And so, my fellow readers, we have arrived at the last chapter. A humongous thank you to all of those that had read, took the time to review, and shared in my story. I appreciate everything!. A big glomping hug to Mikell, for without her, this fic would never have come to be. Love ya lady!

**At the end of this chapter, you will find a brief prologue to my up and coming fic. It is slowly in the works, and I'm hoping life will slow down enough in the near future so I can give it the attention it demands.

And on that note, I hope you enjoy the conclusion.

Catch you all later for now,

~Mel~

disclaimer: I do not own TMNT.

CHAPTER 30 ~ EPILOGUE

Although he couldn't see the outside world, Splinter's instincts woke him, alerting the dawn of a new day. Slowly, he sat upright in his tiny bed; a gift from Sato. He craned his neck, stretching the muscles, working out the stiffness. The Rat reached for his robe that earned a place of honor, draped over an age worn night table, and slipped it on over his back. Once he tied the black belt around his small waist, he reached for his cane that stood next to his bed and rose to his feet. His injured leg, although long healed, still refused to cooperate in the early mornings. Quietly, he stepped out of his humble room and made his way to the area the turtles shared. All four slept soundly, closely together. The comforters gently rose and fell in a wave-like motion as each of them took a subconscious breath. Smiling peacefully to himself, Splinter slowly let the curtain that served as a door, fall back into place. He left the turtles to finish off their much deserved rest and headed to another room farther down the hall.

As his last offer to aid Splinter in starting his new life, Sato generously helped the Rat furnish the sewer lair with the bare essentials. Sato was far from an engineer or electrician, but through his limited knowledge, research and determination, he fashioned Splinter with workable lighting and a stereo. For a stove, Splinter was shown how to use a simple propane stove.

The turtles were given each their own mats, blankets, pillows and even teddy bears. Mae's wooden glider rocker occupied a corner in the "living room" next to a small press board book shelf. But the place Splinter found sanctuary the most was a fifth adjoining room. He went there ritually every morning before the turtles woke and he spent his day in chaos, entertaining four toddlers.

He crossed the threshold into the room that Sato himself personally decorated with Oriental tapestries, a low table adorned with candles and incense pots. Along one short wall was a shelf that held very few belongings; a picture that Mae had snapped of the turtles and printed off on her home printer, a set of swords, the broken TCRI canister that contained the mysterious green substance that had changed his life forever.

In the center, sat the urn.

"Yoshi belongs with those that know him best. His final resting place belongs here with you, Splinter-san. I would be honored if you would guard over him."

Sato had been generous. The urn, weapons, any items the Tanakas were able to retrieve from Yoshi's apartment, they passed onto Splinter as their rightful owner.

Splinter knelt on his golden colored meditation pillow after he lighting the candles and incense. A curl of smoke snaked towards the ceiling, carrying the scent of sandalwood. Splinter inhaled deeply and closed his eyes.

He had no idea how much time had passed. His mind traveled to a place of tranquility and peace. Firm tugs on the hem of his rob, and a yank on his whiskers brought him out of his Nirvana. He looked down into four faces that smiled broadly and innocently.

Splinter returned their grin.

"Good morning, my turtles," he greeted. "I presume...you would like...some breakfast."

Four sets of eyes widened in response followed by vigorous nods. Michelangelo pulled harder on Splinter's sleeve as Raphael wandered towards the doorway sat, and gave him a what are you waiting for look. Donatello looked hesitant and Leonardo sat firmly by the Rat's side. A chorus of rumbling stomachs won a chuckle from Splinter.

"Very well, my young sons. Let us eat...and prepare for this day."

Splinter leaned forward, lifting himself out of the lotus position he was sitting in and snuffed out his candles one by one. Before he turned around, he heard a deafening crash. Off to the side, in an apparent rush to the kitchen, Michelangelo careened into Splinter's small weapons display. Sitting under a mess of wooden staffs sat the young turtle. Michelangelo looked up sheepishly, a nunchuku dangled around his neck. Once Splinter seen that the turtle was okay, he turned his focus on the disorder and sighed.

"Kids," he muttered with a slight shake of his head as he helped the blue-eyed turtle out of the mess.

I will tend to this later. Right now I must feed them. Then what...I am not sure.

A sad smile tugged at the corner of his lips. It was moments like this that he longed for Mae's grandmotherly touch. He still felt somewhat awkward in the turtle's upbringing although he understood it defiantly will be a growing and learning experience for all of them. For now, he vowed to do his best. That was all he could do.

