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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
- 23
- 24
- 25
Missed chapter fiasco is FIXED! I'm now uploading chapters to get this site up-to-date, average of a chapter or three a day. Check back frequently!
In order to progress, we must sometimes regress. Amber's got a lot of growing up to do, Folks, so please be patient while she finds herself. In the meantime, you can find plenty of warm-an'-fuzzies in Gallery of Memories; these one-shots (or at least most of...?) have been posted singly on AFF for easier choosing of which you'd rather read or skip. As for the main storyline, things will improve with time. Hope y'all enjoy and have a great day! This chapter dedicated to Cold, who agrees with Mercy...a world without Ozzy must be pointless.
Precautions: coarse language, some Scots, killer drama…that's pretty much it. The drama's gonna kill ya, folks…beware the drama.
Suggested Listening: Linkin Park "In Between," Sixx:A.M. "Give Me a Love"
23: The Truth Can Hurt
May 23rd, Monday, Morning
This world will never be what I expected
and if I don't belong
who would have guessed it? ♦
Amber stared down at the single line scribbled across the page before her, contemplating the verse she chose—yet another batch of borrowed words saying what she could never say herself, she admitted bitterly. People always said 'just spit it out'—as though sharing your deepest thoughts and feelings is like hacking up a blob of gunk clogging your throat. Perhaps, for most of the world, it was that easy, but for Amber, it was borderline impossible. Even before someone else was reading her journal, Amber found it hard to put anything down. Knowing everything she wrote would being read, studied, and dissected for any possible meaning terrified her; it was all she can do to not back out of the deal. Only one thing stopped her…
…she was always running, always hiding, always keeping people from getting close enough to see the parts of herself that others had never accepted. It was a fault from both her lives and one she'd always lived by. From the very beginning, she was different and different was not accepted, and over time she changed to fit the mold expected of her. Once, she admitted to Donatello that she wasn't even sure who she was anymore; after a lifetime of running, hiding, and pretending to be someone she wasn't, she'd lost track of herself entirely. He thought she meant since her death, but death had nothing to do with it.
'When did I become so…so fake?' she wondered bitterly. 'When did hiding my faults turn into hiding my entire personality?' She shook her head with a sigh. She wanted so badly to be accepted, to be understood, to become someone that others could enjoy being with, but was she ever the opposite to begin with?
…she was tired of it all. Perhaps this feud with Donatello was a wakeup call—an opportunity to find herself without losing his friendship if it turned out she wasn't someone he'd like…after all, you can't lose a friend you no longer have. Amber wanted to change and no matter how her heart cried out for her to run away, hide away, shelter her weaknesses and peculiarities behind familiar bad habits, by God she would change! It would take everything she had to weed out the masks and secrets, but if it was the last thing she'd do, she'd do just that.
Pen in hand, she struck out the previous attempt and bled her heart onto the page in a litany of borrowed words—the only words she could ever get right in either life.
Blurring and stirring the truth and the lies
so I don't know what's real and what's not.
Always confusing the thoughts in my head
so I can't trust myself anymore.
I can't keep going under! ♦♦
The first thing Raphael noticed was the door of the dojo standing ajar; the second was the racket blasting forth, a sound like fifteen caterwauling strays set to construction racket and electric guitar. Every now and then, a few words came through—Ma-ma-mama, don't stop, nah! and even more often, Bang yo heads! Mercy, it seemed, had bewildering opinions on what constituted 'good music.' Once Raph was able to get past the shock of the racket she was blasting, he realized her music wasn't the only thing rotten in the dojo.
Oblivious to his observation, the blonde pummeled the nearest sandbag with all she had—which, admittedly, was next to nothing. She was, after all, stuck in the body of a previously homeless addict, too skinny for her own good, and not bulking up very quickly. Bruises and abrasions littered her knuckles and arms but the sandbag hadn't even moved a single inch. Unaware she wasn't alone, her thoughts drifted back to memories of a life now gone.
"Oi, Blundie!" The sudden call at Mercy's back startled her, but the speaker's appearance was even more surprising—short and pudgy with frizzy rust-brown hair in pigtails and a bright, crooked grin that seemed all upper teeth. Mercy had seen the girl before—had been assigned to the same classes with her since Kindergarten—but neither had ever made any effort to make an acquaintance. After all, Mercy was shy and the other girl was hard to understand. "Kin I set'ere, mibbe?"•
"Who's askin'?" Mercy frowned down into her lunchbox, hoping the other wouldn't see how red her eyes were. Their class was on a field trip, after all, a day trip to a larger town's science museum—she was supposed to be having fun, not crying over bullies!
