AUTHOR: Special thanks to Reinbeicher and Dierdre who are now my betas! Hope people will enjoy and leave many reviews!

WARNING: Dark, swearing, drugs, sex….well okay, maybe not that.

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"I wish to apologize."

"Huh?" M.J. responded intelligently, caught by surprise at the rat's sudden announcement.

After the rat's angry outburst, total silence had reigned between the two for nearly thirty minutes. The only time the rat spoke during this interval was when he announced a five-minute break. The rat was now sitting down, his back leaning against the wall with the cane in his lap, while M.J. sat against the opposite wall, as far from the rat as possible without making it obvious. His wet clothes were chilling his skin, and his eyes still hurt, though not nearly as much as forty minutes ago.

"My... outburst. You have to understand, Mr. M.J., the few hours before we first met have been most difficult and stressful for us. For you see, the people you saw us fighting, the Foot Ninjas, have forced us to abandon our home. We managed to avoid a direct confrontation and had intended to slip by them, but eventually they found us. To have been separated from my sons, with no idea how many Foot Ninjas might be upon them, and then to hear a tradition I have spent my whole life learning being compared to..."

The rat's voice increased slightly with rising anger, and he closed his eyes to calm himself. M.J. oh-so-slowly inched just a bit away from the rat, keeping an eye on his cane. After couple of seconds the rat opened his eyes, which now held stability within them. "The bottom line, Mr. M.J., is that though your words were offensive, you doubtlessly meant no ill, and thus my reaction was most inappropriate. You have my deepest apologies."

The rat finished speaking and bowed his head. M.J. blinked stupidly at him a couple of times, before realizing that he was expected to answer. "Uh, y-yeah, no, uh... no hard feelings. I... I guess the past hours have been hard, huh?"

Not the most intelligent sentence M.J. had ever said, but it seemed to do, for the slightest hint of a smile crossed the rat's face before he became serious once more.

"Yes, Mr. M.J., tension has been most high lately. The enemy is as determined to find us as he is dishonorable, and it would appear that he has many resources. And speaking of our enemy," the rat said, slowly standing up, "we must continue if we are to avoid detection."

Without saying a word, M.J. got up and walked over to the rat, waiting for him to lean against him, and then they continued their journey.

"...so... what is a ninja, then?" M.J. asked carefully, his throat still feeling a little bit sore.

"A ninja is one who upholds honor and protects the weak when it is needed," responded the rat, with no trace of resentment towards M.J. for his earlier mistake.

His courage somewhat bolstered, he asked, "What, like the samurai?"

This time, the rat looked up at M.J., although with a slightly curious expression. "You know the life of a samurai?"

"Well, no, not really. Just... bits and pieces."

"Humor me."

"Well... its origin is in Japan, clunky armor, their weapon of choice are those katana sword thingies, death before dishonor and… that pretty much sums it up. Mostly just bits and pieces I picked up by watching some samurai movies. Common knowledge, I guess."

"Yes. Still, there are people who know even less. The samurai first appeared in Japan during the Shogun period."

"Shogun... wait, isn't that some sort of a warlord?"

"...From a certain point of view, I suppose." The rat didn't say it, but the tone of his voice made it clear. Shut the hell up and let the old wise rat talk. "The ninja himself appeared later on. They were the samurai's worst enemy, for the samurai only fought what he could see in front of him, while the ninja struck from the shadows, the samurai's blindside."

The rat probably meant to go on, but M.J. hesitantly raised his left hand like a nervous schoolchild about to question a strict teacher. "Umm, I-I thought that the samurai w-were the... good guys?"

The rat blinked in slight surprise, as if remembering something. "Ah, I believe I neglected to reveal an important piece of the ninja's origins. An unforgivable mistake for a teacher," the rat half-mumbled to himself. He placed a paw on his forehead, suddenly looking very tired... and very old.

"Heh, h-hey, it's okay. I mean, hell, we just narrowly escaped getting blown to smithereens, so if that doesn't mess with your memory for a while, I dunno what will." Not M.J.'s best encouragement, though it looked like it had worked to a degree, for the rat removed his paw from his head. M.J. could have sworn a low chuckle came from the rat's throat, although it could have just been something nasty floating past them in the river of sewer water.

