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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
- 55
- 56
- 57
WARNING: This chapter has a massive SHTF cliffhanger at the end which will be resolved with the next chapter. If you're cliffhanger sensitive, you might ought'a put off reading this one until the next one's out.
Honestly, I'll be pretty disappointed if no one leaves any angry-reader comments or 'how dare you?!' flames—it would mean I've failed to sufficiently twang y'all's heartstrings. That said, please don't kill me. I have kitties.
All Time Low "Old Scars / Future Hearts," Fireflight "Unbreakable," Survivor "Ever Since the World Began," Three Days Grace "Time of Dying"

55: Absolutes 4
The Dead Do Not Rise

Willsdale, Missouri, Aaron Willis' trailer
Day 3, evening
Dying sunlight filtered through the treetops, scattering patchy shadows across the half-dead yard. In the driveway, two women squared off – one tall and lean with immaculate makeup and neatly styled auburn hair, and one mid-height and curvy with suspicious grey-green eyes. "Kimber Bryant?" the shorter woman demanded of the taller, who nodded. "Glad you could make it. Come on in." Without another word, Amber ducked through the front door of Aaron's home, letting the screen door close behind her.
Kimber hesitated, clenching the pair of battered metal dog-tags dangling around her neck until her knuckles turned white. She turned back to her old run-down car—a relic too young to be a classic but too old to be anything but junk. She could still run... She remembered the mess she made of her life before checking out of it, and she remembered just as vividly the feeling of her own knife being held at her throat. Could she really trust these people? Could she really trust the woman who now lived her life? 'What choice have I got?' she asked herself and shook her head in aggravated disbelief. She stalked up the creaking wooden steps, through the screen door, and into a small, dark parlor that stank of cat litter and cheap cherry air freshener.
The front door shut with a bang; it took all the courage she possessed to keep from bolting like a spooked cat. Again, she snatched at the dog-tags, forcing herself to meet the eyes of the three others occupying the room. One person was familiar if only in passing—Raphael's twin Donatello, the lanky brains to Raph's brawn. The second was familiar as well, though not nearly as familiar as his counterpart—Aaron Willis, a rough and rugged local with a startling resemblance to Daron Williams. The last face was one she knew as surely as her own. After all, the face was her own, albeit with a new owner…an owner who shared the name she tried to disappear with.
"Kimberly Jane O'Bryan," Donatello greeted as she shifted on her feet, "or should I say, Barbara Marie Russel?" Even after two years, Kimber's birth name made her grimace and the name of her new used body made her throat catch.
"Don't call me that," she snapped stalking over to the sofa to make herself at home, "or I swear, I'll deck ya. It's Kimber or nothin." Aaron's eyes volleyed back and forth from the three people engaged in a tense standoff, completely lost.
"Is this national talk over the rube's head day?" he demanded. "Who's Barb Russel? Who's this? What's she gotta do with anythin' an' why's she here?" Amber rolled her eyes and turned to remind him, but a husky, smoggy voice beat her to it.
"Yer Willis, right?" Amber exchanged a concerned glance with Donnie over her shoulder. "Kimber Bryant. I'm from Donnie's world, dead an' brought back in a corpse like that one." The last was delivered with a sharp thumb-jab in Amber's direction. "Tat's my bawdy she's wearin', give or take a few pounds. She let it get skinny."
"You call this skinny?!" the other woman demanded, gesturing to her wide hips and full rear.
"I call it depressin'," Kimber retorted eyeing the brunette derisively. "Back when I was wearin' that, I had an ass that could kill an' the kinda hips a guy could really grab onto. How much pukin' did it take ya to lose 'em?" Amber sputtered in disbelief, struggling to formulate a reply. "So guess ya got my temper but not my smarts, huh?" Donnie latched onto the raging brunette before she could dive at the smug redhead.
"Ladies, please!" he protested even as his furious girlfriend seethed—seethed, fumed, and snarled, but made no move to approach her ill-mannered counterpart. "This isn't helping anything!"
