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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
- 16
- 17
- 18
A quick note: I've been printing the notes and scene-setting details in colored text so far and I've decided to try it with Amber's intrusive memories as well. After all, these memories aren't part of the scene, active thoughts, or anything that's supposed to fit - they're aggressive interruptions, and when you're experiencing them, they tend to block out most everything around you. It's like someone going about your day and having someone randomly shouting in your ear at the most inconvenient moments, except instead of hearing "HEY, ASSHOLE!" you're reliving something horrifying. In this case, Amber's reliving the things she saw and experienced when she returned to the Broken Willsdale; in my case, I usually smell my ex's cologne or hear tornado sirens when neither are present. It's not something easy to live with but in time, it becomes manageable.
Anyway, if anyone has any problems with reading on account of the colored text, please let me know.
Precautions: frank discussion of mental illness, some references to addiction and drug use but nothing explicit.
Suggested Listening: Sixx:A.M. "Relief"
16: A Calm Before the Storm
March 4th, 2016
"My name's Mercy, an' I hate alcohol." All around the blonde, the circle of tired, worn people echoed their approval; they'd all been given plenty of reasons to hate it as well. This was, after all, her first meeting with the local Alcoholics Anonymous chapter. "Still not sure how I got hooked on that shit—amnesia sucks like that." Though she squirmed at the lie, it was what she'd worked out with the others. 'That's my story,' she thought bitterly as she paused for a swig of water, 'an' I'm stickin' to it.'
"Well, we're glad to have you, Mercy," the group leader answered with a smile as false as George Washington's teeth. "You're in good company here, and we can't wait to get to know you better."
Half an hour later she hustled to the front doors of the community center intent on a swift—and uninterrupted—retreat. A full week had passed since her temper got her summarily evicted from the Lair until further notice. Now she was living with Daron, she would be attending AA meetings daily, and she was on more meds than she cared to admit. At least, she reminded herself as she burst out into the frigid afternoon, this time she really was taking Carbatrol for seizure prevention. As she shuffled along the crowded sidewalk, she reminded herself that ruminating on the past never benefited anyone.
Only a few blocks from the community center, she paused outside a small hole-in-the-wall shop wedged in between a coffee house and an art gallery. Could she afford to stop, she wondered? She'd been by four times already that week, had succumbed to her bizarre addiction every time, and her reluctant host, Daron, was sure to start wondering at this rate. The oncoming crowd parted around her like a cantankerous Red Sea, but she remained rooted to her spot. "What'm I thinking?" she grumbled harshly. "It ain't worth it." With every intention of stalking back to her temporary home, she turned away from the crowded window…only to notice a paper sign taped to the glass door.
Part-Time Help Wanted, the ad read. Inquire within. War waged within Mercy, her practical side struggling to suppress her more emotional, illogical side. Finally, one side triumphed; the trip home could be put off a little longer. Before she crossed the doormat, she paused, scanning the skies in a habit she found herself more and more prone to. Sometime between checking the clouds and trying to remember if storms were forecast, she realized what she was doing. The shop door slammed in unison with a mental door to a world that was now as good as fiction.
"Back again, huh?" Mercy jumped slightly, turning to acknowledge the grinning woman at her back.
"Yeah," she admitted sheepishly as she admired a familiar rack of orchids. New York City, to her, seemed a study in greys; in Red Fern Florist's, that grey was beaten back by shades of green and brown interspersed with colorful blooms. "I jus' can't stay away, I guess." She shrugged, giving the technicolor-haired shopkeeper a self-deprecating smile. "I'm a country girl at heart—there's just not enough color out there for me."
"You said it, Sugar," Abby Whitaker teased, her bright hazel eyes gleaming impishly. "The Big Apple ought'a be called The Big Blah, if you ask me. We've got some new stock in you might like—Lots of new herbs and flowering vines!" Immaculately polished nails shone as she waved theatrically to a wall nearly overrun by planters. Mercy's dull blue eyes brightened; she eagerly scanned the hanging baskets and planters.
