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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
- 38
- 39
- 40
Precautions for violence, gun-related violence, non-explicit gore, suicide, excessive cursing (because Northpaw) and a pretty graphic death scene that may trigger people. (not a CC, not major OC, but pretty brutal.) Someone's gonna die today, Folks, and it's not gonna be pretty. I honestly cried while writing it.
Suggested Listening: Sixx:A.M. "Prayers for the Damned – Acoustic Version," Good Charlotte "Ghost of You," Simple Plan "Untitled [Perfect]"
And a special theme for Lefty and Northpaw Jackson:
Nothing More "Go to War"

38: Resurgam
The stench of the city is never so strong as on a summer night. Fresh manure baking in a pasture—dripping rubbish fermenting in the sun—rotten, sulfurous exhaust belching from an abused vehicle—the sickening and pungent stench of old, ripe death on a highway—no matter how many horrible comparisons one makes, nothing can truly describe it…or block it out. The stench of the city filled Amber's lungs—lungs long-used to more pleasant scents like coffee, grease, and spices—choking her with its intensity. Loping alongside her, Daron Williams seemed oblivious to the smell, and lost in thought.
"Are we almost there?" she asked him softly, her brows knit in concern. His only answer was a grunt—though of agreement or dissent, she didn't know—and she again fell to studying their surroundings. Almost twenty minutes had gone by since they left the Lair—a bus ride and long walk later, they were further from home than she was comfortable with…and she didn't mean Willsdale. Willsdale wasn't home, not anymore—home was acceptance, coffee and spice, strong arms around her and a pair of shifting hazel eyes she could get lost in…
…who could ever have foreseen that Donatello would become more home to her than the town she was born in? "Why're we out here again?" she asked twisting a loose lock of scarlet-dyed hair around her fingers. "This doesn't feel right." There was nothing around anymore—nothing but flickering lamps, dirty warehouses, buckled parking lots, and endless rusting chain link. "The other's're prob'ly worried about us…" Around the latest corner turned, she froze—Daron led her down a blind alley?
"They should be worried." Oozing from the shadows like poison, the snide comment sent Amber's skin prickling. Terror filling her moss green eyes, she slowly turned to confront the speaker, a threatening mass stalking into the light of a buzzing streetlamp. Hun. Two identical shadows emerged, flanking him with matching leers—Lefty and Northpaw. The brunette backpedaled but found herself against a wall. Betrayed…Daron…he…?
"How could you?" she whimpered at Aaron Willis' sour-faced counterpart. "I—I trusted you—how could you—?!"
"It's simple, Kimbuh," Hun jeered as he snatched his younger brother by the scruff. Squirming and squawking in protest, the younger found himself once again jammed into Hun's rank armpit and noogied. Amber cringed despite herself; she could smell the goliath several feet away, and he was not a bed of roses. "Everyone's got their price, even this little runt." The last word marked Daron's freedom and he was sent sprawling on the asphalt. Amber's heart pounded. Desperate for some reason to disbelieve it, she stared over at the scrawny blond who brought her here. He wouldn't meet her eyes. Fists clenching, teeth gritting, face red with anger and shame, he stalked away toward the mouth of the alley. No…no, this can't…this can't be happening… "Hand ova the goods, Kimbuh…I know ya stole it, so hand it ova."
"I didn't—I wouldn't—I'm not—not—" The closer the blonde brute came, the more she wanted to run. Piggish black eyes pinned her in place. Rancid sweat and stale Axe burned her sinuses. She was in trouble—deep trouble—and no matter how she screamed, she knew it would do no good.
"Hun!" The sudden shriek tore everyone's attention toward the betrayer. A shot rang out in the darkness, followed by two more. Burning heat slashed Amber's bare shoulder and she cried out in pain—she fell back against the grimy bricks, sliding to the pavement. A bellow of rage filled the alley and a scuffle cut off any further concussions.
"Ya dumbass!" Lefty screeched at Daron as they scrabbled for control of the gun. "Dis wa'n't da plan!" A crack, a gut-wrenching scream, and the whistle of a quickly approaching object—pain bloomed in a too-familiar place on Amber's skull, though not as strong as the impact of the glass brick that killed her. The noise, the alley, and the world faded away into a sea of haze, all to the tune of a legion of ticking clocks. Just like that, the ticking stopped.
Silence.
Through the soupy haze, small flashes of detail bled through. A shout, a crash, the singing of blades and the cracking of wood on bone. Coffee and grease filled Amber's lungs overpowering the stench of blood and salt. A bright pinpoint of light shone in the darkness—calloused fingertips peeled back one eyelid after the other then sought out the juncture of her neck.
"Come on, Braids." The voice was familiar—foggy, but as familiar as her own name—Donatello. "Come on back—you're gonna be fine." The gentle words pulled her from the emptiness—drew her back into the burning light. "That's it—that's it, open your eyes now—that's my girl."