"Actually, brain-trust," Kimber contradicted, her tone now surprisingly civil, "it helped jus' enough. If that was me, I'd'a been at my throat by now. Tha bawdy-snatcher's got a better head on 'er shoulders than I ever did." Amber stared back at Kimber, stunned; the redhead shrugged. "What? First time I ever approached ya I got a knife at my throat, can ya blame me fer bein' a lil' cawtious?"
"You followed me to the bathroom!" Amber refused to meet Donnie's horrified eyes. "From the first day I woke up in your life, I've been harassed, stalked, threatened, beaten, an' nearly killed by yer old pals!" She yanked at the modest neckline of her tee shirt, hissed in pain when she snagged a healing blister on her nails, and showed off a portion of the half-faded and mostly blistered tattoo. "Even now, people see this damned lizard an' wanna beat my arse just for wearin' it! Fer all I knew, you were gonna shank me or something!"
Aaron turned from one woman to the other and back again, then shook his head. "…I'll go order pizza," he mumbled and shuffled out of the room. Donnie gaped after him a moment, turned back to scrutinize the two counterparts trading glares over the coffee table, then came to the same conclusion: they needed some time to clear the air and having company might not help. The genius made his way over to Kimber and tugged her to her feet; amidst sputtered protests, he impersonally patted her down to check for weapons, then pocketed her can of mace and knockoff Swiss Army knife.
That done, he turned to repeat the process with Amber but found her voluntarily surrendering arms—or, rather, digging out all her hidden self-defense mechanisms and laying them out on the coffee table for him, all with a betrayed scowl. When she stopped, she smacked her sides, hips, then rear pockets to double check, then crossed her arms in defiance. He wasn't fooled. After dumping her assorted weaponry—a wallet of Donnie-exclusive throwing knives, a can of mace, and a rather dull utility pocket knife—into his cargo pockets, he held out one hand expectantly.
The recognition on her face melted into fear then into defiance—he wiggled his fingers, arching a chastising brow at her—she snorted in refusal. Finally, rolling his eyes at her, he bent down, snatched her by the ankle, and retrieved the final weapon from her boot sheath: the Buck knife she never went anywhere without. When he took his feet again, her scowl was well beyond betrayal and into threats of bodily harm. "Confiscated," he warned pointing the knife handle at her and swept into the kitchen with the women's loot.
"Dang," Kimber muttered staring at his retreating shell. "That one was my favorite."
It took the better part of an hour, but finally, the two counterparts were able to communicate with a somewhat civil tongue. Soon after, Donnie and then Aaron drifted back into the parlor armed with pizza and sodas, both watching the spectacle with a mix of morbid curiosity and trepidation. At first, Donnie pulled Amber onto his lap in the expectation he might have to restrain her; soon after, it became clear that the animosity was gone. Even without the threat of spontaneous violence, though, he felt more comfortable with her enfolded in his arms. It helped distract him from the facts that Kimber screwed his brother and that he was unable to save her life.
"To be honest, Kid," Kimber remarked to Amber after all the hashing out was through, "I'm surprised ya ain't after my head. I know what a shithole I made out'a that life, an' I know what a mess that left ya to wake up to." Now that her temper had cooled—or was it Kimber's temper?—Amber had no threats or biting accusations to hurl back.
"Takin' it out on you wouldn't do any good," Amber pointed out without emphasis. Why did so many people insist on calling her kid? She was in her thirties when she died! "We cleaned up your mess—Hun's never gonna walk again an' he's behind bars. Northpaw's dead. Lefty's locked up too, unfortunately…he insisted on taking the fall for Hun's injuries an' he won't see anyone who comes to visit. The Purple Dragons are officially disbanded, sans a few stragglers, an' the jack-wads on Hun's payroll have all been turned in. Daron Williams is in the clear, too, an' workin' off his hacking sentence with NYPD." Kimber nodded but said nothing. Amber hesitated, wary of overstepping. "Your death wasn't in vain, Kimber…we made sure of it. Everything you fought for, we finished."
