A few notes from the Ghostwriter: I must profess I am not the first person to use 'Stinkbug' as a nickname for Leonardo—that honor goes to Padawnjinx from her delightfully-written AO3 fic Vigilance. That one's a heartbreaker, Folks, but a well-written heartbreaker—be prepared to cry at the end. (In the future, defined words AND passages with lots of defined words will be marked with – at the end of the word or first sentence.)
The poll—and question—regarding Colloquialism in dialogue is still open and the poll, at least, will remain open until I post the last chapter of Part II; votes in the poll, reviews/comments for chapters 40 and onward, and PMs will all be counted, but I'm not counting previous chapters or conversations. So far we've only gotten 'comment' and 'review' answers; using the poll would make things easier, but if it really bugs ya, I'm not gonna go all 'school teacher who found undated homework' on ya…even though I left a bloody link to make it easier…sigh... Anyway, I'm patient to a fault so I'll accept and count any answers I get that are delivered in the above-mentioned manners. As of posting, I've received only 'keep being weird' votes and no one who's had problems with the dialogue has spoken up…please, people, if it's a problem, I need to know, otherwise nothing's gonna change. (If, for some odd reason, you're worried about being ostracized or maybe chased with a pitchfork by a crazy writer, relax—I'm not upset, I know my writing style isn't for everyone, and I'm too bloody lazy to hold a grudge. Just make your voice heard, I suck at reading minds unless you're a cat. Cats are easy, they usually just want fed.)
Currently Part II is complete, even though it's not all posted yet, and I've been going through previous chapters to make a few small changes to the drafts—deal with a few plot holes or errors, get a few characters and their habits more constant, and beef up a few skimpy scenes, mostly. Once I reach the end of Part I, I'll update those chapters so you can see the changes IF you feel like going back and re-reading, and again, when I reach the last chapter in Part II I've posted, I'll update those chapters; until then, all changes are in drafts only and not posted for public viewing. The next chapter marks the end of Part II [This Time Imperfect] and it's pretty intense in places, as it will be followed by the beginning of Part III: Between the Raindrops. There WILL be non-dream sex in that part of the story, so expect smut! Both this chapter AND the next are pretty long chapters, and this one's got a pretty rough spot near the end because Amber's brain breaks - everything she's dealt with so far finally comes to a head for her, and she winds up pretty hard to understand. As always, when speech gets weird, I define the weirdest stuff at the very end for reading ease, and the "Amber's brain broke" dialogue is defined/translated at the end for reading ease.
For anyone curious, I'm still in recovery from that ear infection, still dealing with dizziness and coordination problems from it, but have been mostly healthy...until my daith piercing got infected. I've had headaches from it every day this week especially Sunday, but it's starting to clear up. If the inner ear problem is still an issue when December hits, I'm probably going to get it checked out again just in case, since it's been an issue all month. Other than that, and a day-visit to Cold's mother (and her umpteen dogs, whom I'm unfortunately horribly allergic to) things have been pretty calm around here. Just been working on writing and editing, and trying to stay afloat. Thanks for asking.
Suggested Listening: AFI "Demo—Synesthesia," 3 Doors Down "Let me be Myself," Breaking Benjamin "Angels Fall," Lifehouse "Hanging by a Moment"
41: Standing on the Borderline
Dreams aren't known for making sense, but this one takes the cake. Empty beer cans carpet the floor and the whole double-wide reeks of uncleaned litter boxes and piled trash. From her shadowed corner, Amber scans the dark parlor in dismay, her eyes ultimately drawn to the lump curled up under a black Granny Square afghan on the even more lumpy sofa.
Aaron. She flinches at the sight of him. He's always been lazy about grooming beyond the usual showering and hair washing, and he always refuses to shave unless threatened with physical violence…this Aaron has gone far beyond those tendencies. His blond corkscrew curls are matted and slick with grease and grit. His beard and mustache have grown into a single tangled mess—he's long left behind his usual lumberjack appearance and is pushing toward homeless. He absolutely reeks of cheap beer—cheap beer he would never have touched before she died. Mercy claimed he was handling her death as well as he could…so why is he falling apart?
Right before her eyes, Amber's friend stumbles from the sofa to the front door. Lightning splinters the sky, sending goosebumps parading up and down her arms and chills racing down her spine. "Aaron, it's alright," she tries to soothe, but no words come of it—she is, as always in dreams of this nature, invisible, inaudible, and incorporeal.
