Nobody knew if they were Japanese. Their ninja masks covered up their faces, and their ninja suits covered up the rest of their bodies as they ran across the tops of the empty houses. In the darkness, a supernaturally keen eye may have noticed that one of these figures was blueish, and the other was dressed in dark gray. 

The bluish ninja was, for the moment, the faster one, but only by a few meters ahead. The dark gray ninja, focused in his pursuit of the bluish one, showed no signs of slowing down. Though he was covered from head to toe in a stealthy ninja uniform, the dark ninja’s breathing was still even as kept himself in a state of composed rage.

“I won’t forgive that lowlife,” the dark gray ninja thought.

Meanwhile, the bluish ninja, though still maintaining a decent lead, was beginning to feel the soreness build up in his legs.

“Oh man,” thought the bluish ninja, panting heavily under his mask as briskly parkoured across the various rooftops, “What did I do to deserve THIS?”

Right as he said this, a corner of the bluish ninja’s mind began to shudder to life. He began to replay the memories of what he had done. 

****

The year was 2014, and Jonathan Liebesman’s film Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles had just hit theaters. Though it did not do well with critics, it was a box office success.

As a result of this, America developed a pernicious cultural condition called “ninja fever.”

Ninja outfits began to be sold in sporting goods stores. Ninjistsu dojos popped up in strip malls. Shuriken and kunai began adorning the walls of gun stores and sword shops. Hardcore fans distinguished themselves from the normies (meaning casual fan here, not all those other ways it gets used) by forsaking non-ninja society. Instead of going to school or getting jobs, they set up ninja gang bases in abandoned bathrooms and open sewers. 

In one particular open sewer, located near the suburban neighborhood of Burkin Street, USA, two brothers were seeking to pledge allegiance to a local hardcore ninja gang called “The Burkin Street Night Tigers.” 

The sewer was smelly, and slightly damp. It was dark, being barely lit by the flashlights of a gang calling themselves The Burking Street Night Tigers. The Tigers were all dressed in dark grey ninja suits. The two aforementioned brothers were named Tommy and Robbie Yang. The Yang brothers were also covered from head to toe in ninja outfits they had gotten from a Halloween store.

Robbie was taller by about an inch. Other than that, the two brothers were practically identical, except for their very different haircuts and facial structures. But since they were wearing ninja masks that covered their whole faces, it’s pointless to describe those differentiating features.

Tommy and Robbie were quiet as they approached the Night Tigers, who were all standing in a circle of complete silence, as is the way of the ninja. 

However, though the brothers’ footsteps were as quiet as possible due to the hours of homebrewed ninja training they had undergone at home, one of the Night Tigers looked up as the brothers came near.

“Hey,” said this particular Night Tiger, “Who the heck are you two?”

Though it was hard to tell in the dim gleam of the flashlights taped to the sewer walls, the member of the Burkin Street Night Tigers that spoke up was wearing a black sash. On it, written in red hiragana, were the words “BIG BOSS.” 

The brothers, having keen eyes, noticed this. They stopped and bowed before his sash-wearing majesty.  

“We’ve come to join your clan,” said Tommy.

“Is that so?” said the sash-wearing ninja, “Then why didn’t you go through the proper channels listed on our website? You think it’s ninja-like to just butt in and talk to me, the chief, while he’s hosting a circle of silence?”

The sash-wearing ninja, now known as the chief from here on out, stepped forward. The other ninjas stayed still in their circle.

“Well?” said the chief. 

Tommy went silent. Though he knew that the way of the ninja was not sentimental, it seemed he was stunned by the chief’s sudden rudeness.

That’s when Robbie, the slightly taller of the two brothers, spoke up. 

“Hey,” said Robbie, “With all due respect, the Burkin Street Night Tigers doesn’t even HAVE a website.” 

Tommy’s eyes widened underneath his mask. How could his brother be so rude? This was the only ninja clan with meeting spots within walking distance, so it would make sense to make a good first impression. 

“Robbie,” whispered Tommy, “Quiet–”

“Why would he be quiet?” said the chief, “He’s right. There is no website.”

“Huh?” said Tommy.

“Rule number one of being a ninja,” said the chief, “Misdirection. Now tell me, what are your names?”

