Miles to Go 2/?, Donatello & Casey, PG-13
Nov. 13th, 2007 02:37 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
onemuseleftTitle: Miles To Go, Part 2
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
nightwalker
Pairing: Genfic
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Action-adventure, post-apocalyptic!fic
Fandom: set in the 2003-verse
Summary: Back then, there were no days when Casey didn't want a fight. So when he saw a Marauder camp, he went in looking to start something.
Author's Note: Much love to my beta-readersintravox. Any remaining mistakes are my own.
( Miles to Go: Part One )
II
Six months ago the world had already ended. Electricity was a thing of the past, supplies were dwindling, starvation a very real threat. People were getting desperate, but most of them were still just people, trying to get by. There was a trade route getting established and people were turning out gardens and farms all over the place.
And then there were the Marauders, men who had turned themselves into monsters.
Some of them, Casey figured, were monsters before everything went belly-up, murderers and rapists long before the end of the world who just carried on their particular brand of chaos into the new order. Some of them went bad because there weren't any more cops and courts to stop them or because they weren't willing to work to survive like the rest of the world was having to. Some of them were probably more than half insane. Whatever their reasons, they were all of them wastes of skin and air and Casey had made a point of standing between them and the travelers and farmers as often as he could.
They were in Pennsylvania. Casey kept to the rural areas between the blighted, blackened craters of the major cities. There were woods and trees and the occasional stream for drinking water. Casey had even seen signs of wildlife that had somehow avoided being turned into dinner by hungry travelers and locals. He spared a thought for the Green Man and her kids, living in the woods behind his Gramma's farmhouse, but didn't think on it too much.
He saw campfires and heard raucous laughter a long way off and it didn't take a genius to figure that it was no trader caravan or refugees. No one walked around flaunting their presence these days. No one but those who thought they were on the top of the food chain.
Casey was never been sure what made him stop that night, why he bothered to go in and get a closer look. He could write it off as being some kind of sixth sense or subliminal thing but really Casey was just in the mood to bash in someone's head.
Back then, there were no days when Casey didn't want a fight. So when he saw a Marauder camp, he went in looking to start something.
He stashed the bike and most of his supplies but took his weapons. The sporting equipment was still in place, but by then he'd already learned (the hard way, the way everyone learned things now) to stash a knife in his boot and a loaded handgun in the small of his back.
The handgun took getting used to. He got it from a farmhouse outside New York. It had been on the floor, bare inches away from the still, blue-tinged fingers of the farmer, left where it had fallen by whoever had killed him. Casey had stepped over the farmer's body to search the house for survivors and found a woman and a little girl in the bedroom. He searched the place for any food or ammo the attackers had overlooked, then spent two days burying the bodies and burning the house. It wasn't the first time he buried someone else's dead. It wasn't the last.
The woods were old and close, the canopy blocking out the stars and the moonlight, but the ground was mostly clear of scrubs and brush. Casey had never mastered the ninja art of silence but he'd gotten okay at sneaking around in the woods. The Marauders had their campsite set up in a small clearing, really just an empty space about twelve feet across. He lingered a moment, hidden in the shadows of the forest, scanning the campsite. There were no tents, just blankets and sleeping rolls on the ground and no cooking pot over the campfire. There were about a dozen guys moving around down there, a couple of them sprawled out on the ground. Two of them were grappling off to the side of the clearing, while others sat or stood around the fire talking. Casey couldn't make out much of what they were saying from where he was, but in his experience Marauders weren't much in the way of conversationalists. They were definitely Marauders; he recognized a couple of them from a run-in he'd had a few weeks back. He'd gotten off better than they had in that fight but it apparently hadn't taken long for them to get back to their usual routine.
There were bikes at the edge of the clearing and Casey maneuvered his way through the trees, keeping his eyes open for anyone posted on guard. No one tried to stop him as he approached the haphazard row of motorcycles and gear. He slipped the knife out of his boot as he eyed each bike thoughtfully. They were all right, as far as bikes went, but they weren't being maintained well. One was leaking oil, a couple others were showing signs of rust, and Casey was willing to lay money on the odds that none of these creeps could do an engine tune-up to save their lives. It was a crying shame is what it was. Didn't these guys realize that a bike was like a kid? You had to take care of it. Lazy, worthless bums.
Casey had to resist the urge to apologize to the bikes as he slipped the knife into the front tire of the closest one, listening to the air hiss out around the blade. "Nothing personal, babe," he whispered before moving on to the next one.
