Author: Before you begin reading this story, I wish to say something.
Redemption is...a different kind of an OC fic. At least, that's what I want to belive. See, as far as I know, allTMNT OC stories here have an OC, the turtles and sometimes the Shredder. With Redemption I want to involve more of the TMNT's cartoon world, meaning that Redemption won't just have the turtles. I know, it's risky as hell, but my aim with this fic is a big one, and so far no one has complained. I do hope more people will give this fic a chance, since the turtles won't make an imidiate appearance, though one of them does come with a bang...
Anyway, if you like what I'm doing here, then please don't hesitate to review. I know I sound needy, but reading that people like what I'm doing always brightens me up, and I doubt I'm the only one.
Oh yeah, and just because some people in this fic curse, doesn't mean the turtles will. Well, except for Raph. The rest just stick with shell. Changing that is just plain silly.
Disclaimer: I do not own TMNT or any of the TMNT characters. I have also just borrowed the names Grove Street and Emet from a video game, that's all. Please R&R.
WARNING: This story is dark, has swearing, violance, gore and killing. Not for very sensitive people.
I waited half an hour longer after the Purple Dragon punks got back from their little robbery. Not to my surprise, they acted as if they had knocked off Fort Knox and were drinking and dancing like there was no tomorrow. They didn't worry the slightest about someone hearing their little victory party, since the place we were in was inside an abondend warehouse in the middle of a construction site. Found out later they had robbed four 7-11 stores in a row without getting caught.
There were eight in the gang with only me against them, but I had faced worse numbers before. They had been armed with small guns, though two of them had been packing automatics, but by now they had all tossed them asside, completly forgotten. Their mistake.
They didn't even notice me when I came out of the shadows, but when I loaded my AK it was like I had fired a shot. They all fell silent when they saw me, complete surprise written on all their faces.
"Grove Street for life," I simply said, then started shooting.
They never had a chance.
Thinking back, I belive the youngest of them must have been around nineteen, maybe eighteen years old, but at that point, it didnt mean a Goddamn thing to me. The Dragons had killed younger people, some of them were from Grove Street, the rest from some other gangs or someone who just got in their way of taking over the streets. Besides, they all knew what they were getting themselves into the moment they got those dragon tattos inked on. Those that didn't, well, too bad for them.
The ones that I didn't get when I started shooting scrambled away and tried to run, with one or two reaching for their weapons, but I got them all. Had a lot of practice shooting at moving targets. I think the gunfight, if you could call it that, lasted about fifteen seconds, none ofthem scumbags managed to fire a shot. They were getting sloppy, them Purple Dragons. Sure, when they first started taking over the streets all those years ago, they were as tough as they could get and then some, but these days, with most of the streets in their colours and not that many offering much of a fight, they were getting lazy, accepting pretty much anyone into their ranks.
Didn't bother ejecting the near-empty clip. There was no need, I got them all. Walking up to the table where they had dumped the money, I placed as many as I could into one of the bags, then sprayed the green street symbol of Grove Street on one of the walls, to make sure that the Purple Dragons would know it was me again.
I then left the place after torching the remaining money. Another night, another kill. And somehow I'm still alive. Same repeat next night. Until I would reach that final night. But before that, I needed to pay another visit to Emet.
………………………………
………………………………
It was a sunny morning outside Emet's garage, which was located where the...less wealthier people of New York lived. Walking towards Emet's garage was a young man looking like he was in his early twenties, dark-brown hair, pale green eyes, height slightly above average, his face looking a bit skinny but his bodyframe was between slim and medium built. His skin tone was a bit pale and he looked like he hadnt slept in a while. Wearing dark-green trousers, a grey jacket and a pair of old running shoes that had seen better days, he made his way behind the garage, where Emet usually worked. A simple duffel bag was slung across his right shoulder.
"Yo Emet! Where you at?" The place behind the garage held several cars, some were suppose to get repaired, others were meant for other things. The sound of something metal hitting the floor echoed in one of the bays, and an african-american man in his late sixtys appeared among the cars, wearing a dirty mechanic overalls.
"M.J., had a feeling you would show up again," Emet didn't sound unfriendly, but it did come close to it. If M.J. noticed, he didnt show it.
"I need the usuall, Emet."
"Of course you do."
………………………………
Emet pulled the old blanket away on the floor in his office, revealing an old wooden hatch. Opening it, both Emet and M.J. made their way down. Flipping on the light revealed stacks of boxes and several firearms that had been mounted on the wall.
