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A New Lease on Life	By : Ghost-of-a-Chance Category: +S through Z > Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles Views: 3157 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I don't own TMNT, any of its characters or devices, or any songs/books/movies referenced. No money is made from this story. I DO own any & all OCs included in the story...and a Woozle.

Chapter List
- 14
- 15
- 16
Precautions for this chapter: the usual with heavy angst, references to past abuse, alcohol abuse, panic attacks, a heartbreaking death scene - seriously, people, this chapter is a kick in the teeth. Kimber dies and it's not pretty. Read with caution.
Suggested Listening: Sixx:A.M., "Prayers For the Damned," Linkin Park, "What I've Done"

14: Raph and Kimber Part II: The Trail Leads Home
June 2nd, 2012
“Git out'a 'ere!” Kimber shrieked at the approaching trio of black-clad ninja. “T'is’s Purple Dragon turf—stay on ya own side!” All around her, the streets of Downtown Jersey City echoed with equally fierce battle cries and the concussion of steel on bone. Though she wasn’t a fighter, Kimber had answered the call just the same.
Once the Shredder was taken down, question sprung up regarding the ever-important boundaries and which gang had ownership of which parts of town. The moment Saki was booked, turf wars sprang up all over, from New York City to Manhattan, even to Jersey City. Disgraced Foot ninja vied for territory long-claimed by the Purple Dragons, the Mafia set their eyes on the Foot’s previously vast empire, with the Dragons coveting the others’ territories all the while. Day and night violence rang through the streets of the Big Apple between three warring gangs. Local law enforcement were ordered to keep their distance and let the opponents wear themselves out, and citizens were advised to keep out of the affected areas at all costs.
Right in the middle of the flock of punks defending Hun, Kimber fought like a woman possessed. She was a woman now, after all, twenty years old and baptized in blood. Blood as red as her dyed hair speckled her cheeks and her scoop-neck shirt, none of it hers. The intricately detailed dragon tattoo sprawling in her cleavage was nearly red from blood spray, and seemed grinning at the carnage around them.
At Kimber’s side, Northpaw sent another black-clad ninja careening toward Lefty who clocked him in the skull with his crowbar. Kimber was sure he wouldn’t be getting up anytime soon. “Nice shot, Nort’!” Lefty grinned at his brother.
When another ninja dove at the trio to avenge his fallen comrade, Northpaw sent him flying with a vicious kick. “Dat’s why ya don’t mess wit’ da Purple Dragons!” the goateed punk jeered.
Kimber wasn’t keeping up as easily as her comrades; her job had always been to look pretty and entice people into cooperation, not to kick ass. She snarled in the face of her newest opponent—Foot, Mafia, who cared anymore?—cursing her decision to join the ranks. Thanks to Lefty’s knife-fighting lessons she wasn’t a pushover, but she still wasn’t a fighter at heart. She felt she’d never rid herself of the feeling of blood in her hair, on her hands, on her face—never eradicate the screams she heard around her. Only one thing kept her in the field, hacking away at people she felt no anger toward.
Hun wasn’t happy with her. Two years she’d been his messenger—two years of running back and forth between the Foot, the Mafia, and the Dragons—and the Shredder still managed to pull the wool over Hun’s eyes. Oroku Saki had intended to take the Purple Dragons down with the rest of New York and hadn’t even offered a dose of the antidote to his long-trusted colleague, Hun. Now he was behind bars and the story was out.
Hun wasn’t angry…he was livid. Kimber had believed her job was simple, clear-cut: she was the messenger, the errand boy, just a pretty face to deliver bad news. No one told her she was supposed to spy on the people she was sent to. Now she knew—now she realized just how tenuous her position in the gang was. Hun was watching her very, very closely now; one wrong move, and all her efforts would be for nothing. Somewhere between a sting of knuckles and a spray of blood and spittle, something occurred to her…she froze, staring in disbelief at the owner of the jaw she’d just punched.
“What?!” she yelped, backing away from the giant humanoid turtle catching its breath at her feet.
“If dat’s what I get fer tryin’ ta get ya out'a here,” Raphael spat at her, “screw ya!” As though he’d not even spoken, she stared, bewildered at his very presence. For a moment she simply stood there, eyes fairly bulging as they roamed from his head to his toes and back again. His appearance was entirely alien to her…so why did she have a sense of déjà vu? Finally, she spoke.
