A/N: And here it is. The crossover between TMNT and The Mummy that literally no one wanted. Well, one person wanted. And she is Moogsthewriter, and she is wonderful and I love her, and burden her daily with my friendship, and since she somehow puts up with me, I wrote this monster for her birthday. There are two parts. :)

I borrowed a lot of dialogue from the movie and the movie script; Mikey, Donnie and Casey assume the roles of Rick, Evelyn and Jonathon respectively. Leatherhead is an additional character, because I love him. You don't have to have seen the movie to follow this story, but it would probably make it a little easier to understand. And plus it's a pretty great movie.

Titled after the Egyptian proverb, "Know the world in yourself. Never look for yourself in the world, for this would be to project your illusion."

Donatello tries not to cling to Casey's arm as they follow the Warden through the prison yard, but he's not successful in that endeavor in the least.

"You told me that you got it on a dig down in Thebes!"

"Yeah, well," Casey says, with a furtive glance around that looks as nervous as Don feels, "I was mistaken."

"You lied to me!"

"I lie to everybody, what makes you so special?"

"I'm your friend!" Donatello exclaims, and Casey doesn't miss a beat with his wink and a smile.

"Well, that just makes you more gullible."

Far too charming for his own good, honestly, and Donatello doesn't know why he puts up with him. Then the puzzle box shifts in his pocket with his next step, the slightest weight against his thigh, and he thinks, Oh, yes, of course.

Without Casey Jones, Donatello is certain he would be stuck in that musty museum library forever. He may not have enough experience in the field to go on proper expeditions, but he has experience enough in keeping Casey out of trouble that he'd never say no to a misadventure like the one they're on. Not when it might lead them to the famed, fabled City of the Dead, and an ancient treasure the likes of which the world has never seen.

"Alright, I stole it off a man at the casbah," Casey finally admits, mistakenly taking Don's thoughtful reverie as an accusatory silence. "Picked his pocket, actually. I never would have managed it if he hadn't been so wrapped up in this argument he was having with his companion. Something about a guy named Beni? I dunno, his Arabic was really good for an American, I could hardly keep up."

"An American?" Donatello muses as they're led toward the visitor's pens. "Like me, eh? Oh that reminds me—excuse me, Warden? What exactly is this man in prison for?"

"Well, this I did not know," the man says, frowning, "so when I heard you were coming, I asked him myself. He said… he was just looking for a good time."

The heavy metal cell door swings open, and four guards shove their maninto the pen. He's in chains, golden skin smudged with dirt and sand and blood, and he lifts manacled hands to push some of that tangled mop of blond hair out of his face. Donatello feels his face wrinkle a little in disgust, somewhat disheartened to find that the man they've come looking for is nothing more than a dirty criminal—

Then the man lifts his head, and hits Donatello with two bright blue eyes he would know absolutely anywhere.

And he staggers, feeling Casey brace him with an arm around his back, and flattens a hand against his heart, because it's beating so wildly he's half-afraid it might burst out of his chest.

"Mikey?"

His little brother blinks once, then twice, and doesn't smile right away. Just rubs at a bruise on his face, smearing enough grime away that Donatello can just make out a dusting of achingly familiar freckles, studying the two of them through the bars. Then, after what could have been hours or days, one side of his mouth turns up into a sideways smirk.

"Well, well, well—I never thought I'd see a brother of mine in a place like this." He speaks in a different manner than he used to, as though English is foreign on his tongue, and there is none of the warmth Donatello remembers in his eyes. He doesn't look at Casey, but inclines his head an inch in Casey's direction as he adds, "Nice company you keep these days."

"Mikey what are you doing here?" Don surges a step forward, grabs the bars between them in fists that shake. "How did you end up here? How are you in Egypt of all places?"

His brother's smirks eases into something mostly honest, mostly amused at Donatello's expense. And Donatello, for one, feels as though he's missed some huge punchline.

He hasn't seen his family in seven years. He went away to University in London, and then he came to Egypt, and now he works at a museum in Cairo—only because his father, a rather famous explorer in his day, had endorsed enough of his time and money and good name into the place that the curator is willing to overlook Donatello's constant clumsy mishaps. Just today, he had all but destroyed the library, knocking every single bookshelf over in one idiot move with the ladder, all of the antiquities literature laying in a dusty, undignified heap on the floor. It probably still was, come to think of it, because he had set out with Casey and the puzzle box the moment he understood where the half-map they had salvaged from candle fire was meant to lead them.

And now the man Casey had looted the key to Hamunaptra from was none other than Donatello's one and only baby brother. Fourteen years old when Donatello left and twenty-one now, taller than Donatello remembered and darker with time spent in the desert sun, fair skin tanned a heady brown, curly hair hanging past his ears, shoulders broad and arms thick with muscle, and Donatello can't believe it.

"Mikey, please talk to me," he says, aware of how desperate he probably sounds, pushing this one-sided conversation. "Why did you leave home?"

"I never left home, Donnie," he says, and his cool smile doesn't falter. "Home left me."

A cold pit settles in Donatello's stomach, and he searches his brother's eyes—he still knows Michelangelo, better than all the books and artifacts and historical text in the world, and he knows pain when he sees it, even if Michelangelo's face remains a mask of entertained composure.

And then the Warden signals with a hand, and the guards grab Michelangelo by the back of his tattered shirt. They beat him, once, with what looks like a club, and he doesn't fight as they drag him back inside. Donatello, though, is beside himself.

"No!" he shouts, and beats against the bars with his fists. "Bring him back!" The Warden is unprepared for the strength of his fury as Donatello turns to face him, and even Casey backs up a step when Donatello jerks his arm free. "Where are they taking him?"

"To be hanged," the Warden says slowly. "He and his servant both. Apparently, they had avery good time."

"Absolutely not," he bites out, light-headed with panic. "I will pay you eight-hundred pounds to free him this instant, and release him to me. Now!"

The promise of that kind of money has the Warden moving quickly, barking out orders in fast-tongued Arabic, and Donatello digs for his money purse with hands that shake. He hears Casey take a few measured steps to his side, and turns away sharply, just enough that his friend won't see it if the terror turns to tears.

"I didn't mean to steal from your brother," Casey says after a minute. "You talked about 'em, and you showed me pictures a few times, but I didn't recognize him."

"Well," Donatello says with a sniff, "if it weren't for knowing him my whole life, I might not have recognized him, either. He's grown up a lot."

"You weren't wrong for leavin'," Casey adds, low and serious. "You sent 'em money and stuff, I know you did. It wasn't wrong of you to want a life of your own."

