#had a vision and couldn't resist heh

[zu-is-here]

double game

[itzzaira]

Withering Butterflies || future Michelangelo story

TW: Spirits, main character is dying and is aware of this. Mention of passed loved ones (who are also confirmed to be just fine and here)

When a mystic warrior is close to death, no matter the cause or reason of their passing- there are signs.

Signs their mystic magic sends out because it can sense that death is near, that it won't be long before it's time to leave the mortal realm, that their clock is almost done ticking. Such signs could be exhaustion, illness, a following sense of doom, weakened mystic magic, losing control of said magic, mystic aging, increase in visions-

Seeing spirits.

Not like his ancestors whom he tried to talk with on purpose. No, in his everyday life.

This is what they would call Mystic Sickness.

It didn't matter what you died off- it could be because of mystic magic, an attack, it didn't matter. Your mystic energies would sense it. It will let you know. It will make sure you know.

Michelangelo had ignored the signs for as much as he could- the mystic aging was because of the overuse of his ninpo, the exhaustion and loss of appetite was because of said aging, the sense of doom that followed him everywhere was normal they lived in the apocolypse-

He really had ignored it, for as long as he could.

Until the first butterfly had landed on his snout.

The white, glowing butterfly.

Butterflies had gone instinct years ago.

As soon as Michelangelo had seen that first butterfly... he knew he couldn't ignore it anymore.

He was dying.

Hamato Michelangelo was not afraid of death.

He knew he would die much younger than everyone else- he had always known. He was the only mystic warrior the resistance had, the only one who could cure those corrupted by Krang, the only one who could heal, the strongest out of them- which resulted in the overuse of his ninpo. He had assumed it would be his mystic powers that killed him.

He was right.

But no one needed to know that.

Instead of going to Leonardo, like he probably should, Mikey had ignored it. He had ignored how sick he felt, he ignored his hair that fell off in chunks, he ignored the sense of doom that seemed to get worse, he ignored the butterflies that only he could see that followed him everywhere.

...Butterflies that seemed to get more each and each day. The amount of spirits that seemed to be more, much more, following him around-

Until he had sensed the first spirit in Donnie's lab.

"...It is sad to see you sensing me so soon, Michelangelo."

Mikey had just smiled, gently closed the door behind him, and opened his eyes. "Good to see you again, Bary."

"Is it?" The sheep yokai crossed his arms, that same annoyed yet worried scowl on his face that Mikey had missed so much. His body was glowing cyan and his pupils were gone, just like every other spirit he had met until now- did that mean he was Hamato? He wasn't sure, the man didn't have the Hamato symbol- "-because I had hoped to see you hit your forties before you joined us."

Mikey smiled. "Heh... h-hah... hic..."

His smile fell.

He covered his mouth and allowed himself this moment of weakness- letting the orange-glowing tears drip down his cheeks as he slid onto the floor- his legs were too weak to hold him up. Part of the reason he had started floating everywhere. His legs were too weak to stand on.

The butterflies that had been surrounding him went down with him, landing all over his shoulders and head, trying to drink his tears. Michelangelo didn't know what was worse- the fact he was crying like a child... or the fact that the spirits seemed to think they were on the same plane of existence.

"...Oh, child." Draxum bent down next to him- he didn't have any of the old scars he had gotten, Mikey noted. The spirit winced at the orange tears, knowing full well they shouldn't be that color, but didn't comment on it. "You look so tired, Michelangelo."

"I am." The turtle wept, wincing when his tears burned his fingers. He shivered at the sensation of ghostly fingers touching his cheek- it felt cold. So cold.

As cold as he had been feeling, for the past couple of weeks.

Hamato Michelangelo was not afraid of death.

He knew his passing would be painful- probably by his magic ripping him into a thousand tiny pieces, or maybe he would get stabbed or something by Krang- he didn't know. He didn't care.

He foresaw all possible futures, all the possible outcomes, all the possible ways he would wither away. Made sure to be prepared, made sure to fight alone so no one would see him perish. Yet, he was worried.

Worried because until now, he hadn't been able to communicate with any of his family. "Where are my-"

"With your brother." Draxum pulled away, sat down properly, and folded his hands in his lap. "They didn't want to leave, but Leonardo seemed to be having a hard time."

...

"...They're... here?" Mikey could have cried with that knowledge if he hadn't been crying already, but didn't know if that was because of relief or hurt. They had been here? Here? All this time? When he had been searching for his brother's spirits... they had been he here? He... they never left?

They never left them alone.

They hadn't been resting like he'd hoped.

"...Cassandra is here as well," Draxum muttered, recognizing that his adoptive son was getting stuck in his own head again. "She wanted to make sure that Leonardo didn't raise her son to be a, and I quote, 'whimp'."

Mikey snorted. He couldn't help the giggles, covering his mouth with both hands. That sounded like Cassandra alright. She had seen him grow up after all? It... wasn't the best way, but- it was something.

"...Would you like to speak with your father?"

His head snapped up. Mikey looked at the spirit with disbelief, bloodshot eyes blown wide. "...Dad is here too?"

"He never left."

"..." The turtle curled up and winced once his legs ached at the movement. With a flick of his hand, his mystic magic lifted his legs and curled them to his chest. Mikey thought, for a moment... and then shook his head.

"...I doubt I could see him anyway." He mumbled. A butterfly got close to his cheek when a single tear slipped down.

"...I know." Draxum sighed. "I assume I'm the first spirit you're seeing?"

He nodded.

Selfishly, Michelangelo had hoped to find Donatello today, once he sensed the spirit in the lab. But thats okay. He would see him soon enough.

"I'm dying."

Not a question. A statement.

"But you already knew that, didn't you?"

Instead of answering, Michelangelo held out his hand. Another butterfly landed on his finger. Draxum sighed, muttered under his breath, and shook his head. "If you had stopped using mystic magic when I told you to you wouldn't be."

"I was needed." He watched the tiny creature's wings- so fragile, so small- so beautiful. No wonder it hadn't survived this world. "I didn't have a choice, Barry."

"Your magic is destroying you as we speak." Another grumble. "Your future visions are getting out of hand."

The turtle couldn't help it- he cracked a smile. "...You know about those?"

"You wake up floating in the air surrounded by mystic particles and many spirits all around you." The man crossed his arms. "I'm surprised Leonardo hasn't noticed yet."

"I don't want him to know." Mikey cringed when he felt some hair slip down his cloak when he shifted his position to sit more comfortably, then winced when his legs ached. He sighed, defeated. And with the flick of his hand, mystic magic lifted up his legs and crossed them.

Another butterfly settled on his knee.

"...Do you know how you're going to..."

"No." He didn't know if that was good or bad. Michelangelo knew it was important to stay prepared... but he didn’t exactly want to predict his own death. That was just how his visions worked. They were set in stone.

...Which brought up another issue.

"...I can't die yet, Draxum." A single tear slipped down his cheek, which immediately caused a swarm of butterflies to get closer to his face. "I'm needed here."

"You've destroyed yourself doing too much." Blunt, without sugar-coating it- yep, that was Draxum alright. "Your body can't hang on anymore. I'm sorry, Michelangelo."

If he had the energy, the turtle would fight it.

He would get up, say something about how you needed to do more to take this turtle down, then either get S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. to scan him or attempt to heal himself, fail, find some books, a cure- something.

But he was just so tired.

Hamato Michelangelo was not afraid of death.

He knew what death was. He knew what it felt like. Cold, lonely, dark. At least. That was what death used to be. These days, death seemed warm. Peaceful. Lovely. And even though he couldn't sense their spirits yet, knowing the rest of his family was near and waiting, made it look so so much better. Heck, even the spirits with him right now- they felt cool, sure. But not freezing. This was a nice cool he used to feel when there used to be Summer breezes, offering relief amongst all the heat and allowing him to breathe.

But just as death had changed... so had life.

Life, which used to be joyful and warm and happy and bright, had turned dark and cold and full of grief. Never full, never well rested, always on the move, always dirty, always cold. Being cold bothered him the most, for some reason. Probably because instinct kept screaming at him to brumate but the turtle couldn't let himself.

Life had changed. So had death. And the other, brighter side didn't seem as bad anymore.

But...

"What about Leo?"

Draxum turned his head back so quickly, looking shocked and... something else. "...You are the one dying. Let me repeat that. Dying. And you worry about your brother?"

"I can't leave him, Barry..."

"He has April and Casey."

"It's not the same."

When their father had been... lost. The four had been together. They had grieved, they buried him somewhere worthy, they prayed.

