I cannot breathe. The dust and smoke and shouts of the crowd, cruel, animal-like in their cries for blood--I can't stand this--There's nothing I can do--

I can see his face so clearly in the arena below, battered, grim; he won't cry out. He won't give them that. The blood pours over his face, crimson against the dusty, streaked green of his skin. Blood streaming down his plastron and legs, his body mutilated with his own katana, his arms tied akimbo with the ropes. I can hear--oh god--I can hear the groan and crack as the bones start to give, the thunder of the horses' hooves as the men shout to drive them apart and rip him--hidden in the swirling dust--

This cannot be happening--this is too horible--I have to do something to stop this--UNdo this somehow! These men, barely out of the Stone Age with their painted blue faces, and I can only cry and tear at my coarsely woven gown, scream at my helplessness--this CANNOT be happening--I have to stop it--I have to do something now--I have to--

WAKE UP.

She choked in a gasp of air. It was dark, still. She was in her own bed. The horror of the death by torture spectacle suddenly vanished, and she laid still panting. A dream. Only a dream. The relief was like a wave washing over her.

She still felt shaky though, and rolled toward her husband's side of the bed, reaching for some tangible reasurrance that the nightmare was only that.

He wasn't there.

Oh, right. Nicaragua. Mike was away. Reality was slowly growing more solid for her. That story he was covering on the missionaries and all that political unrest....

She had another uneasy thought. She hoped the dream was no harbinger of bad news--

No, no. She took another deep breath. More likely the dream was a reflection of her anxiety about what Mike was doing in South America. Yeah...sure. That was all.

Close by someone cleared their throat. She jumped.

"Mike?"

"No. Leo."

She froze. She couldn't have heard that. That voice. She knew that voice....that actor's voice, what was his name? Cam Clark, only deeper.

She could not have heard that.

"What?" she whispered almost involuntarily.

"Leonardo."

Oh, my God. Oh, no.

It was one of those dreams that is a dream within a dream, where you think you wake up, and its over, only to find you were dreaming a dream....

She fumbled for the light on the bedstand. She couldn't hit it, she flailed with both hands and knocked her water glass and clock radio onto the floor with a thud and a crash. Suddenly Celine Dion was howling "Yo-oou're here, there's no-oothing I fear--!" She found the light switch and looked wildly around the room.

Leonardo was standing at the foot of her bed, squinting into the sudden glare of the light.

"OMIGOD!" she squawked and scooted backwards up against the headboard, clamboring panicked over the pillows and grabbing at the quilt. She clapped her hand over her mouth to keep from screaming.

Leonardo said, "Don't be afraid. I'm here to ask you a favor."

"You--you--you were just killed--!" she babbled incoherently.

He frowned. "I was?"

"No, no..." she gulped and tried to breath normally. "It probably wasn't you. I think it was Mel Gibson."

His frown deepened. She was sure he was about to ask if this was a bad time.

"Ne--never mind. Ah...." She was still trying to breath and get her mind around this. She stared at him. He really was very green. "Um...what are you doing here?"

"I'm sorry to disturb you," he answered solemnly. " But this is a matter of urgency. I've come to you because you're one of my biggest fans. I'm right in saying so, aren't I?"

"Uh....yeah. Yeah. You could say that. Yes. I mean, if I had to chose, you'd be my favorite turtle...I mean...I'm a Ninja Turtle fan, and I really like Leo--er--you. I mean I like how you are portrayed-- if that's how you really are, I mean."

She felt like an idiot.

Leonardo sighed softly. An intense look of urgency darkened his eyes for an instant but he said nothing. He was studying her, collecting his thoughts, weighing his options. She realized with a start that somehow, she knew just what he was doing. She understood, at some intuitive level, what was going through his mind. How she knew this she had no idea, except she always thought she understood him...or rather the character in the comics...but this made no sense....

She took advantage of the pause to lean over and pick up her blathering clock radio and shut it off. She set it back on the bedstand and returned Leonardo's quiet gaze.

