Ninja Turtles Quietus

**Quietus**

_By Dierdre_

Beta read by the illustrious Reinbeauchaser. Go check out her fics!

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_**Acknowledgements:**__ Wow, there are so many people to thank for this story. My gratitude goes out to Mickis, whose dream spawned this plotbunny, and to Moonbeam067, who provided me with a helpful website. And a very special thank you goes out to Rein, for being a marvelous beta reader and a good friend… and to her hubby, who is more than brilliant and beyond awesome. He is Donatello in human guise. :-)_

_Naturally, any technical mistakes in this story are solely the fault of me, the authoress._

_**AN:**__ This is the first part of a two chapter story, so if the ending leaves you feeling a bit confused, then not to worry! The next part will reveal all. And it should come as no surprise to those who've read my fics before, but this story contains a smidgeon of swearing, a dash of death, and a heaping helping of angst. It is a potent recipe, but one that seems to have gone over well thus far._

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Artificial lighting reflected off the mist in a multitude of tiny prisms, turning the floating wisps of moisture into three-dimensional rainbows that curled around the skyscrapers like Christmas tree garlands. It softened the eternal glare that radiated from the sleepless city, allowing a plethora of stars to glitter in brilliant pinpoints of light against the midnight blue sky. The red-tinged moon nestled serenely amongst them, like an uncut ruby in a sea of diamond dust.

Those trapped below the fog bank were unaware of this celestial spectacle, but they did not suffer from the lack, for the city still held a magic of its own. The haze that blocked out the stars had blown in from the sea, washing away the harsh scents of the city, and replacing them with the smell of marsh grass and smoke, sea foam and salt-cured planking. It twined through the streets in a million ghostly tendrils, each a single thread in the vast, shifting blanket of scent that enveloped the city like a lover. People from every walk of life seemed to take pleasure in this phenomenon, for their normally brisk strides slowed as they turned up their faces and inhaled deeply, smiling into the dark.

Yes, it was a glorious night to be alive, and Ramon Munoz was no exception to this rule.

Taking a breath of the scented air, Ramon's thin lips stretched into a grin as he marched with an irregular tread down the Brooklyn Bridge walkway. The fog surrounded him like a dome of frosted glass, toning down the sounds of traffic that droned with monotonous regularity beneath his feet. Even his footsteps were muffled by this blanketing dampness, and he let them die completely as he stopped near the center of the bridge, where the cement walkway expanded and flowed around the massive central column of the Brooklyn Tower.

The construct that cut upward through the mist and curved far above his head was called the Goliath Arch for a reason, and his tall frame was dwarfed by it as he leaned against the metal banister in front of the column. The overtaxed muscles in his weak leg throbbed fitfully for a moment, but soon settled down into a steady and not altogether unpleasant burn. He sighed lowly as the strain eased, and then propped his right arm against the cold railing, letting the other dangle limply at his side.

There was a merry tinkle and the sound of nails against concrete, and a moment later a cold, wet nose buried itself into his curved palm. Ramon twitched in surprise, but recovered almost immediately and reached down, placing his scarred hand atop the dog's broad head. He ruffled her ears and laughed lowly. "Ever the impatient one, aren't you?"

The dog huffed in tacit agreement and sat on her haunches, her tail tracing a single broad arc across the concrete. She stared up at him with marble-bright eyes, her posture vibrating with tension, and then licked her chops deliberately.

Sighing in defeat, Ramon reached into his pocket and fished out a dog biscuit. He tossed it with a practiced flick of his wrist, and the pit bull mix launched into the air like a bottle rocket. The treat disappeared with a snap of sharp teeth, and Ramon shook his head at the sound of contented crunching. "I'll feed you properly when we get home, Brisha," he said. "Just don't eat me until then, okay?"

Bri barked in reply, coating the knee of her owner's pant leg in slobber and bits of half-masticated dog biscuit. Ramon grimaced and halfheartedly swiped a hand across the faded denim. "I'll take that as a yes."

He spent a moment squinting through the fog, which had brightened to a pale gold from the lights that illuminated the walkway, and then he glanced up. The suspension cables arced ambitiously towards heaven on either side of him, before weakening in the mist and disappearing entirely. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, Ramon wrestled his arms free of the bag slung across his shoulders. The backpack dropped to the concrete with a clink of hidden glass, and he laboriously sank to the ground beside it. His aging joints popped and creaked in protest, forcing a small groan from his throat as he carefully stretched out his bad leg and folded the other one beneath him.

Bri quickly took advantage of this and dropped to her belly, wriggling across the asphalt like a commando until she had all but climbed into his lap. She stretched out her short neck, laid her head on his bent knee and sighed as only a canine could. Her eyelids began to droop within seconds, but she managed to stay awake long enough to unroll her long, pink tongue and swipe it across the worn material of his jeans. The last of the biscuit crumbs disappeared like magic, and she dozed off with a final satisfied smack of her chops.

"Idiot dog," he said affectionately. As her barrel chest rumbled with the beginnings of a snore, Ramon reached out and slipped his fingers under her collar. The tag jingled as he scratched lightly at flesh beneath it, prompting Bri's tail to wag lazily, responding to her owner's attentions even in dreams.

Feeling cold and achy, but strangely at peace with the world, Ramon shifted until he had his back pressed more comfortably against the railing bars. The silence that swept in soon afterward seemed odd compared to the usual blare and bustle of the city, and only the distant rumble of cars beneath him served as a reminder that he was still in New York City, home to over eight million souls.

And because this was New York, he had no illusions about his safety. The Brooklyn Bridge was one of the safer places to walk at night, for it was patrolled twenty-four hours a day by bicycle cops, but even so, crime was not unknown here. Last week's aggravated assault at the entrance of the pedestrian path was still fresh in the collective minds of the city, yet the knowledge did nothing to tighten the muscles in Ramon's broad shoulders. He had fought and bled in the jungles of Vietnam, and flowers were only now beginning to grow over the grave of his wife, so he was a man who had little left to fear.

Besides, at this place, on this night, he knew he was safe. The Green Man was coming.

