"The City Beneath"

"I was assisted in writing this fic by Sharee, to whom I also owe a debt of gratitude for donating her web space to somebody else's fic (namely, mine). Thanks also to GreenWillow for proofing the early drafts--sorry if my version of Word won't save HTML files. And while I'm at it, to everybody on the eGroups list for putting up with my infrequent posting, squeamishness, and all the rest, thanks a lot; you're good people. Finally, thanks to everyone who's ever contributed to Turtles lore, from Eastman and Laird all the way down to one-story fanfic writers. Keep the green alive!"
--Absaraka

16 years ago, computers around the world failed, forcing some residents to move underground to stay warm. Caves, mines, anywhere that was warmer than the surface—people moved underground in droves throughout the Northern Hemisphere. In New York, subway stations slowly became homeless shelters, as displaced citizens fled their wind-swept apartments. Soon, there was not enough room to house the entire population, and braver souls began moving from the stations into the actual tunnels and, in some cases, the sewers.

Why the computers all failed remains a mystery to this day. It seemed that Y2K was well and truly beaten, but computer systems worldwide still crashed at the stroke of midnight on January 1, 2000. Was Y2K really that bad? Or was there something more nefarious at work? Had hackers from some rogue state taken everything down single-handedly? No one knew. The whole thing was a mystery.

With most residents of New York now underground, there was almost nowhere for the Ninja Turtles to hide: almost every square inch of sewer had been claimed by the squatters, who looked to the Turtles for guidance. After all, these wonderful creatures had been living underground for years; surely they knew how to survive in this kind of environment? But then, the "mole people" who already lived underground weren’t comfortable with an entire city intruding on "their" space. Nevertheless, the mole people grudgingly assisted the squatters in adjusting to life underground. The turtles, meanwhile, had no such grudge: they helped the squatters out as a matter of course.

It took several months for programmers to bring the world’s computers back on-line and bring a modicum of civilization back. But by then, some of the squatters who had originally fled underground to stay warm in the winter, had decided to stay. Some of the residents of the tunnels had even begun to look at the Turtles as somehow superior: after all, they had been living underground long before it was acceptable behavior to do so. Before long, admiration became reverence; and soon, reverence became worship. By the time 2008 had arrived, the Turtles found themselves worshipped as gods. They were the quasi-official leaders of their own underground community…The City Beneath.

Yet, back on the surface, things had changed. Technology, now that it had a free hand to advance, was progressing at a geometric rate. New Yorkers who had returned to the surface found life to be much more pleasant than it had been before Y2K. Most of them could not understand how people could still live underground, even though the crisis was over. New Yorkers, ever snobbish about their position, began to view the "undergrounders" with contempt. The feeling was mutual: undergrounders distrusted, and in some cases hated, "surface people." The Turtles tried to stay as neutral as they could, but with dozens of undergrounders looking to them as outright gods, it was difficult to remain neutral.

Each turtle responded in his own way. Leonardo was always on guard around the undergrounders. He found it difficult to be thought of as a god. A leader, yes; but a deity, no. He was not interested in lording over the undergrounders, and could actually be somewhat irked by the adoration of his subjects. To the undergrounders, that made him that much more mysterious…unapproachable…god-like. The cycle fed off itself until Leonardo’s name was spoken with the utmost reverence.

Donatello, meanwhile, was perhaps the most approachable of the four. He still tended to hang out in his lab, but now he had undergrounders to deal with. So what ended up happening was this: Donatello would always try to teach some of the undergrounders how to work with technology, and was always available to help one of his subjects should something with a wire in it go south. This made him a favorite amongst his subjects, and a good number of them could be found hanging around him at any time.

Michaelangelo, now well past his surfing and skateboarding days, was quickly becoming a more mature individual. If Donatello was the most approachable of the now-deified Turtles, then Mikey was next. His friendly nature and easy laugh made him another favorite of the undergrounders, and when he wasn’t teaching survival skills to his subjects, he was busy playing jokes on anyone whom he thought had a sense of humor.

And then there was Raphael. He had learned to lighten up somewhat from his ever-angry persona. But he still had a volatile streak: he could still become infuriated if someone said the wrong thing to him. He was working on controlling his temper, but some days weren’t quite as peaceful as others. His subjects tended to be the people from the fringe of even the undergrounder community, and this made Raphael uncomfortable. If Leonardo’s name was spoken with reverence, Raphael’s name was spoken with a mixture of love and dread: it was rumored that Raphael was becoming corrupted by the constant adulation of his followers.