"Well, regardless, I shall tell you why the ninja appeared to fight the samurai. Make no mistake, Mr. M.J., many were good and honorable men, as the legends say. But there were also nearly as many who abused their authority, using their skills with a blade to take over towns and rule them as their own, stealing money from the poor and taking food from those who were already starving. A select few realized that these dishonorable men needed to be dealt with, though attacking them directly would be next to suicide. So the ones who wanted to fight them turned to a select few people who had mastered the mystic fighting art of Ninjitsu. At that time, many considered Ninjitsu to be an unusual or fearful art, due to its shadowy nature. But the ones who proved worthy of tutoring, were able to fight against the corrupt samurais and prevailed many times."

Maybe it was the way the rat told it, with so much pride, or maybe it just was the voice itself, but M.J. couldn't help but be fascinated by the storytelling. He found himself liking the big rat, cane or no cane.

"Now, young man, perhaps you would be willing to explain to me why you wounded one of my sons last week?"

M.J. stopped dead in his tracks.

... ...Oh shit.

Slowly, M.J. looked down at the rat. He had the same expression now as when he wanted his cane, though this one was slightly more... pissed. Controlled, but pissed. M.J. tried to edge away from the rat, but the paw on his side pushed him back, and the look on the rat's face told volumes that he expected an answer fast.

"Ah, l-look, your son attacked me first. I was just defending myself! Honest!" M.J. could feel panic quickly rising, fearing to be on the receiving end of the cane once more, and that it would do more this time than just put some pressure on his throat.

The rat hmm-ed, as if something had been confirmed. "Yes, I gathered as much, considering it was Raphael. However, is it true what he said, prior to the attack, that you threw someone out the window of a seven story building?"

"That little fucking traitor deserved it. He got off easy." Just the mere mention of that act was enough to replace M.J.'s panic with anger. He stared defiantly down at the rat, as if daring him to challenge his decision.

The rat's only reaction was a raised eyebrow. "A traitor, you say? And just how did he betray you to deserve such an end?"

"You wouldn't understand," replied M.J. He forced himself to continue walking; ignoring the fact the rat had a broken leg, nearly causing Splinter to fall down because of the sudden movement.

"Betrayal comes in many shapes and forms, young man," the rat said with an edge. "A personal betrayal, a betrayal of something that both of you are suppose to believe in, or to an oath both have sworn."

M.J.'s left hand clenched into a tight fist, his fingernails digging deep into the flesh, but he kept a straight face. If the rat noticed, he gave no indication.

After a few minutes had passed in silence, with the exception of the rat indicating where to go, he resumed his talk. "When Raphael returned to us wounded, the rest of my sons intended to look for you. With nothing to go on, however, there was little they could do. But when one of them decided to look up old news articles on the Internet, it was discovered that the Purple Dragon death toll had been stepping up for the past few months. I do admit I am somewhat surprised at not hearing something like that on the news."

M.J. smirked and said without thinking, "Heh, gangbanging in New York is hardly a hot story. If anything, the lack of it would cause some attention."

"So, that's it," the rat said, and M.J. realized a second too late what he had said, "the past killing is nothing more than a dispute between gangs."

Somehow the way the rat said it, making it sound as if it were nothing, as if it were something so... so trivial, just pissed M.J. off. "Hey! Just because you've seen Boyz in' da 'hood, it doesn't make you a gang expert! You don't know how things are where I come from!"

For the second time in less than a minute, M.J. stared down at the rat in anger, who in turn had a calm expression. "Then please, tell me of the world you come from."

Something about that remark made me uncomfortable and made me want to tell the rat to shove it, but curiosity got the better of me.

"...Why do you wanna know? I mean, you being this Ninjitsu master and all, wanting to know 'bout gangs, I dunno, just seems like it's beneath you or sumthin'."

"On the contrary, Mr. M.J. I confess I have wanted to know more about gangs on occasion, simply to ask one why he or she chose that kind of lifestyle, since it all but guarantees a short lifespan."

"Heh, so I've heard." A half-smirk appeared on M.J.'s face, although it was gone a second later. Slowly, he started walking, and the rat kept pace as M.J. pondered the rat's request.

Aw, come on, what's the worst that could happen if I told him? I mean, he did tell me 'bout all that ninja shit and everything, so I might as well return the favor.

"...Yeah, I'm a gangster. Or used to be. I dunno, it's kinda hard to decide since I seem to be the last one of my gang."

"Your gang... was attacked?"

"Exterminated is more like it. By the Purple Dragons. And a traitor."

"A traitor, you say? The one you threw out the window?"

