Disclaimer: If pennies appeared in my pockets like lint does, well, maybe I would own them. But, atlas, that is not the case.

A/N: Whoop! Updated under three weeks, baby. *dances* LOL. So I wrote this whole chapter between the hours of 11:00 pm and 3:30 am, every night for about two weeks. XD So I'm really hoping the writing is good, and seeing as this rounds off at roughly 10,000 words written over the course of seven days (That's nearly a NaNoWriMo pace!), I really hope that this chapter won't be a tragic case of quantity over quality. *fidgets nervously*

I also just wanted to note that the turtles might come off as a little OOC in this chapter, which I hope is justified by the situation.. erm, it's just how I picture they would act given the stresses and unspoken conflicts that are brewing. But let me know what you think! ^_^

Oooh! I'm also super happy to say that I wrote my first oneshot, 'Over Cocoa'! Why I'm so excited about that is the fact it's the first 'short story' type work I've ever done, long drawn out novels tend to be my comfort zone. It was emotional and fun to get out of that norm. :)

Anyways, part two picks up a fictional hour after part one ended.

Word count: 5597 (yep, and the goal count was only 3000. That got blown out of the water, wouldn't you say?)

Chapter eight

Fear No Evil (Part two)

Date: February 25; Time: 5:21 pm. . . . . . . . POV: Michaelangelo

I must be deaf. Or the world has gone suddenly mute. Guess it doesn't matter—it's quiet all the same. As if reality has taken on the plot of a horror movie, there is turmoil and tension in the air, thick and heavy and best felt in the quiet lulls before the screaming starts.

I check the clock for the thousandth time in nearly three weeks, just counting the minutes before we can leave this shell of a home for the common crime littered streets Manhattan has become. As if all the baddest baddies decided there's no more competition, no more challenge in terrorizing citizens. All the fun left with 'the red one'. With... him.

I shake my head, blaming the heat building in my eyes on the steam wafting up from a miserable looking dinner. Leo's cooking skills are rubbing off on me, soon we'll be relying on the pizza guy.

My eyes raise to the refrigerator, where a note dangles from a neon magnet, the writing as neat as Don's quick hand could print it. The words blur, and my eyes drop to the calendar below it. Bright red ink bleeds across nearly every square, as if marking the graves of a serial killer's victims.

Comparing this hell to a bad movie—It keeps playing like one.

"Mike,"

I stiffen, forcing myself back together with staples and tape. The smile I greet my brother with feels like a grotesque thing, as if staples really are tacked there. For all I know, it looks just as bad.

"Oh, hey Leo. Dinner's almost ready."

The eldest doesn't move from the threshold, doesn't say a word as he glance around the room, as if some intruder was waiting in the shadows for him to let his guard down. Finally, he meets my eyes. "You don't have to do that." he says.

I falter, turn away before he can see and stir the burning food. "A turtle needs to eat, bro."

"Not just that." he swallows, loud as a drowning man, and pushes on. "I miss him too. And I know it's... it's frustrating, but we can't give up hope."

The shove clicks off, but the heat doesn't die. "Then what the shell are you lecturing me about?" the words scald my tongue and leach the color from Leo's face like paint off knockoff action figures.

He balks from my gaze. "I'm not—"

"Cause I'm pretty damn hopeful right now, bro. You don't see me sulking around, starving myself out of some—"

"Mike!" he snaps, cringing as he throws a glance into the hall. "I didn't mean it like that." he pinch his brows between two fingers and takes a breath. I can tell he's thinking the same thing I am: Why are we fighting? Neither of us has the energy for this.

He didn't come in here with that intention. "Just, just... you don't have to act like this isn't affecting you," he says.

"You're one to talk—"

He lifts a placate hand. "Okay," he says, leaning against the threshold and staring at the ceiling. The hollow of his throat bobs, as if every word dredged up found itself to be the wrong one, and was forced back down. An eternity later, his gaze finds me. "Save me some dinner."