"Fuschia," she murmured reaching out to gingerly inspect a deep pink bloom. "I've never seen it in such a dark shade—oh, but I couldn't, my roommate'll go ballistic if I bring home anything pink. He's probably a'ready annoyed over the ivy…" She winced. "…an' the ferns…an' the bamboo, aloe, an' herbs…" She cringed, shrugging sheepishly. "Saw you're hiring." Abby hopped up onto the low checking counter, her feet dangling almost a foot off the floor and swinging girlishly.
"Yep," she answered cheerfully. "I'm picking up an extra class this Spring, and the beauty academy's already eating up my time as is. Need someone to cover a few hours in the afternoon. Know anyone?" Mercy hesitated.
"Not…really," she admitted. "I'd love to give it a shot, but not sure it'd be a good idea…I'm goin' through a rough spot right now." She turned to evade the chipper shopkeeper's inquisitive stare. "I'm goin' out of my mind with stress, an' I was told pickin' up an old hobby can help." To her surprise, Abby ceased playing with her short dyed plum and hot pink hair, sobering. Mercy shifted on her feet awkwardly.
"What's your poison?" Abby asked, her voice soft; Mercy grimaced and shot the bamboo nearby a dirty look.
"Apparently alcohol," she grumbled bitterly. "Can't remember how'er why…one day I jus' woke up in the park an' didn't know how I got there. I'm doin' what I can to clean up…it's…tough. " Abby gave a sage nod.
"Booze and pot," she admitted softly. "It almost destroyed me—I lost Cherie over it, and winning her back took years." She glanced fondly at the silver ring on her left hand. "This year marks my fifth clean and sober, and we're getting married when I graduate."
In her previous life, Mercy thought solemnly, she'd never have made it this far, never have even considered taking on the job despite her current struggles. She'd worked her ass off in her first years of college and suffered a complete meltdown from the stress. Living at home had been miserable, but less miserable than the hospital. At least at home, she had a little freedom; she could help her stepfather with the cows, bury herself up to the elbows in rich earth, and even fall asleep under her favorite tree without worry.
Every time she wound up in the hospital, she'd suffocated under the suspicious, pitying eyes of the techs without even so much as a silk flower. In the eyes of the staff, being mentally ill automatically made her prone to sudden, unprovoked violent outbursts—for instance, literally stabbing a stake of (fake) holly through someone's heart. Mercy called bullshit; she was prone to tears, mania, depression. In rare cases where she was pushed beyond her breaking point, she'd screamed herself hoarse - once she'd even punched a hole in the plaster wall of her bedroom - but she was no more violent than the average Joe, unless Aaron was involved. Of course, that was back when she could take her temper out on hay baling, wood chopping, and the score of other outlets she'd made use of - before she'd died, before Raphael said horribly untrue things about her best friend, and before she'd throttled him on the floor of the dojo. Perhaps she'd changed…and not only for the better.
Smiling again, Abby hopped down from the counter and bustled over to a shelf of cacti, selecting a small plant that resembled a spiny Death Star on steroids. With a reassuring smile, she scraped the price tag off, lifted Mercy's right hand, and pressed the tiny cactus' clay planter into her palm. "We're always capable of more than we expect, Sweetheart...you've just gotta keep climbing. You need anything, you just let me know."
Having bid April and Dr. Morris goodbye, Amber stood outside Daron's front door. What time did Mercy say she got home, she wondered? If she wasn't back from her meeting yet, it would be horribly awkward to greet Aaron's temperamental counterpart armed with a wilting Christmas Cactus. The plant had been healthy and vibrant when she picked it up that afternoon, but a walk in the cold hadn't been kind to it.
All at once, a crash and shatter of glass echoed through the door followed by a familiar curse. Moments later her frantic knock was answered by a disheveled blonde gripping a wet towel to one burned knuckle. "Hey, O'Brien," Mercy greeted with a cringe, ushering her toward the kitchen.
