Jazz was bored. She was tired of being shut up in the Lounge, but she wasn't about to go hang out with the others either. They'll suck me back in, no doubt, and I'm done with it. This may be normal as far as everyone else is concerned, but I don't want any part of it. I'm finished.
She'd already refused to respond to three knocks that had come over the course of four hours, determined not to be swayed off her chosen path. Jazz was only waiting for the noise to settle down to the point at which she wouldn't have to wade through a crowd to get out the door.
And there's the small matter of what I'm going to do when I leave. My job is toast, and I'm not going to make the rent. Not that I want to be alone there right now anyway. It looks like I'm starting over from scratch again. I could go back to the shelter for tonight – the church is always taking people in. I bet I can probably buy a couple of days there while I figure out what to do next. But I don't want to wait for nightfall in that case. The earlier I arrive, the more likely I'll get in.
Her belongings were sparse; little more than a few changes of clothes Greg had taken her to retrieve after she'd agreed to take the weird trip to the underworld. Jazz hoisted her oversized bag onto her shoulder, slipping one arm through a strap. She knew she wasn't going to escape the Den without being seen; she only hoped that Leonardo hadn't been lying about allowing her to leave.
With a deep breath she walked out of the Lounge and down the hall. The young woman made it about halfway to the door before being spotted, and she stiffened as someone called after her.
"Jazz? Where are you going?" Greg was on his feet in a flash.
Jazz eyed the man darkly, suddenly wishing that she possessed heat vision. He's the one who got me into the mess – he ought to be getting me out. "I'm running while I still can," she replied. "I'm sick of playing house."
"You want to leave?" Brandon rose too. "But, Jazz, you're safe here. The guys can take care of you—"
"This isn't my scene," she interrupted. "I'm not going to pretend to be something that I'm not."
"Where will you go?" Greg asked.
"It's none of your concern. I can take care of myself, like I have for years. Keep my head down, stay out of trouble, and I'll make it. Being connected with this bunch is what's gonna get me killed. So if you're going to take me prisoner, now's the time to do it. Otherwise, get out of my way."
"You shouldn't try to find your own way out," Brandon said. "It's easy to get lost, not to mention, those manhole covers are heavy. There's another exit that the girls usually take, and we'll get you there." The man looked at Greg. "You can handle a Slider, can't you, Greg?"
"Yeah," the sandy-haired man replied. "If you want to leave, Jazz, at least let us take you back to the surface."
Jazz couldn't help feeling like the men had a plan in mind, but she had no desire to fumble around in the dark either. "Fine, whatever," she agreed shortly. "But I'm leaving now, so if you're taking me, you have to get moving."
Despite Jazz's suspicion of the ease with which Greg and Brandon had agreed to take her to the surface, the trip was uneventful. Jazz was relieved to see the sunlight and feel the breeze at the end of the tunnel. The men had made some small attempts to reason with her during the journey, but the young woman had been swift to shut them down.
"I really wouldn't mind dropping you off somewhere," Greg offered once more.
"No. The bus stop is right across the street. I live off of public transportation."
"You've got my number," the sandy-haired man persisted. "If you change your mind and decide to let us help you, I'll come around in a heartbeat."
"I'll be fine," she said distractedly, as she spied the bus a couple of blocks away. "I have to go, so…later."
Jazz willed herself not to look back as she crossed the street. I'm not going to let them see me as some little lost puppy. I've got to prove that I can stand on my own two feet. She made it to other sidewalk well before the bus arrived. Now that she was facing the road, she could see that Greg and Brandon had already disappeared. That didn't take long.
When the vehicle arrived she chose a seat near the back of the half-full bus, and planned out the rest of her route to St. Mark's Cathedral. As she made notations on a piece of scrap paper, a strange heaviness seemed to descend.
I could have gotten used to that group. But what for? To be some mascot, a helpless female who needs sympathy and protection? Ever since I hooked up with them, I haven't been able to take care of myself. That was the one thing I used to be able to feel good about: my ability to get things done.
They felt responsible for me, so they had to take me in. I don't need to be the center of anyone's pity party though. It's better this way, better for me to be alone. That's how I function best.
The pep-talk did nothing for the burden crushing her. It's a nice idea to think I could hang out with a bunch of people who are weirder than me, who wouldn't mind having me around in theory. But emotions are fickle things. They feel sorry for me, but they resent my past too. It just wasn't meant to be. Not for me.
It took forty minutes and three different buses for Jazz to find her way to the Catholic Church that had been her home away from homes when she'd first been released from Prison, with nowhere to go. The building hadn't changed very much from the outside, but she didn't find anyone she recognized inside.