Into this underground world came a young man named Jonathan Dixon. He did not come to the underground by choice, and if first impressions were the only ones allowed, he would not have stayed. Nevertheless, he did find a home in the underground. His various adventures and what befell him underground had better be expressed in his own words.

Chapter 1

She said she never wanted to see me again. She told me I was the worst thing that had ever happened to her. She told me that she thought I was a curse from the devil himself. She told me that if she ever saw me again, she would kill me—and I believed her.

After all, you’re always supposed to believe your mother.

So now here I am, I just turned 18, and I’m all alone in this huge, sprawling metropolis known as New York. I never really had a lot of friends to begin with, and there’s no way I could just ring someone up and say, "Hey, can I stay with you for a couple of months?" New York is too crowded, even with the undergrounders keeping to themselves, and I don’t have friends close enough to stay with for the foreseeable future. I’ve got exactly two options at this point: find a homeless shelter that actually has an open bed; or become an undergrounder. Neither of those options sounds quite appealing.

Homeless shelters have always had a bad name, but things have gotten so out of hand in New York lately that some shelters don’t take 18-year-olds. Having to defend themselves in court from rape charges on their property isn’t exactly good PR. There are a few young-adult shelters that deal specifically with 18-to-25-year-olds, but a lot of those are run by church people. (I had to restrain myself from using the phrase "Jesus freaks." But then, I just did.) And since it’s kinda hard for me to believe God loves me—after all, my mom just threw me out of the house—I’m not exactly raring to get a Bible shoved in my face.

As far as becoming an undergrounder—there’s a lot of bad stuff that real New Yorkers say goes on down there. By "real New Yorkers" I mean people who actually live on the surface and don’t answer to a bunch of freak reptiles. The thought of living down there, never seeing the sun, and being lorded over by a bunch of green guys with shells on their backs is, quite frankly, disquieting.

Oh, yeah…forgot to introduce myself. (Stupid me…I wasn’t very good at writing in high school.) I’m Jonathan Dixon, but anyone who knows me well calls me J.D. I’ll answer to John or Jonathan, but never Johnny. My mother always called me Johnny whenever she wanted to hurt me. And I do mean hurt: she’d use anything in the house to beat me with. Belts, flyswatters, the infrequent metal baseball bat here and there, you name it, she’d use it. Remind me to tell you about the time she broke one of her bottles of Absolut and used the broken bottle on me…she came within a couple of inches of getting my wrists.

Nice lady, no?

Where’s my old man, you’re asking? He took off for Florida before Y2K hit us, so I was like 2 at the time and don’t remember him worth a damn. The only father I’ve known came in the form of a child support check that always got spent at the hoochery.

So here I am, walking in Times Square, nowhere else to go at the moment…

I want to catch a bit of the big-city rhythm. Want to get a gander at all the TV studios, with all their nicely done-up anchors in all their posh little corners of the Square. I can just see it now: me going up to some weatherman and saying, "Hi, I’m Jonathan Dixon and my mom just threw me out on the street at 6 AM in the middle of January. I’ve got no family or friends in the area, no money, no real job skills, and at last check, no future. Doesn’t life just suck?"

There’s a subway station on the other corner. I don’t want to do this, but it looks like I have no options left. Not unless I want to get raped by some guy twice my age, or get a good Bible beating at some young adult shelter.

I walk to the stairs of the subway station and look around at the surface for one last time. Around me, Times Square is bustling with activity. Taxis honk at each other, pedestrians curse, buildings reach for the sky, neon signs flash. Above me, the sky is the color of an elephant’s skin—it’s going to snow soon. Do I really want to do this? Because once I go down here, I may never see any of this again.

Just to mentally stall, I pull out my wallet and check its contents: $15 in bills, some loose change, Selective Service card, Social Security card, driver’s license, medical and dental insurance, receipts from the dry cleaners, too many frequent eater cards to count, library card…most of this is worthless under these streets. I need $2 to get my subway token so I can get down on the platform without getting arrested. That leaves me with $13 and a lot of useless paperwork.

I sit down on a bench near the fateful steps down. Fortunately, it’s dry and there’s no bum sleeping on it. I sit there, watch the traffic, and think. Do I really want to go underground? And the more I think about it, the more I think the answer is yes. There’s a whole city under these streets, a city where anyone can run to if they need help…just be prepared to stay there awhile. And then there are those turtles…the ones who would kill my kind soon as look at me, if what I hear is true. But then, if I died, I wouldn’t have to worry about finding shelter again, would I?

