Primary Movie-verse, (2007) but takes a page from a little of everything. (Cartoons, comic books) No Max winters, no immortal stone statues. When Leo returned, there was no city to save to bring the family together; only unresolved bitterness and anger, and 9 years later, that anger still festers. Also a sort of origin for Mona Lisa.

Note: this chapter was edited 8-28-10. The original chapter was published on 5-2-07.

Disclaimer: I do not own TMNT.

o

He heard the scream at 2:21 a.m.

Distant and small and muffled by the many sounds of night traffic, it came. He heard it clear as day, even above the honks of passing cars and loud music.

Like a needle in a hay stack.

Later, he would question as to how he'd heard the scream at all from such a distance. But now, now there was only urgency, an anxiousness to get there and kick ass; to vent the frustration that, as of late, had been steadily building.

Showtime.

He revved the engine of the bike and took off, swerving through traffic, dodging intersections and stop lights, barely missing the pedestrians that lined the sidewalks and alleyways. His fingers gripped the handle bars tightly, and he coaxed the bike faster, leaning forward. It was the ultimate freedom; like flying, like an unending freefall, where all his cares and worries were momentarily forgotten for those split seconds. With the wind pounding against him and his heart racing and his adrenaline pumping—

He abruptly slowed.

The city was too full, even at this early hour, and it was stupid to attract unnecessary attention. He didn't feel like flying anymore, anyway. It was always like this, there were always boundaries, no matter who he was. Beneath the helmet, his face darkened into a scowl.

The screaming had long since died away. Maybe he hadn't heard it at all; maybe he had imagined it, so desperate was he for a fight. The scowl melted into a frown. It wasn't like him to make mistakes like that, to simply 'imagine' things. He was too well grounded, too seasoned, too experienced for such a slip-up.

And that feeling, that nagging little premonition thing that - as of late- had been happening more and more often on his nightly outings, was on edge. Screaming at him to pay attention.

He drew a slow breath.

Yes, the shit was definitely about to hit the fan. Of this he was certain. And he found himself glaring now because of it, staring straight ahead through the narrow, visored window of his helmet.

He hated it.

Hated resorting back to those techniques, even if it was on an unconscious level. He'd worked hard to snuff out all that bushido philosophical crap. Nine years. And all it took was less than one week for it all to come undone—

The sudden squeal of tires broke through his thoughts. The glare of a windshield was all he caught before the car rounded the corner.

If it had been any other night, he wouldn't have even noticed the car. This was New York, after all. Even cops drove like crazies. It wasn't all that uncommon to see a car round a corner on two wheels.

…even if it was pitch black and the car didn't have its head lights turned on. The gnawing awareness in his head grew. He hesitated; reluctant, slightly torn, before throwing caution to the wind and taking off after it. It's probably nothin', he told himself. The city had been quiet as of late; thanks in part- he liked to think- to his own efforts. It was quiet and he was bored, and now he was being paranoid, creating drama where there was none. Busting the heads of petty criminals didn't hold quite the same satisfaction as it had in his younger days. Never-the-less, he continued to follow at a distance. Several times he had to stop completely just to make sure he wasn't getting too close. No use in taking unnecessary risks.

The car was black. It blended seamlessly with the shadows around it, deep and glossy, and the glare of overhead street lights only confirmed it. The windows were deeply tinted, and so dark he couldn't tell where the paint ended and the glass began. Somethin' to hide, much? There were mandates on how dark a person could tint their vehicle windows, and he was pretty damned sure they had exceeded it. But what struck him the most, what sent fine shivers of apprehension running through him, was the license plate. It had the unobtrusive tag of an unmarked car.

Government official? That explained the tint at least, but...

He frowned.

Ahead of him, the car rounded another corner, turning sharply, and without thinking he cut his engine, left foot jerking silently to flip the kick stand. Only moments later did he realize what he'd done.