“T'a FUCK?!” she squawked. Raph’s snout wrinkled at her eloquent outburst. “Whey’d you crawl out from?!” Clearly doubting her sanity, she glanced furtively around her, searching for some evidence that she was drunk or dreaming…she found nothing of the sort, unless one counted a seriously suspicious scene between Northpaw and the leader of the 10th Street mafia. She cringed; were they fighting or flirting? Either way, she felt sorry for anyone who caught North’s eye; she’d seen too many of his ex-flings listed in the obits.
“Screw dat,” Raph snapped back, visually checking her for injuries. “Da fuck'er ya doin’ in da middle of a turf war?! Yer gonna get yerself—” His eyes froze at her cleavage, his voice failing; when they lifted to hers again, they burned with something halfway between rage and hate. “Yer a Dragon,” he growled. “Yer a fuckin’ DRAGON!”
To her surprise, Kimber felt almost ashamed. “Not by choice,” she admitted lowly, glancing back toward Hun and his personal guard. They were occupied by a particularly well-armed group of mafia cronies; they’d never notice her slip away. “C'mon…let’s get out'a 'ere, huh?” Though his eyes burned with suspicion, Raphael followed behind, hoping he wasn’t making a monumental mistake.
“So t'at’s t'a stawry,” Kimber mumbled into her soda can, avoiding Raphael’s eyes across the kitchen table. “I got sick'a Daron comin’ 'ome beat-up, an’ I joined t'a Dragons ta keep'im safe. If I back out, t'at bastard Hun’s gowinna go afta'im again…an’ I ain’t gowinna stand by an’ let my friends git hurt. Daron deserves t'at much at least.” Raph studied her silently before tossing back a sip of his own soda. “Sahrry I clawcked ya.”
“Lucky hit, Kid,” Raph muttered, sub-consciously rubbing his bruising jaw. “If I’d thought ya was a threat, ya wouldn't'a come within a yard'a me, much less punchin’ range.”
“I ain’t no kid!” she retorted, then frowned, staring through the table. “Why do I feel like we’ done t'is before?” He hesitated a moment; that moment was just long enough for Kimber to connect the dots—and his voice to another she’d heard before. “Ya’re t'a guy who saved my ass in t'a alley, ain’t ya? T'a one who tied up t'a rich snatcher?” Left with no reasonable options for refuting the claim, he did what he did best…he blustered forward.
“Yeah?” he grumbled, avoiding her eyes. “An’ what of it? Spence would'nt'a just taken ya fer dinner, ya know. Ya’d neva’ve gotten out once he got'is hands on ya. 'e sends the fresh meat ova’ da borda’ fer—” A small, feminine hand on his stopped his train of thought completely. Frantic amber eyes met hers in disbelief.
“I neva’ got ta say it t'at night,” Kimber explained seriously. “T'ank ya…I owe ya my life, Mista'…uh…” Her nose wrinkled in confusion. “What’s ya name, anyway?”
“Jus’ call me Raph, Kid,” he smirked back. Before she could retort her usual denial, Daron shuffled through the door of the kitchen; Raphael froze, recognizing him as Hun’s kid brother. In a flash of green, he was out the kitchen window heading home and Daron was lying stunned on the tiles unsure how he got there.
Shortly after, they sat gathered at the kitchen table, Kimber clutching a cup of coffee and Daron nursing a shot of bourbon. He wasn’t really surprised at the story Kimber told him, nor was he surprised that she wasn’t at all afraid of Raphael. She’d never had much sense, he thought with a lemon-sucking scowl. Silence stretched for a moment before Daron spoke again.
“Kimber,” he sighed into his glass, “stay away from that guy.” He quickly cut off her subsequent protests, “No, I mean it, Kim—his world’s too dangerous! You think this stupid fucking territory dispute is Hell? His family’s whole life is like that! You’d never have any peace!” Even as she shook her head in denial, he stared her down, his knuckles white on his glass. “And what if Hun finds out you’re hanging out with them? They’re always at odds with the Purple Dragons—Hun’ll have you wiped out!”
“What Hun don’t know ain’t gowinna hurt me,” she argued sharply. “An’ who said anyt'in’ 'bout hangin’ out wit'im? 'e saved my ass, I t'anked 'im, end'a stawry!” Daron shook his head, scoffing.
