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A New Lease on Life	By : Ghost-of-a-Chance Category: +S through Z > Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles Views: 3159 -:- 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
- 1
- 2
- 3
Precautions: Cursing, suggestive language, panic attacks. References to "Inferno" by Larry Niven and Jerry Pournelle, a wonderful book which I unfortunately can claim no rights to.
Suggested Listening: The Rasmus, "No Fear"
Begin Part I
Time to Burn

1: Amber or Kimber?
New York City, January 27th, 2016
The first thing Amber noticed was cold; the second was muffled noises almost like speech, followed by a stabbing ache right above her eyes. After all, she'd received a blow to the head…hadn't she? Details weren't coming to her in that state halfway between sleep and wakefulness. As the throbbing in her head smoothed out, she scoured her memory for answers—answers she couldn't find in the blur that her past had become. Only one thing stood out among the blank space in her history….
She was dead. How she knew this, she wasn't completely sure, but as the headache faded away, fractured memories slowly filled its place. Willsdale—the storm of the century—the school where she'd worked, torn and trashed by EF-5 level winds. Her eyes flew open in fear, searching for any sign of light or life. Blinded by a sudden light, she cringed into the foul smelling heap she lay on. The voices around her grew louder and less muted, then suddenly ceased all together.
Where was she? What happened? How had she found herself in the situation she was in—what was the situation, even? She had no answers—not even the strength to lift her head. Out of the blue, she felt a presence beside her…warm, gentle arms drew her closer and wrapped her in a cocoon of scratchy warmth. This, she could get used to, she mused weakly as she turned to nuzzle into the warm shoulder propping her up.
But nothing good ever lasts…as though summoned by her comfort and calm, a demon she knew too well manifested with a grinding roar. The slow trickle of memories became a torrential downpour—horrifying images flooded her delirious mind. Somewhere in the distance, someone was screaming, screaming as though they were being slowly gutted. The world turned sideways and crossways as the warmth surrounding her fell away; again, she fell to the fetid ground wishing the screaming would stop, wishing the memories would cease. Someone shut it all off, she cried soundlessly, her vocal chords inexplicably stilled.
A pinprick pain sprang to life, quickly becoming a spreading fire. On the heels of the fire, murky fog rolled in, choking out the life replaying before her sightless eyes. She struggled to get her head above water, struggled to breathe. A soft, gentle touch brushed from her brow to her temple then trailed along the line of her cheekbone. Sometime between the beginning of the caress and the whispering that followed, Amber's distorted world was swallowed up by a black void.
New York City, April's loft, January 28th, 2016
"I'm not so sure of this, Casey," a soft voice murmured nearby. Amber twitched at the sound, disoriented and bewildered. She'd died—she remembered now, remembered being in another place—a place of endless nothing set to the sound of a clock's incessant ticking. Limbo, she wondered wearily? "We should've taken her to the hospital—she could be dangerously sick!"
"Hon, ya know we can't," a deeper voice replied. "If she wakes up an' starts jabberin' about giant turtles, it'll be trouble for da guys!"
'Giant turtles?' Amber thought groggily. 'Great, out'a the'afterlife an' into the nut house. At least it's warm, here…an' it smells nice, too.' She burrowed deeper under the scratchy knit afghan with a contented sigh, relishing the sweet fragrance of spiced cider. Later she'd question how she could be alive when she was sure she'd died but for now, she was too comfy to care, even with a splitting headache.
"Hey, she's waking up!" the first voice hissed; damn, no rest for the wicked. "Miss, you okay? You need anything?" Reluctantly, Amber pried open her eyes, fumbling blindly for her glasses; a blurry hand passed them to her and she affixed them to her face, working her way to a sitting position. A woman with dark curly hair hovered before her with a steaming mug of cider and a concerned expression. As Amber finally trudged the rest of the way to life, she reached to scratch her left knee…and found bare skin. Startled awake by the absent clothing, she glanced down at herself in dismay.
Not only were her surprisingly toned legs nearly bare, most of her was bare! The skirt she'd woken in barely qualified as 'mini,' the skimpy top was cut so low her suddenly larger and firmer breasts seemed about to pop out, she was clearly not wearing a bra, and the clunky black boots she wore seemed more for looks than use. The fact that she had somehow lost almost a quarter of her body weight was shoved firmly into a vacant corner of her mind to be dealt with when she wasn't practically naked. Her cheeks flamed bright red as she yanked the afghan up to cover herself up to the chin. "Miss?" April asked in confusion.
"Please tell me I'm not a hooker!" Amber blurted desperately.
"What?" Casey gaped. Undeterred, Amber rambled on in disgust and panic.
