Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles Fan Fiction ❯ A New Lease on Life ❯ Amber Or Kimber? ( Chapter 1 )

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Begin Part I
Time to Burn

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Content Warnings: Cursing, suggestive language, panic attacks. References to "Inferno" by Larry Niven and Jerry Pournelle, a wonderful book which I unfortunately can claim no rights to aside from a space of honor on my bookshelves.

Suggested Listening: The Rasmus, "No Fear"

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No one understands me.
They look at me when I talk to them,
And they scratch their heads.

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1: Amber or Kimber?
New York City, January 27th, 2016

The first thing Amber noticed was cold; the second was muffled noises almost like speech, followed by a stabbing ache right above her eyes. After all, she took a blow to the head…didn't she? Details weren't coming to her in that state halfway between sleep and wakefulness. As the throbbing in her head smoothed out, she scoured her memory for answers—answers she couldn't find in the blur that her past had become. Only one thing stood out among the blank space in her history….

She was dead. How she knew this, she wasn't completely sure, but as the headache faded away, fractured memories slowly filled its place. Willsdale—the storm of the century—the school where she worked, torn and trashed by EF-5 level winds. Her eyes flew open in fear, searching for any sign of light or life. Blinded by a sudden light, she cringed into the foul smelling heap she lay on. The voices around her grew louder and less muted, then suddenly ceased all together.

Where was she? What happened? How did she find herself in the situation she was in—what was the situation, even? She had no answers—not even the strength to lift her head. Out of the blue, she felt a presence beside her; warm, gentle arms drew her closer and wrapped her in a cocoon of scratchy warmth. This, she mused weakly as she turned to nuzzle into the warm shoulder propping her up, she could get used to.

But nothing good ever lasts. As though summoned by her comfort and calm, a demon she knew too well manifested with a grinding roar. The slow trickle of memories became a torrential downpour, and horrifying images flooded her delirious mind. Somewhere in the distance, someone was screaming, screaming as though they were being slowly gutted. The world turned sideways and crossways as the warmth surrounding her fell away; again, she fell to the fetid ground wishing the screaming would stop, wishing the memories would cease. Someone shut it all off, she cried soundlessly, her vocal cords inexplicably stilled.

A pinprick pain sprang to life and built into a fire spreading through her veins. On the heels of the fire, murky fog rolled in, choking out the life replaying before her sightless eyes. She struggled to get her head above water, struggled to breathe. A soft, gentle touch brushed from her brow to her temple then trailed along the line of her cheekbone. Sometime between the beginning of the caress and the whispering that followed, Amber's distorted world was swallowed up by a black void. 

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New York City, April's loft, January 28th

"I'm not so sure of this, Casey." Amber twitched at the hushed voice, disoriented and bewildered. She died. She remembered now, remembered being in another place—a place of endless nothing set to the sound of a clock's incessant ticking. Limbo? Purgatory? "We should have taken her to the hospital—she could be dangerously sick!"

"Hon, ya know we can't," a deeper voice replied. "If she wakes up an' starts jabberin' about giant turtles, it'll be trouble for da guys!"

Giant turtles? Amber fought to open her eyes. 'Great, out'a the afterlife an' into the nut house. At least it's warm, here…an' it smells nice, too.' She burrowed deeper under the scratchy knit afghan with a contented sigh, relishing the sweet fragrance of spiced cider. Later she'd question how she could be alive when she was sure she died but for now, she was too comfy to care, even with a splitting headache.

"Hey, she's waking up!" the first voice hissed; damn, no rest for the wicked. "Miss, are you okay? You need anything?" Reluctantly, Amber pried open her eyes, fumbling for her glasses; a blurry hand passed them to her, and she affixed them to her face, working her way to a sitting position. A woman with dark curls hovered before her with a steaming mug of cider and a concerned expression. As Amber finally trudged the rest of the way to life, she reached to scratch her left knee…and found bare skin. Startled awake by the absent clothing, she glanced down at herself in dismay.

Her legs were far more toned than she recalled and bare to mid-thigh; the skirt she wore would have gotten her arrested back home. The skimpy top was cut so low her breasts—larger and firmer than she remembered—seemed about to pop out, and the peaking suggested she wasn't wearing a bra. The clunky black boots she wore seemed more for looks than use. The fact that she had somehow lost almost a quarter of her body weight was firmly shoved into a vacant corner of her mind to be dealt with when she wasn't half-naked. Her cheeks flamed bright red as she yanked the afghan up to her chin.

"Miss?"

"Please tell me I'm not a hooker!" Amber blurted.

 Casey blinked. "Huh?" 

Undeterred, Amber rambled on in disgust and panic. "This is so not me—I'm barin' more than I'm wearin'! There should not be a fuckin' draft there, an' I'd never be caught dead wearin' a screw-me skirt. Granted, I like the hoochie boots an' my boobs finally match my ass, but for the love of Mike I'm practically naked!" When she finally realized everything she said, she cringed. "Eheh…Sorry…brain-to-mouth filter malfunction."

