...
What if this whole crusade's
A charade
And behind it all there's a price to be paid
For the blood
On which we dine
Justified in the name of the holy and the divine
–"The Hand That Feeds," by Nine Inch Nails
LOYALTY
For the first time in months, a stroll through the city streets in downtown Manhattan didn't feel like a job, which was odd, since that was exactly what Casey was on a quest for. Though he remained vigilant for signs of danger or any shady happenings, the bustle and vibe of the city was very different in midday than it was after dark.
The company didn't hurt either. Trying to be subtle, he glanced down at April, who was walking close enough beside him on the crowded sidewalk that their elbows brushed periodically. He had to admit, when the turtles had introduced him to their "other human friend", he hadn't expected her to be such a fox, or a teenager from his old high school. Beyond the superficial stuff, she was kind, loyal, brave as hell, and an absolute firecracker. He could see why they had accepted her wholly into their little family so quickly.
Her blue eyes met his, catching him staring, and she arched an eyebrow. "What?"
"Nothin,'" he replied, averting his gaze quickly. "Just thinking it's nice to take a walk without looking for trouble, ya know?"
"Well, if you keep hanging out with the guys you won't need to look very far. Trouble always seems to find them."
"Yeah, no kidding," Casey laughed.
"It's kind of cool having someone else who knows about the turtles," April admitted. "I spend so much time with them, it's really hard not being able to talk about them to anyone else, or to share our crazy stories."
"I know, right? I still can't believe we saved the city and no one will ever know."
"We know, that's all that matters," April said seriously. "Thank you again, for coming with me to that Kraang warehouse."
"I'm just glad we did, otherwise we would've never known about them planning to contaminate the water." Shuddering at the thought of how close half the city had been to being turned into Kraang monsters, his thoughts turned to their failure to pick up any leads on April's dad.
He stole another glance at her pretty, freckled face, and it was apparent that her thoughts had wandered into the same territory. They continued down the next few blocks in silence, more melancholy than awkward, until they reached the apartment building April's aunt lived at.
"Well, this is me," she sighed, coming to a halt. "I think we hit most of the places that had signs up in their windows, but you should really look at job postings online. A lot of places only accept applications that way."
Casey rubbed the back of his neck. "My computer is from the Stone Age but I'll see what I can do. Thanks for helping me write my resumes and stickin' it out with me all day."
"No problem," she said cheerfully. "Hey, maybe Donnie can refurbish your computer for you? You should ask him."
"I don't think he likes me much," Casey snorted. "He's pretty sweet on you, though," he couldn't resist teasing. A pink blush spread over her cheeks, and Casey's eyebrows went up in shock for a moment before he managed to school his features again and cleared his throat.
"If, uh, you're not busy later, do you wanna come over and hang out with me and Mikey? We're gonna have a couple beers and grab some pizza, then go on patrol later tonight. You don't have to come for that part if you don't want to."
"Casey," she admonished, smacking his shoulder. "He's only fifteen, and you aren't much older."
"Trust me, it does nothing to him, he just likes the taste of it," Casey defended, putting his hands up and laughing. "Chill out, Mom."
She scoffed. "Don't let Splinter find out," she warned, shaking her head with a reluctant smile.
The mention of their ginormous rat dad certainly gave Casey pause and goosebumps broke out over his skin. He didn't mean to be prejudiced or anything, he just really, really had a hard time with rats. Meeting one that stood over six feet tall and was a master ninja had been an experience, to say the least.
"And I can't come over tonight," she continued. "I'm so behind in school after all this stuff with the Kraang and Rockwell."
"The monkey?"
"The scientist," April emphasized. "If you run into him make sure you are calm. And gentle," she added sternly.
"No problem, Red," he said, flashing her a gap-toothed smile as she headed into the lobby of her aunt's building.
