Name: The Red Dream (TMNT/Mark of the Ninja crossover)
Summary: On a quest to right his wrongs, a martyr makes his way to New York.
Genre: General; Drama; Family; Action;
Rating: T;
Timelines: post end of Mark of the Ninja; TMNT universe mix IDW/2k3/2k12;
Beta: LovelyWeather;
I've been itching to do something new, and this idea seemed too good to pass up. So let's see how it goes...
Iran, Tabriz, 2:39AM
Late night hours of the city of Tabriz. A sandstorm had descended upon it. Thick and strong gusts of wind and sand rattled windows and doors like unruly ghosts calling for attention. The residents payed the storm no heed. They've grown accustomed to the noise, to the shakes and howls to the point where no sleep would be lost because of them.
However, the outskirts of the city were a different matter. The places where you only go to find rats, junk and trouble. Where abandoned warehouses and buildings housed thugs and gangs and withstood the worst of the storm, like a shallow husk slowly but surely falling apart inside and out. Loose shutters banged back and forth, doorhinges squealed, walls moaned, and all other sounds and noises were stolen by the wind. Drowned out by its intensity, picked apart by its speed and carelessly lost in the swirling particles of sand.
Which was exactly why nobody in the bandit hideout heard the lightbulb burst into pieces except for the two unfortunate men that were in the same room.
Nobody heard the struggle.
Nobody heard the fight.
And two men were out cold.
Looking over the spacious room for any more potential disturbances and finding none the assailant moved quickly. His steps were fast and unnaturally silent, as if he had no weight nor mass to hold him down. And yet his movements were firm, strong and fluid, displaying a subtle power within the shaped muscles of his arms.
He walked along rows of tables, one aligned right next to the other, with a single wide shallow tub on each one filled with soil. He gazed down at the sprouts protruding from them. Thin, weak, pathetic little things. Not even properly grown and yet already dying.
Emotions conflicted in his eyes. Disappointment and regret, shame and anger, they rooted him to his spot, wasting time and minutes he knew were scarce. Wasn't he taught better than this?
He stared at the stems that appeared black in the dark and the shadows turned them into malnourished inky hands of the departed. They flexed their stiff fingers and reached out to him from the earth, greedily grabbing at the air in hope of taking hold of him. There was a high-pitched whistle somewhere in the back of his skull growing louder and louder with each second, tuning a frequency that deafened him and made him hear them.
The ones who sang for retribution.
Those who screamed for justice.
They demanded blood- of him -for him -for them.
He felt the Onryō and Kinshin faces stare down at him from above, pinning him under their unblinking pupils and flexing their jaws into starved smiles and wrathful scowls.
"Hey."
His head snapped up and he saw her standing relaxed, and still somehow threatening, on the other side of the tables. Black hair pulled into a pony-tail, dark gray short-sleeved kimono with red linings, dark leggings and sinfully alluring eyes.
Ora.
"We're on a mission," she said, arm crossed and expression annoyed. "Concentrate."
He doesn't respond. He holds his ground for a while, glaring at her hatefully, before ultimately turning away. He spots a dingy furnace at the far end of the warehouse and he knows it should do the trick. It doesn't take him long to start a fire in it and once the flame is stable and cackling, he goes back to the tubs of dirt. One by one, he plucks the wilting stems along with their roots and gathers them in a neat pile he takes back with him.
After a moment of hesitation, he throws the sprouts into the furnace and thinks how there's something symbolic and resoundingly final in this. There was no going back.
He watches them catch fire, follows the black burns that spread like a plague along their weak bodies and suddenly feels something twist in his gut. Something painful and raw, like his stomach is the very furnace that's reducing them to nothing. He can feel the smoke climbing up his throat and taste the ashes on his tongue, bitter and hot and so impossibly dry he feels like he might suffocate on it.
"You know," she says, standing next to him and watching the inferno, "there are other ways of making them pay." Her suggestion was underlined with an emotion he knew all too well. And shockingly, despite the recent revelations, much like all her other suggestions so far, he doesn't say no to it right away.
He remained silent. The flames danced in his eyes and with a deep breath he closed them.
"Gluttony, lust and rage
enslave us; our appetites
make us unworthy," he recited.
Disagreement flashed across her face, but she said nothing.
Before the stems had turned to ash, he turned away and went back to the basins. He had fifteen minutes- twenty tops- before the other bandits radioed in for a check-up. Time's a wasting. He had to work fast and stay alert for the first signs of trouble. He wasn't worried about the smoke outside giving him away: the sandstorm would carry it and hide it, along with any other possible consequences of his deed.