Halfway there Amber slowed to a stunned stop, staring around the apartment…or, rather, at the houseplants swarming every available surface. Ferns and bamboo sat scattered around the parlor and tendrils of ivy trailed down from high surfaces. Row after row of bushy green philodendrons lined the top of the kitchen's high cupboards and a large trough of various herbs soaked up the sun in the windowsill. A few terra cotta planters lurked in the shadows of the countertop, new sprouts peeking up from black soil. Along with a planter of aloe, a small pincushion of a cactus acted as a centerpiece for the kitchen table.
Still struggling to comprehend what she was seeing, Amber turned her eyes back to Mercy slumped at the table, swabbing a spear of cut aloe over the burn on her hand. How had Mercy amassed so many plants already?! Amber slid into a chair opposite her visibly tired friend, the outclassed succulent set aside for the time. "Did Daron move out?" she asked bluntly; Mercy shot her an incredulous stare.
"No," she answered. "Why?" Amber swept her arms wide, indicating the army of greenery swarming the small apartment. "Oh..." Mercy blushed slightly, fiddling with the aloe leaf and avoiding Amber's eyes. "I…Someone in one'a my groups told me pickin' up an old hobby can help with…well, you know." She shrugged, smiling weakly. "Was either this or buy a cow." Amber chuckled at the mental image of Mercy leading a Holstein calf around the local dog park by a leash.
"I won't judge," she teased. "All this time, I thought you were languishing in a plant-free prison, an' you're livin' in a jungle. How's Daron handling it?"
"Well, he's not killed anything yet…honestly, he's supplying my addiction in return for chores, errands, an' dinner." Mercy grinned and shot a pointed glance at a planter on the kitchen counter; a few tiny seedlings broke through the dark soil. "I've got jalapenos for'im in a few months as thanks…an' don't you dare pull the mother hen bit, I'm fine." Amber shot a pointed glance at Mercy's burned knuckle.
"So what happened?" The blonde winced, glaring over at the remnants of the coffee carafe splintered on the tiles nearby, coffee pooled around it.
"The shakes," she admitted softly. "I was goin' for a refill an' lost my grip on it. Daron's gonna kill me." Amber reached across and squeezed Mercy's uninjured hand; though she'd protested such fretting aloud, Mercy returned the gesture, comforted. "The folks at AA tell me I'm gonna fall off the wagon if I keep insistin' I ain't gonna. After smellin' Daron's bourbon last night, I'm startin' to worry they're right."
"What?" Amber uttered in surprise. "You hate alcohol—you never drank it willingly unless it was the holidays, an' even then ya watered it down beyond tasting it!" Blue eyes shrank from Amber's, suddenly fascinated by the wilting Christmas Cactus. "You only drank during the holidays when you were at my place," Amber acknowledged sadly. "Ya didn't wanna disappoint me." Mercy gave a glum nod. "Oh, Honey." Amber gave her friend a gentle squeeze and a wry smile. "If I'd known, I wouldn't'a offered…Don't change for anyone, ya got it? Yer just fine as ya are."
"Can we just punch each other an' call it good?" Mercy grumbled, but the grin in her eyes betrayed it.
"I take it back," Amber teased as she set to picking up the glass shards. "You haven't a changed a bit." Mercy watched her a moment, her brow pinched at the puzzle before her. Finally, she stood and crouched at Amber's side, catching her by the wrist.
"What's with the obsessive cleaning?" she asked point-blank. "I saw it at the Lair, an' even now, you're cleanin' up my mess—a mess I was going to deal with once the coffee'd cooled. What gives?" Grey-green eyes darted nervously out the kitchen window; clouds gathered on the horizon, but she couldn't see them underneath the splintered sky from her memory. "Amber!"
Shaken from the intrusive memory, Amber forced a swallow and focused on Mercy. "I…" She faltered, looking around her at the kitchen and taking in everything. A dirty bowl waited in the sink, the trash can lid seemed propped up by an over-filled bag, a couple macaroni noodles stared from beneath the oven—Though the kitchen was remarkably clean for a bachelor pad, she couldn't help but zero in on everything that wasn't clean, from the regular household chores to the stained grout between the tiles before her. She'd never been this bothered by it before—she was a night janitor, and after a week of prying gum off desks, scrubbing various bodily fluids off bathroom floors, and hauling away an entire school's worth of garbage, she was just too tired and sore to clean her own home. Other than summer and holidays, it had always been halfway between 'lived in' and 'help!' Now, she couldn't stand even seeing a speck of dirt without eradicating it. "I don't know," she finally admitted. "I just—I just can't stop cleaning!"