"D…Dee…" The name came out raspier than she expected, and her bleary eyes felt heavy. "Wha…uh?" All at once, it all came back to her—she jackknifed upward but quickly found herself wobbling, dizzy and dazed.
"Easy now," Donnie urged gently easing her back to lean on his knee again. "The others have it under control, you're safe."
"—but Daron—"
"—is a lousy shot," the genius cut off dryly. "He fired at Hun—one round grazed you and the second got Lefty in the leg. The third's lodged in Raph's right arm." A familiar guttural roar cut through the racket at the other end of the alley, followed by a sickening crack; Donnie winced. "Obviously he's thrilled."
"What hit me?" Her hand weakly raised, fingers seeking out the perplexing ache in her temple, but was halted by a cautious grip.
"Don't touch," he warned lacing their fingers. Why was his hand sticky? "Mikey knocked a chunk of brick loose on the way down. You're exhibiting signs of concussion."
"Was it at least a real brick this time?" she grumbled, "or was it another farkin' glass one?" She was quite fed up with getting hit in the head. In her previous life, she often went years at a time without so much as bumping her head on something—it helped being shorter than everything around her—but in this life, she seemed to whack herself on the noggin' at least weekly. Not to mention last night…She flushed at the memory, both at the crooked purple teeth marks still visible on her wrist and the massive goose egg left by the falling lamp. Meh. At least she got there first…didn't she…? Oh…oh Hell no! That lamp would die for its crimes! Her eyes were still as unfocused as her thoughts, but she could see more than before—patterns of muted green, dusky tan, and gleaming red. …wait…red? Her stomach turned—no wonder his hands felt sticky.
"Technically it was a fragment of concrete block."
"Dang it. I'll never get hit with a real brick." Sarcasm was better than vomiting.
A warning shout rang out behind him and he glanced back only swiftly to duck a stray shuriken. "Hey, watch the friendly fire!" he barked at the one responsible. "We've got wounded over here!" A shouted 'Sorry, Bruh!' was met with a scoff and shake of the head. "I should've known Daron wouldn't stick to the plan...this would've gone more smoothly if he had. Nice acting, by the way, I think ya fooled 'em…not that it matters now." Donnie shook himself out of his thoughts and released her hand to tug back her eyelids again. "Pupillary reflexes normalizing, dilation decreasing—a little bloodshot, granted, but that's to be expected—how's your head?"
"Splitting." The penlight clicked off again and Amber's eyes focused a little more. Blood stained his mask a deeper violet, a fine spray dotting his cheek and neck. Despite the grisly scene, her brilliant lover was smiling—that soft, warm tilt that always set her heart racing. …or was it racing because he was bloody? Surely he wasn't—was he hurt?
A sudden groan cut her off—close enough to make her skin crawl—and she craned her neck to find the source. "Wha—Hun?!" Yes, she realized in open shock, that blurry blob of black, blond, and red could only be the leader of the Purple Dragons. That was a lot of red… "What'd I miss?" With a weary sigh, Donatello commenced catching her up, all the while keeping her grounded with gentle, comforting caresses.
The turtles arrived right on time only to find absolute chaos. Lefty, upon seeing the plan blown and taking a bullet in the leg, charged Daron and wrestled away the revolver. Another shot was fired in the scuffle, and ironically, went through Hun's left thigh. Northpaw went into a rage at his twin's betrayal and joined the fray but almost immediately flung Daron aside. The twins fought—one mostly blocking and pleading North listen to reason, and the other intent on revenge. While Donatello tended to Amber's injuries, his three brothers took on Hun. Escaping notice for the moment and recovering the fumbled weapon, Daron fired the last two rounds at his brother's back at close-range.
Hun was out of the fight now, forced out by injuries that would have killed weaker sorts… Left knee crushed. Probable broken ribs. Concussion. Compound fracture in the left wrist. That one was especially entertaining to patch up; not much'll turn a body's stomach like a shard of broken bone punched through the skin. Three bullet wounds—one pass-through near the left femur just shy of the femoral artery, one graze on the right side of his skull, and one embedded dangerously close to, if not lodged in, his spine. At this point in the mental list, Donnie trailed off, shook his head bitterly, and fixed a weak glare on their longtime foe.
Hunter Williams was one of their toughest adversaries—he survived falls that would kill normal humans—he came back from deadly assaults with little more than a stagger and an unintelligible bellow. All those years they fought him and failed…and here he was taken out by a lump of lead. No matter the atrocities Hun committed, Donatello's gut churned when the other man realized he couldn't move his legs. Even if the bullet managed to miss his spinal cord, he still may never walk again.