"I'll say," Casey teased; April shot him a dirty look, but he just shrugged. "So what's your name, Miss Not-a-hookuh?"

Amber cracked an uncomfortable smile. "Amber...Amber O'Brien. An' y'all?" The other two blinked at the blatant twang in her voice, which turned the smile into a cringe. Was it really so odd? The majority of her hometown spoke with a thicker twang than she did, so why would these two be surprised by it?

The other woman handed Amber a mug of cider with a detached smile. "I'm April O'Neil, and this is my boyfriend, Casey Jones."

It took a moment for the facts to sink in, during which time Amber stared at April as if she'd just admitted to being a lizard person. What were the odds that she'd die and wake up in the middle of a movie set? Instead of acknowledging the elephant in the room, she asked Casey, "Train conductor or Grateful Dead?" His response was a blank stare. Millenials."Sorry. So…uh…how'd I wind up here? Did y'all knock me out'a that jar in the vestibule—or were the jars in Limbo?" She frowned down at the cider searching her scattered memories.

"What jar?" April was at a loss. "Some…friends of ours found you in an abandoned subway station. You were freezing to death. Do you not remember that?"

Amber searched her memories, then shook her head with a confused frown. "No, my memory's…kinda blurry. I remember…a storm…a bad one, worse than I ever…" 

Unbeknownst to Amber, her words became more and more frantic and stammered, her eyes grew wild, and she started shaking violently. Amber never noticed any of it; next thing she knew, she found herself on the floor in the corner curled in a tiny ball with April petting her hair. "…Wha…What...happened?" The pity in April's eyes annoyed her, but she needed answers.

"Do you have a history of panic attacks?" the reporter asked—gently, cautiously, as if she were speaking to a child or a primed explosive.

Amber shook her head, searching her memories for answers that wouldn't come. "No…I've got a pretty bad phobia so I've had anxiety attacks, but it's never anythin' serious. Why?"

"Well, now you do. Come on, let's get you into something more…covering."

As Amber hoisted herself to her feet, her top dipped lower than before, revealing a flash of purple and black. Startled by the sight, Amber never noticed the shocked gasps of her hosts; she was too busy staring in dismay at the coiled purple dragon tattoo nestled in her cleavage.

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Leo climbed over the windowsill with an apologetic half-second smile. "We got here as soon as we could." Donatello followed right behind, silently hanging his trench coat on the rack next to Leo's overcoat. "Has she made any progress?" April's worried, tight-lipped frown concerned him, and Casey's pacing wasn't reassuring either.

"Ya know anythin' about dis chick?" Casey shot a glare at April's bedroom door; not long after the tattoo's discovery, April had ushered their stunned guest to bed with a mug of tea, a pair of sweats, and a tee shirt big enough to double as a dress.

"We told you everything we knew, Casey," Donatello replied. "Too little clothing, no sign of substance abuse, hypothermic and possibly homeless, experiencing spikes in heartrate coinciding with loss of her sen..." All at once, he realized no one was paying any attention, and he sighed. "Why?"

Casey slammed his fist into the nearest wall. "She's a dragon!" 

"Casey!" April scolded. "Cool it!"

Even as he shook flecks of dried paint off of his knuckles, he growled under his breath. "You brought us a Purple Dragon,Leo, an' she's off her rocker! She—"

"Wait, back up," Donnie interrupted. "Why do you think she's a Purple Dragon? We didn't see a tattoo!" April blushed and avoided his eyes.

"Ya didn't look down her shirt." Casey grimaced. "It's between her jugs."

Leo cringed. "You're joking, right? You're joking. Please tell me you're joking." Casey shook his head with a dark scowl."Great. —Donnie, where are you going?"

Donatello was already trudging down the hall, kit in hand and a determined pinch to his eyes. "Gang or not, she needs help. We don't know her story and we don't know her, and until we do, I, for one, reserve judgment." Without another word, he passed beyond the light of the living room and eased the bedroom door open. There in the doorway, though, he paused. Light spilling from the hallway illuminated the bed and its occupant. The disheveled hair strewn over April's lumpy pillow was red as fruit punch, but brushed out and out of that ridiculous updo, warm brown roots shone through; he was right suspecting she dyed it, and from the lingering fruity smell, it was done with drink mix.

The woman, whoever or whatever she might be, was curled up in a tight ball at the very edge of the mattress as if she felt guilty for taking up space. Donatello recalled her figure with discomfiting clarity. So many women were obsessed with being thin, looking thin, and feeling thin, and hid their bodies under too-large clothing if they weren't thin enough for their liking. This woman wasn't thin—quite the contrary, she was voluptuous, with soft, wide hips, a well-rounded rear, a generous bust, and from the looks of it, some extra softness around her ribs, hips, and thighs. Popular culture would have deemed her weight and body type a flaw, but he always admired curves; to him, she was lovely. Lovely, he reminded himself, and very much out of reach.

