Ninja Turtles 1. Chapter 1

**Author Note: **It's been a while folks, but I'm back with a new story. This is a crossover between The Crow and TMNT. If you've never seen or read The Crow, don't worry - there are no new characters to contend with, this is a story based on the premise of the comics and film.

And for the warnings; as befitting the premise, this story contains humongous amounts of blood, gore, character death, angst, torture, potty language, implied drug and alcohol abuse, implied adult situations and plenty of other stuff that could make the children and the sensitive shudder. If you think this appllies to you, do us all a favour and click away now rather than sending me agitated mails.

The first chapter is a T, but I'll be shifting the rating up next chapter. This is shameless whoring for readers on my part.

**&**

_People once believed that when someone dies a crow carries their soul to the land of the dead. But sometimes something so bad happens that a terrible sadness is carried with it, and the soul can't rest. Then sometimes, just sometimes, the crow can bring that soul back to put the wrong things right..._

**&**

In the streets of New York City, the rain comes down in a dispirited downpour, as if it plans on raining for a very long time. The streets are dark and empty, the street lights seeming to barely pierce the gloom, serving only to emphasise the darkness rather than alleviate it. Rain drips from guttering and swirls into the drains and sewers, taken down below where nothing of importance lives.

Below the streets, in the sewer, it is dark. The weak light from above does not penetrate far into the darkness that mere feet from the few openings becomes total. The creatures that live here prefer the dark. The dark is known to them, the rats and roaches; things that are not welcome in the world above have always been able to find a home below.

In the dark, it is quiet.

Silent.

Not silent, not entirely. The sound of rain as it pours in some places, drips in others. The stirring of water is quiet throughout, but there. The squeaks and scuttling of small creatures as they move through the blackness can be heard, were there anyone here to hear it. In the dark, nameless things crawl through the dirt.

Below the streets, in the dark, something stirs

In the quiet, something scratches, scratches, scratches slowly. In the dark, where there is no one to hear.

Below the streets, there are secrets. Mysteries. Answers to questions that have been half-formed in the consciousness of those who care to ask. No one can hear the scratch, scratch as they lurk beneath. No one wants to know the answers; too few even knew there was a question to be asked.

In the upper levels of the sewers, the rain water rushes and gurgles, muted against the thick stone but audible, were there only ears to hear. But no one could stand to be down here for long. The workers who maintain the systems go about their business as quickly as they can and leave, back up to the air and sunlight, glad to be gone. No one would want to be down there, not voluntarily and none of them linger once the work is complete. They would not wish to be lost down there.

It has happened before.

On the lower levels of the sewers are tunnels which have long since been forgotten, where water creeps sluggishly in through the walls and drains slowly from the ceiling. The water does not make as much sound here, does not have the energy which that above is carried with. Far from warmth and sunlight, a stagnant pool may lie for weeks, months, longer, motion spent and nothing that would evaporate it, growing stagnant, colour indistinguishable in the dark.

The lower levels are dryer than those above, but still dank, still cold. Still dark. No crack of light permeates these depths.

In the dark, sounds are rare. In the dark, sound brings curious creatures, hungry to eat.

In the dark, something moves.

Something scratches.

In the dark of the deepest part of the sewer, there are signs that someone has been here. There is a spot, an indentation which might have once been there for run-off before the new sewers were built atop it. Now it has been made level with the rest of the tunnel, filled in with soil and covered in dirt.

There is a marker, wooden, rotting gently in the dark. A solid piece of pine that might once have been a part of some much larger structure, ornate glory invisible in the black tunnel and any marking that might have been added unseen. Hidden where no one can see it, looming over a hole filled with dirt.

Leaning on the marker is more wood, a walking stick, placed reverentially and now seemingly forgotten. The filth that lurks has coated both stick and marker would make it seem as if they were part of each other, were a sudden light to be shone. The stick is not as sturdy as the wood on which it leans and will become spongy and mouldy first, falling into ruin.

Atop the marker lie far more delicate strips of fabric, dyed in bright hues which are turning grey down here. If they could be seen, it would be difficult to determine what colours they had been before they were abandoned in the dark, to envisage what they might have been in the light. There is no breeze to disturb them and they have been given minimal attention by the creatures that might have carried them off to line nests. The creatures do not search out their comforts down here.

Atop the soil lies the remnants of flowers, bought above, wrapped in cellophane and brought down to die in the dark. The petals had long since withered, the plants falling apart and only their wrappers remaining, neglected, forgotten.

Beneath the dust, the soil.

Scratch, scratch.

In the darkness, a sound.

For the first time in a long, long time, the dirt moves.

Soil drifts atop the mound, floating down, soft. Insects pause in their endeavours, scuttling away from the sound. Rodents pause, ears pressed flat against their skulls, waiting for what came next.

Scratch.

Beneath the streets, in the dark, fingers scratched. Skin peels from bone, raw and bloodied stumps scrabbling, seeking light.

Scratch.

The earth moves.

The earth bulges, soil rippling.

Scratch, scratch, scratch.

The tunnel is dark and those things that make it their home should not have to rely on vision. The insects and the rodents do not need sight and can manage quite nicely without.

Air moves further down the sewer tunnel. In the dark, something new has come.

It is impossible. Although there are ways for birds to get beneath the streets, birds are creatures that crave air and space, not the dank, enclosed, tomb-like atmosphere of the sewer. And yet there is one down here, its spread wings almost touching the walls at either side. It glides, flapping its wings only when momentum implies it is about to go too low, unerringly avoiding all obstacles.

In the dark, the bird should have flown into a wall and dashed its brains out against unforgiving stone. Yet it navigates the turns with ease, never going too high or too low. Its feathers are as black as the midnight tunnel around it, eyes the same colour, even its beak. It glides, at one with the darkness, parting the air significantly for the first time in too long, leaving the creatures in its wake twitching with nerves.

It should not be here.

Beneath the streets, in the dark, it lands on the marker, talons digging into the strips of cloth without dislodging them, knowing just where to perch although it cannot possibly see anything. It pays no heed to the fabric, no interest in them at all.

It sits, head tilted to one side, eerily still.

It waits.

The earth before the marker falls back, leaving an indentation that was not there before. It heaves out again, pausing, falling back, as if it were a lung struggling for air, as if something beneath the ground has come to life.

And then it stops.

In the dark, the loudest sound of all is the silence.

The crow caws.

The sound echoes through the tunnels, sending vermin running for cover. It echoes, breaking the quiet, echoes tonelessly beneath the streets, where there is no one left to hear.

The dark may hold sway, but the silence is shattered.