"So what do you need?"
"Four or five AK-47 clips, eight 9mm clips and couple of shotgun boxes. Speaking of which, have you gotten yourself a hold on a 12-gauge yet?" Asked M.J., as if he was ordering pizza, while Emet started digging in one of the boxes.
"Don't be stupid. I don't deal in that kind of high hardware, it would only get someone's attention, now, even more since elections are coming up next year, and it looks like the mayor and the gov'nor are starting to put some pressure on the police to uphold the law and that shit. Puplicity stunt, nothing new as you know. Things will go low again after the elections, mark my words," replied Emet as he picked up some ammo clips from the box.
"Funny how people are all nice when they need something. I see you still got that SMG. How much?"
Emet named the price.
"Not a problem. I'll buy three clips with it too," hearing that, Emet stopped searching the box for a moment, then continued as if nothing had happened.
"That's a big load of shit you need today, M.J. Since when did you became so damn loaded?"
"Got lucky last night. Anyone that needs any favors?" Judging by Emet's expression, he had hoped M.J. wouldn't ask.
"...yeah...yeah, there's one. You remember that old rundown building you kids sometimes used to practice sneaking around?"
"We practised in three buildings."
"Right. It's the one near Reeces' barber shop."
"Oh yeah, that one. Yeah I remember."
"Well, couple of months ago it got taken over and it's now a crackhouse. The one running it is Tyler Hermendes. Goes by the name Big T. All mouth and no balls. I know a friend who knows a friend who knows for a fact that Big T's dealers are loading themselves up big time, an' the word on the streets is that their gonna sell some of it to school kids. Real soulless bastards."
"Purple Dragons?"
"Big T and his crew got their tatts last week."
"I'll do it tonight," as MJ said these words, Emet visibly flinched, as if he had just lost his patience.
"Goddamnit M.J.! Can't you hear yourself! Your talking about walking into a place and killing everyone in it! And for what!"
"You know why, Emet," M.J. replied cooly, while looking over one of Emet's pistols.
"Goddamnit, M.J.! It's almost been a year and you've been killing all those Purple Dragons for nearly SIX MONTHS NOW! I heard it in the radio this morning that they found those poor bastards at that construction site! That means your body count has reached forty people! FORTY PEOPLE! Doesn't that have any kind of an effect on you, boy!" M.J. stopped checking the pistol and looked at Emet, eyes slightly narrowed but remained silent. A minute passed in silence until.Emet took a deep breath, this time speaking calmer.
"Look, Grove Street was something you could be proud of; you kids stood for something. Sure, you weren't exactly angels, but you stood to your ideals that created the gang in the first place, all those years ago. Grove Street wasin't in the drug bussiness an' you didn't demand protection money; People could rely on you to keep the streets clean when the police didn't bother to. But...well, it was only a matter of time before the gang would end, since everyone else were expanding, smuggling, drugs, buying heavy hardware, keeping up with the times. I'm actually surprised Grove Street managed to go on for so long. You're a bright kid, M.J. You've got a good heart, I know 'cause I've seen it, damnit! Your no natural killer like some of those soulless bastards! Ever since you started on this damn quest for revenge, I've seen you slowly wither away! I mean, just look at you! You look like a walking corpse, for Christ's sake! I'm asking you, no, begging you, to walk away before those sons-of-bitches find out who you are. You can still leave New York and start your own life."
There was desperation and pleading in the old man's eyes, and for a while M.J. refused to look at them, instead keeping his gaze on the arsenal he was buying. For a moment, his hard gaze slowly changed into something that resembled regret, and for a moment Emet thought he had finally managed to reach out to the kid. But then M.J. closed his eyes, took a deep breath, then looked at Emet.
"Your a good man, Emet, you taught me a lot of things when I worked at this place. But when they took me in, they gave me more then just a meaning in life; they made me a part of something worth living for and what I did when they needed me the most is unforgivable. I'm sorry, Emet, but this is something that needs to be done. To hell what my emotions are," and with that, M.J. started placing the weapons he bought in his duffel bag.
A hurtfull expression was on Emet's face, but the old man now knew he could not convince the youngster to stop his bloody crusade.
"So, you're just going to keep on killing? Untill you get yourself killed?"
"...yes. And don't try to use the Bible on me, old man. Heaven, Hell, I really don't care about those. Only that when I die, I'll be able to look straight into my homies' eyes without flinching. That's what only matters to me now. Its all I got left."