“This’s you we’re talking about, Kim,” he reminded. “Since when’ve you ever left well enough alone? You’re probably already thinking about seeing him again! Romeo and Juliet both died, remember?!”
“FUCK YOU!” she shouted and exploded from her seat. Not a minute later, she was out the door, running back to the fight she’d left behind.
Daron stared down at her retreating figure from the kitchen window, torn between his warring thoughts. Was he too harsh on her? Had he gone too far? Worst yet, had he let his own feelings interfere too much? 'Fuck me,’ he realized with a sickening dread, recoiling from the window. 'I’m fuckin’ jealous!’
“Where ya been, Kimber?” Lefty shouted above the din as she shuffled toward him. A moment later he took off to catch her, gingerly prodding the blackening bruise on her temple. “Shit, Kid, what happened?”
“Lucky shawt,” she answered with what she hoped was a convincing grogginess. “Sumbitch got me wit’ a club er somet'in…nut'in afta’ t'at, might'a blacked out.” In all actuality she repeatedly headbutted streetlamp hoping an injury might excuse her absence, but Lefty didn’t need to know that. “'zit bad?” Lefty shook his spiked head at her with a disapproving tsk and tucked her arm around his neck to support her.
“Yer out fer t'a day, Kiddo,” he said grimly. “We’ve got it from here—just git back in once ya head’s healed.”
A dark rooftop near Central Park, June 2014
“'ey Raphie!” The sudden shout tore Raphael from his ruminations about Leonardo and Splinter; he shot a glare at the redhead grinning from the opposing roof.
It was always odd seeing her wearing his color in her hair rather than the myriad of others she’d previously dyed it. On the one hand, it drove him out of his mind, almost as though the crimson dye was marking her as his; on the other hand it was slightly creepy since he didn’t really see her that way. Granted, she wasn’t bad on the eyes, and she had the kind of curves that would fit just perfectly in his over-sized hands. Furthermore, she didn’t seem to find him unattractive…of course, she made her living by flirting; she’d probably flirt with anyone to get what she wanted. Overall, she was more annoying than anything else, after all, like the irritating little sister Raph never had, even though they’d become friends. Besides, as Mikey said, the punch red dye clashed horribly with the black and purple tattoo spilling across her ever-bared cleavage…nice cleavage, he had to admit, though.
Great breasts weren’t enough to redeem a Purple Dragon punk.
“I told ya not ta call me dat!” Raph snapped back. “Whaddaya want!” Despite his blustery attitude, she laughed and waved him over with a sultry smirk.
“Ya can’t see from ova t'ere,” she called back. “Git ova here—T'ere’s a betta’ view'a t'a concert!” So her plans were the same as his, he thought with a grumble as he stalked to the edge of the roof—watching the latest concert in Central Park from the neighboring rooftop. He said nothing about the spare cushion on the picnic blanket but arched a bare eyebrow at her; at least she had the courtesy to blush. “So,” she started to cover up her nervousness. “Di'nt expect ya to be int'a t'is kinda’ music, Raph.” He shrugged, settling on the second cushion.
“Donnie said metal—dat’s good enough fa me.” For a moment she simply stared at him in disbelief, stunned by his answer. Finally, she burst out cackling. He didn’t get the joke.
“Ya got no idee-uh what ya watchin’, do ya?” she wheezed as she fell back on the blanket. “T'is ain’t metal—it’s classical! Donnie was prob'ly ruh-furrin’ ta t'a band’s fiddy-piece brass section, ya muscle-brained maw'ron!”
“Ah, shuddup, Kimbuh,” he growled. Hopefully his blustering would dissuade any teasing from the infuriating redhead sharing the blanket with him. For some reason he couldn’t fathom, he didn’t leave…he stayed there on the roof with her through the orchestra’s warmups and the performance.
As the audience called for the first of what would likely be several encores, Raphael found himself glancing over at Kimber in the darkness of the rooftop. Though she hadn’t struck him as the kind to enjoy the kind of music they’d been hearing, he was clearly mistaken; she was glowing with happiness in a way he’d never before witnessed, her heart bursting from the music. As the orchestra pulled out another piece in response to the encore—something called “Concert Piece for Eight Trumpets”#—her eyes slid closed in blatant rapture, unshed tears shimmering at the lash-line.
