BY : Ghost-of-a-Chance
Category: +S through Z > Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles
Dragon prints: 220
Disclaimer: I don't own TMNT or anything related; no money is made from this.

Elsewhere, this has been posted as part of the "Gallery of Memories" as a one-shot in the storyline of "A New Lease on Life." It's a standalone story, however, and can be read on its own without too much confusion, and as of the current portion of Part III, this story is no longer accurately timed if you go by the story's main timeline. No biggie, the point remains the same.

Donnie and Amber have long since quit playing the "I love ya but I can't tell ya" game and are an established couple. No trigger warnings here, but there IS a warning for a few mildly explicit scenes of adult content, some spoilers for "Out of the Shadows," and some MAJOR spoilers for "A New Lease on Life." (AFF readers - ANLoL is no longer being updated on this site for lack of interest, so I'll probably just be sharing the smutty portions here. If you have any questions or confusions regarding the storyline, just hit up "A New Lease on Life" on AO3 or FFnet and you'll get the whole story instead of just a snippet.)

 Suggested Listening: Making April, "These Are the Nights," Lifehouse, "Between the Raindrops"



October 25th , 2016, 10:45 pm, the Lair

Donatello is plotting something. That much, Amber is certain of; what exactly his plans are, however, she has no idea. Staring up at the unfinished concrete ceiling, she thinks back to the first time she realized something was off.

Her favorite season is well underway, and as she is quickly learning, Fall in New York is nothing like Fall in Missouri. It's much colder, especially at night and in the early hours, and below ground is even worse. The Lair has a great heating system courtesy of their resident genius, but no furnace works miracles. Amber's grateful to have her own personal bed-warmer now—a large, sleep-cuddling boyfriend who radiates heat like nobody's business and loves spending nights curled as tightly around her back and over-sized rump as possible. As for tonight…

…well, an empty bed's a cold bed. Donatello left to visit April around six that evening, but come ten, he's still not home; had he been any other man, Amber would question his fidelity. As it is, she knows he'd never even consider such a betrayal and she has the utmost faith in him. Now she waits up, the bedside lamp burning away beside her and a previously engaging book abandoned on the stand. She never thought she'd see the day when even The Phantom of the Opera couldn't hold her interest. PTSD, she has found, has far more effects than the ones she'd expected—her ever-shrinking attention span is only one casualty out of dozens.*

Finally, the bedroom door creaks open, bright light from the hallway stabbing Amber's open eyes. "Hey," her purple-clad lover grins as he shrugs off his heavy trench coat by the door. Despite the long night waiting—and freezing—Amber's eyes crinkle in an affectionate smile. She's missed him too much for anything less.

"Hey, yerself," she fires back as usual. Several articles of warm outer clothing later, he yanks on some sweats, a huge thermal shirt, and a pair of socks thick enough to double as oven mitts. Without even having to look, he knows she's watching him and, as always, likes what she sees; the pheromones thick in the air are proof enough. At one time, he was too self-conscious to change in front of another. Of course, she's seen it all, now—several times daily, in fact—and ever since they stopped dancing around one another like idiots, she's never hidden her attraction to him.

Several months have passed since that ever-present 'and' between their names became permanent. Donnie and Amber—Dee and Braids—the names have become as close as the couple themselves, and trauma recovery aside, life couldn't be happier. Despite it, some days Donnie worries he'll wake up and find it's all been a dream—that he and Amber are still fighting like idiots, or that she chose one of his brothers over him, or—worst of all—that there never was an Amber O'Brien, and he'd simply hallucinated her into existence!

Donnie stops himself right there. Amber's waited up for him and has kept his side of the bed warm; self-doubt and trouble-borrowing have no place in the bed they share. He ambles over and crawls in beside her, pausing only to nuzzle her cheek. A split second later she jolts away with a startled shriek, winding the blanket around her as tightly as possible. "Fark you're cold—stay over there!" A playful grin splits his face as he yanks the blanket away and wraps his cold arms tightly around the squawking brunette.

For a time, they wrestle in the sheets, one fighting to stay warm and the other pursuing to steal that warmth. Finally, she submits, trembling, but not only from his clammy skin. As he tucks his head under her chin and trails open-mouthed kisses in the wake of her drifting neckline, his sharp hearing catches a faint hitch in her breath. Amber knows without even seeing that he's wearing a smug grin; she'd never admit it, but the fire he's lit under her skin would never let her feel cold.