It was a race against time now, going back and forth, ripping out the plants and making sure there was nothing left of them. Working tirelessly, the number of empty basins increased. When suddenly, he paused.
Ora frowned. "Something's wrong."
She watched as he straightened up, head turning to the side and eyeing something down the row. He turned on his heel, walking over to the last tables which were bare and empty. His eyes narrowed. He placed two fingers onto the surface and dragged them slowly along it, listening to the steady scraping of his nails against wood.
And then the sound changed and the surface beneath his fingers was colder. Wetter.
He clenched his fist.
The bandit was woken up by a hard slap to the face.
"Argh! Madar kharbeh-!" the man cussed in Farsi, trashing and writhing against his bonds on instinct. His face twisted in raw anger, snarling and enraged before it flickered into confusion by his limited movements and in no time it froze with the cold realization that he was restrained.
His captor could see the events that have led up to this moment play across the man's face as he recalled them. The lightbulb that exploded into pieces, the confusion he felt, the muffled yelp of his partner, and the late realization of what happened when he turned around and got knocked out himself.
The bandit struggles with his bound hands for a moment before he notices him. He squints in the weak light of the furnace and sees his assailant, the broad-shouldered man in dark gray tattered ninja-garbs and a black hooded-scarf pulled up, hiding his face.
And then he sees the red marks. His eyes grew wide in both rage and terror. "Tou-!" He's pulled up by his shirt before he can finish.
"Where's the rest?"
The bandit snarls at him in English. "Fuck you assho-" He never saw the punch coming. He only felt the sudden pain in his abdomen, so crisp and sharp that it felt more like a stab-wound than a punch, and for a terrifying moment his body wasn't sure if it was wrong or not. The pain spread along his spine and lungs, paralyzing them and making him hack and gasp for air.
The ninja dropped him and the man fell on his side, curling over his abdomen.
"Answer the question," he repeated, sternly, "What happened to them?
The bandit coughed, blinking away the involuntary tears as he rasped out. "T-To...hahh... what?"
"The missing flowers," he clarified, letting impatience coat his voice. The bandit recognized his tattoo, he must have had a vague idea who he was dealing with, considering his last visit. Hopefully that would... inspire him to answer his questions without too much fuss.
The bandit looked up at him, weighting the importance of his answer with the amount of pain he was sure to receive.
Something coiled in the pit of his stomach, anxious and agitated, as if he knew the answer well before the bandit coughed it out.
"We… hah, sold them," he said, catching the way the ninja's eyes widened and fists uncurled in surprise. Against his better judgment, the Persian man grinned at him. "Does that… hah... make you angry? Your… hah… precious little… flowers, heh…"
The pain in his abdomen and chest lessened and the bandit took advantage of that, savoring every word, "Serves… you right, lapdog… You and your prissy little cla- ack!"
A hand gripped him by his neck and slammed him against the wall. His skull rattled with the force of the impact, teeth clacked and colors in his vision bled into each other. The bandit felt the first tendrils of fear grip him. His legs kicked weakly looking for leverage, his mouth opened and closed wordlessly, trying to draw in air.
"To who?!" the hand around his windpipe tightened and the man could only stare at the livid eyes of the ninja. The red scales tattooed over his eyes grew too real, too natural to be human, until he was sure as all hell that he was no longer staring at one.
"Answer me!" he jerked him and the man barely held back a sob.
He choked on his words, irises and lips trembling. "I-I... I don't k-know…I-"
A discarded radio cackled to life, a voice buzzed through, asking a question.
The ninja's eyes darted to the gadget, narrowing angrily, before turning back to the bandit. He needed answers. "When?"
The radio cackled again, the voice now firm, more alert and on edge.
"A-A... week a-ag… pl-ease… I ca- n't..."
"Kuso!" it slipped out before he could help it. His hand unconsciously tightened in anger. "Where?!"
Suddenly there's yelling. Multiple voices blare over the radio and he hears a bell ringing in the distance, footsteps rapidly stomping from the floor above.
"…I- ...on't," the words the man speaks are dying syllables at this point. He could see the life in his eyes flickering out like a candle in a sandstorm. He's too angry to care. He wants him dead. All of them! This- This lowlife and his herd of mongrels- How dare they-
The man's eyes are glossed over, already seeing the dark and emptiness that death's hand offers. His last wisps of air drift past his lips, "... -eaaase..."
The doors are suddenly kicked open, men pile inside yelling and pointing their flashlights and rifles only to see one of their comrades unconscious and the other one just as he hit the ground.
