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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
- 62
- 63
- 64
So. Uh...shit's definitely hit the fan worldwide, huh? Going to try to keep this brief.
A lot of folks have a lot more freetime right now for writing and whatever else. Um...not us. Cold's been deemed an essential [read expendable] worker and I'm being run ragged supporting him, helping my folks, and keeping the dumpster-fire of our life down to a dull blaze. Our tenth anniversary came—YAY!—and went but our once-in-a-lifetime plans were canceled on account of Covid. (Boo.) The good news is no one in our family has gotten sick (distant friends and friends-of-family, yes, but we're safe) and our part of Missouri hasn't been overrun by positive cases...yet. Trust me, we're all praying for our own health and for the health of others less fortunate in this fuster-cluck.
Less-stressful stuff. I know there's been a huge wait for this chapter so I won't take up too much time. A quick reminder for FFnet readers that the site's doc management code, for some reason beyond my paygrade, likes to randomly remove spaces between words and punctuation, especially when italics are in play. I noticed a record number while prepping this chapter - several freaking dozen! - and corrected them, but knowing the system, there are liable to be several more brand new ones in other places once I've posted it. I'm not a dumbass with a broken spacebar, the site's code just sucks. Chapter-wise, pay attention to the countdown and get a load of the new guy. I hope y'all can find some inspiration in this chapter, and I wish y'all safety, security, health, and peace of mind while the world burns to cinders around us.
Warning for a suggestive scene, references to past-tense abuse, and nipples. The nipples alone have this chapter banned from Tumblr, not that that's an issue. This chapter dedicated to my beta-bestie Wolf, and to my favorite Nonnie on FFnet. This one's for both of you because you both kick ass!

Suggested Listening: Andy Grammer “Don’t Give Up on Me,” All Time Low "Something's Gotta Give," Ravenscode "Be the Same," Toad the Wet Sprocket “Architect of Half the Ruin”

61: Forgiveness Goes Both Ways
"I wonder what usually comes after death." The words come from a familiar face; warm brown hair streaked with cold grey frames that face, the lot pulled into a sloppy side-set braid. Amber shrugs at the silence following her question, staring off into the distance. The rooftop isn't one Donatello recognizes but the view of Lady Liberty in the distance is as familiar as his own name. The briny odor of seawater burns his lungs, and beneath the constant din of traffic, he can hear waves lapping at a distant and unseen shore. "I mean I got a second life after death," Amber mutters into her neckline, seemingly talking to herself, "but what about everyone else? Is it an option for everyone who dies?" Her eyes fix on the distant horizon, her throat contracting as if to hold back words she would rather keep secret. "Maybe that's just one more thing to feel guilty about…"
"You never earned that guilt, Amber." Donnie joins her at the ledge, leaning on the wrought iron barricade and crossing his arms along the top rail. All along the surface, little flakes and curls of weathered black paint tempt but he resists the urge to pick at them; even in dreams, he is impossibly aware of Amber's closeness and even more affected by it, even driven to fidgeting. "You aren't responsible for your neighbors' deaths; your revival was no more a crime than their demise."
It took a moment, but he realizes Amber hasn't answered; her face is pale, her eyes wide. "You…" She falters, swallows hard, and then tries again. "You…remember me…now?" Donnie blinks, trying to wrap his head around the question. "For so long you've…you haven't recognized me," she explains in a choked, halting near-whisper, eyes darting over his face as if expecting him to suddenly forget her again. "You stopped answering me and kept to the shadows. What changed?" He hesitates, carefully arranging his words before letting them loose.
"I remember you," Donnie confirms with a lopsided grin, "maybe not everything, but at least some of it. It's coming back slowly, but that's better than not at all…right?" Amber's eyes stray from his as if she is searching for courage.
"So you don't remember…the dojo…and your tonfa?" He shakes his head, bare brows pinched.
"I remember you went off on Raph for scaring Mercy," he says slowly. "Master took you both for punishment exercises in the dojo. I think you threw up in there."
Amber slouches, leaning on the railing. "I take it there's still some Freaky Space lag going on…you're probably a month or so behind me." She sighs, eyes following a yellow cab cruising the street far below; overhead, the smoggy skies clear and stars peek through the clouds. For a time, all is still on the rooftop – there is only the sound of the traffic, the smell of exhaust, and a warm wind sifting through the clouds – then Amber turns back to him.
"Well...I guess it doesn't really matter." Mid-sentence, she invites herself to snuggle up against his side; he seconds the invitation by passing his arm behind her, caging her between his body and the railing. "You won't always be stuck in my past," she murmurs, eyes distant but content. "Someday you'll catch up. Until then, I'm content to wait."
Many years ago – a tenement in Brownsville, Brooklyn
The darkness held no comfort, not now—not the darkness of a dusty, filthy closet in an even filthier room, especially not for a frightened adolescent boy. The combined stench of stale beer and cheap cigarettes was even less comforting. In the blackness of the closet, the skinny boy squeezed his scarred hands over his over-sized ears, simultaneously hoping the noise outside would stop and fearing what that might mean.
Silence—sudden, ear-ringing silence replaced the din of screamed threats and traded blows. Stumbling footsteps approached the closet. This might have been when another person prayed for safety but this family was never big on religion…or morals…or authority, for that matter, other than the boy's father. His father demanded absolute authority in all things and rewarded the slightest infraction with violence and pain. Today, the boy had the nerve to trip over a half-full beer can, spilling the last of his father's chosen poison. He earned his punishment, the drunken man screamed at him…so why didn't his brother agree?
The door screeched open, sticking in its tracks halfway. The boy froze; perhaps if he stayed still enough, stayed silent enough, he could blend in with the rest of the rubbish tossed in the closet and forgotten. Unseen, the person outside wrenched the door off its tracks, cursed, then tossed it aside.
"We're leavin'." The boy's eyes flickered open and his hands drifted away from his ears. The single bare-bulb fixture in the room beyond outlined the profile of someone much smaller than the expected threat. Ash blond hair, buzzed short—steely blue-grey eyes full of protective rage—fury-flushed cheeks and oversized clothes that hung off his skinny frame. "C'mon, Leon, get up."
