Ghost here with another update. I hope everyone's enjoying the story so far and I've come with good news. The story may seem kinda random but it's actually going according to a pretty distinct outline. As frustrated as I've been growing with Amber and Donnie's continued feud, however, I've decided to combine Parts II and III so they pull their heads out of their arses a little earlier. This means things may be a little awkward for the time, but you'll get more cavity-sweet fluff much sooner! In the meantime, tune in to "Gallery of Memories" [ s/12084576/4/A-New-Lease-On-Life-A-Gallery-of-Memories] for predominantly fluffy one shots—including the most recent, "Mush!"—and please have patience with me!

On another matter: Normally, I try to keep certain things either out of my writing or at the most vague or glossed over; one of these 'taboos' is religion. This chapter, however, breaks that pattern to elaborate on some of Amber's backstory. This is fiction, folks, and fiction doesn't involve preaching or trying to convince others; as much of that occurs in Real Life, I would never throw that shit into fiction. So please don't take Amber's rambling as a challenge, threat, or lecture when it's merely meant to fill in some gaps in her backstory and character. Also, going to point this out right here and now: I'm perfectly aware that being gay doesn't automatically make you prone to shoving your sexual preference in the face of others, hitting on anyone of your preferred gender, or any of the awkward behaviors Lefty exhibits. No insult or injury is intended by Lefty or any other character. Dedicated to Reubens…because, Reubens.

Warnings: Openly gay character with flirting, language, religious references, blunt discussion including religion-related homophobia, references to amphetamine addiction

Suggested Listening: Shinedown "State of My Head"

25: Loyalty Wears Many Faces

June 7th, a prison near the Bronx

Leon Jackson sprawled across the uncomfortable wooden chair as though it was a King's throne, pale blue eyes relaxed and a faint smile tugging at his ring-decked lips. His proud purple Mohawk was only a memory now, the dye fading and the hair shaved down to stubble. After all, his favorite styling wax just wasn't easy to come across in prison, and nor was his favorite hair dye. In time he'd grow it back out…but first he had to get out.

The prison counselor on the other side of the desk—a small, mousy man with thick plastic glasses and thin black hair—seemed nervous of him. He had little cause to worry, though…Lefty wasn't his brother. Norton would have torn him up one side and down the other just for looking at him sideways; Lefty was more likely to fuck him than fuck him up. Lefty's ring-pierced lip tugged upward in a lazy smirk as the other man warily glanced from the computer monitor to the con every five seconds.

"I ain't gonna bite ya," Lefty finally announced with an indifferent shrug. "Y'ain't my type." The counselor blushed, setting off Lefty's gaydar like crazy; perhaps he was more his type after all? The little man cleared his throat, puffing up as though to make himself look bigger, a waste of effort the con thought with a disarming grin.

"You're being released, Jackson," the counselor announced, his voice creaking halfway through. Lefty's smirk warped into a cringe…nope, totally not his type, and probably still in the closet. "Bail came through, you've been well-behaved, and the prison needs every inch of space it can get. You'll be electronically monitored, need to meet with your parole officer every week, and need to keep your nose clean—if you fail to comply, they'll throw you back in the pen. Clear?" Lefty nodded, smoothing a large hand across his blond-stubbled scalp.

"Crystal," Lefty answered lowly, then asked, "Don't s'pose my bruthuh's still here, huh?" The counselor shook his head, frowning gravely.

"He broke out again," he admitted. "The police are watching for him, though…they'll find him…again. In the meantime, if he shows up, you'd best keep your distance from him—if you don't stay out of trouble, they'll revoke your parole, and Norton's trouble incarnate." Lefty wasn't the religious sort, but he almost wanted to reply with an amen. The smaller man shuffled his forms and papers back into order as though to make himself seem more important, and shot Lefty a stern glance. "Stay clean, Leon…I'd rather not see you again." As the Purple Dragon loped out the office door toward freedom, he grinned to himself. Some would have been offended by the little man's warning; to Lefty, it was little more than blustering from a little man who didn't matter.

The Lair

"I told ya, Dee," Amber grumbled into her coffee, "I'm fine."

"You've got two fractured bones," Donatello insisted regardless, growing tired of the argument. "I'm not a doctor—I could be doing more harm than good—you need to at least get checked out!"

