TMNT and the rest are owned, operated, managed, copywrited, controlled, tattooed, created, and locked in a storage vault surrounded by armed guards with vicious pitbulls by Mirage. Believe me, I know about the armed guards and the vicious pitbulls!

Get Set

The dream had been plaguing him for the past few weeks.

At first, Splinter was wont to put it down to the past year's activities; the sudden intrusion of the Triceratons into his home world, the evil intent of this special Agent Bishop, the culminating battle and subsequent defeat of his life's enemy the Shredder- the emotional growth of his sons as they faced and conquered these dangers and challenges.

Such nightmares were to be expected.

But over the past few weeks one in particular had been growing, becoming more prevalent, and though it varied here and there in places, the outcome was always the same.

He is walking through the sewers, heading home. He has no idea where he is coming from, just that he is walking home, when six large humans dressed in red surround him. They are armed like the Ninja of old- the weapons look like something from a museum, but he can tell that they are not true Ninja.

They are skilled, and powerful, and deadly- but he defeats them with his walking stick and manages to escape.

He makes his way home safely- only to find that they have followed him! He was sure he has killed them, but no! They are alive and have followed him to his home, to his family!

There is confused battle- and then Splinter is standing in the middle of the living area. The Lair is destroyed from the fighting; blood is everywhere, and he is standing there tired, wounded, and alive. But his sons-

His sons are lying at his feet, broken and bloodied, where they have fallen defending their father. Michelangelo gasps once, blood bubbling from his lips, then sighs and is no more. Donatello weakly touches his father's foot, as if patting him good-bye, and then is still. Raphael and Leonardo, linked somehow together by the way they have fallen, both stare at him with rapidly fading eyes- he can see the life leaving those eyes. He hears Leonardo try to apologize for failing, but the death rattle of his brother covers the sound of his words, then he, too, is gone.

He has brought this evil into his own home, he thinks, as the six Ninja in red close in on him. His will to fight is broken like the shells of his sons. He waits for them to finish him off so he might join his children in Death.

Then he is lying on a table in Bishop's laboratory.

"I always finish what I set out to do," he says to Splinter, inserting yet another tube into him to drain his life's spirit from him and into the six Red Ninja. "I always finish what I set out to do."

"Master Splinter!" Donatello's voice cut into his nightmare sharply, and he opened his eyes. It was still night, he was sure of that. His son was kneeling by his bed, concern clearly etched on his face in the faint light coming from the open door of his room. "Master Splinter, are you all right?"

Splinter, still feeling the rapid beating of his heart, still feeling the grief tears on his face from the nightmare, sat up, steadying himself, composing himself.

"Yes, my son," he finally managed, absently wiping his eyes with his hand. "Yes, thank-you. I was having a nightmare I believe."

"I'll say you were," Don, visibly relieved, sat back on the floor. "I was passing by on my way to my room when I heard you crying out to us. Are you sure you're all right?" And he resisted placing a hand on his father's forehead; he knew that Splinter would not have appreciated the gesture.

Splinter sighed.

"I am all right now, Donatello," he assured him. "It was a powerful nightmare, the most powerful nightmare a parent could have. But it is passing now. Soon I will be able to return to sleep without fear of dreaming it again."

Donatello looked at Splinter dubiously.

"You know, Sensei- Mikey and I have shared our nightmares with you over the past year," he pointed out. "Don't you think maybe you should just once share yours with us? Or at least me?"

Splinter smiled at this son, and reached out and took his hand and patted it.

"Perhaps if I have it one more time," he smiled. "Let us just say that it is every parent's nightmare- that something terrible has happened to his children. Is that not horrible enough?"

Don knew not to push the matter. Instead, he offered to make his father some of his favorite soothing tea.

"That would be most welcome, and then you really should go to bed, my son," Splinter gratefully replied. "Training comes early, and I am not going to excuse you all simply because I had a nightmare."

While Don busied himself with the tea, Splinter sat in his bed, trying to find the message of the dream.

"The message is plain," he muttered to himself. "I believe that the message is very plain. Now- how to circumvent that message..."

The morning training took place without a word from Splinter or Donatello about the previous night. The katas were perfect, the sparring was most satisfactory (Michelangelo actually won his bout against Leonardo, something that he rarely did), and meditation came and went without the usual problems he had with at least two of his sons.

Yet the dream of the night before was fresh in his mind. No matter who he was looking at, he would see them as they were in his dream.

This is not acceptable, he thought to himself. I cannot allow this thought to linger- or to take place. I must find a way to banish this vision- or circumvent it.

After breakfast, Splinter came to a decision.

