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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
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Heya folks! It's been a bit nutzo IRL for a while and I'm STILL working on the next chapter of ANLoL. (Yes. STILL. Eff writer's block.) Long story short I thought about trying something new to kill off the writer's block and it may have helped a little bit. The result: A short piece about one of the many Other-Worlders of New York City. This doesn't necessarily fit in with the rest of the story but I hate leaving y'all waiting while I fight to make my chapter notes work. Kimber is…yeah, she's as uncooperative as ever.
Suggested Listening includes songs portrayed in order of appearance. AFF folks: this story is now COMPLETELY caught up with other sites so you'll have to wait for new chapters with the rest now.
Anyway, hope y'all enjoy this, short and strange as it is, and look forward to hearing from ya!
Suggested Listening: Ozzy Osbourne "Dreamer," Art Garfunkle "A Heart in New York," Elton John "Mona Lisas and Mad Hatters," Metallica "Nothing Else Matters," Alice Cooper "I Never Cry"

Intermission:
A Heart in New York
In the heart of New York, in a borough named for royalty, a woman named for a flower watches the sunrise alone. No one knows where she came from but that topic isn't exactly a hot one among the locals. Rose Rogers is not the type the good people of the city care to socialize with. Her hair is unstyled and often wanting a wash and her clothing old and in need of the same, and for all they know, she rolls up with the sidewalks in the suburbs.
A pale glow burns through the smoggy haze filling the cracks between the skyscrapers; a crisp, almost painful chill stings her eyes and nose but she smiles just the same. Rose finger-combs through her long brown hair—straight as pins and just as thick, and already due for washing—and tugs her floppy berry-red cap over the lot. With her worn guitar case heavy on her back, she makes her way along the litter-strewn street; somewhere beyond the burning trash barrels and faded tarps, there's a day's work waiting for her.
Already a crowd has gathered; already, loose change scatters the inside of the faded black case. Skilled fingers clad in vibrant cutoff gloves dance across the old guitar's strings, strumming out a tune none around have heard before. Rose's voice is talented but untrained and she sings with all her heart. Even as her song fills the air and her fingertips sting, she's always watching for a sign of recognition. Not recognition of her talent—that doesn't really concern her—recognition of what only she remembers. The Beatles, The Who, Pat Benatar and Poison, none of them exist in this world…but this isn't her world.
"I'm just a dreamer…I dream my life away." Perhaps a few years ago, the Ozzy Osbourne song would have fit her. A few years ago, however, she wasn't homeless in a world that wasn't hers. She remembers next to nothing of her life before waking up in a trash-strewn alley—nothing but the music. She has a lifetime of music from another world at her beck and call—several lifetimes, actually, as some feel divided by era as well as genre—but outside that, she can't remember the smallest detail. Was she blonde? Ginger? Rich, or poor? Kind, or cruel? Old, young, or somewhere in between? She cannot remember any of it and after ten years, she's begun to question whether it's worth the fight. All she remembers is the music…music which has never been written in this world, by artists who have never existed.
Rose is destitute by choice, and lives among those destitute by circumstance in an encampment under an overpass. They know her by name there and treat her as kin, and every night she shares her tips and her voice with them. She often wonders if in her previous life she would have been content with such a life but answers elude her. Sometimes she wonders why she doesn't wish for something more—a roof over her head and a steady income at least—but something inside her revels in the freedom her lifestyle gives her. Something in her very heart flinches at anything resembling a cage and warns her away from anything restrictive. She often wonders what this might say about her previous life, if not her departure from it.
An unfamiliar face drifts toward her through the crowd, all guarded eyes and thin unexpressive mouth—a prominent businessman, from the looks of his expensive tailored suit, out to enjoy a stroll through Central Park over lunch. Rose wonders if he's one of the rare few who will recognize the notes dripping from her fingertips or the words rising from her lips. "A heart in New York, a rose on the street." She grins at the irony of the line. "I write my song to that city heartbeat. A heart in New York…love in her eye-hy-hyes…"
The businessman digs in his pocket and tosses some loose change at her open case, rolling his eyes at her cheek. Rose's eyes drop to the coins—old pennies the color of her young eyes—and tries not to pity the rich man with a poor heart. "You've got money on your mind and my words won't make a dime's worth of difference, so here's to you, New York."