As if the thought had been transmitted telepathically, Bri let out a snort and jerked awake. She yawned expansively, her pink tongue flicking wetly inside its cage of pointed teeth, and then scrambled to her feet and trotted a few feet down the walkway. A wet nose pointed skyward and inhaled a deep breath of the night air, before letting it out in a long, soft sigh. Slowly at first, but rapidly picking up speed, Bri's tail began to wag.

Ramon's spine straightened at the sight, and he reflexively glanced up, his eyes narrowing as he attempted to make out the suspension cables through the fog. "Is he up there, _chaparrita_?" he asked softly.

If the dog heard his voice, she gave no sign, for every molecule of her being seemed focused on the sensory organ at the tip of her snout, which was struggling to pinpoint a scent diffused and distorted by the hanging moisture in the air. Her tail seemed to have a mind of its own, sending her whole body wiggling with the force of its swing as a whine of anticipation welled up in her throat.

And then suddenly the aroma spiked, and Bri whipped her head around and let out a bark that sounded strangely flat in the swaddling dampness. She broke into a run, and Ramon had just enough time to wonder why his dog was dashing toward him with a manic gleam in her eye, before a whisper of movement behind him provided an answer.

The Green Man leapt over Ramon's seated form and landed gracefully a few feet beyond him, the hem of his long trench coat rasping against the mist-damp cement. Bri's headlong charge barely slowed, and seventy pounds of furred muscle and chronic hyperactivity rammed headlong into the new arrival. It was a true testament to the Green Man's strength when he barely staggered from the blow and a compliment to his excellent balance when the dog reared back and planted both paws on his chest.

Two large hands, concealed by a pair of custom-made leather gloves, caught her head as she attempted to greet him with a thorough licking. She was pushed gently away, but as a canine who considered persistence to be the better part of valor, her muscles automatically coiled in preparation for another leap…

Only to be stopped when a mild voice said, "Calm down, Brisha. Sit."

The command reached down deep into her doggy mind and flipped a switch, making her hindquarters fold like an accordion. She sat down with a thump, looked briefly perplexed, and then fixed the owner of the voice with a look that plainly said 'the obedient dog deserves a biscuit.'

No treat seemed to be forthcoming, but the Green Man did favor her with a friendly scratch behind the ears. "Good dog."

While the Green Man's attention was elsewhere, Ramon took the opportunity to stand. A treacherous part of his mind still insisted that he could leap to his feet in an economical motion that came as easily as breathing, but the rest of him was well aware of the passage of time, which had scored lines of weakness across his body like invisible tattoos. And so he gripped the railing and folded his legs under him with care, levering himself to his feet with only a sight wobbling of his knees. He ran a hand through his thinning mop of gray hair and let the breath he'd been holding slide out in a sigh.

The Green Man must have heard the sound, but he remained focused on the dog a calculated moment longer, allowing Ramon a chance to collect himself. Bri's chest rumbled in annoyance when he finally turned away, but she was soon distracted by a slight breeze, which blew down the walkway and brought with it an interesting aroma. She padded off in search of the source, accompanied by the muted chiming of her tag, and disappeared into the deep gloom under the Goliath Arch.

It was tempting to call her back, but Ramon knew she was too much of an attention hog to stay away for long. Dismissing the dog momentarily from his mind, he held out his hand. The ridged scar tissue that had taken the place of his thumb and forefinger shown starkly in the light as he said, "It has been too long, my friend. How've you been?"

There was a glint of white teeth beneath the brim of his fedora hat as the Green Man briefly shook the aging human's hand. "Well enough. And you?"

"Good," he said. "Better than good, actually. Tonight is a night of celebration!"

Ramon was grinning like a kitten in a field of catnip, and his shorter companion's shoulders rolled back in surprise. There was only one thing that could make the normally phlegmatic man look so animated. "Well, be still my heart. They actually agreed on a settlement?"

"It took nearly two years, but yes," he said, speaking the words with obvious relish. "Finally, yes."

"Did you get a good deal?"

"I think so, though my lawyer would disagree. He said I would've gotten more if I'd held out, but I was tired of dealing with the whole mess. Him especially. Smug asshole." The Green Man snorted in amusement, which coaxed another Cheshire cat grin out of Ramon. "Anyway, if I stay away from the Lamborghini dealerships, I'll be able to keep Brisha in dog biscuits for the rest of her life."

"I'm happy for you, Ramon. You deserve it." The newcomer tilted his head to the side, and a crescent moon of scar-laced skin glimmered emerald in the pale glow of the street lights. "So you're rich beyond the dreams of avarice. What are you going to do with yourself now?"

"I don't know, really. I'm only a year away from retirement, so there's not much point going back to work. Can't, anyway. Not like this." He sighed and looked down at his hands; one still strong and corded from a lifetime of manual labor, the other little more than a tangled mass of scar tissue. He flexed his damaged hand thoughtfully and then shrugged. "But, hey, you don't need ten fingers to use a keyboard. I figured I'd try to write."

"Really?"

Before he could reply, there was a clatter of nails against concrete, the chiming of a tag, and Brisha suddenly erupted out of the mist. The dog trotted over to Ramon with her head tilted proudly, her cheeks bulging with an unidentifiable mass. Sighing in disgust, her put-upon owner reached down and pried open her jaws, forcing them wide until a large wad of dirty, slime-covered newspaper splat against the concrete like the world's largest spit wad.

The Green Man's lip curled and Ramon shrugged an apology before kicking the wad under the railing, where it plummeted down to the road below. Brisha looked so dejected that the Green Man took pity and began to stroke the top of her head, careful to avoid her darting tongue.

Ramon wiped his hands on his jeans and gave a belated nod. "They say everyone has got one book in them. I'd like to see if that's true."

"Ramon Munoz, the critically-acclaimed author," the Green Man said, rolling the words around in his mouth like a stone. "Yeah, I can see that."

"Don't break out the Pulitzer just yet; I haven't even bought a computer. But if I do, get published, I mean, I'll dedicate my book to you." Ramon carved a slow slice through the air with his remaining index finger, as if underscoring a line of text. "'To my mysterious, trench coat-wearing friend, who spoils my dog rotten.'"

