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SOMEWHERE IN UPSTATE NEW YORK. . .

The sun grasped on to the last of day. The nocturnal animals in the woods stirred awake, either on the hunt for food or attending their young. There wasn't a stretch of urban life for miles— any person who headed into this area could only find stands and stands of thick coniferous trees bordering the narrow dirt roads. In all actuality, the smell of pine and the rocky terrain and the various flora and fauna made it the perfect place for recreation in the wilderness or to fall off the grid for a while and reset. Only one of the few places in the state of New York that hadn't been overrun by urbanization.

Deeper into the heart of the woods, there was cliff overlooking an extravagant waterfall. It looked like an ordinary spot for anyone to set up camp and indulge in the amazing view of the river flowing over a series of steep stops and down into the pool below, the moon illuminating a patch of the sky and casting a glow on the water. As the light shimmered with the movement of the water, one couldn't help but spew poetry. It was a beauty of nature.

On the surface, it was a perfect scenery— one fit for an artist to recreate on their canvas or for a photographer to snap with their camera. But what nobody knew was that man had already claimed the cliff area, as if the land they stood on was just a dead space waiting to be auctioned. It was invisible to the naked eye, but an animal or a person coming across it would be a dead giveaway: what they thought was an invisible wall blocking their path was actually something far more complex and sophisticated— a cloaking field, covered by microscopic-sized cameras that projected the image from the cameras on the opposite side of the field, transmitting and playing footage of their surroundings at all times, rendering the 'force field' invisible. This effectively made sure that there would be no sneak attacks around here and, also, to confirm the people coming and going.

Hidden in plain sight underneath the invisible veil, was a structure that almost resembled an ancient fortress— tall, mighty concrete walls built to protect a chain of buildings with hip-and-gable roofs and curved eaves, compromising of different chambers and gardens and temples and training rooms— reflecting a shard of Japanese architecture. It might've looked like a majestic castle with mysteries and riches hidden within during the day, but at night when the thunder roared in the distance and lightened tore across the sky, it looked haunting.

In the West Wing, in the comforts of his own chambers, Mak had been lying on his bed for over an hour, staring at nothing but the ceiling while immersed in his thought bubble. Quite frankly, there were many things his mind considered, but only one he kept coming back to.

Raphael. Ah, yes. Him. The warrior with emeralds for eyes and skin like polished jade. If Mak had to be honest, he wasn't so sure what he expected when he infiltrated Roosevelt Prep and first met the target. Actually, Raphael wasn't anything like he expected at all. A month of observation wasn't enough to construct a full dossier, but Mak could safely come to this conclusion, at least: Raphael was impulsive— impulsive towards his classmates, impulsive towards his teachers, and impulsive towards his other ninja comrades (whom Mak figured had to be Raphael's family members). But everything was going great. Mak would've started to ingratiate himself to the target, except. . .

"Listen, Mak. . . you have to forget you ever saw anything. Forget you saw those three guys, forget whatever action you saw in the band room and auditorium, and forget about me. Trust me. It's for the best."

The incident at the gymnasium surely threw a wrench into Mak's plan. Raphael would surely keep his distance from Mak and expect the same from him; something as simple as that couldn't be done. Mak didn't drop everything and fly across the Pacific Ocean and disobeyed protocol just for his vendetta to go up in smoke. No. He had goals. Now he had to find a new angle to play around.

Any thoughts Mak wished to waste his time on were interrupted when he heard soft tapping on the other side of his door.

"Makoto-kun," an older voice addressed in Japanese, "you have been summoned by Master Shredder."

Mak sighed. Oh dear lord. There was no telling how much repercussions he was going to face now, but there was hell to pay if he were to avoid a meeting with the Master. Leaving his room (while being careful not to wake his dogs sound asleep peacefully on the floor), Mak followed the older ninja north past the botanical gardens and the ancestral temple, leading him to room that was much bigger and grandiose than all the others combined.

The room's walls were oil-painted using dark colors, featuring various pieces of Foot Clan victories over the span of many centuries. The ceiling was designed in a criss-cross pattern of red, black, and gray, held in place with wooden supporting beams. One half of the tatami-covered room was more leveled than the other, depleted of any light and designated specifically for the master. Mak saw 'The Reaper' and Master Shredder's other two warriors were there as well, on their knees. The older ninja bowed and took his leave, only leaving Mak to sit down next to his fellow soldiers.

Giving his bow, Mak couldn't help but glower at the three sitting beside him— especially at 'The Reaper', whose name was really Nakamura Daichi, for ruining everything. Even if Mak went through his own agenda, Daichi still had a responsibility to notify him if something were to go down in the same area where he (Mak) was already stationed at.