"But I should have visited them." Donatello's voice doesn't break. He won't allow for it to. "Or—or wrote more. But when father died, I… I don't know. It was hard. It was more comfortable to get swallowed up in work, and books, and history. But I should have visited them. Now—now Mikey, of all people, is in a prison in Cairo, for god only knows what reason, and—"

"And now you're bailing him out of this hoosegow," Casey says smoothly, with a lilt to his voice that say he's going to make light of this, just to dispel this heavy tension, just so Donatello can breathe. "Like any halfway decent big brother would do. And frankly, Don, that's some heavy sugar you're dealing out. Do you even have that kind of money on you?"

"Not quite," he says, sniffing again and rubbing his nose. "Give me your wallet."

"What—oh, fine."

Donatello paces the boardwalk, lost in thought.

Michelangelo promised to meet them at the Giza port in the morning, though that's all he promised, and he didn't linger even long enough for Donatello to touch him. Just leaned heavily into the support of his companion, a large, dark-skinned man who towered two heads above everyone else in the gallows, and went on his own way. Donatello tensed when they came out together, he didn't have another farthing on his person to pay his brother's companion's release, too; but the Warden was content with his eight-hundred pounds and didn't seem eager to get in the giant's way as he wrapped a large arm around Michelangelo's shoulder and led him across the courtyard to bought freedom.

It's not that he wanted thanks, or even acknowledgment. He understands Mikey's coolness, he hasn't seen the boy in close to eight years. He left Michelangelo in America with their older brothers, and after their father died, Donatello all but disappeared from his life. He wonders what happened. Where Leonardo and Raphael were, to allow Michelangelo to cross the seas and commit crimes and land himself in a faraway desert prison.

"So, we're still going?" Casey asks, shading his eyes against the sun to watch Donatello's back-and-forth march. "To Hamunaptra?"

"We are going to give Mikey back the puzzle box you stole from him," Donatello says sharply, without so much as looking at him, "and if he wants us along, then yes, we're going to Hamunaptra." He hesitates, casting one long, sweeping glance over the crowded docks, and adds quietly, "If he even shows up."

"Oh, he will, I know the breed," Casey says with a languid wink. "He may be a cowboy but his word is his word."

"And what would you know about keeping one's word?" Donatello retorts immediately. "You're hardly a shining example of moral fiber. Just today you were hiding in a sarcophagus behind a mummy, just to scare the daylights out of me."

"Like I said," a familiar voice pipes up, from over Donatello's shoulder, "nice company you keep these days."

Donatello whirls around, and is met with Michelangelo's smiling face. His brother is smartly dressed and clean cut, his curly hair pulled back into a ponytail and his golden skin gleaming in the sun. His companion stands next to him, dressed just as fine, and watches Donatello and Casey with sharp, poison green eyes.

"This is Leatherhead," Michelangelo says off the bat, "he'll be coming with us."

"And he's your—" Donatello trips over this word, he doesn't know why."Friend?"

Michelangelo's smile fades and his eyes narrow. "He's my brother."

"So we're still on, then?" Casey asks loudly, before Donatello has a chance to be cut by that. "That's—that's good, heh, great day to start an adventure!" He taps Michelangelo's arm with his fist, then shakes his hand and Leatherhead's both in short order. "By the way, sorry about, y'know. Had no idea you were family of the friend."

Somehow, that just makes Michelangelo grin again. "Hey, guy's gotta eat. I know how that goes."

"So where did you find that old puzzle box, anyway?" Casey asks eagerly. "I never got to ask."

"Where else? The City of the Dead." Michelangelo seems to enjoy the looks on their faces, if the sly glint in his honest blue eyes is anything to go by.

Donatello's breath is caught in his throat, and Casey—for once in his life—looks shell-shocked, but he still manages to find his voice. "You swear?"

"Every damn day," Michelangelo replies without missing a beat.

"No, I mean—"

"I know what you mean. And yeah. Our Colonel found that map in an ancient fortress, and the whole garrison believed in it so much that we marched halfway across Libya and into Egypt without orders just to find that city."

"And when we got there, all we found was sand and blood," Leatherhead says, arms folded where he stands at Michelangelo's shoulder. "We are all that's left. The rest of the men were killed by Tuareg warriors."

Oh, Michelangelo, Donatello thinks faintly, picturing against his will his brother scrambling for survival in the sands and the heat of the desert. This might be the brink of the greatest archaeological find of the century, but at this point he wants little more than to bring Michelangelo home with him and shut the door against danger and hardship forever.

But Michelangelo only gives his companions a moment to respect the tableau, letting the statement hang in the air briefly before he's hefting his bag a little higher on his shoulder and adding brightly, "Okay, let's go."

That night on the barge, Casey is quick to join a card game with a cluster of Americans. Donatello watches from his table by the bow as Casey tries to pull Michelangelo into the game as well. Leatherhead is drawing uneasy looks from the rest of the crowd, and it might be that more than anything else that prompts Michelangelo to say, "No thanks. I gamble with my life, but never my money."

One of the men leers, giving Michelangelo a cocksure look, sizing him up and down. Were he the brother Donatello left behind all those years ago, he might not have passed muster; but now, he meets the other man stare for stare, gunnysack over one shoulder, easy competence in every line of his body, and the other American finally breaks into a smile.

"Is that so? What if I were to bet five hundred bucks says we get to Hamunaptra before you?"

"What makes you think that's where we're going?"

"That's what Jones here says."

Michelangelo gives Casey a Look, capital L, that reminds Donatello of Leonardo. Casey waffles visibly, but just for a moment, then nudges Mikey in the ribs with his elbow. "C'mon, Mike, how 'bout it?"

Michelangelo exchanges a quick glance with Leatherhead, then shrugs, and smiles. "Okay, sure. You're on."

"You seem very confident in yourselves," Leatherhead tells the Americans, his voice low and grave, and a few of them shrug.

"We got ourselves a guide who's actually been there before," the one who initiated the bet says, and Michelangelo stiffens in surprise. It's the first crack in his poker face Donatello has seen yet, and somehow he figures that doesn't bode well.

He stands, waving his brother over, and Michelangelo catches sight of him just as Casey says, "That so? Well, Angel and his buddy here have—" Which earns him a hard knock with Michelangelo's gunnysack as he and Leatherhead move around behind him to make their way to Donatello's table, and he clears his throat, recovering quickly. "Who's play is it?"

"Your friend is pretty stupid," Mikey says without preamble when he finally makes it across the deck, tossing his bag on the table and scooting a chair out with his foot for Leatherhead before pulling one out for himself. Donatello sits down as they do, smiling crookedly.

"I know. Believe it or not, though, we graduated together. He's a bit of a genius when it comes to mechanics."

"I'll believe it when I see it," his brother replies without cruelty, looking more entertained than annoyed. "He and Raph would get along." He's tugging open his sack, not quite meeting Donatello's eyes, and Donatello fidgets with his hands under the table, before clearing his throat.

