Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles 1987

Reboot

By Lucky_Ladybug

Notes: The characters are not mine and the story is! ThickerThanLove helped a great deal with the shaping of this story. This is part of my Exit the Fly verse. Baxter is human again and an ally of the Turtles. His brother Barney . . . well . . .

The sirens were wailing.

Maybe they were what awakened him.

Or maybe it was all the plaster and debris and dust in the air.

Or the chill against his cheek.

His eyes fluttered open. It was hard to focus. Maybe he was still half out of it. Or maybe . . . maybe . . .

He reached up, feeling against his face. No glasses. Wonderful.

How did he know he wore glasses?

He sat up, shaking, the chill wind blowing through his wild hair. He was laying on a slab of cement, just outside what seemed to be left of a door marked Emergency Exit. The door was practically the only thing standing on the block. Something heavy had come down. A building. The skeletal remains of it were still there, standing cold against the night sky.

He had just survived something terrible. He knew that, but . . . what?

He pushed himself up, shaking. The dizziness threatened to overwhelm him. He groaned, crashing back to the ground.

He had to get up, he had to leave. What was left of that building wasn't secure at all. It was going to come down and crush him if he didn't get away.

Again he struggled to stand. This time he succeeded. He limped forward, desperately staggering off the cement and into some kind of an alley. The ghost of the building was groaning behind him.

He had only barely made it around the back of a building on the other side of the alley when he heard the rest of the destroyed building come crashing to Earth.

He shook again. He would have been killed if he hadn't regained consciousness and managed to limp away. But now . . . now what? What was he going to do? Where would he go?

Who was he?

He remembered things in fragments. . . . He hated his parents. . . . They never loved him. He also hated his brother. But his brother loved him.

Obviously he was a mixed-up and wretched individual.

Without even realizing it he had resumed walking. He hadn't been sure what he was going to do, but his body seemed to have decided for him. Maybe he would just keep at that for a while. . . .

xxxx

The ride back from the press conference was spent with Baxter holding Barney's laptop on his lap and not speaking unless spoken to. He was badly shaken; the full force of his brother's death had hit him after delivering his speech pleading for Barney to be remembered as a hero and not a villain.

"Baxter?" Vincent spoke. "Baxter, old pal?"

Baxter looked at the alien computer sorrowfully. "I don't know what we're going to do," he whispered.

"All you can do is to keep living," Splinter said kindly. "It will be difficult, especially at first, but I believe you will find your way. And all of us will be here to offer support."

Baxter tried to smile. "I don't think I could handle this on my own. It's too horrible."

"You are stronger than you believe," Splinter said. "But even so, even the strongest person can crumble when hit by tragedy."

Baxter leaned back, still holding the laptop close. "My mother called up today crying. She seemed to realize at least somewhat how badly she and Father had hurt Barney, since he refused to see her. She said now he was gone and she never would have the chance to try again."

"Is your dad upset at all?" Michelangelo wondered.

"Mother said he locked himself in his study last night and hadn't said a word." Baxter sighed. "He's upset alright, but whether or not he will ever forgive Barney is still a mystery."

"Like, Barney protected so many people," Michelangelo frowned. "How could he not feel better towards him?"

"You don't know my father," Baxter said with a dry smirk.

"And Shredder and Krang must be livid," Raphael remarked. "Although whether Shredder is angrier at Barney or Krang is another mystery."

Baxter fell silent, looking down at Vincent. "You know, it's so ironic," he mused. "Barney always felt so bitter thinking I was the favorite child. And from my point of view, it seemed more like Barney was."

"You mean because of what you said about how they didn't try to help you about the asylum, but when Barney got arrested they really got busy trying to clean up the family name," Michelangelo said.

Baxter nodded. "But the truth was probably just as I said then, that when one son had gone 'bad' in their eyes, they hoped to stay quiet and see if it would blow over. When both sons went 'bad,' they felt there was no choice but to do something. They probably had something to do with Barney's sentence being reduced. I think he was only in prison about a year."

"Did you ever talk to Barney about that?" Leonardo asked.

"No, I didn't," Baxter sighed. "I was thinking now that I should have when Barney snapped at me over email about me being the favorite. But after Barney tried to repair what he'd said, I was just happy to put it behind us and move on instead of continuing the conversation. I'm afraid I didn't even think about saying that."

"Many times, we only think of what might have good to say in hindsight," Splinter said.

"I think it was just as well not to try to say anything more about it right then," Vincent said. "Barney had finally calmed down. It might have set him off again."

"Yes, you're probably right," Baxter agreed.

He grew quiet for a long moment. "Part of me worries and wonders if Barney went anywhere or if he's still here on Earth, trying to communicate." He shuddered. "It was so frightening when that happened to me."

"But you weren't really dead, Baxter," said Vincent.

"It felt like I was," Baxter replied. "For all intents and purposes, I was a ghost, spirit, what have you. Last night I kept jumping at every little noise in my apartment, fearing that Barney was trying to reach out to me and I just couldn't hear him."

"It is natural to wonder and worry about that, especially considering your disturbing experience," Splinter said. "What does your heart tell you?"

"I'm too upset to listen to anything my heart might tell me," Baxter retorted. "And I don't know that I could believe it anyway. I honestly don't know where Barney is. There's no way I can know for certain. I can only hope and pray for the best."

Michelangelo laid a hand on Baxter's shoulder. "I guess it really is a lot less agonizing to be able to think in Japanese culture that everyone goes to the same nice place."

"It is," Baxter said. "But I can't believe that. I wasn't raised like that. And when I experienced what it's like to be stranded as a wandering spirit on Earth . . ." He shuddered.

The Turtles looked at each other helplessly. None of them really knew how to make this situation better. Of course, they realized with sadness, there was likely no way they could really do that. Not unless they could bring Barney back. And that was something they just couldn't do.

Michelangelo was the one who decided to finally try to speak. "Well, after what Barney did and how many people he protected, it seems like any God should take that into consideration. . . ."

"I think so too," Baxter said softly. "But I don't know if that would balance out all the wrong he's done. I don't even know if I'll go to Heaven myself."

"I believe you would, Baxter, old pal," Vincent said.

"Same here," Michelangelo said.

"But there's no way we can know where Barney would go," Leonardo said quietly. "You'll drive yourself crazy if you keep agonizing over it. Like you said, all you can really do is hope and pray for the best."

"Which is what I'll keep doing," Baxter said. "But I will never be able to put it out of my mind altogether. Not unless Barney comes to me and tells me he's . . . he's alright. . . ." His voice caught in his throat.

"That would indeed be a great burden lifted from your shoulders," said Splinter. "I have heard that some people do experience visits from their departed loved ones. But it is quite rare. You should not get your hopes up too high for such a visit, Dr. Stockman."

"I know. I won't." Baxter hugged the laptop close. "I just wish I knew what to do. . . . I feel so lost right now."

"Me too, Pal," Vincent whispered. "I wanted us to all be together. Now we never can be."