"…but…" Leon hesitated, scanning the room for their father. Just around the corner, a large lumpy shape blocked the doorway to the bathroom; his blood ran cold at the realization of what that lump must be. No…his brother couldn't have…could he? "…Dad…?"
"He ain't stoppin' us dis time." Blood trickled from Norton's broken nose, and more streaked his bare arms and legs, not all of it from obvious wounds. Leon shuddered, turning again to the body outside. A hand blocked his range of vision—long-fingered and lean, and heavily scarred, just like his—and his eyes followed the hand up to its owner. Norton knelt on the grubby carpet, hand outstretched and eyes…tired? "It's gawnna be a'right," he insisted. "I gotcher back, broth'r."
Leon accepted the hand but stumbled. Though Norton was the more injured of the two, he hauled Leon upward and bore the brunt of his slight weight. One hobbled and limping step at a time, the twins made their way from their bedroom down the hallway, down several flights of filthy, poky stairs, then out into an alley. Perhaps a more worldly soul would have compared the sudden transition from filthy darkness into warm light to crawling from an early grave. Leon was not that person…he just wondered how on earth he and Norton would ever survive on their own.
A rather infamous prison in the New York area, low-risk housing
Sunday, around Noon - 21:30:00 and counting
Someone once said "No good deed goes unpunished." Leon Jackson wasn't sure who that smartass was but he found himself agreeing more every day. In June, he joined his first noble cause – bringing the reign of the Purple Dragons to an end to avenge the deaths of his protege, Kimber Bryant, and his lover, Truman. In July, Hun was crippled, arrested, charged, convicted, and imprisoned, and the once-proud gang fell to pieces like the rest of Leon's life. Despite his relative innocence, Leon pled guilty to Hun’s assault and the damages to surrounding buildings. Now he was imprisoned without parole and looking at a long sentence; for the first time in his life he was truly alone. The worst part was...he chose this path.
Head pillowed on his crossed arms, one knee bent upward and the other ankle propped on it (all the better to show anyone walking past just how he felt about them) he stared up at the underside of the top bunk. The mattress still stank from the previous tenant and the sheets itched from a starch-happy laundry worker. Light filtered into the dark room from the hallway, every now and then interrupted by a passing head or body. All the way in his cell-block, he could hear the droning chatter from the day-room where other jailrats mingled and met with their families. Well, not this jailrat, he thought with a huff; there was no one on the outside he cared to see. His only family was gone. Maybe Norton was a maniac – alright, no maybe to it, he was a maniac – but that maniac was still family. Now, Leon had nothing beyond the four walls of his cell, and certainly no family or friends. The only friends he ever claimed were former gang, among the secret group responsible for his current incarceration, or dead. Every now and then, someone came to visit—usually that mouthy blonde Mercy, or the braided Scotch lunatic who got dumped in his dead protege's body—but he never accepted their visits. There was no one in the world he cared to hear from...not anymore…
The rapping of knuckles sounded at the door. His eyes lazily drifted upward to lock eyes with the guard over his orange-clad crotch. Even if he could make out the other man’s features with the bright back-lighting and shadow, he could tell by the posture the guard wasn’t his type at all. ...not that it mattered. It never mattered anymore; why did that question always come to him, time and time again when the answer was always the same?
“Jackson – you’ve got a visitor.” Here we go again… “Says her name’s, uh...Bryant…?” Leon stilled. The guard verified the name on his clipboard then looked up with a nod. “...yep, cute lil’ redhead, signed in as K. Bryant. She’s with that Williams guy from Cyber Crimes. You know, the one who drops in on your old boss all the time?”
Kimber. Every stubbly dishwater-blond hair from the back of Leon’s neck up to his buzzed scalp stood on end; his breath hesitated in his lungs as if afraid to venture out in the open. The guard looked up again, head cocked to the side and eyes unconcerned. “You coming, or do I send ’er away like the rest?” Leon thought it over a moment and came to a conclusion: there was only one possible answer. He lurched upward to the sound of cracking shoulders and groaning springs, rolled to his feet, and fell in step behind the guard without a word. “What’s with all the chicks coming to see you, anyway?” the guard ribbed. “You don’t do women.”
“Ya jus’ answered ya self,” Leon retorted with a hint of a smirk. “Chicks can be family, too, huh?” It hit him the moment he said it: he didn’t have a brother anymore, but he could still have a family...and if the woman waiting to see him was who she claimed to be, she was the closest thing he ever had to a sister.
He knew better than to expect the Kimber he remembered, but he was still taken aback by the stranger seated in the booth. Truman’s purple bandanna on her arm was proof of her identity but still…she was too tall, too thin, too plain, too tired, too clean-cut...Kimber looked nothing like herself, at least not as he knew her. Still, somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew the truth; something in her guarded eyes, or perhaps her practiced slouch, betrayed Kimber’s identity despite the new body.
Silence hung between the friends separated by glass, screen, and wood—an awkward, painful, tense silence full of questions and obscenities—then both leaned forward to better hear the other at the same time. “’ey, Kim.”
Kimber nodded, her lips and eyes tightening. “Been a while, huh?” she asked once she found her voice again. He returned the nod. They used to communicate so well; now they could barely get a word out between them. “Remember when ya told me dis life’ll kill ya?” Her easy mimicry of his accent made him smile, but her next words, accompanied by a raised middle finger, made him grin. “Suck it.”
At the high-risk end of the prison, in a common room with a few tables and a guarded door, a bulky man slouched at a table staring at a chessboard already set for a game. Those who passed the room rarely noticed the current occupant’s appearance. They never took much interest in his pale blond hair or his dark beady eyes, or even his obscenely muscular – and slowly settling – build. They rarely noticed his prized purple dragon tattoo, or the equally prized Foot tattoo declaring wasted allegiance. They rarely even noticed the scars twisting his skin, of which he’d amassed quite the collection. No one cared...the only thing anyone ever noticed anymore was the infernal wheelchair he was stuck in.
