Disclaimer: I don't own the turtles, I don't own their friends, nor do I own their enemies. Huh. I guess that doesn't leave me with much, does it? 'Cept for the idea for this fic, of course! (marks story with sticker that says: 'Property of Mickis')

A/N: Someone really needs to stop me from starting new stories like this, especially when I can't seem to finish them. It's just.. there are so many ideas. Some of them get written, some of them don't. Others evolve into chapters, while a few of them are finished. I dunno.. it's just the way my imagination works. I can get bored with something quite easily. I really tried to pick up either of the ones I have going now, I really did. But my Muse didn't want to. She pretty much does whatever she wants, and she wanted to do something different. I've been writing too much angst lately, and I think she noticed. (That's why I wrote 'Afterlife Inc,' I just needed that brief piece of comedy out of my system).

But anyway, about this story. Well, I don't know what to say that isn't already in the summary. Maybe I should point out that it's a Raph story, for those who care. It was beta read by the wonderful talent that is Dierdre, so go read her stuff if ya haven't already. Really, go read them! Err.. once you've read this, of course. (sheepish smile) Hmm.. that about covers it, I think. Happy reading and don't forget to review!

RAGING REVENANT

by

Mickis

Genre: Suspense/Drama

Language: English

Rating: T

Summary: When the hotheaded duo head into battle together, they find themselves way in over their heads, resulting in Casey's tragic death. Now, almost a year later, rumors of a vigilante phantom start plaguing the streets of NYC.

Prologue

Traveling with a speed he didn't think possible, Michelangelo ran alongside his two brothers down the sewer tunnels of New York City, their feet splashing up a turbulent trail of water behind them. It was a race against time in tunnels so dark even the sharpest panther couldn't make its way through. Even Mike, who knew these tunnels better than he did himself, occasionally found the darkness confusing him in the midst of his panic. He had played in these tunnels as a child, even though strictly told not to, and he'd traveled through them for years now. He knew them. Still, he found himself listening for his brothers' steps, trying to make out their moving shapes in the thick-coated blackness, using them like a compass in the pandemonium.

It was so hard to stay focused on which way to turn when every single thought he knew was utterly devoted to his third brother.

He had no idea if he was hurt, or perhaps even dead. All he knew was that he'd made a call for backup a few minutes ago, and even though he hadn't been the one to answer, he could tell by the look of fear on Donnie's face that it was urgent. He couldn't possibly live with himself if they came too late. He knew in his heart that he couldn't go on with his life after witnessing his beloved brother's tortured, dead body, which was why he pushed himself as hard as he did.

He broke every limit of his body that was physically possible.

His breath slit like razors in his tight throat, and his strength had long since been taken by the heavy tramping through the sewage water. Beneath the upper plates of his plastron, he could feel his heart racing like a wild horse, leaping beyond his control. But he kept running, obsessively, desperately. He wasn't going to stop just because his body wanted him to.

Finally, when he'd begin to fear he was going to pass out from exhaustion, the splashing ahead of him stopped, as did the noise behind him. The only sound was the soft thrumming of the sewer pipes, along with the occasional dripping of water. Had he not known where he was, he might have guessed it was in the damp tunnels of a forsaken cave, cold drops of water falling from the rocky ceiling above them.

"This is it," the oldest turtle declared, panting for air even as he spoke. "This is the street."

Breathlessly, Mikey nodded in the darkness and waited for Leo to start climbing towards the surface, before he made his way to the iron ladder and grabbed the rusty, wet rung. Taking in a much-needed breath of air, he lifted his right foot from the cold water and heaved himself up the ladder with his arms, his muscles practically screaming at him to leave them alone, begging for rest to come and nurture them. After getting a proper foothold with his wet feet, the climbing got easier, and he found the time to discover the numbing drum of his own pulse in his temples, trying to catch up with his fatigued body.

Soon, the grating sound of a heavy manhole cover woke up his senses as the lid scraped against the rugged asphalt, introducing his eyes to a faint, artificial light he'd found himself missing in the tunnels. Casting a quick glance downwards, he noticed Don was close behind him, panting lightly as he ascended the ladder. Waiting for their leader to surface, Mike watched as the blue-masked turtle suspiciously scanned the alley for any possible threats before allowing the clan to reveal themselves. Once he had decided it was clear, Leonardo gracefully heaved himself up to street level, rising to his full height and arming himself with his twin katana.