M.J. closed his duffel bag, slung it across his shoulders and left behind an envolope with money in it. Neither of them made eye contact, as M.J. walked up the stairs, leaving Emet in the basement. The old man sat at his desk and buried his face in his hands, a sorrowfull expression behind them.
………………………………
………………………………
Fifteen hours later...
M.J. retched, but nothing more came out of his mouth. Curling next to the toilet in his apartmend, still dressed in the same clothes he had worn during the killing, now reeked of burned ash and blood. Cold sweat plastered his dirty face, and an all too familiar feeling slowly returned. The feeling that made him re-live everything that had happened, every action, every detail and every killing.
M.J. squeezed his eyes shuts, fighting hopelessly to block it all out, but already he could see the street where the crackhouse was.
It was time to lose a piece of himself once more.
………………………………
………………………………
Four Hours earlier...
Even across the street, I can smell the stench coming from the drug lab inside the crackhouse. The building in question used to be where some of us homies hung around, planned the next street race or break-ins, and also just sneaking around. 'course, we did most of the break-ins to enemy gangs or houses that the owners could afford getting robbed. You'd be surprised to know how many rich people don't lock their doors.
We had two other such buildings where we practised and had fun, and I know every inch of them by heart. This one has four floors, and the best place to have a drug lab would be on the top floor. Big T is probably up there as well. No way of telling how many guards there are, or how many people are there to simply get highso I'll just have to try to sneak in as close as I can, kill Big T and torch the lab. Brought with me 9mm with a silencer and a pump-action shotgun for close combat. Some of the rooms inside are pretty small.
Time to do this.
………………………………
M.J. walked across the street some distance away from the crackhouse, then made his way towards it by sneaking in closely, hiding behind parked cars, and dumbsters. There were guards at the front entrance, so walking inside that way was out of the question. There was, however, an alley next to the front doors that led to the building's backdoor. M.J. had sneaked as close as he dared, but the distance from his hiding spot and the alley was too great. It was clear the guards were bored out of their skulls, yakking, telling jokes and smoking 'something' that was definately not just cigarettes. However, one or two did glance around once in a while. One glance could ruin everything.
Then, seemingly out of nowhere, MJ noticed someone, an obvious junkie, head towards the crackhouse, his walk and other movements suggesting that it had been a while since his last fix.He made it to the entrance, but the guards stopped him, wanting him to pay a cover fee. The junkie objected and the guards demanded. M.J. didn't listen closely since, now, here was his chance.
Stepping up behind the dumbster, as if it were the most natural thing to do, MJ calmly walked closer to the guards, then turned towards the alley.
One of the guards noticed a slight movement out of the corner of his eyes, but just before he could turn to look, the junkie tried to run pass the guards without paying. He was thrown back on the street and the guards decided to pass some time by beating the dumbass up a bit.
………………………………
The alley was dark and narrow, steam coming out of the street. Most of the windows in the building had been boarded up, while booming music drifted out of some. Probably more bored guards. Hopefully..
M.J. slowly made his way towards stairs that led down to the basement's door, careful in keeping to the shadows. Not surprisingly, the door was locked, but M.J. bent down and removed a small bit of rubble in the wall next to the door, then reached into the small hole and pulled out a rusty key. Unlocking the door, M.J. opened it and slowly sneaked inside. The basement was actually the boiler room, and the two old boilers looked like they had been clumsily fixed, looking as if they were on the verge of falling to pieces. In the corner was an old wooden table with all kinds of junk and sitting in front of it, with his back to M.J., was one of Big T's goons. Somehow, he had managed to doze off, despite the noise coming from the boilers when he was supposed to be watching the door that M.J. had just come through.
M.J. walked up to him, grabbed his head and smashed it into the table.
"What the-"
"Where's Big T?" hissed M.J. into his ear.
"Who the hell-" M.J. smashed his head back into the table again.
"Where. Is. Big. T?"
"F-fourth floor, man! H-honest!" stuttered the frightened goon, blood coming out of his nose. M.J. smashed his head back into the tableonce more, and knocking him out cold. But before he could move on, a door just beyond the table, opened.
"Hey Lefty! What's with all the-" the punk stopped in mid-sentence upon seeing M.J. and an unconscious Lefty. A gun was sticking out the top of the punk's pants, but before he could even think of using it, M.J. swiftly pulled out the silencer and shot him right through his left eye. The body slumped against the wall and then fell to the floor, still having a surprised expression on his face. M.J. walked pass the body and went though the doors that lead into a staircase going up.