The two friends had gone back and forth on the subject for over a week, and the rest of the family were sick and tired of their bickering. Amber would insist she was doing well and remind Donatello that she was used to pain. Donatello would argue that her high pain tolerance was exactly why she needed to get the injuries checked by a professional and remind her that she could develop a blood clot if she wasn't careful. Neither were willing to give, neither were willing to admit the other was right, and neither were willing to let the argument go.

Leonardo sat at the kitchen table, ice blue eyes volleying back and forth between the two arguing idiots like a spectator at a tennis match. Already the two had chased off Mikey, Splinter, and Mercy, and if not for the still-warm sandwich before him, they'd have chased off Leo, too. Their arguing completely ruined his appetite but putting the sandwich in the fridge would make it fair game for any who saw it...and silly though it sounded, he didn't want to lose the sandwich. After all, Mercy had spent the weekend slow-cooking a mess of corned beef and last night, she made a batch of heartbreakingly delicious sandwiches she called "Pumper-Reubens." His family had heard of Reubens but had never heard of them made with pulled beef, swiss, cabbage, and pumpernickel. The food was delightful—so delightful it made Mikey cry—and Leo wasn't ready to give up that last sandwich without a fight.

"I'm not goin'!"

"You need to go!"

"It's dangerous up there!"

"It's dangerous down here, too!" Finally, Leo had enough.

"That's it," he scolded the two. "Do you two even know why you're fighting anymore?!" Donatello stared blankly at his brother and Amber blushed darkly.

'It's either fight'im or fuck'im,' Amber thought sarcastically. 'If I stop pushin'im away, I'll wind up molestin'im!' Donnie's nostrils flared, finally picking the familiar non-scent emanating from the brunette avoiding his eyes. His eyes wide in disbelief, he slowly turned to stare at her. Was she seriously turned on by their fighting?! The very idea was preposterous, but it would certainly explain some things!

"I'll take your silence as a no," Leo grumbled. "You two need to get your act together, and until you two can stop acting like children, you'll be treated like children. Amber, you're goin' to the doctor, Donatello, you're taking her. In ten minutes, you're both picking up April and leaving for the hospital. End of story." Both individuals turned to argue but fell silent at the menacing scowl he wore. Their mumbled agreements were music to Leo's ears. Donnie ducked out of the room to call April, and Amber limped out to freshen up in the bathroom.

Finally, Leo was blissfully alone with his sandwich…the two idiots could handle themselves for a while. Just moments before he could bite into the crunchy butter-seared bread, sharp, tangy melted swiss, and juicy, savory shredded meat, a pair of molasses-brown eyes came to mind. Beverly…he hadn't been to see her for quite a while, but he had himself to blame for it. Perhaps…with a self-deprecating smile, he rewrapped the sandwich, screeched his chair away from the table, and slipped out the front door. Bev was still undergoing heavy IV antibiotics and beef was expensive; she could benefit from the sandwich more than he ever would and their continued separation only made him miss her more. Perhaps he could go visit her, if only to make sure she was still making progress.

Hun's Penthouse

"Lefty!" Northpaw's greeting stopped his twin cold. He'd expected North to be holed up in Hun's penthouse, but he'd really hoped to miss the maniac.

"'ey, North," he greeted with a forced smirk as his twin stormed toward him. "Long time no see, huh? How've ya been, huh?" The bald con grabbed him by the neckline and slammed him up against the wall, his steely blue eyes raging.

"Free," North snarled digging his knuckles into Lefty's windpipe. "No t'anks ta you or dat tramp Kimber! Ya both lef' me ta rot'n dere!" Lefty raised his hands passively—a universally recognized gesture of surrender—and smiled weakly.

"I din't know Kimber was gonna turn us in," he reassured his brother as though he hadn't specifically asked Kimber to do just that. "I played along wit' da cops so dey'd let me out early—had ev'ry intention'a bustin' ya out when dey did an' came'ere fa backup ta do it. I got ya back, ya know?" Northpaw's track-mark stained arm bulged alarmingly as he shoved his twin up the wall; Lefty's heart raced with fear as his feet left the ground but he didn't dare let it show. "Easy, bruh, it's me! I ain't gonna turn on yah!"

