CHAPTER TEN

XXIV

It was early morning when Splinter summoned them into his chambers. Amber was asleep on one of the sofas, a twitchy, restless sleep in which she broke into frequent sweats and groans. But it would seem the valium would keep her effectively unconscious for a while as her body continued to dump the last remnants of the drug.

Splinter's face was composed and serene as the four brothers knelt before their sensei. Of all of them, he seemed to be the one who least noted the disruption they'd been obliged to tolerate over the last few days. Only the fact he had remained so much to himself and his chambers indicated that he was at all ruffled. His sons had respected this obvious desire for privacy and not imposed while he in turn had trusted them to deal with the matter that now faced them all.

He waited silently while they filed in and assumed their positions in front of him. Then, without opening his eyes, he requested an update.

Leonardo obliged, filling the old rat in on what Donatello had uncovered in the corporation's computer files and Michelangelo and Raphael's experiences of the evening before. Splinter listened, without interruption, and when Leonardo drew to a close, he opened his eyes and lifted them to his oldest son's.

"Very good, my son, thank you. But, you have omitted something."

Leonardo felt confused, confronted as he always was when it seemed he had not performed precisely as was expected. "Sensei, forgive me, but I do not think so."

Splinter allowed the merest flicker of an eyebrow. "No? My afternoon's meditation was disturbed yesterday by a conflict of sorts between you and our guest."

Oh, that. Leonardo bowed his head in acknowledgment. "Please forgive us for the disruption, Sensei. I will ensure that it does not happen again."

Inwardly, he swallowed his irritation with Amber and her complacent defence of her own self-destructive behaviour. He couldn't stand to see people squander the gifts they were given, the blessed opportunities and privileges of life…

"You forget, Leonardo," Splinter broke his train of thought. "I have lived with four teenaged boys for the last five years. And Michelangelo for the last seventeen." Michelangelo could not help grinning; any special mention of his name was worth celebrating. "A reoccurrence does not so much concern me as does the cause for it. Would you care to explain, my son?"

Splinter's voice was gentle, but probing, and Leonardo set his jaw. He could feel Raphael tense beside him and wished his bad-tempered brother were not present. He would take the girl's side of course, out of nothing more than contrariness…

Taking a deep breath, he began to reply: "Amber and I were having an ethical disagreement. I was trying to encourage her to turn her thoughts to cleansing her body and spirit and she did not see the same necessity for it. She stubbornly clings to the harmful way of life she has adopted. I wish only, as I do for all those who have gone down such a destructive path, that she will take the steps needed to heal herself."

He finished, believing he had adequately explained himself. Splinter said nothing and the silence in the candle-lit chamber swelled. He knew Raphael was clenching his fists, that Donatello and Michelangelo were trying not to glance at each other, wondering what was going on. Leonardo wanted to raise his eyes to his master, to see what expression Splinter held, but kept them respectfully trained downwards, his knees and upper thighs against the pale gold of the straw matting in front of Splinter's low wood table. The silence grew such that a dull hum rose in his ears – the combined sound of electricity, far off beat of traffic and buzz of people that was always the unnoticed undercurrent of city life.

"I just don't understand," he burst out finally, experiencing an immediate relief. "Why someone would do that to themselves. How someone could know better and still do that. I mean, she's not stupid. And she's been given an opportunity here! How can she be so disregardful of her own life – of her family? How can she want to continue crawling in the gutter when she's been offered a step out of it?" He felt infuriated by it suddenly. How worried and upset her family must be, wherever they were – could they even live a normal life wondering what their daughter was doing, if she was even still alive? And herself – her own young, strong body, distorted and damaged by a lifetime of abuse. And them, taking her in at risk to themselves and all she could think about was getting out to stick a needle in her arm! "I don't agree with what she does, either," he continued in a rush, feeling himself become increasingly unburdened as he spoke. "Exploiting herself. It's degrading."

Raphael could help himself no more. "She doesn't find it degrading!" he growled and Leonardo sat bolt upright, near shouting:

"Open your eyes, Raphael! Look at her! "

The two brothers faced each other off, the form of their assembly broken as they sat up on their knees, fists clenched and scowling at the other. Words and comments leapt to Raphael's mind as he thought over the various discussions he and Amber had had on this subject in the past, her aggravation and irritation. "I'd be a wreck no matter what I was doing." She'd snapped once. "The drug makes me look this way, not the work."

