He had to know.

More than anything in his whole world, his whole life, he had to know the truth about this. And if there was one damn good thing he could do, if there was one thing a ninja could do, it was find out the truth.

He put a finger to his lips as he crouched behind the vending machine with Lexington. "Go ahead and get home without me." He whispered. "I just have one quick thing to wrap up here."

Lexington's huge eyes narrowed slightly at him. "What? What do you need to do?"

"I dunno, get an autograph or something. I'll see you tomorrow night at the meeting, 'kay?"

Lexington frowned at him doubtfully. "It feels like you're trying to get rid of me so you can do something ill-advised."

"What? Nah, dude, I'm cool! I've always wanted to see Chris Bradford live! This is just… a thing. It's a fan thing. Don't worry about it. Actually, there's something I need to ask you about."

"What?"

Michelangelo fished around in his head blindly, digging for the perfect excuse, before finally grasping at something. "You remember the guy you met in the abandoned subway with Broadway?"

" 'Met' might be a generous word to use…"

"Casey's great! I promise!"

"He kicked me in the face!"

"Yeah, he did way worse to Raph the first time they met. He's kinda rough around the edges, but he's not a bad dude. Raph wanted to find a time for him and you and Broadway to, uh, kiss and make up! You know, hug it out!"

"Hug it out?" Lexington's suspicious look tightened into a shrewd squint.

"Trust me, bro." Mikey beamed. "Who knows? First impressions mean a lot, but everyone deserves a second chance. Whaddya say?"

"Well…"

"Pleeease?" Mikey's eyes were huge, round, and blue.

Lexington pouted, folding his arms, slack wing membranes brushing his knees. Finally, he sighed. He dug his toes and one of his hands into the wall, and looked up to judge the height of the building. "Okay. I'll trust you. But be careful, alright? If you, I dunno, get captured or killed or experimented on, your brothers are going to turn me into a pretzel."

"You won't regret it!" Mikey promised, tracing an 'x' over his heart with a finger and holding up a hand to show he wasn't crossing any fingers. "I'll tell him to meet you on the roof at the Ottendorfer Library. It's close to our place, at 2nd Avenue and St. Mark's Place."

Lexington skittered up the wall, vanishing over the edge of the roof. Michelangelo flipped his phone open and typed a message. He could type fast, but he couldn't spell worth a damn.

raph i need a favur real bad

mike this better be good. i'm kinda in

the middle of something

can u meet lex and bway at the libary?

what? y?

i jus need u 2 interdus them 2 kc.

dude, u know he's got stuff 2mrw, right?

dude's fast asleep.

plz? be my fav bro?

There was a very long pause. For a minute, he was worried that he would say no. But eventually, his phone blinked and the message appeared. He breathed a sigh of relief.

fine. i'll do it. but if casey gets mad, i'm

blaming u.

i luv u!

He folded his phone up, putting it back in his belt pouch. It's not a complete lie. Right? I mean… if they're gonna be our buds, they're gonna have to meet Casey again sometime. This is just doing it faster. Yeah.

He took four deep, even breaths. He patted himself on the cheeks a few times, hopping on his toes a few times, rolling his elbows and loosening up his shoulders. "C'mon, you can do this, you can do this. In and out. You can do this, you've always been the best at stealth. Easy peasy."

Lexington felt torn. Standing at the top of the roof of Madison Square Garden, he felt the wind brush over his hairless head, tugging at the corners of his wing membranes.

On the one wing, he really wanted to trust Michelangelo. But on the other, his gut refused to swallow the story he'd just been spoonfed. Something about the way his eyes shifted down, the way he fidgeted with his feet. It made him think that if he left him alone, his friend might not live to regret it.

Humans never looked up, it was why the ceiling was such a good hiding place. If Michelangelo could do it, he could. Right?

He quietly sang a made-up song to himself to calm his nerves as he made his way back into the backstage area, his voice just barely under his breath. "Go ninja, go ninja, go! Go ninja, go ninja, go!" His breath stopped cold when he saw someone round the corner of the narrow, whitewashed brick hallway.