New York. Brooklyn, 10:27PM;
The first nips of winter came as they always had in New York, within the first two weeks of November. The change from daytime to night happened way too fast for anyone to make sense of it. The air, no longer smelling like rain and moist dirt, became the most puzzling mix of cold, smog and occasional thin warm wisps of roasted chestnuts from unlicensed vendors at street corners.
Raphael took it all in a single breath.
The November chill smoothed itself in the crevices of his shell with the kind of cold that only lingered skin-deep. And yet there was a distant itch in the back of his head, the place where his most basic instincts originated from, that called to attention. The animal side of him weakly signaling every nerve across his body that winter was upon them and that was no time for a turtle to be anywhere on the surface.
Something Raphael disagreed with wholeheartedly.
That, however, didn't change anything. The colder it got, the less time they would spend topside. Their patrols would start getting shorter and shorter as the temperature dropped. And once the frost hit and hardened, the rooftops and their usual scouting routes would be out of commission, making them, in a sense, grounded.
There'd be no more patrols. No more beating up thugs and scumbags. And every asshole who tried his luck on the streets would get off scoot free.
And that made for a very, very unhappy turtle.
Khhhh- "Status report," Leonardo's voice suddenly buzzed in his earcom, "West clear."
Khh- "East clear," Donatello radioed in, followed by Mikey.
Khhh- "All good here, bros."
Raph reached for the button on his com, scowling at the lack of action, when something caught his eye. A white van with a yellow company logo ('Alitech', it read) slowly pulled over and back-parked right into an ally between two closed shops.
This late? Hella suspicious, he frowned.
"Hold," he said, squinting down. Two figures could be made out from behind the windshield, but nothing more that would distinguish them. That's when he noticed the missing license plate. And hella obvious!
"Hey Donnie," Raph scowled, pressing his comm, "does the name Alitech mean anythin' to ya?"
Khh- "Alitech," Don dragged the name out, furiously typing on his wrist computer. The rest of them waited silently, listening to the clacks of his keyboard. Raphael tensed briefly when one of the two left the van, but relaxed when the man only lit a cigarette and leaned onto the wall.
Yep, he thought getting a better look at him. That's a generic Purple Dragon goon if I ever saw one. Big muscles. IQ flashing in single digits. And a face that only a mother could love.
Khh-"Says here the company formed a few months back, mid August. Does mostly maintenance checks, technical and customer support for AC units-"
Khhh- "Air-conditioning?"
"-And, hah... In affiliation and sponsored by StochGen labs. Nice going Raph."
"Yeah, no self-respecting person 'd hire something that ugly," he mumbled wryly and crouched down. The first sparks of excitement zipped through him and he was glad that it looked like it wouldn't be a mundane night after all. But then Leo-
Khhhh- "Hold your position, Raph. Don't engage," he said, all orders and no room for arguments. Not that that ever stopped him before. "Two on recon, two on standby. Mikey, Don, you're recon. Raph, rendezvous with you in five."
Killjoy, he scowled, but did as he was told.
Khhhh- "What do you see?"
"White van, no license plate," Raph listed, trying to keep frustration out of his voice, "parked in between a tech store and some travel agency near the corner of The First and Sixth. I can see only two of them. Might be more in the back, but definitely Purple Dragons."
Khh- "How can you tell?" Don asked, sounding skeptical.
He scoffed, "Ya kidding? It's like they make 'em in a factory."
Khhh- "Duuuude, there's an idea!" Michelangelo said mid jump, "-oomph! Like Stormtropers! Just like waaay dumber and less cool!"
Khhhh-"What are they doing?"
"Nothin'," he sneered as if genuinely disappointed they weren't making trouble. "Don't look like a robbery, but I wouldn't count them out just yet."
Khhhh-"Hold your position."
For the love of- "I heard ya the first time," he snipped.
His vigil continued in relative silence. The man bellow him finished his cigarette and then lit another. Half way through it, he stomped it out and went back into the van, rubbing his arms together to warm up.
The softest thump behind him made him glance over. He recognized the shadow way before the turtle moved close enough to be seen. "Anything?" Leo asked and Raph replied with a curt, "No."
"Think they're biding their time?" he asked once his brother crouched down next to him.
"Or waiting for something," he pressed him comm, "Don? Mikey? ETA?"
Khh- "10 minutes."
They wait.
The city thrummed in an unruly silence. Engines and sirens hummed from a distance. Dying echos of drunken laughter and loud music, broken glass and shouting, curses and idle threats. They fill his ears with their incomprehensible and disorganized chatter. Artificial neon lights painted walls around them, windows reflected flickering purples, greens and a particularly painful shade of red straight into his eyes.
Unconsciously, Raphs hands clenched into fists.