The ground _heaves_, bulging like some tenuous membrane before showering in several directions, disgorging its contents. A figure breaks through the soil, as if the very earth has rejected him, falling forward onto hands that are slicked with blood from their struggles, their scratching.

Beneath the streets, in the dark, he takes his first gasp of air.

His heart. He had not been aware of his heart beneath the dirt. Now it thunders, as if it is outside his body, some creature with heavy tread coming for him.

His first gulp of air brings pain.

The air beneath the streets is thick, somehow oily, unused. It is not fresh. He sucks it in anyway; greedy for it, feeling that he can never get enough, in spite of the pain his expanding lungs give him. He holds it, never wanting to let it go again, but can do so for a mere second before it escapes his body in an agonised gasp.

As soon as it is gone, he sucks in another. A third. These are easier and he continues to breathe in, out, in, out, until he can rid himself of the shaking sensation of suffocation.

The pain recedes.

Breathing heavily but no longer concerned about running out of air, he blinks. He sees nothing. Down here, it is dark and there is no way for his eyes to adjust to the total inky black.

His hands are covered in some gritty substance he realises, dirt or something. He clenches his fingers to be almost a fist, feeling the way his hands manipulate the matter. He expects pain. There was pain, a lot of it, while he scratched at the earth...

But that memory is hazy, although it has to be recent.

He lifts his hands to his face, although he cannot see them, flexes them again. There is no pain. Runs his thumbs over the digits, feels nothing but solid, uninjured flesh.

He struggles for understanding but there is nothing.

He looks around himself, panic bubbling near the surface. He remembers nothing. Not how he got here, or indeed where _here_ may be. All he knows is that he is in the dark.

Alone in the dark.

Mired in silence, alone in the dark.

The crow caws.

He cries out, tries to turn, his legs still in the hole where he had been lying, almost tangling up. He knows this – this _fear_, this free-floating _fear_, is not like him, but he cannot say why not.

The bird regards him dispassionately.

He cannot see it, in the dark, but he can feel its eyes upon him, can hear the ruffling of its feathers enough to guess at its genus. He reaches out, knowing he probably should not even as he does, knowing that the bird will probably peck at him, but unable to think of anything else to do. Something he almost recognises as logic tell him that judging by the whereabouts of the sound, it is either an improbably large bird or it is perched on something, something that might help him find his way home.

He puts a hand on the marker and although his skin brushes the bird's talons, it does not move, does not even flinch. Disregarding the bird, he uses the marker to pull himself to his feet. Once upon a time, he was stronger, did not need help like this – but those memories elude him and he accepts the aid.

The effort takes a lot out of him and he pauses for breath – and yet, he feels stronger than he did mere minutes ago when he had barely been able to catch air. The – perch – is something wooden and he has time to wonder what it could be, left here in the dark.

Those answers will come to him.

In the dark, he closes his eyes and takes stock. His mind is not a blank. More, it is as if someone has drawn a veil across his memories, which are fighting to escape. He can sense the shape of them, taste them on his tongue. He knows they will come to him, given time.

He does not want to be _here_ when they do.

The shapes he sees are twisted and terrifying. They taste metallic, of copper, they smell of blood. He does not want to be down here, in the dark, when they break through.

He does not want to remember them at all.

He does not want to be here.

The crow caws, rises from the marker. Its wings brush his face as it leaves and he cringes away. He can never remember a bird down here before...

_Down here._ A memory almost surfaces, sinks again.

He has to get out.

As his hand brushes the top of the wood, he feels something soft against his fingers. Familiar, yet alien. Changed.

After a brief hesitation, he grabs for the fabrics and carries them in his hand as he takes after the direction he thinks the bird went in. But it is dark, dark. His heart pounds, counting off the seconds, marking the time he spends here.

His fingers play with the fabric, gripped tightly in his hands, but his thoughts are carefully blank. He walks, not knowing or caring where he is going as long as he is gone, away from this dark place. Unseeing, tired, he stumbles over obstacles in his path, walks into walls, falls and wonders if he should just stay in the place he lays.

And yet he gets back to his feet and stumbles on. Quitting is not in his nature.

He wonders just how he knows _that_, when he seems to know so little else.

Once or twice, a thought occurs to him. That he is lost, beneath the streets, in the dark. That there is no reason for him to keep going, no reason at all. He is lost.

Lost. Alone. Beneath the streets, in the dark.

And whenever that thought occurs to him, he hears the sound of the bird ahead of him, calling, as if it knows his thoughts and is pulling him in the direction he is supposed to go in.

And he follows, because there is nothing else left for him to do.

He follows, because it is either that or be left here.

Alone.

Beneath the streets.

In the dark.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author Note: **Thanks for the reviews! As always, they are much appreciated. Hope you enjoy the next chapter! This is the longest one, so grab yourself a drink or whatever before you begin. And be warned; it also contains a lot of potty mouth and extreme senseless violence. I've raised the rating for a reason, please do not read if you think these things might upset or offend you.

**&**

A light. Ahead.

It has been growing lighter so gradually that in his distressed state, he has barely noticed. But as soon as he accepts the change, he realises he has been able to stagger out of the way of debris, to catch the wall with his hand and lean on it instead of walk face-first into it.

The bird croaks, as if confirming his thoughts.

The tunnel is still a tunnel, long abandoned by human agents. And yet, it is somehow familiar. He feels as though he has been here many times before, yet the memory does not seem unpleasant. Not unpleasant – but old, as if there is some gap of time that has passed since his last time here and whatever it was that he can not bring himself to recall.

He stumbles toward the light.

The fabric he has picked up brushes against his leg and yet he does not look down, suddenly superstitiously afraid to. He does not know what it was he has picked up before and finding out now, before he is safe, would break some good luck streak. He knows that he has never found merit in such thoughts before, but a part of him thinks that if he can ignore the implications of those threads until he is in the light, then everything will be alright.

_How can there be light down here?_

He finds that he doesn't care about the _how_, just as long as there _is_.

He thinks of the admonishment given to children the world over by their well-meaning parents; _there is nothing there in the dark that is not there in the light._

It is a lie. An unconscious lie, because those who preach it have never found anything lurking in the dark for them, but a lie nevertheless. In the dark, there is fear, the monsters the mind brings to life that might have been there all along, but do not strike until they cannot be seen. He, as ninja, knows that well.

_Ninja_. Another memory.

_Not here!_

The light comes from a chamber, a door that should not have been open left wide. Approaching it, he is filled with a nameless dread. He approached this door before, with that same emotion. And that time, just as this, he knew that something had gone horribly, horribly wrong...

Gathering his nerves, he steps into the chamber.

His first thought is fleeting, taking in just how huge the space is.

