A meticulous hand caressed the side of a frail china bowl as hot steamy water was poured into it with the utmost care; a thumb hooked over the edge to ensure the proper level was attained. The kettle was replaced on the extinguished burner with a slow grace, almost silently and dead center. Between a thick forefinger and thumb sprinkled a sweet smelling, freshly grated root of ginger, the labor of the wait while the water boiled. A weary, scarred face appeared over the bowl to inhale its infused scent while the rice noodles soaked the liquid and became pliable.

It was heavenly, the scent. So sweet and potent like a flowery earthy lemon and a hint of fire. Or was that only his memory stepping in? Fire itself had a scent, even independent of the object it burned but it was the heat he felt when smelling the ginger, the heat he knew to be in the root, that his taste buds recognized? No --- no it was in the scent, definitely, subtle but crisp.

He savored the gnarly, segmented root that he had since returned to the refrigerator. It had been forced into his hands unwillingly after turning away everything else with a vehemence he since regretted, plenty capable of securing food for himself thank-you-very-much. After all and certainly despite it all, hadn't he proved himself to be a more than adequate warrior?  It was true he had been strong and his very name was feared among some.  On the whole, undefeated.  He had felt a certain pride in this at one time, now worthless, pointless.  His shoulders slumped and he found himself laying his head in his arms, leaning on the edge of the chipped countertop. He felt so empty, drained, and it was not only for lack of sustenance.  What was the use anymore?  

III

The television had proved to be more trouble than it was worth and surely, despite the fact that it did indeed hold the power to inform, it was sorely abused. Donatello had delighted in being the one who was able to crawl along the service tunnel pipes and wiring to find a cable line to tap. Being small and young had its advantages and it gave him a great sense of pride and accomplishment, wending his way along the tight gap between ceiling and pipe. He was also looked on as somewhat of a hero by his brothers for bringing them the picture shows they so longed for.

Splinter though, making his usual midnight runs for supplies, would no longer find himself waking at the crack of dawn by four bouncing bodies on his bed. No, instead he would wake much later to find the lair suspiciously quiet. Upon entering the main room, he would find four flattened bodies sprawled on the rug before a glowing, flashing tube, their feet dangling in the air behind them, chins resting solidly in their hands. Their faces would be vacant in the cold light that emanated from the TV, the volume only high enough for them to hear, so close as they were. Sometimes they’d even be lying mid wrestle, frozen right where they stopped a bout when a commercial break ended. Small blue gnomes would be scampering across the screen while a grumpy warlock gave chase or a large yellow bird in a nasally voice would be giving instruction about letters of the alphabet. 

Master Splinter had his regrets, oh yes, but he also had his ways. After breakfast, nothing but the public broadcast station or 60 Minutes was permitted and that was only when they were granted enough time to sit before it. Much to their chagrin, between their home schooling, training and chores there was little time.

And it simply was not fair! While they cleaned, their Sensei would sit and watch the daytime shows and worse yet, Michelangelo would be allowed to shirk his duties on the basis that he was "still little". It was ever so slightly endearing though, that he would often fall asleep in front of General Hospital or Days of our Lives, the dreamy theme music lulling his still young mind to sleep. The rest of them would catch glimpses in passing to the garbage or to get the broom. It was like a car crash, the way they would be morbidly fascinated by the human drama, before bearing the full brunt of their father’s wrath for neglecting their duties. "HAI! Ten flips! Back to work!" Luckily he did not usually enforce those particular threats.

It was not long after then, that the video cassette recorder, VCR as it was called, came into their home. It was old and used and apparently discarded above when a newer model hit the market. But it still worked. And they watched movies. Popeye with Robin Williams and Tron were amongst the first. Splinter could only shake his head, such nonsense in his home to fill such impressionable minds. Soon to follow was, of course, other fantastical movies such as Star Wars, E.T. and Close Encounters of the Third Kind. The implications of the damage these movies caused were simply alarming.

It was little wonder therefore, when Splinter had pulled the boys apart after a particular nasty scuffle and had them, all four, in his presence before the same low table in his room that he heard the following…

***********

"I know you’re not really my father..." Came the resolute voice of the turtle boy, hunched, head hung as much as physically possible on the opposite side of the table, bathed in familiar candlelight. The stringy brows gathered but the old man did not reply. And though he had come to rely on visual means of identifying the boys (a set of colored wrist-ties), he didn’t need to make out the color on the turtle that supplied this fact to know who it was. A moment of agonizing silence followed.

"But—" A feeble attempt at a rebuttal that didn’t happen. Michelangelo looked close to tears.

"And we must be aliens, it’s all I can figure." The man across from the green children took a deep breath as the third piped up but still said nothing. He had heard similar frightened and excited whispers from them for weeks. "I know it…because turtles don’t talk. I figured it out. I saw it on Nature. Animals don’t really talk. They do in the cartoons, but not in real life. So we’ve got to be and that’s why we’re hiding too; because people are afraid of aliens and you said they wouldn’t understand, remember? I know it." Donatello’s last statement was but a whisper. The air was so heavy in the room.