For a time, Kimber seemed unsure of what to say; she held her silence tightly, staring a hole through her empty soda can and searching for something, anything. "Ya gotta prawmise me somethin'," she said when she finally found her tongue. "Keep an eye on Lef—Leon fer me…Nort' was a maniac, but he was also his brother—he was all Leon had, especially after Truman…" She trailed off, shook away the memory—a horrifically vivid memory of the night Truman stepped in front of a cab. The man she'd known as "Lefty" showed up on her doorstep still covered in his lover's blood, haunted, empty-eyed, and completely silent; when he finally spoke again, he couldn't stop crying. She shoved away the memory. "He's all alone, now," she reminded instead. "He needs ya more'n he'll admit…an' Daron's the same…he's prob'ly a mess."
"I promise," Amber replied softly, chancing a weak smile. "He an' Daron have been good to us, Mercy an' me, especially. We'll keep watchin' out for 'em." The other returned the smile, though hers was more sad than faint.
"Now that that's all that ironed out," Donnie started, "there's something that's been bothering me about the whole new life, new world bit. Amber, Mercy, and you all received second chances after death, and Mercy's told me a friend of hers has a relative who experienced the same."
Aaron grinned. "Don't tell me—her mother's father's sister's uncle had a puppy who came back as a goldfish?" The blond got a throw pillow to the face.
"Don't strain yerself, Willis," Amber snarked. "Mercy's workin' for a florist now, an' the owner's daughter has a cousin who got the same thing we did—he died an' someone else woke up in his body." Aaron grinned over at Donnie.
"See? Mother's father's sister's uncle." This time, he ducked the pillow thrown at him. "So yer lookin' fer similarities?" Hand poised to chuck something else at the smartass blond, Amber paused, considered his words, then lowered the empty soda can back to the table and looked to Donnie for confirmation. The mutant nodded. Amber thought it over.
"Well...Mercy an' I do remember some similar stuff—the smell of dust, ticking clocks, brightening an' dimming lights...oh, an' a creepy whirring sound…"
"I heard a voice sometimes," Kimber grumbled. "A really frickin' annoyin' one, always whinin' about somethin. —an' let's not forget that freaky empty void," she added in a grumble. "I must'a spent a year screamin' into tha darkness without any response—I di'n't want a second chance. Not only did they gimme one anyway, they stuck me in some bitch who was cheatin' on'er reserves husband wit' a married cab driver." The other three cringed, and Kimber shot Amber a scowl. "Next time ya feel like bitchin' over tha lizard in my cleavage, remember how bad cabbies can stink an' try not to feel too lucky."
"I take it those are her husband's tags?" Aaron asked eyeing the twin metal tags dangling just above Kimber's rack, then purposefully letting his eyes drift a little lower. "Why're ya wearin' 'em? Ya never knew'im."
"Two reasons." Kimber avoided his eyes, sure her cheeks were pinking underneath her powder. The blond resembled her childhood friend, Daron, to an extent that was disturbing, but already she could tell they had more in difference than in common. Daron would never have openly eyed her like that, and if he had, she probably would've busted his teeth in. Strangely she felt no urge to punch Aaron Willis…she wasn't sure what to make of that. "People expect a widow ta mourn, even if this one prob'ly wouldn't'a cared less; wearin' Jordan's tags makes people think twice about askin' me about 'im, an' since I hardly know a damn thing about'im, that's a lifesaver. That's only tha excuse, though."
She fidgeted, finding herself again drawn to clutch at the tags and rub her thumb over the worn embossed lettering. "I don't know if anyone else is gawnna get stuck in this body when I leave it…an' I don't know a damn thing about what anyone else might be dealin' with." Finally looking up again, defiantly, she held the tags aloft in a pointed gesture then let them fall again. "This reminds me ta be mindful—to fix all'a tha ways I used to screw up an' conquer all'a my old faults."
Amber winced, leaning into Donnie's shoulder for comfort. After all the time she spent cleaning up Kimber's messes, she never would have expected the other woman to have that much insight or that much heart. Clearly recognizing the brunette's reactions, Kimber sneered at her and lurched to her feet. "Ya may wear my face now, Scotty," she reminded Amber gruffly as she stalked to the front door, "but ya don't know jack shit about me an' ya never will. Stawp judgin' me an' staht cleanin' up yer own messes a'ready."
