Adult-FanFiction.org : Cartoons

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
- 63
- 64
Finally—finally—FINALLY, there’s a freaking update!
I know. I’m so sorry. I wish I had a better explanation than shit happened, but...yeah. Shit happened. We lost a friend to Covid—one day he was there, and the next day, he was gone—and the relative I based Bart on lost his battle with cancer. I didn’t get the chance to say goodbye either time. I also lost three furry siblings—only one of whom I got to get closure with—and we’ve had some scares with our Heiferlump and Woozle, who are both grown kitties now. Heifer and Woozle, at least, seem to be doing well, chronic conditions aside. My chronic pain got better, got worse, got better, got much worse, etc., and the arthritis in my hands is throwing a wrench in things all the time. Between it all, my depression kicked into full drive, and it’s still not fully gone.
Such is life. You endure the bad days to get to the good days. Thanks for waiting for the update, after all this time, and I hope it's worth the wait.
Honestly, I’m still struggling IRL - depression doesn't go away just because you finally manage to Do The Thing - and feedback would mean the world to me right now. Feedback could mean the difference between kicking writers’ block’s ass and crawling back under the desk.
Hang in there, folks. You know what’s coming.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Suggested Listening: Steeleye Span "Cam Ye O'er frae France" and Smithfield Fair "Wha'll Be King but Cherlie," Creed "Time," Ayron Jones "Blood in the Water," Default "It Only Hurts," Styx "Haven't We Been Here Before?"
Have you ever been afraid of your own ghost?
I’m just a creature of a broken past.
We’re all looking for a second chance,
And I don’t wanna live like this no more.*
62: Redemption is a Process
Monday – 1:30 pm – 45:30:00 and counting
On the tablet screen was a monster straight from the deepest depths of Hell. Beside Amber, however, was a guardian better than the likes of Virgil, intent on leading her through and back out again. ‘Enough with the Inferno jokes,’ Amber reprimanded herself with a sloppy, crooked smile. The tornado on Donatello’s tablet was only a photograph; it couldn’t hurt her. Reality was deadlier. Bright, intelligent hazel eyes shielded by glass and a large, warm, powerful hand, perched on her shoulder as if to guide. Already she felt a scenario building in her imagination.
The lips fell to her neck, whispering technobabble nonsense into her skin between nips. The hands turned her around to face the table, and one pushed her flat while the other collected both her wrists and held them tight. The eyes burned a trail along her spine, mapping out vertebrae and mentally connecting the tissues beneath her skin. Lips followed the eyes—hands clutched her hips—how did her pants end up around her ankles? Never mind, she—
“Do we need to postpone this?” Amber jolted back to reality to find Donnie blushing the turtle equivalent of ‘beet red’ and avoiding her eyes. “Um...you...smell distracting...we can put this session off for later but…” He peeked at her out of the corner of his eye, and his muddy blush darkened even more; his Adam’s apple bobbed in a nervous swallow. “...I’ll need to remain seated a while longer.”
She could have kicked herself. Here he was guiding her through an exposure therapy session before work and her hormones were giving him the turtle equivalent of blue balls. “I—”
Someone behind them cleared their throat. Donnie crossed his legs under the table and they both turned to acknowledge the intruder...Kimber. Amber knew how this would go, she could imagine all the nasty comments her badass counterpart must be biting back. Therapy? Ya need therapy? Yer takin’ drugs cuz yer scared of stawrms? My Gawd, how’d such a pussy end up in my bawdy? Baby need a blankie to keep away the scary thunder mawnsters? Amber cringed. Kimber slunk past to the fridge, filled her glass halfway with sweet tea, then topped it off with unsweetened tea, stirred it, and added a couple of cloudy ice cubes. Donnie and Amber exchanged a glance, both waiting for the bitch-bomb to drop.
“I hate crowds.”
Wait. What? Amber blinked, too stunned to even emit some nonsensical noise showing a lack of comprehension; Kimber shrugged, stirring her tea with a weak smile that looked closer to a cringe. “I don’t get it. Somethin’ about the noise an’ people gettin’ too close to me…makes me feel sick…but it can’t actually hurt me.” She nodded at the tornado on Donnie’s tablet. “Bein’ scared of that one makes sense.” Without another word, she left the kitchen.
The two nerds in her wake stared at the empty doorway as if waiting for her to return, shout psych, and berate Amber for falling for her trick. A distant door clicked shut; no taunts came, and Kimber remained gone. “Well.” Donnie shoved his glasses back up his snout. “That just happened.”
2:30 pm – 46:30:00 and counting
“—woman? Weren’t ye at the place ca'd the Kittle Hoooosie, an’ saw ye Geordie's grace, oh, a-ridin’ on a gooseee?”•
For a rare moment, Donatello was up-to-date with his work. The last of the renovations were on hold until Kimber’s departure, and none of the appliances had met sudden deaths of late. The scattered remnants of the Foot were behaving, and the last Purple Dragons still floundered without their leader. Donnie’s widespread monitoring network was plenty to keep tabs on them.
Nothing needed doing, for once; naturally, he was taking a moment to tinker with a piece of gear he used on patrols. There must be a way to make the shoulder-mounted laser capable of triggering explosive devices; if such a way existed, then he owed it to the technology gods to find it. His reputation as a pyromaniac was at stake.