"My sons, I will be going to visit a friend, so you may have the rest of this day to yourselves," he announced, and tried not to let the celebrations this generated disturb him (even though he would have been happier if Leonardo would actually have joined his brothers in this apparently good news. His oldest sometimes didn't understand the meaning of "relaxation"). "I will be home in time for dinner. I trust that there will be no problems."

"May we ask where you are going?" Leonardo responded.

"I have a need to consult with the Daimyo," he replied, after hesitation. After all, that dream was bothering him, and perhaps it would be wiser to inform his sons of his movements. He wondered whether to admonish them to stay safely in the lair, but then recalled his determination to remember that they were no longer children. "I would prefer that you not draw attention to yourselves, but I will trust you to be safe while I am gone. I will be home for dinner. I believe it is your turn to cook, Raphael. I hope that I may look forward to your specialty."

Raph was a better cook than Don, and definitely a better cook than Leo, but he was not as varied or as skilled as Mike. He made several things that were eatable, and one that was really excellent: spaghetti with a toasted cheese topping. Splinter, not a pasta fan in particular, nevertheless enjoyed when Raphael made this dish- mainly because if he pointed this out, then dinner was sure to be good instead of just eatable. He knew that Raphael would make it if he mentioned it with flattery. Raph hated to be told what to cook.

Raph, of course, knew this old trick, and it secretly tickled him to comply and play along. If any of his brothers had said (as Mikey had on numerous occasions), "Hey, Raph- for God's sake make that spaghetti dish tonight, it's the only thing that actually tastes good," they would end up eating one of his lesser appetizing concoctions.

He bid his sons farewell, and paused for some reason at the door before leaving. They were going about their chores, anticipating the free time they had unexpectedly earned. This is the happy picture he wanted in his mind; not the horror of the nightmare that had been plaguing him for the past few weeks.

He left the Lair.

The "super soldiers" were standing at ease, weapons practice over for the morning. Bishop surveyed them without comment. They had done well, as could be attested to the number of "volunteers" who were being carted off to the infirmary for various treatments. The six had done extremely well against some of the best fighters in Bishop's strangely shrinking "army".

He had lost so many to departmental transfers as it was following the scandals of the past year, but some more were leaving mysteriously on their own. He knew they hadn't talked, as nothing had come back to bite him in the ass, but he also knew that they were hiding, and with good cause; if he located them, they were dead men. Bishop had too many secrets to hide, and those who shared those secrets would be easy to find- it was simple to track down sources.

He'd already proven that to the rest of his men when he'd been suddenly called on the carpet for reported genetic engineering. The source of that rumor, a weak-willed surgeon who had balked at salvaging organs from a living donor (the unfortunate super soldier whose termination command had sadly failed- but he was going to die anyway, so where was the problem?), was the example to the rest when he died in a mysterious accident.

These six were the best he had, next to his prototype. He looked again at his Slayer, standing near the wall, impassively watching as usual the training of these next wave soldiers. Bishop wanted to test them against his prototype, but he couldn't risk the almost certain injury they would receive. The Slayer was the best, in spite of his appearance, and Bishop was discovering new abilities in his creation on an almost daily basis.

Yes, the Slayer was his best and brightest. Too bad he couldn't mainstream him, but his unfortunate appearance would be hard to pass off.

With a regretful sigh, he dismissed the thought of a final bout from his mind, along with the knowledge that someday the Slayer would have to be "retired", to make way for the newer, better models, and turned once again to his "super soldiers".

"Men, the time has come for your first assignment," he said, resisting the urge to rub his hands together in anticipation. "I will brief you in two hours. Until then, hit the showers, and pick up the new uniforms. Also, report to the armory. I have something special for each of you."

The men bowed and left the training area. Bishop looked at his Slayer, who returned the gaze as he always did- impassively.

"You are wondering why I'm not sending you?"

"It is not my place to wonder at your decisions," the Slayer carefully responded.

Bishop smiled at this answer.

"I am saving you for a special assignment," he said, as they left the training area. "You are going to be the one to finish those freak turtles for me. With any luck, you will also take care of that crocodile that escaped with them. But the Turtles will be your top priority. I want them dead and their bodies lying before me."

The Slayer did not respond, and Bishop didn't expect him to.

Inside himself, Victor was planning. He had to find a way to escape this existence; to escape to the world he was constantly dreaming of.

Oh, yes- he had started dreaming. It had startled him as nothing else had done. He had started dreaming of strange things- fighting the "Super Soldiers" and defeating them; meeting people from other countries (Japan for some reason. After all, that was where the representatives from the Utrom home world were based. He'd developed a desire to meet with these beings, to discuss his possibly going to their world instead of staying in this one); discussing literature with the turtle who had given him his life- and his book.