"Sorry I'm late," he admits into the crook of her neck. "Things took longer than expected and I had to take a detour home—there was a big pileup on 15th." Amber sucks in a breath at the faint brush of still-cold lips along her twice-pierced ear. "At least," he adds pausing to nip the metal-studded lobe, "I don't have to go back anytime soon. Everything's ready." One brush of his lips across hers turns into another, quickly followed by more kisses and a nuzzle to her chin.

For a while, Amber is incapable of speech—anything beyond a sigh, murmur, or whimper—and her question remains unasked. A brief pause in his attentions heralds clarity's return; when he meets her eyes again, his glasses set beside hers on the stand and his mask draped over the bedpost, she takes advantage. "When're you gonna fill me in?" she asks him. "You and April have been meeting every day for the last two weeks…Mercy knows somethin', but she says she's 'sworn to secrecy.' What's going on?" For a moment, Amber sees nervousness in his hazel eyes, but it's quickly crowded out by confidence and affection. The dim light reflecting off his unshielded eyes causes the hazel to veer more toward brown; as always, the change takes Amber's breath away and provokes a long, breathless staring contest on her end.

"If I told you," he finally answers, tapping the end of her nose and grinning when it makes her moss green eyes cross. "it wouldn't be a surprise, would it?" Predictably, her cheeks darken with a surge of blood; she shakes her head weakly, her insides a-flutter. This turtle was going to kill her one day…. "You'll find out soon enough…I promise."

Waiting was never so difficult when she and Donnie were just awkwardly close friends.

Friday October 28th , 2016, Noon, Outside Northampton

After several hours on the road, Amber turns the Party Wagon onto a dirt road leading off into the trees. Donnie still hasn't told her why they left the Lair for the weekend, nor has he told her why the others haven't come with them. In fact, other than playing navigator and disc jockey, he's done little more than stare out the tinted windows in visible anticipation. He's kept her completely in the dark other than sending her in to pick up a packet from a small business they passed by, and in the office she endured sly winks at her twin braided pigtails and bewildering congratulations from the receptionist and her boss. Perhaps, she wonders as the trees grow ever thicker on either side of the road, they mistook her for someone else?

Finally, they've reached their destination…and Amber is no less bewildered than when they left home. Donnie digs through the packet of papers, compares the remote cabin before them to a photo and address in a brochure, and breaks into a wide grin. "We're here!" he announces and clambers out of the passenger seat. By the time she's through searching for prying eyes and catches up to him, he's let himself through the front door. "C'mon!" he calls from beyond the gaping doorway.

The moment she crosses the threshold into the cabin's front room, she freezes. Happy Birthday, Braids! reads a paper sign hung from an exposed rafter; below that, someone had hand-written and crossed out "36," followed by "26." Donatello, Amber realizes with no small amount of warm-an'-fuzzies, ordered the edit so both her real age and Kimber's age would be on the same sign. What amounts to a small detail is much's a reminder that he accepts her, not just the shell Amber now lives in, but the person she once was, lumps, bumps, crows' feet and all. In between the excitement crowding her mind, one thing rings clearly: Mercy squealed. The sneaky blonde will be getting the Aaron treatment when they get home, complete with zip-ties, sock-gag, and photographic blackmail.

"You—" Her voice cracks on the word, and she pauses to rally her determination, wide green eyes fixed on Donnie grinning underneath the sign. "You rented…for…?" She can't finish the thought around the joyful squeal trying to force its way out. Instead, she darts toward him and takes a flying leap into his waiting arms. Between breathless kisses and murmured words, they mutually decide that unloading the van can wait a while. After all, in the loft, there's a king sized bed with their names on it.

The Cabin, 6:15 pm

Twilight has draped the world in shades of silver and grey; soon it will bring a darkness only seen far beyond the lights of the city. Dinner—a pan of chicken alfredo casserole Mikey snuck past Amber and Donnie—is in the oven, and Amber has discovered the cabin's rather impressive Bluetooth-compatible sound system. Since Donnie hooked up his tablet for her—dishing out some gentle teasing about her technological ineptitude—she's taken advantage of the free wifi and put her disturbingly large and varied Musify library on shuffle. The sound system bounces from Quiet Riley to Hank Sumatra to The Rats' Mass,** every note drifting up to the loft where Donnie is going over a last-minute checklist. His plans, after all, have only just begun. Now if he can just find his nerve!