"This's so not me—I'm barin' more than I'm wearin'! There should not be a fuckin' draft there, an' I'd never be caught dead wearin' a screw-me skirt. Granted, I like the hoochie boots an' my boobs finally match my ass, but for the love of Mike I'm practic'ly naked!" When she finally realized everything she'd said, she cringed. "Eheh…Sorry…brain-to-mouth filter malfunction."
"I'll say," Casey grinned; April shot him a dirty look, but he just shrugged. "So what's ya name, Miss Not-a-hookuh?"
"Amber," she replied nervously. "Amber O'Brien. An' Y'all?" The other two blinked at the blatant twang in her voice. Was it really so odd, she wondered? The vast majority of her hometown spoke with a much thicker twang than she did, so how could they be so surprised by it?
"I'm April O'Neil," the other woman replied politely as she handed Amber the mug of cider. "This is my boyfriend, Casey Jones." It took a moment for the facts to sink in.
'You're kiddin' me, right?' Amber thought sarcastically. 'What're the odds that I'd die an' wake up in the middle of a movie set?' Instead of acknowledging the elephant in the room, she asked, "Train conductor or Grateful Dead?" Their response was a blank stare. "Sorry. So…uh…how'd I wind up here? Did y'all knock me out'a that jar in the vestibule—or were the jars in Limbo?" She frowned down at the cider searching her scattered memories.
"What jar?" April was at a loss. "Some…friends of ours found you in an abandoned subway station. You were freezing to death. Do you not remember that?" Amber searched her memories, then shook her head with a confused frown.
"No, my memory's…kinda blurry," she admitted. "I remember…a storm…a bad one, worse than I'd ever…" Unbeknownst to her, her words became more and more frantic and stammered, her eyes grew wild, and she started shaking violently. Amber never noticed any of it; next thing she knew, she found herself on the floor in the corner curled in a tiny ball with April petting her hair. "…Wha…What happened?" she asked groggily. The pity in April's eyes annoyed her, but she needed answers.
"Do you have a history of panic attacks?" the reporter asked gently.
"No…I've got a pretty bad phobia so I've had anxiety attacks, but it's never anythin' serious. Why?"
"Well, now you do. Come on, let's get you into something more…covering." As Amber hoisted herself to her feet, her top dipped lower than before, revealing a flash of purple and black. Startled by the sight, Amber never noticed the shocked gasps of her hosts; she was too busy staring in dismay at the coiled purple dragon tattoo nestled in her cleavage.
"We got here as soon as we could," Leo apologized as he climbed over the windowsill. Donatello followed right behind, silently hanging his trench coat on the rack next to Leo's overcoat. "Has she made any progress?" April's worried, tight-lipped frown concerned him, and Casey's frustrated pacing wasn't reassuring either.
"Ya know anythin' about dis chick?" Casey muttered, shooting a glare at April's bedroom door; not long after the tattoo's discovery April had ushered their stunned guest to bed with a mug of tea, a pair of sweats, and a teeshirt big enough to double as a dress.
"We told you everything we knew, Casey," Don replied. "Too little clothing, no sign of substance abuse, hypothermic and possibly homeless, and nearly had a heart attack right in front of us. Why?"
"She's a dragon!" Casey spat, slamming his fist into the nearest wall.
"Casey!" April scolded. "Cool it!" Even as he shook off flecks of dried paint, he growled under his breath.
"You brought us a fuckin' Purple Dragon, Leo, an' she's clearly off her rocker! She—"
"Wait, back up," Donnie interrupted. "Why do you think she's a Purple Dragon? We didn't see a tattoo!" April blushed and avoided his eyes.
"Ya didn't look down her shirt—it's between her jugs." Leo cringed.
"Y-You're joking, right?" he stammered hopefully. "Please tell me you're joking." Casey shook his head with a dark scowl. "Great. —Donnie, where're you going?" His brother was already trudging down the hall, medkit in hand and a determined pinch to his eyes.
"Gang or not, she needs help," he answered firmly. "We don't know her story and we don't know her, and until we do, I, for one, reserve judgment." Without another word, he slipped through the door. Light from the hallway guided him to the bed and the lump curled up on the very edge of the mattress. The hair strewn messily over April's lumpy pillow was red as fruit punch, but now that it was brushed out and down out of the ridiculous updo from before, warm brown roots shone through—it was definitely dyed, and from the looks of it, with Kool-Aid.
Donnie paused hesitantly in the doorway, studying the sleeping woman. She was curled up in a ball but he recalled her figure with striking clarity. So many women were obsessed with being thin, looking thin, and feeling thin, and hid their bodies under too-large clothing if they weren't thin enough for their liking. This woman wasn't thin—quite the contrary, she was voluptuous, with soft, wide hips, a well-rounded rear, a generous bust, and from the looks of it, some extra softness around her ribs, hips, and thighs. Popular culture would have deemed her weight and body type a flaw, but he'd always admired curves; to him, she was lovely. Lovely, he thought sadly, and very much out of reach. It didn't bear thinking about, he reminded himself; he had a job to do, and more likely than not she'd scream if she ever saw him. They always screamed, really.