_I thought that the first time._

But he does not recall the first time right now. Not at all.

The thoughts of size are banished by the sight of devastation before him. It is as if someone has been through here, deliberately destroying everything within. The most noticeable is what looks like some huge robotic structure, scorched and scattered, some great internal heat throwing it apart.

_Foot..._

The thought makes no sense.

He glances around further, realising that this had been a dwelling for someone before the robot, before the destruction. That chairs and television sets and ornamentation have been casually trashed.

Who could live beneath the streets?

_This room here? Mine! And where you're standing? Also mine!_

The voice seems to echo through the chamber and he looks around, trying to find its source. It takes him several moments to realise that the voice came not from without, but within. A memory, so real it intrudes on the present.

_This has always been a place of light. _

The thought is his own and he does not dismiss it. Instead, he examines his surroundings more carefully. There is electricity down here and someone has left it on, lit dimly, perhaps to be able to see once closing in on the area.

But who would want to come back to this place?

He shakes his head. Questions, questions with no immediate answers. Just the ruins of what may have been a home and a light that should not be here.

Unbidden, he raises his head and sees the bird that had been seemingly leading him all this time. A huge, black creature, black eyes, black beak. It sits perched on a railing above the main area, beside what seems to be a door in the shadows, staring at him.

He meets its gaze.

And suddenly, it is as if he is taken away from his own body, his own perspective. Instead, he can see through the black and white world of the bird, see his own face, wide eyed and covered in dirt, see the dark streaks across his arms that might have been mud or blood or magic fucking marker for all the colour spectrum tells him.

He is replaced by two figures of what seem to be a man and a woman in the dim light and the black and white view. They stand right where he is standing, and yet there is a quality to the sight of himself through the bird's vision that is lacking when he sees the humans. It is more like watching a television than seeing through real eyes.

He knows that the pair are not with him now and instinctively realises that this is something that has happened, something that was once real and is now memory.

"_I won't turn off the lights."_

"_Why not? It's not like – well, y'know. Like anyone'll ever be here again."_

"_I know! But – but..."_

_A moment passed between them, one that should have been broken by them offering comfort to each other but instead seemed to be the awkward interaction of two complete strangers._

"_As long as the light is on, they might come home. I know they can't – but I can't bring myself to say goodbye. Not like this, not right now. To shut it all off and leave..."_

"_This isn't where they lived."_

"_Not lately, but – this is home. This is where we were a family. I can't just switch the light off on that."_

"She_ knows where it is."_

"_She won't care, once she realises that they're all gone."_

_A nod. "If it makes you feel better."_

_They walk out, not touching. The lights stay on. _

_And the voice carried back to the lair. "I still don't feel any better..."_

He wrenches his gaze away from the crows, squeezing his eyes closed. Answers to the trivial question about the lights, not about the major ones, why he is here, what is happening.

Who he is.

His hand grips the fabric and he finds he still dare not look.

Instead, he makes his way toward the crow, until he is stands beneath it, then leaps. Effortlessly, he grasps the ledge and swings himself onto the catwalk. It does not occur to him that this is beyond what should be normal.

The crow sits.

Waiting.

Watching.

He walks into the first room, the one that the bird perches outside.

It might once have been some kind of bedroom he decides. There are a few books, now scorched and torn and scattered across the floor. Unidentifiable material across the floor, trodden underfoot. A puddle of fabric on the floor, a sheet, a pillow.

And beneath it, canvas. There was no bed here; the covers had been set across something else.

_Hammock._

_I bet you fall out of that every single night._

_You mean you hope I do._

He presses his hands into the sides of his head, wondering if there is any way to stop the random memories that attack him.

Something catches his eye, the fabric which he has been too superstitious to look at before.

He brings his hand before his face and stares for the first time at the four strips of fabric, greying and rotting. Red. Orange. Purple. Blue. He can tell from the vague patches which have retained their colour...

_He had never intended to lead them into a trap, but that was just what he had done._

_The four of them are trussed to a bench against a wall, hands and legs immobile. They have all tussled with the bonds and found them to be seemingly impenetrable. Not so much the knots, but the material, a thin wire that slices them to pieces. Rope, they could have been out of in moments, but the wire is killing them every time they move, cutting into tendon and muscle. Better to stay still and take their next best chance._

He stiffens, every muscle in his body going rigid as memory floods back.

_There are four guys in the room, four guys they could easily fight their way through if not for the wire slicing into them and causing them too much blood loss for a serious fight._

_The one guy, obviously the leader, was movie star handsome, dark hair curling over his collar, dark eyes, regarding them, tall and not overly ripped. But that guy stays back while the others play._

"_Little green men." A man regards them curiously, not seeming exactly sober. His eyes twinkle with good humour and all four of them are aware of how many weapons he could hold beneath his leather trench coat. The dude is at least six-five, but skinny rather than built, the coat seemingly made for someone far shorter._

"_No way Mongo." The second guy puts his face right in Mikey's, examining the turtle that for once, has nothing to say. His shirt is open almost from the waist, revealing his muscular torso beneath, and knives hang from either side of his belt. He also wears a waistcoat, far bulkier than the body beneath should have allowed. "From some Godforsaken jungle we ain't heard of yet."_

"_Nah," says the third, a filthy little man whose hair grows in listless patches and whose teeth might have last seen a dentist sometime around his fourth birthday. "No hidden tribes Long John, no matter what you think. These are home grown. One of the CIA secret weapons."_

_Raphael snaps. He had always had trouble keeping a lid on his temper and no matter how much work he had done to get on top of it; his mouth is like a half-tamed horse, ready to bolt at any moment. "Hey, jackoff. Let me loose and I'll show ya a REAL secret weapon!"_

_Mongo pulls a gun from the confines of his jacket in one easy movement, presses the butt against Raph's head. Raph growls, unafraid. He has enough knowledge of villains to know that they don't imprison others just to blow them away._

"_Boss, he's too loud!"_

_The head guy nods. "Fine. Kill him."_

_Before anyone can do anything, say anything, Mongo pulls the trigger._

His head slams back, remembering the impact, remembering the smell of smoke, the way the echo had reverberated through the room.

Remembering everything.

_Raph's head jerks back, smacking against the wall with a solid thud. At the same time, a spray of blood spatters against the wall, interspersed with chunks of pink and grey matter, making what could have been outsider art across the stones._

_Raph's head slumps forward, face barely marred, save for a neat little hole between his eyes. _

His head drops forward, as if all the muscles in his neck have failed, taking a step backward and almost tripping over his own feet.

