TMNT are not mine. Norma's is a real place in New York City and I hope I get to go there someday. Dr. Baker, Agent Grant, Dr. Soto, and a few other "characters" pretty much are mine, however.

Conglomeration

Karai

Kyojakuji!

As she attacked the large body bag over and over, punching and kicking, she chanted that word in her mind, a self-berating rhythm to her anger.

Kyojakuji!-punch-Kyojakuji!-punch-Kyojakuji!Kyojakuji!-double punch-

"Kyojakuji!" she screamed aloud, kicking the bag with such force that it swung wildly on its chain.

"Mistress, it is not my place, but you-"

"Shine bakayaro!" she growled, turning her self-anger on her most trusted assistant. He immediately knelt down on one knee, bowed his head in respect and silent apology. "I am a weakling! I have failed miserably! HOW could those four mutants defeat so many of my Ninja unless I am the one who is weak? My father was always strong! He would not have failed in such a simple task!"

The tall, bald assistant for the immediate moment kept his mouth shut. Oroku Saki had failed many, many times- right up to the end. But now was not the time to point this out.

In fact, his mistress had become so blind to anything that was the truth regarding her "father". She, who used to have shame, who used to struggle to reconcile her honor with the dishonorable dealings of the man who had taken her in and raised her- now she guarded his memory jealously, and would hear nothing spoken against him under pain of death.

He decided to take the chance; to not do so would be not serving his Mistress fully.

"I will risk this, Mistress- your father was not perfect," he said, steeling himself for the blow he expected, surprised when it didn't come. "Even he knew this. True, he was used to success, but he had failures- due to the inability of those around him to accomplish what they promised. Or have you forgotten the number of times Hun-"

NOW the blow came. Prepared as he was, it sent him sprawling back a few feet.

"I am the weakling, fool, for I have sat behind a desk too long!" she snarled. "When my father was here, I ran training sessions. His American army was very good, but with my training they became better. When I brought over some of our most promising from Japan, things should only have improved, not deteriorated! Infighting, petty jealousies, and criticism of ME! YES, I have HEARD the mumblings and grumblings of the lowly."

She extended her hand to her assistant, and he took it without question. She helped him up off the floor, then motioned for him to follow.

"I will be holding mandatory sessions starting from today," she dictated, grabbing her towel and striding through her private dojo with long steps. "Arrange for the men to be there. We will set up a rotating schedule. When I am not personally overseeing it, then you or Sato will be in charge."

"Hai, Mistress," he responded as they entered her large bedroom on her way to the bath. "You are to meet with Dr. Chaplin today, Mistress. Shall I reschedule?"

She paused just for a moment, considering.

"No, I have much to discuss with him. Very well, as soon as I am through with him, the first session is to begin. I want as many there as possible, Tanaka- I have much to say to them, and I do not wish to repeat myself."

With that, she entered her bathroom and prepared for the business end of her day.

Hun

"She what?" he nearly shouted into his phone. The words startled his second-in-command- or rather, the tone of his voice more than his words. Hun sounded as if he were about to burst out laughing. "You're sure of this? Little Miss Perfect? HA-hahahahaha!"

Hun's assistant sat patiently, waiting for his boss to finish the conversation and tell him what had happened. He guessed, however, that it had to do with Karai and some sort of failure.

His gang name had been "Blades" because of his skill with all things sharp. Since becoming Master Hun's second-in-command and personal assistant, he had had to return to his real name of "Miller"- as Hun had explained, when you gotta deal with the legits, "Blades" ain't a name that is gonna go down well.

Hun, himself, had managed to hold onto the name that many had known him by for most of his life; the addition of his family name to it for business purposes had not been as difficult for him as Blades' reverting to his own had been. "Mr. Black" was becoming a fixture in certain circles.

"Well, that part of your news doesn't make me laugh, but it can't be helped at the moment. I doubt the Turtles will want to keep him for long, once they learn more about him! Plus, I have a hunch he'll be trying to take off anyway... no, no problem! Expect a little 'gift' of gratitude to arrive shortly... yeah... yeah... and thanks again!"

Hun sat there, digesting the information one of his "friends" inside of Karai's organization had just imparted to him. He was disappointed that she had managed to get hold of this guy, only to lose him to those freaks, but at the same time her failure had amused him highly.

"Shredder always put too much faith in that girl," he said aloud to his assistant, after explaining what the conversation had been about. "Even so, I'm surprised that she failed. She's gettin' soft I guess!"

"How does this affect your plans, Master Hun?"

"Good question, Miller. At the moment, it's only- as Dr. Stockman was so fond of saying- 'a minor setback'," he laughed. "We'll discuss it later. Now, who are we dealing with first today?"

And he leaned back in the comfortable seat of his luxurious yet simple-looking limo, waiting for his assistant to lay out the day's appointments for him.

