There was a package in front of their door.

It was wrapped in brown paper, tied with a large, black band. Purposefully placed, left in a tidy state—clearly not garbage. The four terrapins glaring from inside their home cocked their heads. Ninjas did not get home deliveries. Having someone know about their lair went against their line of work. The few people that did know where they live wouldn't have left such an item unattended. They would have at least knocked. Or, depending on their alignment, kick the door in and messed up the place.

"What do you think it is?" the blue-clad turtle asked.

His purple brother shook his head. "I don't know, Leo. I don't think it's large enough to be a bomb."

"Yeah. Don's right. It's not like it's ticking, either." The orange one knelt down, then reached out to pluck it up.

"Don't touch it, Mikey!" The red turtle slapped his hand away. "It could still be a grenade or poison or something."

Michelangelo sighed. "Guess you're right." He gave Donatello a wide, giddy grin. "Poke it!"

Donatello drew himself backwards. "W-what?"

"Well, if it's gonna do something bad, we need to get it out of the way!" Mikey rambled. "You've got the longest weapon, so you have to poke it!"

Leonardo lifted his head. "You know, that's not a bad idea."

"Don't be encouraging him!" Don grimaced.

Shaking his head, Raph pushed his brothers back. He reached for Donatello's staff, then edged himself away from the door. "Get back, you chickens. I'll do this."

No one had to tell Michelangelo twice. He dove behind the couch, watching with wide eyes over the back. Both Leo and Don pulled away, but just far enough to observe their more aggressive brother. Raphael lay on his plastron. He crawled back, measuring the length of Don's weapon as he judged the distance he would need to make a strike. He arched his two fingers, bracing the end with his thumb beneath the wood.

As he pulled back, Don suggested, "You know, we could just use a—"

There was a small rattle as Raphael struck the package with the bo staff. Michelangelo recoiled, throwing himself backwards. When he realized that he had overreacted, he pulled himself up. There was no explosion. He flushed, then sunk into the couch. So much for that.

"—shuriken," Donatello finished his thoughts.

Raphael rolled his eyes. He tossed Don his weapon, then picked the package off the ground. He raised a brow as he searched for a name on its face. Nothing. He shrugged, then passed it to Leonardo. His calmer brother came to the same conclusion. There was no intended recipient.

"Go ahead. Open it, fearless leader," Raph egged Leo on.

The blue ninja shook his head but dug his fingers into the package's seams. Paper crumpled away, leaving orange plastic and a white label. It was medication of some kind. He studied the label, but the words printed on it made little sense to him. He passed it to Don, hoping the more scientifically inclined brother could spell it out for them.

Don tipped his head, then explained what they were. "Antibiotics."

Michelangelo scrunched up his face. "Drugs? Strangers are leaving us drugs? Man, I've seen after school specials about this kinda thing! We've gotta throw them out before they screw up our lives!"

"Mikey, we're mutant turtles who have fought aliens, ninjas, monsters, rogue government agents, mad scientists, and everything in between. And we live in the sewers," Raph chided his younger brother. "I doubt our lives can get any more screwed up."

His words did little to soothe the wide glance in Michelangelo's eyes. "But there's always a chance…"

"I just don't get it," Donatello mumbled. "The seal's not broken on this bottle. They're fresh. And it's not like any of us have infections or anything. So, who left them here, and why did they think we needed them?"

"Door-to-door salesman looking for business?" Mikey asked.

Leo signaled for Don to toss the pills back to him. After his brother complied, he shrugged. "We should probably show Master Splinter these. After that, we can throw them out."

"Show me what?"

The four turtles' attentions snapped to the small figure standing behind them. Leave it to an expert ninja to sneak up on them. He limped to Leonardo's side, feet making no sound against cold, cement floors. Thick fingers passed the bottle to thin claws. Splinter raised an eyebrow, tail snaking back and forth as he tried to understand what was going on.

"We were about to head out when we saw someone had left these at the door," Leonardo explained. "Don says that they're antibiotics."

Splinter nodded. "I see."

"Don't know who they're for, though. No name on the box," Michelangelo continued. "Wait—I've got it! We've got a new neighbor, and they left us a welcoming gift!"

Raphael frowned. "What kind of weirdo leaves pills lying around in the sewer?"

"Whoever has done this had gone to some lengths to make sure they arrived in good condition," Splinter speculated. He rolled the bottle between his fingers, then shook his head. "Never-the-less, they will need to be disposed. I will see that they are dealt with. Now, then. What were you boys doing at the door?"

Donatello rubbed his left cheek. "Ah, well. April invited us to go visit her apartment and watch movies with her."