A silent snarl twisted Hun’s lips. Once, he was the top dog in New York’s organized crime scene, second only to the Shredder; now he was nothing but something for visitors to gawk at and warn their children with. He well-remembered the warnings from his own mother. Don’t ride your bike without a helmet! Don’t play in traffic! For God’s sake, don’t jump down those stairs, you idiot! Do you want to end up in a wheelchair?! He followed her warnings. He never rode without a helmet, or played in traffic, (...much…) or jumped down stairs (...just off of buildings…) but still, he wound up stuck in a blasted—
Footsteps outside the door behind him paused his inner tirade; the scent of a familiar fancy coffee drink identified a visitor. The door opened with a beep and whoosh, and a man younger and smaller than he thumped two takeout cups onto the table. “Your ass-juice,” Daron greeted and slid the espresso toward him.
“Come to finish me off?” Hun grunted as every time before.
Daron shrugged and took a deep gulp of his venti-double-soy-whatever-the-fuckaccino. Not only was he puny and weak, but the runt drank white bitch coffee, too; Hun barely managed to swallow his disgust. “Not this time,” Daron retorted as usual, “too much paperwork. You black or white this round?” Without another word, Hun rotated the board to reach his preferred side – white moved first but it always felt like such a pansy color to him – and waited for his much smaller half-brother to kick his ass yet again. The more time passed, the more things changed...he was already sick of it.
“So. I hear Asshole bit tha dust.” Any normal person would recognize that this was not an appropriate way to console a person grieving for a dead sibling. Kimber Bryant, however, was far from normal, and the late Norton Jackson was definitely an asshole. Leon had enough sense to not defend Norton from true statements but it still hurt hearing them. “For what it’s worth, I’m sahrry ya lawst tha jerk.” It didn't escape him that she expressed regret for his grief rather than Norton's death, nor did it surprise him.
“He’s still my brothuh,” Leon muttered avoiding her eyes.
“He was your brother,” Kimber reminded shortly, “an’ he was an asshole. If he hadn’t gone first, he would’a killed ya eventually an’ we both know it. Bein’ dead don’t make ‘im any less of a scumbag.”
Leon said nothing, neither agreeing nor protesting. For the first time in his life, he was entirely and utterly alone with no end in sight. Unbidden, he recalled his brother’s final words to him: it was always you or me...now it’s just you. Yet again, he wondered what Norton meant by that; yet again, he wondered if, in some backward way, it meant only one of us will survive this life, so I’m choosing you to do it. The suspicion always left a twisting, burning, aching feeling in his gut—something somewhere in the messy middle ground between resentment, heartache, and resignation. That middle ground was nothing new – before Norton's sudden and grisly death, it was where Leon's heart inevitably landed after any length of time around him.
...and that, Leon admitted if only to himself, was what hurt the most.
Kimber shifted in her seat, eyes darting to another booth down the row where another woman waited holding her young son in her lap. She was...well, the only way Kimber could think to describe her was pretty and definitely too pretty for her tastes. She had sleek curly black hair and smooth dusky skin, and her makeup was understated and expertly applied; she wore a designer dress with a screen-printed scarf and dark nylons, and classy expensive heels. Even her kid, though he couldn’t be ten years old, was dressed in name-brands and, unless Kimber’s eyes were mistaken, his crooked glasses had the name of a high-end designer etched on the earpiece.
That mother and her child were from an entirely different social class than Kimber could ever belong to...and there she was, in jeans and a sweater, her hair windblown and wanting a wash, and without perfume to mask the stink of pub still clinging to her clothes. She coughed away the feeling of inferiority and turned back to Leon. “The others said you ain’t acceptin’ visitors.”
Let the well-dressed fancy-pants rich bitch choke on her crappy grammar; it’d serve her right for wearing Chanel to a prison. Why was her inmate thrown in the clink? Tax evasion? Diddling the maid in Daddy’s Ferrari too close to a school? Whizzing on a waitress’ apron because their Poupon wasn’t grey enough? Despite Kimber’s indignation, the other woman showed no sign of having heard her; she was too busy fretting over her son’s hair to notice Kimber’s existence. Go figure. Leon mattered more anyway. “You’ve got people in your corner who wanna help you, ya know,” she reminded and slouched a little lower, “but they can’t do it alone...ya gotta let ‘em in.”
Leon said nothing in answer and kept his eyes trained on the flaking laminate tabletop. Arms crossed, head bowed, back straight and shoulders tight—he looked like a troubled teen enduring a scolding. Well...maybe a scolding was what he needed. Kimber slammed her palm against the tabletop but he never so much as flinched. “Hey! I’m runnin’ out’a time here, Dipwad! Pay attention!”
“More’a dat an’ da guards’ll send ya packin’,” he warned.
Kimber’s retort went unheard as a new face greeted the well-dressed woman a few phones down—a man about their age, lean with smooth, dusky-olive skin, dark curls, and rimless glasses. Again, Kimber was irked by the proximity of the upper class to her comfortable world; again, she felt the prickling of a whole room of eyes on her neck though she knew her senses were lying. Her lips—unpainted and chapped from neglect and long-term dehydration—parted to demand Leon’s attention, then drifted closed without a peep. For the first time in years, those steel-colored eyes held something...strange...something she didn’t recognize at first for its rarity. She followed the line of his gaze in hopes of understanding, and at the other end, she found the inmate chatting with the fancy visitor and her son.
There was no denying that the three were related, though how was uncertain until the child addressed the inmate as Uncle Søren. All three had olive-toned skin in varying shades, similar features, and black hair with sleek natural curls, but there were as many differences as there were similarities. The mother and son had brown eyes but Søren had dark grey eyes; they were dressed smartly and immaculately groomed, but Søren wore simple glasses frames and was due for both a haircut and shave. Unaware of the captive two-person audience, the boy leaned up to the metal screen in the glass and launched into a rapid-fire description of the excitement of his week at school; all the while his mother and her brother exchanged discreet smiles and shrugs, content to let him wear himself out.