It hits me then. The look on my eldest brother's face—the glint of a hunter within those onyx eyes. And I drop my own, shell bumping the counter as I take in the swords strapped across his back. The phone on his hip, hidden beneath small bags of smoke bombs and shurikens. Leo's fist is taut on the mask tucked into his belt—on his mask. Red and green wound together with a familiarity that turns my knees to jelly. That night comes flooding back.

'But the blood. Father, there was so much...' and it could just as easily have been Leo's.

I grope for the counter, tongue wet and washed with bitter acid. My eyes dart behind Leo to the sealed bathroom door. Aw shell, hold it down, Mike, hold it down.

"You said we had to regroup, bro." I manage lamely.

His lips quirk to the side. "Relax, Mikey. I'm just heading out early tonight. You should stay in, try to get some sleep." he smiles, that easy 'listen to me because you know I'm right' smile that is so disarming and reassuring. For me, that is. It always started fights with...

"Yeah," Quick as a popped balloon, I deflate.

"And Mike? Maybe try to get Donnie out of the lab for a few hours."

I nod, though we both know that has become an impossible task. A hand caps my shoulder, giving me a light shake. "Raph's strong," Leo says, this smile not quite reaching his eyes. "We'll find him."

My own mouth twists up with false cheer. "And then he'll kick our shells for taking so long."

"Exactly."

With that, Leonardo drops his hand and heads out the door. I watch him go. The silence returns like winter's chill, all the colder for being barred out for any amount of time. Like a ghost's, its presence makes me shiver

Mournfully, I move, clearing away pans and raiding cabinets for plates. Just three, not the five that it should be. Is this how Donnie feels all the time? When the numbers aren't right? When things are 'out of sequence'...

My arms fall to my side, more noodle like than the charred mess crowding atop chipped flatware. I'm no help. A brother is missing and here I am, burning food and fighting tears. Playing pretend isn't keeping pessimism away.

And that has always been my job.

"Guys, I have a—where's Leo?" Don enters, his hands full of papers that still smell of freshly printed ink. He tilts his head, an analytical gesture that has been far and few these past weeks. When I don't answer his question, he spins around, casting a vague search through the dark home.

I sigh, retching myself back into reality. "Just missed him, dude."

A hand waves it off, as if it weren't important to begin with. "I have a lead, Mikey," he says, slapping the notes with a knuckle. A smile hides itself in his voice, though his mouth doesn't loosen. "A warehouse by the docks, there's cargo arriving for the Purple Dragon's."

My tail hits the nearest chair, any lick of excitement or hope draining from me before it can manifest into a whoop. "So? That's nothing new, Donnie. Just Purple Dragons being Purple Dragons."

A withering glare cross the distance between us, one that warns of waning patiences. It's a look I recognize from childhood, usually received after destroying a toy Donnie had just finished patching up for me. The familiarity of it is almost enough to send me reeling into the genius' arm with the largest pout and 'I didn't break it this time!' my lips can form.

But I don't move. "How is busting a cargo drop a lead?"

"How?" Don repeats, not bothering to hide the irritation, "Well, for one, guess who's back in town?" he snaps, "Hun. So why is this so important that he sees it necessary to orchestrate the pick-up?"

I lean back, jerking my palms into the air like a criminal caught fleeing. Hands in the air, no sudden movements. Classic cop and robbers movie scene. "Okay, okay." I ease. "I'll call, Leo."

"Don't bother."

"Uh... bro?"

"We don't need him for this, Mike. If he wants to exclude us from his little escapade..." he clears his throat and gives a long suffering glare at the clock. "Never mind. Just be ready to leave by eight. The pick-up is scheduled for eleven, but I want to scope it out before then."

I raise an eye ridge. "For three hours?"

"It's on the other side of the city," he explains absently.

I fish my phone from my belt. "Alright, I'll call Casey then and fill him in—"

"No!"

I jump at the shout, shooting Donnie a look that questions if he has an alien bug currently residing in his gut. His chest raise once, as if it's about to burst, then collapses in a nervous exhale.