A prim woman with a grey bun who called herself "Sister Ginny" welcomed her to the Center. Jazz felt a sense of déjà vu as she followed the stranger through the crowded halls. It's getting colder outside at night. People flock in when the temperatures go down. I'm lucky they have any room left.
"You've stayed here before, Dear?" the woman addressed her cordially, but there was something disconnected in her tone.
"Yeah, a couple of years ago," Jazz replied vaguely.
"The rules haven't changed," Ginny told her. "The two wings are separated with the women down this hall, and the men to the left end. We have a zero tolerance policy on drugs, alcohol, and violence."
"I'm cool," she assured her. "You won't get any issues from me."
"Let's get you settled into one of the dorms, and then we can see about dinner."
"I'd like to hold onto my things," Jazz said.
"Whatever you prefer, Jasmine."
The young woman winced at the use of her full name, but she was the one who'd given it to Ginny. Jazz followed her to the familiar dining area, which already appeared to be filled to capacity.
"When you've had something to eat, I'll take you back to find a bed," Ginny said.
"Thanks." Jazz peered around the room slowly, gripping the straps of her bag tighter as she looked for a safe opening somewhere in the masses. She wasn't actually hungry; the ache in the pit of her stomach was too strong to consider eating.
Why do I feel like my dog just died? I barely know them. Sure, some of it was fun while it lasted, but this is pointless. I'd never fit in with them in the long—The thought broke off as she caught an Asian boy making eyes at her. Her heart skipped a beat and she took a deep breath. Relax. He's young, and he's got nothing to do with that whacked out gang.
Nevertheless, she didn't like the way he looked at her, or how his gaze continued to track her as she made a slow circle around the edge of the room. In that instant, Jazz wanted nothing more than to get out of there. She exited the room slowly.
She was moving against the flow of people, and it produced a bad taste in her mouth. The weight of her backpack suddenly felt like it could tip her over. Regret was catching up with her rapidly, and Jazz couldn't believe she'd been so quick to return to the shelter. It wasn't so bad when I first got out of Prison – anything was better than being locked up. I had no idea it would be so hard to come back.
Jazz slipped out of the closest side door, and skirted around the building to the back. She dropped onto the cement steps dejectedly, staring bleakly into thin air. I've got to stick it out for a little while. She rested her chin in her hand wearily as the cold temperature from the surface of the stairs seeped through her clothes. Am I strong enough to start over again? Where am I going to find a job now?
Footsteps invaded her thoughts, and she glanced to her right to see someone lingering a couple of feet away. The Asian boy stood smiling, as if she'd invited him to come outside with her.
"What do you want?" Jazz clutched the straps of her bag protectively.
"I saw you lookin' at me," he replied.
"You're imagining things," she told him.
"It's nicer out here away from the noise and mess isn't it?" he said casually.
Jazz scooted away from him as he stepped closer. "I like the quiet," she said pointedly. "I like being alone. Thanks for dropping by though."
"I think you could be a little friendlier." He smirked at her as he ignored her evasive maneuver and leaned down to her level.
"I've got a set of pipes that can draw half the neighborhood," she said warningly.
The boy casually displayed a blade that had to be at least seven inches long. "You can't scream without vocal chords." His teasing tone belied the seriousness of his words.
Jazz swallowed as she tried to stay calm. "Punk, you need to back up."
"I like a girl who's a little freaky."
She swore at him. "The only freak here is you! Back off!"
He chuckled. "What's the point in fighting the attraction?"
"Does attraction make you feel like throwing up?" she demanded. "Get away from me!"
"Or what?" he asked coyly.
Jazz heard the sound of pebbles scattering across the concrete, two seconds before a strong hand landed on the boy's shoulder. The sight of Greg standing behind the kid was enough to startle her out of her wits.
"Let's not make a scene here," the man suggested. "Just back off real nicely, and no one has to get hurt. Doesn't that sound reasonable?"
The stranger's face darkened for the first time, but he didn't look prepared for the two towering figures that were standing behind him. "We were just talking," he said defensively.
"You're done talking," Brandon insisted. "Jazz, are you coming?"
The young woman clenched her jaw as she got to her feet. She was partially relieved to see them, though she was unwilling to admit it out loud. Jazz didn't say a word as the two men guided her across the parking lot toward the blue Avalanche.
When they reached the vehicle, she stood back defiantly. "What are you doing here? Are you stalking me now?"