“—thar is li’l doot o’t, he’s done a’ he can, oh wha’ can day wi’oot it? Doon there cam a blade, linkin’ like my lordie—”•
Donnie needed a pick-me-up in the meantime. The bitter perfume of old, burned coffee filled the kitchen, at war with traces of tropical fruit seeping through the utility room doorway. The tone-deaf recital in the bathroom told him Amber was taking her usual pre-work shower. A fresh pot percolated on the counter, and the burned remnants steamed in Donnie’s cup. He leaned back against the countertop, coffee in one hand and the other in his pocket, and soaked in the contrasting smells and sounds, at peace with life.
“Though the claith were bahd, blithely may we niffer: gin we get a wab, it maks little differ. We hay tint our plaid, bonnet, belt, an’ swordie, ha’s an’ mailins braid, oh, but we hay a Geordie!”•
Anyone who had never heard Scots or Scots-Gaelic might suspect Amber sang in tongues. In the days since their return from Willsdale, however, Donnie had spent many hours studying what he could for both dialects. Both were fascinating. The pronunciation alone was intriguing if bewildering, and that didn’t include Amber’s habit of twisting certain vowels and consonants. Someday, he hoped to at least understand the new languages, even if he couldn’t speak them. Until then, separating syllables into words with any accuracy was the most he managed.
“—belted, brisk and lordly—”•
The high note at the end made Donnie flinch. To be blunt, Amber couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket even if someone else filled it first. Her flats were too sharp, her sharps, too flat, and her voice often cracked around high notes. Not that he’d ever tell her. Instead, he grimaced into his coffee cup and thanked his lucky stars she seldom sang outside the shower. Unless, of course, one counted the husky keening cries she muffled in her arm, his neck, and their pillows; in those moments, she sang like a songbird, and how sweet it was.
Somewhere nearby, an offended squawk rang out, followed by a slamming door and stomping footsteps. Over the rim of his cup, Donnie saw Kimber march into the kitchen in a snit. “Trouble?” he asked before taking another sip. Mmmm...sweet caffeinated goodness.
“Remember what ya said about me an’ that braided nutcase bein’ the same person an’ awl?” Kimber demanded.
In the bathroom, Amber belted out several more words, but only heeland kwarum• registered, whatever that meant. Was she twisting another vowel? Kimber’s face—scrunched and turning red—brought Donnie back to the current confrontation. “Ye...yes?”
Kimber stormed past through the utility room and kicked the bathroom door open; through the gap, Amber’s caterwauling belched out like a cloud of pungent brogue-tainted smog. Donnie winced, but to his credit, he gave no other sign of offense. (Good grief, was she having a stroke? Human vocal cords shouldn’t be capable of that post-puberty.)
Kimber pointed at the bathroom door—or, rather, the unseen brunette beyond it blistering every ear within hearing distance—and spat, “NO!” Without another word, she stalked off to parts unknown, presumably in search of earplugs and aspirin.
Unaware of the farce she created, Amber sang unhindered. “—haw, they’ll skelp an’ dance o’er the bum o’ Geordie!”•
3:00 pm – 47:00:00 and counting
In her previous life, Kimber never understood what it was like having “girlfriends.” She...experimented a bit during her time with the Dragons, and before running away, if she was being honest. She’d sucked the gloss off of her fair share of lips—and maybe sat on a few before or after—but the idea of having girls as friends was as foreign to her as a functional family. Her old friend Leon had more experience with rug-munching than she did about being friends with women...and the only rugs Leon cared to encounter covered up ugly floors.
Regardless of the foreignness of the concept, the call came, and the caller’s parting words were clear: we’re going to be such good friends!
The entire problem started with a text from a Daron that sounded nothing like him—a text festooned with emojis and followed by no less than three cutesy GIFs. A phone call and an awkward conversation with Daron’s new girlfriend, Cindy, just made the situation weirder. Before Kimber knew what happened, Cindy had roped her into crashing their dinner date; there was all evening to sort through the crap in her locker, after all, and Daron was always a bear when hungry. “Did ya ask him first?” Kimber asked though the answer was obvious.
Cindy laughed. “Of course not! He would say no.”
And now, friends...girlfriends...not girlfriends, but friends who were girls, connecting over a bond with the same man. Kimber’s life-after-death kept getting stranger every day. Still, dinner was dinner, and the menu for the taqueria made her mouth water, so rather than examine it too close, she made her way out the door.
‘—ye’re a’ the welcomer early; around him cling wi’ a’ your kin for wha’ll be king but Cherlie? Come through the heather, around him gather, ye’re a’ the welcomer early; to claim your rightful, lawful king, for wha’ll be king but Cherlie?’•
The sheer number of old folk songs Amber had stuck in her head tonight had to be a sign; what that sign said was anyone’s guess, but Amber suspected it had something to do with last night’s incident of what she now called dream-walking. Uncle Bart played his old Smithfield Fair, Simon and Garfunkel, and Steeleye Span records on slow nights, and whichever night she witnessed was a doozy; the usual limit was two Jacobite tunes per night, but Amber lost count at five. It was a wonder Bart hadn’t called her Da and Gran’da up for a game of pool between tabs. Bored hippies were dangerous, to say the least.