Alone once again, he decided to cut through Little Italy with the intent of visiting his doctor's office on his way home. He was hoping to get a refill on the pain prescription he'd gotten at the hospital. He hadn't exactly been taking it easy the past few weeks, what with fighting aliens, scumbags and some Baxter nerd in an armored battle suit. His ribs still ached on the regular, and he figured it would be good to have some extra pills in case his knee flared up or one of the turtles got hurt.
As he continued on his way, a bold, handwritten sign caught his attention in the window of a fancy restaurant.
HELP WANTED: Busser/kitchen help. No experience required.
He backed up on the sidewalk to read the name scrawled gracefully along the blue canopy, Dell'Abate Ristorante, and debated with himself. This place had ties with the Italian Mafia, but that wasn't exactly common knowledge. It was a busy fine dining spot that he'd never be able to afford to eat at, with a Yelp page and good reviews. It seemed innocuous enough, just another eatery in Manhattan.
As much as April had helped coach him and tried to make him look presentable, he knew that half of the disinterested, judgmental faces that had accepted his resumes today had likely tossed them directly into a recycling bin. He was three weeks behind on his dad's rent and he hadn't heard a word from the bastard. Their crazy old coot landlord, Ms Pelowitz, had come to give Casey grief over it, and he'd begged her to let him pay the rent under his father's name until he came skulking back home from Vegas or wherever the hell he'd fucked off to. She had given Casey two weeks to catch up and that had been four days ago. He literally could not afford to be picky.
His feet were moving before he'd consciously made up his mind, and the distinct, delicious scent of Mediterranean food struck him invitingly as he entered, making his stomach growl. Inside, the restaurant was subtly divided into three areas. The main floor contained a few rows of tables that were bordered by the street-front window to the left of the main entrance, and beyond that, a short staircase of four or five steps created a slightly elevated lounge framed by a brass railing. Casey could see a few free-standing tables, but it appeared to be mostly large booths back there. To the right of the entrance were a few more regular tables, then some smaller high tops across from a large, dark mahogany bar. The wooden furniture throughout matched the bar, any upholstery on the chairs and booths were a red, velvety material, and all the tables contained crisp white tablecloths and wine glasses at each seat setting.
Only a few tables were occupied, but the servers were buzzing around their sections in fresh white dress-shirts or blouses, making sure their tables were prepared just so for the coming dinner rush. Reluctant to interrupt any of them, Casey made his way to the bar and sidled up to the bartender to say hello.
The man behind the bar looked up from polishing a glass, his face skeptical, no doubt ready to tell Casey to get lost if he tried to order a drink. "Can I help you?" he said dryly.
"I'm here about the busboy job."
"Ah, just a minute," he replied, setting down his glass and disappearing through a swinging door just past the bar.
Casey picked at a coaster, feeling out of place and underdressed, but before he could second-guess himself any more, the door popped open again. The bartender breezed out, gesturing to a grandfatherly man in kitchen scrubs and an apron who stood between the threshold of kitchen and dining area, keeping the door propped open with his back.
"Hello," the old man greeted with a friendly smile. "Come on in, let's talk."
He ushered Casey into a spacious kitchen, patting his back as he went by as if they were long lost family, and guided him over to the currently empty dish washing station. They were alone save for one other young chef, who was busy doing dinner prep and cleaning grills behind the counter.
"I'm Tommy Vizioso, part owner and head chef," the old man introduced formally, sticking out a large, calloused hand for Casey to shake.
"Oh," Casey said dumbly, allowing Tommy's hand to engulf his own in a rough handshake. He truly hadn't expected any of the Vizioso family to actually be working here, especially so openly. "Um, Jo-" He slammed his mouth shut and took a couple of seconds to get his shit together, then a couple more to curse himself for using his actual full name while vigilante-ing all over the city. He cleared his throat, trying to save face. "My name is Joe."
Tommy's eyes were sharp but kind as they watched him. He smirked a little, as if expecting that reaction, and it made Casey relax a little.
"Have you ever worked in a restaurant before, Joe?" he finally asked.
