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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
- 20
- 21
- 22
The feuding has begun, folks, and the story's about to get messy. For some mood music while Donnie and Amber fight like idiots, check out the "Feud" playlist on Spotify. You can find links on this story's Tumblr. (again, Get-a-new-lease-on-life) While you're there, check out other playlists related to this story or others!
Precaution: Angst out the ass. (That's about it. Lots. Of. Angst.)
Suggested listening: Paramore, "When it Rains"

20: Trouble in Paradise
Sunday afternoon, April 10th, 2016 - Manhattan
A brunette walked into the Public Library on a Sunday afternoon. What first seemed the beginning of a bad joke was no laughing matter in real life. After all, the brunette was Amber and despite the day's name, the afternoon wasn't sunny at all. Originally on her way to visit Mercy and Daron she was chased into the forbidding stone building by a relative innocent among nature's creations. She felt pretty damn silly but still took shelter in the stacks.
'I've got an apology to make,' she admitted begrudgingly as she stared through a display of magazines. 'I just ran from a frickin' cloud…Dee's gonna win that bet.' At first glance the cloud had resembled the twisted grinning sky from her nightmares—a wall cloud, as she'd since learned from Donnie—but she now wasn't sure whether the strange cloud was in the sky above or in her memories. Either way, the damage was done…she ran from a tiny, fluffy, bunny-butt cloud.
Cowed by the reminder of her ever-worsening condition, she trudged along the racks of periodicals, stalling until her heart could quit galloping through her ribs. With the worst possible timing, a familiar screeching emitted from her phone. "Oh, get your straight-jackets on tonight!" Quiet Riley, she realized, paling…MERCY! Somewhere between the repeated shouts of metal health! and bang yo' head! she finally found the volume button on the side of her phone and silenced the phone. Her sigh of relief fizzled out at a disapproving glare from the prim elderly woman manning the nearest checkout. With a sheepish smile of apology, Amber ducked out to the lobby and fumbled through sending Mercy a quick text. Being chased by a scary cloud, she managed to eke out between typos and mis-keys; God, she hated smartphones. Be there once I've gotten myself together.
A whole month had passed since Mercy finally apologized to Raphael. If her life was a TV show, Amber admitted silently, this would be the time when she endured a forced montage of all sorts of crap that occurred between the previous episode and now. She was glad she wasn't a TV character…montages are annoying enough without having to live through them. The downside to no montage meant she lived through every day with distressing slowness. Wake up screaming, work herself to exhaustion, try to fight her attraction to Donatello and try even harder to let him get close enough to understand her...only her bi-weekly appointments with Dr. Morris and more-frequent visits with Mercy and Daron broke the tedium.
Of course, she realized as she shuffled out the front doors and continued her trek, something had changed…Donatello was behaving strangely. For so long he'd been only too happy to help her when he could; from the very start, he was her friend, her confidant, her knight in shining spectacles. Over the last month, though, he became withdrawn and quiet, watching her closely, intently, as though he suspected her of something.
As deep in thought as Amber found herself, she walked past Daron and April's apartment building the first time. From the alley across the street, a hateful pair of steel blue eyes watched her double back then vanish through the lobby doors.
The Lair
"Is t'at all I am to ya? –Just a Purple Dragon punk? Or—or am I more?"
Years later, Raphael still remembered Kimber's words—remembered the hesitant tone in her voice, the vulnerability in her eyes. At the time he'd believed she was toying with him, no more sincere than she was with all the other men she chatted up on a daily basis. Kimber made her living by flirting—she turned Hun's foes into his allies all with a wink, a wiggle, and a well-placed innuendo. She was well-suited for the job…
"Yer more'n just a rival ta me."
Amber golden eyes stared through the television screen as their owner grew more and more lost in his own thoughts.
"I'd hate it ta be one-sided."
He shook his head, scoffing. What good could it do to dwell on what happened? He screwed up, he understood that…he was so afraid Kimber would use him, then he turned around and used her instead. His throat tightened at the reminder, memories of their fight following close behind. He could still hear her furious shrieks as though they'd sounded that very morning—could still smell the salt of her tears like she was crying right in front of him.
"Don't ya get it, ya damn jerk?! I love ya!—I love ya, ya stoopid mawron!"
'Kimbuh,' he ruminated with no lack of regret. 'Ya gave me a chance—All I did was push ya away, but ya still didn't give up on me…ya deserve betta.' No, he corrected himself silently, she deserved better…no matter how he wished to deny it, Kimber was gone. She was his first—his first friend, his first crush, his first kiss, his first—first everything, he realized. Somehow he hadn't chased her off with his stellar personality…because she cared, she was gone.