"Ah'm Amber O'Brine,"• the green-eyed second-grader answered thickly helping herself to the nearest empty chair regardless. "Dinnae mind those dolts nae mair, 'ey're coarsin' ya 'cause'ey're feart'a ya. 'ey cannae handle a girl wi' class, ya knuw?" •
While Mercy struggled to decipher what she heard, the group of kids at the nearest table—the rude brats from another school who'd teased Mercy relentlessly for wearing a dress on a field trip—started catcalling at the brunette and mocking her thick foreign burr. "Haw!" she shouted back, "stew it ya clarty toonsers! Yer all honkin'a smawg!"• Without missing a beat, she turned back to Mercy, offering her chubby hand with a bright smile. "Dingy tha dafties, 'ey need a kip. Friends?"•
"Like I' gotta choice?" Mercy mumbled still trying to figure out what Amber said.
Over the years, Amber and Mercy became thick as thieves, one learning how to fit in better and the other learning to shrug off bullies. Mercy couldn't remember the last time she heard her friend's voice as thickly burred as it had become since the big fight. Now, seeing her friend so troubled infuriated Mercy—tore her to pieces—but she'd always been the one protected, not doing the protecting. It was past time she returned the favor.
"Yer music sucks, ya know dat?" Raphael's sudden comment only inches behind her threw her off entirely; she missed the sandbag, the force of her last swing carrying her forward to the floor. Raph caught her by a belt loop, effortlessly hauling her back onto her feet. "Yer form's even worse."
"Yeah?!" she snapped angrily, catching her breath as he switched off the stereo. "Well, yer world sucks—No Quiet Riot, no Alice Cooper, no Metallica—y'all ain't even got Ozzy! What kinda shit world ain't got Ozzy?!" Not surprisingly, the band names made absolutely no sense to Raphael, who just stared at her blankly. Mercy heaved an exasperated sigh and slumped in defeat. "Metal Health?" she attempted to no avail. "Welcome to My Nightmare? Master'a Puppets?" She shook her head in utter dismay. "The Blizzard'a fuckin' Oz?! No! All ya got's fuckin' Quiet Riley! Y'all're savages!" Seemingly out of steam, she dropped to the floor and slumped over in exhaustion and despair.
"Ya done?" Raph deadpanned.
"Yeah," she grumbled, glaring at the floorboards, "yeah, I'm done, no need'a fork me."# As intent as she was on staring hatefully at the flooring, she never noticed a flash of reddish-brown streak across Raph's cheeks; surely she hadn't meant it to sound sexual, but experience made him wary of women using odd phrases. The last time he made that mistake, Kimber teased him relentlessly for thinking 'tube-steak' was expensive baloney.
"So." He cleared his throat to chase off the creak he felt building. "Ambuh tol' me somethin' crazy…said ya wanted ta join da Dragons fa recon." Denim blue eyes scowled up at him and she heaved herself to her feet, confronting the sandbag again.
"Y'ain't stoppin' me," she snapped putting everything she had—again, practically nothing—into making a dent in her opponent. Raph shouldered the bag aside and caught her balled, bruised fists in his own hands, applying just enough pressure to make his point. As much as she tried to hide it, he could see pain in her eyes and feel her tendons flinching in his grip; she was hurting herself.
"Who said anythin' 'bout stoppin' ya?" Her eyes slowly widened in disbelief; he eased his grip slightly. "Ya no match fer even a rookie, right now, Blondie, much less Hun an'is bookends. Yer untrained, yer weak, ya dunno da first thing 'bout fightin'—ya can't even throw a punch properly. If ya go out dere like dis, ya'll die, an' dat won't help ya friend any—end'a story."
"So I won't join as a fighter!" she snapped trying to yank her hands loose and failing miserably. "I'll pick up the job Kimber left—Hun's—"
"Don't even!" Raph barked. "Dat job got'er killed, an' she did have'ta fight! She sucked," he admitted with a grumble remembering the day he first met the blustering redhead, "but she was able ta fight when she had ta."
"If I ain't gotta choice, I'll manage."
