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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
- 32
- 33
- 34
AFF readers: by this point, you're over halfway through Part II of "A New Lease on Life" AND over halfway through the posted portion of the story. (We're up to chapter 60 elsewhere.) The good news is as I'm uploading here, I'm making some corrections and elaborating a bit on certain scenes. These changes won't be applied to other sites' postings until THIS site is FULLY up-to-date and some (namely smuttier changes) aren't necessarily going to be applied to other sites due to content restrictions.
In the meantime, hearing from y'all and seeing the hit-count climb will keep me going. Hope you enjoy, hope to hear your thoughts, and hope y'all come back soon - NEXT CHAPTER has SMUT!
Suggested Listening: The Rasmus "Time to Burn," (Yeah, you totally didn't see THAT One coming) Lifehouse "Hanging by a Moment"

32: Bridges Burned and Tides Turned
July 2nd, 11 am, The Dojo
Amber wasn't sure where she went wrong. Perhaps she should have taken self-defense classes in her previous life. Perhaps she should have partaken of the extra-runny eggs at breakfast instead of skipping because food poisoning. Perhaps she should have done something more than stammer in disbelief when Donatello declared it was time for her to learn how to defend herself, or perhaps she didn't argue hard enough when Raphael insisted that Kimber wasn't a wimp so she wasn't either, if only because she was stuck in Kimber's body now. Wherever she went wrong, she wished she could go back and do the exact opposite. The result of that misstep, after all, was humiliating.
"Focus!" Donatello reminded sharply, as yet another practice dart bounced off the floor behind the practice dummy. She had yet to hit the burlap and sawdust contraption a single time. "If you don't focus, you won't hit it." Wherever she went wrong, she was in serious trouble, because that one little mistake led to Donnie trying to teach her how to defend herself…and her making an absolute arse of herself while Michelangelo and Mercy tittered from the sidelines. The smart-arses even brought popcorn to throw at her when she missed badly enough.
Supposedly there'd been an uptick in Purple Dragon activity in the areas surrounding the Lair and April's apartment building. As if that weren't bad enough, Raphael brought news from Lefty warning that Hun was sick of waiting for Kimber to surface and was pulling out all the stops. Not for the first time, Amber wondered just what sort of information her body's previous owner could have been trafficking to warrant such relentless pursuit. Also, not for the first time, she wished for just one chance to meet the crazed Jersey nutjob, if only to deck her. How dare she be such a badass?! How dare she give up the ghost when the woman now stuck in her corpse was entirely hopeless?!
"Fore!" Mikey called when the latest practice dart rebounded off the floor and nearly whacked Donatello in the face. Just in time the brainy turtle dodged and fixed a horrified stare on her.
"Like I could'a done that on purpose?!" Amber snapped indignantly at the implication. "If I can't hit the dummy, I sure as Hell can't hit the Donnie!" Don stared her down as though unsure whether or not to believe her. Before he even spoke, she knew just what he was going to say…and it ticked her off.
"Kimber could hold her own, Amber." Yep, there it was - that spastic muscle twitch above her eye co-occurring with a flood of wet heat in her nethers. How on earth did this turtle consistently manage to make her horny and irritable at the same time? "You're not in your own body anymore—you're living Kimber's life in Kimber's body. You're not bound by the limitations of your old body, remember? That goes beyond the permanent injuries and weakness you've mentioned—you should be able to access Kimber's skills, if only through muscle memory!" Amber shook her head vehemently, her twin braids snapping from the movement.
"I'd rather not root around in that burd's head too much," she protested. "God only knows the horrors I might see!"
"Yeah!" Mikey piped up too-innocently, "Raph's butt's pretty horrible, huh? Stuff of nightmares, rea—" In the space of a single breath, Amber snatched another practice dart from the pile beside her and hurled it at Mikey. He flung himself out of the way as a girly shriek ripped from his lungs. Donnie couldn't believe his eyes, but the dart's metal point was embedded right where Mikey's nads had been! The stunned genius turned slowly to Amber and found her just as shocked as he was.