_Mikey screams._

_Not the scream he reserves for times of shock, when he has been taken by surprise, the one they all tease him about. This is a scream of fury, of pain, of rage. Mikey knows Raph is gone before their brothers can clear the possibility through their brain. _

"_Chickenshit FUCKS!"_

_No one had ever heard Mike use curse words so freely before, usually saving the casual expletives for his red-banded brother, but with the tears that coursed down his face, he gains a vulgar eloquence. He strains against the wire, no doubt slicing himself to ribbons, spewing hate at his captors._

"_Cowards! Cowardly streaks of piss! I'll KILL YOU! Too fucking scared to fight us fair, you fucking chickenshit assholes, I'll rip a hole in your stomachs and shit in it, I'll torch your corpses and – and – I'LL STRANGLE YOU WITH YOUR OWN INTESTINES YOU FUCKING MURDERING BASTARDS!!"_

_The boss regards him with a bored nonchalance. "Good idea freak. Long John, would you mind?"_

"_Sure."_

_Long John steps forward, twisting his walking stick and revealing a long sword within. Even as Mike spews curses, he pulls his hand back and drives it forward, hard, right into Mike's stomach._

"_It's tough, " he complains, sword caught between the scutes of Mike's plastron. He shoves harder, working the blade in small sawing motions until it goes through into the soft, yielding flesh below. _

He gives an inarticulate cry, part rage and part desperate sorrow, putting his hands to the lower part of his plastron and holding tight, as if to stem an injury that is not there.

_This time, Mikey doesn't scream._

_He gasps, the note of surprise clearly audible in spite of the pain hidden in the exhalation. He jerks back as far back as the wall and the bonds will allow him to go. His eyes are wide, teeth bared in a snarl, but he still refuses to make a sound._

He stumbles as he backs up, not noticing, moaning as he does so, not seeing the room before him, seeing only the blood and the pain.

The crow watches impassively.

_It seems to take Mikey a long time to die._

_His pain is obvious; in spite of the silence he has chosen to bear it in, his pained breathing as the sword levers upward, slicing through the protection of his plastron, the spill of blood coming from his stomach, blood oozing from his mouth. _

_So much blood._

_At the end, his intestines fall from his body in bloody ropes and he gives a high-pitched sound before slumping forward, held up by the wire and beyond caring how it digs into his skin. _

"_Gross-a-rama," says Mongo, eerily reminiscent of Mikey during his childhood when the term had been his favourite expression of distaste._

_Donnie and Leo allow their eyes to meet. Leo's face is a mask of fury, a declaration of his intent. But Donnie is the one who is in tears. The hope seems to have left him and it is the absence of it that his brother sees most clearly._

_Long John takes a step away from their mutilated brother, slips in the blood and nearly falls on his ass. Mongo gives a giggle, stupidly amused, although Long John has managed to avoid landing in the gore._

"_Shit." Long John glares at Mongo, the tall man not noticing in his amusement. _

"_Y'know, we should save all this shit," says the man with the bad teeth, indicating to Mike's innards. "CIA don't want everyone to know how they make their freaks."_

"_Shit Capp, you and the CIA." Mongo sounds bored by the whole thing. "Innards look just the same as anyone's. It's the brain you wanna keep."_

"_Well then." Capp steps forward, withdrawing a wicked-looking knife of his own. "Let's get us a brain of our own."_

_He approaches Donatello, pulls the knife across the top of his head. A thin trail of blood appears and Don goes rigid, unable to escape and not sure how, where his chance would come from._

_Leo goes crazy. _

_He throws himself to the side, trying to free himself of the bonds that tie him, mindless of the way it tears at his skin. _

_Long John puts his hand atop Leo's head, stilling him right away. Leo meets his eyes, bright hatred meeting good humour._

"_Don't be so anxious," Mongo says gently. "It'll soon be your turn."_

_Capp saws at Donnie's head, the turtle moaning, crying, as the agony gets the better of him. _

"_You sure as shit ain't no surgeon Cap," says the boss, amused._

"_Hey, I saw all this on a documentary. They do this to monkeys, saw off their heads and eat the brains."_

_Long John made puking sounds._

"_I ain't gonna _eat_ the brains! I just wanna get the brain _out_. Gotta be worth something."_

_He manages to get the blade all the way through Don's head, taking off the top as easily as cracking a boiled egg, if not as neatly. By the time he is done, Don's face is obscured by blood, his intermittent cries weakening._

He cries out, clutching his head in both hands.

_But the top of his head is removed before he is granted the mercy of death._

"_Told ya!" Capp chuckles to himself. "We could get big money to keep this brain a secret..."_

_Mongo pushes past, pulling out a switch blade and flicking it open. He drops his hand into the shell of Donnie's head before Capp can stop him._

He screams, the sound lost and afraid, batting away the ghost of the intruding hands above his own head.

_Mongo flicks his wrist lazily and his left hand dives into Don's cranium, pulling out something pink, a thin sliver._

"_Brainssss..." he grins, shoving the piece into his mouth._

"_Guh-ROSSSSS!" screams Long John._

"_EEWWGG!" adds Mongo, spitting across the floor. "Tastes all drippy. Like meat-flavoured gum or something."_

_Donnie was stiff, all his muscles locked. It told Leo that he was still alive. _

_But he couldn't see his brothers face because of the blood._

"_Great Mongo," snaps Capp. "The CIA ain't gonna pay us for the brain if you've gone and chewed on it!"_

"_Fuck the CIA," mutters Mongo. "These freaks ain't their work."_

"_Might as well get rid of it now," growls Capp, taking the knife he used to remove the top of Don's head and slamming it in a downward motion, deep into the brain._

He screams.

_Don's limbs flop, the severing of his life so sudden that Leo can barely believe he has witnessed what he has._

_And now he is the only one left._

He screams.

_The four gather around him, careful not to slip on Mike's blood, not even looking at the fragile corpses of the lives they have taken._

_Leo glares at them. He is beyond grief, beyond rage. He has one thought on his mind, the thought that all the people before him must die. They must, before they could take any one else, destroy anyone else._

_Like they have destroyed his brothers._

_Like they have destroyed him._

"_I will kill you."_

_The boss smiles at him, almost tender in his understanding. "How?"_

_They fall upon him._

He screams.

He staggers backward, hitting the rail that is supposed to stop him going too far and falling over it. As he plummets to the floor, he is convinced that his life is over and is absurdly grateful. He does not want to remain in this world, not in a place where humans can do the things he has been witness to.

He crashes among the remains of the robot, the sharp metal slicing into his skin. He lies among the debris and howls his anguish. He screams until his throat burns and his voice is barely more than a croak.

The crow watches.

He has fallen far; the twisted metal has cut him deep. In some way, he hopes that the steel has injured him enough to kill him, to let out his blood until he does not have enough to keep him moving, for this torment to be over.