I walk back to the steps and take one final look around at the only world I’ve ever known. I’m going to miss it, I tell myself. But at this point, I really have no other choice.

Putting one foot in front of the other, I slowly descend the steps of the subway station.

Down, down, down. The first thing I feel is the wind rushing up from the station below. Perhaps the last train just pulled in, or out—there’s no way to tell from here. All I know is, this wind is making my hair stand on end. I turn up my jacket collar to ward off the sudden chill.

I’m on the mezzanine level now. A few feet down the tunnel, toward the token booth, someone is playing a violin. He’s over in the corner, just minding his own business, and playing something that vaguely reminds me of "I’m Getting Sentimental Over You." Maybe it’s some classical piece that I don’t know about? I step out of the way of the station traffic and listen.

He’s really a good violinist, whoever he is. The last song over, he listens to me applaud, bows slightly in my direction, and starts up on his next song. "Irene, goodnight"--the mournful notes sound a little too crisp on the cold winter air. "Irene, goodnight"—I have to wipe a tear away. "Goodnight, Irene, goodnight Irene"—this guy is really a good player. "I’ll see you in my dreams"—I have to hang my head a bit to conceal my tears. "Sometimes I live in the country, sometimes I live in town; sometimes I take a great notion, to jump into the river and drown. Irene, goodnight…" I can’t take any more of this. I pull out some pocket change, drop it into his open case, and move on down the tunnel. I have never felt so hopeless in my entire life. My mother has just thrown me out like an old bottle of Jack Daniels, and right now I’m taking a great notion to go over to the East River and let the fish have at me. I deserve to be an undergrounder, now.

I wait in line for the token booth, quickly taking out the $2 I need. I have $13 left, and about one-fifty in change. The line moves quickly. I hand over my money, get my token, and head for the turnstiles. You’d think with all the fancy-schmancy new technology that they’d improve this system of checking fares, but I guess tradition rules here in New York. I deposit my token and step through the turnstile. The steps to the platform are straight ahead. No turning back, now.

I stay over to the right-hand side of the stairs going down to the platform. On the landing, I stop and look around. The undergrounder rep should be on that platform, somewhere, but in this crowd, it’s impossible to tell who it is. They hide themselves really well, or so goes the rumor—living down in tunnels apparently doesn’t equate with looking like a bum. However that’s supposed to work, I have no idea, but I guess I’ll find out soon enough. The Uptown train pulls in just as the Downtown one does the same. The passengers go nuts, some trying to get off, some trying to get on, everyone screaming at each other…maybe we surface people aren’t quite so civilized, after all. The thought scares me.

On the far end of the platform, I notice a young woman who could pass for Molly from William Gibson’s novel "Neuromancer." She’s about six feet tall, with short brown hair. My guess is that she might even weigh a hundred and fifty pounds soaking wet. But she isn’t exactly a shrimp: she looks like she’s in tip top shape. She’s got mirrored sunglasses and blood-red lip gloss on, and she’s just leaning up against the far wall where the tunnel begins. I noticed her before the trains pulled in, but she’s in no hurry to board. Is she the undergrounder recruiter?

I finish going down the steps to the platform and fight my way against the detraining crowd. Please, Molly (or whatever your name is), don’t move until I get to you…

Both trains pull out, leaving the platform mostly empty, save for a few souls still fighting to leave. Molly hasn’t moved an inch. I break free of the crowd and slowly walk over in her direction. She sees me coming, and doesn’t move—just keeps leaning on the wall, with one foot on the wall about knee-high, the other about a foot and a half away from the wall. As I approach, she cocks her head to one side, says something I don’t quite catch, and lowers her foot. She gives me one good head-to-toe look-over, and finally breaks the silence.

"You look lost. Something I can help you with?"

"Yeah, I’m, um, looking for the undergrounders."

She exhales a bit, and shakes her head. "What do you want from the undergrounders?"

I quickly debate whether I should say this, but decide to press on. "My mom just threw me out of the house this morning, and I don’t have anywhere else to go."

Molly’s face doesn’t change a whit. "So the underground’s just one big homeless shelter? Hate to disabuse you, mister, but not everyone that lives under these streets is a bum, see?"

Her tone irks the hell out of me, and it’s all I can do not to smack her like my mom smacked me. But I restrain myself. "Look, please…are you an undergrounder or not? And can you help me get there if you are?"