"And what was it Casey called you over there? 'Angel'?"

"Oh, yeah. I've been goin' by Mike Angel for some time now, since Michelangelo Hamato is kind of a mouthful. It's not too far from the truth, so it was easy to adopt. And, y'know, our dad was pretty well-known. No use carting his name around with me, raising flags everywhere I go and getting myself into trouble. I learned that the hard way."

"And he gets into enough trouble as it is with his own name," Leatherhead remarks fondly. "I can't imagine how it could be any worse, but knowing Mike, I trust that it's possible."

"Wow, thanks for that sterling endorsement, big guy. You're supposed to make me sound really impressive and successful in front of my estranged brother."

Swallowing a lump in his throat, Donatello says, "Mikey, please. Can we stop dancing around the subject? Talk to me. Tell me what's been going on."

"If you care so much about what's been going on, why did you stop writing?" Michelangelo replies shortly. It isn't really a question. But something relents in his face, though none of the anger gives way, and he says grudgingly, "When father died, I thought Leonardo was going to lose it. He did, a little bit. He wasn't really the same. You didn't come home, and things just got worse and worse, and then Leo went away. For work, I think, managing all father's accounts. Coulda done that from home, but, you know. Raph left a few months after Leo did. He didn't say why. Guess he figured his reasons would have just been excuses. They wrote, a lot more than you did, but they never left a return address. So eventually, I left, too."

Michelangelo shrugs one shoulder, and continues before Donatello has a chance to say anything, or think anything, or do anything with the weight that's crushing his heart. "It's not the worst story. I was fifteen, I found work. Around the docks, mostly, then aboard fishing boats and cargo ships. Wandered around, got into a certain, uh, line of business. I've been everywhere, just about. Ended up in South America for a little bit, where I met my buddy here in Rio." He nudges Leatherhead, grinning, and gets an affectionate hair tousle in return. "We came overseas when work got a little hard to find. Saw neat places, did neat stuff. It's been pretty fun. Up until, you know, recently. Speaking of which." He gestures to the gunnysack on the table, and Leatherhead helps him open it up.

Inside is a small armory. Donatello chokes on his next breath, and leans back in his chair involuntarily. Michelangelo snorts to himself, amused at big brother's antics, and moves through the revolvers and hunting knives and—is that dynamite?

"Did I miss something?" Donatello asks, more sharply than he intended. "Are we going into battle?"

"Don, there's something out there," Michelangelo says, and his tone matches Donatello's exactly. A gentle reminder, if anything, for Don to watch how he talks. They aren't older and younger sibling, anymore, and neither of them knows more than the other; they just know different things, now. "Something under the sand."

"Well—yes, hopefully." Donatello hopes his voice sounds even, as he watches Michelangelo dismantle and clean a pistol like he's handled guns all his life. "I'm hoping to find a certain artifact. A book, actually. Casey thinks there's treasure." Michelangelo doesn't speak up right away, watching his hands while he works, and Donatello prompts him carefully, "What do you think is out there?"

"In a word? Evil." Michelangelo says it with a smile, but Donatello knows him, and he isn't joking. He's been out there once already, in the City of the Dead, and Donatello is smart enough not to take his words for granted. "The Bendouin and the Tuaregs believe Hamunaptra is cursed. They call it 'the doorway to hell'."

"'Passageway to the underworld,' actually," Leatherhead corrects amiably, and Michelangelo gestures at him as if to say 'see?'

"Well—I don't believe in fairy tales," Donatello says slowly, and Michelangelo rolls his eyes.

"Believe me, I know. You told me Santa Claus wasn't real. When I was six."

Leatherhead looks like he's hiding a smile, and Donatello reminds himself it probably wouldn't be appropriate to laugh—even though Michelangelo is every inch his aggrieved, annoyed baby brother again. They must have had similar conversations to this one a dozen times.

"But I do believe that one of the most famous books in history is buried down there. The Book of Amun-Ra."

"The Book of the Living," Michelangelo says, smiling at the gleaming cartridge in his hand. "Made out of pure gold, containing all the incantations of the Old Kingdom. You talked about that book constantly when we were little. Drove Raph and Leo absotively crazy."

"Not you, though. You loved listening to the stories I'd tell you about Ancient Egypt. We'd go outside and pretend to dig up pyramids and mummies in our backyard."

"Poor father could never get all those holes filled before we'd be digging new ones. We always promised to come over here together and do it for real. And hey, here we are! Guess it sorta worked out in the end, after all." Donatello's grin freezes on his face, but Michelangelo just huffs out a quiet laugh. "I don't hate you for leaving, Donnie. Really. I know you think I do, that's why you're tiptoeing around me like I'm gonna bite the minute you say something dumb. Your dreams were over here, you always said you'd come to Egypt, and I believed you. But when father died, and you didn't come back—that's when I wanted to hate you. I even tried to. I couldn't, though. And I don't," he adds, meeting Donatello's eyes briefly, bravely. "I just—really missed you. All the time. And you never came back."

"You could have come to me," Donatello all but whispers. "I would never have turned you away."

"Yeah, I know. I could have," Michelangelo concedes with another shrug, going back to work. "Guess I didn't, though."

Donatello was beginning to think this adventure was more trouble than it was worth. A hooded stranger broke into his and Casey's room on the barge not an hour after they had bid Leatherhead and Michelangelo goodnight—between the two of them, they were more than enough to disarm the hook-handed man, but when he went down he took a table with him, along with the flickering lantern, and the room went up in flames with ludicrous ease.

"Oh, my god," Donatello says faintly, as Casey makes short work of shoving the puzzle box into his pocket and hauling Donatello with him into the hall. They run bodily into Michelangelo and Leatherhead, armed to the teeth and obviously on their way to help, and Donatello seizes his brother. "Mikey!"

Michelangelo endures Donatello's hug for all of a moment, patting him on the back distractedly and muffling into his shoulder, "LH and I took care of his buddies, but it looks like you guys had your hands full, too. We gotta go."

"I didn't grab the map," Casey says, stricken, shouldering the gunnysack Michelangelo had dropped, but Leatherhead shakes his head.

"The map is up here," the large man says, tapping his forehead with two fingers. "We know the way. For now, we need to go, quickly."

It was hard to argue that, with the flames licking their way quickly into the hall, and the heavy smoke billowing with them. On deck, men rush to save the horses and some of their more precious cargo—tossing things into the dark riverwater and then jumping in after them. There seems to be fire everywhere, and they don't make it very far before Leatherhead is shoving Michelangelo back into Donatello, who stumbles back into Casey in turn, and orders, "Stay."