Silence fell between the medic and his two patients. They were, after all, both patients, both in need of medical attention; Hun was their foe, but he was in no shape to hurt anyone. Amber's eyes were still a little blurry, but she saw the truth easily enough: Hun's injuries were treated just as hers were. "During times of military conflict," she murmured into Donnie's shoulder, "injuries are inevitable on both sides. Anyone bearing the sign of the Medic's cross is to be spared, protected, and even aided—immune so long as they never bear arms for anything but defense. In return, their duty is not only to their allies but to their enemies—they cannot choose who to treat and who to turn away." She met his eyes seriously, one fumbling hand cupping his jaw, and he clasped his own over it. "Life is life, and all life is sacred."
"He'd never do the same for us," Donnie admitted under his breath. "He's spent years trying to take us out. He tried having you killed, too—he could still try again—but I can't—" Her fingertips slipped free, drifting over to seal his lips. He didn't regret treating Hun's injuries, that much was certain. The day he and Amber met face-to-face, he knew she was a Purple Dragon but he didn't let it stop him from checking on her…or hoping she'd make a full recovery…or comforting her when everything came crashing down on her. How ironic that he could be so much more humane than many of the humans she knew…
"Life is sacred," she repeated solemnly, her mossy eyes proud. "The life of a snake has the same worth as the life of a swan, and neither should be taken for granted…except mosquitoes," she added teasingly, "Skeeters are just assholes." The mutant's eyes drifted back to the battered giant staring up at the sky in silence. He found it hard to smile at the moment. "Thank you for helping the snake—for being the better man. The rest of it's up to him now."
For an addict facing off against three mutants, Northpaw Jackson held his own ridiculously well…for a time, at least. All luck runs out, even his, and his luck did indeed run out. If not for Lefty's sudden interference—and emphatic insistence that Northpaw be spared, if only because they were brothers—he would likely have fought to the death. That much was certain, as certain as the tension filling the back of the police cruiser the cuffed twins were crammed into.
Hun was in the hospital; his prognosis wasn't good, but there was little doubt he'd survive. The twins weren't unscathed, either—though Northpaw was the more injured—and en-route there themselves. Most of the ride passed in silence. One brother ruminated on his betrayal of his only living family; the other bitterly considered the rift that had long grown between them.
"How long's dis been goin' on, Leon?" The sudden query startled Lefty. He couldn't recall the last time his twin used either of their real names; Norton Jackson was never fond of his given name and gleefully relinquished it the moment the first lines of ink were laid on his dominant arm.
"Whaddaya talkin' about, huh?" Lefty asked, bewildered.
"Ya know damn good'n well," North snapped back. "How long ya been workin' against me? When'd ya turn on me?!"
"Hey, pipe down back there!" The order came from the fair-haired officer up front, accompanied by a loud banging on the bulletproof divider.
"Blow me, Doughnut-Breath!" North barked at the officer and turned to scowl at his twin again. "Yer my brutha—my twin brutha! Why'd ya do dis?" The pierced con cringed, unable to meet the eyes a shade lighter than his own.
"It weren't easy, ya know," Lefty admitted softly. "I di'n't wanna—yer all I got left, huh!—but…yer sick, Nort', an' yer jus' gettin' sicker." Finally, he looked up, his eyes pleading. "Ya need help—ya gotta get clean, 'er it's jus' gonna get worse."
"We gone dat route before, Dumbass," North grumbled bitterly. "It di'n't work…I jus' couldn't hack it. Dere ain't no cure, not fer da likes 'a me."
"It ain't jus' da drugs," Lefty argued. "We joined when we was kids—jus' a pair 'a stupid kids! We ain't kids no more, we should'a got out years ago!" Up in the front seat, the blond officer exchanged a wary glance with his black-haired partner. Normally, they wouldn't let the two idiots jabber on like this, but in this case, they decided to butt out. Maybe the pierced con would be able to reach his obnoxious brother; maybe Northpaw would finally listen. If a little chatter in the back meant the scruffy cons would finally keep out of trouble, the officers were willing to turn a deaf ear this once, insults be damned. "I stayed in da Dragons cuz'a you, ya know," Lefty admitted. "I wanted out…but I gotcher back." He stared out the cruiser window, defeated. "I awlways gotcher back…I awlways did…" Northpaw watched him silently; the cruiser pulled to a stop at the ER entrance.
"A'right punks," the dark-haired officer groused as they hauled the twins out of the back. Too late, he realized Northpaw had been too quiet—the con was out of his cuffs. With a violent crack to the officer's jaw, North took off on foot, dodging traffic. With a wince of apology, Lefty, too, wriggled free and took off after his brother, working at the cuffs on the way. The officers radioed for backup as they took off in pursuit—the chief was not going to be happy with them!
Sweat poured down Northpaw's unshaven face—his lungs burned from the humid night air—everything around him was rendered a watery blur, but he would never admit why. All the while, his brother followed, hollering for him—stop, wait, don't run, we can still figure this out! It all sounded so tempting…but North knew the truth. He'd had too many second chances. There was no forgiveness…not for the likes of him.