Casey shook his head. "No, sir."
"It's a lot of small odd jobs in this position," Tommy explained, his Italian accent apparent but not heavy. "Things like washing dishes, cleaning, running food, changing kegs, unloading trucks to restock...not difficult tasks on their own. But when it gets busy and everyone needs everything at once, you have to be able to handle the pressure and prioritize," he said, bringing one hand down in a chopping motion onto the flat of his palm in emphasis. "We don't always get breaks and the hours can be long. I need someone hardworking and reliable, you would be supporting all the staff, understand? You think you can handle it?"
"Yeah, I think so," Casey said. This was the most promising interaction he'd had with a business so far, and he reasoned that if Tommy wanted to give him this job, he'd take it and keep looking for something else in the meantime. Between the rent he owed, his hospital bill and the general expenses of living, this wasn't the time for moral semantics. The only reason he had food in his fridge at all right now was because he had emptied the wallet of the last Purple Dragon he'd thumped before calling the cops and bailing.
Tommy regarded him steadily. "I'm willing to give you a shot, but we have to clear it with the big boss first." He had a mischievous glint in his eyes and smiled. "He just so happens to be here right now. Are you ready to meet the Don?"
Casey's eyes must have bugged out of his head because Tommy whooped with jovial laughter, then shook Casey's shoulder in what he supposed was meant to be a comforting gesture.
"Ah, come on," Tommy said merrily. "Follow me, it's okay. If you want to leave just tell me and we'll go, okay?"
"O-okay," Casey agreed reluctantly.
He followed Tommy around the corner, noticing for the first time that he walked with a pronounced limp, and got onto a service elevator. His stomach clenched with nerves as soon as the doors slid shut and closed them in together. It wasn't that he really got a bad vibe from Tommy, per say, but no one knew where Casey was right now and he was about to meet a Mafia Don. This was not how today was supposed to go.
The elevator descended one level, then opened to reveal a concrete hallway and a heavy wooden door at the end. Two men in black suits stood outside of it, their stances straightening up as Tommy approached and greeted them. One of the guards frisked Casey quickly and professionally, making sure he was unarmed and not wearing a wire.
Casey scowled but didn't resist, and though Tommy shrugged apologetically, he waited until Casey got the all-clear before pushing open the door. He was directly behind Tommy, standing warily between the two sentries when he heard Don Vizioso bellow, "I told you I wasn't to be disturbed while I was eating!"
"Ehh, not even your Uncle Tommy?" his voice boomed back. "What's the matter with you? It's almost dinnertime upstairs and I got someone for you to meet real fast."
"Fine, but only because you make the best lasagne in New York," said a wet, muffled voice.
Tommy snorted and turned back to Casey. "Relax, you already made it farther than the last three who wanted this job."
Casey supposed that was because no one would be stupid or desperate enough to get mixed up in all of this. Casey Jones, equal parts stupid and desperate. Let's do this, he thought hysterically as Tommy stepped aside.
Casey entered the room, which was surprisingly empty save for a single large table at the far end with a faux fireplace behind it, and a few smaller tables off to each side. It looked like a small banquet hall, the décor similar to upstairs.
Don Vizioso, legendary mob boss, was actually a bloated tick of a man. He sat at the main table with an impossibly large bowl of spaghetti in front of him, which was disappearing at a steady pace into his sauce-stained face.
"This is Joe," Tommy said, urging Casey forward. "I want to bring him in for a few days, see how he does."
The Don set his beady little eyes on Casey. "Well, come on over here, kid, I don't got all day."
Casey lowered his gaze, trying not stare, and shuffled across the threshold to stand at the opposite side of the table as expected, feeling very exposed since Tommy had hung back by the exit.
"Joe, huh?" Vizioso grunted with his mouth full. "Joe who?"
Casey broke out into a cold sweat as his mind went blank. "It's just Joe."
"It's disrespectful to drop your family name," Vizioso said, eyes narrowing.
