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Look, okay, so. Originally. Originally, the plan had been this:
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Jack Magnus ’d pulled them all together in the bar the night before (Jasmine Blair , Marshall Slade , ozias ambrose , et cetera) drunk off their asses, talking some silver streak about some big well-to-do yacht party happening the next day, which was a Saturday, right. All these rich bigwigs were gonna get together and knock knees and swig champagne and-- and it was less of marking them and more of promising that’d be all of them, some day.
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It had been a learning experience. Supposed to be bonding.
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But Raph’s fingertips were bleeding from rasping against the rough of his empty pockets and he had some debt, okay. And he’d die before he asked Marsh or Oz or Jack for money, he would literally just up and keel over before the words could leave his lips.
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He didn’t need much, he figured. Maybe one or two gold-rimmed champagne flutes, a string of pearls, a diamond earring. Nothing worth murdering over. Not even worth breaking a few noses.
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What he did not expect, however, was to arrive at the 162-meter-yacht, step off his Wailmer, and walk right into a hold up that was already in progress, by someone who was decidedly not his own self.
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This was hammered home by the peppering of gunshots as he grabbed the nearest figure and dragged them behind cover.
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“Arceus on a cracker,” he hissed, the adrenaline ramping up through his veins, “this is why rich people shouldn’t fuckin’ congregate.” He adjusted his own facemask-- just a half a black bandana, really, covering his mouth-- and cut his gray gaze towards the sap he’d brought with him. “You okay?”

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