Unable to hear her pleas for him to turn back, he shambles out the back door and down the rickety wooden steps, never noticing the ghost following him every step of the way. Rain pelts their skin, stinging like a shower of nails. Still, he wanders into the bedraggled field he calls a backyard. Shouting drunken obscenities, he demands the impossible—demands that God bring Amber back, bring Mercy back, put everything back the way it is supposed to be.
Lightning crashes. Thunder rolls. Torrents of rain and hail fall from the skies, the wind picking up until it moans and howls in the treetops. Through it all, the drunken blond shouts and screams at the roiling sky, never hearing the pleas of his unseen, unheard friend. Finally, as though realizing his actions have no effect, he falls to his knees in the mud, sobbing brokenly. Amber lays a hand on his shoulder, trying to reach him. Aaron startles. His lungs still, his eyes wide, he seems to work up the nerve to acknowledge something.
Hoping, fearing, dreading and praying, he turns his face to the shoulder she just touched, his eyes widening but not meeting hers. "A-Amber?" he stammers, clasping his hand through hers and visibly struggling with himself. "I felt—I felt you—are you there? –Tell me you're there!"
"I'll always be here," she answers though she knows he cannot hear her. "I've always been here—just stay strong." Doubt narrows his off-kilter blue eyes, and she heaves an exasperated sigh. She can't interact with him…but maybe…
A moment after he first felt the strange presence, Aaron Willis' answer appears in the form of his back door violently swinging open and whacking against the siding. There is his answer…he begged for proof that she is still there, and she told him to get his arse out of the rain. Finally, he feels sure he can manage to live without her, if only for another day. As the back door swings shut behind him another loud crack of lightning splits the air. Even as the storm worsens, though, the invisible brunette feels comforted that if nothing else, her friend wasn't stuck out in the rain.
August 29th, long before dawn
The bizarre dream still running amok in her head, Amber took the only course she could think of—she wandered into the kitchen to put the kettle on the boil. She never expected to see Mercy slouched over at the table…clearly, she wasn't the only one in the Lair suffering sleep interruptions, though Mercy's struggles were clearly more physical than mental.
It was amazing the amount of progress the blond was making, really, and Amber couldn't be more proud of her. Donna Mays' body was an addict, hooked on something Mercy would never have wasted her time on, but the Otherworlder was making the best of what she had. For the most part, she was doing well. Every now and then, though, she'd struggle again—just like tonight, she'd find herself staring down a bottle of poison and forcibly reminding herself why she had to stay clean. She hated alcohol, hated everything about it, but her body craved it like a junkie craving a fix.
"Rough night?" Amber asked instead of acknowledging the untouched bottle of bourbon on the table; the wax seal was unbroken, so she told her insistent worrying to take a hike.
"Nothin' I ain't beaten before," Mercy admitted, shoving the bottle across the table and nearly onto the floor; just in time, Amber caught it and swept it away, stashing it back under the sink again. "What about you? You're up pretty early."
"Just a nightmare," the brunette admitted lightly as she filled the kettle. "Nothing serious." Silence filled the room for a while—a tense silence, not the comfortable kind she and Mercy were prone to lapsing into. "You mentioned before that you went to my funeral." She shot a shrewd glance to the now visibly-squirming blonde. "How'd Aaron handle it, Mercy? How was he handling everything?"
"Uh…" Mercy hesitated, but then soldiered onward—she never could lie to Aaron or Amber to save her skin! "He's handling it the best he can—he lost both his best friends, you know, but he's a tough cookie—he'll bounce back in no time." Denim blue skittered away from grey-green, fixing on the ferns lining the table. "Don't worry about Willis, a'right? He'll be fine…an' we can't exactly do anything to help anyway."
There it was—that single small insistence was proof. Amber froze, heedless of the cold water pouring down the edge of the kettle; as if the strange dreams weren't enough, now she had proof that Mercy was hiding something from her. Mercy was a terrible liar. "What about Gran'da?" Amber asked lowly. "What about our families?" Mercy shook her head viciously, her shaggy blonde hair growing even more disheveled from the gesture.
"I a'ready told you," she insisted weakly. "Your family's fine—Aaron is fine—there's nothing to worry about!" Lie. Lie. Another lie! Amber clutched the handle of the kettle with everything she had; suddenly she didn't feel like tea anymore. "Amber?"