He filed the turtles out of the room and away from any more possible mischief they could find. He looked into the cupboards taking inventory of their sparse food supply. After settling on a bowl of Cheerios for each child he allowed them to sit on the rug on the floor. He fixed himself a cup of tea, feeling victorious at mastering such a tedious and precious search for the perfect brew. He then sat with them, sipping at his cup tentatively, watching the turtles as they gobbled down their breakfast, chattering back and forth happily in their language.

Splinter sighed contentedly. He knew they would face new challenges, changes with much more in their future. His only personal goal was to protect the turtles with everything he had. They were his life, his family. They had helped him grow through the challenges of coping with all that had happened. In a way, he felt he owed these four small bundles whatever he could offer. His life might have changed drastically, but Splinter finally came to realize one thing.

Change is good.

~The END~

Now, for a quick sneak peak at what is yet to come...

Prologue

It's frustrating how ones endless search for lasting peace can drive them near insane.

Baxter Stockman was all too familiar with this feeling.

He sat in his dimly lit lab, elbows rested against a table lined with test tubes and electrical parts, wishing the darkness that engulfed the room would wrap its mystical arms around him and pull him into an eternal abyss. His whole life, once prospering and blessed with promise of success now seemed on big failure. Now, all he wished for was to disappear forever. One hand brushed the mechanical Mouser, that sat, frozen in time, before him while the other clenched around the base of a whisky filled tumbler. He sat, reflecting on his past. A past that left a bitter taste in his mouth.

For over ten years, he lived at the mercy of untrustworthy "allies"; first the Shredder, then Agent Bishop.

He didn't know exactly how he even got involved with such an elite group of people. The Shredder approached him, propositioning him with a delicious offer his greed couldn't refuse. In return for his cooperation, he would be rewarded with a new improved lab, with more equipment and more room then he could afford at the time. And with a new start, he would have recognition beyond his dreams, finally getting the credit and reputation he deserves.

Well.

He got his lab. He got his equipment. He also got involved with a man he wished never existed.

It was like selling my soul to the devil. He sighed.

Then there was Bishop. A man equally insaine, twisted in his own right.

He had been used, tortured, kept alive and used as a puppet for their ow needs, desires.

Now, he sat alone, pondering his options. He had just completed refreshing his own prosthesis. He knew, if he wanted to, he could make himself stronger than the eccentric agent. Vicious thoughts clouded his mind. Thoughts of storming the man's office, taking him by surprise, picking him up by the neck using his robotic arm, and squeezing the life out of the man he loathed.

But he knew that thought would only be played out in his dreams. At least for now. If he ever was so bold to make a threat on his life, Baxter would find himself surrounded by Bishop's body guards and taken down in one swoop. He refused to be taken down by the hands of his enemy. He wanted to make Bishop suffer as much as he had. He wanted to see him beg for mercy. He would take pleasure in seeing the look of pain in the man's eyes. And once the man that has brought him such grief, such desire for another time could he enter an eternal sleep once and for all.

"Well, Baxter. What do you do now?" he asked himself, tipping the glass to his lips, taking a long sip of the whisky. The golden liquid burnt his throat on the way down, but it didn't fizz him. He took another drink and rose out of his seat, crossing the room to the window on the other side. He was comfortable and familiar enough with his lab, he could manuever around it without the aid of light with ease.

Using metallic phalanges, he parted the blind, looking down into the city. He found himself envious of the random people walking on the streets below; some laughing, others running to get out of the night rain. He felt like a bird, wings clipped unable to leave his gilded cage.

A sudden knock on the door sent him on high alert. He quickly spun around and stared at the door, hesitant to answer. He wasn't expecting anyone, so the only person that he figured could be on the other side was his boss. When the knocking came persistent, and the doorknob twisted, he knew he should answer. If it was Bishop, he defiantly wouldn't want to tick him off. He wasn't in the mood for his ravings.

"I'm coming, I'm coming," he mumbled approaching the door. He steeled himself as he opened the door, coming face to face with a complete stranger. immediately he felt nervous and suspicious. Did Bishop send a hitman to dispose of me? Have I outlived my usefulness?

"Hello? May I help you?" he asked stiffly, keeping the door only wide enough to allow him to poke his head out into the hallway. He was ready to quickly slam it shut incase there was trouble.

The man on the other side smiled slyly, withdrawing his right hand out of his coat jacket. He held it out to Baxter, who stared at it.

"Baxter Stockman? "

"Yes. Who may you be?"

The visitors smile broadened and he extended his arm closer. "Good evening. I know its rude of me to come so late. My name is Duncan Powers. Doctor Duncan Powers. I have been looking for you for a long time, Mr. Stockman."

"You...you have?" Baxter asked, confused, slowly shaking Duncan's hand.

The man nodded. "Yes. I have a proposition for you, I think you will be very interested to hear."