Doe brown eyes flash briefly before taking cover behind the paper. "I'm sorry, Mikey." he offers a sheepish smile—so Donnie-like that I find myself nodding. "All this caffeine is starting to affect me."

I don't doubt that. The rich smell of it hangs on him like a car's air freshener. Beneath that purple mask lurks the effects of too many sleepless nights.

I rub the back of my neck, "Uh-huh." is all I can think to say, though I want to suggest a long shower and nap.

Don picks up a plate and fork, balancing the delicate glass on his fingertips before he flees the kitchen.

"Why not call Casey?" I blurt out.

For a suspiciously long second, my brother keeps his shell towards me. He turns around, mouth twitching. "Casey's mom ambushed him and April. I find it highly unlikely he'll be able to get away."

"Yeah... that woman is scary." I mumble to myself as Don shuffles back towards his lab. Sitting at the table, picking at the disgusting dinner I cooked, I realize something.

My brothers are both horrible liars.

~*~ Time: 6:43 pm ~*~ POV: Leonardo

I walk the edge of the beginning. A place that smells of salt and echoes with the sound of water, restlessly chopping against itself with cool indifference. The cold is deceptive, daring to challenge my memory of scorching heat. Because the last time I was here a blaze roared and blood ran.

The evidences of the battle has long since been cleared away by the city. All that remains is the outline of the building's foundation, branded into the concrete by time and weather. Soot surrounds the rectangle on all sides, the surface forever marred by a single act from my missing brother.

Bitterness twists my mouth into something of a smile. 'Once we're dead, we're dead.' Raphael spoke those words months ago, his face illuminated by the flashing blue and red lights of two police cruisers and an ambulance. From our rooftop perch several stories up, we watched officers march drunk and bloodied criminals into the vehicles. I stared at my brother, quiet and curious.

And he went on, a look of disgust sewn to his face. 'There ain't gonna be nothin' left of us. None of that legacy crap Mikey's always crowin' about.' his hands wandered from the loops of his belt and wound around the snowy ledge. 'Even fer the punks we rescue or the scum we beat... we do what we do, give 'em nightmares fer a few weeks, then what?'

'We're ninjas—'

'Yeah, yeah, strike silent and fade into the night. Wasn't what I meant, Leo.'

'Then where are you going with this, Raph?'

'Nothin' we do matters. Savin' those girls just now?' he shook his head. 'Before this time yet week some sicko will see one of 'em and get an idea. Or maybe he'll have some buddies and it'll be all of 'em. Point is, this doesn't last. 'Specially when the same guys we bagged last night are already prowlin' around again.'

My agreement remained silent. Raphael was enough of a pessimist for the both of us. So for a long moment, we just stood there, listening as a hysterical young woman recounted the rescue; Screaming at the top of her lungs about the 'monsters' that attacked them... as if my brother and I were the ones ripping their clothes to shreds.

'Then why hit the streets every night?'

He had shrugged at the question. 'Somethin' ta pass the time, Fearless. A turtle gets bored. Jeez, ya ain't learned that yet livin' with Mikey?'

The answer was predictable. Because that was Raphael, when things got meaningful, he withdrew to whatever realm was the most disconnected. He turned flippant.

I scrub at my mouth, ripping away the emotions that will do me no good in my mission tonight. Start from the beginning, follow the trail. It might be old fashioned, but Donnie's resources aren't getting us anywhere. And I'm tired of feeling useless, of coming back every morning empty handed. There is one thing I know I can do, one plan that will either get me killed or... or what? Lay mystery to rest?

Create some closure... that's as good an answer as any.

Taking a deep breath, I set my gaze on the starry sky. In the distance is the drone of New York City, and nearer than that: workers' voices. The docks are still open. Every shout is a browbeat reminder to stay alert. Good, I think and drop into a crouch.

This is where this nightmare began. Not at that pile of blood soaked rubble; not on that rooftop canvas that painted the aftermath of a brutal battle; not even back at the lair with an argument between brothers. It was here... at this damned warehouse.