Leave it to Kimber Bryant to make music appreciation look sexual; breathing was somehow much more difficult than Raph remembered. As the last notes grew stale in the air and applause rang through the SummerStage arena, grey-green eyes met his with an inexplicable emotion in them. Earlier he’d mentally lined out over a dozen reasons to stay away from Kimber Bryant.
He couldn’t recall a single one.
Daron and Kimber’s apartment, August 2014
“I’m tellin’ ya, I did not steal ya fuckin’ salad fork!” Kimber snapped at Raph. “Why would I do a stupid t'ing like t'at?!” As though she’d never spoken, Raphael lumbered back and forth across the living room floor, where he’d been pacing for the last twenty minutes. “Whey’d ya last see it?”
“Here,” he snarled back, pinning her under a fierce amber glare. “Right next ta ya, bafore ya went fa drinks!” The redhead leaned hip-first on the arm of the sofa, her eyes cold and meeting his without hesitation. “An’ it ain’t a salad fork—it’s a sai! Now—” A sudden cough behind him drew his attention to Daron, and what he held.
“The couch cushions, genius,” the blonde snarked at the bewildered ninja, tossing the missing weapon to him. Stunned to silence, Raph caught it reflexively, never looking away from Daron. “Kimber’s a lotta shit, but she ain’t a liar—don’t accuse'er of what she didn’t do.”
“A lotta shit?” Kimber jabbed back at her friend. “Sounds more like you, Daron Williams! I,” She paused to strike a sensual pose, leaning back on the arm of the couch with her breasts pushed out. “am made'a shuggah, spice, an’ all t'at good stuff.” Without missing a beat, Daron scoffed and slunk out of the room. “In udda words,” she added to Raph in an almost deadpan, “yeah, I’m full'a shit.”
Raphael didn’t answer; he stared out the tall window over the city below. The sun would be rising soon, and he needed to get home. “'ey.” A soft feminine hand latched onto his jaw and turned his eyes back to hers; Kimber’s brow was crinkled in uncharacteristic worry. “It’s okay, ya know…I’m a Purple Dragon, ya’re a ninja turtle—I don’t expect ya ta believe me when I tell ya I din’t do sumthin’. It’s just in ya naycha ta be suspicious'a me, Raph.” He didn’t deny it—it was very much the truth.
“I gotta get goin,” he muttered lowly, turning to the window he usually made his escape from. Just before his fingertips reached the latch, though, she dragged him back by his long red mask tails. “What?” She didn’t answer; she just stood there staring at his shoulder, gnawing at her lower lip nervously. Where was the sly minx who stared at him with bedroom eyes, he wondered? Where was the confident woman who used her body to her best advantage and off-balanced him with flirtatious teasing?
“Raph?” she mumbled, her eyes downcast and her cheeks flushed with nerves. “Is t'at all I am to ya? Just a Purple Dragon punk? Or…or am I more?” He frowned, growling slightly under his breath. “I just…I need'a know…'cuz yer more'n just a rival ta me…an’ I’d hate it ta be one-sided.” Neither knew how long they stood there, one poised on the brink of flight and the other looking for a fight. Before she lost her nerve, Kimber stretched up on her toes and pecked him on one scowling cheek, then turned to retreat to the kitchen. Just in time he latched onto her sleeve, yanking her back to his side.
“What was dat?” he demanded brusquely. “What’s ya game, Kimbuh?” She winced, struggling to wrench out of his grip.
“Nut'in’,” she answered too quickly. “It was nut'in—jus’ get going before ya’ late.” Silence stretched like an ice slick between them, both hiding their thoughts and feelings and silently assessing the other. Finally, Raph eased up his grip on her shoulder, running his eyes all the way to her toes, then back even more slowly. They were just friends, but would it really be so bad, he wondered? Kimber Bryant wasn’t bad on the eyes, if you could get past the tattoo she seemed so proud of, and he’d hate to die a virgin. Finally, he broke the silence.
“In dat case, Kimbuh Bryant,” he rumbled at her with a meaningful stare. “When ya ready fer more'n nuthin’, ya gimme a call.” With that bombshell he slipped out the window leaving behind a shell-shocked redhead searching for hidden meaning in his words.