Finally, exhausted, aching, and defeated, he came to a stop at the side of a lonely side street near the docks; bent double, clutching his knees and panting for painful breaths, he took stock of his surroundings. Steel blue eyes rolled every which way, noting familiar landmarks. Filthy, rundown tenements loomed overhead and the reek of the city was stronger than ever. He knew this place…they grew up here…why was he back here? Of all the places he could've run, why'd he run home? Staring at the street, recalling the years he spent there, he searched for answers in the rubbish-filled gutter, but found none. Lefty skidded to a halt at his twin's side. "Nort', whaddaya doin'?!" he demanded, clutching the stitch in his side. "Dey was gonna gitcha fixed up—yer hurt, ya psycho!"
"It's always been you 'er me, ain't it, Leon?" The bitter statement froze Lefty. Again, North used his real name…what was with that? "Ya can't stand dis life but I can't stand da one we left behind—dere ain't nothin' left fer me…it's a shit-show, but it's all I got." He turned to stare down his twin, a strange, indecipherable look in his watery blue eyes. For the first time in years, Lefty could see his brother in there—not the homicidal maniac with a penchant for narcotics, but the strong brother he always looked up to. "It's always been you 'er me, Bruh," he repeated even as Lefty shook his head in silent, horrified denial, "an' it's always gonna be dat way so long as we're both alive."
"Nort', no!" Lefty argued inching toward his brother. With every step Leon took toward him, Norton backed a step away. He stumbled at the curb, cringing at how it jolted his ribs; he was sure a couple of them were broken. "Nort', please, it ain't gotta be t'at way—we'll gitcha clean, we'll gitcha help—c'mon, Bruh, I gotcher back!" Norton scoffed but said nothing, instead glancing listlessly down the empty street. It was easy throwing his life away with amphetamines and crime…why was it so much harder to change? He couldn't change…and to be honest, he really didn't want to…and that, alone, would never give his only brother any peace. He gave a bitter, defeated laugh…there really was no other way, was there?
Arms raised in a grandiose gesture, his lips twisting into a maniacal grin, he took one final step backward. Time froze. A blare of a car horn—the squeal of tires—a sickening thud and grunt of pain. The cab swerved violently pulling over to the curb.
As the driver panicked in the front seat, Lefty stared in horror at the crumpled body on the asphalt. He couldn't stop it…he couldn't stop it when Truman dove in front of an oncoming car…and now, he couldn't stop his own brother from doing just the same. What good was he?! What was his worth if he couldn't protect those closest to him?! Cries and curses ripped from his lungs as he hauled Norton to the safety of the sidewalk, heedless of the wide scarlet trail in his wake. Even as he scrubbed blood off of his brother's skin and swept gravel out of the abrasions on his arms, Norton just stared at him as though seeing him for the first time in years.
Norton coughed—blood spattered Leon's shirt. The pierced brother froze. …no… Leon shook his head in weak denial. "You—" Norton rasped as the two officers skidded to a halt nearby, "er me—Leon…" He gave a bitter wheezing laugh. "Well…now's jus' you." Through the roar of blood rushing in his ears, Leon heard someone radio for an ambulance.
A feeble hand lifted, broken and bloodied knuckles offered in a familiar gesture; Leon grabbed it instead, crunching it in desperation. Norton didn't even flinch. "Y'awlways—awlways had—my back…now—ya ain't gotta." Leon froze. Right before his eyes, his brother's eyes dimmed, pupils swelling and swallowing the surrounding steel blue.
"Nort," Leon demanded—no response. "'ey, Nort, snap out'a it!" He shook his twin by the shoulder, frantic to earn a response. "Nort, c'mon, dis—dis ain't funny!" His eyes streamed down his cheeks, his throat clenching around every word. "C'mon, say somet'in!"
Someone in uniform reached the brothers and took a knee. He searched out Norton's pulse only to hang his head in defeat. It was too late…even if they could get his heart started again, his injuries were too great. As gently as with any other casualty, the paramedic brushed Norton's eyelids closed; in death, all were equal.
Amidst the stink and scum of the city, a broken man held his twin brother, sobbing into his bloody shirt, screaming profanities at the forces that separated them. They were twins—they'd been together from the moment of their conception, had gone through everything together—time and trial drove them apart, turned them into rivals, but dammit, they were brothers! Shouldn't they be inseparable?! Shouldn't they be together until the end?! This—THIS wasn't an end—THIS was unacceptable, it was unforgiveable! Still, even as he screamed himself hoarse, rocking in place and clutching the cooling body like a lifeline, Leon Jackson knew the truth…it was the end his brother chose, and nothing could ever change that.
Some stars will last for eons; others are never satisfied until they've gone down in a blaze of glory. There was no glory in this death.
