Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“... sightings have not yet confirmed the witnesses’ stories, but the enormous ball of flame that engulfed the building last night … “

Psssszzzh!

“ … signs point to a fascination with ancient mysticism, these warriors of the night straight from a bygone era who …” 

Psszzzh–ssszh!

“... An ancient code of honor, binding all who fought with the Lord, to protect the innocent from the wicked and the powerful …”

Psssszzh!

“... No explanation yet as to how these burglars were left, almost literally, gift-wrapped for the police. You won’t believe the story these lucklorn criminals told to New York’s Finest. Tonight, on…”

Psszh-zh-zh-zhhh!

“... local legends and urban myth, never seen in broad daylight. You could call them ‘modern cryptids’…”

Pssszzzzh!

“...Monsters! I’m telling ya! Monsters, right here, in New York City! Can you believe it?”

Pssszh!

“...warm'd and cool'd by the same winter and summer, as a Christian is? If you prick us, do we not bleed? If you tickle us, do we not laugh? If you poison us, do we not die? And if you wrong us, do we not revenge? If we are like you in the rest… we will resemble you in that. ”

Kk-tewww!

The television blinked off, the remote carelessly dropped onto a coffee table that looked like it had been pulled out of the harbor, dusted off, and set in the middle of a living room as if it still had any business being in polite company. A balding middle-aged man stretched on his stained, broken recliner. “Gots like a thousand channels, and nothin’ good on.” He sighed. “The hell do I pay for cable, anyway?” 

He wriggled left, right, left, and eventually managed to roll to his right out of the greasy, dark-stained pit he’d worn for himself in the seat of the broken La-Z-Boy. His feet kicked a few beer cans to the corners of the dingy, trash-strewn apartment as they padded, bare, across the stain-and-mess-colored kitchen tile. He pried open the fridge door with his grimy toes, the corner of the once-white fridge stained with filthy brown footprints from the habit. He fished out another can of Bud Light, and popped open the can. He sucked down several gulps of his liquid bread before looking about the apartment.

He really should clean. If there was nothing good on TV and he was too broke to go out, maybe he could at least pick up a few cans. But what the hell else was he going to do? Walk to Blockbuster and rent a movie? 

Actually? Yeah. Yeah, he could do that. Get one of them old monster movies, see if they were renting out Alien or maybe even Terminator! Yeah, he could make it a night, go to that pizza place on Eastman and Laird that just opened up. It’d be nice to get out of the apartment for a change. Cleaning could wait.

He lifted his arm, warily sniffing his own body. He leered, gagging on the stench, his face twisted up like a gargoyle. “Eugh. Maybe I should shower first.” He grunted.

Whoosh!

He whirled around to look at his window where he heard the noise. A car? No, no way. He was up on the 18th floor. A bird? No. Too big. Way too big.

Crrrnch, crrrnch, crrrnch, WHOMPF!

His eyes tracked up the wall of his apartment, following a trickle of dust up the wall and across the ceiling, as he watched in horror. Something was… crunching the brick of the wall outside. Something big, strong, fast, and very heavy. Now it was on the roof.

He heard a pained cry of a person. Or an animal? He rubbed his bloodshot eyes, gulping dryly. Right. Leaving. He was leaving. Screw the shower. He was from the Bronx; he knew trouble when he smelled it, and had gotten very good at avoiding it. He grabbed his work coat, put it on over his shoulders, and fished out a hat to jam over his greasy, stringy hair. He slipped on a pair of flip flops and slipped out of the apartment.

He stood in the hallway, quietly debating if he should bother waiting for the elevator, or take the stairs and aggravate his asthma. He heard a low rumble over his head, felt the building tremble subtly. Another stream of dust trickled from the ceiling. Stairs. Never take the elevator in an emergency. He shouldered open the stairwell door, flip flops slapping against his heels as he shuffled down the stairs as fast as he dared.

What on earth could be making that racket? Punks? Pigeons? Terrorists? His blood went cold at that last one. The planes hit the Twin Towers only a few weeks ago. What if it was another attack? His thoughts raced as he found himself going down the stairs a little faster, sandals clopping from a trot up to a canter. 

Pizza. Movie. And if the cops showed up, he'd just wait until they cleared the place. He could always sleep in his car. He had nothing to hide, and they couldn’t arrest him if he wasn’t there anyway.

He shuffled out of the lobby and out onto the dark street, only daring to look up for a moment. But, seeing nothing in the black and starless night overhead, he turned up his collar and jammed his hands into his pockets, his fingers finding the familiar holes he still had not yet patched. He marched off towards Blockbuster first, determined to put at least a mile between him and whatever the hell was happening at his apartment. He didn’t get involved in other peoples’ problems if he could at all possibly wriggle his way out of it. Was it slimy? A little. But it was also decidedly not his problem. He had enough of them as-is.

He made it to the Blockbuster, heard the ding of the bell on the door, and waved to the teenager behind the counter. She spun around in her office chair, looking down at the magazine without really paying him any mind. He rolled his eyes. Whatever. Young punks.

He picked up one or two movies, beginning to engross himself in the only reading he actually did–the summaries on the sleeves of the VHS tapes–when the wall beside him exploded.

Chapter Text

Night in New York City was always beautiful to Goliath. Beautiful, but filled with a sort of tragedy too. He tilted his chin up, feeling the soft breeze fill his gullet. Wind. He could feel the wind again. After what happened at Castle Wyvern, all those years ago, he never thought that he would feel the kiss of the breeze at night again.

This was not the wind he knew once. It was colder. Its smell was tainted by the odor of some distant smoke, not of the sort that came by burning wood for the castle fires. He let his enormous, batlike wings weigh and press against the wind, the nerves in the thin membranes taking in its speed and direction. His figure was, to say the least, statuesque even for a gargoyle. The surface of his wing membranes tingled, smooth and tiny scales of deepest taupe, mauve, and lavender lifting slightly to entrap heated air closer to his under-skin, his thick black hair fluttering like a banner in the air. He crossed his arms over his chest, his tail extended.

He took in that breath again. The lights of the city below were so disorienting, dizzying. Stars in the sky were now stars on the ground. For all the distance the world drove between them, each light may as well have been a far-off sun in the depths of space. His home was not his home. It was owned by a strange king in a world with no kings. He was a monster in a world that held no monsters. 

“Are ye still worried, lad?”

Goliath turned. “Old Mentor.” He folded his wings, clasping them into a relaxed cloak. “I had thought you were studying the… telebhiseann ?”

“‘Television’ is what our host calls it.” The old gargoyle replied. “The new cant of this brave new world be strange, but much stays the same. I’m told the tongue of our original home is known now as ‘Old English’.”

“‘Old English’.” Goliath shook his head sadly. “Even our speech is obsolete and foreign to this world now...”

“Such is the way of the Circle, lad.” The Mentor placed his clawed hand on Goliath’s shoulder with a comforting squeeze. “Neither beginning nor ending, but moving onward with the rise and fall of the moon and sun. From dust we came, to dust we’ll return.”

“I am surprised the moon and sun still rise and fall in this world. If Xanatos can lift the very stone of our home from underneath us, can he not stop the moon and sun from rising and setting?”

“A king is not a god, even in our age we knew this.” His mentor gently chastised him. He continued. “Our beast seems content in our new world. He certainly doesn’t seem to mind the food. Neither does our young friend with the large appetite.”

“Our younger rookery-son, with blue scales?” Goliath smiled. “I hope this century does not look upon his appetite too kindly. He still needs to fly.”

“I wouldn’t worry too much about that lad. His appetite reflects his strength, and I wager he could still give you yourself a fair challenge in melee.” 

“And the cunning one?”

The mentor nodded again. “He seems most enthralled with the magic of this century, most especially com– com…” He shook his head. “The light box, written with Roman letters. He seems to enjoy pressing upon the small… er, plank with buttons. He has taken up the new language most swiftly, and he finds himself reading voraciously, more so than he once did.”

“And the eldest of the three?”

The mentor spread his arms wide. “He has seemed quite taken with the idea of leaving the castle and exploring the air below. I’d say he’s gained the words and understanding to observe these new humans more closely, but I know his temperament. Rash, choleric. Unbalanced humors, I say.”

“Curse of youth, I’d wager.” Goliath reasoned.

“Aye, that too. But choleric! I tell you, that lad is choleric!” The mentor wagged a claw at the starless sky.

Goliath stifled a chuckle. “No more choleric than you or I once were.”

“You’ve more the melancholy about you, lad. You’ve always been prone to brood.”

“Do I detect a note of accusation, mentor?”

“Aye, you do.” He crossed his arms over his worn leather belt, his wings like old leather wrapping him in a thick cape of his own hide. “If I may take a word or two from the telly, I believe the kids of this era have a saying for you; to ‘lighten up, dude’.”

“‘Lighten up, dude’?” Goliath repeated, puzzled. “They ask me to immolate myself if I am in melancholy spirits? What a strange way to suggest cheer.”

“Or to rest and unburden yourself of the great weight you carry.” The elder suggested. “Oft did we not have sayings of our own that took as much to explain?”

“You are right.” Goliath agreed. “Where do our three wards find themselves now?”

“Far as I know, they’ve planted themselves in front of the television and have made themselves some popped corn. Delicious treat. Care to try some?”

“No, thank you. I must speak with Xanatos. Our wings ache for flight, and we cannot stay and patrol only this castle for long. The young grow restless, as you said.”

Chapter Text

“I’m just saying, our leader could stand to lighten up!” The red gargoyle said loudly. “We’ve been in this castle for almost a month, and he still hasn’t let us leave!”

The TV babbled in the background, some commercial for a new dish soap. Two of them were draped across the furniture in various poses of comfort. The red one hung upside down from a heavy stone rib in the arch of the ceiling. The green one cuddled against an enormous pillow nearly his size, chin propped up under his elbows. The blue one lay like a boulder in the midst of an entire forest of plates, bowls, cups, and takeout containers.

The TV room was once the armory, now converted into a surprisingly plush living room, with a three-seater couch and a rocking chair that creaked just the right amount. 

The red one surveyed the room, his tail curled tightly around the rock, his talon feet buried like hooks in the stone. So expensive. So well-made. None of this was supposed to be here. And neither were they. 

He released his grip on the ceiling, flipping over and landing on his feet with the grace of a cat. The TV hopped on its stand as his weight shook the floor. The commercial rattled on, the human in the box more enthralled by how magically her dishes were wiped clean than the gargoyle that shook her tiny home.

There was surprisingly little response to his outburst. “To be fair,” The smallest one bobbed his bald green head. “It took us two weeks to even understand Modern English, let alone stop trying to kill the TV. We haven’t even found out a fraction of the things that have happened since the Spell was cast. I’m just as anxious as you, brother!” He put a hand, wide and lizard-like in the spread of his fingers, just on the folded wing of his white-haired rookery brother. “But how do we expect to be safe if we don’t know what’s out there? Come on. Sit down, we’ll finish watching the History Channel, and see what else is on after.”

The young gargoyle looked at his usual place on the couch next to his brothers, heart tempted for a moment. But he snarled, yanking his shoulder away with a sound deep in his throat that would make most men cower. “Will you even listen to yourself? You’re supposed to be the smart one, and that’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard!”  He roared, fury building in his throat as he loomed over his smaller brother, wings spread wide. “We aren’t safe! We never were, never are, and never will be! Safety isn’t real anymore!” He flapped his wings open, the cinnabar lips of his grotesque beak curled back to reveal his long, sharp fangs. 

The smaller gargoyle shrank back. But not by much. His huge, round eyes narrowed at his larger brother. Eventually, he spoke. “You woke up at sunset like usual tonight, and not in a pile of rubble.” He said with ponderous measurement. “I think that means, at the very least, we can trust that we’re safe for now. ”

All three of them let that single ‘for now’ hang in the silent lull of the conversation. The smallest one had a point. It was an idea that had been swimming in their heads every single night since they first awoke in 2001. The feeling of inevitability, the weight of the knowledge that it wasn’t an ‘if’, but a ‘when’ that underscored their relationship to this King in a Kingless World, Xanatos. When he would betray them. When they would wake up as mixings for concrete. Their very own tower wasn’t safe, not after they watched the one across the horizon fall in a ball of flame and smoke.

“Oh, come on.” The blue one, about half as wide at the shoulder and the gut as he was tall, threw up his claws with exasperation. “This isn’t helping us. Any of us, least of all our leader or our mentor. Besides, humans can’t have changed that much! They’re still small, pink, and wingless.” He thumped his fist into his dense, barrel-like chest, eyes alight with a gentle and encouraging cheer. “I say we do what gargoyles are supposed to do at night, and fly! Forget about what the humans will think, and just… live again.”

“You’re right. Gargoyles may protect the castle like they breathe air. But we still owe it to ourselves to live and thrive. We can’t go back.” The red one pulled a piece of string from out of his belt-pouch and tied back his long, white hair. His beak set in a grim line, he sat up straight. “We can only go forward. Are you with me?”

“Yeah!” The blue one replied. The green one sighed. “Fine. But only if I can bring my notebook. I want to be able to show Goliath what we’ve seen and learned while we’re out. You know, for… reconnaissance.”

“Reconn…?” The red one scratched his head.

“Like that movie we saw last night! James Bond! It means spying!” The blue one answered.

The eldest of the three rubbed his chin. “Yeah, good thinking! Xanatos must have a spyglass in this place somewhere, we can say we’re scanning the horizon for more… Vikings?”

“The Vikings are a football team now.” The broad one pointed out. “Unless we wanna go see a real live football game! Oh boy, I’ve always wanted to see one of those!”

The cunning one smiled. “Easy enough excuse. I think I saw on the news that there’s a New York Jets game going on. If we’re lucky, we can catch it before the game ends! See it for real this time instead of on TV!”

“Yeah!” The blue gargoyle’s small eyes lit up, his earfins perking up with his smile. “They’re supposed to be fighting the… Saint Francis Foreigners?”

“Yeah, the Jets have a skirmish against the Foreigners!” The green one hopped up, toe and claw in the wall, and kicked off. He glided away over the rabbit ears of the TV and over the back of the couch. He landed lightly at the table on the other side of the old armory. “I mean, we’re supposed to defend our home against foreign invaders. Right? We’re just finding out what we’re defending against!” He began shuffling through drawers, hunting for his notebook and a pencil.

“It’s not ‘Foreigners', it’s ‘49ers’, guys.” The ruddy one rolled his eyes. “The New York Jets versus the San Francisco 49ers, at the Giants Stadium. It’ll be their first home game since… since the Twin Towers.”

The green one belted on a small fanny pack, weaving it through his pierced underarm wings. “Don’t worry. We’re only going to a football game, it’s not like we’ll run into trouble.”

“Do you have to say that?” The blue gargoyle moaned.

Chapter Text

Mikey kicked his two-toed feet up on the stool in front of him, his pale gray eyes narrowed in concentration as he carefully tapped the A button of his GameBoy. He watched, eyes inches away from the tiny glowing screen. He listened to the tick and ding of the Celadon City slot machine. 

“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon…” He urged the tiny slot machine, hoping that the 7s would line up for him. It spun, and spun, and slowly pixels fell into place. He threw up his fists in the air. “Whoo!” He grinned, spinning on one foot. “Awright! Mikey, bringin’ in that sweet, sweet Poké-Moolah!”

Leonardo looked up from his book. “You better not be spending all our money at the slot machine, Mikey. We need more Super Potions to beat Erika.”

“But…” Mikey held up the grubby GameBoy with its cracked L button to his brother, eyes big, wide, and full of pleading for elder-brother approval. “I’m workin’ on getting us money for Dratini, bro.”

Leonardo leaned away from it, eyes narrowing as he very, very slowly pushed his brother’s hand away. “I don’t want to know how many more Team Rocket grunts I need to turtle-wax to cover up what it takes to keep Slash from fainting again in a Grass-type Gym. Just… don’t lose all our cash on the Game Corner.”

“Don’t worry, bro!” Mikey said, cheerily grinning his gap-toothed grin. “I swear on my ninja honor, I will keep our Fifth Turtle Bro alive!” He spun around in the broken office chair at the end of their living room in the Lair, happily engrossing himself in what Leo knew would be several hours of fun for Mikey, and endless hours grinding battles for him and Raph to recoup their lost cash.

One single video game, and it was a copy of Pokémon Green. And they all had to share it. Mikey took the household video game more seriously than the others did. Splinter only allowed it because as often as it brought Mikey and Raph almost to blows over a stupid game, it forced them to share and cooperate. Donnie was temporarily grounded from it, given that he speedran the game and got their entire team of ‘mons to Level 100 in a single sleepless night. The reset was a truly, truly painful moment for them all. Just one of the facts of life when you grow up in a house full of brothers. 

Don was out with Splinter, getting blankets and a propane tank for the heater. Today was October 1st. That meant that on top of their usual pains finding food, gas, and money, their family had to get ready to winterize the Lair. That came with a massive list of chores: checking the insulation, clearing tunnels of debris, re-caulking the front door, digging out winter clothes, stocking food and water, and a dozen other things. The winter to-do list formed the thin paper line that kept them from getting swept out to sea by the snowmelt rushing from the streets. Just one of the facts of life when your family's home was in a storm sewer.

Leo put a bookmark in his book, closing it and leaving it on the split and cracked sidetable. He stood up and walked over to his brother. He held out his hand. “Alright, my turn on flood lookout.”

“Aww.” Mikey pouted, pulling the GameBoy closer to the plastron of his shell. “But I thought it was still my turn!”

“You’ve been ‘on watch’ for three hours.” Leo shifted to his other hip. “You know the rules. You only get the GameBoy if you’re at the flap gate.”

 Rather than argue, Michelangelo shrugged. “Eh, it’s okay. I think I tapped out my luck for the day anyway. Have fun getting Chibi-Kitsune strong enough to beat Erika, Leo!” He waved, and started off towards the dojo. 

“Where are you going?”

Mikey grinned, the gap in his slightly crooked teeth almost widening with his smile. “Donnie said he was going to try and finish the ukemi setup when he and Sensei got home. I wanted to see him fall flat on his shell!”

“See if you can get Raph to help, those crash mats are too heavy for us to handle by ourselves.” He started standing up, saving and powering off the game console to help.

Leo didn't even realize it until a second later that Mikey had bumped the back of Leo's knee with just enough force to make him sit back down. “No ‘ourselves’ about it, Leo. You’ve been studying for three hours, you gotta take a break before your brains melt out of your nostrils.” Mikey giggled. He spun on his foot and turned left, towards Raphael’s room in their Lair. “I’ll go get him.”

Leo sighed. Michelangelo had an innate talent for telling exactly when Leo needed a break  and somehow convincing him to actually take one. He smiled down at the GameBoy in his hand, and powered it back on with a flick of his thumb. The familiar, cheerful arpeggiated chord and the bright 8-bit ding seemed to tickle some part in the back of the turtle’s brain. It tugged a smile on his cheeks and gently set his shell into the rocking chair next to the half-ton steel flap gate. He checked the yardstick taped to the wall. The water level was fine.

Relax. Right. He could relax.

He looked over the save file. Well, they were down to 1100 yen, from almost enough to get the damn bike. But the coin case honestly looked pretty good. It actually looked really good. He cracked all six of his knuckles. “Alright, Slash. Time to train.” He bravely put the party’s Wartortle out in front, and ventured out into the grass on Nana Bandōro , Route 7.

After several minutes of stomping Bellsprout and Meowth–or, at least, Madatsubomi and Nyarth –Leo felt something tingling in his face. Some twitch under his eye. Something was wrong, but he couldn’t quite tell what. He wanted to shove away the feeling and go back to his game, enjoy the rare peace and quiet. But his sixth sense wouldn’t let him. He sniffed. No, the sanitary line hadn’t overflowed again. And the carbon monoxide detector hadn’t beeped in months.

Annoyed that not even his subconscious could go one hour without nagging him, he stepped out of the tall grass, saved the game, and shut off the GameBoy. He holstered it in the stitched pocket of the rocking chair. He checked the yardstick again–still at normal height–and got up to find Mikey.

“Hey, Mike?” Leo called out as he re-entered the Lair. “Mi-ike?”

The Lair was shaped like an L with two horns. Plastic room dividers marked each of the brothers' rooms on the long side of the L. The living room and kitchen formed the short end, leading to the front door. The left horn led to a tunnel that ended in a parking garage and the right horn led to the bathroom and the dojo. Originally built as a liquor cache for the mob during Prohibition, the Lair had a hidden passage concealed behind the tiny safety closet for stranded sewer workers. The concrete door to the passage had been left open all day to air out the place after Leo's cooking fiasco.

Splinter's carpentry skills were evident in the living room, which was filled with furniture that he had built or rebuilt himself. Reed mats and a red carpet adorned the floor, and six sitting pillows surrounded a short-legged table. Tall black lamps provided a warm and consistent light throughout the room, and a propane tank fitted with a metal lamp provided heat. The kitchen was made up of a propane-fueled oven and a sink from an old RV, and the fridge was likely from the Reagan era. It was covered in magnets shaped like little throwing stars, pinning up pieces of artwork or quotes by great masters like Miyamoto Musashi and Dolly Parton. The living room table held a small black iron tea kettle and a few Silver Sentry comic books. Leo removed a throwing star bookmark from one of the comics and replaced it with a coaster, reminding Mikey of the no-weapons-on-the-table rule.

“Mike? You and Raph still want help setting up those crash mats?” Leo pushed aside the sliding door into the dojo.

If the living room was quaint, warm, and comfortable, the dojo was stately, cool, and carried a sort of sacred air to it; like the feeling one got when walking into a temple or cathedral. There was a small fountain in a shrine on the wall opposite the entryway. It was actually a bird bath that they’d found and scoured clean. Inside it was an intricate sculpture of a coiling Eastern dragon, with a lithe and supple snake-like body and fierce talons reared back and raised as if to strike. Ryujin, their dojo’s kami , or teacher-god.

 Leo respectfully nodded to the shrine, and saw Mikey standing in the corner, next to a rack of staves, holding a piece of paper. He was biting his nails.

“Mikey, you’re chewing your nails.”

“Well, I’m nervous.”

“What’s that paper you’re holding, and why would you be nervous?”

“I’m not nervous for me.” Mikey held up the paper, holding it out to his brother. “I’m nervous for what Sensei is going to do to Raph when he gets home.”

Leo’s stomach shriveled into a cold, dry-ice snowball as the dreaded words on the note sunk in.

Wanted to go see a football game. I’ll be at Giants Stadium watching the Jets thrash the 49ers. Be home whenever. I’ll stick to the shadows. I promise, I won’t do anything dumb.

–Raph

Leo wanted to crumple the note into his hands and throw it at the little fountain, watch the ink bleed into the water and the paper disintegrate. Instead, he took a deep, slow breath through his nostrils. 

Mikey grimaced, innocently swinging his foot. “So… I’m not in trouble for handing that to you, right?

“Nope.”

“We’re gonna tell Splinter, right?”

“Yep.”

Michelangelo closed his eyes. He took a deep breath in through his nose as well. He let it out in a long, sympathetic wince. “Oooh. Raph’s gonna be pissed when Sensei makes us find him and drag him home.”

Chapter Text

“Fans, at this time, we ask you all to please rise. Three weeks ago, Americans’ hearts were filled with sorrow. Tonight, America is standing tall. We salute all the heroes who have spent tireless days and nights keeping America’s hopes and pride alive. Our hearts, prayers, and thoughts go out to the families and friends of the victims of these tragedies. Please, remain standing as we pause for a moment of silence.”

Throughout the Giants Stadium, the thick silence was broken only by a very small scattered number of dwindling cheers. That night, in the distance across the Hudson River, the Empire State Building glowed in stripes of red, white, and blue. Fans on both sides of the stadium wore their teams’ colors. But outnumbering them by far were the ones decked in the same patriotic hues and carrying tiny pennants in their echoing stripes as they bowed their heads. Some quietly wept. Others lowered their gaze to their shoes, or to the hole in the skyline that they knew would never be filled again. Rather than the common rivalry amongst fans of the sport, that night they were united by one thing; national grief.

For three members of the audience in particular, this brief moment of quietude was particularly striking. They sat, hunched in the shadows above the stadium, in the dark shadows of the billboards surrounding the peak of the blaring, brightly lit valley. The moment of silence passed, and the game began with the national anthem.

“Man,” The broadest gargoyle wolfed down a hot dog easily half the size of his powerful forearm in one gulp. His earfin pricked up as he listened to the man’s intense and stirring voice belting the national anthem. “I knew that the towers falling down hurt these people badly. But aren’t they supposed to be enemies?”

“Not tonight, they’re not.” The clever one looked up from his book of complicated football rules. “I guess that sort of thing tends to pull people together behind a common good.”

“I guess.” Repeated the white-haired one. He stooped with his wings raised and tail outstretched for balance as he leaned over the billboard, claw dialing on the binoculars. “The man singing down there sure has a strong voice. What sort of magic is he using to make it carry so far?”

“Maybe he’s a bard.” The broad one polished off another hot dog. “You know, like the speakers and poets with the druids in the Green Isle. I’ve heard they’re incredible singers.” There was a roar from the crowd as a clot of white and green shapes moved and curled against one another across the field, like a flock of birds forming colorful clouds against the green canvas. The eldest passed his binoculars to the smallest among them so he could take a look.

“What did the referee say?” The eldest asked.

“Penalty in favor of the 49ers. I think that means they get a free kick?” The green one flipped his book open again, scanning the pages for a reference to the rule. He passed the binoculars to the blue one, flicking through the pages with one prehensile foot as he clung to the billboard with his other three claws.

“Man.” The broad one squinted into the frames of the binoculars. “This game sure is complicated. I wonder why they have to stop every time they take someone down?”

“Mostly to make sure that when the ball touches the ground or when the player gets taken down, they can mark it accurately. That, and in case anybody’s hurt.” The clever one replied.

And so the match continued for them, hiding behind the Verizon billboard as they watched the opposing swarms of green and white meet, clash, and break apart to follow the ball like tiny iron shavings to a lodestone. Tackle after tackle, throw after throw, run after run, it seemed like each spurt of action only lasted a few seconds. The red one found himself getting a little bored. He rested his beak on his knuckles, eyes beginning to droop. 

Being so far away sure made the game less interesting to watch. Seeing it on TV was almost better. But still, without his younger brother’s clarification and the help of his small book, it would have been even duller. Out of the three of them, the younger brother had always had the best eyesight. It was amazing what details he could see from even this distance. The way he described it, it was almost as if he were a few feet away, rather than almost a quarter mile.

The white-haired gargoyle finally had enough when they were almost through the second quarter. The team was doing well at first, but his warrior’s instincts had begun to tell him that the tides of this battle were beginning to turn in favor of the Foreigners. He sighed, kicking off the billboard and gliding down to the narrow walkway behind it. “Hey, I’m going to go see if we can find any more hotdogs. I think our friend here’s eaten all of them.”

“Hm?” The youngest one didn’t look up from his transfixed stare with his enormous, bulbous eyes down at the field. “Oh, yeah, sure. Just make sure no one sees you.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t be spotted.” He waved a casual hand, dismissing the concern. “Besides, who would believe that hot dog vendor?” He shrugged with a smirk. He lifted his wings, pointed his tail, and leapt off to glide away from the humans towards the dark of the parking lot.

-

Inside the stadium, Raphael tugged his American flag ski mask down around his neck as it began to ride up. His neck was a lot thicker than the average human’s, and the elastic in this fabric face-sock was clearly displeased by this as it kept migrating north towards his chin. He had to stand on his seat to get a good look at the field as well, and it was starting to get on his nerves. 

Why didn’t the ooze at least give them six feet? Did he and his brothers have to end up five-foot-two?

He grunted in frustration. Screw this, he was going to go up higher. He put his mittened hands into his deep pockets, fishing around for his shuko spikes. He elbowed his way past the crowd, and started to make his way through the bleachers and down the walkway, towards the concession stands.

-

He just wanted to cling to the dark underside of those stands and watch the sea of lights forever. The smell of diesel in the air held a newness, an exotic and intoxicating perfume like a lotus to his finely tuned senses. He took the cool, autumn air in slowly through his nostrils and slowly let it out between his serrated teeth. 

“Ah… man, I love that smell.” His smile seemed to glow with bliss. 

New York. It was right in its name. No more dreary, drafty castle with humans too pompous and soft to relish the real vigor of life. Not like this city. These people lived, breathed, and shouted freedom every second of their lives with every movement they made. No one could tell them what to do! No rulers, no kings, no lord in charge of it all to make them roost on the wall by day. They did what they wanted, when they wanted it, however the hell they felt like doing it. 

It was a city that sang to his soul with the twinkle, glitter, and glow in its rivers of water and traffic lights. He had, well and truly, fallen in love with 2001.

His claws gripped the iron girder of the stadium as he sniffed again, this time closing his eyes to hunt for the unmistakable aroma of the best of this world’s new delicacies; the sidewalk hot dog cart frankfurters. His finely tuned, bloodhound-like sense of smell did not fail him. He kicked off from the girder, leaping from one to the next like a squirrel between trees. Lithe and quiet, he kept his wings pinned in a narrow A-shape. The further he kept his wings spread, the noisier his glide. He had to be quiet for this operation.

He sniffed again. “Right where I left you.” 

It smelled like he was down to about half the hot dogs he’d had before. He felt disappointed as he snuffled in the darkness two hundred or so feet away; no more chili dogs. Or onion sauce. Oh well, it wasn’t like his rookery brothers were horribly picky eaters. He folded his wings and curled his tail around the crossbeam, swinging into a much more comfortable upside-down position while he waited patiently for the hot dog vendor to leave his cart unattended.

It didn’t take long. The hot dog man stood up with a stretch, lazily leaning against the stem of the red and yellow umbrellas over his cart. He started to get up to leave his cart for a moment, probably to use the restroom. The gargoyle tensed, ready to drop down and make a dash for the goods, when he spotted a figure approaching the cart. 

The figure was upwind from him. Short with an unusually bulky coat, wrapped up head to toe, he sauntered up to the hot dog vendor. The gargoyle contained his disappointment. He could wait until after he–hold on a moment…

The gargoyle sniffed the wind. A new smell was in the air. Not human. At least, he didn’t smell like any human he had ever encountered. There was a subtle sort of stink about him, like the odor of a deep wet place with no light. His eyes narrowed, clouding over with a whitish glow. Something was different here.

-

“One please, with lots of relish.” Raphael handed the hot dog man five bucks.

The hot dog man, a moon-faced human with a frame to match, took the money and picked up a dog with a greasy pair of tongs. “How’s the game?”

“Lousy.” Raphael grunted. “Jets have shit defense this season.”

“Shame.” The hot dog man sighed, shaking the bottle heavily before squirting relish across the dog. “I was hopin’ for a win tonight. God knows we could use one. You want that wrapped, or in a boat?”

“I’ll take it wrapped. Thanks.” Raph took the foil-wrapped dog, and stuck it in his pocket as he began to walk away.

“Hey, watch yourself tonight, eh?” The hot dog man called. “Plenty of nutcases get piss-drunk at these kinds of games. You don’t wanna run into any weirdos in the dark like this.”

Raphael scoffed. “I can handle myself.” 

The hot dog man sighed, putting away the roll of foil. “Whatever, man. Just looking out for a–” He looked up and blinked in surprise when he noticed that his customer was gone. He looked around, leaning out over the counter as he tried to spot the man who he swore was here only a moment ago. “Huh.” He scratched his head with the hot dog tongs, moon-like face scrunched in befuddlement. He shrugged, wiped his hands off on his greasy apron, and decided to put it out of his mind.

-

The gargoyle far above watched the human leave the cart and make his way towards the privies on the other side of the parking lot. His mind had been on food, but now his attention was caught on the whatever-it-was that managed to vanish into thin air, right in front of him. If it hadn’t been for his keen smell, the winged hunter would have most certainly lost track of him.

He let go with his tail, wings snapping open to fill with wind like a parachute as he landed lightly on the ground. He slunk towards the hot dog cart, claws making short work of the flimsy aluminum door latch. Stuffing a plastic bag with all the franks and buns he could grab, he was in and out of the glare of the street lamp in a few short moments. He quickly scaled the scaffolding again, but instead of returning immediately to his brothers, he scoured the night for any sign of the stranger. A pensive growl rippled in his gullet. At least he had the stranger’s scent, for now. He could find him later on in the night if the game ever got too boring.

A gargoyle’s curiosity was not something easily waylaid.

Back at the billboard, the red one opened the bag of spoils for his brothers. “Oh, delicious!” The smallest one grabbed a frank and a bun, and began to eat. He savored every single bite. The larger gargoyle grabbed two fistfuls of the stolen goods and scarfed them down in a split second. “I am never going to get used to how good the food is in this century!” He said around a mouthful of bread and sausage. “Fhankff, bruff’r!”

“Huh? Yeah, no problem.” He barely stirred, eyes fixed in the direction of the hot dog cart, and the vanished stranger. 

“Hm? Whash fa ma’er?” The blue one mumbled, crumbs falling from his lips.

“I saw something odd while I was waiting for the merchant human to leave.” He muttered. “Someone who was definitely not a human.”

“Another gargoyle?” The green one asked, bulbous wide eyes opened wider.

“Maybe.” The eldest affirmed. “I dunno yet.”

-

Raphael hugged his body as close as possible to the steel standard of the scaffold. His shuko spikes hooked onto the bolts and welds of each girder as he scaled the stadium, arms burning with the effort. But, of course, he relished the challenge. What ninja turtle wouldn’t?

Hand over three-fingered hand, he made his way up the one-hundred and forty feet of steel beams until he could reach the narrow maintenance walkway. With a grunt, he leapt five straight feet into the air. He landed noiselessly on the catwalk, just as the crowd erupted with a cheer. A few feet higher, and he had found himself behind a flimsy billboard on the 49ers side of the stadium. He lowered himself into a comfortable squat, peering around the vinyl sheet advertising Hollywood Video. The blare of the stadium floodlights drowned out the darkness behind them, where he hid in its comfortable veil. 

The third quarter had started, and the Jets looked like they were beginning to lose. What a disappointment. He shook his head as he pulled the hot dog from his pocket. He unwrapped it, rolled up his ski mask, and took a big bite. “Terrific. The one time we were counting on you to kick some shell, and you land flat-footed.” He muttered around his food. 

His heart thudded behind the plastron of his shell. His eyes narrowed behind his ski mask, muscles bunched underneath his trench coat.

He had no idea how. And he had no idea who… but he felt like he was being observed.

Chapter Text

“Anything on your end, guys?” 

<”Nope.”> <”Negatory.”> <”Nothing in Central Park.”>

April’s head bumped against the brick wall. This would be going so much faster if Casey could use his phone. But there was too much cell interference at the stadium, they couldn’t get a single call out to him. Out of all of them, he had the best chance of finding Raph undetected. But, cast your nets wide, especially when you’re looking for a ninja. If it were just in Manhattan, then Raph would have been fine. But none of them were at all familiar with the underground on the other side of the river. Raph was running blind, and had no guaranteed safe escape back to the sewers. And with a crowd of humans that big…

“Dammit.” She grunted into the mouthpiece of the cell phone. “I’ve been listening to the police scanner all night. No mutant sightings, turtle or otherwise.”

<”April, this is Splinter. Have you gone to speak with the authorities?”>

“Yeah, the taxi just dropped me off at the precinct. I’m going to see if I can use my student press pass to get in and follow some cops around. If I hear anything about Raphael, you’ll be the first one I call, Master Splinter.”