Michelangelo sped up his pace and soon felt the hard, wet surface of the pavement beneath his hands, and he lifted himself up with both his palms pressed to the ground. Standing up next to his apprehensive brother, he quickly reached for his nunchakus on either side of his belt, checking the leader's expression for any signs of danger.

It was quiet. The blind alley had nothing but an overstuffed container and a few puddles of rain that had fallen earlier that day, transformed into black water in the yellow glow from the street light outside. It was strange. There should have been at least the sound of a struggle.

"Don," Leo cautiously said, turning to the purple-masked turtle as he got up from the manhole. "You sure we're on the right street?"

"I.. I think so," Donatello answered, as though he was uncertain of his own words. Armed with his bo staff in his hands, the turtle carefully walked up to the exit of the alley, peeking his head around the corner of the building. Not detecting any danger, he quickly turned to look up at the green street sign ahead of him. "This is the one," he called back in a hushed whisper to his brothers. "I remember; that's the name he gave me."

Nodding in the darkness, Leo grabbed a firmer hold of his swords and approached Donnie where he stood with his shell glued to the brick wall. Mike quickly followed his example, his senses running on full power, waiting for anything unexpected to happen. He nervously adjusted his hold on his chucks, rubbing the sweaty leather with his thumbs. He didn't like the feel of this. There should have been noises, any kind of sign of struggle. Raph wouldn't have called unless he felt it absolutely necessary to do so. A battle that destructive should have left something behind, if only something small that was invisible to the untrained eye. But there was nothing. Nothing but the pounding sound of his own pulse, and it was beginning to scare him to the point where he almost thought he would drop to his knees and release a profound scream of agonized frustration.

He had to be okay. He just had to.

"All right," Leonardo spoke up, turning to look at his two siblings with a stern expression on his features. "We have to split up. They might've moved someplace else." Mike and Don nodded in agreement, eager to go and look for their brother. "The first sign of them, you call for help, okay?" Leo gravely insisted, his voice risen to the point where it nearly sounded life-threatening.

"Okay," Mikey said, while Donatello simply nodded solemnly in agreement.

Without deciding which way each turtle was meant to go, all three brothers split up and hurried off in separate directions, their feet barely grazing the asphalt as they ran along the damp pavement with a grace that held a lifetime of practice.

Michelangelo thoroughly scanned each alley he passed, hoping to find any clues as to what had happened to the hothead, and even though he flawlessly stuck to the shadows as he'd been taught, he couldn't shake off the constant sense of danger that whispered in his ear, taunting him. He felt very uneasy while topside without a disguise to hide his monstrous identity behind. But there hadn't been any time to worry about wardrobe when they'd hurried out the lair, leaving their worried master behind, his only company the torturing visions of his own fears.

Making sure there were no witnesses, no passing cars in the night, Mike quickly snuck out the alleyway and sprinted down the street to dive into the next. As expected, it turned out this alley was as empty as the others, nothing but garbage and a few rusty fire escapes to greet him. But just to be on the safe side, he cautiously stepped further down the back street; scanning every corner as if it had been the very first he'd set his eyes on.

Then, coming from the other side of the street, further down the block, Donatello's alarmed voice called out for his brothers, rising above everything else in the city. And while Mikey had been waiting for a call just like that, he quickly found himself regretting his wishes once the fear in that voice registered in his head.

Something was terribly wrong.

Fear and panic quickly ate away at the faint stream of hope he'd been holding within him. He knew he wouldn't like the sight he would be introduced to, yet he didn't object as his instincts took over and forced him to sprint towards the alley from which the scream had risen.

Turning the dark corner, Mike suddenly froze in his steps. No matter how vivid the pictures his fear had painted for him, he'd been unsuccessful in preparing himself for the scene he was faced with; everyone was when shock sought them out. A fresh, metallic stench viciously reached his nostrils, sending him into a whirlwind of flashbacks. He couldn't possibly ignore the smell - it was so undeniable, so familiar to him - he physically felt the imaginary taste of the fluid in his own mouth, thick and warm on his tongue.