‘The Highland clans, wi’ sword in hand, frae John o’ Groats’ to Airlie, hae to a man declared to stand or fa’ wi’ Royal Cherlie.’•
Even as she hummed the chorus, Amber knew what Kimber would have to say about it. Ain’t you a walkin’ stereotype? What, are ya tryin’ to prove somethin’? Ya tryin’ to tell the world ya don’t belong here? Quit showin’ off a’ready, ya make me sick!
Amber’s hands stilled on her helmet straps mid-buckle. No. Kimber may be obnoxious, but of all the hurtful things Amber had expected to hear, few had actually been said. She was just borrowing trouble she needn’t even buy. I am who I am; whether I fit in, and whether Kimber approves, is irrelevant.
A door slammed at the other end of the garage, and Amber could have leapt right out of her skin. ‘Bloody exaggerated startle response.’ With one hand braced on Dorian Gray’s saddle, she rubbed the tattooed skin over her racing heart. Her annoyance faded to anxious confusion when a familiar redhead circled around the truck and froze, wide-eyed. “Kimber.” Amber smiled, but from the tightness around her cheeks and jaws, any idiot would know it wasn’t genuine; Kimber, despite what some might assume, was not an idiot. “Headin’ out already? I thought y’all weren’t going to the storage facility ‘til later.”
Kimber looked from Amber to the scooter and back with an inscrutable expression, shoved her hands into the pockets of her hoodie, and nodded. While the garment looked too heavy for the week’s warm temperatures, mentioning so might earn Amber a verbal lashing. “Daron an’ Cindy got a date at Tia Tonia’s. I’m crashin’ it. Wait.” Pausing, she stared at the ceiling through her bangs. “Is it still crashin’ if someone invited ya?” She shook off the thought. “Whateva. I’m gettin’ tacos. You?”
It struck Amber that this might be the most civil Kimber had ever been where she was involved. This might be a sign of a trap being laid, but since when did Amber care about springing traps? “I’m on half-shift tonight. You said Tia Tonia’s, right? Isn’t that right around the block from Big D’s?” Kimber shrugged.
Right. She’s been dead awhile. Come to think of it, so have I. At least one of us knows our way around. This couldn’t get more awkward even if Mikey came sprinting through the garage naked...and the longer they delayed, the higher the odds of that happening. “Well.” Amber forced another tight smile and grabbed Raph’s helmet off his handlebars. “I’ll give you a lift. It can’t be too far out of the way if it’s not the same place. Dorian’s not glamorous, but he’ll ride two.” The bike would be crowded with a rear passenger who was pushing six feet tall, but this one was built like a scarecrow, so they should be fine. Kimber caught the helmet, turned it, and fastened it on. Amber expected some ribbing about being towed around on a dorky scooter, but Kimber said nothing…
...at least, until Amber slung her purse over her shoulder and her neckline got tugged aside. The mess of half-dissolved ink and healing blisters sprawling across her secondhand cleavage made Kimber draw up short. “Yer gettin’ it removed?” Straddling the scooter, Amber froze, considered it for a moment, then nodded over her shoulder. Kimber clambered onto the back with a determined expression. “Good. At least one of us has some frickin’ sense.” Amber didn’t know quite what to say about that and, instead, guided Dorian out into the alley. If nothing else, the weather was mild for November.
The distance passed slower than Amber and Kimber preferred, and between traffic jams, they carried on a stilted conversation regarding the tattoo. It was the safest topic either could think of. With most of the ink dissolved, Amber planned on a cover-up design to hide the most stubborn bits; she wasn’t sure what that design would be, only that it would include some purple and grey. For a while, they bounced halfhearted ideas off one another—from the usual subjects like flowers and butterflies to less common ideas and abstract patterns. Before she knew it, Amber had parlor recommendations, and Kimber had a promise of photos showing the finished work.
With the tattoo topic exhausted, a pensive, yet comfortable silence followed—at least, as much of a silence as one found in a city like New York. It lulled Amber into a false security.
“I take it you two ain’t done the nasty yet.”
Amber swerved into a bike lane and corrected to the sound of honking horns and cursing drivers. What a wonderful place this was to be a flawed human being.“Kimber!” she squeaked as the scooter coasted to a stop behind a yellow cab.
Behind her, Kimber shrugged—as much as one could shrug while clinging to another person like a skinny lemur—and snorted. “Thought so. Well, when ya get yer panties out of a twist—” She let go of Amber’s waist only long enough to jab a thumb at her secondhand crotch. “—that’s allergic to latex. Condoms ain’t gonna work anyway, not if yer nerd’s built like Raph was.”
“We’re having this discussion now? In broad daylight? In afternoon rush hour?!”
“This is New Yawk; it’s always rush hour.” Even without being able to see, Amber knew Kimber was rolling her eyes. “Besides, ain’t it better to know now than find out later when yer cunt blisters up?” She let go to make a gesture like balancing scales. “Embarrassment, hives; hives, embarrassment.” Amber swore and ducked her head hoping to bury her face in her cleavage, but Kimber was undeterred. “Yer makin’ this thing a lot more awkward than it has to be. Would ya freak out over gettin’ laid in a borrowed bed?”
