Disclaimer: I don't own a thing.
"We've only got so many tricks.
No one lives forever."
-Danny Elfman
MICHELANGELO
"The police are asking that all citizens stay indoors after the designated curfew hour, and contact the police department with any information regarding-"
Blackness engulfed the television, silencing the news report in an instant. Tossing aside the remote control, I rose to my feet and turned my back to the screen. It had been the same report for three weeks now. Bodies were turning up in the streets, the victims' blood drained via neck wounds -- always the same, a single cut, without decapitation. The police had no leads, and were insisting all people stay in their homes until the problem was resolved. They had set a curfew for anyone under seventeen; squad cars rolled out at ten at night and brought home anyone who broke it.
None of it made a difference. Corpses were being discovered like clockwork, one a day, sometimes more, occasionally less. They were always discarded in a place where they were guaranteed to be found, spread throughout the city. The killings had no M.O. The victims' race, gender, social status, and appearances varied. There was a statement being made by their deaths; the entire city was being targeted, and no one was safe.
I rolled my neck, sore from staring up at the television set. Days were long and uneventful now. It was too dangerous to go outside with all the fuss, police and vigilantes -- Casey Jones thankfully not included -- roamed the streets with loaded guns and triggerhappy fingers. We were all getting restless, but there was nothing we could do. The police had no leads to speak of, the chance we would learn anything they hadn't was slim. We were ninjas, not detectives.
"Yo, Mike, c'mere and play against Donnie. He's kicking all our asses."
I looked up. Raphael was waving me over to the card table we had set up in the heart of the lair. My brothers were huddled around it, Raphael and Donatello both sporting poker visors, while Leonardo maintained a slightly more serious composure and went without a hat. Don was dividing a deck of cards between himself and the empty chair directly across from him, where Raphael had sat moments before. He had switched to a seat closer to Leo, leaving the other open for me.
"What're you playing?" I asked, weaving around the couch and heading to join them.
"Spit," Don answered, dealing the deck into two messy piles, sliding one across the table.
"Oh, you're a really manly man," I laughed, pulling back the fold-up chair and falling into it. I moved my pile closer, and began to spread them out in a solitaire like fashion. "Poker? Nah. War? Child's play. Spit? There's a tough guy's game." I slid the remainder of my cards into the center of the table. Donatello did the same.
"We were playin' poker earlier, smart ass, but no one ever pays up when they lose, so there wasn't much point," Raphael insisted, straightening his visor as he spoke.
"You're the only one who wasn't paying, Raph," Leo said, eyes rolling.
"Yeah, well…"
"What was the news saying, Mike?" Donnie asked over the others, holding his hand over the deck. "Spit."
He flipped a card from his pile as I turned one over from my own. We hurriedly piled cards onto the ones we had overturned. A seven on a six, a queen on a king... "Same old, same old," I mumbled, looking over my cards. There were no more options, and soon Donnie's ran out as well. "They're still talking about that baby they found yesterday. Spit."
We flipped the cards.
"I thought the kid was five or six," Raph wondered. He pointed towards a card on the short stack in front of me. "Put that on the ten."
I did. Donnie growled, looking his options over again. "Well, it was a kid," I shrugged. "Spit."
I prepared to turn my card, but Donatello was too busy arranging his piles to do the same.
"Hey, pay attention. Spit, damnit."
Donatello looked up. "Oh, sorry," he said and flipped the card. We proceeded to lay cards onto the two piles that were forming in the center of the table. "I wonder when they'll find today's victim."
It was no longer a matter or 'if they find someone,' it was a certainty. "What time is it?" I sighed, dropping the card in my hand onto a pile it did not belong to -- no one noticed. Propping my elbows on the table, I dropped my chin into my hands and rubbed my eyes. "I'm getting real tired of this."
"There's nothing we can do, not yet anyway," Leonardo groaned, rubbing his face like I had. It was an argument we had had many times before. To avoid another one, he pushed himself back from the table. "I'm going to go watch the news." It was a hopeless effort. They hadn't learned anything in three weeks, no breakthrough would have occurred in the five minutes of silence. Leo stood and walked to where I had dropped the remote.
Donatello and I resumed our game.
"Spit."
"How did a three get on a five, Mike?"
LEONARDO
I did my best to ignore the argument that had started at my back. A few heated words over a card game was better than the fights we had gotten into in the past few weeks. My decision to lay low while the killings raged outside was not well received. I had been labeled the bad guy for refusing to allow my brothers to go topside in an attempt to stop the killings. I was willing to be the recipient of a bit of disdain if it meant that my family would be safe. It was times like that, when we were barking at each other, that I missed our Master the most. He had been gone for years, but I still expected him to step in to restore order amongst the siblings.
I plucked the remote control off of the sofa cushion and collapsed in its place. As my thumb hovered over the power button, a part of me was insisting that I leave the television off. Watching the news would do nothing but feed my desire to disregard my own orders and head to the surface. A bigger part of me was insisting that I turn on the TV, and I succumbed. The devise whined as the picture came to life.
"-olice are reluctant to give details until the victim's family can be identified and contacted."
My face fell. A sickly feeling was bubbling in my gut; I suspected it wasn't Mikey's cooking.
"Guys."
"Can't you handle a card game? You can't even play by the rules for ten minutes?"
"Guys!"
"I said I didn't mean to! Jesus… Lay off me!"
"SHUT UP!" I roared, not intending the hostility in my tone. My brothers silenced themselves in an instant, and I spent no time worrying about it.
"We are live at the scene," the desk reporter continued, "with Thomas Kane. Tell us what's going on down there, Tom."
A picture-in-picture had appeared in the corner of the screen, featuring a man who was straightening his tie and flattening his hair. At last, he pressed his fingers into his ear and looked into the camera.
I felt a weight pressed down on the back of the couch. Raphael was peering at the screen over my head. Mikey fell into the couch next to me, and Donatello stood off to the side, arms crossed over his plastron and eyes pinned on the television.
"The recent wave of sadistic killings have claimed yet another victim," the man was saying. "Discovered early this morning, we are only now receiving news of what is now the twenty…twenty…" He glanced off screen, before finishing, "Twenty-fourth victim."
The camera panned away as the picture-in-picture grew to engulf the entire screen. An ambulance was being loaded by two men in black jackets. They slammed the doors shut and beat their palms against the steel. The vehicle lurched forward, its lights dim and sirens off. There was no rush.
I prepared to flick the television off, but Raphael placed his hand on my shoulder before I could. "Ain't that… That ain't…"
"April's apartment," Don whispered.