Title: Unhealthy Competition
Author: Raykushi
Disclaimer: Rights to TMNT belong to Nickelodeon and others. This is a fan piece only and no monetary gain comes from its publication.
Incarnation: 2k3 TV show
Summary: Raphael must play the deadly game Russian Roulette when he's captured by a bored gang leader.
Rating/Warnings: Rated PG-13 for violence and blood.
Author's Notes:
I wanted to try my hand at a normal action-style story, similar to one you might watch in the TMNT cartoon. This was my first time writing a real gritty 'adventure' for the TMNT realm, and it was a ton of fun. I discovered how difficult it was for me to write action scenes. XD; Hopefully I pulled it off!
Unhealthy Competition
Raphael was a ninja turtle with a completely healthy sense of competition. After all, nobody liked to lose, right?
A black-clad ninja sailed across a spotlit warehouse floor and crashed into a stack of crates, sending an explosion of splinters in every direction. He didn't rise again.
Michelangelo let out a whoop and thrust both hands into the air. "And that's how it's done!" On one of the television screens arrayed in front of them, the character he had been controlling made a triumphant pose. The words VICTORY danced over its head, dripping pixelated red blood droplets. "Think you need to go back to training, Raph!"
Raphael growled and chucked the game controller in response. It bounced off the wall, narrowly avoiding taking the television screen.
"Hey!" Mikey objected, not wanting to have to ask Donatello to fix the game controller. Or the TV. Again.
"I need some air," Raph ground out between clenched teeth. He stood up from the couch.
His younger brother slouched where he sat, so he couch stretch out a leg and hit the Reset button on his game system with his toe, restarting the game without bothering to get up. "What's wrong, Raph, can't take the heat?" (Mikey's game character had been a fire-thrower.) "Time to run away?"
Raph whirled around and glared. "What was that?" he snarled, eyes narrowed behind his red mask.
Mikey's own eyes widened when he saw Raph's seething expression, and he took the opportunity to backpedal. "Uh, have a good run!"
Raphael snarled wordlessly at him and stalked away.
Michelangelo shrugged philosophically and chose a new character.
. ~ . ~ . ~ .
Raph's run took him topside, across rooftops on the east side. He ran until the workout loosened his muscles and leached the anger from his body. A commotion in an alley below finally brought him to a halt, and he peered down over the edge of the roof to check out the situation.
The gang of young men in the alley was an unruly bunch, hooting and hollering to one another, loud enough that people on the street were giving the entrance to the alleyway a wide birth. Several of the youths were clearly drunk with the way their steps wavered when they walked. Bottles, when finished, were chucked against the brick walls of the buildings, littering shards of glass across the pavement that reflect the streetlight like scattered stars.
Raphael shook his head in disgust and turned to leave (after all, they weren't breaking any laws except maybe disturbing the peace, and the cops could handle that if someone called it in). But a louder crash brought his attention right back. One of the gang members had stumbled to the front of the alley and chucked his beer bottle at a car parked on the side of the street, shattering the passenger window and earning him loud laughter and praise from his drunken friends. They were starting to follow the first adventurous hooligan out to the sidewalk, where there would be innocent bystanders walking home from working or shopping.
Raph sighed and cracked his knuckles. Looked like he was going to get a workout tonight after all. Might as well, he had already had a warm up from his run. The gang below was just one shy of a dozen men, but most of them were drunk and they didn't have any visible weapons other than beer bottles. Raph wasn't even going to break a sweat.
The turtle slid down to the ground below with the help of a nearby fire escape, keeping to the shadows once he touched down. His sai were in his hands as he crept toward the boisterous crowd.
Drunken distractions worked in the ninja's favor. He took two of them down before the others even realized anything was amiss. The others on the fringe of the crowd finally caught sight of the moving shadow working through their ranks and raised the alarm. They all turned their attention toward him.
Raphael grinned fiercely. Good.
Once he had their attention he started inching backward, leading the gang deeper into the alley, away from the sidewalk. "You boys can't find anythin' better to do? Maybe go home, sleep it off?" he taunted.
"Freaks on our turf," one of the closest ones muttered.
"Bash his head in, Josh!" someone from the back called.
Raph shot forward for a run through the crowd, knocking gang members off their feet, then circling around to keep them going in the direction he wanted. None of them was coordinated enough to even lay a hand on him. This was almost boring.
Then one of the more sober men put his fingers to his mouth, a movement Raph only saw from the corner of his eye. A shrill whistle split the air.
The turtle leaped at youth to quiet what was obviously some sort of signal, but it was too late. By the time Raph reached him and slammed him in the chest with both fists, hard enough to sending him flying into the wall behind him and crumpling to the ground, the side door on the closest building had swung open. More men poured out into the alley. These men were older, more experienced than the young grunts that had been playing and drinking in the alley. And these ones had guns.
Turtle luck. Raph made to leap for the fire escape, but a gunshot tinged off the metal over his head and he checked himself, hoping that had been a warning shot and not bad aim. His hesitation was just long enough for two of the youths to grab his arms and slam his shell against the brick wall.
"Hey, hey!" Raph chuckled awkwardly, warily eyeing the firepower that had been introduced to the situation. "What I meant to say was, 'What a lovely night for some vandalism.'"
One of the gang members, a seasoned thug with a scar across his eyebrow and temple, stepped closer. His answer was to grip his own pistol by the barrel and swing it hard against the side of the turtle's head, the impromptu club sending him down into darkness.