<”April, this is Donnie.”> Her friend’s voice crackled over the line. <”Don’t wave around your press pass unless you have to, cops don’t talk to journalists. Even if they’re just for the high school paper. Just stick to the missing car story. If it goes south, call us and we’ll do the thing.”>

“Got it.”

Mikey whined over the receiver. <”Aww. Why do you get to be the grandma? I wanted to be the grandma this time!”>

April chuckled. “It was your turn last time, Mikey. I gotta go before a cop sees me. I’ll text you as soon as I turn anything up.”

<”Good luck, Miss O’Neil.”> <”Ciao for now!”> <”Contact us as soon as anything happens.”>

With a click, April folded up her cell phone and slipped it back into her yellow coat’s front pocket. She brushed a strand of red hair out of her eyes, and pushed her glasses up her nose. She took in a deep breath, and let it out. She put her hand on the handle of the front door of police precinct.

“If you’re trying to be a sneaky, kid, you’re not doing a good job of it.”

A woman’s voice, right behind her! April yelped, whirling around and putting up her fists in a stance that protected her face–and left her entire midriff exposed–as she tried to face her attacker for a fight. She scrunched her face up, ready for a Foot Clan attack.

“Relax kid. Unless you want to punch a detective.” The woman laughed. She held out a hand like sun-browned wheat, gently pushing down April’s balled up and useless fists.

The detective, a woman as dark and stormy as the clouds overhead with a long and wavy mane of black hair, folded her arms over her jacket and smugly smiled down at the lanky and gangly teenage girl. She had lean legs and a set to her jaw and shoulders that made her seem much taller than she actually was. She had a magnetic feel to her, some charisma that shook the ideas of a grandma with dementia and stolen cars out of April’s head and replaced them with meaningless, babbling words. 

April stammered over her words. “Grandma. Car. Stolen!” She spluttered out.

“Your grandma stole a car, or her car was stolen? Whichever excuse you’re going to make for being on the footsteps of a police precinct at eleven o'clock at night had better be a damn good one.”

“I… I’m a journalist for the school paper.” She forced out. “I-I have my student press pass and everything.” April held up her school ID proudly, her yearbook picture smiling above her name and her treasured role in her school. “April O’Neil, Editor in Chief at Rob Paulsen High, Class of ‘04.”

“Cute. Detective Elisa Maza, 23 Precinct.” She clapped April on the back. “Aaaand you’re out after curfew.”

April stiffened her lip, her voice hard. “Am I under arrest?”

“You’re being gently encouraged to go inside and call your folks before you get arrested.” Elisa shrugged. 

“If I am not being detained, then I am free to leave.”

“Oh boy.” Elisa sighed, voice soaked with exhausted sarcasm. “Look here, a kid who passed her civics class. Good on you, I studied at Columbia. Great program. Now get inside the precinct and call for a ride home, or I will cuff you and then I’ll be your ride home. And trust me, whoever you live with isn’t going to be happy about it.”

April gnawed at her lip. “Alright, fine, I’ll go inside.”

“Good girl.”

“Don’t call me that.”

-

Inside the precinct, April kept her thumb on the dial of her scanner radio in her pocket, her bright yellow Walkman headphones jammed angrily over her thick, frizzy hair. She grumbled as she kept listening to static-choked voices repeat numbered codewords and cross-streets. More traffic stops. Expired license plate. Shooting on Canal Street, that turned out to be a car backfiring. Drunk driver. Sounded like the cops were bored tonight, which meant that April had struck out. She certainly hoped the Turtles were having better luck finding their brother than she was. For her? It seemed like tonight was a wash.

She’d called ‘Grannie Donna’ and explained that she knew it was eleven at night, and the Big Apple was a dangerous place for young ladies. She was safe at the 23rd Police Precinct, no she hadn’t been arrested, yes she was going to take the bus home, and yes she would love some pie.

April and the Turtles had developed their own codes to use when they may be eavesdropped upon. All of them had ‘grandma names’, or codenames. If she said she knew what time it was, it meant that everything was alright. If she apologized for waking them up, it was an emergency. If she said she’d take a taxi, it meant to meet her there after she’d given the all-clear. Taking the bus meant she’d go to them. If she asked for a ride, it meant to come quickly and stealthily. 

The bit about pie meant that she owed them a pizza for this. And that, she wasn’t looking forward to forking over. 

-

“A kid loitering around a police station at 11 at night?” Officer Morgan blew over his coffee. “Sounds like a kid in trouble, or a kid looking for trouble.”

“Morgan, you know I’m no good with kids.” Elisa nibbled on her donut. “I mean, hell, I barely ever was a kid, what with chasing my brother and sister around and minding them. And this one is, what, Twelve? Thirteen? How old is the graduating class of ‘04?”

“Fifteen to sixteen. My son’s in ‘05.”

“See? You have kids her age, you should go talk to her.”

“You’re also a woman, and this is a young woman. Sorry, Detective, but rules are rules. Ladies talk to ladies unless they say otherwise.” Morgan chided her.

“Can I say otherwise?”

“Not on the clock.”

“Damn.” Elisa paused. “Wait a minute. Clocks.” She looked over at the oven timer in the precinct break room. 10:58. There was something that kid had said earlier on the phone to her grandma… “Hey, Morgan, when does the M-90 stop doing its routes past the precinct?”

“About ten. Why?”

Maza set her donut on the counter. “That kid isn’t taking the bus home.”

-

April’s backpack felt particularly heavy against her back as she started speedwalking away from the police precinct. She bit down every urge she had to mutter under her breath as she peered at the reflective outer edge of her glasses. 

April didn't actually need glasses. She had this pair's lenses half-painted with a coat of one-way mirror polish, which she’d borrowed from her school’s machine shop. She didn’t need them to see ahead of her; she used them to check over her own shoulder. 

She ducked into a basement entrance for some neglected office space, and quickly shrugged off her backpack. She squatted there in the dark, nose wrinkling at the vague odor of what she knew was human urine, and pulled out her phone to text her friends. 

> Struck out here at the precinct. Cop busted 

me for curfew, I had to bail.

< Yeah, we figured. We’ve been following 

the rooftops and sewers around the Giants

 Stadium. There was an upset in the crowd, 

and we saw something big fly towards it. We 

think it might be something to do with Raph.

> The game lasted that long?

< Wasn’t much of a game to watch. The 

other guys got 13 touchgoals in the second 

inning.

> lol Donnie, u kinda suck at sports.

April snorted out of her nose, a smile creasing her eyes. She’d forgive him, the clueless genius that he was. Whether Casey would forgive this shocking lack of respect for the Sacred Institution of Football would remain to be seen. Besides, she was a casual Giants fan at best. She texted him again. 

> Map says I’m about 20 minutes out by taxi. U 

still wanna meet?

There was a long pause. Then, a reply popped up on her screen. Her phone buzzed in her fingers.

< Please, April, let us leave frickin’ Jersey. I 

need to wash the stink of petty mediocrity out 

of my socks. We’ll come to you. Be back in 

Manhattan in about an hour.

April burst out laughing at that. She closed her phone, and stood up, dusting herself off. She mounted the steps, and turned to keep going down the sidewalk and she nearly walked face-first into the arms of Detective Maza.

“Hi, kid. Did you miss your bus?”

April's brain didn't even process the decision between fight or flight. It picked for her, adrenaline springing into her legs and shoving her in a direction at random! Anywhere, anywhere away from here! The strap of her backpack caught on the handrail and the weight and momentum of her desperate dash caught the flimsy fabric and it ripped itself apart. The contents of April's backpack scattered across the sidewalk, right in front of the Detective's hawk-like glare. Her police codebook, her scanner radio, her rope and tool bag, all of it.

Sewer apples.

Chapter Text

The game was over fairly soon after that. It was another hour of embarrassment for New York, and the 49ers pushed forth through their defense like it was cardboard. As the game ended, Raphael melted into the darkness in the audience exit tunnel, quietly dropping down from the scaffolding well out of sight and joining the outbound crowd.  

His brothers were overreacting. He didn't understand why it was such a big deal to them that they'd never mapped anything west of the Lincoln Tunnel. He was a ninja, they all were. Escape and evasion was something they could do in their sleep, and he was hardly an exception. Storm sewers were storm sewers; just keep following the line down its slope, and eventually you'd hit the river. It was easy.

He scoffed. If anything, tonight proved that they could blend in with humans if they had to. That game went two hours, and not a single human gave him a second glance, and he planned to treat tonight like the feather in his cap–er, mask–that it should be. He fooled a stadium of people. Even if his team lost tonight, he was practically high on that win. God, he loved being a ninja.

There was an upset in the crowd ahead of him, the rolling sea of human bodies rippling as a wave of people pushed him several steps back. There were gasps, laughs, jeers, and calls for whatever was ahead to 'Fight! Fight! Fight!' Someone was shouting 'World Star!!' Raph elbowed his way through the crowd before it became a crush. The sooner he could get around this fight, the better. 

Oh, but curiosity is a bitch. Raph loved watching amateurs fight. It was like watching your little cousins pretend they were Jackie Chan and Bruce Lee, and then proceed to whack each other with pool noodles. To Raph, seeing the hilariously impotent slap-fest that came with most street brawls was pure, free serotonin. He couldn’t help it. He had to see it.

Raph craned his neck to try and get a good look at who was beating the crap out of who. As soon as he saw it, he closed his eyes and growled under his breath with enormous exasperation. “Whyyy.”

Of course it would be Casey Goddamn Jones.

-

The gargoyle’s white hair fluttered in the faint southerly breeze as he looked out over the water. “Not good. We definitely don’t have enough height or wind to make it over the river at this rate. And this is the tallest perch for at least a few miles. Any ideas?”

The cunning one chewed his lip. “I’m really not a fan of being on the ground, guys. Especially for miles of walking, with this many humans so close…” The blue one set his fingertips against his fangs, chewing on one of them with worry in his eyes. 

The white-haired one grit his small, sharp teeth. “We… made a slight miscalculation here, didn’t we?”

The broad one made a nervous noise. “If we wait here until the crowd clears–” 

“–we might not get home by dawn.” The olive brother finished. “I think we’re in trouble.”

The eldest put his claws in his hair, gritting his teeth and looking distraught. “Okay. We can work with this, the night’s still young, and we’re not stone yet. We just need to think. What would Goliath and his mate do?”

“Well…” The smallest sat down on the maintenance walk and crossed his legs, eyes closed in thought. “Let’s think about what’s around us. The humans need to get back to their carriages to make it back to their homes, right? And they can only stay on the roads, which are really well-lit.”

“We need a map.” The ruddy one thumped his fist into his palm, catching onto the idea. “If we can find a way to bypass the humans and avoid the carriage roads, we can stick to darker and quieter places until we can find somewhere to climb.”

“I guess that’s a plan.” The largest one said, doubt tugging at his frown. “Did we bring a map from the castle?”

The cunning one fished around in his fanny pack. “I got the sports book, my notebook, a pen, aaand…” He pulled each of these out. “I don’t believe it, this map is of Manhattan. It doesn’t cover this area.”

The red one snarled, the sound sharp and low and blood-curdling. “Dammit. Okay. We’ll have to scout around. One of us looks for a safe path on the ground, and the others–” He paused. Then his beak fell open. He stooped down, picking up a discarded silver-and-green streamer, cast aside by a disappointed fan. It glittered emerald gold in the orange-toned service light. “We don’t know how to get out of here without getting spotted. But I can follow someone who does. ”

- 

“Yeah, that’s right! You can take that West Coast garbage and–” Casey’s fighting words were cut short with a left hook like a rocket to his face. The knuckles of the man made contact with the surface of his hockey mask, and for a moment, Jones could hear the impact make the plastic resin creak like wood. The sharp bite of the plastic against his skin stung, but far less than the full force blow. 

“Now that’s more like it!” Casey flexed his fingers into fists, knuckles in close and tight with the square of his shoulders. He dipped his head down, black hair dancing over the ghoulish skull-shaped form of the hockey mask on his face. His ice-blue eyes flickered with fire. Left, left, gut check, and block! He knew the bruises would hurt today, but god, he felt so damn alive.

His opponent, a man decked in gold, orange, and black with facepaint to match, leered at him. “‘Fraid I’ll mess up your pretty face, Yankee?”

“Saves you the embarrassment of knowin’ someone’s prettier’n you!” Casey taunted with a flip of his fingers, his words slightly slurred by something between his teeth. The man rushed, and Casey dropped to his hands and swung his leg in a kick, connecting with the man’s ankles, and then spinning up into a starfish kip-up. The trip took the man completely by surprise, sending him flying into the ground. The crowd whispered, like the shock wave of a sonic boom. He felt a spark of pride. Mikey showed him that trick.

Out of the crowd, a hand grabbed Casey’s shoulder, rough and forceful, points of the fingertips tight and unyielding. Jones grabbed the wrist and tried to go for a lock, but the owner slipped out of it before he could commit and ended up spinning Casey around like a ballerina on a banana peel. He yelped as he stumbled in a circle, whirling around to face the next assailant.

“Back off, creep!”

“Jones, who the shell are you calling a creep?” Was his retort.

Casey stopped. He pulled up the hockey mask and squinted at the short man in the Old Glory ski hood. His nose was crooked with a small hump, like he’d broken it at least twice in his life. But the way it set against his thick black brows and strong cheeks, he looked just like a young Val Kilmner. To Raph’s utter non-surprise, Casey’s teeth were orange until he spat out his mouthguard. “Raphael, that you? Man, took you long enough to show up!”

“Casey, what is this?”

Casey stood up straight and smiled broadly. His mouth guard–which he wore everywhere like a lucky charm–dangled from his neck on a lanyard. “Well, this is me tryin’ to find you, Raphie-boy! April said, ‘Do something that’d get Raph’s attention’, so I did!”

Well, it worked. “You’re a frickin’ bonehead.”

Casey just wriggled his eyebrows, smug as a carpet-beetle in a rug. “Let’s get outta here, Leo said the parking meter goes off in 20 minutes.”

“Leo?!” Raph balked. “Why the shell is–” No thought. Raph dropped into a squat, leaning to his left as he felt the whiz of an outstretched hand slash the air where his head had been. Reaction unslowed by his surprise, Raph collected the would-be mask-snatcher’s arm like a fisherman plucking a catfish out of the river with his bare hands. He took the man’s punch along his wrist, elbow, shoulder, back, and followed his whole body with the movement, slamming him back-first into the dirt with a WHUMP.

The man groaned, and the crowd started going wild. Raphael’s anxiety was fanned by the flash of cameras going off. Raphael wasted no time grabbing Casey by the arm and shoving him in a random direction with a hissed, “Go, go, go!”

They rushed headlong through the crowd, secrecy and stealth evaporating with each camera flash and each streetlight they passed. A cluster of orange-and-black clad figures gave chase, their angry shouts like the baying of warhounds. 

“The hell did you say to piss them off, Casey?!” Raph panted. 

“I told them LA has better sushi, California's for rich softies, and naming yourself after miners is stupid.”

“Where’s the van?”

“There!”

Neither of them gave it a moment’s thought when they popped open the doors of the white Volkswagen minibus, closed it behind them, and took several deep breaths inside. 

“I think we lost ‘em.” Casey panted. "Leo, you rea–" He looked up at the empty driver's seat.

It took the two of them about a half second to realize that they were in the wrong van. It took another for them both to realize that they heard footsteps rapidly approaching their location.

Chapter Text

The Eyrie Building was 90 storeys tall, a gothic spire of black stone, polished steel, and solar-glass. It blossomed from the ground and pierced the heavens with its dark needle, crowned by the toothy crenels atop the towers of Castle Wyvern. It was ornamented down its length with leering stone gargoyles and flying buttresses, seemingly designed to match the castle above. There were perks to having your office on the top floor of the now-tallest building in New York City. Perks like having a twenty-foot tall wall of glass with an unobstructed view of all Manhattan.

Granted, it wasn’t as comfortable a sight as it once had been. Most especially given that he had been in the North Tower at a business meeting just the day Before. 

David Xanatos looked out at this view over one shoulder. His perfectly shaped lips and aquiline nose creased as he smiled. His dark, wide eyes glinted with cunning. With his bronze skin, long ponytail, and well-groomed goatee, he cut a figure that would make one think of an ancient Greek king. He was undeniably a handsome man, and he wore his charisma in a way that subtly told the room that he knew the magnetism he possessed.

He sipped his water from his glass, his neat suit unrumpled by his easy and comfortable posture in the power chair. He smacked his lips. "Are you sure I can't interest you in some? It's cucumber-mint. Fresh this morning."

"No."

"Well, you'll break Owen's heart." Xanatos was charming and apologetic as he smoothly spun his chair to face his guest. "He is so proud of his refreshments."

"I do not drink in another's home." The guest said firmly.

"Suspecting poison? Well, rest assured, I'm not nearly so foolish."

"Others have been. You understand."

"Oh, all too well, Mr. Oroku." Xanatos sighed. "Wealth attracts enemies."

Mr. Oroku sat stiffly in his chair, unearthly in his disciplined stillness. Xanatos could hardly see him breathe, let alone blink. His features were thin and narrow, all deep angles. His vampire-pale skin and slick iron-black hair painted him in the shades of a film-noir villain. His features were unmarred by blemish or mark, save for three thin scars that began at his temple, passed over his milky right eye, and ended at the bottom of his chin. His thin lips stretched an insincere smile. "Believe me. I am well accustomed to enemies."

"Well." Xanatos blinked, mildly put off. "I believe your lawyers have had time to look over the final draft of my proposed amendments?"

"You drive a very hard bargain." Oroku said, a voice that was so cold he could have frosted the table with his breath. "A 55-45 share in the profits is not attractive to my associates. Your research team had better be worth it."

"Oh, I trust that they'll go quite a long way at TCRI. I’m certain that you and Dr. Sevarius will get along famously." He smiled that charming smooth smile. "This compound is going to revolutionize medicine. Longevity, degenerative diseases, paralysis, the common cold." He winked. "At least, that's what the press will say."

"You will have no shortage of healthy volunteers. But the mutagen must be perfected. Its instability has cost me dearly."

Xanatos raised his eyebrows. "You did mention 'containment issues' a few years back. These won't prove to be a hindrance, will they?"

Oroku’s eyes narrowed. In spite of himself, Xanatos felt the small hairs on the back of his neck prickling as his guest scowled. "If it must be done, I will see to the security of the site personally. "

Xanatos allowed himself a wary pause behind his unbreakable facade. "And our other contract?” He prompted. 

Oroku closed his eyes and breathed out through his nose. “Must this be a term of our deal?”

“Well, when in Rome.” Xanatos shrugged with a casual easiness. “Giving your Foot ninjas as well as the Pack a legitimate alibi is necessary. Being able to wave off witnesses’ statements with a film permit will be valuable, to you especially.”

“The Foot Clan is not a circus to be hired for your act.” Oroku warned him coldly.

“Now, I never said they were.” Xanatos deflected. “All warfare is based on deception. Hence, when we are able to attack, we must seem unable; when using our forces, we must appear inactive; when we are near, we must make the enemy believe we are far away; when far away, we must make him believe we are near.”

If Xanatos himself wasn’t convincing, Sun Tzu was more persuasive to the ears of the ninja lord. “The terms are agreed.” Oroku withdrew a small, slim case from his suit coat pocket. He removed a simple stamp, the size and shape of a roll of quarters, and pressed his red-ink signature on the line. He held out his hand for a handshake. “May our business together be prosperous.”

“It will be.” Xanatos assured him warmly with a firm grip. “Would you care to stay for dinner?”

Oroku said nothing. He clicked his fingers, and out of the shadows, a pair of men in skin-tight black body armor emerged. He simply stood up, and left the office. 

“Well. You’re welcome.” Xanatos muttered to himself. He sipped his water again, smacking his lips lightly. The phone on his desk beeped. <”Mr. Xanatos, Goliath wishes to see you.”>

“Perfect timing, Owen. Send him in.” He set the glass on his desk.

Xanatos heard the furious footfalls of the enormous monster as soon as the phone went silent. The doors were flung open, and there he was. Tall, dark, and caped in his own magnificence. He strode forward, tail lashing behind him. “We had an agreement, Xanatos.” He snarled.

“Goliath!” Xanatos beamed. “Would you like some water? It’s cucumber-mint.”

Goliath’s snarl did not fade. “Where are they?”

“You’re going to have to be–”

“ Our clan children are gone. ” He cut him off. “And you have little time before my patience follows.”

Xanatos raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Goliath, I assure you, I have no idea what you’re talking about. Our agreement remains inviolable; you protect the castle, and I protect you. If they’ve gone off on their own, that is their responsibility.”

“They are still children , Xanatos.” Goliath’s voice simmered with rage. “I do not expect you to understand that, by our ways, they are only on the cusp of adulthood. The humans are not ready, and neither are they!”

Xanatos closed his eyes, and shook his head, fingers knitted below his chin. “Goliath, I wish I could help you wrangle your three wayward teenagers. But I’m afraid that you know them better than I do. I can’t be of help; boys will be boys.”

Goliath’s tail slammed the floor, his wings flew open with a furious roar. So fierce was this display that the glass on Xanatos’ desk tipped over, spilling across the wood and glass. Xanatos, nonplussed by this outburst, lifted the signed contract out of harm’s way and simply mused, “You’re a glass-half-empty sort of person, aren’t you?”

There was a white flash of his eyes and a final snarl of impotent fury. Goliath turned with a flip of his tail and a flap of his wings, storming out of his office. The door slammed behind him, with enough force that Xanatos heard the metal door handle on the other side snap. 

Xanatos straightened the papers in his hand, tucking them into a manila folder. “I’ve always been a glass-half-full sort, myself.” He said to no one in particular.

-

Outside Xanatos’ office, Goliath stewed as he strode towards the elevator, his face a dark mask. He pushed the elevator button to return to the castle above, and quietly folded his arms under his caped wings. 

The elevator music was melodic, unobtrusive, and soothing. It was also an unforgivable insult to his ears. He drew his breath in and out through his nostrils, trying to breathe himself into calmness. Anyone who would have been unfortunate enough to share that elevator with him would have mistaken the sound for a bull getting ready to charge, horns first, through the steel door.

The elevator dinged, and Goliath stormed out. He nearly ran over their beast, who had been pacing in front of the door. He looked up at Goliath and growled, worry drooping his earfins and bulldog-like face. “Arrooo?”

Goliath paused mid-stomp. He un-caped his wings, relaxing for a bit. “It seems we shall need your nose tonight, my friend.”

“Arrf.” The beast rubbed himself against his knee, scratching his face on the rough, rock-like hide of his leg. The clan’s one and only surviving beast, and he likely didn’t even know it. How could he know he was the last of their kind too?

Goliath scratched the beast’s head with his long claws, and the beast’s tongue lolled out of his mouth. His hind leg started scritching at his belly, drawing a faint smile from Goliath’s stone-shielded heart. He heard Hudson before he saw him walking through the gravel courtyard in his direction. “Old mentor.” Goliath lowered his head respectfully. “Have you had any luck?”

“I found this in the TV room.” He pulled a piece of paper out of his belt pouch, holding it out to Goliath. “I think you ought to see it.”

He unfolded it, and read it under his breath. “Gone to a game to watch the… 49th and the Jests? We’ll be careful. Wanted to let you know so you wouldn’t worry. The map on the table will show where we are.” He looked up at the bearded gargoyle. “How far away are they?”

“You know I’m little use for maps. Never had a need of them when you could memorize the land.” He shook his head. “But they are due West of the castle. It appears to be a straight glide across the western river, well away from here.”

“Did you see any cliffs or heights to perch?”

“None.” He glowered. “Reckless children, the lot of them. Just like the young to forget that they need to find a way back.”

“Then we must go to them, at once.” Goliath folded the note, storing it in his own belt pouch. “We shall need to plan more carefully, perhaps prepare to take a boat across the river. Do we have hoods to hide our heads?”

“Aye, should be simple enough to find.” The elder gargoyle nodded. “That trick may be more difficult in these times, my friend. A thousand years is a great deal of time for the humans to change their dress.”

“It shall have to suffice. We’ve no alternative.” He rumbled. “We must make ready and depart as soon as possible. I’ve no love of leaving the castle unguarded, but we have only one way to track them.”

The beast sat his rump down, and boofed dutifully. He knew what to do.

Chapter Text

The eldest of the Wyvern Clan’s rookery children had a gift that set him apart from his brothers; Pycnofibers. Primitive hair-like feathers veiled the scales of his leathery wings, which let him glide and soar like an ancient pterodactyl. Not even Goliath could match his ability to gain altitude and stay airborne. His 20-foot wingspan and flexible tail could catch and direct even the finest and weakest of air currents. 

Unfortunately, there was absolutely no wind tonight. Not that height would help him smell out the stranger who had vanished into the night. His eyes, glowing the faintest white, peered through the brush of the meager little tree that stooped over the road. The branch underneath him creaked softly, all four of his claws clutching tightly and his tail wrapped around the trunk behind. He kept his wings caped, trying to shrink his profile as much as he could.

He sniffed again. There was a human with the stranger now. He smelled the two of them coming well before he saw them. Hunkering low, he tried to melt into the night. 

Two pairs of footfalls pounded towards him. “The hell did you say to piss them off, Casey?!” His quarry huffed. His friend–rich with the stink of a human–replied, out of breath, “I told them LA has better sushi, California's for rich softies, and naming yourself after miners is stupid.” “Where’s the van?” “There!”

They dove into a white van, disappearing from sight. He growled, thoughtful. “So that’s how you’ve been getting around.” He murmured. 

The snap of the van’s doors was quickly followed by the thundering of more feet.

“Where’d they go?” “I dunno, but I’m gonna find that damn Yank and put his head on a pike!”

A knot of humans, clothed in black and gold, swarmed down the street. Five, all male, some elders, but mostly young. He remained as still as possible, slowing his breath. After a few minutes of searching, one of them called out to the others, and they vanished further into the parking lot. 

Well, that was a clear enough signal for him. Now, it was his turn. 

He leapt from the tree to the lamppost, slithering up its height like a lizard to perch from the arm of the light. Balancing carefully on it, he removed the streamer from his belt. Attached to the other end was a small rock. He whirled the streamer in a pinwheel at his side, letting it spin up a blur of green-and-silver momentum, before releasing the foxtail straight up into the air with a snap of his wrist. 

The shimmering streak wouldn’t have meant much to others. In fact, it was likely that most humans wouldn’t have seen it. But he knew that to his smallest rookery brother, a single flying streamer was as vivid as the falling star of a ship’s flare at sea. 

The stone clattered into the road, empty and devoid of vehicles or people. Then, suddenly, he saw two shapes fast approaching him from the air above the stadium. In a moment, his brothers had landed in the darkness of the trees, on the outskirts of the parking lot. He swooped to join them in the dark, tucking down his wings into a more stealthy cape. The three stooped down behind a tall juniper hedge that ringed the checkerboard field of car hoods.

“You found a way out?”

“Yeah.” The eldest jerked a thumb at the van. “You remember that time we snuck out of the castle in a hay wagon?”

The youngest blinked those huge eyes of his. Then he squeezed them shut. “Please tell me I don’t have to hide with the pigs again.”

The eldest wriggled his eyebrows. The smallest groaned. 

“We’re hitching a ride?” The broad one asked.

“We’re hitching a ride.” The red one smirked.

The small one rubbed his eyes. "We are gonna be grounded to the Rookery for another millennium after this."

-

Raphael didn't have time to leap back out of the van. He yanked off his ski mask, giving Casey a wild look. He grabbed him by the collar and yanked them both down and out of sight of the small mob of miners. He put a finger to his lips. His radiation-green eyes, framed by the stripe of his red mask, were saying only one thing; don't make a sound, Casey. Raph pointed to his phone, turning the ringer down to nothing. Casey, seeing this was a good idea, did the same.

They pressed themselves down as tightly as they could under the bucket seats of the van, curling up tight. The metal bars of the seats dug into their backs as they waited. Casey risked just enough movement to remove his mask, pulling it to the side to show his face. He gently spat his mouthguard out into his cupped hand. Casey silently mouthed his condemnation; Poor choice, Raphael.  

Raph winced and groaned inwardly, knowing Splinter was going to say the exact same thing to him later. As soon as they got out of this, at least.

Just as they were about to get up and exit the van, they heard more footsteps again. This time, slower and more casual. Peoples’ voices. Raph risked just enough breath to utter one single curse as the door to the van popped open. Two guys, deep in a conversation in a language that may have been Portuguese or Italian, took the seats up front. They started the van, and Raphael’s stomach plunged when he realized they were suddenly driving away. 

Now, Donnie was prepared for everything. He was sure that if his brother were here he would be doing two things: One, scolding him mercilessly and fretting over him like a frazzled mother. Two, pulling out the GPS that he kept in his bag to tell him where exactly they were going. But, he didn’t have that. He did, however, have a distress beacon linked to it. The question was, did he want to use it and absolutely get his reputation destroyed by his brothers for squealing for help? Or did he want to prove that he and Casey could really take care of themselves and save face?

Poor choice, Raphael.

He and Casey stayed hunkered underneath the seats, legs beginning to fall asleep as the two men started reaching around to the driver’s side pouch to retrieve their road map. The man in the passenger seat continued idly chattering, while the driver cracked open the window and lit a cigarette. 

Raphael closed his eyes to focus. He strained his ears for any familiar words, of any kind. Hackensack. River. Secaucus. Weehawken. His heart ticked down a few beats, not hearing any mention of the word ‘Turnpike’. But he didn’t quite get his hopes up yet, until he heard them say one more word he could understand; Lincoln Tunnel.

Holy shell. Raph quietly thanked anything or anybody listening at that moment. He couldn’t believe their luck. This van was going right back to Manhattan. He looked over at Casey, catching his friend’s eyes. Casey looked relieved too. He grinned, giving his turtle friend a very quiet–but no less enthusiastic–thumbs up.

-

The tarp covering the bed of the truck flapped loudly in the high wind as it cruised down the highway. One’s sharp eyes kept a close watch of the windowless white van ahead of them on the road, ears flapping in the stiff breeze in spite of his hard-fought attempt at staying low. His dorsal digits kept his arm-sails folded tight against his body. Another was hunched low under the wall of the cab, wings caped, carefully making sure his hair was still tied and wouldn’t suddenly fly up like a white flag advertising their position. 

The third was curled underneath the pile of assorted junk in the truck bed, smiling and making funny noises to the huge, fluffy brown dog that rode with them. Clearly having no care for guardianship duties, the dog had promptly begged them for affection upon seeing them. The largest one always had a very soft spot for animals, so he did not complain about the shared ride.

And what a ride it was! Never in all their years had they ever traveled so far, so fast on the ground. If it weren’t for the fact that they needed to stay hidden, they would have been having all kinds of fun. But just watching the lights of the city flash by at impossibly fast speeds was exhilarating enough.

Soon, as the knot of cars drew closer and lingered more, the two sought refuge under the tarp and amidst the junk with their big brother. The traffic began to slow more and more. The smallest risked a peek. 

“It looks like it’s a toll road.” He whispered. “Man, these must be more efficient now than they were back in our day.”

“Yeah.” The white-haired one grumbled. “Because there are a lot more people using them. We’ll never get out of here unseen like this! If we haven’t been spotted already.”

“It looks like we’re about to go into a tunnel.” The large one continued petting the dog, whose lolling tongue was wrapping itself around his talons. He pointed ahead past the toll booths, to a white brick facade and three deep dark throats lined with tiny points of light. “If we get in trouble in there, we aren’t getting out of it.”

“Too late to turn back now.” The eldest said, just above the roar of traffic. “Once we make it out to the other side, we’ll cut the tarp and let it loose. At the same time, we’ll lift off and let the wind from this thing give us some height. Hopefully, the cars behind us will be so distracted by the sheet that they won’t see us take off.”

“Are you sure we’ll be moving fast enough to catch the wind? What if we run out of speed and get dragged back into the traffic?” The green one fretted. “You know my wings aren’t as strong as yours.”

“Hey. It’s just like the downhill slides we used to take when we were hatchlings. Just faster.” The oldest patted his younger brother’s shoulder. “I can carry you up to gliding height. I promise, you won’t get left behind. You trust me, right?”

“I trust you.” He said, hugging his brother close. “I just don’t know if I trust this wagon...”

It was with this that the Lincoln Tunnel engulfed them. 

They looked up and around in awe, their eyes wide as the rows and rows of lights that lit the tunnel whooshed behind them. The roar of the traffic and the ventilation fans inside it drowned out all words that could have been had, the flicker of passing strips of light painting the world in black-and-white strobe flashes. The slick tile of the roof, low and close, reflected the tail lights of the vehicles ahead of them like streaks of red cinders in the night. The dusky reflection of the tunnel in that arching tile roof was like looking up at the sky from underwater. They felt like small fish, being carried along that enormously powerful current of steel, asphalt, and light that all vanished into the tiniest point in the distance. 

Two of the rookery brothers folded their hands over their ears to shut out the noise, keeping their eyes fixed on the floor of the truck bed and holding onto the dog for comfort. But one kept his eyes ahead, soaking in the sight. The eldest breathed softly in reverence at this impossible spectacle. 

“Whoa…”

For a moment, he wondered if this is what it must feel like to be thrown beyond the stars.

Suddenly, he realized this beauty was fading as the car slowed down. To his dismay and horror, he realized that the traffic was beginning to clog the way ahead. The beautiful wind, the thing that would have ensured their escape, faded around his ears. No. No, no, no! We need speed!  

He panicked, tucking his head back down below the height of the truck’s siding. A row of blinking red lights stuffed the tunnel ahead of them. He could still see the windowless white van ahead, but the air hung heavy with the stench of exhaust and old rubber. If his quarry left, he didn’t know if his nose would be able to follow. 

He ducked down, making eye contact with the green one. He tapped his beak, shaking his head. He pointed two claws at his own eyes, to his brother, and then to the van. The smallest nodded, eyes hard and lips thin. He opened his arms for his brother, and the smallest one clambered into them. The broad one nodded, his massive bulk still hidden under the tarp. His claws hooked into the blue plastic, ready to rip it away. He petted the dog’s head one more time.

It looked like they were going to have to run for it.

-

Raphael took a breath, nudging Casey with a finger. He pointed up ahead. Casey nodded, noticing the same thing; traffic stopping, and the light growing brighter. Now would be a great time for them to make their move and escape. Raphael slowly, like a worm through the dirt, reached his hand to his belt pouch. His fingers closed around a single white eggshell, scowling an angry face that was squiggled in marker with a wax blot on one end. He mouthed to Casey; smoke bomb. Don’t breathe.

Casey nodded, popping his mouthguard back into his mouth and pulling his mask back across his face. He closed his eyes, and then nodded. 

Within the span of a second, smoke bloomed in the van with a sharp bang! The back of the van burst open, and the two of them quickly sprinted across the road. Casey planted a hand on a car hood, sliding across it without slowing down. Raphael tucked a front flip, leap-frogging off the roof of the same car as they both made their mad dash to the sidewalk. More smoke spilled out of the back of the vehicle, the men coughing and shouting, horns screaming and beeping at them as they ran. 

They pounded with their feet straight around the corner, down the road. “This way! I took the subway!” Casey cried. Raph followed, letting Casey lead him a few blocks at a dead sprint. As they ran, Raphael frantically jammed the ski mask back on over his head, hoping his up-raised elbow protected enough of his face from being seen. 

Raphael knew that they’d been seen. In disguise, yes, so it wasn’t that bad. But once again, that twinge, that feeling that he was being followed. It struck him again, like an electric tingle that stopped his heart and fluttered his eyes. 

The last thing any of them needed was for the Foot Clan to know they were back in New York.