Mercy rocked back on her heels, studying her lifelong friend seriously. Unshed tears swam in Amber's eyes and her shoulders were shaky, drawn tight. In all the years they'd known each other, Mercy had never known Amber to cry so often, to mope around for more than an hour, or to be so bothered by anything that it drastically altered her daily routine. This Amber was like a scratched record; every day the needle shifted back to the previous groove in an endless refrain of stuck.
'Is this how I looked?' Mercy wondered with a cringe. 'All that time, I was the one breaking down an' Amber was the one pickin' up my pieces. She looks so fragile and hopeless...if I was the same, it's no wonder she tried to shield me the way she did.' Despite how painful it had been to experience it, she couldn't help but want to do the same—to shield her friend from the world's troubles as much as possible. Mercy felt like the world's biggest hypocrite. Amber would have worried, fretted, hugged her to death and uttered her usual reminders of 'this rainy day, too, shall pass.' Mercy wasn't as soft and squishy as Amber, though—she was stubborn and proud, and more likely to bottle things up and explode than hug it out.
Mercy stood and retreated, returning with a wet rag, a small broom, and a dust pan. Without so much as an explanation, she dropped to her knees and assumed the position, dustpan at the ready. For a moment, Amber just stared at her; Mercy shot her a playful sideways smirk, waggling the broom at her. "Well?" she teased.
Leave it to Mercy to break her out of her funk, Amber thought with a wry smile, brushing the debris into the offered pan. "So," Mercy asked off-handedly, "I know you're seein' someone for the you-know-what—have ya told'em 'bout the cleaning?"
"Not yet," Amber shrugged. "Haven't really told Doc Morris about much'a anything yet…still findin' it hard to trust'im. If somethin' happened to the guys because I need therapy…it'd kill me." The blonde fixed a stern glare on her—a glare that seemed to weigh more than she did in her previous life, Amber thought with a wince. After all, she'd weighed a LOT...
"Have ya told'im ANYTHING?" Mercy asked in a deadpan. "Tellin'im you've got PTSD ain't gonna do a thing—Docs don't like havin' patients do their jobs, especially when the patients're right. Has'e given ya any reason not to trust'im?" The silence stretched a while, but Amber eventually replied in the negative. "Then ya need'a start tryin' to. Ya don't have'ta tell'im you live with a bunch'a mutants an' came from another world, but you need'a at least tell'im about the tornado."
Amber froze, her back ramrod straight and her pupils constricting; Mercy swore under her breath at her carelessness.
Thunder rolls in an endless concussion. Green lightning splinters vomit green clouds. "Amber?" Rain and hail pelt a battered landscape. A twisted grin mocks from a putrid sky. "AMBER!" Mercy's sudden exclamation startled Amber from the memories writhing in her mind's eye; she met her friend's eyes, struggling to calm her racing heart and slow her breathing. Mercy opened her arms and Amber almost tackled her, shuddering in the hug. "Shit, I'm sorry…breathe through it, Girl…you' got this." After what seemed like hours of panic, Amber slumped in her friend's arms, drained. "I take it we need a ban list for words," Mercy remarked, her eyes serious; Amber nodded, embarrassed.
"Donnie's been helping me with Exposure Therapy," she admitted. "He says it'll help in the long run, but in the meantime, I'm even jumpier than usual. Doc wants to put me on something for anxiety." She couldn't meet her friend's eyes. "I'm…I'm not sure about it."
"Preachin' to the converted, Sister," she drawled as she tossed the rag at Amber. "I spent most'a my life on meds, remember? They kept me stable. If it helps, it helps—no one's gotta right to judge ya over it. At least promise to think about it, huh?"
