Author's note: This is a short tale, one that just sort of popped into my head recently, and was inspired by a line I re-read recently in my first fan-fic True Forces - both tales are based solely on the first 1990 TMNT film, and this would be a bit of a prequel for it. At the moment it's a stand-alone, but that could change at any moment...in the meantime - ENJOY! Sue Sitler a.k.a. DenymBear

Acquaintance

His mission had not gone as well as he had anticipated, for he'd had two primary goals to accomplish, the first of which had failed badly, and the second of which had gone completely and very satisfyingly as planned.

And then there had come an entirely unanticipated, and physically damaging third incident, an animal attack of sharp claws and teeth, violence driven by a squealing fury that had blind-sided him, striking at the right side of his face, scoring his skin deeply, drawing blood. He had torn the creature off, cast it hard to the floor and struck at it with the already bloodied blade in his hands, connecting badly, but driving it away, wounded. He had wanted to finish it off, but the building itself had betrayed him. Thin, aging walls and creaky floors had brought the neighboring resident to the door, knocking on it urgently and making inquiries about the thumps and the noise of the brief skirmish that had broken the cage and freed the rat when it had crashed to the floor beneath Yoshi's falling, dying weight.

Still, he'd gotten out and away, grabbing at a loose tea-towel in the kitchen and mopping the blood from his face as he'd moved, leaving the scene of the double murder quickly and silently. He slipped out the open window that had been his initial entry point at the rear of the apartment building' leaving no trace of his presence. He'd hastily pulled a dark sweater and jacket on, stuffed his weapon into the long carry bag he'd hidden behind the trash bins, and then vanished along the back alley there between apartment blocks, until he'd come back out to the street and into the cool, falling dark of an autumn evening.

There was the sound of police sirens in the distance, and that wailing was fast approaching his current position, which was too near his recently targeted, and now vacated destination. He glanced quickly up, down and then across the narrow roadway, seeking a refuge and finding one – another shadowed alleyway just a short sprint away over the pavement. He stayed in the shadows for a moment, wiping the tea towel across his skin again, a stinging, painful sensation that told him it was more than just a superficial wound. He scowled and swore quietly, wiped the blood from his fingers, folded the towel into a small rectangle that he then pressed over the damaged area. The sirens were louder, and he gauged the time until they arrived, waiting impatiently as a couple walked along the sidewalk past his place in the shadows and then he moved quickly across the road and into his chosen refuge.

It was a narrow space, with bricked walls on either side. There were boxes and garbage bins, a great deal of trash scattered about. It grew darker, the more deeply he ventured in. His eyes adjusted somewhat, but it seemed a blind alley…with no apparent exit toward the back. A poor choice. The sirens grew louder yet, and a moment later bright flashing lights sped by, briefly illuminating the darkened space. They stopped, precisely where he'd thought they would, and it was not far enough down the road as he would have liked.

He cursed again, under his breath and in his native tongue, turning to move further into the depths of the alley, seeking a locked doorway, or darkened window or gated fence, any of which he could have dealt with and overcome. He didn't want to linger nearby, wanted to return to his hotel room, to better examine his wounds and to deal with them, to see the extent of the damage that the vermin rat had inflicted on him.

Then there came a whisper of movement behind him. He tensed at once, hair-trigger alert and primed to immediately come about and deliver a crippling blow to whatever street person he must have disturbed, prepared to kill any witness to his presence there, so close to the scene of a very recent and serious crime -

The movement became a step – he whirled and struck out – astonished at once when the blow was skillfully blocked. His leg came up to roundhouse his assailant, and was just as instantly blocked as well. He stepped back, reaching for the dagger in his waist sheathe, livid that neither of his blows had landed, feeling outraged and ready to kill again, to obliterate that immediate and unexpected stain on his usual, lethal competence.

"Hold. I mean no harm."

This would-be attacker had stepped back, his hands opened and empty and presented there before him, head bowed – and he had spoken to him in perfect, fluent Japanese, with eyes lowered deferentially.

He stopped, wary yet, but this person – who knew his language - had shown him a proper respect. He paused, but did not relax his stance or take his hand off the hilt of his dagger. Another police vehicle sped by, again briefly illuminating the alleyway.

The stranger had glanced up, eyes searching his face. "You are bleeding."

"You state the obvious." He replied in Japanese. He had lost his tea-towel, had dropped it when he'd realized he was not alone. He would have to recover it, he would leave no evidence of his presence behind, and certainly not a piece soaked with his DNA.

He relaxed his posture. "You know how to fight."

The man straightened. "I was once an instructor."

Another police vehicle flashed by.

He could not remain here. Soon enough the authorities would begin a search of the area.

"What is your name?" he asked.

It was possible he could make use of this man, who had already been in the alley, obviously down on his luck, if he had actually been sheltering there; his clothes were unclean, his hair unkempt and face stubbled.

He could feel the blood trickling along his skin – he needed to deal with the injury, and soon, but could hardly walk into a nearby pharmacy for supplies in his present condition. It would be difficult enough to get through the hotel lobby to his room without attracting notice. This man, if truthful, knew martial arts, and was from Japan.

"I am Tatsu." He lowered his eyes again and inclined his head.

Dragon, that meant. It was a strong name.

"My name is Saki," he said. And then he put some solid emphasis on his actual identity, as a test. "Oroku Saki."

If the man had truly once been a martial arts instructor, he would know…

The eyes snapped up. "Oroku…Clan?"

Saki's lips curled into a slight – and painful – smile. He could taste the blood at the corner of his mouth.

"Yes. I am Oroku Clan."

An assassin, that meant.

Tatsu bowed more deeply. "You have been…working?" He glanced behind him as his head came up, his eyes indicating back towards the street behind him.

And apparently not spooked by such an admission. A good sign.

Oroku Clan's name was a known thing, at home. Anyone involved in martial arts in Japan had heard the rumors, and the reputation. And any instructor with the ability to block two of his own strikes had evidently been at martial arts practice long enough to have heard of the Clan.

This man was not stupid, another good sign.

"I have been," he admitted. "And you…Tatsu," he said, politely, "seem to be…presently out of work." He phrased the words delicately; he was in need of an ally. "My hotel is not far."

The man straightened, sensing an opportunity, and waited.

"I have grown tired of this alleyway." Saki said, casually. "I would like to offer you a job, Tatsu."

~O~