::Author's Note::

We have been quite busy with work and school and the holidays, as many of you. However, yes that's right, we have started a new story. There are many *MANY* fifth turtle stories. We wanted to take that approach with a twist. First of all '#5' is a boy. This idea started with the ever wonderment of what made Laird and Eastman pick Donatello as he wasn't exactly, historically speaking, among the most popular Italian Renaissance artists. From there it came to our attention that we've been itching for a grand adventure. This is an AU, clearly, but we have reworked many aspects. Though the personalities of our favored four heroes will mostly be represented from the 2k3 cartoon, Shredder will not have the utrom connection. Instead he will be more like the Shredder we know from the original movie. There will be other details, all of which will be revealed throughout this story.

For any friends who have read any of our other work it is good to note that, like with Sing to Me, there will be things mentioned throughout that will tie in later. We rarely leave anything in our writing without mentioning it later; bread crumbs if you will which, if you follow them, will lead you to the oven.

Please, with all that being said, we'd love to hear what you think and we'd be honored if you'd give our story a chance. We really hope you won't be disappointed.

Thank you for reading!

Thank Our Unlucky Stars
Preface:
Into the Night

"What do you see?" A husky masculine voice questioned in a deep baritone that resonated in the far back of his throat.

The airplane dipped in the sky, finally sinking below the belly of the bottom layer of thick clouds. From the thick, curved window, New York's skyline could be seen against the dark night sky. "Lights," came the reply several seconds after pondering the question.

"Do they frighten you?"

An uncanny silence filled the stale air of tiny airplane, enough only to fit four, including the pilot. "No." Another pause hung in the air before the younger male answered. "I don't fear death. Nothing is greater than that and therefore nothing could frighten me." A note of stoic dryness filled the words of a man much too young to be tainted by the bitter irony of life. He should live by happiness and hope at his age. Instead, it was hollowness that forced his surly demeanor.

"Botticelli, look at me."

"How is it that one of you named me that?" a sly snap barked back as if annoyed by something. The man himself. "I know nothing of art save the bits I've researched of my namesake. It's clear to me that my purpose was never in the humanities. I am far from an artist."

The larger, burly man arched an eyebrow and a single laugh, hearty and full, escaped him from the bottom of his gut. "We didn't. It was the only word you could say when you came to us. It can be ascertained that you named yourself. Are you quite done? If I didn't know better, I'd say that it's fear that's making you bitchy."

The younger man closed his eyes, in a face of green and bowed his head. Condescendingly - that was the word he would pick for how he was treated. He had long since dismissed any part of feeling that would have him believe he was lesser for it; he simply didn't have the room in his mind for it. He was clearly not human. To anyone it would be obvious. Some would figure it was a disfigurement or birth defect. Though Botticelli's condition was neither a birth defect of humanity or a disfigurement. He was a creature of science, or that's how he rationed it - what he knew of it. Somewhere between a turtle and a human, Botticelli couldn't figure out which part he was more, but it was certainly something he'd pondered long and hard.

"I'm not afraid." Botticelli said again in the same dry deadpan, his eyes fixed on the window.

"Botticelli." the man reached over and caught the turtle by his shoulders. He gave Botticelli a twist so they were facing one another, though it was clear that the turtle allowed the man to do it without any fight. "You must mind yourself. There will be guards and likely protective measures in place."

The turtle made no indication that he heard nor didn't hear what he was being told. He could easily translate the meaning, 'be careful, we'd hate for you to fail and lose the artifact'. He couldn't recall a time that he'd failed so badly the intended outcome wasn't salvageable. Of course the man across from him was not one of the men who had a fondness for him and therefore trust didn't extend very far. It was more likely that 'abomination' would be used to describe Botticelli by this man than something amiable.

"You know what you're looking for, yes?"

"Yes, Father Hill. I know." Botticelli replied, his eyes tipping back to the window just as the plane carefully sat down on the pontoons in a small body of water just off the bay. He stood and pulled a white hood up over his head, the cape of his cloak danced against his ankles. "I'll remind you, as I did Brother Fitz and Father Kisselhoff, you're treading on dangerous ground and possibly searching for answers to questions that shouldn't be replied to."

"If I wanted your opinion, I would ask for it." The deep voiced man, Father Hill, said in a dangerous tone clearly annoyed with the fact that any thoughtful thinking was entertained by the turtle man. "I don't."

"Well, for another opinion you didn't ask for - I'm not doing this for you." Botticelli snapped, and turned to the door that had slid open as the plane bobbed on the water like a buoy. He sprang from the open door and dove into the water gracefully.