TMNT and the whole kit-n-kaboodle are the property of Mirage.

Frankenstein Wannabe Part E

The Slayer stood there, staring after Michelangelo. Then he looked at the book.

"You were created to hunt others; to hunt aliens and mutants who probably just want to be left alone."

The words remained with him, as he waited for Bishop and his men to break through. He looked at the book, remembering- his first battle.

He had fought without question; indeed, without orders. It was like he knew what was expected of him.

Like he had had no choice.

Like he had been created to do.

Created.

Behind the Slayer, Bishop and a few of his men had finally broken through.

"Yes!" Bishop couldn't help being happy; his beloved prototype was safe and sound. "What of the turtle? Quick, men! Search everywhere-"

"Turtle- gone," the Slayer said, and everyone froze, Bishop especially.

"You- you spoke!" Bishop was more than amazed; he was downright shocked. It had never occurred to him that his creation could do more than what it had been created to do.

"Yes- and- turtle- gone," he said again, hiding the book.

"Well, no matter! At least I have you back, and there will be plenty of opportunities to hunt those wretched freaks down and destroy them!" Bishop was beaming as if his first born had called him "Dada". "Let's get out of here, gentlemen. We have work to do."

And they followed him out of the tunnel; the Slayer, with one last look in the direction that Michelangelo had gone, followed his creator.

And he kept the book hidden.

Mike had no idea how long he stumbled blindly up the narrow, dangerously unstable tunnel, one hand always on the wall, both ears tuned to any pursuit behind him. He was feeling feverish, exhausted, thirsty, and in pain- but the fear of Bishop possibly being right behind him kept him moving, in spite of the remembered voice of the Slayer telling him to run.

Somehow, Mike was sure that he wasn't being followed.

But he took no chances.

Run, Mikey, run run run! he kept thinking. Sooner or later you're gonna run into your own bedroom, and climb up in your own bed, and then Raph is gonna wake you up- yeah, Raph always wakes you up from these nightmares. Good old Raph! I really need to quit aggravating him. He does so much for me. He wakes me up from nightmares, he kills Bishop for me, he-

He'd no idea how long or how far he'd been running, or how long his mind had been wandering like this, when his legs finally gave out, and he lay on the rough floor, gasping and unable to lift a finger. He hazily remembered stuff happening in his life, all jumbled together as if in a fever dream; his pranks, his battles, his family, his friends, his enemies- and all through it, he had the vague belief that he was being chased by Raph... at least, he kept hearing Raph yelling at him... no, not yelling at him... yelling for him... yelling... always yelling...

...Mikey...

..Mikey..

"Mikey!"

Mikey opened his eyes abruptly to find Raph leaning over him, close enough to kiss- which made Mike smile rather than laugh. For some reason, he couldn't laugh, though he desperately wanted to. He had never wanted to laugh so much in his life, but he couldn't; he guessed he was too tired.

"Hey, Bro," he heard himself whisper. "I knew you would wake me up from my nightmare."

Raph seemed to breathe out a sigh of relief.

"Come on, bro- let's go home," he replied in that remembered tone, and Mike could have swore he saw his brother flash a grin, just before he fell back asleep...

"Choose a name for yourself," he heard himself mumble in his dream, and then he felt the familiar, safe touch of his father's hand on his forehead, and he opened his eyes to Splinter, who was looking at him with much approval, as if he'd done something totally unexpected, like perform the perfect kata, or clean his room without being told.

"My son," that safe, comforting voice filled his ears, and his own throat choked up at the joy it brought him. "My son, are you awake? Are you all right?"

"Master Splinter?"

Much confusion for a few brief seconds. Then it all came flooding back- the tunnels, the Slayer, Bishop, being separated from his brothers- where were they? Had they escaped?- and he tried to sit- only to be forced down by dizziness and nausea.

"Lay still, my son," his father gently admonished, and he placed a cool rag on his forehead. "You have been ill from your injuries, and you need to rest. But your fever is down finally. Lay still, my son, until we can bring you something to drink."

Drink? Man, suddenly he realized just how thirsty he was!

And hungry!

"Can I have some pizza with whatever you're bringing me to drink?" he eagerly, though weakly asked, and he was surprised to hear much laughter in the room. Then he realized that he was in Splinter's bed, and that his bros and friends were present.

"Told ya he was gonna be okay," he heard Raph say nonchalantly, and then his brother was in his vision, sliding a hand under his head to help him rise up enough to drink from the cup that he held with his other hand. "Here, drink some water."

Mike made a face at the taste.

"Dude!" he finally managed. "What was in that water?"

"Medicine," Raph calmly replied, settling him back down. "And there's more where that came from, especially if ya start ta cause a fuss. Chucklehead, what made you run off like that? Me and Don and Leo had a hard time findin' ya."

"I- I don't know," he said finally. "I don't remember."

"My son," Splinter said, and Mike turned to face Splinter. "My son, are you able to tell us anything of what happened?"

"Yeah," he managed, looking at the eyes that held such life and such love. "I fought with the Slayer. And I found out he was- human."

Mikey ignored the gasps around him, the startled questions, the animated discussions. He kept his eyes on his father's, and saw in them understanding.

"My son, I am proud of you," Splinter whispered, stroking his forehead.

"Are you proud enough of me to let me have some pizza? I'm starving."

Splinter smiled and shook his head.

"I want you to rest now. You may have your pizza later, but rest now."

And in spite of the fact that he was "starving", Mike obeyed this loving command willingly.

In the secret lab of Bishop, the Slayer was being locked into his solitary room for the night after an intensive day of training. He had easily defeated the six "super soldiers" that Bishop had managed to develop- none of them were a challenge, none of them were a threat-

None of them were like him.

Now Bishop was consumed it seemed with creating more of these "improved men"- for men they were. No more clones; he was manipulating developed DNA with the mutated strains he still preserved from the Rat, but while superior to anything (other than himself, it seemed), none of them matched the sheer strength and proven powers of his prototype; his Slayer.

Since the encounter with the Turtle, the Slayer had grown in his understanding of things around him. His intelligence showed itself in his ability to quickly grasp and work to his advantage the Internet (when no one was around), as well as pick up information from the idle chatter of the various subordinates of Bishop's.

In fact, he had developed such an understanding that he quickly realized that if he were to survive, he would need to keep his newfound knowledge hidden from his "creator"- for now.

He stood in the room, as he always did, perfectly still, waiting a half hour after the last sound had died from the outside world. Then he sat on the bed and, in spite of the darkness of the room, pulled the book he'd hidden under his mattress from its place, and read again this tale of horror and sadness.

"Choose a name for yourself!" he remembered the words of the Turtle.

He'd heard many names recently- he'd heard many names before, but had never paid attention until the words of the Turtle. He thought of the names in the book that the Turtle had given him, but all of those names held nothing but heartache and sadness.

He thought once again of the names he'd heard from the mouth of his "creator", Bishop. None of them suited.

And yet- and yet-

One name in the book seemed to appeal to him- one name, though whether it was appropriate or not- seemed to speak to him. It was not the name the Turtle would probably have chosen, for it represented what was, to the Slayer, the truly evil one of the story- the character whom the Turtle had compared Bishop to.

Only one name seemed to touch something in his soul- if, indeed, it could be said he had a soul, considering what he was.

Only one name: Victor.

Victor.

He would be Victor. He would choose this name- his own name.

And in time, he would choose his own life.

Victor.