Then he moves forward, into smoke and chaos and a volley of gunfire, and Michelangelo's face contorts in worry and anger. "Dammit, Leatherhead!" He twists out of Donatello's hold and follows right after him, as disobedient as Donatello remembers from their childhood; and Donatello would have followed in a heartbeat if Casey hadn't grabbed him by the shoulders and kept him back.

"If the Bembridge scholars rejected your application for the hundredth time because you don't have enough experience to go on a godforsaken dig, what the hell good do you think you'll do in an honest to god firefight?" he hisses through his teeth, and not for the first time, Donatello wants to punch him in the mouth.

"I'm not leaving him again," Donatello snaps, yanking out of Casey's grip—his friend cusses colorfully behind him as he ducks around the corner and searches the smokescreen for his brother. Every gunshot is another year shaved off his life until he sees Michelangelo waving at him frantically from the rails alongside the boat. Heart in his throat, and Casey right behind him, Donatello crosses the deck at a run. "No more running off," he says sternly, framing Michelangelo's face in his hands and searching him for any sign of pain. Michelangelo does his best to glare at Leatherhead without turning his head.

"Yeah, I second that notion." When Leatherhead looks unrepentant, scanning the barge with narrowed eyes for any more hostile parties, Michelangelo huffs, and tugs Donatello's hands away from his person to ask, "Can you still swim?"

"Of course I can, if the situation calls for it."

"Trust me, it calls for it," Michelangelo says smartly, grabbing the gunnysack from Casey. He gives Leatherhead a severe look, one that was almost comical given their difference in size, clearly a "you better be right behind me." Then he gives Donatello a nudge, and jumps clean over the railing.

Leatherhead follows right behind him, and Casey spares a moment to say, "Your family is downright crazy," before the fire behind them explodes, and they jump without further ado.

The swim to the bank is cold, and awkward in shoes, but they manage. Michelangelo and Leatherhead beat them to shore, and Michelangelo is buried against Leatherhead's chest, hugging him hard around the waist and muffling something angry and relieved in equal parts against his wet shirt. Leatherhead taps him on the shoulder as Donatello and Casey wade closer, and Michelangelo draws away from his giant friend to meet Donatello in the waist-deep water.

"How's this for adventure, Jones?" he asks from the circle of Donatello's arms, and Casey gives him the finger.

"Hey, Angel!" someone calls from the opposite bank. Donatello strains his eyes through the dark to find a bedraggled-looking Hungarian man leering smugly at them across the water. He's surrounded by the rest of the men from the barge, Donatello's small group the only one to have come out of the river on their side, and shouts, "It looks to me like I've got all the horses!"

"Hey, Beni!" Michelangelo calls back, leaning away from Donatello, imitating Beni's mocking tone. "Looks to me like you're on the wrong side of the river!"

Leatherhead laughs, full-bodied, and even Casey stops feeling sorry for himself long enough to crack a grin as Beni starts cursing in his native tongue. Donatello arches an eyebrow at his brother, and wonders if he knows how much he sounds like Raph.

They make it to a Bendouin trading post the next day, and Leatherhead barters for four camels in calm, level Arabic while Michelangelo plays with a handful of children. Donatello watches his brother crawl through the sand after a giggling little boy, and wonders at how a person can be so different and so familiar at the same time.

"Well, I just paid way too much for these four ugly old fleabags," Casey gripes as he and Leatherhead escort four camels over by their lead ropes. "This treasure of ours better exist, or I'm gonna be destitute."

"That's the spirit," Michelangelo says, climbing to his feet and dusting himself off. He's flushed and smiling as he takes the lead Leatherhead hands him, and his good cheer doesn't wane. They promised each other exploits and escapades when they were little, and Donatello left as soon as he was old enough in pursuit of it. Now he's an aspiring Egyptologist, working in a museum library in Cairo, and Mikey is—a traveler. A grifter. An adventurer. At home in the dunes with the desert dwellers, and alight at the prospect of a day-long travel across the scorching sands, and experienced in things like guns and poker and market trading.

There are stories behind these new facets to Michelangelo's character, and Donatello wants to hear every one. He can't help it; he's a librarian.

They meet Beni in the morning; Donatello has gleaned that Beni served in the French Foreign Legion alongside Michelangelo and Leatherhead, and betrayed them in the City of the Dead, and now acts as a guide to the American party, leading them back to the ancient temple for a very handsome price.

They watch Hamunaptra appear with the rising sun, shimmering like a mirage. They race, of course they race, the Americans whooping and yelling on horseback, and Donatello laughs when Michelangelo upends Beni off his camel.

And then he keeps laughing, alive in the sun and the whipping wind, the ancient City of the Dead waiting only moments away—his life's pursuit, his childhood dream—

Complete with his brother, grinning at him, from right by his side.

They're the first up the stone ramp into the city, with Leatherhead and Casey not far behind, and it's Casey who shouts over his shoulder, "You boys owe us five hundred bucks!"

The Americans' team is quick to start hauling the rock out of the temple doorway, but Donatello directs his group to the back of the ruins; near a towering statue of Anubis, a broken pillar and a narrow crevice in the ground that makes Casey go a little pale. Leatherhead agreeably sets to tying a rope around the base of the pillar, while Michelangelo helps Donatello haul around ancient, tarnished mirrors.

"You're meant to catch the sun with it, Mikey," Donatello corrects him, and smiles when he repositions it by a few degrees. "There you are, perfect."

"You're really in your element, huh, Don?" he says, dusting his hands as he hops some rubble on his way over. "What are these mirrors for, anyway?"

"An old Egyption trick," Donatello says gleefully. "You'll see. By all the stars, Mikey, I can't believe we're here."

Mikey's smiling at him, a slow, full thing, as though Donatello's delight is catching. Then he remembers himself, and reaches back to pull a worn leather satchel from his waistband. "Oh, uh—I got something for you. I stole it off one of those Americans, actually, figured he wouldn't miss it." He looks a little nervous, handing it over, and adds, "I thought you might need it. For—you know. Since we lost a lot of our stuff when the barge sank."

Nonplussed, Donatello unfolds the satchel, to find an array of excavation tools in his hands—brushes and picks and a small trowel—and beams. "It's perfect," he said, dragging Michelangelo by the front of his shirt into a tight hug. "Thanks, little brother."

"Hey, uh, not to ruin your little moment," Casey says a moment later, sounding distinctly uncomfortable. "But d'you mind tellin' me why we gotta go down this hole?"

Michelangelo shifts to stand beside him, and Donatello leaves one arm draped around his shoulders and gestures at the statue of Anubis with his new tool kit; warm and amused and overly fond of everyone in his present company. "That statue there? It's legs go deep underground, and the Bembridge scholars believe that that is where we'll find the secret compartment containing the golden Book of the Living. The crevice will open up to a wide room, Casey, you'll be fine."