"You're – " he struggled to remember the word she'd used. "You're pathaloging her!"

"Pathologising." Donatello murmured and Raphael snarled at him:

"Yeah, that, whatever! Whatever it is, he's doing it" and jammed a finger in Leonardo's direction.

Leonardo jerked at the gesture and spat back: "If you actually did care ab – "

"Silence." Splinter's voice snapped the argument abruptly, silencing both sides.

Leonardo obeyed with a supreme force of will, panting and clenching his teeth. Raphael, as usual, could not.

"But Sensei," He began, but Splinter slapped his walking stick down hard across the table.

"I said, silence!" And Raphael obeyed. Splinter rarely raised his voice and it always startled them when he did.

Slowly sinking back on his haunches, he could not resist a venomous look at Leonardo, who did not turn to him, but scowled fiercely at the matting, fists clenched tight on his thighs.

"I will not have such a lack of discipline during a formal assembly," he chided them. "Leonardo, do not make me question my decision to allow you to pursue further training beyond the city." Leonardo's heart clenched at that and he straightened his spine, breathing out slow and deep, regaining mastery of his emotions. "And Raphael – it would be you who I would place in charge during Leonardo's absence, if only you could control this temper of yours." Being reminded of this bitter blow did nothing to dampen Raphael's fire; indeed it only ignited it further though he concentrated all his effort to remaining silent, glowering at the walking stick where it lay upon the table. "Enough, my sons."

Not even Michelangelo had a remark to make and in the silence that followed, Splinter let out a great breath, shut his eyes for a moment, and then addressed them all.

"I have raised you all to value honour, integrity and respect above all things, respect for your selves and respect for those around you. I have done what I can to instill within you a sense of pride and self-value, to cherish and nourish the bodies you have been given and the spirits you possess. It is only natural that you would be disturbed to witness behaviour that, in your perception, goes against these values."

Vindicated, Leonardo felt his pulse sink, his brow cool. But Splinter had not finished.

"However," and his voice was stern now. "You cannot get through to another soul through condemnation. Others hold values that are different to your own and they shall pursue them as they see fit. If you wish to persuade others of your perspective, tactics of condescension, such as you used yesterday Leonardo, will be useless. A soul, whether damaged or whole, if it perceives it is not respected or not valued as it is, will only turn away with greater resistance. Particularly if you do not demonstrate understanding or acknowledgement of the reasoning and motivation behind the choices made. If you disregard another's values in a bid to remind them they are not alone, you will only isolate them further. " Leonardo burned with shamed at the public reprimand and he cautioned himself to continue listening with humility, difficult though it was. "Just because you may perceive a particular path as a wasted life, does not mean that another will feel in kind. Just because you might not agree with another's choices, does not make yours the more right. And even if you have an ethical reason for opposing someone's choices, that does not necessarily make them a wicked person." Here, Splinter's eyes flickered briefly to Raphael, who had cooled off considerably, face twisted in confliction. "Compassion, empathy and acceptance are difficult skills to master in the face of that which we would ordinarily disdain. But master them we must, or forever will our prejudice stand as impediment to a soul that is truly at one." He shut his eyes again and sighed, shoulders loosening from their tensed position.

"I will confess, it is not a choice I would like to see any of you, my sons, make. But were it ever the case, I would not think less of you. And I would not stop loving you."

Leonardo was struggling hard against the wave of embarrassment and confusion overwhelming him. He had not expected Splinter to say such things; indeed he had assumed Splinter would agree with his own perspective on the situation. But now that he had said the words, Leonardo saw his meaning and understood it. Never, ever could he agree with those who lived their lives addicted to drugs or alcohol, who prostituted their bodies or sold addictive substances, or stole to fund their habits. But, with new ears, Leonardo heard the words he had spoken to Amber the day previous echo, and realised how they must've sounded, to her and to his brothers. I was worried for them, he thought desperately, hoping that Splinter realised this. I was worried they could be influenced –

It struck him then, like a jab to the throat. Such a paternalistic stance regarding his brothers was equally disrespectful, to their intelligence and autonomy. Splinter was not speaking only of Amber…

Raphael, meanwhile, was feeling entirely deflated. He'd heard what Splinter had said before – from Amber's own mouth, though perhaps with less grace and more cussing. He, too, had expected condemnation and disapproval from his Sensei. And though Raphael's perspective on the situation had changed a great deal in the months he'd known Amber and been watching the folks of the street, ultimately he agreed with Leonardo more than he cared to admit and hearing what Splinter had to say made him uncomfortably aware of this.