That was the final straw. Baxter sobbed, unable to hold it back any longer.

xxxx

He was so dizzy, so sick. He could barely see. Couldn't think. He stumbled down the sidewalk, shaking, desperately wanting help but being unable to find any.

The only people he passed regarded him with fear or disgust or even loathing. When he paused by a magazine stand, trembling as he tried to steady himself on the corner, someone threw what sounded like an empty soda can at his back. "Get out of here, you miserable drunk!"

He wanted to reply, to say that he wasn't drunk at all, that he was hurt and probably had a concussion. But the words in his mind were not making it to his tongue. He let go of the stand and limped on.

Other people cursed and swore at him when he paused, needing to take a break, to get his bearings, to try to find the strength to go on a little longer. Some of their cruelty he was unable to process in his current state, but some he could.

"Rotten druggie."

"I've never seen anyone that stoned. And that's saying something."

"We don't want your kind around here. Get out!"

Several more things were thrown at him before he made it out of that district. The worst was the wrench. It glanced off his shoulder and he cried out, gripping the injury.

"Oh, so you can talk," sneered the one who had thrown it.

He looked over, desperate, pleading. "I . . . I'm not . . . I need help. Please. . . ."

"Then go to the shelter," was the unfeeling reply.

Really, he felt like he was going to swoon right into the gutter. But he wasn't going to pass out here. He couldn't. He had to keep moving, somehow, some way. . . .

His body had to be on autopilot. He wasn't able to think clearly enough to force himself to keep going, but he was managing it. When it gave out on him at last, he had wandered into an alley and was clutching the bottom of the fire escape ladder for dear life. His legs failed him and he went down on his knees. The ladder clanged, coming down with him.

"What's going on out there?!" came a tense woman's voice.

He slumped forward, one arm draped through the rungs of the ladder. "Help. . . ."

He was sure that she was going to slam the window shut and order him to move on before she called the police. Instead, she gasped and came out on her balcony. "Jim, help!" she called through the window. "There's a man out here and he's hurt!"

He was only semi-conscious by this point and very nearly at the point of black-out. But then he heard footsteps running out to him and felt arms lifting him on either side.

"Who are you?" the man asked in concern. "What happened?"

"Building . . ." That was all he had the strength left to say.

"Let's get him in the house," the woman exclaimed. "He's in no condition to be out here!"

Sound was failing him now. But apparently the man agreed, because he felt himself being helped into the warm house before his legs buckled and he was on his knees again.

Maybe . . . maybe there actually was still some kindness in this mixed-up world.

xxxx

Baxter plodded into his apartment and sank into the chair by the telephone, the laptop open on his lap. The answering machine was flashing, but he didn't feel like listening to his mother's hysterics again right now. He didn't know how to deal with this himself; how was he ever going to help her? Still, he didn't like to leave her hanging either, and the flashing was making him nervous, so finally he reached over and pressed the button.

"Baxter, Dear, we need to start thinking about a memorial service for Barney. I saw your press conference on television and it was very beautiful and moving. I want to follow up on that idea and have Barney remembered as a hero. I can purchase a plot in the cemetery and have a big headstone made up, the kind fitting for a hero. Let's get together for dinner and discuss it."

Baxter trembled. "A plot in the cemetery?!" he wailed. "There's nothing left to bury, unless we put that piece of hair in an urn!" And he gripped his face with a shaking hand. It was too much to think about.

"Baxter, old pal?"

He took his hand away and looked sadly at Vincent.

"Baxter, before Barney left to take me to your apartment, he was writing another letter to you. He ended up deciding not to keep it and tried to delete it, but I had the feeling you might want it. Maybe I shouldn't have, but I saved it anyway."

Baxter blinked in surprise. "What? What kind of a letter?"

"There's not much of it. Maybe Barney was too proud to finish it or maybe he just felt that it was better to focus on the information he left you in the letter he did finish." Vincent brought up a word processor and opened a document. "It's here."

Baxter stared at the remnants of the prior letter. Barney hadn't written many words, but oh, the power in them!

I always thought you were weak and I was strong, but it was the other way around. You took all the cruelty that was heaped on you for years and years. You took it and took it and took it, until you finally just snapped. I couldn't take it from day one. I thought I was tough because I never tolerated anyone hurting me. But in reality, how much tougher were you, to just let it happen over and over and keep pressing on in spite of it? And not just that, but to keep loving in spite of it?! I have never heard tell of such strength!

I also thought you were a fool and I was wise. Look at the mess I'm in now. You made some stupid decisions, but you've bounced back from them. You're actually happy now. And I . . . I never can be.

I know neither of us are very religious, but as far as I know, we both believe in God. That scripture from the Bible keeps going through my mind lately. You know, the one that says "Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth"? That sounds like you, Brother. If anyone deserves to inherit the earth, it's you.

Baxter slumped back. "Oh Barney. . . ." Tears pricked his eyes.

"Did I do the wrong thing, Baxter?" Vincent sounded worried.

"No." Baxter shook his head. "You did exactly right." He tried to smile. "Thank you, Vincent. Although I don't know what Barney would think of you holding onto something he wanted to delete."

"Well . . . maybe we can ask him, someday. . . ."

Baxter hugged the laptop close as the tears slipped free. He prayed that he would see Barney again, someday. And if any electronic device truly had a soul and could carry on beyond mortality, it was Vincent. Perhaps, yes, they would both see Barney again. Someday.

xxxx

His mind seemed clearer when he found himself waking up on a soft couch. For a moment he lay there, blinking up at the ceiling in bewilderment.

Where was he? He vaguely remembered something about a nice young couple trying to take him in. Was this their home?

Who was he? Blast, he still couldn't remember. His brother and someone named Vincent would be worried about him. But he had no way of contacting them without a full name for one of them or him. And he hated his brother anyway. He must be some kind of monster. Only a monster would hate someone who loved them.

He was wearing a lab coat. . . . Was he a doctor? . . . No, a scientist. Although, a scientist of what, he had no idea.

Subconsciously he reached into his coat pocket, pulling out what looked like a glasses case. He stared at it before slowly opening it. There was a spare pair in there. Relieved, he slipped them on and sat up.

"Are you feeling any better?"

He looked up at the woman's voice. She was coming in with a tray of what looked like hot broth. Behind her, the man-Jim, was it?-was standing in the doorway with a bagel.

"Yes, thank you."

She handed him the broth. "Can you drink this? It should give you some strength."

His hands seemed much steadier than they had before. Grateful, he sipped at the broth. "You're being so kind," he said when he paused. "No one else would help me. Why did you?"

"You needed it," she said.

"There's still good people in this old city," said Jim. "We help where we can."

"But I'm a stranger. You couldn't know if I was really hurt or if I was some idiot drug addict off the street."

"We could see you were hurt," Jim said. "Betty here really thought we should call an ambulance."

He stiffened. The thought of an ambulance filled him with fear. No, not the ambulance, per se, but where it would go. He couldn't go to a hospital. He didn't know why, but the feeling was very strong that he could not. "Did you?" he asked, his tone wary.