His tears finally stops and he picks up his arms, thinking to examine the wounds and seeing how long he has left, how soon it will be before he can be in eternity and free of this anguish.

The metal has sliced him, he sees, probably mortally – a wicked shard has sliced his entire arm along the vein, the one that the true suicide chasers open. And yet he is still here.

As he watches, the skin knits back together.

He stares.

The skin goes from open wound to mild scratch, to scar. As he watches, the scar goes from serious, to noticeable, to memory, to nothing. He is as intact as before he fell.

He rises, the fear beginning to ebb, replaced by something else.

His brothers had been slain before him, by monsters that he had sworn his vengeance on. And he had died before he could carry out his promise.

But somehow, some way, he is back.

He has to find those men. He has to find them and stop them; because he knows that he and his brothers were just another statistic in a long line of ruined lives that these men had ruined and will continue to ruin as long as they breathe.

But now he has his fractured memories, things that might just be able to help him find the men who did this to them. He has the knowledge that there is no coincidence to his – resurrection – because such randomness seems inconceivable to him; he is here to right a wrong. He has a thirst for vengeance so strong he can taste it.

And he seems to be invulnerable.

The crow caws, apparently in approval and he amends his list; he also has the bird, some kind of psychic connection to it he surmises, based on his ability to unerringly follow it through the dark to the lair and the way he has been able to see through its eyes. Whatever brought him back here, he knows beyond doubt that the crow is a part of it.

Revenge is first. Whatever happens afterwards – well, he does not care.

His weapons are not with him, he has to assume that they are lost to him. But he does not doubt that he can find more even around this place abandoned even before death. Their family had hoarded weapons in the same way that other families collected photographs and proudly displayed schoolwork.

He looks up at the crow, exercises his speech for the first time. "It's a good night to go hunting."

The crows cry echoes around the empty chamber as it takes flight. The turtle watches it, eyes grim but his mouth set in what might have been a smile.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author Note: **Hey! Been a while I know - I moved house, which was an arseache and getting back online took just about forever. But now life is stable again, time to get this train a-rollin' again! Check out the warnings in the first chapter and keep them in mind; it's rated M for a reason folks. And let me know what you liked, hated, ect, by hitting the review button and letting me know on the way out!

**&**

Mong is running late, but then again, he usually is. He blames it on his lifestyle, being awake all night and having to get his eight hours somewhere. It's partly true; his lifestyle is to blame, but not the late hours he keeps.

He woke at 2pm today, rolling over in bed for the mineral water he keeps beside the bed. By the time he can be bothered to move, it is gone three. He rolls over to the fridge, pulls out a beer, lights a joint. Breakfast of champions.

He takes care of food the way he usually does, plans to grab something on his way to the bar. By that time he will be ravenous, but he does not want to go out and get food, nor was there anything in his cramped apartment he could reasonably eat. Instead, he turns on the TV, smokes some more, drinks some more.

By the time the evening rolls around, he is nicely toasted. Shrugging on his battered leather trenchcoat, the one he wears all the time, he leaves the apartment.

His car is an old chevy, one that passes below the radar of most cops, if he is careful. He climbs inside, already several minutes late, content in the knowledge that he will soon be at the bar and hanging with his compadres. He turns on the radio, getting the top ten from when-the-fuck-ever. The first song reminds him of being a child and his now-dead elder sister getting ready for a night out. She would have been too young to go clubbing, not too young to go get drunk and find a good time. She used to sing them as she put on her make-up in the mirror, letting him watch on the understanding he didn't bug her too much, making him eagerly anticipate the day he too was old enough to go out with his friends and experience the mysterious but obviously awesome advantages of being a teenager.

He leaves it on.

Mong drives carefully, maybe too carefully. He does not want to get arrested, although he knows he will not be detained if he is – he may not look like a guy with connections, but he has them, yes indeed. But the whole thing would be a drag and he wants to get to the bar and hang out for a while.

He has big plans. They have no reason to pull a job tonight, in the money after the hit three nights ago. Instead, they will drink and party. After midnight everyone will drift off, and he may go with them, although he has been fucking the girl behind the bar and may slip her another one tonight. She has been wearing the bruises of a jealous husband of late, but he does not care as long as she can put out and told her that if it is such a big deal, her man can speak with him. Her man doesn't have the balls, big surprise, but can still take it out on her.

And why would he care? A fuck is a fuck is a fuck.

Only, he has to get there first.

Concentrating, Mong starts the car and drives in the direction of the club. It is dark and the lights barely penetrate the streets. On top of that, he becomes victim to a surge of paranoia. He gets them often and never ignores them. His friends say it is the drugs. He says it is a streak of healthy self-interest and always listens.

He decides to take the back streets to the club.

He eases along the alleys in the chevy, the music calming him. If it takes a little longer for him to get there, so what? They will still be waiting for him.

He guides the car into an alley which is darker than the others, thanks to a broken street light. But his own headlights put paid to that...

A bird lands on his hood.

He gives a squalk, putting on the brakes. The damn thing totally obscures his vision from the windscreen, making driving impossible.

He hits the brakes, thinking that the jolt will shake the bird loose. It doesn't.

The car comes to a stop, the bird still on the hood, seeming to glare at him.

_This is fucking dumb_, he tells himself, laying on the horn. That should scare the little shit away from the car.

The bird is unaffected by the sound, not even moving.

"Fuck," he mutters, slamming the car door open, not bothering to kill the engine. The damn bird stays sat on his hood, as if loud noises and movements don't startle birds, everyone knows noises startle birds, so why is it still there?

"Get out!" he snarls, swinging both arms at the bird. It hops out of his reach, flapping its wings and landing on the roof of the car.

Mong is getting seriously pissed off.

"Get off!"

He swings at the bird, unable to reach it from where he stands. It regards him, black eyes impassive.

Mong glares at the bird, wondering what he should do. Then he decides that it will fly away when he drives. He should get going.

"Fuck you."

He takes a step back toward the driver door, still open, the engine still running.

The crow flies, landing on the broken streetlight.

"Damn straight," he mutters.

Something else lands on the roof.

The roof of the car _caves_ as something far heavier than a bird falls upon it. Mong let his mouth hinge open as the figure lands, feet hitting the roof and doing the initial damage, one hand resting on the roof a second later to cushion the impact further and brace against the shock. No doubt, that fucker was _dead._

"Hey! _Hey!_ What you doing?"

The figure has landed on two feet with a single hand on the roof. But the other hand is reaching behind its head, as if going for something on its back.

"That's _my car_, you shithead!"