It was blood. And the realization of it made his entire being race with insanity.

There were so many things happening all at once: his heartbeat quickening, his vision faltering… his stomach churning. What all these things had in common was that he had no control over them. He couldn't do anything but stand there – and look.

Had it not been for the fact that his eyes were so used to darkness, trained to cooperate with it, he wouldn't have been able to see a thing. It was so dark in there, strangely dark. However, what he could make out in the darkness was that one of the two containers against the wall had been knocked over, and that the oil-black trash bags were littered all over the concrete, some of them gutted open like animals. It looked like a couple of bear cubs had found their way to the scene and knocked themselves out with delight. Of course, this being in the heart of New York City, that wasn't very likely. And there, amongst the garbage, lay several corpses of men, left to wallow in the puddles of their own death.

It was no wonder the smell of blood hit him with the head-spinning force it had.

There, on the wet street of clays, Donatello kneeled with his head lowered in worry, and in front of him was Raphael – motionless. The red-masked turtle lay on his plastron, one of his arms stretched out by his head, as though he were resting on it. It was too dark to make out his expression, but Michelangelo prayed to any god he could think of that there was still life in that face.

The image he was faced with was so powerful; it was near well historic, almost even artistic. He felt as though his mind had painted a picture of his two brothers in the moonlight, their blackened silhouettes forever etched into his memory. Like if there for some reason ever came a time when he would only remember one memory, that image would be the one that stuck – and it wouldn't be intentionally. But the impact of it was so strong; he just knew he wouldn't be able to forget it, no matter what the circumstances.

Donnie frantically moved his hands over their brother's body, as if he was looking for something but wasn't quite sure what. Then, with his head slightly thrown back, he ruggedly called out a second time, "Leo! Mike! Get the hell over he--" Turning around, his cry was instantly cut short. "Mikey!" he exclaimed, relief breaking into his voice as he spotted his younger brother, but it didn't chase away his distress for very long. "Raph... he... You've gotta help me," he finished, his face unreadable in the darkness.

Mike swallowed every emotion he could push down his throat and rushed up to his brother, stepping over the nameless enemies on the battlefield. When reaching up to the scene, he felt another breath of hope choke inside of him.

His brother had dozens of cuts over his body, and from what he could tell, there appeared to be twice as many bruises. But what scared him the most was the frozen look of terror on his features; his eyes squeezed shut in a kind of agony he had never witnessed before. Especially not on Raph's face, for he always did his best to dress it with crude smirks and deadly stares that could send even the bravest of soldiers shaking in their boots. But none of his brother's expressions had scared him as bad as the one he was looking at now.

God, Raph, he whispered sadly in his mind. What happened to ya?

As if smelling his brother's fear, Don chose that moment to speak, his eyes still glued to Raph's body. "They're not that deep," he said in a low tone. "But with this many cuts, he could very well bleed to death if we don't get him patched up."

Mike nodded mutely, frantically. Even though his brother's state was very bad, he'd been able to cling to a faint stream of hope, knowing there was still life in him; knowing there was something left for him to save.

"You need to find something to bandage him up with," Don continued, his sensitive hands running over Raph's body, searching for cuts and injuries his eyes couldn't find in the darkness. "A scarf, a pant leg. I dunno, any kind of clothing to stop the blood flow. Check the bodies."

"Sure thing," Mike answered, tearing his eyes from his wounded brother and resting them on the first form he could find in the darkness. He bent forward and rested his weight on his heels as he pulled the bloodstained sweatshirt over the man's ruffled head of blonde hair, uncovering a big tattoo on his chest that could only mean one thing.

Purple dragons.

The large dragon stretched over the man's pale, hairless chest like an expanding fire, its face twisted into an evil sneer that could love nothing. The eyes consisted of nothing but two simple, soulless holes, as if someone had put a hammer right through the skull. Nothing had much color in the moonlight, but Mike knew from experience that the dragon's skin had a deep, rich shade of red… almost like blood.