"Yeah," Amber sighed, "I'm thinking about it…I just…" She turned to stare out the window again. "I got an official diagnosis today...he knows Jack's-monkey-squat about me, my past, an' what happened, but he got enough proof. He asked me 'what happened on that day,' an'…" She fidgeted with the rag. "Next I knew I was under April's kitchen table—I was exhausted an' dizzy, I couldn't stop shakin', an' apparently I puked. He said 'that's proof enough for me,' whatever that means." Mercy snorted, snatched the rag away, and rinsed it in the sink; Amber wasn't ready to stop scrubbing, but the floor was clean. Clearly, the obsessive cleaning was a subconscious attempt to focus on anything that didn't involve the life she left behind.
"I'll say it's proof," she retorted with a smirk. "At least your reveal was entertaining—I got diagnosed because I went through three drastic mood swings in one half hour appointment. Ya know, other'n when I tried to strangle Jerkface I haven't had that problem since I got here." Amber had gone to sit back down but nearly missed the chair in her shock. Mercy grinned. "Yeah. No out'a control mood swings, no mania, no depression…I'm feeling everything but I'm not drowning in it like before! Shame it took dyin' to cure my bipolar disorder, huh?"
"You're cured?" Amber practically squealed, launching to her feet. Again, Mercy was fairly tackled by her touchy-feely friend; the blonde squirmed, leaning away squeamishly but endured it without verbal complaint. "That's great! -not that you died," Amber added hastily, "it's great that your counterpart didn't have it!" Mercy pried herself free, wandered over to the fridge, and retrieved a printout tacked to it with a 'frowny face' magnet.
"Amber, I don't have a counterpart." Amber's confusion only grew as she read through the profile. "This body belonged to a woman named Donna Mays; other than appearances, we had practically nothing in common." Amber scanned the printout in disbelief.
'Donna was born on July 8th, 1992 to Becky and Roger Mays,' 'She grew up in a coastal Maine suburb with three younger siblings. During her first year of college, her parents were killed in a car accident. Shortly after, her sister Kara was diagnosed with terminal lung cancer; Kara died a year later, shortly after their younger brother Robert was arrested for felony possession and manslaughter. Lastly, the youngest brother, Kevin, went missing on the two-year anniversary of their parents' death; Kevin was never found and eventually declared dead. Donna dropped out of college and moved in with distant relatives in Manhattan. She worked at a local florist until her alcohol dependence worsened, eventually costing her the job, her home, and even her remaining family.'
"She spent the last years of her life living under an overpass…" Amber murmured sadly; she searched Mercy's eyes, disturbed. "You woke up under an overpass…she died there." She visibly shook the thought off, reminded yet again that she and Mercy were both living in previously dead bodies. "We've established that Kimber was my counterpart, but we still don't know how I got here. If I'm here because Kimber and I both died, then what brought you here?" The implications worried her and she shakily dropped down into the chair. "Could the counterparts bit be just a fluke?"
"Wish I knew," Mercy admitted. "The not knowin's drivin' me nuts."
Not for the first time, Donatello wished the heat from a shower could penetrate his thick carapace to the muscles needing it most.
Dawn had been greeted by a smothered scream from the lab as Amber woke from another twisted night terror. In his half-asleep state, Donnie couldn't decide between going back to bed and going to check on her; even as she wept into her pillow, he fought to decide, ultimately dozing off against the headboard. By the time he woke up again the lab was empty, the fog on the bathroom mirror had faded, and breakfast was in the works.
The day had only gone downhill from there.
He'd been off in another world the entirety of practice and found himself unable to pin anyone even once. Splinter was quite disappointed with him and had sentenced him to fifty flips and an hour of meditation. During that time, Leo single-handedly murdered the toaster, Mikey dropped one of the Xbox controllers one time too many, and Raph accidentally knocked his radio off its high shelf. The first free moment he had, Donatello retreated to the lab to fix the abused appliances. Hours later, he woke up face-first in a pile of mixed parts to find that in his distraction and exhaustion, he'd put springs from the controller in the toaster, managed to install a new fuse for the radio in the controller, and swapped several other bits and bobs between the appliances. He still had no idea how he accomplished it all and had no memory of any of it.
