Big Apple, 3 A.M. It's still quite dark, yet a shadowy figure walks hurriedly by, as the annoying sound of an alarm runs off in the background. It comes to a stop near an alleyway, them starts rubbing its hands together and breathing a white, foggy cloud onto them, trying to stave off the cold winter wind. Under the shady protection of a hood, two glowing, penetrating eyes make a sudden move towards a nearby noise: a cat had toppled over a garbage can. With a gasp of relief, the two glowing eyes dropped down to a big lump in its jacket, then raised to the space immediately ahead, and the shadowy figure started its way through the vast, intricate maze of alleys and dead-ends of the stone jungle.

Ten minutes later, the shadow turned over a corner and arrived at a certain spot filled with graffiti all over the walls, and it stopped there.

- Did you bring the stuff? – a cold, raspy voice in the shadows greeted it.

The first shadow took a step forward, and joined the voice in the darkness.

- Yeah – the voice that came from underneath the hood was that of a twelve-year-old, yet it was sarcastic, somewhat heavy, gritty even – What about you, Jack? – after speaking, it raised its hood, as if to make the point clearer, and in so doing revealed, indeed, the face of a teenager.

The only thing was that it was not the face of a human boy: it was the face of a mutant turtle.

The second voice came a little closer to the first, and if one would make some effort one could see that he too was an anthropomorphic, over-sized twelver turtle, wearing a sports sweatshirt with a hood and some battered pants. He patted over a similar lump on his sweatshirt, and made a grin.

- Don'tcha know me better than askin', Artie? I'm good.

The turtle called Artie shrugged, and made a nod with his green-scaled head toward the corner.

- Whatever. Let's go back to the old fart's and deliver the goods, before we freeze to death – we are cold-blooded, ya know.

Back at the slums, the boys opened their jackets and put the contents over a worn, beer-stained table near a makeshift fireplace. The old man sitting on a stool was helping himself to some liquor, and watched closely as the light of the fireplace reflected on the stolen objects.

- Well, well, well, what do we got here? – as he talked, he picked up a silver watch and examined it with his obviously drunken eyes – You boys have done well, for the morning; there's some leftover corn and biscuits for you in the cupboard; just try not to scarf down all of it, you toad-faced morons.

The boys, without a word, went to the cupboard, and grabbed the can and the package. While Jack was busy looking for the can-opener, Artie's eyes were lost in the empty depths of his metal plate, in contemplation.

For as long as he could tell, his life and that of his twin brother have been hell on Earth; since old Arnold Posowlsky, the homeless drunkard, found them in a filthy gutter, shriveling in the cold, to that very day, when they committed their first real robberies, going through the harsh words, the yellings, the beatings, without so much as a word of tenderness, as opposed to the tolerance of letting they live their lives quietly as long as they didn't disturb the old man. Life has been like that; Artie could not find in his heart to respect his "adoptive" father, always referring to him as "Arnold" or "old fart", and indeed no bond of love was required in their relationship – only that he still obeyed the elder, doing petty thievery and burglary in exchange of hearth, food and shelter. That was all. And, even at such a tender age, Artie had by now mostly resigned to the situation, simply striving to do the best for himself and his brother.

But things were not like that for the twin, Jack: his natural temper always got the better of him, and put him in dire straits more than once; he openly hated Arnold, and they had many fights, which always ended with both turtles beaten, bruised and scarred, and Artie trying to dry the hot tears that sprung from his brother's blackened eyes. It all frustrated him very much, living life like that, and the way he found to blow off some of the steam was by roughing up the kids he happened to come across during their street walks. He hated them, just as much as he did Arnold, and all of mankind as well, which he blamed for his miserable condition.

Artie was very distasteful of this violent aspect of his brother, but nonetheless he also had some reserves towards other human beings, and he never came to the aid of a single one of Jack's victims. And he had his reasons not to.

After their meager meal, they were summoned by the old man. He started:

- So, you brats did bring here some neat stuff. Classy. – a noisy hiccup followed this last remark. – Really, really neat stuff. That's because, I've chosen a good spot for you. – with each word, his alcoholic gaze became more and more fierce, and the turtles instinctively trembled in expectation – Why, it's so neat, that you brats are gonna haul in some more tomorrow. Same spot, same goods.

Jack looked dumbfounded.

- Hm, what? Like, goin' back to the places we just robbed today?

- What, beside being a freak, you also deaf now? 'Cause I know just the thing to lousy ears, ya know…

Freak.

- No, is just like, we – I – just got outta there without being caught, and it would be smart to lay low for a while… and, you promised…

Jack was interrupted by a loud smack over his face.

- Why, you ungrateful little punk… I don't feed ya so youse talk back to me!

- But you promised…

Now it was a punch – the first of a sequence.

Artie tried to protect his brother the way he used to: he stood right in front of him, receiving the full blows on his face, trying not to protect himself hiding himself in his shell, for it would only delay the inevitable.

After a while, their wounds started to swell, and that seemed to appease the old man; Jack, with an almost inaudible mumble, finished his sentence: "…you promised we would only have to do that once."

- Now, freaks – tomorrow, same hour, same place. Got that?

They both nodded, gravely.

- Good. Now, off you go – and don't you come back without some good stuff, or I will crack your shells like walnuts.

Freak. Freak. Freak.

Artie tossed and rolled over his rags, sweat holing up in his brow.

The turtles were walking on the street, side by side. They saw a group of kids playing basketball; they seemed happy. They looked to one another, and exchanged a smile; then, they started to walk towards the group.

But then, just as they were getting closer, one of the kids turned and screamed:

- Go away, you freaks! We don't wanna play with freaks like you!

And then, all the other kids started to say, "Freak! Freak! Freak!", and some of them picked up rocks and started throwing them.

One of the rocks hit Jack in the forehead, and he started to cry, a thin line of blood dripping over his face; Artie, furious, picked up the rock and threw it back at the boy that launched it, right in the middle of the chest. The boy moaned, and then ran off, while the other kids also fled in fear, leaving the two turtles alone in the alley.

Two utterly alone freaks.

Freaks. Freaks. Freaks.