Archive of Our Own

When Casey Jones stepped out into the sharp glare of the moon above him, he had only two things on his mind: Cool Ranch Doritos and Bleecker Street, Manhattan.

Bleecker Street had always been one hell of a walk. A good half hour from Casey's busted up apartment on Mercer Street, wheelies and everything. It was long, but he might as well get a head start now—his dad didn't kick him out that night for nothing. He had time to kill before Raph and the guys went patrolling.

Manhattan was still alive despite the hour, so it wasn't surprising when a car sped past the sidewalk where Casey was walking, splattering nasty water all over his shoes. He flipped the guy off in response, shouting a loud "¡Oh, pedazo de mierda!" and kicking a pebble towards the speeding car. There was a random guy walking his dog on the other end of the sidewalk who looked at him funny.

Casey winced at the sight of another human being and decided to switch directions—he wanted to get away from the road. Maybe he'd find a shortcut if he passed through the alleyways, anyways.

Something obnoxiously loud and aggressive was bursting out of his over-ear headphones, loud enough that it could start an earthquake, and he wandered into an alleyway that broke off from the sidewalk. It was empty, save for the dumpsters next to the brick walls and the rat that scampered past his feet. This specific alley was unfamiliar to him. And eerily quiet.

Casey took his headphones off. He stood there for a moment. Just... looking the place over.

He was alone. 

He clocked himself on the head for that obvious and stupid observation. Of course he was alone, it was an hour past midnight. Whoever was still out on the streets at this hour were druggies and insomniacs.

Oh, also him. Casey was always out past midnight—he liked going on patrols with the guys, and his dad sometimes kicked him out for the night to figure his shit out. That left Casey walking around Manhattan by himself, and he's been doing that for as long as he could remember.

But it was a little too quiet in this alley. This unfamiliar, ghostly alley.

He cursed at himself for getting nervous—he was Casey Jones! Casey Jones didn't get scared. Plus, he wasn't stupid enough to walk around in the middle of the night without a little experience in self-defense. He carried a switchblade on him at all times, he had his two hockey sticks strapped to his back, he had a retractable knife in the left sole of his shoe, and the silver rings around his fingers were enough to clobber a guy twice his size. If Casey Jones was anything, he was prepared.

He knew this, too—he's walked alone at night since he was, like, seven years old. Nothing horribly bad has ever happened to him. Maybe a few Kraang bots had crept up on him before, a mutant or two, a guy trying to mug him. He always beat them good. Anyone who thought for a second that they could take on The Casey Jones was a moron. He was pretty confident that he would be fine. He had always been fine.

But right now? For the first time in a while, the silence made him antsy.

But Casey Jones wasn't scared, so he flicked himself for his paranoia. He twisted around the brick walls and passed by numerous amounts of dumpsters as he pulled his headphones back over his head. That calmed him down.

He walked for a little bit, wandering around before his phone buzzed. He pulled the device out of his pocket and it said Incoming Call: Raphie Boi in big letters.

He answered. "Y'ello?"

The line cracked. "Dude, where are you? Hurry it up. Leo's ready to leave your sorry ass."

"Aw, you guys waitin' for me? Cute."

"I'm serious! You're taking forever, where the hell are you?"

"Took a different route," Casey hummed, turning a corner. "I'm a few streets away, I think. If I'm not there in five minutes, then assume I got jumped and I'm layin' in a ditch or something."

"You're not funny," Raph sighed, "The guys are bein' a pain, and I'm just about ready to go off on my own. Be here soon or I'm going to jump you myself."

"Yeah yeah, whatever, mom—" he cut himself off when he turned the corner and paused. There was a gate, and he was pretty sure he could climb it to cut through the alleys, but he sucked in a breath.

Someone was blocking it.

He shuffled to a stop, his nerves spiking when his eyes scanned the figure. There was a man leaning back against the chicken-wired fence, a cigarette hanging from his mouth and a lighter in his hands.

The man looked up at him. His eyes were piercing blue, like cold icicles.

Quietly, Casey sucked in a sharp breath, "Oh, shit."

From the other end of the line, Raph paused. "What? What happened?"

"I'm gonna have to call you back."

"What? Casey, are you okay—?"

Casey hung up the phone and awkwardly stepped backwards. "Sorry, didn't know this place was occupied. I'll just, like. Go..."

He turned on his heel before halting to a stop. Another guy was blocking the way he came.

Now that he looked around, multiple guys were lined against the walls. Big guys. Hair slicked back into greasy blonde mullets, thick red and black jackets twice their size, gold and silver chains around their necks, rugged looking shoes. There must've been seven of them in total.

Caseys first thought was: He just walked straight into enemy territory without even meaning to.

Then one of them spoke—the biggest dude of them all, with the cigarette tucked between his lips. Calculating grin. Eyes so cold and sharp they looked like they could cut through flesh. "Hey, kid."

Casey's next thought was: He was going to get jumped.

But because Casey Jones believed with every bone in his body that fear was a mindset, he put on his bravest face and puffed out his chest. Confidence flooded through his voice as he pointed to the gate behind the druggie who was leaning against it. "Listen, man. I'm just trying to get through here. Can I go?"

The druggie with the cigarette cocked his head to the side. "I don't know, kiddo. Can you?"

And fuck, the giddiness in the man's voice almost made Casey piss his pants. But Casey Jones didn't show any fear, even though it was boiling in his chest like steaming water. In the toughest voice, he growled. "I have somewhere to be, asshole. Help a guy out and move it, yeah?"

He wasn't afraid! it takes a lot to frighten a guy like Casey Jones. He's been beaten, broken, and washed up on the side of the road like a dead deer more times than he's cursed in his life. He was tough! He wasn't scared of some guys with bleached mullets and tacky chains.