The three-thousand-year-old room they rappel down into turns out to be a preparation room, where the ancient Egyptians made corpses into mummies. Casey is less-than-thrilled about this discovery, whereas Michelangelo can't seem to stop talking about how incredible Donatello's trick with the mirrors was.

"Did you see, Leatherhead, he just lit up the whole room."

"I saw, I saw," the large man says kindly, lighting a few torches and passing them around. "That would have been a helpful trick to know when we were lost in that cavern in Belize."

Michelangelo takes two of the torches and passes one to Donatello, his smile flickering in the firelight. "Next time, Don will have to come with us."

"Absolutely," Donatello says without thinking. And he only realizes he means it when Michelangelo laughs.

The way forward is dim, a stone pathway strung with heavy cobwebs, and they're only partway through and around one corner when a strange, rustling noise picks up. It comes from all around them, like dead leaves caught in a wind, and then just as suddenly it's gone again.

"Bugs," Leatherhead offers at length. Michelangelo shrugs, and they press on, and sooner than Donatello was expecting, the way opens up into a wide room, where the towering legs of Anubis stand. Its base is carved with hieroglyphs, and while the others cast their lights around the room, Donatello crouches in front of the stone.

"The secret compartment should be hidden somewhere inside here," he mutters to himself—but then Leatherhead's wraps a hand around his arm, drawing him back up to his feet, and Michelangelo steps in front of him with a pistol drawn. He passes his torch over wordlessly, and as Donatello takes it from him, he hears what the rest of his group must have heard already—a low moaning, echoing and ambient and decided ghoulish, from the other side of the large stone base of the statue. Michelangelo is tense, and bracing himself for whatever might be around the corner, and before Donatello can suggest they not rush to meet it, he and Leatherhead and Casey all spring around with guns drawn—

And find themselves face-to-face with the Americans, a few of their diggers, and Beni. All of whom look equal parts surprised to see them, and relieved they're not staring down some tomb monster.

"You scared the bejesus out of us, Angel," one of them says, relief clear in his voice. His gun doesn't waver.

"Likewise," Michelangelo agrees, offering a slanting smile; his gun stays up, too.

After a beat of silence, one of the Americans says, "This here's our statue, friend."

"I don't see your name written on it," Michelangelo replies evenly, "pal."

"Yes, well, there's only four of you," Beni is quick to point out, "and fifteen of me. Your odds are not so great, Angel."

"We've had worse," Leatherhead rumbles and Casey isn't flinching, either, offering a solid, "Me, too," that causes Michelangelo to give him a sidelong look. But Donatello has noticed a crack in the floor, and when he shifts a few pebbles into it with his foot, he hears them fall and land in what could only be a hollow chamber of some kind—a room beneath the one they're in.

So he steps forward, inbetween the two parties and closer than he has ever wanted to be to the business end of more guns than he cares to count. "Alright, children," he says, the way he used to break up Raphael and Leonardo's countless, explosive arguments. "If we're going to play together, we have to learn to share. There are other places to dig," he adds, catching Michelangelo's eye; and it's less the argument he's making, less the secret message he's trying to impart, and more the shield he's just created in front of his brother, standing between him and all the Americans' guns, that causes Michelangelo to lower his and nod.

Ah, well. Whatever works.

And that is how they find themselves taking sledgehammers to a ceiling of an ancient chamber, under the statue of Anubis. They'll dig their way up while those dirty Yanks are asleep—"no offense," Casey offers as an afterthought, while Michelangelo and Donatello share an amused look—and steal the book right out from under their noses.

While they work, Michelangelo asks questions. He's as curious as Donatello remembers, and the more time they spend together, the more the little brother Donatello once knew seems to surface. He's happy to answer Michelangelo's questions, and can't help grinning at the green look on his friends' faces as he describes—in more detail than necessary, honestly—the extensive process of mummification.

He's just gotten to explaining how they removed the corpse's brain, struggling to maintain his straight face while Casey and Michelangelo exchange horrified expressions, when part of the ceiling starts to give way. Right above where Michelangelo is standing—

A slab of the ceiling falls, and something along with it, with a jarring crash, stirring up enough dust to obscure the whole chamber for a few moments. Donatello scrambles right over the rubble, heart in his throat, and he could cry in relief when he finally spots Leatherhead crouching protectively over his little brother, obviously having plucked him out of harm's way.

"Oh, that was close," Michelangelo says, unruffled. He reaches up to pat Leatherhead's chest, grinning. "Thanks, buddy."

"What is this?" Casey says, already moving forward to inspect the new addition to the room. "It looks like a—woah."

"A sarcophagus." Donatello's eyes are wide. "For him to have been buried at the feet of Anubis, he must have been extremely important. Or… extremely wicked."

"Or both," Michelangelo says, feeling along the dusty surface with his fingers. "I think there's some hieroglyphs here, Donnie."

Donatello unrolls his kit, and catches Michelangelo grinning at him when he takes one of the brushes to the surface of the sarcophagus, carefully clearing away the thick layer of dirt and grime and taking in the etched writing.

"So, who is it?" Casey asks, peering over his shoulder. Donatello frowns.

"'He That Shall Not Be Named.' That certainly isn't helpful."

"Look here," Leatherhead says, wiping dust away from a strangely-shaped depression in the stone, like an eight-pointed star. "It's like some sort of lock."

"Oh!" Michelangelo grins, thumping the sarcophagus in his sudden excitement. "Donnie, the puzzle box! It opens into a shape like this, do you have it?"

"I do," Casey says, dumping his pack off his shoulder and rifling through it. He finds it after a moment and tosses it over to Donatello, who catches it deftly. Michelangelo's excitement is rubbing off on him, and he's grinning when he opens the box and fits it into the lock perfectly. "Alright, this is arguably incredible."

But if it opens the sarcophagus or not, they don't find out—because somewhere above them, echoing throughout the labyrinth, people are screaming in terror and pain; and the four of them share a brief look before grabbing their things—and their key—and running for the door.

"So," Michelangelo says, when he joins them by the fire, "all that yelling from before turned out to be the result of an Ancient Egyptian booby trap. Three of the Americans' diggers were, um… melted."

"What?"

"How?"

"Salt acid. Pressurized salt acid. Have you ever even heard of that?" he says grimly, sitting down next to Leatherhead and stealing half of his blanket.

"Maybe this place really is cursed," Casey says quietly, and Donatello rolls his eyes skyward.

"For god's sake, you two."

"Don't believe in curses, huh?"

"No, I don't," Donatello says. "I believe if I can see, and I can touch it, then it's real."