“Calgon, take me away.” Amber resolutely avoided eye contact with the leather-clad biker idling in the next lane over. Lord only knew what the man thought, because there was no way he couldn’t hear them, and he was staring.
Kimber leaned around to study the bright red flush spanning from Amber’s forehead to her neckline, then slumped back again. “Ya would, wouldn’t ya? I’ve got a prude stuck in my cawrpse,” she complained, and when she noticed the biker staring, snapped, “Go back to Williamsburg, ya yuppie!” The biker retorted with a statement regarding Kimber’s moral fiber and a certain part of his body.
“Can you not get me killed?” Amber protested as traffic started moving again, and choked on exhaust as the motorcycle passed them.
“Relax, he’s from Queens.” How would that make him any less prone to murder?!
Amber pulled into the alley before the next major cross street; the taqueria’s neon sign glowed somewhere down the block, and Big Don’s pizza parlor was at the other end of the alley. Kimber swung off the bike, unfastened the helmet, and handed it over. “Look, snatcher. This?” She gestured at Amber in her entirety. “I don’t live there anymore. It’s yours now—the tattoo, the hair, it’s awl yours now, to do with as ya wish. That goes for the cooch, too; don’t let it collect dust cuz ya think I won’t like the visitors. Shave it bald, get it pierced, an’ ride a whole circus of clowns for awl I care.”
Amber couldn’t be any more mortified if a crowd paraded her up and down Broadway in her birthday suit. Still, the nutjob had a point, and a latex allergy explained why she kept blistering up at random times. “Pill?” she mumbled without making eye contact.
Kimber shook her head. “Fuggetit, our memory sucks. Try somethin’ ya ain’t gotta remember to not get knocked up.” Without another word, she turned, waved over her shoulder, and walked away; soon, she blended into the mass of New Yorkers milling along the sidewalk like one side of a zipper fitting into the other, one tooth at a time.
...and now Amber’s brain was back in the gutter. Considering her boss’s intimidating brother was supposed to drop by for the deposit tonight, this may just be the longest shift she’d ever worked, and that included chipping gum off desks every spring break.
Kimber’s storage unit
5:00 pm – 49:00:00 and counting
“Yer new squeeze is adawrable.” While it was a compliment, Daron scoffed and threw a shoe at Kimber, who caught and chucked it over her shoulder into the donate this crap bin. Once, it was part of one of her favorite pairs of hoochie-heels, but now, it wouldn’t fit. Barbara Brent, alas, had feet like boats, so Kimber would have to cut her toes off to fit. The pub had her on her feet most of her shift, so her toes needed to remain attached. “She’ll be good for ya,” she said, meaning every word.
“Let me get this straight.” Daron shoved a box of clothing toward Kimber before tearing into another crate of shoes. Why, why did she have so many shoes in the first place? Now that she had to go through them all, it felt excessive. “You’ve been effectively homeless and now you’re living out of someone’s attic. You’re working at a bar, but you’re sober. You’re working for Amber’s uncle, who looks like your uncle Bert but acts less constipated and has no kids. And, somehow, none of her family has recognized you as, oh, I don’t know, Amber 2.0?”
“Don’t lookit me. I don’t get it either.” Kimber sniffed a band tee shirt from the box, cringed, and slung it in the direction of a trash can; some stinks she would rather go naked than fight, and stale chili dog was one of them. Rest in peace, MCR. “It’s weird enough going from millennial to Gen X overnight.”
“That still doesn’t explain why you can’t take it with you…” Daron ripped the tape off the top of another box, cringed at the number of romance novels inside, and shoved it her way. “…suddenly became go on, take it with you.”
“What part of ‘homeless’ don’t ya get?” Kimber scoffed. “All I’ve got is what I could fit in Bahbie’s trunk—everythin’ else got bugs from stayin’ at that hooker resort they call a hotel. I got five sets of clothes, as many socks an’ skivvies as I got fingers, an’ nothin’ in the way of—why’s there a piss-pot in here?”
“You’re asking me? This is your storage unit.”
Kimber picked the chamber pot up with a stained tee shirt and hurled it into the trash can, grinning at the deafening clang. The volume was painful but so satisfying. “It was prob’bly Nana Bryant’s. She always had lots of weird stuff at her place.” Weird stuff being creepy vintage toys, old magazines, and potentially cursed dolls rather than antique commodes, but details-shmetails. “Look, point is, every penny I make is goin’ to bills an’ not starvin’, an’ I ain’t even got enough dishes to make a pot of noodles. When winter hits, I’m ‘onna freeze without warm clothes, again, ‘cuz I can’t afford to use the heat. I’m almost out’a deo an’ perfume, an’ my brain’s meltin’ with nothin’ to read, an’ I’d shank a bitch for a hair dryer, an’—”
“Kim?”
“—what?!” The blank expression on Daron’s face brought Kimber back to herself; she swore, then took a deep breath and let it out again. “Sahrry,” she mumbled, picking at her cuticles. “It’s…it ain’t been a good couple years. Even without the homeless bit. Bahbie Brent racked up a lotta bills when she died, an’ I’m stuck payin’ ‘em back. I can’t even look the snatcher’s family in the eyes without chokin’...can’t look anyone in the eyes, really…not without feelin’ like I’ll puke.”