But the guy with the cigarette stared him dead in the eye like he was trying to boil him alive with just his glare alone, and Casey knew that talking crudely had been a big mistake.

The leader druggie straightened up, and woah, he was tall. With a clear shot, Casey could make a pretty fair guess that the guy was a few years older than him. Three times his size. Built for football and lifting wights. Casey wasn't exactly the scrawniest fella, but he didn't have a build like this—Compared to this guy, he was a twig.

The guy chuckled lightly. The sheer danger in his voice made his stomach churn. On queue, the druggie's little circus of friends straightened as well.

"Big mouth, huh? How old are you, kid?"

Casey puffed his chest out further, smirk widening. "Eighteen." See, you always had to lie when a freak on the side of the road asked you how old you were. If you told them you were under eighteen, you'd probably get mugged, because minors were easy targets. Casey was truly sixteen, and he sure looked the part, and the guy could tell.

The leader of the little gang gestured to his friends. In his peripheral vision, Casey saw them slowly forming a circle around him. Something in his chest leapt with horror. Oh, fuck.

He's never taken down seven guys at once. The most he could take was, like, three at a time. And even then, he sometimes got too cocky and slipped up.

"So... a runt," The leader summarized, clearly not believing him. A medium sized guy said in a much too friendly tone, "Kinda late for you to be out here, huh, runt? Where're ya going?"

One of his buddies handed the Big Dog an empty liquor bottle. He swung it against the side of the wall, shattering the thing and sending glass flying. He held the busted bottle in front of him. His eyes sparkled with danger, but—but Casey Jones wasn't scared! No, he totally wasn't shaking. He took on muggers and assholes and robots all the time! This was fine! He was always confident, cocky, indestructible. He could take these chums. This was fine.

"Was on my way to your mom's house," He said smoothly, playing up the bravado because he wasn't scared. He totally wasn't scared of seven beefy dudes who looked like they wanted to skin him alive. He gave it one last shot. "And I'd love it if I could get goin', wouldn't you?"

Casey could see the circle he was now suddenly backed into very well. The seven guys were inching closer to him, all in a tight wall, and Casey's hand reached for one of his hockey sticks slowly.

"We can play nice, fellas!" He said quickly, his voice probably quivering. "It don't have to get nasty. I just got here."

"A talker, yeah?" The Big Dog grinned, "Do you know what we do to talkers?" Now all of the guys were closing in on him. The thing that scared the damn out of Casey were all the weapons the guys held—One of them had a switchblade, the other a thick clunky chain, another a metal bar. But Casey Jones kept his head held high, because the last thing you did in front of a gang was cower in fear.

"We shut them up."

Casey stepped back instinctively—right into a guy. He had his hands on him in an instant. 

Casey's reflexes spasmed. His hockey stick slammed right into the guy's nose, blood flying immediately. His boot met the man's groin and the slicked back blonde doubled over. His mind was screaming Shit, he was really going to take on seven guys, okay, he was really doing this.

Multiple guys immediately yanked him backward by the hair, sending his back slamming directly into the concrete below. Casey must've hit his head but it was still working, so he kicked the blade out of his boot and slashed wildly. It sliced a man's ankle who was coming at him with a knife. He kicked his feet underneath him for good measure. Two other dudes stomped on him hard in the stomach, enough for it to hurt like a bitch, and one of them hoisted him up by the collar and slugged him right in the cheek a few times.

Nobody really estimates how painful a punch to the face is until it happens to you. Because the pain was fiery and hot, and he was handed off to another guy, who took his time punching his chest in like he was a human-punching bag.

Oh shit, was Casey's thought process through this whole ordeal. He struggled big time, fighting like a cat with its claws bared, thrashing and biting and kicking wildly. He got a good few ugly punches right in a druggie's jaw. Blood was flying like fireworks.

Someone socked Casey right in the nose. Pain erupted from multiple ends of his face like a blossoming flower, and damn, he was getting dizzy. But he was still up and moving, and Casey Jones can easily take down seven guys at once, and this is no problem, and he's honestly felt more alive than he has all week, and also more terrified than he's felt in a long, long time.

Guys were coming at him with their shiny blades and chains. Casey managed to counter a few swings with his hockey stick—dodging, busting, hitting, blocking. He was slamming the end of that thing into druggies left and right, breaking noses and busting lips. For being scrawnier than half of these dudes, he was standing his own ground pretty well. Things were looking ugly, uglier than he's seen in a while, but Casey Jones convinced himself that he liked a challenge like this. This was no problem. This was fine—

A heavy chain slammed into the back of his skull, knocking him right off his feet.

The daze of it crept over him first—the dizziness, the pain, the acknowledgement that he was suddenly slamming face first into the concrete. His phone must've been buzzing because he felt it shaking in his pocket, but a hand wrestled it out and smashed it against the concrete. A voice yelled "Pin him down!" and suddenly, Casey's hockey stick was manhandled out of his grip.

Shit, he automatically thought, reaching back for it and getting the shit kicked out of his head in return. A pained shriek squeezed out of his lungs—on accident, mind you—and in a panicked frenzy, he ripped the switchblade out of his belt.

He slashed and stuck at the multiple bodies that surrounded him before someone grabbed his wrist and socked him right in the teeth. Another shriek tore out of him as the knife was ripped away from his struggling grip.

Time was flying past him too fast and he couldn't keep up. Suddenly, weight pressed down on each of his limbs, trapping him against the cold concrete. He struggled like an insect in a spider web. He snarled. He bit. He cursed.

One of the guys—the leader, he guessed, but it was hard to tell in his now dotted vision—pounced on him, pressing his weight completely against Casey's heaving chest and digging his boot well into his ribcage. Then, unexpectedly, he slammed his boot down hard, and something definitely broke inside his body, and the pain was so severe and intense that Casey audibly yelped and trashed wildly like he'd just been electrocuted.