"We came here to tie off her loose ends," Donnie warned her, one hand gripping Amber's hip to steady her; she didn't seem to be upset, though, so maybe he was the one who needed steadying. "We came to make sure her family and friends are alright. You know nothing about Amber, either, Kimber, so don't judge her either. She's already made great progress in conquering her faults, and in less than a year; how long have you been here?"
Kimber halted, her fingers slipping away from the door handle. "Two years now," she admitted quietly. "That's two years I never wanted." If any of the three in the room had ever heard her speak before, they'd understand just how much progress she'd made in wiping the Jersey from her speech. Kimber didn't care much, though. She was tired of standing out; she was tired of all the eyes on her, and tired of wondering just what judgements hid behind those eyes.
Amber left Donnie's lap to approach her. "Maybe we could get you home for a couple days. If we could get me here for a few, surely—"
"NO." Kimber's answer, delivered in a sudden, harsh snap, made Amber step back a pace. Good, let her be afraid—being feare meant you were powerful, and being powerful meant you weren't helpless...Kimber was tired of being helpless. "I wasn't s'posed ta come here anyway," she reminded sourly. "Dead is dead, ya got that?! My bein' here goes against everythin' that makes sense in life!"
Breathe - just breathe - too many eyes watching her, too many ears listening and people judging - just breathe -
"But—"
"Dammit, I din't wanna come back!" Kimber burst out. Underneath the anger, however, something else came through…hurt, and even stronger, fear. "I din't want a second chance, not when I fucked up my first one! I ain't gawnna screw up t'a natural order'a things any more'n I a'ready have!" So much for changing her speech - the others stared even more now that she'd slipped. Even as Kimber struggled to control herself and staunch the burning in her eyes, Amber didn't back down; instead, she reached out, took the other by the shoulder, and uttered a single question.
"What about Raph?" That one question sucked all the hot air out of Kimber in one fell swoop. She turned away, opting to stare through the front windows rather than chance anyone else seeing her brimming eyes.
"What about 'im?" she whispered. "I'm dead...an' he didn't want me even when I was alive. T'at's—that's tha end of it."
"You might be surprised. He…he hasn't handled this well…he blames himself for your death." Kimber snorted but said nothing. "He knows the truth now, too…he knows you…loved him…" This time, Donnie urged Aaron to vacate the room, though they hovered in the kitchen eavesdropping.
"Love." The response confused Amber, and she asked for clarification. "I still love 'im, ya bleedin' heart. I never stawped lovin' 'im." The admission physically hurt; Kimber choked up. "Not that it makes a difference. I just wish…" Before something even sappier could sneak out, she steeled her nerves. "Ya said yer livin' wit' tha brothers, right?" she demanded, and Amber nodded. "Well…when ya get back, when ya see 'im again, just…I guess just…" She trailed off, torn between saying too much and saying too little, and between vulnerability and loneliness. A hand on her shoulder startled her back to herself.
"I'll tell him you're safe," Amber promised, "and that you're thinking about him and hope he's well." Unable to even speak, Kimber gingerly patted the hand on her shoulder with one of her own, then shrugged it off. Amber followed her out to her car, noting absently the stars peeking through the evening fog and gathering clouds.
"Are ya gawnna tell Bert—I mean Bart?"* Kimber's question caught her off-guard. "He—he took a big risk hirin' me…this gal wasn't qualified to clean up dog shit an' I ain't much better, but...I need this job…" She sighed, leaning on the cold hood of the car; Amber joined her, but she didn't argue. "Bitch-face wasted all 'er money on 'erself an 'er stanky cabbie, an' all'a Jordan's money was wiped out by hawspital bills…by tha time I was released, this ol' heap was all I had...everythin' I've got is in tha back." A sniffle broke through but neither acknowledged it. "I been livin' in tha—tha hotel outside town…most of what I'm makin' is goin' ta pay off tha homewrecker's debts. I ain't what I used ta be…I'm tryin'a straighten up, but…it's just…" She trailed off, unable to continue or take it all back.