And that was what frustrated her most of the whole situation. She was used to hardship, and stress, and unfair situations, and everything else. This wasn’t even her first time being “effectively homeless.” Being frightened of things that couldn’t hurt her, and worse, too afraid to bulldoze her way through it—that was what threw her. But, being who she was, she shoved that down with a laugh that sounded faker than Oroku Saki’s compliments. “An’ I keep whackin’ my head on things, too. How do tall people handle this?”
Daron just stared at her as if he could figure her out if he waited long enough; although their attitudes were nothing alike, he reminded her of a blue-eyed blond back in Willsdale. Aaron Willis, Kimber imagined, was who Daron might be if his family had remained in Missouri, or if he had sisters to watch out for, or maybe if he just hadn’t needed to take care of her. She wouldn’t return to Willsdale until they found answers—Aaron knew this—but she couldn’t help but wonder how he felt about that.
“The you back there,” she said instead of acknowledging where her thoughts had gone. “Ya wouldn’t believe it, but—get this—he laughs. I think he got adducted by aliens.”
Daron rolled his eyes. “Ab-ducted, Kimber. Ab-ducted. Are you sure you can read?”
Kimber leaned back against the box of books with a lazy grin and an even lazier gesture. “It’s all smut anyway.”
6:30 pm – 50:30:00 and counting
Rarely was Central Park safe at night. One never knew who was watching, listening, waiting in the shadows for the moment to strike. In this case, the one lurking in the shadows had no intention of striking...at least, not yet.
The watcher was tall and sturdy, with swarthy skin and glossy black curls. If not for their hazel eyes—always sharp, and full of something between disgust and rage—one might consider them attractive. They couldn’t care less. One thing kept them in Central Park at this hour, and one thing only, and it wandered the sidewalk beyond the concealing shadows. With shaky hands and gritted teeth, the watcher raised their smartphone, let the camera focus, and pressed the large white circle on the screen.
“Ya wouldn’t believe how awkward it’s been,” the redhead told her blond companion, rolling her eyes. “The bawdy-snatcher keeps puttin’ on like she an’ the nerd ain’t up to nothin’, but ‘er cat keeps freakin’ out. Blawndie can’t decide if she hates me or just dislikes me—”
“—which has nothing to do with boinking your old boyfriend, I’m sure,” the blond countered. The watcher zoomed in and refocused the camera; all the background noise might compromise the audio, but clear graphics, they could work with. Overhead, a strong wind rustled the leaves of the weeping willow until they and the fountain blocked out bits of the conversation. The watcher leaned forward.
“—ot my boyfrie—we ne—ot that far.” The wind, unlike the watcher’s nerves, settled. “An’ Leo—that teacher’s pet can’t even yank the stick out’a his uptight ass long enough to sit through dinner.” The redhead pouted. What was her name, again? “Why do we gotta all eat at the same time an’ table, anyway, huh? Why suffer through it? Can’t they at least let me, I dunno, eat in the guest cell? Seriously, it’s like a prison cell. It even smells like dirty socks an’ daddy issues.”
“That’s why you’re dragging me with you?” the blond demanded. What was his name? The watcher had no intel about him, only that he kept company with this new mark. “You’re afraid of—”
“Afraid? Who’s afraid? Daron, I just don’t wanna die again—again, Daron!—over askin’ someone to pass the sawlt without the appropriate bowin’ an’ self-flag-el-lay-shun.”
In the shadows, the watcher froze. Bingo.
“Flaj-el-lay-shun,” Daron groused, “you really are only half-literate, aren’t you? Hey!” The resulting hip bump had sent him stumbling into a nearby bench, but Kimber just laughed. “Watch it, you moose!”
Holding their breath, the watcher stopped the video, then snapped several photos of the woman—Kimber—in close succession, along with a few nearby objects to aid height-gauging later. Within moments, Kimber and Daron had vanished around the nearby fountain, and the watcher sagged back against the trunk of the willow tree. They flipped through the photos and flagged the clearest, counting to a hundred then back to one. It had to be safe now.
The watcher closed the camera app and dialed a number from memory—an impressive feat in this day and age, but nothing to them. They stalked away from the scene as the phone rang, rang, and rang some more, before finally connecting.
“White speaking.”
The watcher glanced down the walkway, alert as ever. They couldn’t afford another disaster. What happened with Georgia Green could not—must not—happen again, but recklessness increased the likelihood of recurrence. The watcher still remembered the tacky feeling of blood clinging to their shoes, Georgia’s glassy, vacant eyes, and the embarrassed distress in the nurse’s faces. “Jake, it’s me.”
“Baker? What—why are you whisperi—”
“A Voider, Jake. Rose was right; there’s another new Voider in the city. I sent you the evidence. You’ll want to see for yourself. I’m heading home. We’ll meet up in the morning to go over everything. Baker out.”
For someone to emerge from the Void with their memories intact, the odds were almost beyond consideration, and yet, it happened. What were the odds of another appearing so soon, and so close together? The Professor would want to hear about this, and immediately. Maybe this would get the rest of the Society off their back about being unable to locate the one Jimmy encountered at the hospital. With a long last scan of their surroundings, the watcher, Baker, jammed their hands in their pockets, cursed under their breath, and stalked through the shadows toward the nearest bus stop.