"We probably should have," Jim said. "But when you collapsed on the couch and seemed to be breathing normally, we wondered if you just needed rest and we shouldn't move you."

"Hmm." It hadn't been wise, he was sure. And he shouldn't have allowed himself to fall asleep, not when he was so sure he had a concussion. But he likely hadn't had much choice in the matter. He had probably swooned rather than deliberately fallen asleep. And he was grateful that he hadn't awakened in a hospital.

"It was the wrong decision, wasn't it?" said Betty.

"Probably," he answered. "But I'm alright." He finished the broth. "Thank you. I won't impose any longer."

Betty stared at him. "You're not really going to leave!"

"I need to go."

"Do you know where you're going?" Jim asked. "We couldn't find any identification on you."

Well, that was just great. Now he would never know who he was unless his memory started coming back to him more. He could still only remember in fragments.

"I need to find answers," he said at last. "I have to leave to find them."

"Well, you're clearly more alert and aware than you were last night," Jim said then.

Betty nodded. "We can't keep you here, even if we feel you should really stay."

"There is . . . one thing," he said slowly, drawing his long red hair over his shoulder. "Would it be possible for me to . . . take a shower?"

Jim relaxed. "If you feel up to it, you're welcome to it," he said.

"And we'll have your clothes washed too," Betty added.

"Thank you," he said in awed amazement.

xxxx

The water felt refreshing and good as it pelted over his skin. But he frowned as he slowly examined himself. There were several harsh bruises, especially one on his right leg. That was why he limped, he supposed. Another on his left arm was a particularly cruel red and he imagined it would shift to purple before long. His left shoulder was also discolored, where the wrench had hit it. But better a bruise than a break.

He stepped under the showerhead, dampening his hair before going for the shampoo. He rubbed it into his scalp and then gathered the length of his hair to squeeze more shampoo into it.

Why had he chosen to grow his hair out? It wasn't so uncommon in this day and age, but it seemed curious for a scientist.

He was a rebel. . . . Originally he grew it long out of bitterness and anger and a desire to be different from his brother, but he ended up just plain liking it better that way.

But his brother's hair was long too, at least now. Not as long, oddly enough. Shouldn't their hair have grown to the same length? Well, maybe his brother preferred it shorter.

Somehow, it didn't seem like that was it. There was another reason, a darker reason. But he couldn't remember it. Giving up, he went for the soap.

He wobbled when he tried to bend over and soap his legs. He grabbed the edge of the tub, but his soapy hand didn't offer very good traction. He slipped, sitting down hard in the tub.

He hissed in frustration. This probably hadn't been a very wise idea. He was definitely still weak from last night. The bruise on his leg made it hard to balance. And he absolutely hated any show of clumsiness. He was not clumsy; his brother was the clumsy one.

"Are you okay in there?" Jim called from outside.

"Yes," he called back. How humiliating.

He decided to soap his legs while he was sitting down and not risk another spill. Then he rinsed his hands and pulled himself up with a wince.

To his relief, there weren't any more ignoble incidents. He managed to finish the shower and climb out of the tub without much more than a slight sway. He dried himself off and reached for the robe that had been left for him while his clothes were being cleaned. It was too big, naturally, even though it was Betty's robe and not Jim's. But at least it didn't trail on the floor, and in any case, he was both moved and bewildered by the kindness.

He stayed until his clothes were ready and he managed to get his hair dry. It was winter; he had no desire to go out with wet hair and probably end up with pneumonia on top of everything else currently wrong with him. Betty and Jim were very accommodating and tried to make him feel at home while he was there, providing him with food and pleasant conversation. They talked mostly about themselves when it became obvious he didn't want to talk about himself. Of course, he couldn't even if he wanted to, but he did his best to hide his memory loss and just make himself look like a private and aloof person.

And really, he had to admit, he did feel at home. He couldn't remember very often feeling so at ease anywhere. When he tried to remember his home life, there was only a cold darkness and he had to stop before he upset himself too seriously. But this was the complete opposite. He hated to leave, but he knew he had to.

And so he departed, on what at that point seemed an impossible journey. In case he needed their help, he had a card with Betty and Jim's address and telephone number tucked in his pocket, as well as cash for a meal and change for a pay phone.

xxxx

The sounds of someone working out in the training room were not unusual at all assorted times of the day or night. But Donatello was surprised when he approached and found Raphael thoroughly beating the stuffing out of one of their punching bags.

"Raphael, what is it?" Donatello asked in concern. "What's wrong?"

"I hate him!" Raphael screamed, accentuating his pronouncement with another punch. "I hate him!"

"Who, Raphael?" Donatello walked farther into the room. He wasn't sure if it was a trick of the light or the truth, but it almost looked like Raphael's eyes were wet.

"Barney," Raphael snapped.

Donatello frowned. "This isn't about what he did to Michelangelo, is it."

"Of course it is!" Another punch. "It's always about that. And now it's about him going off and dying and leaving Baxter and that alien computer to suffer . . ." More punches. "And how he just stood there, smirking up at us, at me, with that look like he was doing something worth being proud of! He looked right at me and said 'Goodbye' and then . . . then the roof closed and he was just gone. I'm the last person he ever spoke to. Me, the guy who hates his guts!" Raphael stabbed the punching bag with a sai and sank to his knees, still holding it.

Donatello went over to the red-masked Turtle's side. Now he could see that Raphael definitely was crying. And he was trembling; the hand holding the sai was violently shaking.

"We saw that last look differently," Donatello said. "He hated himself. He was resigned to what he was doing because he felt that was the only way."

"Oh, so now you're standing up for him too," Raphael snapped.

"I'm telling you the facts as I saw them." Donatello leaned down. "And I don't think you hate Barney nearly as much as you hate yourself."

"What?! That's crazy!" Raphael had been trying to avoid eye contact, but this pronouncement shocked him enough that he turned and looked at Donatello, all thoughts of the renegade tears forgotten.

"You hate that you couldn't protect him," Donatello said quietly. "You hate that he looked right at you, resigned to his doom, and you couldn't do anything about it." He gripped his bo. "Well, you know what? I hate myself for it too. I'm the one who had to fly us out of there because there was no way we could save him. I hated to do it. I wanted to stay there so bad. But logically I knew that we'd all die with him. So there was nothing I could do but get us out of there. And it's been haunting me ever since!"

Raphael stared at Donatello in shock. Then he looked away, gripping a handful of mat. "He was so stupid. So stupid, Donatello! He didn't have to die. If he'd just listened to Baxter or that computer months ago, he'd still be alive!"

"Yes, that was stupid, but who hasn't done something stupid and not listened when they really should have?" Donatello knelt next to Raphael now. "I'm upset that he didn't listen too. But I'm also grateful, really, really grateful, that when he realized exactly what was going to happen if Krang unleashed his lightning gun, he decided to take the responsibility for stopping it. He saved a lot of lives. The only one he couldn't save . . . was his own." He looked down. "And he was willing to give it up if that was the price."

"Maybe the tabloids were right," Raphael muttered. "Maybe he was trying to take the easy way out."