Casey steered around the corner. Raphael looked over the subway entrance, and spotted exactly what he was hoping he would see; the maintenance hatch for the 42 St - Port Authority Bus Terminal. He skidded in its direction, and Casey turned to follow. Raph found the lip of the manhole cover with his fingers, and he heaved. With a grunt of effort, the heavy iron lid lifted. Casey’s hands found the ladder, and he started skittering down. Raph hauled the manhole cover aside, and quickly followed Casey down. 

Raphael’s feet splashed into the thin, slimy puddle that had built up at the base of the ladder. And for the first time since the game, he allowed himself to relax. He pulled the ski mask off of his head, gasping for breath. Casey was doubled over, his breath making a weird buzzing wheeze through the grills of the skull-like Jason Voorhees mask.

Raph let the humid air of the underground kiss his skin, and his nerves started to ease. Finally, back in the Manhattan underground. His turf. He could relax now, he was safe.

He clapped Casey on the shoulder. They started walking in the direction of the C-Line, back to the warren of tunnels that Raphael and his brothers knew like the knuckles on the back of their Sensei’s hand. “Man, Jones. Starting a fight at a football game? Really? Just how freaked out were the guys findin’ out I was gone?” 

“Freaked out?” Casey looked at him. “The last time you guys went topside, it was the night Leo almost died!”

“Casey, I–”

“Raph, what is the matter with you?!” Casey reeled on his friend. “You guys have spent the last six months at my grandma’s farmhouse keeping Leo on life support in a bathtub! You promised that we wouldn’t do any of the crazy stuff until after you were ready to fight the Foot again!” He shoved Raphael’s chest roughly. 

Raph felt the fire that burned at a low smolder in his chest flare at that remark. “You think I don’t know that?!” He roared. He rolled back his sleeve and elbow pad to show Casey the mark in the crook of his elbow. “I was the one who matched his blood type! I know exactly what he went through!” He snapped the sleeve back down in a huff. 

“Then why do this, man?” Casey stopped walking. “Why risk that? You know what the Shredder will do to you once he finds out Leo’s still alive? Finds out that you guys came back? He’ll come after you again! He’ll come after us! ” Casey put his hands on Raph’s shoulders. “Look, Ma’s not doin’ so hot right now. Doc says she can’t be goin’ through any unnecessary stress. You know what this is, Raph?” Casey gestured to himself, dressed like Friday the 13th and the Fourth of July had a baby. “This is me, breaking my promise to my mom, breaking my promise to Splinter and April, to come after your dumb ass!”

Raphael wanted to say something. He wanted to roar, rant, rave, scream, punch his friend in the face. Because he was right.

“I just wanted things to be normal again.” He whispered hoarsely. "Same as everyone else in that stadium."

Casey blinked at him. It was the kind of blink that Raph knew meant he was pretending he couldn’t cry. “Yeah. Me too, Raph. I wish things could be normal again too.”

They walked down that tunnel in silence for almost an hour. Quietly, Raphael turned the ringer on his phone back up and checked his messages. Almost forty missed calls. Most of them from Leo. He felt his heart sink like an old tin can to the bottom of the Hudson River, and he cursed himself for being an idiot. Again.

He stopped. He straightened up, muscles quivering in his hands.  Casey looked over at him. Raph snarled, shoving Casey down further towards the tunnel. That feeling was back. And it was even stronger. “Casey, we got company!”

The two bolted, splashing through the dry storm pipe on a mad dash away from whatever was following them. Sure enough, Raphael heard a shout–or was it a howl?–and the splashing of at least three more pairs of feet. He veered left, prying his sai underneath a maintenance cover, rushing into where he knew was an abandoned subway line. His feet found concrete and railroad track, and the tunnel opened up into a station. The placards read at the fork: Brooklyn and Points South, 7th Ave - Broadway Station, Lexington Ave - Grand Central Station. 

“You take that one, I’ll go this way!” Raph shouted. “I’ll meet you back at April’s!”

“Got it!” Casey acknowledged. 

Five pairs of pounding footsteps echoed through the tunnels, each going down one of three lines. But none of them knew exactly where they were running to, or who was partaking in this little race.

They just knew that they had to run.

Chapter Text

Casey’s body hated breathing underground. The air here was musty, dank, wretched. You didn’t have to be a bio-science kind of guy to know that you seriously should not be breathing this stuff. And yet, his lungs could not get enough of it as he sprinted through the shallow muck. His boots went plat-plat-plat as he ran, his mask making the scope of the tunnel even narrower in his field of view.

Why did this happen every single time he and Raph hung out? 

He didn’t want to risk looking over his shoulder for longer than an instant, but the sight ran his blood cold. Two creatures, one huge and brawny with skin like blue river stones, the other smaller and olive green, kicked up a trail of mud and slime behind them. They galloped after him on all fours, their massive leathery wings tucked close to their bodies as they ran. Their eyes, white as four tiny moons in the distance, glowed an eerie white. 

Casey had to make a decision about how to lose these monsters somehow, but they were closing in fast. They were so much faster than he was. So, so much faster. God, he wished he had super powers like the real heroes did. He was really kicking himself for leaving his golf bag in the real van, but it wasn’t like he could go back for it now. Sap gloves would have to do.

He was out of options. He planted his boots in the ground, ground his teeth against his mouthguard, and turned around to face them. The two monsters hesitated, exchanging a glance between them. 

Casey lifted his head, blue eyes burning, and he charged. “Goongala!!” 

-

His cinnabar claws dug into the concrete wall, leaping from the stone to the ceiling, continuing to gallop upside down. He couldn’t let him get away, he needed some damn answers. And if this guy was running, he had something to hide. 

Faster, faster, he closed in on the mark. His glowing white eyes narrowed. Strange. Why wasn’t he running on all fours? Where were his wings? Why would any sane gargoyle ever decide to hide underground, and not in the air?

It didn’t matter. If he got away, he’d find no answers.

With a furious snarl, he dropped down from the ceiling, tackling the mutant to the ground. Raphael hit the ground with a grunt. Thinking quickly, Raphael somersaulted, rolling across the ground and planting a heel against the gargoyle’s gut. With an animalistic cry of shock, the gargoyle sailed towards the wall. The wings popped open, a heavy whump of air impact braking the gargoyle’s trajectory. His claws dug long furrows in the concrete as he braked to a halt.

“You know, if there’s one thing that pisses me off,” Raphael’s sai spun across his palm, whirling menacingly. “It’s people fuckin’ followin’ me!” He stepped into a high, aggressive stance. His sai pointed like the fangs of a snake towards the monster’s face.

The creature growled low in its throat, wings raised and head lowered as it prowled about the young mutant. His beak curled back, glowing white eyes leering over his glinting fangs. Raphael postured in kind, shoulders high and teeth bared in his own snarl. His violent green eyes seemed to glow with their own light and fire behind his red mask. 

“Tell me what you are.” The monster growled.

The mutant laughed, a condescending grin coloring his snarl. “Oh, holy shell, it can talk. Great. Now, I can trash talk you properly.”

“I said tell me what you are! ” The beast leapt at the turtle with a snarl. Raphael somersaulted aside, attempting to trip the gargoyle with a kick to the ankles. He leapt above the kick, barely managing to land on his talons. “You’re not a gargoyle, and you’re definitely not a human!”

“Who you callin’ a gargoyle?” Raphael spat, spinning around and kicking back up to his feet. “I’m a turtle, you big red bat!”

“Dead is what you’ll be if you don’t start talking!” The beast drew himself up to his full height, and for a moment Raph’s heart caught in his throat. Even without those twelve-foot wings, this thing was big, angry, and those claws definitely weren’t just a manicure. What kind of mutant was this? Bat? Dinosaur?

“I’ve fought uglier mutants than you with both hands tied behind my shell! Bring it!” Raphael roared with a charge, sai gripped in between his fingers. 

-

The gargoyles split left and right as Jones barreled through between them, tails lashing as they readjusted course, nearly sliding into the wall as they tried to sidestep the massive piles of trash and debris.

“Is this human crazy?” The olive one balked.

“Just a bit, yeah.” The other agreed. “Look out!”

He picked up his brother and hurled him aside out of danger as Casey Jones came rushing back in with what would have been a knuckleduster to the temple. The larger one instead caught it to the side, and he gasped with surprise. This human hit hard . 

The big one, as burly and wide as a bull, caught the human’s hand easily with one claw. Jones gasped as pale blue claws bit deep into his arm guards, the pressure forcing his hand to open. With one swing, he launched Casey far down the tunnel like an old rolled-up newspaper. Head, shoulder, back, hip, and facedown into the slime he rolled. He propped himself up on his elbows, gasping for breath. 

Why are they hesitating? Casey wondered.

His answer came as swiftly as the question. The little one shouted, “Don’t hurt him! If he gets knocked out, we’ll never find our way out of here!”

“Great! You wanna tell him that?”

The small one’s only warning was the rapid sounding of footfalls before he saw the tread of Casey’s combat boot. White light exploded in his vision and he found himself dazed and flat on his back. Casey ducked under a swing from the big one, but didn’t quite see the tail coming. Improvising, he decided to do the only thing that made sense; hang onto it.

It slammed into his torso, and his wrestling grip coiled him around it like a monkey to a tree branch. 

“What the–?!”

Casey yowled as the gargoyle spun around, trying to reach around and grab him. But he just wasn’t flexible enough, chasing his tail round and round. Casey tried not to let the whirl make him feel sick. 

Aw, man. I hate Coney Island!

The big gargoyle, getting an idea, whirled around and slammed Jones into the wall, back first. Casey wheezed, chest barely protected from the impact by the football padding he wore under his coat. A weapon. He needed something, dammit!

“We were gonna be nice! But if you wanna pick a fight?” The little one snarled. “Suits me just fine!”

It leapt at him with a howl like a bobcat, its wings and tail membrane enveloping him like a plastic bag in the wind. He tried to fight off the grapple, arms helplessly pinned to his sides. He couldn’t even see the movement, the little one was so fast! Casey felt his world rock as gravity pulled him upside down and flung him into the wall with a whip of a tail.

Short temper. It reminded him of Raph. 

Casey rolled over, definitely tasting blood in his mouth. He grabbed a handful of muck and flung it into the creature’s enormous eyes with a thick splat! The little one screamed, a sound less human and more animal, and started clawing at its face. “My eyes!”

Casey struggled to his feet, ribs aching, eyes raking the tunnel for something, anything! 

Then he saw it, sticking out of a pile of garbage like the Sword in the Stone. His jaw dropped, and he started to laugh. “Ohohoho, yeah! Come to papa!”

-

He feinted low with a sai-spiked punch towards the creature’s gut. Expected to come in from above, Raphael instead swung into a kip-up, grabbing earth with his three-fingered hands, and springing up to kick the surprised gargoyle right in the beak just as he tried to duck. With a yowl like a mountain puma, the monster backpedaled rapidly, trying to put up a defense. But he was too slow, guard as flimsy as paper, as Raphael followed the kick by hooking his left ankle around his neck, yanking him down to the ground into a reverse triangle lock. 

The gargoyle’ face ground against the slime and pavement, the turtle shifting position to try and grapple his arms behind his head. If he could just–yes! His long tail wrapped around the turtle’s up-raised sai before it could strike the back of the gargoyle’s head. He yanked it away and flung it into the wall, where it struck the brick with a warbling klaaang! that echoed down the tunnel. Raphael yelped in surprise, allowing the gargoyle to reverse the grapple with a flip of his wing and a twist of his tail. 

Raphael choked as he felt the pressure of a wing membrane against his nose and mouth, his opponent dragging his arm up and into a painful position against his shell. It was like wrestling an octopus, with a grip tight enough he could feel his plastron and shoulder bones creak. His arm was starting to go numb. He struggled to suck in breath, but the wing was airtight against his face. He saw black spots in his eyes. A chilling realization seemed to freeze his blood; whatever this thing was, it could crack him like a Cadbury creme egg, if he didn’t suffocate first.

“Tell me what you are!” The gargoyle roared. “Or I swear, I will choke you out!”

Raphael struggled on, his vision swimming in his eyes. 

“Dammit, I don’t want to hurt you!” The gargoyle protested.

Too bad, ugly! If the lights were going out, then Raphael would go down swinging. He lurched forward suddenly, forcing his grappler to somersault away from him or break his delicate wingbone. Raphael gulped precious air and coughed. The monster leapt up with a flip of his tail as Raphael dove to grab his sai from the ground. His feet skittered in the muck of the old tunnel, and he– 

“Yeeaaow!! My toe!!” He screamed as his foot caught the hidden rail of the abandoned subway floor, and he could swear he felt something pop and explode when he screeched into the buried bar of steel.

The gargoyle cried out before his face hit the exact same rail with a sickening crack! Light exploded behind his eyes for a moment, and dazed he scrambled to find his talons and tail. His wings fluttered with nervous confusion like a concussed bat. 

The mutant staggered to a standing position. His left foot hovered in the air, just above his ankle, as he kept effortless balance. Black spots gnawed his sight into tunnel vision. Escaped submission hold? Plus. Broken foot? Double minus. But still, if this was to the death…

Raphael grit his teeth with a growl. He could kill this monster. In the brief, single-second window that this concussion granted him, even with a broken foot, he could kill him. 

Mercy to a disabled enemy. Splinter's voice pierced that fog of war. Raphael’s thoughts, sharpened by pain and quickened by adrenaline, raced between choosing one of two pouches on his belt: death, or escape.

-

As swiftly as the human had dived for the pile of trash, the smaller gargoyle, locked in rage-fueled pursuit, was knocked down by something slim and fast that whistled through the air. Crack! Whoosh, crack! The big one stepped back out of the way, but wasn’t fast enough to avoid a wicked-fast blow to his jaw. He stumbled, rubbing his face.

Casey laughed, spinning the hockey stick until it whistled in the air. “The class is Pain 101! Your instructor,” He tapped the stick on the ground, eyes flashing behind his cracked goalie mask. “Is Casey Motherfucking Jones!”

Before the big one could regain his footing, he paddled up a small rock, and slammed it square into the big gargoyle’s eyes. He roared a roar that shook the ceiling and sent Casey’s heart into his throat. The stick slashed through the air, and the big one pulled his wings down like an umbrella. The stick bounced off, like he’d hit a drum. Changing tack, Casey rushed around the other side. He didn’t know this tunnel, but Raph had shown him his favorite tricks; like knowing which pipes were steam lines.

The small one leaped at him with a hiss, Casey holding up the stick in defense. His claws slashed through it as neatly as a butcher knife through a carrot stick, and Casey’s next thought was what those claws would do to his bones. Swipe, swipe, and–too slow! The little one just missed the human by a hair’s breadth and his claws slashed open the steam pipe. “Gaah!” It burned the skin of his hands, a shrieking cloud of water vapor filling the tunnel with heat and humidity. The whistling of the pipe screamed an endless wail, and Casey took the moment to break off and start running. 

“I’ll stop it!” The big gargoyle stormed forward, claws on the metal of the pipe. 

“No, wait, brother!” The small one shrieked, only a little too late. The big one dug his enormous claws into the wall and he heaved. Casey’s throat went dry when he heard the crack of the concrete overhead, the screaming wail of the steam valve cut short as the tunnel collapsed around them.

-

Raphael chose escape.

A smoke bomb bloomed at the gargoyle’s feet, washing his senses with a vile and pungent burst of gas that brought tears to his spinning eyes. 

“Coward!” The gargoyle howled with a cough. “Come back and fight me, you yellow coward!”

Raphael, already limped halfway through the side tunnel behind the maintenance panel, paused. The enraged howl of the beast rang through the underground. Hovering on one foot, he debated going back. The bait line the gargoyle laid in his heart tugged, his anger flaring again. He snarled.

Raphael was not yellow. He was green. And he was seeing red.

The gargoyle kneaded his eyes, tears streaming down his cheeks and snot dribbling out of the end of his beak. He coughed and wheezed, trying to clear his lungs. But each cough just drove the headache deeper into his skull. 

“Coward…” He grit his teeth in a pained whimper.

A voice echoed through the tunnel. “Rematch at Brooklyn Bridge, 3 AM!”

The gargoyle perked up, his ears quivering upon hearing the mutant’s challenge. “Be there, you slime!” He roared. He sank to a sitting position on the concrete, knuckles pressed deep against his eyesockets, as he mulled over whether this was a defeat or a draw.

The tunnel to Brooklyn and Points South remained silent.

Chapter Text

There was a dull, throbbing ache in the back of his skull, a cardiac drumbeat that pulsed with nausea and vertigo. He coughed, heavily, a wheezing hack that produced a glob of congealed blood that slurped and slithered its way out of his throat like a dark red, copper-flavored slug. A thin, high-pitched whine filled his ears, like the singing of a crystal glass in the otherwise fragile quiet.

He blinked, looking around at the dark tunnel, trying to see more than blurred shapes and shadows in the tones of gray cast by his nightvision. Steam filled the space. He couldn’t quite see it, but he could feel the slick moistness of dew on his riverstone blue skin, the sweltering heat. So hot… it was so hot in here.

He rolled over onto his side, feeling like his brain lagged behind his head by around three seconds, like a child’s balloon on a string. He grunted, feeling saliva flood his mouth, bittersweet bile rising up in his throat. He froze, blinking, willing himself not to puke. He breathed in the swirling dampness of the air in that tunnel, his sense of smell completely overridden by the taste of his own blood in his mouth. 

The collapse. Oh god, he had brought down the wall!

He tried to stand, too dizzy and unsteady on his talons to do anything but struggle on his claws and knees, his wings limp as a heavy wet blanket around his shoulders. Injuries. He had to see what damage he’d…

He couldn’t keep the thought in his mind before it erupted out of his mouth, along with the last several hot dogs from the stadium. He felt unsteady tears running down his cheeks as he swayed, trying desperately to remember how to use his tail to balance. 

His brother… his brother, where was he?

“Hullo?” He rasped. “Is… is anyone there?” He crawled away from the puddle of sick, claws trying to dig into the concrete, trying to get some kind of purchase. But he was too weak. 

There was only silence. “Brother? Brother? ” He rasped, his voice like a saw blade in his throat, drawing pain and a ragged line of coughs out of his chest as he called for help. “Can anyone hear me?!” 

His innards seemed to freeze, like stone in the dawn. He was alone.

He’d never been alone before.

Dazed, he dragged his claws up the wall. His feet dragged through the slime of the tunnel’s floor, each sucking squelch like wading through a swamp. He reached the concrete embankment on his hands and knees, trying to find someone, anyone, anyone who could hear him. His eyes fell on a shape. A navy blue blob with red arms and legs and a skull-white face. This was… someone. Someone important, but he struggled to think through the fog. Injured… they were both injured. The steam burned his face and lungs, seared and dampened the air. It made it so hard to breathe. So very very hard to breathe.

Couldn’t leave him here. Had to protect. Had to…

His claws closed around the figure’s torso, lifting him to his neck like an infant monkey to its mother. He crawled on his knees, supporting his gait with one wing as he cradled the body of the other person against his chest with one arm. His tail dragged a deep furrow through the sludge.

His vision started to clear, with time. The air grew colder, but still humid and unpleasant. He found himself taking deeper gulps of air as he traveled further down the tunnel, away from the wreckage. His thoughts started to reorganize, slowly shifting back into place along fuzzy lines. His arms burned, his chest burned, his whole body burned. But most especially, the inside of his head felt like it was lined with cinders from a forge fire, so hot that it seemed to distort the air.

He finally collapsed again, rolling over onto his back to avoid crushing the rescued survivor.

He wheezed lungfuls of cool air, and slowly the fogginess started to dissipate. But his ears still rang and his head still spun. 

“Headache.” He forced out. He didn’t know who he was talking to. Cinders spun, flickering and sparking at the edge of his eyes. The ringing in his ears was all he could hear.

But a voice did reply. “You… saved me?”

“Had to.”

“... why?” The voice rasped. “Monsters don’t…”

“Not a monster.” He wheezed. “Never… was.”

“Were you… a human?” 

“No. Gargoyle.” He breathed. “We protect…”

Finally, the cinders in his brain burned out his eyesight, leaving only darkness.

-

“Ugghh…” 

Face buried in his wing, curled into himself like a woodlouse, he tried not to move too much. That was the first thing that the Mentor had taught him, was to not move if you thought you were injured. Silently, rapidly, he sorted through the situation. The pain in his body rang through his nervous system, like the din of a waterfall in a tunnel. It echoed and echoed in his brain, even as he pleaded for it to be quiet so he could think. 

His brain was the only good thing he had. If he couldn’t have that, he was totally useless.

He took slow, shallow breaths of cold air. In and out. His ribs. Okay, his ribs hurt. A lot. Tail and wings were fine, surprisingly. His face burned and he could feel his eyes swelling shut. A serious bruise or maybe even a broken nose, probably from the boot he’d taken to the face. He hadn’t opened his eyes yet. They burned and itched so badly as he rubbed them out, trying to clear out the tar-like mud. 

The memory of what happened was perfectly clear to him. The fight, the steps, all the way up to the human grabbing the stick from the pile. The tide of the battle had shifted as soon as the human had a weapon. 

Typical. Humans attacking first. He hadn’t even tried to talk. A thousand years, and still nothing had changed. 

He continued dissecting his own memories. The metal in the wall. That human knew that pipe would explode, and he’d been goaded right into attacking it. God, he was such an idiot! He furiously cursed himself, berating and abusing himself for being so easily tricked, so easily manipulated. All he had to do was keep his temper, and now his brother–

Oh god. His brother! He was under the rubble!

He stood up, one hand clutching his nose. His claws came away, tinged in darkness. He grimaced painfully. Oh, that was a good one. He hadn’t taken a hit like that in a very long time. Definitely something to brag to his brothers about, if he made it out of this. 

“ Blǽwen heofonan.” He swore, rushing over to the enormous pile of rocks. He gulped, heart quivering. These chunks of concrete and brick were easily as big as he was. Tears of frustration and anger on his cheeks, he dug his claws into the stone, and he tried to heave. 

It didn’t budge. 

“NO!!” He howled, his pathetic thrice-damned arms not even nearly strong enough to move even one boulder. Desperately driving his shoulder into the rock, he dug his talons into the ground and pushed with all the strength he had. Rock crumbled under his razor-sharp grip, the stone shifted slightly under his force. But he may as well have been trying to move a mountain.

“No, no, no!” He sobbed. “Brother! Brother!!”

His claws dug heavy furrows into the stone, chunks of rock flying off with each enraged swipe. He desperately swung over, and over, and over again, tears making his eyes burn. He’d lost his whole clan, his whole family, his country, his whole entire world! He couldn’t lose his brother too! 

He brought down his claws one more time in the stone, and this time he sobbed with pain–physical pain–as one of his claws bent sideways into the brick. He yanked his hand back and into his chest. He looked fearfully at his injured claw. Blood. He’d dug so hard he’d drawn his own blood.

This wasn’t working. He needed to go get help!

He bounded back down the tunnel on all fours, breathing hard as he ran, ignoring the pain in his face and his twisted claw. He had to find his older brother, had to find Goliath and their mentor. And he had to find them fast!

He veered around the corner of the tunnel, trying desperately to remember which one to take. In his memory, his past self raced down the corridor following the human through the deep pitch blackness. This tunnel had three branching paths. The metal that occasionally dinged against his claws, and the shape of the place was familiar. Humans built these tunnels for their trains, just like on TV! Meaning that they had to have access to the surface somewhere! He could find his brother, they could both dig through the rubble, and–

He skittered to a halt, sliding in the muck, as he barrelled down the curve and almost into the arms of his brother. “Whoa!” He yelped, digging in his talons to brake. 

His brother looked up, eyes watery and bloodshot. He was bleeding from a nasty looking gash on his forehead, looking about as miserable as a waterlogged alley cat. But his eyes–figuratively–lit up as soon as he saw him. “You’re back!”

“I need your help, our brother he–” The small one squeezed his eyes shut. He clawed his hands over his ears. No. He couldn’t lie. Not about this. “I… I messed up. He’s in trouble, and I’m not…”

He looked down at his feet, the tears coming back. But his brother stooped down, fumbling to put a hand on his shoulder. “Slow down, gimme a minute. I took a nasty hit to the head, I can’t see straight.”

“We don’t have a minute! The tunnel collapsed, and I think he’s buried under the rubble!”

His brother’s cinnabar face paled. Then, his eyes hardened, glowing white. A furious growl rose in his throat. “Show me.” He snarled.

“This way, let’s go!” They sprinted down the tunnels, galloping as fast as they could dare. The smallest one’s limbs were starting to tire, his breath starting to burn. But he couldn’t stop or slow down, not while his brother might be dying. 

Especially not when it was his fault.

They veered around the corner, his brother begging him to slow down. But he didn’t listen. He couldn’t, not when they were so close. He was always faster on the ground than his brothers, and usually he was kind enough to be slower. But today was not the day for it. 

They reached the collapse, and his brother gasped. “What have you done?!”

“I didn’t mean to! The human attacked us, and he made me hit some part of the wall. It exploded, and our brother tried to stop it. The wall came down on top of us!”

“Then we’ve gotta get this wall off of him. Help me move this!” His brother ordered.

Together, they actually made some progress. The small one was relieved. Even in the panic of the moment, he felt safer with his bigger, stronger brother close by. Less vulnerable. The scrambling moment of fear when he was alone had faded slightly. Now, it was driven only by a very special kind of rage.

If that human had hurt his brother, he would make him pay dearly .

It was his big brother who did most of the heavy moving. He wedged his back against the rubble and pushed while he pulled. The boulders cleared, and occasionally they had to dance out of the way as more rocks fell. But they’d cleared a crawlspace, just large enough for him to make it through. A thick gout of boiling steam greeted them as soon as they’d cleared a point of ingress. Gritting his teeth, letting his eyes burn white, he peered into the space too small for the oldest to fit.

“What do you see?”

“He’s not under here.” He breathed, a note of hope in his voice. “I think I can make it to the other side!” With a wriggle of his tail, he vanished underneath. 

“Please, be careful!” The oldest whimpered. But the web-winged gargoyle only tucked his digits close to his chest, and continued to squirm through the crevice. With a grunt of effort, he popped out on the other side. 

He was immediately blasted by the wave of heat that he felt on this side of the wall. It was absolutely broiling! Hot steam drew pinprick-like speckles of pain across his skin, his eyes squeezing shut against the impenetrable fog bank of boiling air. 

“Brother?!” He called. “Brother, where are you?”

There was no reply. Not yet. Desperate to get away from the heat, he ducked down to all fours again, keeping low to the ground. He couldn’t be gone, he couldn’t! He was so strong, the strongest of all of them! No way would all that rock have been able to hold him for long. Unless…

No. No, he didn’t want to think about it. His brother needed him, no matter what had happened to him. He wasn’t going to let him down. Boxing up that horrible question and forcefully shoving it deep into the dark labyrinth of his brain, he kept up his desperate search.

Then, he found it. The stink of blood, somewhere near where the pipe had burst. Grimacing as he fought his way closer, he looked down at it. There was a splatter of blood on the ground here. Following it, he found more evidence; claw marks in the rock where a gargoyle tried to pull himself to standing. A puddle of puke, smeared by a careless tail. Huge bodyprints in the ground that could not have belonged to anyone else. Dragging tracks, as if he’d been crawling on hands and knees. 

“He got out! But he’s really hurt!” He cried out, heart relieved. 

“What?! No way!!” The tall one was revived almost immediately by this news. Finally, some good luck!

The small one wriggled back through the wall of rock, squeezing himself between tiny crevices and rocks until, with a squirm of his spine and a push from his tail, he slithered out of the collapse. He stood up, dusting himself off and checking his wing membranes for scrapes. He looked up at his brother, looking triumphant. “Guess what we have with us?”

“It better be a–”

“A map!” The small one proudly produced the map that, an hour ago, had been so useless. Now, like a sheet of solid gold, its plasticized sheen glinted in the faint glow of their eyes. He unfolded it, searching the line-etched street map, he followed a single green line. “I think we’re right about here. At least, the sign up above us before we followed them down here said it was the Port Authority bus terminal. It looks like it’s still here, just a few feet further…” He hummed thoughtfully. “That way. That feels like north, right?”

His older brother closed his eyes in concentration, tapping into his airborne instincts. “Yeah, you’re right. North feels that way.”

“This green line represents one of these tunnels. This one we’re in is abandoned, so it’s not on the map. But look! The street right above us is called ‘Broadway’. And right next to it?”

The taller one squinted at the sheet. “Lexington Avenue!” He said, finally catching up to his brother’s deduction.

“Just like the sign we passed! We can come up through the tunnel that hasn’t collapsed, get up to a building, and glide down to another tunnel entrance, and we can find him!”

The tall one let a small, grateful smile curve his beak. “Man, am I glad you’re a genius. Let’s go!” The tall one dropped to his hands again, and took a few steps forward before his brother called out. 

“Wait, what about that steam pipe?!” He bounded to catch up to him.

“We don’t know how to fix it, and I think we’ve done a good enough job breaking it. Let the humans take care of it, someone’s bound to notice it sometime.”

The small one seemed to hesitate. But in the end, he relented. Their brother was bleeding, dragging himself along the ground, somewhere up that tunnel. There was no way they could move all that rock, and crossing it would be dangerous for both of them. They had priorities to consider.

Within maybe two minutes, they had returned to the abandoned subway station and peered up at the maintenance hatch where they’d entered. The rhythmic, frequent rumble of the neighboring station was the only sign that the underground was occupied by any other living thing. The red gargoyle readjusted his hair tie, a determined set to his jaw. “Ready?”

“Ready.”

Chapter Text

April sulked in the steel folding chair in that small, tiny, boring room. She honestly expected cops to not adhere to TV stereotypes. This time? Honestly, she didn’t know if she was disappointed, nervous, angry, or just bewildered. She didn’t have handcuffs on–there wasn’t a point, with a cop outside the only door–but the room was decidedly cold and small and miserable enough to feel like a jail cell.

She made up her mind. She hated this.

The door opened. It was Detective Maza, again. April pulled back in the chair a bit as the woman glided into the chair on the opposite end of the small table, as easily and comfortably as a cat on its favorite couch. She folded her fingers under her chin, her eyes relaxed and nonchalant. She opened the folder on her desk, and clarified April's rights. April, in as few words as possible, gave her ascent.

It was silent for several minutes after that. A moth circled the flickering fluorescent light over their heads. There was only the tiny tick, tick, tick of its little head ramming into the light as it guttered and buzzed like a broken lightsaber.

After a while, April spoke first. "No good cop, bad cop?"

"No, but believe me when I say I'm one of the good cops."

"You detained me for texting my friend for a ride home."

"Your friend?" Maza asked.

April's face fell. Right to remain silent, you idiot. She mentally slapped herself. Maza raised her eyebrows, the smile on her lips subtle and assured. First point of this match to the detective.

"My grandma-friend." April tried to correct herself. "She's an old friend. And, well, by that I mean she's really old and a really good friend, so I call her my grandma when she's actually my friend."

"So you call your young male friend, who did a terrible impression of an old woman from Boston, before you call your parents?"

"What's wrong with having grandma-friends?" She parried the question.

“You seemed awfully well-prepared for someone who came to the station to try and report a stolen car. I saw that codebook and scanner radio in your bag, when it ripped. You’ve been listening to police chatter, and you know the law well. Hell, most adults don't know the difference between 'arrest' and 'detention'."

April puffed out her cheeks. "I want a lawyer."

"That means calling your parents for one."

"I want a phone call."

"If you're okay with me listening in."

"I want to know what my charge is."

"So far? Being a nosy brat isn't quite a misdemeanor, but you're working on getting there."

April crossed her arms, and glared down at the bare concrete floor. Elisa could tell that the kid wanted to say something. That there was some word, some accusation just barely bitten back. She had a feeling that if she could peel back the mask for even a tiny peek, she would see a young girl with a lot on her mind. But Maza couldn't prise anything out of her. She’d slipped because she hadn’t closed her guard before, but now the young woman wasn’t going to make the same mistake again.

Meanwhile, April fumed. What she would have given to have even an ounce of her friends’ skills in ninjutsu so she could get out of this place. This cop was hard-willed, slick, and impossible to fend off forever. In April’s head, this moment felt just as dangerous and serious as two fencers, circling one another in a duel, looking for an opening in the other’s defenses, unable to see behind each others’ masks.

For several more minutes, Elisa and April traded barbed questions, slippery evasions, subtle threats, and neither of them got any further. April refused to yield any more information, leading Maza in frustrated circles. April fought hard to phrase her words carefully, filtering them and sterilizing them before they left her mouth to avoid giving Maza any more ammunition.

“Well, unless you plan on staying the night here, you may wanna weigh your options.” Maza shrugged. “Tell me the story behind what’s in your backpack, call your folks, and tell them you broke curfew. Or, we start looking at real charges. That last one isn’t going to look so good for your job at the school paper. As far as I know, most high schools in New York have a pretty strict out-of-class conduct policy for student staff.”

April's heart stopped beating for a moment. She felt the prickle of cold sweat and raised hairs on the back of her neck. She leveled her gaze at the woman across the room, letting one single breath of ice lace her question. "Is that a threat to a minor, officer?"

The voice was cold. The eyes were terrified. Her mask cracked, a hairline fracture. Point to the detective.

Maza hesitated. She struck a nerve. The squirmy, angsty teenager waving around her constitutional rights disappeared for a moment in her eyes. And for the faintest instant, she felt like she was looking in a mirror at a smaller, younger version of herself. Right down to the tangled frizz and fiery defiance. A kid forced into a very adult world much too early, trying her damndest to understand it so she could defend herself against it with the only weapon she had; her wits.

This wasn't worth it. Tony Drakon, Don Vizioso, the Purple Dragons, not to mention the positively enormous pile of missing persons filings to go through. She had real work to do, and she was wasting the night on a kid who was already at least as stressed and exhausted as Maza herself was. 

She finally spoke. "No. It's a warning. I'm letting you off the hook." Detective Maza stood up and tucked in her chair. "Do you need a ride? For real this time. I'm going to let you go, but only if you go straight home."

April blinked, confused by the surrender. "What?" 

"I'm a busy detective, I've got real crooks to chase. It's pretty clear that you're a bright kid, and I mean really bright. But if you keep this up, your luck might just run out. I want you to learn that lesson and be more careful." Maza leaned on the table, palm flat on its surface. "If you go out there like this, you acknowledge the risk that one of those crooks might hurt you, or one of the good guys might get the wrong idea about you. And I can tell, you want to be one of the good guys."

April O’Neil shrugged on her backpack, that ragged hole leaving a ribbon of yellow ripstop fluttering past her belt. She held her books of codes and spycraft loosely in the crook of her elbow. "Detective Maza? We are the good guys."

Right there. There it was again. That tone, that look in her eyes, the set of her shoulders. Elisa knew that look well. She’d seen it reflected in her father’s eyes, in the eyes of the older cops, but never the rookies. It was something she saw in the mirror every morning. 

This was a girl who had seen Death, and made it blink first.

Kid, you’re not going to like this, Elisa reluctantly thought to herself. But you just got yourself a new guardian angel.

“You ever ride shotgun in a police cruiser?”

“Is that allowed?”

Elisa Maza smirked, “It is, as long as you’re wearing your seatbelt and we make no detours.” She pushed open the interrogation room door with her hip, and tugged the radio attached to her shoulder. "16123. I’m 10-6 with a juvenile needing a 10-59. I'll be 10-8 in about 2-0 minutes, over." She let go of the call button and jerked her head in the direction of the front door.