He sees the figure before him and has no fear – he is the biggest, baddest muthafucker around these parts, why would he worry? Yet, as it straightens up, he feels a trickle of unease down his spine.

The figure stands, its perch atop the car meaning it is taller than he.

It is not tall though. It is wide, built. Although it is in shadow and the cars headlights are screwing with Mong's vision, he can feel its eyes boring into him as if he is a bug beneath a microscope.

It is freaking him out.

It straightens up and looks at him, a suggestion of teeth in the darkness indicating a grin on its face. Or a snarl. And then it pulls the hidden hand from behind its back.

A sword is in its grasp.

"Whoa, fuck." Mong is not dumb, knows when to back away. "I ain't up for this shit."

The figure regards him, seemingly curious.

And suddenly, Mong knows where he has seen that outline before. He knows why that stance seems familiar.

He knows.

He knows he is in deep shit.

"Look." He spreads his arms wide, a gesture of submission. "I didn't know. I just follow orders. You wouldn't hurt a guy for dong his job, right?"

The figures arm seems to blur and suddenly, a sword is growing out of Mong's hand.

He opens his mouth to scream. A hand swallows his voice before it can be aired.

A face is in his; green and angry, demanding answers.

"_Talk."_

Mong widens his eyes . He has seen that face, that expression before. But it isn't possible. It just isn't.

He has seen that face before, covered in blood. Those eyes, with the light robbed from them. Those features, slack and dead.

"Not talking?" The voice from the stranger is regretful. "Let me help you – I'll even choose the topic."

Mong's hand is fire, his stomach a knot of fear. He doesn't see what use talking will do or what the creature could want to know. If it has lived through that night, then surely it already knows...

And it was _dead._

But maybe it hadn't been dead. It wasn't human, how did they know for sure that the signs of death they were used to applied to this creature?

No. It had been _dead_. Nothing could live through what had been done to it that night, no matter how alien it was.

The creature grabs him by the neck of his leather trench coat and slams him roughly back into the wall. "A night, one year ago. You remember me? My _brothers_?"

Mong nods and then finds he can't stop. His head has taken on a life of its own, bobbing up and down in desperation.

Another slam against the wall opens up a cut in the back of his scalp and stops his frantic nods. The creature grins at him. It is terrifying.

"And I was afraid you'd forgotten." The voice is softly mocking, the anger in it coated in sarcasm. "You weren't alone. I want their names and I want to know how to find them. Tonight."

Mong moans deep in his throat. "I can't man, they're my brothers – I can't give them up, they'll kill me..."

A whisper of a laugh. "They won't kill you. They won't get the chance."

Suddenly, Mong's submissiveness breaks. He is still afraid, but he is also righteously pissed off. Who is this freak to tell him what he will or will not do?

"Fuck you," he snarls. "I ain't telling you shit. They'll find you and kill your freak ass dead as shit all over again. Ain't nothing you can do to make me tell. _Nothin_." And he spits a wad of phlegm directly into the face of his captor.

From atop the broken streetlight, the bird cries out.

The creature doesn't make a move to wipe the mess from his face, but makes some soft sound. After a second, Mong recognises the sound as laughter.

"Nothing, huh?"

The headlights from the car are the only illumination in the alley, the weakening sounds Mong makes punctuated by the muted rumble of the car engine, the rustling of feathers and the hoarse caw of the crow.

It turned out there was something that could persuade Mong to tell what he knew after all.

&&&&&&&

The man in the mask is the first person to happen across the scene.

It is the car that attracts his attention, the engine running and the door wide open but no sign of anyone around, not even ducked into the shadows taking a leak or spending twenty bucks on some girl and trying not to mess the chevy's upholstery. Curious, he glances into the car, well aware this could be some kind of trap and any minute two or three big guys could try to jump him. But there is no movement and the alley feels devoid of life.

The inside of the car gives away nothing. There is no purse on the seat to suggest some poor woman was hijacked and ripped from the vehicle, in fact the interior suggests that some bachelor guy is the cars owner, empty beer bottles on the floor and an overflowing ashtray. The man in the mask reflects that this dude was lucky not to have been pulled over by the cops – or maybe he was, taken away in a squad car. But why would they leave the car open and the engine running?

There is something about this situation that he doesn't like at all.

Glancing around, he is grateful for the headlights. The streetlight doesn't work and the alley is a dark one. The night does not usually bother him but there is something creepy about this whole set up, something that unnerves him. He plans to check out the alley and if he finds nothing, he will leave. This is all wrong.

He sees the streak on the wall as he peers into the shadows, drying to maroon which in the inky darkness looks almost blue. But he has seen enough blood spread across any number of walls to be certain of what it is.

He checks again – he is sure no one is around, but finding this tonight of all nights has given him the creeps – and heads toward the stain. But before he does, he reaches behind him and grabs the first thing that comes to hand, a golf club. Its weight is reassuring, a protection against something he cannot see, adrenaline rushing through his veins. He is not exactly afraid, but his nerves are at breaking point and he does not know why.

There is a _lot_ of blood, he realises, in smears and pools rather than drips, too much for some mere flesh wound. Uneasy, he glances around, wondering what happened to the unfortunate soul whose blood he was looking at...

...And realises that what he thought had been a pile of trash is actually the sad remains of a human being.

He frowns behind the mask, unable to see much of the man and quite sure he doesn't want to see any more. But if the man is still alive, then it is his duty to do what he can to save his life.

He gets closer, looks at the person and decides he is too late to do anything. The dude has wounds all over his body, clearly visible because he is wearing no coat. There is a neat hole in his throat too, one that the man in the mask thinks is familiar. He has seen wounds like that before, although he does not want to think of _when_ right now.

The guy is dead, that is what is clear. And he has not died pleasantly.

The man in the mask is glad he did not touch anything. He is innocent in all this but he could do without the trouble that his fingerprints at the scene might bring. He has a cell phone, but chooses not to use it in case it can be traced. Instead, he heads out of the alley, remembering that he spied a telephone that seemed free of vandalism several blocks back.

_Ninjas_, he thinks, reflecting back on the shape of the wounds the corpse was riddled with. But of course, it simply isn't possible. The Foot clan would not have inflicted the abuse upon the unfortunate victim that the man in the mask had witnessed and they are the only ninjas in New York. At least, these days they are.

Unease crawls beneath his skin, bringing his flesh into goosebumps. Something is _wrong_ about this whole thing and the only person he could maybe talk to about it was – well, probably not available right now.

Suddenly furious, he jams the golf club into the bag on his back and forces the thoughts of the past from his mind as he hurries to report his finding to the cops, wondering why it had to be tonight of all nights that this happened.