"They dropped me without a second thought," Casey answered, real bitterness creeping into his voice.
Vizioso looked taken aback for a moment, the constant stream of food going into his mouth interrupted. Then his lips smacked together as he started chewing again. "Fair enough." He gulped down half a glass of wine and belched. "You in school?"
"No, sir. I'm finished high school," he lied, hoping that they would think he was at least eighteen.
"You in any kind of trouble?"
"A little bit," Casey admitted.
"The kind of trouble you might bring to work with you?"
Between the stomach-churning noises the Don made as he ate, and his own nerves, Casey fought to hold back a grimace as a wave of nausea hit him. "No, sir, nothing like that," he managed.
"I don't mess with the business upstairs, and whoever Tommy hires is not of particular interest to me, usually. Do you know why I had to meet you?"
Casey, half-sure that he'd been made, went through the index card in his brain of criminals he'd pissed off lately that might have had Mafia ties. "No, sir," he said, proud of how steady he kept his voice in the midst of his internal panic.
"I know that you know who I am, and you're still here. You've got some coglioni on ya, kid, and I respect that. What I respect even more is someone who can keep their head down and their mouth shut, someone we can trust. Maybe even someone who can run some special errands from time to time, for the restaurant, of course." Vizioso stilled, leveling Casey with a dark, intense look. "You seem like someone who appreciates the value of discretion, Mr Joe Nobody who's in a little bit of trouble."
"Yes, I do," Casey answered carefully, daring his lungs to loosen up and exhale. They didn't know.
"Work hard, prove that we can trust you, and we'll take care of you, kid." Vizioso speared a meatball onto his fork and pointed it at him. "Show us anything different, and you won't last long around here," he added in a low, threatening voice before shoving the entire meatball into his mouth. "Capiche?"
Casey got the distinct impression that the Don wasn't talking about a simple firing, and realized, not for the first time in the last half hour or so, that everything about this was a terrible idea. He should politely decline this ludicrous offer and get on with his life while he still could.
"When can I start?" he asked instead.
oooooooooooooooooo
Raphael awoke, bone-weary and sore, on an unfamiliar bed in a room he didn't recognize. He was sprawled out on his plastron, left cheek pressed into a soft, gray comforter. The only thing that kept him from jolting fully awake was the sight of Karai across the room, sitting back in a chair with her feet up on a desk, playing around on her phone with her earbuds in and humming along quietly to some song.
Stretching with a groan, he groggily recalled the fourteen hour flight from Tokyo on the private jet, then settling into the largest penthouse suite available upon arrival at the airport hotel. The living room of the suite had quickly become crowded with the men Saki had brought with him from Japan, awaiting orders and instructions from their Master. None of this had involved or interested Raphael in any way, and despite having slept most of the flight to New York, he'd still been exhausted and had taken a face-first dive onto the first bed he'd found.
Karai removed the earbuds when she noticed him moving and set her phone aside. "Hey, Sleeping Beauty," she teased. "It's about time, we have to start getting ready soon."
Raphael grumbled unintelligibly in response.
"There's a meeting at the new H.Q. in about two hours," she added.
Raphael's eyes widened and he sat up. "How long was I asleep?"
"A while," Karai replied, shrugging. "Father didn't leave here until all of our luggage and equipment was brought over to the watchtower, so we're only a few hours behind him. I convinced him I needed a shower and a proper meal before I could be expected to join him."
"Princess," he scoffed.
"I was really just buying you some more nap time."
She said it with snark, but Raphael saw the softness in her eyes. She knew that the more he slept, the faster he healed, and he appreciated her stalling tactics greatly.
"He had new armor made for us," she said, a hint of excitement creeping into her voice. "Check this out, you're gonna love it." She sat up and spun in the desk chair, tapping a foot on top of a large black and silver case.