Suddenly, the wrestling match he was supposedly watching didn't sound too appetizing; he felt like busting some skulls, or at the very least, a sand bag. Right as he reached for the remote a news broadcast interrupted the wrestling match. April was clearly worried by the news she bore, and that alone was enough to worry him.
"Last month, a known Purple Dragon escaped custody," she related soberly. "Norton Jackson, known by the nickname Northpaw, was to undergo trial for a long laundry list of crimes including capital murder, felony narcotics possession and distribution, and first-degree assault on an officer of the law." Raph started up in his chair.
"North's out?" he muttered in disbelief. "Don't dat just figyuh. Kimbuh turned'im an' Lefty in—he'll be lookin' fa payback."
"Thus far, Jackson has eluded recapture—he is to be considered armed and dangerous. His brother and partner, Leon Jackson or Lefty, is still in custody and is cooperating with authorities." As the report faded into a discussion of North's criminal record and the reward offered for information leading to his recapture, Raphael considered the news. He wasn't crazy about that Amber chick Donnie brought into the family, but she was stuck in Kimber's body…even if Northpaw somehow realized the difference he wouldn't hold back.
One thing was certain: Amber could be in danger, and he'd be damned if scum like North got the drop on her for lack of warning.
"'ey, Lady." Amber startled, turning to acknowledge whoever just snuck up on her.
Her visit with Mercy and Daron over, she'd immediately headed to her usual bus station for the trip home…or, at least, close to the lair. This was routine for her, just more of the same; being approached by a rough-looking stranger wasn't part of that routine. Silently she took in his shaved head, blond-stubbled chin, stained black hoodie, spiked dog collar choker, and worn fingerless gloves. If she were to venture a guess, she'd say he looked like trouble. His pale blue eyes gave her a blatant once-over that made her skin crawl, then he grinned at her. "Ya gotta quartuh?" he asked simply. "I'm short on my fare an' fergot my wallet."
Amber hesitated, torn between her emotions and logic. Back in Willsdale, she'd never have thought twice about helping a stranger and would never have judged another by appearances; this, however, wasn't Willsdale. In New York City, that bleeding heart of hers could very well get her killed. Finally, she came to a decision…she didn't know the young man who'd approached her and he looked like trouble, but she would be damned before she withheld assistance out of fear. With a weak tilt of the lips, she dug through her pocket making a show of rummaging through the wadded tissues and other accumulated junk, finally emerging victorious with two dimes.
"Guess I'm short a nickel," she admitted quietly. "You're welcome to this, though. Good luck." Without waiting for his response she continued on her way, listening at every step for another close behind. By the time her bus arrived he was long gone and she wasn't worried anymore. Upon boarding, though, her worries returned; what were the odds that he needed the same bus she did? Despite the odds against it, the stranger she just evaded sat in the very back pretending not to notice her. Amber froze, scrambling for an out. Finally, she turned to the driver with a cringe.
"This bus goes downtown, right?" she asked with feigned embarrassment. "I need'a get to Broadway." The pot-bellied driver scoffed, shook his head, and jabbed a meaty finger at the mind-numbing mess of numbers, lines, and codes pinned by the door.
"Goin' uptown," he reminded. "Ya need'a get the next one if ya goin' downtown, Kid." Thanking him and apologizing for delaying the bus, Amber retreated out the door again. Instead of waiting for the next bus as planned, though, she disappeared into the oncoming crowd to find another station nearby. Sure enough, the bald punk vacated the bus as well and irritably scanned the crowd for her.
Perhaps, she decided as she ducked into a busy store to wait him out, it was time to re-think her routines. It wouldn't do to lead the Purple Dragons right to the Lair.
The Lair
Date: 04.10.2016
Time: 14:35:01.
Subject is still exhibiting conflicting behaviors and reactions. No improvement in night terrors—no improvement in intrusive memories—no improvement in flashbacks. 22.1% increase in frequency of panic attacks. 31% increase in depression and instances of numbness. 18% increase in instances of dissociation. 9.2% increase in alcohol consumption and 57% increase in caffeine consumption.
Donatello paused in his writing, thinking carefully about an incident from earlier that morning.
Upon being alerted that her consumption of alcohol and caffeine has increased, subject became irate and snappish. Subject was reminded that increased alcohol and tobacco intake are to be avoided during PTSD treatment due to risk of addiction; self has since decided she's in denial.
He flinched, read over the sentence again, then scratched part of it out and amended, decided to only interfere again if alcohol intake increases to +25%.