The lock turned with a protesting screech. On the other side of the door, the apartment was silent, still, and dark. Daron scanned his home without emotion, recalling the last time he saw it. Nothing had been cleaned up or repaired since Northpaw's attack in May, save the replaced lock and security chain, and the place was still a disaster. Alone with his thoughts, he stumbled through the dark parlor, ducking the furniture scattered like rubbish. Memories played unchecked—memories of better times, calmer times, and the sly woman he'd loved like no other.
Kimber was dead—dead and gone—but for Daron, she never really left. Reminders of her were everywhere in that apartment. Photos on the wall…a hairclip rusted to the shower curtain…a tube of lipstick forgotten on the sink…a warped switchblade on her bedside table…Daron was surrounded by memories and ghosts, just as he had been since the day he discovered her fate. Somehow he made it to her room—the room he almost refused to offer Mercy.
Fumbling fingers caught up a cracked plastic picture frame from the dresser, bleary eyes studying the scene through tears. He still remembered that moment—remembered it with painful detail. Artfully messy hair cascaded over her shoulders and brow in spikes and loops of vivid yellow, orange, and crimson. Stooped over at the table and leaning on her crossed arms, her tattooed bust had been put on display perfectly; ever the voice of reason, Daron cropped most of it out despite her protests. As always, her saucy green eyes enticed, but he always saw beyond that—saw the vulnerability and pain she thought she'd buried.
Trembling fingertips brushed dust from the glass, remembering Kimber Bryant—his friend, his nemesis, the lover he never had. Her body still lived, but he found morbid comfort in contemplating a headstone for her nonexistent grave—rose granite, maybe, or something else obnoxiously colorful—a planter of wilting petunias placed teasingly beside it—she always hated petunias—an ostentatious metal vase could hold flowers she actually liked in life. Above one of her many favorite witticisms engraved in the stone, two dates would proclaim her existence to the world: born October 28th, 1991 - died January 25th, 2016. His eyes blurring, his lungs lurching, Daron traced the glass again. Her body still lived, but perhaps, at least, her soul could rest knowing that her death was avenged.
Choking back tears, Daron roughly slammed the frame back down on the dresser, snatched up the knife, and stalked back out to the parlor. Behind the sofa, he flicked the blade open and jammed it into the seam along the back. With precise, if rough, movements, he pried apart the seam, wrenching loose metal tacks and dropping them carelessly to the floor. He cast aside the flimsy knife and shoved his hand down the back of the sofa, fumbled around, then tugged out the hidden contents: a manila folder full to the brim. Without a backward glance he left the apartment he shared with Kimber; the ghosts and demons he lived with could wait a little longer.
A sour-faced blond stomped into the lobby of the NYPD Headquarters and chucked a large yellow envelope onto the reception desk. "You'll want to read that," Daron snapped at the nervous red-haired receptionist. "It's evidence—a list of people on the Purple Dragons' payroll." Safety protocol called for any and all packages to be thoroughly checked by security upon receipt, but this member of the force was new. Cynthia Devine paused to call for assistance then unwound the twine closure, tugged out the pile of printouts, and scanned the first few pages. With every line, her big blue eyes grew wider and more astounded. Some of the names on that list were familiar—very familiar—some she even recognized as fellow office staff and officers!
"Wh—Where did you get this?" the redhead asked shaking her permed head in disbelief. "This—"
"Ki—" Daron cut himself off—no, it still hurt too much to say her name. Instead, he tried another route. "My…my sister—she was a member of the gang. She stole that from Headquarters…" He couldn't meet the receptionist's eyes any longer. "Those're the originals. She went into hiding with copies, but she—she didn't make it."
"Your…sister…is gone?" the receptionist asked carefully. It was clear from his body language that this 'sister' wasn't really a sister; from the looks of it, she wondered if the woman was actually the man's former lover.
"Yes," Daron agreed without emphasis. "I don't know what happened to her…word on the street is she's dead, and knowing the Purple Dragons, I'm inclined to believe it." He paused to get himself together, dug his wallet, phone, and keys out of his pockets, and tossed them on the counter as well. "I'm also here to turn myself in," he added off-handedly. "I'm a hacker-for-hire and I'm pretty sure you've seen a bunch of my work." Again, he threw off the receptionist entirely; this man's behavior made no sense!
"You're…willingly surrendering to the law?" she asked dubiously, unable to stop herself from scanning him head to toe. He didn't stink of alcohol or tobacco, and she couldn't detect the scent of drugs or see any of the usual signs in his skin, eyes, or teeth. If not for his unusual behavior, she would think he was just an antisocial person whose conscience got the better of them. By the time she made it back up to his eyes, she found them staring her down, one blond eyebrow arched as if questioning her intelligence. A blush bloomed across her powdered cheeks as she turned to fuss with the intercom system; whatever he was, he certainly smelled good…
Daron blinked in confusion, for once, not even frowning; what just happened? Before he could demand answers, someone came huffing around the corner. "Explain, Devine." The receptionist startled at the barked demand and hupped-to.