As the businessman's snappy wool coat disappears into the crowd, another pair of eyes meets hers. Grey-green like sun-dried moss and half-hidden behind silver-framed glasses, the eyes dart about nervously as if evaluating the reactions of passersby. When their owner—a curvy young woman with twin braids and early grey—turns back to Rose, she seems almost frightened. Rose pauses, fingertips still poised on the strings, seemingly considering her next tune. Something here is not right, the stranger seems to be thinking; something here makes no sense. Hers are the eyes of someone who knows what they have seen or heard cannot possibly be real.
"Amber!" The nervous braided woman jolts and turns in search of whoever shouted at her; the curly-haired woman in the snappy yellow coat seems familiar but at such a distance Rose can't be sure. Even so, this Amber is far more intriguing for the spark of recognition in her eyes; she, too, knows these songs which don't exist.
With a worried glance to the sky, Amber digs through her pockets and comes up with a couple of crumpled bills. Her smile as she passes them over is oddly apologetic for someone offering enough for a couple gallons of gasoline. "Ya sing beautifully," she says as Rose pockets the offered cash with a sideways. "My Gran'da always loved—" Her eyes go distant for a moment as if staring back into a life left behind; almost as suddenly, they snap back into focus. She shakes her head as if to clear out cobwebs, a tight, uncomfortable smile stretching her lips.
Without another word, the kind-hearted woman bundles her too-big coat about her and jogs off toward the woman in yellow, air clouding with each breath. Rose's eyes never leave the faded grey tweed of the woman's coat, not until it disappears behind a crowd of excited tourists. Even then, her sore fingers hesitate on the cold strings and her thoughts are far beyond the food carts and crowd. So many hear her music but so few know the words…this Amber is among those few.
Cries and curses fill the air and the crowd dissipates, people hurrying for shelter. Rose holds out one rough-skinned hand, catches a couple drops of rain, and studies them somewhere between confusion and amusement. Perhaps she needs to move somewhere dryer.
Hours passed and the temperatures dropped, and the worsening rainstorm made the streets inhospitable. Fortunately, there are more comfortable places for Rose to work her trade—places which smell of exhaust more than street food and are far more crowded. Propped against a graffiti-tagged wall with her lean legs folded and crossed, Rose plays to the familiar rhythm of the subway. She serenades the people milling about the station, singing of Mona Lisas and Mad Hatters, all the while searching for a hint of remembrance. This time, the crowds are unimpressed and uncaring; she'll be lucky to walk away with a dime.
Just as she's considering relocation, a familiar face stands out from the crowd. Wild, wispy blond hair—murky grey-blue eyes—unsmiling lips in a slightly nervous moue and a loping gait more confident than feminine—the owner of this face is one she knows well. Not only is she familiar, but she is also one of the few who recognize Rose's music for what it is. The Elton John number goes unfinished and a line from another song fills the air in greeting. "Never opened myself this way…Life is ours, we live it our way…All these words I don't just say…And nothing else matters."
Mercy Ross never looks at Rose as she weaves through the crowd, but neither does she look at anyone else if she can avoid it. Propped on her shoulder is a stack of flat boxes any self-respecting New Yorker would recognize. Upon reaching Rose's side, Mercy fishes a slice of Pepperoni out of the top box and hands off the rest, leaning against the wall as if it may fall without her there to hold it up. "You've gotten better, Hippie," the blonde compliments as Rose tears a slice in half and takes the smaller portion for herself. At one time, the nickname confused Rose; now it just makes her smile. "You could make a decent livin' off'a that kinda talent."
"And miss out on all this?" Rose asks gesturing to the smelly, noisy, crowded station as a whole. "Perish the thought." There's a glint of mischief in the blue eyes meeting hers askance, clearer now that those eyes aren't cloudy from alcohol. The general consensus in the underpass camp was that Mercy could never kick her addiction but the proof is undeniable; she's clean, sober, and moving on with her life. "The Professor says hi, by the way." Rose knows congratulating the blonde on her sobriety will only embarrass her, and so refrains. "Everyone asks about you. We're glad you found your own place but we do miss your company." Mercy scoffs but her upturned lips deny the supposed offense.