"¡Mierda!" He shrieked, his sharp accent accidentally slipping out. His fist came up and slugged the Big Dog on top of him directly in the bridge of his nose. He must've broken it because his rings busted the skin, turning the nose upward like a piece of pottery, and blood came down on the two of them in bucket loads.

The leader above him screeched—an ugly noise that terrified him—and he came back down harder. His fist was lined with rings too—silver ones with thick lining, expensive and chunky and sharp. They glimmered in the moonlight like pearls. Casey blinked, shrieked, and then those rings slammed into his face. And then they came down on him again. And again, and again, and eventually all he saw was red and all he felt was white-hot pain and for the first time in a long while, a part of him burned in genuine, raw, horrifying terror.

He stopped counting how many times he was hit, but it was enough to make him completely delirious. He smelled blood coating his face. He felt his body bruising underneath the weight that pinned him down. He was thrashing like a deranged animal underneath the guy on top of him. He felt trapped, and he suddenly felt very scared. Very small. Very vulnerable.

When the fists stopped coming down on him, he could feel his face swell in a mess of cuts and blood and bruises. The druggie above him was panting like a dog—breath wild, crazed, and heavy as his eyes bulged so far out of his head they looked like they'd fall out. He reeked of cheap cologne and cigarettes and liquor and blood and danger, and it made Casey's nose burn, and he couldn't think or breathe or hear anything through the static.

A hand came forward and yanked his jaw up, pointed his bleeding nose to the sky, and Casey screamed but he couldn't hear it under the chaos in his head. The leader druggie leaned over him, grinning wildly like he was having the time of his life, "You know? You got a big mouth." Then, in the sharp moonlight, the man gestured for something. A slick silver knife was handed to him. "You ain't gonna miss it, right?"

The moment Casey saw the knife, he lost his complete marbles. He thrashed even harder and he screamed and his body went Yup, time to cry. Ugly tears burned in his eyes and rolled down his bloody cheeks like rivers because he was mortified. He was so scared he thought he was going to throw up or pass out.

The druggie held the pocket knife to his face, the blade tracing the outline of his cheekbone delicately, and Casey's senses were on fire and his thoughts were screaming Nope! Nope, nope, nope! Absolutely not!

He didn't realize he was audibly screaming his head off until the leader's hand came up and shoved his palm over his mouth. He tasted dirt and metal and grime, and in a gut reaction, he bit the guy hard. Blood sprayed against his molars and coated his lips.

"Fuck—!" The guy on top of him ripped his hand away and examined it. "You little—you son of a bitch!" In a fiery fit, the man raised his knife and slashed. The side of Casey's neck was suddenly screaming in pain, the burn worse than a bottomless pit of flames, and all he could think was how everything in his body hurt.

He must've been screeching again, because someone shouted, "Shut him up! Jesus fuck, shut him up!" And a hand pried his jaw wide open before a cloth was shoveled into his mouth. He struggled and fought and kicked as hard as he could, but he was completely pinned by all limbs and he was weaponless and he thought I'm going to die. I'm really going to die on a Thursday night.

Casey Jones could not, for the life of him, remember the last time he was truly frightened. He was tough as nails, a street fighter, a brawler who wasn't afraid of getting hurt. His old man did him plenty of bruises back in the day—that toughened him up. He was durable and capable and a damn good fighter. So good, in fact, that he couldn't recall the last fight he'd lost. Casey Jones didn't lose fights.

But he was certainly losing this one, and he was reminded, for the first time in a hot minute, that he was but a mortal. Casey Jones may be the book definition of strong, but he wasn't indestructible.

It occurred to him that he could be killed. He probably would be killed. Right here, right now. His phone was broken, so it wasn't like he could call anyone—and the abrupt hang-up on Raph wasn't enough of a warning. Nobody knew where he was, what was happening, nothing.

And that was enough to make him completely petrified. Fear—the real, cold, horrifying kind—caught his limbs like fish on rods. He went limp like a doll, paralyzed like a statue, unable to move as horror blinded his senses.

He stopped struggling. His chest heaved as the leader druggie above him traced his knife over the side of his mouth. The end of the blade dug into his skin, slicing through his flesh delicately, and Casey was sure he was going to die. He could feel hot blood running slowly run down the side of his mouth, and he was terrified. More terrified than he's ever been in his life.

"I'm going to gut you like a fucking fish, you little piece of shit."

And Casey fully believed it. He was as good as dead.

Until he... wasn't?

The fog in his head grew ten-fold as chaos unfolded around him. People were shouting, screaming, and the distant noises of fists slamming against bone filtered through the unbearable ringing of his ears.

The guy pinning him down looked up wildly, knife still pressed against Casey's mouth. He was saying something, shouting, and then in a flash, he was tackled off of him. It happened so fast that Casey couldn't comprehend it.

What the hell just happened?

He felt sick. Like he was going to puke.

He lay there helplessly, closing his eyes. His chest felt like it was caving in, his face felt hot and wet, and he was so dizzy and petrified that he couldn't do anything else except lay there and cry.

His senses were spasming out and he was scared and he kind of just wanted to go home. He just wanted to go home. Wherever that was.

The chaos went on for a while and it all went through one ear and out the other. He must've faded in and out of consciousness, because his brain flickered back to life when a familiar voice whispered next to him, slow and horrified, "Case?"

The cloth was pulled out of his mouth as a pained noise cracked out of Casey's throat—a low moan and a wet sob combined into one. Arms were suddenly around him, grabbing under his arms and hoisting him on his knees. Casey's eyes refused to open, but he was pretty sure he knew who that was.

"Re—Raph?"