Michelangelo shrugs, stoking the fire with a stick, then offers his friends a sideways smile. "Well, I believe in stuff you can't see and touch."

"And I believe in being prepared," Leatherhead adds, patting the rifle that lay across his lap. Michelangelo grins at him, but it fades at the distant sound of whinnying horses, and after a moment he sheds his half of the blanket and climbs to his feet.

"Stay here," he says to Donatello, just before he and Leatherhead slip over the rocks and into the night.

"Wait a minute—Mikey!"

"Don, I swear to god, they said stay here!"

The American camp is under siege by a few dozen hooded riders. Michelangelo and Leatherhead waste no time joining the fray, for all their decided dislike of the opposite band of treasure hunters, and Donatello pumps the rifle Leatherhead had left beside the fire with no small amount of determination.

He'd watched Mikey take this gun apart and put it back together again, and Donatello, at the very least, knows how to point and pull the trigger.

"Dumb bastard," Casey hisses, cramming cartridges into his pocket. "Will you at least look where you're going when you run after your brother toward the jaws of death?"

"If I know where I'm going, why bother?" he replies breathlessly, raising the rifle to his shoulder. He's lost Michelangelo in this whole mess, but the more of those black-cloaked riders he manages to take down, the safer his brother will be.

The battle goes on for what feels like mere moments—it can't have been very long—and Donatello has downed three men, and Casey, at his shoulder, has downed four, when suddenly they seem to reach a standstill. The riders and the campers both cease movement, all of them looking inwards towards the campfire, and—of course. There is Michelangelo, staring down a rider. The rider is armed with a scimitar, and Michelangelo is holding a stick of dynamite, the fuse lit and sparking.

Of course he is, Donatello thinks faintly. Of course that's what he's doing.

"Enough," the rider finally says, standing down. "We will shed no more blood tonight, but you must leave. Leave this place or die. You have one day."

And as quickly as they had arrived, the riders were gone again, disappearing with their horses into the black desert night. Donatello tosses the elephant gun down and races across the trashed campsite to his brother, who removes the fuse from the dynamite in a jerking, methodical motion. He stares out after the riders, and only looks up when Donatello reaches him and puts a hand on his shoulder.

"Are you okay?"

Michelangelo grins, but anything he might have said is interrupted when one of the Americans whoops.

"See? That proves it. Old Seti's fortune's gotta be under this sand," the man crows.

"For them to protect it like this, you just know there's treasure down there," one of his companions agrees. Michelangelo's grin fades into a frown, and his eyes trace their way back to the trail the riders left behind.

"These men are a desert people," Leatherhead says from Michelangelo's side, following his smaller friend's line of sight. "They value water, not gold. They would not be this territorial over something as simple as treasure."

That statement is more than a little unnerving, and Donatello's grip on his brother's shoulder tightens as Casey comes to join their small cluster by the ruined wall. At that point, one of the Americans casually suggests combining their forces at night, and at the very least, the man dispels the tension in the air. Casey snorts and Leatherhead cracks a smile, while Michelangelo says, very magnanimously, "If it'll help you sleep tonight, friend, we'd be glad to."

They liberate a bottle of Glenlivet from the Americans that night, and share it four ways. Well, mostly two ways, as Michelangelo and Leatherhead each take a swig and then leave Casey and Donatello the rest; watching with wide, amused grins on their faces as their two companions drink themselves past the point of no return.

Come morning light, Donatello is in pain, brutally hung-over, and walks with his eyes shaded from the sun; clutching the back of Leatherhead's jacket like a child.

"Just lead me blind," Donatello half-begs.

"Do what he says, Leatherhead," Michelangelo says very seriously, so seriously Donatello knows he's being made fun of even if he doesn't know how. "He's a librarian."

Leatherhead laughs softly, and Donatello frowns.

"I cannot believe I let you three get me drunk."

"Hey, don't blame me," Casey mutters bleakly, "I don't even remember being there."

The cool, musty dark of the labyrinth is a blessing, and Donatello lets go of Leatherhead once they make it to the chamber they left their sarcophagus in. He can ignore the pounding headache one he lays eyes on it again, the thrill of discovery sweeping over him. Together with Michelangelo, the two of them prop the sarcophagus upright against the wall, and Donatello says gleefully, "I've dreamed about this since I was a child."

"You dreamed of dead guys?" Casey asks gibly. Donatello chooses to ignore him.

"Look here—all the sacred spells have been chiseled off. There are hieratics and hieroglyphs that protect the deceased on their journey to the afterlife, but his have been removed. This man must have been condemned, not only in this life, but in the afterlife, too. This man was doomed."

The statement sits in the air between the four of them for a moment, and then Casey and Michelangelo are shrugging.

"Tough break."

"Yeah, I'm all tears." Casey fits their puzzle box key into the lock on the stone coffin and twists as far as it will allow. "Now let's see who's inside, shall we?"

Even with two of them on either side, it's a moment of hard pulling before the lid finally comes apart from the rest of the coffin; it falls with a slam, releasing another cloud of dust, and the mummy comes falling halfway out before it catches, empty-eyed and slack-jawed. Only Leatherhead maintains composure, where the rest of them jump away yelping or yelling, and Donatello shouts, "I hate when these things do that!"

"Is he supposed to look like that?" Michelangelo asks in horrified fascination, and Donatello comes close again.

"No—I've never seen a mummy look like this before. He's still—still—"

"Juicy," Casey and Michelangelo offer in disgusted unison, and there's really no better word for it.

"Yes. He must be three thousand years old, and he's still decomposing." There is no way, scientifically, for this to make any sense.

"Donnie, look," Michelangelo says, crouching by the fallen lid of the sarcophagus. He's running his fingers over some desperate etching in the stone, long, thin drags from what looks like— "Fingernails," he says, looking up at his brother through the gloom. "He was buried alive in there, wasn't he?"

"There's something else here," Casey says, squinting at some crude hieroglyphs carved into the stone as well. "Looks like our man here left a message." His working knowledge of the language is rudimentary, at best, but he still manages to translate, "'Death is only the beginning.' Well, that's cheerful."

On his way back to the campfire that night, Donatello can't help but notice the Americans' Egyptologist struggling with a heavy, bound, black book. There's a depression in the front that matches the one on their sarcophagus, an eight-pointed star, and Donatello's breath catches.

The other man wraps his arms around it when he sees Donatello looking, and Donatello raises both hands in friendly surrender.

"Don't mind me. But uh… I think you'll need a key to open that book," he says amiably, and strides toward the campfire with a smile on his face.

The Americans are sitting to one side of the fire, poking fun at Michelangelo, Casey and Leatherhead's "nice, gooey mummy" discovery. Michelangelo hears Donatello coming, and kicks Beni, who's sitting beside him, on the leg.

