TMNT are- snifflesniffle- not mine, they are the property of Mirage. Dr. Baker, Agent Grant, and three other OCs in here, however, are mine, not that they'll ever make me rich.

Confusion

Splinter sat staring at nothing long after Michelangelo had fallen asleep. They had talked for over an hour about what his son had thought he had seen earlier. Splinter, without a word, had pulled the spare futon from the storage space and made it up.

Mikey, without a word but with a touch of relief, gladly accepted the gesture, and, sitting snug under the thick quilt, had voiced his hopes and his doubts.

Now, asleep, Splinter looked at his son and thought about all they had spoken of.

"I know he was dead, Father. I could tell he was dead. You don't mistake something like that, not after the life we've led," Michelangelo had insisted, and had even tried to joke- but he felt far from joking.

"I know, my son. Donatello explained to me more of this device that Bishop had implanted into his victims," Splinter had replied, shuddering in spite of himself; after all, Bishop had been in the process of painfully inserting one of those "failsafe"s into Splinter's own brain, until the arrival of the Slayer, carrying what Bishop (and Splinter) had believed were the dead bodies of two of his sons.

Splinter closed his eyes, trying to shut that memory out- even now it haunted him, mostly because of what had happened afterwards; how very much it had almost become real.

"He can't have recovered, right? I mean, Donnie says that even though Bishop had almost achieved regenerating organs- well, a damaged brain is a damaged brain- right? I know he could not recover- he was dead. I know he was dead. But today- that guy- if it was a guy- that was Victor- but it couldn't be him, 'cause he is dead. I know he is dead."

"My son, let us consider the following explanations," Splinter had said calmly, trying to soothe his son's agitated spirit. "First- Victor is alive. We have your own confirmation as well as Donatello's expertise to dismiss that as a possibility."

Mikey had swallowed hard to hide his disappointment- he had always held out a child-like hope that this would be possible- that Victor had escaped somehow.

"Second- you witnessed the visitation of a 'ghost'," Splinter continued. "I do believe that there are spirits who visit us. I have had visions of my Master Yoshi- you remember all too well, I am sure, of the 'message' I took away from that last one."

Mikey shuddered now. He hated remembering that trip on that ill-fated ship; the decision to kill themselves had been the right one, and looking back on it, he had not been scared as he thought he might have been. Strangely enough, he had felt rather calm and at peace with the decision.

Now, however, it gave him the shakes to think of that situation, and he hoped never ever to be in that type of life-or-death choice again!

"Third- you could have been hallucinating," Splinter concluded. "When Raphael brought you home, you were almost blue it seemed to me. You were all out in that cold and snow- I am sure you did not put your jacket and other clothes back on right away, did you?"

Mikey sheepishly grinned. True, he had been one of the last to gear up again. And even though he had bundled back up, being force-fed snow by Raph while pinned down in that drift had been pretty damn cold!

"It could be that, with your mind so focused over the past few weeks on planning the memorial for Victor, coupled with the cold affecting your thinking, you thought you saw him staring up at you."

Mikey considered this explanation. Of the three, he guessed that this was the obvious choice. He had felt a bit fevery ever since their return to the lair; he hoped he wasn't coming down with a cold or the flu- the memorial would have to be put on hold, and his plans were almost complete, right down to the day and time of the outgoing currents (thanks to ever-helpful Donatello and his handy-dandy Internet skills!). April had ordered the Shinishozoku for him, and it would be ready in a few more days. It would seem odd to be wearing something that basically was an altered shroud, and it was all in white, a color that the turtle felt made him look like a giant marshmallow- yet Mikey had wanted to do this, creepy as it sounded to his brothers (Raph: Why you wanna dress up in grave clothes? Makes you sound like a ghoul, and you know how those movies scare the shit outta you!).

"Yes, it must have been my imagination after all," he had concluded. "I know he is not alive. I guess it could have been a ghost, even though it was still light outside and all. But I have been thinking a lot about the memorial, and I was pretty cold."

Then he had smiled gratefully at Splinter for letting him talk it out, and with a "thanks, Dad," had immediately laid down, snuggled under the warm quilt, and within five minutes was sound asleep.

Splinter sighed, blew out the candles that he favored over the electric lights, and settled himself into his own bed.

Could this Victor indeed be alive? No, and Splinter did not believe that it was a spirit, either- but who knew? He had experienced enough in his strange life to know that anything was possible.

Except for Victor being alive.

With great effort, he managed to not dream of his time in the clutches of Bishop. He had often dreamed of it in the beginning, but he had mastered this nightmare to the point that he could prevent it from even happening. And he knew that tonight it would be lurking in the corners of his mind, waiting and watching for any weakness- but Splinter was strong. There was no way he was going to allow a dead man rule the rest of his life with his unspeakable evil.