When he finally makes his way down the stairs and into the kitchen, Amber isn't at all focused on the oven. Instead, she's bopping her head and dancing like a fool to the beat of an Alice Creeper song blasting on the stereo. Donnie doesn't recognize it and Amber is belting out completely different—and incredibly off-key—lyrics.

"She licked'er lips, they were bloody red," she wails into an alfredo-smeared ladle, oblivious to her company. "She had the heart'a the livin' dead! She pushed me down on'er burnin' bed—Thought I's in heaven!—but instead, she turned'er head an' she softly said," Without warning, she shrieks, "I'll bite'cha face off!" In the doorway, Donnie struggles to stifle the laughter bubbling up his throat. "I'll bite'cha face off! I'll bite'cha face off, li'l man—I'll bite'chaAH!" she shrieks suddenly, tomato red and staring at him in horror. He's too busy laughing convulsively to wonder that she noticed his presence, and he slides down the doorframe to land in a twitching pile on the hardwood floor.

By the time her blush has faded and he's able to inhale without snorting, the song is long over and another's come on. He's familiar with this one—quite familiar—and breaks into a grin. It's just what the doctor ordered. Without further hesitation, he pulls Amber into his arms and gently positions her feet with his own. She always gets embarrassed when he catches her dancing and argues that she "couldn't dance if her life depended on it;" well, it took a while, but by the time this weekend is over, she won't have that excuse anymore.

"Dee, what're ya doin'?" Amber asks curiously as he plants her hands on his shoulders and his own at her waist.

Look around…
There's no one but you and me
Right here and now,
The way it was meant to be.

It takes a minute to convince her to step onto his feet, and when she finally agrees, she's struck once more by how drastic their height difference really is. Of course, since reviving in Kimber's recently vacated corpse, she's 5'6"—a whopping three inches taller than she ever was in her previous life!—but Donatello and his brothers have given tall a whole new meaning. Compared to a 6'10" turtle with a perpetual slouch, she feels like a Chihuahua surrounded by Great Danes.

There's a smile on my face
Knowing that together everything that's in our way—
We're better than alright.

All at once, Amber realizes Donnie's feet—even with hers on top of them—are moving in a steady rhythm. Forward left, right, back right, left, turn one-quarter…As the pattern becomes apparent, so too does his carefully timed breathing—two quick inhales and one slow exhale to count out the steps. Her heart melts; so THAT'S why he was spending hours at April's lately!

"You're dancing Salsa to Lifehouse?" she remarks instead. Sure enough, he blushes, gives her one of those wide, goofy smiles that always send her heart fluttering, and shrugs. Anyone who can resist those grins, she's decided, has no joy in their hearts; she pities them for their loss.

Walking between the raindrops,
Riding the aftershock beside you.
Off into the sunset
Living like there's nothing left to lose.

After some practice and encouragements, she steps off of his feet and tries her hand at it, allowing him to properly position her arms this time. She's always had two left feet, no sense of grace, and a remarkable ability to trip over things that don't even exist, but the way he grins at her, she feels incredible. Perhaps, she considers as he throws in a spontaneous spin and dip, perhaps she's not quite so hopeless as she's believed. Of course, the moment this occurs to her, she steps on his foot, hard. To his credit, he doesn't even flinch.

Chasing after gold mines,
Crossing the fine lines we knew.

Hold on and take a breath,
I'll be here every step
Walking between the raindrops with you.

Friday, October 28th , 2016, 8:35 pm

Sunset came early that evening, the fading sunlight chased off by ominous dark clouds. As the front rolled in, Amber watched nervously from the small front porch, dreading the storm to come…there would have to be a storm when Donnie's convinced her to relax. So much has happened since she arrived in this world, Hun's failed vendetta against her only a small part of it. In moments like this, when the sky simmers with bilious tension, she wonders how she's managed to survive without losing her mind. She's broken, but at least she's mending.

By the time the first drops of rain painted the roof, she had her building panic under control. Now, Donnie's reminding her that rain is a good thing—just as on those stormy afternoons in Northampton, he distracts her from the cracked, vomit green sky in her past, and helps her associate rainstorms with cherished memories. Gasps and hoarse cries ring out through the candlelit loft accompanied by soft whispers and rustles; in the city, they have to keep their voices low lest his family overhear, but out here, only the other wild things will bear witness. The sky has broken open outside the cabin, but the two lovers are too lost in one another to care.

