Co-written with the inestimable Amicitia.
He knows that he is not Hamato Yoshi, for Hamato Yoshi is dead.
On the other hand, who is he but Hamato Yoshi? Having placed the collected memories of that man in this glass sphere, did the Utroms create life anew? Or did they merely prolong life that should have ended long ago?
Sitting on a shelf deep under New York City, he has time to wonder.
He remembers the pet rat. And yet it takes him some time to connect the memory to the being that has apparently inherited this memory sphere. At first they do not speak, but slowly, bit by bit, the memories become more and more real to the rat, and he begins to piece together the story of the rat, the ooze, and last of all, the turtles.
Ah, the turtles. The strangest part of the tale. The pet rat seeking vengeance on his former master's killer smacks of fate, but the addition of four baby turtles to the story is downright puzzling. Even more than puzzling, it is amusing to him to learn of the near-legendary status he apparently holds among these reptilian teenagers. Gradually he comes to learn of them as individuals seen through the eyes of their father (the knowledge that he is an unwitting grandfather is even more strange):
Leonardo, the leader, a steady boy torn between duty and fun, who chooses duty perhaps more often than he should. He is the strongest in his hero worship.
Raphael, the passionate, who reminds both his father and grandfather a little too much of Mashimi, but who proves again and again that whatever his failings, his loyalty to his family is the stronger force.
Michelangelo, the child, bringer of smiles. The memories of Yoshi are glad that such a happy presence exists in the dark underground where his only remaining family is forced to reside. Such brightness in filth reminds him a little of Tang Shen, a flower nurtured in mud.
Donatello, inventor, a peaceable warrior who seeks to protect his family through technology and defense, a sometimes imperfect melding of ancient ninja ways and modern science.
Though he has never met them, he feels he knows them like his own grandchildren.
He remembers the Utroms. He remembers Splinter, vaguely. He remembers the Shredder. But he cannot say he exactly remembers this memory sphere being made. He supposes it might have been the time he stepped into the memory chamber to learn the story of the alien race, crash-landed on Earth with no resources but salvaged parts and patience. They never said anything about salvaging his own memories, a sliver of his soul shaved off and placed in a glass container. The thing he can't figure out is how he remembers anything after that. As far as he can tell, he remembers everything up to a few weeks before his death, which means they had been collecting pieces of his soul all along. He is not sure if it is the lack of a body that makes him not care about this invasion of privacy, or simply the knowledge that he is dead and it hardly matters now, but he doesn't. He bears the Utroms no ill will. They were advanced, in culture and intelligence, and haughty in their advancement; but, with one major exception, benevolent. Even the waste from their research helped instead of harmed, and the memories think that the webs of fate binding himself, his adopted family, and the Utroms together are tightly woven indeed.