Amber staring up at the night sky overhead. She knew how hard it could be to make it in a small town like Willsdale; she remembered struggling to make ends meet even with a decent job and fighting to pay off the monstrous medical bills intent on crippling her the rest of the way. Do we expect these things to change by wakin' up, an' suddenly, there they are? All I need's a starting place an' nothin' ever seemed so hard.♦ "It's hard," she admitted aloud when it became clear Kimber couldn't. "You put everything you can into doing things right, an' you fight to conquer your own weaknesses…then every now an' then, you find out ya haven't really made as much progress as you think…an' you wonder when you're going to screw up again."
Another choked sniffle snuck through the silence; shiny trails split Kimber's cheeks, running her makeup and gleaming in the moonlight. Her head bobbed a couple times in a weak nod, then the last time, it felt too heavy to life again. She felt weak. "I'm sahrry," Kimber blustered scrubbing her cheeks dry. "Apparently tha bitch I'm wearin' was a crier. That ain't me! I ain't a crybaby, I'm a hothead! I just can't get used ta this…"
After almost a year of living in Kimber's body, walking in Kimber's hoochie-boots, and seeing first-hand what Kimber's life was like, Amber was relatively sure she had a solid idea of who Kimber was. Kimber was rude, ill-mannered, obnoxious, and abrasive, and by all rights, was surely not the sort of person anyone would enjoy being with. Still, one thing made no sense…if she was so horrible, why did her friends consistently take her side? Why did Daron defend Kimber when Amber called her callous? Why did Lefty grieve and vow vengeance when he found out Kimber was dead? Why, if Kimber was so horrible, did Raphael tear himself apart, even now, and hold himself accountable for her death?
At that moment, Amber saw a little of herself in Kimber—she saw the heart behind the tattoo and the soul behind the snark—and she was speechless. If she was Mikey, Amber would probably have given his characteristic 'mind blown' gesture; because she was Amber, though, she offered a figurative olive branch. "I'm not gonna tell Uncle Bart," she promised quietly. "I have a feeling he already suspects it, though, so you may not need to tell him, either. He's…" She paused, searching her memory for adequate words and the heavens for familiar patterns. "He's always seen more than most people do," she settled for, "whether something we couldn't believe or couldn't understand. When he hired you, he did so because he knew you needed the job an' you could be trusted." ...or a 'fairy' told him to do so and he didn't question it. She still wasn't sure whether Bart was hallucinating all those years or just seeing things others couldn't.
"Ya sound so sure'a that," Kimber mumbled, refusing to meet her eyes.
"I am sure of it." Amber winced, scrunched her eyes shut, and reached up to clutch her forehead; all the stress of the day must have triggered a headache. "Listen, Hon, this town's not easy to make it in an' a lot of people can't hack it. Even so, a sickly kid who sees things, a crotchety immigrant most people can't understand, an' a half-crippled college dropout all made it in this town…an' if Uncle Bart, my Gran'da, an' I all made it..." She grinned at the surprised glance Kimber shot her. "...then so will you."
"…crippled?" was the only thing Kimber could get out.
"Apparently," Amber teased nudging the other in the side, "I got a wild hair an' jumped in front of a bus. Unless ya ask people who really know the story, though, they'll tell ya I was clipped by a drunken frat-boy in his mama's minivan." Kimber cracked a smile at the joke, although it was a weak one, and slid off the hood. "Talk to Bart," Amber urged following suit. "Tell' im yer livin' in Methlab Motel an' you need'a pick up extra hours to get out. He won't let ya down." Let her down? Please. The man would most likely clean all his junk out of the other half of his pub's loft an' insist on renting it to Kimber for peanuts. If Amber knew her family, they were sure to take the other woman under her wing; in a small town like Willsdale, a support circle was everything. At one time, the thought of Kimber and her family under the same roof would have horrified Amber; now, however, she saw it differently. If Bart Devon saw Kimber as worth his time, then she wasn't about to hurt their family.
After the two counterparts bid their goodbyes, Amber stood in the yard watching the dust trail from Kimber's car fade in the distance. Again, another twinge of pain lanced through her head; again she clutched the tender skin. Some aspirin was in order.