What the hell-

The sudden slamming of doors halted all thought, and his attention turned back to the matter at hand. The car had stopped and people were getting out. He let out a breath, fogging his visor. Lucky. He'd shut off the bike before they'd actually stopped driving. That meant they hadn't heard him.

…it also meant that the annoying little ninja stealth thing was still there, giving him forewarning. He pushed it back hard, hopping off his bike and easing silently along the brick wall of the alleyway towards the car and its occupants. He paused just at the corner, shell pressed awkwardly against the wall, holding his breath.

They'd stopped near the back entrance of an old, red bricked building. It was in one of the better parts of the city; the buildings were old, but obviously well cared for. At a glance, he saw nothing significant about the place. There were numbers beside the door along with a small plaque probably containing the name, but it was too far away for him to read by moonlight. He narrowed his eyes, turning his attention to the car's occupants.

Three of 'em, he counted. Three guys. Too far away to make out any significant detail. Except for the fact that all three were wearing sunglasses.

Sunglasses? At this hour? It was still dark out. The streetlights in this area, for whatever reason, didn't even seem to be working, and the buildings around them were all darkened. Businesses, he noted distractedly. So why-

Okaay…

Just a buncha weirdos. Don't even tryn' figure 'em out.

But it bothered him. Some kinda club maybe? Something about them seemed young; probably they were college students. Maybe this was one of those fraternity things he'd seen on TV…some stupid little initiation thing. He hadn't actually seen the guys do much of anything except break a whole lot of traffic rules. And yet the feeling persisted. Insisting.

I got too much time on my hands…

When one of the men walked over to the other car door, the one on the rear passenger side, he was barely paying attention, already beginning a silent retreat towards his bike. He was way too wound up. Casey would never let him live it down: the Nightwatcher stalking a buncha emo frat boys. Ha!

Even when the man began pulling out what looked to be a human-sized form wrapped in a sheet—

He stopped in his tracks.

Hello…and what have we here?

Some kinda murder cover-up? A kidnapping ring? The intricacies of the situation alluded him, but rarely did he have the full story before acting anyway. Humans had their own judicial system, but tonight he would be their judge. He swung a leg over the bike, hit the lights, revved the engine, and charged.

They didn't run.

Oh, they were surprised to see someone so close. Surprised, even, he guessed, that anyone had even bothered to noticethem. But they weren't running, and that was not a good sign. The shock of his appearance faded quickly. The one holding the body slunk into the background while the other two came at him.

No. Not came. Flew.

They were on him before he could blink, knocking him from the bike, the back of his head slamming into asphalt. For a moment he saw stars; and then he was rolling out the way, just as a booted foot stomped into the ground where his head had been. He heard the crunch of gravel as it broke through tar.

What the—?

A sudden blow to his side knocked the wind out of him. Damn! He'd forgotten about the other one. They were fast…too fast. His eyes darted frantically around, trying to locate the third guy. He couldn't lose track of them all. Not the way things were—

WHAM!

Another hit, this time centered directly to the skin between his shell and plastron. He doubled over. Why hadn't he seen that coming?

Too fast. They were too fast, and in his weighted suit he was no match for them. He had never been one for speed, but his hits had always been powerful. If he could just catch one of them off guard…

Out of habit he reached for his sai, only just remembering that they weren't there. They hadn't been there for a long time. Cursing, he reached for the manriki wrapped around him instead, hoping it'd be enough of a distraction to catch at least one of them off guard. He straightened, prepared for an opening, clutching the chain as one of the men appeared before him.

His initially assumption about them had been correct, at least where this one was concerned. He was young, no more than a boy really. An ordinary boy with indiscriminant features, fair haired and narrow faced. If he saw him on the street, he doubted he'd even recognize the kid—

The boy smiled. A slow, deliberate, arrogant smile that he himself had certainly worn enough times to recognize. On the boy's slight face it looked alien and inhuman. He wanted to knock the stupid sunglasses right off his face.