He cleared his throat. "Portrayed...?" It seemed as though he was taking a minute to let that idea sink in. For a brief moment, his eyes were filled with horror, but it quickly dissipated, replaced by that familiar look of calm.

"Yeah," she said. "I mean how the different writers portray you. You know, the comic, cartoon and movie writers are all kind of consistent. And it um....makes me feel like I know you." She smiled, suddenly feeling a little self-conscious, as if she were intruding somewhere she had no right. "I guess that's kind of crazy, huh?"

Leonardo almost winced. "Oh, right. The cartoons and comic books. I guess if you know those, you know me." His tone was ironic now.

He stood there silent again for a moment, several emotions playing across his face at once. Finally, he turned away, sucking in a ragged breath. "I'm sorry...I shouldn't have come here..."

"Wait! No--don't go!" She blurted out. "Look, if I've said something stupid I'm sorry--I know I don't really know you. I just really like who I thought you were based on, what I--I mean I identified with you, or what--oh--agh..."

She rubbed her eyes trying to clear her brain and make sense. Part of her wanted to tell him how much he--whoever he was--had meant to her, and part of her wanted to hide under the quilt for being so presumptuous. "I'm sorry," she said. "I just...I didn't know you were real!"

Leonardo turned around, hesitation in his light brown eyes. "It isn't you. I..." He paused and looked into hers. She felt exposed, as if he could see right into her. The clarity of his gaze was unnerving. "I appreciate your kind words," he said. "It's very flattering. And I--I feel a sort of connection too, however faint. That's why I came here. I'm sorry...this is just...it's very hard."

She wanted to say something reassuring but she couldn't think of anything. He walked toward the bed slowly, cautiously, as though he didn't want to scare her. She was struck by both the mature deliberateness of his attitude, and also by how very young he looked.

"Before I begin, I need to know that I can trust you...with a very important secret."

She swallowed and nodded wordlessly.

He looked into her eyes, his expression very serious. "I'm not real." He breathed. "Not yet."

"Not real? Then I am dreaming?"

"Dreaming..." he sighed. "I used to think it was a dream, but now I know the truth. No. You're not dreaming. I'm really here."

He was so close now she could see the texture of his skin, the amber brown in those round eyes.

Brown eyes, she thought, not blue. Not like she had imagined.

This wasn't "her" Leonardo, this wasn't someone she really knew, like she knew the Leonardo she had written about and drawn pictures of and claimed as her own.

My God, she thought. I have no idea who or what this being really is.....

He extended a hand, and stood there in silence, waiting for her. She looked at his hand, three-fingered, large, and powerful looking, brown leather band tight around his thick wrist. This should have been familiar, she should've known every line, every curve, and yet it was strange, foreign. She almost felt dizzy with confusion, but she looked into those eyes and felt compelled to respond. She reached out and took his hand.

His hand closed around hers. It felt cool and hard, the skin leathery, as she expected. She could feel the weight, she could feel strength in his grip, imagined what it would feel like if he really held tight. This was not the "unreal" hand of a dream; this was substantial. He held her gaze steadily though, watching for her reaction.

"You are the only one who can see me, Donna." he said.

"What do you mean? You mean just me? Like Harvey the rabbit or something? Oh, no--"

She was trying not to be afraid, but he had a hold of her hand and he'd just told her something completly insane.

She knew he could see the fear in her eyes, and his look softened a little. "Please..." he said gently. "Don't be afraid."

Keeping a firm grip on her hand, he carefully lowered to the bed next to her, watching her face for disapproval. The springs squeaked, his weight depressing the mattress.

Her heart was racing now.

"You aren't hallucinating. I'm really here, only..." He grew quiet for a second, as if he was trying to decide how to explain himself in a way she would understand. "You're the only one who can see me, because...I chose you."

"Chose me." She gulped again. "I--I think I'm supposed to ask 'why', right?"

He gave her a little half smile, his shoulders relaxing a bit. "I'll tell you why..."