"Yeah. The name of my gang is... was Grove Street. When it was our turn to be attacked by the Dragons, our chances were slim to none, but at least that was better than no chance at all. Our weapons were peashooters compared to the heavy gear the Dragons were packin', but we had the numbers an' the will. Thanks to that Backstabbing Bastard, though, the Dragons pretty much snuck up behind us and cut our throats. He didn't only open a door for 'em to send in assaults, but he gave 'em names and locations of Grove's finest. More than half of 'em were gunned down at their homes. Hell, I even heard some of 'em were killed while they were still in their own beds. Now, I won't say us Grove were angels, but damn, we sure as hell wouldn't have sunk that low. There are just some things you don't do, even to a rival gang."

"Really? There are rules between gangs?" The surprising part of the question was the lack of sarcasm in it. Instead it held honest curiosity, which encouraged M.J. to explain, while the rat silently used his cane to point where to go.

"Yeah. Sure, we don't have them written on paper, and I guess each gang has its own rules and stuff, but there are rules that everybody just knows. Like hitting a gang funeral. Never happened to us, at least not after I joined up, but there ain't no better way to declare an all-out war than by hitting a gang funeral.

"I do remember hearing about some dumb hotheaded guys in L.A. who thought they were the new big boys of the streets. They thought that they were tough enough to handle this Spanish gang, and they made a drive-by as the coffin was being carried out of the church. A lot of people got wounded an' couple got killed, but from what I heard, it was like Hell decided to drop by and pay a visit afterwards. See, instead of a gang funeral, it was actually the gang leader's mom that was getting buried. And if there's anything worse than shooting up a gang funeral, it's shooting up a family funeral."

"Attacking when one is burying a loved one would bring tremendous wrath down upon whoever was involved," commented the rat coldly, as the cane pointed to a passage on the right, "but tell me, Mr. M.J., what were the rules in your gang? It sounds like you think very highly of it."

"Well, I ain't gonna pretend we were the holiest gang there ever was, but at least we stood for something. In fact... do you know how the first gangs started and why?"

"No, I do not. In my time I have made some attempt to seek answers with one of my sons, but for once Google actually failed," the rat said wryly, with dry humor in his voice, as if sharing a personal joke.

M.J. gave the old geezer an odd look, before deciding to just ignore it and give the answer. "Anyway, I don't have all of the facts myself, but I sort of know the gist. Think it started back in the early sixties, though I don't know where. Here, L.A., New Jersey, I got no clue. But it started forming in poor neighborhoods, where the people were, ah, a bit darker in skin tone. You gotta understand, at that time pretty much everybody but themselves were against them, including the police. So when troublemakers started making frequent visits to their 'hood, someone needed to take care of 'em. Don't think it all started with them killing the troublemakers, but there were beatings.

"So, it all pretty much started with people wanting to protect their families, since no one else would. I also think they invented gang tags to let other people know their street was protected, though that's just how I figure it. Heh, I wonder if any of 'em had any idea how this would change the world."

"Indeed. Now, Mr. M.J., you told me rather emotionally earlier that the gang you were with stood for something. What did you mean by that? How were things done in Grove Street?"

"Well, I don't mean to brag or anything, but Grove Street was the oldest gang in New York, and once upon a time, the biggest. It formed when drugs started hitting the streets big time, and a couple of guys just got so tired of seeing it slowly kill everyone, that they decided to take matters into their own hands. Like I said, we weren't no angels, but we had enough common sense to attack the ones dealing the damn stuff, not the users. As far as we were concerned, those heartless bastards who sold the drugs were the real problem and over time, it started working. The streets were getting cleaned, the gang grew, and Grove Street was founded on one principal: No drugs."

Strange, it feels... good to talk about this. In fact, I don't think I've said more in the past five minutes than in the past six months. Aside from this talk and the run-in with Casey, the only one I've talked to is Emet, and that's just when I'm buying heat from him. It's really been a while since I last had decent human contact. I guess that's what makes talking feel so good.

That, and as long as the rat is interested in learning about the streets, less chance there is of him deciding to shove that cane up my ass for messing with his son.

"An admiral dedication, though I do not much agree with the methods you used. I noticed that when you said Grove Street used to be the biggest of the gangs, you said it with... sadness in your voice. May I ask why?"

What is he? A ninja master and an empath?

"...Yeah… Yeah, 'bout ten years ago things started to slowly change. Upholding a no-drugs principal is hard enough when you can get a lot by selling it. But when the gangs all around you are making a killing and using the dough to bolster their powers with heavy weaponry, it gets next to impossible for many not to break that principal, or at least try to bend it. See, even gangs need money, and since we were all anti-drugs and the head families didn't look kindly on getting protection money from people, we had to get cash from different sources."

"And what sources were those?"