North stared his twin down with murder in his eyes, his nostrils flaring in agitation. Finally, he let him down—if, by let him down, one meant 'flung him to the floor like a ragdoll.' Lefty rolled with the landing and like usual, grinned up at his brother as though they were teasing one another. Northpaw wasn't the only lunatic in the family, after all; he was just the more violent lunatic.

"I find out ya had anyt'in ta do wit'it," North snarled, "An' yer dead—Hun kin find anuddah dumbass fer his left side, I don't need ya!" As the psychotic con stormed away, Lefty sat up and leaned on his knees, recalling life before they joined the Purple Dragons and trying to convince himself that North's words hadn't hurt. They were identical twins, but Lefty had to admit they were more different than alike.

Later that night, in the Party Wagon

"Told'ja so." It wasn't the first time Donatello had heard those words, but they were the first Amber had spoken since they left the hospital parking lot. Despite his worries, the orthopedist on duty only verified Amber's insistence—she was healing well and without complications, and because the human fibula could fully mend in four to eight weeks, the brunette was cleared to walk with one crutch. She spent the entire trip back to April's halfway between sulking and smug. Of course, he had to admit, it could be the swelling from her healing cheek was changing her expression, making him see things he wasn't seeing.

"Yeah," Don admitted begrudgingly glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. "You told me, you were right, but I maintain my argument—it's better safe than sorry when dealing with broken bones. I'm not a doctor, Amber." He shrugged weakly, focusing on the road ahead. "Honestly, it's a miracle I've kept my family alive this long."

"No, Don," Amber contradicted sternly. "Mercy willingly sittin' through "Titanic" would be a miracle—me calculatin' pi without addin' flour'd be a miracle—Raph admittin' he's jus'a big softy who likes puppies an' rom-coms, that'd be a miracle.* You're not an Israelite with a miracle-stick—you're a brilliant, stubborn, ridiculously-inventive genius who won't accept anything but the best of yourself an' won't let your fam'ly down."

"You confuse me." The words weren't supposed to come out, but once they slipped out, he blustered on ahead. "One minute you're cursing and drinking, the next you're talking about miracles and Moses…are you religious or just a smartass?" A snort of laughter sounded from the passenger seat.

"Both, actually—I'm a religious smartass, why shouldn't the two coincide?" Her smile slipped as she considered a more serious answer to his question. "I grew up in the Bible Belt—was raised denominational but got sick'a bein' surrounded by hypocrites an' sycophants an' went nondenominational. Some folks'll proclaim anythin' a miracle, preach at the top'a their lungs in public an' violate their own words in private, an' insist the entire world convert ta fit their particular version'a faith." Her mother's church—the very church whose glass brick killed her, she recalled with no shortage of irony—was chock full of the sort she was describing. She'd never felt God's presence in that church—not like she did out in the wilds of the world He created—and a church without God is just a building. "My own Mum was one of those people…it's why we weren't speakin' when I died."

"You've never mentioned it," Donnie pointed out, surprised that she was volunteering information without being pushed for it like usual. "You've hardly mentioned anyone in your family other than your grandfather." Amber shrugged, trying not to feel guilty about it; she was trying to change, though, so she didn't focus on it.

"Gran'da's the only one'a my family I really got along with," she admitted. "My Da had a nasty attitude an' a hair temper, my Mum was a narrow-minded roaster who got'er church friends to stalk me, an' between the two, I jus' got sick'a the drama."**

"Your own mother," Donatello scoffed. "She had you stalked?"

"Mercy never had any interest in men; Mum figured she had to be gay." Amber shook her head. "She's not gay, but the very idea that I was livin' with a woman, much less a gal whose life didn't revolve around gettin' married an' poppin' out babies, left Mum flappin' like a flag."*** Donatello didn't get the phrase and blinked in confusion. "…sorry…she made an arse of herself over it—told the congregation I 'lost my way an' was livin' in sin an' needed to be shown the light again.' I was livin' in another town, but my car got egged, my trees got papered, someone chucked a bag'a flamin' horseshit on my porch with a pamphlet about 'the evils of homosexuality,' an' everywhere I went, people from her church followed me an' lectured me about 'fuckin' women.'" Donatello stiffened, the party-wagon swerved, and a loud honk blared from the next lane over.