All the while, Leon watched in rapt silence. Something...something just wasn’t adding up. That inmate—that Søren person—was hiding something, but what? Leon watched and studied his appearance and behavior, from his round face, thin lips, and lean build to his dull grey eyes and the scraggly wisps of hair on his chin. Something about that inmate was, the best he could put it, mismatched. He couldn’t explain why, not off the top of his head, but he got the feeling the inmate’s contents didn’t match the covering – he was like a bag of candy labeled sugar-free with high fructose corn syrup high on the ingredients list. Leon grimaced at the comparison but it was the best he could come up with. Something, though he wasn’t sure what, didn’t fit.
“Your type?” Kimber’s question was barely above a murmur but it yanked him right out of his head.
“Too sweet,” he countered, then immediately felt like an idiot. He’d never met the guy before, not once—how could he possibly know if that Søren guy was sweet, sour, or any variation thereof? His eyes, the rebellious little shits, dropped right to the other man’s lips as if hoping he’d test that theory. “Not gonna happen.” At this point, Leon wasn’t sure whether he was talking to Kimber or himself. Truman, he reminded himself frantically, have you already forgotten Truman?!
After a moment of ruminating, Kimber’s snort drew him out of his pants and back into their conversation. “Still too picky.” She picked at her cuticles with unpolished nails and nodded toward Søren without looking up. The nephew dug a crayon-covered worksheet from his pocket and pushed it through the gap under the glass; Søren’s eyes ran over the paper, lighting up with pride. Kimber rolled her eyes at Leon’s stubbornness. “It ain’t his fawlt he’s a snack an’ yer an idiot san’wich.” Leon blinked, lost for words, then deadpanned,
“Was dat even English?”
Before she could answer, the nearest guard cleared his throat; they turned in unison. “One minute, Jackson,” the guard warned. “Say your goodbyes.” So few words...so heavy their effect...so much they needed to say which, it seemed now, would never be said.
Reluctantly, the two old friends stood. Kimber silently collected her patched fleece hoodie from the back of the chair and her knit hat, scarf, and gloves from the table. Amidst the silence, a strange sort of understanding spread between Kimber and Leon—unspoken but no less important or understood. Both held their tongues, lost in memories of shared moments, good decisions and bad, and all the unspoken words that always hung between them. The guard waited, perhaps engrossed in his book, or perhaps sensing their need for closure.
Kimber turned to leave...then paused. Her shoulders tightened—her fingers clenched the pilling fleece—she slouched again as if shrugging off a load too heavy to bear, then turned back to the visitation booth. Her eyes were...different. Leon wasn’t sure how to describe them other than different, sort of soft and sad-like. “For what it’s worth,” she said in a voice he barely heard through the screen and glass, “you were right...I was in over my head. I’m sahrry I didn’t listen to ya, an’ I’m sahrry you’re payin’ for my mistakes.” Then she reached out and laid her right hand against the glass, her fingers spread and her eyes tired.
This was why, despite their many differences, Leon and Kimber only grew closer after she graduated his mentorship in the Purple Dragons—she always knew exactly what he needed to hear even if she didn’t say it. Sometimes speaking the words didn’t make a difference; sometimes actions spoke louder and talking only made things worse. This time she said what he needed to hear...and he had a feeling he knew why. He forced down the knot in his throat, nodded, and put his left hand up to the glass against hers through the window. Even in her previous life, she was always different than he was—smaller, softer, and lacking in the calluses and scars that riddled his body and heart. He was supposed to be the strong one...so why, when he needed strength most, did he feel so weak?
“It happens to everyone,” he croaked instead. Kimber looked up, surprised by the unexpected change of topic only to realize he was only answering her.
“Everyone drives their lives into tha ground?” she scoffed.
“Everyone fucks up once in a while,” he corrected. “We just fucked up more than most. We were young an’ stoopid, Kim, now yer growin’ up. Yer screw-ups ain’t gotta define ya, huh?”
We were young and stupid. Now you’re growing up. The way he differentiated between the two pronouns caught her off guard. Perhaps, she wondered, he was ready to forgive her for those “screw-ups” but not himself. Instead of acknowledging or arguing it, she nodded. Her eyes burned with unshed tears and her lungs with a sob trying to break out but she sucked it back in and held her head high. “I’m startin’ over from scratch this time,” she told him instead. “I quit drinkin’ an’ I’m workin’ an honest job...an’ it’s happening ‘cuz I’ve got people there to help me.”
“Time’s up, Jackson,” the guard called out.
Kimber winced, looking at the approaching guard over her shoulder, then turned back to Leon. She peeled her hand from the window and jammed it in her pocket, eyes tired. “You’ve got people tryin’ ta help an’ support ya, Leon,” she insisted, “more people than I’ve ever had. Don’t you dare let this shit break you!” Leon faltered, then nodded—the closest he could give to an answer with his throat full of rocks. The guard reached Kimber’s side to lead her out, and those rocks turned into boulders.
Kimber Bryant came into his life suddenly and without apology, and she always left without warning or farewell. Why did he ever think this time, the last time, would be any different? He stood, though it took more effort than usual, and willed his legs to support him without collapsing.
“Oh yeah!” Kimber’s shout startled him back to himself and he looked up; she was almost out of earshot, walking backward and grinning like a lunatic. “I didn’t get to say it last time,” she yelled with an energetic wave. “Love ya, Brutha! I’ll see ya later!” An intentionally goofy blown kiss punctuated Kimber’s farewell and, from the feel of it, punctured Leon’s lungs. He choked, nodded, and gave a feeble goodbye wave of his own through the watering of his eyes. This time, at least, she said goodbye...could that mean this goodbye would be permanent?
“You, too, Kim,” he whispered to the steadily blurring head of carrot-colored hair retreating down the hallway. “Don’cha go dyin’ dis time.”