The Green Man seemed unmoved by the gentle taunting, for his hand never faltered in its ministrations. "It's not my fault you don't give her enough attention."

"I know," he said dryly, as the most pampered pet in North America moaned lowly and leaned into the other's touch. If her rapturous expression was any indication, she had just passed cloud nine and was rocketing to points beyond. "I should be arrested for animal cruelty."

So contented was Bri that she didn't even have the energy to protest when the Green Man gave her a final pat and withdrew his hand. She trotted back to curl herself around Ramon's legs as their visitor reached into his pocket and pulled out a slim device. "I fixed that MP3 Player you brought last week. You might not need the cash anymore, Mr. Moneybags, but it should still fetch a good price."

"Thanks," he said, taking it and admiring the small screen, which was now free of the scuff marks and cracks that had prompted its previous owner to dispose of it. "I'll be able to sell this, no problem. This time, though, _you'll_ get the money."

The Green Man waved a hand glibly. "I don't have much use for currency. Keep it and save up for that Ferrari."

"Lamborghini," he corrected. "If I'm going to have a late midlife crisis, I'm going to do it with style." A shoe squeaked against the concrete as Ramon turned on his heel and walked over to his backpack. He bent over stiffly, and there was a moment of busy clanking as he rifled through it. When he straightened again, his hand was gripped awkwardly around a small Tupperware container, the inside of its clear plastic top fogged over with steam. "Since you won't take cash, at least let me keep paying you in food. Here."

Prying off the lid, the Green Man's nostrils flared at the smell of chilaquiles, bathed in red mole and topped off with fried tortilla chips and cheese. The smell reached down into his gut and drew hot lines of hunger across his stomach, and it was only through sheer force of will that he managed to snap the lid shut and deposit the container in one of his deep coat pockets.

"I'm sure it'll be delicious," he said.

"You might want to save some of that for the morning. Chilaquiles are great hangover cures, you know."

If his baffled expression was any indication, the Green Man _didn't_ know. Ramon shook his head at the ignorance of youth, and then dug once more into his backpack. He pulled out a thick glass bottle and handed it over with a flourish. "_This_ is why they'll come in handy, my friend. Never let it be said that I'm not generous with my wealth."

Rich amber liquid washed gently inside the bottle as the Green Man gripped it by the neck and squinted at the label. "Black Jack?"

"It's the same brand of whiskey we shared the first time we met. The night you saved my life."

"Ramon, we've been over this before," the Green Man said with an edge of exasperation. "I did nothing of the kind."

Ramon gave him a steady look, his mane of gray hair shining like a halo in the buttery yellow lamplight. "You were there, and you listened," came the simple reply. "That was a hell of a lot more than anyone else did."

With an eloquent sigh, his companion removed the bottle cap with a single, sharp twist of his wrist. The reek of alcohol hit his nasal passages like a slap, but there was no hesitation as he lifted the bottle in a mocking toast and took a hard pull. He passed the bottle off to Ramon as his face twisted into an involuntary grimace, which was quite a sight to see from a person fully capable of hiding an orange in his mouth.

"Good stuff," he wheezed.

Ramon laughed and lifted the bottle to his lips, savoring his first taste of whiskey in what seemed an age. A great deal had happened since that night, thirteen long months ago, but the memory of what had sparked his temporary vow of sobriety had failed to lose its sharpness. It had been a turning point in his life, an event spurred by so many small happenings that it had taken on the feel of fate.

His life had seemed so ordinary, only two short years ago. The trail of Ramon's days had long ago worn down to an even, comfortable track, where he walked with the safe expectation that each new morning would be much like the last. Some might have chafed under such a lifestyle, but with the twilight of his life fast approaching, he found a simple pleasure in his routine; where he worked a few hours a day at a job he enjoyed, and returned each evening to a woman he loved. There were worse fates for an old man in this world. He knew it, and was grateful.

But the very act of living was like a game of Russian roulette, where every soul must periodically spin the cylinder, pull the trigger, and hope not to hear a bang. For Ramon, the bullet left the chamber at four-thirty p.m. on the ninth day of August, and it plagued him for months afterward that he didn't hear the sound of disaster approaching.

He worked as one of the senior electricians for a small construction company, and his workload had been declining steadily as he amicably eased his way into retirement. But on that hot August afternoon, he was putting in some overtime in the elevator machine room of a nearly completed office building, helping with the on-the-job training of one of the company's new apprentice electricians. The kid's name was Antoine, and he was quite talented, but still inexperienced when it came to some of the finer points of installing insulated wiring.

After a few moments watching the kid struggle, Ramon took Antoine's place at the open electrical panel, kneeling down on one knee and burying his hands amongst the wiring. The heat was oppressive in that small, unventilated room, and Ramon had to pause periodically to wipe the sweat from his eyes as he talked Antoine through the correct procedure. Electrical conduits and scraps of metal angle iron littered the floor, making it even more difficult for the older man to kneel on the unforgiving concrete.

Something hard was digging into his right knee, and he paused in his teaching to shift to a more comfortable position. This act caused him to bump his right forearm against the instrument panel, which jolted a wire loose and caused it to snag on the fingers of Ramon's right hand. This wouldn't have ordinarily been a problem… except that Antoine had forgotten to switch off the main breaker that powered the panel. The instant the live wire touched Ramon's sweat-slicked skin, a massive jolt of electricity surged through his hand and up his forearm, before grounding itself out on the metal panel. Ramon's arm muscles contracted with a violence that forced the wire off his fingers and onto his thigh, where his damp jeans proved to be an excellent conductor.

Antoine barely had time to register the sight of Ramon --his lips pulled back into a rictus grimace, his frozen muscles fighting to dance to the tune of the eerie electric whine-- before the breaker popped in an explosive shower of sparks, plunging the room into darkness. With the electricity no longer rolling through him, Ramon fell over like a tree, his muscles seized with spasmodic twitching. His right pant leg smoked, filling the area with the smell of smoldering flesh as Antoine shook off his shock and fumbled for his cell phone.