When Raph had... left. The three had been there. They had been there the moment the building collapsed on top of him, had been with him as he moved from one plane of existence to the other, unwilling to let go and holding onto each other instead.

When Donnie...

...

"What will happen to them when I'm gone, Barry?" His breath hitched in ways it hadn't done for what felt like eons. His shoulders started shaking as he tried to curl up- but the pain that shot up his legs made him freeze instead, which just. Did it.

He couldn't move his legs. He knew damn well why.

Draxum's expression softened as he watched the turtle fall apart, watched the butterflies land all over his face to try and lap up his tears- it was fine. He could be weak. Just this once.

Hamato Michelangelo was not afraid of death.

Heck, he even longed for the warmth and love on the other side.

But...

Magic lifted his legs so he could curl up as he wanted to, and pulled up his cloak so his head was hidden, ignoring the hair that fell at the action alone. He buried his head in his knees, hugged himself, and- apologized.

How selfish.

To leave this cold, horrible world... when he was still needed here.

Needed by April, who needed her little brother to try and light up others- the only positive thing left.

Needed by Casey, who had lost his mother at such a young age, lost half his uncles, and shouldn't be losing another...

Needed by Leo.

Leo, who still blamed himself for something that wasn't his fault every single day. Leo, who started leading the resistance at such a young age to make up for said thing. Leo, who kept trying to give his portions of food because the younger brother just looked so sickly.

How selfish would he be to leave?

He couldn't do that to Leo. Not to Leo.

"They'll find ways to go on." The yokai mumbled, getting closer and letting a ghostly hand rest on Mikey's shell. It felt cold. A nice cold. But still, the mutant flinched away. No. "They've got each other."

"Leo won't survive, Barry." Mikey cried, looking up- okay the tears were starting to burn. It hurt. But at least that meant he was alive. "He barely did after Donnie. He can't. He won't... Barry. I can't leave yet."

"..." Draxum let a butterfly land on his finger. Looked at the insect, lost in thoughts. "...I'm afraid you do not have a choice."

He knew that. He had known for quite a while, even when the turtle tried to lie to himself and make up excuses for all of his symptoms.

But this...

He couldn't lie to himself anymore. Not for this. There was no other explanation as to why he was seeing spirits.

Hamato Michelangelo was not afraid of death.

He was afraid of what would happen to Leonardo after.

[2aceofspades]

Trick or treat! It's fanfic anon, here to drop off a treat for you! Rereading Wrong Fabricated Time Branch has me feeling things and I wrote this little magnetic duo thing-

---

Cassandra didn't come back.

Between Casey Junior, the entire rest of the Resistance, and trying and failing to be there for his family, Leo barely had time for himself. Heh, what was a little less time for himself when there was the rest of the world to take care of?

So then, Leo found himself caring for a child that wasn't his; said child sleeping peacefully for the first time in days. That part was fine, not at all stressful. With that child loosely swaddled in his own scarf, he paced around the room as he briefly (and quietly) laid out the plans for the next resource raid. His energy waned, his vision blurring and his words turning into white noise. His steps grew more haggard, but standing or sitting still wouldn't feel right either.

Out of the corner of his eye, Leo noticed a familiarly large silhouette walk past the open door. No, not quite walking past; more like walking towards. He merely nodded to address the other presence, not quite recognising who was standing there until he dismissed the rest a few minutes later.

The moment the last member left the room, Leo identified the closest horizontal surface, set Casey Junior on a chair, and immediately collapsed onto the hard wooden table.

"Leo?"

Leo could only groan in response, recognition finally taking root in his mind. He turned his head away from the source of the sound, groaning. He just wanted his two minutes of table time before the next team went in.

"Leo. It's important, we need'a talk."

Despite the fatigue in his bones, Leo sat up (yes, on the table) to face the snapping turtle. Oof, the big guy was getting blurrier than he remembered, but he assumed he looked focused enough to "make eye contact".

"What is it? News on Cass? Missing resources? Someone lost their kid?"

"Not that."

"Then what?"

There was silence, and Raph's glare (Leo's assuming) was piercing enough. Be it a result of their odd ability to mind meld or something similar, Leo knew Raph wasn't here to talk about the Resistance.

The slider sighed, "Then it isn't important."

Leo couldn't quite see the expression on Raph's face change, but there was a shift in the tension of the room. "Leo. Everyone can see it. You need rest."

"Wha-hat?" Leo sounded way too surprised for it to be funny, but he had to make an attempt at levity, "You think I'm tired? Are you mistaking me for Donnie?"

Raph didn't even pause. "When was the last time you slept?"

"Uh-" He stifled the way his words began to slur.

"Or the last time you had more than five minutes for yourself?"

"Well-" He fought his faltering vision.

"Or the last time we talked about stuff that doesn't concern the Resistance?"

"Come on, that isn't fair!" He knew Raph was mad, but it wouldn't be the first time.

"Tell me."

The leader could nearly feel the glare on the other. He could only cross his arms, stopping himself from curling in on himself. Falling back into old habits wouldn't help anyone.

"Hey! I'm saving the world, right?" The slider tried to stop himself from sounding accusatory, but it came out targeted anyway, "Fixing my mistakes, making the right sacrifices, being a hero?"

"Listen to me-"

"We're doing better now than we were before; who cares if it takes a few all-nighters-"

"Leo-"

"I'm getting results!"

"Raph just wants his brother back!"

His vision blurred even more, cold streaks going down his face as the weight of those words sunk in. No, they didn't sink; Raph threw those words like bricks and Leo could only shatter like glass.

"You're the only one we barely see."

Leo let himself curl into a ball, holding his knees up to his plastron. He wanted to feel like a child again, but that wasn't what he deserved.

"Always busy talking to other members, never letting the rest of us help with Casey, always throwing yourself headfirst into danger when someone else was at risk," Raph muttered that last part, and Leo sunk his head into his shell, "You may be the leader, but Raph's still the oldest. I want to know what's going on with you."

It took a moment for Leo to construct a word, let alone the sentence. He made an attempt at speech, only for it to come out a defeated chirp.

Raph must've made a face, even if Leo could barely see it. He first heard the click of a door closing shut, then the softness of fabric against his wet eyes and cheeks. "Raph's sorry for yelling."

"Chhrrr..." (It was deserved.)

Raph didn't understand. Maybe much to Leo's benefit. "But please just listen to Raph for once... I won't leave you alone, none of us will. We're in this together, 'kay?"

"Erp..." (No promises.)

A pause.

"Can Raph hug you?" Leo paused, but nodded. He leaned forward and fell into a familiar embrace. Unconsciously, he found himself sinking into the warmth the other provided, melting like a cat in a container.

Strong, secure, safe, even when the apocalypse outside raged on. For once, he'll allow himself this one comfort.

GAH-

You...you can't do this to me okay???

THIS IS CANON NOW OKAY YEAH THIS HAPPENED-

I couldn't stop myself...

It...it was just too vivid in my mind 🥲

[just-another-wren]

!!ALTERNATE TIMELINE/NON-CANON!!

(commence spaces for people coming from the notifs! aka fake readmore lol)

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"Sorry, Mrs . O'Neil. Apocalypse kid, remember? I've never had this fresh of water before, heh..."

..."Woah, slow down, hun! You're gonna make yourself sick!"

Carol couldn't help but snicker at the black-haired kid at her kitchen sink. Casey finished gulping down his 15th glass of water in a row, and set down the glass, snickering himself.

"Well that's worrying." She closed her laptop and looked at him.

"Oh nonono, Master Donatello had water filters, don't worry! They just weren't the best 'cause of limited supplies." His head snapped around to the doorway behind him, and so did Carol's a second later. Yelling.

His reaction time had always been extremely good, as had been easily recognized by the fact he felt everyone else was agonizingly slow. It'd only been maybe an hour or three since the Kraang attacked, and the resistance finally won. Kadeen, this unfamiliar, scarred face, had used mystics to heal everyone that needed it, so why did he not remember her? Especially since she seemed so close to M- no, wrong one, Leo. Master Leonardo would have at least mentioned someone like her. Maybe even Masters Michelangelo,Donatello, or Mother Maria would have mentioned her. Maybe even Master Raphael, when he was still alive, would have mentioned her! And she was... arguing with Co- shit, no- April?

"And that's how you're so competent and kind right now?! This isn't even the first time you've left, and you tried to kill not only Leo, but Donnie and Raph before! You left for weeks on end back when your scars were healing for no reason, you left for 'sOmEtHiNg ImPoRtAnT' conveniently right before ol' Shreddy Boy came back, you left right after the whole body swap thing, and then you leave the very night before the attack of what could've potentially caused the FUCKING apocalypse?!"