All at once, he noticed the silence a couple seats down. The mother and her child were gone, leaving the new inmate—that Søren character—watching him. Leon screeked his chair back under the table with a scoff and turned to leave but before he reached the door, a touch on his upper arm stopped him cold. His eyes dropped to his tattoo—that damned purple lizard coiled around his bicep as if it owned him—and the warm, soft-skinned hand covering it. Slowly, his eyes drifted from the imposing hand, up the attached arm, then up to the unfamiliar grey eyes watching him. Those eyes held no signs of intimidation or fear despite his warning glare; instead, Leon recognized something else he hadn’t seen often enough to identify. That something else made his skin prickle and burn...and that was the only physical response he was willing to acknowledge.
Søren cleared his throat and jerked his head to the side—or, specifically, glanced pointedly at the fresh tissue in his hand. All at once Leon realized his eyes were beyond watering and beginning to drip down his cheeks. His burning skin turned cold. He wrenched his arm loose, damned ink-dragon and all, and stalked away without taking the bait; instead, he scrubbed his eyes dry on his bleached undershirt mid-stride. He felt the other man’s eyes on him every step of the way and refused to wonder exactly which part of him those eyes were fixed on.
He was finally free of the Purple Dragons; the last thing he needed was to get pulled into something else by some pretty-boy jail-rat. After all, the only reason anyone would show kindness to someone like him was in hopes of getting something in return…
...right?
Maximum security
22:30:00 and counting
“Checkmate.” For the umpteenth time, Hun wondered why he never turned his little brother away whenever he visited. True, Daron used (or, rather, abused) his legal privileges to sneak things in for him—snacks, cigarettes for trading, sometimes he even brought hot coffee—but Hun always ended up humiliated on the chessboard. He growled under his breath, searching for some way out of check and finding none.
The lock beeped and the door behind him slid open but his eyes never left the horde of white pieces surrounding his few black stragglers and their queen. Then, without any warning whatsoever, came a voice he recognized even with a slight pitch change and weakened accent. “Looks like tha Big Bawss is gettin’ his big ass kicked.” Hun mentally pinched himself, reminded himself about the alien warship Shredder unleashed on the city, remembered that nothing felt real anymore, then schooled his expression into a practiced leer and turned his wheelchair to greet his old go-fer. Sure enough, she looked nothing like he remembered and exactly the same, all at the same time.
“Well, what do we got here? If it ain’t Kimbuh Bryant, back from the dead.” Kimber said not a single word, but her eyes – full of bitter anger, bone-deep hatred, and a barely suppressed urge to flee – spoke volumes.
8 pm
30:30:00 and counting
When Kimber agreed to help prove Donatello’s theory and accepted room and board for the duration, she expected a lot of things to surprise and confuse her. So far, this confused her most: the family’s commitment to taking all three daily meals crammed together around the wobbly kitchen table.
Maybe it was nothing unusual, but to Kimber, it was beyond confusing into confounding. When she lived with Daron, their schedules hindered meal-sharing beyond breakfast and the occasional weekend lunch. Before she and Daron left his family home for an apartment closer to the action, the situation was the same; Daron’s mother and stepfather worked four jobs between them to cover the rent in Jersey so everyone ate when they could if they could. Before she ran away, Kimber’s family was of a habit of avoiding interaction unless otherwise required. Breakfast and lunch were eaten on the run, or at work or school. Dinner meant all three of them sitting around the table in tense silence, with Kimber and her mother both waiting for her father to find something to fly into a rage over. Even now, the smell of meatloaf turned her stomach something awful.
This family – this awkward blend of humans and mutants – made a point of sharing their daily meals even if no one ate the same dishes. Even as Kimber set the table with old, mismatched flatware and dishes, Raphael and her counterpart were finishing up an equally mismatched ‘lunch.’ Home-cooked Italian paired with leftover Chinese, steamed veggies, and a boxed pizza from some parlor called Big D’s. Clearly everyone’s tastebuds were clamoring for something different tonight, and the lack of butts in seats suggested no one was ready for dinner at the same time. Even Raph was only half-there—he kept pulling out his phone and texting someone, and each time, he glanced at Kimber over his shoulder.
Why put themselves through this? Why subject themselves to one another's company if they had the choice to stay separate? She laid out another fork and knife—bent and scratched but clean and polished—and another scrap-fabric napkin. This family made no sense to her.
“So how’d it go?” The question left her silent and blinking for a moment. “Your visit with Leon,” Amber clarified as she passed a loaf of toasted garlic bread down the counter to Raphael. He made slicing up the loaf look like excessively easy, like swiping a razor through softened butter. “How’d it go? Think it accomplished anything?”
Kimber ducked her head and cursed her burning cheeks. Two years should be sufficient to overcome social anxiety...right? The nervous bile surging up her throat insisted otherwise. Of course the homewrecker she lived in was a fraidy cat on top of everything else. “...yeah,” she answered once she found her voice, only to realize the answer didn’t match the question one bit. “I, uh, it...it went okay...I guess. I think I gawt through to ‘im...he shouldn’t fight visits anymawre.”
With strangely perfect timing, Raphael’s phone buzzed again, and after checking it, he leveled a reproving stare at her. Kimber couldn’t bear to tell him the towel-apron tied around his neck and sides weakened the effect of his scowl; a moment later, his demand killed her amusement with a single blow.
“What’s dis I hear about you standin’ up to Hun?”
"You gawt me into tha gang," Kimber accused the unimpressed inmate, “tha gang’s what threw my life in tha shitter! Everythin’ that’s happened, it’s ‘cuz of tha gang—your gang! This is awl your fawlt!” Daron, to her surprise, hadn’t said a word and kept flashing his wallet at people approaching the door and windows; Hun looked bored senseless after her long tirade about fault, blame, and the Purple Dragons, and everything between the three.
“I never forced ya to do nothin’,” he countered when she finally paused to breathe. “I never forced no one to do nothin’. If ya wanted out, all ya had to do was quit.”
