Everything was going just as planned. Better, actually.

General Jordan Blanque crossed his arms in satisfaction as he watched the momentous scene play itself out on the holoprojection before his desk.

The four Turtles, already having dealt with an equal number of the yautja, now found themselves pitted against an Alien like no other.

It was common knowledge that Aliens took certain physical traits of their hosts after chestbursting. Aliens that gestated within canines, for example, took on a more canine physique and attitude as they matured. With the extensive number of species on D’hoonib, the Alien infestation had resulted in varying breeds of Aliens. The Alien that had birthed from one of the Turtles, however, had taken far more than just basic reptilian turtle traits.

It had the benefit of the Utrom mutagen within the Turtles’ bloodstream—the mutagen that had mutated and hyperevolved them from ordinary pet shop turtles to sentient, humanoid beings.

Adamant skin,—even more so than the garden variety of Aliens—enormous size, and intelligence far above that of even the most advanced Alien Queen. If given enough time, it could even become sentient itself.

In its very essence, an Alien King.

It was beautiful.

Blanque had seen to it himself. He’d given the Turtles blank Plasma Casters, then had his men send the Turtles on their way directly in the Alien hive’s path. There was no guarantee it would work, but it was worth it to him to try. The Aliens and "Predators" themselves were no threat. Missile installations about D’hoonib had found and targeted the cloaked Predator spacecraft, and thermonuclear/anti-matter warheads were ready to reduce the mostly-evacuated ruins of Peblak City and the festering Alien hive within it to atoms. A thumbs-up from Blanque and D’hoonib’s invasion would be brought to an abrupt end.

But it could wait. He had heard it said that the Predator race held the key to immortality in their blood, and he now had four Predator corpses to study. It was by chance that the Predators had selected D’hoonib for their ritual Alien hunt, and Blanque did intend to make the most of the situation. The new breed of Aliens he had managed to have breeded from the Turtles—the Alien King—had unbelieveable military potential. A few cell scrapings and he could clone an army of Alien Kings. If bred and grown under the right conditions, it was an army that could be unleashed against the enemies of the Human Federation. It was the breakthrough they had been waiting for. Blanque could finally have the means he needed to take the rest of the foolish Utroms’ technology by force, annex the Ghouli, or even destroy the damned Triceraton "Republic" and put an end to a lifetime of war.

All of it would happen. General Jordan Blanque would make sure of it.

Blanque heard a rustle behind him, coming from the lobby.

"Jeffries?" he called. There was no answer. "Cavanaugh?"

What was going on?

Blanque hit a button on his desk. "Jeffries! Report!" Again, no answer.

For a fleeting moment, a horrifying possibility came across Blanque. Then it passed. The Alien infestation couldn’t possibly have reached Peblak Bay—there was practically a whole sea separating them from the mainland and Peblak City. Even if the Aliens could swim, it just wasn’t feasible.

Having rationalized that disturbing thought, Blanque relaxed his guard. Calmly, Blanque stood and made his way to the door. Laid his hand on the palm-recognition opening mechanism. Opened the door.

Six-fingered hands closed around his body as powerful black arms yanked him forward.

The Alien opened its mouth and let out a long, piercing scream. Not of pain, or hurt of any kind, but of some kind of dreadful awakening. It seemed to study its joints as it bent its limbs back and forth, observing its goliath-sized body.

Then, all at once, it launched itself forward.

The Turtles, their weapons still coated with the phosphorescent green blood of the Predators, prepared for battle.

With the ease of brushing aside an insect, the Alien knocked three of the Turtles aside in one mighty swipe of its thick forearm. But the Alien didn’t attack. Instead, it clomped toward the Turtle it had left standing, Michaelangelo.

Mike froze, glancing futilely down at his nunchuks, then at the monstrous abomination that was peering down at him. He dropped his nunchuks.

"You..." Mike spoke, his voice choking. He pointed a quivering finger at the creature. "You... you came from me..."