"H-He's surrendering, Ma'am," she explained quickly with a confused—and somewhat frightened—smile. Daron smirked; she was afraid of the chief? "He says he's a hacker for hire." The immaculately groomed chief looked him up and down, her eyes unimpressed.
"Your name?"
"Daron Elijah Williams," he answered as his smirk fell away. "I operated under the name LethAlly_BlOnd." Cynthia let out a squeak of poorly-suppressed—and halfway-snorted—laughter; Chief Vincent stared Daron down in open distaste.
"You're kidding, right?" she demanded in a deadpan.
"Blame my sister," he grumbled in answer, "she picked it. I hacked to keep her safe and fed—she's gone now, I can't help her anymore, so I'm turning myself in. Take it or leave it." Chief Vincent studied the grouchy blond silently, biding her time and waiting for him to crack. She recognized his handle alright—the district had a laundry list of cases that went cold after defendants hired him for interference. The entirety of the Cyber Crimes unit was perpetually frothing at the mouth over being unable to catch the man they called "Blondie." Every time he struck again, Chief Vincent had to deal with whining and tantrums from supposedly grown adults.
Then in January, something changed—Blondie got sloppy, but not sloppy enough to be caught. A red flag warned of outside interference with the NYPD's organized crime affiliations database and several files were altered or deleted before anyone could successfully lock the intruder out. Over the next several weeks, many related files in various government databases were also attacked. Each time, any and all mention of a woman named Kimber Bryant were deleted, and all files regarding a girl named Kimberly Jane O'Bryan were drastically altered. At the time, it seemed almost as if he was intentionally leaving them a trail to follow—dropping digital breadcrumbs to lead them to the truth. The last anyone heard of the case, a forged death certificate was found suspiciously jammed into the wrong file in the NYPD's records…Kimber Bryant was alive and kicking as recently as January, but according to that paper, she died in the same accident that killed her mother and grandmother. Funny how no one at the hospital got the memo—their records were intact.
"You did it for her?" Vincent demanded shortly. "So you're ready to face the charges against you? You're ready to hand over your computer?" That did the trick. Daron flinched, the anger in his eyes changing to blatant horror. The chief smirked; hackers were so predictable when it came to their toys. Daron hesitated, gave a half-whine-half-groan as he searched for an out, then, scrunching his eyes shut and hanging his head, he nodded. God, that hurt. "Where do you work?" Daron's eyes shot open and he fixed a particularly sour lemon-sucking scowl on the chief.
"I don't anymore," he reminded sharply. "Hacking was my job—it's the only thing I've ever been good at!" Vincent looked him up and down again, sizing him up, then turned to find Cindy furtively watching the young man over her computer monitor. The thump of the Chief's hand impacting the desktop startled Cindy out of her admiration with a blush and squeak.
"Devine! Get Cyber Crimes down here," Vincent ordered shortly, getting a squeaked yes-ma'am in response. As the younger woman rushed to obey, the blonde gave Daron a sarcastic smirk. "I'll send an officer to pick up the evidence shortly. In the meantime, get ready to meet your co-workers." Daron winced at the reminder that he was losing his baby…then the rest hit him.
"Wait…what?" he demanded sharply. "Co-workers?! I'm surrendering! You're arresting me, right?!" This wasn't the plan—he let Kimber down, he let his friends down, he even let his own brother down—he paralyzed his own brother! How could he atone for all that if he just got a slap on the wrist?!
"You've been pissing off the entirety of the Cyber Crimes unit for nine years, Williams," Vincent answered in her usual terse, clipped tone. "You consistently managed to out-maneuver them. Trust me, you'll suffer more on the team than you would behind bars." Without a second glance, she turned to stalk away, leaving the blond sputtering and red in the face.
"I shot my brother!" The shrieked confession didn't have the desired effect; Vincent snorted.
"Not impressed." Just before the doors slid shut behind her, she tossed back a final sarcastic jab: "Welcome to Hell, Legally Bland."
A large dark void at the edge of time
When she first arrived in this strange place, the young woman didn't know what to think of it. There was nothing there—nothing but black emptiness as far as the eye could see—it was, and it wasn't, all at the same time, and all to the soundtrack of a legion of ticking clocks.
At first, she raged against the unfair situation. She screamed obscenities and threats to the void and cried bitterly when no one answered. She tore at hair that didn't exist—thrashed about with a body that didn't exist—snarled and scratched and swung at all the empty nothingness around her with lips and teeth, nails and limbs that didn't exist. She was alone in this vast dark emptiness—alone with maddening questions that had no answers.