-

 “I’m the one who’s great at naming things! I’m telling you, we’re either calling it The Battle Shell or the Shellraiser!” Mikey hung onto the back of the front passenger headrest, gently swaying as their decidedly not-yet-cool old Volkswagen minibus turned onto the highway interchange. “Turtle Van is so lame.” 

Mikey wore an orange hunter’s safety coat, his abominably obvious fake beard hanging from his neck by a string like a very hairy necklace. He wore a camo trapper’s hat that said, in obnoxious neon orange lettering, ‘Women want me, Fish fear me’.

Leonardo flipped on the blinker of the van as he merged into traffic. He wore a blue puffer coat with a white fur-lined hood. A pair of sunglasses, a white beanie, and a red scarf obscured his face from the other drivers on the road, and a pair of cheap children’s mittens protected his hands from human eyes. “Well, you can call it whatever you like when you’re driving. While I’m the one driving, it’s the Turtle Van.” 

“Laaame!” Mikey moaned loudly.

“Not lame. Accurate.” Donatello held up a finger. “We’ve never ‘raised shell’. Honestly, I think we’ve done a decent job of keeping it down to some tepid mischief, in the grand scheme of things. We’re ninjas. Why would we want to stand out?” 

This he said, wearing a black and purple puffer coat of his own, very candidly supporting the Utah Jazz. A purple neck gaiter covered his neck and chin, and the long indigo tail of the stocking cap on his head danced whenever he turned his head. Mittens off, he dabbed another dollop of liquid foundation on his cheeks, spreading it around in an attempt to look like he was any shade other than a warm, olive green.

“But how cool would it be if we had, like–” Michelangelo gestured to the barren, empty wall of the van. “–a big old panel of super cool secret buttons here, and like, a rocket launcher here–” He began pointing at every nook and cranny of the van.

“Mikey.” Leonardo raised his voice.

“–and a motorcycle that we can just push–”

“Mike.”

“–out the back for chasing bad guys in traffic! Yeah! Or–”

“ Michael. ”

“–we could put the rocket launcher on the roof instead! So we can take down choppers!”

“Michelangelo, sit down and buckle your shell into that seat before I wax it.” Leonardo scolded, reaching around the driver’s seat and yanking his brother’s arm by the coat sleeve into the bucket seat before turning back around to focus on the road. “Don’t make me turn this bus around.”

Mikey sat slightly stunned for a silent moment. He grumbled, doing as he was told. “Sheesh, who died and made you sensei?”

“Just get your disguise on.” Donatello held out the bottle of liquid foundation to his brother. 

Michelangelo looked at the bottle of liquid flesh, reluctant and repulsed. “What’s the point?” He pushed it away. “It’s late at night, no one’s gonna see us. The streets have been empty since the Eleventh. And besides…” He looked up at his brother, his eyes wearing age and exhaustion far beyond fifteen. “Do you think they actually even care if we’re green or not?”

Leonardo grunted in the front seat, contributing nothing to the answer. Donatello took a deep breath. His amber eyes softened. Mike wasn’t used to seeing his brother like this, maskless and wearing human clothes. It felt wrong. All kinds of wrong. 

It reminded him of how much he despised seeing his family hiding, like hunted animals.

“Mikey.” Donnie said gently, voice full of a sad sort of resignation. “You know the answer to that.” Don held the bottle out to him again. After a moment’s consideration, Mikey resignedly accepted it. It was an old argument, and one he didn’t want to bring up. Not tonight. 

There was a buzz in Michelangelo’s pocket. Reflexively, his hand went to his hip and accidentally flung the bottle of makeup all across the wall of the van, painting the interior wall, ceiling, and part of the floor with a stripe of flesh-toned cosmetic. 

“...Whoops.”

Donatello groaned. “You gonna paint the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel inside the van, Michelangelo? ”

“Your name-dad wishes he could make art like mine. Even my accidents have flair. ” Mikey retorted with a smirk as he flipped open his phone, eyes scanning the scant lines of text. His eyes lit up. “Guys, it’s from Raph! He said that he’s on his way to the Brooklyn Bridge.”

“What? When in the world did he leave the stadium? I thought we told Casey to bring him back to the van!” Leo angrily wrapped his mittens tighter around the steering wheel. “Donnie, can you get the map, see if we can find an exit to take?”

“On it, Leo.” Don affirmed, unfolding the map in the passenger’s seat and studying the streets with a pen-light.

“Mikey, text Raph and tell him that we’re halfway from Meadowlands to Weehawken, we’ll meet him there in…” He looked over at Donatello. “What do you figure our ETA is?”

“Counting the post-game toll booth line at the Lincoln Tunnel? If we drive like maniacs, about 40 minutes.”

“Right.” Leo acknowledged. “We cut through downtown, cross the Brooklyn Bridge, pick up the two knuckleheads, and then we’ll go straight home.”

“My phone's almost out of minutes,” Mikey scowled, tugging the scratchy fake beard away from his face. “I have, like, maybe a five minute call or a couple texts left before I’m out. But then again, that’s if he’ll even check his phone.”

“Kuso yarō.” Leonardo cursed Raphael under his breath, exhausted and angry. “Let him know, tell him to keep it short. Borrow mine if you have to. Don, any word from April and Casey?”

“Nothing from Casey.” He shook his head. “But April’s safe and has a ride home. She said she was fine with changing plans and having us meet her back in Manhattan.” 

Leo nodded. “Great. We can all rendezvous at April’s apartment and finally go home.”

There was a solid minute of silence. Leo fumed behind the wheel. Don studied the roadmap. Mikey looked between his brothers, the itch for chaos tickling the back of his throat. “Bet you a pizza supreme that it’s all gonna go to shell before midnight.”

“MIKEY!” They both scolded.

Chapter Text

Goliath closed his eyes. For a moment, everything was peaceful. The wind filled his ear fins, brushed through his brow ridge and hair, glided over his wing membranes, and lifted his body like… well, like wind. It was impossible to compare the sensation to a bed, a sail, to water, or to anything else in the world. The gentleness of the breeze buoyed him higher, finest instincts adjusting the shift and feel of the scales of his wings and the point of his tail with not even the faintest conscious thought. 

It filled his soul. It whistled around him. It whispered to him.

But try as he might, he could never quite rebuild the memory of the sound of the dozens upon dozens of wings in the air. He found himself struggling with the posture of this air current, cold and more humid in a way that left him feeling heavier in the air, when he had once flown like gossamer thread. He was so used to flying with his brothers and sisters. He was used to riding the upwash of their wings, leaning with them and watching their drift and swoop to read the wind conditions ahead. 

He wasn’t used to flying alone. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever be used to it.

“Goliath?” 

He blinked his eyes open, the beast still squirming in his arms. He muttered an apology to him, adjusting his arms again. The old one drifted closer, beard lashed by the wind. “You’ve something on your mind, lad?”

“Just dreaming old dreams.” Goliath muttered. The stone wall around his heart crumbled just a little more. 

“Best leave dreaming to the day.” The old one’s eyes, drooping with their age, grew concerned and sympathetic. “Our friend here seems to need to take a breather, before he squirms right out of your arms.”

As if to answer, their beast whimpered pitiably, hind legs kicking in the air. His eyes drooped. Down, please. They seemed to beg. Of course, Goliath had to answer. He couldn’t say no to puppy eyes.

They circled, finding a suitably tall building within their needs. A brownstone apartment complex, with bicycles, potted plants, and fairy lights hanging off of balconies. Each one marked a tiny boxed-in home, each one of what may have been dozens of families within. Goliath set the beast down, and immediately the creature arched its back, rump high in the air and paws reaching far out away from him. Claws broke stone as the beast stretched, jaw creaking wide. Briefly, Goliath thought of what might happen if a cantaloupe were placed between his massive, hand-length fangs at that instant. The splatter would have been incredible.

Goliath tried to cling to this humorous image rather than what had been occupying his mind for the better part of the night. 

A month. It had been a thousand years for them, but for him it had only been a month. He closed his eyes, and still the bodies of his friends, his family, his brothers and sisters were fresh in his mind. Images of shattered faces, expressions of fierceness engraved there for eternity. Had they known? That the sunset would have been their last?

He found himself wondering, and not for the first time, if his family had felt any pain when they were shattered.

The old one spoke again. “Leader.” He said, urgent. 

Goliath rubbed his eyes. “I’m sorry.” He murmured. “I am still… adjusting.”

That one single sightless eye certainly drew attention. Over the years, Goliath had gotten used to it, learning to read his mentor’s expression on only one half of his face. But even so, the way his old clay-brown skin and his pale eyes fell, it was not hard to see it. He missed them too.

The mentor drew a deep breath, closing his eyes. “I know.” He said softly. “A wind ceremony with no bodies to give to the wind. It certainly does nothing to fill the hollow hole they left in our lives.”

“It was a beautiful ceremony, my mentor.” Goliath could not help but try to put a comforting hand on his elder’s shoulder. 

“It was less than what they deserved.” He shook his head, beard making a soft rustle over his breastplate and folded arms. “But that has nothing to do with the lack of dust to commit to the sky. It has everything to do with how we haven’t moved on, taken their memories with us. We’ve been given a great gift, all of us. It is not often that a gargoyle dies, and returns to life.”

“You consider our sleep as such?”

“Aye, I do.” He said. “It was not by natural means that we were committed to it, and it was not by natural means that we were awakened from it. The dreams we dreamed for a thousand years were not the dreams of those still living.”

Goliath took a deep breath. His mentor was right, again. How little they spoke of their sleep. How their most powerfully built son shuddered and held his arms and wings close to him when he thought of that sleep. How the son with red hide and white hair had quickly found anything else to speak of, how thoroughly he had enmeshed himself in the world once their eyes opened and their day-skin fell away into the clouds below. The one with webbed wings hardly spoke of it at all. As if the very memory of that thousand-year darkness struck him with a great and paralyzing fear.

He knew that fear. He felt that fear every time the sun came up, wondering if that day would be the day they shattered too, wondering if that awful question would finally be answered for him; whether they felt pain if they were broken in their stone-sleep. That fear colored their dreams, more darkly than it once did. Nearly as frightening was the fear that they would wake up and find that another decade, century, or millennium had passed.

“Your dreams were not pleasant. I know.” Goliath murmured.

“We were frozen in the midst of a field of our enemies, Goliath. Only an hour before, we had beheld the bodies of our family. None of our dreams were pleasant.” The old one shook his head. 

Deep down, behind that half-expression he knew hid his thoughts so well, his heart was breaking. Old scars reopened that night, and none had healed any better than when those wounds were first inflicted. The mentor was an old, old man. A hundred and ten years was a long time to have learned the lines of those wounds, the strokes of the horror that inflicted them.

He understood how Goliath felt, losing his angel of the night. He’d lost his love once too. Sometimes he looked at the Trio and his surviving eldest son, his heart heavy. He felt their loss so keenly, knowing they’d lost their mothers and fathers and siblings. That he was the only elder they had left.

 He wondered often, during those lengthening nights, if this were some cosmic punishment. If he and his elders had done some great wrong, and its debt had come upon the heads of his four sons. Could he have prevented it if he’d just tried harder, done a bit more, back in the years when it had mattered most?

There is no pain, in human or gargoyle, like the pain of a parent outliving their children. The guilt of playing a hand in their deaths, no matter how small, was salt rubbed deep in that wound.

The mentor put his hands on Goliath’s shoulders. He squeezed them. Strong, assured. Like Goliath had always known him to be. And still, he felt knotted joints and old calluses, and the faintest tremble that underlied that power. There was no smile in his face, or in his eyes. It was a grim, mournful cast to his countenance that Goliath was sure he reflected. 

The elder murmured. “We do not honor them by dwelling on their death. We honor them by carrying their memories with us, like dust is carried by the wind. By carrying on.”

It sounded as if he were reminding himself of that fact, just as much as he was reminding Goliath.

Goliath hung his head. The beast pushed his snout up into his palm, rubbing his brow against his fingers. “Arroo?” 

“Yes, my friend, I understand.” Goliath knelt, giving the beast a more firm scratch behind the ears. The beast’s tongue rolled out of his mouth, slurping across Goliath’s cheek. The stone shield around Goliath’s heart crumbled loose a few stones, the heartbreak eating away at it slowly. He closed his eyes, trying to imagine that cantaloupe again. But all he could see was the fine stone powder of his angel of the night, drifting out to the Scottish sea in the moonlight.

There was a noise. Goliath’s head lifted, his mentor’s hand to the hilt of his spatha. The beast lowered its head, and growled. They looked in its direction, waiting with trepidation and some small amount of fear.

It sounded like someone screamed.

- 

Elisa’s hands felt rough and dry on the leather cover of the steering wheel. She lifted one hand off, rubbing her fingers and muttering under her breath. “Gotta start carrying lotion.”

“Hm?” April looked up from the passenger’s seat, having been hunched over her phone. She slouched in her seat, with her knees well above her head, feet up on the plastic moulding, head nestled against the armrest. The seatbelt was on, but it wouldn’t have done much good if she slid bottom-first into the passenger footwell.

“Lotion.” Elisa repeated. “I’ve been wearing gloves so much lately that my hands are getting dry.”

“Gloves?” April asked. She looked confused, but then reason seemed to quietly slide her a note. Understanding without asking any more, April gnawed on her lip and looked back down at her phone.

Elisa stopped herself for a minute. She pursed her lips and shook her head, eyes fixed on the road ahead of her. She inhaled a breath that came out with a line of ragged coughs that jostled her thoughts about in her skull, like loose marbles in a jar.

She didn’t want to think about Ground Zero right now. Not while she was in front of a civilian, and a kid no less. But still, the dry crack of her knuckles and the rough hoarseness of her throat made it hard to put out of her mind, even if it wasn’t her turn to be doing crew work that night. She hadn’t had a night off in almost three weeks, and she’d averaged maybe around five hours of sleep per day since. Even those few scant hours were often stolen, with her arms pillowed under her head, facedown at a table in a break room or a trailer.

She didn’t want to think about how the air smelled and felt and tasted there. There was only one word to describe it; Hell. It was Hell.

 April coughed hard too. It took a minute to register in Elisa’s mind. “You got a cough too, huh?”

“Air sucks. It’s just sucked more lately.” April grumbled. 

“Yeah. I know.” Elisa muttered. Neither of them wanted to say why out loud.

April looked back down at her phone. “Aw, man.” She muttered.

“What, did your grandma-friend’s walker get stolen?” Elisa snarked.

“No.” She said, perhaps a little too sharply. “My friend Baxter had a robotics competition tonight. I didn’t get to watch it.”

“Where was it at?”

“MIT. It was showing on cable. He’s on the NYU robotics team.” She grumbled. “Man, I’m mad now. His Mouser is so freaking cool. It’s got these big old chomping teeth, grabs other robots and absolutely mauls them. It’s awesome.”

Elisa looked over at April like she’d grown a second head. The teenager shrugged and just continued. “People think that robotics competitions are dorky. And they are. But it’s more like watching gladiator matches and rodeos, but they’re with robots. Baxter’s amazing, he’s basically an RC gundam pilot.”

“High praise. He a good friend of yours?”

“Yeah.” April sat up straight in the passenger’s seat, tugging her seatbelt so it sat comfortably across her shoulder. “Irma and I have been sitting at the same lunch table with him since fifth grade. He’s an absolute weirdo, but that’s fine. We are too.”

“Why is he weird?”

April gave the detective a distrustful side-eye. But deciding she couldn’t dig any deeper a hole for herself–and perhaps deciding to tell the truth to appease her petty spite and desire for shock value–she shrugged. “Because he decided he wanted to be a boy when we were twelve. Nobody took him seriously, but we did. And Irma’s a lesbian. And I happen to like girls too.”

Elisa’s eyebrow raised higher, a face that she probably would have made if April had grown a third head. 

“‘Aight.”

April blinked her surprise. “What?”

“Nothing.” Elisa shrugged. “Your friend builds robot gladiators and competes in nationally ranked robotics competitions? At an Ivy League University? How’d he do that in high school?”

April’s face slowly lit up. A moment of realization gradually dawned on her face. She could hardly believe what she was hearing. “Wait, you’re cool with that?”

Elisa shook her head with a warm chuckle. Her amusement was genuine. “Look, I said I got my Criminal Justice degree at Columbia. My mother’s the professor of African Studies there, you think she’d have let me leave college alive if I didn’t take more Sociology classes? My graduating report was on police violence at Greenwich Village during Stonewall. Believe me; my mother passes down the most terrifying grades you’ve ever seen, and I passed with an A. You’re safe in this car, kid.”

April could have laughed out loud. The thump in her chest could have either been a nervous and slightly delirious hiccup, or the thump of a bridge being placed between them. “Holy shit, they are never gonna believe me.”

“I told you I’m not a bad cop. Being Black and queer isn’t a crime, and it never should have been.” 

Their conversation was cut short by a radio call. Elisa picked up the mouthpiece, answering it briskly. The voice on the other end spoke in static-strangled tones. April’s ears practically perked up as she strained to hear the string of numbers and the address given. Both their faces fell when they heard it.

Elisa knew that they couldn’t spare any hands for this one. There was no one else anywhere near this neighborhood, they were all at the airport, or other high-risk sites. This call might not be answered for another hour.

April swallowed, her throat dry. “Was that…?”

Elisa grit her teeth. God dammit, why couldn’t any night just be simple. “Alright, I don’t need to translate that for you. So I’m going to ask you to listen to me very, very carefully. This is now a ride-along. No matter what happens, I need you to stay in the cruiser. Do not open the door. Do not put your head above the door. If I tell you to hide, you do it. If I tell you to run, you run. Is that clear?”

“Y-yes, m’am.”

Elisa turned on the siren and the lights, flipped a u-turn, and they ran back the way they came. April slowly pulled out her phone, closing her messages with Baxter and thumbs quickly flying over the nine-key pad. 

> Donnie, we have a mutant sighting. 

> Get your shells over here NOW!!!

> Also, e-mail Baxter later, he has math questions again.

-

It was the sound of the chains that probably scared him the most. His heart thudded against his ribs, his pulse leaping in his throat and pounding in his ears. “I told you it was a trap! But did you listen to me? Nooo!” He roared. 

Wingnut bared his titanium-alloy wings, long length of rebar in his hands. Screwloose clung to the fur on his head, a tiny passenger on his scalp between his ears. His little clawed hands gathered his friend’s hairs in his fists, trying to drag him aside like he was struggling with the reins of a bull. “We can’t go through them, you maniac!”

Wingnut looked over at his damaged cybernetic wing, fear flushing cold ice through his chest when he saw the gaping, sparking hole right through his rotor. “Unless you have a better idea than the last one!” 

Screwloose’s compound eyes couldn’t narrow or really emote much. But his proboscis curled against his face, tiny teeth bared in a terrified grimace. His friend was right. No way through but the hard way. Working up his tiny courage, he pulled his head back, proboscis uncurling, and dipped it straight through Wingnut’s skin.

Wingnut’s eyes flared, mutant adrenaline roaring through his blood, as he tucked his head down and barreled through the wall of his captors. Chains flashed left and right, their ringing jingle whizzing over his pointed ears. 

The construction site wasn’t the best place to be caught alone by Foot Ninja in the middle of the night. And it certainly didn’t answer why they’d been cornered here in the first place, but at the moment it didn’t matter. The two of them were absolutely snowed if they went down here. Going back with them wasn’t an option on their list, and they both knew they’d rather go down swinging. 

With Screwloose’s venom-powered bite, Wingnut’s sudden surge of speed and strength gave him just enough edge to catch one Foot soldier by surprise with a swipe to the chin. It sent his foe sailing nearly twenty feet away. Wingnut’s eyes widened in shock as he heard the sound it made. 

“ ‘Clang?!’ ” He exclaimed. “Did you say ‘clang?!’ ”

Screwloose lifted off of Wingnut’s head, shooting up into the air like a tiny Roman candle. He dove and whizzed around the heads of a pair of Foot Ninja, whirling around their heads like a fighter pilot veering around an enemy tower. He fired eight shots in the two-second span, zipping off as eight balls of violently yellow acid slime ate through the masks of the ninja. They stumbled back, clawing at their faces. 

He turned, looking back and trying to find a safe path out for his friend. “This way! C’mon!”

Wingnut looked up, crouching down to take a flying leap over the heads of their adversaries. The turbines in his wings ignited, but the damaged one sparked and crackled! With one motor failing, Wingnut careened off in a spinning circle! Slamming himself into the steel column of the construction yard, there was an awful crack and his head whipped back. 

Screwloose screamed. “NATE!!” He soared a loop, coming back down towards the ground with reckless speed, desperate to reach his only friend. He braked only in time for his tiny wings to fold back, landing on his tiny feet and using all four of his hands to check him for injuries. 

“Nate! Nathaniel, please, c’mon!” He begged, trying to find the injury. His proboscis uncurled, getting ready to deliver life-saving curative venom to the wound when a heavy mesh net came down over his head. With an electronic whine, the net electrified. The tiny mutant shrieked, agony filling his carapace and making his wings and antennae smoke. 

Wingnut rolled over, groaning with pain. “S-scott?” He rasped.

“HELP!!” Screwloose sobbed, struggling to get through the net and reach him before the charge worked up again. “HELP ME!!”

“Scott!!” Wingnut tried to crawl to his feet, tears of pain soaking the fur on his cheeks. He stumbled, trying to swipe the rebar. But two ninja easily evaded his drunken swing, each whipping a chain around his arms. Wingnut struggled and strained, but the venom’s short burst was already leaving his system. 

The ninjas holding the chains were joined by others, yanking him to the ground, pinning him like Gulliver the Giant. The same high-pitched whine came again, much louder and much stronger. Plasma arced over the mutant bat’s fur, and he felt wires and synapses pop in the implants in his spine. He arched his back as electricity flooded his body. His lungs seized, no breath to even form a scream.

Dazed, pain making his sensitive ears ring, Wingnut collapsed back to the ground, propped up on an elbow. He could smell fur and plastic burning, the stink singing his nostrils. He looked up at a Foot Ninja, a thin line of yellow acid blots leaving a smear of color across its ink-blot black silhouette. 

Wingnut tried to crawl forward, tried desperately to reach his friend, when the ninja’s foot came down on his arm, hard. He screamed again, feeling bone crack. There was no warning, no emotion, not even a sound from the ninja. Just a calculated cruelty, as instant and impartial as a sprung mousetrap. Wingnut dragged his arm against his body, baring teeth against the pain. He looked up. 

This was it. Their last escape. It was over.

He closed his eyes, and waited for it. 

An enormous roar, far more powerful and fearsome than his own had ever been, cracked the sky above his head. What in the world was that?! A dragon?!

The Foot looked up, but were not quick enough to avoid the enormous shape that barrelled through them. The hunched four-legged silhouette veered around, reared back and howled. A dog? But it was the size of a horse! 

He sat up, and found a clawed, brown hand reaching down to him. “It's seeming that you could use a hand, lad. Can you stand?”

Wingnut looked up into the face of an old man. A thick white beard that would have put Santa Claus to shame came down past his chest, almost long enough to tuck into his belt. He carried a long spatha in one hand, its sheath tied to his belt. His armor must have been ancient. With his one scarred eye, his pointed, fin-like ears, his powerful wings, and long fangs that curled up from his bottom lip, he looked like a painting straight out of a D&D Monster Manual. He held the long, glinting sword away as he reached down to him.

Wingnut reached up for it, gratefully. “W-who are you?” He was surprised by the strength in the old man’s arm as he was lifted as easily as a child.

“We are gargoyles, son. You look like no gargoyle I’ve ever seen, but you are welcome among us.”

“G-gargoyle? Dude, I’m a human. Or, I guess, currently a bat.” He pointed up. “Look out!”

The old man, not even turning to look, lifted his arm and the metal sang against the blade of the katana that nearly split his head. With a whip of a tail as mighty as a triceratops’, he knocked the Foot ninja away and straight another steel support beam. There was a sputtering shock somewhere inside the Foot’s chest, its body split in half and exposing hydraulics, wire, and steel.

“Goliath!” The old one bellowed. “They’re hollow knights!”

“Hollow soldiers.” A voice growled from high above. There was a clang, a screech of shorn metal, and Wingnut looked up into the darkness. His pulse sped up as he watched two halves of a robotic ninja plummet and bounce in the sand at his left and right. “Only a coward leaves his weapons on the battlefield and abandons it for safety.”

There was a heavy whumsh , and Goliath landed before him. Massive wings, each as huge as a one-man tent, spread wide to catch the air, forcing the sand to billow around them like an instant dust storm. Wingnut clutched his broken arm, looking up at Goliath in awe.

The beast picked up the net in its jaws, trotting faithfully over to the veritable winged giant that stood before him. With a single swipe of his claws, Screwloose was freed. 

The tiny bat-fly hovered in the air, studying the three newcomers. “Whoa…” Screwloose breathed in awe. 

“NYPD!” They jumped as they heard the sound of a gun cocking, around fifty feet off to their right. “Drop your weapons!”

Detective Maza stood, bulletproof vest over her blouse and jacket, holding her service sidearm, and pointing it straight at the combined crowd of mutants, gargoyles, and Foot ninja.

Great plan, Elisa. She thought bitterly. Now they're all looking at you.

Chapter Text

That instant of distraction was all Goliath needed. He surged forward, claws outstretched, and his hand engulfed the heads of two Foot ninja. With the shrill squeal of crushed metal, sparks and loose bolts filled his hands. He swung both bodies in a wide arc, knocking over three more foot ninja. Lobbing them into the crowd, he staggered the remainder. 

He looked over his shoulder at the wounded mutants, eyes burning like halogen lights. “Run! We shall hold them, now run!”

Wingnut shook his head, trying to protest. But Screwloose grabbed the collar of his sleeveless shirt. “Do as he says, let’s go!”

“But what about you?!” Wingnut looked to the old one. 

“We’ll be right behind ye, lads. Fly if you can, run if you can’t!” He sprang forward, speed and precision belying his age, as he cleaved one robot straight down the middle into clean, sparking halves. A gush of oil sprayed his face, like the splatter of blood.

Wingnut looked at the two monsters–no, men–who had saved their lives. Gratitude glistened in his beady black eyes. With a solemn nod, he clutched Screwloose close to his chest and took off running. A small contingent of Foot soldiers took off after him, continuing pursuit.

Bang, bang, bang! There was a burst of oil and metal shards, and all three Foot fell. Elisa leveled her gun, knowing who the foe was now. She whirled around, side-stepping a naginata that would have split her in twain, whipping a boot heel to the face of the robot with a shout! She squeezed two more rounds into it, looking up just in time to see the mangled remains of a Foot ninja, mechanical innards whining, leap at her!

She threw up a block with a forearm, and felt the thing’s punch-punch-kick connect! She felt the blasts of pain as blood vessels broke under her skin. Even damaged beyond any human recognition, it still hit like a horse! She saw one spiked knee-guard rocketing towards her face, only just grabbing it in time to catch it, throw it off balance and dance away! But it got up, continuing pursuit. Two more joined it, and she felt her heart race as she realized very, very quickly that she was not going to escape them for long.

There was a rush and a roar–a sound like an enormous enraged lion, a weight in the wind like a meteor strike–and all three robots were knocked from her pursuit, sent clear away. 

Elisa did not allow herself to turn around. She couldn’t, with the one-armed remnant of a Foot closing in. An elbow to the face, a knee to the gut, she nearly completed the three-stroke death strike when the robot caught her fist. She gasped and cried out with pain as her wrist bent back the wrong way. A splurt of hydraulic fluid escaped from the robot’s neck, and suddenly its arm went limp, unable to complete the maneuver that most certainly would have snapped her wrist. 

Wasting no chance, she took the damaged arm, hauled it over her shoulder, and rolled the robot across her back, thumping it into the ground like a man-shaped sack of potatoes. The arm snapped off in her grip, and she cried out with shock! She tossed it away, shaken by how easily it had snapped in her hands.

She took a step back, and nearly fell into the arms of four more ninjas. She looked up, putting up her arms again to protect her face. Too many, too close! The one nearest her whirled a pair of nunchaku, and she heard the first swish of the flail whoosh past her ear. She backpedaled as fast as she could. One hit would break her arms!

She tripped, feeling something heavy and solid connect with her ankles. She fell backwards into the sand, air escaping her lungs with a pained grunt. The shock tore coughing from her lungs, dust and damage from the weeks before clamoring for her air with a vengeance. She couldn’t catch any breath! 

She looked up, the oil-soaked machine stood above her with glowing red in its eyes.

It lifted its weapon, whirling length of chain and hardened nylon ready to come down on her exposed skull. She flinched, bracing for what she knew would be one last blinding flash. 

CRAAACK!!!

She opened her eyes. Standing over her was an enormous shadow, as dense and as dark as a volcanic boulder. All she could see was the stone-like scales that protected a heavy clawed foot, with three talons and a dewclaw each easily the size of her forearm. She coughed, still struggling to breathe. There was a crunch of steel, and the dribble of motor oil and hydraulic fluid, soaking the sand next to her hand. A tail, as big as the oar of a boat, passed over her head as the creature began to turn around. 

Her gun. The Glock lay in the dust near her head. Picking it up, somersaulting aside and up into a kneel, she raised it to point up at whatever it was that nearly put its talons through her skull. 

She looked into the eyes of a monster. 

His claws outstretched, in a stance that felt as tense and coiled as a wolf circling a wounded animal. His white eyes burned like two full moons underneath a horned brow ridge that pulled his features into a permanent scowl. His lips curled, fangs bared. A rumble rolled from his barrel chest. A thick mane of black hair, soaked with red blood and black machine oil, clung to his mauve skin. That tail, long and smooth, traced the sand near his long, bestial ankles with anticipation. Two wings, so big they blotted out the streetlights, loomed over her head. 

“Are you friend,” He intoned. “Or foe?”

She finally found enough air to answer him.“I could ask you the same.” She rasped.

-

April didn’t want to breathe. Huddled in the footwell of the passenger side of the police cruiser, she focused on staying as perfectly still as possible. A black bath towel–one of her most useful perennial carry items–was draped over her head and back, hopefully turning her into just another shadow inside the heavily tinted Ford Interceptor. 

She tried to focus on meditative breaths. Be like Leo, be like Leo. She chanted quietly to herself.

She heard three gunshots. She bit down on the inside of her cheek, rhythm shaken by the report that was only just muffled by the car door.

Be like Leo. 

BANG-BANG! 

She breathed in quietly. She breathed out. 

GRRROOOOOARRR!!

Be like Leo.

There was a thump against the hood of the car, and a voice. 

“I hate needing to stay out of sight.” A woman drawled. “These tin cans are so lame. It sucks that we don’t get a piece of the fun this time.”

“This is just a dry run.” A man’s voice, thin and sneering, replied. “Just working out the bugs.”

“Speaking of bugs,” The woman scoffed. “What do they want with a bug and a bat anyway?”

Bug and a bat? April’s mind whirled. Wingnut and Screwloose?

“Fox pointed us to a hunt.” The man replied with an audible shrug. “I’m here for the blood and the money, not the answers.”

There was a shift on the hood, a faint squeak. Like the sound of nails on a chalkboard, steel on steel. “They’re getting away, brother.” Not urgent or upset. Bored.

The man barked a cruel laugh. “They think they’re going to get far. With that hole you put through that freak’s wing, he won’t be going anywhere fast. Wolf and Dingo should have them any minute now.”

The woman paused, quiet. “Oh, speak of the Devil, and he will appear. They just bagged them both.”

“Told you.”

“Ready to call it? I need my beauty sleep.”

“We were told to wait until the last of these drones are dead. We’re here to collect data, not get bored and wander off.”

“Bored? Ha!” The woman’s scoff was just as edged and cruel as the man’s. “I’m watching a cop get beat to a pulp, and I don’t have to lift a finger. I’m having a great time!”

There was a shriek of steel that made April’s teeth buzz! Four claws, gilt in gold, tore through the door and dragged their way down the side! Like four box cutters through cardboard, they popped through the siding and shredded four clean lines. 

April squeaked, the tiniest noise of fear. She watched three dark springs of her red curls drift to the floor of the car.

“Was that really necessary?” The man’s voice was laden with scorn.

“She’ll be dead in a few minutes. If this works, we’ll be blaming it on them anyway.”

“Then why don’t you go and finish her off?”

“I’m lazy. I don’t feel like washing blood out of my hair tonight.”

“How unlike you.” She heard footsteps, pacing nonchalantly alongside the car. They paused. 

“Wait…” She heard his voice again. Her heart practically buzzed, like the wingbeats of a terrified hummingbird trying to escape her ribcage. 

“What is it now?” The woman drawled.

“I think there’s something in here…” She heard the sound of four metal somethings click against the glass of the cruiser window, just over her head. “Just under the seat.”

“Well, crack it open. Like I said, it won’t matter in a few minutes. She’ll be dead, they’ll be scrap, and we’ll be home.” The woman tapped the windshield with one of those massive claws.

April felt in her pocket for a paper-wrapped roll of quarters. She closed her fist around them, and waited for the door to open.

Suddenly, there was a rustle and another thump on the hood. The woman swore, loudly. There was a deafening roar, right beside the car on the driver’s side! April didn’t dare look up, but its timbre drove a heavy thud through her chest. 

“I think that’s our cue to leave, sis!” The man shouted.

There was a thud, and the cruiser buckled! April’s teeth dug through her lip as she covered her head, the windows cracking from the force of whatever had just landed on the roof! She couldn’t hide here any longer, she had to go!

She rolled onto her back, tugging the handle and planting her feet against the passenger door. She kicked it hard! It didn’t budge the first time. Two, three, and on the fourth strike, the door popped open. She somersaulted out, and took off at a dead sprint down the street, not looking back.

“Dammit!” The man howled. “Sis, we got a witness!”

“You go get her, I’ll handle Scooby Doo!”

April’s legs pumped, sneakers slapping the pavement in her life-or-death sprint. The roll of quarters still clenched in one fist and the black towel in the other, she booked it down the street, veering left into a thru-alley. She dared take a look backwards at her pursuer.

A man, tall and lean, with a long mane of black hair. She couldn’t see his face, but she could see the glint of his elbow-length gauntlets with what she could only assume to be razor-sharp claws. He was quickly gaining on her. He was taller, bigger, and most certainly better armed than April was. She made a snap decision; stay out of a fight, focus on an escape. That was a fight she’d lose alone. 

April had been a witness. They weren’t going to let her leave alive. Shoring up her courage, she pulled her hood over her head, pulled the collar of her shirt over her nose, and kept running.

April whipped the towel at her side, whirling it into a tight loop. Folding it over into an improvised club, she tucked the roll of quarters into the crest of the loop. She grimaced. She was about to lose $10. But it was better than losing her head. She aimed for the fire escape that ran up the side of the building, eyes trained on the folded ladder kept high and out of reach. She leapt, and the towel snapped, curling around the lowest rung of the ladder. She heard the clang of the roll of quarters meeting its mark . With a reluctant groan, the ladder descended.

It wasn’t enough to pull it down completely. Her hand caught the lowest rung, and she let the counterbalance of the ladder lift her back up into the air! Shoulders screaming, she hoisted herself up onto the precarious perch, hop-scotching across the rungs until she reached the lowest platform of the escape. She kept running up the escape, iron ringing with each footfall.

She risked a glance back, and her heart flew up into her throat. The man dug those metal claws into the brick and started scaling the wall after her .

“Shell!” April kept going up the fire escape. She’d been counting on losing him there, where was she going to go now?