"Barney believed that he was going to go to Hell," Donatello said. "Suicide wouldn't be the easy way out for him."

"Yeah." Raphael glowered at the floor. "I guess I'm just trying to make myself feel better in some small, stupid way. Like that if he was really determined to kill himself, it wouldn't matter as much that we couldn't save him."

"It would still matter every bit," Donatello said. "But I don't think that was what he was trying to do."

Raphael smacked the mat with his palm. "You're right, Donatello. I hate myself for not being able to save him. But I still hate him too!"

"Actually, Raphael, you sound a lot like Barney right now," Donatello said. "He was always hating himself the most and hiding his deepest feelings behind his anger. You still hate him, sure, and that's making you really confused right now, because you're also honestly mourning his death. You're sad that he's dead and you really wish he wasn't. And you wonder why you're feeling that way when you hate him so much. That sounds an awful lot like how Barney loved and hated Baxter at the same time and struggled with it. I guess that kind of emotional battle really would make someone angry and confused."

Raphael stared again at that. The last thing he would have ever expected or wanted was to be compared to his hated enemy. But then he looked away. Maybe Donatello was right.

xxxx

Leonardo found Michelangelo standing at the grate and staring out at the New York night. "What is it, Michelangelo?" he asked as he approached.

"I'm just thinking how totally bogus this whole thing is," Michelangelo answered with uncharacteristic bitterness. "The premonitions I get, I mean. Okay, so the thing with Mondo Gecko worked out. But my feeling about Krang's device didn't help us stop it. And the dreams I had warning me about Barney's death. We couldn't stop it! I didn't even know what it meant for sure until it was actually happening!" He hit the front of the Turtle Van.

"Sometimes it works out that way," Leonardo said quietly, even though he knew that wasn't any help at all. "Even Master Splinter says that he isn't always able to properly interpret the dreams he has that actually mean something."

"So what's the point, Leonardo?!" Michelangelo turned to look at him, his eyes tortured. "Why do I get dreams and feelings and stuff if we're not able to do anything about them?!"

Leonardo sighed, gripping the side mirror as he looked down. "I guess . . . there must be a way. If you hadn't had those dreams about Mondo Gecko, you wouldn't have known he was important when you ran into him and you might not have tried so hard to help him get away from Mr. X. And your feeling about Krang's device did help you and Donatello to locate it later. You went back to the spot where you'd had the feeling and there it was."

"But we were trying hard to make sense of this dream, protecting Baxter and all, and it didn't work!" Michelangelo trembled. "Would it have worked if I'd realized it was Barney screaming and not Baxter? How the heck could I have known that?! How could any of us have known that?! What kind of sick force would give me a dream like that when it'd know we'd all interpret it wrong?!"

". . . Maybe it thought we should have known," Leonardo said at last. "We all knew Barney was in danger. But then when you got that warning, we all jumped to the conclusion that it was Baxter even though we knew about Barney."

Michelangelo turned away. "Poor guys. . . . And poor computer. . . ." He clutched the front of the Van with his hand. "Leonardo . . . there isn't any chance Barney's alive out there, is there? Any real chance?"

He sounded so lost that Leonardo's heart went out to him. "I don't know, Michelangelo," he said quietly. "I don't think so."

Michelangelo's shoulders slumped. "I want to keep believing," he said quietly.

"I don't think that's a good idea," Leonardo answered. "You'll only hurt yourself. Maybe Baxter too."

"I wouldn't have to say anything to Baxter," Michelangelo countered. "But deep down, I could keep believing it."

Leonardo sighed. "If that's the way you want it."

"Yeah." Michelangelo resolutely looked out the grate. "I'm gonna keep thinking that someday, Barney's going to come back and everything's going to be okay again."

Leonardo gave his comrade a sad look. Someday that hope was going to come back to bite him. But as long as he was determined to keep it, there was nothing Leonardo could do to convince him otherwise. Michelangelo would just have to learn the hard way that no one came back from death.

xxxx

He wandered into an old diner on a forgotten Manhattan street and sank down at the counter. The man behind the counter looked up. "What'll it be?"

He craned his neck back to look at the menu on the wall. "Pancakes." He remembered he liked pancakes. . . .

"For dinner?" The man looked incredulous.

He crossed his arms on the edge of the counter. "I didn't see a sign that says you only serve certain foods at certain times of the day. Places like that always irritate me."

"Okay, okay. Pancakes." The man shrugged and set down the cloth he was using on the counter before going into the kitchen.

He sighed, leaning forward and propping himself up with a hand to his forehead. It had been such a long day . . . such a very long, cold day filled with aimless wandering and the inability to remember much of anything. And then he came in here, sat down, and recited some apparent facts about himself completely off the cuff, as though he did still remember.

Maybe he did. A concussion resulting in memory loss didn't mean everything was gone for good. Maybe it wasn't even the concussion's fault, either. Maybe the emotional trauma was what had really blocked his memories. No one could escape from a mess like he had and not be traumatized to some extent.

Maybe he would never remember absolutely everything, though. He was supposed to be a scientist, but he certainly couldn't recall many scientific things about his study or his fields of expertise. Maybe he was doomed to a future of washing cars or perhaps flipping hamburgers and pancakes, like this person.

The man came back with a stack of pancakes. "You like butter or syrup?"

"Both." He accepted the plate and the toppings gratefully. Once the pancakes were guzzled in both, he started to eat.

"Are you feelin' okay?" the man asked. "You act like you're not doin' too good."

"I'm alright." It seemed like that was his signature response. But it also seemed like that was something his brother often said. In any case, he was still trying to hide his memory loss. He didn't want anyone to know. It would make him look so vulnerable, and the vulnerable always got hurt.

"Lot of excitement in town over that building comin' down last night."

That perked him up. "Building?"

"You didn't hear? It was a big skyscraper. Some nut blew it up so that those Shredder and Krang creeps couldn't use some fancy new weapon of theirs to blow up the city."

"It sounds to me like he should be commended, not branded insane," he frowned.

The man waved a hand in a dismissive manner. "You didn't hear the real crazy part. He blew himself up with it. His brother said he didn't have any choice; the only way to make sure the weapon thing wouldn't take out anything else was to stay there with it and set the controls to work backwards or something."

He froze. "So . . . he's dead then?"

"Seems to be." The man shook his head. "Boy, what a nut, I'm telling you. Giving up his life for a bunch of strangers."

He stared down into his pancakes. He knew he had stumbled out of a collapsing building, but he didn't know why he had been there. And he knew he had a brother. Was there any chance, any conceivable chance that . . . he was that person?

No, how could he be? He hated his brother. Could anyone who felt that way about their own relation ever be that self-sacrificing?

Maybe he was an innocent bystander, someone unknowingly left in the building by that person. Maybe he had just barely escaped that man's madness.

"Do you know this man's name?" he asked.

"Nah. Missed that. His brother's a scientist or something."