"Zombie movies! And pineapple pizza!" Michelangelo cheered. "Maybe it's not a perfect match, but it's good enough for me."

Raphael grunted, then crossed his arms. "That's 'cause you've got no sense of taste, Mikey."

Splinter smiled, then relaxed his stance. "You had better be on your way, had you not? It's not polite to keep a lady waiting."

Nobody was going to argue that point. Michelangelo leapt off the back of the couch, beating Donatello out of the lair's exit. Both Raph and Don rushed after him. Leonardo was less enthusiastic about taking off. He studied the bottle once more, then glanced at Splinter. Hesitance burrowed in his brain.

"You know, I was expecting you to be mad about us sneaking out," Leonardo muttered.

Splinter shook his head. He patted his son's shoulder. "Most teenagers do such things, do they not? At least you were going somewhere safe. Just do not stay out too late."

Leonardo raised his brow, but shook his confusion away. Maybe it was just as Splinter said. They had earned his trust, so he didn't worry about when they snuck away. As long as they came home safe, all was right. He smiled, then withdrew from his sensei. His sense of responsibility and his tendency to fret were the only threats disturbing him.

As the elder rat hobbled to the couch, Leonardo stopped. "Are you okay?"

"I am fine, Leonardo," Splinter reassured his son. "I can keep myself occupied for a few hours. Go. Enjoy your evening. Though, if you would give Miss O'Neil my regards, that would be most appreciated."

Soft words carried enough force to get Leonardo going. His tongue stumbled against the roof of his mouth as he stammered a word just far enough removed from his everyday language. "I-ittekimasu."

"Itterasshai," Splinter replied in slow, deliberate syllables, pleased with Leonardo's efforts.

Quiet clicks on the door sealed up the lair. Splinter kept his eyes closed, listening for as long as he could as his sons sped away. They left their loud van upstairs, opting to take the silent rooftops of New York as their streets. Good. They certainly didn't need to attract any more attention tonight. At least they were trying to apply the lessons he had given them for all these years.

He rolled the pills in his hands, letting the bottle's contents settle against his palm. A base command drummed in his head. Take them. He pushed it away, unfolding his legs. His left foot seized as he bent his leg the wrong way. The order beat him again. Take them. He clenched his fingers, nails digging into the plastic, but didn't give in.

Growling, he tended to what was plaguing him. Thick fur hid a clotted, throbbing wound on his left leg. It hadn't been much—just a nip at his flank during his sons' lessons. The wound hadn't bled clean. Some weapon hadn't been sanitary. In the sewers, nearly every surface was coated in bacteria. Such an infection wasn't a matter of if, but when. He rubbed at his eyes, cursing himself for not taking rubbing alcohol to it. It had seemed like such a small wound.

Take them!

Anger flushed like the wound in his hide. Splinter's fists locked up again. The answer to the identity of the pill's deliverer was clear to him. It was the work of the foreign pulse in his mind, the percussion that interrupted his silent thoughts. On dark, desperate nights, it thumped harder, trying with increasing strength to seize his will. Now, it felt like constant beats in his chest, the urge to submit drilled into him over and over again.

This had gone too far. It had to be stopped.

The rat tucked the peculiar gift into his robe. He snatched his walking stick with his tail, tossing it into his right hand. He patted himself for the keys to the lair and the phone that Donatello had built. His journey wouldn't take long, even with a hurt leg. He had to get that signal out of his head, purge it before the dominating force broke into his bastion and drove a wedge between his sons and himself.

This wasn't a wise act, but it was better than caving into spectral demands.

A labyrinth of winding tunnels spiraled in front of Splinter's eyes. He had little need to open them. He let his instincts take over, drifting through drainage passages and old subway tunnels. Red and orange lights flickered in the dark. Two, then four, then eight and sixteen. It felt as if every brick had a pair of eyes, all watching the strange creature making his way deeper into their burrow.

Black mold and filth crept up the walls. Repulsive debris sank beneath his feet. Tiny paws and fur crossed his path. Communication inaudible to human ears was like waves of static in his head. If he quieted his thoughts, he could still understand such squeaking. His throat was damaged, too low in tone to make such ultrasonic whistles. To the rats around him, he was a mute curiosity, one they crossed without fear.

In the heart of the wavering mess, beyond tangled nests and dirtied, knotted tails, sat a large, rotting husk of a human. His eyes were sunken, lips torn away, teeth yellowed. The entirety of his body was coated in the same cloth and grime that overflowed in his kingdom. Walls moved behind him, subjects eager to seek his fingertips. He stroked a small, gray creature, fingers working through fur in gentle swirls.