"You're in Don's spot."

Which seems a little unnecessary, given that there's plenty of space around the fire for all of them, but it's gratifying that Michelangelo wants Donatello near him. So he sits in the space Beni vacated, and smiles when Michelangelo scoots closer to share his blanket.

"Look what I've got," Donatello says, holding out his hands. Leatherhead and Casey lean closer from either side, straining to see his prize in the firelight. "Scarab skeletons. Flesh eaters. I found them inside our friend's coffin. They can stay alive for years feasting on the flesh of a corpse. Unfortunately for our friend, he was still alive when they started eating him."

Michelangelo picks one up, turning it over carefully in his hands. "So, somebody threw these in with our guy, and they slowly ate him alive?"

Donatello can't help but notice the Americans have gone silent, and smiles widely for their benefit. "Very slowly."

"I'd hate to be as popular as this fellow," Casey says, shoving Donatello's hand away when he offered one of the dusty dead beetles to him. "Get away from me, you're disgusting. Put those down."

Laughing, Donatello collects all the little specimens and sets them in a pile on the packed sand at their feet. "Well, according to my research, I think our friend suffered the Hom-Dai. It was the worst of all the ancient Egyptian curses—I've never heard of this curse actually being performed, they feared it so much. It's written that, should a victim of the Hom-Dai ever arise, he would bring with him the ten plagues of Egypt."

"You tell the best bedtime stories, Donnie," Michelangelo says, before the silence can stretch into something too eerie and uncomfortable. "I feel all restful inside, and definitely not like my life is in some kind of creepy, cryptic danger."

"Well, that's what I'm here for."

Okay, so, arguably, in retrospect, reading from the Book of the Dead that he borrowed from the Egyptologist was probably a really stupid idea. No harm ever came from reading a book,he said. Famous last words, apparently.

Michelangelo's hand is in his, his little brother all but dragging him to the relative safety of the temple. There's a steady swarm of locust behind them, like a massive, buzzing black cloud, and they appeared moments after Donatello read a few lines from the first page of the book.

Michelangelo lights a torch, and lets go of Donatello to grab Leatherhead's arm, searching the man's face in the dim light. "You okay, buddy?"

"I am fine. I think it is urgent we press on."

"Yeah, I think so, too. Casey, you good?"

"'Good' is kind of a strong word," Donatello's friend mutters, and Michelangelo seems to take that as a 'yes,' and he leads the way into the labyrinth. A far cry from his earlier, gung-ho enthusiasm, he moves carefully, casting the light before he takes a step and testing his footing. He's quiet, and alert, Leatherhead moving next to him like a silent shadow, and still, they both jump when a part of the floor just ahead of them raises, spilling sand—

And out pour Scarab beetles. A lot of Scarab beetles. They turn tail immediately, running the opposite direction, and Michelangelo only stops once, to blow the front of the advancing swarm away with two shots from his elephant gun, giving his group enough time to make it up a stone ramp; Donatello jumps to one side, catching himself on a small ledge, while Casey, Leatherhead and Michelangelo leap onto a raised, level platform.

The beetles scurry past them, up the stairway into the rest of the labyrinth, and Donatello leans against the wall in relief.

And then the wall gives way, like a trapdoor, and he falls through; but he doesn't fall far.After a dizzying few seconds, he lands in a heap in a corridor he doesn't recognize. He feels along the wall for a moment, trying to get his bearings, and hears a moan from around the corner behind him.

Swallowing, and trying to borrow his absent brother's devilish courage, he turns and follows the sound to find one of the Americans standing in the middle of an empty chamber. He presses a hand to his chest, heaving a relieved sigh.

"Oh, Mr. Burns," he says, approaching with a small smile. "Thank god. I'm so glad to see a familiar face."

But Mr. Burns turns around, mouth distended in another drawn, agonized moan, and Donatello staggers back from him, bile rising to his throat. His familiar face had been brutalized, two gaping holes where his eyes should have been, and he lumbers a few steps after Donatello in despair, before falling, disoriented, to the ground.

"My eyes," he sobs, garbled, clutching his face, "my eyes. And my, my tongue, he took my tongue."

"Who," Donatello whispers, horrified, torn between offering some sort of help and running far, far away. "Who did this?"

But quick steps behind him propel Donatello around, and he's face to face with their friend from the sarcophagus, He That Shall Not Be Named, moving, alive, and looking at Donatello with Mr. Burns' stolen eyes. He roars, there's no better word for it, and Donatello is almost numb with terror.

He backs up, slowly, against an ornate, dust-covered wall, trembling while the mummy advances. It speaks, some strangled, distorted Old Egyptian, and Donatello forgets how to breathe. It isn't going to spare him; there's no room for mercy in a creature who steals a living man's eyes.

"There you are!" a beloved voice shouts from close by, and Michelangelo appears from as good as nowhere, lively and bright-eyed and scowling. "Quit playing hide-and-seek, Don, we gotta—woah!"

He flattens himself against the wall next to his brother, pale with fear, and Donatello has the presence of mind to throw an arm out in front of him. He might be a useless brother in every other regard, and he might not have been there for him when it really mattered, but now, at the very least, this cursed mummy will have to go through him to touch Michelangelo.

And it looks like it's willing to do so. It lumbers a step forward with another roar, and then, without warning, Leatherhead is there; roaring right back, and plugging it with two shots from Michelangelo's discarded elephant gun.

"Move!" the large man shouts, shoving Donatello by the shoulder, and waiting for Casey to dart by before following the three of them. Donatello thinks he can hear the remaining Americans behind him, but he's light-headed with some complicated, strangled combination of fear, relief and pure adrenaline, and focuses on nothing but moving his feet, and keeping a grip on his brother.

They pour out of the temple doors into the crisp night air, and scramble to an abrupt halt, breathing fast.

The black-cloaked riders are back, armed with rifles this time instead of scimitars, and fan out in a wall that stands between the adventurers and any hope of escape. The Egyptologist is with them, clutching the Book of the Dead and shaking like a leaf, visibly flinching when the leader of the riders cocks his gun.

"I told you to leave or die," the man says levelly. "You refused. And now you may have killed us all. You have unleashed a creature that we have feared for more than three thousand years."

"Be calm," Leatherhead says, as calm as ever, even while staring down a small army. "I killed him."

"No mortal weapon can kill this creature. He's not of this world." He steps aside as two of his men bring Burns forward—and how they got him out of the temple without running into that mummy monster, Donatello has no clue. They carry him to his friends, who group around him in the sand, and the man says, "We saved him, before the creature could finish his work. Now leave, all of you. Quickly. Before he finishes you all."