"What?!" Don squawked. She gave a humorless laugh.

"Yeah. Mercy dropped out an' moved out, an' after that van hit me, I did, too…I went back to Willsdale but lived out in the sticks. I rented a PO box, I never had any family over 'cept Gran'da, I did everythin' I could to keep hidden from Mum's pack…an' I spent every weekend possible as far from home as I could."

"I don't understand." Don turned to address her as they waited at a light. "After all that, you haven't turned your back on religion? It's enough to turn anyone's back!" Amber gave a cryptic smile.

"Y'ever seen a snapping turtle?" she asked simply. "I nearly lost a toe to one when I was a kid—damn thing probably thought my foot was a fish'er somethin'. Needed stitches an' got a helluva scar from it…I don't hate turtles, though." She shrugged. "Some turtles bite—don't mean they all bite. Some church-goers are arseholes, but that don't mean they're all arseholes. I believe in the messages of tolerance, honesty, integrity, and the like, and I've seen proof that miracles can happen and prayers can be answered."

The memory was a bittersweet one and it tugged a wry smile at her lips. As Donatello turned down a long, dark alley, he glanced curiously over at her. Finally, he asked the question on his mind. "Proof?" Amber stared through the windshield into her past, still recalling the dry, burned grass and empty skies.

"I've feared rainstorms since I was just a kid," she explained softly. "We'd had smaller droughts before, but '05 saw a real whopper—most'a the country was dried up.# Whole towns were bein' abandoned or burned out, an' if the drought continued, Willsdale was gonna follow." Though the drought's effects were horrible and long-lasting, Amber smiled. "Crops were failing—livestock were dying—people were sick from heat and dehydration…I feared storms, but for the sake of my loved ones, I joined the rest of the town—I prayed for rain. Every day and night for a week, I went out in that dried up pasture behind my home an' prayed with everythin' I had." Finally, she turned to smile at him. "…on the seventh night, I left home losin' hope an' returned soaked to the bone from a sudden downpour. We got a month's worth of rain that followin' week. Whatever anyone else believes, it's proof enough for me."

At the end of the alley loomed the garage door disguised as a brick wall. Just before they reached it, though, Donatello's cell phone rang. "Yeah?" he greeted the caller as the van idled in the alley.

"It's me, Donnie," Leo answered on the other end.

"Yeah, I kinda figured," Don explained dryly, "since the caller ID says "Leo."## Amber stifled a laugh in her knuckles, sure Leo was again making his 'why me?' face. After a brief conversation between the two brothers, most of which manifested as 'yeah, uh-huh, right, not really,' and the like, Don finally hung up with a 'why me?' face of his own. "Change of plans," he explained as he backed out of the alley again. "There's a surveillance camera down in China Town—feed's gone almost entirely black, probably an obstruction."

"An' Leo says 'fix it,'" Amber summed up blandly. "Why not—not like the pumpkin's gonna turn into a carriage or somethin', right?"

After twenty minutes of waiting in the party wagon, Amber wasn't so sure about that…and her bladder was screaming. Donatello, however, was nowhere to be found and probably still figuring out why the camera wasn't transmitting. She scanned the nearby rooftops for anything resembling a tall nerdy ninja turtle but came up empty…again. Her fingers tapping annoyingly on the dash, she changed tactics and looked for any open establishment likely to have a public restroom.

When she could wait no longer, she left Donnie a note and locked up the party wagon, and began the painfully slow process of crutching her way to the convenience store on the corner. Through the whole trip she was certain something was about to go horribly wrong—sure someone would jump out at her from behind a dumpster, under the counter, the stall next door—and she'd be left with no option besides beating her attacker with a crutch. By the time she left the store again that fear was faded.

A familiar face across the alleyway, however, ground everything to a halt. Pale blue eyes, nearly bald, black wife-beater, camo trousers, and work boots, a massive purple dragon tattoo sprawling along one bared bicep…Northpaw! Amber stood frozen beside a tall delivery truck, staring down the man who assaulted Daron, broke her leg, broke her cheek, and beat the living shit out of her, and all while grinning like a lunatic. Maybe, she thought frantically, if she didn't move, he wouldn't notice her! It worked in Jurassic Park, right?!