"Jazz, I'm the reason you're in this situation, and I wanted to make sure you'd be all right," Greg explained. "This doesn't look okay to me."
"It's a shelter!" she exclaimed. "People come through here every day!"
"People with no other resources," Brandon inserted. "Could we just talk to you for a couple of minutes?"
Jazz was so irritated that she could barely form a reply. "And then you'll let me be?"
Greg motioned to the car. "We won't hold you up," he promised.
Against her better judgment, she climbed into the passenger side. She caught the scent of Brandon's aftershave as he settled onto the seat beside her, and had to take a deep breath to remind herself that she was extremely irritated with both of them. Greg got behind the wheel, but still neither man spoke right away, Jazz held up her hands questioningly.
"What's the deal here, guys? How can I hear you out when you're not talking?"
"Raph told us about getting into it with you," Brandon said carefully. "Jazz, he can be a little…complicated. He's really passionate, so it's easy for him to get worked up. When he gets mad, it's usually a full-fledged event. He says things that he doesn't mean. He and I are a lot alike in that sense. But Raph is also one of the most loyal, protective guys you'll ever meet. We all have our individual strengths and weaknesses…some of them are just more visible than others."
"It doesn't matter what he said," she replied sullenly.
"Obviously it does. Why else would you be running?"
"Really? You wanna talk about running?" she challenged.
Brandon inhaled deeply. "Is this about me and my instability?"
"No, Brandon, it's about me, okay? Even with your issues, you still belong with them. This is your family. I'm an outsider—"
"We all start out that way, Jazz."
"No, I'm different, and that's been made abundantly clear. Let's take attendance of the rest of your people, huh? You got a police officer, FBI Agents, doctors…what do these people have in common?"
"We all have our similarities and differences, Jazz," Greg spoke up.
"No. You've all got something to offer," she said. "Let's be honest here. I'm nothing but an ex-con who got mixed up in something that doesn't concern me. I can only accept so much pity, guys. I was scared, and I let you help me. You didn't think I was here to stay, did you?"
Greg shook his head. "I don't know what we thought, but this isn't about pity, Jazz. It seemed like you were starting to settle in with us, and what Raphael said in a heated moment doesn't change anything."
"You think I haven't heard worse?" She huffed. "Once you've been rejected enough times, you start to get used to it."
Brandon peered at her closely, and the uncomfortable feeling of being naked and bare twinged in the back of her mind. Jazz drew both arms across her chest self-consciously.
"You care more about what people think than you say you do," he said.
"And you need to quit running away from your friends!" she retorted defensively.
Brandon tensed, but then nodded. "You're right. I don't want to deal with my issues, but I can't move forward until I do. What is it you're really running from? Is this about someone else's opinion of you?"
She didn't answer.
"Jazz, no one is going to stand in the way of you leaving, but I wish you'd think about this a little more," Greg said.
"There's nothing to think about," she said. "Ever since I met these guys, I've been nothing but the helpless female who's afraid of her own shadow. That isn't me. I don't need…" Jazz faltered, refusing to fill in the statement with anyone. "I don't need this," she corrected.
"Has anyone told you about turtle luck?" Brandon asked.
"Turtle what?"
"Turtle luck," he said. "It's the term we use to refer to the weird twists of destiny that surround the guys. It can be very good, or it can be incredibly bad. Like me showing up at Chelsea, at the exact moment that Yukiko was going to finish Raphael off. Or the way Leo and Raph accidentally discovered the gang to begin with, on a random night of patrolling. See what I mean? Turtle luck."
"What's your point, Brandon?"
"How many days out of a month do you spend at the Travel Agency?"
"We're there once a month for the big cleaning. We spend a couple of good hours in their storefront, before we move on to the rest of the building."
"What are the chances that the guys would show up on the one night that you're there?"
She shrugged. "About one in thirty. That's not very impressive."
"Maybe not, but what are the chances that the Akiudo would choose that Travel Agency as their cover, thereby sending the turtles right to your doorstep?" Greg added.
"That would take forever to figure out. There are too many possibilities."
"That's turtle luck, Jazz!" Brandon proclaimed. "We like to say that this type of meeting isn't a chance encounter. It may feel like a giant mess, but there's a design in there somewhere."
"That doesn't make any sense."
Brandon gave her a smile that both frustrated and enthralled her. "Look, I'm not saying I subscribe to all of the facets of turtle luck. But in my experience, it's better not to fight it. You met them. You didn't plan it, they didn't plan it, but now you're here, and your world has been rocked. You can walk away, but it won't change what happened, and I guarantee you won't forget them."