	4. Chapter 4

She thinks of herself as two different people.

She drags herself out of bed every morning, taken from dreams that are bittersweet memories or the most horrific imaginings she can come up with from the little information that she has, feeling unrefreshed, the loss hitting her all over again. She showers, trying to wash away the feeling of loss and the exhaustion that comes with her broken rest, goes to work in the store. At the end of the day, she returns to the apartment, eats without enthusiasm, looks at the TV without seeing what is happening on it.

And two or three nights a week, she leaves the apartment as soon as it gets dark.

It started off because she had no idea what she was looking for, but knowing that she had to do _something_. There is nothing that she can think of to trace the people she seeks, but she can make some observations and work from them.

She's searching for a group. There was no way one person could have done – _that_.

Not someone with huge amounts of resources to their name, but ones with connections. People who have no compunctions. People with no reason to show on the radar of normal, law-abiding people.

People she has no idea how to find.

But those people have to live in New York, she figures. They have to have known _something_, even if it was just the apparent myths the street hoods tell each other. They did not just go out looking for four big green talking turtles, nor did they happen upon them by accident and manage to capture them. Which meant someone must remember them.

And she remembers the air in the van, before she turned around and threw up in the gutter, thick with alcohol and cigarette smoke.

There are bars in New York where the laws do not apply, where the tourists do not go. The police tend to leave them alone, unless there is some kind of raid going on, not due to blindness or bribes, more due to an understanding. In such places, people talk, their tongues loosened by alcohol, and sometimes information changes hands. The cops think it better a few smoking citations went unwritten so that they could find out about the more serious crimes and for the most time, it is the right decision.

She went to the first bar feeling like a tourist, out of place. She had drunk the first few beers almost in self-defence, sensing the eyes on her. She didn't look like she belonged. When she left, some guy had followed her and grabbed her wrist as she headed for home.

Big mistake.

Whatever his intentions had been didn't matter; Splinter had trained her in ninjitsu for some time and although she would never stand up against a trained fighter, she had dropped one drunken prick in about five seconds and left him writhing on the ground while she headed home.

After that, she learned to blend.

The hair changed first, darkening it to be less noticeable than her usual colour. It was the most obvious change but far from the last. She'd begun to favour more casual clothes on the outings, on the verge of scruffy, making her look younger. She blends with the other people in the bar, chatting with the other patrons and throwing curses as casually as the others. She always arrives alone and she always leaves alone.

Some of the drinkers in those places had initially tagged her as an undercover cop. A few tried to set up traps for her, only to find her uninterested in their activities. A couple of others thought her a nice girl trying to play at being bad, only to find that she could handle herself well.

She doesn't do it for fun. She did it because she wanted information and figured this was her best way to get it. Although she hasn't found anything out yet, she's sure she must be getting close. There are rumours, people whispering about how the biggest problem they all had was out of the way – but she hasn't heard anything concrete, has no names.

And if – no, _when_ – she has names, what will she do then?

She'll work that out later.

She had run into trouble only once. She had been having a bad day, one filled with memories of her old life and the emptiness of the new, had gone overboard at the bar. Going out, the fresh air had hit her and made her feel even drunker. And on her way home, she had seen a man cut her off. She turned, to find another behind her. A couple more lurked in the shadows.

She had tried to set her stance, but her motor functions were working against her. She knew she couldn't fight them all off, was trapped...

...And then a man had dropped from the rooftops, a man that had been looking out from her all along.

He had taken them out and come to her, letting her lean on him while he carried her home. He laid her out on the couch while she muttered about how she was going to find those guys and make them pay. He stayed there until the morning.

And in the morning, they had nothing to say to each other and he left.

She knows he watches her on occasion, but she has never needed his help again. She remains half-way sober and able to take care of herself.

Yet she still goes out, puts herself in harms way, just to find those people who took lives and left a big, black hole in hers. And if – _when_ – she finds them, they could probably hurt her. They had done worse to better fighters.

She no longer cares.

A year. A whole _year_ that she has spent wondering what she could have done differently, how things could have changed. If maybe, she could have announced a film night at her house and got them off the streets. Or if she could have dropped in unexpectedly and made them come home early. Anything except what had happened.

So tonight, almost a year to the hour after she had found the Battleshell, she sits and grimly surveys her surroundings. Same as any other bar this year. The barman, thirty or so, wised up and paid for his silence. The bar, sticky with drink. The people, partying or chatting or searching or mourning. Same scene, same people, same shit. There are the usual pairs, mostly a man and a woman, two tables with men only. One of those pairs, unknown to her, is waiting for their friend Mongo to turn up to start the party in earnest. The rest of the tables are taken with groups, but none of them fit the profile of who she is looking for, mostly would-be toughs and gang members trying to prove how tough they are. None of them are going to know shit.

No one to tell her who killed her friends.

She summons another beer, determined it will be her last. She knows that her friends would not approve of her actions, but she is doing this _for them_. She had imagined a party among the guilty, marking the anniversary in their own cruel way just as she remembers it in her own, but there are several bars this could happen at and she can't be in all of them at once.

For the first time since the night she was rescued, she feels drunk. She has not been as vigilant as she usually is, but this anniversary has been hard on her, in spite of trying to brace herself against its impact the knowledge of the lost time has slammed into her harder than she had thought it would. Drowning her sorrows does not seem like an altogether bad idea, although she realises that doing so _here_ most certainly _is_ a bad idea.

Imagining she can feel eyes on her, she pays for the beer and necks it, leaving the bar. The air hits her and she leans into the wall, letting the rain wash over her, thinking about the night she never lets herself think about usually, the night that changed her life...

"_Casey."_

_He sounds irritable through the phone line, although she assumed he'd been out with Raph it seems like she caught him in bed. Maybe it was one of those unheard of nights – he went to bed, she went to bed and the turtles hung out at home._

_Except for one thing._

"_Case! Get over here."_

"_Why?"_

"_The Battleshell has been parked outside for a while."_

"_So?"_

"_So, no one came to my door or window yet."_

_She didn't have to say how bad she felt seeing the van parked outside with no one around. She didn't have to say that she needed him there when she went to the Battleshell. She didn't have to say that she sensed something wrong with the whole situation that was stopping her going to see if she could give aid. He knew._

"_Be there in fifteen."_

_He was there in about eight and a half minutes, dishevelled and in full vigilante dress, although he had not brushed his hair and looked like he might have dragged his clothes on in about five seconds flat. He arrived at her door and didn't enter the apartment. Instead, both of them made their way to the Battleshell, its engine dead and no sound coming from within. _

_Best case scenario; one of them got the others here and was too weak to get attention._