The moment the thought formed, she recalled that standing still only worked on T-Rex, not raptors, and Purple Dragons were pack-hunters. Steel blue eyes landed on her, widened in recognition and shock, then darted back down the alley. Amber tried to run only to recall—Oh, right!—she was on crutches and you can't run on crutches. Before she made it more than a few hops, the bald punk reached her side and grabbed her by the shoulder.

"Giddown!" he hissed shoving her down behind the truck. "Hide!" Mere moments after she made it to the ground, rolled under the truck's trailer, and yanked her crutches under after her, a soft thump at the rear marked another arrival; fearful hazel eyes, brown in the deep shade of the trailer, frantically assessed her for damage. While he sent out a silent SOS on his phone, Donatello pulled her close—not only to calm and protect her but to muffle her loud, frightened breaths. Tears stinging her eyes, she buried her face in his chest to stifle the sobs trying to break free.

She was going to die there, she was sure of it—Northpaw wouldn't let her escape this time, and he certainly wouldn't let Donatello go without doing his worst. Even if his brothers burned rubber the whole way, there's no way they'd be quick enough to save them both. She hated being so helpless, but in the entirety of her new life, she'd been nothing but a helpless, hopeless mess! She'd never even told Donnie the truth—told him how sorry she was, how much she missed him, how much she loved—

"The fuck, Lefty?" someone called out from nearby; a pair of overpriced Nikes jogged closer, stopping at the pair of work boots poised beside the truck. "What'd ya take off like that fer? Almost got me hit, ya douche-nozzle!"

"Oops," Lefty chuckled. "Well, ya pro'ly need'a get hit more anyways, Huh? I jus' fergot somethin'—I left my storage lockuh open at midnight on T'ursday. I'll catch up, jus' gimme a sec, huh?"

"Dude," the other con muttered in disbelief. "You are one weird bitch, Lefty. Don't take too long—I ain't coverin' fer ya if Hun finds out we split up." The Nikes stomped away again, eventually vanishing through the back door of a local pawn shop. While it sank in that the steel-eyed punk had covered for her, Amber studied him silently, finally seeing differences. His scalp had a fine layer of pale blonde hair still tinged with faint purple dye and his chin was cleanly shaven. A pair of rings decked his left eyebrow and his left upper lip, his right ear bore a wide black spacer, and the edges of a black tribal pattern tattoo were visible just above his right boot. A stark tan-line wound around his right bicep—possibly from a missing bandage—and his left bicep bore an identical but mirror image to the dragon tattoo Northpaw wore on his right arm.

He was a Purple Dragon for sure, she realized curiously, but he wasn't Northpaw; aside from the piercings and tattoos they looked almost exactly the same—too much alike to be anything but identical twins! Once his tagalong was out of earshot, Lefty crouched down beside the trailer. His eyes—slightly more blue than Northpaw's—focused on the back of Amber's head.

"Storage lockuh," he reminded lowly. "T'ursday, just aftah midnight…meet me dere, Kimbuh. Bring Supah-nerd if ya wanna," he added smirking up at Donnie to indicate the aim for the slight. Without another word, Lefty lunged back upward again and strolled down the sidewalk as though he hadn't a care, whistling an out-of-tune punk number.

For a while, Amber and Donnie just lay there in the filth underneath the trailer, acclimating to their survival. He could have sworn he heard her whispering something to him earlier, but his senses were tuned to the threat above them. It had been many months since they'd been this close—months since she'd allowed him close enough to embrace her, much less invited herself into his arms—and frightened as she was, he wasn't quite ready to relinquish that closeness.

He couldn't trust her and she couldn't trust him; he wouldn't forgive her, and she wouldn't forgive him. Why did they always get along better when no words were being spoken? Her tears left his gut churning but he held her all the closer, burying his snout in her hair to block out the smell of salt and street.

"It's…a trap…" she whispered into his shoulder. He hummed in consideration brushing a stray grey lock behind her ear.

"Probably," he admitted. Though the idea troubled him, it was a trap he was seriously considering springing…with Amber safely in the Lair.