November 19th, 2015
“Hullo?” Raphael called out from the living room window. Kimber and Daron’s apartment was disturbingly quiet for being so early in the evening and Raph didn’t trust it. The stench of tequila and beer in the kitchen was almost overwhelming…and unless he was mistaken, there were at least two different empty bottles shattered on the grungy tiles. “Kimbuh? I’m comin’ in,” he yelled again, nervously glancing about.
His worries ran rampant as he inched down the carpeted hallway, sai drawn and hackles up. Every shadow held an enemy—every light held another. Finally, a tired sigh sounded from the direction of Kimber’s tiny bedroom. The sight of her sprawled across her futon bed finally calmed his worries about her safety but only enflamed others. Granted, she wasn’t underage anymore, but he’d never known her to drink alone—she got sloshed when she hung out with those dweebs Lefty and Northpaw but when it was just her, she didn’t see the point. To find her thus was troublesome, Raph thought with a low growl.
“'ey, Big Red!” she grinned, saluting him with an empty beer bottle. “Whey ya been? T'ere’s a couple left if ya want'em!” He bypassed the remains of the twelve pack without a word, instead sitting on the edge of her mattress with a tired sigh.
“Kimbuh, Kimbuh, Kimbuh,” he grumbled at her as she flopped back onto her back with a sigh. “What’m I gonna do wit’ ya?” Finally, the Kimber he knew came out to play; she let her eyes rake down his front, a sly smirk curling her lips and narrowing her eyes.
“Dunno,” she answered in a slow, sultry tone. “What are ya gonna do ta me, Rah-fay-el?” He rolled his eyes and lunged to his feet, stalking back out to the kitchen. When the coffee maker had run its course he returned with the coffee carafe and a cup only to be surprised again. Kimber—the sly, troublesome minx who made a living by flaunting what she had—was gone. In her place was an upset young woman curled up against the metal headboard, ruminating about God only knows what. Eyes that usually shone with come-ons and threats were empty, staring off into space. From the doorway of her tiny room, Raph searched for answers that eluded him—slippery little things, always darting just out of his closing grasp.
“Raph?” she mumbled, dragging him from his thoughts. “I ain’t really drunk.” He snorted derisively.
“Uh-huh. Right,” he retorted dryly. “Did da pink elephants tell ya ta say dat?” She said nothing, only gave a sharp, bitter laugh and stared across the room at her rickety dresser. Confused, Raphael followed her gaze. Amongst the clutter littering the surface, a scrap of purple fabric stood out like a sore thumb…a torn bandana Lefty guarded with his life. Kimber didn’t know the whole story, but rumor had it the bandana belonged to his dead lover, a rookie who couldn’t handle the guilt from a hellish hazing.
“Lefty’s in t'a hawspital,” she explained blandly. “'E an’ Nort'paw robbed t'a wrong shop—t'a owna’ was armed. T'a cops put out an’ APB…” Her eyes watered as they met his. “I turned'em bot’ in. Lefty’s had my back in t'a Dragons from t'a start…t'ey came askin’ fa a safe place t'a hide. I got'em drunk, sent'em home, t'en called t'a cops on'em. I want out, Raph,” she sobbed, staring through the grimy wood floor. “T'is life’s gonna kill me, an’ Hun ain’t even kept up'is end'a t'a bargan! Nort'paw mugged Daron las’ week - 'e broke'is arm!”
With that final admission out in the open, Raphael saw something he’d never seen before…Kimber broke down in tears. He felt helpless, had no idea what to do. How could he be of any help? Emotions weren’t his strong point—he was the team’s muscle, not its heart! Finally, unsure what else he could do, he crouched before the futon, his massive hands framing her tear-streaked face.
“Kimbuh,” he urged gruffly. “C'mon…dis ain’t ova—things’ll get betta!” He didn’t really feel the smile he shot her. “Ya want out'a da dragons? You got it—I’ll talk ta Masta Splinta about lettin’ ya stay wit’ us 'til things blow ova. Hun ain’t gonna hunt down every recruit dat calls it quits, right?” She shook her head, sniffling; she hadn’t the heart to correct him. She knew too much, thanks to her job as messenger. Hun wouldn’t let her go easily…he might not even let her go at all.
Morning light filtered through the gaps in a set of moth-eaten makeshift drapes, speckling two entangled forms. The metal frame of the old futon groaned as one shifted, and a gruff voice answered in kind. “Who left da light on?” Raphael grumbled crossly, yanking the musty comforter up over his eyes. Tucked in the crook of his shoulder, a warm lump nestled in closer to his armored chest with a sleep-husky sigh. Raph froze; something wasn’t adding up. Caught between anger, confusion, and dread, he took stock of his surroundings.