"D-Donnie!" Amber whimpers into a bare shoulder already decorated with bruises and sweat. Feebly she clings to his neck as though she can even hold herself up anymore—she hasn't had a fully functioning spine since he first pulled her from the window into his lap. From the moment his hooded hazel eyes meet hers full of heat, want, and need, she's always struck with an all-consuming weakness; when her brilliant lover turns his attentions to making her cry out his name, all she can do is hang on and weather the downpour.

Thunder cracks overhead. Donatello dives for her neck, mouthing and nipping at her damp skin as she grinds down against him, half in his lap and half in the blitzing clouds. In moments like this, when nature howls jealously at the door, he defies the forces that she fears—defies the winds that took her life before, the flash and concussion that speed her pulse, and the rain that would mix with frightened tears.

With a bunching of muscles her world turns sideways; without warning, she's pressed back into the tangled sheets and he's pulling out, pulling away. Before the frantic brunette can get out more than a plaintive whine he buries his face between her soft, full thighs, triggering a shriek that turns into a high-pitched keen. Pinned hips fight for freedom—shaky thighs clench his broad shoulders—all the while, a deep, guttural churr reverberates in his throat sending jolts down her spine. Her world boils down to lips, teeth, tongue, and fingers; his senses swim from her pheromones hanging heavy in the air.

By the next crack of thunder, Amber's been reduced to a whimpering, panting puddle, her lover's name a prayer on her lips, her hips rhythmically bucking against him with every aftershock. Lightning splinters the sky as Donatello returns to take her skyward, crawling inside to claim her again. Her name falling from his lips like a treasured mantra, he covers her body like storm clouds cover the horizon.

Later that night, their storm has passed—and so, too, nature's pale imitation of it—and they lie in a messy, blissful heap. Panting and gasping have smoothed into murmurs and sighs and their ever-increasing desire for one another has been, for the time, sated. They never speak of the rain in these stolen moments, never speak of the traumatic memories that still reappear like demons from the dark. Instead, they speak of family, friendship, love, and other permanent things storms can never take away.

Outside, armies of stars stare down between wisps of Autumn fog, a million shining reminders of how love can conquer fear.

Saturday, October 29th, 2016, 8:15 am

"Hey, Donnie-boy!" After a moment's pause, Vern raps on the door again but still receives no answer. Vern shrugs visually scanning the surrounding woods, then checks for bars on his phone. Perhaps Donatello hadn't gotten his call last night? The Party Wagon waits in the gravel driveway but the cabin is silent and still. For a moment the ex-cameraman hesitates on the wooden paneled porch, torn between concern for the turtle who never called him yesterday or returned his calls the night before, and worry about barging in on something he can never in-see.

"What am I thinkin'?" he scoffs to himself with a cocky grin. "Donnie's a great guy but he's a ninja—gettin' laid's probably against their 'bushy-doo-doo*** honor code' or somethin'." Though he's completely alone, he can't resist throwing up 'air quotes' as he reassures himself. Finally, sure he won't wind up blinded by a naked ninja turtle, Vern digs the cabin's spare key out of his jacket pocket and strides confidently to the door, head nodding to some nameless Jazz tune stuck in his head. Even this far from Manhattan, he can get anything he could ever want—all by flashing the fancy key he got for playing the turtles' wingman.

A blood-curdling screech wakes Donnie from his well-deserved rest—Amber! Before he can do more than process the facts that he's a, alone, b, buck naked, and c, totally unarmed, he's tucked and bolted from the loft to the source of the commotion.

In the small tidy kitchen echoing with some drum-heavy folk tune, Amber stands rigidly over a crumpled pile of clothing, wide-eyed and brandishing an egg-smeared frying pan. She's barely more dressed than Donatello is, clad in a flannel robe over the silky purple nightgown she wore for a whole five minutes last night. After ascertaining she's shaken but uninjured—and chastising himself for his body's reaction to the garment that enhances more than conceals—he crouches next to the body crumpled on the floor and rolls it over.