Molly’s head once again does a slow scan up my body. Something tells me this girl is trouble. "What the heck. My name’s Robin. You look harmless enough, and besides, it’s been a slow day. Hang on one second, will ya?"

She puts her right hand up by her ear. "Donny? Robin in Times Square. Got someone who needs our help…No, he doesn’t look dangerous…I know, I know…Says his mom threw him out this morning and he doesn’t have anywhere else to go…Well, Leo wouldn’t like some of the people that I’ve seen so far this watch, that’s for sure…You sure?…OK, can you send my relief?…Gottit, thanks." She lowers her hand.

She shakes her head in my direction. "God, I love throat mikes. Donny’s really good about inventing stuff."

"Who’s Donny?"

"Donny is short for Donatello, one of the Ninja Turtles who keep our little empire running."

"And you were just talking to him?"

"Yup. He’s probably the coolest of the bunch, the friendliest, yadda-yadda-yadda. Personally, though, I’m one of Raphael’s little minions. Raph’s either love him or hate him, but you will remember who he is. I didn’t get your name…?"

"Jonathan, Jonathan Dixon. Everyone calls me J.D."

"Cool. We don’t have many J.D.’s down here, so you’ll have plenty of places to choose from."

"Choose from?"

I can hear her eyes rolling behind her shades. "You’ll get to pick what area you want to help out with—Chow Hall, Security, Recruiting, Patrol, Safety, Engineering, stuff like that. Leo will explain it to you when you see him."

"Leo?"

"Short for Leonardo, the boss turtle."

"I can hardly wait."

"We just have to wait until my relief shows up, and then we can leave. Hey, you OK?"

I’m shaking all over—whether it’s the cold, panic, or a nervous breakdown is moot. Robin grabs me and puts my back against the wall, then slowly lowers me to the platform. "You’re going to be OK, J.D." I’m still shaking. "J.D., relax—this’ll be the most fun you’ve ever had. Trust me…" She runs a soft hand down my left cheek. "Hey, if you’re gonna have a fit right here, I can just leave you here for the toast to pick you up…"

That got my attention, and I slowly stop shaking. The next Uptown train pulls in, and people get off the train. An older-looking gentleman, mid-30’s, dressed in khaki slacks and a black sweater, heads right for us.

"Hey, Robin, this the new guy?"

"Yeah, Mark, it’s him…having to calm him down, though."

Mark gives me a looking-over. "Hmm. He’ll get used to it. Anyway, you can escort him down, Leo’s waiting for him."

"Come on, J.D., we’re going underground."

"Aren’t we already there?"

"Smart-aleck. Don’t go mouthing off to Leo, kapeesh? He doesn’t take kindly to crap like that. And officially, we’re not ‘underground’ until we’re clear of the surface population. Subway stations are, in our book, above ground, even though they’re underground by surface definition. Got it?"

"Yes, ma’am."

"Pssh. Don’t ‘ma’am’ me, I work for a living. Let’s go."

She takes a couple of quick looks behind her as she steps over toward the tunnel entrance. "Gotta make sure the transit police aren’t watching—they tend to dislike civilians running into the tunnels, even undergrounders. One of them’s giving me a really good hairy eyeball right about now…OK, come on, run."

We start running down the tunnel. After Y2K, all the tunnels were set up with brighter lights to accommodate the undergrounders. They ran the lights off emergency generators: it was easier to handle lighting a lot of tunnels as opposed to jillions of light fixtures above ground. Plus, with thousands and thousands of people using the tunnels to find shelter, the city fathers decided they’d better light the tunnels so little kids wouldn’t hit the third rail and get electrocuted. So our tunnel run is better-lit than it would have been before everyone moved underground.

About 100 yards down the tunnel, Robin steps aside into a sort of alcove in the tunnel. It looks like it was set up after Y2K—which is to say, it looks rather roughly done. There’s a ladder down in the alcove, and Robin wordlessly motions me down it. She follows behind, only a handful of rungs separating her feet from my face.

We climb about twenty feet down from the subway tunnel, and then my feet hit terra firma. I step aside from the ladder, and Robin jumps the rest of the way. It’s hard to describe the way she lands: she sort of follows through the landing, going almost to a full squat before coming up in one smooth, fluid motion. I’ve seen cats moving like that, but never humans.

The tunnel we’re in is lit up dimly where we stand, but the lights get brighter the farther away they are from the ladder. It looks reasonably clean, for being underground: if this is a sewer, it doesn’t smell like it.