………………………………
The first floor had a couple of ruined apartments, some walls had been busted out to make for bigger rooms. It was obvious the first floor had the most junkies, some of them simply too lazy to take the stairs. Speaking of which, there were two different ways of reaching the second floor. The first was in the lobby and M.J. was in the room next to it. Another one was on the other side of the building, but the risk of getting noticed by whatever guards or dealers were there was just too damn great.
M.J. hid the shotgun inside his jacket and walked into the lobby. On his left was the entrance and he could hear the sounds of a fight happening outside To his right were metal bars turned into doors and, on the other side, stood a woman wearing tattered clothes that exposed the needle marks on her arms.
"Open up."
"No way! I don't know you, which means your just another one of those losers! If you wanna go up, take the other stairs like the rest of the losers!" The fight outside sounded like it had ended so there was no telling if some of the guards were about to come in. Reaching into his pocket, M.J. pulled out twenty dollars and handed it over to the woman, but snapped it back when she reached for it.
"First open the gate," his voice was almost monotone and left little to argue with.
"Fine!" Pissed at the treatment, the woman opened up the gate, while cursing. M.J. walked through, handed the money over and walked up to the second floor.
………………………………
"Just what the hell is going on? I heard the guys outside are chargin' entrance fee all of a sudden," whined one of the two guards standing next to a staircase going up.
"That's what the big man wanted."
"Sheesh, no wonder there are so few of 'em downstairs! Why the hell did Big T order that anyway?"
"'cause all the stuff they've been makin' is just sittin' there, and if word got among the junkies here about it all, we'd have a totall riot on our hands. Just a fact, really," the other punk opened his mouth to say something, when booming music came from above, and pieces of the ceiling fell around them.
"Damn! If this keeps they'll literally bring the roof down on us!"
"Yeah, sounds like the boys are testing that stereo they snatched the other night. Real hardcore. Wonder how many CD's it can take."
"Hey man, never mind that! What's really botherin' me is that-"
A loud crash suddenly came from the next room.
"The hell was that?"
"Eh, probably nothing. Just some junkie with a bad dream."
"But...there isn't suppose to be anyone in there."
"...let's check it out."
The two punks drew their guns and walked towards the room, leaving the staircase unguarded. A window next to it opened, and M.J. crawled through, stealthily exited the room and then walked silently up the stairs to the third floor.
………………………………
M.J. walked through hallways and rooms without being seen, carefully navagating through rooms as if he had done it a hundred times. Even though there was little chance of someone hearing him over the loud music that some of the guards were listening to, he still moved as silently as he could, sneaking past guards who some had trouble staying awake, while a few snored shamelessly in chairs or dirty sofas.
Finally, he reached the door he wanted, and, where the loudest music came from it, the door, with the walls and even the ceiling slightly vibrated from the noise. And because of it there was no telling how many there were in there. Two, five, eleven or maybe even thirty guys. It didn't matter. It never did. The stealth part was now over, and the ugly part was next.
The music that was playing was an old Rammstein song. M.J. couldn't remember it's name, but he knew in couple of seconds, the loudest part of the song would come and would last around ten to fifteen seconds. With luck, the noise would drown out the gunfire.
M.J. holstered his silencer, brought up the shotgun, opened the door and walked in.
The living room had an old round desk with five guards playing poker, all wearing Purple Dragon tattooes and none of them having noticed him yet. In the corner, on M.J.'s right, was a big screen T.V. and two more guards playing Tekken 5, their backs to him, they also not having heard him enter the room over all the noise. Not saying a word, M.J. aimed the shotgun at the center of the guards playing poker and fired. One guard's chest sprayed in blood as the corpse fell to the floor, and a slug hit another guard in the right shoulder, causing him to fall through the window behind him. While the two guards that had been playing the video game turned around in surprise, M.J. jacked the shotgun and aimed at a dirty looking guard making a move towards the table where their guns were.M.J. fired and the guard's face was ripped apart.
The final guard made a run towards the stairs. However, M.J. shot at him and he fell, his back bloodily torn. One of the two remaining punks in the room reached into his jacket in a panicked move, while the other was still frozen in fear M.J. jacked the shotgun a second time, aimed at the panicked guard, and fired. The body flew backwards into the big screen T.V. and both the man and television crashed to the floor. M.J. jacked again and aimed at the remaining guard
But he didn't shoot.