She died—that much she knew—but how did she go from dead to lost in space? At first, she feared her memories would be taken from her—stolen away and replaced with madness—and she jealously guarded them with everything she had. She lost him—she lost the lover with hazel eyes in another world, another lifetime—but damned if she'd lose the memories of him too! As time went by and her memory remained clear, she relaxed her grip and ceased expecting it to be stolen away. Now she couldn't find it in herself to care about much; she griped and complained to all the ears not listening, contemplating a way out.
A pinprick of light bloomed in the distance—small and faint at first, like a distant dying star—it swept toward her, growing and brightening until it turned the entire void into a blinding nova of light. The clocks in the distance neared and grew louder, louder, and louder still—the light pulsed in time with them, humming in warning. The young woman cringed away from the light, fighting to block non-existent eyes with arms that weren't there. She demanded answers—cried for an explanation—and for the first time, a voice filled the void that wasn't hers—a feminine voice tinged with a noticeably grouchy whine.
"Please try not to screw up this time?" Before she could say a single word, the void exploded in a shower of light and the blare of a car horn. Darkness fell all around her, but the young woman could only despair. Finally, after an eternity in the void, she felt something…
Pain is proof you are still alive.
A soft, incessant beeping filled air rank from chlorine bleach—the whir of machinery hummed all around her. She fought to lift her heavy, salt-crusted eyelids. Bright lights overhead stabbed like a thousand knives, the pain echoed by a sudden increase in the pace and volume of the beeping nearby. After a few more false starts, finally, she got her eyes open and took in the sight of the popcorn ceiling overhead.
"I…" Her voice was raspy with disuse, but what shocked her most was the higher pitch; it sounded nothing like her voice! "I'm…alive?" Weary eyes drifted downward, seeking answers. Pale, weak arms that didn't look like hers—long weak legs that didn't look like hers—a lock of limp auburn hair fell in her eyes, also not hers—this body didn't look right at all! Looking around the room revealed even more wrongness. The last thing she remembered was that damnable black void; now she was tucked into a hospital bed, stuck full of a multitude of tubes and needles, and her entire body ached more than she'd ever thought it could. Pain…she was alive…no, it couldn't…she didn't… The beeping of the heart monitor quickened further—proof she still had a heart, even as it broke all over again.
"No!" she shrieked in a rage, tears streaking down her face at the unfair turn of fate. "No, t'is ain't what I wan'ed! I di'n't wanna second chance, dammit! Sen' me back!" Her voice cracked—rage turned to despair, scream to sob. "Please…please jus' sen' me back!"
An hour later, her pleas were still unmet and the irritating voice in the void still hadn't answered. Instead, a gangly nursing tech had heard her screams and called for assistance, and a sedative injection later, she found herself staring up at a giant of a man with sleek blond hair and beady black eyes. Though he looked distressingly familiar, his name tag identified him as Doctor Arnold Mason rather than Hun Williams. She didn't care—she wouldn't trust him as far as she could throw him, and from the looks of the arms she was now stuck with, she couldn't have budged him an inch.
"You gave us all quite a start, Miss Brent," Dr. Mason remarked with a charming smile that came across as smug. She scowled at him, bottle-green eyes daring and threatening. "Do you remember anything? Do you remember what happened?"
"Yeah," she scoffed bitterly, "I remembuh freezin' ta deat', ya mawron. Git away from me a'ready." Mason blinked in confusion. He shot a wary glance over at the equally stunned tech as though expecting to be let in on a poor joke; the younger man shrugged lanky shoulders, his dark eyes equally lost behind his coke bottle glasses.
"Do you know who you are?" the doctor asked the woman. "Do you know where you are?"
"Yeah, 'a course I know who I-yam," she snapped, annoyed by her suddenly higher-pitched voice and the gaping doctor and tech. "I'm Kimbuh Bryant! Fuck'f I know t'a when 'er where—t'at damn void screw't wit' my 'ead. T'is's bullshit, I di'n't wanna second chance, I tol 'em 'at!" Even as she grumbled into her cleavage—much less impressive cleavage than she once had and unmarred by tattoos—Dr. Mason and the tech spoke in hushed tones. Finally, the doctor collected a chart from the foot of the bed and approached her, his gait decidedly faltering with each step in favor of his left leg.
"You seem to be confused, Miss." His tone was full of sugar and condescension. "We have you listed as Barbara Marie Brent. You've been in a coma since the accident."
"Accident?" Kimber demanded sharply. "T'a hell're ya tawlkin' about? T'ere weren't no—"
"A vehicular accident, specifically," Mason cut her off as though she hadn't even spoken. "I'm sorry miss, your husband didn't make it—he was pronounced dead on site."