Mercy cracked up. So many times in their previous lives, she'd seen the very same thing happen: Aaron would mouth off, Mercy would chuck some random harmless object at him, he'd duck, and Amber would follow suit without so much as thinking about it. Every time the brunette hit the desired body part—usually his head, shin, shoulder, or stomach—with unerring accuracy, and often without even realizing what part she wanted to hit until the missile connected. Their friendship had been…special, for sure.
...okay, they probably all needed therapy.
It was a chaotic scene that greeted Donnie's twin as he lumbered into the dojo: Mercy scarlet-faced, cackling, and curled up in a fetal position, Amber and Donnie stunned silent and pale, and Mikey freaking out and clutching both hands protectively over his crotch with his legs locked together around them. "Da fuck happened?" Raph demanded, but other than Mikey's unintelligible rapid-fire babbling—something about being neutered—no one seemed capable of speech. To make matters worse, Amber and Donatello exchanged an openly horrified stare, their eyes ultimately drawn to the practice dart embedded in the floor mere inches from a dark scuff mark. Golden eyes darted around the dojo for clues—an untouched practice dummy surrounded by fallen darts, another heap piled on the folding table beside Amber, the dart embedded in the floor, Mikey's blatant shielding of his already shielded groin, a new scuff along one edge of his carapace, almost as though he'd been sent skidding across…
"Yer tryin'a teach 'er ta throw knives?!" Raph demanded at a deafening volume. "Yer gonna kill someone! Kimbuh was a brawler, not a thrower—she couldn't hit da broad side of a barn!" Finally, Mercy seemed to get ahold of herself.
"Amber could," she fairly bragged. "Amber never missed unless she aimed!" The three brothers turned to gape at the brunette as one, and a dark blush exploded across her cheeks.
"Mercy," she mumbled burying her burning face in her palm, "please…shut up."
"But it's true!" the blonde insisted teasingly. "Sure, it was usually hedge-apples an' pillows, but ya always got Aaron right in the—" Amber cut her off with a sputtered protest and frantic cut gesture.
"If you aim, you miss," Donatello repeated thoughtfully, "but if you just react, you don't miss." She nodded weakly, her face still hot. "Curious…usually taunting your opponent makes them sloppy and frustrated…perhaps if your reflexes are tied to emotional outbursts rather than focus…" The sudden gleam in his eyes made the bottom drop out of Amber's stomach. "Raph?" Apparently, the hot-head arrived at the same conclusion at the same time. With a competitive sneer, he swaggered over to the makeshift target range and hoisted up the more battered dummy like a human shield.
"Woah-no," Amber stammered backing away. "Nononono! Nuh-uh, no' happenin'!"
"Ya 'fraid, Pipsqueak?" Raph taunted. "Ya bettuh be!" For a moment, Donnie saw conflict in her eyes—fear, doubt, hesitation—and he settled a steadying hand on the small of her back. Right before his eyes she calmed, steadied, and committed herself to giving it her best shot. "Quit flirtin' a'ready, ya make me sick!" The first few darts missed, but as Raph upped the antagonism, the distance between the missed darts and the dummy rapidly shrunk. Channeling his inner Mikey, Raph pulled out all the stops. "Yer Scotch sucks! Yer cookin' sucks! Hell, you suck, Wendy!"
That did it. Raph froze at the sound of the dart embedding in the burlap dummy, spot-on between its non-existent eyes. A slow, sinister grin spread across his face. Having finally hit paydirt, he threw himself into antagonizing her and bracing for every dart that sunk into his burlap and sawdust shield. "Where's da meat, Wendy?" Right over the heart. "Hey, Dor'thy wants 'er hair back!" Right in the gut. "Bet dose braids make good reins!" That dart sank right into the dummy's non-existent crotch; Donnie flinched violently. He never figured her for a berserker. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea…
Noon, Hun's Penthouse
Lefty Jackson wasn't the sort who'd hide from threats. Of course, anyone who survived tangling with Hun quickly learned to tuck tail and cower when he was on a rampage…and he was, indeed, on a helluva rampage.