Raphael lumbered over to the desk, catching his reflection in the full length mirror next to it for the first time since that hellish night. His skin was dull and his eyes haunted, and he wasn't wearing anything but the multitudes of bandages Karai had practically mummified him in the other day. Some spots were stained where he'd bled through, and most of them were starting to fray.
"I look like absolute shit," he snorted, trying to be flippant about it as he turned away from himself.
Karai stayed silent as he clicked open the locks on the case and removed the lid. Nestled inside in fitted foam was a large, oval shaped piece of spiked shoulder armor and a custom-made gauntlet that was almost identical to the ones that Shredder wore. His breath caught in his throat as he ran the tip of his finger along the raised portion of smooth metal that would release twin blades, mimicking handheld dragon claws. The only major difference between this one and Shredder's was that it lacked the static blades that overlaid the casing for the retractable ones, giving it a sleeker appearance.
"I got a peek at it while you were missing," she said quietly, almost reverent. "I was so scared that you would never get to wear it."
Suspicion curled sourly in Raphael's stomach, spoiling the moment. Shredder had commissioned this way before Raphael had gone on his mission to destroy the last Hamato dojo; this type of craftsmanship could not be rushed. Why not give it to him for that dangerous task, unless he was sent into battle under-prepared on purpose? Had he been meant to prove that he was ruthless and resourceful enough to earn every shard of his eventual mantle as the Shredder? On the other hand, Shredder really could have been saving this for his battles here in New York, where he would be facing, presumably, evenly matched mutants for the first time.
"I also made sure all of this was taken care of for you once I got you patched up," Karai said gently, sliding another sizeable case from under the desk for him to open. "There's a new cloak in there for you as well."
Inside, he could see his sword atop leathers and knives. It appeared to contain everything that he'd discarded in a heap the second he'd walked back through the door of the manor after days of hiking and stowing away on fruit trucks, in a haze save for the singular focus of getting home. He closed the case quickly, not yet ready to examine the contents too closely.
"Thank you," he said softly, looking up to catch the concern in her features before she could smooth them away.
"I'm going to change these bandages and we'll get geared up and go, okay?" she said, her tone begging him not to argue.
"These bandages definitely have to go," he agreed, "but they're staying off."
"Raaaaph," Karai groaned in exasperation.
Raphael rolled his eyes and shooed her away, locking himself in the ensuite bathroom. The glaringly bright light within did nothing to improve his image in the mirror as he peeled and ripped off layers of white tape and gauze. He took a quick rinse in the claustrophobically tiny shower and examined his wounds as he gingerly toweled himself off. A lot had healed, but the gouges in his thighs, shoulders and upper arms where the sickles had hooked into him were still ragged and raw. He cursed under his breath; Karai was going to ream him out forever over this.
The bedroom was empty when he opened the door again, but a large med-kit was sitting on the bed.
"Dammit, Karai, I can't show up to a Foot Clan meeting covered in bandages," he yelled out into the main suite, startling a bodyguard. Raphael huffed at the man and continued. "I'd rather have them see that I'm injured but unaffected, than see me taped up like an invalid."
"Pretending to be unaffected, you mean," Karai yelled back, narrowing her eyes at him when she exited another bedroom and met his glare. "Macho bullshit," she spat as she crossed the suite and pressed against his chest until he yielded and backed up into the room again.
"It's important that I don't look weak and you know it," Raphael said sternly.
"Fine, get your gear on and put on a brave face while it rubs the wounds beneath raw and bloody," she snapped, crossing her arms and staring daggers at him.
He growled loudly in defeat. She had him there and she knew it. "Do we have enough of the black joint wraps to cover them up afterward?" he asked, sighing.
"I think so," she said, her voice all honey now that she had subdued him.
He bit back his irritation, giving in to her efficient but caring hands, and noticed that she had slipped into her new armor while he'd been showering. There was the typical black bodysuit from neck to toe, but sleek metallic armor encased her chest, shoulders, forearms, shins and the sides of her thighs. The gauntlets each had a streamlined blade that pointed like shark fins at the elbow, and the hand bracers had single small spikes mid-knuckle.