A scientist. . . . Yes, that sounded right. His brother was a scientist. But so was he. They were . . . always competing. Or maybe that was how he had seen it. He had turned everything into a competition, even their conversations with their parents. He had wanted to be loved, noticed, and he had always felt his brother was the one they noticed more.

But his brother had never tried to be. . . . He had wanted to be recognized as a great scientist, but he had never deliberately taken anything away from him.

Why was he so repulsive? Only a wretched person would act like he did about his brother. And there was no way he could be the person who had tried to save all those people. That was too impossible.

"You look pretty run-down and beat."

He looked up. "I am. I know it's never wise to take in strangers, but if I help you clean up, might I be allowed just to stay here tonight? I could sleep in a booth. I'd leave tomorrow."

The man stared at him. "You really don't have any place to go?"

"Not around here." He had traveled quite far from Betty and Jim's, and anyway, he didn't like to think of going back there and imposing. He wanted to keep moving, keep looking for answers.

"You don't look like a bum."

"I'm not," he insisted. "I'm just . . . not in a good financial place right now."

The man was silent for a long time as he leaned on the counter and the towel with one hand. "I never do stuff like taking in strangers. It only gets you hurt here in the Big Apple. But . . ." He hesitated again. "For some reason I feel like you're trustworthy. Weird. Well, what the hay. I'll just empty out the cash register and you can chill here for the night. There's nothing worth stealing besides the money."

"Thank you," he said in amazed relief. He had almost thought he would either have to take a park bench even though it was winter or else spend the night wandering through all the Wal-Marts in Manhattan and hope he wouldn't be caught.

"I just hope I don't regret this," the man muttered.

"You won't," he said firmly. "I will be one of the most ideal customers you've had."

"You already are, with your appetite," the man remarked. "I also hope you can pay for that."

"I can." He dug in his pocket for the bills he had been given. "I just don't have enough for a hotel room."

"What are you gonna do tomorrow night?" the man frowned.

He paused. "I suppose I'll have to hope that I find someone else as open-minded as you."

xxxx

Baxter struggled to return to work the next day. He took the laptop with him; he certainly had no intention of leaving Vincent home alone all day. But he warned his friend to not reveal his presence whenever anyone else was around. At least not until Baxter smoothed things over. He was sure Burne hadn't forgotten the computer that had tried to take over the building.

The Channel 6 staff was all very kind and sympathetic as he arrived hugging the purple laptop close to his chest. The secretaries and gofers and camera operators all offered their condolences. Burne actually tried to control his temper. And his friends were all worried.

"Dr. Stockman, I'm sorry you had to come in today," April said as he reached the office floor.

"It's alright," Baxter sighed, trying to smile. "I can't lose this job. It was good of Mr. Thompson to give me even one day off."

"And you brought Barney's laptop?" Irma looked to it.

Baxter nodded. "He left it to me."

"All of it?" April slowly asked. She knew.

"Yes." Baxter started to walk past.

Vernon stepped into his path. "Dr. Stockman, I . . . I'm so sorry," he stammered.

Baxter looked up at him. "Thank you," he said softly.

Vernon shifted. "If there's anything I can do . . ."

"Just knowing you care is enough." Baxter trudged down the hall and into his office. After shutting the door, he set the laptop on his desk and opened it.

Vincent blinked and looked around. "You have a nice office."

"It's comfortable." Baxter sank down at his desk. "All of my files are on my desktop computer," he said apologetically.

"That's alright," Vincent said. "I'm just happy for the company."

Baxter switched on the desktop and leaned back to wait for it to boot up. "I know Miss O'Neil knows about you, but I honestly can't remember if Miss Langinstein and Mr. Fenwick do. They may have seen you briefly but not really thought about it. And I know Mr. Thompson doesn't know about you."

"Do you think it will be hard to explain?"

"Well . . ." Baxter gave him a weak smile. "I can't imagine he'll be very receptive at first, considering what we did here in the past. But he's accepted me, so I believe I can get him to accept you."

"I hope so. I want to come to work with you."

"You'll come in any case," Baxter said. "But we may have to stay secretive for a while. I'll try to feel out Mr. Thompson's attitude today without telling him about you."

He had that chance later that day, when he and Burne ended up meeting by the water cooler. "Hey, Doctor," Burne greeted. "How are you making out?"

"It's . . . difficult," Baxter said haltingly. "The pain is very fresh. But it helps to be able to focus on something else, such as work." He paused. "Mr. Thompson, do you remember the computer I had with me when I . . . er, tried to take over the station?"

Burne stiffened. "Do I?! That creepy computer had me regretting all the money I'd spent to install them all over the building! Computers replace people? No, no, no. That's never gonna happen at Channel 6!"

"I'm sure all of the staff is grateful for that," Baxter said. Another hesitation. "Do you . . . ever wonder what happened to that computer?"

"It blew up, didn't it?" Burne retorted. "Good riddance."

"What if it wasn't destroyed in that explosion?" Baxter asked.

Burne stiffened. "You mean maybe it'll come back and try to take over the station again?! Or worse, that it's already trying?!"

"For the sake of conversation, I just wondered what you would do if you encountered it again," Baxter said. "But let's say it wouldn't be trying to take over the station."

Burne crumpled the empty paper cup in his hand. "I wouldn't trust that thing from here to Hoboken!" He peered at Baxter, his eyes flashing with suspicion. "Why are you asking?"

"I said, just for the sake of conversation." Baxter finished his drink as well and started to step away. "You don't believe it could ever be helpful?"

"Not unless it had its own agenda," Burne said. "Sure, maybe it'd help, but only if it thought that'd further its own goals. What the heck am I doing? I'm talking like it's alive." He shuddered. "It sure seemed like it, though. I swore off watching 2001: A Space Odyssey after that. Creepy movie anyway. Never got what everyone saw in it."

Baxter contemplated his next answer. He had to be careful, yet he really wanted to try to get it across that Vincent was not dangerous now. "Mr. Thompson, that computer was not destroyed in the explosion. You're right that it's alive; it isn't just a machine. And it-he-has actually helped the staff of Channel 6 on more than one occasion."

Burne closed one eye and looked at him. "Name one, just one."

"The mirror incident, when Miss O'Neil was hurt," Baxter said. "He was also present when Miss Langinstein and Mr. Fenwick were suffering from The Rat King's mind-control. And he was vital in informing me as to what was happening the other night concerning Shredder and Krang's lightning gun."

Burne frowned. "But what's all this got to do with . . ." He blanched. "Oh no." He stared down the hall. "You brought it here, didn't you?! It's your brother's laptop!"

"Yes, it is," Baxter confessed. "I know that was probably the last thing you wanted to hear, but you did come to accept me even though I was also involved in that takeover. If I have gained any trust in your eyes at all, would you be willing to give the computer the benefit of a doubt when I say he isn't a danger to you or to Channel 6?"

Burne gave him a long, hard look. "You're a human. It's a computer. I'm willing to give a human another chance. I don't know about a computer. But . . ." He rubbed the back of his neck and growled in frustration. "Oh, for cryin' out loud. If you feel it's safe, then okay. We'll try it for a while. But the first time it acts out, it goes."