"I'm goin' back to bed," Amber declared shortly dumping out the kettle and setting it aside. "It's too damn early an' the guys are gonna be out'a town until tonight either way." Shortly afterward, she curled into Donnie's pillow, her thoughts a chaotic tangle. Weekly dreams of Aaron suffering…Mercy's insistence that he was fine…nothing made sense anymore, nothing but the sweetly familiar aroma of coffee, spice, and clean grease filling her lungs. Nuzzling into his pillow and inhaling deeply, she hoped the smell would calm her fears and silence her worries.
She never did fall back asleep.
The bell over the door jingled merrily, but the atmosphere inside Red Fern Florist's was anything but merry. For a moment, Mercy felt she had somehow managed to walk into the wrong florists'…then she caught sight of Abilene Whitaker's brightly dyed hair poking up between two tall shelves. Plum purple today—though her hair was almost rarely the same color—or colors—from one visit to the next, that shade of warm dark purple was a familiar shade on her head, as were the side-swept bubblegum pink highlights visible on approach. Unusually sarcastic grumbling reached Mercy, concerning her even more; Abby was always worrisomely well-behaved and sweet as sugar, even to the old biddies who loudly judged her over the roses and gardenias she happily sold them.
"Something wrong?" The storekeeper squeaked in surprise and jumped straight up in the air, upsetting a planter of Maidenhair ferns. Mercy caught it without any forethought; perhaps living with ninjas was wearing off on her. After the requisite—and incredibly awkward—greetings were out of the way, she followed Abby up to the checkout counter silently, wondering about the defeated expression the woman wore. Over the next few minutes, the blonde pretended to examine a seedling catalog on the counter and the story was explained by the tired woman puffing on an e-cigarette despite a ban on e-cig use in enclosed public places. The search for a new hire to cover Abby's increased hours failed and after a full semester of burning the candle at both ends, even after dropping two classes to lighten the load, the young woman was contemplating calling it quits on the beauty school front.
"If I'm too busy worrying about Red Fern," Abby admitted quietly, "that's focus I'm not able to expend on my studies. The beauty academy sounds like an easy degree…then you go through it and realize it's a lot of work. If I can't get a break on this end, I'm gonna have to take a semester off…and I worry if I do, that I won't go back…I'll never accomplish my goal if I'm stuck in this place."
Her goal, Mercy knew from past talks, was to join her fiancée as a stylist at The Mane Event salon uptown. Cherie was a genius with hair dye in its many forms; Abby was a whiz at cuts and styles. Together, they were unstoppable...but one was currently stuck in what she saw as a dead-end job—manning the counter at her family's shop. The air buzzed with uncomfortable silence, and Mercy knew the younger woman was about to take things much farther than their short acquaintance would allow. She was giving off the same signs Amber did when Amber brought up unpleasant subjects…and Amber was one of Mercy's oldest friends.
"Well, spit it out," she urged dryly. "Ya got somethin' to say, so say it."
"Just come back to work, Donna!" In that name, Mercy could almost hear the sound of a needle scratching across a record. What?! "No matter what you did, Ma'll forgive you—you're family to us!" Time passed unnoticed, Abby fixing a pleading gaze on Mercy, and the blonde struggling to find some way—any way—to respond to her. It never once occurred to her that she might be drawn to this little shop for any reasons other than the comforting feeling it gave her—was that reaction a matter of nurture rather than nature? Did she continually find herself drawn here because of Donna's body, rather than because it was a source of color in the endless grey of the Big Apple? Her head hurt with the implications.
"I…think you have me mistaken for someone else," she finally attempted. "My name's Mercy—I'm…I don't remember anything before New Year's Eve this year—that's when I woke up under that overpass." Somehow her insistence became an admission she wasn't ready to voice.
"You're Donna Mays," Abby insisted softly, her hazel eyes bright with unshed tears. "You were hired fresh out'a high school and worked here through college…then you got word about—about your family…you started drinking to cope and showing up to work hungover." Mercy shook her head in denial, her heart pounding, and backed away toward the door. With every step away, though, Abby took another toward her, insisting, pleading, begging. "Ma took it hard when she had to fire you…then you just vanished!" Mercy clutched at her head feigning confusion. It wasn't hard—what were simply words to the sweet shopkeeper were turning around everything Mercy thought she knew!