Robin brings her hand up to her ear again. "Security, Robin checking in at Times Square checkpoint Lima, request escort and audience with Leo, over…I can handle him if he gets crazy, Captain…ETA 5 mikes, roger that. Where’s Leo?…Get him down to Times Square AFAC, we’ve got a tyro here who needs clearance…Roger, ten-four. How soon will Leo be here, then?…I’m gonna run out of small talk by then, is it OK if I give the tyro a quick overview?…Wilco. Robin out."

"Tyro? That’s your word for people like me?"

"Only the new ones. You won’t be a tyro for long, but as long as you are, you’re going to need an escort. Here’s the set-up: right now I’m your escort, but until you get official clearance from Leo, you’re considered a threat. You’ll go in, talk to Leo, he should give you clearance, and then you’ll be on probation. Which means you still need an escort, but you’re not considered a threat anymore."

"That’s comforting."

"I’ll warn you again: don’t mouth off to Leo. Running a community that could be the largest city in some states takes its toll, and Leo doesn’t like a lot of BS. Be a straight shooter, and you’ll do just fine. Where was I?"

"Escorts."

"Thanks. I’ll be your escort, which means I get to follow you everywhere but the bathroom. Including your quarters, by the way. We’re going to be bunking in the same room for the next month, so I hope you don’t mind."

"Do I have any choice? And aren’t they worried about…well, you know…"

"You mean, what if you want some? You won’t get it. Escorts and charges aren’t supposed to fraternize. Don’t get me wrong, I think you’re a nice guy and all, but I’m not supposed to be sleeping with you. We’re in bunks, so it would be kind of uncomfortable anyway. And I’m not the type who likes to screw standing up. Sorry for the crudity, but that’s just the way I am."

"Just out of curiosity, what happened to—Leo? Thought you said he’d be ready to clear me the second we got down here."

"He got called away to deal with a reported security breach. He’s going to be a couple of minutes in getting here to clear you. But that’s OK by me, gives me more time to figure out what makes my new tyro tick." The last bit is delivered with a wicked grin.

"How many turtles are there?"

"Four of ‘em, all male. Leonardo’s the main boss, and he wears a blue mask. He’s kind of short-tempered, and I guess running a whole city can do that to ya. Used to be when he was really into Zen and stuff like that, but as the underground expanded, he found himself having to micromanage almost everything from the getgo. Think of him as the harried mayor of this charming little town we call the underground.

"Michaelangelo is the resident survival expert. Wears a yellow-orange mask. See, living underground’s a big adjustment for most of us, but Mikey’ll show you how to deal with it. All the turtles have lived down here their whole lives, so they could all teach this stuff—in theory. Trouble is, Donny’s too busy working in his lab, Raph’s got his hands full with all the troubled types, and Leo’s busy running everything. So Mikey pretty much got stuck with the mundane stuff by default. You’ll like him, he’s really cool. He was big into surfing and skateboarding way back when, but he’s had to grow up real quick-like thanks to this underground mess.

"Donatello is our resident techno-geek, and I mean that in a respectful way. Don’s the one who designed a lot of the gear we use to keep this town running down here. Throat mikes, trackers, smart shades like the ones I’ve got on, body monitors, and lots and lots of security stuff—Don’s invented a lot of this stuff from scratch. He tries to teach some of the smarter ones among us to follow in his footsteps, but only a few can. I’ve heard Don’s IQ has been put at like 180 or something. Guy’s a stinking genius. Never lets it get to his head, though—he’s pretty laid-back, so you can talk to him about almost anything if you can get him away from his lab long enough. Don’s the one in the purple mask, just so you’ll know.

"Raphael is my personal favorite of the bunch. He wears red, and it really suits his personality. You’ll have to work with him a bit because of your situation, but don’t sweat it—if he likes you, he’ll do all sorts of favors for you. If he doesn’t, though, look out, because he’s got a really short fuse. Had one all his life, but thanks to having a whole city of riff-raff to baby-sit 24-7, it’s gotten really nasty as of late. I think he’s kinda cute when he gets mad, though. Probably just me."