“Quit?!” Kimber gave a sort of barking laugh. “I joined to keep your goons from muggin’ Daron—what’s that say about quittin’?!”
“Ya still could’a quit.” Hun shrugged, the very picture of disinterest. “Ya could’a left ’im to fight for ‘imself like a grown-ass man. Instead, ya decided to rob me an’ play the hero.”
In the time since her death and this day, Kimber had years to consider how this fight might play out. Every day since she got a second chance in another world, she found herself arguing with Hun in her head in moments of silent rumination. She considered all angles and responses and how she'd counter each, and she knew this was the argument he'd most likely give her. Before, she thought those words would infuriate her beyond reason. She thought she'd scream at him, curse his existence, and pummel his pretty face to blond mush, and have to be held back lest she might kill him in her righteous fury.
Expectations, however, rarely match reality.
“Ya know what?” She scoffed through her nose. “Ya’re right. I chose ta join, an’ I stan’ by it. If I gotta choose between protectin’ myself an’ protectin’ family, family always comes first." Something in Hun's eyes told her he didn't understand. At that moment, she almost felt sorry for the brute, and not because he'd never walk again.
Kimber smoothed the wrinkles in another fabric napkin—old pink gingham with wear marks, bleach stains, and part of an embroidered logo along an edge. The fabric probably came from an apron or tablecloth found in a dumpster; now it was trimmed and hemmed, and decorative stitching turned the flaws into decorations. She remembered the special cloth napkins her mother kept for holidays—lace-trimmed ivory linen atrocities that only ever came out of the closet twice a year. She looked out over the table, the improvised dishes, dollar store flatware, and salvaged fabric linens, thoughtful. All around the table were other napkins like the one she held, clean, pressed, and folded, and waiting for use. It certainly put living in a Honda and surviving on burritos in perspective. The people of New York would be appalled but Kimber, for one, was comforted to see non-sentient trash turned into treasure and in use; maybe, someday, she, too, could be salvaged and cherished.
She shook off that line of thought and refolded the napkin with care, then lay another set of salvaged flatware atop it. Maybe she should offer the ‘household junk’ totes from her storage unit to the family instead of hauling them to the dump... Someone cleared their throat; Raphael and Amber both watched as if waiting for her to break down in tears or fly into a rage. The very idea made her smile, if only on the inside. “I should’a confronted Hun before it killed me,” she said locking eyes with Raphael. “Better late than nevah, right?” Amber nodded. Raphael hesitated, thought it over, then shrugged and returned to hauling food over to the table.
The dishes and sides were as different from one another as the members of this family she encroached upon. Baked Ziti and Lo Mein. Steamed vegetables and cheese pizza. Garlic bread and potstickers. Chicken, sausage, tofu, and unless she was wrong, even a dish of edamame. The spread looked like a delicious edible crazy-quilt, and the spiny cactus serving as a centerpiece only added to the oddness.
Kimber looked up from the cactus. Raphael and Amber chatted about something she didn’t catch, dodging and ducking around one another to finish their tasks; one swerved right to the table as the other swerved left to the fridge, then reversed the steps without any planning or warning. It seemed almost like some sort of elaborately planned tribal dance...one she wasn't allowed to partake in, considering she was asked to set the table. No matter. Kimber didn't really care to join any tribe, to begin with. Family, or rather belonging to one, had always proven dangerous.
“I mean, we can sure hope so, right Kimber?” Her name yanked her out of her internal monologue without warning.
“Eh?” Kimber immediately grimaced at her inability to string words together on demand. To her surprise, Amber gave her an understanding smile. “Come again?” Kimber asked instead of rising to the bait.
“Duking it out with Hun.” Amber hauled a rectangular metal platter out of a low cabinet and straightened up with a wince. Though the top was hand-tooled with an abstract geometric pattern, the underside had remnants of green and white paint all over it. Wait...was that...an old street sign? Someone seriously looked at scrap metal and thought we ought’a eat food off of this? To Kimber’s disgust, Amber arranged the garlic bread on the street sign tray. Ew. “Ya feel better now that it’s over an’ done with?”
“You deserve every bit of this, Hun.” Earlier, Kimber surprised herself by holding her temper; now she surprised herself by having no temper to hold. All her anger at Hun, it wasn’t gone, but...for the first time in longer than she remembered, she felt no urge to let it fly. Instead, she felt...subdued? Tired? What was this strangely quiet feeling, like knowing the worst was over and all she had to do was say her piece to move on? Mankind insisted on words for the most ridiculous and obscure things, so surely there was a word for this feeling in her chest.
“Workin’ for you was tha worst time in my life,” she said instead of admitting her internal vocabulary crisis, “an’ I’m countin’ dyin’ in that.” She barely managed to censor out a ‘thank Gawd it’s over’ by reminding herself not to jinx it. “I’m workin’ an honest job,” she added instead, “an’ you’re here, rottin’ in prison.”
“You tryin’ to say somethin’?” Hun stared her down as if waiting for an insult. Daron waved his wallet at another approaching guard, eyeing Kimber like he was waiting for something.
Kimber held her tongue—she was also waiting for something. Then it hit her like a sudden wet spot on her arm when walking under a tree full of birds. Her shoulders lowered and her chin raised, and the flare in her eyes cooled. “I forgive ya.”
“That sounds more like ‘fuck you’ than forgiveness,” Hun muttered.
“Exactly.” Her lips stretched and parted in something halfway between a grin and a sneer. “Fuck you, Hun. I’m done bein’ controlled by tha shit ya put me through, an’ I’m done with you.” She tossed a wry smile to Daron on her way back out the door. “Enjoy rotting in here, Bawss. Next time ya see Dragonface, say ‘hi’ for me, if’n he don’t shank ya first.”
Amber and Raphael still waited, one openly fretting, the other brooding, and acting as though he couldn’t care less about her answer and failing miserably. This time, Kimber didn’t feel her stomach trying to claw its way up her throat. Instead, she felt...free. Free, she asked herself, was that the word? She caught sight of her reflection in the shiny surface of the microwave door and realized that free was, indeed the word she was looking for. She nodded to the others. She did feel better, and one other thing…
“I’m’a remember tha look on his face for tha rest of my life.”