"...and you left. Us. Again!" April spat.

"I told you, I have a meeting today, that's why I left! I can't function unless I wake up naturally!" Kadeen tried reasoning with her.

"April, how could I have-"

"Oh don't you dare finish that sentence, you have future vision mystics!!"

"I will tell you guys why I left, I promise, but you guys aren't ready yet-"

"And Donnie was before now?! We all just saved the world from the apocalypse for the second time, I don't think your sorry ass can say that anymore!" Junior watched as they argued and argued. He remembered times when both Master Donatello and Maria had to often leave the room for a minute after an argument like this. Commander O'Neil had explained to him as a kid that, because of how their brains worked, if they didn’t leave, they would react even worse than the Kraang. Why did this version of her not know that yet? Wait a minute-

"Guys, wait, stop! Maybe this is why I can't remember Kadeen from the future, she felt cornered and couldn't pause to calm down, so she-" He called from the doorway of the kitchen. However, he wasn't heard, as April grabbed the back of Kadeen's hoodie as she tried to walk into another room. She whipped around and smacked April's hand away from her.

"I need to calm down, so for fucks sake, let me, April!"

"You're just gonna abandon us again, like you always do!"

"You really just want me to leave, then, since you keep fucking insisting I will!"

"Not gonna be any different than the other times, so if you're gonna leave, then stay! Away!"

"Alright, forget everything else I've fucking done for you all then, asshole!" With a wave of her hand, a portal opened up.

Leo quickly tried scrambling off his place on the couch. "W-wait, Kadeen, please!" But he also went unheard. She had already walked through, middle finger in the air.

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..."She'll come back again, right?"

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...He tried warning them.

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...Donnie never thought he'd see the apocalypse.

He thought he and the others had beat the apocalypse thrice- as teens, no less! What the fuck happened?! He quickly dived into the fire escape balcony for cover with Mikey as Leo and Casey Junior fought back the inky darkness that was consuming the O'Neil apartment. He looked over the vast emptiness of a destroyed New York, almost entirely covered in ink and pitch-black demonic monsters. He heard crying from inside Mikey’s shell. "I just wanted to clean up that old animation studio for us... I didn't want this..."

He hugged his brother close. "Of course you didn't, Mikey. Nobody would have wanted this. Well... except the Foot Clan, maybe, if they were still alive, but still. You only had the best intentions." His head popped slightly out of his shell, to give him a small smile. He looked over the landscape as well.

"...I don't think we can survive this."

"Wh- hey, what happened to Optimistic Mikey?"

"I know, I know, but... it's gotten so far and done so much, and it's only been an hour. We were able to seal the Kraang back the first time, but we could barely do it the second time. And we had to lose Raph for it... And with how fast it's spreading...I don't know if we can even last a month."

He looked around. The animation studio had been halfway across the state from here, and heck even Big Mama did next to nothing against it. They definitely needed help if they were to have even the smallest chance of surviving this. And the studio itself was basically from a... a video game. God fucking damnit. He groaned.

He sighed. "No, it- Goddamn it... It's not that fact that I'm upset about. It's about the fact that I know exactly who to call to help us get past this shit." He took out his phone, and scrolled through his blocked contacts. He shook his head, and pressed call.

"...it really isn't just me overthinking, is it?"

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...Her phone started ringing. Oh my- right in the middle of a meeting. Seriously?! Everyone that would call her knew she would be in a meeting, what was up with them?! She awkwardly took her phone out of her bag, and looked at who was calling. Stranger. Great, probably another Irinel emergency. She stood up from her seat. "I'm sorry, I've got to take this call." Obsidian nodded at her politely.

"It's no trouble at all, you take your time." Avi nodded back, and stepped outside of the room. She sighed and pressed accept call, putting on her most cheery tone.

"Hello, Avi speaking?"

"Hey." Wh...what? Was- was that?... "We've got an apocalypse situation over here, can you come fix it?"

"I... E-excuse me, but can I ask who's calling and what universe you're calling from?"

"You really don't recognize my voice?"

"Well- ...maybe, but I don't like to assume..."

They sighed on the other end of the line. "It's Donnie, Kadeen. Just come get this shit out of New York, for fucks sake." Kadeen couldn't help but snicker slightly.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~POV change~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"'Yall are lucky I've got my powers under control more than I did back then. Imma be there in two seconds~" The call ended. Donnie sighed and put his phone back right as Leo slipped onto the fire escape next to him.

"Needed a rest. And 'Angelo pointed out that we can't beat this thing on our own, so I called for help."

"Why didn't you two run?!"

"What? Who did you-" Gonna fuck up your live, like John Tucker must die, like Gone- "...you're fucking kidding me."

"...Unfortunately not, 'Nardo." Mikey popped up out of his shell as he heard the familiar song playing in his mind, and beamed as he scrambled to look into the window. The disaster twins also looked into the room.

"GUESS WHO'S BACK, BI-ohhh holy shit, Don wasn't exaggerating." Casey whipped around at the sound of her voice.

"Kadeen!"

The ink creature took this as a time to attack, and just as it did, it exploded violently. 'Didn't touch Casey, though, as a forcefield had been formed in front of him. "Heya, Junior! It's certainly been a long while!~ Imma go bleach this place, B-R-B!" The shield fully formed into a ball and phased through Casey as it whizzed around the room, collecting ink along the way. He shuddered as Kadeen headed straight for the window, the brothers ducking to dodge her. She backflipped over them and onto the edge of the fire escape, spinning and sitting on the railing before winking and giving a salute. "Hiya boys~" She fell backwards and they scrambled to catch her, only for her to rise above them- blue-jay wings outstretched. She spun and trilled at them, the ink bubble zipping past their heads and growing large enough to cover a huge portion of the city, as she flew away. It was a strange, yet beautiful sight- watching the bubble zoom around and out into the distance as the little blue speck followed. The brothers looked at eachother as they caught their breath.

They couldn't even say a word, as moments later the bubble reappeared and lifted into the air- filled with the ink. It got smaller and smaller, until it disappeared. Then, pink sparks erupted from the spot, scattering all over New York. A couple landed on them, their injuries closing up- leaving scars, but painless ones. Casey zoomed out to the window, saying what they were all thinking.

"What the fuck did she do while she was gone?!"

She flew back and hovered, resting her head on her arms on the fire escape railing. "Did'y'all miss me?~ ...By those faces, I'm gonna assume no."

"What. The. Fuck. Was THAT?! You just- left for fifteen years, come back with GODLIKE POWERS, and the first thing you say after that, is just- 'DID YOU MISS ME?!'" Casey shouted from the window.

"Yyyeah, not what I was expecting." Donnie gave her a look. "...Okay YEAH, maybe I did expect it a little..."

"A li- you left, knowing full well this- inky demon summoning bullshit was going to happen?!"

"Wh- hey, anything can happen, I didn't know-know! I'm not leaving 'till I can confidently say you guys'll be okay on your own, though." She hopped onto the railing and swung around to land in the fire escape. It lurched at the added weight before glowing pink and staying in a stable, upright position. "Also, I apologize for the delay, I had to figure out how good of a training dummy those ink demons were before destroying them."

"A training dummy. You're serious?! You get back, and all you can think about is wether or not our literal APOCALYPSE is a worthy TRAINING DUMMY?!"

"I think you've said that already, Case. Now can y'all get off the fire escape so it doesn't collapse?" The turtles nodded and scrambled back into the apartment. "I'm helping y'all rebuild."

"We don't need your help, asshole. You don't even actually care anyways, do you?" She tensed up and stopped from where she sat on the windowsill. She took a deep breath.

"...I get over grief quickly, any problems with y'all are old news to me. I need to care less about things, anyways. But, no matter what you say, I ain't leaving." She walked into the kitchen and tried getting herself a cup of water, having to search a little to remember where the cups were, but the tap didn't work. "If you don't want my help, then I won't help. But ya can't get rid of me now, be aware of that. Ya interrupt me in the middle of a meeting, ya get the punishment, which is me being an ass."

"Oh, fuck off..."

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..."Kadeen, why the hell are you just lazing around, come help me with this, they're heavy as shit!" April snapped at her, carrying another bunch of debris. Kadeen just sat, floating, scrolling on her phone.

"Can't."

"And why the fuck not?" She put it down again, dusting off her hands.

"Junior said no."

"Junior said no?"

"That's what I just said." April sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose.