"–tells me to pick up his order again, I'll shove the frickin' sandwich down his throat with my foot." A man in a black t-shirt grumbled, hands in his pockets and eyes cast down at the floor as he walked.

He gasped as he bumped, headfirst, into the exact person he didn't want to see. He flew backward four steps. "Theysaidtheywereouttahoneymustard!" He yelped, throwing his elbows up to protect his face, squeezing his eyes shut.

There was a silent pause. He peered around his elbows, and sighed with relief when he saw it was just a standee, rocking gently on its base. He scoffed, sneering at the cardboard cutout of Wolf, a life-size photo of him with a fist raised and a snarl on his lips.

He smirked and punched the standee, knocking it flat onto the ground, grinding his heel into his face. Smears of printer toner dragged wet red and yellow stripes down his nose. "Yeah, not so tough, are ya big guy?" The man walked off, oblivious to the presence of the other person in the hall.

Michelangelo dropped down from the ceiling, letting out a held breath in relief before scampering down the hall to the green room. He quietly let himself in.

He wasn't quite sure why they were called 'green rooms.' He liked to think of himself as an expert on the color green, and the walls in here were clearly smoky topaz.

Tossed about the room were shirts, pants, shoes, wigs, glitter, sequined scarves, costumes, mannequin heads, and all kinds of junk. The couch looked like someone cleaned it often, threadbare and speckled with bleach stains, but Mikey couldn't think of any reason why it would require such aggressive scrubbing so often. The panels of ring-lit vanity mirrors along the wall were speckled with powders from makeup palettes, several of them open with brushes askew.

He had a wealth of places to pick to hide. But he soon found himself short on options when he heard the door handle turn. Frantic, he picked the closest one, crossed his fingers, and held his breath.

Hyena shouldered the door open. She rolled her head back and she groaned. "Thank fucking god, finally!" She sank onto the couch, kicking aside a foam mannequin head with a golden high-heeled boot. "I thought that the show would never be over!" She peeled her boots off and tossed them into the corner by the coat rack.

Jackal and Dingo followed in after, shooting each other a dirty look.

"You upstaged me!" Jackal accused.

"Your cue was over, and you were on my dot." Dingo pushed him aside, flopping down onto the couch next to Hyena. "Besides, you had a button that was coming undone in the back. You're welcome for covering for ya, by the way."

Fox gracefully entered the room. She glided easily over the carpet without even a sideways look at her castmates. She vanished into a dressing room, with a door bearing her name on a gold star.

Dingo looked up, squinting after her with a scoff. "Showoff thinks she's better'n us."

"That's because she is."

Michelangelo's heart was in his throat. It's him! Oh me gosh, it's him! He let himself grin, bouncing a little with glee. Here he was, about to tell them all off for being rude to a friend when she wasn't around! Just like a good guy!

"She knows why we're here. You shouldn't be caught up in temporary matters like fame. Focus on the goal." He continued. "If you play your cards right, you might get to keep this gig once we're done."

Done with what? Going under deep cover to tear up the bad guys from the inside out?

"You seem awfully excited about the robots taking your job, Wolf." Jackal drawled. "How's it feel to be made obsolete?"

Wolf's smile was sharp, predatory. Like the creature that gave him his name. "You say obsolete. I see an army. And every army needs generals."

Dingo scoffed. "And who are you going to declare war on, big man? Canada?"

"If that's what the Shredder orders, then I'll see it done."

The bottom fell out of Michelangelo's stomach.

Jackal rolled his eyes. "Well, you can have Cornwall. Nobody wants it anyway."

Hyena gave him a shocked look. "We're from Cornwall, idiot."

"You just don't get it, do you?" Wolf shook his head with a scoff. "So shortsighted, so blinded by your petty diversions. Xanatos has given you fame. The Shredder has promised us glory. This world spins around the survival of the fittest. And the Foot Clan will do more than survive"

Hyena pinched her hand open and shut, mouthing silent mockeries as Wolf spoke. "Blah, blah, blah. I can't stand a man who's married to his career. If you hate this show so much, why'd you even join in the first place?"