"Yeah, bud. S'me." Raph's voice was cracking with seriousness—and boy, that was unnatural. Casey wasn't in the state nor the mindset to point it out. He was in the worst pain he's ever felt in his life and he couldn't think straight.

People were talking around him, voices low. Someone said "Oh, I'm gonna be sick," and "Is he dead? He looks dead," and "We need to get him to the Medbay asap." Were those the other turtles? He couldn't tell. He couldn't think. Everything hurt.

He was gathered in someone's arms, and he registered himself being picked up like a little fox. A whimper leapt out of his throat—a vulnerable, scared noise that he would've been stupidly embarrassed of if he wasn't in the state he currently was. Then Raph's voice filtered through the static again, "You're gonna be okay, Case. They ain't gonna hurt you anymore, we kicked their asses."

But Casey didn't know for sure if that was true, and he was scared. He was truly, honestly, disgustingly scared, because what had just happened had been so real and gruesome that he couldn't comprehend it.

"Jesus, Case. What happened?" A voice that sounded suspiciously like Leo bled into his ears. Casey was simply not in a state to get out a coherent sentence, but he tried anyways.

His words came out as gasps. "There were—there w'sa group of guys. I was just—just try'na get through." He heaved as the images flashed behind his eyes. It terrified him. "They pinned me down. They—they threatened to kill me—I thought I was going to die—"

He was getting so hysterical that he just shut his mouth and cried. The arms around him tightened. "Hey—hey hey hey, bud. Case, we won't let them hurt you no more. You're gonna be okay."

Then he was being carried off somewhere, and he was fading out of consciousness. The last thing he caught was Raph's voice, so soft and pained that it barely sounded like him. "I'm sorry I didn't come sooner. I'm sorry."

It was fine, Casey thought.

He was still crying when he finally passed out.

——

"Oh shit."

"What? What happened?"

"I think I'm gonna have to call you back."

"What? Casey, are you okay—?"

Casey hung up.

Raph stared at his shell-phone. He blinked.

That was weird. Like, super weird.

His brain, the reasonable part of himself, said that Casey must've saw a rat or something. He was a dramatic one, that guy—always screaming, always shouting, always climbing over shit and doing flips or whatever he set his mind to. It was nothing. Casey was fine.

But his gut—the unreasonable part of himself—said that something was wrong.

He didn't know how to explain it. It was just—it was the way Casey's breath had audibly caught. It was a little thing, probably unnoticeable to a stranger.

But Raph wasn't a stranger. He knew what that meant. That meant that Casey Jones had gotten himself into a shitty shit-hole and he needed help climbing out of it.

Or not. Or maybe. He didn't know.

Footsteps pattered against the concrete floor. Donnie walked in and opened the fridge. "Hey, we're leaving soon. Leo asked if you had everything?"

Raph frowned—more of a sulk than anything. He must've looked like a sad puppy, because Donnie quirked an eyebrow at him. "What's up with you? Did Casey cancel on us on something?"

"I don't know," Raph admitted a little too earnestly, picking at his claws, "He just... I called him. He was on his way. We were talking, and then he got spooked and hung up on me. Said that if he wasn't here in ten minutes, he..." Assume I got jumped and I'm lyin' in a ditch somewhere.

After a long pause, he sighed. "My gut's telling me that he's screwed himself over or something."

Donnie must've noticed how his voice had softened around the edges with worry, because the geek frowned and walked over to him. He leaned over and awkwardly patted him on the shell. "Casey's fine. He's a tough guy, he can handle himself."

But Raph knew Casey like the back of his hand, and he knew that Casey was not as fearless and tough as everyone thought he was. That was the perk of being his best friend—Raph knew everything about the guy. He knew that Casey Jones was a force to be reckoned with. He also knew that Casey Jones could get mugged without noticing because his music was so loud. He also knew that he wasn't incapable of getting hurt.

"I don't know," He said after a long time, tapping his claws against the kitchen counters, "I think..." He looked back to his shell phone. "I don't know. It's probably been a couple minutes, right? I think..." He clicked on Casey's contact and called him again. "He's fine."

But Casey didn't pick up.

He called him another time. Nothing. Now Raph's gut was really starting to shriek.

He called him one more time. The call declined.

"Heya! Case-Case is still comin', right? Where is he?" Mikey stepped into the kitchen and bounded over to the two of them.

Donnie's face twisted oddly, lips tightening into a straighten like he finally understood the paranoia Raph was feeling. "We don't... know? He isn't picking up his phone."

Mikey's expression also twisted into something odd. "What?"

Raph was getting a little more miserable and little more concerned with each passing second. He tapped his claws against the table again before another pair of footsteps walked in.

"We're all just hanging out in here? We were supposed to leave, like, five minutes ago."

The three of them turned to Leo, who had his hip cocked to the side in the well-known sassy pose he was known for. But then he blinked. "Hey, where's Casey?"

Raph stood up.

"Donnie, track him."

Donnie perked up at the demand, giving him a bewildered look. "Hey, what heck! What makes you think I have a tracker on him? That's weird!"

The nasty glare Raph shot him could've rivaled a bull. Donnie sighed in response and pulled out his shell phone. "Cause I do. Tracking him now."

The four all huddled together and peered over Donnie's shoulder as he typed some weird nerd things on the phone. Finally, after a couple of long seconds (that felt like agonizing hours), he straightened up. "Raph, you said he was on his way, right?"

"Yeah."

"Well, that's not what it's saying on here. He's been on Walker Street for the past seven minutes. Hasn't moved at all."

They all looked at each other for a hot second.

Everything about that screamed Something was wrong. Casey Jones never stayed still.

Raph took off before another second was wasted. "I'm gonna go look for him."

The other three followed along immediately. Mikey started doing that nervous fidget thing that he was famous for. "Raph, you sure you think he's in trouble?"