Despite it all, there was a silver lining…a still-warm cup of too-sweet coffee and a plate of blueberry scones waited for him, and a familiar blanket was tucked around his shoulders—a blanket that smelled like Amber. By the time he could finally tear himself away from the pheromone-saturated fabric, a loud painful crunch reminded him in no uncertain terms why the cot was in the lab in the first place…to deter him from falling asleep at his desk. Unfortunately, he'd offered the cot to Amber on an indeterminate basis; until she moved out or found a new sleeping place, crashing on that cot would probably make her uncomfortable at the least.
Now, his back and neck were killing him and there was only so much hot water could do. 'Perhaps,' he thought, stretching his neck and shoulders with a chorus of cracks and pops, 'it's time to pick up the renovations again…we did leave a lot of this station untouched, after all. If Amber decides to stay…" He gulped, his thoughts racing like the scalding water pouring down on his neck. "if she stays with us for good she'll need space of her own…and Raph's always griping about being sandwiched between Leo and Mikey's rooms. Those old subway cars should've been more spaced out when we hauled them onto the platform, and the Hashi hasn't been needed as much anymore…maybe it's time to pick up the rennovations again?'
Of course, he realized with a sharp intake of breath, if Amber moved in with one of them, she wouldn't need a room of her own…maybe not even a bed of her own at the rate Mikey was flirting with her. Sure, he and Michelangelo both had a shot, just like Leonardo. Maybe even Raphael had a chance now that he and Amber had come to a cease-fire—a shot in the dark was still a shot. Don had done the calculations before and the odds of Amber committing to one of them were slim if only because of their difference in species. If she truly wasn't put off by their nonhumanity, the odds that she'd bypass calm, dependable Leo, Raph's passionate personality and possible drinking buddy status, and even Mikey's playful, sunshiny attitude, and choose him—a nerdy, socially awkward turtle who lived for technology and always smelled like grease—those odds were dismal.
That's what he told himself, at least. Every once in a while, though, he'd notice something that made him question that belief. He'd turn to her and her eyes would shoot up to his accompanied by a dark blush, as though he'd caught her checking him out. A particularly bad panic would send her diving headfirst into his arms for comfort. She'd fix him with a strange indecipherable gaze across the room, never realizing he noticed. He'd feel her eyes on him, find her lost in thought, and she'd suddenly panic and rush into another room as though recalling a pressing task elsewhere. Just a week ago, even, she managed to perfectly layer several lasagna noodles on the kitchen table instead of in the pan, as though she'd been watching him with his back turned. Every day more and more bizarre occurrences gave him pause, but every day he'd convince himself he was imagining things.
Then, of course, there was that strangely alluring non-scent—pheromones, he believed—that kept manifesting when she was nearby. As a scientist he refused to make an uninformed decision—officially, the cause and meaning were uncertain. While he was a scientist, though, he was also a man…and that part of him insisted it meant she was ripe, willing, and his for the taking. Donatello wasn't some barbaric jungle-turtle, though. There had to be a more logical, more subtle message there than "Me Amber, you mate. Ug-oog." The very idea was…
"…preposterous," he mumbled aloud, leaning heavily on the tile wall. A faint ticking sound manifested nearby, completely missed by the distracted genius. "Foolish, ridiculous, impossible…but…." He hesitated, three olive green fingers splayed out against dingy ivory tiles in blatant contrast. Their first meeting was overshadowed by Casey's outburst but he recalled her reaction clearly. She was shy, nervous but not afraid, and once the initial awkwardness was passed, she showed no sign of fearing him or his family. When her world crashed down around her and she had nowhere to turn, she turned to him for comfort and security; that she reached for him even when she wasn't aware of it was proof that she trusted him, accepted him as he was, but that didn't mean... "…surely she couldn't…" He swallowed noisily, every tendon in his body taut as a bow string. "…care? She wouldn't care—she calls me her friend, she needs a friend!"
