lying on was much more comfortable that his pallet in his master's quarters. Drawing on the sigil for mind-speech, he called out for his master, but received no response. His mental calls grew louder and more desperate, but all he got was silence in return. Finally, he turn to his last resort, the one thing he could be severely punished for manipulating: the psychic bond embedded deep in his mind that connected him to his master. It had been put in place when he was selected for training, and once engaged, a full bond was necessary to maintain the trainee's health. The bond was both a leash and a teaching tool. Through the bond, his master had instructed him on the use of the Spirit marks. It also served to insure he remained totally loyal to his own master. While the young warrior couldn't do much more than sense his trainer's presence through the bond, for the master the bond was a way to monitor a pupil's well-being, as well as administer discipline as needed. Only in times of emergency could the bond be used as a means of communication between retainer and master.

Master, the young warrior called once more in desperation.

I am no master to thee, Oathbreaker, the cold, disgusted response finally came. Thou swore to hunt down and destroy the Traitor, but you chose those lowly Terran mutants over your sworn duty.

Master, I…

Silence! Thou hast failed me, and brought dishonor upon me. Thou hast left me little choice; I repudiate thee. I will support our bond no longer. Since thou hast chosen the Terrans, thou canst abase thyself before them. Their drudge thou art now.

And with that, his former master abandoned the bond. Horror and shame filled the young hunter as he began to take in what had just happened. His master, using the mental tether to monitor the mission, had seen his choice to protect the Terrans rather than continue his pursuit of the Traitor. Rightfully disgusted by his pupil's abandonment of duty he had exercised his prerogative to terminate the bond. Fiery disgust and self-reproach lased through the hunter's mind much like the laser prods his mast…former master had used during the earliest days of his training. There could be no escaping the truth of his master's condemnation; he was a failure, and had brought dishonor to his master by failing to fulfill his vow.

That didn't stop the pain or sense of resentment. His master could have brought him home and arranged for another teacher to take over and provide re-training; it was a common punishment for mistakes made during a mission. It would have saved face for his master, but kept a powerful weapon in use. Another choice would have been to cauterize the bond, leaving him to survive by his own wits on what was essentially a strange world, an unappealing prospect for one who had been forced to depend on his master for his support and care for the majority of his life. Instead, his master had simply abandoned the bond, leaving his former pupil exposed, vulnerable, and accessible to anyone who wished to claim him.

This was one instant where being away from his master's world was a mixed blessing, for had he been back there, he would have been even more vulnerable, as he was used and passed around by anyone willing, even temporarily, to bond with him, desperation and despondency forcing him to submit. An unsealed bond was like a raw wound that wouldn't heal, or a thirst that could not be quenched, and the pain only got worse the longer he went without a full bond. Early on in his training his master had left the bond open for two weeks as punishment, and the anguish had been unspeakable. The hunter had always empathized with the drudges, who were willing to do anything to escape the agony of an always-open bond. He had seen drudges forced to do unspeakably humiliating things in order to earn the reprieve of full bonded, even if for just a small moment. And now the former hunter was one of them. Worse, he was a drudge on an alien planet facing a lifetime of agony if he couldn't find someone compatible, and willing, to bond with him. No, worse than that. By his master's words, he was the drudge of these Earthers he'd had no choice but to protect; he belonged to them now, to do with as they pleased.

The young warrior wasn't aware he was crying until a soft touch on his face wiped the hot, salty moisture away, and a gentle voice asked, "Hey, are you okay?"

Looking up to meet young, concerned eyes, the only thing he could do was shake his head. Even if he hadn't lacked the ability to speak, words would have been beyond him. He was as far from okay as he could get. The thought just made the tears fall faster, adding shame for his weakness to his already long list of sins. Except, this young new overlord of his wasn't responding the way he expected him to.

"Shh, it be will alright," the other turtle soothed as he rubbed gentle circles on the hurting turtle's shell, the one place he was certain he wouldn't hurt him. The unfamiliar and unlooked-for kindness just made the injured turtle cry even harder.

On Michelangelo's part, he was growing more and more alarmed by the distraught behavior, and the youngest turtle knew he needed to get more experienced assistance. "I'll be right back," he told the silently sobbing turtle.

Moving at a pace just short of a run, the orange-masked turtle headed toward the dojo where his older brothers should just be finishing up their morning practice. Pausing just briefly to regain his breath, he stuck his head in the door and declared, "He's awake." Then, before either of his brothers could ask any questions, he rushed to add, "But I think something's wrong. He's just lying there, crying."

Without waiting to hear more, the two older turtles swiftly made their way to the infirmary where they found their guest just as Michelangelo had said. The heartbroken and lost look on his face would have been disturbing enough, but the sudden fear that blossomed at their appearance made it even worse.

Moving slowly, like one might do around a wounded animal, Raphael carefully approached the bed, though every instinct was yelling for him to throw caution out the door and just engulf the wounded turtle in a hug. He was unprepared, therefore, for the tattooed figure to abruptly slip off the bed, going to his hand and knees, his forehead touching the floor.

So, how's Raphael going to react to this development? It won't be pretty, that's for sure.