Day 4 – Not long before Dawn
By the time Donnie and Amber woke again, the night's rain was long gone, leaving only mud and fog in its wake. Perhaps because of how long Donnie kept her just on the verge of exploding last night while the rain pounded on the rooftop - the reason for which he never really explained to her - Amber's head was absolutely splitting. Even with that headache, she felt relieved—calm and full of hope.
Once the first pot of coffee was brewed and half-drunk, she gathered a few items together and led Donnie to the back porch. "Come walk with me?" she asked him. He hesitated, glancing back into the kitchen. Already he could feel the fog condensing on his skin in cold dew that slithered down his neck like an unwanted grope. And the coffee…they'd be leaving the coffee behind! Granted, it was lousy coffee, but still…
"I don't know," he admitted tugging at his neck and fighting the whine halfway to his lips. Coffee… "It's still dark and it's pretty marshy…we really need to start working on heading home anyway." She blinked at him, lost. "You only got a week off, remember? Your family's safe, Aaron's safe, and Kimber's not going to be a problem…why risk staying any longer? Wait…why are you smiling like that?" The soft smile was followed up by a chuckle; her smaller hand caught one of his and tugged him down the steps. With every step away from the coffee pot and comfortable kitchen, his heart broke a little more.
"It'll be fine," Amber promised leading him across the yard to the edge of the treeline. "One more day won't hurt." '…especially if I can get rid of this farkin' headache,' she added in her own head. "Dee, you've never hesitated to show me your world." She tossed a teasing grin back at the mutant trailing helplessly behind her. "Now, let me show you mine."
At first sight, the hill she led him up seemed just like any other hill in the area—just a tall, grass-strewn mound of rock and dirt looming over the fog-strewn hollers. The top, however, was nearly vacant of life—no trees, no shrubs, nothing but grass, weeds, and tall dolomite crags. Together, the odd couple lay out a tarp and old horse blanket and settled in to watch the horizon, one listening with half an ear and the other telling him everything she could about the world she called home. Little by little, the sun rose, gleaming pale through the fog; moment by moment, the world below them came to life. By the time bright morning light painted the treetops and burned through the haze, the couple on the bald knob were silent, their words and breath stolen by the sight before them.
"I've seen this before." Donnie's words, delivered in an awed half-whisper, were never meant to pass his lips; even so, they were true—as true as the birdsong awakening all around them, and as true as the cool solidity of the stone beneath them. He scanned the world below, searching for something he couldn't name, and found it straight east, just beyond the far edge of the locust grove bordering Aaron's land. A…a pile of rubble? No, that couldn't be right…it was… "That's where your house was, isn't it?" He gestured to the ruin half-taken over by the surrounding land. "You had roses...roses and…dead grass?" That made even less sense, but he remembered in great detail the crunchy brown turf set off by lush rosebushes.
Amber was already stunned that he correctly pegged her old home turf without any hints. To hear the rest—a reminder that the only flowers she ever managed to grow were roses and her yard was chronically neglected—sent her blood cold. She glanced off in the direction he stared; she couldn't see any roses remaining and the whole area was already becoming overrun by locust saplings and weeds. "Aaron told you?" she attempted, but the genius shook his head, visibly frustrated and reaching for something he couldn't quite see.
He knew what he remembered—he remembered seeing that very view, countless times in countless dreams. He remembered teasing Amber about her perpetually dead yard and fooling himself he could smell her roses a mile away. So many dreams happened here, on this very hill. Childhood games of hide-and-seek amongst the craggy rock formations…lazy summer afternoons sunning themselves on the grass…rainy days stretched out on that same old crazy quilt, bare to the sky and tangled beyond hope…he knew this place.
"So no one told you," Amber summed up startling Donnie from his thoughts. "You must've figured it out on your own—yer bright like that." She cast a wary smile at him. "Course, yer also talkin' to a dead gal. Stranger things have happened, right?" She sobered. "The school's been rebuilt," she admitted. "Aaron's takin' me by later to see it…I'm afraid of what I'll find, but I've gotta go…I just have to." Donnie had no answer; he couldn't break himself from the thoughts spinning through his head—memories, dreams, hopes and wishes and fears…
"Do you believe in destiny?" The question came in a near-whisper but struck with the impact of a scream.