The two elder brothers remained silent, each contemplating his own inner dialogue and Michelangelo felt it was high time someone broke the tension.

"Not to worry, Sensei!" He spoke up cheerfully. "Until they find a way to produce pure adrenaline in injectable form, you won't find me hopping on the intravenous railroad!"

"It already exists, doofus!" Donatello seemed relieved to lighten the discussion.

Splinter suppressed a smile; secretly glad for the rambunctious turtle's levity. He knew his message was being absorbed and did not object.

"There won't be any self-testing done here, Master." Donatello continued, dryly. "If I need an experimentation subject, I'll just use Mikey."

"Hey!"

Splinter looked down at his paws, silently chuckling. Leonardo and Raphael remained silent. He cleared his throat.

"Well, my sons. I wish to train before my stories come on. You are dismissed."

XXV

Finally, Michelangelo knew what to do.

They were all uncomfortable with her for one reason or another. Leonardo objected to everything she represented. He figured Donatello just couldn't figure out how to talk to a girl who didn't speak geek. Raphael was just a moody bitch and there was tension between them that he, Michelangelo, was not even going to try and understand.

Mikey, himself, couldn't stand how sick she seemed, with the thinness, and the coughing, and the mutilated arms, and the sallow face, and the shaking and the weakness. Maybe he had showed off a little, doing those one-armed, one-legged push-ups for her, maybe it was kinda cool to see how impressed she was, but it was kinda unsettling she seemed to get out of breath just walking across the room.

But now, now, Mikey had a handle on things. Now he could be useful.

He hummed cheerfully to himself, whisking the eggs briskly, adding a pinch of salt and some chopped parsley, then a few big spoonfuls of cream – couldn't hurt! Then it was over to the hot pan, slowly pouring the mixture in.

Half the stuff he cooked for her she was throwing back up, but the other half was staying down and he thought she'd even got a bit of colour in her cheeks.

Cream, eggs and cheese went into almost everything and he was dishing out the pasta as much as possible. The heavy food was too much for her shrunken stomach and he had learned quickly to give her only a fraction of what he considered a normal serving. Then a fraction of what Leo considered a normal serving. He helped her finish the rest to encourage her. He didn't mind! It was companionable.

He felt much more at ease with the whole situation now he had figured out how to handle it. Man, Raphael picked up some strays! He seemed to have a singular talent for it, in much the same way that Michelangelo had a singular talent for being an excellent host – especially when his bros did not step up to the plate!

The eggs were scrambled, the toast was buttered, the vegetables were grilled and the brows were hashed… Michelangelo added some crispy bacon to his own plate, put the strong black coffee and the tall frosty glasses of OJ on a tray with the food and moved out into the den.

"Soups up, Red, come and get it before somebody else does – like me!"

Amber blinked bleary eyes and slowly disentangled herself from the rugs where she was intertwined, pushing herself upwards onto one elbow. Her head was heavy and pounding but she felt markedly better than she had two days ago, if weak and exhausted still.

She watched as Michelangelo laid out the food on the coffee table, pushing it over so it was barely a hand's reach away from her.

"Now," he began perkily, "As we sit down to enjoy this wonderful feast, created and dished up by yours truly, let us bear in mind those ancient words of wisdom on gastric indulgence – two, four, six, eight, dig in, don't wait!"

She couldn't help but laugh, just a little. The lame jokes were endless but she rather felt it was often deliberate on his part – that he enjoyed the groans of dismay as much as the appreciative giggles. She turned her eyes to the food.

It smelt good – it looked good – but she just wasn't sure she could summon the energy to try and eat it. Her jaws started to hurt after a few mouthfuls of chewing and afterwards the food would sit in her gut in a hard lump. Still, there was some sensory pleasure to be gained from eating again, in the tastes and textures. And he'd gone to the effort…

With a shaking hand she leaned out and forked up a mouthful of egg. Egg was soft. Michelangelo was cheerfully chowing down, making self-approving noises.