He ducked, barely dodging the one who'd swung out from behind him, and something sharp grazed the shell beneath his armor. When had that happened? And why the hell was he having so much trouble reading their movements?

But wait... he wasn't supposed to be reading moves at all! He didn't use those techniques anymore…he wasn't Raphael-

He was the Nightwatcher, street vigilante of justice, and he was losing it.

Geez, he thought, barely turning in time to dodge a fist coming at him. He ducked again, spun on his heels, effectively close-lining the man who'd snuck from behind. Without hesitating, he lifted a heavily booted foot and stomped into the man's chest.

There was a sickening sound; a pop, a gurgle, but then he was being wrestled into the brick wall by the other one, grabbed in a choking hold by hands that barely covered the whole of his neck. But somehow, somehow those tiny hands were strong. Stronger than him, even.

His vision dimmed.

Damn! No way to go out. He flailed his legs, and in a half-assed attempt, reached out a hand and flung off the sunglasses. Hah! It was childish and petty and useless and he was still probably going to die, but no more glasses, pal!

The hands around his neck immediately loosened, and he fell to the ground, breathing hard, taking in great gulps of air, trying to resist the urge to remove the helmet that prevented him from getting more air. He pushed himself into a semi-crouch, one arm braced shakily against the ground, watching the boy stagger away from him. He was pulling himself to his feet when the boy screamed.

It was a sound he'd never heard. At least, not from a human being. A sound that made his blood run cold and his skin prickle.

Do not dabble in the affairs of humans.

The words were a whispered curse through his head. He closed his eyes, clenched his fists. He couldn't think of that now. He had only one chance. Bending to scoop up his fallen manriki, he took a deep breath and lunged.

He had expected the guy to dodge, to deliver one of those frighteningly powerful blows. But the man stayed still, flailing like a fish out of water, hands stretched before him like he was blinded, like there was some bright light source beaming down at him-

-except that it was pitch black, and the only source of light in the alley was from the headlights of his fallen bike.

He swung the chain hard. The weighted end hung suspended for a moment, before crashing down into the head of the erratic man. He didn't wait for a reaction. Just started throwing heavy fists into the guy's face, sinking a well positioned knee just below his ribcage. It was a far cry from the graceful way he'd been trained to fight; the polar opposite, in fact. Criminals didn't have a code of honor, so why should he? He had to beat them at their own game, fight as they fought.

Look at you! Look at what you've become!

His fist froze, mid-punch. The window of his helmet was fogged and specked with spittle.

You shame our master's name. He never intended for our abilities to be used this way!

Leo, he thought growling, and continued pounding the thing below him, harder now. Of all the fucking times. Of all the times to remember—!

Well to hell with you, Leo, he thought. He'd never used ninjutsu as the Nightwatcher anyway; he had never intended to...though not out of any premeditated loyalty. Not at first, anyway. It had just been too risky, using Raphael the Turtle's moves. The style was too obvious, would be immediately noticeable if anyone caught wind of him. That was what the suit was for. It was weighted and heavy, effectively disguising not only his body, but any telltale moves he might unconsciously slip into.

Of course, it had its drawbacks, too. The suit physically slowed him. His reaction time had taken a nose-dive, but until tonight there had never been a need to—

He stopped, breathing hard, coming back to the present.

The guy had long since stopped struggling, drawing in gasping breaths, choking on the blood that pooled within his throat and stained the battered, pale, face. Dead? No. Not yet, at least.

But he should be.

The words lingered softly in his head. Just the force of the blow from his manriki should've finished him off. And yet here he was; whatever 'he' was, still breathing, even while his lungs filled with blood. And try as he might, he could not squash the instinct telling him that this person should be killed right now. These people were not…normal.