As he listened to his schedule of legitimate and not-so-legitimate activities, his mind was also going over this news. Karai's failure to capture Baker was a disappointment, though it still made him laugh. He only hoped he could keep a straight face when he discussed it with her later- they were both to attend a special dinner for "select business people" at the invitation of one of the leading entrepreneurs of New York. It was to be a very low-key affair; just as well, considering Hun's past. But surprisingly, the man was either blissfully unaware of things, or was not worried.

He realized that his assistant had finished reading out the day planner and was waiting for instructions. Hun looked at his watch.

"I believe we have time for a nice breakfast," he decided. He'd been up since before dawn, working out and doing paperwork. It was time to eat. "Have the driver take us to Norma's. I'm feelin' particularly hungry!"

Stockman

"And, having reviewed all of the information you have so graciously provided for me," Stockman concluded, "it does appear that something might be achieved. However, by my estimates, it would be a year at the very least before we would be assured of any type of success. And even then, the damage was so great that, should we manage to produce what you hope for, I am almost personally convinced that it will not be the same Bishop that you seek."

"I think you are wrong," Agent Grant stubbornly said. "But we will save the philosophical discussions about the Soul for later. When can you begin work?"

Stockman kept the holographic image of his face impassive. He had such contempt for this woman and her obsession with the dead agent. Why was she so insistent that he could be brought back the same as he was? Was she withholding vital information? That would be so like her type; they always think they know more than the brilliant scientist they have put all of their hopes into. Stupid woman!

He briefly looked at his assistants, who stood to the side, silent and respectful. His lead assistant, forgetting himself for the moment, rolled his eyes at Agent Grant's question- then blushed an apology when he realized that Stockman was looking at him.

Hiding a smile, Stockman turned back to the woman.

"We can begin the preliminary work within the week," he answered carefully. Then he "glanced" at one of the many files she had provided for him from Bishop's secret records. "However, I am intrigued by the mention of this Dr. Baker. It appears that he had made great progress in the regeneration of certain types of brain damage. Yet these records do not give me any details. I have scanned all of the computer data, and everything pertaining to his work has been deleted it appears. Only the fact that I find it mentioned in connection with other projects alerted me to his presence at all. Why is this so?"

Stockman had the satisfaction of witnessing Agent Grant's brown eyes grow hard; her shiny black hair seemed to almost move on its own in her evident frustration, and her entire frame tensed to the point were Stockman could see a vein stand out on her otherwise flawless forehead.

"He left the employment of Agent Bishop some time ago," she had to admit, and her words were brittle with anger. "And, he purged all of his notes and research. Precious little remains, and you have seen it. But we are still searching for him."

Stockman considered this information.

"I don't see why you bother," he finally said. "If he's destroyed all of his work, there is very little hope that he can repeat any of it. I've yet to meet a scientist who can perfectly recreate the hard work and incredibly long hours of research simply from memory. Even I used to have that problem- that is, until Oroku Saki somehow turned me into what you see today."

Even now he could feel the hatred for this "man"; even now he wished that somehow he could still get revenge on his former "employer"!

"Nevertheless, we are still actively searching for him," she said, regaining composure. "I am trying to get the word spread that his life is no longer in danger. Bishop wanted him dead. I need him alive. He's still in the City, of that I am certain. And soon, I will have him. Mark my words, Dr. Stockman. I will have him back."

She turned on her heel and left the scientist. His assistants, quiet the entire time, seemed to breathe a collective sigh of relief upon her departure. Stockman chuckled at them.

"Dr. Soto," Stockman said, addressing his lead assistant. "I gather that you had some difficulty with our supervisor's request?"

"Dr. Stockman, I am not saying this to kiss up, but if you cannot do this thing, why does she insist? Even if Baker could be found and- 'persuaded'- to work on it, you know better than I do that what she wants is-"

"Yes, Dr. Soto, I am well-aware of it," Stockman's voice cut off the assistant. "However, perhaps all of our efforts, which could be put to better use than this 'Frankenstein' scenario we find ourselves in, might result in something useful for the future."

Dr. Soto shook his head.

"I doubt it, but I'll start getting things ready."

Stockman watched as the middle-aged man walked away to begin the preparations.

"I am in agreement with you, Dr. Soto," Stockman muttered to himself. "However, we will play this game for a while- until I have achieved what I am after- and then, Agent Grant, you will be getting quite a surprise!"

Splinter

Splinter sat alone at the kitchen table, his sake cooling before him. Leonardo had finally been given permission to leave his room, had indeed been invited into the kitchen for a private drink with his father; but it had turned into a true battle- he could not remember ever dealing with any of them in such a manner, not even Raphael.

"You will meet me in the dojo before breakfast," Splinter had said, voice calm, but the anger could be detected. "You will meet me before the morning training session. Now clean up that mess and go to bed."