Of all of them, he had been the most friendly, even valiantly overcoming his own revulsion at her appearance to keep her company almost constantly throughout the day. She was aware of it, of course – he was completely transparent. The reserved one – Donatello – came over regularly to check how she was doing and remind Michelangelo to keep her hydrated – which meant water, not soda as he kept saying - but apart from a nervous smile and the provision of valium had had little direct contact with her. Leonardo and Raphael were the most absent. Well, she couldn't blame them. But she did wonder about Raphael…

More and more she was becoming aware of just how much she unsettled them, and she was well aware of the reason too.

They weren't just male turtles.

They were teenagers. Young men.

Amber understood men very well. She had spent the last ten years interpreting and understanding the needs and thoughts of men.

She understood the shift in energy when they were near her, the slight adjustment of body language, the new tenseness, the flickering in the eyes. It wasn't that they found her attractive or desirable. It was that her profession constantly hovered in the air about her – it was unavoidable. By virtue of her work she was marked out as an inarguably sexual creature – she's experienced it before, amongst other people. It meant there was one thing that always leapt to mind when people looked at her, and these creatures were no different.

Michelangelo had spent hours describing some of the unreal experiences they'd had – things she couldn't even comprehend and would not ever have believed before having been confronted with the reality of giant turtles living in the sewers.

So she'd returned the favour and told him about some of her experiences on the streets and in her work. He'd listened with as rapt attention as she'd given him – more, even. It would seem that even battling aliens and being blasted through time and space was not as enthralling as the concept of fucking people for money.

He'd finished his breakfast and was now rummaging through his DVD collection, searching for something that required "absolutely no brain activity to watch" and then shrieked with triumph, holding a box aloft with a triumphant grin.

"I think we have a winner!"

She leaned forward from the sofa, squinting. "DOA: Dead or Alive" it read and suddenly she was grinning back, squirming about.

"I love that movie!" Weird… this burst of excitement in her chest. Michelangelo was staring at her in delighted disbelief, bringing his fists down by his side in a 'yes!' gesture.

"Are you serious? Wow, you are way cooler than I first thought!"

She laughed, a big laugh then, feeling it vibrate against her breast bone. His enthusiasm was catching as he fumbled with the DVD player, jamming the disc in and jumping up to hop about.

"What's your favourite part?" he squealed and she beamed up at him, constantly amazed by his never-ending excitement.

"How to choose amongst so many classic moments of unashamed trash?" She tried to be wry, but felt enthusiasm uncomfortably mounting.

Michelangelo's eyes were shining now as he looked at her and her stomach heaved, remembering the flat she'd shared when she first moved here, friends, late nights smoking pot and watching trashy movies, laughter and play wrestling, the freedom of being unashamedly dorky with people who knew you…

"Ok dude," Michelangelo had his hands up, trying to keep his excitement in check. "This movie needs to be viewed with the proper respect, so we need suitable sustenance and to have the right environment for maximum enjoyment – I know, let's build a fort!" he leapt upon the other sofa and started tearing the cushions from it while she chuckled, fighting against the urge to leap up.

"I'm too old for a fort." She protested, and he turned and looked at her incredulously.

"You're never too old for a fort."

Something clicked inside her, like a lock unfastened, a sudden rush of giddiness as though a door had been opened and she pulled herself to her feet, knees shaking, and moved to help him.

He did the bulk of it – the sofa cushions were heavy and as she struggled with one he grasped the other end and lifted it, and she gasped to feel through the thick wadding of the fibres the obvious tremor of strength, appropriately restrained to the task, but there, always there.

Moving in beside him, comfortably and warmly wrapped up in rugs, supported all around by cushions, she dared a glance at him as Devon Aoiki flew across the screen. Hs attention was only for the film, seemingly unaware of her scrutiny. Eyes wide, mouth slightly ajar, shoulders sloping down, hands cupped and relaxed in his lap. She could not quite believe the perfect realism of his expression, how alive and vibrant it was. Up close like this she could see the little – freckles? – that spotted his cheeks and unaware, her hand crept up to her own face, playing across the freckles there. His eyes were a vivid, bright blue, wide and playful, sparkling with mischief and fun. Intelligence too, sharp and quick. She could scarcely believe it. Superficially, they all seemed the same, but a closer examination revealed many differences, making each one unique to the other. Even their voices were distinct, as were their heads and faces. Their bodies too – Michelangelo here had the same cut muscle definition as his brothers, but with less bulk, limbs more gangly. He carried more weight across his middle than they did. Raphael was broader, bigger all over and Leonardo was long and lean. Donatello was softest, strong but smaller. Michelangelo whooped at something on screen and nudged her and she dropped her gaze. Even their personalities were different – and so complex, so nuanced, from the way they approached things to how they interacted with each other. They were just like real people.