When Lefty overheard his boss hurl some random piece of furniture across the already trashed parlor, he ducked into the vacant office to evade detection. At first it was merely an attempt to avoid getting his skinny ass handed to him—after all, anyone who crossed Hun's path right then was in for a world of hurt. As time went by and the din outside only worsened, though, the turncoat con decided to make the best of being trapped in the dark office. In the hopes that he might find something to help Kim—no, he reminded himself begrudgingly, she was Amber now, however the heck that happened—he skillfully picked the locks on Hun's desk and file cabinets and rummaged through them for answers.
Over an hour later, Hun stormed downstairs to pound on his newest recruits and Lefty was finally able to sneak out of the office. The moment his boots hit the pavement outside he bolted toward Kimber's storage locker, texting a certain annoying ninja mid-stride. Somehow he made it the whole way without winding up a hood ornament. By the time he made it to the storage locker, Raphael crouched inside with a skinny blonde, introducing her as 'Mercy.' If Lefty ever wondered if the burly ninja was his type—and everyone he ever met, he wondered if they were his type—the way he positioned himself between Mercy and the door shot that idea out of the water. Good thing Lefty wasn't into turtles because this one was clearly taken.
"I got news." Lefty yanked the shutter closed and bolted it in place. "It's not a lot, but more'n we had."
"Well spit it out," Raph grumbled. "It's daylight—I ain't s'posed ta be out 'ere." At first, Lefty was about to ask why he was out in the first place; then it registered that both were looking rather rugged, the blonde wearing dirt-stained cutoffs and a frayed tank top with a pair of floppy gardening gloves hanging out of one pocket. Interesting…maybe the turtle-twerps were burying someone in the park. What do you bet he wasn't lucky enough for it to be Hun? Lefty dragged his hand across the stubble on his scalp, shaky from nerves.
"Kim got inta some deep shit," the con admitted with a shaky cringe. "Dere's some papers missin' from da penthouse—da whole file cabinet's been ransacked an' dere's an empty file at da back. She must'a picked da lock on da cabinet an' stolen da papers, prob'ly fer lev'rage 'er somethin." Steel blue eyes darted around the room nervously, then reluctantly met Raph's. "I dunno fer sure what dat file had in it, but it ain't nothin' good."
"Ya dunno fer sure," Raph repeated lowly, "but ya got an idea, don'cha?" Lefty nodded, cringing.
"Da file was labeled sources." Mercy blinked in confusion.
"We've thought da Dragons had moles in da police force fer a while." The red-clad ninja lunged to his feet with a snarl and began to pace. "If Kimbuh stole proof'a dat ta turn 'em in an' take out Hun's dirty cops, it'd be harder ta get 'is guys out'a jail. Dependin' on how many pockets he's been linin', dat could be a major blow ta da Dragons." He gnawed his toothpick restlessly, recalling Kimber's last words—a plea for help in taking down the Purple Dragons. It would take more than turning in dirty cops to completely wipe out the gang, but it was certainly a start—enough of a head start that his brothers could have wiped up the rest. "Hun ain't gonna give up, is 'e?"
"Not a chance." Lefty scrubbed his grimy palm over his stubbled scalp again; the blonde hair growing in itched like crazy but scratching that itch would only make it worse. "He ain't gonna give up 'til Kimbuh's dead at 'is feet." The mutant across from him darted a glance over at his companion—hazel met blue, a sort of silent communication passing between them consisting solely of minor changes to the eyes, lips, brows, and shoulders. Finally, Mercy rolled her eyes and stalked toward a stack of plastic bins piled in one corner and set about rummaging through the nearest one. Sweaters and jeans went flying left and right in her search for some unknown item.