Because the guard was not one of Big T's crew. The terrified kid looked to be around fifteen to sixteen years old and had no Purple Dragon tattoo or color anywhere. Probably a wanna-be, hoping to get in if he hung around the ones that were already in, or still had to do some tests or trials to prove himself.
M.J. silently stepped away from the door, lowering his shotgun. The kid blinked repeatadly, then started slowly walking towards the door, while keeping as much distance from M.J. as possible without looking away from the shotgun. When the kid was at the door, he ran as fast as he could. M.J. turned away from the door and walked towards the stairs leading up to the fourth floor while reloading the shotgun.
………………………………
"Hey, did you guys hear anything?"
"Like what?"
"Dunno, thought I heard gunfire."
"Hey man, I wouldn't let the boss hear ya, he's paranoid enough as it is. I mean, just look at 'im over there, pacing back an' forth among all the narc we been makin', as if the Grim Reaper himself was comin' for 'im."
"Yeah. Any idea why he's so damn worked up? Big T's always been paranoid, but now? Shit, you'd think us now being proud members of the Purple Lizards-"
"Dragons, dumbhead."
"Whatever! You'd think he'd cool off just a bit since no one's stupid enough to attack somethin' that the Dragons own. Hell, even the damn police haven't made a patrol near this 'hood. But instead, he sends most our boys downstairs an' outside, while there are only three of us on this entire stinkin' floor, lookin' out for our white gold here."
"Yo all ask me, I think da boss is hopin' to impress someone high up in da Dragons to move up da ladder an' all. An' if that happens, hell, he'll probably forget all about us, man."
"Nah man, you think so?"
"Would I-"
Kicking the door open, M.J. saw that the entire fourth floor had been converted in nearly one big room, in a mock resemble of a hotel's penthouse. On the other side of the room, he could see the drug lab, still cooking some more white 'stuff', while at the center of the room, the lab's production had been stashed; sealed in plastic bags, with the heroine bags placed on four long tables. If one could guess, a ton of heroine was ready to hit the streets. Standing among the tables was a figure, too far away to see well enough. On M.J.s' right were three more guards, sitting on sofas in front of a TV that had been turned off, all packing heat.
Firing, M.J. got one but the other two jumped expertly behind their sofas, while the one who was standing among the heroine bags shouted something loud in Spanish. Jumping to his left and taking cover behind what was once a kitchen counter, M.J. jacked the shotgun and raised up to shoot again, only to bend down quickly as the two remaining guards opened fire on him. When the shooting stopped, M.J. stood up again but the two guards had taken cover. Out of the corner of his eye, MJ noticed movement and turned, now facing the tables where Big T had pulled out an uzi. Without aiming properly, M.J. shot and the shells shredded the heroin bags in front of Big T, the white powder going all over him.
M.J. didn't understand a word in Spanish, but he did know heavy swearing when he heard it.
With Big T distracted, M.J. quickly got up and charged towards the sofas. One of the two guards, probably just taking a quick look, poked his head from his cover. His eyes widened in surprise at the charging M.J. and the last thing he saw was a flash coming from the shotgun, blowing away the guard's head. But when M.J. fired that shot, he passed by the door he had just come through, and saw the other guard standing right next to him. Must have made his way when they fired, probably planned on flanking M.J. The guard had his gun raised, but there was not enough time to load the shotgun and turn to aim. As fast as he could, M.J. moved his right elbow up and then thrusted the blunt point of the shotgun with all his strength at the guard. The blow hit the side of the guard's neck, followed by the sound of breaking bone, with the body crumbling to the floor. The shot that came from the guard's gun passed by M.J.'s head by couple of inches. Jacking his shotgun, M.J. turned in time to see Big T taking aim at him with the uzi.
Dropping to the floor as Big T fired, M.J. quickly crawled towards the sofas as bullets ripped apart everything around him. Over all the shooting, Big T shouted curse after curse in Spanish, too pissed to even aim properly. When the bullets stopped coming for three seconds, M.J. quickly stood up from his cover and charged towards Big T, who tried desperetly to quickly reload. M.J. fired at him, but Big T was too far away and the slugs spread out, none hitting him, but they did the heroine. Big T cursed some more and made a run towards one of the rooms. M.J. fired again but missed a second time, as Big T made for one of the rooms. M.J. jacked the shotgun and stopped at the door. The room was one of Big T's drug labs, row after row of all the equipments and materials required to make whatever drug was needed. Some distance away in front of M.J. was the man himself, jumping towards cover. M.J. fired but Big T had already reached cover behind a sturdy looking desk. M.J. was about to reload the shotgun again but froze when he saw what his bullets had hit.