"Welcome, Brother," the human smirked.

Splinter pulled his head back. "That is not my name, nor is it my relation to you. Do not call me that."

"What would be better? Subject? Child?" the human sneered. He licked his thumb, then dug into the back of the rat on his seat. "I've tried to make you both, but you refuse me—your monarch. Your protector."

Brown eyes remained calm under such pompous words. Splinter ignored the human's rambling as he fished the pills out of his robe. He tossed them back to the deplorable human. His gnarled left hand rolled the drugs, listening to the rattling of pills, then sighed. "I'm only trying to help you, Splinter. When you are sick, then so am I. When any of my rats—my kin—are sick, I feel it in my lungs. It's rotting me away."

"I am not yours to fret over," Splinter snarled.

He spun on soft feet, already willing to return to his home. Weak legs made it three steps before a wall closed behind him. Splinter raised his head, trying not to panic at the sight of a black, squirming mass. He gave himself a moment to calm his rising temper. Of course, he couldn't just leave. Egomaniacs didn't like such dismissal.

"You came all this way, gave these back to me, and just want to leave?" The Rat King cackled. "Don't you have a trash can in your nest?"

Splinter turned about. He gave an irritated flick of his tail. "You are not getting my message. I wanted to make this perfectly clear. You are not allowed to be near me nor my sons again." He tapped his walking stick down, scaring a hole into the writhing horde. "If you still do not heed my words, then I will respond with violence."

"I know. It's the way all animals are," the Rat King sneered. "They get injured, they become feral…they hide their wounds."

A dark laugh sapped Splinter's resolve. He lowered his head, but let his mind clear itself of such poisonous mocking. It was easy to do if he pictured the Rat King's words as nothing more than leaves in a stream, all being pushed away not by force, but by the gentle current of time. He steadied his pulse, then looked up once more.

The Rat King beat him to the punch. "You didn't tell them about your sepsis, did you?"

"I saw no need to worry them," Splinter replied.

"I see," the human snickered. "You thought it would just go away, like all of your wounds have. If they didn't see it, they wouldn't have to worry about it, right? About how they hurt you?"

Splinter forced back sharp words. "It is a risk we take when we practice."

The Rat King nodded. "I suppose it is. They harm you, they make you sick, they don't know about the fever in your head…they can remain innocent little children, can't they? And their father can go on, being unbreakable until the day his fur falls out and his heart stops, and his precious murderers don't have to feel guilty about wearing him out."

"They didn't know better!" slipped Splinter's muzzle before he could clam it up.

"You're insulting yourself. You taught them such sharp skills." The Rat King released the grip on his pet, smirking as Splinter shrunk under his words. "You're not a fool. They're not naïve. They knew what they were doing—and they hurt you."

Splinter tried backing away. He shook his head, fevered eyes leaving trails of light in his vision. "It was…an accident…"

It felt like the room was contracting around him. Splinter stumbled, his leg stinging as he faltered. Sharp ringing was lost to a wave of warbled laughter. The rotting human jolted in time, in and out of his seat, back and forth. Clammy hands seized his shoulders. Splinter struck back. His nails caught soft flesh, hot blood. There was a new sound amongst the chittering static. Not a scream of pain—a low, taunting chuckle.

"I understand. Believe me, I do." Words slithered into his flickering ears. "I am human. You are a rat. We are mammals—we give our bodies to our young. It's in our nature to defend them. It's not in your sons' nature to protect you."

Splinter winced as pain flared in his leg. He held a smooth palm against his wound, feeling tainted blood ebb beneath inflamed flesh. "Are you saying…only mammals…have such bonds? What of birds? Ants? Bees?"

"You're missing the point. Not that I blame you—you are sick, after all," the Rat King corrected him. "We're not alone, but turtles—snakes—reptiles are not like us. They lay their eggs, hatch their young, then away they go. Never to see their parents again. Never to thank them. Never to care. That is what your sons are, Splinter. Cold to our warm blood."

Fire flared like spilled candles in his wound and brain. Hot, humid air passed through his teeth and nose. He shuddered, drawing his weapon once more. He swung blindly, striking nothing. Screeching surrounded him, shadows choking the world further. Squirming flesh struck his back. He fell onto his toes and knees, the ground shaking around him, red saliva dribbling from the corner of his mouth.

"Is that all you see them as?" Splinter hissed.