7:00 pm – 51:00:00 and counting
Kimber’s worries, as it turned out, were unfounded. Leonardo was nowhere to be found in the Lair, and all anyone would say about it was something about Hardee’s; the idea of a mutant turtle ordering a roast beef sandwich at the drive-through window made Kimber struggle to keep a straight face. Fortunately, he took most of the tension with him and left an open seat.
Even with Leo gone, however, the kitchen was still silent enough to have Kimber on edge. Not that Daron noticed. “Pass the ziti,” he grumbled. Ass. He was there to support Kimber, wasn’t he? So how could he just stuff his face while Donatello and the body-snatcher made puppy dog eyes at each other over the garlic bread and whispered about fuck-all knows what?
Enough of this nonsense.
“Can ya flirt a lil’ louder?” Kimber taunted the couple, who froze. “I can still hear out’a this ear.” Amber, of course, blushed beet red and stammered something about her GED and a pesky algebra problem—sure, math makes everyone blush like a scandalized southern belle.
Maybe Kimber should have expected Daron to kick her under the table, but the sting in her shin caught her by surprise. Traitor.
9:20 pm – 53:20:00 and counting
With the men on patrol—whatever they were patrolling for, Kimber didn’t want to know—the less-smelly occupants of the Lair took to the Dojo for their own (unofficial) training. Kimber, of course, didn’t get an invite, not that she blamed them. Why on earth would she need training? She was out of that life. The worst she had to defend herself from now was handsy drunks and Missouri weather, and of the two, the weather was more dangerous.
From the sound of it, Amber had no idea what she was doing, and Mercy...well, the less said about that one, the better. The blind, feral rage in Mercy’s eyes Saturday night was enough reason to never get on her bad side. Even after their awkward wordless cease-fire, Mercy still made it clear she wanted nothing to do with Kimber.
Kimber didn’t care about training but she couldn’t focus on her book; every unexpected noise pulled her out of immersion and every time, she looked up. The body-snatcher, it seemed, had a lot to learn about fighting. Kimber snorted and leaned back into the arm of the sofa. No matter. Not her circus, not her monkeys.
Crash. “Scunner,”• Amber swore, whatever that meant.
Nope. Not Kimber’s problem. She let her book fall flat on her face and willed herself to doze off.
Thud. Clatter. What was that word? Why did the snatcher have to speak in tongues? Why couldn’t she cuss in English like everyone el—oh, wait, that one was English. Kimber didn’t know that one, either; impressive. Amber dropped her weapon again. Less impressive. Whoever gave that woman the idea that knife-fighting suited her?
Finally, after a loud yelp and several successive thunks and thuds, Kimber had it. She stood, tossed her Harlequin on the couch without marking the spot, and stomped into the Dojo. There, she found an embarrassment. Amber sat cradling her head under a wall-mounted rack with its entire contents—bokken, staves, shinai, and who-knows-what—scattered around her like ninja confetti. Across the room, Mercy held her hand over her eyes, groaning, with a wooden practice knife in her hand, and another at her feet.
Kimber had a noob in her corpse. Her reputation was toast. “A’right, that’s it!” The other two women startled and turned to face her. “Who taught ya how to fight, snatcher?”
“I—”
Kimber didn’t give Amber time to answer and grabbed a wooden practice knife from the pile. “Get up. You’re startin’ over.” Amber and Mercy exchanged a long look, the first nervous and the second dubious, before Mercy left the mats to sit by the wall opposite the door; there, she sipped her water and fiddled with the shiny plastic chip hanging around her neck.
The next hour dragged on like torture. Every time Kimber blocked, Amber would lose her grip, and half the time, she lost her weapon. Still, Kimber goaded her on with taunts, orders, and directions; at this point, it was a matter of pride. It never even occurred to her she was channeling Northpaw, whose instruction helped about as much as ripped tendons, or that she succeeded because of Leon’s big brother act. Amber was being taught by someone too close to her, and they were being too nice; when nice failed, one needed to bring out the asshole.
After what felt like hours of disappointment, Kimber lost her temper. She took a step back, threw her wooden dagger to the floor, and unleashed a whole cloud of profanity-laced Jersey smog the likes of which the world hadn’t heard since she died.
“Dammit, snatcher,” she yelled at the end, “y’ain’t• holdin’ on tight enough, an’ y’ain’t reactin’ quick enough!” Seething, she yanked the practice knife from Amber’s hand—with little effort—and tossed it aside, then shoved her back against the wall. “Hol’ onta t’a damn t’ing!”• She shoved Amber after every point. “If yer gonna lose it, ya gotta go after it—don’t jus’ let go an’ give up!”
A moment too late, all three women realized that the fuming redhead was no longer talking about knife-fighting. On the sidelines, Mercy watched with flinty blue eyes, fingers white-knuckled around her canteen; Amber, to Kimber’s disgust, just looked sympathetic. Kimber choked on the smell of stale sweat and wood oil, the taste of blood from her bitten tongue, and the sensation of her heart simultaneously racing and aching. She turned to leave.