"Dis ain't a zombie flick, Blondie." Raph stared her down willing the blustering blonde to accept the truth. "Ya ain't gonna suddenly turn badass just 'cuz yer getting' yer ass beat." He could see in her eyes that Mercy wanted nothing more than to fight him over it—to insist she wasn't completely hopeless—so he finally let her go, pushing her a safe distance from the punching bag. "Yer in ova ya head, Kid. Ya want proof? Watch." With a single blow, he sent the bag flying, only to cringe as the chain anchoring it to the rafters snapped. The dojo echoed long after the bag crashed to the ground, split a weak seam, and skidded to a halt.
Raph face-palmed. He tried to show her she was weak, but all he proved was that he was stupid strong. The blonde stared wide-eyed at the bag slowly spilling sand onto the wooden floor. "Dayaaaam…" Mercy finally muttered. "Remind me to ne'er pick a fight with you again." The quip gave the hulking ninja an idea; it was all he could do to not smirk.
"No dice, Kid," he countered. "Ya gotta be tough ta take down Dragons—dey live ta fight an' dey train almos' as much as we do. If ya don't stand a chance against me, ya sure as Hell can't take down a Dragon." Denim blue eyes met his in an almost panic, drawing his smirk to the surface. "So here's da deal…If ya really wanna do somethin' dat stoopid—an' joinin' da Dragons is stoopid—I ain't gonna stop ya, but first, ya gotta beat me."
"In other words," Mercy scowled, "Hell's gotta freeze over." Damned if that didn't make his head inflate.
"Take it'er leave it," he grinned. "If ya leave it, ya neva got a chance—we'll find ya corpse under anutha bridge. If ya take it, I'll help ya out—give ya some trainin', help ya toughen up a little, da works." She wanted nothing more than to wipe the smug grin off of his face with her throbbing knuckles, especially for the 'bridge' comment; it wasn't her fault her body's previous occupant lived and died under a bridge! "So. Whaddaya say, Blondie?"
Mercy stood silently staring at the pulverized punching bag, hoping Raphael thought she was considering his offer. Instead, she was fighting an internal battle of her own—a now-endless war between years of conditioning and her ever-increasing attraction to the turtle before her. She wished she could have met him, or at least someone like him, in her previous life; she could bale hay and split wood with the best of them, then, and had more to offer him. Perhaps, she considered wistfully, he might even have stood up to her mother. Without a word, she stalked toward him, her nostrils flaring from his salty, musky scent.
He terrified her, but not for any reason he'd expect; perhaps she wouldn't be so afraid of love if someone could show her it didn't have to hurt. Instead of speaking her thoughts aloud, she snarked as so often before, "Like I gotta choice?" Bright hazel eyes narrowed at her, too-wide lips splitting in a lop-sided smirk.
"Not really," Raph teased. "Jus' figyud I'd offuh anyway." Before she could shoot off any of the sarcastic retorts on the tip of her tongue, an exasperated sigh sounded at the doorway.
"Really, Raph?" Donatello grumbled pinching the bridge of his snout. "I just fixed that bag…" Seeing an opportunity for payback, Mercy gave a too-innocent smile.
"Sorry, Donnie," she shrugged. "I think it called'im ugly."
"Nah," Raph shot back at her, "it called you tough—had to put da delusional thing out of its misery." Don stalked away throwing his hands up in disbelief, never seeing the litany insults Mercy's eyes threw at his grinning brother.
"Missy Bwee," whined the six-year-old redhead running toward her, "Kyle took'ed my cookies! Make'im give'em back!" After a good hour of nonstop troublemaking, Briallen May Hardy's smile seemed almost pasted on her face.
"Stacy," she pointed out with her best 'teacher' expression, "you have cookie crumbs on your shirt; Kyle doesn't and he looks pretty upset. Try again, and tell the truth this time." Stacy's little lip quivered, her big blue eyes darting between Bree and the little blond boy pouting in the corner. Bree crossed her arms, staring down at the squirming repeat offender without budging; she had absolutely no problem waiting for a child's conscience to kick in, and Stacy's would. Finally, the girl burst into tears and hiccups.
"I-I sa-wee-hee-hee!" she fairly wailed tackling Bree's legs and clinging like a monkey. "I took'ed 'is cookies—I sawee, I sawee-hee!" It was always hard to keep a smile hidden at that point, but Bree had plenty of practice.