Coming here might be a dilapidation of always dying time, because there's nothing to shift through. But something feels left undone. Something has its fingers wound around my skull, as tangible as a ghost's touch, but there nonetheless, tugging on my conscious. At the very least, searching here is better than sitting back home. Once midnight comes, and things get dark, and the city that never sleeps settles into the night, that's when I'll set things into motion. If they won't come to me... I'll go to them.

"Some plan," I mutter.

The sloshing of waves lapping at the docks whispers agreement. And it echoes back the words shared with Mikey not too long ago; the lies cloaked in authority, told to keep him and Don safe. That was the internal argument—that this solo act is for their own good.

Justice will see me dead before my family is harmed again. Before they pay for my mistakes more than they already are.

What good am I to anyone dead?

With a sharp shake of the head, I shove that reasoning away. What good am I now? Don is working himself into the ground searching for leads on a brother who wouldn't be gone if it weren't for me. While I do what? Wander a city he might not even be in.

What good is more death?

Unbidden, memories raise up in my mind's eye. A sea of mangled limbs, blackened and tossed by a storm of fire. The smell that clung, thick and tangible as clouds. Raphael, his head lolled against my chest, waves licking at what they had just sucked lifeless. The cold lashing at my skin as I pulled my brother's body from the bay's murky ice chilled depths.

Emptying my lungs into another's—

My jaw aches against a grief-stricken scream. An apathy as bitter as alcohol stings my lips, just another blow from a city drunk on too much life. We are as much a part of New York as the buildings that tower and the streets that wind, and yet our damage is let untended. Even Raphael would have to agree, if nothing more, the humans share this neglect with us.

I draw away from the harbor on quick and quiet feet, seeking shelter in the first of many warehouses by way of a grime slicked window. Dust billows up as I land in the shadow bathed gully of stacked cargo.

Rats scurry to darker corners as my katana whispers from its sheath. Like bubbles in ink, the outline of boxes dredge up before my eyes, every one a stroke of possible clarity just waiting to be popped. With a steady hand I ready my brush for the first dip.

And I know, even in his rashest of moments Raphael wouldn't find use in prying crates open. In searching for underground dealings the Purple Dragons or Foot Clan might be preparing to pick up.

He'd find madness.

Desperation.

A raging sorrow for irreversible actions.

Raphael might find something of himself.

~*~ Time: 10:56 pm ~*~

Inevitability exists in every life, even if it's only at 'the end', with death. Inevitabilities are all I've ever known. Humanity will not accept us. The greatest love we'll ever know will be fraternal. Splinter will die before we're ready to let go. We won't always win.

Raphael will go first.

With all his reckless bravado and lone wolf tendencies, not even denial could fend the thought off for long. Every time my younger brother took a blade meant for me or Mike or Don, every time we hauled his beaten shell through the sewers on a somber trek home, that fear branded itself a more vivid shade.

Keep him safe... that's all I ever wanted. And now that simple mission has become my greatest failure.

From the vantage point of a powerless crane, I watch as workers shrug their vests and hard hats off, their boots leaving a long and telling path in the snow as they file into a small brownstone building to sign out for the night. Their fatigue is as palpable as a fever, every warm breath infecting the air with the tinge of a fog and every face flushing with the cold.

Exhaustion weighs my own arms at my sides, as if cinder blocks have taken stead of my swords. Beneath my feet, the crane glistens with crystals of ice and freshly fallen snow. The only thing tacking me thirty feet up is my half handed grip on the rods crisscrossing the crane's neck. I shift in my crouch, tactful as a tiger, and search the grounds below. Between the motley stacks of crates are empty alleys and a hush so heavy it holds me still.

Ships docked for the night cast bobbing shadows over my perch—the only shelter I have against all the spotlights illuminating this cargo bay. My fingers tighten around the hilts of my weapons as the minutes tick by.