"You cannot regenerate the brain," Stockman said yet again this morning. He was growing tired of having to say this. The woman seemed rather intelligent; why could she not grasp this simple fact?

"We have his clones, we have his body, we have his research," she was insistent. "Why can we not have him back?"

"Lady, dead is dead!" he snapped finally. "Don't you get it? You're asking me to play Dr. Frankenstein, and it's NOT going to be Agent Bishop if it works! Cloning does NOT mean having the same memories, the same learning, the same anything except a duplicate of the original! Didn't you learn anything from your time with him?"

Stockman, who had no room in his megalomania for equals, nevertheless had admired and- dare he say it- respected Bishop and all he had accomplished. He had taken what he'd gleaned from alien technology and aliens themselves, and had built upon and expanded upon it to benefit his organization in their (rather obsessive, but who was Stockman to point fingers?) mission to protect the Earth from the outside universe. If there were a way to genuinely bring Bishop back, he would do it gladly.

"Once the brain dies, that's it! It's like pulling a hard-drive," he continued, hating to use such an inaccurate comparison, but he figured that this would probably be all she could understand. "You want me to bring back someone who has died months ago!"

The woman was stubborn. She had been with Bishop a long time. She knew many of his secrets, and had known of his plans and work in regeneration. She sighed in frustration- perhaps if she presented it in a different light, this idiot would do as she requested.

She looked around, making sure that any of the assistants could not hear what she was about to say.

"Look- Bishop would want someone to try- if only for the research value," she said softly. "Even if it ended up failing, even if he ended up a drooling, mindless vegetable, anything is worth it for the research value!"

Stockman stared, partly amused, partly impressed. She was if anything tenacious- and clever after all. What she was saying was not the truth, he knew that, but he had to admire just a little bit her intent on making this happen.

"So you're saying that the great Agent Bishop, who had no compunction about experimenting on his own people as well as aliens, would never object to experimentation on himself?" he smoothly asked. "I knew he had a cold-blooded streak in him, but really, this takes the cake!"

She drew herself up to her full height of five ft. four in. Her shiny black hair, short and curly, reflected the lab lights, giving the impression that sparks were creating a halo around her head. Her brown eyes stared directly into the hologram face of Dr. Stockman, and he could tell that she was more than determined. She had a powerful- well, obsession just did not seem strong enough word to describe her attitude, but it was all the genius could think of- yes, this overwhelmingly powerful obsession with bringing Bishop back.

"Of course, if you can't do it," she trailed off in that pathetic and cliché manner of some who think they will get what they want by appealing to the overblown ego of another.

Stockman laughed in a very amused way. She was priceless! He almost liked her. Almost.

"All right, Agent Grant," he finally said. "We will try it your way-"

"Bishop's way," she corrected. "I will return later with his most private files. Perhaps somewhere in there is the key we need."

Stockman watched as she hurried out of the lab, and in his imagination he could see her skipping in her satisfaction.

A strange thought occurred to him: had they been- perhaps- lovers?

He started laughing, quietly at first, and then it built until he was drawing the attention of the assistants. They had heard him laugh before, but this time there was a difference to it. It was as if he had heard the funniest joke.

"Oh, Agent Grant," he sighed shaking his head, still laughing. "Naughty girl, I believe I know now what you're after!"

Baker was serving food today in the shelter. It was his turn to stand there, ladling out soup to whomever wanted some to accompany the rest of their meal, as the faceless men and women- and children- slowly made their way down the cafeteria-style line, accepting whatever was being served.

Pea soup today. Baker had never liked pea soup. Something about its color, combined with its texture, had always caused him to gag when his mother had forced him to eat it- and he had to eat it regardless. His mamma did NOT allow food to go to waste, and you ate whether you wanted to or NOT!

"The fog was as thick as pea soup," he mumbled to himself, trying to remember when he had first heard that simile. Probably grade school. Stupid simile, he'd been in fog, and he'd been forced to eat pea soup- the two simply did not compare. Whoever had come up with that to describe the fog was unimaginative or else had never experienced either of the objects in question. Probably some...

A slight disturbance, nothing much, just a bit of unintended pushing further back in the line caught his attention.

"Sorry, pal, didn't mean it," a voice mumbled, and Baker, looking on, noticed one of the regulars- an old, wizened man who looked like he was eighty but Baker knew to be only in his sixties- hard living, booze, and other things had aged him greatly. He was clean and sober for two years now, or so he professed, but he was still a crabby old man who did not let people real or imagined push him around.