The paramedics arrived soon after to sweep him away in a flurry of rapid-fire speech and brisk efficiency, but Ramon was completely unaware of their determined attempts to correct the dangerous stuttering of his heart. It would be nearly three weeks before Ramon knew of anything beyond that brilliant flash of pain, and the subsequent darkness that had reared up and swallowed him whole.

When he finally opened his eyes again, it was to a fuzzy world of bright lights, scratchy sheets and antiseptic smells. It took a long time for his confused mind to understand that he was in a hospital, his right arm and leg immobilized by bandages. There was a critical gap in his memory that might have provided a clue as to why he was here, and that, more than the bone-deep ache that throbbed in his constricted limbs, was what nearly sent him over the edge into panic.

Fortunately, he was saved by a slim, long-fingered hand, which chose that moment to run across his forehead in a familiar caress. He knew the feel of those hands better than he knew his own name, and after a few moments struggle, he was able to focus his eyes enough to see his wife's face. The lines around Anna's mouth were deeper than he remembered, and her bangs had shaken out of a sloppy braid to curl around her face in a way that couldn't quite hide the cigarette tucked behind one ear. Her eyes had been dulled by worry and many sleepless nights, but when she ran her hand across his cheek and smiled, he was certain he had never seen anything more beautiful.

"Welcome back among the living, love," she said softly. "Don't you dare scare me like that again."

That gentle warning had marked the beginning of his new life, where he was forced to veer away from the familiar path and wade through the tangled undergrowth of uncertainty. It took him a long time to adjust to this change, and longer still to realize just how lucky he was to be making the journey at all.

The electrical surge, which had started in Ramon's right hand, had actually carbonized the entry point, vaporizing bodily fluids and limiting the amount of current that continued down his body, serving to partially protect his heart. It had cost him two fingers and had blown out his knee cap with all the force of a cherry bomb, but his motor functions were not otherwise impaired, and he had suffered no lasting heart complications. Considering his age and the extraordinary cause of his injuries, that was nothing short of a miracle.

Multiple surgeries were required to restore function to his shattered knee, followed by over a month of physical therapy for both afflicted limbs, but when he finally left the hospital for the last time, he couldn't feel anything but triumphant. An electrocution like that would have killed most people, and yet he had not only survived the experience, but was able to walk away. And if his victory march down the hospital steps was accompanied by a rather noticeable limp, then that was okay, too. He couldn't bring himself to mind too much, not with Anna's arm looped around his own, her hair brushing his temple as she whispered that he looked just like Hugh Laurie from _House_.

Ramon had only just begun to get reacquainted with their apartment when the letter came, its ominous tidings concealed beneath an elegant ivory envelope. His claim had been denied, it said, on the grounds that the insurers believed the accident had been caused by Ramon's own carelessness, and not due to any negligence on the part of the construction company.

This simple, impersonal letter set off a landslide of events that all but enveloped their next year of life. Their lawyer had immediately stepped up to contest the insurer's ruling… and ended up embroiling them in a protracted legal battle, where both sides dug in their heels with all the stubbornness of a train of pack mules. Even with the help of his monthly disability check and Anna's retirement stipend, their funds began to disappear at an alarming rate, sucked away into the bottomless maw of the insurance industry. Money troubles soon became reason enough for insomnia, forcing Anna out of retirement and into a blue vest, where she greeted Wal-Mart customers with plastic smiles and a gleaming grocery cart.

About nine months down the line, however, even that extra money wasn't enough to keep them ahead of all the bills. As their lawyer spewed out platitudes and polished words of reassurance that had long since lost their shine, they moved out of their home of nearly fifteen years and into a cheaper apartment in one of the less reputable neighborhoods, where their sleep was often broken by the sounds of drunken revelry, police sirens and the occasional abortive scream.

Even that had been tolerable, though, for it mattered little to Ramon where they lived. As long as he could lie down each night with Anna in his arms, breathing in her perfume and the faint, smoky scent of her Menthol cigarettes, he could endure anything.

But it all changed a few months later, as Anna hummed in the kitchen after a long day at work, vigorously whisking batter destined to become part of her famous white coffee cake. Ramon had been sitting at the table with his back to her, fighting to turn a newspaper page with only one hand, when the sound of her humming had abruptly stopped. Anna was about as musically gifted as a box of rocks, so he was secretly grateful for the silence… that is, until he heard the unholy crash of breaking glass and a sudden, ominous thump.

He had surged upright with a shot of adrenaline-induced speed, knocking over his chair and rounding the counter into the kitchen. There he had found his wife on the floor, surrounded by cake batter and the jagged shards of the mixing bowl. Her face was pinched and tinged grey, her breathing erratic and labored, and Ramon's hands had shook like a victim of Parkinson's disease as he snatched the phone from its cradle and dialed 911.

She was unconscious while he waited for the ambulance, utterly still during the ride that followed, and it was only when they had nearly reached the hospital that her eyes slitted open. The paramedics had immediately swarmed around her, one checking her blood pressure and pupil dilation while the other lifted the oxygen mask from her face, asking her in calm, professional tones how she felt.

The question seemed to confuse her, for she gazed blankly upward for a long moment, and then ran a tongue over her dry lips. "I'd like a cigarette," she finally said, her voice distant and rasping.

As the paramedic made a move to position the mask back over her nose and mouth, she turned her head to the side. All Ramon could do was grip her hand tighter as she fixed him with a thousand yard stare and, incredibly, attempted to smile. "You're right, love," she said. "I think it's time I quit."

And she had. At three forty-three a.m., in the soulless sterility of an ICU ward, she had quit everything.

As they had unhooked her body from a multitude of complex machines, a doctor led Ramon away, murmuring quiet words of sympathy and attempting to explain why Ramon's world had come to an end. Most of the medical terminology had flown over his head with barely a whisper of displaced air, and it was only later that Ramon bothered to piece together the medic's meaning. It had been a heart attack, brought about by complications of age and a chronic smoking habit. A simple, direct explanation that failed to encompass the enormity of what had happened.