"Why are you telling me all this? I mean, if I’m supposed to be a threat to the underground and all…"

"J.D., I’d have to tell you this crap sooner or later, so it might as well be now. You’ll probably have to have a few words with all four turtles at some point, and if you don’t know who they are, they can get awfully suspicious. That really goes double for Raphael—he’s got kind of a god complex. Which reminds me…"

She brings her hand up to her ear again. "Raph, you anywhere close to Times Square?…It’s Robin…Yeah, got a tyro here who needs your help…says his mom threw him out of the house this morning, for what it’s worth…Yes, I’m his escort…You sure you want him to see that?…That bad?…What about Jennifer or Sarah, can they help out?…You’re kidding…Sure, I could, but I’ve got a tyro on my hands who probably doesn’t need to see that right up front…Well, I could…What do we do with the tyro, then?…Look, Raph, he needs an escort, remember?…You’d better, Leo’s gonna pitch a fit if he finds out we left a tyro unescorted…I’ll bring him around, sure. Soon as Leo’s done checking him in…Gottit, thanks. Robin out."

"What is it you don’t want me to see?"

"Don’t ask, J.D, you don’t want to know. Something Raph needs me for, and that’s all you need to know."

Suddenly, I see someone making his (her?) way down the tunnel towards us. He’s dressed in all black, and I can see him just fine farther down the tunnel. But as he approaches, he gets harder and harder to see.

"Robin…"

"Relax…it’s our escort."

"Thought that was your job."

"It is. But until you get cleared by Leo, you need two escorts. Not that I couldn’t take you down single-handedly if you started running, but hey, rules are rules, y’know?" She calls out. "Who’s there?"

No answer.

Robin’s eyes scan the tunnel where the dark figure was approaching. She doesn’t look rattled, which is more than I can say for me. Her hands are at her sides, she’s looking down the tunnel, and suddenly, she smiles.

Suddenly—and this takes a lot longer to describe than it takes to do—Robin goes up on one leg and executes a spinning back kick. I hear a loud "crack" where her foot makes contact with the other person’s skull, followed by a thud. She reaches for her ear again. "This is Robin in Times Square, security alert, security alert, unidentified intruder unconscious by Times Square Lima. Dressed in all black, with no markings, say again, no markings. Scans reveal biological implants of unknown origin, repeat, unknown origin. Request security backup and Science Team force standby. Security alert, security alert at Times Square Lima. End call."

Then she grabs me and slams my back to the wall with enough force to knock my wind out. "All right, tyro, you’ve got some explaining to do. Who’s your friend in the ninja suit?"

"I don’t know!"

"Gotta know something, or else how’d he find us so quick? I bring you down here, all of a sudden I’m facing some punk in a ninja suit with more silicon in his body than Pamela Anderson ever wore in her knockers. Talk. That’s an order."

"I swear I don’t know anything!"

"For your sake, J.D., I hope to God you don’t."

Footsteps are running towards us…lights…voices…I should have gone to a shelter…

Robin holds me against the wall with her left hand while she gets back on her throat mike. She’s not exactly tall, but there’s more than enough force in her left hand to keep even a guy like me from moving anywhere. "Security team approaching, where the heck is Science?…Ten-four…Get Leo down here stat, security risk requests clearance, and get me two escorts right the hell now…damn right, armed…Well, I can’t take him topside since he’s already down here, any space in Holding?…Where exactly is Leo?…Is he ready?…Check, I’ll bring him around…Escort ETA?…Belay that, I can see ‘em now…Roger, copy. Robin out."

While this was going on, several people dressed in royal blue uniforms have surrounded us and the intruder, and they’re busy picking him (?) up out of a pool of blood on the tunnel floor. Two of them take out nasty-looking guns and flank both Robin and myself, keeping all eyes on me. The guns look like nothing I’ve ever seen—are they laser-powered? I can’t tell, and I’m not exactly aching to find out. Four of the people in blue (probably Security, I think—three of them are male, one’s female) are surrounding the intruder, and leading him away. Down the tunnel, two women and a man dressed in purple are looking our way with some crazy high-tech gear in their hands. If the turtle named Donatello wears purple, and he’s the resident gearhead, then I’d guess those are the science team. I don’t want to know what they’re going to do to this person in the ninja suit.

Robin regards me from behind her lenses, while the two escorts give me the real hairy eyeball. I feel like an ameba under a microscope. After the intruder is gone, and following a good thirty seconds of silence, Robin finally speaks up. "Nothing personal, J.D., but we might have to have to put you in Holding for a while. Whoever that intruder was probably doesn’t have any connection with you, but it just doesn’t look good. I get you down here to the underground, there’s an intruder waiting for us. Leo has a tendency to put two and two together, so you might end up in a cell for a week."

Terrific. Wonderful. My mom throws me out of the house, and in less than three hours, I’m a prisoner of the underground.