At that thought Amber burned inside, flushing hot with shame.

Sugar had been a spoiled and sheltered girl from the South, studying at NYU and working so she could be a fulltime student and maintain a certain lifestyle. She'd tooled around with them for a while, and they all thought she was nice enough, at least until the night they'd been having a booze-induced pseudo-philosophical debate up the back of the Red Eye Diner and Sugar had gaped at Georgie, open-mouthed and impressed and remarked:

"Say, you're real smart for a black!"

It had left a sour feeling in her stomach, a bitter knot that twisted and untwisted inside her, more fuel for the resentment that always simmered within her. Now, she imagined herself saying those words to Raphael:

"Say, you're real smart for a monster!"

It was the same thing, wasn't it?

She was a hypocrite after all, just like everyone else

They were thinking, feeling beings. She'd already seen ample testament of that. They weren't the mindless dull beasts operating on nothing more than instinct that one envisioned when one thought of monsters or bizarre creatures. They were capable of deconstructive planning, calculation, reflection, criticism and introspection. Capable of emotions – compassion, worry, anger, love.

They were not simply giant turtles. Everything around her stood as evidence to that - this place that they occupied and had created for themselves. It wasn't just an animal's borough. It was a home.

XXVI

A rap on the door frame. I was in my hammock, snoozing fitfully, and couldn't see who it was.

"What?" I grumbled and heard them step over the threshold.

"Just me." Amber. I sat up straight, gut twisting uncomfortably, reaching frantically for my mask. Stupid, huh. How one thin strip of material can feel like a suit of armour.

"Wait," she said. I still hadn't looked at her, but paused as my hands fumbled to tie the knot at the back of my head. "Leave it off a moment, would you?"

I wouldn't. I snorted and kept on tying it, eyes fixed on the cement bricks of the wall and the tattered edges of an old Nine Inch Nails poster. Just as I finished tying off the mask and straightened it up so it sat right across my eyes, something grazed my shell, soft and feather-light.

I whirled around, the hammock swaying violently as I faced her, her fingertips outstretched, her face still and awed.

"You can feel that?" she whispered. I couldn't believe it. So I scowled, and hopped down to the ground, brushing past her.

"Well I don't hang it up when I go to bed at night." I sounded spiteful and she almost flinched. Almost.

"Of course. Sorry." She offered and I shrugged and flipped a CD into the stereo, keeping my back to her.

"What do you want?" I couldn't keep the brusque tone from my voice but she took it in stride, ambling over to me.

"Just to talk. You know. Like old times. " She half-laughed, leaned up against the wall, tried to make me look at her. I wouldn't. Mikey had given her some of his clothes and she looked ridiculous.

"Sure." I was mumbling now as I hit play and Rob Zombie leapt out of the speakers, skidding on the air.

But she didn't say anything, just continued to watch me with her head tipped back against the wall and eyes half-open. I turned, went and sat down on the cushions beneath my hammock and she followed, folding her legs inwards to take the spot beside me.

She'd showered. I could smell the conditioner, fresh and fruity, filling the space between us. I stole a look at her. Her face looked fuller somehow, her lips were no longer chapped now she was out of the cold, eyes no longer so sunken, her hair was damp and curled around her cheek. She watched me look at her and smiled.

Then, in a gesture so bold I couldn't believe it, she reached over and picked up my hand.

I wanted to snatch it away, but didn't. She turned it over and over in her hands, running her fingertips across my skin and nails, squeezing it between her own. Examining me. I felt my skin crawl.

"I'm sorry," she said again. "I know what this must feel like. I just had to." She turned her eyes up at me, skin mottled and dark around them, her gaze pleading for understanding.

I still couldn't say anythin'. She finished with my hand, then ran her palms up my forearm, over my elbow then my bicep. I couldn't look at her now. A great uncomfortable pressure was building up in my gut. I wanted more than ever to move and more than ever not to.

"Your bodies are amazing." She said then, and I cringed. "You're like… extreme athletes. Or something."