"I don't know! That's the fucking problem!" He knew he shouldn't be getting snappy, but he was worried, and it took a lot to worry Raphael Hamato.

Casey was fine on his own. He could stand his ground. It was just—It was the fact that he was Casey that was the problem. He didn't use his head sometimes. In an empty parking lot, Casey could still somehow find a way to slip on a discarded banana peel.

That's what worried him so much.

The four of them twisted around the sewers before climbing out of the manhole, one by one. On the way, Raph called Casey's number repeatedly. Still, he was declining the call.

"Do you think his phone is just... dead? Do you think his location is paused? Why he ain't answering?" Mikey asked. Donnie pushed him in the head like he was an idiot for even asking. "No, it's not that. I'm not tracking his phone, the tracker is on the bottom on his shoe. His phone is just... dead or broken."

"Why'd you put the tracker there?" Leo looked at him incredulously. Donnie's face went completely red. "Because everyone wears shoes!" He said defensively, "I'd be concerned if he was walking around barefoot right now! Quit acting like I'm a creep!"

"Can you guys shut the fuck up?" Raph growled, "Donnie, lead the way. Make it snappy."

"You guys make me do everything," his brother groaned, but held his phone up and said "Still hasn't moved. Let's go left."

The four of them bounced over the buildings—but instead of the cautious patrolling they had originally planned, it was fueled with anxiety and alarm. Time was ticking by too fast and Casey's location still hadn't updated; and Raph couldn't scratch that itch that Something was wrong.

They ran for a hot minute, and still, no signs of Casey. As they crossed the roofs, eyes were peeled for any sort of commotion.

Walker street crept up into view. "Anything?" Leo called. Donnie shook his head. "Still nothing. Raph, has he answered any of your calls?"

Raph growled in frustration. "Nothing. I swear, I'm gonna kill that bastard—"

Then, in the distance, a strangled shriek sliced through the tense air. Multiple.

They all froze in unison. Mikey nearly tripped over himself. Donnie squeaked nervously. Leo breathed.

And Raph? He growled, because he knew.

"Find him."

They scattered like rodents.

Raph dove off the side of the building and clambered against a stairwell. He pounced off it like a hawk, slithered through the shadows in the way only an eel could, and finally fled around a corner.

He perched on a windowsill. Looked down.

In the middle of a discarded alley was a group of guys. Big guys. Hair slicked back into greasy blonde mullets, thick red and black jackets twice their size, gold and silver chains around their necks, rugged looking shoes. There must've been seven of them in total.

Raph's first thought was: What the fuck was happening down there?

Then a guy—a big one, who was covered in blood and hunched over something—no, someone—sneered loudly. The person underneath him was pinned and shaking as the man hissed, "I'm going to gut you like a fucking fish, you little piece of shit."

And between the swarm of large men, a familiar mop of black hair and a face—or, at least, what was visible of his bloody face—was seen.

There was no doubt about it. That was Casey.

Raph's next thought was: He was going to kill someone with his bare hands.

He pounced down into the concrete like a lion would prey. He didn't say anything, nor did he give his brothers a signal, nor did he give any one of those little pricks any time to run. He just went straight for it.

His sais plunged through the side of a guy's waist. He wrestled someone to the floor. His knuckles met noses so fast that he couldn't recall throwing the punches in the first place.

People started shrieking like the world was going up into flames. Raph must've entered some rage-fueled beating spree—by the time his brothers dropped down and joined him, he singlehandedly beat four guys to the floor.

The group of big guys broke apart quickly, leaving the large man and Casey's mangled figure in wake of the circle. The man looked up at him. His eyes widened to the size of apples.

"What the fuck?" He shrieked, "What—who are you?" Then he looked further and flinched hard. "What are you?!"

Raph walked up to him. Gripped the collar of his stupid filthy jacket and pulled him forward. Leveled him up to his eyes.

And in full seriousness, teeth and all, spit flying, he growled. "Your worst fucking nightmare."

He tackled the man right off his knees. The two slammed into the concrete as Raph beat him and beat him good, fists coming up and crashing down repeatedly, and something cracked in the man's jaw, but he didn't stop.

The guy screamed bloody murder underneath him, throwing a punch himself, slamming into the side of Raph's temple and definitely busting something up there because it hurt like a bitch. He never stopped punching him.

His fists came down like heavy rain, and multiple teeth flew and cracked out of the man's mouth, and blood was flying like rainfall, and he just kept punching and punching—

"Raph—" Leo's voice cracked through his ears. He continued punching. "Raph, you're going to kill him. We don't kill people."

A hand yanked him back by the shell as Raph scrambled back. He kicked the guy one last time, who was limp and twitching and delirious. He spat on him for good measure. "You come near Casey again, and I swear, I'm going to skin you alive! Don't fuck with us!"

The man went limp with a pained moan. Leo yanked him up to his feet and patted his shell. "He's unconscious, dude. You messed him up."

"Good."

Then a stifled sob cracked through the air, and both of them turned.

Mikey and Donnie were on the other side of them, finishing up with the rest of the beaten bodies on the ground. They all turned to the mangled lump of blood and bruises on the cold concrete.

Raph reached him in an instant. Casey was lying flat on his back, and with the way he looked, it wasn't a secret. He'd been beaten badly.

That was the thing—Raph was used to seeing him banged up. Casey wasn't exactly the approachable type. He earned himself plenty of cuts and scrapes and bruises, ranging from strangers to his own father.

Those beatings had been nothing like this. Casey's face was cut up and bruised and swelling like a rotting fruit. Lines of blood flooded from his nose like waterfalls, flowing over the small cuts around his mouth. His neck had a shallow but nasty gash through it. He was covered in bruises and blood splattered across his shirt like spray paint. A blood-stained cloth had been stuffed in his mouth and he was choking on it.