She looked about the rooftop of the brownstone apartment building. The maintenance door! She reached into her thigh pocket of her cargo pants, pulling out a single wave rake and a tiny pry tool. Desperately, she started raking the lock, trying to get it to pop open before her pursuer reached the roof.

She couldn’t help but grin and fist pump when the door clicked open. Swiftly, she slipped inside and slammed it shut, turning the bolt and backing away from the door.

She heard a knock. Metal on cold metal, like the ring of a bell.

“Little pig, little pig, let me come in.” The man sang.

April’s legs felt like jelly. She struggled to catch her breath. If that woman could shred a police cruiser like it was paper, then this man wasn’t going to be held by this door. But she was so exhausted. The sprint had taken everything out of her. Still, life on the line, she couldn’t stop. 

But she was so tired.

April gulped lungfuls of air. The man knocked again, musically this time. Tap-ta-ta-tap tap, tap SCREECH! Four claws popped through the steel door, and started to drag their way down to the handle. 

She sailed down the staircase, nearly colliding with the wall in her flight. Her knees were weak, armpits sweaty, her entire chest sore and aching. She couldn’t keep running for long. 

But then, instead of footfalls, she heard another sound.

Whoosh!

Crrrnch, crrrnch, crrrnch, WHOMPF!

Chapter Text

Raphael massaged his broken foot as he sat on top of the red brick apartment building’s rooftop, his good leg dangled over the edge. He grit his teeth. God dammit, walking all that way hurt like hell. The improvised crutch he’d found, a rotting piece of a 2-by-4, didn’t last terribly long. It got him up here, but he’d long since thrown the moldering pieces over the ledge and into the garbage can in the alley.

All he was doing now was waiting, and rehearsing what he’d say to his brothers. Casey hadn’t been answering his text messages, so it wasn’t like he had anywhere else to put his thoughts. He’d had plenty of time to think it over.

Be standoffish and curt, give no answers or explanation at all? No, that would only piss them off more. If he tried brushing them off and moving on without an explanation, it would just rile them up. Especially Leo.

Maybe he could use misdirection, detail the fight he and Casey had been in. It was a gamble. On the one hand, they may be more interested in the new monster-of-the-week than his attempt at a night solo. But they weren’t stupid. Dr. Feelings would see right through that one. Mikey was gullible in everything, except when it came to what his brothers were thinking.

It wasn’t fair. It just wasn’t fair. He just wanted one night.

The tails of his mask tickled his neck as they shifted in the wind. He looked out over the skyline of the city. He took a deep breath in, and let it out slowly. Between the hole in the dusty horizon and the wire brace holding half his brother’s shell together, it felt like everything he loved was being torn apart at the seams. And everywhere he looked, at home or up top, it reminded him of how the world was going to shell.

Both New York and his family were barely holding it together. He didn’t want to admit that it made him feel very afraid. But could he ever show it? No. No, he could not.

In the traffic, he saw a small white Volkswagen minibus turn the corner, signal, and turn into the alley below him. His phone vibrated in his coat pocket. Struggling with his fat thumbs, he typed a reply to the message he received. Ugh, Leo was using two word messages. He really was in for it. Gritting his teeth and screwing up his courage, he made his one-legged way down the fire escape. 

He jumped down into the alley, and instead of landing on his feet, he opted for a safety roll. Even without his foot making direct contact with the ground, the pain made him instantly regret the leap. The doors of the van opened. He didn’t consciously remember grabbing his sai when he saw them, until Leo spoke up.

“Put the salad tongs away, Raph. It’s us.”

Mikey popped his head out of the van door, that ugly fake beard hardly doing anything to mask his big, goofy smile. “Dude, did you break your toe again? That’s gotta be, like, the third time you’ve done that.”

He had to admit, the disguises were getting better. “Yeah, you should’a seen the other guy.” He retorted. Raph straightened up, twirling the sai in one hand before holstering it again. “Took you clowns long enough. It was gettin’ cold out here.”

“You could have just texted us and asked us where we parked the van, shell-for-brains.” Leo snapped.

“You know that thing Casey’s really, really good at?”

Leo closed his eyes. He rubbed his eyelids with two of his three fingers. He exhaled a long breath through his nostrils. “He got into a fight?”

“He got into a fight.”

“Typical.” Leo growled.

Raphael shrugged. “Hey, it worked. He wouldn’t’ve found me otherwise.”

Don spoke up, stepping out of the van. He arched his back, popping the plates of his shell like a human would pop the vertebrae of their spine. “Speaking of, where is Casey?”

“Uhh…” Raph sucked in air between his teeth, scrunching his face into an awkward grimace. “About that.”

-

He felt sore. No other words for it. ‘Sore’ definitely covered it. Just like it covered every square inch of his body. Casey gingerly patted his cheeks for the umpteenth time, wincing at how tender the skin was. The burns were nasty. He chastised himself for trying to pull one of Raph’s maneuvers like that.

He was a human. For Raph, that steam explosion would have felt like a sauna. For him, it nearly cooked him alive. It was a bitter reminder that as hard as he worked, as much as he tried, he’d never measure up to a mutant’s strength and endurance. Even one as ‘normal-ish’ as his best friend.

Speaking of Raph. Casey patted his pocket, and his heart sank. “Oh, c’mon. Really?” He reached in for his phone and, yep. Sure enough, the lid of the little device had been sheared clean off by its hinges, dangling from some loose wires. It looked like a half-squished beetle. Terrific, he’d have to find a payphone.

He unlaced his football pads, setting them aside on the musty concrete. Wary of agitating his skin, he started delicately peeling his BMX pads off of his elbows and shins, undoing the weight belt and setting it aside. He rolled his shoulders, and spat his mouthguard out. He may not have a tough shell, but he could make do. 

But, Don would insist on giving him the once-over anyway. His mom would repeat the exact same steps as soon as he got home. A part of his insides withered and curled up like dry leaves at the thought of his mother’s eyes, the way she always looked at him when he came home with a new injury. She’d stopped asking him about how he’d gotten them long ago. But it didn’t mean she’d stopped caring whenever he got hurt.

He wished he could see that look in his dad’s eyes again.

He looked down at the… well, whatever-he-was. He’d saved his life back there. He could have just saved himself, but he stopped to rescue him. What was it he’d said?

“Protect.” He muttered aloud. “You know, you remind me of four green idiots and a smartass punk that I know.”

The creature didn’t even stir or mumble. But he still breathed, and that meant he was alive. 

Casey stood up, arched his back, and tried to do some stretching. The sooner he loosened up, the less sore he’d feel in the morning. He looked up at the ladder, faint trickles of light filtering in through the ventilation holes of the manhole cover. 

Casey set his goalie mask down on top of his gear. “I’ll be right back. Watch my stuff, alright?” He said, not expecting a response. 

He scaled the ladder, and pushed his shoulder against the heavy steel lid to peek at the street. Almost immediately, he heard the crunch of an oncoming tire, and ducked back down as he heard the rumble of a diesel engine overhead. He cussed. Of course Broadway still had traffic this late. But he didn’t know where the next exit from the sewers would be. He didn’t have a choice.

After a few more unsuccessful tries, he managed to scramble out of the sewer and get to street level again. Cars honked at him, and he returned the discourteous gestures of disapproval that he received. Scrambling out of the way, he started looking for a convenience store. Finding one, a decent walk away on 24th, he bought a first aid kit.

The man behind the counter was old, clearly tired, and didn’t ask him any questions. On his way back, as he passed by the Flatiron Building, he looked up at its pale stone facade, and felt an odd sense of safety. It was a landmark, and a beautiful building. Overlooking Madison Square Park, it stood like a stately old senator amidst its fellow buildings. It had been there for a hundred years. It felt constant and reliable, like a star in the sky to navigate by.

A nasty thought in the back of his head wondered if this building would be the next to fall. The three cruisers parked outside of it didn’t do much to put his mind at ease. But with cops gathering around the city’s landmarks and major points of transit, it was obvious they were thinking the same thing.

Avoiding their undue attention, as well as the tires of more passing vehicles, he made it back down the manhole cover and into the sewer. He looked over at his pile of mismatched body armor. The thing was still asleep. Shaking his head, Casey sat down on top of the heap of sports gear and started applying aloe vera to his cheeks, hands, and neck. 

Casey paused. He could have sworn he’d seen the beast-man’s nose twitch. Scrutinizing his face closely, Casey could see something that he kicked himself for not noticing earlier.

“How long have you been pretending to be asleep?”

The creature didn’t respond. 

“Dude. Relax. I ain’t gonna check you again. Honestly, I don’t think I could put you to the boards even if I wanted to. You’re too big.”

The creature slowly sat up, holding his head. “Well, you got good aim, I’ll give you that.”

“Thanks. I’m pretty proud of my wrist shots.”

The blue-skinned creature just shook his head. “Ughh…”

“Concussion? I feel you, man. I’ve had a couple knocks to the head before. Give it a few weeks, you’ll probably bounce.”

“Where are we?” The creature looked at him, eyes slightly disfocused. 

“Flatiron District, just under Broadway. We ain’t too far from Grand Central Station.”

The gargoyle just gave him a confused look, as if every single word he’d said was in another language. Casey raised an eyebrow as far as he could without it hurting his burns. 

“You’re… from out of town, ain’t you?”

“What gave it away?” The gargoyle smiled. Casey was surprised. He’d never had a conversation this friendly with someone who had whupped his ass before. “Is it because I don’t have the t-shirt?”

“You’re too nice to be a New Yorker, man.” Casey scoffed lightheartedly. “You gotta be from Vermont or somethin’.”

“Have you seen my brother? Is he okay? He isn’t hurt, is he?” Worry crossed the gargoyle’s face. “I can’t leave either of them alone, they’re probably worried sick about me.” 

Casey stood up, arching his back with a series of subtle pops. “No. I don’t remember anything after you pulled me out of that tunnel. After you blacked out and I came to, I dragged you here as far as I could. I can help you get up topside to look for them, if you can help me find a payphone.” He held out the bottle of aloe vera. “Here. I’m not sure what your skin’s made of, but if you have any burns, that’ll help.”

The gargoyle took the bottle of green gel in his claws. He scowled thoughtfully. “Why are you helping me after you attacked us?”

“Bad habit I picked up from my friends.” Casey replied. “The turtle guy who was with me, and his brothers. They got this code of honor thing. Someone helps you out, no matter what, you repay the favor. I guess this is my way of sayin’ sorry for jumpin’ the gun. We cool?”

“What’s that mean?”

Casey gave him a funny look. “I mean are we square? We even? You go your way, I go mine, and we don’t bother nobody after this?”

“Yeah. Sounds good.” The gargoyle stood up, stretching his arms and his wings with a massive yawn. “I just hope you learned your lesson, and you don’t just hit people without saying ‘hello’ again.” He put his claws to the rungs of the ladder and was about to start climbing when Casey spoke up. 

“Wait,” He said. “I never caught your name.”

“I don’t have a name.”

“Huh?” Casey’s jaw hung slack. “But everybody’s got a name.”

“Humans do. Gargoyles don’t. We don’t really need them.”

“Well… what do you want me to call you?”

“Friend.” He smiled.

“I’m Casey. Casey Jones.” Casey bobbed his head. “Don’t go up that way. Traffic’s heavier than I thought it’d be, and you look like you’re too big to fit through a manhole cover. We’re going to have to find another way out.”

The gargoyle, with his wide stance and broad shoulders, seemed to see the reason in this. He stepped back down, talons crunching the concrete slightly. He thought for a minute, and then lowered himself to the floor, putting an ear to the ground. He closed his eyes and held his breath.

“What are you–”

“Shh. I’m trying to hear.”

There was a pause. And then he stood up again. “I can hear a train further down the tunnel, maybe about a ten minute walk that way. I hear more footsteps, so there are definitely people. There’s a way up, if we can get over there at least.”

Casey put a hand on his chin. “Damn. You can hear all that?”

“Ears like these don’t miss much.” The gargoyle gave him a wry smirk.

Casey paced him. “Well, if we’re going to be using the people exit, we’re gonna have to do something about…” He gestured to him. “This whole situation.”

“What do you have in mind?”

-

Leo sat in the driver’s seat, turned around to face the back of the van where Raph and Mikey sat. Don mirrored his position, a look of deep concern in his brows as he heard Raph finish his story.

“Raph.” Leo growled quietly. 

“I know, I know, I know!” Raph held up his hands. “I messed up, and you’re gonna get mad, and you know what? I ain’t gonna apologize for wanting to do something normal for a change. I was careful, I wasn’t spotted by any humans, I still have no idea how that guy followed me. But Casey and I had it covered, we–”

“That’s not what I’m mad about.” Leo’s gaze was hard.

Raph gave him a bored, flat look. He propped up his chin on his palm. “Yeah, leader boy? Like you haven’t gone off on your own before? Like any of us haven’t?”

Leo exhaled through his nostrils. “Raph, we’re upset because you didn’t tell us. We didn’t even know you were gone until we were already making dinner. We were worried sick, we’ve been looking all over for you since 7. It’s almost 1 am.”

Behind that flippant mask, Raph felt himself cringe with guilt.

Mikey, next to him, added. “And Leo’s still wearing his hard brace.”

“What?” Raph asked.

Leo shrugged. His left knee squeaked as plastic rubbed on metal. “I didn’t have time to change before we left. We were in a rush, and–”

“Leo, you shouldn’t be wearin’ that too long.” Raph cut him off.

“Don’t tell me what to do with my stupid leg!” Leo snapped. “And don’t change the subject. We’re talking about you going off again.” 

Don just rubbed his eyes. “We still need to find Casey. His calls have been going right to voicemail. If he hasn’t checked in since that fight, he could be hurt.” 

As he said this, his phone buzzed. Don pulled it out, flipped it open, and his eyes scanned the line of text. He closed his phone. “Leo, start the van.”

“Why?” Leo asked.

“April just texted me.”

They didn’t need any prompt to read Don’s expression or tone of voice. They knew that look. Leo shot Raph another look that said ‘ We’ll talk about this later’, as he turned the key in the ignition.

-

The gargoyle crouched in the darkness as he awaited the human’s return. They’d found a maintenance tunnel that had subway access, and he stayed there behind the concrete pillar in the dark tunnel. He could hear no rumble of the train. Service stopped at around 3 AM, according to the human. Even if there weren’t many people on the platform, he would still be spotted.

To his surprise and relief, the human returned. To his dismay, he was carrying a tremendously smelly pile of extra-large clothes. “Thank god that homeless guy wasn’t too attached to his spare clothes. But I’m out about a hundred bucks.”

“Oh no.” The gargoyle’s voice was a dismayed whimper. “You’re not gonna ask me to wear that, are you?”

Casey offered him a large coat. “Dunno what we’ll do about your wings, but–”

Putting aside his pride–and sense of smell—the gargoyle made quick work of the coat with his claws. Slashing two long stripes in the back and a hole in the bum of the trousers, he put the disguise on. He struggled a bit with the wing slits, but he managed nonetheless, and caped his wings over his shoulders. He took the blanket from Casey’s hands, threw it over his wings, and tugged the wide-brimmed hat down over his finned ears. His tail hugged close to his legs, it just looked as if he were a heavily bundled old man. 

Casey blinked. “Alright, yeah, that’d do it.” Casey nodded. He picked up his gear. He’d tucked his arm and leg guards inside his football pads, mask tied to its laces. The weightlifting belt looped and buckled through, it made a handle with which to securely carry his equipment without losing it. He shouldered the makeshift pack, and nodded. 

They approached the panel, and waited for the train to pass. After one minute of keen listening, the gargoyle murmured. “I think we’re clear. Let’s go.”

They popped out onto the tracks, quietly jogging down the lines.

“Watch out for the third rail.”

“The what rail?”

“The one in the middle. Touch it, and it’ll electrocute you to death.”

“Oh.”

Making their way up the embankment, they checked the station platform. Casey sighed with relief. The man whose spare clothes he’d bought had left the station. Quietly ushering his big-boned companion up the stairs, they made it back up to street level.

The gargoyle lifted his eyes to the buildings of Broadway Street, and a breath of awe escaped his heavy, fanged mouth.

“Whoa…”

Chapter Text

Elisa’s finger trembled on the trigger. 

The monster’s pupilless eyes, with laserlike focus, seemed to zero in on this tiny movement, this whispering traitor to her fear. In return, her own dark eyes plucked the details of his mind with instinctive attention. 

His tail hovered near his ankles. His wings were raised high. Somewhere, ancient human instincts told her what this was. It was a threat display. Like the raised hackles of a cat.

Was he afraid too?

She felt her elbows lock, refusing to obey her. Move. Move, damn you. She hissed to them. She had not heard or seen where the other ones had gone; the dog and the one with the sword. They were alone there, in the dusty skeletal shadow of the highrise’s I-beam frame, surrounded by the shredded shrapnel of metal soldiers. 

Exerting her will over her fear, logic wresting control from adrenaline’s grip, she lowered the gun, pointing it down towards the dirt. “If you’d wanted to hurt me,” She said quietly. “Something tells me you would have done it already.”

Goliath’s stomach turned and twinged, like a nervous snake in its burrow. A month ago. A thousand years ago. How much had changed? How much trust could he give to them again? 

And yet…

Lower your claws. He snarled to that cynic in his head. Honor demands it. Do it. 

With glacial measure, he slowly let his eyes fade down. His claws, almost reluctantly, came to rest at his sides. “You are wiser than most.”

She still did not sheath that weapon. He still did not rise from his crouch. 

“I take it these were not friends of yours.” He tossed the question like a pebble into the water, as if testing her mind to see what lurked underneath.

“No.” Elisa folded her sarcasm and tucked it away, her naked intent her best utility for such a delicate dance of words. “They aren’t. The other creatures aren’t anyone I know either.”

“You came to their defense.”

“I wasn’t sure who to defend.” She said, words tight.

“Nor was I.” The creature replied. “But coming to their aid gives us commonality.”

Elisa didn’t scoff. But she didn’t say anything to approve of his statement either. Her face was unreadable, unreachable. The resolute silver shield over her heart did not waver, even as the stone wall surrounding his did not yield.

“What are you?” She asked. 

“Not your enemies.” He replied evasively. 

“You promise?” She lifted one eyebrow, a wary squint all that she gave. “Your word of honor?”

The monster seemed to choke on the sound of that word. Honor. He bared his teeth. “What do humans know of honor?”

Her lip twitched. Not with a laugh or a smile. With anger, like a suppressed snarl. “About as much as monsters do, I think.”

“We are not monsters.” 

“If you aren’t our enemies, and you aren’t monsters, then I guess a better question is to ask who you are.” She clicked the safety on her gun, tucking it back into her shoulder holster. Those hard, black eyes did not look away. They pierced his own dark gaze, bold and unflinching.

Goliath did not know what the click meant. But he knew what it meant to sheath a weapon. He returned the gesture, allowing himself to return to a relaxed posture. He lowered his wings, his tail grew still.

“By your kind, I am called Goliath.”

-

The old one buried his claws in the brownstone brick, catching himself in their porous texture before he slid to the sidewalk far below. With the ease of a lizard scaling a tree, his claws pierced the stone and he ascended up the corner of the building. Shallower, thinner, a trail of clawmarks marked the passage left behind by his quarry. 

There, his unnatural golden claws glinting in the wan light of the distant windows. His eye had not betrayed him; a human had been leading those metal men. Two, a woman and a man. The man had torn off not long after the beast had sniffed them out. 

“Little pig, little pig, let me come in.” He crooned.

He heard a frightened scream. A girl's scream.

The old one mounted the precipice, vaulting over it with one hand and rushing to close the distance. The man’s uncanny claws sliced the door, the glint of his wicked smile reflected in their sheen as he began to peel the door like tinned herring. 

The old one planted a foot, turned, and let his tail drive into the man’s legs, knocking him aside like a battering ram against a sapling!

“Not by the hair of me chinny-chin-chin!” He roared!

The human didn’t have time to roll, only allow himself to be tossed aside like a ragdoll. He bounced once, twice across the cement, rolling to a stop next to the cold tin cube of a vent. The man curled his lip, fury in his eyes. “Who invited you?”

Clang! Clang-shrEEEK! He could only raise those metal claws just in time to parry a slash that would have taken flesh. It came back down again, blade making a hairpin turn in the air and buzzing just a breath away from his nose. The force behind it was immense! He couldn’t block it completely. He somersaulted over his shoulder backpedaling away and leaping up onto the boxy vent. He looked down at the claw. Fury lit his face like a red torch. One of his clawtips had been sheared off, leaving a ragged stump. Thank god his finger was safe. 

The old man’s eyes burned white. Behind their glow, his pupils flicked across the length of his blade. He spied the notch in the cutting edge where he’d taken his finger. That was bad news; the metal was harder than he’d thought.

This fight wouldn’t be won easily.

The human’s thin, gaunt smile widened. A wolf’s smile. “You’re making a mistake friend. You seem like a reasonable man. What do you say we forget we saw one another, and go about our business, hm?” Behind his back, his claws closed around a long, thin stiletto, popping it out of its sheath.

A human’s ears would not have heard the subtle sound of treachery. But ears like the elder’s didn’t miss much. The old gargoyle felt gall rise in his throat, boiling with anger. “Aye! Þonne ic blǽwen heofon gesēo, ye feckless curr!” He swore.

“What the hell does that even mean? Is that even English?” Without warning, he leapt, needle-pointed dagger trained on the monster’s good eye! Hudson parried it with a swish of his blade, flinging it into the shredded door with a ringing clang! He took the tip of his sword to the predator’s throat. 

His eyes flashed white. “It is! And it means, ‘Over my dead body!’ Now pick up your blade and die, or turn around and run!” He roared.

-

“That is one hell of a story.”

“It is more than a story. It is a history.” Goliath commented.

Elisa’s head whirled with more questions. Thousand-year old gargoyles? Ninja robots? Who wouldn’t be overwhelmed? Her instincts with people were good. And they were telling her that this mons–this person was telling the truth. As absolutely unbelievable as it was, at least.

“When was the last time you saw your sons?”

“Sunset today, when we awoke.”

Elisa felt hesitant and reluctant on the one hand. But on the other? She knew what her father would do if she and her siblings were missing. And monsters running loose in New York, even good ones, was something she couldn’t just ignore. “I haven’t heard any other monst– err, unusual sightings on the radio tonight. Just you and your friend. Which means that if they are in trouble, they’ve been awfully quiet about it. Odds are good that they’re safe, just lost.”

“Radio?”

Elisa felt a brief flare of frustration before she stamped it out. Oh god, she was going to have to explain everything to this man. She may as well have been bringing along a–

Her heart caught in her throat, fear filling her lungs and stopping her breath. “April!” She turned, speeding off towards her cruiser. Goliath followed her silently and closely, caped wings fluttering in the cold night wind. They stopped when they saw the remnants of the cruiser, and the massive behemoth beside it. 

“No!” Goliath fell to his knees, taking the beast’s head in his hands. Deep red gashes lined the beast’s side and face. His thick skin was split with claw marks that could have come from a wild animal. The beast lifted its head, and whined. Elisa’s heart caught in her throat; it sounded just like an injured dog. A rough pink tongue licked Goliath’s finger, almost as if reassuring his master that he would be alright. Goliath’s hand rested on the beast’s head, his eyes very soft. 

Elisa paced around the car. “Whatever hurt him did a number on my cruiser too. Look at these clawmarks; what could leave clawmarks in solid steel?”

“A human.” Goliath growled. “The odor of this machine is strong, but there were no other creatures here.”

“A human?” Elisa echoed. She looked around at the ground, scanning it for anything unusual. She stooped, picking something up off of the ground. A piece of yellow ripstop fabric.

“There was a kid in this car. Can you track her?” She held up the piece of fabric.

Goliath stood, looming over Elisa. “I can.”

“Get me to her.”

-

April’s flight down the stairs, with her hummingbird-fast footsteps, was all she could focus on. She wasn’t sure what that monstrous sound above her was, but she wasn’t going to argue if it meant her pursuer was distracted. She checked her phone again, heart squeezing when she saw the tiny ‘x’ in the corner. No signal. No help.

She continued her escape down the stairs, only pausing for breath every so often. The stitch in her side had inflamed into a screaming invisible gash through her ribs. She reached street level, and started looking for a payphone. She took off her hoodie, reversing it. Now instead of yellow, she wore a drab black. Hopping on one foot, she rolled up her pant legs to her knees. She fought her hair back under the hood, hoping that such a flimsy disguise would hold. She hitched her shredded backpack further up her shoulder, looking for a safe spot to ditch it.

Her eyes raked the street, and her smile began to creep back. A Blockbuster at the corner, with flickering fluorescent lights. The yellow glow of the broken storefront sign named it " ckbuster". The only employee was outside, smoking a cigarette that smelled strongly of skunks. Perfect.

Chapter Text

The four of them sat on the floor of the back of the van, an array of takeout containers and empty soda bottles arranged to mirror the neighborhood a block over. An improvised war room, made entirely from old Burger King takeout.

“We’re clear on the plan?” Leo looked at Mikey specifically.

“Why do you always have to stare at me when you ask that?”

“To make sure.”

“Yeah, I’m clear on the plan.” Mikey frumped into his beard. 

Leo gently rolled his hand, gesturing for him to continue. “The plan is…?”

Mikey held up a finger with each point. “Get eyes on April, cause a distraction, grab her, make it back to the van, and go.”

“Without…?” His brother prompted.

Mikey sighed, holding up his last finger. “Without being seen.”

Raph grunted. Leo’s eyes shot him a silent dart. But, he ignored him and said, “I think we can handle that part.”

“This time.” Leo muttered. Raph felt the simmer in his chest leap up to a boil for a minute. When Donnie opened his bag to dispense gear, Raph snatched his smoke bomb, threw on his ski mask and shrugged on his coat, and stormed out of the van before everyone else was ready to leave. Mikey scampered after him, the pair fading into silence and shadow as soon as they strayed from the headlights of the van.

Leonardo and Donatello were left alone.

“Am I too hard on him, Don?” Leo asked, trying to hide the plaintive note behind a frustrated veneer.

Don zipped up his coat, hiding his shell from view. “Yes. You are.” He said, slowly and carefully. “We’re hard on each other. We have to be, all things considered.”

“Could I have said anything differently?”

“You could’ve.” Don nodded. “But do you think that, given his emotional state, he would have listened?”

“...No.”

“And given yours, do you think you listened as well as you should’ve?”

Leo sighed. Donnie was right. Again. “Why aren’t you the leader?”

“I crack under pressure, and I hate confrontation. Neither of those things have ever scared you. That, and you know I overthink things until I spiral myself into a panic attack. That’s why Splinter put you in charge.”

Don was logical and impartial, as always. Leo didn’t want to admit that those were his faults too. He was just better at hiding them. He turned off the lights to the van, and reluctantly removed the hard brace, the cold air making the miniscule scales on his leg prickle. It used to feel like an encumbrance. Now, he felt nervous walking without it, even for a little while. He rolled down his pant leg, picked up his smoke bomb, and secured his katana under his coat. 

Soon, both he and Don had vanished into the night.

-

“So, why’d you lie to Leo?” Michelangelo whispered.

Raph whirled on him. The two of them crouched in the shadow of a rusty water tower, scanning the street. “How did you know that?”

“Bro.” Mikey looked at him. “Because I know you.”

Fair point. Raph exhaled. “Okay, yeah, I lied about the fight with the monster.”

“You’re going to go off to fight him again, aren’t you?”

Raphael didn’t answer. “Just keep watch for April.”

“Aren’t you?”

Raph would have, at any other point, snapped at him. He would have growled a threat that he would never follow through on, intimidated his baby brother into shutting up. But after tonight? He was tired. Too tired to even be angry anymore.

He just wanted this night to be over.

“Yeah. I am.”

“Are you going alone?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s stupid.”

“I know that.”

“Then don’t.”

Raph didn’t want to waste any more breath arguing with him. He flipped open his phone to check the time. 1:08 AM. Leo and Donnie would signal to move to the next search area at 1:10. He made three hand signs to Mikey. Quiet. Watch. Ready. 

Michelangelo knew he was brushing him off. Again. God, he hated it when Raph did that. How could he ever explain to Raph how much he loved him? How much he wanted to help? How he wished he could wave a magic wand like a little sewer pixie and just magically erase every single problem that had ever crossed their path? 

If Michelangelo could control time, he would have gone back to some point before dinnertime and just asked Raph if he wanted to play Mortal Kombat with him. Maybe it would have staved off his loneliness, his craving for people, for belonging. 

It was weird. The lonelier Raph felt, the more he pushed people away. The lonelier he got, the angrier he got. The angrier he got, the pricklier he got. It was like he hated being reminded that he existed. Mikey knew that. 

So why didn’t anybody else see it?

-

April kicked her backpack underneath the counter, tugging the stolen blue polo shirt down awkwardly over her black hoodie. It was about a size too small, especially around the chest, and it kept riding up over her stomach. She picked up a magazine–something about teen fashion–and propped it up perhaps a little too high as she pretended to read. 

That psycho had tried to take the door off its hinges. The sound of his metal-sheathed fingers knocking on the steel door still rattled around in her head, like a loose marble that pinged off the walls that kept her anxiety locked away.

Why hadn’t he followed her? What was that roar she’d heard? And who the hell was he? Where did his female accomplice go?

Her cell phone rested in the fold of the magazine, between two articles about weight loss, and her eyes hovered over the ‘x’ in the corner. As soon as that icon showed even a single bar, she would immediately call the guys.

There was another question. Where was her cell signal?

The door dinged, and April swung around in the office chair to face the door, worried that the real store clerk would be back. But no. It was a greasy man wearing a wifebeater and a holey jacket, shuffling on flip-flops that had probably been baby blue back in the 90s. He looked up at her, grunted, and went over to the Action Movies section. 

Flimsy disguise for the win.

She kept the magazine up, and took a few more breaths. Finally, she was safe.

And then the wall exploded.

-

Leonardo’s head snapped in the direction of the distant boom. “Don, did you–”

“Yep, let’s go!” Donatello shook out the length of his collapsible bō, taking a long and graceful pole-leap over the gap between the buildings. Leo swung his grappling hook, connecting it to the clothesline that spanned it, and slid down to the alley. 

Sprinting as fast as they could towards the explosion, Leonardo checked over his shoulder at the shadowy roofs across the street. Sure enough, he could make out the leaping and sprinting forms of Michelangelo and Raphael keeping pace. 

Leonardo could feel his left knee starting to complain. Each jostling movement made the screws drilled into the lower-left quarter of his carapace report their presence with a small jolt of distant pain. He was definitely not up for a fight tonight. Stick to the plan. Get in, get April, get out. 

He remembered Michelangelo’s bet back in the van. It was past midnight. He took a small amount of consolation in the idea that now, Mikey owed them a pizza supreme.

-

Goliath’s ears perked up, brow ridges high on his forehead. The massive gargoyle beast at his heels lifted its head and barked. “An explosion!”

“Dammit!” Maza swore. “I knew that kid was trouble!”

There was a heavy whoosh over their heads. Goliath looked up, lifting an arm in signal as the elder slowly circled. His wings folded, and he hit the ground with a thud that Elisa could feel in her ribs. 

The old one dusted off his ancient tunic. “It seems tonight is a cursed night.”

“You’re telling me.” Elisa replied. “Who are you?”

The elder looked at her. His deep brown lip twitched, baring a single fang. “A gargoyle. Ye need know nothing more, human.” He looked up at Goliath. “Why do you bring one of them with us?”

“She has pledged to aid us in locating the Trio, if we help her find her ward.” Goliath answered. “A young girl, dark with a yellow coat.”

“I didnae see her,” The elder shook his head. “But I heard her. A human with golden claws pursued her.”

“Where is she?” Elisa’s eyes steeled, her fist clenched. If that kid were hurt while she was responsible for her…

The old one shook his head. “She escaped, as did her pursuer.” 

It was then that Elisa saw the trickle of blood coming down the old one’s arm. Her glance flicked down to it, and the old one tucked his arm aside to hide his injury. The beast padded forward, snout promptly buried in the elder’s side. The old one brushed the beast off with a wave of his hand. “The explosion is his.” He explained.

“Let us not dally. Lead us to her.” Goliath unceremoniously picked up Elisa by the collar. She yelped in surprise, clinging to his shoulders by instinct, knees hugging the small of his back. She hardly had any warning before the old one and Goliath leapt a clear ten feet straight into the air and began to scale the nearest building. She found her elbows locked around his neck in a terrified death grip as the ground shrank below her.

“You must not choke me, human.” Goliath growled. Elisa muttered an apology, easing her grip around his neck as he reached the peaked roof of the office building. He took four steps forward. She felt her stomach flutter as he leaned over the edge of the tall building, the ground below as small as a doll’s street. His wings spread wide, and his tail raised. She could feel the powerful muscles in his back bunch as he prepared to do the one thing she hoped he wouldn’t do.

“Oh god, please don’t juUUMP!!”

The wind stole her breath. The ground zoomed closer, and then it shrank away.

They were flying.

-

April didn’t remember dropping to the ground, or covering her head with her arms. But with her shoulder pressed against the service desk’s wood paneling, and rubble pinging off the linoleum countertop over her head, she didn’t have time to appreciate her swift reaction. 

“Huff and puff,” a familiar voice sang. “And we’ll blow your house down!”

April muttered the nastiest cuss she knew. She grabbed her backpack, and bolted from cover, making her way to the upended case of rom-com movies. Over her head, she heard the too-familiar p-p-p-pew! of laser fire. The spray burned round scorch marks into the floor and the wall beside her, one errant blast ripping a hole through her backpack.

“Quit your clowning, Jackal.” A new voice growled. Low, deep, but somehow familiar to her ears. Where had she heard that voice before? “Get the girl, and let’s get out of here. We have minutes before the cops show up.”

“We have other errands to run in this neighborhood, boys. Don’t forget.” A man. Australian, by his accent. April dug through her bag, desperate to find something useful. Her hands closed around a familiar box. Her heart sank. Aw, man. Really? This was her last option?

Reluctantly, she let her finger hover over the button and she braced up what little was left of her courage. She just had to outlast them for a minute. She squeezed her eyes shut, pulled her black hood down over her cinnamon hair, and kicked the shelf of movies over. 

The shapes of the three men shielded their faces from the shower of VHS tapes. She was immediately met by blaster fire as she sprinted her way towards the back rooms. She heard the fearful cry of a man–probably the guy in the coat browsing movies–and silently pleaded with whatever god happened to be watching that they were just taking him as a hostage and weren’t about to kill him.

She heard footsteps closing behind her. But she had exactly one advantage left in her arsenal; she knew where the circuit breaker was. She veered around the corner, sneakers screeching on the dirty linoleum, and she practically tore the thin metal door open, reaching for the rows of switches.

The lights went out.

“Damn little brat!” The Aussie man spat. 

The man with the deeper voice chuckled. “I love it when they fight back.”

“Told you this one was worth it.” The one called Jackal drawled with his thin, cruel voice. “A real hunt.”

Animal names, hunts, claws… who were these freaks? Rejects from a furry forum?

She pressed the button on the device in her hand, and threw it across the room as far as she could. She heard it clatter somewhere in the middle of the store, and she held her breath.

Stay still. Be like Leo.

“What was that?” “Dingo, go check it out. Jackal, cover the sides.” “Go to hell, Wolf. She’s mine, I saw her first.”

There was the sound of a fist burying itself in someone else’s gut, and Jackal’s sneer turned into a wheezing gasp. There was no further argument as three separate sets of footsteps moved around the store. Flashlights clicked on. 

“Where’d she go?” A beam swept dangerously close to April’s hiding place, and she willed herself into becoming a statue.