He felt a flush of fury wash over him, like a parent would when standing face to face with the person that had raped their daughter, but decided to save it for another time by forcefully gritting his teeth in anger. There was no time for revenge; he could always pound on the rest of the thugs later. There was only room for thoughts of his brother in the present - if not, he might not be there to see the future. He violently ripped the sweater in two, the sound of torn cotton erupting in his ears, and left the man to his fate, not caring whether he was dead or not. When standing on his feet to look for the next body to rob, the rising sound of running footsteps caught his attention. Spinning around to face the exit of the alley, he saw the eldest brother appear around the corner.

"Leo!" he cried in relief, feeling as though all their problems were solved now that the last brother had joined up with the rest of them. Leonardo would know what to do. He'd put their minds into perspective and steer this situation around to the point where things started to make sense again.

He quickly caught up to Donnie and Raph and stared at the red-masked turtle with a shaded expression. "What happened?" he demanded, never taking his eyes off of his injured brother.

"I don't know," Donatello answered, shaking his head as he stared at his unconscious sibling. "I-I found him like this."

Leo swallowed stiffly. "Is he…?"

"No," Don quickly spoke up, looking up at the blue-masked turtle. "No, he's alive. But we need to get him home as soon as possible. Find anything we can use to stop the bleeding."

Leo nodded firmly, taking one of his swords from its sheath with his right hand. That's when Mikey suddenly remembered, shaking his head out of his temporary daze. "Oh right," he said to himself, stepping up to Don with what was left of the dark gray sweater. "I found this," he said, offering them to his brother.

"Thanks," Donatello mumbled briefly, snatching the cloth from his hand and moving to tie one of the pieces tightly around Raphael's right leg. Then, when sure the knot was secured, he moved on to tearing the last cloth into even smaller pieces. "I need more, though," he added quietly.

Michelangelo nodded and moved away to look for another person whose clothes he could steal. Walking past the first goon he'd stripped, he quickly bent over to inspect the next. Recognizing the hooded mask pulled over the man's face, Mike knew this wasn't a regular Purple dragon member; the outfit belonged to the Foot, the city's most feared criminals. But that was before…

"Leo," he called, still bent over the body. "Come take a look at this."

The blue-clad turtle quickly made his way over the bodies and hunched forward to get a closer look at the man. "The Foot," he whispered grimly in recognition. Mike could taste the passionate hate in his words, a hate he could easily relate to.

"That's why he called for backup," Mike realized, turning to look at his eldest brother. "That's why he needed our help!" He felt like the pieces were gradually falling together.

Leonardo nodded in agreement, his voice calm and controlled as he spoke, "Yeah, it's a possibility we've discussed. It was only a matter of time until they decided to surface again."

"Yeah, but why now?" Mikey wondered. "I mean, it's been over a year. Why come back now?" The Foot had been without a leader ever since Shredder buried himself under that pier all those nights ago. It didn't make any sense why they'd come back now, all of a sudden.

Leonardo grabbed a firmer hold of his sword, bending closer as he lifted the sapless man by his collar and tore the garment apart with his blade. "Building an army takes time, Mike," he simply said while working. "There's safety in numbers. I'm guessing they've recruited enough members to take us out, or at least attempt."

"What?" Mike outburst, feeling anger boil up inside of him as he spoke. "So they're just gonna go back to harassing the city like nothing happened?"

Leonardo dropped the body to the ground with a faint crack as the back of the head smashed into the pavement. "Not if I have anything to say about it," he replied, holding a collection of shredded fabric in his left hand as he rose to his full height.

"We can deal with that later," Donnie spoke up from behind them. "Hand me the cloths, Leo," he said, holding out an open palm in the darkness were he sat by Raphael's battered body. "His pulse is growing weaker by the minute. Besides," he added, looking down at their brother, "a fight like this one is bound to attract the cops."

Stung by the statement, Leo quickly hurried over to his brother with the makeshift bandage. Mike reminded himself to make himself useful and continued on toward the next body he could spot. Suddenly, he felt a sharp sensation beneath his foot, along with a subdued crushing sound that filled the alley. "Mother of… shit!" he hissed, alerting his other two siblings.

"What happened?" Leonardo immediately asked and shifted to a defensive stance, as if he'd been expecting an attack in the darkness.