"You know the drill, Stace," she reminded firmly, disengaging the child from her navy skirt. "Go apologize, then time-out." With tears streaking down her face, Stacy shuffled over to Kyle to sniffle an apology; right before Bree's eyes, Kyle socked Stacy in hers. As every time before, a fight erupted between the two children. "A'right, that's enough!" Bree scolded prying the troublemakers apart; a quick assessment revealed the only injuries were to their pride, so she walked them over to the time-out corner. "Fifteen minutes, both of you, and if I hear so much as a peep, I'm calling your parents!"
Bree got the two pouting children settled facing opposite sides of the room. Why couldn't they just admit they liked each other? Oh, right…cooties. She shook her head, her dangly earrings jingling with the movement; cooties always trumped common sense. Just as she was about to help the other care worker with snack-time cleanup, a familiar tune heavy with chimes and flute emitted from her skirt pocket startling her half out of her senses.
She knew that ringtone…that person never called her during work hours unless it was very urgent and even more important. With a sheepish apology to her already overworked coworker, she ducked out the door and hurried to the breakroom. "Hey, Leo," she mumbled in greeting, glancing nervously about the empty room for signs of eavesdroppers. "What's going on?"
"Not much," Leonardo answered evasively. She couldn't see it but he was pacing his room again; why did he always end up pacing when Beverly was on his mind?
Bree pulled her phone away from her ear, stared at it, checked her temperature with the back of her hand, visually swept the room for melting clocks, flying fish, man-eating houseplants, or any other signs she was dreaming, then put the phone to her ear again. "Not much?" she repeated dubiously. "I'm always knee-deep in munchkins at this time of day, and you called over not much?" She winced at a sudden thought. "Oh God—Mike's hurt isn't he? Tell me he's gonna be alright!"
Leo shook his head only to realize she couldn't hear his head rattle over the phone, then answered. "Nah, he's fine—probably off conquering Pandora or something.# I forgot you had kid practice today…sorry. Classes going well?"
"Yeah." Bree's big brown eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Something's bothering ya, so spit it out before I have Bev pry it out." She didn't have to see Leo to know he winced; Beverly had an uncanny knack for getting people to cooperate, but that knack was even stronger with Leo. 'Proof he likes her,' Bree thought with a smug grin, twining a loose brown curl around her fingers like a phone cord as she listened to him fidget on the other end of the line. "Spill it."
"How's…" Leo paused to clear the creak out of his voice. "How's she been? I…haven't heard from her lately."
"To be fair, you did tell her you were, and I quote, 'too busy for distractions.' Changed your mind, I take it?" Suddenly, someone yelled down the hallway for her. "Look, I gotta go. My shift ends just after sunset—walk me home and visit Bev or I swear, Leonardo, I'm gonna find whatever hole you hide in and crash the party, got it? Say hi to Mikey for me." Before he could get a word in edgewise, she hung up and hustled out to the hallway. "Coming, Dolores!" she hollered only to skid to a stop in the doorway of the playroom at the sight of two troublemakers all-out brawling on the floor. "Stacy, Kyle, time-out!"
8:30 pm, Brooklyn, The Hardy's Loft
The loft was dark and silent when Bree stumbled through the front door, exhausted from working the daycare after a long day of classes. Despite her threats, Leonardo hadn't walked her home though she could have sworn she saw a pair of gleaming white eyes watching from the rooftops a few times. After skipping the subway so he could accompany her, she was left traveling on foot…next time that bloody turtle showed his face, she decided grimly, she was going to lace his drinks with Metamucil again in retaliation.
Just inside the front door, she paused, staring at a closed door; no light shone from Beverly's bedroom, but she'd clearly already retired for the night. Normally the older woman spent at least an hour or two reading, crocheting, or binge-watching NCIS. 'In bed already, Bev?' Bree stared at her cousin's door, concerned and tempted to check on her cousin. 'What happened today?' Lost in thought she dropped her keys into the heavy art-glass bowl by the front door, cast off her backpack in the study corner off the parlor, and shuffled toward the bed calling her name.
Just over the threshold, a hand covered her mouth and a strong arm pulled her back against a hard chest. After a moment of fighting and muffled screeching, she realized that the arm was green. "Michelangelo!" she hissed once he uncovered her mouth. "You scared me to death! What's going on?" Finally, he released her and she whipped around to glare at him, only to find her lips otherwise occupied.
"Can't I just come by to say hi?" he teased once he finally pulled away. "It's been a week since I've seen ya—I missed ya, Babygirl." His excitement was contagious and melted away her irritation at him; she hadn't seen him in a week, either, and she'd definitely missed him. She tossed her purse aside then flopped onto her bed back-first with a melodramatic groan, brown eyes scrunched shut and one arm flung theatrically over them. The mattress dipped beside her a moment later and she looked up at the pair of orange-framed baby blues hovering over hers. "Rough day?" he asked with a grin.