I managed to shrug, flickered my eyes across the magazines strewn across the floor. Managed to speak. "Ninja training." Tried to make it sound flippant.

"So," she let go of my arm, nudged me gently. "You're a stranger even on your own turf?"

Then I even managed a little smile. "Well, you know," I leaned back on my hands, "You weren't exactly in a sociable mood for a while there."

"Fair 'nuff." She conceded, "How have you been?"

I always get this feelin' when I'm in April's shop. Like I'm a cat negotiating a rat maze. If I so much as breathe out somethin's gonna break. I got that feeling now. Just damned awkward.

"You know," Mikey would be killin' himself laughing if he were here to see this! "Pretty good. Mikey been lookin' after you?"

She tittered. "Yeah. He really has. I'm not sure if I'm still throwin' up cos of the junk or if my body just can't handle all this food. And we watched DOA. And made a fort." She added the last part sheepishly and I raised an eye ridge at her.

"DOA? You're into that crud?"

"That's exactly why I'm into it." She laughed. This was creepy. Amber was acting kinda like a normal person.

"Great, another Mikey." I grumbled and she shrugged, threw her hands up in the air as if to say what can I do about it, baby?

"I love Jaime Pressley," she continued, cocking her head to the ceiling, crossing her arms over her knees. "She's so perfect."

I boggled. "I didn't even think you'd know who she was!"

"I'm not that out of touch," she elbowed me playfully but there was a tinge of defensiveness in her voice. "I used to watch TV, and go to the movies, and surf the internet, you know."

"Really? I thought you just sprang up fully formed out of some hooker's discarded stiletto heels in an alley one night."

"Fuck you." We were both laughing now and man, it felt good.

"Are you pissed at me?" I asked when we quieted and she nodded.

"Yep. I am. But I'll forgive you. After all, I won't be here forever."

"Hmm." I stretched my legs out in front of me, flexing my feet and feeling the tightness in my calves. "Look, I'm not trying to tell you what to do or anythin', but you know. Maybe this is a good chance for you. To kick the habit."

I was ready if she got mad. Hell, I was always ready for a fight. But she didn't. Just reached into the pocket of Mikey's hoodie and got herself a cigarette, wry grin splitting her face.

"It probably is a good chance for me." She acknowledged, but noncommittally. Somethin' Leo had said earlier was playin' through my head and since she seemed in such a stable mood I figured why not.

"Do you ever find what you do – uh – degrading." I got that awful elephant-in-a-china-shop feelin' again. She swivelled her head slowly to look at me, a strange little smile on her mouth.

"No." She didn't have to say anymore. The absolute certainty in her voice said it all.

"All you do is work, Amber, and get high and skulk around reading. And talk to creepy mutant turtles in dark alleyways." She snorted, elbowed me again. "Don't you ever think like maybe - ah geez, I dunno. Do you ever miss – I don't know what I'm tryin' to say, damn it." I felt like a bunch of bugs had got under my skin and were crawling around, eating holes through my thoughts. Why did this shit have to be so freakin' hard?

She drew back hard on the cigarette, getting clean through a good half of it in the one pull. She held the smoke in her throat for a long moment, then exhaled slowly, shutting her eyes.