Ramon buried her next to her parents, in a peaceful cemetery located on the outskirts of Annsville. The funeral had been a quiet one, with only a few close friends and a handful of distant relatives that had felt an obligation. He stayed behind after the ceremony to watch as they refilled the hole, each scrape of the shovels against dirt like the sounds of an executioner sharpening his axe. He stayed behind after the gravediggers left, his eyes heavy and burning with tears he could not shed. He stayed behind even after the sun began to set, and it was only when someone came to tell him that the cemetery was closing for the evening did he turn on his heel and limp slowly away.

His next hearing had been postponed for a week; to give him time to grieve, as his lawyer had said. That week had turned into two, then three, and during that time Ramon never left the apartment. He turned off the phone and spent his days prowling from room to room, straightening and cleaning their usually messy home until every surface gleamed, and opening the windows until not a trace of cigarette smell remained. Sometimes he would pack up her things in an attempt to quell the memories, only to tear through the boxes a few minutes later, replacing each bauble and trinket with repeated, whispered words of apology, as if he had somehow been caught in betrayal.

His nights were largely sleepless, spent thrashing around in the suddenly too-large bed, his head throbbing and aching with a pressure that could not be released. It began to feel like madness, those horrid, empty nights, and Ramon knew that something had to give.

It came in the form of a knocking at the door, where a sallow-skinned delivery boy presented him with a package. The box sat on the kitchen counter for nearly a day before Ramon could be bothered to open it, and when he did, it turned out to be a sympathy card from a cousin whose face he could barely remember. That… and a large bottle of Black Jack whiskey, which seemed like an odd gift for someone who already felt like the walking dead.

Despite strangeness of the gift, the thought of relief, no matter how temporary, was too tempting to pass up. Opening the bottle with only one fully functioning hand was difficult, but after a while, he succeeded, and he spent the next few hours getting thoroughly trashed.

It helped to ease the ache in his soul, but eventually, as it so often did, the alcohol turned on him. Inebriation tore down all the defenses his mind had built to protect itself, leaving him wide open to thoughts he could not bear to think, and emotions he could not bear to feel. His found his tears at the bottom of a shot glass, and for a long while the walls reverberated with his hoarse, wordless sobs.

If it had ended there, perhaps things would have been different, but the Pandora's Box of grief he had so carelessly opened could not be easily shut again. He cried until he had no more tears left in him, and then spent a while roaming blindly through the house, the whiskey bottle clenched firmly in his hand as he searched for something he could not name.

When he finally understood that what he looked for could only be found at the bottom of a hole in Annsville, Ramon realized that he could not stay there a moment longer. He rode the elevator down to the bottom floor and left the apartment complex without ceremony, making his way out into the New York City night.

He wandered through the streets for an indeterminate about of time, weaving around the occasional passerby as the level of whiskey in the bottle continued to drop, one despairing swallow at a time. But even with his alcohol-deadened nerves, after a while the ache in his leg became too much, so he impulsively flagged down a cab and told the driver to take him to the Golden Gate Bridge. After he poured himself out of the cab and paid the weary driver, he spent a while just standing at the entry to the pedestrian walkway, wondering blearily what had possessed him to come here.

The answer came in the form of a belated memory, white-edged and unbearably sweet. His feet began to move without a conscious order from his brain, and it seemed like only seconds had passed before he came to a halt at the center of the enormous bridge, with the Brooklyn Tower looming like a sentinel above him. He had proposed to Anna here, beneath the shadow of the Goliath Arch, on a bright and breezy day nearly forty years ago. She had worn a flower in her hair, and when he slipped the engagement ring on her finger, she had cried so hard she got the hiccups.

It hit him like a blow, that sudden memory, but his expression did not change at all. He merely wandered over to the railing and stared downward as the car lights rushed passed several stories below, his blurred view of them bisected at regular intervals by the wide steel beams that supported the walkway.

What he did next came with no internal argument, no stirring of conscience, or prodding of instinctual self-preservation. He merely set the bottle on the ground and awkwardly climbed over the railing, lowering himself until his feet touched down on one of the three-foot-wide support beams. He reached up through the railing bars and snagged the whiskey, and then turned carefully around and marched solemnly across the beam. His steps grew dangerously wobbly after only a few seconds, but he somehow managed not to fall off as he maneuvered his stiff, hurting body into a sitting position on the metal girder.

Bolts marred with a patina of rust and pigeon droppings dug painfully into his backside, but he paid them no mind as he let his heels dangle out over the brink. The wind, which had seemed practically nonexistent while he was safely on the walkway, now tugged and pulled at his clothing, making his body sway back and forth with metronomic regularity. The effect was rather dizzying, but Ramon welcomed the sensation as he took another drink from the half-empty bottle. This was the best way, he knew. He couldn't bring himself to actively fling his body into the abyss, but with a few more drinks and one healthy gust of wind, gravity would do the job for him.

'Old Man Attempts Acrobatics, Goes Splat,' the papers would read in the morning. Not suicide, but merely a drunk, senile old codger attempting a stupid stunt his body was no longer capable of. Anna would forgive him for that. Surely.

He was swinging his legs back and forth, almost enjoying the way his vision swam and bucked in time with the movement, when he became aware of eyes upon him. The mere act of turning his head was almost enough to send him toppling over, but idle curiosity made him brace one hand against the cold metal, holding off the end for a little while longer. Standing several feet above him, with his forearms propped against the railing, was a man. The trench coat he wore was too big for his squat frame, almost brushing against the ground, and his fedora hat had been rendered limp and shapeless from many years of repeated use. It hung down low over his face, bathing it in deep shadow, and the only thing Ramon could see were his eyes; hazel and piercing and somehow odd.

After a moment, Ramon turned away indifferently. The man might be a street person, searching for shelter somewhere beneath the Goliath Arch, or perhaps he was just some random bystander, who had happened upon the scene and was now waiting to see a desperate old man die. Since the watcher wasn't pleading with him not to jump or pulling out a cell phone to call the cops, he could bring himself to care either way.

But he _did_ care when he saw a flicker of movement out of the corner of his vision and felt a slight vibration as something landed on his steel perch. He looked over just in time to see the newcomer straighten on the narrow beam and walk towards him with all the grace of an Olympic gymnast.