Raph stared at him, suddenly feeling very cold. Casey could very well be dead. Surely nobody could be beaten like that and live.

Reaching forward and ripping the fabric out of his jaws, Raph shook him gently. "Case?"

Casey flinched hard. An ugly sound ripped out of his throat, the noise making Raph's stomach twisted in such a vulgar way that he felt like he was going to throw up.

Slowly, he grabbed under the boy's arms and hoisted him onto his knees. Casey hung there limply, making small noises of pain, and it was making Raph's head hurt so, so bad. His thoughts were pleading Don't be dead. Please don't be dead. Please be alive.

Then, without opening his eyes, Casey said quietly, "Re—Raph?"

Raph's breath stuttered with relief. Alive. He was alive. Thank god. "Yeah, bud. S'me."

Donnie looked a little more green than he usually did. He physically turned away and covered his eyes. "Oh my god, I'm gonna be sick."

That was a reasonable reaction, because the state Casey was in was ugly. Worse than any beating he's had in his life, probably.

Mikey sat down next to him and hovered, looking white as a sheet and a little prettified. "Is he dead? He looks dead."

"I'm gonna throw up," Donnie commented. Leo also came forward and anxiously tapped his fingers together. "Nobody's throwing up. Nobody's dead. We just... we need to get him to the Medbay asap."

As he pulled Casey's battered body forward and lifted him off his feet, Raph noticed firsthand just how small Casey was for his age. How light he was. How bad he was shaking.

How long had it taken for them to find him? Ten minutes? Fifteen? All that time, meandering and talking and wasting time—Casey was getting beaten to a pulp. All because Raph wasn't sure he could trust his gut.

He felt... bad. Real bad. Guilty.

Casey made another noise—a painful, small, mangled sob that made him sound so much younger than he really was. Raph had to suck in a sharp breath to ignore the emotions welling in his chest. "You're gonna be okay, Case. They ain't gonna hurt you anymore, we kicked their asses."

Casey whimpered. A quiet, shaky thing.

"Raph, he's hurt bad." Donnie gulped, also stepping forward and leaning against his shoulder. "We... we need to tell Master Splinter. He'll know what to do."

Would he? Casey looked like he needed actual medical attention. Even if they provided him enough of their recourses, a recovery like this would take at least a month or two. He'd probably have a few of those scars for the rest of his life.

Leo came up next to him as well, looking white as a ghost. "Jesus, Case. What happened?"

Casey let out a low moan of pain. A choked sob. Then, he whimpered out, "There were—there w'sa group of guys. I was just—just try'na get through."

They all stared at him. None of them had ever really seen Casey cry—or, at least not like this. Raph had never seen anything like this.

"They pinned me down. They—they threatened to kill me—I thought I was going to die—"

Casey went quiet, burying his face into Raph's plastron and letting out a choked sob. Raph had to look away because he physically couldn't handle it.

It wasn't that they had beaten Casey half to death—he could take that. If anything, he was used to it. It was that they had scared him. They had threatened him.

It took a lot to break Casey Jones. But here he was, shaking like a leaf, whimpering like a wounded dog, and crying in a way he never had.

Casey didn't cry. It was so odd seeing him in such a state where he couldn't do anything but.

Casey was getting hysterical now, heaving breaths tumbling out of him like a rockslide, and Raph instinctively clutched him tighter. "Hey—hey hey hey, bud. Case, we won't let them hurt you no more. You're gonna be okay."

Casey cried even harder. In response, Raph clutched his shaking body closer to him and took off towards the lair.

"I'm sorry I didn't come sooner." He admitted quietly. He wasn't sure if Casey heard it, but he said it anyways. "I'm sorry."

He was surprised when Casey reached for him, clutching his arm and looking extremely desperate behind his closed eyes. He breathed, opened his mouth a crack, and then passed out right then and there.

The trip back to the lair couldn't have been longer.

——

"Case?"

Casey opened his eyes. Everything hurt like a bitch and a half.

For a moment, he wondered where the fuck he was and what time it must've been. For one, he was confused. For two, he wasn't sure if he was breathing because it hurt to do so. Everything was foggy.

Then the image of a slick metal blade jump scared him out of the fog in his head, and it all came flooding back. The blood. The screaming. The men. The hands on him.

Casey suddenly felt very cold.

Somebody was touching his face.

For a moment, he thrashed out of instinct, because those hands were meant to hurt him and he couldn't handle that. He didn't want to be hurt. He was scared.

"Case—" a voice said in surprise, "Casey! What the heck, man! Calm down!"

Oh. Casey stopped squirming and looked over.

Donnie, reluctantly, was sitting hunched over next to him, washcloth in his hands that were wobbling slightly. A box of medical supplies sat next to him on a little table. He didn't look too happy—no, scratch that, he looked miserable. Worried sick.

Looking around, all of the turtles were sitting around him, huddled next to one another, slightly bruised and battered and staring at Casey with caution, like he was a frightened animal who was a dime away from snapping.

Next to them was—

He audibly choked. Master Splinter stood calmly beside the group, posture poise and straight, staring directly into his eyes with the wisdom that only a humanoid rat seemed to carry. If Splinter was in the room, then something must've been super fucking wrong. 

Casey blinked slowly at all of them. He looked down. He was shirtless. His entire top half was bruised and covered in band-aids and bandages. The damage looked so bad and there were so many wounds that it made him nauseous.

"Jesus—You almost punched me in the face, Casey," Donnie sighed, holding his hands up, "I don't blame you, really. You've been completely delirious ever since we found you. In and out of consciousness. We were starting to get real worried."

Oh. Oh.