"I used to play the piano." She told me. "And when I tell you I used to play the piano, I mean every day since I was four years old. One hour in the morning before school, two hours after school, five hours on Saturday, two on Sunday. I was good. Man, was I good. My parents, my teachers, they looked at me and saw Carnegie Hall. I don't know about that – I was really good, but I was no prodigy. Got there through hard work, lots of hard work. I haven't touched a piano in six years but every piece of music I used to play is still there, burned into my memory. Shit, you know, not even my memory. Into my fingertips. I close my eyes and can see my fingers moving over the keyboard. I hear a piece of music and I can envision the exact keys to press to recreate it, the notes and all. Thing is," she opened her eyes, drew and exhaled again. "It's… it's funny. It's like it all happened to someone else. I mean, I know it happened to me, but it feels so distant and far away, like a hundred years ago. Or like I'm some imposter, like my soul has been fixed into the body of this good little girl who played the piano and had a cat and lived in a two storey house in suburbia with a pink canopy above her bed and somehow I've got her memories." Her eyes were red, bloodshot from the smoke, and she blinked them rapidly. "I don't remember what it's like to – to want things. To have desires. I don't even feel sorry about it because I just have an absence of feeling for it all. It doesn't seem to matter. Nothing seems to matter. Except smack. " She threw the butt of her cigarette on the cement of my bedroom floor, ground it out with her bare foot. I jerked and she shook her head dismissively. "There's a scar, no feelin' there," she explained and I felt a tightening across my plastron. She stretched her legs out in front of her, lining them up with mine and I looked at them, at her small but swollen white feet with their scars and track marks next to mine, green and oversized, only three big toes. She moved one foot onto mine, ran the sole of it over my toes. Her foot felt scratchy and rough, and oddly soothing. "Sex is the same." She continued easily. "It just doesn't mean anything. I used to have boyfriends, a girlfriend or two. I started doin' smack with a boyfriend. Like a bonding experience." She snorted. "I used to enjoy sex. But now I just don't care. Don't get me wrong, you know it's not like I'm dead – or that it's this horrible traumatic thing or that I can't feel because my soul has been so degraded by prostitution I've shut it off from my body," she said this last statement with mocking sarcasm. "It just… doesn't mean anything to me anymore. People have all these big, romantic fantasies about sex, or these crazy, wild taboos, and it's just like… I mean what is it? It's just an act. Like pissing or coughing or ordering fries with your fuckin' burger. "

"Amber." I couldn't stay silent anymore. The lump in my throat wouldn't stay down. "I think that's fuckin' awful."

She shrugged, pulled her legs up to her chest again. "Yeah. I know it seems that way. " Suddenly her arm was around my shoulder and she was leanin' against me. Panic flooded through me, white sparks that flashed across my gaze. "But I do got some other pleasures, besides the junk, in my life. You're one of them."

With an effort so hard it hurt, I swallowed. Forced my tone to be light. "The junk musta really warped ya. Your idea of a good time is hangin' out with some creepy freak of nature?"

"Oh Raphael," She sounded almost sorrowful, sat up on her knees, shifted in front of me and took my face between her hands. She'd never been so close before. Not like this. Not a few inches from my face, so near I could see every popped blood vessel in her eyes, smell the popcorn on her breath, where a cluster of freckles on her left cheek were joined together. I wanted to breathe out, but couldn't. I wanted to push her off, but didn't. "How can you not see it? You're a fuckin' miracle of nature."

XVII

Leonardo called a meeting that Donatello recommended Amber not be present for. The four brothers gathered in the dojo, sitting in a tight circle in the middle of the floor. Donatello's face was grave and still and the three others regarded him curiously, made anxious by his obvious tenseness.

"I don't think it's going to come as any great shock to anyone that there's no Professor Philip Andrews at NYU, or any other university in the country." Donatello began. "There was a Professor Philip Andrews at Wesleyan, but he died in 1996. University of California also had a Doctor Philip Andrews, but uh, he became Doctor Phillipa Andrews last year. "

Michelangelo couldn't help tittering and Leonardo shot him a cautionary glare.

"I finally realised why I couldn't find anything on the missing people in BioGen-DRT - spelled D-R-T but pronounced Dart – Corp's files. " Donatello continued solemnly, and they all waited. "I was looking for names. Not necessarily any of the names Amber gave me, as I think most of those are fake, but just regular human names, or even partial names."

"Did you find any?" Leonardo queried and Donatello shook his head.

"Nope. Nada. Not as file names and not in the content of any files. In fact I stumbled upon them purely by chance, clicked on one accidentally – the files are all named numerically. And so are the "subjects" of the files, which refers to different types of testing and analysis." He waited a moment for this to sink in. Michelangelo looked a little confused and raised a hand.

"Uhh… I don't get the significance, Donnie."

Donatello frowned at his brother. "This is a corporation with high security, covert operation and an interest in bio-genetic material, Michelangelo. And the subjects of their testing are nothing more than numbers to them."

"Ohhhh," Michelangelo was washed with understanding, distress creasing his brow. Leonardo's eyes narrowed, spine tensing so that he sat up straight with his head bowed against his chest, Raphael's hands leapt automatically for his sai, and he grappled with the urge to hurtle out of the den and straight for the warehouse. Donatello looked from brother to brother, sombre and worried.

"The further I dig the more disturbed I get." He finished and Leonardo nodded and set his jaw.

"We need a plan."