“Here piggy, piggy, piggy.” Jackal crooned. “Come out, come out, wherever you are.”

A tinny voice began to sing. “Somebody once told me the wo-o-orld was gonna roll me, I ain’t the sharpest tool in the she-ed–”

“What the fuck?!” There was a rip of blaster fire, red flashes of light illuminating the documentaries section.

“She was lookin’ kind of dumb with her fi-inger and her thumb, in the shape! of an L, on her fore-hea-ad…”

There was the scamper of feet across the store. “There, I see her!” There was the rapid p-p-pew! of laserfire again. The store window shattered, and a cardboard standee of Farrah Fawcett grinned ear-to-ear as eight perfectly round, flaming holes burned through her torso.

Jackal cackled. The Australian man, Dingo, spat and growled. “Shaddup, you fool.”

“Well, the years start comin’, and they don’t stop comin’, fed to the rules an’ I–” The tape in the Walkman cassette player was suddenly clicked off. That low chuckle came back. It was the deep-voiced man. Wolf. “You’re a smart girl. A little too smart for your own good, I think.”

“Wolf, what are you–” “Shh!” Dingo cut Jackal off mid-sentence. 

Wolf continued. “You know what? I think you should know something. You’ve just outrun not one, not two, but four world-class assassins and bounty hunters. I think this is the best run we’ve had in… what, about six months? Last guy who gave us a workout this good was ex-KGB.”

Well, Splinter would be proud. They were trying to draw her out. Trying to toy with her. April refused to move, her muscles frozen in place. She didn't even dare to breathe.

Wolf chuckled again. “I know a pro when I see one. You’re not just some random high school kid, are you? Kind of a pity. I’d have loved to know who your trainer is. I’d like to meet ‘em. Compare notes, as professionals. You know? Congratulate them on picking up such talent, and so young too.”

Why is his voice so familiar? She felt her arms beginning to shake. She couldn’t hold onto this hiding spot for much longer. Her grip on the chilly water pipe was starting to slip.

“So… which is it? CIA? Mossad? Black Hand? Or is this something… else?”

April felt a bead of sweat building down her forehead.

“I’m thinking… a ninja.”

Her sneaker squeaked. In the shadows, she saw the silhouette of the man’s head look straight up. Behind the beam of his flashlight, she saw the glint of his teeth. She didn’t have to see his eyes to know that he’d seen the crooked panel in the subceiling where she had been hiding. 

It was the smile of a predator on top of his prey. April shouted and kicked when she heard a hand break through the fragile foam and felt it close around her ankle. It dragged her out of the subceiling and slammed her down to the floor. 

She rolled over onto her elbows, and scrambled to her feet to put up her fists. She panted, glaring the man in the eye. She couldn’t see anything of his features behind the flashlight, and he stood right between her and the exit.

“You’re a brave kid.” The man tsked. “Shame. What a waste.”

Chapter Text

A single red dot, like a devil firefly, glowed on her sternum. 

“You’re going to kill me, aren’t you?” She asked. Her voice trembled at the edge of tears. She couldn’t help it.

“Sorry. You’ve seen too much.” The man said insincerely. “I know. It’s not easy to turn out the lights. Just close your eyes, and I’ll make it fast.”

“Wolf, she’s a kid.” The Australian man, Dingo, swept his beam in their direction, illuminating April’s face. “She can’t be much older than fifteen, mate. You’re cold, but you’ve never killed a kid.”

“Fox wouldn’t have any issue.” Jackal drawled. “My sister wouldn’t. And neither do I. And this isn’t a democracy, as you like to so frequently remind us.” 

“Then why are you debating this with me? She can still go to the cops. Unless you buffoons want to go back to Rikers Island.” Wolf threatened.

-

Running on the rooftop, Leo could practically hear his bones squeak with each footfall. His painkillers had kicked in long ago, but the noise still unnerved him. Don’s stride was longer than his–he was about four inches taller–but even then, Leo could tell Don was slowing down on purpose.

“Leave me.” Leo grunted. “I’ll catch up.”

Don gave him a worried look.

“Get April.” He growled. “I’ll be fine.”

Don’s eyes seemed to start asking a question. But, ceding to his brother’s orders, he pulled ahead and left Leonardo in the dust, the bobbing of his long-tailed cap the only thing he saw as he drew his bō and vaulted over the edge, across the gap to the next building.

Leo felt the stitch beginning to form in his side, but tried to grit his teeth and breathe air into the space. He looked up, checking for overhead wires, and spotted a shadow.

A huge shadow.

Leo felt his heart thud behind the bony plate of his plastron. Some primal fear that lurked deep in his instincts begged him to vanish, to disappear into a doorway or stairwell. Some animal instinct that had never been quite wiped away by his mutation that screamed ‘predator’. But what overrode that fear was the column of smoke that rose in the distance. 

Just once, Leo wished, I’d like to be able to shell up and hide like a normal turtle.

He seized control over his legs, his pumping heart aching sore. Even as the medicine in his blood fought the pain, his disciplined will fought the terror.

Keep running. You have a job to do.

He took shallow breaths, timing them with his footfalls to soothe the ache behind his scutes.

Be brave. Be like April.

In and out.

Be like April.

-

Far down the street, Raphael dug in his coat for something. He cussed, enough to make Mikey turn his head.

Eight seconds.

“Do you kiss your mom with that mouth, dude?” Mikey asked.

“Our mom’s either dead, or eating minnows in a marsh.” Raph retorted. “Do you got your flashlight?”

Mikey’s hand whipped into his pocket and pulled out a small hand flashlight with a flourish. “You’re welcome!” He beamed.

Raph snatched it, crouching to one knee and clicked it once, on and off. And then, they waited.

There was a single flash across the street, a purple strobe. 

“Donnie’s in position.” Raph relayed. “But where’s Leo?”

Twelve seconds.

Mikey made a grunt that sounded something like ‘I dunno.’ The smoke curled higher, and there was the red flash of a blaster behind the broken storefront, and Raphael’s fingers curled around the little orange flashlight. 

“Dude,” Mikey’s face looked squeamish. “They’ve got lasers.”

“Yeah, I got that.” Raph snapped. “Where the hell is Leo?”

Sixteen seconds.

On the other rooftop, Donatello asked the same question. Squinting into the night with a pair of green-tinted nightvision goggles pressed to his eyes, he scoured the roofs for any sign of his brother. He spotted him, limp in his gait more clear than it was an hour ago. Don lifted his purple flashlight again, strobing it once. He watched as Leo, almost a quarter of a mile away, reached into his pocket. A blue strobe flickered in reply. 

Position relayed, Don focused his lens on the storefront, zooming in as close as he dared. He felt his cold blood run even colder when he saw the telltale flash of a laser blast.

Several shots, wide spray pattern. He noted. They don’t know what they’re aiming for. It was about as much good news as he could have hoped for. In the dark of the video store, he saw in sharp green detail the faces of three men. There was a silent conversation between them. It ended when one of them punched the other in the gut before gesturing for them to close the perimeter. That must have been the leader.

He pointed his purple flashlight in Leo’s direction. He strobed it two times instead of once. On, off, on, off. 

Thirty seconds.

I see an opening. Just gimme the signal already.

Don didn’t have to wait long. He saw the blue light flicker in the distance, a two-pulse strobe in reply. One flash meant ‘wait’. Three meant ‘help’. Two flashes from any of them meant ‘I have a clear shot’.

Two flashes from Leo meant ‘take it’. 

-

Hyena wanted to focus on her nails. Her gauntlets weren’t gentle on her fingers, and if she got an infection from a broken nail, she wanted to address it. Take care of your weapons, and they’ll take care of you. 

As she lightly passed the emery board over the rounded white crescents of her fingertips, the small hairs on the back of her neck rose. She leaned forward in the seat, resting her nail file on the dash. She could have sworn she saw something flicker up there. A yellow light?

Her brow furrowed. Whatever it was, it was gone. But that feeling was real enough. She’d been in private armies all over the world. It could have been a light in someone’s window. 

Or it could have been a signal.

She sneered at the sky, daring it to try something. 

A purple flash, on the next building over. That was enough for her. Hyena drove her elbow into the horn of the van, releasing a long electronic howl of alarm!

-

“What in the–?” Wolf didn’t have time to react to the van horn. One second it was just dark and dusty, the next he was breathing in a thick and cloying smokescreen!

April’s heart leapt, even as the noxious fumes burned her nose. She heard rapid footfalls over the rubble, and the familiar thwack-th-th-thwack! of a polyvinyl-aluminum staff connecting with flesh and bone. She felt a hand on the small of her back, pushing her towards the smashed storefront.

“Run for it, April!” Don shouted.

She wasted no time, making for the broken window and clearing it in a single long, flying leap. Her sneakers hit pavement, crunching on broken glass, and she scanned the street. 

She didn’t have long to catch any details before the street lamps shattered. Anyone else would have been frightened to hear the sound of a metal tang and see fragments of shattered street lights fall like stardust. But to her, it was as sure as any calling card; the cavalry had arrived. 

She heard a heavy thud next to her. “You miss us?”

“Raphael, you’re a jackass.” She chided him. But she threw her arms around his shoulders and held on tight. Her brain barely registered that he was wearing a trench coat for a change. She heard the tinny whine of a grappling line, and felt her stomach lurch as they were yanked up the side of the building. By instinct, she put her feet out just in time to brace herself against the wall. Rough three-fingered hands reached under her armpit and around her elbows, hoisting her up onto the roof.

“Mikey, look after her, I’m goin’ back down there to get Donnie.”

“But–!” 

The only reply Mikey received was the sound of the rappelling line zipping back down the side of the brick wall. April doubled over, hands on her knees. The fear of death finally took hold, her nerves finally spent. She vomited. 

Michelangelo grimaced in the darkness. “Geez, April, are you okay?”

“Ask me when I’m not running from assassins.” She gasped, wiping a fleck of sick off of her chin. 

Mikey did the only thing he really knew how to do. He put his arms around April and held her tightly. Her hug was a vicegrip, as if he were her only anchor to the world of the living, and letting go would mean drifting into death’s dark waters. That obnoxious neon orange hunter’s hat tipped into her eyes, the embroidered tail of the rainbow trout digging into her temple. 

She didn’t care. Her brother was here. That was all that mattered to her.

“We got you, April.” Mikey murmured. “You’re okay. You’re safe now. We got you.”

She finally let herself cry.

-

Elisa’s eyes watered in the wind. Her arms were starting to feel cramp, but she didn’t dare mention the pain. She squinted against the breeze, eyes combing the ground below. The lights of the city illuminated the streets in an even, scintillating yellow glow. It was a familiar sight to her, even this high up.

She hated being this high up. 

Five seconds.

“Relax, Elisa.” Derek’s voice was calm, even. There was a laugh in his eyes. “I’m not asking you to parallel park.”

“Derek, this is against regs.” Elisa’s hands wavered on the controls. “I shouldn’t be anywhere near this helicopter, especially if I’m on duty.” Below the helicopter, the earth seemed to tilt and wave, as if the chopper were a tea kettle falling off of a table in slow motion. Seeing the world and the chopper lurch underneath them drove sickly sweet bile up her throat and into her mouth. 

Seeing her falter, her brother’s brown hand closed over hers. The chopper stabilized, smooth as a paper airplane. The rotors’ roar drowned out his voice, but she heard it clearly through the headset.

“Think of it as emergency prep.” He said. “If there’s ever a time you’re up in the air and I’m not there to catch you, you’ll be able to fly on your own.”

“Derek, I would rather be in a firefight against a small army of Matt’s illuminati lizardmen than fly this death trap.”

“Hey now, don’t hurt her feelings. She’s a sensitive machine. She might buck and throw us.” He shook his head. Clearly, a little disappointed, but not terribly. “Alright. I can’t make you love it up here. I promise, I won’t make you fly again.”

“Cross your heart?”

“And hope to die.”

A sudden gust tore her out of her memories, her arms reflexively curling around Goliath’s neck as he careened in the wind before leveling out.

“You okay?”

“A passenger is unusual.” Was his terse reply.

She nodded, choosing not to break his concentration. They were coming up on the wreckage. Elisa’s heart caught in her throat. 

She couldn’t look away from the rubble. She found her eyes combing it for bodies, her lungs closing up, her skin prickling and twitching.

Fifteen seconds.

Goliath craned his head around to look at her. Part of him knew that this was a different kind of distress than before. Fear of flight was normal for creatures bound to the ground. The way her fingers shrank deeper into his shoulders, the way her breath came out cold, it told him this was a very new and very raw kind of fear. It was terror.

He angled his wings into a swoop. She is in no condition to face danger for now, and neither is our beast. He reasoned. He can guard her, ensure she keeps her word.

Deep down, in a corner of his mind he refused to acknowledge, he didn’t want her close to the wreckage. He alighted on the rooftop of a nearby apartment building. He felt the ground faintly tremble as the elder’s weight was absorbed by the stone underfoot. He lowered himself to one knee, allowing Elisa to step down. 

The elder released the hound, and the beast gratefully lowered himself down to the cool stone. The elder’s fingers stroked his head, and the beast groaned. “He’ll not last in another confrontation with the witch that did this to him. He can’nae follow.”

Twenty-two seconds.

Goliath was secretly glad of his elder’s wisdom providing him the perfect excuse. “Stay here and watch him.” He instructed Elisa. “We’ll return when we have your ward.”

Elisa shook her head. “I have to come with you. If she’s down there, she’s in danger.”

“Someone must look after him.” Goliath gestured to the beast. “He is vulnerable.”

Thirty seconds.

Elisa didn’t know what to do. On the one hand, she wanted to agree with him. She never wanted to show fear–to feel fear–but she couldn’t hide the shake in her hands. But on the other hand, that girl was in danger, and it was her fault for bringing her into it. She could be dead by now. She had to do something!

Elisa’s eyes peered past Goliath’s massive shoulder, pulled by some fearful gravity towards the rising smoke of the explosion. What is wrong with me? She screamed at herself. A month ago, I was fine! Why now?!

“Fine.” Elisa relented. “But if she sees you and fights back, let her go. I don’t want her hurting herself. Just keep whoever is hunting her at bay.”

Goliath growled. His wings flew open, buffeting her with a blast of wind. The elder drew his sword, and they leapt from the top of the building, swooping towards the wrecked video store.

She pulled her radio off of her belt. She felt her stomach lurch at the idea of calling the rest of the force, especially when Goliath and his elder could be endangered. But what choice did she have? Whoever blew up that Blockbuster was still in there, and the people in this neighborhood were in danger. She would just have to hope the two of them got out in time.

“16123. I’m at Weiss and Eastman. I have eyes on the building. We’re going to need ABS.”

-

Donatello could see the smoke beginning to clear, and that was bad news for him. The laser light illuminated the cloud with lines so clear and furious it was like lines of red ribbon threatening to snare him. He held his breath, ducking low, bō staff at his side, and ran with silent lengthy strides to the other end of the store.

“Find them!” The man called Wolf shouted. “Find them, or Fox cuts us all!”

Don didn’t feel the blast that hit him. He heard it, and he smelled it.

He cried out, hand flying to his side, feeling the sticky residue of burnt polyester clinging to his fingers. “Newton’s Cradle!” He swore.

“Got him!” Jackal crowed. He vaulted over a fallen shelf, closing distance, blaster chugging and spewing red fire in his hands. Donatello lifted his bō, gritting his teeth. He clicked a button and along the length of his staff, a panel flipped, revealing a thin line of polished mirrors from one end to the other. He spun the staff in his hands, a whirl of reflected red light! The laser blasts scattered throughout the store, a few searing the wall behind him. Dingo and Jackal dove for cover.

Don took the opening, hand pressed to his side, and leapt for the exit. He was stopped by a kick connecting with his ankles! He rolled across the ground, force of the strike sending him flying. He looked up, heart pounding, into the eyes of a human with long white hair, pulled into a ponytail.

“You…!” Don gasped.

“Do I know you?” Wolf raised an eyebrow.

He didn’t have time to answer before the sing of metal blades came down on his arm. Wolf gasped, blood spraying from his shoulder, pulling away just barely before two katana would have severed his arm from his body. Don barely registered the hand that dragged him by the elbow up to standing and shoved him towards the opening in the wall. 

“Go, go!” Leo bellowed. Another smoke bomb filled the air, replenishing the rapidly waning smokescreen. Hopping over the rubble, Leonardo and Donatello fled the store. But this time, the assassins would not be waylaid. All three rushed the opening.

Wolf stood out in the street, clutching his shoulder, hot blood gushing through his fingers. Dingo had the man from the video store, hog-tied and slung over his shoulder. Jackal held his gun loosely in one hand. “Hyena!” He shouted. “Start the van!”

Hyena looked immensely displeased by this. “What happened to ‘leave no witnesses’?”

“Cops are coming. We can hunt her down later if we aren’t in handcuffs!” Jackal countered. “Just do it!”

-

Raphael’s feet touched the ground, and he didn’t have time to appreciate the speed with which Leo and Don withdrew from the fight. They were sprinting in his direction, arms pumping by their sides. Raph felt that simmering rage in his chest ratchet up to a hellfire inferno when he saw the black, starburst scorchmark radiating across Don’s left side.

“Don!” He rushed to him.

“I’m hit, but I’ll live.” Don assured him. Raph heard the restrained gasp in his assertion, and he felt himself tremble.

“Raph, we need to let it go!” Leo gestured for him to return to the roof.

“They got Don, I wanna see them BLEED!”

“Raph–!” Don protested, a little too late. Raphael shoved past Leonardo, lowering his head and lowing like a bull as he charged the man with white hair. 

There was a blur. An enormous purple shape struck the street. It spread its wings wide, and roared with a volume like a rumbling thunderstorm.

Raphael backpedaled. “The shell?! Another one?!”

The creature didn’t seem to make a distinction between him and the humans he opposed. That enormous tail slammed into him with enough force to lift a truck, sending Raph sailing back the way he came. 

Goliath whirled on the humans. “I am here for the girl.”

Wolf grinned, seeing an opportunity. “Over there! He’s the one who took her!” He pointed at the one who was now pulling himself out of a turtle-shaped hole in the wall of a bakery across the video store. Raphael groaned, rubbing his neck. 

Goliath’s eyes burned white, a snarl rippled through his chest.

Raphael looked up. “Ah, crud.”

-

Michelangelo looked down at the street, hand on the edge as he peered down. “Uhh… he a friend of yours?” He asked April.

April looked down, following his gaze. Her gut clenched. 

“I heard that roar before… it was at the construction yard!” She exclaimed. “The policewoman, the one who grabbed me, she went to investigate. She never came back. He must be the mutant from the dispatch call!”

Mikey looked down. His usually soft eyes hardened. “Not a friend. Got it.” He withdrew his nunchucks from his coat, hooked his grappling hook on the ledge, and in seconds he was down on the ground! Chucks whirling above his forearms like orange-banded helicopter blades, he charged with a yell!

“Nunchuck to the FAAACE!!” He leapt, coming down in an arc on the monster. He sidestepped, and Mikey whirled, pivoting to change his angle of attack. “I said to the FAAACE!!”

Goliath lifted one hand, slapping him aside with a mighty backhand! Michelangelo flew with a yell, punted like a little league softball. In the confusion, the three assassins rushed into the van, throwing their captive inside and slamming the door. The tailpipe belched exhaust as the engine turned over. 

“They’re getting away!” Raph shouted, pointing down the street. Don grimaced, fishing in his bag. Tossing a small green disk in his hand, he wrenched back his arm and flung it after the vehicle. He cried out, the muscle in his shoulder screaming protest at its movement.

Leonardo grit his teeth, pointing up at the sky. “Incoming!”

Another blur hit the earth, pavement cracking beneath him. White eyes glowed above his white beard, distant citylights reflected in the blade of his long, sharp spatha. “Hand over the girl, creatures, and no harm will come to ye!”

Donatello flourished his bō, standing as tall as he could. Leonardo shifted his grip on his katana, voice low and sharp. “No way in hell. April’s coming with us.”

The elder shook his head. His one good eye narrowed at the two of them. He studied them carefully. One was injured, charred fragments of his coat clinging to his body. The other had a limp, favoring his left side. 

Their voices… they haven’t even dropped yet. The grandfatherly part of his mind seemed to fumble his grip on his blade, pausing in his footsteps. These aren’t men. They’re teenagers.

The elder, for a flicker of a moment, saw the faces of his sons reflected in theirs, hidden by shadow and human apparel. As if it were a trick of the light, he could even swear their own eyes burned as white as his own.

The elder’s earfins perked up, the sound of a heavy weight whizzing down a long steel cable attracting his attention. A human shape slid down from the roof, stumbling clumsily to the ground. His nightvision peeled back the darkness, studying her face. A girl, with cinnamon hair like a red cloud, packed tight underneath a black hood. She straightened up, putting the hood down. He saw the lining of the hood. Yellow. It was her.

She put up her fists. “Leave me and my friends alone!”

The elder growled, pointing with his sword. “Lass, you’re in danger, away from there!”

Raphael, groaning, pulled himself to his feet. Michelangelo lay in a heap beside him, just stirring. Don winced, side still burned by laser fire. 

Leonardo’s eyes met the old one’s own. A moment hung in the air. The sirens steadily grew louder, closer.

He was out of options.

He sheathed one katana. He barked out, “Ninja, vanish!”

The elder was surprised by the sound more than the visual when a tiny white sphere rolled between his ankles. With a sharp bang! It exploded, releasing yet one more thick cloud of purplish hued smoke. He coughed in surprise, swatting it away from his face and leaping forward to reach the ones who’d thrown it.

But they were already gone.

Chapter Text

Elisa probably shouldn’t have been surprised by the number of fire trucks, cruisers, ambulances, unmarked cars, and ominous black SUVs that swarmed the neighborhood.

But she was. 

They fell on the block like a cloud of red-and-blue glowing locusts with shimmering carapaces in many colors, packed in loose huddles and crammed against the wall of the building. Firefighters and officers trickled into buildings like ants into anthills. Lights were on in nearly every window, and curious eyes peered out at the street, as if anxious to leave once the all-clear was given.

Elisa couldn’t blame them. She had her hands in her pockets, sitting on the hood of a white cruiser. She felt dog-tired, and would have absolutely taken a nap right there on the ground if she didn’t already have ten other things to do at that moment. Looking at the sea of plain-clothes, armored, and uniformed officers and first responders, she found herself looking for a particular puff of red hair.

Ah, there he was. Her favorite pain in the neck. Matt Bluestone.

She leaned forward, walking towards him. She lifted a hand. “Hey, partner.”

Matt looked up at her. He was handsome, with a strong jaw and laser-blue eyes that seemed to focus tightly on anything nearby that caught his attention. He seemed to live for the detective stereotype. He was so disappointed when Captain Chavez refused to let him wear a fedora on duty, but he still wore that vintage trench coat like he was born with it. His hair was almost a comical shade of red, so bright and coppery that it would have looked more at home on a clown than a cop. It didn’t help that the other detectives saw Matt as a clown in his own right.

Matt was an odd duck, to be sure. What made them both odd was that, even before the towers went down, neither of them exactly fit in with the rest of their cohort. What set them on the outside? Well, they both actually gave a damn when they weren’t paid to. It was probably the only thing they had in common, along with Derek and Morgan. It was all they needed to have in common.

He tucked his notebook into his trench coat pocket. She could see the indecipherable line of scratches and loops that made up Matt’s own invented form of shorthand. He put his pencil behind his ear, and smiled at Elisa. “Hey, partner.” He replied. “You’re the one who called this in, right?”

“On the heels of about forty phone calls to dispatch.” She sighed. “I happened to be in the neighborhood.”

“Anything you can tell me?” Matt asked.

“About nine different suspects, one of them a minor. No clear looks at any faces, so no solid leads, except for part of a license plate and the name of the juvenile connected with this.”

“You know her?”

“She was in my cruiser when I responded to the bogey call a few hours ago. I was about to drop her off at her home address. I ended up having to fire shots before I chased the bogey here on foot.”

When things started getting ‘weird’ in the 80s or so, no one wanted to say ‘monster sighting’. ‘Monster’ had a lot of uncomfortable concepts attached to it. Concepts like invulnerability, unstoppability, unfathomability. It made people think of Godzilla, King Kong, and the Thing. It made people refuse to take such calls unless they were paid to do it, trained to do it, and could reassign anyone else to do it. There were no monsters in the NYPD’s official records. There were ‘bogeys’. And bogeys were for suckers.

She and Matt were Manhattan 23’s designated suckers; they handled ‘the bogey calls’. A fool’s errand, until they had no other fools to throw at a deadly, unimaginable, eldritch problem. She and Matt were both bullied relentlessly in the office. Once, someone had gifted her a plush toy of Slimer the Ghost… by attaching it to a tripwire on the door of their office.

The entire reason she was even working the Purple Dragons case–the first serious case she’d had in almost a year–was because all of the perps swore up and down that they were tied up and left in the dumpster next to the police station by Martians.

Matt whistled. “Chavez is going to fry your ass and serve it with waffles. You started your shift without me.”

“I know, I’m sorry!” Elisa groaned, frustratedly massaging her eyes with the heels of her hands. Thank god she never wore makeup. “This was supposed to be basically a babysitting errand. I was already going to be working on the last of the paperwork for that Purple Dragons case, and then–” she gestured at the storefront, the Blockbuster sign hanging by a single power cable, arcs of water from firehoses soaking the steaming rubble. “–this blew up in my face!”

She still couldn’t look at the ruined shop directly. And looking around at the sea of faces around her, it was clear she wasn’t the only one having a hard time looking at it. They all had a different heap of rubble on their mind. 

She saw one unfamiliar black Jeep that stood apart from the rest, a late model with tinted windows so dark that they were black mirrors. There were three officers–or maybe soldiers–milling around it. They wore black uniforms, with black rounded helmets that hid their eyes and showed only their mouths and jaws. One held what looked like a geiger counter, sweeping it over the rubble like a magic wand. Two more were talking to a man in a black suit, who wore a pair of dark shades. Neither the officers nor the truck bore any markings to tell her who they were, or what department they were from.

Something about this mystery rover sent a cold shiver down her spine. The man in the shades was turned away from her, but something about him made her think that his eyes were watching her. It gave her the creeps.

She looked back to Matt, and for a moment, Elisa swore she could see his lips forming words. His eyes were distant, his shoulders rigid. Tam Ooo Pish-ip?

No. No, her lipreading was wrong, she realized. Damn you, Bishop. But who was Bishop?

“It really is not your night, Maza.” Matt tsked. “Why don’t you tell me more about this?”

“You got any coffee in your cruiser?” She asked. 

Matt frowned. “What the hell happened to your cruiser?”

“Bogey.”

Matt laughed. Not the kind of laugh that he’d utter at a joke; the kind that made her think that he thought she was going as crazy as he was. It was a pity laugh. “Yeah. Hope you like it black. Last time I had creamer in my cruiser, it turned into cheese.”

“Nice.” Elisa pursed her lips together, trying not to think about cruiser-cheese in the hot sun. Matt’s car was notorious for being uninhabitable for anything but cockroaches.

But coffee was still coffee. She sat in the passenger seat, sipping lukewarm bitter blackness, and told him as much as she could. Of course, she withheld the key details–Goliath, his elder, and their pet–but detailed everything else.

Matt listened intently. But his eyes kept glancing up at the rearview mirror, to the unmarked black Jeep, staring after the dark-haired man in black. Even behind those black shades, it was clear that he was staring right back. A coy smile played on the man’s lips as he turned and walked back to the rover, hands clasped behind his back.

The man in black lifted one hand, and waved at Matt’s car as he walked away.

For many, rage was a heated feeling. But for Matt Bluestone, it was a wash of ice in his veins, like a cold shower in January. Damn you, Bishop. What could you possibly want?

-

“It makes no sense.” Goliath murmured, fist propped up under his chin. They were miles away, overlooking the scene where red and blue lights glowed like a distant watchfire below the dissipating smoke twirling into the sky. There had been no flames, but the heat of the smoke had proven to be a useful updraft. They’d gained enough height to coast to a far-off building. 

“No, it doesn’t.” The elder agreed. “Why would the humans be chasing the girl if she was allied with them?”

“They wouldn’t.” Goliath rumbled. “There are more pieces to this.”

Their knowledge was fragmented, but they had a few key pieces; the girl was in league with the four creatures. She had been fleeing the human with the golden claws. The four creatures fought with the same weapons that the machine-men had used to ensnare the false gargoyle and his insect companion.

As to the four creatures themselves? The human with the white mane had an injury on his shoulder, a deep cut. One of the creatures had been carrying a bloodied sword. They wore the clothes of humans, in such layers and arrangement that their identities would have been obscured from view. But their odor was unmistakable; not gargoyle, and not human. Furthermore…

“The one in the long coat.” Goliath pondered. “He called me ‘another one’.”

“He’s seen other gargoyles.” The elder reasoned. “Impossible, unless…”

“Unless he encountered the Trio.” Goliath finished for him. He stood up, wings splayed wide. “We find the girl and her four pets, we find our clan-children.”

“I circled above before I joined the melee,” The elder said. “Two of them were running on the rooftops towards the explosion. The purple and the blue one. They’d exited a vehicle. White, of unique make and appearance. It would stand to reason they’d return to it.”

“Your judgment is sound. We shall return to the human Elisa Maza and our beast, and share what we know. I will assist her in locating the girl. You must return to the vehicle. Follow it if you must, but do not be seen. We will return to this roof in one hour.”

The elder popped his back with a groan. “This night is a wearying one. I had expected it to be simple.”

“It seems you were right, my mentor.” Goliath agreed grimly. “This is a cursed night.”

The police lights eventually cleared away in the distance. Goliath could feel his internal clock ticking forward. There were only four more hours left until sunrise. He had to find his rookery-sons before then, or else. Goliath’s keen eyes scanned the roofs, and he eventually spotted her. The human stood on a roof, waving her arms slowly over her head. The two gargoyles banked, swooping down to land beside her. Their beast boofed in greeting.

“You are still with us.” Goliath sounded surprised.

“By hook or by crook. So to speak.” She put her hands in her red leather jacket pockets. “I was the first DT on the scene, so this is officially my headache. Matt–my partner–is interviewing people in the neighborhood. There was a kid working the desk in the store, he’s talking to him now.”

“Is he likely to give us any information?” The elder asked.

“Judging by the smell of pot on his clothes? Nothing credible.” She looked to him. “How about you two? If you have any good news, I’d love to hear it.”

“I did spy a vehicle. Two of the four creatures left it, heading towards the explosion.”

“Creatures?” Elisa repeated. “You mean to say that they weren’t human either?”

“Decidedly not.” Goliath affirmed. “Your young ward seems to mingle with undesirable company.”

We should form a club. Elisa thought to herself. Once I find her, anyway.

“I know her name, and she gave me an address. Whether either of them are legitimate, I don’t know yet. But it’s a start. If we can’t find her tonight, I can look–”

“We must find our rookery-sons before daybreak.” The elder asserted. “It is imperative.”

Elisa chewed on the inside of her cheek. “That’s going to be tight. But why daybreak?”

“Let us just say…” Goliath hunched down, lowering his head to her level. “You will not have our aid, and our sons will be impossible for you or your police to find.”

“Alright, I believe you.” She shelved the question for the moment. What does happen to them at dawn? Are they like vampires? Do they turn into dust? She thought of a rerun of Buffy the Vampire Slayer she saw the other night, and the image was suddenly slightly more disturbing.

Elisa started making a plan. “Right, Goliath, you’re with me. We can check out the kid’s address. And you…” She gestured to the elder. “Sir, I don’t mean any disrespect. But I have to call you something.”

The elder laughed. “A gargoyle needs no name! Nothing is real to you humans until you box it, label it, contain it! Can you contain the sky? Can you contain the river?” He gestured to the west.

Elisa smirked. “The river is called ‘The Hudson’.”

The old one seemed to ponder this. For a city so great and so near the ocean, the river represented a lifeline of trade and contact with a world outside their own. Its ancient path, worn by eons of storm and flood, brought life to the people who lived beside it. He smiled. “Then I, too, shall be The Hudson.”

“Hudson.” She repeated. It seemed to suit him. “Great, I can work with that. Hudson, since you saw the van, go see if you can follow it. If you can’t tell me the make and model, I just need at least part of the license plate. That’s the metal plank on the back with the letters and numbers.”

Hudson gave her a very firm look. “And if this can’nae be done?”

“Then we won’t be able to find them at all. We need that license plate number so we can track down who owns that van. I can use it to look up the owner in a registry, and we can find out who they are and where they live.”

“That sounds like a task for the daytime.” Hudson shook his head. “It will be too slow. But I will follow it as far as it goes, and I will tell you where the device sleeps at night.”

Elisa couldn’t believe she hadn’t thought of that. “That… actually sounds more ideal.”

Goliath didn’t want to tell her that she had come up with more or less the exact same plan that he had, in about as much time. He was impressed. But one detail remained unsettled. “Our beast is injured, and needs a place to recuperate. Flying with his injuries imperils him.”

Elisa looked over at the animal. She tried to keep her voice cold, distant, professional. She was still, after all, dealing with monsters that put other monsters through a wall. But even with his stony, scaly skin and face like the back of a bus, she couldn’t help but feel pity for him. “Poor guy. He reminds me of some pit bulls I knew in a shelter in the Bronx when I was a kid. They didn’t deserve it either.”

“Bronx?” Goliath asked.

The beast lifted his head, and boofed. Elisa, with both hands, massaged the dog-creature’s face. It was hard to hide her heart around animals. No matter how hard she tried to keep up that cold, silver shield around her heart, anything with four legs somehow managed to just walk around it. “It’s where I grew up, before we moved to Harlem after I graduated. Good music. Good people. It’s a beautiful borough, but some people who don’t understand it might call it ugly.”

The beast boofed again, closing his eyes as Elisa rubbed his neck with gentle, kneading motions. Goliath smiled. “If our elder has claimed a name, and you insist on referring to us with them,” He placed a hand on the beast’s side. “Then you may call him Bronx, after the beasts you once knew.”

“Good boy, Bronx.” Elisa, in spite of her effort to hide it, smiled slightly. She looked up. “I think I know exactly the place he can hide. With all that’s happened, the departments are reorganizing. We have a space that we’re clearing for Records. No one will be bothering you there.”

-

“I can’t believe it! We’ve looked EVERYWHERE!!”

The air was getting colder. The closer it got to dawn, the weaker the updrafts became as the earth cooled down. The darker they sky became, the colder the temperatures dropped, and the thermals they so desperately needed vanished. They’d been lucky to find a few steam vents that let exhaust above-ground, it had been enough to keep them airborne. But they couldn’t rely on them, not without mapping every single one between here and wherever their brother was.

In the old days, stranded gargoyles could build a bonfire, use it to form one enormous updraft, so that its heat could lift them up into the air. But that was a thousand years ago. A blaze that big would bring humans and their firetrucks screaming. It wasn’t an option.

The cinnabar gargoyle was beyond frustrated. He was furious.

“He’s never been away from any of us this long.” The web-winged one’s brow furrowed. They’d made it to the top of an immensely tall building, an obelisk of enormous proportions with a tall radio antennae that would have dwarfed Goliath’s own wingspan. The crown-like arches of cold silvery steel arced over their heads, supported by glowing, triangular windows. The eldest crouched just behind the head of a severe, sharp-lined bust of a silver falcon. 

The long-beaked gargoyle, sitting next to him on the peak of the Chrysler Building, crossed his arms. “If he’s out looking for us, then he needs to get his eyes checked. I think we’re sitting on top of the most obvious landmark in this whole damn city, aside from the Eyrie Building and Mr. Xanatos.”