And as though Daichi could sense Mak's displeasure, he said, "That kind of energy doesn't suit you, Makoto. Your wrinkles will show on your next portrait."

"You could've at least told me beforehand." Mak frowned. "I'm on the need-to-know basis too, Daichi."

"We had our orders and we carried them out perfectly," Daichi said dismissively. "Talia Elbaz and April 'O' Neil were thorns in our Master's sights. No doubt they informed the enemy well enough."

"Almost perfectly," Mak reminded. "Last I remember, Talia and April are still alive."

If Mak's intention was to get underneath Daichi's skin, well, it worked. Daichi downturned his lips. He hated that word— almost. A word as loathsome as what it meant. But Daichi regained his composure. "The outcome of that incident was. . . out of our hands. You saw it with your own eyes— what April 'O' Neil did."

"Yes, but I don't see how it's possible. The last person who had that kind of power—"

"It doesn't matter. We know what April is. We know what she holds. It is within our right to secure it."

"Even if she does possess it, what good is it for us to recruit and brainwash her for our purposes? She doesn't even know what's inside of her!"

"I wasn't suggesting turning her into a soldier. We extract every ounce of her power from her body and give it to our scientists to analyze."

"That will probably kill her."

"I know. That kind of power doesn't belong in the hands of someone weak; it belongs with the strong."

Mak shook his head hearing Daichi's absurd idea. The Foot had bigger fish to fry. "That's not in the interests of Master Shredder. He only wants to finish the deal between him and his business partner and see his mission— my mission, through to the end." Mak's voice tightened with determination. How dare Daichi ruin it.

Daichi almost gave the rolling-eyes treatment to his third cousin. "I urge you to look at the bright side: you've bought yourself some undercover credibility during this little stunt of yours. Oh and by the way, that was some incredible acting back there— almost as good as mine. Why, it fooled that green-eyed Hamato, didn't it?"

". . . well, yes."

Daichi smiled nonchalantly. "Then you have nothing to worry about. I'm positive you'll see your pretty boy soon enough."

Mak released his fists. Nothing irritated Mak more than knowing he couldn't kick Daichi in the throat because he was right. Raphael was none the wiser to question if a meek, mild, confused-out-of-his-mind kid he thought out to be was part of a clan his ancestors had always been at odds at since the very birth of their clans. Everything could still run its course.

Seconds after Mak and Daichi's conversation ended, a voice boomed from the shadows ahead: "Bullet, Crimson Arrow, Reaper, rise."

Daichi, along with the cheerleader and field runner— whose code names were 'The Crimson Arrow' and 'The Bullet' respectively— from Roosevelt Prep, rose. They were no longer wearing their disguises, as they swapped them for Foot soldier uniforms.

"How is it that three of my best soldiers manage to shame me with their incompetence?" The voice boomed. Who else could it be but their Master Shredder? His voice filled the room as though he was yelling, which he was not. His disappointment cut sharper than a hot knife to butter. "Your failure has allowed Talia Elbaz and April 'O' Neil to continue breathing, so you better have a good explanation as to how you failed to comply."

"It is like we have been trying to tell you, Master Shredder," Daichi offered to explain, "we had them right where we wanted. If it hadn't been for April 'O' Neil—"

"Right!" The Bullet— whose real name was Lek Tongproh— cut in. A vertical line ran through only one of his eyebrows. His two-toned cropped hair reminded Mak of a skunk's back. "You should've seen her, Master Shredder! Her eyes were all glowy-like and she went all X-Men on us!"

Lek's comrades blinked. Even Master Shredder stayed silent.

"What?" Lek defended. "I read. American comics can be entertaining."

"As I was saying—" Daichi continued, "—our mission took an unexpected turn. The girl hadn't shown signs of her power up until now. But with this knowledge, perhaps we could—"

"April 'O' Neil's power is at its infant stage," Shredder said. "It is not something for us to waste anymore precious resources than we already have. Our goal is to not let anything or anyone stand in the way of our clan's success, and obtaining April's power is not something that aligns with our vision."

Daichi clenched his jaw. "But we—"

"Disobedience comes with a stiff penalty, boy," Shredder growled. "Is that understood?"

Shredder's tone served the perfect warning. He may have held Daichi's family to a high degree of respect, but Daichi was not exempt from any form of punishment should he not follow orders.

"I understand, Master Shredder."

"Good. Bullet, Crimson Arrow, and Reaper, you may leave. I need to have a word with my other best soldier."

Mak stiffened his shoulders. There was no escaping this.

On his way out, Daichi smirked over at Mak. "Good luck," he whispered.