Splinter sighed again. Looking through the door of the kitchen he had caught a fleeting glimpse of Donatello hightailing it to his lab. He needed to punish that one as well, but at the moment he was too spent. He had sat there as a now contrite Leonardo cleaned up the remenants of his childish temper tantrum; had accepted his son's apology and wishes for a good night; but the anger lingered. He had never wanted to hit any of them more then at that moment- and he knew that to do so in such anger would be inexcusable.

The appearance of this Dr. Baker has opened many old wounds in this family Splinter thought to himself, sipping the cooled sake. So many old wounds...

The sound of the door to the lair opening alerted him to the return of Michelangelo. Glancing at the clock he breathed a small sigh of relief. He had been gone many hours, but at least he was safe and had returned home well before dawn.

"Hey, Dad," the voice of his youngest sounded in his ears as Michelangelo, seeing the light on in the kitchen, came into investigate. "Wow, drinking sake? What happened? Did you guys have sushi without me?" he half-heartedly joked, joining Splinter at the table.

"No, my son, but we did have a few drinks tonight," Splinter smiled, getting another cup and pouring out some of the rice wine for Michelangelo.

"Man, must have been a special occasion," Michelangelo tried to smile, but in the back of his mind he was guessing that something else had kept his father up, sitting alone and sipping the jouon. "Want to tell me about it?" he asked in his best Splinter voice.

Splinter laughed at his son's attempt to be "father".

"No; just know that we are keeping this Dr. Baker here for the moment, under our protection. And know that Leonardo is not in agreement with the idea."

"I can imagine. Is anyone in agreement with the idea?" Mikey frowned. "Cause I'm sure not happy with this bit of news."

"I understand. But for the moment we must do this," Splinter replied. Michelangelo said no more. "Where did you go tonight, my son?"

"Hmm? Oh, I just wandered around the sewers. You know, checking the perimeter alarms, making sure there was no trail for anyone to follow, thinking..."

Splinter waited, but his youngest was not ready to share his feelings at the moment.

"My son, I am sorry, but I must have a definite date for the memorial service," Splinter gently said. "April must know by tomorrow or else she loses all of her deposits."

Mikey shuddered a disappointed sigh. How could he have forgotten the memorial for Victor? Even though he wasn't sure that Victor was really-

"Tell her the thirtieth," he finally said. "That's what... a little over two weeks from now. That is one of the dates Don gave me. Let's say the thirtieth."

Splinter nodded, watching his son drain the small amount of jouon quickly and gladly accepting Splinter's offer of more, and they sat in comfortable silence, sipping their drinks.

"Would it be wrong to add Zog to the service, do you think?" he suddenly asked Splinter. For a moment, the rat was confused- Zog?- and then he remembered the Triceraton that Michelangelo was talking about. "I mean, he should probably have his own memorial, right?"

"Yes, he probably should, but it would not be wrong to add him to this one I suppose," Splinter replied carefully. "Though I am certain that his people already know somehow of his passing, and have already honored his memory. Victor, remember, had no family- or indeed, people. It would not hurt to mention him in passing. Do not let what this Baker revealed to us haunt you, my son. I am sure that Zog was well-remembered and well-honored by his own. Do not let this 'image' that was shown to us bring you more grief. I miss hearing you laugh."

Mikey smiled, and kept any stray tears from showing.

"Remember that when Raph finds out what I did to his CD collection earlier," he joked, managing his old mischievious grin. "I hope he likes ballet music."

Splinter merely shook his head.

"Kids," he muttered, earning the laugh that he had been looking for.

Victor?

Peace. Peace. No intruders, no pain, no memories of the past. Just peace.

He watched as his companions roamed away from their vast new home at night, off to scavenge food for themselves. They had all managed to remain undetected in this place, despite the incident with the boy and the complaints of surrounding neighborhoods about the increase in rodent activity in their area.

He, himself, was able to find enough to eat on his own- not that he ate that much to begin with. Something about him made the need for constant food trivial. As long as he ate every few days, he seemed fine. Daily feeding was not necessary.

Sometimes he wondered about it, but fear of the pain would prevent him from thinking on it further. Something had happened that caused certain memories to trigger this pain- someday he would be strong enough to figure it out.

He absently adjusted the bandages on his face, arms, and chest.

Where had they come from? He could safely remember that he once never wore them. He could safely remember that once he had no need to cover the strange- whatever- that had happened to his body.

Where had they come from? For someone had to have put them on him.

But though he was curious, he did not pursue it- the pain had stayed away, but it could come back at a moment's notice. The pain was to be avoided.

He watched as a mother nursed her latest brood- the noise they made as they suckled! The peeping, the fussing, the scrambling among the squirming pink hairless things as they fought for the best position to receive their milk! It was as if they were talking, yelling at each other to move, to let someone else have a turn, to stop drinking it all!

He had made this nest for her. She let none near her babies except him. He carefully placed some of the food he'd found for himself within easy reach, and she squeaked in appreciation, stretching her neck to nibble some of the tasty nourishment while still feeding her young.

Peace. No pain. Just Peace.