Lunch
31:00:00 and counting
Not so long ago, the kitchen was full of idle chat over a shared chore; now, Kimber felt like she was right back in her childhood, staring down a plate of meatloaf and waiting for her father to start screaming and throwing things because the catsup bottle kept squelching.
One side of the table exchanged uncomfortable glances between bites. The other side held the room hostage with tense shoulders, gritted teeth, and brooding. Directly across from Kimber, the family's mutant patriarch made no move to mediate between them. At his right hand, Leonardo sat and fumed, clenching his fork so hard the whitening skin of his knuckles looked ready to split, and he watched her. Of course, watched felt like the wrong word in her opinion. Maybe attempted to set her on fire with his eyes was a better phrase, or perhaps stared while visualizing himself stomping her flat like a bug? Kimber shuddered and dropped her eyes to her untouched plate. Much more of the oppressive silence and her stomach might crawl up her esophagus, fling itself upon her plate in protest, and commence swinging its nonexistent feet and arms like a toddler throwing a tantrum. She couldn’t take it anymore.
“...this ain’t awkward at awl.”
Leo’s chair shoved back from the table so hard the feet screeched against the black-and-white tiles. Like the night before, he stalked out of the kitchen, but this time he didn’t stop to excuse himself. Whiskers stiffened and ears flattened, Splinter watched his son’s carapace vanish around the corner; the front door screeched open, then squawked and slammed closed. A muscle twitched near one dark eye like a clock counting down to destruction. “Someone’s goin’ to the Hashi later,” Mikey muttered helping himself to Leo’s abandoned plate from across the table. No one saw who administered the brain-duster, but considering he was sandwiched between Splinter and Amber, the culprit was pretty obvious.
With the Leo-shaped cloud of gloom gone, conversation slowly trickled to life around the table. This was the family she chose, Amber reminded herself, but she still heaved a resigned sigh at the brothers’ poor manners—her brothers, as far as she was concerned. What an example to set for a guest, even a former enemy. She turned to Kimber, expecting the worst; instead of the upset, discomfort, or humiliation Amber expected, Kimber appeared lost in thought but otherwise at peace. At least now she was picking at her pasta instead of staring through it. Amber cleared her throat and held out the platter of garlic bread as a peace offering; Kimber declined but muttered her thanks. “You’ve got the look of someone who figured somethin’ out,” Amber told her, then asked, “so what’s up?”
Kimber took a long drag of her half-and-half iced tea while considering how to word her answer. “It’s about...forgiveness.” Several pairs of eyes fastened on her all at once but instead of looking up, she examined the cup in her hand as if it mattered. The glass was thick, transparent green, and a familiar star-and-bow design was stamped on one side; the rim was unevenly rounded as if the top broke and someone melted it smooth with a blowtorch. She was drinking from a glass made from a Heineken bottle. Why didn’t that bother her? She shot a glance at Mercy’s glass—wide, round, and window-clear with a narrowed mouth and threaded rim—at least Mercy, the recovering alcoholic in the room, got to drink from a canning jar. The thought was oddly comforting.
“You have learned something about forgiveness?” Splinter’s words pulled her back to the present, and she responded with another pull on her drink. Already her throat felt dry again.
“It ain’t always what everyone says, is it?” She turned the glass in her hand, letting the ridges stamped into the bottom ground her. “Hun ain’t ever gawnna apologize, an’ he ain’t sahrry for anythin’...’cept that he gawt caught…but does it really matter if he’s never sahrry?” Kimber looked up, first at Splinter, then at her counterpart. “Maybe forgiveness ain’t always for tha person who threw tha punch...maybe sometimes it’s for tha person who gawt hurt instead.”
Mercy’s fork fell to her plate with a clatter, and she snatched it back up with a muttered obscenity. Kimber wasn't sure what she saw in the blonde woman's eyes but it looked more like shock than chagrin. "I take it you forgave Hun?" Amber asked drawing Kimber's attention away from Mercy's shaking hands.
“I told ‘im as much.” Kimber gave a weak smile, then a shrug. “Dunno if I’m ready to actually do it, but if it helps, I’m goin’ for it.” What if it didn’t help? What if, by forgiving her mortal enemy—the man responsible for her death—she gave him even more power over her than he already possessed? She could continue to hate and fear Hun in her new life, but fear and hatred had consequences like everything else. Could she afford to risk giving him more power by letting go of what he did? Worse, if forgiving him might make her stronger, could she afford to not take that risk?
“Any idea when you’ll give yourself the same courtesy?” Amber again; that woman had a knack for asking questions Kimber refused to contemplate. Her stomach turned for the umpteenth time, though this time the stressor was introspective rather than environmental. Instead of admitting her worry, she feigned amusement.
“That one’s way above my pay-grade.” Or at least, she thought while chasing a pile of mozzarella around her marinara-smeared plate, it’s something to consider some other time. For now, she had no answers and no heart to pursue them.
A cool autumn breeze rustles the tall grass; carried by that wind is a perfume of roses and lilacs, fresh-mown grass and rain, and new hay and ripe apples. A crazy quilt lies rumpled on the ground, bunched and stretched and damp with forming dew and descending mist. Somewhere in the distance, a host of summer bugs sing in tune while Nighthawks hit the high notes and bullfrogs keep time. Overhead, the sky is winter-clear. The moon is full and the Orionids spark and fade between breaths and sighs. These sights, sounds, and smells don’t fit together properly, as if several seasons have collided in a single perfect environment, but neither occupant of the quilt has it in them to care.
Skin slick with dew and sweat collides and slides. Demanding hands snatch at new territory and greedy lips stake their claim before moving on. Home—this, Amber realizes as the taste of salt and coffee blooms on her tongue, is what she considers home. The hands roaming her body are her walls and the powerful thighs nudging hers apart, her foundation. The mouth burning a searing trail down her throat is her hearth; the eyes idolizing her and the voice whispering promises are her windows and doors. The heavy keratin shield on her lover’s back? That’s her roof, her shelter from the storm.