This was not his bedroom—it was Kimber’s. From what he could see of the mess of tangled red hair half wrapped around his throat—not a noose, he reasoned nervously, just too tight for comfort—it was obvious who was tucked into his side…naked. The moment the realization hit, he jolted, staring frantically at the ceiling, scrambling for a way to get out of there before she woke up.
What was he thinking?! Increasingly bogged down by dread, he recounted last night’s events. Finally, he found what he was looking for…she instigated—whatever happened. He breathed a sigh of relief. She offered - she started it—if she started it, surely she wasn’t about to suddenly decide he was just what he’d always been treated like. Who would willingly offer themselves to a monster, sharing themselves in the most intimate of ways? Raph still wasn’t sure how he felt about Kimber, still wasn’t sure if he loved her or loathed her or if she was really 'just a friend,’ but he had to admit that waking up with a woman in his arms was worth all her tears from the night before. Determined to enjoy it as long as possible, he blindly felt around under the pillow for his phone, shot off a quick message to Casey, and settled in to enjoy the moment a little longer. When his phone chimed a moment later, Raph knew Casey had his back.
Against his side, Kimber yawned, stretching out a kink in her spine. When Raph’s arm reflexively tightened around her, she stiffened. With a vengeance only the morning after can bring, the night before came rushing back all at once—every gasp, every sigh, every impassioned cry and every pleasured sob. The truth became abundantly clear to her. She tucked her head lower into his armpit, fighting to hold back tears.
She gave up almost everything after joining the Purple Dragons—safety, security, a decent job, her self-respect—but she never gave up her virginity. After guarding it so closely, how could she lose it in such a forgettable way? Her breath hitched. She didn’t regret giving it to Raph—she regretted giving it away without a single affirmation of affection. 'Who’ll buy the cow if the milk is free?’ she recalled bitterly.
“'ey,” he rumbled near her scalp before nuzzling her hair. “G'mornin’. Sleep well?” She choked; shivers wracked her body, and it didn’t take a genius to realize she was crying. “Kimbuh, what—why—” It dawned on him; he fell silent. Anger and self-loathing warring for supremacy, he lurched upward and swung his legs over the bed. Kimber lay silently crying while he dressed. Neither spoke. “So dat’s it, huh?” He growled at her. “Ya can’t keep ya hands off me when it’s dark out, but soon as da sun’s up, ya can’t get away fast enough?!” She sat up in bed with the blanket tucked around her shoulders like armor; anger chased away her sorrow.
“No!” she insisted harshly. “I just—I just wasn’t ready—I—”
“Not ready?!” Raph snapped. “Ya sure seemed ready las’ night! Ya couldn’t get enough'a me den! How’s dat not ready?!”
Tempers rose; hurtful words volleyed back and forth. The longer they fought the louder they grew, the more cruel their words, the more aggressive their stances, neither willing to back down. “Raph, I—!” Kimber’s shriek fell short in a panicked gasp as he turned to face her; demons long buried came out to play. In his eyes, eyes she was always drawn to, a familiar rage lay in wait. Moments later, she had scrambled away from him, ducking into the corner of the room and cowering. She didn’t see Raphael, the turtle she fell in love with…she saw the monster she fled as a child.
Hours later, Daron found her there, alone, staring into space as tears rolled freely down her cheeks. He knew what occurred—their shouting could have woken the dead—but it mattered little. Daron was her best friend, and by God, he wasn’t going to let her down, no matter how much it hurt him.
January 20th, 2016
Kimber never imagined the New York underground could be so cold; nor had she thought she’d one day take to the underground to save her own skin. Nevertheless, there she was in an abandoned subway tunnel, dressed in her most revealing clothes, ready to throw herself on Raphael’s mercy…if he had no mercy, perhaps he’d at least feel honor-bound to take her in lest she freeze to death.
Raphael…the name brought her pain now. She still loved him, still yearned for his company, still wished their one night so long ago hadn’t ended in disaster. With a tired sigh, she shook her head silently, casting the beam of her flashlight around her. All the while, memories from the previous week ran through her mind unhindered. “Kim,” Daron muttered across the kitchen table that morning, “there’s gotta be a better way! You don’t have to do this!”