"What's on your mind?"
He jolted in surprise.
Leo was staring at him. Face carefully sculpted into a neutral expression meant to come off as casual. His eyes gave him away. Those blue orbs that gazed at him with that unreadable calm scrutiny, looking for something. He almost scoffed. You're bad at this Fearless.
He holds his silence and looks back to parked van. He keeps his face the way he always does, aloof and testy. He doesn't like these games that Leo plays. Never has. And, okay, while they're not exactly games and hold a more serious nature, they weren't his shtick. He didn't play detective or try to bait the answers he needed. He asked them directly and on the point. And that's the only way he answered them also. Let round one begin.
"We should move this week," he said and let his brother pick it apart however he liked. The strands of their masks flapped noiselessly in the breeze.
"I was gonna bring that up tomorrow at breakfast," Leo said after a moment of silence, eyes zoning back to their target, "Seems like the hideout on the 91st Street is our best option this year."
Raph recoiled genuinely surprised and sounding almost offended. "91st? What's wrong with th' East Side Line?"
The turtle shrugged. "Don said the electricity generators weren't working well. Best not to chance it and have the heaters die on us mid-winter."
Raphael could feel a dissatisfied growl building up. "Can't he fix it?"
"Not really," he turned back to him, "Said there's no time since the problem is in the wall-wiring."
"It's too freaking small," Raph gritted his teeth, which only made his bother raise an eye-ridge in question.
"What are you talking about?"
"The garage," he explained begrudgingly, "There's not enough space there for both the Shell Cycle and the Shellraiser."
And both knew, much to his chagrin, which one was more necessary to the family.
"Oh..." Leo blinked, letting his younger sibling simmer a bit before saying anything. "Maybe... it's best it stays there then," he offered, trying to sound sympathetic, "It's not like you'll be driving it."
That's not damn point, he wants to shout at the top of his lungs but Raph bites the inside of his cheek, trying very hard not to do so because if Leo knew anything about motorcycles or any other types of vehicles that didn't require fucking pedals, he'd know that you don't just leave them in places with low temperatures with no maintenance!
"Where I go, she goes," he growled out instinctively with that distinctive note that made Leonardo frown disapprovingly.
"You're being impractical," he said and Raph made it a priority to do his breathing exercises instead of acting on his urge to punch his brothers' teeth in. Once he visibly calmed down, he cussed under his breath just as Donatello and Michelangelo radioed in.
Khh- "We're in position."
"About time. Keep your earpieces on," Leo huffed and they both leaned closer to the edge, "What do you see?"
Khh- "I'm not getting any readings off of this," Donnie said after a while, "So we can cross off mutagen and krang tech-"
Khhh- "Dude. It's empty."
Donatello sputtered uncomprehendingly, Raphael and Leonardo exchanged a pointedly confused look, until the stammered syllables turned into harsh hissed out whispers. "What are you doing?! Are you crazy?!"
"Well he asked to see what's inside-"
"Not like that you shellhead! You don't just open the cargo door when you don't know if there's anyone inside!"
"Are ya fuckin' kiddin' me?" Raphael facepalmed while Leo rubbed his temples and silently counted to ten and back. In Japanese.
The squabble continued from the other side, when Leo made sure to end it with a single furious, "Enough."
Angry silence cackled through the earpieces.
Raphael huffed and commed in seconds later. They didn't have time for this. "You sure the cargo area is empty?" he asked. "Check it again."
He stared at the two gang members through the windshield and was relieved to see they were as oblivious as ever.
"Dude, there are like two boxes full of guns and ammo stashed here."
"Just two?" Raph frowned and again exchanged a look with Leonardo.
"Yeah, bro."
Looks like they caught the party wagon early. Leo pressed his comm. "Put a tracker somewhere and get out of there. They have company."
It was only then that Raphael noticed a group of several people walking down the street in the direction of the van.
"Way ahead of you," said Donatello before the line went silent. Leonardo pulled out his T-phone and saw a red dot appear on his screen.
"Let's see where the party's at," he said looking at Raphael who smirked and cracked his knuckles.
"Hopefully I brought enough punch for everyone."
Fun facts about the chapter:
The places Raph and Leo listed are actual abandoned Metro stations. 91st Street: IRT Broadway–Seventh Avenue Line in Manhattan, and the East Side Line, also known as the IRT Lexington Avenue Line that stretches from Downtown Brooklyn to East Harlem.
Now how abandoned are they exactly? Honestly, I don't know, I'm not a New York resident and could only learn so much through online research.
Also, 'madar kharbeh' translated to 'mother fucker' in Farsi.
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xMF