In the distance, New York drones with car horns, sirens, and club music, but nothing more. The pulse of a heart beat is there, as strong as ever, but the city's breaths are being smothered. Something isn't right. Something more than lowlife thugs are stalking the streets. And what ever it is... who ever it is, is close.

My eyes take another sweep, obscured by the onslaught of icy sleet. But that is no excuse. "Shell..."

If he hadn't moved, I wouldn't have seen him. A shadow, just a glimpse of a masked head and the glint of a sheathing sword. The Foot.

My body is moving before my mind can scream any warning of traps or ambush. In the end, rational thought won't make a difference in my actions. I slide down the crane and back flip into slick snow. Teeth grinding, I shoot around a corner, katanas poised, and scan the alley.

Graffiti marred metal towers around me like a crime exhibit, each flaking piece a tribute to a gang or testament of defiance. The artwork isn't worth a second glance, but the ground is a whole other story... A litany of footprints litters the paper white floor, and one pair belongs to a runner. I trace the broadly stroked strides to the end of the rows. There, outside of the spotlights' harsh beams, are more warehouses. The brick exteriors have long since faded to a sun streaked orange, splintering boards seal up broken windows, crude and clumsy.

But more striking than the crumbling surfaces is what lays besides one: strips of wood. Pieces ripped from a gaping hole.

My eyes narrow to suspicious slits. It's a trap...

Even with that knowledge, I leap to the window's glass strewn edge and drop inside. I fall into a defensive kata as I circle the few upturned boxes, but I find no comfort in my blades. Unease churns my stomach with the sting of acid and every moment that ticks by wrings my nerves a notch tighter. It is as if time has become more of a factor than ever before. I feel it like an old man, how it wears on my muscles like heavy mud.

Anticipation is tying me in knots.

And the Shredder knows it. He knows that he's in control of this hell, that his best weapon is time. He grows stronger as we wither.

Moonlight illuminates a small square in the building, patterned with strips of darkness. Despite all my life's learnings, I step into the light and watch my swords flash.

"Show yourself," I growl.

Only eerie silence echoes back once my voice has died. A heavy hush that only serves to increase the strange rage. My tongue flicks out, armed with more words, but before any of them can fall there is a sound.

A grunt. Something so familiar it runs my blood cold. My face pales, my hands slacken. Then it comes again, and what it is strikes me like a blow: A scream trapped behind teeth and tongue, stretched out until it dies in a slither of teeth and throaty growl... the biggest show of pain Raphael would ever let on to.

Eyes narrowing, I snarl into the dimness. "How dare you."

Another grunt. And this time I can hear the static in it. A recording.

But from where and when?

I'll probably never know. Because it is then—as my mind reels back to the last time Raphael was injured in a battle with the Foot clan—that fluorescence floods the warehouse with the buzz of a swam of bees. The sudden brightness stings my eyes with a poisonousness rage. I fall back, blinking and pivoting blindly towards the sound of steps.

But the room is empty. The Foot troop gone. And scrawled across the wall in days' old paint...

Don't lose the other two, Leonardo.

As swift and chilling as being soused in ice water, the warning steals my breath. I take a stumbling step forwards, my limbs numb and my heart pounding with panic.

Relax, they're at the lair.

The self-assurance slams into a wall of paranoia. I rip my shell cell from my belt and hit the first name that flashes on screen. Over the blood boiling in my ears, the ringing is faint. But never ending. It stretches until my cell shudders in my grasp, ready to shatter with one more coil of muscle. My brothers wouldn't ignore a call, especially now.

I burst from the building as the on-screen clock ticks to 11:12. Icons float below the numbers, bright and insistent, I flick on the tracker program and rack my brain to remember the steps Don had taught us to track each others' phones. It is a simple system with a complex sequence—a failsafe, Don had called it. In case an enemy got the brilliant idea to use our tech against us.

Now, as I race through the docks towards the city, I curse Don's intellect. And my incompetence. But at last yellow blips blink against blue and I slow to a stop halfway up a fire escape.