"Our number one was illegal street racings, which is where my contribution to Grove Street came in."

"You were a driver?" Judging by the surprised look on the rat's face, he obviously must have thought M.J. was a soldier.

"And pretty damn good one, too, though I didn't always put the pedal to the metal when racing. I was mostly involved in drive-bys. But when a big race was about to start, I was usually the one asked to race for our gang."

"I... see. And in what condition was Grove Street before the Purple Dragons attacked?"

"It sucked. Or at least, that's what I was told by those who had been in Grove for longer then me. Grove slowly started losing streets and power, the families bickered with each other, and two years ago some of our own started selling. I think the beginning of last year was our darkest time, but then the Dragons came into town. The way they took other gangs' turfs so damn fast scared the hell out of us, but it made people put aside their differences and get ready to fight. It didn't do much good in the end, though."

"Still, you stuck to the principal on which your gang was founded. There is honor in that."

M.J. couldn't help but snort. "Yeah, a principal that sounded all noble and shit in the beginning. But in the end, by sticking to it, it's the main reason why Grove couldn't offer a better fight against the Dragons."

Athearing this, the rat stopped so suddenly M.J. nearly lost his balance. Looking down at the rat, he was taken back by the look on his face. It wasn't one of anger or severity, but it was serious. More serious then he had ever seen.

"Do you truly believe that, Mr. M.J.? That if you had broken the very principal which had founded the gang, sold poison to people and used the acquired resources to crush all your enemies, do you truly believe you could have looked back on what your gang once proudly stood for and not have felt shame?"

It felt like time had stopped altogether as M.J. and Splinter gazed at one another, the rat waiting patiently for an answer that M.J. already knew. It just took a little effort saying it out loud.

"...No, I don't believe so. I've thought about this a hundred times, about what different things we could have done to survive without breaking what we stood for, and so far I haven't come up with anything. We... Grove Street stood firm against drugs, and it did so as it fell," M.J. whispered the last words, his eyes turning distant as he looked away from the rat.

Neither moved for a full minute, until M.J. slowly started walking again. They proceeded in silence for nearly twenty minutes, the rat continuing to point the way with his cane.

"Ever been inside a crack house?" M.J. suddenly asked.

"...No, I can't say that I have."

"Well, I have. More times then I wanna remember. It's the smell that always gets to me."

"I can imagine why."

"No, no, not that kind of smell. Well, yeah, sort of that kind of smell, but not quite. It's... when your standing in this big room, with a junkie in every corner that hasn't bathed or changed clothes in months, it has this... distinct kind of smell. At first it will feel like a total stench to you, and you just wanna either escape or puke your guts out, but if you manage to stick around long enough, you realize that what you're smelling is... hopelessness. Absolute, pure hopelessness. And once you smell it, your perspective on the world changes."

Splinter said nothing, for there was no appropriate response.

"Seeing someone addicted is tough," M.J. continued slowly, partly because it was difficult, and partly because he was forcing himself to say it, "but it's even harder when it's someone you know. It's like... I knew this guy, Big Bear we called him, 'cause the name fit. Real nice giant that was well known throughout Grove. He was a high up in one of the families, but he could always be found hanging out with the rest of us homies. He had a little brother who wasn't in the Grove. The kid wanted to be, but Big Bear said no and threatened a world of pain to anyone that would initiate him. Anyway, one night Big Bear was coming out of a local bar in our 'hood, and he got shot at. Heard it was someone that got roughed up by Big Bear a couple of years back and was looking for payback, I dunno the details. Big Bear didn't get a scratch, but... his kid brother was nearby, probably trying to get a sneak peek inside the bar, to see how gangsters drank and hung out. Poor kid must have rushed in, to try to protect his big brother like he had done for him. The kid got shot. Died instantly, right in front of Big Bear.

"Big Bear saw his pride and joy get killed just couple of feet away from him, and when his mom found out what happened, she... she disowned him. Said she had no more sons. Kicked him out her home. At the funeral he looked nothing like the guy I knew, like all that he had been was inside the coffin slowly being lowered into the earth.

"After the burial, Big Bear disappeared. No one could blame him, but after a week had passed without a word from him, some of us started to get worried. Two months later, all of us were looking for him. Then one day we heard a rumor about him being sighted on the other side of New York. Some of us went to investigate and asked around, looking for clues, and we ended up at this crack house. Now, none of us believed for a second that Big Bear was in there, since he was nearly the fiercest anti-drug Grover among us, but we went in 'cause we had no other clues. We searched top and bottom, asking anyone that wasn't brain-dead, but we got no results.