"No…this can't be…I'm Mercy, not some Donna person!" To add on to the amnesiac who's having their brain broken illusion, she let her voice grow shrill in her denial. "This can't be—I can't—" Forcing her eyes to go wild and frantic to mimic someone backed into a corner, she took in a deep, shaky breath. "Igottago."
"Donna, wait!" Abby cried out to her, but Mercy felt only the thudding of her sneakers on the pavement. Several streets down, she ducked into an empty alley, bewildered and suddenly bone-tired. Tell her to hide something from her closest friends and she couldn't lie her way out of a paper bag, but oh-ho-ho, ask her to fake someone else out and she was an ace!
Who would ever have thought that she would not only run into someone who knew her body's reckless and drunken former occupant but that this whole time, she was frequenting that occupant's former place of employment?! The awkwardness was at nuclear levels! Silently spearing her fingers through her shaggy blonde hair, she thought back over the countless times she'd frequented Red Fern—the numberless times she'd chatted with Abby Whitaker while trying to convince herself no, she did not need another Aloe plant or fern! What, she thought with a grumble, aloe and ferns always reminded her of the few years before Clarity got hung up over Mercy having a twat, so sue her!
Though she fought the realization, she had to admit it: in all those visits, she couldn't recall once that Abby had used the name she'd been given. The perky shopkeeper always called her by one of many affectionate and overly familiar pet-names—Doll, Sugarlips, and Pun'kin to name a few. She always thought it was just one of Abby's oddities—a tendency to treat even total strangers as besties—but was she really just skirting around using the name Mercy gave her? Was she really so close to Mercy's now-deceased body-mate that she wouldn't see her any differently?
Half a year had passed since she awoke under that bridge, but life was only becoming more twisted and tangled by the day.
The Hardys' Loft
The smooth, dulcet tones of Bink Krosby# filled the loft with warmth. At the stove in the small kitchen, a spunky brunette in a frilly pink apron swayed in time with the crooning from the speakers. A glass of lemon-water in one hand and the other occupied with stirring a glass pan of chocolate melting on the stove, Briallen savored the rare, calm, contented mood. Naturally, something had to ruin it. The sudden blaring of her phone startled her, and in that startle, she spilled water right into the molten chocolate.
"Ohnononononononono!" she protested trying to scrape the chocolate away from the puddle of water but to no avail. Right before her eyes, it curdled into a gritty solid mass—the brazil nuts on the counter wouldn't be getting dipped after all. Even if she wasn't upset over the ruined dipping chocolate, the name popping up on the screen made her blood boil. "GAH! Oh, for the love of—This'd better be good, Leonardo!" she spat into the rhinestone-encrusted phone propped between her ear and shoulder. "You owe me a whole block of Ghirardelli dark!"
"You were baking?" Leo asked sheepishly.
"Dipping nuts," Bree admitted sullenly digging in between her scrunched-shut eyes. "Next semester's my last and it's gonna be a doozy—making junk food is my coping skill, so sue me!"
"I meant no offense." She could practically see his placating hands up, don't strangle me! gesture, along with the boyish grin he seemed to think would soothe her ruffled feathers. He wasn't entirely wrong…that particular crook of the lips on his orange-masked brother led to the bathroom's first christening. Sucking in a slow, calming breath through her nose, she silently counted all the reasons why losing her temper was a bad idea…unfortunately, Bev likes him was the only reason she could think of. It was looking pettier by the moment.
With a tired sigh, she scrunched her curly brown hair back across her scalp and tried again. Perhaps he had a good reason for calling her…but then again, did he ever call her when he wasn't being an idiot? "Lay it on me, Stinkbug," she offered wandering out into the parlor to greet her more subdued cousin. "What's eating ya?"
The Garden
"What's going on?" Bree's demand—voiced in the doorway of the Railyard—echoed off the walls like a cartoon character's yodeled fall. Her intentionally grumpy entry into the garden-in-progress was met by a shake of the head and sigh of defeat from Splinter. "Leo called me in a panic because no one's answering their phones!" Absolutely covered head to toe in potting soil and mud, Mercy grinned but put her finger to her lips for silence, pointing mischievously toward the other brunette. Perched on the edge of a rail bed already lined with rock and gravel, Amber was grinning at her phone screen and blushing like crazy at the face on the other side of the connection.