Ancient hands snatched him from the ground. He lost sense of gravity and motion. All he felt was heat escaping his skin in flares, buzzing in his head. Sweat percolated through his fur. Something thick, fetid, and wet brushed against his forehead. He thought of his mother, his siblings, their generations—all long dead and gone. Only they would have such audacity to do this—to groom him like a child.

"They are turtles. I am human." Splinter shook as the Rat King breathed into his ears. "You have a slow heart, a fast mind—but you are still a rat. One of many. One of mine."

Cold terror jarred Splinter's mind. He let it spread through him, forcing the fire from his sickness into his right arm. Reflexes and strength erupted, fire, ice, and wood snapping together. He thrust his walking stick forward until he could feel new heat on his hands. There was a crunch, a thousand shrieks, burning blood flowing down his fingers. Splinter pulled back. His legs failed, sending him sprawling to the ground.

The Rat King touched the walking stick embedded in his sternum and exploded with laughter.

There wasn't enough strength in Splinter's body to get onto his hind legs. His mind twisted, heart hammering. He had to run. He turned about, bursting through the squirming walls around him, rats shrieking under his palms and feet. He bounded across the horde, through filth and disease, towards the cold floors of the underground tunnels.

Ultrasonic cackling stabbed at him, dozens of needles pricking his hands and feet. Deep roars rumbled behind him. He went faster, blindly, seeking freezing shadows and silence. The hem of his tattered sleeves slipped beneath his hands. He was drowning in his own robes.

The path around him widened, warped. Cracks in the cement were bigger, sharper. He felt so small. He leapt across an open branch, clambering up pipes with slick hands. Screams followed behind him as rats spilled into the chasm. He was soon to follow. His legs felt dead, his back aching, his brain burning. He reached up with slender fingers, begging for his long-lost master to catch him.

Thick, wide hands took his.

Cotton pooled around him. He lifted his head, long, crooked nose peeking out of soft fabric. Whiskers twitched. Splinter reached above his eyes, then pushed the cloth back. Around him was the matted nest of his bed, soft candles along the walls, a tired child. Splinter's tail curled over his feet. Michelangelo. His poor son's eyes were dark beneath his bright bandanna. He laid his snout across his hands, not having the heart to wake him.

There was a tickle in his nostrils, and the child stirred. Blue eyes studied soft, brown irises, energy building. Mikey snatched Splinter, burrowing his cheek against his forehead. As suddenly as he had grabbed his father, he let go. He ran to the front of the bedroom, then rolled the doors aside, shouting throughout the den. "Guys! He's up!"

His brothers were little more dignified than he was. All three clambered to the front, gaits only dropping there. Splinter crawled out of his nest, taking to his hind legs once more. He readjusted the folds of his robe, then limped forward. He didn't take more than a few steps before all four kids leapt on him.

Leonardo spoke first. "Okaeri!"

"You've…got that backwards," Splinter chuckled. "You left. You returned. So, the phrase you seek is 'Tadaima.'"

The student argued with his teacher. "But, you were the one that came back."

Splinter didn't push the subject any further. Leonardo knew what he was saying, and he had the spirit to back it up. He lowered his head, then asked. "I wish to know what happened."

"Leo tried calling you, but you never picked up," Don launched into an explanation. "We figured something had to be up, so we left April's and came back. When you weren't here...Well, I traced your phone, and that's how we found you!"

"I am sorry to have interrupted your evening. You should return to her as soon as possible. I will be alright," Splinter apologized.

The more docile brothers may have accepted that statement, but Raphael didn't. He blistered with rage. "Alright? We found you just about dead in a drainage pipe, and you think you're alright?"

Like every other time Raph picked a fight, Leo was there to oppose him. "Raph, stop it. The important thing is that Father's okay."

"But why didn't he tell us?" Raphael asked. His words burned with accusation as he turned back to face Splinter. "You were that sick, and you thought it was okay to sweep it under the rug? What if I would have done something like that, huh?"

Despite his son's rage, Splinter had to fight not to laugh. "I would have been furious."

"Damn right!" Raphael swore.

Leo tried correcting his brother again. "C'mon, Raph. I mean…it's not like he meant to—"

"I did," Splinter interrupted Leonardo. He lowered his head, trying not to catch the disappointment in his pupil's eyes. "I am sorry. When we all were training earlier, I sustained this injury. I did not wish to alarm any of you, as I thought it was insignificant. I...was wrong."

All four children went silent. Leonardo's eyes glanced down, unable to decide if he was hurt or embarrassed. Raphael held his stern position. Donatello was uneasy. Whenever Raph or Leo fought, he always felt like he had to figure out who was right. This situation wasn't clear to him. Michelangelo scrunched up his face, but his concern didn't break his cheerful demeanor. They could all fight, but he didn't care. At least his dad was okay.