"Just teleport the debris to the destruction site, please."

"Now we're talking." She pointed at the pile of debris that April was carrying before and it popped away.

"...I meant all of it."

"Sucks to be you."

"I- Hey, why are you being such an ass? You, Leo, and Mikey were talking like ya never left earlier, and now you're being a brat. The fucks up with that?" Kadeen looked away from her, and put her phone down, sighing.

"...Look, I'm not doing this out of spite. I didn't leave out of spite, either."

"Wh- The fuck you mean, you didn't leave out of spite?! What else would you be doing this shit out of?"

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...Don't fuck up. Don't care, you'll outlive her anyways. You know this has to be fake, or you'll get attached and get fucked up when she dies.

...

What the fuck was?!- Did... oh. She was mindsharing on accident again?... At least some things never change? "...I was doing it out of love." April's eyes went wide.

"...When people...tell me to stay away, it typically is for the better that we never see eachother after that, for their good... and mine. ...First time it was my best friend and brother, and... then, you guys. I mean... it would've been nice to have someone who I could ask if you guys needed me, but I don't think you guys would appreciate that." Calm, don't cry. You're okay, Avi. She's not real. Wait, what? She took a deep breath and put her phone back up, scrolling.

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"...Oh." ...She really hit her hard, didn't she?

"...Thank you."

...

"The...rest of the debris will be easier to carry, by the way."

"Not a problem."

[primatechnosynthpop]

So last year I had the thought: hey, the vigilante persona Ryan adopts in NKotR #5 is vaguely similar to Rorschach from Watchmen (guy who has only seen new kids on the rock, reading watchmen for the first time: hmm... getting a lot of nkotr vibes from this). Then I had the idea, hey, wouldn't it be fun if there was a case of mistaken identity? I bet that could lead to some real wacky hijinks. And then I ended up writing an extremely depressing fanfiction about it! However, I have since become unsatisfied with what I wrote, particularly when it comes to Rorschach's motivations.

So, with another year's worth of writing experience on my side, I present....

-The Vigilantes (Plural): Redux-

Neil held his breath as he waited in the alleyway, bottle of chloroform in hand. Whatever was on the other side of the alley was obscured by the murky evening darkness; he just had to put his trust in Kevin sticking to the plan they'd concocted. Any moment now Ryan would show up to reprimand the "criminal", and while he was distracted Neil would knock him out. It was a totally foolproof plan... or at least he hoped it was.

While he was squinting out at the city streets, scanning for either of his friends, the crunch of unfamiliar footsteps on the pavement behind him caught his attention. He turned, only to jump at the sight of a vigilante much like the one he was trying to apprehend. Black fedora, gloves, purple pinstriped pants, and an undeniably threatening aura...

Ryan, is that you? The question was on the tip of his tongue until the figure stepped fully out of the shadows, revealing a trenchcoat and, more alarmingly, a mask patterned with symmetrical ink blotches that seemed to swirl of their own accord. Ah. Neil's throat tightened and he took a step back. Not Ryan, then.

"What's that?" the strange figure growled. Too quickly for him to resist, the vigilante grabbed Neil's wrist and twisted it forcefully. Neil yelped in pain; his hand reflexively dropped the chloroform. The vigilante grabbed the bottle and seemed to stare at it--though with that mask, it was hard to tell exactly where he was looking--with a contemptuous snort. "Chloroform. Planning to kidnap someone?"

"Heh, what? Nooo..." Neil stretched his face into a nervous grin, trying to ignore the way his heart was hammering like a cornered prey animal. "I mean, uh, maybe? Does it count as kidnapping if it's--"

He didn't get the chance to finish that question. The vigilante slapped him forcefully across the face and, while Neil was dazed and blinking at the impact, tossed the bottle aside. Neil watched the bottle's trajectory as it clattered to the ground a couple feet away. In retrospect, he probably shouldn't have taken his eyes off the vigilante--not that observing his attacker more closely would have made him that much better equipped to defend himself.

The vigilante squeezed their gloved hands painfully tight around Neil's arm and gave it a harsh twist. A godawful snapping sound exploded from the appendage along with a burst of splintering pain that left Neil gasping. Before he could process this development beyond holy crap my arm is broken oh my god-- his attacker followed up with a punch in the ribs that knocked him off balance, and then a kick that sent him to the ground.

Stars spun in Neil's vision as he flopped breathlessly on the grimy pavement. And just his luck, he came down right on his freshly broken arm--though he hardly felt the impact. It just blended into the white-hot agony already coursing through him. He barely managed to roll out of the way in time to avoid the vigilante's boot coming down on his head.

His vision remained blurry upon scrambling to his feet, even once his head stopped spinning. For a moment he worried about brain damage, but that worry at least was assuaged when he noticed that the weight of his glasses was missing from the bridge of his nose. Not surprising that they'd fallen off, but unfortunately he couldn't see where they'd landed--nor did he have time to grab them. Not when the vigilante wasted no time moving in on him for another attack.

"Geez, what gives?" Neil demanded as he swerved to narrowly avoid another punch. "I was just gonna--"

"Going to kidnap someone, right?" the vigilante snarled. He grabbed Neil by the collar and shoved him roughly against the wall. "Make ransom note, promise safe return if you get money? Get bored with victim, chop them up and feed to dogs?"

"What? No way!" he protested. "Rocky doesn't even like human flesh, and besides, I'd never do that to..."

As the vigilante drew back a fist for another punch, Neil's defence trailed off with the sinking realization that this mysterious attacker wasn't going to listen. It seemed like he was too submerged in his own dark and violent world to consider that maybe Neil had a totally justified reason to want to knock his friend out with chloroform. Boy, some people are so narrow-minded!

"Okay, okay, geez!" he exclaimed, throwing his hands (or rather the one hand attached to a non-broken arm) up in surrender. "I was gonna knock out Ryan and drag him back to our clubhouse. But that's--"

The masked man, three for three now on rude interruptions, cut Neil off with a punch in the face. He groaned, tasting blood in his mouth. His attacker didn't let up, punching him again in the chest and then the stomach, and finally wrapping his hands around Neil's throat.

By this point Neil's vision, already blurry without his glasses, was beginning to take on a faint red tinge. When the vigilante's gloved hands squeezed hard around his neck, he didn't have it in him to offer up any more snappy comebacks, let alone actually fight back. As his senses slowly dulled, he was silently grateful that at least the throbbing pain would go away too.

*

A slowly mounting anxiety stirred within Kevin, amplified by the evening chill, as he paced up and down the streets with a practiced carelessness. No sign of Ryan yet. Kevin momentarily paused his jaywalking to let a truck roll by on the road, then resumed at a slightly quicker pace once it had rumbled past. If he doesn't show up soon, he wondered, what are Neil and I gonna do? He supposed they could come back and try again the next day, but even then, nothing was guaranteed...

He was broken from his worried contemplation by the sounds of a fight breaking out in the alley across the road--the very place where Neil was supposed to be waiting with the chloroform. Kevin stiffened with alarm, which grew sharper as he made out the unmistakable sound of Neil crying out in pain.

The whole plan immediately forgotten, Kevin broke into a sprint--only to halt in his tracks as a car sped by in front of him, horn blaring... and then another car after that, and then another. He muttered curses under his breath and hopped from foot to foot impatiently on the sidewalk while the cars passed in a steady stream. The sounds of traffic up close drowned out the muffled sounds of the fight, which only made his fear grow stronger. By the time the road was finally clear for a few seconds and he could sprint across, he didn't hear Neil anymore. That couldn't have been a good sign.

His fears were confirmed when he made it to the source of the racket. In the shadowy alleyway, Kevin could just make out Neil's figure being pinned to the wall and choked by a person in what looked like a trenchcoat and a hat. Mind blanking with panic, Kevin leapt forward with a shout and tackled the strange figure. They went down hard, releasing Neil in the process; he slid down the wall and flopped over upon being released.

The figure let out a choked-sounding grunt when Kevin pushed them to the ground. They were quick to throw him off and scramble to their feet, positioned in a wary crouch with their back arched like a feral cat. There, in the streaking flash of yellow light from another vehicle passing by on the road, Kevin took in his opponent. Hat, mask, pinstripes... not to mention the violence, and the gravelly growl emitting from their throat as they stared Kevin down. It was just like what all the papers had described about the rogue vigilante, presumed to be insane, who'd been attacking citizens. So that means... Kevin's throat clenched along with his heart. This is him.