"Your armor looks good," he offered.
"It's awesome, right?" She paused from her doctoring of him and knocked on the breastplate. "Plus, now I'm bulletproof."
"Less than half of you is bullet resistant," he corrected.
"Whatever," she mumbled, a small grin spreading across her lips.
Covering up the stark white bandages once Karai was done with him proved to be something of a challenge, but minus some assistance with his upper arms, he managed it on his own. Karai could usually sense when he was near the end of his patience with being fussed over, and wisely left him to his own devices to finish getting ready. By the time he was done wrapping his feet, ankles, hands and knuckles as he usually did, hardly a hint of green skin showed through the clinging black fabric on his arms and legs. The effect was a bit dramatic, but it served his purpose.
Unable to stall any longer, Raphael opened the case Karai had packed for him, the slightest tremor in his hand. His leather harness had been repaired and cleaned, and he strapped it on over his shell with practiced ease. His katana, tanto, sai, and remaining kunai had been polished and sharpened, all of which he holstered after a brief inspection, until he got to the sai.
The single weapon felt heavier than the pair ever had. He had inherited those sai from Ichiro, one of his mentors, and mastered them in honor of his memory. While he had technically avenged Ichiro's death by destroying the kunoichi who had poisoned them both that day, losing one sai to the fire because he had panicked made him feel unworthy of it's twin. It felt disrespectful to leave it behind, however, so he tucked it into its place on his belt.
True to her word, Karai had secured a new black, hooded cloak for him, as well as one of his spare sets of knee and elbow pads. Carefully folded at the bottom of the case was his mask, the one he had created from his red childhood cloak that their nanny had made for him so many years ago. Karai knew the sentimental value it held for him, and he could tell that she'd gone out of her way to make sure whoever washed it had taken special care. He lifted it to his nose and inhaled, relieved that the scents of blood and smoke had been completely eliminated. He tied the tails of his mask deftly, adjusting it so the Foot insignia was centered on his forehead and the down-turned points of the fabric rested along either side of his face.
The shoulder armor and gauntlet were perfectly fitted to him, turning his entire right arm into both a shield and a weapon. With the cloak trailing down his shell to the backs of his knees, the added distortion of it and the spikes to his silhouette made him look like an absolute tank. The vague resemblance to Shredder's image left him feeling somewhat unsettled, but he had no time to dwell on it.
Karai leaned into the room from the doorway to give him an approving once-over with her eyes. "Much better, no one would ever guess you were face-down in your own drool an hour ago."
Raphael side-eyed her in annoyance but she only laughed.
"Come on, tough guy, it's time to go."
In short order, Raphael, Karai and the bodyguard that had been stationed at the suite for them were leaving through a private exit generally reserved for celebrities avoiding fans and paparazzi. They loaded up into a limo, and Raphael stared out through the tinted windows as they drove through a city so similar and yet so different than the one he had come to know.
Returning to New York held no nostalgia for Raphael. He barely remembered the city, or the life he had led here before being cast out by none other than Hamato Yoshi himself. It could only be fate that Raphael had been discovered and taken in by the very clan who had been most betrayed by the man, that his personal enmity aligned so perfectly with Karai and Saki's vendetta.
So why does everything about this feel wrong? he wondered as they pulled up to the front entrance.
He could see why Karai liked to refer to the building as 'the watchtower' as they scaled the stone steps. It certainly wasn't a church anymore, though it still possessed stained-glass windows that were quite beautiful. Looking up at the giant clock and noting it was 10:20pm, he paused at the threshold of the old repurposed cathedral that would be their new Foot Clan headquarters until he felt a gentle tug on his finger.
Karai was urging him forward silently, reminding him of his resolve. It didn't matter how he felt, whether he had his own score to settle or not. He would give anything for her, and he owed Saki his life and loyalty, so he fell into step with her again until they were ushered inside by a masked Foot soldier.