Dingo raised one eyebrow, mustache twitching as he twisted up an intrigued frown. "You know, that's a fair question. You were a big screen name before we ever were. Why? Why would an assassin care about showbiz?"

Wolf went to his dressing stand, and sat down in the chair. He started wiping off his stage makeup with a moist towelette, eyes focused on his own features in the vanity mirror. "What do you know about ninjutsu?"

"Art of stealth." Dingo shrugged. "You kill, spy, and steal without getting caught."

Fox's door opened. No longer in costume, but no less dressed up, she sat down on the stool next to Wolf. She reclined against the laminated table on one elbow. She said to Dingo, "A ninja's greatest weapon is deceit. And an actor's greatest assets are connections. It's a natural extension of the art, using one to augment the other. That's the beautiful thing about espionage. Anyone can become a spy, because information can be found anywhere."

That wasn't right. Michelangelo had always been taught that a ninja's greatest weapon was hope.

"Spoken like a true ninja." Wolf said approvingly. "You were taught in the Koga-ryu school, I believe. Is that right, Fox?"

"I was." She nodded. "But I've always had a great deal of respect for the Foot Clan."

"Well, if you ever feel you want to enhance your career," Wolf tossed a towelette covered in foundation into the trash. "You know where to find me."

He drew another one from the pack, going over his hairline. He paused, squinting in the mirror. Without warning, he snatched up a pair of scissors from the dressing table, whirled around, and flung them at the coat rack in the corner!

Michelangelo yelped, knocking over the coat rack and coming tumbling out onto the floor!

Jackal and Hyena exchanged a look of shock. "Blimey!" Dingo cried out. "We're bein' invaded by martians!"

Michelangelo rolled up onto his knee, trying to get away. But he wasn't fast enough to dodge the hammer kick to the shell that knocked him chest-first back to the ground. Fox stood over him, glowing with a superior smile. "I think this is one of yours, Bradford. Do us a favor, and keep the green room clean for our hosts. A good actor never leaves a mess behind."

Michelangelo coughed, ears ringing. A thin red line had opened up on his arm, seeping blood. He felt a hand close over the outer ring of his shell, just behind his neck, hauling him to his feet. He cried out, struggling to get away. A hand closed around his throat, he felt his guts lurch as his feet left the ground.

Bradford's face leered up at him, stars and black snow tunneled his field of vision. He wrapped his hands around Bradford's wrists, trying to break the choke, kicking and squirming, but to no avail.

"So good of you to deliver yourself to us." Wolf's fingers tightened around his neck. "Once your shell is mounted on the Shredder's wall, I'll make sure to save room for three more."

"NOOO!"

Six heads looked up. The ceiling crashed around them, foam and insulation raining down on their heads. Wolf looked up in surprise, blinded by pink snow. He felt something like a whip connect with his cheek, vice-like claws peeling his hands apart. He coughed, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes.

The Pack coughed and gagged, covering mouths and eyes as fragments of fiberglass insulation filled the air, lurching out into the hallway. But they couldn't fill their lungs with clean air fast enough, couldn't react fast enough.

Wolf leaned against the white cinderblock wall, eyes burning and blinded. He snarled, driving a fist into the brick. He glared up at the hole in the ceiling, eyes red as cherry pits.

"I don't know where you are, but I know you can hear me!" He roared. "You can run, you might even hide, but you will never survive us! You hear me, Hamato scum?! You will never survive us!"

Raphael tapped his foot impatiently. He flipped open his phone, checking his messages. Nothing from Mikey. That was weird enough as it was. The entire reason why Mikey burned through his airtime so fast was because it was impossible to get him to shut up. 60 minutes of call time per month, with each 180-character text message costing a third of a minute, really wasn't much. But it didn't stop him from blowing up his phone with a story every time he had a chance.