He worked his way through the bikes slowly, cutting the front tire on each one and waiting till the front of the bike sank forward before moving onto the next. He'd almost reached the bike nearest the camp when something caught his eye: a leather jacket, an oddly familiar shade of purple, draped over the seat of the bike he was about to sabotage.
Casey hesitated a second before reaching for the jacket, the leather smooth and worn under his fingers.
The jackets were April's idea, but she dragged Casey along and made him help since – as she explained it – he knew more about what was acceptable motorcycle gear than she did.
It was probably the only thing he knew more about than she did, with the possible exception of beer, hockey and the Die Hard movies, but he wasn't willing to put money on that. April surprised him a lot.
Turned out April planned to have the gear special made, and Casey almost groaned when he found out why. "Color coded?" he asked plaintively. "Come on. Can't we just go with basic black? Everyone looks good in black. And they guys are, they're- they're like Huey, Dewey and Louie or something."
"The Sweet Valley Twins," April said fondly. "But they like it, so that's what they're getting."
In the end they picked out four styles, just slightly different, and presented the measurements (Casey didn't know how April got those and he wasn't willing to ask) to the salesman. Three weeks later, April had four new leather jackets hanging in her apartment. They were nice coats, Casey had to admit. Even if they were a little bright.
"Purple leather," he sighed. "Somebody's gotta tell Donnie that's just not macho."
"I like the red," April said, a teasing grin making her face light up. "Kinky."
Raph never got why Casey laughed every time he saw him wear that jacket.
The leather creaked in his grip and he forced himself to loosen his hold before his hand cramped. He glanced toward the fire, double-checking no one had seen him, then smoothed the jacket out. The purple was faded to an almost grayish color, from sun and rain and frequent use. It was soft and comfortable to the touch, the way leather got when it was no longer new.
Figuring odds wasn't Casey's strong suit. But he knew that chances were that the Marauders, the murdering scumbags trying to make the world more of a hell than it already was, didn't get that coat in trade. He hated the idea that Don, who never liked fighting, who always wanted to talk it out, who never threw the first punch, lived through everything that happened only to meet his end at the hands of men like that.
Casey took the coat, stashed it in the golf bag and didn't think about it while he finished sabotaging the bikes. He searched for other faded colors, blue and red and orange, but found nothing.
Author:
nightwalkerPairing: Genfic
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Action-adventure, post-apocalyptic!fic
Fandom: set in the 2003-verse
Summary: Back then, there were no days when Casey didn't want a fight. So when he saw a Marauder camp, he went in looking to start something.
Author's Note: Much love to my beta-readers
intravox. Any remaining mistakes are my own.( Miles to Go: Part One )
II
Six months ago the world had already ended. Electricity was a thing of the past, supplies were dwindling, starvation a very real threat. People were getting desperate, but most of them were still just people, trying to get by. There was a trade route getting established and people were turning out gardens and farms all over the place.
And then there were the Marauders, men who had turned themselves into monsters.
Some of them, Casey figured, were monsters before everything went belly-up, murderers and rapists long before the end of the world who just carried on their particular brand of chaos into the new order. Some of them went bad because there weren't any more cops and courts to stop them or because they weren't willing to work to survive like the rest of the world was having to. Some of them were probably more than half insane. Whatever their reasons, they were all of them wastes of skin and air and Casey had made a point of standing between them and the travelers and farmers as often as he could.
They were in Pennsylvania. Casey kept to the rural areas between the blighted, blackened craters of the major cities. There were woods and trees and the occasional stream for drinking water. Casey had even seen signs of wildlife that had somehow avoided being turned into dinner by hungry travelers and locals. He spared a thought for the Green Man and her kids, living in the woods behind his Gramma's farmhouse, but didn't think on it too much.
He saw campfires and heard raucous laughter a long way off and it didn't take a genius to figure that it was no trader caravan or refugees. No one walked around flaunting their presence these days. No one but those who thought they were on the top of the food chain.
Casey was never been sure what made him stop that night, why he bothered to go in and get a closer look. He could write it off as being some kind of sixth sense or subliminal thing but really Casey was just in the mood to bash in someone's head.
Back then, there were no days when Casey didn't want a fight. So when he saw a Marauder camp, he went in looking to start something.
He stashed the bike and most of his supplies but took his weapons. The sporting equipment was still in place, but by then he'd already learned (the hard way, the way everyone learned things now) to stash a knife in his boot and a loaded handgun in the small of his back.