Now that Mak and Shredder were alone, none had bothered to say anything. Mak thought about the many ways he was going to get chewed out, while Shredder wondered how on earth could Makoto leave home without consulting him and think he could get away with it. Did he honestly believe that just because he was a year away from becoming a legal adult meant he could do whatever he wanted?!

"Stand up," Shredder commanded.

Mak awkwardly did as he was told.

"So, Makoto," Shredder said in Japanese, "you disobeyed my orders and left Japan, fought with Hamato Yoshi's disciples, and finally fabricated a scheme to sneak your way into a high school and engaged not with Talia Elbaz, but with Raphael Hamato. Do you have anything you want to say for yourself?"

"I apologize, Master Shredder." Mak hung his head low. "I heard from you once that our greatest enemy, Hamato Yoshi, had children. I read from one of the files that Raphael, his youngest son, went to high school. I suppose I was. . . curious. I wanted to see what he was like."

"And what did you hope to get out of fulfilling this curiosity?"

Mak gulped. His Master's voice was dangerously low, like he was one split away from cutting his imaginary bangs. "To destroy warriors such as Hamato Yoshi, going for his limbs does not destroy his spirit, but rather his heart."

Shredder started to see where Makoto was heading with this, and it sparked his interest. "Go on," he said in English.

"From all the stories you've told me, Hamato Yoshi isn't a man that can be easily overthrown. His greatest strength is also his greatest weakness: the love he has for his family. He'll do anything for them. That is where Raphael comes into play. He can provide us access to Hamato Yoshi."

"And The Foot is supposed to depend on you for the demise of our greatest enemy?"

"I can befriend Raphael," Mak insisted. "I can build trust between us. It will take time, yes. . . but if you will allow me to, Master, I can get through to him. All I'm asking here is an opportunity."

Mak hoped deep down his Master would agree. There was no reason he shouldn't. They had the same goal: eliminate Hamato Yoshi and his clan. Doing this would allow Mak and Shredder to claim the vengeance they so desperately desired; it was long overdue.

In his seat, Shredder thought it over carefully. Makoto was an excellent ninja— a testament of surviving the most brutal and mental-draining hardships of his training (Shredder was most part of that from his end)— and although he was not sure about Mak's undercover methods, he was confident Mak would deliver. Especially knowing that Mak was just as committed as he was to getting what they wanted.

"So Raphael knows nothing about your affiliation to The Foot?" Shredder asked.

"Not even the slightest," Mak confirmed. He left out the tiny detail of Raphael becoming slightly suspicious of him because of his (Mak's) perceived stalking. Mak admitted to himself that he could do better.

Shredder contemplated Makoto's idea a second further. He then grabbed the object next to him— his metal helmet, famously known as 'The Kuro Kabuto'— placed it over his head, and parted from the shadows, approaching Mak in a walk that was forceful, magnetic.

When Shredder stopped about a few inches from his face, Mak slowly looked up and locked eyes with the most intimidating, steady, and dauntless pair of eyes he'd ever seen— twin shards of ebony glass that could make even the most fearless of men cower in terror through the slits of his famous helmet. Shredder was tall, having a great muscular physique that was capable of taking down opponents twice his size.

Shredder did not utter a word during this staring contest of theirs. At first Mak believed Shredder was trying to make up his mind over what kind of punishment he would put Mak through, but really Mak knew Shredder was playing lie detector. He always won.

"Very well," Shredder relented. "I shall grant you your request."

Mak restrained his cheeks from spreading into a smile.

"Learn all you can about Raphael. Do whatever you feel is necessary to maintain your friendship. I expect to be filled in on your progress, is that clear?"

"Yes, Master Shredder. I won't let you down."

"I know you won't. And Makoto—" Shredder rested his hand on Makoto's shoulder. It felt like sack of cold rocks, "—when the time is right, you will finish him. No loose ends."

Mak stood up straight. He had been waiting for this moment. Revenge was a dish best served cold. "No loose ends," he repeated.

Shredder let his hand fall and walked away. Mak looked out into the distance, watching as the storm clouds rolled in. Mak unsheathed his ninjatō, his reflection captured in the blade staring back at him with those empty eyes and thin lips squeezed into a neutral expression. All those years of folding a thousand origami cranes, training until his bones broke, and being reminded of the scars that marked the day his life changed forever cultivated to this very moment. Slowly. Patiently.

Mak's face was deadly pale in the flash of lighting. He sheathed back his ninjatō. His expression was bitter, vengeful. He had waited long enough.

For Father. For 'her.' For us.

Mak was going to hit Hamato Yoshi where it hurt the most: his son.