If nothing else, he owed it to his sons to unite them. Splinter reached forward, then placed a hand on Raphael's shoulder. "You say what you do for the same reasons I would. I love you all, and my heart would break if you didn't feel safe coming to me with your problems."

"Yeah. I guess I l-l-lo—" Raphael stammered on the word, unable to say it. "Yeah, you're okay."

"Did you get rid of those pills?" Don asked. "They must have been left for you. Might as well use them, right?"

Splinter shook his head. "I returned them to their sender."

"You figured out who gave them to us? Who was it?" Leonardo asked.

It was hard to find the right words to say to his sons about that matter. Michelangelo filled the void of information with his own babbling. "Was it a ghost? Or a zombie? Or an evil mad scientist trying to drug you so he could perform weird experiments?"

"You didn't…" Splinter trailed off his thoughts. Perhaps they hadn't seen anything. He pressed a hand to his head, studying the weary remnants of his thoughts. The drumming was gone, the orders silenced. In his head, he was alone. In his heart? No. Something warm was kept there.

He gave Mikey a smile. "A ghost, then."

Michelangelo nearly jumped out of his shell. "I knew it!"

"Don't be telling him that!" Raphael groaned. "Now he won't get to sleep for the rest of the night!"

"Nah, man. Some ghosts are okay. It's the zombies you've really gotta watch out for," Michelangelo explained. "I mean, at least we've got our shells and stuff. Splinter doesn't have a shell at all! He'd be zombie chow! Well, maybe a zombie hairball, but—"

Donatello's shoulders dropped. "Could we table this discussion?" He snapped up his phone, then walked to the front door. "I'm gonna get a hold of April. She can help us get some more antibiotics."

"Right. Until then, we should stay awake." Leo pulled away from the group. "Everyone up for tea?"

Clapping his hand over the phone's receiver, Don turned to Leo. "Good idea! Keep him hydrated. That'll help fight the infection."

Raphael shook his head. "Right. While Leo's playing tea party, and Don's being a nurse, I'm gonna go out and do something manly. Like, guarding this place. Mikey? You keeping watch on the inside?"

Michelangelo gave his brother a thumb's up. "You got it, bro!"

"You all should get your rest," Splinter nudged his sons.

"No, you, old man!" Raph pushed back, forcing him back to his nest. "I don't wanna see you leave the lair for a good whole week, you got me?"

"Are you grounding me?" Splinter chuckled.

Mikey was star-struck. "You can do that? I didn't think it worked both ways!"

Neither Raphael nor Splinter explained the situation to him. The hotheaded son took his post outside his father's room, sliding the door shut behind him. Michelangelo screwed up his face but didn't say any more about that exchange. He folded his feet below him. Splinter tried holding the same pose, but his hurt leg wouldn't let him.

"You know, there's one thing I don't get," Michelangelo said.

Splinter raised an eyebrow. "Oh? Just one?"

"Well, you know! A lot of things. But, just one big one." Mikey crossed his arms, then asked. "Where'd your walking stick go? I mean, you can hardly get around right now. I doubt you could go so far out of the lair without it. So, you must have lost it, right?"

The rat's back tensed. Michelangelo's senses were on point. He shuddered, then nodded. "Correct."

"We'll just have to find another one for you. Maybe Don's got some old bos around here," Michelangelo babbled. "Or we could look for the old one. But, it's probably got garbage and slime and icky stuff on it by now."

Splinter nodded. "It's best to let that one go."

Both fell silent, waiting for a whistle or a squeaking door. Splinter kept shaking his head, struggling to keep awake. He couldn't keep his eyes open for long. He struggled to focus on anything. Flickering candles wavered in his fevered eyes. Distant chatter felt too loud, too low.

Michelangelo's fidgeting kept him awake. Fingers poked the end of his tail, chasing it around as it darted back and forth. It brought a smile to his face. Just like when he was so young—always grabbing onto anything.

Time may have changed the size of those hands, but not the nature of them.

Author's Note

I wasn't going to write this. I've been ten years out of the saddle for this content. Canon's warped and changed so many times. Hell, they even started spelling Michelangelo's name right! This idea was rattling around in my head, but I just wasn't sure if I wanted to act on it. Then, I got a New York state quarter in my change the night that I wrote this.

Now, think about it like this. There are at least fifty state quarters, then quarters for the US territories, then parks, and finally, the regular ol' eagle. Think how small the chance was that I was to get that quarter.

That probability was why I had to hammer this out.