From Mikey, silence–audible or digital–was a bad sign.

Finally, he heard it. The clang of a grappling hook, and the sound of scuffling up the side of the wall. He grumbled. "Took you long enough, bro. I was starting to get…" He trailed off. "Bro?"

Raphael clasped Michelangelo's hand, hauling him up to the roof. He looked like a mess. Covered in powdery pink insulation, eyes red and streaming with tears. There was a cut on his arm. It was a grim picture, but it was the tears that gave him pause. "You… you okay?"

Mikey nodded, but no words came out. Raphael put his hands on his brother's shoulders, studying his face carefully. Raph's brows furrowed under his mask. "Hey. Hey, hey, hey… Who did this to you?"

He shook his head, still saying nothing. But Raph boiled. Someone hurt his brother, someone had fucking hurt his baby brother. Raph slowly drew Michelangelo into a hug, patting him on the shell. "It's okay. You don't gotta say nothin'. It's okay. I'll find the guy that did this, and I'm gonna–"

Mikey squeezed him, and he shook his head. He buried his face in the crook of his brother's neck, and he trembled. Raph deflated. Big brother rage moved to the back burner, and was lowered to a simmer. Later. He'd kick the ass of whoever did this to him later. "Alright. You go on home, little brother. I'll be here when Lex and Broadway get here. I fixed dinner tonight, so help yourself."

Michelangelo nodded, numb. He slid back down the cable, only paying part of a mind's attention to stealth as he made his way back to the Lair. He texted Donatello, only three words.

at the lid.

The response was swift. He heard the sound of knuckles rapping on heavy iron. Michelangelo picked up the crowbar hidden in the overgrown weeds, and with Don's help, heaved the manhole cover open.

Don tried to ask how he was feeling. But as soon as he realized that Mikey wasn't in any mood to talk, he only put an arm over his shoulder and walked him back to the Lair. As soon as the door closed, and they'd both washed up by the shoe rack, Michelangelo vanished back to his room and wasn't heard from for the rest of the night.

Don stared at the paint-splattered drop cloth curtain that divided Michelangelo's room from the living room, and he sighed. He'd open up when he was ready. When someone as cheerful, bubbly, and personable as him demanded alone time, it was best to yield it now and ask questions later.

He returned to his own room and sat down on the plastic folding chair, scooting in to the salvage-wood desk. He liked to be organized, but it always devolved into a jumble when he was mid-project. The current project, he really had to be precise. There was no room for a mistake here. He'd hoped he could enlist Dr. Delicate Touch for this one, but clearly he wasn't feeling up to it.

He fed the disk into the CD Stomper, carefully lining up the printed sticker label. He paused when he heard someone scratching at the shower curtain that was his bedroom door. He slid the rubber duckie-printed plastic aside, rings jingling, and saw April standing there.

"Hey." He bobbed his head.

"Hey." She leaned against the door frame, handing him a grape popsicle. "Dinner's ready. We got meatloaf and veggies. Raph ate and dashed, so don't worry about starting without him."

"Thanks. Hey, Baxter's last day of school is tomorrow. Right?" Don asked, shifting uncomfortably on his feet. He started unwrapping the popsicle.

"Yeah…" April said slowly, peering at him from the corner of her eye. "Irma and I are bringing him cupcakes. Why?"

"Gimme a sec to finish this." He held up a finger. He popped the treat into his mouth and sat back down at his desk. April couldn't quite see what he was working on. She stood on tiptoe and craned her neck. She was trying to peer around his shell to see without inviting herself into his room, but couldn't quite make out what he was doing. He finally stood up, a vintage record album in his hand.

"Could you give this to him, tell him it's from me?" He held out the record to her.

The paper sleeve of the album was worn and faded, a little scratched in the corners. She picked it up, studying it. "You're giving him a Beatles album?"

"Not per se…" Don mumbled. "Look, I'm worried about him and I want to give him something. Just in case he needs help."