Confusion pinch my brows and pivots my heels. My brothers aren't back at the lair, or at Casey and April's. They're... nearby. At the docks. Back in the direction I had just come.

"Shell, shell, shell." I want to curse stronger than that, scream true Raph style. But the yellow dots demand attention.

Anger will come later.

I hear it before I see it: a fight. The clashing of steel and wood in quick successions, battle cries that build upon each other until the voices are a single roar of defiance. Gangs are the only organism in the entire city that has ever made that sound.

When I flip to the next building, my suspicions are confirmed. Below is the aftermath of a full out brawl that was once bigger than the mere dozen Purple Dragons still standing. The bodies of fallen punks hide within snowy graves, struck still some immeasurable time ago.

A snarl sears across my lips like a white hot brander, indignant heat puffs into a Japanese curse. Mikey fights alone, surrounded on all sides by the Purple Dragons that still stand. He's holding his own, 'chucks flying to fend off pipes and chains. But defense is all Mike is managing.

I propel myself two stories down, catching myself in a graceful roll and slamming into two gang members. They tumble down with twin grunts. On my palms I spin, swiping out legs from an encroaching enemy. My fist slams into another's face.

To my left Donnie twirls his bo in a fury of blows. His attacks are relentless, but against Hun, they do little harm. Without a partner, the match is a stale mate.

Dodging a bat, I split kick two mo-hawked heads and pull a single katana free.

"Leo? Bro, what are you doing here? Did Donnie call you—"

I don't spare Michaelangelo a glance before bolting forwards and bowling into Hun. In a twist of limbs and brass and steel, we topple. Snow blooms up in a spray of needle sharp dust. My fingers flex around black fabric as we come to a stop, and, with a lethal precision, I feint from Hun's backhand and slam a heavy heel into the behemoth's raising back.

With a grunt, his face meets the ground.

Satisfaction is a bitter tug on my lips; a smile I suppress with a crueler hand than the one that fists around Hun's hair. I lift his head up and lay my katana to his throat. All at once, his struggles stop. Hun might be able to withstand any strike that would prove bone shattering to others with barely a bruise to show for it. Or make a dent in the hood of a small vehicle and dust it off with a roll of his meaty shoulders. But a blade across the throat would end him. That is undeniable.

I wish he'd move, just so justice would have an excuse to be dealt by my hand.

Donatello approaches with an angry glower aimed at me; Mikey trudges behind. The sight of them draws my wrist back, just enough to let Hun breathe.

"What do you want, freaks?" he spits without a split second hesitation.

Leather rumples around my burrowing heel. "Answers, and you're going to supple them." I hiss.

"And if I don't?"

I answer with another ounce of pressure to the meaty neck and shift my gaze to Don. We speak without words, a whole conversation of silent accusations pass between us in the span of a blink. My chin tips forwards to his unrelenting and misdirected fury. Well, go ahead then.

Donnie's throat bobs as he swallows down rage. His bo wrings under anxious fingers as he levels himself with Hun, but his voice does not waver. "Where is our brother."

Cold intimidation radiates from my purple clad brother, but Hun only laughs. "Dead, the last I checked."

"Liar!" Mikey cuts in before my jaw can unlock. Coming from the youngest, the single word sounds like a plea. The desperation, the denial, they both bob too close to the surface.

A glare silence him instantly—guiltlessly. Even when his bright eyes brim with hurt at the wordless reprimand, I can't bring myself to care. Instead I hear the static laced recording in my head, see the sable warning painted across the warehouse wall.

Hun being here can't be a coincidence.

"We all know that isn't true," I say, evenly.

"Oh, I'm not lying," Hun taunts. "I beat half the life out of him myself. I'm surprised my master was as merciful as he was, killing him so quickly. Though, the begging might have helped..."

The art of speaking has left me. And before I can conjure control back, purple and brown blurs towards me and a crack splits the night.

Michaelangelo finds his voice before I do. "What the shell, dude?!"

"I've heard enough," is the genius' only justification.