He had Frankenstein memorized. He had read and reread the book until he could quote entire chapters from the heart. And there always seemed to be something new that he hadn't seen before in the tale.

So, as the Slayer listened quietly to the plans of Bishop regarding the Turtles, Victor was busy making plans of his own- plans that, if successful, would defeat the very person who had created him while at the same time freeing himself from this life he was created for, exchanging it for a life that he dreamed of.

"What do you think, my old friend?" Splinter respectfully asked the Daimyo, as they sipped tea in the throne room. The Daimyo, his mask of office set aside, carefully considered all that Splinter had laid out before him.

"Well, my old friend," he said. "If it were me, and I were having such dreams, I would treat them as a vision. I would gather my sons and come here where it is safe. You and your sons would be most welcome to live here, and be forever free from this madman you describe."

"That would hardly be fair to my sons, Daimyo," Splinter sighed. "Especially if these are just the nightmares of an overprotective father, and not a vision of some future danger. I admit, I would so as you suggest in a heartbeat, were they younger. But they are no longer children. And I do not relish the idea of running from this enemy, though at the moment I am uncertain how we might defeat him. Such evil men are hard to rid the world of."

"But they can be defeated," the Daimyo said.

"Yes, they can," Splinter agreed. "If it is so decreed by Fate, then Bishop and his plans for this- this- abomination of creating life will be defeated. I just do not wish my sons to pay the high price that may be required of such action."

"Yet you took on the Shredder, and the outcome could have been the same," the Daimyo pointed out.

"Somehow, that seemed different," Splinter slowly admitted, though why it seemed different puzzled him. "Perhaps I am just overreacting to this disturbing nightmare."

"I understand," the Daimyo said, as his little son came running into the room, heedless of the shouts from his attendant.

"Father! Father! Look what I have learned today!" he shouted, and then abruptly skidded to a halt, realizing that his father had company. He immediately bowed low to this visitor. "Greetings, Master Splinter! Forgive me for rudely interrupting your conversation!"

Splinter, still amazed at the circumstances that had revived this being in the form of his younger self, had already risen and bowed respectfully in return to the Daimyo's son.

"It is very good to see you again, young lord," Splinter replied, and then he resumed his seat.

"Father! Look what I have learned!" he excitedly continued, and proceeded to perform a difficult kata with great enthusiasm if not great skill to the amusement of his father and his father's guest. "What do you think? Be honest!"

The Daimyo looked at Splinter, who smiled at the son.

"You show great improvement, young lord. But if I might suggest that you slow the turn, make it more deliberate-" and he stood up and demonstrated what he was speaking of.

The Daimyo's son studied him carefully, and then did his best to copy the move. It looked much better this time.

"Thank you, Splinter Sensei!" he bowed again. "I will practice it just like that!" Then, with a bow to his father, followed by an impulsive hug, he ran out of the room as fast as he had entered it, his attendant chasing after him.

"Thank you, my old friend," the Daimyo bowed to Splinter. "I was afraid that you might praise him when he needed guidance. I have a hard time convincing his instructor to push him to perfection, to stop accepting anything less. That is what happened last time, and I myself helped that problem to exist." And his face darkened in the memory of how his son had used to be, spoiled, heartless, undisciplined.

Then he shook off the past, and invited Splinter to spend the evening as his guest.

"I must decline," he said, bowing in acknowledgment of the offer. "I told my sons I would be home for dinner, so I must be going. Thank you again for your wise council."

"I would feel better if you would bring your sons here to stay," the Daimyo said, rising with his guest to personally escort him to the portal. "I honor your decision, but remember, my friend, that you and your family are most welcome to come here."

"I will remember, my honored friend."

They made arrangements for Splinter to come back the next week, and to bring his sons for a special occasion- the Daimyo was giving a celebration in honor of his son's birth ("Rebirth" the Daimyo had called it), and he wanted his honored friend and his family to attend.

"We would be most honored, noble Daimyo," Splinter accepted, and with farewell bows, Splinter entered the portal back to his own world.

He was walking home when he found himself surrounded by six large humans dressed all in red.

He looked at these Ninja who were not true Ninja. He saw their antique weapons, their soulless eyes, their determination. He saw his dream come true.

No- this would not happen the way he had dreamed.

This would not end with the death of his sons. Not if he could prevent it.

He would not let these men kill his sons.

He lay down his walking stick and spoke to the men.

"I will not fight you," he said. "I will come with you without resistance."