"Vern," he groans at the unhearing intruder. "Really? It couldn't wait until Sunday?!" Shaking his head he retreats to the loft long enough to throw on his trousers and tug on his mask, glasses, and goggles then joins Amber again. She stands awkwardly next to their visitor's limp form skillet at the ready, clearly aware that trying to get Vern's dead weight off the floor would only earn her a hernia. 'That's my clever girl,' Donnie muses with a smirk running a quick scan for injuries. Surprisingly, there's no sign of any injury…and no lack of brain wave activity. Someone's playing possum, he realizes with a snort, and drops into a chair, propping his feet up on Vern's chest. A wince and crinkled nose confirm his suspicions, and it's all he can do to suppress his inner Mikey.

"So that's the infamous 'Vern,' huh?" she mumbles, still eyeing the dark-haired visitor warily; not surprisingly, the eggs she'd been scrambling plaster his spiky dark hair to his scalp with stringy white gunk. "How'd'e get in? He scared the livin' shite out'a me!" Donatello heaves a frustrated sigh into the cup of coffee she passes him. A moment later, he gives her a touched smile at the steaming plate of pop-tarts waiting for him. Even out in the sticks, she brings him pop-tarts and too-sweet coffee on Saturday mornings.

"You'd be surprised what a key to the city'll get you," he responds dryly. "The property manager probably loaned him the spare key on sight. He's irritating," he adds emphatically for Vern's benefit, "but he's harmless—can't say the same about you, though." Blood rushes to her cheeks at the cheeky grin he shoots her over the half-empty sugar jar; after a sip of his coffee, he wonders if the jar was full before she prepared his cup. "You really bashed him in the head with a skillet?" Amber gives him a deadpan stare.

"Would ya've had me break the coffee carafe over'is head?" she asks dryly.

"A dreadful fate for something that brings such joy," Donnie teases. "In that case, I must approve of the skillet." For a time, neither speaks, then Amber stares him down.

"He's fakin', ain't he?" she deadpans.

"Yep," he replies, the last syllable popping audibly. Realizing the gig is up and he's not in danger, Vern shoves Donnie's bare feet off his chest and clambers up to a sitting position with a loud groan.

"Ain't that gratitude," the older man grumbles scathingly at Donatello. "I came to make sure you aren't hurt, and your girlfriend tried to gimme a skillet lobotomy!" A snort slips past Donnie's lips, and Amber responds with a gently chastising arch of the eyebrow. Without so much as a by-your-leave, she slips down from her chair and helps Vern to his feet, steering him toward the bathroom. If he doesn't wash the egg out of his hair, it'll turn to concrete.

"So you called Dee for a favor," Amber sums up Vern's long-winded explanation. After about thirty minutes of wrestling with the gunk in his hair, he'd emerged reeking of coconut shampoo and as fussy as a wet cat. By then, Amber and Donnie had both dressed and eaten breakfast. "He told ya we ain't had a lotta time alone lately, an' to pay'im back, ya rented us a cabin for the weekend on the condition he not tell me you did it." Vern deflates, but nods begrudgingly; he hadn't wanted her to find this out, but what's done is done. His rep is so gonna suffer.

Without warning, her arms wrap around his neck in an over-familiar hug, and he thanks his lucky stars she's fully dressed. He likes his women a little less on the chunky side, but he IS male; no straight man can concentrate with breasts in his face. "I'm sorry I bashed your skull in," she mumbles as she backs away never realizing she shoved his face into her abundant chest with the hug. "You really startled me. Please don't take it as a lack of gratitude, because—" She cuts herself off, realizing she's starting to ramble, and sure she'll be blushing soon, too. "Thank you…for being so thoughtful and generous." Vern smirks at her, saluting her with his coffee cup.

"Anytime, Kid. Anytime."

Sunday, October 30th , 2016, just before dawn

Amber may never tire of being able to sleep through the night. In her old life, she was capable of sleeping through nuclear fallout after late nights; in this life, she's struggled with night terrors triggered by passing subway trams. Only sleeping at Donatello's side has been able to keep her from waking up screaming, but even that isn't foolproof - there are still mornings when she wakes up bawling with no memory of how or why. Out in the woods, though, there's nothing to waken her demons, and thus, her—no passing trains, no screaming sirens, nothing more annoying than the occasional howling dog. Out here, there's literally nothing that could wake her now…

…nothing, that is, except the large calloused hand lazily trailing up and down her bare thigh and the snout nuzzling the nape of her neck. She sighs, leaning back into Donatello's open arms.