A couple of feet away from Big T's cover was a large gas tank. One of many, in fact, that were all around the lab room. Big T emerged from his cover at that moment, oblivious to what was behind him and aimed his uzi at M.J. But before he could fire a shot, the tank exploded, engulfing Big T and everything around him in fire for one brief moment. But then, more tanks exploded simultaniosly, and the shockwave surged towards M.J., throwing him backwards like a bus had just hit him. He flew straight through an already half ruined wall, knocking the breath out of him and landed hard on the floor, the shotgun gone and forgotten. His eyes were all blurry and high pitch ringing filled his ears. He felt as if he were about to pass out, but then he could hear more explosions shaking the entire building. The shaking made parts of the ceiling above M.J. come crashing down.
M.J. just barely rolled out of the way as a support beam, as big as a car, crashed through the floor and down to the next one. The fire was spreading fast, though, and smoke was everywhere. M.J. ached all over as he slowly raised himself, although he didn't fully stand up, otherwise he would have breathed in the smoke. Making his way towards one of the windows as fast as he could on his shaky feet, M.J. smashedthe glassand climbed out and onto the old fire-escape. When he was only a couple of meters down, another explosion came from the burning fourth floor, which shook the ladder so hard, that M.J. lost his grip. Amazingly, he didn't scream out as he fell down, but when he landed he did try to scream, but his lungs felt like they had suddenly stopped working. For about a minute he just lay there, desperetly trying to get air back into his lungs, and then he slowly stood up again. He wasin't in the same alley he had gone through earlier, but this one would do just fine.
Half slumbed and limping, M.J. escaped into the night.
………………………………
………………………………
I take deep breaths, feeling my heart pounding as if it were inside my head as I realised it's over, that I'm sitting next to the toilet in my apartmend. Ever heard about people who snap and go into full fury and then remember it as if they simply stood by and watched themselves go berserk? That's what happens to me after...after I kill. When I've just barely gotten away from some place that the Purple Dragons own, I get these...flashbacks. In just split seconds I re-live every damn action I've made, only in these flashbacks everything is so detailed, I see things that escaped me during the action itself, and the memories are forever burned into my mind. I remember the eye colors of each and every Purple Dragon member, whether if the eyes were surprised, full of anger or hate or never had the chance to realise what I was about to do. I remember in what pattern their tattooes were, their clothes, how they smelled and the sounds...oh, the sounds...the sound of a bullet slowly ripping through skin, meat and bone. Of a neck breaking. The death scream. Of the places where they happened.
I remember everything.
And these flashes...when they end, they take a part of me with them, probably a part of my soul. I can't explain it. It's just a sensation that I feel every time, like I am somehow becoming less and less inside, becoming empty. I don't even dare to think what will happen when there is nothing more inside of me to claim, what I'll become when that happens.
I wasn't even supposed to survive my first attack against the Purple Dragons, six months ago. Stumbled on them one night by sheer chance, actually. They were waiting for someone to make a deal with, probably drugs or weapons, I don't know. I never found out. There were ten of them, and seven of themt were packing. And all I had was that old antique gun from the forties I was given when I joined Grove Street, this bucket of bolds that had always looked like it was about to fall apar, only capable of having 17 bullets in it's clip. I don't know how many times it had jammed when I practised with it when I first got it. It was mostly given to me as a joke, since no one wanted it.
Only, it didn't jam on me at that time. I didn't even plan how to attack, I only saw them and simply attacked, hoping to get one, maybe two before they got me. Instead, I got them all. Every last one of them. At least...I think I did. The memory of that event is all a bit blurry, but I do remember the shooting, the yelling, the...death. I don't know why, but I just can't seem to remember how I ended up in one of those homeless shelters afterwards. I can remember walking towards that condemned warehouse near the one of the harbors, after that...it gets all chaotic. But I can remember going after those Purple Dragons and since I'm still around then that must mean I did survive, somehow against all odds when I shouldn't had. But it doesn't make any sense...
I was suppose to die that night. I feel like the doctor has told me I have two weeks to live. Three months later and I'm still alive, but the doctor isn't returning my calls. I feel like a total wreck inside and sometimes it shows on the outside, but I try to hide it. Try to mask it by looking like a cold hearted son-of-a-bitch. I need to be hated. Makes what I do just a little bit easier, though that not saying much.
I should have died that night...
AUTHOR: The turtles will make appearance soon.