"Donatello!" I snap, dropping the dead weight and standing upright. "That was your big plan? Nearly get yourselves killed just to—"

"He wasn't providing us with any adequate information, this was just a waste of time." just like that, Don turns to leave. His bandanna tail flicking out like a childish tongue.

My fingers tack into his bicep, restraining him with the same contempt I treated Hun's now unconscious head to. I jerk him around, eyes flashing and words falling. "What the shell is your problem?!"

"My problem?" his brows collapse in anything but confusion. "You're the one with the problem, Leo!" he shoves me back.

And I stumble, surprised. Don withdraws his bo, spinning it with a deft and deadly practice. With a tremulous effort, I step away and force stoicalness into my tone.

"Donatello, stand down. This isn't helping things." This isn't like you. The sentiment goes unsaid. None of us are entirely ourselves, not with such a big piece missing from our lives. But this... this outward aggression is too much like one of Raphael's rages.

Old habits die hard, I suppose, because my feet slide apart, ready to defend.

"What were you thinking, Don? You two could have gotten yourselves killed, taking on Hun like that."

"Like what, without you?" he shakes his head in disgust. "As difficult as this may be for you to comprehend, Leo, we are perfectly capable of taking care of ourselves."

"That's not what I saw."

Before a word or wound can tear into the next moment, two sea green hands spread like shields between Donnie and me. Taut fingers flex towards the floor, a gesture of repose.

"Bros, take a breath."

"Stay out of this, Mikey."

His shoulders hitch against the order, but he doesn't move. "If you two are planning on killing each other," he says, bitingly, "Then fine. Just do me a favor and tell Splinter first."

Breathing sharply through my nose, I sheath my single sword and swallow a barb. My tongue tastes of bile, sour with the return of forgotten worries. Donatello does the same, though his mouth quivers and his eyes darken.

The orange masked turtle nods, his hands falling to his belted nunchucks. "We should get out of here before the boys in blue show up," he says, an edge in his voice that has never existed before.

Or maybe it's just the wail of nearing sirens that tinge his tone with panic and danger.

Numbly, I nod. "You two go home."

With a final scathing glare, Don glides past me. I listen to his gait, to a sewer lid grating against stone, to a muffled splash as he lands below.

"You aren't coming?"

A crestfallen frown makes me falter, and, just for a moment, I think of swinging an arm around the youngest. I imagine sloshing water on an otherwise silent trek home, of entering the lair that has become a tomb. Every minute spent there is its own hell, but one that holds my family. They're worth the agony...

"No," it slips from my tongue like a spittle of poison. Intoxication spikes through my veins, sealing out the bitter cold and bringing my arms over my chest. My gaze meets Mike's, long and hard, until his watery eyes freeze over to match the ice in my own.

"Why?" he demands.

The night isn't over... my plans aren't finished... Hun is unconscious and this might be my only chance to—

I draw my arms up and drop an innocent excuse. "I need some air."

"Where?" his voice quivers before he can stop it, the single sound more imploring than a death row defendant.

Guilt stalls my answer; a sideway glance at Hun selects an alibi. "I'm going to scope out Central Park, we haven't covered that area yet."

"Great, let's go."

I block his path. "The only place you're going, is home."

"Not without you."

"That's an order, Michaelangelo, this isn't up for debate."

"He's my brother, too," he says, adamant as a steel folded seven hundred times. "Just like you are, Leo. If you're taking risks, then so am I."

Don't lose the other two, Leonardo.

I pinch my eyes against the sable paint plastered to the warehouse wall. And, with a fleeting glance at an opportunity I probably will never get again, I exhale and lead the way back to the waiting sewers.

Saki Enterprise will just have to wait.

A/N: Dun dun da dun?! O.o

Yeah, well, let's just say the next chapter is where things get real... interesting. Title is: Apparitions of Thy Past

Thanks so much for reading, y'all! And I would LOVE to hear what you think of NIU thus far. ^_^

Cheers! your red writing rebel.