“Tommy,” said Tommy.

“Robbie,” said Robbie.

“From now on,” said the chief, “You have no names.”

“Okay,” said Tommy and Robbie. 

“Well, like, one of you no longer has a name,” said the chief, “Because we only let in one guy at a time.”

“Excuse me?” said Robbie.

“That’s the initiation ritual,” said the chief, “Two people come down here, and only one person gets to join. And that person is whoever wins in a round of combat against the other.” 

Tommy looked at Robbie without trying to look like he was looking at Robbie. Robbie, on the other hand, simply looked annoyed.

“Hey,” said Robbie, “How do you make sure only two people come down here? What happens if only one person gets down here? Or, like, five?”

“The ninja gods of fate work in strangely consistent ways,” said the chief, “Now stand over there.”

The chief pointed over to a pool of stagnant sewer water.

“You want us to stand in sewer water?” said Robbie.

“No,” said the chief, “Just right next to it.”

Robbie and Tommy walked over towards the pool.

“This initiation ritual is called a sewer pool slap fight,” said the chief, “First to fall in, loses.”

As soon as the brothers were close to the pool, the chief cleared his throat.

“Now,” said the chief, “FIGHT.”

The brothers turned and faced each other. They began to carefully step around each other, teetering at the edge of the sewer water. The occasional punch or kick was shot out, only to be blocked by the other. 

When it came to sparring, it seemed Robbie and Tommy were all too familiar with each other. 

Tommy knew that Robbie wanted to be like Raphael from the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles franchise. Even before 2014, Robbie had looked up to the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle Raphael, specifically Raphael’s incarnation in the 2007 animated movie TMNT, in which Raphael was controversially portrayed as a self-sufficient biker vigilante.

Robbie knew that Tommy had taken up self-defense lessons at the local strip mall all the way back in 2013. In 2014, the self-defense school got replaced with a cheap ninjutsu training dojo, clearly thrown together in an attempt at cashing in on “ninja fever.” Despite this, Tommy managed to excel, and even quit the dojo once he had outmastered his admittedly out-of-shape sensei.   

Once again, punches, kicks, shoves, and even a grab or two was attempted, only to be perfectly countered. The chief looked on with silent anticipation. 

“Seems we’re evenly matched,” muttered Robbie under his breath. 

“Yeah,” said Tommy, “I guess we are. By the way, do you see that thing on the wall over there?”

“What thing?” Robbie said, looking over.

As soon as Robbie’s eyes turned to the wall, Tommy scooped up a wet turd from the sewer pool and slapped Robbie across the face with it.

“TAG,” Tommy said, “YOU’RE IT.”

The force of the slap sent Robbie tumbling into the sewer water. Tommy turned to the chief. 

“Hey Estevez,” said Tommy, “Did you get that on camera?”

“Yeah boy, ” said the chief, “Had it hidden in my sash this whole time.”

“Is it still rolling?” said Tommy.

Robbie’s head splashed out of the sewer water. His skin was all itchy, and his mouth felt like it was coated in waste.

“WHAT DID YOU DO TO ME TOMMY?” said Robbie.

Tommy pulled off his cheap black halloween store ninja mask, revealing a blue ninja mask underneath.

“You just got ninja tagged by the Blue Street Shinobi,” said Tommy, “Try to get me back if you CAN.”

The other ninjas pulled off their masks as well, revealing blue masks underneath. Tommy tried to get up, but the weight of the waste water made him sluggish as the Blue Street Shinobi ran off. 

Once those nefarious blue ninjas got out into the daylight, they quickly dashed off into the woods behind the Burkin Street suburban homes. 

“Dude,” said Estevez, “I can’t believe that worked.”

“I know,” said Tommy, “I mean, ‘Burkin Street Night Tigers?’ How stupid did Robbie have to be to think that was an actual ninja gang.”

Tommy let out a hyena-like laugh. Estevez chuckled a bit, then frowned.  

“Still,” said Estevez, “That was nasty thing to do to your own brother.”

“Eh,” said Tommy, “He’s a tough guy. And because he’s such a tough guy, I’ll need to sleep over at your place tonight. Robbie’s gonna need some time to cool off.” 

“No way man,” said Estevez, “He knows where I live. You’ll have to find your own place.”