For a time, the two women share a comfortable silence. Rose eyes the closed pizza boxes in her lap hungrily, her mouth fairly watering for the other half of her slice. Still, she refrains; there are others in the camp more in need of food than she. Mercy fixes her with a knowing glance but says nothing. She well recalls the struggle keeping the entire camp fed during cold weather, especially since donations tend to dry up after the holidays. "I've been missin' Alice Cooper somethin' awful lately," she says instead, shrugging one lean sweater-clad shoulder. "Sometimes the music here just don't cut it." Rose sets the pizza boxes aside and takes up her guitar with a grin and quick strum.
"If there's a tear on my face, it makes me shiver to the bone." Mercy's smirk softens, her eyes drifting closed and her head resting against the wall behind her. Despite the strange looks of passers-by, she rocks her head to the beat—a tune not meant for acoustic guitar but translated with undeniable skill and practiced fingers. "Sometimes I drink more than I need, until the TV's dead and gone. I may be lonely but I'm never alone, and the night may pass me by…but I'll never cry." Before long, a second voice joins in an awkward harmony—Rose's, sweet, clear, and airy, Mercy's midway between high and husky and half-muffled from nerves. For just one moment neither of the women are alone in the crowd; for one moment, all in the world feels right.
"Take away, take away my eyes…sometimes I'd rather be blind. Break a heart, break a heart of stone. Open it up but don't you leave it alone 'cuz that's all I got to give you."
Night has fallen over the city that never sleeps, and even the neon lights are beginning to look tired. Back in Queens, Rose Rogers watches the glowing embers from a burning trash barrel rise and drift toward the sky; if she watches long enough, sometimes she can almost fool herself they are the stars one can never see through the smog. A thick, wet cough sounds nearby, and someone else whimpers in their sleep. Winter is only just beginning and this one is sure to be a long one. How many friends and neighbors will she lose this time? How many will seek help at a free clinic only to never return, or fall asleep and never wake up?
A familiar face ventures out of the shadows—a beautiful face in her mind, and a beautiful soul to go with it—and she recalls his last words to her. Have you remembered? No, she admits if only to herself, she still remembers nothing new from her previous life. Not how she lived, not how she died—she cannot even remember the name by which she went or whether or not she had a family. All she can remember, and all she has ever been able to remember, is the music, and every day she plays it so as not to forget that, too.
"You have spoken with Miss Ross again, I presume." Not for the first time, she wonders how he knows he was once a professor. Surely it isn't normal for people to remember their previous lives when they begin new ones…surely she isn't the only one who cannot remember…right?
"Yep," she answers instead and passes him the long-cold box with the last remaining slice of pizza—the larger half of the slice she split in the subway. "Mercy's doing better than expected. She's staying clean and holding a job, and if the mark on her neck is anything to go by, she's found a lover. She seems…happy, now." Professor Wilkes utters a noncommittal hum and considers the cold pizza far too seriously.
"I expected no less," he retorts as he balances the box on the rim of the barrel in hopes of warming the contents. Perhaps this time the cardboard won't catch fire. "I've said it before and will again, if there are any among us capable of a productive life beyond this camp, it would be Miss Ross and yourself. She has proven this yet you," he pauses with an almost reprimanding tone, "you remain. Why cling to the familiar when you could have so much more?" Rose shrugs, penny-brown eyes following the sparks skyward; again she searches for stars, but there are none to be found.
"Life beyond the camp feels too much like a cage," she admits without ever losing her smile. "At least here no one tells me how to live." She pauses, waiting for the confession to trigger some long-expected memory, but is disappointed as always. The past is a blank canvas—a dark abyss with only music to cheer it—and for now, that's enough for her.

UP NEXT: a return to our normal programming in Forgiveness is for the Wronged whenever I can manage to finally get it to cooperate between IRL crises.
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A New Lease on Life