April held up the album, which happened to be titled 'Help!' "Is that a pun? Does Leo know you're stealing his jokes?"

"Can you just make sure he gets it? Please?"

April gave him a funny look. "Is it because Shredder hates the Beatles?"

"Partially, yeah." Don snorted, a flicker of a smile coming back into his face. "I know he won't mess with it."

April let the album dangle loosely in her hand. "I promise, Dee. I'll get it to him."

"You're my favorite human, April." He smiled with his eyes. "Thanks. Hey, one more thing?"

"Hm?"

"Could you save a plate for Mikey? I don't think he'll be eating with us tonight."

There was only silence in the young man's bedroom. The single lamp cast a warm light around a room wallpapered with posters. Ghoulish heavy metal stars, hockey champions, Broadway show posters, and comicbook heroes covered three of his walls. Along one wall were dozens and dozens of cracked and broken hockey masks, each one mounted to a plaque like a trophy. A cherry-red Stratocaster leaned on its stand next to an amp as big as a suitcase. Weeks-old clothes littered the floor, the air musty with the smell of unwashed gym clothes.

On the armchair in the corner was a rumpled blue jumpsuit. A patch with a name, stitched on in red cursive, proudly named the owner 'Jones, Junior Welding Technician'. On the table next to it was a textbook, nearly buried in piles of paper; 'New York State GED Study Guide.'

Casey Jones had fallen asleep on the sheetless mattress in the middle of his room, wearing only a pair of loose red sweatpants. A strand of drool dribbled out of the corner of his mouth as he snored quietly. Curled at his feet was a three-legged pitbull, his fur a dark gray with a white belly. One of his eyes was closed with a row of old scarred stitches.

Tap-tap-tap!

He startled awake, hand finding the 9-iron golf club he kept by his bedside, rolling out of bed and onto his feet in an instant! Tense, wild, ready to swing like he was about to send someone's head down the fairway. The dog sprang to his three feet, barking with a deep, resounding woof!

Casey paused. He lowered his golf club. "Oh, gimme a break!" He moaned.

"Hey!" Raph waved through his window. "How ya doin'?"

Casey rolled his eyes so hard that his face pointed up at the ceiling. "C'mon, man, it's my night off. I just got home from seeing my dad, and Mom's got chemo tomorrow."

"Ooh." Raph winced. "Jeez, I'm sorry. Is now a bad time?"

Casey opened the window. The one-eyed dog hopped up onto the bed, putting his single foreleg on the windowsill. He sniffed the air, whining until Raphael started petting his head.

"Nah, it's fine. Dad actually recognized me when I was in the memory care ward today. Nurse says he hasn't been that responsive in a…" Casey's eyes bugged out of his head. "...while…?"

Broadway and Lexington both gave Casey a sheepish wave. The three of them perched on the iron railing of his fire escape like three very awkwardly shaped crows on a fence.

The dog pulled himself fully out of the window, sniffing the gargoyles curiously. Broadway's eyes lit up. "Aww, you've got a puppy! You didn't tell me you liked dogs!" He exclaimed joyfully.

The dog leaned forward, giving the huge gargoyle an experimental sniff. He gave one single boof! and promptly decided that this weird guy was just as okay as the other four weird guys he knew. He buried his snout into his hand, looking for affection. Broadway beamed, stroking the dog's face with his thumbs and cooing adoring nonsense. Frankenstein, for his part, looked incredibly happy with this.

"Casey," Raph gestured to the other two. "I'd like ya to re-meet Lexington and Broadway."

Casey gave them a very long, silent look of exhausted confusion. He sighed, shouldering the nine-iron, begrudgingly rubbing the crusty sleep out of his eyes. He felt like this was going to lead to a very long, complicated explanation.

He crawled back inside his room, fished a shirt off his floor–a Rocky Horror Picture Show t-shirt, its graphic cracked and peeling–and tugged it on. "I'll go get my coat." He said resignedly.

"You're a champ!" Raph gave him a crooked grin.

"Fuckin' A, man." Casey groaned.