“Fine,” said Tommy.

He turned back and looked at the other blue ninja boys.

“Can I stay at any of your places?” Tommy asked.

They stared at Tommy for a moment, and then shook their heads. 

Tommy sighed.

“Fine,” said Tommy, “Instead of sleeping, I guess I’ll just film some sick parkour videos for our YouTube channel tonight on the roof of those empty houses on Parkwood Boulevard. Estevez, can I borrow your portable charger?”

“Sure man,” said Estevez, “But you owe me. Why the heck did you say my name out loud like that?”

“Relax,” said Tommy, “Robbie’s a dork. If you see him near your house, just call the cops.” 

****

That night, Tommy, now dressed in just his blue ninja suit, parkoured to the top of the roof of a big building for sale on Parkwood Boulevard. Aside from a bit of bird dirt, it was nice and clean. 

Once his footing got even on the rooftop, Tommy stretched his arms. He thought about whether or not he should warm up first before filming some sick stunt videos, or if he should just set up the camera right now and start filming.

Just as he was about to make a decision, his phone rang. Tommy fished it out of his blue tights, and looked at the screen.

“Estevez?” said Tommy.

Estevez’s voice sounded like his nose had been broken.

“Tommy,” said Estevez, “You gotta run. He knows you’re there, and he’s got weapons.”

“What?” said Tommy, “Did you tell Robbie I was here?”

“He broke into my house, man,” said Estevez, “I called the cops, but he’s fast. You really pissed him off. He got a whole pack of shurikens from that knife guy in the mall and he says he’s gonna use ‘em all on ya.”

Suddenly, something sharp knocked the phone out of Tommy’s hands. Tommy looked over, and saw a star-shaped shuriken sticking out of his phone on the floor.

He then looked down.

Standing right in front of the house was a figure in a dark gray ninja suit. 

“Robbie?” said Tommy, “Is that you?”

“The doctor says I’ve got poisoning from all that sewer water,” said Robbie, “So I’ll have to make this quick.” 

Robbie then quickly climbed his way up to the roof. Tommy, buoyed by fear, immediately ran off, and leapt to the top of another nearby house.

Robbie looked on as his brother jumped away.

“Two can play at that game,” Robbie said.

Soon, Robbie was chasing Tommy across the rooftops of the neighborhood. At this point, they had become the ninjas that were described at the beginning of the story: Tommy, in blue, was beginning to feel his legs cramp up, while Robbie, in dark gray, remained propelled by vengeful anger. 

Right as Tommy began to think in the corner of his mind about the moments leading up to this, Robbie noticed that Tommy’s gait was beginning to slow. Robbie then thought of two options he had at this point: he could wait for Tommy to tire further, or he could reach for the throwing stars in his pocket. 

Immediately, Robbie deftly picked a shuriken out of his ninja suit pocket. While Tommy continued to run forward, Robbie tossed the shuriken at Tommy’s back, hitting him right in the upper part of Tommy’s spine. 

As soon as the shuriken landed, Tommy fell face first onto the rooftop. 

Robbie hopped after him. He reached his brother’s body in a matter of seconds. 

“TAG!” said Robbie triumphantly, “You’re it!”

Robbie then looked down at his brother, who remained still on the floor. Blood was dripping from where the throwing star landed.

“Hey,” said Robbie, “Tommy. Say something.”

Tommy said nothing. 

He couldn’t say anything.

“Tommy?” said Robbie.

Suddenly, police lights and sirens made themselves known.

“Robbie Yang,” said a nearby officer, “We’ve got you surrounded.”

 ****

As soon as the news of Tommy Yang’s death came out, “Ninja Fever” came to an end in America. The thought of a young man getting bloody revenge on his brother scared both the authorities and the common civilians, who both moved quickly to remove any ninja-related memorabilia from stores or costume shops they could find. 

Within a year, it was as if no one in America even knew what a ninja was. 

After the great banning of ninja culture had passed, Jonathan Liebesman sat in a dark room, watching security footage of the last halloween ninja costume in America being incinerated. As he stared at the screen, Liebesman was wearing an authentic ninja-yoroi, complete with a hooded cowl that obscured his face.

“Keikaku doori,” he said.