"Huh?" The moment it was out, Amber cringed; so much for effective communication.
"Destiny," Donnie repeated leaning back on his palms and taking in the scenery below. "You know, the idea that some aspects and events in life are predetermined and out of our control…like…" His throat worked around the words trying to stay behind his teeth. "The odds that we would ever meet—two people from entirely different worlds—was it pure chance, or do you think it could be—"
"Fate?" Amber finished for him with a slight frown; his eyes rolled aside, meeting hers askance. "I don't believe in chance or coincidence," she admitted. "I've always believed everything happens for a reason even if we never know that reason…but on the other hand, I don't believe in fate or destiny either. With fate, there's no free-will; with no free-will, what's the point in ever aspiring to anything beyond your lot?"
"That makes no sense," Donnie deadpanned. "If everything happens for a reason, there has to be a predetermined reason for everything – that's an argument for destiny. If there's no preset path we follow, then everything's just up to the roll of the dice and may not have a purpose. You contradicted yourself completely."
"Maybe," she admitted with a teasing smile and turned to lean back across his legs. "Maybe not. Some folks look at life like reading a novel, some see it like writing a novel, an' some of us see it like one of those crummy choose-your-own-adventure books." Donnie blinked down at her, thought it over, but still didn't follow. "I believe that we write our own stories but they can sometimes take us in directions that make no sense to us until after we've passed them. In the moment, we may see no further than 'the market pays better than the gas station' or 'the gas station is closer to home' but those decisions will shape our futures. If you're working at the market, you won't be working the gas station when it's robbed, but if you're working at the gas station, you might meet a hot trucker an' get hitched in Vegas."
"You're a nut," Donnie teased ruffling her hair.
"Takes one to know one," she retorted with all the maturity of an eight-year-old, then her eyes softened. "Besides…if meeting you was my destiny, that would take out all the impossibility—all the wonder and mystery. No matter whether I died in utero or died in a nursing home with my knockers at my knees, we would have found each other no matter what." The genius shuddered at the visual but said nothing. "We were a shot in the dark, Dee," she reminded taking his hand. "We weren't just a checkmark on some celestial to-do list…we're a miracle." A slow smile crossed his face and his eyes softened—proof she managed to calm whatever nerves were bothering him before. "What brought that up anyway?" she asked. A streak of muddy brown followed the smile; he avoided her eyes.
"N-No reason," he insisted to no avail. "I was just…just thinking about…uh…string theory?"
"Whatever ya say, Speccy…whatever ya say."
Day 5 – after Noon
The back door drifted shut with a bang. In the parlor, familiar racket emitted from Aaron's TV; onscreen, some nameless boss resembling an unholy amalgamation of Jabba the Hutt and The Incredible Hulk stomped around a battered landscape in pursuit of…a little girl with pink pigtails? Donatello scratched his head. Gamers were an odd bunch.
"Where's Amber?" he asked Aaron. Before the mutant left for the hike he just returned from, Amber was still asleep—trying to sleep off the headache she never kicked the day before. "Still sleeping?" Aaron's character exploded into a spray of blood and gore, triggering a frustrated groan.
"I guess," the blond answered as the loading screen cycled. "She never came inside, so I figure she's probably still sleepin'. Why?" Donnie glanced pointedly at the clock by the TV on his way to the back door. "Shit, I'm s'posed to be leavin' for work in an hour…lost track'a time." Resigned to tackling the boss again later, Aaron saved, quit, and shut down his Playstation, and ducked outside to check on Amber. Instead, he found the shed door standing wide open, Amber motionless on the mattress, and Donatello frantically trying to rouse her. "What's—" The question fell short—Amber wasn't just still, she was too still—too still and too pale—stranger still, a dark, nasty bruise sprawled from her cheek up to the loose hair fallen over her face.
