The game was over fairly soon after that. It was another hour of embarrassment for New York, and the 49ers pushed forth through their defense like it was cardboard. As the game ended, Raphael melted into the darkness in the audience exit tunnel, quietly dropping down from the scaffolding well out of sight and joining the outbound crowd.

His brothers were overreacting. He didn't understand why it was such a big deal to them that they'd never mapped anything west of the Lincoln Tunnel. He was a ninja, they all were. Escape and evasion was something they could do in their sleep, and he was hardly an exception. Storm sewers were storm sewers; just keep following the line down its slope, and eventually you'd hit the river. It was easy.

He scoffed. If anything, tonight proved that they could blend in with humans if they had to. That game went two hours, and not a single human gave him a second glance, and he planned to treat tonight like the feather in his cap–er, mask–that it should be. He fooled a stadium of people. Even if his team lost tonight, he was practically high on that win. God, he loved being a ninja.

There was an upset in the crowd ahead of him, the rolling sea of human bodies rippling as a wave of people pushed him several steps back. There were gasps, laughs, jeers, and calls for whatever was ahead to 'Fight! Fight! Fight!' Someone was shouting 'WorldStar!' Raph elbowed his way through the crowd before it became a crush. The sooner he could get around this fight, the better.

Oh, but curiosity is a bitch. Raph loved watching amateurs fight. It was like watching your little cousins pretend they were Jackie Chan and Bruce Lee, and then proceed to whack each other with pool noodles. To Raph, seeing the hilariously impotent slap-fest that came with most street brawls was pure, free serotonin. He couldn't help it. He had to see it.

Raph craned his neck to try and get a good look at who was beating the crap out of who. As soon as he saw it, he closed his eyes and growled under his breath with enormous exasperation. "Whyyy."

Of course it would be Casey Goddamn Jones.

The gargoyle's white hair fluttered in the faint southerly breeze as he looked out over the water. "Not good. We definitely don't have enough height or wind to make it over the river at this rate. And this is the tallest perch for at least a few miles. Any ideas?"

The cunning one chewed his lip. "I'm really not a fan of being on the ground, guys. Especially for miles of walking, with this many humans so close…" The blue one set his fingertips against his fangs, chewing on one of them with worry in his eyes.

The white-haired one grit his small, sharp teeth. "We… made a slight miscalculation here, didn't we?"

The broad one made a nervous noise. "If we wait here until the crowd clears–"

"–we might not get home by dawn." The olive brother finished. "I think we're in trouble."

The eldest put his claws in his hair, gritting his teeth and looking distraught. "Okay. We can work with this, the night's still young, and we're not stone yet. We just need to think. What would Goliath and his mate do?"

"Well…" The smallest sat down on the maintenance walk and crossed his legs, eyes closed in thought. "Let's think about what's around us. The humans need to get back to their carriages to make it back to their homes, right? And they can only stay on the roads, which are really well-lit."

"We need a map." The ruddy one thumped his fist into his palm, catching onto the idea. "If we can find a way to bypass the humans and avoid the carriage roads, we can stick to darker and quieter places until we can find somewhere to climb."

"I guess that's a plan." The largest one said, doubt tugging at his frown. "Did we bring a map from the castle?"

The cunning one fished around in his fanny pack. "I got the sports book, my notebook, a pen, aaand…" He pulled each of these out. "I don't believe it, this map is of Manhattan. It doesn't cover this area."

The red one snarled, the sound sharp and low and blood-curdling. "Dammit. Okay. We'll have to scout around. One of us looks for a safe path on the ground, and the others–" He paused. Then his beak fell open. He stooped down, picking up a discarded silver-and-green streamer, discarded by a disappointed fan. It glittered emerald gold in the orange-toned service light. "We don't know how to get out of here without getting spotted. But I can follow someone who does."