Donatello's grip on Michelangelo is probably bruising at this point, as the man speaks in rapid Arabic, and his men march forward, moving around their group and into the temple. They're going to hunt it, before it can do anymore harm.

"Know this," their leader says, before he follows. "This creature is the bringer of death. He will never eat, he will never sleep, and he will never stop.

"Why are you being so stubborn about this?"

"I'm—I'm being stubborn? I'm being stubborn?"

The last thing Donatello wants to do is fight with Michelangelo. All he wants is to load up his brother and his books and his cat (she took to Mikey at once, Donatello knew she would, cats always did), then grab Casey and Leatherhead, and take the first ship to anywhere.

But Michelangelo, to no one's surprise, has different ideas. "You can't just leave," he says, flabbergasted. "This is all our fault. You're the one who read from that stupid book. And now you're gonna run away 'cause you're scared?"

"Mikey—"

"The whole world is gonna end—what, is that just not your problem, now? You live here, too!"

"Mikey—"

"So we can't use mortal weapons to kill him. Let's just find some immortal ones. We can go to that library where you work, we can—"

"Michelangelo!" Donatello grabs him by the shoulders to stop his pacing, stooping a little to meet his eyes. "This is bigger than you and I. This is otherworldly. This is impossible. I agree that we should take responsibility; I agree that this is my fault. But surely you understand that the right move here is to get some distance—to take our health and knowledge far from here, for now, until we can come up with a plan? So that we have a fighting chance?"

But Michelangelo is unmoved. His eyes are hard and steely, and he shrugs Donatello's hands off sharply.

"No," he says bitterly, letting honest hurt show for the first time since Donatello found him in that Cairo prison. "Cause I know you. And when you leave, you don't come back."

Donatello drops his hands, heart aching, and silence reigns between them for all of a moment.

And then, from down the hall, someone screams. Michelangelo is already out the door, shouting for Leatherhead, before Donatello can peace together what that must mean. "Mikey?" He hurries after him, and trips over the steamer trunk he had started to pack earlier, slamming into the desk beside the window and knocking over the glass of water he had left there.

Or, it was once water. Now it's something dark red, and dripping languidly onto the hardwood floor, and Donatello feels his stomach turn.

And the rivers and waters of Egypt ran red and were as blood.

"He's here," Donatello whispers, stricken, running faster than he had even with the Scarab beetles behind him. Outside the windows, there's an overcast of dark, heavy clouds, and fire falling from the sky like rain. "And my fool of a brother is off to meet him."

Finding Michelangelo is as easy as following the gunfire, and Donatello pushes two heavy doors open in time to watch Michelangelo get thrown bodily into the two remaining Americans, while Casey and Leatherhead take up firing at the mummy creature. It must have followed them here from Hamunaptra—and if the shriveled corpse of Mr. Burns, in the chair by the fireplace, is anything to go by, the mummy is only getting stronger. It roars, and advances, and then spots Donatello—and then speaks.

"You raised me from the dead," it says, in halting Old Egyptian, and while Donatello finds himself rooted to the spot, he finds he's becoming alarmingly accustomed to the sight of this reanimated corpse. It isn't quite the same scare as it was the first time. He's still terrified of it, though. "I thank you."

"Not my brother, you bastard," Michelangelo grits out, one arm wrapped around his stomach and the other leveling his rifle at chest-height as he lurches over, putting himself in front of Donatello, and right in the path of the monster. He doesn't understand the mummy's dead language, but at this point it doesn't truly matter what the creature says. "Never him."

It screeches, in what sounds like pure frustration, and Donatello has just a moment to think Mikey has that effect on people, before the mummy points a rotten finger at Michelangelo and says, "Then it will be you."

But a few notes from the piano have Donatello's eyes darting over to that corner of the room, where his cat is sitting idly on the ivory keys, and the mummy shrieks, and backpedals in instant fear, disappearing in a whirl of sand that sweeps out the window into the biblical storm.

Michelangelo sags a moment later, the fight gone out of him with the enemy gone, and Donatello supports him as best he can before he can slide to the ground.

"Get off," Michelangelo mutters, trying to pull away. "Don't."

"I'm not going to just let you fall down," Donatello argues, amazed at his brother's mulishness, and Leatherhead slides his pistol into the waistband of his pants and crosses the room at a stride.

"I'll take him," the dark-skinned man says, and Michelangelo goes to him without argument. "Donatello," Leatherhead continues, when Donatello just sits there staring at his brother—who one moment is facing down an ancient cursed monster to protect him, and the next won't so much as accept his help to stand. "We need answers."

"Yes," Donatello says belatedly. "Yes, I think I know where to go."

The museum curator and the masked rider from the desert were friends. That makes sense. Donatello is beginning to regret his chosen career.

"We're a part of an ancient secret society," the curator says, pacing, while Donatello and the rest of them gather in a disheveled, tired heap inside a roped-off display. "For over three-thousand-years we have guarded the City of the Dead, doing anything and everything within our power to stop the High Priest Imhotep from being reborn into this world. And because of you, we have failed!"

"That explains why you killed my map the other day," Casey pipes up, without vigor. Donatello waves an arm angrily.

"And you think your secret order is reason enough to go around murdering innocent people?"

"To stop this creature?" The curator sounds incredulous at Donatello's question, and he and the Medjai exclaim together, "Yes!"

"Why doesn't he like cats?" Michelangelo asks, sitting next to Leatherhead on top of a tomb display, like nothing about that is disrespectful. "They're the guardians of the underworld, but—he's already dead."

"He will fear them until he's finished regenerating," the curator explains. And the American men shuffle anxiously at the reminder—they're the ones who opened the cursed chest, despite their Egyptologist's warning, and they're the ones Imhotep will feast upon to finish regenerating. Like poor Mr. Burns.

"When I saw him alive at Hamunapatra," Donatello says suddenly, "he said something, and it was a little garbled, but I think he mentioned the name Anck-su-namun. Does that mean anything?"

"Yes," the Medjai says slowly. "It is because of his love for Anck-su-namun that he was cursed. Perhaps he is going to try to raise her from the dead."

"For that, he would need a human sacrifice," the curator replies, looking more thoughtful than rightfully alarmed. He glances at Donatello, and asks, "He chose you?"

"He—he thanked me." Cool horror pools in his stomach, as if he'd swallowed ice, and his hands fold into fists that shook. "And then he chose my brother."

My fool of a brother, who was only trying to protect me.

"Knowing this might give us the time we need to kill this wretched creature."

"We will need all the help we can get," the Medjai says, eyes cast upwards toward the skylight. The sun is going into eclipse at an unnatural speed, the day growing dark all around them. "His powers are growing."

And he stretched forth his hands towards the heavens, and there was darkness throughout the land of Egypt.