The surreal aspect of it all was the only thing that stopped Ramon from tumbling over right then and there. Surely the man wasn't going to try to haul him back bodily…?

It turned out that wasn't what he had in mind, for the man stopped a few feet from him and sat down, his legs dangling over the side in a mirror of Ramon's own posture. He did not speak, but merely looked straight ahead, as relaxed and nonchalant as if they were sharing a sun-dappled bench in Central Park.

Feeling strange, like a person trapped in a waking dream, Ramon did the only sensible thing he could think of: he offered the bottle to the man.

There was a long hesitation as the man scrutinized the bottle and the one who proffered it, but eventually his hand emerged from the folds of his coat. The bottle was passed over silently, and although the other's hand was oddly colored and missing a few critical digits, Ramon didn't mind. He had lived too long and seen too much to expect normalcy in this world, and on a night viewed through a haze of drunkenness and despair, anything seemed possible.

Several minutes passed in comfortable silence as the whiskey exchanged hands. Once, a bicyclist passed them by on the walkway above, and Ramon tensed in expectation of discovery. The rider seemed oblivious to them, however, for the measured thrum of his spinning wheels never slowed. The sound quickly faded into memory, and soon only the moaning of the traffic beneath their feet remained to add texture to the quiet.

Perhaps he felt the need to interrupt that hush, or perhaps the words had been blocked up for too long, needing only an excuse to burst through with all the finality of the Teton dam. For whatever the reason, it wasn't long before Ramon began to speak.

He talked for over an hour, his words tangling and tripping over themselves in their rush to escape. He told his drinking companion of his accident and the botched insurance claim, he told him of his wife and the loss of her, and he talked about Vietnam and the nightmares that he had never shared with anyone, not even Anna. Sometimes his words came out in a whisper; sometimes in a shout; sometimes tinged with laughter or bitter tears.

And through it all the Green Man listened. He never offered a response to what was said, not a single word of comfort or reassurance, but the quality of his silence told Ramon that he was absorbing every word. It was like poison being leeched from a wound, and although it left him drained and more tired than he could ever remember being, Ramon felt the better for it.

When Ramon finally ran out of words, his breath was rasping in a throat that felt like it had been lined with sandpaper. He automatically scooped up the whiskey and brought it to his lips, but the smell of it was enough to make him gag and hold the bottle at arm's length. There were only a few finger lengths left of the potent liquor, but Ramon found that he had lost all desire to finish it.

He offered the bottle to his companion, who took it with a nod of thanks and drained it in two long swallows. The Green Man then swiped an arm across his mouth, stashed the bottle in one of the deep pockets of his trench coat, and stood up abruptly. He had put away a considerable amount of alcohol, but his stance did not wobble in the slightest as the wind tugged at his clothing and playfully bent back the brim of his fedora hat. Ramon felt shock trace a line of ice down his spine as he finally got a good look as his new drinking buddy, but it somehow never occurred to him to be afraid.

That alien face with its broad, almost lipless mouth was solemn, and those eyes bored into Ramon with laser-like intensity, as if searching for something. Whatever he found there must have satisfied him, for after a moment the creature sighed and slowly held out his hand.

If the gesture had been backed by a feeling of demand or expectation, then Ramon might have let his exhaustion pull him off the ledge and into eternity. But the hand was just a hand, and those hazel eyes held nothing but a base understanding that Ramon had not seen before or since.

_Live or die,_ those eyes said. _The choice is yours._

Ramon had consumed enough alcohol to incapacitate a small horse, but he felt remarkably sober as he stared at the offered hand and felt the measure of his life balance on a knife's edge. He decided to kill himself and to live a dozen different times in those few crowded seconds, and it wasn't until he felt the Green Man's callused palm against his own that he knew what his ultimate choice would be. To survive, if only for one more day.

The long stint on the metal beam had proven to be too much for his old, aching limbs, and so the Green Man had been forced to lift him bodily. Ignoring Ramon's feeble protests, he held the human's lanky frame with seeming ease and leapt eight feet up onto the railing, a physical feat that should have been impossible for even the most gifted athlete. He then leaned Ramon against the railing bars and removed his trench coat, carelessly draping the warm material over Ramon's shoulders. A chill that he'd barely been aware of began to lose purchase on his bones as he breathed in the smell of old leather and candle wax, watching with the aid of the street lights as his strange companion fished a deformed cell phone from a pouch on his belt. His voice was low and barely discernable to Ramon's tired ears as he made a call, and they waited together in easy silence until sirens could be heard in the distance.

At the familiar banshee wails of the emergency vehicles, Ramon instinctively glanced towards the entrance to the pedestrian path. When he looked back a moment later, the Green Man was gone, leaving the man to huddle under a coat that was not his, and to fight off a curious sense of loss.

When he checked himself out of the hospital the next day, with a bottle of antidepressants in one pocket and a citation for public drunkenness in the other, he did not leave with a special insight or a renewed sense of purpose. No matter how cathartic it might have been, it would take more than a one-sided conversation with a stranger to change that. But it _did_ feel like a pivotal moment had come and gone, some emotional peak that he had managed to summit, leaving him with little choice but to begin the slow descent down the other side.

No, the tangled curl of barbed wire had not loosened its grip around his heart, but at least the thought of seeing another sunset no longer filled him with cold terror. For now, that was enough.

Ramon had returned home and immediately made a couple of phone calls: one to set up another hearing with the insurance company, and another to his cousin, to thank him for the gift. He then popped a few aspirin to combat the headache pounding behind his eyes, and spent the next little while simply staring at the trench coat hanging unassumingly from Anna's chair.

What had happened to him that night was impossible, but he knew he hadn't been hallucinating. Despite the massive amount of alcohol he had consumed, he could still vividly recall the pebbly feel of the Green Man's hand as it folded around his own, pulling him back from the brink. Ramon had been given a glimpse of something arcane, and he knew that such things were only supposed to happen once in any given lifetime.

It didn't take him long to decide that that would never do.

Later that afternoon, Ramon dug out his old hiking backpack. He folded the trench coat carefully at the bottom, threw in a sandwich and a thermos full of coffee, and then shouldered the pack with an air of decisiveness. He took a cab to the Brooklyn Bridge and settled down by the Goliath arch, beginning what was soon to become a nightly ritual.