“Kimber…” And now the body-snatcher wanted to comfort her. Typical. The woman was too soft for her own good.
“I won’t.” Kimber stopped in the doorway, one foot among the dojo’s humiliation and the other poised for flight. She looked back. Staring her down with her arms crossed and an undecipherable expression was the unimpressed blond berserker herself. “I won’t let go,” Mercy said. “I won’t give up. I won’t make your mistakes.”
As if Kimber wasn’t humiliated enough. As if knowing that she wasn’t enough for Raphael, and that she never could be, didn’t hurt enough. Instead of acknowledging the gnawing ache spawning in her chest and spreading down into her gut like a slow rot, Kimber gave a sharp nod.“Good.” Without another word, she slunk through the living room and out the front door.
She never intended to wander the tunnels, but wander, she did. Before she realized it, she found herself in a place as familiar as the razor sting of a paper cut, or the freezing burn of an unimpeded January wind. Emerald and ivory—glass tile and brass plate—graffiti and broken concrete and the refuse of forgotten times and people. She remembered this place. This was the old City Hall subway station, the place where her first life ended, and—she presumed—where Amber’s second life began.
Kimber crouched beside the near wall and pulled away some crumbling tile; the stashed file was gone. Hun was rotting in prison, and the absent file suggested the officers and officials on his payroll went down with him. If nothing else, at least her death accomplished something.
Wasn’t that a cheerful thought? Her greatest achievement in life was paving the way for change, then dying before she could see it. Though she suggested it, this trial couldn’t end soon enough.
Tuesday morning
11:00 am – 67:00:00 and counting
If Leonardo was absent for all future meals, Kimber suspected she could almost handle them.
Almost. Even with Leo gone, Splinter watched her from across the table with a knowing look in his eyes, and everyone avoided speaking to Kimber more than usual. Raphael, too, kept shooting her reproachful glares, and Kimber suspected the bruises littering Amber’s arms were the cause. Okay, maybe she went overboard in the dojo last night, but wasn’t it necessary? The braided lunatic could at least keep a grip on her knife after the impromptu lesson; if she had to live Kimber’s life, being able to defend herself was necessary.
Then again, as Kimber learned from Raph, Amber threw knives better than Kimber threw shade. The figh—lesson, might have been more cathartic than necessary, but so what? That didn’t make her the bad guy or anything...right?
“—since I get off early tonight. …off work. I get off work. Not...gach. You know what I mean.” Good grief, was Amber still trying to fill the silence? What, was she so afraid of gaps in conversation that she’d fill every one with absolute brain-melting drivel just to avoid a moment of peace? What happened to everyone sittin’ around the table tired, hungover, and quiet? No one here had a hangover, sure, but surely they weren’t all morning people!
“I talked to Leo before he left.” Donatello paused to ask Amber to pass the scrambled eggs and scraped a heaping pile onto his plate. “Patrol is on hold for the day, possibly tomorrow, too, barring any disasters my network picks up.”
“What?” Raphael banged his fist on the table, fork included, and Mercy jumped in her seat before shaking it off and jabbing him with her elbow. “The gangs ain’t takin’ a day off! The muggers ain’t takin’ a day off! Why are we—” Donnie cleared his throat and glanced pointedly at Kimber. Raph deflated. “...oh.”
Kimber rolled her eyes. “Fergive me for inconveniencin’ ya with my I’m-pendin’ death.” This whole talking around the subject thing was stupid. Dying was stupid. Patrol was stupid. Breakfast was stupid. Everything was stupid. Never before had Kimber regretted her sobriety so much.
“Im-pending,” Donnie corrected with disinterest. Words were stupid. “And we don’t know for certain it will happen today, or even at all. That’s what this visit has been about—proving or disproving the theory.”
“Prove-or-disprove this, nerd.” If Leonardo had been present, Kimber’s rude gesture would have made him storm out; with him absent, it just led to an awkward silence. Sweet, blissful silence, which Amber slaughtered, again.
“So. Anyway. Need help in the garden tonight?”
Garden? Where did the loony blonde think she was, New Jersey?
“Maybe,” Mercy answered as she pushed the soggy remnants of a pancake around a pool of syrup on her plate. “It’s been a few days since I checked the carrots an’ greens, an’ some of the tomatoes may be ripe. The compost needs a turnin’, too, an’ I need to check water an’ heat levels, an’ the veg needs some fertilizer…”
At this point, Kimber spaced out. At least, until a certain word brought her back to attention: pumpkins. “Wait, what?”
“Mercy planted pie pumpkins,” Amber answered with a forced smile. “Thanksgiving’s around the corner, an’ the guys have only ever had pie made with canned pumpkin. If the garden was above ground, it’d be too cold now, but Donnie set up a wicked greenhouse system for overwintering. In fact—” Abruptly, she stopped and turned to Splinter with a wince. “I mean…”
“Can I help?”
Amber turned back to Kimber, then to Mercy, who sighed through her nose and poked her soggy pancake-boat again. Was it her, or was that syrup lake shrinking? For once, Mercy was neither scowling nor suspicious when she met Kimber’s eyes. “Just don’t get in the way. There’s enough work to do without cleaning up after you.”