“T'ere is no ot'uh way, Daron.” Even now, she knew this was true. For weeks now, Daron had been holed up in their apartment doing what he did best—hacking and leaving breadcrumbs for the police—and Kimber was left to fulfill her end of the bargain. The dark tunnels seemed ready to close in around her but she wouldn’t give up—couldn’t give up!—a life free of the Purple Dragons was nearly within reach.
She swore in the darkness; her light was fading. It wouldn’t be long before the batteries failed, leaving her completely in the dark. “Focus,” she muttered aloud as she scanned her surroundings for ideas. As she turned the latest bend the answer manifested as a tiny glint of glass embedded above the nearest bronze placard; Raphael’s brother Donnie had this area under surveillance. With ominous timing, her flashlight died; a chill raced down her spine, even as she admonished herself for being ridiculous. Her heart in her throat, she faced the camera lens straight on and cleared her throat.
“Donatello,” she said to the lens and the microphone she was sure accompanied it, “it’s me, Kimba’ Bryant…I surrenda’. I’ve come ta help you take down t'a Purple Dragons.”
The dying words of Kimber Bryant - runaway, delinquent, and Purple Dragon punk
I gave up tryin’ ta contact t'a brut'as. It’s so cold in t'a unduh-ground—empty in a way t'a streets above nev'a are. T'a turtles wouldn’t'a helped me…I can’t believe I eva’ t'ought t'ey would.
How’d I get ta t'at point? How’d I come so far from t'a pigtailed brat who ran barefoot in Wilson’s Creek in summa-time? My family’s gone—Mum’s gone, Gramma Devonne’s gone, my fat'uh’s gone—I’m all t'at remains of t'a O'Bryan family, even carryin’ a false name. Once my new life was a breat’ of fresh air, a time'a ru'leef afta’ so many years of livin’ in fear; now it jus’ feels like betrayal.
Raphael…I wish we could'a worked everyt'ing out; I wish he could'a forgiven me fa breakin’ down on him when he needed me mawst. We could'a been good toget'er, he and I…an’ I love him still. It’s a moot point, but I wouldn’t change t'at for the world. If anyt'ing, I’d'a told him soonuh—I wouldn’t'a waited 'til the worst paw-ssible moment ta give myself to'im.
I dunno if t'ere’s anyone out t'ere in t'is crazy-ass universe; Mum sure t'ought so. I’m not so sure really, an’ by now, I really couldn’t give a rat’s ass whet'er there’s a gawd or nawt. Gawds don’t give second chances—t'ey don’t care if a stupid mortal fucks it all up an’ wishes she could try again. I wouldn’t take a second chance if I got one! Not fa’ all t'a love in the world, all t'a love I neva’ got—I’ve had enough of life. Life brings saw-rrow…an’ I’ve had enough of t'at.
I’ll neva’ wake up, neva see Daron again. Years from now, some urban explawrer may find my bones in t'a City Hall subway station an’ wonder what happened to me. I couldn’t care less. Let t'a Feds descend wit’ red tape an’ forensics crews—let t'a unduh-ground be full of light an’ warmt’ in a way it wasn’t when I needed it mawst! I dun’ care any-mawre…
Afta’ a lifetime of cowering in t'a dirt, I’m free…free ta fly away.

UP NEXT: moving forward and standing still in Progress

NOTES
I created a video some time back which depicts Kimber's dying words from this chapter in her accent with translation by captions. I've reposted it to Tumblr. (again, Tumblr is run by duplicitous dicks so it was removed despite containing no nipples or sexual content. It's literally just audio with captions matted on the base photo of ANLoL's cover, nothing special. My guess is it was hidden on Tumblr because I flagged it as ideologically sensitive. I mean, those are Kimber's last words before she froze to death, it's gonna be angsty but it's not female-presenting nipples.)
If you're interested or just want translation, check the Tumblr for this story (that's Get-a-new-lease-on-life) and filter "videos" from the archive - it'll be entitled "The Dying Words of Kimber Bryant" - OR you can search DeviantArt for the same thing.
“Concert Piece for Eight Trumpets” is an impressive number by Bruce Broughton…impressive because I can’t STAND brass music, but I love the song anyway. For someone who really enjoys brass, I imagine it could be very powerful and emotional like a good piano piece is for me.
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A New Lease on Life