Leaning against the railing for eight hours at a stretch –drinking coffee and staring mutely off into the distance--, earned him quite a few curious looks from various passerbies, and occasionally got him ushered out by the more vigilant bicycle cops. Such things did little to deter him, though. Sleeping during the day came easily enough for him, and these nightly vigils got him away from his damnably empty bed and the oppressive silence of his home. And watching the city lights glow from across the river, unchanging through rain and heat, wind and fog, began to bring with it a tenuous sort of peace. As he meticulously memorized every shape and contour of the city's skyline, he could feel the knot in his chest begin to loosen, one millimeter at a time.

Towards the end of his first month, his persistence finally paid off. He was working on the final dregs of his coffee, aching in every limb and ready to call it a night, when he suddenly became aware of a presence nearby. A slight turn of his head revealed a squat figure leaning nonchalantly against the railing beside him, his face concealed by the hood of a black sweatshirt.

"Stalking is against the law, you know," the Green Man said.

That tenor voice had seemed utterly human in its guarded amusement, and the sound of it had driven away all the careful explanations and pretty speeches Ramon had devised over the weeks. Swallowing hard, the coffee suddenly churning like acid in his stomach, Ramon had to settle for reaching into his backpack and hastily tugging out the crumpled trench coat. He held it out to the newcomer with all the solemnity of a holy ritual, and said weakly, "It would have been rude of me not to return your property."

The Green Man had turned then, giving Ramon a glimpse of his face, and the man found himself thanking every god he'd ever heard of that he had the sense not to flinch. It was apparently the right move, for the Green Man smiled a little and took the coat, folding it over his arm. "How considerate of you."

That simple exchange turned out to be the first of many meetings between the two. Sporadic encounters soon became carefully scheduled, once a week visits, always near the safety of the Arch. Short, stilted conversations became long and free-flowing as two very different people found common ground. And slowly, gradually, wary fascination morphed into genuine caring as they found out a way to be friends.

After a time, their relationship even became mutually beneficial. Once the full extent of Ramon's money troubles became known to him, the Green Man began to bring electronics that he had found and repaired, which Ramon pawned or sold for cash under the table. In return, Ramon always brought food; from simple stocks of canned goods to elaborate meals that he had cooked himself. And when Ramon picked out a gangly, half-grown pup from the pound, the Green Man showed a surprisingly playful side by running around with Brisha and letting her climb all over him, giving the rambunctious dog the exercise that Ramon couldn't provide himself.

And if the Green Man never mentioned where he lived or spoke about his past, Ramon didn't let it bother him much. Theirs was an odd friendship, built upon evasion, half-truths and questions never asked, but it had helped to calm the loneliness that writhed in them both like glutted parasites.

For now, that was enough.

Growing impatient, his drinking companion nudged him pointedly; startling Ramon and effectively dragging him back to the present. He set the bottle on the concrete banister with a sigh, and then snorted at the inquiring expression on the other's face. "The Green Man."

"What?"

"That's how I think of you. You're one of the few people in this world that I count as a friend, and yet I don't even know your name." Brisha chose that moment to head-butt him in the back of the knees, and Ramon reached down and flicked her on the nose. A gentle warning to back off. "I asked you once, a long time ago. Remember what you told me?"

"Yeah, and it is the same thing I'll tell you now, if you ask me again. Names confine. They force you into a box and tell you how you ought to be." The Green Man snatched up the bottle and took a swig, the lamplight sending muted bands of shifting color running along his mask. He grimaced and swallowed hard, and the bottle sloshed gently in his loosened grip as he offered it to the old man. "Besides, the one who gave me my name has been dead for a long time. It just… doesn't mean the same without him around."

"And you don't have anyone else? There's no one in this city who knows you by that name?"

"Oh, yes," he said softly. "There is."

Ramon's curiosity was prodding at him like a petulant child with a sharp stick, but he didn't dare press the matter further. There had been enough sub-harmonics in those last two words to bore a hole through a slab of granite.

Taking a quick nip of the potent alcohol, he mutely passed back the bottle. The Green Man took it and drank deep, before gasping at the sting and wiping a hand across his mouth. "Why the sudden interest?"

"I've always wondered," he admitted. "And I figured I should know, before I asked you to come live with me."

The Green Man stopped with the bottle halfway to his mouth, and there was a pause as the world seemed to raise a collective eyebrow. After a moment, he shook his head and set the drink down on the railing.

"Ramon," he said slowly, "I'm flattered, but I'm not that kind of mutant."

The man laughed; a truncated, embarrassed sound that was quickly swallowed up by the fog. "Lord Almighty, that sounded a lot better in my head than it did out loud." He ran nervous fingers through his hair and tried to regain some ground. "Look. Let's try this again. The place I live in now is too small for both me and Brisha, especially now that she's grown. It's not in the best neighborhood, either."

Reaching into his jeans pocket, he handed over a Polaroid of a utilitarian apartment complex, with a window on the top floor outlined in red marker. "I signed a new rental agreement yesterday, for an apartment on Willoughby Avenue. The price isn't too bad, and it beats having to block my front door with a bookshelf every night. It has an actual living room and a decent-sized kitchen, so I won't have to step over Bri every time I want to make a sandwich. Two extra bedrooms, too. One I'm going to turn into a study… and the other is yours, if you want it."

The Green Man stared at the picture for a long moment before turning it over in his hands, as if hoping to find an answer scrawled onto the back. "It would never work," he finally said. "It's not as if I can walk in through the front door every night."

"I've already thought of that. There's a fire escape that leads into a back alley, and since the apartment's on the top floor, there's a door at the end of the hallway that goes straight to the roof. It's one of the reasons why I got the place. If we keep the shutters down and don't make a racket, no one will ever know the difference."