Taking a step back, Mikey took his right foot in his left hand, discovering a piece of glass imbedded in the hardened skin. "No biggie," he answered, while reaching for the shard with his right hand. "Just stepped in some glass." He hissed in pain as he shifted the shard to get it out, not expecting it to hurt as much as it did. Then, after making up his mind to get it over with, he tightly gritted his teeth and pulled the piece out, still intact; it was the size of a bottle cap. The gash in his foot was left open to bleed freely, and he was far from a doctor, but he suspected the cut was pretty deep. He angrily threw the bloody piece aside and gently put his foot down on the ground, trying to block out the pain and stand on the sore foot.

"Is it bad?" Donatello asked where he sat, concern dripping off of his words. "Maybe you should take care of that before yo--"

"It's not that bad," Mike quickly assured his brother, offering him a swift smile as he turned around to look at him. "I'll live." Admittedly, it hurt like hell, but there was no time to worry about a tiny gash in his foot when his brother was bleeding to death a few feet away. One cut wasn't even worth mentioning compared to Raphael's tortured state.

Mike bent forward to look for the source of the injury, and quickly discovered dozens of glass shards spread across the concrete, all in different shapes and sizes. He reached for a random piece and inspected it further, shifting the shard in his hand. It was convex, and quite thick in size. Acting on instinct, Michelangelo turned his gaze upward, where he discovered a shattered streetlight attached to the brick wall, not that high above him.

It had been an ambush.

Raph had probably been battling the dragons like always, when the Foot suddenly dropped in, uninvited and unexpected. They were ninjas, after all, and all ninjas attacked in the dark. What he didn't understand, though, was how Raph could have found the time to make that call. Albeit, it had been a very short and vague phone call; all he'd given them was the name of the street and the order to get there. But with an army of bloodthirsty Foot soldiers on his back, there shouldn't have been any time for such phone calls. And why had they left him alive? Had he taken out all of them and collapsed on his own because of the blood loss? Had they believed he was already dead, or just left him on the brink of death assuming he'd pass on by himself?

Pondering on these questions, Mikey bent over the next body, overwhelmed by the strong scent of blood. He wouldn't exactly call himself squeamish, but the man in question was lying on his back in a pool of his own blood; the metallic stench was enough for most people to pass out. His clothes were drenched in the fluid, so he was of no use to him. But when Mike was about to stand up, something inside of him suddenly told him to stay, as if there was something he had to see. Giving the man a second look, Mike realized it wasn't a member of the Foot. His face was uncovered where he lay on the asphalt. Looking closer, Mikey suddenly felt a sharp pain explode in his gut.

Oh god...

As silent tears welled up in his eyes, Mike was forced to hold back the impulse to vomit. He recognized this man, he knew this man. It was one of his few friends, and now he found himself standing over his murdered body.

Casey…

It was so sudden, so unexpected. It was as if grief had struck him like lightening on a beautiful summer day, coming down from the bluest of skies in a powerful, instant blast, hitting him full force. God, it was Casey. Casey! He wasn't even supposed to be here! How could that dead man be his friend? Raph hadn't said anything about meeting up with Casey. He hadn't mentioned him during his brief phone call. This was all so wrong! None of it made any sense, and Mikey found himself shaking his head through his tears.

Casey lay on his back, vulnerable and unmasked of his alter ego. They had deprived him of his hockey mask and slit him across his throat. One final, flawless slit, convicting him to a death there was no return from. The blood had spilled over his shabby sweatshirt and drenched his wild, brown hair; Mike was even standing in it! There was blood everywhere, and all of it was Casey's. Mikey didn't even know a single human body could hold this much blood; he almost found the sight extravagant. The vigilante's glassy, brown eyes were facing upwards, an eternal look of suffering burned into them, catching that very last moment of his life like a camera.

Oh god!

Unable to control himself, Mike turned away from the corpse and retched onto the pavement, the contents of his dinner splattering across the asphalt as his stomach muscles contracted and released another load. It seemed it didn't matter how many times he emptied his stomach by his feet; the sour taste of acid was constant in his mouth. He vaguely heard his brothers calling out to him in the background, worry laced in their voices, but he couldn't do anything but gag, and he couldn't focus on anything else but that frozen look of pain on his friend's pale, dead face.