4:30 pm – 72:30:00
Sometimes, change comes bursting through the door like the Kool-Aid man; it’s abrupt and undeniable and in your face. Other times, change sneaks in through the back door, silent and insidious, and you don’t realize what hit you until chills tremble down your spine.
Burrowing deeper in her hoodie, Kimber stared at the thermostat in dismay. She should not be this cold. Shivering, she checked her watch and counted the hours back to the moment she arrived, counted again, then one more time, just to be sure. Each time, she came up with the same answer. A renewed chill left her shuddering.
Beyond the kitchen, something beeped in protest, and she tugged her neckline aside to check the temperature monitor’s tiny screen. 95.3. With an odd sort of detachment, she recalled a late January ice storm when she was a teenager. Her homeroom teacher tried explaining why refusing to wear a coat to school during a winter storm made her an idiot, but at the time, Kimber thought she knew better. Now, she understood what happened when you subjected yourself to the elements without sufficient clothing, in chilling detail.
A door opened nearby, followed by boots approaching the lab. No. Not like this. Not yet.
Kimber bolted through the utility room into the bathroom. There, she dove into the nearest shower stall, yanked the curtain closed, and cranked the water up full-blast behind it, then shrieked. There—now, when Donatello checked the readings, he’d believe she stepped into a freezing cold shower. Despite that hope, Kimber sank onto the old metal bench in a cramped huddle.
The door to the utility room swung open, and footsteps drew near. Kimber held her breath. Donnie stopped right outside, his boots visible under the door, but said nothing. Kimber scrambled for a way out of the situation without lying—she was never any good at lying—and latched onto the first idea that came to her. “Turtles are cold-blooded, right? How do you handle this water? It’s freezing!”
Donatello said nothing; instead, he draped a towel over the door and nudged her suitcase through underneath. A long moment passed in which Kimber wished he would leave and he considered what her silence meant. Finally, he spoke. “You’re fooling no one.”
Kimber said nothing; instead, she unlatched the door and toed it open.
Donatello let the door fall open and stared her down through the widening gap. “Miss Bryant—” She looked up, but only to glare at him. He sighed. “Kimber...you know what’s at risk. It’s time to go.”
“I ain’t ready.” Another chill wracked Kimber’s body with shudders until she felt like an empty bottle with coins jangling around inside. At least this time around, she wouldn’t be trapped in an abandoned subway station, half-naked and entirely alone. “Your girl—she made it four days before somethin’ happened—four days, turtle, an’ it’s just now been three. I’m—”
“No!” After his outburst, Donatello paused to collect himself. “No, Kimber. Amber wanted one more day, and it nearly killed her. You didn’t see what…happened…to her... It’s not worth the risk, not when…” He choked, swallowed around the knot in his throat, and stared through the closed hallway door. “Kimber, you fulfilled your promise by proving my theory. So long as you recover without complications, I...see no reason you can’t...visit...I mean—”
Kimber couldn’t take any more of his sad puppy eyes and pathetic attempts at consoling her. This wasn’t her first time dying, and it wouldn’t be her last. “Tonight,” she promised. How was she already so tired? “I’ll go tonight.”
Donatello stilled. “Kimber—”
“Raph just went to visit Casey, remember? Last time, I didn’t get to say goodbye.” And if she regretted anything in life more than letting him push her away, it was that. “Don’t I deserve a chance to say goodbye this time?”
The lingering silence expanded Kimber’s senses beyond the shower stall. Beyond the utility room door, someone turned on a radio tuned to a rock station; the washing machine door opened and clanged against the dryer. Beyond the other door, muffled kiais rang out in the dojo as Leo trained, and Amber’s cat sang the songs of his furry people. Water rushed through the pipes overhead, and air wuffled through the ducts. Life continued on, whether Kimber lived or died. Chores would be done and shifts worked, and people would continue to live, sleep, breathe, and love, all without her in their lives.
Kimber shook her head; enough melancholy nonsense. “I get it ain’t worth much, but you got my word: let me say goodbye, an’ I’ll leave without a fight.”
After a moment of careful thought, Donatello relented. “You have four hours,” he warned, “no longer. I won’t be responsible for risking your life.”
Ten minutes later, Kimber stood shivering despite the blistering water raining down on her, and she watched the numbers on the monitor’s screen refuse to rise. There was no way around this, was there? As near-scalding water seared from her neckline down to her feet, and a sweet perfume of brown sugar and vanilla filled the air, Kimber watched the suds circle the drain. In the back of her mind was a song her mother loved and her father hated.
Light the candle, John; daylight is almost gone. •

(Eventually) UP NEXT: Kimber's honor is reclaimed in Sometimes Goodbye Is a Second Chance.

NOTES
* Sixx:A.M., “Prayers for the damned”
• Light the candle, John—From Skellig by Loreena McKennitt. I’ve had that particular bit planned since I first conceived of this character arc, by the way...meaning back before Amber and Donnie went to Willsdale.
To comply with pre- and post-story word limits, I've skipped the Glossary on this site. If you need explanations, you can check this story on AO3 or FFnet, where it's cross-posted under the same title and a (mostly identical) penname.
- 63
- 64
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

A New Lease on Life