Leonardo did not look at all convinced of Donatello’s hypothesis, obviously part of the reason for the fight. Their eyes met briefly and the elder’s stern gaze subdued the younger who sunk a little and returned his questioning gaze to his father. Meanwhile Raphael could contain himself no longer. He had been holding his breath with such ferocity that his deep green skin had turned a rather unpleasant color of grayish-brown.

"I’M NOT AN ALIEN! I’m not a freak! It’s na’ fair! Nothin’s fair! And I don’t wanna hide anymore! S'all STUPID." And as he spat that final "blasphemous" word, he was on his feet, a terrible scowl on his face, hands balled into fists as if he might pound his brothers again for their beliefs. Indeed they had flinched and were leaning away from him as far as possible, painfully aware of the bruises they had already sustained.

"Enough." Said Splinter finally, much more calm than any of them would have imagined. "Sit Raphael, I--"

"NO! I WON’T! Leo’s right, you’re not my dad. I don’t have to listen to--"

"Raphie, I didn’t mean it like that. I just—"

"Don’ you call me that, Naaaaaaaaaaardo!"

"I said enough." Cut in the surprisingly patient man, a slight edge in his voice. His knobby hands were folded neatly before him. "You will sit and listen." Raphael however, did not budge but stood fixed, twitching so that for the briefest of moments, it appeared that he were going to leave rather than obey.

Leonardo thought this turn of events odd since his brother had previously punched him in the arm for declaring the same theory.  He could still feel its throbs. Splinter did not seem to see anything but a typical test of wills, though, and sent Raphael a knowing and piercing look under his wiry brow. After an agonizingly tense minute the boy finally relented, sparing himself the imminent punishment and plopped himself rather obnoxiously back to the floor, sloppily cross-legged, arms folded and defiant. The others sat up straighter in their perfectly centered kneel, for the promise of answers that must be coming.

"I hope I am an alien!" Squeaked Michelangelo, hardly able to contain his enthusiasm. "Maybe I have powers!"

"Pfft! You're a dork."

"TWENTY FLIPS RAPHAEL!"  A huff and then silence.

*************

He sat stock still, keeping a firm vigil over the room until it became utterly silent and attentive. Four little faces upturned to their master, the only person they’ve ever known, and their guardian without whom they could not survive. The air in the room was thicker than ever, dank and visible by candlelight. Surrounded in the glowing golden orb of dim swaying light, the cluttered outskirts of the room seemed to disappear leaving only the five of them suspended in eerie silence.

"Leonardo is correct, I am not your true father." His voice had cut across the small space with a crushing force, even though it was with sadness they had never heard from their Sensei, making the air seemed even heavier if that were possible.

"But—" interjected the teary-eyed Michelangelo again. Splinter only raised his eyes to regard the smallest boy in a manner that implied he should clearly not interrupt. The youngest swallowed his doubt and said no more. It was then that the old man’s expression softened a degree.

"However…One does not require to pass on…I believe the word is –genetic-- inheritance to earn the right to bear the title of father." He nodded in satisfaction of his own terms and looked up from his hands to four blank unblinking stares. The master sighed and returned his gaze downward.

"I love you all and have raised you as my sons. It is… all that matters."

"Yeah." Came a whispered understanding from their ranks. Splinter did not know from whom it issued but was empowered to hear it. A hint of a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

"But—" Again, Michelangelo piped up and just as quickly fell silent as Donatello cut across him.

"Then who’s our real father? And…" there was a long awkward pause as Leonardo and Michelangelo exchanged almost panicked looks and Raphael angrily surveyed his feet as he "hugged" himself even tighter. Donatello seemed suddenly hesitant and proceeded tentatively, as if ready to back out at any second and sounding frightened of his own voice. "Do we…even…have a mother?"

Splinter kept his head lowered and was nodding, not in response to the questions, it seemed, but in acknowledgement of the fact that they’d finally been asked.  He took a deep breath that held the brothers in anxious suspense.

"I do not know." He paused and the room instantly filled with a deafening silence. "I have told you many times, the story of how I came to find you all, alone in the sewer, mere infants in need of desperate care. I know little else, my sons. Someday, I know you will seek answers and you must. But for now you are still young and this quest must wait."

Something seemed to float from the room at the very moment these words left his lips, leaving the confines of their closed sphere of candlelight and entering the world, like the above, of the unknown. Indeed, little Leonardo was wondering at the ceiling again. Only the slight sputter and pops of floating dust, captured by the twin flames, could be heard…and a distant drip of a leaky pipe.

"And I believe, you are correct Raphael that you are not a freak, but a beautiful and unique being."

************