"Are you with us, Case? You gonna pass out again?" Raph said anxiously, something far away and disgustingly earnest brewing in his irises. It caught Casey so off guard that he shook his head furiously. He hated that they all looked so worried. About him of all people.

"Wh—" uncertainty laced his words. It took effort to force them out. "What ha—happened?"

All the turtles looked at each other nervously. Finally, Raph sucked in a breath. "Casey, do you not remember any of the shit that just went down?"

"Raphael, language," Splinter commented.

"Sorry Sensei," he apologized. Casey blinked before shaking his head slowly. "It's—it's not that. I remember—" he remembered the guy who had him pinned by the chest. The blade against the corner of his mouth. The blood. The fear. "What happened. Not—not much after."

Bits and pieces returned to him. He remembered being carried in strong arms that were safe and protective. The turtles and their voices. The assurance and the soft "You're gonna be okay, Case. They ain't gonna hurt you anymore, we kicked their asses."

Anything else? It was getting lost in the fog. A few remembered a few snippets of the journey back to the lair, but he had been fading in and out so fast that it wasn't much.

"How long ha—has it been?" He asked slowly, "Since—since—"

"Twenty minutes," Donnie said. Jesus, that wasn't long at all. "We've taken care of as much as we can so far. There's generally a lot of cuts and bruises on you, and you bruised a rib and sprained a wrist, and there was a nasty gash in your neck, but nothing that can't heal in two to three months."

Oh. Subconsciously, Casey reached a hand up and felt around his neck. It was wrapped in thick gauze. The cut underneath it wasn't visible, but he could feel the burning pain there, and his stomach twisted so bad he thought he'd pass out again.

"Donatello," Splinter said calmly, voice echoing off the walls and making Casey jump, "Continue aiding his face. His wounds need to be addressed."

Donnie nodded quickly, shooting Casey a nervous glance. "I probably have the most medical experience out of anyone here. Sensei's here to tell me what to do."

Casey glanced back at Splinter again. The rat nodded simply, steadily, and he was so calm and quiet that it was nerve wracking. Splinter was as unreadable as he was terrifying. Casey Jones wasn't intimidated by many things, but Master Splinter was someone who he had consistently been nervous around from day one. He had a reasonable excuse to be though—Splinter could snap his neck at the drop of the dime if he really wanted to. It was best to not mess with him.

"Your face got the worst of it," Donnie explained, gesturing to the damp washcloth in his hands and then back to his face, "I was going to start wiping the blood, but you freaked out on me."

"M'sry," Casey breathed out earnestly. He subconsciously hugged himself.

"It's fine," Donnie said quickly. "Am I allowed to touch your face? Please."

Casey nodded, but flinched heavily when Donnie's washcloth touched his cheek. He didn't know why, but the touch frightened him and it hurt, and there must've been so many wounds on his face because it burned bad, and he decided that he really hated this.

"Sorry," Donnie squeaked, "It's gonna hurt."

"J's go for it," he breathed, so the turtle continued wiping his face of the sticky blood and grime that covered it. It was painful, and he hated it greatly, and he didn't want anyone or anything touching him right now, and every time his thoughts wandered, that shiny knife burned behind his eyes.

"Casey, you're shaking." Leo commented, not unkindly. Casey winced when he realized that he definitely was, and he's probably been shaking that way for a few minutes.

"Sorry," he wheezed, his ego cracking and crying and throwing a fit with every second that passed. He swallowed. "M'sorry."

Donnie shook his head and continue addressing the blood. "It's okay. You're okay."

They all sat in tense silence as Donnie scrubbed all the grime off his face. A mess of bruises and cuts and scratches were left in its wake. Once he was done, Donnie moved onto disinfecting all of the wounds. It burned and it burned bad.

"Casey," Splinter said abruptly, making each one of them wince hard and turn to him. "The story, if you may. Tell us what happened."

Casey swallowed hoarsely as the images replayed in his head. They made something small and vulnerable swell in his chest.

He remembered a faint memory of blurting some of the events out to Raph and Leo, but his head was so foggy that he couldn't recall what he'd said.

"I-I was walking." He decided to start at the beginning, wincing hard when Donnie's hand brushed over the ugly cuts around his mouth. "And—and I was callin' Raph. Turned a corner 'n there was—" something caught in his throat. "There were seven guys."

Mikey squeaked nervously. Leo put an arm around him.

"I-I tried to leave," he explained, and he flinched when Donnie began unwrapping large band-aids and pressing them against the mess of cuts on his face. "But they wouldn't let me."

The flashes of fists against his face made him shudder. "They—they pinned me down.
Held a knife to my face. And I-I tried fighting them off, but there were seven of them—and—and—"

It took a lot for Casey Jones to admit hard things. His ego couldn't take it most days.

This was hard. It made him want to cry. It was just—it was the pain in his chest, the way his body shook, the cracks in his voice. It frightened him.

"Hey—Casey, take a deep breath," Raph said slowly, eyes wide and wild with concern. Casey stared at him. He was being weirdly gentle with him, and it made him immensely uncomfortable and nervous. "Rich comin' from you."

Raph's face twisted with something heavy. Casey knew that he could see what he was thinking. "Okay, asshole—"

"Raphael." Splinter scolded. He winced. "Sorry."

"Do you need anything, Case-Case?" Mikey took the time to ask, leaning over his mattress and blinking at him like a cat. "Food or water or anything?"

Casey shook his head. "I-I think I'd puke." Mikey looked bummed but tilted his head slowly. "Do you want me to get you a blanket? A stuffie? A rubix cube or something?"

He thought about it as Donnie pressed the last bandage over the corner of his mouth, sealing away all the nasty cuts over his face. "There we go. You look... a little less dead?"