The handgun took getting used to. He got it from a farmhouse outside New York. It had been on the floor, bare inches away from the still, blue-tinged fingers of the farmer, left where it had fallen by whoever had killed him. Casey had stepped over the farmer's body to search the house for survivors and found a woman and a little girl in the bedroom. He searched the place for any food or ammo the attackers had overlooked, then spent two days burying the bodies and burning the house. It wasn't the first time he buried someone else's dead. It wasn't the last.
The woods were old and close, the canopy blocking out the stars and the moonlight, but the ground was mostly clear of scrubs and brush. Casey had never mastered the ninja art of silence but he'd gotten okay at sneaking around in the woods. The Marauders had their campsite set up in a small clearing, really just an empty space about twelve feet across. He lingered a moment, hidden in the shadows of the forest, scanning the campsite. There were no tents, just blankets and sleeping rolls on the ground and no cooking pot over the campfire. There were about a dozen guys moving around down there, a couple of them sprawled out on the ground. Two of them were grappling off to the side of the clearing, while others sat or stood around the fire talking. Casey couldn't make out much of what they were saying from where he was, but in his experience Marauders weren't much in the way of conversationalists. They were definitely Marauders; he recognized a couple of them from a run-in he'd had a few weeks back. He'd gotten off better than they had in that fight but it apparently hadn't taken long for them to get back to their usual routine.
There were bikes at the edge of the clearing and Casey maneuvered his way through the trees, keeping his eyes open for anyone posted on guard. No one tried to stop him as he approached the haphazard row of motorcycles and gear. He slipped the knife out of his boot as he eyed each bike thoughtfully. They were all right, as far as bikes went, but they weren't being maintained well. One was leaking oil, a couple others were showing signs of rust, and Casey was willing to lay money on the odds that none of these creeps could do an engine tune-up to save their lives. It was a crying shame is what it was. Didn't these guys realize that a bike was like a kid? You had to take care of it. Lazy, worthless bums.
Casey had to resist the urge to apologize to the bikes as he slipped the knife into the front tire of the closest one, listening to the air hiss out around the blade. "Nothing personal, babe," he whispered before moving on to the next one.
He worked his way through the bikes slowly, cutting the front tire on each one and waiting till the front of the bike sank forward before moving onto the next. He'd almost reached the bike nearest the camp when something caught his eye: a leather jacket, an oddly familiar shade of purple, draped over the seat of the bike he was about to sabotage.
Casey hesitated a second before reaching for the jacket, the leather smooth and worn under his fingers.
The jackets were April's idea, but she dragged Casey along and made him help since – as she explained it – he knew more about what was acceptable motorcycle gear than she did.
It was probably the only thing he knew more about than she did, with the possible exception of beer, hockey and the Die Hard movies, but he wasn't willing to put money on that. April surprised him a lot.
Turned out April planned to have the gear special made, and Casey almost groaned when he found out why. "Color coded?" he asked plaintively. "Come on. Can't we just go with basic black? Everyone looks good in black. And they guys are, they're- they're like Huey, Dewey and Louie or something."
"The Sweet Valley Twins," April said fondly. "But they like it, so that's what they're getting."
In the end they picked out four styles, just slightly different, and presented the measurements (Casey didn't know how April got those and he wasn't willing to ask) to the salesman. Three weeks later, April had four new leather jackets hanging in her apartment. They were nice coats, Casey had to admit. Even if they were a little bright.
"Purple leather," he sighed. "Somebody's gotta tell Donnie that's just not macho."
"I like the red," April said, a teasing grin making her face light up. "Kinky."
Raph never got why Casey laughed every time he saw him wear that jacket.
The leather creaked in his grip and he forced himself to loosen his hold before his hand cramped. He glanced toward the fire, double-checking no one had seen him, then smoothed the jacket out. The purple was faded to an almost grayish color, from sun and rain and frequent use. It was soft and comfortable to the touch, the way leather got when it was no longer new.
Figuring odds wasn't Casey's strong suit. But he knew that chances were that the Marauders, the murdering scumbags trying to make the world more of a hell than it already was, didn't get that coat in trade. He hated the idea that Don, who never liked fighting, who always wanted to talk it out, who never threw the first punch, lived through everything that happened only to meet his end at the hands of men like that.
Casey took the coat, stashed it in the golf bag and didn't think about it while he finished sabotaging the bikes. He searched for other faded colors, blue and red and orange, but found nothing.