"You stubborn idiot."
The strange female voice emanated from right outside the shower stall, triggering an almost panic. He'd never heard that voice before and the bathroom had been empty moments ago; worse yet, he was unarmed unless one counted the bottle of coconut shampoo Amber forgot in the stall earlier. He didn't see it being very useful in a fight, but to a master of Ninjitsu, anything can be a weapon...
...shame he wasn't a master.
"Who's there?!" he shouted shoving his glasses on and swiping the shower curtain aside. "Show yourself!" Though only a moment elapsed between the strange voice and him diving out naked to confront the intruder, the bathroom was exactly as he'd left it…
Empty. Paranoia sharpened his senses as he checked all four shower stalls—empty—and all the toilet stalls—equally so—even going so far as to glance through the door to the hallway and the other leading to the utility room. If an intruder were to sneak out the front or side doors they'd have had to sneak past Master Splinter in the kitchen or Leonardo in the living room. Should they have bypassed those doors for the secured back door, they would have needed to input a code in the pinpad, and a security alarm would have sounded if the fingerprints weren't on record—even Donnie in all his technical know-how couldn't bypass the security on that door without setting the alarms off! The door from the bathroom to the utility room was untouched, steam still beading the handle without any sign of disturbance.
Though Donatello could have sworn he heard a voice speaking to him, there was no sign of any presence other than his own. Finally, he did what he did best: he rationalized and searched for a logical answer. Something must have tricked his senses, he reasoned. A little thing affects them, as Charles Dickens put it. A slight disorder of the stomach makes them cheats. When Donatello found himself entering the shower stall he'd burst from, though, the bottom dropped out of his stomach. All at once, he was certain the strange voice he'd heard was more than just a blot of mustard.
Right before the door, fine shimmering dust marked the faint outline of a pair of high-heeled shoe prints.
Northpaw Jackson swore as he ducked behind an overflowing dumpster. It had been weeks since he last saw his dealer and he was becoming increasingly agitated. He itched all over—ached in ways nothing but a fix could calm—and his thoughts swam with blinding rage. That little bitch Kimber got him and Lefty thrown in the clink, he recalled with a silent snarl, scratching his stubbled chin. The long braided goatee he'd spent years cultivating was gone, deemed a risk now that his bearded mugshots were posted everywhere. The moment he and Lefty were booked, a senior officer had recognized them and had them separated. He wound up with several years behind bars; Lefty only got a few months pending good behavior. After all, Lefty hadn't resisted arrest - he went willingly and even asked how the warden's kids were doing in school.
Northpaw wasn't the type to play the law's bullshit games; he busted out the moment he got the chance. Knowing Lefty, the goody-goody was probably still in prison passing himself off as a 'model inmate.' If not for their nearly identical appearances, Northpaw would sneer at the idea that the bleeding-heart could be at all related to him. If Hun weren't so used being flanked by both of them, he'd have killed his brother off years ago out of shame.
Finally, the police cruiser passed him by, the unsuspecting officers never realizing their quarry sheltered in the shadowed alley. Safe again…Northpaw wouldn't be getting dragged back to the pen today, not on his life. He turned to swagger out of the alley, intent on vanishing in the herd of New Yorkers oozing down the sidewalk like sludge down a storm drain.
North froze in the yawning mouth of the reeking alley, his eyes trained on a familiar body ambling down the steps of an almost as familiar apartment building. It took just a moment to recognize her—Kimber Bryant, the little slut who ratted him out to the police! Unfamiliar grey streaked her undyed hair and the tattoo in her cleavage was hidden, but he knew it was her—he swore it! His blood boiled in fury and his shoulders shuddered with tension. No one the wiser, he pulled out his cellphone, snapped several photos of Kimber and the skinny strung-out blonde she walked with, then turned to vanish in the dark alley again.
"It's me," he sneered into his phone shortly after. "Kimber Bryant's alive...I found'er, Boss."

Like I said...it's about to get MESSY.
UP NEXT: someone's keeping dirty little secrets in Turmoil
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