"Yeah, that's right! You can take that West Coast garbage and–" Casey's fighting words were cut short with a left hook like a rocket to his face. The knuckles of the man made contact with the surface of his hockey mask, and for a moment, Jones could hear the impact make the plastic resin creak like wood. The sharp bite of the plastic against his skin stung, but far less than the full force blow.

"Now that's more like it!" Casey flexed his fingers into fists, knuckles in close and tight with the square of his shoulders. He dipped his head down, black hair dancing over the ghoulish skull-shaped form of the hockey mask on his face. His ice-blue eyes flickered with fire. Left, left, gut check, and block! He knew the bruises would hurt today, but god, he felt so damn alive.

His opponent, a man decked in gold, orange, and black with facepaint to match, leered at him. "'Fraid I'll mess up your pretty face, Yankee?"

"Saves you the embarrassment of knowin' someone's prettier'n you!" Casey taunted with a flip of his fingers, his words slightly slurred by something between his teeth. The man rushed, and Casey dropped to his hands and swung his leg in a kick, connecting with the man's ankles, and then spinning up into a starfish kip-up. The trip took the man completely by surprise, sending him flying into the ground. The crowd whispered, like the shock wave of a sonic boom. He felt a spark of pride. Mikey showed him that trick.

Out of the crowd, a hand grabbed Casey's shoulder, rough and forceful, points of the fingertips tight and unyielding. Jones grabbed the wrist and tried to go for a lock, but the owner slipped out of it before he could commit and ended up spinning Casey around like a ballerina on a banana peel. He yelped as he stumbled in a circle, whirling around to face the next assailant.

"Back off, creep!"

"Jones, who the shell are you calling a creep?" Was his retort.

Casey stopped. He pulled up the hockey mask and squinted at the short man in the Old Glory ski hood. His nose was crooked with a small hump, like he'd broken it at least twice in his life. But the way it set against his thick black brows and strong cheeks, he looked just like a young Val Kilmner. To Raph's utter non-surprise, Casey's teeth were orange until he spat out his mouthguard. "Raphael, that you? Man, took you long enough to show up!"

"Casey, what is this?"

Casey stood up straight and smiled broadly. His mouth guard–which he wore everywhere like a lucky charm–dangled from his neck on a lanyard. "Well, this is me tryin' to find you, Raphie-boy! April said, 'Do something that'd get Raph's attention', so I did!"

Well, it worked. "You're a frickin' bonehead."

Casey just wriggled his eyebrows, smug as a carpet-beetle in a rug. "Let's get outta here, Leo said the parking meter goes off in 20 minutes."

"Leo?!" Raph balked. "Why the shell is–" No thought. Raph dropped into a squat, leaning to his left as he felt the whiz of an outstretched hand slash the air where his head had been. Reaction unslowed by his surprise, Raph collected the would-be mask-snatcher's arm like a fisherman plucking a catfish out of the river with his bare hands. He took the man's punch along his wrist, elbow, shoulder, back, and followed his whole body with the movement, slamming him back-first into the dirt with a WHUMP.

The man groaned, and the crowd started going wild. Raphael's anxiety was fanned by the flash of cameras going off. Raphael wasted no time grabbing Casey by the arm and shoving him in a random direction with a hissed, "Go, go, go!"

They rushed headlong through the crowd, secrecy and stealth evaporating with each camera flash and each streetlight they passed. A cluster of orange-and-black clad figures gave chase, their angry shouts like the baying of warhounds.

"The hell did you say to piss them off, Casey?!" Raph panted.

"I told them LA has better sushi, California's for rich softies, and naming yourself after miners is stupid."

"Where's the van?"

"There!"

Neither of them gave it a moment's thought when they popped open the doors of the white Volkswagen minibus, closed it behind them, and took several deep breaths inside.

"I think we lost 'em." Casey panted. "Leo, you ready to–" He looked up at the empty driver's seat.

It took the two of them about a half second to realize that they were in the wrong van. It took another for them both to realize that they heard footsteps rapidly approaching their location.