A horn blared suddenly from the roadway several stories below, and the pervasive mist transformed the sound into a long, mournful bass note, like the dying cry of an immense animal. Ramon's nameless companion twitched at the sound, and his tri-fingered hands jerked toward his belt, an automatic gesture that sent the picture fluttering to the ground. Leather squeaked as he clenched his hands, checking himself before he could reach into the folds of his trench coat and draw a hidden weapon. Shaking his head in contempt of his own edginess, he reached out and snatched the bottle off the railing. He glared at it as if it were the sole source of all his problems, before taking an angry swig and then setting it back down with enough force to make the whiskey slosh.

"Why are you asking me this? Is it because you think you owe me something?"

A dot of acid ink copied those words down on the ledger of Ramon's soul. "This is not a payoff," he said tightly. "If it was, I'd just slip you a roll of twenties and be done with it."

He grabbed the bottle and downed the equivalent of two shots in less than three seconds. The alcohol hit his stomach like a sack of cement, sending a tingling warmth throughout his body. It stoked the fires of memory and loosened his tongue, allowing him to speak more openly than he had in nearly a year.

"I remember being young, full of vim and vigor, and stupidly certain that I would live forever. Ageing and death were things that might happen to other people, but not to me. Of course not." Ramon paused, passed the bottle to the Green Man, and then bent down somewhat unsteadily. He scooped up the picture and ran his thumb across its glossy surface, his face twisting into an expression that was difficult to pinpoint. "But time passed, life moved on, and suddenly I'm getting social security checks and buying Bengay for my arthritic knees. Suddenly kids are calling me 'gramps,' and everything is too bright, too loud, too fast. I can't keep up any more. Old age crept up on me while I wasn't looking.

"It's a hard thing to admit, but there are fewer days ahead for me than there are behind. A lot fewer. My Anna is gone, and I can count the number of friends I have left on my bad hand. Brisha may be good company, but she's not much of a conversationalist." The emotional fire had died down to banked embers, and Ramon sighed and dared to look up. "It took me my whole life to figure out this one simple thing, Mr. Green Man. There's nothing worse than being alone. I think you know that better than most."

In the short time they had been talking, the dense weave of the Green Man's trench coat had collected tiny beads of moisture, which glistened when he crossed his arms over his chest and hunched his shoulders. "I appreciate the offer. More than you know," he murmured. "But I can't. You don't know anything about me, about my life. It wouldn't be safe for you. I have enemies, and I'm not… I'm not…"

Ramon tried to smile, but the effect was somewhat ruined by the worried furrow that cut into his brow. He hadn't expected for his offer to be met with open arms, but neither had he anticipated this. The Green Man looked miserable, and he was beginning to feel like a bastard for causing his friend such distress. "Not what?"

"Normal."

Relaxing somewhat, Ramon shrugged dismissively. "Yeah? You may be the color of a Spanish olive, but what does that have to do-"

"No!" the other snapped, whipping his head around and fixing him with hard, inhuman eyes. "It's not about the color of my skin or how many fingers I have. It's about here," he wrapped his knuckles against one temple, "and it's about family. It's about how I'm alone, but not alone. It's-"

The Green Man made an unconscious grabbing gesture with one gloved hand, as if to pull the appropriate words from the moisture rich air. After a moment, he seemed to give up, and shoved his fists into his coat pockets with a snarl. "I can't explain it. I gotta go."

"Wait!" Ramon called as the Green Man leapt up onto the railing, his bandanna tails leaping and swaying with the movement. Limping as quickly as he could, Ramon reached up, grabbed the other's wrist and pressed the picture into his unresisting hand. "Take this."

When it became apparent that he was about to protest again, Ramon gave his wrist an impatient squeeze. "Look, I'm not trying to force you into anything. You mentioned family, so, hey, maybe you already got a good thing going for yourself. But if you ever need a place to stay, then this is a standing offer." He relinquished his hold on the Green Man and attempted a smile. "Check the place out when you have the chance, just to see what you think. I'll keep the roof door unlocked for you, in case you want to drop in for a minute. Brisha would love to see you."

His attempt at good cheer garnered no reaction, for the Green Man was focused on the picture balanced precariously on his open palm. Slowly, his head tilted upward, and he stared at Ramon with eyes that were muddied and dark with an emotion he could not begin to understand.

And then his fingers snapped shut, gripping the picture tightly as he turned on his heel with enough speed to send his trench coat snapping about his ankles. He leapt over the side without a word of goodbye, and only a brief writhing of disturbed mist served as proof that he'd ever been there at all.

Brisha bounded over to the railing, where she reared up and braced her front paws against the concrete divide. Her bark of indignation went unanswered, and the sound was almost immediately swallowed up by the fog.

Ramon stroked the top of her head, soothing away the whine that had been building up in her throat. He reached out automatically for the whiskey with his other hand, seeking to burn away the confused tangle of worry and guilt that was knotting in his gut. His hand encountered nothing, and he let out a regretful sigh. The Green Man had taken the bottle with him.

"That didn't go the way I'd hoped, Bri. I think I made everything worse."

Brisha licked his wrist, which was the closest he was ever going to get to a reply. Ramon spent a long moment staring upwards, hoping to make out the top of the Brooklyn Tower, where his friend always seemed to go after their talks. The moisture in the air fogged out his vision after only a few feet, however, and after a while, he gave up. With his back deliberately to the Tower, he settled his backpack on his shoulders and drew his jacket tighter around his neck. The night mist no longer held any magic for him, and the sea smell that still perfumed the air appeared to have turned sour. His joints were feeling every one of their years, and Ramon suddenly wanted nothing more in life than a hot shower and sleep.

Visions of his comfortable, eternally empty home flashed across his mind, and he adjusted his shoulder straps decisively and began to march with an uneven tread down the walkway. Brisha lingered a moment longer, but quickly pushed off the railing and began trailing behind when Ramon slapped his hand against his thigh. If Ramon was honest with himself, he would have admitted it was more than tiredness that made him anxious to escape the shadow of the Goliath Arch. He had lingered there one night after a conversation with the Green Man, overcome with curiosity about what his friend did up there, night after night.

But then he had heard the faint sounds that trickled down from far overhead, and he had vowed to never linger again.

"Come on, Brisha," he said softly. "Let's get out of here before the Others come. I can't stand to listen to him scream."


End file.