It didn't bear thinking about; he had a job to do, and odds were she would scream if she ever saw him. They always screamed.

As he looked over the readings from his goggles, it pleased him to find progress. Her body temperature had risen to a healthy 98.4, her blood pressure and heart rate were normalized, and the color had returned to her skin. The skin behind her fingernails reacted as it should, indicating healthy oxygen levels. He couldn't detect any wheezing or rattling in her lungs, so pneumonia might not be a problem. Confident that she'd make a full recovery he slid his goggles back up over his forehead and brushed her hair away from her neck to seek out her pulse.

A sudden spike in the pulse fluttering against his fingertips drew a concerned frown, then a soft breath tore him from his thoughts. Slowly, warily, he met her eyes—moss green eyes wide open in astonishment and set off by a bright red blush. He swallowed noisily, counting down the seconds to her inevitable freak-out. 

Holy Mama Mary, Amber thought as the tall turtle's hazel eyes met hers. If this is Heaven… "—I must'a been a Sainte!" she finished under her breath.

"Pardon?" Donatello released her neck and leaned back.

Amber flushed. "Eh...sorry. Brain-to-mouth filter malfunction, jus' ignore it." Pulling the comforter up to her chin, she dragged her glasses back over her eyes and looked him over. "Am I…dead?"

"Nope," he replied with a cheeky smile. "You gave it your best shot, though. Unless something changes, you should make a full recovery. So, what's your name?"

Amber blinked several times, scrunched up her eyes and squinted at him, sat up with the blanket pooling around her, then pinched herself on the cheek…hard. "Ow!" she yelped, yanking her fingers away from the throbbing flesh. "Nope, not dreamin'. Ya mind…?" Donnie was completely nonplussed but shrugged; without another word, she reached one hand out and poked him squarely in the shoulder. He stared back, clearly questioning her sanity. "A'right, Willis," she announced to the room in general, searching every corner she could see. "Ya win. I won't post that video if ya call off your buddy. Shame really, it was a hoot."

"Video?"

Amber smirked. "Aaron got shite-faced on Scotch whisky an' tried to milk a bull; it disagreed. Now come on out, Willis, this is getting' annoyin'!"

"Of course," Casey grumbled from the doorway. "Now I recognize ya—dat fake accent threw me off. KIds? Dis's Kimber Bryant; she hangs out with dat little dweeb Daron Williams."

"Daron Williams?" Amber repeated, then more shrilly, "Kimber Bryant?! My name's Amber! Amber O'Brien, an' I've always talked like this! The heck are you smokin'?"

"Quit with da lyin' a'ready!" Casey snapped. "Raph an' I busted your ass enough times for me to know ya, especially with dat tattoo of yours!"

"Casey," Donatello warned, "back off, you're not helping." He turned to the green-eyed woman again, troubled by the confusion in her eyes. Poor thing...she really didn't know who she was? "Amnesia, maybe? What's the last thing you remember?"

She only got out one word—storms—before losing her grip on reality. Right before his eyes she paled and shrunk into herself; her eyes grew wide, her breath sped to gasps and pants, and an endless stream of garbled words fell from her lips. Realizing what was happening, Don dug a bottle of homemade smelling salts from his kit and waved it under her nose, monitoring her pulse with his other hand. Finally, her glazed-over eyes focused on his, her voice stilled, and her breathing regulated. "I—"

"It's alright." He drew back again. "Whatever happened isn't ready to come to light, apparently. Maybe just some questions? Simple yes or no answers, perhaps?" Though she was only growing more and more confused, she nodded and followed him to the living room with the comforter draped around her like a fluffy yellow cloak. April put on the kettle for more tea while the rest settled in the living room.

"Kimber Bryant?" Leo, Donatello thought, had the tact of a steamroller.

"No." She shook her head. "Amber O'Brien. I was born to Douglas O'Brien and Ginny Devon in Willsdale, Missouri; I graduated Willsdale High in May '94, an' I spent the last several years workin' for the school district as a night janitor at Willsdale High. "

Suddenly, it hit Donatello. "Do you know where you are? Do you know what city you're in?"

Amber's face fell. "They said I was found in a subway station, right? The only subway I've ever been in served sandwiches an' had a gas station attached. So clearly I'm not in Willsdale anymore." A violent shiver wracked her shoulders, and she burrowed further into the blanket. "Wherever I am now, it's pretty dang cold fer May even with 2011's freaky weather."

Leo and Donnie exchanged a wary glance. "Miss O'Brien?" Donnie placed a steadying hand on her shoulder. "You're in New York City; it's January 27th, 2016."

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UP NEXT: how the world spun out of control in Death Was Only the Beginning