"If he ain't gonna give up," Raph repeated gruffly, "den neither are we. Ya with us, Punk?" Lefty sneered, finally looking the part of a Purple Dragon maniac.
"Wouldn't miss it fer da world, Hawtstuff—ya kin count me in fer da lawng hawl."
10 pm, the Lair
Night was well underway in New York, but Donatello couldn't sleep. Fighting to calm the never-ending torrent of thoughts and worries in his mind, he sat tensely at the small desk in his room, staring down at a thick file devoted to what he knew of Kimber Bryant.
After almost half an hour of target practice that afternoon, Raph finally ran out of insults and Amber ran out of anger. Donatello and Amber soon had the dojo to themselves; Raph and Mercy took off for their own training, and Mikey ran for the hills the first time she nailed the mannequin below the belt. With the army of fallen darts cleaned up and the mutilated dummy set aside for repairs, they faced off across the softer of the sparring mats, both armed with wooden practice knives.
They'd had a remarkable breakthrough with the throwing darts and it seemed she would be able to progress with that rather quickly, but no such luck with hand-to-hand combat. Amber simply couldn't keep a good grip on her weapon. Despite Kimber's proficiency with knife-fighting, the brunette simply couldn't pick it up. She repeatedly tripped over her feet – and his – while trying to dodge. She put too much force behind her offensive maneuvers and as a result left herself vulnerable to even the simplest of evasions. She couldn't keep her head in the game, and for whatever reason, she simply couldn't make herself follow through with her admittedly weak attacks.
Just when he started to wonder if the lost woman had a chance, Donnie thought with a sigh, she gave him yet more reasons to worry about her. His head told him she should be able to pick this up, that Kimber's body should still remember how to fight even with Kimber no longer in it; his heart, however, knew that Amber and Kimber were different people with different personalities, strengths, and weaknesses. With every passing moment, he was given yet more reason to question how much of a person is dependent on their physical body, and how much is based on their non-physical traits.
Footsteps approached his doorway, hesitating just outside before continuing onward. Donnie glanced hopefully over at his alarm clock; the weary hazel dimmed at finding the hour past ten. As every night before, Amber clearly went to bed in her small cramped stall in the barracks. Even though she knew for certain that she could avoid night time disturbances by sleeping in his room, she stubbornly insisted on sleeping alone, waking up screaming, then crawling into his bed at the crack of dawn with her proverbial tail between her legs.
It didn't bear thinking about, though…no amount of wishing and wondering could change what was or what would be. All he could do was wait for her to realize her error and not rub her nose in it when she did, tempting though it was. Resigning himself to another long night trying and failing to fall asleep while waiting for her to come to him, Donatello collected his empty coffee mug from the edge of the desk and slouched out the door to the kitchen. Perhaps, he considered silently, some of Master Splinter's sedative tea would help take the edge off.
As he went about measuring ground herbs into a metal strainer, hushed voices drifted in from the common area. With the kettle on to boil, he padded barefoot toward the source of the discussion.
"—you wouldn't approve." The genius halted just before the fork in the hallway, startled at the words that finally became clear. Soft flickering candlelight glowed from Master Splinter's open doorway and the pungent perfume of incense hung heavy in the air. "I understand, Sir…I just…"
"My sons are no longer children, Miss O'Brien," Splinter reminded without censure. "My approval is no longer necessary for their happiness…some things a parent must simply learn to live with." A long silence stretched between them as Don listened frantically for any denial on either end. "Why do you say I would not approve?" Amber faltered.