"Hey, you!" Amber's sudden greeting from the doorway startled him; just in time, he shoved the steno pad under a pile of blueprints scattered across the desk.
"Hey, yourself," he retorted weakly; just as he expected, she smiled and blushed somewhat at him using her phrase. Finally sure she wasn't unwelcome, she bustled through the doorway, settled into a spare chair, and tossed a bag of dried herbs onto his desk. "If that's illegal," he warned, "it's getting flushed." His answer came as a snort of laughter.
"It's legal, Dee," she chuckled peeling the plastic zipper open; a familiar fragrance wafted toward him and he silently identified the origins. Oregano, basil, rosemary, savory, and thyme. "Homegrown Italian seasonings blend—all't's missin's Sage an' Marjoram. Mercy sends her regards, an' wants to know how it turns out."
For a time, the two friends engaged in slightly tense small talk, both studying the others' reactions curiously and both perplexed by the other's odd behavior. Finally, Amber gave up on expecting Donatello to loosen up. "I think someone might'a been followin' me earlier today," she admitted softly. "It could be nothing, but I took a different route home just in case."
"Following you?" Donatello repeated his brow pinching in concern. "Why would you think that?" Amber obediently related the occurrence.
"He followed me off the bus," she finished up. "I slipped away an' waited'im out—fine'ly gave up on me after a'most an hour." Donnie leaned back in his desk chair, scrutinizing her.
"You really need to be more careful, Braids," he scolded gently. "This isn't Smalltown, USA...they call New York the Jungle for a reason."
"A reason that has absolutely nothin' to do with the novel, I'm sure." He finally quirked a smile, but Amber worried; a month ago, he'd have laughed no matter how stupid it sounded. She did have to admit it'd sounded better in her head; after all, The Jungle was set in Chicago, Illinois, not New York City.
"The point remains, it's dangerous to go around unarmed, here. Maybe we should work on some self-defense training…just in case." For a moment, Amber was too stunned to speak; once she was able to get words out again, they came out all wrong.
"Wait, back up," she demanded. "First off, since when do you do the whole 'royal we' thing? Secondly, are you insane?! Even if ninjitsu wasn't a closely guarded clan secret, can you seriously see me doing martial arts?—you've seen me trip over things that aren't even there! I'm short, overweight, an' slow, an' I can't keep balance worth a shite—an' ya wanna risk everyone's lives by arming me?!"
"Who said anything about martial arts?" he shot back. "I said self-defense—you can defend yourself without using martial arts or weapons." His eyes shot to the pile of blueprints; already he had another note to add to his log. Temper control decreasing; may be developing a concerning preoccupation with violence.
As he withdrew into himself again, Amber stared him down over the desk, concerned, confused, and conflicted. Perhaps she was overreacting, she considered with a sigh. It wouldn't be the first time, after all; ever since dying and waking up in Kimber's body, she seemed constantly itching for a fight. Dr. Morris reassured her it was simply a part of her post-traumatic stress, but that didn't make her feel any less awful when it happened. "Maybe you're right," she sighed weakly, tugging on one grey-streaked braid. "I should probably look into some mace at the least." She scanned the cluttered desktop but found the empty FSG vial nowhere to be seen. "The Freaky Space Glitter still a mystery, Dee?"
Caught off-guard he turned to stare wide-eyed, then cleared his throat and pulled the pile of blueprints closer…and shoved the steno pad deeper under the pile. "I've gotten sidetracked, actually," he admitted passing one of the pages to her. "Master says you're welcome until we know you can live above ground safely—and you won't be safe until Hun's given up on you or been dealt with." She winced at the phrase; another reaction mentally cataloged. "The Lab's getting cramped, and if Mercy ever comes by for a stay it'll be even more cramped. Not to mention the facilities—there're four shower stalls but only three commodes open for use. If someone so much as picks up a stomach bug—"
At that point, Amber felt ready to sink through the floor, a reaction that annoyed her to no end. Sex she could handle—profanity she could handle—the kind of kinky stuff that'd make even a hardened pervert blush, yup, she could handle it—but God forbid someone should start discussing less entertaining bodily functions. To disguise her ever-increasing discomfort, she glanced over the blueprint he'd handed her. Her eyes shot back up to his, wide with astonishment. "Where're all these extra rooms?" she asked suddenly, then realized she interrupted him. "Sorry—This's the Lair, but it's different—it shows rooms I've not found—there's even a whole'nother bathroom!"