In drowsy moments like this, his true colors shine unhindered. There's none of the rush and desperation that storms bring, only gentle touches and murmured endearments she can't always understand. Sometimes she'll hear something she recognizes among the litany of foreign compliments and petnames, but he's got more languages in his larder# than she could ever hope to master. Her Donnie is a bona fide genius and in the time between sleep and waking he often forgets that she isn't. This morning his word choices seem to be focusing on Japanese, French, and what she could swear is Latin. Even though she cannot understand what he's saying, she gets the gist; love has a language all its own, and needs no translation. As another indecipherable endearment whispers along her skin, she trembles in his arms and turns to meet his brushing lips.

"Happy Birthday, Braids," he mutters near her ear, still toying with the lace-trimmed hem of the silky garment. The moment he saw it online, he knew it was perfect for her—it was the kind of flimsy nightwear she wore in his dreams even when they were still 'just friends.'## Clearly, he'd underestimated his reaction to seeing her wear it, though…every time, he wanted nothing more than to rip it off of her and re-assert his claim on her person. He never imagined himself as capable of being possessive, but to his utter surprise, she seems to like it. "I changed my mind—you're not allowed to wear this."

"Really?" Amber teases as he brushes her grey-streaked braid aside to nip her neck. "But you just gave it to me—does it make me look fa–AH!" Donnie's lips clamped around her bare shoulder cut off the tease, followed by a hand smoothing appreciatively over her plump rear, full hip, soft belly, and more-than-ample love-handles. A pleased tremble runs through her body as the caress drifts lower and lower down her body, every inch of ground covered leaving her breathless. Teasing aside, he wouldn't be in the slightest disappointed if the nightgown emphasizes her more voluptuous assets; he's made it perfectly clear that he loves her curves and has always admired them.

"No," he answers her unfinished tease hoarsely, brushing his lips over the tender love bite on her shoulder. "It makes my brain short-circuit—lift your leg." Her breathy chuckles shudder into a gasp as he slides home after a moment of teasing and fumbling. Finally…finally, the noise in her head has been chased away by his gentle touch. In her lover's arms, she feels safe—safer than she's ever felt before—and the horrors of her past cannot reach her. Everything's the way it's meant to be.

Right here and now, there's only Amber and Donnie, loving between the raindrops.


* Attention problems - This is quite true, but not well known—many times after developing PTSD a person who's never had attention problems will suddenly find themselves incapable of focusing and easily distracted. Even after getting the vast majority of PTSD symptoms under control, your attention span may be permanently shrunk to the size of a peanut.
** Name Changes - Once Amber found herself in her new world—the world of the TMNT—she began quickly realizing that many things are different from the life she left behind, especially actors, movies, and music. Sometimes these changes are drastic, but sometimes they're as mild as a different name and a few changed lyrics. Quiet Riley, Hank Sumatra, The Rats' Mass, and Alice Creeper, in our world, would be Quiet Riot, Frank Sinatra, The Rasmus, and Alice Cooper, and the song Amber butchered is Alice Cooper's "I'll Bite Your Face Off," which I think fits Kimber pretty well. ;) Following that, the lyrics shown are from the song "Between the Raindrops" by Lifehouse.
*** Bushy-Doo-Doo - Blame this distortion of "Bushido" on Casey—can't recall if it's from the '03 incarnation or the 90s live-action one, but it just had "Vern" written all over it.
# Languages in the larder - This may be a local term or just a bizarre choice in words; I've only heard it a few times. Basically, having something 'in the larder' means having it at ready access or out in the open. For instance, Amber has a lot of determination in the larder, and Mikey has a lot of energy and positivity in the larder. In Donnie's case, he's mastered many languages both in connection to his work and out of sheer boredom, and has a variety to choose from at any given moment. Headcanon, maybe, but he strikes me as the type to be polylingual.
## Long, slinky purple nightgown - Remember Donnie's dream from "A New Lease on Life," chapter 8? ;) That nightgown was a birthday present for Amber, along with the weekend on Vern's bill.

A quick bit of trivia: Although Amber and Kimber are counterparts, they have much more in difference than they do in common. Amber was born on October 30th, 1976, and died at 35 in 2011 winding up transferred to Kimber's empty body. Kimber was born on October 28th, 1991, and died at 25 in 2016. Thus, that October Amber and Kimber would have turned respectively 36 and 26.

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