"Ugh," she responded with all the intensity of a teenage drama queen, "with a capital G! Professor Robbins is still allergic to showering and I got to class so late the only spots left were downwind! Kid practice was even more hectic than usual—Kyle and Stacy are gonna have to be put in separate groups at this rate! Add that to mid-terms coming up and falling and busting my butt in Jackson Hall, today really blew chunks."
"Dang, Angelcakes…I just had to deal with Leo being a douche-canoe and Raph throwin' a turtle tantrum! Your day's way worse'n mine…you need some spoilin', huh?" Though she was beyond tired and had a long day tomorrow, Bree allowed him to roll her onto her stomach without complaint. She lived for these moments when she could convince herself she and Michelangelo were more than just friends—friends with benefits, granted—and that he loved her the way she loved him.
Her hyperactive lover cracked his knuckles behind her in preparation to rub the kinks out of her abused spine, well aware that the backrub would slowly spread from her back to her entire body. They'd both wind up naked and sated before the night was through, but when she awoke, he would be gone…
…Some things never changed, but how she wished they would!
Rigid and uncomfortable, Donnie perched on the very edge of the lab's cot—Amber's cot, he corrected himself with a scowl—staring off into space. Earlier that night he'd been unable to sleep and had wandered into the lab in pursuit of work, but found himself staring down the ever-present cot in the corner. Once simply a place to crash when he was too tired to make it back to his room, it was now as good as off-limits—saturated with the scent and pheromones of the woman who'd been sleeping there for months. Next thing he knew, he was curled up in the very center of that very cot, haunted by strange dreams.
Unfamiliar music echoed through the lab—smooth, bluesy dulcet chords accompanied by someone singing incredibly off-key. Donatello watched curiously as Amber swayed listlessly in the center of the cavernous room, lost in the music and oblivious to his presence. "Nights in white satin never reaching the end," she almost murmured in time with the strange tune, her rust-brown braids swinging in time with every step. "Letters I've written never meaning to send. Beauty I'd always missed with these eyes before. Just what the truth is—"
Suddenly, she noticed his presence; the change was instantaneous. Grey snaked through her hair and freckles faded from her skin. Her smile fell away, her eyes watered, and her lungs fell still. The smell of blood and salt filled the air, and an endless roll of thunder filled the silence. Before Don could even speak, Amber bolted into the yawning subway tunnels spidering from his doorway. "Tell me the truth!" he begged as she vanished into the labyrinthine underground. "Please—Amber, I have to know!"
The dream fell apart from there, interrupted by a panicked shriek triggered by a passing subway. Donatello had run to Amber just as he always did, only to find her in Mercy's arms, shaking in the blonde's skinny arms in the throes of a panic attack. Mercy's glare lacked fire but warned him away regardless. She was sick of the feud between them…and she wasn't the only one, either.
Almost half an hour later, Donnie hadn't moved from the lab's cot—Amber's cot, he corrected himself again—staring off into space. Her journal hung loosely in one hand, open to yet another entry from February. More borrowed words scrawled across the page left more questions than answers.
Just what the truth is I can't say anymore
'cause I love you…
Oh, how I love you! ♦♦♦

UP NEXT: every change starts with a few small steps in Plans and Promises

Glossary
• Oi, Blundie! Kin I set'ere, mebbe? – Hey, Blondie! Can I sit here, maybe?
• Ah'm Ahmber O'Brine. – I'm Amber O'Brien.
• Dinnae mind those dolts nae mair. – Don't mind those idiots anymore.
• 'ey're coarsin' ya 'cause'ey're feart'a ya. – They're bullying you because they're afraid of you.
• 'ey cannae handle a girl wi' class, ya knuw? – They can't handle a girl with class, ya know?
• Haw! Stew it, ya clarty toonsers! – Hey! (shut up) you (filthy/ill-mannered) (city slickers!)
• Yer all honkin'a smawg! – Y'all reek of smog!
• Dingy tha dafties, 'ey need a kip. – Forget those idiots, they need a nap.
Borrowed words:
♦ Three Days Grace "Never Too Late"
♦♦ Evanescence "Going Under"
♦♦♦ The Moody Blues "Nights in White Satin"
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A New Lease on Life