A/N: Yes, I AM starting a new fic. Thanks for noticing. ;) I know I promised to finish Static before anything, but this fic gets my first BETA! AlexHamato is my beta, for the most part. I'm hoping after this chapter, she'll enjoy betaing me more. I always have so much trouble in beginnings. After talking to Mrs-Raphael-Hamato and one of the brains behind Stoic, I believe I am ready to at least move on. Finally. After weeks fixing this thing up. I'm gonna crawl in a corner and die now from exhaustion. In the mean time, enjoy!

Disclaimer: All familiar characters (Enemies and turtles alike) belong to Peter Laird and Kevin Eastman. I have unofficially borrowed them for this little adventure. Prepare for the ride ;)

Federal agent John Bishop was a patient man. Patient, that is, if things were done in the timely fashion he called for. Behind his dark glasses, he was seething. He wondered if Stockman did this to him on purpose. He strode down long halls with industrial fluorescent lighting casting the walls in bright white. He worked for perfection. Not a single bulb was left dead for long. He passed door after door in a pace spurred on by his rage. Not a single employee – whether man or woman; suited in black or donned in white lab coats that fell around the knees – dared to be in his path for long. Bishop preferred it that way as long as the jobs they had were done on time.

A double door slid open to admit him and he was slammed with the stark difference in lighting. He barely gave time for his eyes to adjust as he went on towards the source of the flickering lights that kept the large room from being completely black. His hip brushed against a table he could not clearly see and he turned to the nearest lab assistant to be his victim. "Are you new? You must be. Otherwise you're incompetence would be worth more than your paycheck."

"I'm sorry, sir!" The man, sounding younger than his appearance first suggested, fumbled in his speech.

"Why are the lights off in this room?"

"Well, sir, they-"

"Change it." Bishop's voice snapped and the young man hurried to do as told. Bishop dismissed the boy for the bigger problem. He found Stockman with his back to the room at a workstation all his own. He didn't waste time for greetings. "You're behind schedule." The calm voice did not betray him. He preferred to keep his emptions hidden and eyes are the window to the soul; hence the glasses. Weaknesses like emotions were for lesser men.

"These things take time!" Stockman said in what Bishop took as scorn as images flashed on the many screens before him. "To collaborate such a machine of this magnitude cannot be done overnight." He never turned to Bishop. His computers were more important than the man supporting his wild ideas.

"It has been a year. I need this in motion tonight." Bishop turned swiftly so his long black coat caught the wind. He had more important business elsewhere in the tunnels of his hidden base and this decrepitated tube of wires and mechanics brought him no pleasure in company.

Stockman muttered darkly under his breath. "You can't rush my brilliance. I am the best of the best. I could be working solo if I wanted to. He needs to appreciate me more. I'll show him. I'll show them all! They will see how far my genius can go!" The light from the monitors caught his smirk.

The air was cluttered with the clash of metal, the soft pounding of flesh, grunts, and snap of bone. The sound of pressurized steam was a constant reminder where they were. As wood slammed against flesh and bone, Donatello thought of every possible reason why fighting in a nuclear power plant was far from the greatest ideas.

He used his bo staff as a pole, notching it in a gap of the grates, and swung around, using feet to knock the surrounding men away. As he landed, the staff was jerked, sending the grate flying at another group. Following that up with a low spin, he was left standing in the middle of a pile of fifty men. Gunshots sounded around him, alternately deafened with the siren's blaring screech.

Somewhere in the alternating glare of artificial red light, he could hear Raphael's roar. He glanced over in time to see the grated walkway torn from its brackets before Raph sent it hurling towards a dozen of Bishop's goons. Don watched them fall over the cylinder of steaming nuclear waste and knew they were doomed. The resulting splash and sizzle of melting flesh was nearly drowned out by the ear-piercing siren warning of ill-fortune. Don couldn't have thought it more appropriate as he turned eyes away from the grizzly and fascinating sight.

There were too many dangers here. He knew them all. Steam burned hot enough to melt the skin. Narrow walkways offered little protection over boiling tubs of acid. The air itself holds invisible toxins that could – even now – be filling their lungs; filtering through their bodies to begin to slowly decompose. The toxins could become cancerous. A slow death none of their medical knowledge could fix, but Don supposed that would be their fate. Isn't it ironic?

His eyes caught Leonardo next, where a fierce fight against Bishop himself kept his brother busy. Blades split through the air against a man who needed no weapon. Donatello let his mind briefly stray over the unbelievable durability of their suited enemy. The cataclysmic battle soon gathered his attention once again as suited goons seemed to multiply out of the nuclear waste.

Michelangelo's voice pealed over the crowd with unmatched enthusiasm. Donatello caught him swinging from the pipes above like a green monkey. The men he fought found themselves bound in bright yellow hazard suits before they were dropped in much the same way as a monkey would throw its own waste. As bullets ricocheted against piping, scenarios of bursting pipes filled Don's mind. "Get down from there! Do you want your face blown off from one of those pipes bursting?"

"Chill, Don! I'm off, see?" Mike showed dancing palms of innocence as his feet landed on solid ground once again. All sound was caught and devoured by the sirens once again and the brothers shared a quick battle of wild gestures and looks – one commanding and the other careless – before they returned to the battle around them.

Pain erupted behind his head before he knew what happened. His vision swam in shadows and dots of white. Metal scraped against his hands as he blindly caught his fall on what he could only assume was the underlying pipes of the nuclear reactor. It took him more than a second to register what happened. Then he saw Bishop standing where he used to be only moments before. He felt the pipe move beneath his hands and knew. It wasn't going to hold long enough. He attempted to go through what little options he had but none came soon enough. His fears came true. The pipe burst with incredible force and he only had time to register Leonardo's yell, silenced by the blare of the siren, before liquid fire exploded on his skin. He was thankful when the pain subsided with unconsciousness.

A/N: Please review so I know I'm going about this the right way. I'm still worried about this baby. ;) Fight scenes scare me.