"Ryan, what are you doing?" he exclaimed. "That's Neil! Don't you recognize him? Why are you--"

Before he could finish that question, Ryan's gloved hands were tight around his neck and lifting him off the ground. "That what people calling me? 'Ryan'?" he growled. "Supposed to be joke? Haha. Everybody laugh. Curtains."

"What?" he managed to choke out around the vigilante's death grip. "Ryan, c-c'mon! It's us--your friends!"

To demonstrate, he reached up and tore off his disguise. The vigilante's mask gave away no reaction to the revelation--not surprising, since it covered his whole face. (That part was kind of weird, actually. The news stories hadn't said anything about that, and you'd really think they'd mention such a distinctive mask...) There was no reaction in his body language either, which was unfortunate, because Kevin really would've appreciated that grip on his throat easing off a little.

"Never seen you before in my life," Ryan (or was it Ryan?) snorted derisively. Then he paused and cocked his head. "Wait. 'Ryan' same name he used." With that remark, the vigilante jerked their head toward Neil, who hadn't gotten up from where he was slumped against the wall with his head next to a puddle that was hopefully just rainwater but probably something worse. Another pair of headlights passed by outside, and a shudder ran down Kevin's spine as he momentarily got a better look at his friend's worryingly limp form. "Friend of yours?"

"Yeah, actually, he is!" Kevin shot back, glaring at the swirling ink blots on the vigilante's mask. (He was pretty sure this wasn't Ryan after all, but that left him with absolutely no clue as to who it actually was.) "And he'd better be okay, or I'm telling you, I'll-- gackk!"

He broke off into a strangled gasp as the vigilante's grip tightened around his throat. Simultaneously, they drew back their other hand in a fist. Kevin gritted his teeth and twisted his head in a futile attempt to dodge a punch square to the nose. It was quickly followed by a second punch, twice as hard, to the jaw. A coppery taste swelled in Kevin's mouth. In a small mercy, the vigilante released their grip on his throat with that hit and let him slump to his knees. However, once he was down, they didn't give him a chance to recover before hitting him with a kick to the chest that sent him crashing against the wall.

"Working with him?" the vigilante demanded. "Hire him to kidnap someone for you? Or are you his assistant?"

"H... huh?" Kevin stared up at the vigilante, eyes narrowed in something halfway between a pained grimace and a confused squint. "Who says we're gonna kidnap anybody?"

"Playing dumb? Hah. Friend already admitted to it." The vigilante knelt down, hands curling around the lapels of Kevin's jacket and lifting him up off the ground a bit so they were (presumably, given the mask situation) eye-to-eye. "So. Tell me. What plans?"

"Seriously, it's not what you think!" He raised his hands in a gesture of surrender as he spoke, but the vigilante didn't ease back whatsoever. "Neil and I are just trying to get our friend Ryan to stop being a vigilante. Neither of us wants to hurt anybody--in fact, we want Ryan to stop hurting people so much!"

"Hurm," the vigilante grunted. "Good story. Lines up with what other one said."

They retracted their grip on Kevin's jacket, and for a moment his tension eased as he sat back against the wall and tried to catch his breath. Then, in a sudden flash of movement, the vigilante drove a fist into his gut with enough force to produce a crack. Kevin sputtered in shock and pain, a bit of blood dribbling from his lips in the process.

Leaning in so close that their faces were just inches apart, the vigilante grabbed Kevin's head in their hands, nails digging into his skin deep enough to draw pinpricks of blood and probably bruise later, and held it in place so he physically couldn't look away.

"No more lies. Truth now, or both die."

"I'm telling you, we're not--!"

Apparently the vigilante wasn't kidding with that death threat, because before Kevin could finish that sentence, they slammed him headfirst against the wall, hard. As Kevin slid down the wall to the ground, senses dissolving into a bloodied haze, all he could think was: Yep, definitely not Ryan.

*

As the kidnapper's assistant's eyes glazed over, Rorschach punched his face again to knock off that idiotic look of betrayal. Then, when he slumped to the ground, Rorschach kicked him. Over and over, not letting up, grinding his boot against the criminal's temple. Kill him, destroy him, make him pay for what he's done...

The rush of a car passing by outside the alley jerked Rorschach back to reality. The inky haze of rage that had settled over his vision cleared in a flash, and he took a step back, staring at his work in dismay. Shit. He'd gotten caught up in the fury of old memories, combined with the provocation of being called the wrong name--even now, the name Ryan rung unpleasantly in his ears--and been too quick to put the criminals down.

Should have tried harder to get information. These bastards could have had this "Ryan" they'd talked about locked up in a building that was set to be demolished, or bound and gagged in the trunk of a car, or tied up in a shed or basement with a ticking time bomb at his feet. Rorschach might have gotten someone innocent killed by losing his temper.

Then again, he reasoned as he replayed the scuffle in his mind, probably not. Didn't sound like "Ryan" was innocent, for one thing. And the way the punk with the chloroform had described his plan, it didn't sound like they'd gotten away with it. These were only attempted kidnappers, and judging by everything from being unarmed to their flimsy alibis, not very competent ones. But still criminals. Detestable. Needed to be dealt with permanently.

With that thought, he turned back to the gaunt young man slumped against the wall. Men get arrested, dogs get put down. But this weak little would-be criminal wasn't even at the level of a dog. He was a rat, if anything: pathetic, filthy vermin that was easily disposed of. And what happens to rats? Rorschach stomped his foot down on the criminal's discarded glasses and ground the lenses beneath his heel. Rats get drowned.

The unconscious criminal began to stir. Before he could awaken, Rorschach grabbed him and tossed him facefirst into a conveniently placed mud puddle. For good measure and a bit of karmic irony, he then grabbed the discarded chloroform bottle off the ground and twisted the cap off, dumping out the liquid into the puddle. Criminal remained unconscious; didn't even have to bother holding him down. Just a matter of waiting until he stopped breathing.

Just then the wind picked up, carrying with it the distant but instantly recognizable sound of police sirens. Rorschach tensed up and cursed under his breath.

No matter, he told himself. Job already done. No time to leave a calling card, but that didn't make much difference. If the attempted kidnappers weren't already dead, they would be soon. Rorschach sprung to his feet and took off into the night.

*

It was strange, Ryan reflected as he ran, that although he opposed crime, he was also at odds with the cops. Not to mention how ordinary citizens were afraid of him now. Vigilantism truly was a lonely profession. Still, it was his job now, and he couldn't give up. His friends... well, he hadn't really gotten the chance to talk to them in the past few days... but he was sure that Neil, with his plucky spirit, and Kevin, with his steadfast determination in what he believed in, wouldn't have wanted him to quit.

With that affirming thought, Ryan ducked into a dark alleyway for cover. The sirens passed right by him while he crouched in the alley and held his breath. Once they'd faded off into the distance again, Ryan relaxed... only to tense again a moment later. Intermingled with the dingy city odours of wet cement and car oil, and the faint stench of garbage that permeated the alleyway, was something sweet and chemically like the inside of a hospital. Anxiety churned in Ryan's gut as he sniffed at the air. What is that, some kind of alcohol?

A glance around the alleyway seemed to prove his suspicions correct. On the ground next to a rag and some broken glass was a small white bottle with the cap twisted off, liquid spilling out into a puddle. And facedown in that puddle, unmoving, was what looked like an unconscious person. Ryan's lip curled with disgust.

"Public indecency," he muttered as he grabbed the drunkard by the collar and yanked him up so they'd be face-to-face. "I've had it with drunks passing out all over the place. So, let's see who..."

He broke off with a gasp, hand slackening in shock. The unconscious man slipped from his grasp and flopped back into the puddle, where the sweet-scented liquid once again obscured his face. But the image of it was instantly burned into Ryan's brain.

Pulse quickening, he pulled the all-too-familiar criminal back out of the puddle and propped him up against the wall. In the dim light of the alleyway, streaks of liquid glistened as they dripped down the frighteningly pale visage; in an almost unconscious movement, Ryan rubbed his sleeve across his friend's face to clean it off.

"Neil? What..." Ryan hesitated, eyes darting back and forth between his motionless friend and the discarded bottle, which upon closer inspection he recognized as being not alcohol at all, but rather labeled as chloroform. After a moment he laid a hand on Neil's shoulder and jostled him, lightly at first, then more forcefully. "What happened?"

His friend's mouth parted slightly upon being shaken, but Ryan's momentary burst of relief was quickly doused when, rather than a reply, a thin stream of the same sludge that coated Neil's face dribbled out from between his lips. Ryan's heart clenched. How long has he been passed out? If Neil had been facedown in that puddle for too long... No, no, it can't be. Looking his friend up and down more closely, Ryan noted with mounting concern that there were dried flecks of blood around Neil's nose and mouth, and that one of his arms was twisted at an angle that... looked uncomfortable, to say the least.