Don was pleased to find she'd made progress. Her body temperature had risen to a healthy 98.4, her blood pressure and heart rate were normalized, and the color had returned to her skin. Better yet she was breathing normally and he couldn't detect any wheezing, so she probably hadn't developed pneumonia from the conditions she'd been found in. Confident that she'd make a full recovery he slid his goggles back up over his forehead and brushed her hair away from her neck to seek out her pulse.
A sudden spike in the pulse fluttering against his fingertips drew a concerned frown, then a soft gasp tore him from his thoughts. Slowly, warily, he met her eyes—moss green eyes wide open in astonishment and set off by a blindingly red blush. He swallowed noisily, counting down the seconds to her inevitable freak-out.
'Holy Mama Mary,' Amber thought as the tall turtle's hazel eyes met hers. 'If this is Heaven…' "—I must'a been a Sainte!" she finished under her breath.
"Pardon?" Don asked dubiously, releasing her neck. Amber flushed.
"S-Sorry. Brain-to-mouth filter malfunction, jus' ignore it." Pulling the comforter almost up to her chin she dragged her glasses back over her eyes, cautiously looking him over. "Am I…dead?"
"Nope; you gave it your best shot, though," he replied with a cheeky smile. "Unless something changes, you should make a full recovery. So, what's your name?" She blinked several times, scrunched up her eyes and squinted at him, sat up with the blanket pooling around her, then pinched herself on the cheek…hard.
"Ow!" she yelped, yanking her fingers away from the throbbing flesh. "Nope, not dreamin'. Ya mind…?" Donnie was completely nonplussed but shrugged; without another word, she reached one hand out and poked him squarely in the shoulder. He stared back, clearly questioning her sanity. "A'right, Willis," she announced to the room in general, searching every corner she could see. "Ya win. I won't post that video if ya call off yer buddy. Shame really, it was a hoot."
"Video?" Don asked dubiously. Amber smirked.
"Aaron got shite-faced on Scotch whisky an' tried to milk a bull; it disagreed. Now come on out, Willis, this's getting' annoyin'!"
"Of course," Casey grumbled from the doorway. "Now I recognize ya—dat fake accent threw me off. Donnie? Dis's Kimber Bryant; she hangs out with dat little dweeb Daron Williams."
"Daron Williams?! Kimber Bryant?!" she repeated shrilly. "My name's Amber! Amber O'Brien, an' I've always talked like this! The heck're you smokin'?"
"Quit wit' da lyin' a'ready!" Casey snapped. "Raph an' I busted yer ass 'nuff times fer me ta know ya, 'specially with dat tattoo'a yers!"
"Casey," Donatello warned lowly, "back off, you're not helping." He turned to the green-eyed woman again, troubled by the confusion in her eyes. Poor thing...she really didn't know who she was? "Amnesia, maybe? What's the last thing you remember?"
She only got out one word—storms—before losing her grip on reality. Right before his eyes she paled and shrunk into herself; her eyes grew wide, her breath sped to gasps and pants, and an endless stream of garbled words fell from her lips. Realizing what was happening, Don dug a bottle of homemade smelling salts* from his kit and waved it under her nose, monitoring her pulse with his other hand. Finally, her glazed-over eyes focused fearfully on his, her voice stilled, and her breathing regulated. "I—"
"It's alright," he soothed as he drew back again. "Whatever happened isn't exactly ready to come to light, apparently. Maybe just some questions? Simple yes or no answers, perhaps?" Though she was only growing more and more confused, she nodded, following him to the living room again, the comforter draped around her like a fluffy yellow cloak. April put on the kettle for tea while the rest settled in the living room.
"Kimber Bryant?" Leo asked bluntly.
"No," she replied seriously. "Amber O'Brien. I was born to Douglas O'Brien and Ginny Devon in Willsdale, Missouri, I graduated Willsdale High in May '94, an' I spent the last several years workin' for the school district as a night janitor at Willsdale High. "
"Do you know where you are?" Donnie suddenly asked. "Do you know what city you're in?" Her face fell.
"They said I was found in a subway station, right?" she asked hesitantly. "The only subway I've ever been in served sandwiches, an' had a gas station attached. So clearly I'm somehow not in Willsdale anymore." A violent shiver wracked her shoulders and she burrowed further into the blanket. "Wherever I am now, it's pretty dang cold fer May even with 2011's freaky weather."
Leo and Donnie exchanged a wary glance. "Miss O'Brien?" Donnie said softly, placing a steadying hand on her shoulder. "You're in New York City; it's January 27th, 2016."

UP NEXT: how the world spun out of control in Death Was Only the Beginning
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A New Lease on Life