Thursday morning, Budget Store-It-All, Kimber Bryant's Storage Locker

Initially, the plan was for Donatello and his brothers to ambush Lefty Jackson at Kimber Bryant's storage locker with Amber safely in the Lair. Raphael disagreed. The following Thursday found Donnie, Raph, and Amber skulking in the dark storage locker with the door cracked open, the two ninjas in the deepest of the shadows and Amber nervously watching for any movement outside. Naturally, the family had wanted to know why Raph wanted to trust a known Purple Dragon. His only answer—Kimber would've trusted Lefty—wasn't very reassuring but it got the hoped-for results.

From his perch atop an overstuffed shelf of plastic totes, Raphael watched the door, brooding and remembering, a scrap of faded purple fabric clutched tightly in one fist. Lefty's had my back in t'a Dragons from t'a start, Kimber confessed to him on that drunken night so long ago. Numerous other veiled confessions had stated the same things: she cared about Lefty and trusted him with her life, but Northpaw frightened her more every year. Raph had a hunch about the left-handed bookend, but only being party to the meeting would prove or disprove it.

Amber wordlessly flashed the two ninjas a thumbs-up—a signal stating only Lefty approached—and braced herself. Just outside Lefty muttered something about 'no honor among cons' and with a deep breath, ducked under the door. The moment he cleared the threshold it slammed down, trapping him inside; the overhead light flashed on, blinding him. "I figyud as much, huh," he muttered staring Amber down almost accusingly.

"Ya wanted ta see us, Lefty?" Raph sneered as he hopped down from his shelf. "Ya got us—start talkin'."

"Shut ya mouth, turtle," Lefty warned dryly. "'fore I show ya a betta use fer it." Raph cringed and backed away; nope, totally not his type, Lefty thought rolling his eyes. "I jus' came ta make sure Kimbuh's a'right, huh?…ya look like Hell, Kid," he added glancing pointedly at Amber's crutches and swollen cheek.

"Your brother did that," Donatello pointed out sternly; he was tempted to list off the various injuries Northpaw inflicted, but the blatant horror in Lefty's eyes silenced him.

"Nort' did t'at?! 'E din't have a scratch on'im earlier!" In obvious disappointment, he rushed to her, inspecting every visible inch of her for further injury. "Don't tell me 'e got da drop on ya, Kimbuh—ya betta dan dat!" Amber fidgeted, wishing the dirty concrete floor would split open and swallow her up. Go figure that Kimber was friendly with the twin brother of her attacker—she was probably friendly with both of them, even. The pierced con finally realized something was off about her. "What happened ta ya hair—ya goin' grey!"

"Apparently," Amber grumbled, "Kimber kept her hair dyed to hide it." The name slipped out before she could catch it, and she stared up at him in horror. "I—I—!"

"Da fuck ya talkin' 'bout, Kim?" Lefty asked shaking his head in disbelief. "Ya hit ya head, huh? Ya got dat am-nee-ja stuff goin' on? Don't tell me Nort' got ya head, too—I tawt ya betta'n dat, huh!" Inwardly, Amber cursed a blue streak. Why did she have to keep running into people who knew Kimber? There was no easy way to explain what happened to Kimber, much less when she had no proof of her claims.

"There's no easy way to say this…uh…Lefty, right?" The con's face fell in disbelief. "Kimber's…she's gone…I'm not her, I'm someone else entirely." Lefty gaped at her, then turned to Raphael.

"Am-nee-ja, huh?" he asked without asking; Raph shook his head.

"Nope," the hulking ninja admitted with no lack of bitterness. "She's tellin' da truth—Kimbuh's gone, dead, an' dis Ambuh chick woke up in'er body. Been like a bad sci-fi movie, really…if Masta Splinta hadn't seen it 'iself, I wouldn't believe it either." The fact that Raphael spoke up in her defense was not lost on Amber; that he did so after so long of stubbornly believing she was lying about the whole Amber-Kimber fiasco was bittersweet.

For a time, Lefty stared Raph down as though waiting for him to proclaim it a joke. Finally, something must have convinced him of the truth…that he was so easily able to wrap his head around that truth left Amber shaking her head. Of course, she had to remind herself, the con was staring down a giant humanoid turtle and New York was nearly taken over by an alien lunatic a few years ago—her world was almost out of mysteries, but strange things occurred in this new world all the time.