Inside, the ground level was mostly barren, a marble floored chamber with high ceilings where even the slightest of footsteps echoed. Anyone wandering haplessly in the front door would feel immediately conspicuous and unwelcome, and if their intentions were to bring harm upon the occupants here, there was scarcely any cover for them to hide from the sentries posted to this floor at all times.
They were led to an elevator and escorted to the third floor, but the Foot soldier fled before Raphael and Karai entered what could only be described as a throne room.
The third level of the cathedral had been renovated into something as grandiose as the man who sat upon that throne, Shredder in all his spiked and armored glory. The ceiling peaked sharply above them, triangular as the uppermost roof atop it. Behind them, the yellowed glow of the back of the giant clock loomed, and ahead, behind Shredder's massive seat, a huge glass window overlooked New York City. Foot banners hung proudly on the walls, and on either side of a long stone walkway that led to the throne were stillwater trenches. Beyond those, lighting the room eerily, fires were contained within smoked glass cases running along the side walls. The platform of black stone that the throne sat upon was raised a few feet above the walkway, with three glass stairs leading up to it, ensuring that Shredder would tower above every one of his subjects even if he was sitting.
Karai whistled appreciatively, doing a small spin as she took it all in. "Love what you've done with the place, Father."
Raphael took the more traditional route and knelt at the foot of the the stairs, bowing his head. "Master," he greeted, only standing up straight when Shredder nodded to them.
Seconds later, the door opened and two men sauntered down the aisle. Automatically, Raphael planted himself at the end of the walkway, narrowing his eyes when he recognized Chris Bradford in the lead, wearing his red armor minus the helmet.
A fake smile split Bradford's face and he laughed. "Raphael, long time, no see. You were such a scrawny little thing the last time I saw you. Good to see that you've grown up..." he said pleasantly, stopping directly in front of Raphael so he could take advantage of the five or so inches of height he had on the turtle to look down at him, "...some."
Raphael scowled and backed up to let Bradford through, who shouldered past him roughly.
The second man Raphael had never met. He was tall and dark-skinned, clothed much more casually than Raphael was used to seeing within the ranks of the Foot, in jeans, sneakers, a black vest over a plain white t-shirt.
His movements were lithe as he walked directly up to Raphael, stopped, and extended a gloved hand. "Xever."
Raphael had been briefed on the Brazilian mob boss who was loyal to the Shredder, and he looked down at the man's tiny hand with some amusement. "Raphael," he said, grabbing Xever's whole forearm and giving it a slight shake before letting him pass.
Xever quite dramatically knelt at Karai's feet and kissed her hand. "It is a pleasure to finally meet you," he said, voice smooth as silk.
Karai rolled her eyes and pulled her hand away as Raphael took his place next to her, and Xever stood at Bradford's side to the left of their Master's throne.
Shredder stood, his presence suddenly overshadowing everything else. "Bradford, Xever," his deep voice rumbled with a sharp edge.
Raphael stood a little straighter and felt Karai tense at his side as the two men fell to their knees, heads bowed. They all knew that tone of voice only too well.
"I am very disappointed with your performance," Shredder continued. "You had the turtles in your grasp, had them trapped, and you let them escape. What do you have to say for yourselves?"
"It had all gone according to plan, Master," Bradford babbled. "I don't know how the rat managed to slip past all of our soldiers. There were men posted on the roof, at every exit, in the dojo, in the basement. It should have been impossible."
"Hamato Yoshi is a master ninja," Shredder said, his voice getting louder. "His mutation likely holds advantages we don't know about yet. Either the men you have been recruiting and training are not up to par, or you underestimated the enemy and your plan was destined to fail from the beginning. Either way, this on your head, Bradford."
"I'm sorry, Master, just give me another chance," Bradford pleaded.
Shredder's right arm lifted and two long blades snapped out from his metal gauntlet, and Raphael actually heard Bradford's heart stutter.