"He's not even connected to the network," Baxter insisted. "I'll still be using the desktop computer for work. I brought him so he wouldn't have to be alone at my apartment all day." He shifted. "I know it probably sounds incredibly impossible to you, Sir, but he is heartbroken about Barney too."

"You know what? I don't even know what I think is impossible anymore." Burne threw his hands in the air as he turned to stomp back to his office.

Baxter managed a weak smile. "Thank you, Sir."

"Eh." Burne waved a hand at him without turning around.

Baxter hurried back to his office. "It's safe," he told Vincent. "Mr. Thompson isn't thrilled about it, but he'll let you stay."

"I'm glad," said Vincent. "Thank you, old pal."

"I'm glad too," Baxter said as he sat down. "I like having you with me again . . . although it goes without saying that I don't at all like the reason."

"I wanted us to all be together," Vincent said softly. "But Barney said you and he would never be able to live in the same residence."

Baxter half-smiled. "I don't think we could have. We're . . . we were . . ." His voice caught in his throat at having to use the past tense. "We were just barely starting to be able to function like brothers when he . . ."

"I know," Vincent said, and even though a computer physically couldn't cry, he sounded as close to it as he could get.

Then again, Baxter thought, a computer wasn't supposed to physically be able to feel, either, and there was no denying that Vincent did plenty of that. Baxter had always detested the thought of artificial intelligence, but there was no way he believed that Vincent was just a collection of commands programmed into him. He couldn't be, not with the way he grew and developed and reacted to situations. As far as Baxter was concerned, Vincent was indeed completely alive.

xxxx

He limped slowly down the residential street. It was somewhat warmer today than yesterday, but he was still chilled with nothing other than his thin lab coat and his long hair to protect him against the elements. He gave an involuntary shiver as he walked past a house where an older woman was outside collecting her mail.

"Mornin'," she said in a gruff voice.

He blinked and looked over. "Are you talking to me?"

"Ain't no one else to talk to." She closed the mailbox and leaned on it, her other hand on her hip. "You're crazy walking around like that. Aren't you cold?"

He found himself very uncomfortable by the woman's bold and brash nature. "I can manage," he said haltingly.

"Manage to catch cold, that's what you're going to be managing." She shook her head and turned to head up her walk. "Come along."

"Come along? What?" He paused at the gate. This was all very awkward and strange.

"Come here, of course." She got on her porch and looked back. "All banged up and limping like you are, and without a proper coat! You don't have anywhere to go, do you?"

"I . . . I'm not homeless." He gripped the top of the gate. Really, he didn't know that. But from the manner of his apparel, he could certainly come to that conclusion. Anyway, his brother wouldn't let him be homeless, he was sure. And he doubted his pride would, either.

"What are you then? Just plain stupid?"

That made him bristle. "I just don't have access to my other belongings right now!" he snapped.

"Oh, you're a fiesty one," she said. "So why not?"

"Are you always this rude?" he frowned.

"Are you always so full of pride?" she shot right back. "Anyone can see you're hurt and you're cold, but oh no, you can't confess to anything like that. That would make you less than perfect."

"It would make me unsafe," he retorted.

"So you're steeling yourself against the whole world," she said. "My husband was like that."

"And did it help him?" he asked.

"Oh sure. He kept everybody out and that was what he'd wanted. Problem was, he also couldn't let anybody in. Even me." She pulled her sweater closer around herself. "Right up to his deathbed, he stayed aloof like that. Then he just broke down crying, saying he didn't want to die. Started letting out all the pain he'd bottled up for decades."

Memories flashed through his mind. He froze, his eyes widening as they rushed over him.

He didn't want to die. . . . He felt there was no other way. . . . Vincent pleaded with him not to do it, that they'd find another way. . . .

Vincent . . . his only friend . . . his confidant. . . .

Letting out all the pain . . . all the guilt. . . . Pounding on someone, screaming at him for trying to kill his brother. . . . Screaming at himself for his hatred of his brother. . . .

"Hey!"

He snapped to. He was shaking, one hand over the lower half of his face while the other hand clutched the gate.

The woman had come back down the steps, regarding him in concern. "You're going to hurt yourself. If you don't get cut, you'll get splinters all in your hand!"

He gave her a blank look. "Splinters?"

Why did that make him think of rats? . . .

No, a rat. . . . Standing upright and wearing a kimono. . . .

A mutant?

"Oh. Here!" She lifted his hand off the gate and turned it palm-side-up. "Well, you're luckier than the last idiot who did that. No splinters." She sighed and shook her head. "What got you going like that?"

He pulled his hand free. "It was nothing. Your story of your husband just . . . reminded me of something."

She frowned, studying him. But then, determining it was useless, she headed back up the steps. "My husband left a lot of stuff behind. There's an old coat that I think might fit you. It's got a couple of holes, so I never felt right about donating it, but they're nothing big and it'd still keep you plenty warm."

He stared at her. "But I . . . I'm a stranger. And you'd give me something of your husband's?!"

A shrug. "I've got no use for it. You sure do. Just wait there a minute." She vanished into her house, leaving the wooden door open and the screen door closed.

He just gawked. He had found her insufferable-and still did, really-but in spite of her apparent dislike of him, she was going to show him a kindness like this?

He slumped back, shaking his head. This was all too strange. It was a dog-eat-dog world. One had to steel oneself to stay alive and safe. He had always believed that. He had lived it. And he had usually been proven right. He had only rarely run across kind people in his life, his brother being one of them. He had always found them foolish and weak.

And yet . . . there were some lines he wouldn't cross. There were times when even he had been kind.

And what had he to show for it? His memory was gone. He couldn't remember his name. He couldn't go home.

Maybe he should go to the police. They might be able to help him figure out who he was.

No, he couldn't do that. He didn't want to associate with the police. He was afraid of . . . being arrested again?

He was a criminal then. Well, that shouldn't be much of a surprise, given his bitter and hateful attitude. Apparently he hated the law as well as his brother.

The door opened and the woman came out with a long and tan suede coat. "Here." She opened the gate and put it around his shoulders. "Hmm, you're actually a little smaller than my husband."

"It's . . . it's fine, thank you." He pulled the edges of the coat close around him. Only now did he realize how cold he had really been. Somehow he had steeled himself against it so well that he had made himself believe it wasn't there.

"You'll make good use of it." She stepped back. "Just don't wander around like this too long. You hear? Go home."

He fumbled with the buttons. "I wish I could," he whispered.

She paused, looking concerned again. "Nothing is ever so bad that you can't go home," she said. "That was something else I tried telling my husband. At least I had a little more success with that lesson."

He gave her a dark smirk. "I'll remember that." He started past her down the street. "Thank you again."

"Isn't there anyone you could call?" she demanded.

"I honestly can't think of anyone I could call," he answered. He probably would call his brother, if he could only remember his name. His brother must be worried about him. But since he didn't remember, it was all irrelevant. He couldn't call anyone.