There was something… ancient...animalistic about the man on the ground. Reptilian. They had looked human on the outside, even had some of the same vulnerabilities from what he'd been able to hit, but the eyes. He'd seen those eyes for a split second when he'd knocked off the sunglasses. They were—

Oh hell. He broke off mid-thought. There had been three of them. Three. He rose slowly, the sudden burst of adrenaline fading as quickly as it had come. In its place a slow weariness settled, but he shook it off looking rapidly around. Three men. Two of them were currently on the ground. The last one…the third one had been holding the body, slipping into the shadows-

He jumped to attention, spinning, eyes everywhere, breath coming hard and fast, fogging the window of the helmet. There was the car, he thought quickly, the passenger door still slightly ajar-

And his bike. It was still on the ground, headlights blaring angrily into the night. He didn't hear anything, no noise, not even the ally cats that preyed on the mice and trash. And he didn't feel anything either, he noticed. No strange presences. The night had become uncharacteristically still. He took a deep breath, trying to slow the hammering in his chest, and began the trek to his bike.

It was slow work. They'd gotten him better than he'd originally thought. Sharp pain ran through him like currents, and he thought he felt a wetness on his left calve. His head was pounding and he grit his teeth. He'd feel like shit in the morning once the shock wore off. He tried to remember if he had any supplies back home. Casey had brought down some bandages a few days before, but he was running low on antiseptic. He threw a wary glance at the car again, this time stopping dead.

From his previous position over the man, he hadn't been able to see it. But now, illuminated by the light of his bike, the large heap crumbled beside the wheel of the car was very much apparent.

Was it the other-

He clenched his fists. No way could he take on another one of 'em! He'd barely survived the first two- But even as he said it, he was setting his jaw, squaring his legs and bracing himself, itching, for the first time, to take off the suit. He'd have a chance then, maybe. If nothing else he could inflict at least as much damage as possible before he went down. His body was already sliding into form, legs apart, knees slightly bent in a stance he hadn't taken in years. His body protested; he felt the tear in his back calve split, the sharp sting of pain, but at the same time anticipation.

He couldn't do it. The thought of sullying his father's memories, of using his training to—

He swallowed, tasting bile, blinking back the lump in his throat. No, he would not use those techniques. But he wouldn't run, either.

But was the heap wasn't moving, he noticed suddenly. Trying to throw him off, maybe? Some kinda trick? And then he realized that it wasn't one of the weird boys at all; it was the body, still wrapped like a mummy in the sheet. That guy must've dropped it an' ran, he decided finally.

Yes, that had to be it. It was the only explanation he could come up with. The only one he wanted to believe, truthfully. But another part of him, the rational part, disagreed. You idiot! Why would he run, it shot back viciously. He could finish you off like NOTHING right now.

And it was true, as much as it stung him to admit. But he was already at the bundle, glaring over it, wondering if he should just leave it. If the person was already dead there was nothing he'd be able to do, anyway…

But then the bundle moved, feather light. He might have missed it had he not been watching so closely. The person was still breathing. He reached thick fingers over, peeling away the material. His fingers shook, and the knuckles in his right hand looked slightly displaced. He hoped he hadn't broken it… He flexed the fingers, staring back towards the two unmoving forms. One was already dead, he was sure. The other still not moving, but he could hear the rattling breath. What to do about them?

Do not dabble in the affairs of humans.

Yea, but these ain't human, are they? he scoffed.

No, he thought again. Not human, but—

He looked down. All this and the person didn't stir, did not make a sound. Drugged maybe? They had the breathing of one in deep slumber.

He sighed.

He'd have to find someplace to drop them off. Maybe a doorstep or something. He needed to DO things, needed to get going and fast before his energy was completely gone. One of those..creatures was still out there, and he needed to figure out what to do with the other two. He needed to get back to the lair, get some supplies, better weapons, so that when he found him, he could finish him right then. Someone else could get a doctor for this poor sap-

While he'd been thinking, his fingers were steadily pulling, unraveling, freeing, until the top half of the person lay completely uncovered. And when he suddenly glanced down his heart nearly stopped.

And for once in his life, the Nightwatcher was speechless.