Home isn’t New York, nor was it ever Missouri. Donnie is her home, and she’s been far away for far too long. He remembers her now but there’s none of the awkwardness she expected. If anything, he’s as insatiable as she, if not even more so. Still, he stops—with his eyes wide and wild and their bodies on the verge of merging sole to soul, he stops. His lungs heave—his limbs shake—his fingers, trembling, free themselves from the crumpled quilt to ease a sweat-slicked strand of hair from her face.
"I…" His voice cracks, and he swallows the sound before trying again. "Amber...this…" He pulls away, all-too-aware of how his skin sticks to hers and pulls with separation. Amber grabs for him, aiming for his neck but finding his cheek instead; she can feel him grinding his teeth and clenching his jaw.
“Tell me,” she urges, breathless and hungry. “Don’t shut me out.”
“This...isn’t enough.” His eyes, brown from shadow and pupils blown wide from need, cast about them at the surreal landscape. They’re alone here, as they always are, and this strange dreamworld conforms to their every need without conscious thought...but… “It’s not enough anymore,” he repeats more determined than before. “It’s not real enough! It’s—it’s just a dream!” Amber’s ardor cools but her blood outright freezes.
“What’re you saying, Dunnie?” His smile calms her fears, and his touch sets her burning all over again. Slowly, certainly, he pulls her tight to his chest—stiff keratin heated by a warm, gentle heart—and tumbles over onto his back. As if to confirm his words, there’s no uncomfortable rocking motion from his shell; instead, the soil beneath the blanket embraces the curve of his carapace as if he is just a man, the ground just a bed, and the world just right. Callused fingertips at the small of her back coax her to sprawl across his body like she owns it, but it’s too comfortable. There’s no uncomfortable stretching in her thighs, no gravel digging into her knees, and none of his calluses snag her skin; even her nipples, stiffened to tenderness, manage to not get smashed, or her breasts uncomfortably flattened! How can something that feels so right also feel so...wrong? Amber has no answers but Donnie’s lips brush hers and suddenly, it’s damned hard to think about anything.
“If you’re ready,” he breathes into her clavicle as trails of pink and grey drift upward from the horizon, “then I’m ready.” He follows his words with a peck that builds into a mouthing kiss, then punctuates the lot with a nip that borders on a bite. No sting—no sweet, delicious burn—he’s right, suddenly this isn’t enough! “I’m ready for the real thing if you are, Braids. Wake up?”
“But…what about Kimber? She might—” The hand palming her backside yanks her down at the same time his hips buck underneath her, and together they twist her valid question into a high-pitched cry.
“Forget what she’d think.” Forget indeed. It’s a miracle she can even remember her own name, considering where his fingers have migrated to. “Please, wake up!”
A last moment of lucidity: “But how—”
Monday, 7:15 AM
41:45:00 and counting
One moment, Amber was one stubborn breath away from riding her Donnie off into the sunrise and putting him away wet; the next, she was staring at his peaceful face and ready to scream profanities. He wasn’t satisfied with dream-fucking for once. He all-out begged her to wake up, and she did…and he was asleep. Dead to the world level asleep, in fact, intermittently snoring and mumbling about gigawatts and malfunctioning flux capacitors.
Amber. Felt ready. To scream. Instead she swallowed the belly-deep growl building in her throat, flopped over on her back, and glared at the ceiling as if it held full responsibility. One thing was certain: Donnie remembered her now and he was just as impatient as she was...but in dreams, there was still some lag going on. The Donnie she woke up for wasn’t the Donnie who fitted Kimber with a core temperature monitor Saturday night—he was the Donnie of a few days, maybe even a week or two before that. Heck, he may even be the Donnie who drove her senseless in Aaron’s shed during a thunderstorm then spent the night licking his lips in his sleep. Just the other morning, she told him in another dream she was content to wait until he caught up with her. She wanted to kick herself in the teeth for that one. Waiting was miserable!
In her ear, Donnie muttered again and sucked some drool back between his lips before it could hit the pillow; was it wishful thinking to hope he was dreaming about sucking on her? Perhaps, but wishful thinking wouldn’t help her sleep. Her lost dream in mind and the corner of the blanket gritted in her teeth, she slid one hand between her skin and clothes and set to work on quieting her complaining libido. It wasn’t what she wanted or needed, but for now, it would just have to do.
Only two days to go.
Up next: it's the final countdown in Redemption is a Process

♦ Forgiveness goes both ways is a concept taught in abuse/trauma recovery. Sometimes in your life, the person who harmed you will not regret what they’ve done, will not make amends, or will fade from your life before you can reconcile. This can leave you in the lurch when it comes to what they did to you, and a lot of times, folks believe that you can’t fully recover unless your abuser has made amends or paid for their crimes. This isn’t an unusual situation...but there is a solution. We’re taught that forgiving people for what they’ve done is a necessity—they apologize, we forgive, everybody moves on and becomes a big happy family again—but sometimes that’s a load of bullshit. Sometimes you have to give up on that person ever changing and forgive them without receiving any apology. In those situations, you aren’t mending a fence, you’re building a new fence to replace the one they destroyed, and protecting yourself from further injury. You’re giving yourself permission to move on from what was done, refusing to allow the other person and their crimes anymore control over you or your life, and essentially flipping them the bird while walking away.
Sound pathetic? Maybe. I’m not the best at explaining things. Does it work? If you really put your heart in it, yes, it does work, and I know that from first-hand experience. As Kimber realized this chapter, sometimes forgiveness means fuck you. It’s not agreeing with what the other person did. It doesn’t make what they did okay, nor does it absolve them of hurting you. It’s telling yourself you’re done with their bullshit, taking back control of your own heart and life, and letting yourself move on to live your best life.
Also, a quick thanks to the folks on the AFF community forums for their help with the title here. ‘preciate it!
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A New Lease on Life