His brother was probably better off without him anyway.

xxxx

It was strange and sad when the Turtles and Splinter invited Baxter over for dinner the next time. He was grateful for the invitation and accepted, but asked if he could bring Vincent with him. Although hesitant, they agreed. Baxter would never want to leave Vincent home alone, they knew. They would have to get used to having him around.

Baxter was sobered and sad when he arrived, but he tried to smile. "Thank you for inviting me," he said. "It's been so quiet lately."

"Yeah," Michelangelo agreed. "Shred-Head's been real quiet and all."

"Probably nursing his wounds and his pride from Barney's betrayal," Raphael smirked.

"His wounds anyway," Baxter chuckled. "He would insist it was Krang's fault about Barney." He lifted the lid on the laptop. "Here's Vincent."

The Turtles and Splinter exchanged a look. Vincent had certainly not been their ally in the past. But he had helped them on several more recent occasions and now that he was with Baxter again, he was going to be part of the family. That was simply a fact.

From Baxter's eyes, he realized they were leery. But he silently pleaded for them to give the alien computer a chance. Vincent was leery too, yet he had agreed to come.

Michelangelo, of course, was the first to try to make friends. "Hey, Vincent," he waved.

"Hello, Vincent," Leonardo nodded.

"It is good to have you with us," Splinter said, "although we all regret the circumstances."

"So do Baxter and I," Vincent replied. He shot a wary look at Donatello, who had tortured him for information once and had threatened it on another occasion.

Donatello looked equally wary. But when he spoke he tried to make it civil. "Um, dinner's just about ready, I think," he said. "Do you want to stay in the kitchen with us while we eat?"

"Yes," said Vincent. "I would like to join in your conversations, if I may."

"Sure thing," Michelangelo said.

Baxter looked to Raphael, who had remained silent. Finally the red-masked Turtle said, "Well, let's get going then!" and headed for the kitchen.

Michelangelo heaved a sigh as he chased after Raphael. "Come on, Dude," he hissed. "Can't you at least try?"

"I don't know how to talk to a computer!" Raphael retorted. "Especially the computer that helped Baxter with several of his nutso revenge plots." His eyes flashed. "Like the one when they first met."

Michelangelo wasn't surprised. "That's all over now," he said. "I've forgiven them both."

"You would," Raphael grunted. "Of course, I've forgiven Baxter. But a computer?"

"Baxter says Vincent's changed a lot," Michelangelo said. "And he's helped us and all. Can't we just make up and be buds?"

"I know it's hard, but you need to try, Raphael," Leonardo said, coming up on Raphael's other side. "Vincent's here to stay. And this means a lot to Baxter. I don't want Barney's death or Vincent's arrival to cause us to drift apart from Baxter."

"Well, me either," Raphael shot back. "Okay, I'll try. But I'm not the only one who isn't sure what to make of this."

"I think Vincent and I are going to have a rough patch for a while," Donatello admitted as he and Splinter arrived at the kitchen. "Maybe I'll need to talk to him in private."

"Fine!" Raphael snapped. "Just as long as I don't have to join in."

"In a private conversation?" Donatello raised an eyebrow.

"You are all trying, my students, and I am proud of you," Splinter said. "It will be difficult to adjust. But I believe we can do it. We will do it, because we must. We cannot lose Dr. Stockman as a friend, especially now when he needs us so badly."

Baxter came up behind them in the doorway. "I know this is hard for all of us," he said softly. "You were able to work out your differences with me, but you and Vincent have never had that chance. We know there's still bad blood. We were discussing that before we left."

"Maybe we can never be friends," Vincent said. "I know you don't like me and I've had some issues with all of you. But if nothing else, the one thing we have in common is that we all love Baxter now. We can try to get along for his sake, can't we?"

"Righteous notion! Of course we can!" Michelangelo declared, shooting a pointed and pleading look at Raphael and Donatello.

". . . Of course we can," Raphael said at last.

Michelangelo grabbed dinner from the counter and brought it to the table. "We're gonna have a blast!"

"Or at least, the beginning of a proper acquaintance," said Vincent.

"Yeah," said Raphael. "Something like that."

xxxx

He had been wandering the neighborhood for some time. It was late, the temperature was dropping, and he really wasn't sure what he was going to do. He pulled his coat closer around him as he shivered from the chill.

Another flash of memory: standing on a bizarre machine, leaping off. . . . An explosion that sent him down the side of a mountain, clutching a purple laptop for dear life.

Just how accident-prone was he, anyway?

"Hey! Hey, you."

He looked up with a start. A young woman with short brown hair and a red beret was standing on an apartment balcony above him. A red-and-white striped shirt, blue overalls, and a grin completed her ensemble.

"Hello," he said slowly.

"You've been wandering around here for a while. Are you looking for someplace in particular?"

"No . . . not anywhere in particular." He started to turn away.

"You just need a place to crash or something, huh?" She leaned forward on the balcony. "My bud next-door would be happy to take you in for the night."

He raised an eyebrow. "He would?"

"Sure. Especially since he won't be home for another day or two." She gave him a mischievous smile.

Now he was uncomfortable. "I doubt most people enjoy coming home and finding that a stranger has been sleeping in their house."

"Aww, he's visiting his folks. And we're both struggling artists. There's nothing worth stealing in his place since he's not well-known yet. We take in people who need it when we find them. You wouldn't be the first guy I've set up in his pad."

It sounded bizarre to him, but then again, struggling artists were a bizarre bunch. He needed to find a place to sleep and he doubted another offer would come along. It would be foolish to pass it up.

"If you're sure." He came over to the fire escape and started up the stairs.

She leaned on the balcony with one arm and watched him. "Sure."

"You could end up taking in dangerous people," he remarked.

"Just in case that happens, we don't stay in the same apartment we're offering," she smirked.

"Well, that . . . works, I suppose." He arrived on her balcony and she slid open the door to let him in. "Of course, in a situation like this, I could suddenly change directions and attack you while we're in your apartment."

"Yeah, but you won't." She followed him in and pulled the door shut after her. "You're not that type."

"I don't know how you can tell." He let her get ahead of him and then followed her through the living room.

She turned and faced him when they were standing in front of a coffee table with an open photo album on it. "You're the scientific, no time for love or lust type," she grinned.

He blinked in surprise. Yes . . . that sounded right. More flashes of memory went through his mind. His parents wanting . . . pleading . . . even demanding for him to get married. . . . His total refusal to do it just because they wanted it. . . . His complete lack of interest in the whole subject of romance. . . . He didn't want it interfering with his work. . . . In college, he had been compared to the inventor Tesla. He had liked that fine.

Once he had grown angry and frustrated and decided to try romance simply because his brother was shy and awkward and had no real interest either. Apparently he had . . . wanted to prove that he was bold enough? Another way to separate him from his brother, he supposed. But in the end he had decided against it. He just wasn't interested or attracted. And he . . . hadn't wanted to hurt the girl by dragging her into something he really didn't want. . . .