"What happened?" Ryan asked again, but this time the question was more rhetorical. "Does Kevin know about this, or--wait, no, don't tell me..."

Without taking his hand off of Neil, Ryan glanced around the alleyway again, suddenly terrified of what he might find. His fears were confirmed as his gaze landed on a second unmoving figure, as familiar as the first, sprawled on the ground a few feet away. Trying and failing to stifle an anxious gulp, Ryan moved to the second figure's side and turned them over. Sure enough, it was Kevin. He, too, was impossible not to recognize even with his face beaten halfway to a pulp, though just then Ryan would almost rather not have recognized either of them. Kevin looked about as roughed up as Neil: disheveled clothes, half-dried nosebleed, slowly forming bruises in several places. The injuries didn't look all that bad, though... at least Ryan didn't think so, until he laid a hand on the wall and it came away coated in a thin smear of blood.

Oh. Grimacing, Ryan peeled off his bloodied glove and ran a hand over the back of Kevin's head. Sure enough, he could feel a spot where there was definitely some kind of damage, though in this low light he couldn't make out how bad it was. Either way... That's not good.

"Kevin? Neil?" It occurred to Ryan as he spoke that he wasn't using his vigilante voice, but that didn't matter just then. His family history, his duty to the city... that paled in comparison to his friends--which was saying something when their complexions were so worryingly pale themselves. "C'mon, guys, get up..."

No response. A cold dread rose in Ryan's chest and clawed its way up his throat. Doing his best to swallow that fear, he propped his friends up against the wall next to each other, one hand firmly gripping each of them by the shoulder. He had to grip them, to hold them upright. They were so limp--let go of them and they'd flop over like ragdolls, right back onto the grimy pavement. This fact in itself registered as something horrifying in the back of Ryan's mind, but he refused to acknowledge it. They're fine. They have to be. He just had to rouse them somehow...

"Hey, guys, we... we still need to make a webisode this week!" He'd almost forgotten, having been so caught up in his newfound vigilante identity, and a profound shame for having let it slip his mind burned through him now. "You can't--you're not going to make me do all the work myself, are you? Guys?"

His voice cracked on that final syllable, a plea more desperate than he dared to realize as he beheld his friends' battered bodies. Neil's youthful features, with his glasses off, looked even more... no, not youthful, not like this. Youthful was his usual cheery countenance. Right now, he only looked young in the same way as an unwanted kitten drowned in a bucket. As for Kevin, they'd already seen how he looked in death, far too recently for comfort. And looking at him now, the way his head lolled forward and the shadows cast over his beaten face in the low light... it was like a bad case of deja vu. Ryan couldn't bear to keep looking at them. So his head dropped, as abruptly as though he were the lifeless one, and he stared blankly at the ground through his vigilante goggles, while behind the mask, heavy tears pressed against his eyes.

"I'm sorry," Ryan whispered. With a trembling hand, he reached up and peeled off the vigilante mask. His gloved hand tightened into a fist around the flimsy fabric. As though crumpling it up and throwing it away could undo the damage which donning it had done. "I should never have become a vigilante. Even if it's what my ancestors did, I shouldn't have..."

Because Ryan had better uses for his talents. He had something his ancestors never did: friends who loved him despite his strangeness, who he cherished in turn. He should have stuck around to protect them rather than running off to fight crime. But he hadn't been there. And now...

"I'm sorry," he repeated through his tears, though he knew his friends couldn't hear him and never would. "Neil, Kevin... I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

And with that, a dam broke within him and he could no longer articulate words. With a guttural, animalistic cry of despair, Ryan flung himself over his friends' bodies and sobbed.

*

Night had sunken its icy claws into the city and all the vermin had scurried into their hovels to hide. Rorschach made the trek back to his apartment with a hunched posture and his hands stuffed in his trenchcoat pockets, glancing furtively up and down the empty streets to make sure nobody was watching him. Satisfied that he was alone, he peeled off his face and tucked it away in his pocket.

Just as he reached the front doors of his apartment complex (bracing himself for the landlady to be in his face screeching at him about overdue rent) a sound from nearby caught his attention. The flutter of fabric; the metal screech of a blade being drawn. Rorschach leapt back just in time to avoid the arc of a sword coming down at him. His attacker landed feet-first on the pavement with a solid thud--must have sprung from above; no wonder Rorschach didn't see--and crouched on the ground for a moment, breathing heavily.

In the sickly yellow halo of an overhead streetlight, Rorschach took in his attacker. They wore a black fedora and black cape with purple accents, a mask over their eyes with a homemade look to its construction--whole costume had a homemade look, really--and long hair tied back in a ponytail, but a masculine physique. Maybe he was some kind of freak. Never knew with people like this. His face was flushed with exertion, dried tear tracks running down his cheeks. Emotionally compromised fighters rarely fared well. The way his sword shook slightly in his clenched hand gave that much away. And he was young, Rorschach could tell just by looking at him. But despite it all, there was something scary about him--an almost inhuman rage radiating from him like a supernatural aura. A shudder ran down Rorschach's spine as the caped sword-wielder raised his head and glared at him.

"Who are you?" Rorschach demanded. "Supposed to be new supervillain?"

"N--" The stranger began to speak in a high-pitched voice, only to quickly cut himself off, clear his throat, and speak in a low gravelly tone not unlike Rorschach's own voice. "No! I'm a vigilante. And I imagine I do a better job protecting innocents than you've ever done!"

"Hurnh. Bold claim." (But maybe true, an annoying little voice in the back of Rorschach's head whispered.)

"Earlier today, you attacked two men who weren't even criminals," the so-called vigilante growled. "I'm going to make you pay for what you did to them!"

With that proclamation, he charged. Rorschach's pulse quickened as he jumped back to avoid a strike of the sword. Like he thought, the younger vigilante's swings were clumsy, easy to dodge. Didn't mean he wasn't dangerous. A poorly wielded weapon could still kill.

Thinking fast, Rorschach grabbed his opponent by the cape and slammed him against the pole of the streetlight. The younger vigilante yelped and momentarily slackened; the sword fell from his hand in a clatter. Before he could bend down and pick it up, Rorschach kicked the sword aside and delivered a forceful punch to his opponent's gut that left him doubled over and wheezing. He then tacked on a few more punches to the face for good measure.

Rorschach could have finished things right then and there: grab his attacker's neck and snap it. But something held him back. Not sentiment, no--he just didn't want to leave a body right outside the apartment complex. Landlady wouldn't like that. Might figure out it was him, secret identity exposed--or even if she didn't have the brains to put two and two together, still might evict him. Couldn't risk it.

Instead Rorschach took off running around the side of the building, up the fire escape. Moments later he heard his opponent get up and follow him. As he dashed up the zigzagging metal steps, a second set of footfalls echoing his own and slowly gaining on him, his mind raced to come up with a plan--or as close to a plan needed to take care of riffraff like this. Probably wouldn't take much.

Just as his pursuer closed the distance between them, Rorschach whirled around and stuck out his leg. His attacker fell over it with a startled yelp. While the younger man was off-balance, Rorschach shoved him; he toppled backwards like a bowling pin and went crashing down the steps and against the metal railing. Rorschach, grimly satisfied, watched his attacker flop to the ground and curl in on himself with a pained moan. However, his mystery opponent didn't stay down for long. Although it was a visible struggle, he pushed himself to his feet and glared unflinchingly up at Rorschach.

"You bastard," the younger vigilante growled. "I'll kill you!"

Rorschach snorted in cold bemusement. Not if I kill you first.

His opponent hadn't picked the sword back up, he noted. Instead he lunged bare-handed--and to Rorschach's surprise, his attacker moved much faster that way, fast enough that he couldn't get out of the way in time. The younger vigilante tackled him to the ground and brought a fist back with a hoarse, animalistic cry. In that split-second, Rorschach nearly froze in fear. Looking up at his opponent, he saw what he himself must have looked like earlier that night when he let irrational rage take over. This young effeminate man had the veneer of a liberal coward, but in that moment, he emanated sheer bloodlust. Going to kill me.

Then Rorschach snapped back to his senses. No matter the violence in his opponent's heart, he was still younger and weaker than Rorschach. Not a particularly heavy weight to throw off.