“That’s an idea!” The smallest one snapped his fingers. “Maybe he turned around and went home to the castle, figured we’d find him there!”

“How do you think he’d manage that?” The eldest sounded agitated. “There aren’t any updrafts that we can see between here and the castle. There’s no way he’d make it there without being spotted!”

The olive one shrank back at this outburst. The eldest sighed, remorseful. “I’m sorry. I’m just–” He ran his four clawed fingers through his long white hair. “I’m s…” 

The younger one drew his knees up to his chest. His arm-digits curled his wingflaps tightly around his legs, his chin buried in his small cocoon. “Scared?”

“... yeah. That.” He sighed, relieved that he didn’t have to utter it aloud. “He’s our brother. I love him, and I’m worried about him.”

The green gargoyle cast a half-hearted, hopeless eye to the ground far below. “Yeah. I love him too.” His eyes wandered the streets, tiny headlights like distant fireflies glowed in lines up and down the nigh-abandoned streets. 

“Wait a minute!” The smallest one leapt to his feet, nearly knocking his big brother over. “I think I see him!” Without warning, he tucked his arms into his sides and dove down the glass and steel escarpment!

“Wait!” The eldest backpedaled. He lifted his wings and dove after him. “Come back!”

The smallest didn’t hear him–wouldn’t hear him–as he tucked his elbows in and dove at breakneck speeds! He swore he could see a winged shape on a building below, arm upraised, as if signaling to them! It was right there, he could almost see his–

No. The green gargoyle’s arms opened wide to embrace the air, braking hard with a sudden whumpf! He fell several feet, readjusting attitude to circle what he saw.

It was just a statue.

The building was a blocky copper-green rectangle the color of pond scum from above, and a stately Greek-Revival affair with tall columns from street-level. From the air, the two gargoyles circled above the statuary that graced its front, massive marble figures posed majestically around the face of an equally massive clock. 

No one below looked up. Eyes fixed towards the ground, the brave few who wandered the sidewalk cast no glances above the horizon, as if a great weight pressed down upon their shoulders. Cars seemed to crawl along as if they were beetles scuttling about with but one thought to mind; returning to the logs, stones, and parking garages they’d crawled out from underneath.

The eldest alighted next to the figure of a barely clothed man wearing a winged helmet, looking out upon the street with sightless stone eyes as he gestured to the sky with one hand, a staff loosely held in his other. The outstretched wings that he had seen above belonged to an eagle whose head peeked out from beside his right leg. A man and a woman, regal and relaxed, were carved in an eternally reclined pose at his left and right, flanking the massive clock face above Grand Central Terminal.

Seated on the wing of the eagle, the youngest put a hand on the fifty-foot tall Mercury’s knee. He hung his head in shame, and sorrow.

“I… guess I was wrong.” He murmured. 

Gently, the eldest reached out a hand to touch him. The younger pulled his shoulder away, a snarl in his throat, rejecting his comfort. Careful to not damage the sculpture, he crawled behind it, away from the view of the street. He pressed his back against the facade, facing the MetLife building to the north, and returned to the position he’d assumed atop the Chrysler Building. Knees up to his chest, he solemnly returned to a miserable green cocoon. 

Whup-up-up-up-up-up… High overhead, the eldest could have sworn he’d heard gargoyle wingbeats high overhead, and for a moment hope sparked in his chest. But craning his neck and squinting against the skyscraper lights and the dark black sky, he could only make out the shape of a helicopter passing overhead. Hope faded, replaced with bitter anger.

He leaned out and looked down at the clock, each number dwarfing him in height. The hands, like the slender trunks of iron trees, read 2:30 AM.

The eldest scaled the statue, sitting down next to his brother. He lifted one wing, as if offering out an arm for a hug. The youngest, wordless, leaned into his side. The red gargoyle enveloped them both in his wings, blocking out the cold wind. 

This is my fault. The eldest nestled his beak beneath his folded forearm, his other arm curled around his brother. I shouldn’t have let them split us up. I should have gone with them both.

He finally spoke after a few minutes of silence. “It’s almost 3. That duel’s starting to look like our only shot at finding him.”

“Then go.” The small one snarled. “Why should we stay here? It’s not like looking for him has been any help. We’re not gonna find him in a city this big.”

The eldest didn’t want to admit he might be right. Still, he couldn’t give up hope. There was still time before dawn, and that meant they weren’t out of luck yet. He pulled his wing tighter around his brother as a gust of cold wind blew across the roof.

“Listen to me.” He said softly. “We can’t leave him in this city alone. Even if it means searching until dawn, we can’t give up on him.”

The small one didn’t reply. But the older one stood up, caping his wings. “I’m going to go to this Brooklyn Bridge. If that… thing has any sense of honor, then he’ll be there. And he’ll know where our brother is. If he doesn’t?” He curled his claws into a fist, pounding it into his palm. His tail lashed like an angry lion, eyes burning white. “Then I will rip him apart with my bare claws.”

 “There are plenty of slope drafts and good currents between the buildings. If you can catch them, you should get enough height to make it there.” The smallest one drew himself to his full height and continued. “If you’re not giving up, then I can’t either. I’ll try looking on the ground. We’ll meet back here, find him, and figure out how to catch an updraft home.”

“That’s really dangerous.” The red one shook his head. “Are you sure?”

The green one wiped the back of his hand across his eyes. He shook like a leaf. But his spine was iron. “It’s the only thing we haven’t tried yet.” He lifted his chin to look his brother in the eye. “And you’re right; even if it means searching until dawn, we have to find him.” He lifted a hand and slapped his brother on the back. “Now go get that creep!”

The wind began to rise again. The white-haired gargoyle opened his wings, gathering it up, and he sailed from the building off into the distant black.

-

“Look, I messed up.” Elisa admitted. “I ran into a construction yard full of armed perps without a plan, without backup, without you, like a goddamn rookie, and I’m real damn lucky to be alive. My brother will never let me hear the end of it, and I was a jerk for ditching you at the station house.”

Matt looked her up and down, chewing on his pencil, holding his notepad full of shorthand chicken scratch that looked suspiciously like question marks. “Well, I was just looking for an apology for spilling coffee in my car, detective.” He stated simply. “But given that some 1600-pound monster with a penchant for chasing little girls turned yours into modern art, I’ll overlook it.”

Elisa sucked in air through her teeth, looking down at the growing brown stain on the crumb-covered carpet. “Yeah… and I spilled coffee in your car. Sorry.”

Matt smirked and tipped his pencil in Elisa’s direction. “There we go. Now, here’s what I got from the pothead who ran the counter…”

“He didn’t give you any runaround?”

“I told him that if he spilled his guts about everything that happened between him taking that first drag and when he crawled out from behind the dumpster where he’d been hiding, I wouldn’t tell his buddies that he pissed his pants and got caught smoking weed by the ATF.”

Elisa snorted a laugh. “Alright, what’d he see?”

Matt detailed from the beginning–with surprising accuracy–the events of the entire fight. Right down to Goliath slamming one of the four creature-ninjas into the wall with his tail. She suddenly felt very lucky and very grateful that Goliath insisted she’d stayed behind. 

“So, you were right about that bogey being dangerous. I haven’t been to that construction yard yet, but I’ll call Morgan and ask him and a few POs to cordone it off for the night so we can investigate it next.”

No, dammit, I can’t go backwards! Goliath doesn’t have that long! Elisa’s mind raced. 

“Hey, better idea.” Elisa held up a finger. “We get Cipes and Fagerbakke to check the construction yard, relay what we got from the desk clerk, and go after her. The girl’s a material witness, if not a suspect. While she was in the interrogation room, I got a few key life details from her. We can track her down instead. She did give me an address.”

“She give you a DOB?”

Elisa shrugged smugly. “How many April O’Neil’s are Editor in Chief for the school paper at Rob Paulsen High in the class of ‘04?”

Matt sucked in his cheeks, fighting temptation for an easy lead. “She knows you’re looking for her. And I really wanna see these robot ninjas.”

“She probably thinks I’m dead.” Elisa pointed out. “She hasn’t seen me since the construction yard. As far as she’s concerned, the only cop who knew she even exists just ate dirt. Her trail’s still hot. And she might still be in danger.”

Matt tapped his pen against his cheek, mulling over the idea more. 

“The address she gave me is fifteen minutes away from the precinct.”

The pen stilled. He took a deep breath in, and out. “Alright. Good plan. Let’s drop off that report at the station house, get a warrant, see if this qualifies for an Amber Alert, and get started finding this kid.”

Elisa allowed herself a very small, very quiet sip of victory coffee. It tasted like motor oil.

Chapter Text

The wind was howling over the bay. The air had gone from cold to colder, and Raphael shivered in it. Sitting on top of the Manhattan Tower of the Brooklyn Bridge, he huddled under his trench coat. He wrapped his hands around a plastic bladder filled with a semi-solid, semi-liquid sort of white crystalline stuff that Donnie had made. It radiated warmth like a small space heater, and it lasted a lot longer than the plastic-sealed baggies full of iron sand that he had in his belt pouch. 

He was going to have to be warm enough to finish out this fight. He might be a ninja, he might be tough, but he was still a reptile. The cold would slow him down just as surely as it would slow down any other turtle on a cold October night.

He thought about the van. 

They’d parked in an old garage in Chelsea, cars passing by and illuminating the empty front seats as the hands on the tiny clock on the dash silently drifted closer to 1:45. The lights were out, but Don’s small–yet incredibly bright–MagLite flashlight illuminated the van enough for their eyes. 

Shell, they were a mess. 

Don sat, eyes watering with pain as April tried to gently tease the melted jacket from his shell. Smears of flesh-toned foundation streaked down his cheeks, leaving tracks of dappled olive green. 

“Just rip it off like a bandaid.”

“You sure, Don? It looks pretty bad.”

“Yeah,” He winced, preparing to flinch. “Just do it fast.”

April did as he asked. 

“YEEEOOOWWW!!!” Don yelled! “I said do it fast!”

“I did!” She held up a large piece of the destroyed purple Utah Jazz merch. “It’s off, we can get the rest of it off your shell with the dish brush.”

Donnie involuntarily whimpered at the idea of tough plastic bristles scrubbing down on his tender, burnt plastron under his armpit. The tough yellow plates had turned white and bubbled, blistering where the keratin had burned. “Maybe you could just soak me in Dawn instead?”

“Like a ducky?” Mikey chuckled. “We could do dish commercials.”

“Focus,” Leo snapped his fingers. “Alright, how are we doing, team?”

They looked each other up and down, and all collectively moaned about their various injuries. Raphael’s broken toe and deeply scuffed shell were at about a 5/10 on the pain scale. Mikey had dislocated his shoulder when the monster backhanded him and he had a bad cut on his scalp. April was still coming down from shock, had bitten through her lip, and didn’t realize until much later that at some point she had twisted her ankle. Don cleaned and bandaged his laser wound and muttered something about ‘feeling like burnt turtle soup’.

Leo said nothing about how he’d pulled his bad knee during the sprint. His brace hugged against the swollen, inflamed joint while he let it stick out away from his body at a somewhat uncomfortable angle. He opened a tin lunch pail with chipped green paint, fishing out their family’s favorite cure-all; Advil.

With his jacket off, it was easy to see the tight array of blue craft wire that held his shell together. Another car passed, and its headlights shed just enough light to see the damage beneath the implanted brace. Below his belt was a web of cracks that crisscrossed the entire lower-left quarter of his shell. Tiny carpentry screws, drilled in by hand, sat like little towers on each broken ‘island’ of his shell. The craft wire wrapped around each screw pulled it all together, in a shape that vaguely resembled a crooked ‘t’ and a backwards ‘y’. It was difficult to see in the low light, but there was a painted blue marking on his left shoulder, directly above the wire brace.

Leonardo unscrewed the bottle of ibuprofen, popping three into his mouth and washing it down with a swig of water from a thermos. He passed the medicine and the water to Mikey on his left. “So, recovery is a priority. We’re not in any condition to be getting into more trouble tonight.”

Mikey grabbed the roll of gauze, antiseptic, and medical tape from the lunchbox. He took his medicine, wiping the water off of his beak. “Any more trouble?” He echoed. “Tell that to Raph.” He gestured with the thermos.

The van fell silent. Leo shot Raph a look that would have withered a cactus. Raphael felt a chestnut-sized lump fill his throat. 

“Raph…” Leo said, in a tone that was so even and so smooth that one could almost believe he didn’t have fratricide on his mind. “Care to explain?”

Raph bared his teeth at Mikey and snarled. “Snitches get stitches.” He snatched the anti-inflammatories from his brother’s hand, downing four of them angrily.

Mikey held up one of his hands defensively, the other pressed the wad of gauze tightly to his scalp. “I’m probably already gonna need stitches!”

Raph, reluctantly, told the full story about the fight in the sewers when he’d lost track of Casey. He told them about the duel on top of the Brooklyn Bridge at 3 AM. 

“The two monsters who just dropped on us?” Raph pointed up at the metal ceiling of the minibus. “They looked an awful lot like the three that jumped me an’ Casey at the subway tunnel. Could kinda see a family resemblance.”

“You think they’re after you?” Don asked, shaking two orange pills into his palm. He tossed his head back, washing them down with a gulp of water. He reached into the beat-up lunch pail, withdrawing an instant cold pack. He crumpled it between his hands, activating the chemicals inside, and pressed it against his rib plates.

Donatello handed April the bottle of painkillers next, and she shook three ibuprofen into her hand. April didn’t take them right away, running her thumb over the familiar little circles thoughtfully. “No,” She said slowly. “They were after me. But I can hardly imagine why. I’ve never seen them before.”

“But you did hear them!” Mikey pointed out. “At the construction site.”

April folded her arms, leaning into Leonardo’s side. Leo’s forehead creased with concern. “You good, April?”

She closed her eyes, scrunching up her face thoughtfully. “They want me. And this ‘thing’ you set up a duel with? He’s the last one who saw Casey. It might be our last chance to get answers.”

Leo put his arm around his best friend’s shoulder, and gave her a reassuring squeeze. He looked around at the occupants of the van. “Alright, all in favor of Raph vs Monster Part Two, say ‘aye’.”

A round of ayes filled the van.

And the ayes had it. Raph sat up on the tower of the centennial suspension bridge, wrapped in his long coat, curled around this chemical heat packet like a goose incubating an egg. He watched the skies for the challenger to appear. But one lingering thought hung in the back of his head. It nibbled at his focus, and made him shiver from something more than the cold. 

“I did get a TurtleTracker on their van.” Don assured them, applying a cotton swab dark with iodine to Raphael’s scraped shell. “I must’ve torn something throwing it, but I got them. I know I did.” He held up his PDA and tapped the two-toned LCD screen. There were five tiny icons in a row in the top corner. One of them showed a pixelated turtle with X’s over its eyes. A dead tracer.

“How’d they know?” Leo’s gray eyes darkened behind his blue mask.

“I have no idea. It’s likely they didn’t even notice.” Don shrugged, moving on to tending to Raph’s broken foot. “They might’ve had jamming equipment on board, silenced the tracer as soon as it started transmitting.”

“That would explain why I couldn’t get a cell signal after they started chasing me!” April snapped her fingers. “The entire time I was running from them, I was getting zero bars!”

“So we wasted a tracker.” Leo sounded disappointed. “It’s alright. You tried.”

“I did get one thing, though.” Don held up a finger. “I recognized one of them.”

The van was quiet.

In the distance, Raphael saw a dark blot against the darker sky. The faint reflection of the city lights painted it in a deep shade of brick-red, wings as long as a bus. He stood, wadding up his coat and kicking it aside. He wore no disguise this time, no mask but his own. He drew his sai, the leather grip flexing under his fingers. 

“There was no doubt about it.” Don’s green face was pale. “It was the exact same voice. The guy you cut? He was there. The night the Shredder almost killed you, Leo. He’s one of the Foot Elite.”

Raph felt the blast of wind that heralded the gargoyle’s arrival well before his claws touched the top of the tower.

“Thought you wouldn’t make it.” Raph said darkly.

“Wouldn’t dream of missing this.” The red gargoyle spat. “Now, let’s cut the chit-chat. What the hell did you do to my brother?”

“Your brother?” Raph blinked in surprise. “Wait. He ain’t with you? I wanna know where my pal Casey is. Cuz if you’ve hurt him–!”

“The human?” The gargoyle scoffed, cutting him off. “Haven’t seen him.”

Raphael’s green eyes burned behind his red mask. “You’re lying!” Raph shouted. 

“Look around.” The gargoyle spread his arms and wings wide. “Do you see any hostages? Now I’ll ask one more time…” He crouched, tail low, horns high. His eyes were alight with a trigger-ready fury. “Give me back my brother, you miserable swamp bug.”

“You wanna play that game?” Raphael’s sai twirled in his hands. He lowered himself into a deep stance, one sai held in his hand like a dagger, the other laced between his fingers. “Fine. Game on.”

It was Raphael who went for the first punch. He flipped one sai, tines to elbow, and went for a pommel-strike pointed at the gargoyle’s head. But this time, the gargoyle was ready for the feint and leapt back with a flap before he could be blindsided by a two-toed foot to the face. 

“Same trick twice?” The gargoyle taunted. “Talk about creative.”

“I’m just getting warmed up, bat-boy.” Raphael growled. 

The gargoyle swiped, claws meeting steel with the ring of stone on metal! Undaunted, he pressed the attack, Raphael’s bones shaking with each hit, until finally his guard broke and three red lines opened up on the back of his forearm. Raph hissed, kicking a backflip that forced the gargoyle to take several steps back, or risk taking another foot to the beak.

Raph lunged, relentless, flipping the tines of his sai down and leaping up in a spinning kick! The gargoyle crossed his forearms over his head, taking one-two-three kicks straight to the elbows! He ducked his head, horns low, and rushed the turtle, claws outstretched. Raphael danced aside, and instead of braking to pivot, the gargoyle launched himself off the tower with a powerful leap! He opened those massive wings with a sound like a parachute, taking two mighty flaps to climb up to height.

“Come back down here, and fight me like a mutant!” Raph bellowed!

“I don’t suppose I could convince you to come up here and fight me like a gargoyle!” He taunted, fangs bared as he hovered. He was answered with the whizz of a metal throwing star glancing off his cheek. He squawked in surprise! 

Down below, Raphael held two more shuriken between his fingers. Like a frisbee, he flung them upwards with a powerful backhand, the stars shooting up across the sky. The gargoyle’s wings folded like an umbrella, plunging down dozens of feet in a single second! They opened again, just in time to catch him before he hit the water. He rode the landward breeze underneath the bridge, gritting his fangs against the wind, rocketing through the gap between steel and water at what must have been fifty miles per hour. 

He angled his wings up, letting the slope updraft of the sea breeze tow him up the side of the tower, rocketing skyward on the tailwind. He grit his teeth, tail adjusting to the current ever-so-slightly; one bad move, and he could collide with the stone arch and fall into the water like a pigeon on a high-rise window. 

He shot up past the top of the tower, pumping his wings a few times to gain more height. But his chest muscles were starting to ache; a gargoyle’s body was too heavy and flapping was too energy-intensive for him to truly fly. Soaring, he could do for hours. But hovering, climbing, and tight stoops? He only had enough strength to do a few tricks like that before his exhausted wings would give out. Every climb had to count.

Raphael’s eyes narrowed against the wind. He’s out of reach, the wind’s too fast for me to get a clear shot! He sheathed his throwing stars back in his belt pouch, and instead he palmed one bo-shuriken. Flipping the dart in his hand, he waited. 

This thing was fast in the air, no doubt. But he wasn’t faster than Master Splinter.

The winged creature seemed to hang in the air, like a mobile over a baby’s cradle, before the wings came in and he dropped. Raphael cranked his arm back, and launched the dart! There was a flash, a spray of blood! The gargoyle sailed back over the edge of the tower! Raphael’s arm remained extended, for a brief moment.

The dark itself seemed to hold its breath, as if waiting to see who would fall. 

Raphael clutched his side, feeling deep grouges in his plastron. His hand came away warm and sticky. The cold had taken its toll. He hadn’t been fast enough. It burned to the touch, but he soon realized it wasn’t that deep. He thanked any god watching that gave a damn about mutant turtles that his shell had, once again, saved his life. But it still bled. He staggered, arm pressed to the wound, sucking in cold air between his teeth. 

Far above, the gargoyle felt a lancing pain in his chest as his wing outstretched. He gasped, hand pressed to his heart. Between his claws, a thin steel dart lodged itself in the muscle of his chest. His skin was thick and tough. It hadn’t penetrated far enough to reach his organs. But with his pectoral grievously wounded, his wings wouldn’t flap. He couldn’t fly like this.

Land! The pain made his concussion-rocked brain throb. I have to land! 

The gargoyle banked, tears springing to his eyes as the wind pressed its power against the membrane of his wing-skin, stretching that wounded muscle to the point of tearing. It throbbed and ached under his hand, the red skin turning purple and blue as the bruise began to bloom with each heartbeat. 

The cables of the suspension bridge were coming up fast, and he was too high up, the wires’ gap too narrow! With a flick of his tail, he dove, tucking his head against his chest and pulling his wings in tight! Too fast, too fast! His brain screamed, fear of being sliced to ribbons by his own speed against the taut cables freezing him!

Whoosh!

He scrunched his face up, opened his wings to brake, and screamed as his chest muscle finally gave out. He collided against the cables with a ringing, ungodly din; like a hammer taken to the world’s largest piano. He fell and he rolled, end over end across the ground, wings crumpled around him like two old towels. He curled against the planks of the bridge footpath, and took fast, hissing breaths between his sawtooth fangs. 

Raphael fell to one knee, grinding his teeth. “Fuckin’ shell…” He didn’t know if he was cursing his body, or cursing his fate. But he cursed the night just the same. Lancing pinpricks of fire, like four red-hot wires pressed into his side, burned against his rib-plates. He picked up his sai, funneling his pain into a mint-knuckle grip. He caught the suspension bridge cable between the tines, feeling the crackle of a cracked shell under his arm as he leapt, sliding sideways down the support cable.

He drew close to the ground, twisting his sai to brake! Sparks flew from the metal, slowing him down just enough for him to let go, and somersault across the asphalt. 

“Fuck!” He hissed, his shell audibly creaking from the impact. His hand went back to his side. A few drops of blood fell to the ground. 

The gargoyle stirred. He propped himself up on one elbow, lifting his head to glare up at the turtle. “Just go ahead and do it already.” He snarled.

“What the shell are you talking about?” Raph replied between gritted teeth.

“You grounded me. I’m not flying after this. Kill me already, and get it over with.”

Those burning white eyes bored holes into Raphael’s own nuclear green ones. Raph raised an eyebrow, accented by the red mask. “Come again?”

The gargoyle’s glowing eyes sputtered in confusion, like two candles in a breeze. “Well, aren’t you going to kill me? Isn’t that the point of a duel?”

Raph spat on the ground. Red. He must have gotten hit in the mouth too. “What the shell do I look like to you, a human? I ain’t gonna kill you. I wanna know where Casey is. Tell me, an’ I can get you help.”

“Sun stone me already, I don’t know!” The gargoyle roared, but it came out partway in a bitten-down whimper. He shuddered, pulsing pain through his chest forcing him to take shallow breaths. He drew himself, shaking, to his taloned feet. 

It was the first time Raphael could get a good look at him. He was skinnier than he thought he remembered. Wiry and lean, built like a marathon runner or a gymnast. His white hair was tangled from the wind, a weak attempt at taming it into a ponytail leaving it looking more like a wad of cotton than hair. His horns were long, curved, like a billy goat. His long beak and thin wings made him look a bit like a pterodactyl on two legs.

In turn, the gargoyle got a look at Raphael. He was thick and short, built like a big green thumb. He really was a turtle, just like he claimed in the subway tunnel. Leather pads protected his elbows and knees, but he wore nothing else but a belt and a red ribbon mask. The mask had two tails that came down the back of his shell like a ponytail. The weapon in the turtle’s hand reminded him of a small trident, as long as his forearm. 

The turtle sheathed this strange weapon and asked, “What’s your name, guy?”

“Nothing.”

“What?”

“My kind don’t have names. We don’t need them. The only one of us who has a name is Goliath, our leader.”

“Oh. The big guy.” Raphael rubbed his neck, vividly remembering being knocked through a brick wall.

“You saw him?!” The gargoyle started towards him, raising a claw to swipe. But another spasm pulled his pectoral muscle, and he just clenched it into a fist. A low growl, like a wounded tiger, filled his chest. “W-where? I-I need to find him.”

“Whoa, easy.” Raphael put up his hands. “He attacked me an’ my brothers earlier tonight, but we had no idea why. I thought he was goin’ after me cuz I went after you. But he was really after my friend, April.”

“Nothing you’re saying makes sense. Goliath…” The gargoyle bit down, clenching his teeth. “I haven’t seen him all night. I’m just trying to find my brother and get home. If you’re not going to kill me, then tell me where he is, and take me to him already!”

A realization came over Raphael. “Wait… so neither of us know where our missing guy is.”

“You must be the slow one.” The gargoyle sniped, hissing a laugh. 

“Shut up, or I’ll pin a bo-shuriken in your other one.” Raph pointed at the other side of the gargoyle’s chest.

“Sure. You scratch my back, I’ll shred yours.” The gargoyle raised his brow.

They both laughed, and instantly regretted it.

“My name’s Raphael.” He held out a three-fingered hand. “An’ if you ain’t got a name? Well, then is it ‘aight if I call you Brooklyn?”

The gargoyle hesitated. Then he rolled his eyes. “You hit me in the head, smokebombed me, threw a dart in my chest, and now you’re trying to name me? What are you gonna do next, throw me off the bridge?”

“Don’t tempt me, wise guy.”

Brooklyn rolled his eyes. But he held out his claws, and he shook the ninja’s hand.

Chapter Text

It was a different world, below. He couldn’t help but feel the height of the skyscrapers pressing down on him, the towers looming above him. Scotland never did have trees, let alone towers, so frightfully huge. He felt like a feeble hatchling in the shadow of his elders. He felt like he drowned in their height, their mass. It felt much like being caught between two enormous cliffs, trapped at the bottom of a chasm with no way up. He wanted to sink his claws into stone, escape to the air, but there were people everywhere he looked. 

The human had left him soon after they’d returned to the surface, and he was beginning to wish he hadn’t. Shielded even as he was by this guise, it felt as thin and fragile as the bottom of a paper boat, drifting through the gutters of this cold and foreboding jungle of stone. It seemed only a matter of time before its waters eroded him and exposed him.

God, he felt so exposed down here.

Exposed, as well as hungry. He felt his stomach clench and grumble, regretting the long-lost franks he’d gorged on at the stadium. His brain still throbbed, his mouth still dry. Nausea nibbled at his throat, even as hunger nibbled at his stomach. 

He stood at the corner, claws pulling that ratty, smelly blanket tighter over his caped wings, and he sighed. Just then, beyond the stink of the human clothes he wore, he smelled something heavenly. Something incredible. Something so far beyond anything he’d ever experienced, that he couldn’t help but turn his head. 

Idling next to him on the street, bleary-eyed and yawning, was a man astride what must have been a steel horse. His little brother knew the names of the machines in the new world, but they were still foreign to him. The man yawned and stretched, waiting at the red light, as the rumble of the engine shook open a stack of boxes behind him. The cardboard flap waved to him, beckoning. Inviting him closer.

He licked his lips. He found himself walking forward. “Excuse me, human?” He asked, voice soft and hopeful. 

The dude on the bike looked over at him. And then his eyes seemed to climb the gargoyle’s height with rising awe and dread. The man’s mouth went dry, eyes boggled by the size of the homeless man who addressed him. Traffic rushed along in front of him, cutting off any odds he had of running away. “Uh… I-I don’t have cash on me, man. I just started my shift, and I can’t have a short balance. You gotta step away, guy.”

“I wanted to ask about the food you have on the back of your… uh…” The gargoyle gestured to the cardboard boxes. The man’s eyes bugged out of his head when he saw the enormous, kitchen-knife claws extend from the folds of the filthy blanket.

“Have it, man! It’s yours! I quit!” The man squeaked as he lifted a hand and swept it off the back of his moped with a fearful shove! The light turned green, the cars honked and drivers swore as the man on the moped sped off, leaving crumpled boxes of this strange delicacy on the street.

“Oh!” The gargoyle was surprised by the human’s friendliness. “Thank you!” He called. Ignoring the honking cars, he scooped up the boxes and retreated to the sidewalk. He sat down cross-legged, tail folding over his knee. He tugged the blanket over it, and opened the box. He peered curiously at it. 

He lifted out a slice of pepperoni pizza. Sniffing it cautiously, he felt his mouth ache as it watered. Hungrily, he shoved it whole into his mouth, and in a moment he knew his world had changed forever. Mind blown by the cheesy, gooey, savory flavors of the sauce and the cheese, the delicate crust crunched between his enormous fangs. Handful after handful, box after box, he shoved more pizza into his mouth.

“Dragon’s breath!” The gargoyle sighed, wiping cheese grease off of his chin. Years later, he would tell stories about the most delicious pizza he had ever had in his life. Tonight, he was less worried about his hunger and more worried about his clan.

He stood up, readjusting the meager disguise. He picked up the empty boxes, and scraped the last gooey bit of cheese out with his claw. He raised it to lick, and his eyes caught a shape. Standing in the alley, his form was short, wiry, compact. The figure moved and the gargoyle’s eyes widened as he saw a winged arm wave to him in greeting. 

He dropped the pizza boxes and ran. “Brother!” 

His brother turned, thin tail rounding the corner and vanishing out of sight. The big gargoyle pounded after him, arms pumping at his sides. He discarded the blanket, letting it fly away and fall in a crumpled heap behind him, baring his wings to the night. “Brother, wait!”

Around the corner again, he saw his brother leap over a chain link fence, darting from one pile of garbage to a dense bale of cardboard boxes, clawed feet making a light thud on a metal dumpster. He paused and stood, head lifted, ears twitching, eyes gleaming.

The big one caught the cloth of his coat in his claws, and tore it away, freeing his shoulders and tail. He cast aside the hat, dropping to all fours to pursue him. “Wait, why are you running away?!”

-

The small one sat, talons hanging over the iron fire escape, arms folded. “Ugh… I hate walking.”

His legs were sore. His back was aching. Ordinarily, he could hardly complain about being on the ground for too long. It was never that big an inconvenience. But the city was a forest from above, and a maze from below. How could he have possibly thought it would be any easier to find him down here?

He pulled the map out of his fanny pack again. His claw delicately scratched it, colored film curling under his claw to leave a white ‘X’ on yet another street. Another dud. Another dead-end. 

His ears twitched. A voice? He stood up tall, tail outstretched for balance as he craned his head to hear better.

“Brother! Come on, stop running away!”

His heart thudded. “Brother?!” He swept his arms wide, gravity and wind rushing him through the gap in the alley. He nearly clipped his shoulder trying to bank around the corner too fast! He let himself drop, falling to all fours, and galloping as fast as he could to the sound.

“I’m here!” He called out. “Where are you!?”

He heard heavy footfalls coming his way. Galloping, exhilarated, he rounded the corner. 

Huge arms swept him up into an embrace, and he felt his lungs squeeze and his ribs pop. There was deep, rumbling laughter in his ears, and he found himself laughing along, squeezing him back.

They’d finally found one another. 

“Where have you been?!” The small one cried, burying his face in his brother’s shoulder. “We’ve been so worried about you!” He sniffed, and added. “You smell awful!”

“I’m okay!” He laughed and he sobbed. “I’m okay, I promise, I’m okay!” He held onto him, tears soaking his cheeks. “Where’s our brother? Is he alright, is he with you?”

“He’s fine, he’s…” The small one trailed off. “I know where he is, but I think he might be in trouble. How fast can you find an updraft?”

-

Casey’s feet were killing him.  He didn’t know what hurt more; his aching feet, his bruised ribs, or his steam-burned face. He had walked for eighteen blocks, and he had found: four homeless guys fast asleep inside the phone booths, two junkies burning tin foil, five broken phones, and one possum nesting inside the box. The folks sleeping outside, he could understand. Shelter is shelter, and you do what you gotta do. But the possum?

Casey sat down on the curb, took off one of his combat boots, and peeled off his sock. Looking at the raw, red marks on his heels where they’d begun to bubble and turn white, he suddenly regretted not spending his last paycheck on some proper hiking shoes and getting Ecko’s instead.

He was massaging his foot, feeling absolutely miserable, when he lifted his eyes and he saw it.

“Oh, hallelujah!” He hopped on one foot across the empty residential street, and his hand groped at the door of an empty, lit, brand-new, hadn’t-even-been-tagged-yet Bell Atlantic phone booth. 

He snapped the door shut, nearly weeping when he found that it closed all the way and didn’t sag or squeak. The metal frame gleamed, fresh as his morning undies, the receiver was shiny black. Not a scuff, scratch or blemish. It even smelled like new plastic and fresh paint.

He almost felt like he had stumbled onto a miracle. This was probably the only perfect phone booth in all of Manhattan. He hadn’t been to a Mass in years, but he swore then and there that he’d go to church if it meant that God himself had put the patron saint of telephone booths in his corner.

He pulled out his wallet, chain dangling down his thigh, and removed a handful of quarters. He heard the joyful sound of coins hitting tin. He dialed the number to Raph’s phone, and he waited.

And he waited.

And he waited some more.

On the other end of the line, he heard a familiar three-note trill and a familiar voice. “We're sorry; you have reached a number that has been disconnected or is no longer in service. If you feel you have reached this recording in error, please check the number and try your call again.”

The smile was still frozen on his face. It was funny. Raph was playing a joke on him. He had to be. That was alright, he could call Mikey. He put another quarter into the slot, dialing Michelangelo’s phone number, a nervous, disbelieving laugh in his throat.

And he waited.

Dee-dee-ding! “We're sorry; you have rea–” Casey hung up and tried again. Maybe Leo?

“We're sorry; you h–” Okay, he’d try Don next.

“We’re sorry; yo–” April, maybe?

“We’re s–” Casey slammed the receiver down and banged his head against the glass pane. He made a sound, an ungodly noise unuttered by man nor beast, a primal scream of rage that trembled the very heavens. 

It was the rage of dealing with a stupid machine.

In a flurry of unbridled anger, he shoved quarters down the throat of the payphone. He dialed countless times; Raph, Mikey, Leo, Don, April. Raph, Mikey, Leo, Don, April. Over, and over, and over again, he pounded quarter after quarter into the slot and stabbed numbers into the keypad.

“We’re sorry.”

“We’re sorry.”

“We’re sorry.”

“ARE YOU?!?” Casey roared. He slammed the handset down on the hook, raised his fists, and pounded the glass, screaming his rage. He was seeing red. He picked up the receiver of the phone, and he yanked until the cord squeaked and the booth trembled. He kicked his boot against the glass, feeling furious satisfaction at its pitiful creak. Webs of cracks raced across the acrylic pane. 

He threw the receiver down, dangling pitifully from its cord, and stomped out of the now-trashed booth, feeling no better than he did five minutes ago.

“Mr. Jones.” A voice in the alley said softly. “Your temper is a fatal flaw. An enemy you cannot conquer.”

Casey picked up his boot, still standing on one bare foot, and he threw it at the voice. “FUCK YOU, I’M HAVING A BAD NIGHT!!”

He gulped when he heard the sound of a hand catching the boot, a soft thump like an errant football caught by an irate coach. “Mr. Jones.” The voice said again. “I am aware of your struggles. As is this entire neighborhood.”