"Why would you approve?" she asked softly. "We aren't—that is—Donnie and I…are…"
"You needn't connect the dots for me, Child—what's that they say, I am old, not dead?" In almost perfect unison, Donnie choked on his own breath and Amber choked on what smelled like a cup of the very same tea he was brewng. "You may feel that the situation is dreadfully complicated and messy," Splinter pointed out while Amber hacked up a lung, "but those who are not nose-deep in it can often see otherwise—this is just such an occasion." The aged rat paused for a sip of his own tea, then gave a sigh. "My sons do not have the luxury of falling into the age-old traditions their human brethren would. I will never have grandchildren, they will never marry or have lives above ground. What sort of father would I be, then, to begrudge any of my sons the few blessings they can still obtain?"
"So…so you're…you approve?" Amber's voice trembled around the words, though the tea wasn't likely the reason. "You'll give your blessing?" A rustle of cloth whispered from the room—a clawed hand reaching out to pat Amber's shoulder, perhaps—and Splinter chuckled.
"I approve of love," he teased, "so long as that love is not practiced recklessly…or where I will be forced to witness it." Amber choked again and as so many times before, commenced beating her chest to clear her throat. She certainly had a talent for knowing exactly when not to take a sip of something…and doing so anyway. "Choked up, are we? It's truly nothing so serious, Dear."
"Sir." Her voice, when she could speak again, was raspy from the valerian and chamomile she'd inhaled. "I beg to differ. Anything regarding your family—our family—is something I'll take seriously. Thank you." Splinter hemmed in thought.
"Sir," he echoed airily. "Now that is something I do not approve of. My name is not Sir, but I am not your Master. How could we work through this conundrum?" The corners of Donnie's lips twitched upward at his father's teasing tone. Finally, the oblivious brunette realized where he was leading her.
"Umm…D…Dad…?" The hesitantly-applied title coming out awkwardly, the a coming out as more of an elongated ah. "I never called my own father that—he was my Dah, jus' like Mum's father was my Gran'Dah. If…if you're okay with it…" The eavesdropping genius didn't stick around to hear his father's answer; he knew without a doubt that the old rat was likely pleased as punch underneath all the feigned stoicism.
Shortly afterward, tea in hand, he returned to his bedroom to scour the file on—er—try to sleep. No sooner had he cracked open the file again, though, a soft tapping sounded at his door. "It's open," he called out in greeting. When the door closed again he turned to greet his company, but fell silent, his eyes wide in disbelief. Amber stood scuffing her feet in the doorway, still clad in her day clothes, and bearing a pair of grocery bags loaded with what looked to be some clothes and personal items. What? When it became clear he wasn't going to break the silence, Amber soldiered on ahead.
"I'm tired," she explained simply. "You're tired. We both sleep better when I'm not being a stubborn-arse. Mind if we just cut the crap an' skip the walk'a shame?" She gave a sheepish smile. "Your call."
For a while, all he could do was stare at her, struggling to comprehend what was happening. From the very day they met, Amber had spent more time pushing him away and retreating into herself than letting him in and sharing her vulnerable sides. That behavior, coupled with Mercy's warning and his resulting suspicion wound up leading them to blow up all over each other and grow farther and farther apart. Now, half a year after Amber burst into his life like the very storms she feared, she stood in his doorway armed with a bag of belongings and laid her heart bare for his acceptance or rejection.
How the tides had turned.
Amber faltered in the tense silence filling the room, reaching up to fidget with the end of her braided hair. Crap, she asked for an answer, didn't she? With a wry smile, Donnie scooted back from the desk and patted his right knee. "Well, come on," he teased when she hesitated. Finally, she found what she was looking for, whether in his eyes, his expression, or his posture; she bolted across the narrow room dropping her bags at the door. Before her feet could fail her, he swept her up onto his knee, wrapped her in his arms, and nuzzled nose-first into her coconut scented hair. She always smelled so sweet...coconut really wasn't so bad after all.
"Honestly?" he teased cupping her chin in his palm and brushing the pad of his thumb across her emerging blush. "I thought you'd never ask. Welcome home, Braids…welcome home."

UP NEXT: some SMUT in "Lines"
~Burd – Scots/Scots slang for woman, girl, girlfriend, etc.
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A New Lease on Life