The Alien seemed to consider that. Its bulbous, elongated head cocked to the side, then back. Its slime-laden lips curled back as its teeth revealed themselves, its pincers folding along the sides of its head. It opened its jaw, a second one threatening to burst out.

A rough wheeze escaped its mouth. Then, out of the impossibility, the Alien spoke. Its voice was wet, unnatural, but the words it spoke were unmistakable, "I... I... came from... you..."

"Yeah!" Mike laughed. His fear subsided. "Guess that makes me... your father."

"Father..."

"Yeah. You know, li—"

Leonardo made his move. Leaping with a cheetah’s agility onto the creature’s back, he drove his remaining katana sword firmly down into the Alien’s head. Shrieking and screaming, it hurled Leo off and reached frustratedly at the sword that had been plunged all the way to the hilt into its skull.

Donatello fired his arm cannon at the flailing Alien. Then he fired again.

"No!"

Mike slapped Don’s gun down, causing him to accidentally fire a barrage dangerously close to Raph’s feet.

"No, damn it!"

Don shrugged Mike off. "But that thing... it was going to—"

"It wasn’t like the others! It didn’t mean us any harm. It knew I was its... father... it knew that..."

Leo, more than worn after the battles of the day, settled a sympathetic gaze on his brother. "Mike... I’m sorry. There was just no other way."

The air before the Alien corpse wavered, then steadied, as a group of twelve Predators decloaked and showed themselves. The masked hunters stood tall, their gaze shifting between the corpses of the fallen Predators, the corpse of the Alien, and the Turtles. Each of the hunters bore the advanced weaponry of the savage race.

The Turtles did what they could to prepare for another battle. If there was to be a fight now, they would not cower from it. Not even if it meant certain defeat.

A Predator stepped away from the others. This one had longer dreadlocks than the others, wore a worn floor-length cape, and was decorated with far more elaborate armor.

"The chief warrior," Raphael spoke in a low tone of voice. "Like Blanque told us."

The lead Predator walked forward, meeting the Turtles after a few strides.

It stopped before Leo. Despite the two-feet height difference between the two warriors, the Predator looked him in the eye. Just as it seemed it would lash out at him, the Predator reached within its cape and withdrew something.

A sword. A long, meticulous-looking Predator sword. Double-edged, ridged near the base, and crafted of a glistening alloy likely known only to the Predators themselves.

With both hands, the Predator offered the weapon to Leonardo and bowed.

At a loss for words, Leo clenched his fists as he hesitated. Then he understood. He understood the Predators, and he understood the gesture the Predator was now making.

Bushido; the unspoken way of the warrior. Leo, above all three of his brothers, had dedicated himself to following this way. The Predators, alien though they were, followed their own interpretation of bushido, but the essence remained intact.

The universal code of the warrior.

Leonardo accepted the sword.

The Predator rose, held Leo’s gaze a moment, then returned to the others. With a wave of his arm the twelve Predators re-engaged their personal cloaks, becoming transparent blurs in the D’hoonib night air.

"Now what do we do?" Raphael asked.

Leo was silent as he stared at the Predator’s gift. He sheathed it under his belt and looked to his brothers. "We go home," he answered plainly.

"But... how? We ain’t got no Transmat devices to beam us back to Earth, now do we? Unless you suppose Blanque is just going to generously send us back with his."

Raphael had a point, but Leo refused to let that problem get to him. "We gotta get to a transmitter. If we can just find some way to get us in contact with the Utroms, I’m sure they would send us."

"Yeah," Mike said. He was still looking at the body of the Alien. It had been his child, in an odd sense. Yet it was an odd sense he could not ignore. "I guess."

Leonardo went to his brother’s side. He saw his hurt, and not just the physical part of it. "Before anything," he decided, "we rest."

The Turtles made their way through the wasteland of Peblak then, off in search of a place to rest for the time being. Worn from their battles, not a single one of them noticed the rising figure behind them.

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