I'm just a nerd

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 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.

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 parapets 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. “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 iron-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 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.

“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 hedld out a hand like sun-browned wheat to her, 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 holds 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.

“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.

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.”

“I’m just saying, our leader could stand to lighten up!” The red gargoyle said loudly. “We’ve been in this castle for almost two months, 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 a month 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.”

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.”

“My younger brother, 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?”

“... 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.