"Kimbuh…" Lefty looked like someone just punched him in the gut. "she's…gone? Dead? But—but how?!" Amber zoned out slightly as Donatello filled Lefty in on the old song and dance—Kimber going into hiding and faking her death only to freeze to death, Amber waking in Kimber's body, the myriad of misadventures between then and now, and finally, Northpaw tracking her down on Hun's orders and beating her senseless. By the time the tale wound down, Lefty was pacing and snarling to himself.

"If what ya say's true, Kimbuh's just anutha life Hun's gotta pay for." Steel blue eyes flashed to Raph's, full of an unexpected grudging respect. "Truman's got plenty a company, huh. Don't s'pose ya've found'is bandana, Meathead." In silent answer, Raph dug the ratty purple fabric out of his belt pouch and tossed it over; Lefty caught it one-handed and stood considering it a moment.

For just a moment, he could almost see its previous owner right before his eyes—curly red hair, bright green eyes, a perpetual smirk, and a row of purple rings lining one ear, all set off by the purple bandana tied around his brow. Truman was a tough guy and a helluva fighter, but he couldn't hack the initiation Hun set on him; in the months after his initiation, the redhead spiraled further and further into depression. By the time he stepped in front of an oncoming taxi, he'd become dependent on alcohol and amphetamines, and even the support of his lover couldn't pull him back from the brink.

Lefty never got over the loss, nor did he ever stop blaming Hun for Truman's death. That torn purple bandana, once a fixture on Truman's brow, became a fixture on Lefty's right bicep, reminding him every day why he wanted out of the Dragons. If not for Northpaw, he'd have dropped years ago; now, North was spiraling out of control as well—addicted to amphetamines and losing what little sanity he ever had—and they were running out of time.

"Dat settles it, huh," Lefty stated as he loped over to Amber…and tied the cherished bandana around her right wrist. She didn't quite comprehend the significance, but the brothers did. That scrap of fabric was the only thing left of Lefty's lost partner and he valued it more than his very life. He didn't know the woman in Kimber's body, but he'd cared for Kimber; so long as that body wore that fabric on one wrist, he'd never allow it to come to harm.

"Hun's gotta be taken out—da Dragons gotta be taken out'a da picture before more folks git hurt, ya got me?" Amber clutched the fabric tied around her wrist respectfully and nodded. "Nort' needs help—e's sick an' gettin' sick'a, an' he won't get any betta so long's e's doin' Hun's dirty work. If ya takin' down da Dragons…" He scoffed, shaking his head in disbelief. "…Can't b'lieve I'm sayin it, huh…I want in."

Meanwhile, in a dark flat in Brooklyn, Beverly Hardy dragged herself from her bedroom to the kitchen for a midnight snack. The sandwich in the fridge bore a note with Leo's handwriting—proof he was there even though he didn't stay long enough to talk. It was a start, at least…maybe there was a chance he'd come around. The very thought made her smile; go figure that she'd fall for a turtle as blind as she'd become.

NOTES

* In order: Mercy hates mush, (see Gallery of Memories "Mush,") Amber sucks at math but is good at cooking—see what I did there?—and 'Rom-com' is slightly derogatory slang for 'romantic comedy.'
**Roaster: Scotch slang. The definition I found is given as "Someone who is making a complete cunt of themselves."
***Flap: Scotch slang meaning "to become overly upset or worked up about something, beyond what others see as necessary." Amber grew up in a mixed-culture family - Scotch mother, Hick father, and surrounded by conflicting influences - so she's prone to twisting words to her liking. In this case, she mashed "flap" with "freaking out" and smartassed it.
# Amber's world is based on our own, and this drought actually occurred. I remember it pretty well though my area wasn't quite as badly hit. As badly as my city was ravaged by the drought - our aquiphers are still pretty low and we've lost a couple local streams entirely - I can't even begin to imagine the kind of damage it wreaked on small towns, especially those, like fictional Willsdale, which are dependent on agriculture.
## One thing Amber, Mercy, my hubby Cold, and I all have in common: we're smartasses. Cold and I have a friend who always points out 'It's _' when he calls our cellphones. He's quite aware that his name and face display when he calls our phones and he even has his own special ringtone, so it's become habit for whomever answers to respond with somethin' like "Naw, ya don't say." He's so used to Cold answering the phone as 'Santa Claus' and 'Lucky the Leprechaun' that he doesn't even bat an eye. What a sport, really!