Just before the fist could connect with his face, Rorschach drew up his legs and planted a kick to his opponent's chest that flung him backward, then rolled out from under him and scrambled to his feet. The younger vigilante flopped to the ground and lay there, gasping for breath.

"You..." Rorschach's prone opponent panted in a voice thick with undiminished fury. "You've made a big mistake."

"No," Rorschach snarled in response. "You made mistake, attacking me. Siding with criminals. Need to be put down."

Before he could reply, Rorschach stamped a foot down hard on his opponent's stomach, prompting the younger vigilante to spasm with a choked gasp. Then he took a moment to scan the rooftop for anything he could use to finish the job quickly. Didn't take long to think of something.

Rorschach ran to the edge of the rooftop, which was framed by a low-set stone wall. Not much point to its presence--not high enough to stop anyone from falling or jumping. Building owners must have shared his sentiments for the pointless fixture; didn't bother building the wall back up as it eroded over time. Bricks crumbling, chunks coming loose. Falling apart like everything else in this city, in this world. With a grunt of effort, he hooked his fingers around a hefty rust-coloured brick whose surrounding foundation had crumbled away. It came free just as he heard the scuff of shoes behind him to indicate that his annoyingly persistent adversary had gotten back up again.

When his opponent leapt toward him this time, Rorschach spun around and bashed the brick against his head.

The impact rang out with an echoing crack. The younger vigilante's furious expression went suddenly blank as blood blossomed across his forehead; his arms, outstretched to strike Rorschach, slackened like a puppet with the strings cut. He collapsed to the rooftop's filthy tiling and lay facedown, unmoving.

Something stirred deep in Rorschach's core--not satisfaction at the victory, but almost the opposite. Nausea. Regret. Shouldn't have had to do that, not to someone so young. No choice, he reminded himself, balling his hands into fists. Not my fault every weak incompetent idiot in city comes crawling out of woodwork to pick fights with me tonight.

With that thought, he turned to leave... only to pause at the slight rustle of shifting fabric. Normally he'd chalk that sound up to the wind tugging at his fallen foe's cape, but the air was still that night; his own trenchcoat hung undisturbed around his body. Rorschach turned, incredulous, to see his still-living opponent glare up at him around the crimson curtain trickling down his forehead from his matted hairline. The simple motion took obvious effort, accompanied by ragged breathing. Hat had come off, ponytail undone, cheap costume rumpled and falling apart; one of the goggles on his mask had come loose to reveal an icy blue eye.

"Made a mistake," the vigilante spat around the blood trickling from his lips, and this time Rorschach had to wonder if it was true. The wounded man spoke with conviction despite his words slurring, and he still didn't drop that vigilante growl--a shoddy imitation of Rorschach's own, like looking in a broken mirror. "Shouldn't have... my friends... make you pay..."

Not even trying to get up. Must have known his fate was inevitable. Why bother, then? Rorschach wondered. Like it or not, he was infamous for his ruthless violence, and his would-be rival must have known it too. Why go into fight he knows he can't win?

Unless this was this feeble young crime-fighter's version of suicide by cop. Maybe he'd attacked Rorschach hoping not to kill him, but to be killed. Bits and pieces of the day flashed back through his mind, and he vaguely wondered if this could be the "Ryan" his earlier victims spoke of. Trying to avenge them? Or join in death? The thought made Rorschach's gut churn with an unexpectedly strong discomfort. If they'd been completely honest after all, not attempted criminals, just dumb misguided kids trying to save their friend...

Criminal or not, Rorschach decided, this man wouldn't walk away alive. If he was innocent, putting him down at this point would be a mercy. Death was the preferable fate for one who chose to be a crime-fighter; nobler than going on to rot in jail or accepting retirement, and leagues better than ending up like Rorschach himself.

Struggling to hold that thought in mind, Rorschach knelt over his battered young opponent and prepared to bring the brick down again. This time the impact would kill him. If not, he'd do it over and over again until it did. Had to end this, not drag out any further. He raised the brick over his head and...

Something bounced off the back of Rorschach's neck. He paused and set down the brick, then grabbed the object from where it landed and turned it over in his hand. A small rubber ball, the kind children would fire from a slingshot. Hurm.

"Hey, ink-face!"

That voice was coming from below. And it was, impossibly, one he recognized from earlier that day. Before Rorschach could lean over the edge of the roof and see for himself, another projectile hit him, this time square in the forehead. He recoiled, cursing. While he was distracted with that, he didn't notice the set of footsteps racing up the fire escape until a second annoyingly familiar voice rang out from behind him.

"Ryan! Are you okay?"

Incredulous, Rorschach turned back to the would-be vigilante he'd left sprawled on the rooftop and watched the attempted kidnapper from earlier run to his side. Not like a criminal to a victim. Like a scared kid to his injured friend. A third slingshot projectile sailed over Rorschach's head, and he didn't need to look down to know exactly who was firing them.

The younger vigilante--Ryan--met Rorschach's gaze and broke into a terrifyingly broad grin, his eyes wide and manic. His laugh was a sickening sound, clogged up with blood. But his smile was one of genuine delight. And Rorschach realized, with a sinking feeling not of dread so much as sheer resignation, that he'd miscalculated.

*

Half an hour earlier, as Ryan had given into despair and draped himself over his friends' motionless forms, tears had rolled down his face and landed on their slowly cooling skin. And whether through some intangible cosmic law or supernatural force or just sheer dumb luck, that was what it took to finally rouse them.

Neil stirred first, his face twitching as a teardrop splashed him in the eye. Slowly, with a dizzy groan that was inaudible over Ryan's choked sobs, he pried his eyes open. Without his glasses everything was a blur, but he recognized the colours of the vigilante costume whose wearer was clutching him. More to the point, he recognized the voice that was crying for him.

"R... Ry...?"

Before he could get out any more than that, a shudder seized his body. The concoction of filth and chloroform he'd swallowed thrust its way back up through him and he keeled over, retching.

Ryan jerked back with a gasp. At first his mind couldn't process what was happening, and when it did, his first instinct was to back up so he didn't get any vomit on his suit. Even as he leaned out of the way, a nurturing instinct took over and he rubbed his hand along Neil's back in an awkward attempt at comfort. He wasn't sure if Neil even registered the gesture. He barely registered it himself, stunned as he was. Then his brain finally finished processing the scene before him, and his blank expression of shock morphed into a tearful grin.

Having finished spitting up what he'd swallowed, Neil wiped the residual sludge off his lips and made a face. He turned to Ryan and opened his mouth to make some snappy comment--or an attempt at one; it was hard to think of a good one-liner when his head felt like it was stuffed full of cotton balls--but before he could get a word out, Ryan's arms were around him in a vice grip. Neil let out a little choked sound of surprise. After a moment's hesitation, during which his mind raced to figure out what exactly was happening and why his friend had been crying so loud, he leaned against Ryan and returned the embrace as best he could with his broken arm.

Right around then, Kevin stirred back into consciousness and was immediately met with a splitting headache that manifested as a ringing in his ears. He briefly raised his head, took in the sight of his friends embracing, and then let his eyes fall shut again and flopped back against the wall, satisfied that they were okay and too tired to keep himself awake. A moment later the gears churned in his scrambled head and his eyes snapped open again. Wait.

"Ryan?" His voice came out groggy as he raised a stiff arm to rub his eyes in bewilderment. Yes, that was definitely his friend in that vigilante costume--and upon recognizing him, Kevin felt immediately guilty for mistaking the other vigilante for him. "When'd you get here?"

At the sound of his voice, Ryan and Neil turned and called out Kevin's name almost in unison. For Neil it was an exclamation of pleasant surprise. He hadn't realized Kevin was there; he'd vaguely registered another presence slumped against the wall at his side, but hadn't paid enough attention to recognize it as a person, let alone his friend. Even now, the only reason his surprise was pleasant in nature was that, without his glasses, Neil's vision wasn't focused enough to see that Kevin was just as roughed up as himself. For Ryan, the exclamation was one of overwhelming relief. He was okay, they were both okay--well, okay was pushing it, but they were going to be okay. He hadn't lost them after all.

Rather than answer Kevin's question--he didn't really process it through his emotional state--Ryan grabbed his friend by the shoulder and tugged him into the midst of his and Neil's tight embrace. Kevin momentarily tensed, but seeing that Neil was there and... well, not unharmed, but alive and awake--he was quick to return the embrace with a ferocity that almost outmatched Ryan's.