"So it wasn't the air filter, wasn't a clog in the runoff pipes, and it wasn't something in the air conditioner itself," Donatello wondered aloud on the other end, "then why was the unit draining all over the foundation?"
"Algae," Amber laughed, rolling her eyes as Bree approached silently. Amber asked the same question when what they were discussing occurred, but her demand was much more frantic, irritated, and obscenely-worded; of course, she was the lucky sonuvagun who got to clean up after the ancient window unit flooded her crawlspace. In hindsight, it revealed a crack in the foundation—too small to see without inspection but large enough for water to seep through. "Summer was always really humid but that one was a whopper, an' I was runnin' that beast nonstop—it developed algae in the drain pan, an' that made the water runoff just pour right out!"##
"Hey, Bree!" The greeting came from the leanest of the four mutant brothers, a genius currently sprawled across a faded vinyl lounge next to the pond. "How's Beverly?" The genius brought his juice box back up and snagged the straw, sucking out the very last dregs. Bree couldn't hold back a snort of laughter at the hollow sound OR the sight of such a lethal warrior holding a dinky little JuiceeJuice box, noisily pulling at the straw with hollowed-out cheeks. "What?" As sore as her cheeks felt, she was sure her face was turning red.
"BAY-BEE-CAKES!" Donnie squawked in protest as his younger brother literally dove over the back of the chair and wriggled his way into the view of the screen, all the while pantomiming kisses at Bree. "Oh, I miss you - Do you miss me? I wish you were here, this place blows without you!" The mushy turtle went on and on telling Bree everything she was missing out on—as if she wasn't used to not seeing him for weeks! At first, Don struggled under Mikey's unexpected weight—and the squirming lump on his lap—and ducked the pair of bare feet swinging wildly in his face and nearly clocking him with every swing—then, without warning he shoved the hyperactive turtle off his lap…right into the pond.
"Hey, Skype with your own phone!" the genius ordered as their significant others cracked up. "You have unlimited data for a reason!" Once the hilarity was over and Mikey was sulking off to dry out his sodden board shorts, Bree wandered away and Donnie's confident smirk softened. "I've missed you, Braids," he admitted to the only brunette still in view. "It's been hard sleeping at night—have you still been doing okay over there?"
"Aside from bein' sore an' skint?"- She gave a one-armed shrug. "Meh. I'll sleep when I'm dead." As she—too late—suspected, this led Donnie to protest anew Casey's refusal to allow the girls to join them at his grandmother's farmhouse—or, more specifically, Mercy and Amber. The vigilante didn't really know Beverly and Briallen yet, and as such, hadn't been asked about the cousins accompanying the brothers; he was asked if Mercy and Amber could come with but shot the idea down without hesitation. That protest was—as every time before—met with reminders to be patient, that Casey had every right to refuse anyone he so chose, and that someday he might allow her and Mercy to tag along for the groups' trips to the farm if he wasn't harassed over it. "Like it or not," Amber reminded Donnie, "I've still got a bleatin'- gang sign in my cleavage—it's fadin' out, but it's a reminder to him, too."
"Gang sign or not," Donnie reminded lowly, "What it's inked on is pretty nice." Her suspicion that she hadn't heard him correctly went straight out the window at his teasing grin and wink. A scarlet blush spread from her hairline downward, all the way to the still-blistered tattoo on her chest.
"Must I repeat that lesson about respect?" The sarcastic jab made Donnie startle and nearly follow Mikey's path into the pond.
"S-Sorry, Sensei!" the mutant stammered as Amber smacked her palm over her face in embarrassment. Last she saw, the rat was knee-deep in herbs at the other end of the Garden; of course, he'd sneak up the moment one of his sons 'let their hair down.' A too-shrewd deadpan pinned Amber like a still-fluttering moth on a foam board. He clearly knew the blame wasn't all on Donatello and was—at least, she thought—silently shaming her for not pulling the 'offended southern belle' act. Oh, Masta' Splinta! I don't know nuttin' 'bout makin' no babies!* Yeah…Scarlett O'Hara wouldn't have been convinced either.