Today, however, he seemed to be arguing with a real person. That had been the one to speak, Baker knew- the old man had a voice with the volume of a foghorn- and he was about to use it.

"Sorry nothin'! NO CUTS!"

The man in question looked really pissed off, but he kept his voice in check.

"I said I was sorry, old man. My mistake. I didn't see you standing there." And he moved to the back of the line, trying to avoid any more attention.

Baker knew at once this man was not homeless. He'd been on the streets among these people long enough to know he was a fake. The clothes were a little too obvious- like new stuff that had been distressed and dirtied on purpose.

The jeans the man wore were a brand that went for eighty dollars at Macys. Baker suspected that the shoes, though "old", were also of a brand name that would be beyond what anyone on the street would find in the piles of free clothing in a shelter or mission.

The jacket was down- he was sure of it. That was in itself not impossible, but the clincher was the man himself: Baker recognized him as one of Bishop's "search and destroy" soldiers.

Cold fear gripped him. Head down, he was sure that he'd not been seen. He ladled some more soup into the countless bowls, marveling in the back of his mind how it was he hadn't spilled one drop in his fear.

The line kept moving; the man was closer. Baker, out of the corner of his eye, noticed that every now and then he serepticiously glanced first at something in his gloved hand, then at any African-American male who happened to be near him.

He hadn't spotted Baker yet. Baker looked into the large pot- it still contained plenty of pea soup, but if he didn't do this now, he'd never get the chance to escape. Picking it up, mumbling some excuse about getting more, he causally carried it into the kitchen. At the stove was Jayne, cooking away as usual.

"Out already?" The cheerful older woman who was one of the mainstays here- she had come in homeless herself years ago, and had found an indispensable place here as the main cook- quickly moved to retrieve the pot from Baker. "Why, there's still-"

"Look, I've got no time to explain," he said, grabbing his coat from the pile. "I've got to go. Those people who are after me- one is out there now. Sorry! I've got to go!"

Before she could stop him, offer him protection, or even find out what this person looked like, he was out the back door.

She stood there, slightly surprised. There were many in the shelter with some story of being hunted- usually it was part of their delusions- but this!

Filling the pot, she went out herself to the line, and started ladling out soup, her eye on the line. Everything seemed normal to her- ah HA! She'd spotted the fake. Even longer than Baker, she had lived on the streets. She knew the real thing from the undercover guys.

Well, well, well- this called for a special action.

"Hey, Reverend!" she cheerfully shouted, catching the attention of one of the people who ran this particular shelter.

An older man, white, in his fifties, ex-wrestler, ex-bouncer, and currently a preacher, turned and looked at the cook.

"We got us a convert!" she announced with a smile, using the "code word" they'd devised for dealing with those who were always snooping around, trying to find some way to shut this place down.

The Reverend grinned in anticipation.

"Praise the Lord! We're gonna have to welcome this new soul!" and he winked at Jayne.

This would buy Baker some time, she knew. Once the Reverend snagged the guy, he'd be in front of the entire group, being prayed over and sung to and welcomed whether he wanted it or not! Jayne chuckled as she continued to ladle soup. This was gonna be good!

The day had come and gone with little more than training and chores. Donnie had worked most of the day with Honeycutt and Leatherhead perfecting and planning and preparing to monitor this new development regarding the mysterious person who seemed to control rats. This involved many of Don's remote control devices that were not much bigger than those mini-racing cars that were so popular a few years ago. With these babies, Don had explained to Splinter, there would be no need for any of them to enter any of those warehouses.

"And the range on these is pretty spectacular, even if I do say so myself," he grinned in self-satisfaction, earning an amused smile from his father.

"Well done, Donatello!" he praised him nonetheless. "This is most excellent."

"Of course, we still have to be topside to work them," Don pointed out, "but we can operate them from that rooftop where I made the preliminary study."

Splinter nodded. As long as none of them tried to enter those buildings on their own, this was fine with him.

Mikey was fighting off a cold. He'd awoken with that nasty feeling one gets- not quite sick, but feeling as if it was going to happen- stuffy nose, that irritating sore spot in the throat that alternately hurt or itched like crazy, and a headache that felt worse than one of Raph's headlocks. He'd been drinking herbal teas all day, so much so that he spent a lot of his time in the bathroom peeing it all out again.

"You should wrap up and rest, my son," Splinter told him, serving him broth and whatever else he requested.

"I will, Sensei," Michelangelo promised. And he intended to. There was NO way he was going to be sick! NO WAY!

Raph, true to his word, had not gone above ground. Splinter had told them either with Mikey and Don, or with him. Don was preoccupied, Mikey was too determined to threaten or cajole, and there was no way in hell he was gonna go to dear old Dad and say "Let's you and me go to Casey's and hang out for a while, eh?"