"Th—thanks," he winced, then turned to Mikey again. "I'd... yeah. Yeah, that—that would be okay."

Mikey jumped up and nodded eagerly. "Yeah, don't sweat it. I'll be right back!"

Mikey bounded out of the Medbay, leaving the others staring after him. They all turned back to Casey in unison.

"You obviously can't go to school like this," Leo said, hugging himself tightly and looking deep in thought. "You can't do anything like this, Case. You messed up a rib."

"Indeed," Splinter nodded, his hands tapping against his cane. "Casey, it would be wise to inform April of your... predicament. You will not be showing up to school in this state. We'll do everything we can to get you in reasonable enough condition to attend your classes."

Casey nodded slowly but didn't look Splinter in the eye. He felt like he was getting scolded.

"Until then, you are not to skateboard, fistfight, or so much as roughhouse in any way, shape, or form." Splinter tapped his chin thoughtfully, "It will be challenging for you, I'm sure. All that staying still."

Casey glared at him. "You're no fun."

Splinter shrugged, obviously unaffected. "Good thing life is not about having fun."

Then Master Splinter turned, huffing a chuckle of amusement that Casey couldn't believe he was capable of making, and walked. When he reached the door, he turned to the boys and nodded. "Casey will be okay. You boys get some rest."

He left, leaving Donnie, Leo, Raph and Casey all staring after him.

"He's right," Donnie said, turning back to him, "You're gonna be fine, Casey. You're lucky you're tough—if it had been anyone else, I wouldn't be as confident."

For the first time that night, Casey grinned. It was toothy and dotted with dried blood. Twitching at the corners. Strained and tired. But he appreciated it, and he actually really needed to hear that. His ego had been tarnished enough already.

"You're staying here for the night," Leo said, "We'd move you to the couch, but Raph was afraid of moving you because of your rib. So you might just have to hang out in the Medbay tonight."

Raph nudged him in the shoulder. "Can you shut the fuck up?" But he turned back to Casey and frowned. "He's right, though. Wouldn't be a good idea manhandling you in this state. Want me to stay here with ya?"

Casey blinked a few times and considered it. After a moment, he concluded that being alone freaked him out. "Yeah." Then, more quietly, he admitted, "Please don't leave."

Raph was going to say something, but Mikey came back into the room with a large blanket and a pillow in his hands. "Heya!" He hopped over to Casey and dumped the blanket on the mattress. He stuffed the pillow behind him as well, and then presented him with a little blue dog plushie. "His name is puppy! He'll keep you company tonight."

And even though Casey felt immensely childish about it, he took the plushie and set it in his lap. "Thanks, Mike." He said, a little miserably. "'Preciate it."

"No probbles," Mikey patted him on the shoulder gently, then turned to the others. "Let's give him some space?"

Leo and Donnie nodded to each other and got up, shuffling over to the door. Leo looked back though, giving a nod. "G'night, Case. I'm glad you're okay."

They all left.

Casey took the opportunity to wrap the blanket around himself, like a shield. He felt like a caterpillar in a cocoon. He'd like to keep it that way.

Raph leaned against his mattress and looked up at him earnestly. "You okay?"

Casey caved further into himself. No, he wasn't, and he didn't know how long that would last. He felt permanently on edge and he was in pain. No, he was not okay.

But he's been more vulnerable tonight than he has in the past five years, and it physically hurt being so earnest.

So instead, he quirked an eyebrow. "Why're you being... weird?"

Raph glared at him. "Case, you had me worried sick. I thought..." he trailed off, "I thought you were dead. When we found you."

Oh. "Sorry. I-I tried fighting 'em off as best as I could." His hand came up and absentmindedly touched the bandage over his neck again. "I don't think I'll be walking alone at night for a while."

"Probably for the best," Raph said, propping himself against the mattress. 

A few questions had gone unsaid, so he started slowly, "How did you guys find me?"

"Donnie tracked you. He has a tracker on your person at all times. It wasn't long before we knew your exact location."

"What?"

"Don't worry about it."

That Donnie. If it wasn't for him, Casey would probably be dead. For once, he thanked his brains for keeping him in line. 

Looking over, Casey took the time to really look at Raph. There was a large gash through his temple. He reached over and traced it gently, making Raph jump at the touch. "The hell happened here?"

"The big guy with the rings got me good," he said simply, "S'okay, though. I beat the living hell out of him."

"The guy who was on top of me?"

"Yeah."

"Wow. Thanks." Casey hummed, "He was going to kill me."

"I wouldn't have let that happen."

Reaching over, Casey took the discarded washcloth and the medical kit and set them in his lap. He took Raph's face and began scrubbing the blood off delicately.

"Ow," Raph hissed, batting at his hand, "Dude, that has your blood on it. Don't touch me with that." He winced. "Ow, stop—you always do it too hard!"

"Stop moving," Casey huffed, scrubbing even harder just to get a kick out of it. He then dug through the medical kit before finding a thick bandage and wound cleaner. "You aren't going to patch it up yourself. You know it."

The turtle growled—something quite animal like—and he crossed his arms with a huff. Casey reached over and rubbed the ointment into the cut before grabbing the bandage and pressing it on. He studied his work, hummed, and then flicked Raph in the head for good measure. "There you go."

"Thanks."

Raph scratched at the bandage before stretching further out across the side of the mattress, head nestling snug against Casey's waist. Casey grimaced. "Ain't it gonna be uncomfortable sleeping that way? Half of your body is literally on the ground."

"I don't care," Raph said simply, closing his eyes, so Casey left it at that. He nestled his back against the mattress and shut his eyes as well.

The knife appeared behind his eyelids again. He shivered.

"You okay, Case?"

"Yeah," He breathed, "Yeah, I will be. Now that you're here."

Raph hummed. It didn't take long before they both fell asleep.