He was . . . probably still a virgin. He couldn't quite remember yet. His brother was . . . and had been made fun of in high school and college for it. . . . It had angered him that his brother was treated poorly for not engaging in something that he felt was overrated anyway. But he couldn't recall ever actually defending his brother over it. Maybe that was why he remembered his brother's situation more clearly; more guilt and self-hatred on his part. He had never let anyone make fun of him or put him down for any reason, yet he had not lifted a finger to help his brother. What a cruel and heartless person he was.

"Hey!" The girl snapped her fingers and whistled. "You still in there?"

He shook himself out of his thoughts. "I'm sorry. You're right; you're not in any danger from me."

The photo album caught his eye and he glanced down at it. Old pictures . . . black-and-white shots of families gathered together and posing for the camera, children playing with dogs or water hoses or climbing trees. . . . Happiness that he had never known in his childhood. . . .

She followed his gaze. "My mom's memories," she explained. "Looks like she had a nice childhood, doesn't it?"

"Yes, it does," he said quietly.

"I kind of want to get into scrapbooking. I've got a bunch of pictures around loose in boxes and a blank book that would make a great beginner's scrapbook. So I was looking through some old photo albums for inspiration." She started moving towards the door again. "Memories are pretty important, you know."

"They are," he agreed. "Without them . . . we don't know who we are."

She looked back when she reached the door, her hair flipping with the motion. "That's pretty deep," she said. "I'd expect a scientist to come up with something like that."

"That's common sense," he said. "It doesn't take a scientist to figure it out."

She opened the door and walked to the next apartment over. After taking down the key from the top of the door, she unlocked and opened it. "Voila, your palace awaits."

He stepped inside. "Thank you."

"Feel free to get yourself something to eat if you're hungry," she said. "Or just crash and sleep, whatever floats your boat." She headed back into the hall. "Or if you even want to talk or something, I'll be up for a while."

"I'm very tired," he hedged. "And hungry. But thank you for your offer. We'll see."

"That's usually a polite way of saying No," she winked. "But that's cool. See you in the morning!" And she headed out, pulling the door shut behind her.

He stood for a moment, just staring at the door. Then he turned, taking in the apartment that she had opened to him. It was nice. . . . Covered in paintings and sketches, but otherwise fairly neat.

This still seemed such a bizarre situation. Slowly he slipped out of his winter coat, draping it on the couch. He half-expected a disgruntled artist to emerge from the bedroom and demand to know what was going on, but nothing happened. He was definitely alone.

"Strange," he mused aloud as he pondered on his experiences from the last several days. "Apparently New York really isn't just filled with heartless people."

xxxx

Baxter and Vincent had broken the ice. There was still some awkwardness, especially from Raphael and Donatello, but with the acknowledgement of the problem out in the open it was far easier for all of them to agree to a truce. Dinner had been pleasant and now they were all gathered in the living room, just talking peacefully.

"Barney talked about all of you once," Vincent said.

"Only once?" Raphael half-joked.

"He talked about some of you more than others," Vincent said. "But the time I'm thinking of was after the incident with the alien cabbages. He came back talking about how all of you have such a unique camaraderie. He said Baxter asked him if he didn't wish they had a similar relationship."

Baxter bowed his head. He remembered that time all too well. And Barney's response.

"Barney had answered that he found happy families naive. When he came back, he expressed guilt for having said that. It was the truth, but he wished he had been kinder when he saw the hurt in Baxter's eyes. He said what might have been a more accurate statement was that he wondered how families could love each other with all the clashing of personalities and feelings of jealousy. And then he talked of how incredible all of you were, to form a family unit despite not being related and to love it so much."

"Alright!" Michelangelo chirped. "Yeah, that's us!"

"More recently, he mentioned that again . . . and he said that while he doubted he and Baxter would ever have that kind of relationship, his hatred had begun to melt at long last and he was seeing Baxter as he always should have-as a kind and loving brother and someone he should have loved all along."

Baxter smiled a bit. "I remember once, when we were very young, I was scared about something and was hiding at the bottom of a large cupboard. Barney found me and just sat there with me for a while. We didn't really talk even then, but having him there was an immense comfort."

"Yeah, Dude," Michelangelo said. "You don't have to talk to be close, although talking is like, really good."

"Barney was really trying to protect me all along these last several months," Baxter said softly. "Even when he still struggled with hating me."

"Barney was a very conflicted individual," said Splinter. "But you are right. When he struck you, I believe that was what fully awakened him to a knowledge of how far he had fallen and how he must stop before any worse damage was done. His hatred couldn't simply vanish, but it was then that he faced it and began to grapple with it."

"He was worried about me when the electrical appliances came to life," Baxter remembered. "And then he let me go so Shredder wouldn't find me. That was before Shredder knew I was alive."

"And then he was always trying to keep up that ruse of wanting you dead," Raphael said. "Like that crazy sword-cane fight in the Floxy Theatre."

"He was so worried about what would happen if Shredder and Krang realized he wasn't as treacherous as they thought," Baxter said.

Leonardo looked to Raphael with a bit of a smile. "Raphael, you believe now that the sword-cane fight was a ruse?"

Raphael looked caught. "Well . . . Baxter thinks it was, anyway," he shrugged. "He'd know better than me what was up."

"I think the turning point for Barney was after all of you tried to help him on the mountain," Vincent said. "It was after that when I really started to notice that his hatred was fading."

Baxter nodded. "He started communicating with me through email." He smiled. "That was nice. I still have everything he sent."

"He started really rebelling against Tin Grin before that, though," Michelangelo said. "I still get a kick out of how he helped out when Tribble dropped in."

"He was clever," Donatello spoke up.

"And oh, such a smooth operator," said Raphael. "Always conning Shred-Head and Krang into believing him. . . ."

"He had a lot of moxey, that's for sure," said Leonardo.

"But he still had those pesky issues about sticking with Shredder and Krang," Raphael remarked. "He helped with the first Relaxatron scheme."

"And he spared me," Baxter said. "I wonder if Bebop and Rocksteady will ever remember that I was apparently not under the influence of the Relaxatron, since I invented something to counter it." He sighed. "I used to worry that they would blurt out something to Shredder and Krang and then they would realize that Barney had spared me."

"Whereas if they realized now, it wouldn't matter," Raphael said.

"Actually, it kind of gives me warm fuzzies to think of them starting to figure out how many times Barney put one over on them," Michelangelo laughed. "I can just hear ol' Metal Mouth screaming."

"That is a classic image, I must admit," said Raphael.

"Good ol' Barney." Michelangelo sounded bittersweet now. "I guess you were right, Master Splinter. What was it you called him? A diamond in the rough?"

Splinter nodded. "Yes. I believe that describes Barney quite well."

"It does," Baxter said softly. "My brother who always insisted he looked out for himself . . . and then sacrificed himself for the city of New York."

There were still plenty of conflicted feelings among the group. Raphael still detested Barney and neither he nor Donatello knew what to make of Vincent. But for tonight they had put all of that aside and come together as friends and comrades to mourn their loss. The pain was still very fresh and raw, but this was a step on the healing process.