Besides, the last time they had done that, they'd made the mistake of playing poker once again with Splinter, and once again he'd cleaned them out.

So instead he was currently getting in some extra training on the heavy bags, determined to get to a point where his father would not need to save his sorry ass the next time Raph encountered the foot- and there was gonna be a next time!

Leo scoped out the scene. Raph was in the dojo. Mikey was bundled up on the couch, alternately watching a movie and snoozing. Don, Leatherhead, and Honeycutt were still locked away in Don's lab.

Splinter was in the kitchen, making preparations for supper.

Out the door. Down the tunnels. Out the pipe.

Dark already, though it was barely five in the evening. Too early for gang activity. Too early for anyone to miss him.

Leo kept close to the buildings by the waterfront, until he was at the one Don was planning on sending his little spies into sometime tomorrow. The sky was clear, but the moon was not up yet, and Leo had to rely on the special goggles that Don had created for them.

Scanning the ground was fruitless- too many footprints for Leo to discern anything out of the ordinary. This place was busy during the day, even around the empty warehouses. Tire tracks, boot prints, the occasional dog or cat paw, even pigeon prints- nothing that looked like rat impressions.

Leo looked around. Once again, no activity. The winter months seemed to curtail the evening work- and the cold kept the security guards snug inside their little monitoring rooms, drinking coffee and waiting for their next break.

Around to the side closest the river. Scanning the ground here was a bit more rewarding. A long line of rodent tracks- Leo could not determine the number, but definitely more than a few, and all heading in one direction- past this warehouse and into the next. Leo, senses alert to the slightest disturbance, followed the trail right up to a small opening, where a dockside door was slightly ajar.

He looked at the ground again. Tracks came from other directions, all headed into this particular building. As he carefully made his way along the side, he found a few more places where the rats had entered.

The magnitude began to register on his brain. Hundreds and hundreds and hundreds- a cold fear gripped him now; he turned and headed back as fast as he dared.

Then, before he could reach the previous warehouse, curiosity overtook him. Above were windows. Examining the sides, he found that he could climb with somewhat relative ease the various outcroppings and pipes and such up to them. Perhaps he would be able to get a good look inside...

As he prepared to do so, a soft something brushed against his foot; several soft somethings brushed against his feet.

Looking down he saw the rats, about seven or eight. They were sniffing him, squeaking and chirping and milling around him as if they were not afraid.

With a quick jump, he cleared the little circle, landing several feet away from them- and with one noise they came after him.

"Shit!" He ran as fast as he could, quickly outdistancing the furry little scavengers.

He passed the first warehouse; the pipe was in sight. Turning his head briefly, he noticed a sort of black tide coming after him!

"Aww!" He knew they'd follow him into the sewers- or would they? Quickly he pulled from his belt a pouch that Mikey liked to call their "ninja dust"- really just a combination of cayenne pepper and various chilies ground together by Don. Taking a chance, he started scattering it across his scent, hoping that the rats would get a good stinging whiff of that and stop chasing.

Then he pelted into the pipe, sticking to the water, running as quietly as he'd been trained.

He took a few different junctions, just to make sure that he'd thrown anyone off his trail. He had stopped once, to catch his breath and to try to discern if any of the rats had indeed followed him into the sewers.

He encountered rats on the way, but they had scattered at his approach and had not followed- perhaps they were not part of that other group?

Slowing down now, he approached home, thinking of what he'd observed, which he had to ruefully admit to himself wasn't much.

And he knew that he was definitely in for it- that had taken longer than he'd planned. But it had been worth it. He now had an idea where this man was, if he existed- and something must be controlling those rats, they don't just congregate like that on their own.

Steeling himself, he approached the door of the lair- and found it locked.

Great. No chance of sneaking back in. He tried the code in the hidden control panel, knowing that that would attract unwanted attention.

Nothing.

Damn it! Was the thing not working? He tried several times, but no luck. The door remained stubbornly locked. He'd have to go the long way to the surface, to the garage, and take the elevator.

He'd just started when the door opened on its own.

Or rather, when it was opened for him. Framed in the doorway, backlit by the bright room lights, was the unmistakable form of his father, hand on hips.

Leo stared for a few minutes, rooted to the spot.

"Well? Are we going to stand here all night?" Splinter finally asked, standing aside to allow entry. "Or are you going to come in?"

Leo, head down, slowly made his way into the lair, not daring to look at his father as he passed by-

SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!

"Ow!" he yelped loudly, as the stinging paw of parental anger found his backside quickly and expertly.

And Donnie, eating popcorn, was there to witness it.