"New York's got a lot of abandoned subway stations and platforms," he explained simply. "More often than not, they're just closed off and ignored—no one ever thinks to search them for occupants. It was easier to renovate this place than start from scratch." As he went about showing her all the work they'd done before they could call it home, Amber glanced meekly between the printout and his eyes, flustered at his physical closeness and emotional distance. "There's a second bathroom we never bothered fixing up—needs a lot of repairs before it'll be safe—then there's an old pantry off the dojo we use for storage, and a cistern we can't use—that's the inaccessible room between the Hashi and the Utility room and pantry."
He sank back in his chair and shook his head in annoyance. "This layout was pretty cramped with five occupants—add in you and Mercy, and it's gotten crowded."
Silence stretched between them for a time; finally, Amber broke it. "So…you're thinkin' 'bout expandin' the Lair? That's why you're not worried about the FSG?"
It took him a moment to catch up. "There're more important things going on," he reminded brusquely. "It's bizarre but it's not a danger, and as such, it's been tabled."
Donnie, Amber decided anxiously, was being very un-Donnie-like. He wasn't known for letting things drop—he'd worry at a problem or difficulty like a dog with a bone until he emerged victorious. He was being evasive, he was putting things off, he was keeping his distance from her, getting snappish, and spending most of his time away from her…all were strikingly out-of-character for him.
"Dee." Her address seemed to startle him out of his thoughts, but she stood and approached him anyway, hesitantly perching on the edge of his desk. Hazel eyes watched her warily but she soldiered onward. "Donnie, ya do know you can talk to me, right? I'm not always a lot'a help," she admitted, "but ya don't have to deal with stuff alone." The hard stare he gave her made her wince; was it something she said, she wondered?
"I could say the same thing, Amber O'Brien," he answered coolly. "You know you can talk to me; I've never given you any reason to distrust me, have I?"
"What?" She shook her head emphatically. "No, Dee, I do trust you—I do talk to you!" Donatello's shoulders tensed—his jaw clenched—his breathing evened out beyond natural patterns—Amber wasn't sure what caused it, but she knew without a doubt he was only a step from losing his cool.
"Do I look like an idiot?!" he snapped bolting out of his seat to pace the floor. "Do you really think I can't see what's going on?!"
"What?—No! You're brilliant, Donnie—I'd never think you were an idiot!" Pacing abandoned, he spun around to face her.
"Then why're you lying to me?!"
Though the air was silent and still, it seemed deafening. Aaron would have called it shell shock; perhaps he would have been right. Fighting to shake off her stunned disbelief, she slowly approached him, but for every step she took, he took another backward. "L…Lying?" she finally managed to croak. "How—how could you—say that?" A boulder formed in her throat, but she fought to get words out regardless. "I've never lied to you—never! Why would I?!"
"I don't know, O'Brien," he retorted coldly; there was that surname again, she noticed bitterly. In her previous life, it was a term of affection between herself and her two best friends - using the other person's last name was just their odd little way of expressing how much they cared - but in this life, from Donnie, it hurt. "Why would you?"
Against her will, she recalled the world she came from—a world where Donatello and his family were nothing more than a fairy tale she held dear. The day they met, she considered telling him just how she knew his family—considered spilling her guts on the first page just like a helpless heroine in a fanfiction—and decided against it. Now, she paid the price for that omission. Sharing that knowledge wouldn't help anything, now…she made her bed, she realized as her friend, her crush, her Donnie, stalked out of the lab without another word. She made the bed, now she had to lie in it.
…in that manner, she admitted to the noise in her brain, she was lying—lying to protect him from the horrors her world held for him. Torn between two longings—longing to protect him and longing to be loved by him—she sank wearily onto the cot. One tear turned into ten, and ten into twenty. Finally, she tucked her face into the musty pillow, remembering times when it was easier to count blessings than tears.
In the dark of his room, Donatello crouched tensely on his bed. Every now and then, he could hear a sniffle or choked, smothered sob through the walls of the Needle Room; every one wrenched his heart. Still, he refused to go to her.
Unlike his brothers, he was never a fighter by nature—he saw no point in needless violence and preferred a peaceful approach if at all possible. Because he was a pacifist, though, others often took his good nature for granted. Donnie won't fight back, they'd assume—he won't stick up for himself. All lies, of course…being a pacifist didn't make him a doormat. Every time, Amber would cry and he'd come running, but not this time—if anyone should come running, it was Amber—running to apologize for lying to him and confess what she was hiding!
The longer he sat in the dark, the longer he waited for her, the longer he became convinced beyond a shadow of a doubt that she was lying to him—hiding something. 'Amber,' he thought wearily. 'What're you hiding? What have you done?'
UP NEXT: shit hits the fan in The Smell of Blood and Salt
- 20
- 21
- 22
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A New Lease on Life