The three of them stayed like that for a long moment, Neil and Kevin not entirely understanding the situation but as unwilling to pull away from each other and Ryan as Ryan was from them. There, with his friends' warm and living bodies held securely against his own, it didn't take long for Ryan to start crying again. This time the sobs quickly morphed into giddy, hysterical laughter--and then back to sobs just as fast--muffled against his friends' shoulders.

Finally, when their legs began to ache from staying in that awkward crouching position a little too long, they shifted apart and each sat back. This time it was Ryan slumping against the wall--not from injury, but with a heavy sigh of emotional exhaustion--while across from him, Neil sat cross-legged and leaned against Kevin, although the weariness etched across Kevin's face revealed that he was leaning on Neil for support as much as the other way around. Ryan could feel the tear tracks fresh on his face, and was sure his friends could see them too. It was no wonder, then, that in that stretch of silence Neil and Kevin kept awkwardly shifting and exchanging apprehensive glances. Neil was even fidgeting with his broken arm, only to stop and wince each time he moved it; eventually Kevin laid a hand gently but firmly over Neil's injured appendage to pin it in place. Even as he silently performed this task, Kevin's eyes bored into Ryan with a piercing focus. The question was clear: what happens now?

Before Ryan could answer that question, he needed some information.

"What happened?" he asked again. Unlike before, how he'd practically bleated out the question to his unconscious audience, he now spoke with a collected tone that was as elegant yet subtly terrifying as he'd ever been. He thought he saw Neil and Kevin shudder and shift to hold each other a little closer. Unperturbed by their reaction--he was used to them being a little scared of him, especially now that he was a vigilante--Ryan glanced between them, holding each of their gazes for a moment just long enough to be uncomfortable. "Who did this to you?"

They told him. Another vigilante, in a fedora and trenchcoat and a mask patterned with shifting symmetrical ink blots--it was a wonderfully unique description, someone who'd be easy to find. The grin of a hungry predator spread over Ryan's face as he got to his feet and put his own vigilante mask back on. Attacking innocent men? That sounds like a crime. Not that he could really call his friends innocent, but that was beside the point. Criminals have to be taken down. And it was a vigilante's duty to protect his friends city, even at the cost of his own life.

However, when Ryan turned with a swish of his cape and stalked out of the alley and into the biting night air, his friends weren't content to let him wander off on a suicide mission. Brow furrowing with intent, Kevin pushed himself to his feet, bracing himself against the wave of dizziness that followed. At his side, Neil was quick to rise as well. Neil held onto Kevin's sleeve with his good arm, half to hold his friend upright and half for guidance; he still couldn't see very well, and judging by the glass he heard crunching under Ryan's boots when he turned to walk away, he took an educated guess that his glasses were throughly broken. Clearly neither of them were in any condition to fight. But still...

"We've gotta do something," Neil muttered. "Kev, do you see the chloroform anywhere?"

"Uhh..." Kevin glanced around the alleyway, scanning for the little white bottle. He located it tipped into a puddle and nudged at it with his foot. "There."

Neil bent down and picked up the bottle; the few remaining drops spilled out, leaving it empty. He sighed and tossed it over his shoulder. "Well, we can't use that."

"I'd run home and fetch my proton pack, but I don't trust myself with that thing right now." Kevin massaged his temples with a grimace, even though it was the back of his head that really hurt. Probably a concussion--but, hell, he was lucky his brains weren't smeared on that wall, what with how brutal their opponent had been. "C'mon, Neil, don't you have anything else we can use? You always come up with something, right?"

As this conversation played out, Ryan was taking off down the sidewalk ahead of them at a fast clip that gradually mounted to a sprint. He could vaguely hear his friends' exchange receding into the distance behind him, but their words were lost to the cold rage that buzzed in his mind like a swarm of hornets, tinting his vision red as he ran. All he could think of was how he was going to make Rorschach pay if it was the last thing he did.

Neil reached into his shirt pocket and fumbled around for a moment before lighting up with a grin. "Ah-hah!" With a triumphant flourish, he produced a slingshot equipped with a set of rubber projectiles. Then his smile faltered as another twinge from his arm reminded him of his predicament. "But how am I gonna use this one-handed?"

"You won't have to," Kevin told him. "I'll handle it." He took the rudimentary weapon into his own hand, then paused to shoot Neil an assuring grin and ruffle his hair before taking off into a sprint down the sidewalk, calling after their would-be avenger. "Hey, Ryan, wait up!"

*

And so there they were, Neil lifting Ryan into his arms and helping him up while Kevin held off their adversary from the ground. Even as Rorschach had sidestepped his attacks, kicked him, clobbered him over the head, Ryan had never once doubted that his friends would come to his rescue as they'd agreed. It would be natural for that doubt to creep in, of course, especially among a friend group with a history of kind-of, sort-of leaving each other to die when things got too rough--not to mention Neil's deceit, which Kevin had prodded him into explaining to Ryan while they were tracking down Rorschach. Going into a dangerous mission knowing his friend had lied to him would be enough to make any sane man fear betrayal. But Ryan, of course, was no sane man.

"Are you okay?" Neil asked. The sharp concern in his voice was audible even when everything sounded sort of muffled; his face, which blurred in and out of focus in Ryan's vision, was wide-eyed and anxious.

"Oh, I've been better," Ryan replied; it came out as little more than a low gurgle. When he concentrated enough to make the world stop spinning, he could make out a crease of confusion in Neil's brow as he tried to decipher the words. Ryan cleared his throat--a far more laborious action than it usually was--before speaking again. "What about you? Feeling any better?"

"Not really, but Kevin says his headache is clearing up." Neil gave a little half-smile, half-frown and shrugged with one shoulder. "We'll probably still need to go to the hospital, though."

Ryan hummed his agreement. The sharp pain in his abdomen indicated at least a couple broken ribs, to say nothing of his cranium. Still, it wasn't his first time being beaten to within an inch of his life, and based on his friend group's tendency to end up in sticky situations, it probably wouldn't be his last. He offered Neil a tired but sincerely grateful smile as his friend peeled off the now-falling-apart vigilante mask and patted Ryan down with his good arm (the broken one was bound in a hasty splint using Kevin's jacket and a random stick they'd found on the ground). Ryan wrapped an arm around Neil's shoulder and leaned against him for support, angling his body so as not to put too much pressure on his friend's broken arm.

From several stories below they heard the twang of the slingshot, and Kevin called, "Guys, I'm out of ammo down here!"

"Hang on, Kev, we'll be right down!" Neil replied. Face setting into a determined grimace, he looped both arms tight around Ryan in a sort of damsel carry and got to his feet. The strain of obvious discomfort in his friend's expression, made even more obvious by a quiet whimper as he staggered across the roof, made guilt prick at Ryan. He considered telling Neil that he could probably walk, but he honestly wasn't sure if that was true. If Neil was willing to carry him out of there even with his injury, Ryan wasn't going to complain.

All the while, Rorschach simply stood back and stared at them. Ryan could feel the other vigilante's eyes boring into him even through that strange mask, which was about the only part of Rorschach he was impressed with. The older vigilante had a defeated slump to their posture. They easily could have apprehended Neil mid-getaway, but they didn't budge from their spot at the edge of the rooftop, and that really said it all. Watching their trenchcoat-clad figure recede and then disappear from view when Neil rounded a corner down the fire escape, Ryan was vaguely reminded of the pilgrim they'd encountered on their first outing as semi-professional filmmakers for Hollywood East. Rorschach, too, it seemed, was nothing more than a confused old relic of a bygone era. And if the three of them never saw that vigilante again, it would be too soon.

Kevin intercepted them at the bottom of the stairs. Neil handed Ryan off to him, then stepped back to gingerly set his arm back into its makeshift splint. Kevin gave Neil a sympathetic but vaguely bemused smile; he would have patted him on the shoulder, but his arms were full carrying Ryan. Ryan, for his part, was content to sink into his friend's sturdy grasp and rest. His vision was blurring anyway, so much that everything around him seemed to shift like the patterns on Rorschach's mask; may as well close his eyes.

A jostling sensation told him they were moving--away from Rorschach's apartment complex and off toward the nearest medical centre, no doubt. He thought he heard Neil offer up some chipper quip as they walked, and Kevin respond in turn. Ryan's senses had already drifted too far out of focus to make out their words. He laughed softly anyway, or thought he did, around the dull coppery taste in his mouth. Once they were all better, he vowed, he would stop being a vigilante and go back to making webisodes with them like normal. With any luck, the whole affair would be completely forgotten by next week.

That's right, he thought with a smile as a heavy curtain of darkness closed around him, It isn't over for us.

We'll stay right here...

Together.

--End--