"Neva mind t'at ya got crappy bedside mayna," she argued vehemently, "I ain't no Bahbie Brent—I'm—"
"I think you need a moment to rest." Again he interrupted her—this guy had some nerve! "I'll be back shortly." Without even once looking back, he limped out the door, muttering about brain injuries, amnesia, and something called foreign accent syndrome. When his back vanished down the hallway, Kimber glanced over to the nervous tech. Well-groomed, pressed scrubs, thick glasses, nervous darting eyes, and he hadn't spoken a word to her—everything about him told her he was shy and thus easily manipulated.
"'e's a bit'a grouch, 'uh?" she remarked with a disarming smile. "Don't s'pose ya gotta newspaypuh 'er some'tin', do ya?" Sure enough, the tech blushed and avoided her eyes.
"N-No," he admitted softly, nervously glancing from her to the door and back again repeatedly. "B-but I m-m-might be able t-t-to get the n-news on the t-t-t-telev-vision." Ah. No wonder he hadn't spoken and looked shy…that was a helluva stutter…poor kid. Blushing up a storm, he inched over to her side to fiddle with the remote, setting it to a local news channel.
"Tragedy struck the small town of Willsdale, Missouri recently, in the form of two large-scale tornadic storms," the blonde reporter related solemnly. "The first tornado, registering as a category four on the Enhanced Fujita Scale, tore through rural Willsdale on the night of Friday, May the sixth; the second, registering as a high-end EF-5, carved an even wider path through the already battered town on Sunday, May fifteenth. Now, six days after this second disaster, the final name on the list of casualties has been finally released to the public. Amber Jean O'Brien, longtime local and night custodian at the local High School, was discovered dead in the school's library on Sunday afternoon. School officials have refused to comment, but a member of the staff anonymously confirmed that Miss O'Brien was at the school of her own accord rather than under orders."
A heart-rending cry startled the reporter, and she turned to seek out the source; the camera roughly turned to fix on a nearby cemetery and zoomed in on a crowd of people gathered around an open grave.
A short tubby woman with frizzy auburn hair fell to her knees in the mud, wailing and pleading for her companions to forgive her daughter—the ungodly daughter who died on her knees because she wouldn't live on them. Her husband drunkenly shouted at her to shut her damn mouth, and an older man, stout with grey-shot beard and hair, immediately tore into them both in a rough unfamiliar brogue. Another man - tall and thin with long white curls and a nervous face - hung back from the fray. His eyes drifted across the churchyard as if following some unseen entity wandering amongst the headstones, and repeatedly glanced at his companions for assurance they saw it, too. Every time, he was visibly disheartened by the answer.
Clearly sick of the drama, two younger attendants—a lovely svelte blonde in a grey sundress and a brawny young man who looked almost a clone of Daron Williams—spouted their own two cents at the deceased's mother and stormed off, pausing only to silently apologize to touch the headstone and apologize to the occupant of the grave.
Her eyes wide at the drama unfolding within shouting's distance, the news reporter awkwardly tugged at her pressed neckline and inched slowly to the side; a moment later, the grieving family was out of view, if not out of earshot. "Today," the reporter continued nervously, her voice significantly more shrill and her pink-painted lips twisted in an embarrassed cringe, "Willsdale's mayor Gerald Whitke had this to say about the state of his battered town." The camera cut out and the television screen cut to a portly man with thinning grey hair.
"Many are our dead," he professed solemnly amidst camera flashes and waving microphones. "Great are our losses, and even greater the obstacles we must overcome. May 6th and May 15th, 2011, shall live down in our city's history in infamy as days of tragedy and terror, but we will survive—we will recover and we will restore Willsdale. We are eternally grateful for the donations sent to us—donations of food, water, supplies, and relief funds—but we ask of you now, if you truly wish to help us—to help this wonderful, wholesome town—please pray for us, and remember us in two weeks."
May 21st…2011?! Kimber stared in disbelief, bottle green eyes wide and unblinking. The remote slipped uncontested from her slackened hand as she slumped back against the raised bed. She wasn't just given a new life…she was sent five years into the past!
"Well, I'm fuckin' screwed."

Only a few chapters left in Part II!
UP NEXT: life goes on in Unheard, Unknown, Unspoken

Resurgam: Latin, means "I shall rise again." Though the phrase is often used in reference to belief in the Rapture and souls rising from their graves, it's important to remember that "rise" can have many meanings. In this case: Daron will grow out of his immaturity and shortcomings. Northpaw rose above his own faults and failures and finally put his brother first (albeit in a seriously fucked-up way) and Lefty will work past his brother's and Truman's deaths. Amber and Donnie will continue to grow personally, and Amber and Mercy will in time rise above the fears and faults that have plagued them. Willsdale will recover from the tragedy it experienced. Several more characters will also in time rise above their weaknesses and their struggles, some obvious and some probably unexpected. A final example—and a more traditional one—Kimber has 'risen from the dead' and been given a new lease in a new life. TELL ME you didn't see that coming.
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A New Lease on Life