_Casey grabbed the handle of the back of the van, his other hand wielding a baseball bat. He kept April a safe distance away, as far as he could. _

_The door opened. _

_April peered inside, gagged and backed away in a hurry, vomiting into the street. Casey stayed, frozen. _

_His best friend, Raph, was stiffened against the end of the van, dried blood frozen down his face. Leo was in front of him, more red than green. Mike lay in the middle of the van, intestines draped over his body. And closest was Don, half his head missing._

_Casey slammed the door closed, heart beating too hard, calling loud enough to be heard through the door but keeping it hopefully low enough to not be heard by people in the nearby buildings. "Funny, you guys. April puked. Enough."_

_He opens the van to find them unmoving._

"_Guys?"_

"_Casey." April takes his arm, trying to pull him back. "It's not a joke."_

"_Of course it's a joke," snaps Casey, not taking his eyes from the scene in the van, not seeming to hear the way her voice broke or feel how tight she gripped his arm, blinded to the smell within the van, the glassy eyes and broken bodies of their friends that in spite of the gloom were clearly not the work of any special effects. _

_He reaches out, perhaps to shake Don and tell him to knock it off. Instead, as soon as he grabs the turtle, Donatello topples from the unnatural position he is dumped in and hits the floor of the van with a meaty thump. The stench from within seems to double at the movement and April lets out a high sound from the back of her throat. _

_Casey jerks back, away from the van, stepping heavily on her foot. April doesn't feel a thing, her eyes searching out Casey's and hoping that he will be able to somehow change things, make everything different. But when he turns to face her, he clearly doesn't see her at all..._

Dammit. Not only does she not want to be thinking about this, this is a bad time and a bad place to be doing it. Not when the anniversary is upon her and she has let herself indulge more than she should have done. Shit, she should have seen that she would feel this way, but had assumed that like any other night, she could keep herself to the usual limit and keep her eyes and ears open. As it is, there could have been a banner up commemorating the event and naming the assailants and she wouldn't notice. She should have stayed home.

And she might as well have _easy target_ tattooed across her head as be leaning against the wall outside some sleazy bar and trying to get her bearings. She's advertising herself to everyone from random muggers to guys offering to walk her home, in exchange for some quick encounter in an alley, and she isn't in the mood to argue or to fight.

Straightening up, she takes a deep breath and adjusting her jacket, strides away. Hopefully, her purposeful step and keep-away body language will make up for her previous weakness. She can fall apart all she wants when she gets home.

Trying to take her mind off things, she considers what she will do when she gets back. There's a bottle of wine in the kitchen that she's had for months – she has never been much of a fan of drinking alone and she has had no company in the apartment for a very long time. She sees the visits to the bars as essential and the drinks as a disguise, has no desire most of the time to imbibe, but tonight is different. It's red wine and she'll no doubt feel like crap in the morning from overdoing it and maybe when she gets home she won't want it, any more than she has wanted it in the time it has gathered dust in the cupboard. But it's something to mull over while she walks home, something that takes her mind off thinking about anything else except for in the most superficial way.

She realises there are steps behind her.

Her eyes flick to the side but she can't yet see any shadows. Pretending she hasn't heard anything she shoves her hands deeper into the pockets of her jacket, each hand wrapping around the small canister of pepper spray within. She has weapons, but she prefers the pepper spray. The weapons she learned with were not made to be concealed and those that she has are not something she is familiar with.

At the same time, she eyes the road. At this time of night and in this area, it is not common for cabs to be roaming but she can always hope. She had been planning to walk to a nearby road where she could grab a ride, but if the person behind her is more than a fellow drinker then she is not going to get there before they strike.

What the hell. She has dealt with worse.

She shakes her hair back, trying to look confident, aware of how quiet the street really is. There is music coming from a couple of bars but precious few people – and this is not a neighbourhood where a kindly person would step in, not even one where the police would be called should screams ring out.

Her eyes dart to the ground on her right. The shadow of the person behind her finally comes into view, looming large thanks to the positioning of the lighting.

Letting her eyes drift left, she feels her heart speed up. There is a second shadow approaching her other shoulder. The rain hitting the streets has drowned out what she may otherwise have made out as two pairs of footsteps. Two people. Not good.

Deciding the element of surprise is better, she whips around bringing her hands from her jacket pockets and revealing the cans of pepper spray. She has a second to observe the men, although nothing much more than their identical dumb-ass keep-quiet grins registers, before she unleashes the spray.

And misses.

She has misjudged their positions, thinking them closer than they were in her paranoia. But it seems that she has not misjudged their intent. As she tries to readjust her hands to aim the spray at them, the one on her right darts with surprising agility, twisting her hand behind her back and forcing her to drop the can. She hears it clatter to the floor.

He reaches behind her and yanks at her other arm. She almost drops the can, her finger coming off the spray release, but manages to keep hold of it. Not that it's a problem, she can take these guys down regardless.

"Babe," the guy breathes in her ear "Babe, we ain't looking for a fight..."

She could get out of this easily...

...Only she does not have the chance.

Someone drops into the alley behind them, a glint of silver showing in the light as something hits the guy holding her. He releases her so suddenly that she stumbles, trying to straighten herself and instead tripping over her own feet, falling to one knee. Behind her, she can hear a small, almost silent struggle as the second guy goes down as well.

"Dammit!"

She stands again, embarrassed over her trip, feeling like she will always be in this position when she runs into the man with the mask. She didn't even need saving, what the hell was he up to?

She doesn't even bother looking at him, instead concentrating her attention on the fallen man who had robbed her of her pepper spray, glaring at him. He doesn't even seem to be writhing in pain like they usually do, but she thinks little of it, too pissed off to pay much attention.

"Case, I had a handle on it! Are you going to jump in every time? I do _not_ need some big, strong _man_ saving me all the time!"

She doesn't even afford a look at her rescuer, although she can feel his presence. She doesn't see his eyes widen, doesn't see him back away a few steps further into the shadow, doesn't see him cringe at the memories her voice unleashes.

And although she sees the crow perched on a window ledge, it is merely a part of the background and she does not think it significant.

The silence gets to her, but she refuses to look around. "Case, I appreciate you looking out for me, but I don't need it y'know. It needs to stop. I know what I'm doing."

"I'm not Casey."

She freezes. Her whole body stiffens, causing her to straighten up, limbs rigid, even her fingers splayed as the muscles lock. She knows that voice. She has heard it a hundred times before. But she never expected to hear it again.

And then her paralysis breaks and she whirls around, a name on her lips...

Only to find that she is alone, save for the two men sprawled on the floor. There is no rescuer. He is gone as if he were never there at all.


End file.