One man frantically checked her vitals—BP dropping, pulse faint, temperature below normal—the other scrambled back against the wall, refusing to believe what he was seeing. Amber was sleeping—she was just sleeping, she had to be! Frustrated and afraid, Donnie yanked his goggles down for a closer look…
He stilled, falling back on his heels his face contorting in open horror. "What?" Aaron demanded, rushing to his side. "What'd'ja—" Donnie lifted a hand to her face, gingerly pulling her hair away from her forehead. Aaron's stomach lurched—he bolted out the door and retched.
In the shed, Donnie stared through the impossible sight previously hidden—a compound fracture, bleeding and bruised. Fractured—parietal plate visibly crushed inward—shards of gleaming white perforating surface tissue—odds of survival...
Donnie's fists clenched, his knuckles pale against the canvas of his trousers. Her skull was fractured…her brain was hemorrhaging…this was the wound that killed her once before, the fatal injury that brought her to his world. This…this couldn't be happening… Heedless of the blood slicking her skin, he tenderly brushed a fallen lock of hair—a blue streak purpled from blood—behind her ear, tracing along the edge of the injury…an echo of the injury that killed her.
Just like it was yesterday, he remembered the day he brought her to his father—he remembered how the slightest touch to her brow made her hiss in pain even with no injury there—he remembered his father relating to him and his brothers the sudden, grisly way she died—he remembered her confessing she often woke with a throbbing pain, a psychogenic echo from her previous life. She died in this world…the dead do not rise…he should never have brought her here.
'We write our own stories.'
At the time, he was distracted by other things—memories of dreams, knowledge he shouldn't have, sunlight highlighting the curve of her jaw and shimmering in her eyes…
'We're a miracle.'
Maybe…no surely…perhaps…
Right as Aaron shuffled back into the shed, Donatello went unnaturally still—his trembling stopped and his eyes hardened. Hands steady, supporting her head on his thigh, he eased Amber onto her side, tugged at the waistband of her night slacks, and exposed a small, blotchy patch of darker skin—a faint birthmark right under the waistband of her briefs. For whatever reason, that mark seemed to give him answers—answers and determination. As though in agreement, her eyelashes fluttered, her eyes shifting behind their lids—a sign of brain activity if he ever saw one. "There's still time—Need chalk, charcoal, something I can draw with!" The demand spewed out at twice his normal pace sparked an equally rapid response.
In a matter of moments, the seals of the portal sprawled along the inside wall in messy vivid spray paint; another moment of incantation and they gleamed with unearthly light. Without a moment's waste, Donnie hoisted Amber into his arms, carefully cradling her head; without ever looking back, he bolted into the emptiness.
Completely lost and even more afraid, Aaron stared blankly at the yawning portal in the wall of his shelter. It seemed familiar—he saw something like this before, years ago, perhaps on TV… With a shout of frustration, he smacked himself on the back of the head for wasting time and took off in pursuit. Fuck it…he lost Amber once, he wasn't going to just give up on her again! Even as he sprinted toward the faint light at the end of the tunnel, he broke a long-held conviction—he gave in to a habit he always believed pointless…
For the life of a friend, he prayed.

...and with that, I'm gonna hide and wait for the flames. Please don't disappoint me?

UP NEXT: in the Void, questions are asked and answers given, in The Choice Between Darkness and Light

Notes:
Note that Kimber's speech has been drastically changed since her death. She already eradicated and adapted another accents back when she ran away as a child, so doing it again only makes sense. Plus, y'know, she's easier to read now. I've also delved a bit more deeply into her personality here than before.
♦ "Do we expect these things to change by waking up and, suddenly, there they are? And all I need's a starting place and nothing ever seemed so hard." – from "Whatever I Fear" by Toad the Wet Sprocket. That tune is a pretty good depiction of the mistrust and wariness Amber and Kimber have for one another.

Glossary
• Nort' – "Northpaw," or legally, Norton Jackson, twin of "Lefty" Leon Jackson.
• Stawp judgin' me an' staht cleanin' up yer own messes a'ready – Amber honestly kinda deserves this. "Stop judging me for my faults and start fixing your own."
• What'd'ja – what did you
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A New Lease on Life