Casey’s ears finally connected to his brain. 

His heart sank and his shoulders sagged. “Ah. Sheesh, Splinter. I’m sorry.”

The dumpster barely creaked, softly announcing the old master’s position. It had to have been deliberate; if Splinter didn’t want to be heard, then he was silent. Casey trudged across the road, picking up his bundled vigilante gear, and sheepishly slunk into the alley.

There he was. Calm and collected as he always was. Small and wizened, Splinter’s fur was thin, wispy, and brown everywhere except for his chin and his eyebrows, where it grew white. A long, thin beard and long, thin eyebrows seemed to accent every angle of his sunken, aged rat face. He sat impassively upon the closed lid of the dumpster, cross-legged, with Casey’s boot between his knees. 

His ragged ear twitched. “My sons, I can punish for their transgressions. You, I cannot. You will be returning home with me, and you will be explaining the creature that accompanied you.”

“Oh.” Casey rubbed the back of his head, suddenly incredibly self-conscious. “You saw that, huh?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Did I, uh…” Casey rolled his shoulders, a trepidatious shrug as he tried to process his words. “Did I do the bushy-doo thing right? Helpin’ the guy, I mean.”

Splinter sighed. His ear twitched again. “He is well. His journey is at its end, as is yours.”

“You say shit like that, Teach, and I kinda wonder if you’re about to kill somebody.”

Splinter delicately took the laces of Casey’s spare boot in his long, bony fingers. “No. I am not about to kill somebody. Although, you make it particularly tempting, Mr. Jones.”

Casey shuddered. Splinter had been a good guy for as long as he’d known him. But sometimes, with the things he said, the stuff he kept hidden, and the things he could do? Casey had to wonder just how lucky they all were to have him on their side.

“Where were you? Where is he?”

Splinter smiled. “Where I needed to be, and he is where he needs to be. You need to be where you need to be as well, young man.”

“Uhhh…” Casey’s brain seemed to handle this wisdom about as well as a monkey handled a Rubik’s cube.

“Home, Mr. Jones, you need to go home.” He reached into his robe and withdrew a silver flip phone. “Your mother has been up all night waiting for you to return.”

Casey took the phone. For a solid ten seconds, his mind stumbled over two thoughts. One, he could have tried calling Splinter. Two, he definitely should have called his mother much, much earlier.

But it was the third thought that left his mouth. “How’d you know my ma’s waiting up on me?”

“Call her. Now.” Splinter glowered.

Casey held up his hands. “Alright, alright. Yessir.”

-

Goliath’s hands rested on Bronx’s head, gently massaging his scalp as he worked. The gauze wound around and around the beast’s forelegs, flanks, and side. But still, there seemed to be too little gauze and too many open wounds. 

Bronx whimpered, muscling past Goliath’s hand and trying to crawl into his lap instead. “You’re too large for that now, my friend.” Goliath said gently. “You’re not a hatchling anymore.”

“Arf?” Bronx questioned with his big, wet eyes.

Goliath sighed. “No, I suppose you were never informed of that.” He let the beast into his embrace, feeling the weight of the huge creature fall into his lap. Bronx panted heavily, resting his head on Goliath’s elbow. 

Goliath was concerned; usually, a gargoyle beast didn’t pant unless he was hot, thirsty, or remarkably stressed. The pain of these lacerations must have been considerable.

The defunct clock tower was as perfect a hiding place as Elisa had promised. He’d had his reservations when she’d told him where it was. But now, he was certain. It was nothing short of brilliant to hide from their adversaries right above the one place they would never dare search or approach. It was the tallest building in the area, unlit, with no observers at the same height. With the darkness of the night and the street lights’ glare blocking pedestrians’ views of the sky, it would be difficult to spot even a gargoyle entering or leaving.

Risky, but not quite so risky as one would believe.

The beast shifted in his arms, and Goliath was reminded of the human who dealt these wounds. And even with her selfless aid, it was difficult to forget the fear and hate in Elisa’s eyes when she pointed her firearm at him. 

He felt the modicum of respect that had begun creeping over the impassable stone wall barricading his soul. It was not welcome, and it was not needed. He fended off the thought, just as he would fend off any other human invader in his world. The human Elisa was providing aid. But she could just as easily revoke it, or worse.

He heard the aged ladder below the trap door creak. There was a soft knock. Goliath gently set Bronx down, murmuring for him to ‘stay’. He undid the latch, and Elisa climbed out of the hole.

“I can’t get a material witness warrant for the girl tonight.” She said, glum. “I have no idea how, but this somehow doesn’t count as an emergency big enough to process one right away. I have to wait for the judge to open the office tomorrow.”

“What?” Goliath sounded shocked.

“My thoughts exactly.” She sighed. “Without a warrant, I can’t go to her home. Not without raising even more red flags tonight. Matt won’t budge until we have at least a subpoena in hand, and he’s still writing the report. If we’re finding her, we’re finding her alone.” She ran a hand through her long black hair and huffed. “I hope Hudson’s having better luck than we are.”

“There is still time.” Goliath reasoned. “The location she gave to you. We can search for clues there, if we fly quickly.”

She nodded. “You’re right. It was from a consented interview. It’s evidence I already have, I don’t need a warrant to drive by a street. Or, I guess, fly by one.”

Goliath said nothing, turning his back and uncaping his wings as he stooped to leave through the massive maintenance door in the ‘VI’ of the clock face. 

“And here I was thinking I’d cashed all my frequent flier miles for the year.” She said dryly. Still, she followed him. She held out her arms, and Goliath lifted her onto his back. Bronx borked, padding out onto the balcony after them with a slight limp.

Goliath lifted his wings. This time, Elisa was ready for it when he leapt. She hugged closer to his body, folding her arms and pressing her elbows against his chest rather than a chokehold. Her knees gripped the small of his back tightly, and they both noticed the difference when he took off. Bronx woofed again, dinner-plate paws on the railing, and he howled as they soared away.

She still felt her breath catch in her chest when she saw the river of streetlamps and headlights beneath them. Goliath’s back muscles flexed, and she felt her grip instinctively tighten again when he banked north, towards East Village. She was starting to understand what he meant when he talked about the ‘feel’ of the air. The wind was so much stronger up here. Faster, fiercer, colder. She couldn’t help but shiver a little, in spite of how warm Goliath was. He radiated heat, like asphalt in the sun. 

“Guide me.” 

“What street is directly below us?”

There was a long pause from Goliath. “The Bowery.”

Man, these guys must never need to hear from an eye doc. “Head east, we’re looking for 2nd Avenue and St. Mark’s Place.”

Goliath was a surprisingly adept navigator. When cross streets proved to be no good, he would swoop lower so Elisa could pluck out landmarks. Eventually, they found an empty rooftop on a brownstone low-rise, right across from a park. The street and sidewalk were obscured by tall, thin trees with branches that sprawled beyond their wrought-iron black cages, as if mildly insulted that humans had tried to constrain them to a little tiny square. No two tenement buildings were alike. They were a riot of styles and colors, packed densely without any alleys facing the road. Elisa peered down at the street. There were few street lights, and this place was dimly lit. A line of parked cars waited patiently along the curb up and down the street.

“This must be it.” She said, letting go of his shoulders and stepping down to the ground. “2nd and St. Mark’s.”

Goliath closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. His nose wrinkled.

“What do you smell?” Elisa asked. 

“New York.” He replied frankly.

“Yeah, well, it’s kind of the signature perfume of this town. Eau de Garbage is in this season.” She smiled wryly. “Anything else?”

“No.” He shook his head. “There have been too many people here for me to detect the girl. Thousands of humans live here. If one of my rookery-sons were here, or if Bronx were healthy, then it would be possible. But my senses are not as keen.”

“Damn.” She paced on the rooftop. “I’ll check below, see what I can spot. Can you get back up in the air from here?”

Goliath looked about him, trying to spot something that could give him a breeze. Seeing nothing in the immediate area, he grumbled. “The buildings here are not as tall as they are in the financial district, and they are very close together. A takeoff will be very difficult here.”

“Hey, they’re your wings, I trust you to know how they work.” Elisa held up a hand. “I’ll scout down below, and you see if you can find a way back up to the air. Meet back here in thirty?”

Goliath rumbled. “Agreed.”

Elisa found a fire escape, and as quietly as she could manage, she descended it. This neighborhood was old, old in a way that New York just grew around. Some of these buildings might have been new back when Lincoln’s assassination was news. She didn’t trust the loose brick and rusty iron installations any more than she absolutely had to.

She made it down to the street, and she closed her eyes. If I were a teenage girl giving a fake address, what would I hide?

She remembered her body language. Confident, casual. Relieved. The answer had at least a grain of truth to it. This was fairly close, perhaps within walking distance of where she actually needed to be. The girl had to have been confident that she wouldn’t follow. That would mean going into a structure, where she’d need a warrant or probable cause to follow. 

But which one?

She walked up one side of 2nd Avenue, jogging at a light pace. Cars passed and there were no pedestrians to pay her any mind. Where St. Mark’s was tame, domestic, and sweet, 2nd Avenue was gritty, urban, and grungy. The difference was night and day as soon as she rounded the corner. She kept her eyes peeled for anything that stuck out. She continued on 2nd, turning onto 9th, her detective’s intuition radiating within her head like Spider Sense. It was then that she saw it.

A dingy pizzeria with cardboard over one of its windows, next to a sushi restaurant that had likewise seen better days. But it wasn’t the matching has-been eateries that caught her eye. It was the alley between them. The only alley that she’d seen anywhere in the densely-packed quarters of East Village. She’d nearly missed it on her first glance, and had only spied it by chance. 

Checking both ways before she crossed, she cut across the road paying only part of a mind’s attention to the traffic. Elisa put her hand on the locked chain-link fence, topped with barbed wire, blocking access to the alleyway. She peered into the dark, trying to spy some clue or detail. This was the only alley for at least two blocks. A teenage girl who ran with ninja creatures would absolutely know about this alley if she knew this neighborhood.

So what made it special to her?

Elisa strolled over to the garbage can in front of the pizzeria, fishing out three pizza boxes. She zipped up her coat, stacked the cardboard, and folded it in half. Resignedly accepting that she was going to get pizza grease on her favorite leather jacket, she hung the boxes over the barbed wire. Cardboard protecting her hands and midriff from the iron thorns, she dug her toes into the fence gaps and hopped the fence.

Perks of having your own misspent youth; you know all the good tricks. She smiled with satisfaction. She dusted herself off, and searched the ground. 

“Aha.” She knelt on the cracked and broken concrete, brushing aside a broken can. “Bingo.”

A manhole cover. Ordinarily, not worth noticing or mentioning, except for a very important detail; this lid was slightly bent, dents and scuffmarks gathered around its edges. There was a well-worn track leading from the manhole to the fence, where thin lines in the concrete told the tale of many heavy things dragged this way, over a very long period of time. This manhole was used often.

She hummed thoughtfully. She heard the whoosh of wings overhead, and her brain thought of pigeons before she thought about Goliath. He landed heavily in front of her, caping his wings as he straightened up. 

“I thought we were meeting on the roof.” She said, “Something happen?”

“There is a church nearby. St. Mark’s-on-the-Bowery. Its steeple is quite ample for my needs. Have you found what you were searching for?”

Elisa tapped the sewer lid with her foot. “Yeah, I think I have. You mind?”

Goliath stooped. He inserted a single finger underneath the lid, and lifted it as easily as a parent would lift the lid of a toy chest. Elisa felt her blood flush cold; manhole covers were cast iron, they easily weighed 250 pounds. Lifting it so easily with one finger was not the most incredible superhuman feat she’d seen him accomplish tonight, but somehow it was still hair-raising.

She took a MagLite out of her coat pocket, shining it down into the sewer. “Well, it looks like this is a storm line. If it were a wastewater sewer, no way I’d be going down here without a hazmat suit.”

“I do not understand.” Goliath moved the lid aside, setting it down noiselessly on the ground. “How is that important?”

“A sanitary sewer is where every toilet in the city leads. Every gross act that every human commits two to three times a day ends up in one. This? This is where all the gutters and storm drains on the street lead. It’s just rainwater and garbage.” She put a hand on the top rung of the ladder. To her shock, it wasn’t slimy, dirty, or rusty. It was clean. 

“This is it.” She breathed. “This is where April O’Neil hides. We found it.”

She slowly descended down the ladder into the darkness. 

Above her, Goliath’s eyes followed her down. There was no glow to them now; they were dark, brooding, narrow. “Be careful.” He murmured quietly, too soft for her to hear.

Her boots splashed when they hit the pavement below. Her light filled the cavernous tunnel, a candle in a black as deep as the reaches of space. She expected a storm sewer to have flotsam and jetsam strewn about, garbage floating through the water like buoys out at sea. But the water was shallow, and reasonably clear. The trickle of water that came in through smaller tributary pipes drowned out the sound of the traffic above. She could only distantly hear the rumble of passing cars, dulled and muted by several feet of solid earth and stone. 

She followed as far as she could, at least a few hundred yards. She felt a crunch under her foot, and an electric shiver shot up her heel, up her spine, and prickled her hair. “Ugh!” She flinched, lifting her soaked boot, pointing her beam at her sole. The fragments of a rat skull, ribs, and vertebrae stuck to her heel. Almost involuntarily, she shook her leg until the fragments of rotted bone flung themselves into the dark.

Her beam passed over something else; a stainless steel yardstick, drilled into the wall with a heavy bolt. Across from it, there was an enormous steel door. She stopped in front of it, water lapping at her ankles. 

“Hmm…”

Emergency Workers’ Shelter. Keep Clear. It was printed on the steel door in chipped black paint, its border trimmed in caution yellow and black. Green scum and black sludge sank into the cracks and crevices surrounding the old brick. There was a wheel on its front, painted what must have once been a bright yellow. Tucking her flashlight under her armpit, she turned the wheel.

She stepped back when the flap gate rose, hydraulics whining, just high enough for her to duck under. She pointed her flashlight around her, peering into the space.

It was empty.

She scratched her head. No, there had to have been more to this. In theory, this was the only structure that anybody could reliably stay in. That gate was heavy, it must have weighed at least two tons, even during a heavy flood this place would be secure. So why wasn’t there anything in here?

She didn’t have time to check this more thoroughly. She could always come back here. She unzipped her jacket and took a disposable camera from one of its inner pockets. She set her flashlight on its end, beam pointing straight up to illuminate the worker’s shelter. Making sure the flash was on and her finger wasn’t on the lens, she snapped several pictures of the inside. She turned to leave, reaching up to find the pull cable that would seal the flap again.

She paused. There was some horrible feeling in her gut. It was hard to place, really. She had no idea how, or why, but she somehow felt incredibly guilty. Like she’d walked into someone’s home uninvited, in spite of the stunning lack of evidence that anyone or anything lived here. It was a cold, heavy feeling that made her feel strangely ashamed of herself. She shook it off, returning up the ladder to find Goliath waiting, wings folded and concealed in the dark.

“Have you found what you were searching for?” He asked.

“Yes and no.” She answered. She held up the disposable camera. “Hopefully, this will help clarify answers later. But it seems like as far as tonight’s concerned, this is a dead end too. We should head back to the rendezvous point and find Hudson.”

Chapter Text

“I think I see him!” The little one called. “Straight ahead, above the tower!”

The largest flew straight ahead, his longer and stronger wings curled and pulled taut against the wind. The upwash from his wings was more than enough to keep his little brother aloft, their practiced formation negating his much smaller wingspan’s limits. He squinted into the night, trying to see what his younger brother saw. 

“Man, I wish I had eyes like yours.” He grumbled.

“Hawks wish they had eyes like mine.” The small one replied. “I wish I had wings like yours. There’s no way I’d make it this far without help. I’m too… well, tiny.”

“Hey!” The older one turned his head, earfins fluttering in the harsh breeze. “Be nicer to yourself. I don’t wanna hear you beat yourself up like that.”

The admonishment was a drop of fuel in the smaller gargoyle’s dry emotional wellspring, a source of inner strength that had rapidly diminished throughout the night’s failures. Having his brother at his side again slowly refilled his soul, making him feel whole again. But he was still far from alright. He pursed his lips. “I guess you’re right.”

The older one smirked. “Nobody bullies my brother, especially not himself. Besides…” He turned his tail slightly, adjusting to a bit of turbulence that rippled the membranes of his wings. “... I was scared of being alone. I don’t ever want to be by myself like that again. I’m just glad I found you again.”

The small one kept his gaze forward, providing more directions as they got closer to the bridge. One thought, buried in the warmth and joy of their reunion, still nagged at him. He said he saw him wave to him in the alley, and he followed him. But he hadn’t even been on that street.

He had to wonder if it was a miracle, or some kind of magic. Or maybe, some other force was at play. But he couldn’t focus on that right now. They had to find their brother, and they had to get home before sunrise. Nothing else mattered.

-

 Hudson squatted next to the tall flagpole, elbows on his knees as he peered toward the city skyline. His back facing the great towers of Manhattan as he looked out over this crowded spit of land, he had to be far choosier with his perches from here on out. Climbing glass, he could do. Doing it without leaving a very obvious and expensive trail for human pursuers to follow, however, was outside his abilities. Unfortunately for him, the van that had carried the four creatures had parked somewhere in the dense stone jungle that made up the head of this long island.

Hudson’s one good eye struggled with the night, but he still had better eyesight than any human could ever hope for. He’d managed to follow them, with great difficulty, navigating the fine balancing act between managing his altitude and keeping his bearings. A younger or less experienced gargoyle would have quickly lost them. But the balance was a reflex to him, one that he hoped he could one day instill in his rookery-sons.

He had spied their van turning off into the thicket of brick cliffs below the foot of the bridge road, where they’d vanished from view. That was five minutes ago. He sighed, and resigned himself to a decision; he was going to have to follow on foot. He reached into his belt and removed the one tool he had yet to use, opening his wings and gliding down.

Swooping beneath the underpass, he buried his claws into concrete and slipped on the brown hood. He waited patiently for a break in the traffic. Then, releasing his grip and landing heavily in the gravel below, he caped his wings and dusted himself off. If he kept to the shadows, he would–with any luck–only look like a human wearing a heavy cloak at a glance. 

Hudson got his bearings, and set off into Dumbo. It didn’t take him nearly as long as he thought, his darting from shadow to shadow notwithstanding. Traveling stealthily was always slower, but he was light on his feet for an old man. He lowered his head, keeping his hands under his caped wings so his claws would remain out of sight. 

He carefully kept his eye and ears peeled for any sight or sound as he made his way through the street. He spied a human couple, holding hands and pointing up at the skyline across the river. He paused, stepping into a stoop to avoid being under the streetlight. One of them glanced in his direction, eyes lingering suspiciously for a moment, before passing on their way. 

Humans see only what they want to see. As the kids would say, ‘Flimsy disguise for the win.’ He smiled.

He closed his eyes and honed his focus. With a deep breath in and out, he let his mind clear, filtering out the sounds and smells of the city. Breathing in, slowly, he took in every smell that wafted on the wind. Breathing out, silently, he listened closely for the sounds of five voices. 

Hudson opened his eyes, wild with shock, and whirled back around to face the bridge he’d just left. There it was, absolutely unmistakable!

“No!” He rushed to the side of a building, not caring who saw, and he began scaling it to its peak. Brick crumbled in his grip as he scurried up the side of the building, earnest fear fueling his ascent. The couple far below screamed, fleeing as he ascended. He didn’t care–couldn’t care!

His son was on that bridge. He had to get there now!

He leapt off as soon as he was high enough, wings snapping open. He pumped them hard, feeling the ache of his old bones as they worked the aerial sprint that he knew he was too old to do. His breathing was labored, his blood afire with adrenaline, eyes ablaze with a father’s worst fears.

He watched the shape of his son rocket across the top of the tower, striking a black shape atop it. He was too far away to do anything but watch when he saw that telltale flutter; a movement he’d seen and known too well from too many wars.

A flat spin. He was falling.

He panicked, trying to push more speed. Amazingly, his son managed to recover, tilting down in a dive, his shape streaking through the narrow gap between the support cables. He heard the WHAP! of gargoyle wings pushed too far, and the cry that tore his soul. He spiraled down, folding in his wings for a breakneck dive. 

The figure who’d hurt him had descended the cable, trailing sparks. Fury burned in his throat as he made his dive.

But by the time he had landed, the figure had disappeared. Hudson braked, pulling up and coasting just far enough to come to a stumbling landing. He rushed to his son’s side, claws outstretched to him.

The boy raised a hand. “Easy, easy!” He said, panic in his voice. “I can’t handle a tackle right now!”

“YOU’RE GROUNDED!!” Hudson thundered.

He cupped one hand over his ear, pressing his head to his shoulder to stifle the shout. “Yeesh, Mentor, I know I’m grounded. I’m not exactly going anywhere with this thing pinning me like a–”

“No,” Hudson stormed towards him. “Ye’re reckless, irresponsible, childish, self-serving–!”

He felt an arm around him. Hudson stopped, confused. 

“Hey.” The boy said to his father. “I messed up. We all did. And we’re sorry. We won’t do it again, just…” He squeezed Hudson tighter, favoring his wounded chest. “...just help me get home. Please.”

Hudson sighed. He folded his wings, pulling his son closer into his embrace. 

“Oh, lad.” He murmured. “Whatever are we going to do with you?”

“Forgive us for wanting to have one night to live again?” 

Hudson sighed. “Aye. I could do that.”

Hudson looked up at the sky, seeing two shapes approach. He smiled, eye twinkling with gratitude. He lifted a wing and raised an arm, slowly waving both to signal their position. There was a distant whistling in the wind as they both grew louder and closer.

“You’re okay!” Brooklyn cried. “I don’t believe it! Where in the world were you?” He sniffed, and added. “You smell like you rolled in garbage!”

“Where was I?” The pale blue gargoyle shook his head. “Never mind that, what happened to you?!”

“Well, first of all…” The eldest smiled. “I won a duel. And second of all, I won a name.”

“You won a name, lad?” Hudson crossed his arms. “What did your vanquished foe call ye, then?”

He smiled. “Brooklyn. I’m Brooklyn.”

“It suits you. It’s a fine name, lad.” The elder’s smile broadened. “Tonight is a night for change, it seems. I’ve chosen a name.”

Brooklyn and the others looked at him in shock. “You?” Brooklyn gaped. “Whatever happened to protecting our traditions, not letting the human world define us?”

Hudson closed his eyes and sighed. “A thousand years asleep is a long time to rethink the value of the past. I am Hudson, after yon river to the West.”

The other two looked at each other. They nodded. “We want to choose our own names, too.” The small one said. 

“Oh?” Hudson asked. “And what do you wish to be called now, lad?”

The small one drew himself up to his full four-foot height. “I’m Lexington, like the avenue!” He exclaimed.

“Broadway!” The last one lifted his chin proudly, spreading his arms wide. “The first place I ever stood alone.”

“You sure it isn’t some other reason?” Lexington poked his gut. 

Broadway swatted his hand away. “Very funny, Lex.” 

Brooklyn chuckled, and immediately wished he hadn’t. He clutched his shoulder, leaving his injured arm slack. Hudson put a hand on his shoulder. “Let’s go, lads. There’s someone I want all of you to meet.”

“Who?” Lexington asked, tilting his head. 

Hudson’s eye twinkled. “The human who helped us to find you. She’s waiting for us.”

-

Raphael’s back lay against the soft cushion of the van’s back seat, and he groaned in pain. “Well.” He grunted. “I won a duel.”

“ ‘Won’?” Mikey scoffed. “Yeah, like you win food poisoning after a pie-eating contest.”

Leo shook his head, finger and thumb massaging his eyes. His blue mask seemed to highlight his exasperated look. “You learn a lesson tonight, Raph?”

“Nope.” He replied, voice dripping with sarcasm. “I’m absolutely going to walk outta the Lair and pick fights with random monsters every single night from now on. I love this. Pain is my favorite. Yay.”

Don, sitting in the front passenger seat, muttered something that rhymed with ‘bucking mass and fisk’. Raph glared in his direction, and he looked like he wanted to get up and smack his older brother. But that would involve asking his rib plates to move. 

Raph’s fingers traced over the gauze that wrapped his plastron, feeling the grooves that were interrupted by a few bumps where Donatello had superglued zip ties to his shell. 

“Quit fiddling with your wounds, Raph.” April rolled her eyes, swatting his hand. “Or else it’s going to heal crooked like the one on your chest.”

“Looks like you’re going back in the tub, Raph.” Leonardo gloated. “Enjoy your two-week bath.”

“Hey!” Raph jabbed a finger in his older brother’s direction. “I got, like, three days of dry-dock first! And at least I still got both my knees!” He pouted angrily.

At first, no one in the van could process the sound that Leonardo made. They stared, jaws agape, as they heard something they hadn’t heard since May.

Leonardo laughed.

April blinked, raising one eyebrow dangerously close to her hairline. “You good, dude?” She asked tentatively.

Leonardo doubled over, gasping for air as he belly-laughed so hard he nearly fell out of the driver’s seat. Mikey leaned over to Raph, muttering out of the side of his cheek, “Dude, you broke our bro.”

Leo wiped his tears away with the heel of his hand. “Raph?” He snickered. “You’re hopeless.”

Raphael slow-blinked at his older brother, clearly not processing any of this. Leo shook his head. “Oh, never mind. Splinter texted us while you were up there fighting Batman or whoever. He found Casey. They’re waiting for us back at the Lair.”

“You’re tellin’ me that I climbed to the top of the Brooklyn Bridge,” Raphael flopped his head back against the armrest. “For nothing?!”

“Yep.” Leonardo beamed a shiteating grin. 

Raphael took a noisy breath through his nostrils, like a bull in a bullpen. “I’m gonna kill him. I SWEAR to PIZZA SUPREME IN THE SKY. I am GONNA KILL HIM.”

Leonardo didn’t mean to go over every single bump in the road as they drove back to East Village. But Raphael would swear years later that he went out of his way to hit every single pothole between Dumbo and Soho just to spite him. 

Casey and Splinter had gotten home far earlier than they had, and Casey had already gone to sleep. April, who was a frequent guest already, unfolded the spare futon for herself. As each one of them went to bed, one by one falling asleep, Raphael stayed awake. The pain wouldn’t quite let him sleep.

He lay on his hammock, which he had made himself long ago, staring up at the ceiling. He watched tiny motes of dust fall as the ceiling trembled subtly. He heard the muffled squeal and rumble of the passing subway, and he sighed. He was happy to be home.

-

“Metal warriors?” Lexington was awestruck. “And humans with claws like gargoyles?”

Brooklyn whistled, impressed. “And I thought we had a rough night.” The dart that had been embedded in his chest muscle had been removed with Hudson’s delicate touch long ago, the wound stopped up with gauze. His arm hung in a sling, protecting his injured pectoral muscle. He was under orders to keep his wings caped until morning, and it was clear he hated it.

Bronx’s whole body was curled up in Hudson’s lap. He comically had to peer out from around the beast’s flank to speak. “Let it be known that it was my idea to aid the false gargoyle!”

Elisa sat cross-legged in the midst of all this, watching them with curious eyes. They were absolutely amazing to her. Alien, powerful, and graceful, but still so human it unnerved her. She looked down at her watch. “My shift ends in about ten minutes. Honestly, I might just crash here for the day. I don’t think I trust myself to drive home when I'm this tired.”

“You mean to sleep in this tower?” Goliath asked. 

Elisa looked around at the empty walls of the clock tower, pre-dawn light filtering in through the smoky glass face of the enormous clock. “I mean, I could. I don’t know where you guys go during the day, but the sun’s coming up soon.”

The gargoyles looked amongst each other, and then at Elisa. Uncomfortable looks were etched on all of their faces. Elisa knew that look, on a human or on anything else; it was a look of distrust. She was still an outsider. A foreigner. She had no idea what their hangup around humans was. But it didn’t take a detective to deduce that they’d been hurt, badly, and weren’t ready to trust again. Maybe they never fully would.

She got up to leave. “I should go.” She said, “I… have reports to finish before the end of my shift.”

She reached down to open the trap door, when she heard a creak and Hudson grunting with mild discomfort and annoyance. She was startled when she found a wet, sandpapery nose forcing itself up under her elbow. Bronx whined, headbutting her chest. She shook her head. 

“I’m sorry, bud. But… I don’t belong here.” She said softly.

Bronx whined, more insistently, pushing her back away from the trap door. He nearly bowled her. Brooklyn chuckled. “Looks like Bronx has taken a shine to you.”

Elisa tried to push the dog-beast away. But Bronx promptly shut down any argument by belly flopping on top of her torso and refusing to move. He chuffed, jowls flopping, as he plopped his head onto her shoulder. 

Elisa exhaled a long, exasperated groan. “Well, I guess that I’m trapped here. Oh no. The horror.”

Lexington laughed, grin spreading across his cheeks. “Come on Bronx, up. Go lay down.”

Broadway got up, arching his back and spreading his wings wide as he stretched. He put his arms beneath Bronx’s elbows and heaved, picking the massive hound with surprising ease. “C’mon, boy. No. Leave the nice lady alone.” 

Bronx squirmed out of Broadway’s grip with a bark, and promptly went back over to lie on top of Elisa again. Both Broadway and Hudson got up to try and coax the dog into getting off of her, but Bronx’s mind seemed to be made up. Lexington put his shoulder against the dog’s flank and tried to push. Brooklyn couldn’t do much more than tap his knee and whistle, trying to encourage the beast to stand up. Bronx flatly refused it all, tongue lolling as he panted, blissfully unaware that Elisa’s ribcage was in imminent danger. She couldn’t help but laugh.

Goliath watched all of this, and he remembered. He remembered a little boy, following him like a little blond shadow, hiding behind corners and tapestries as he walked the castle halls. He remembered the soft smile of his angel of the night, the smell of her red hair and the touch of her wings folded over his. He remembered his siblings, his parents, his children.

His heart ached for all of them. He remembered looking west, out over the sea towards the Hebrides. The way the sea glowed orange and red when he awoke each night before falling into deep midnight, the moon casting diamonds on the waves. Seeing the silhouettes of wings against that sky. Hearing that same laughter.

The humans who had named him spoke of a heaven, where angels flew freely in a realm of endless sunlight. He wondered, for a moment, if the sun felt just as the humans described. What it would feel like to be warmed by its rays upon his wings, to see a world so bright. 

He looked at their smiles, heard their laughter, and he could not help but appreciate that for a brief moment their grief and sorrow was forgotten. This human had promised to return him to his family, and she had fulfilled it. She had no further need to linger here, and yet she stayed. His family had no reason to give her trust, and yet here they were. Trusting her.

A friendship with humans. He wondered. The question mulled itself over in his head. He found himself searching his heart, looking for a reason to doubt her. Some clue or evidence that she had wicked intent. But he could find none. The stone wall surrounding his heart eroded, just a little. That modicum of respect had slipped inside. This time, he did not fight it.

The sky was beginning to lighten outside the clock tower. He looked to Hudson, and the elder gave him a solemn nod. Goliath raised his voice. “Come. Dawn is coming.”

“Are we staying here?” Lexington asked, looking up at him quizzically.

“I thought we were going back to the castle.” Broadway wondered aloud. “Why here?”

“I’m grounded until dawn, guys.” Brooklyn’s smile was thin and apologetic. “And I don’t think I like the idea of lugging Bronx all the way back up to the castle in his condition.”

“Okay, I gotta ask.” Elisa looked around at them. “What happens at dawn? You’ve been talking about it all night, but no one’s given me an answer. What’s going on?”

Goliath smiled. “You’ll see.” He mounted the steps up to the balcony, to the hatch at the bottom of the clock face. He held open the door, and the others trooped out silently after him. Elisa, curiosity tugging her like a fish hook, towed her along behind them. 

They fanned out across the balcony, stepping up onto the railing. Hudson drew his sword, and Lexington rolled his shoulders to stretch himself out. Elisa looked up at Goliath. “What are they doing?”

He looked to the east. The sky was getting lighter. “Trust is not something we yield readily. Most especially not to humans. I want you to understand that, Elisa Maza. My people have suffered greatly at the hands of your kind, and we are not likely to give our friendship to you easily.”

“I kinda gathered that…” She muttered. “And I get it. Promises are cheap. A good detective trusts no one.”

“Something we both have in common.” Goliath rumbled. “But tonight, you went above and beyond to help save my family. I do not know what would have happened to them tonight if fortune had not crossed our paths. I thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” She shrugged. “My job is to protect people. And, well, you’re people. It’s my duty.”

“As it is a gargoyle’s nature to protect his castle.” Goliath replied. “There is a saying that the Romans oft repeated; quis custodiet ipsos custodes.”

“ ‘Who watches the watchmen?’ “ Elisa smiled. “A good question. We can’t guard against our own weaknesses. We need others to guard us, morally and physically. To keep us safe and on the straight and narrow.”

Goliath smiled. “I want to ask you a very important favor.”

“Name it. You’ve earned it.” Elisa answered.

“Will you be our watcher this day?”

Elisa didn’t know what he meant by that. The silver shield she raised to guard herself from others lowered, just enough for her to peek over it. She met his eyes. They were dark, expressive, ponderous. There was a strange feeling that one got in their chest when they looked into the eyes of a great predator; a sense of awe, dread, and respect. But there was so much more to Goliath’s eyes than a hawk, wolf, or lion. So much more.

“Yes.” She answered finally. “I’ll watch you.”

Goliath’s smile was a rare kind of smile. It was relief, it was peace. There was hope in that smile, the kind of hope that you saw in the eyes of a soldier after a war that had gone on for far too long. A battle, a struggle, ended. 

He mounted the precipice, and he raised his wings in a fearsome pose. Around her, the other gargoyles stood tall, baring their fangs and spreading their wings out, as if to challenge the very sunrise. They raised their voices, a fearsome cry like a chorus of lions, roaring as the sun rose above the sea. Like frost across a window, wherever the sunlight touched them their skin began to turn gray and colorless. She gasped as she watched Goliath’s body freeze, crystallize, like ice.

No, not ice. She realized. Stone.

She stepped to the side, peering around to find his face. There it was, frozen in an intimidating snarl, the new dawn illuminating a quartz-like sheen across his face. She breathed in awe.

She watched the sun come up. She laid a hand on Goliath’s outstretched elbow, patting it softly. 

“I’ll keep my promise.”

-

It was dark in the cell. Surrounded on three sides by steel-reinforced concrete and on one side by six-inch bulletproof glass, a space wrapped in stone and silence and darkness. A greasy, stringy-haired man inside curled into himself. He shivered in the corner, feeling at once claustrophobic and exposed. He found himself missing his ratty, holey coat.

He peered with dread at the cell opposite his, where a great hairy beast lay facedown on the floor. Whether he was metal or meat, he didn’t know. But each breath he took in his unconsciousness shed sparks from a broken aluminum wing. Within that cell was a small crate, a prison within a prison, containing another pathetic creature. An insect, wearing a curious button-up shirt, hung its hands on the bars of the crate, fearfully watching the behemoth beside him.

He heard footsteps coming up the steel hallway. He stood up, hand pressed against the glass, straining to see. 

Lights clacked on, unbearably bright after spending hours in the darkness. The man flinched, holding his hands up to his eyes to shield himself. 

“Awake at last, human?” A woman’s voice purred. “Excellent. I was so looking forward to this.”

“W-Who…” The man stuttered, mouth dry. “Who are you?”

“Who am I?” The woman’s voice was oily, smug. “A far more interesting question, I think is… what will you become?”

The woman’s silhouette shifted, producing a long, heavy object.

A canister, glowing green.