"Please!" Bradford begged as Shredder descended the few glass stairs. "I swear I will not fail you again!"
"No, you will not," Shredder agreed, letting one of the blades slip beneath Bradford's chin so he would look up at him. "Consider yourself on thin ice, Bradford. You will have to earn your place back at my side."
"Yes, of course, Master," Bradford gasped in relief as Shredder pulled away from him.
Raphael had to admit to himself that he felt a certain morbid satisfaction at watching Bradford grovel at Shredder's feet like the sniveling coward he was. He listened raptly and focused on every word being spoken. It had been years since he'd had a conversation in English, and watching Shredder and Karai switch so effortlessly into their second language reminded Raphael of how his formal education had been cut short when he'd been sent to the Elite camp.
"And what about you, Xever?" Shredder asked.
"I was just following Bradford's orders," Xever said slyly. "Ever since they got away, I've had all of my people and half of the crime underworld besides that on high alert for man-sized turtles. Most of them think I'm crazy, but they are already known to some of us; there have been sightings for years, apparently. In fact, I already have a message from some Purple Dragon nobody looking for a reward, says he knows where to find them. I'd like to set up a meeting tonight, with your blessings, of course."
Shredder retracted the blades and regarded Xever coolly. "I'm listening."
Raphael caught Xever smirk at Bradford, and decided that he liked the wiry Brazilian right then and there.
"Well," Xever said, "we know that their rat Master will come for them, and I will not make the mistake of underestimating him. So, if this tip checks out, we will simply capture the turtles again and set the trap, properly this time. I'll bring you Hamato Yoshi alive, and will personally peel those mutant freaks from their shells to drop at your feet." He looked over at Raphael and winked. "No offense."
"Very well, Xever, this will be your mission to lead," Shredder said.
"I'm not going to take orders from that street rat," Bradford gritted out furiously.
"Stand!" Shredder commanded shortly, and both men jumped to their feet. He looked pointedly at Bradford. "You are to stay with Karai and take her to see all of our dojos and recruits. I trust her judgment on the worthiness of who will be initiated into the Foot Clan officially, and then handed over to my generals from Japan to oversee. I also want reports on our financials, our allies, potential threats, as well as lists of media outlets, law enforcement and politicians who are already on our payroll or can be swayed in our favor. This information is also to be shared with Karai and brought to me within twenty-four hours."
Karai groaned under her breath, and Bradford instantly deflated but was smart enough not to push. "Yes, Master Shredder."
Shredder turned his attention to Xever. "You know the city and it's dark underbelly well. Get Raphael acquainted with some of our key people, our safe-houses and caches. Follow up on the lead regarding the location of the turtles and make your play. The two of you will have access to whatever you require."
"Yes, Master Shredder. Thank you," Xever said with a bow and a gracious smile.
"Raphael," Shredder addressed him next. "You are to follow Xever's lead for now. You need time to build your knowledge and familiarity with the city and our resources here. Now go, all of you."
Raphael bowed his head slightly, appearing calm outwardly but increasingly anxious within. "Yes, Master Shredder."
"Father," Karai interjected. "If there is a possibility of them seeing combat tonight, I should be there. I can look at reports any time."
Raphael heard the tiny intake of breath Shredder took to gather his patience before responding to her. "This is not up for debate," he said firmly.
"It's fine, Karai," Raphael said sharply. As much as he wanted to keep Karai close, he did not want Shredder to doubt his fighting capabilities or think that he needed her as a crutch until he was at hundred percent again, otherwise he would likely keep them from working together even longer on principle.
Karai turned to face him and argue, but he cut her off with a warning glare, his lip perked up in a partial snarl. The severity of his expression did not reach his eyes, however, which instead begged her to drop it for their own good. It was a look she knew well from their childhood, one that told her to be quiet and subservient right now so they would be able to find a way to do whatever it was that they wanted later.
She sighed and turned back to Shredder. "Understood, Father," she said tightly.