"We were about to leave when I passed by this room and spotted something in the corner. Looked like a junkie, but I recognized his jacket, which belonged to Big Bear. I was ready to tear that junkie into pieces if he wouldn't give me answers as to where he got that jacket. I remember looking at him pitifully, that carcass-looking nobody with his skin barely attached to his bones, when he opened his eyes and I realized with a shock that it was Big Bear. We hauled his ass out of that hellhole and to the nearest hospital, where he was placed in rehab. For almost a year he would bounce back and forth; whenever he would disappear we went looking for him and placed him back into the program, only to have him disappear a couple of weeks later."

Gently, Splinter asked, "What happened to him?"

"...Overdose. Three years ago. His mom didn't show up at the funeral."

Splinter offered a sympathetic look, but M.J. didn't notice, for he just stared straight ahead as they slowly walked.

"I once asked Big Bear why the hell he was doing this to himself. I can still remember when he looked at me, how... empty his eyes were. So lifeless. And he told me... he wanted to forget. Being a gangster is... it puts a lot of stress on the mind. Constantly on the alert, looking over your shoulder and wondering if that car up ahead was just looking for space to park, or was about to have its passengers shoot at you. And that's not counting what the gang expects of you. I think Big Bear's brother was... an anchor of some kind, something to keep him sane or a cause to fight for. He always intended his kid brother to move away, to go to college or sumthin'. Having that lifeline cut off so quickly and brutally... not even a fighter like Big Bear could handle it. And his own mom kicking him out only made it worse."

An odd silence stretched between the two. Splinter glanced up at M.J., who had a distant look on his face, his mind no doubt lingering in the past. As for the rat himself, his expression slowly changed as he thought hard, contemplating certain things.

Finally, he decided to ask, "And what of your parents, Mr. M.J.? What would they think of your... lifestyle?"

Splinter had been prepared for many reactions from the young gangster, an angry retort, total silence or even a breakdown. But instead, M.J. just shrugged carelessly. "Hell if I know. I'll be sure to ask them, though, when I find out who they are."

The rat blinked at the answer. "You... are an orphan?"

"I think I was around four, maybe five when I ended at Gideon's Children Home. The people wouldn't say what happened to my parents, if they died or just gave me up, weren't allowed until I was of legal age. But when they found out I had a gang tatt on me, they kicked me out."

"A house that was dedicated to provide shelter for orphaned children threw you out?" the rat asked in clear surprise.

M.J., however, remained unaffected. "Yeah, said I would be a bad influence on the rest of the kids. Can't really blame 'em, considering the kind of lifestyle that came with the tatt."

Splinter opened his mouth to say something, but slowly closed it again. Instead he paid closer attention to M.J., to how he carried himself and the way he walked. He replayed some of their talks in his head, paying particularly close attention to M.J.'s voice.

M.J. suddenly flinched and brought a hand to his eyes.

"Is something wrong, Mr. M.J.?"

"...Ah, it's my eyes. Been feeling like they're about to explode ever since I had that run-in with those ninjas back there."

The rat remembered all too clearly the young man's state just before the bomb had exploded. "Do you know what is wrong with you?"

"Hah! If I'd try to answer that one, Jerry Springer would shoot himself. No, I got no clue what the hell happened back there. I had a similar thing today at my place, though that was a mild annoyance compared to what it felt like this time," M.J. grumbled as the pain in his eyes slowly increased. It felt like someone was running around inside them with a razor blade. "It could be some kind of brain cancer." Saying that out loud made M.J pause, as his own words slowly sunk in. A deathlike smirk appeared on his lips as he mumbled to himself, "Heh, wouldn't that be something."

A concerned expression momentarily appeared on the rat's face, although before he could say anything, M.J.'s bloodshot eyes looked down at him. "Are were there yet?"

Splinter stared at M.J. for couple of seconds, his expression difficult to read. But then, slowly, he raised his cane and pointed. Following the indicated direction, M.J. saw a ladder a couple of feet away. Walking up to it, he gazed up to see how far it reached. Too busy looking, he didn't feel the rat letting go of him.

"It's a pretty long way up. How are you gonna climb up with your leg busted?"

Something small but heavy suddenly jumped on his back. M.J. cried out in surprise as he staggered back from the sudden weight, flapping his arms around to regain his balance. As his heart pumped big time, he felt something furry gently press against his left cheek. M.J. only saw a part of the rat's face, but he could have sworn he saw a smirk.

"...You're heavier than you look," M.J. grumbled, and started climbing up.