"We should be home shortly after sunset," Donnie reminded her with a sheepish grin and neck grab. "Thanks to that box trailer, we can leave while the sun's out…and—" A sudden noise she couldn't hear drew his attention off-screen and his nostrils flared. Amber couldn't help comparing the occurrence to the last time he pinned her to the sheets; her skin burned as her brain did a gleeful swan dive into the gutter. When his bright eyes met hers again, they were paired with a sheepish smile and scalp scratch. "Sounds like Casey's finally moved on from cussing at the grill to butchering lunch—I'd better get the fire extinguisher."
Time crawled after Amber's conversation with Donnie; evening couldn't come soon enough.
Late that night
Sometimes people never got a chance to revisit their moments of weakness. Sometimes, a fear would never be conquered, and a tragedy never moved beyond. Then, once in a great while, something, be it karma or fate, would reorder the world in such a way that mortals had no option but to acquiesce. This, Amber knew without a doubt, was one such time…and she wasn't quite sure how she felt about that.
In one ear, Casey vehemently reminded April that (Amber) was trouble—a Purple Dragon, a snake in the grass, and putting on as though she wasn't really Kimber, through and through. In the other ear, April argued that even if the brunette wasn't telling the truth—if she still was Kimber—this might be the only shot she had at breaking her out of her new-life-new-world delusions. If she really wasn't who she claimed to be, this would be the only way of knowing. More raised voices joined the din—Donatello and Leonardo coming to her defense—and if Raphael hadn't followed Mercy to the garden for some much-needed 'welcome home' necking, she suspected a fourth and fifth voice would sound with the rest. Amidst the fighting and yelling surrounding her, Amber was frozen—torn between the nightmarish past, the saccharine present, and the uncertain, ever-feared future.
This world, too, had a Willsdale, Missouri.# This Willsdale, like her own, experienced the storm to end all storms—an EF-5 tornado—but not five years ago, not when her Willsdale was torn to bits by an EF-4 and an EF-5, just over a week apart. This world's Willsdale only endured one tornado—an EF-4 that cut deep tracks across the city limits and a few less rural miles—and it occurred shortly after school ended that year. That Willsdale's high-school-slash-junior-high-slash bingo hall was barely touched by the monster storm, but the elementary school and City Hall were leveled. Worst yet, the New World Willsdale's death count was much, much higher…and thanks to the childcare center and nursing home in the path, a disproportionate number of those lost were children and elderly.
All those books left to ruin…all those nights of weeping over the books, the trees, and the history-packed building she loved…and now she knew her Willsdale was very, very lucky. The Fall and Winter Semester would begin on September fifth with barely 2/3 of the students of the year before. A ceremony—complete with speeches and a symbolic moment of silence—was planned for the time when Willsdale's students' lives were turned upside down.
That ceremony brought the whole story full-circle, back to the room full of grown-ass adults arguing at the top of their lungs. When disaster first struck the small town deep in the Missouri Ozarks, it was touted as one of the worst disasters of its time; a darker, angrier part of Amber wondered if being a bigger city would have made it 'more disastrous.' In the usual fashion of leaders, the President of the United States came to survey the damage, express regret over the death count, and pose for the press shaking hands and staring at the wasteland that was once Willsdale. That president was seeking re-election the next year and desperate for votes—desperate enough to revisit a small town and give a speech before Willsdale high school in honor of the many students and staff who would never return. Reporters from every corner of the States would be attending, bringing news home with them, and April was selected to represent her new bosses: EFX-NYC, or, more colloquially known as "Channel 9."** Without even thinking about how the others might react, she invited Amber to tag along, if only to act as an Otherworldly tour guide.
The president was speaking at Willsdale…people were coming from every corner of the country to stand with them in their time of regrowth. Was Amber's Willsdale given such honors? Were her neighbors and home granted such pomposity and ceremony? Or were they, as she feared, simply swept under the rug, pooh-poohed by the world at large for not having stronger structures, and altogether forgotten? There was only one way to know for certain, and it also just so happened to be the same way that Casey felt was a needless risk.
A new noise broke through the din—the ticking of a distant clock—but the others showed no sign of hearing it. The day Amber died, she was in shock—numb to all internal and external forces—the only thing that broke through that shock was a gut feeling that she had to see her school, she had to see its library. She followed that gut feeling, and it led her to her death; perhaps, knowing that, upon feeling the same gut feeling calling her to the Lab, she should've run the other way? Nevertheless, she followed it like a siren's song on the rocks.
The din behind her dulled under the blood pounding in her ears at the sight before her: that infuriatingly confusing test tube was glowing again. Right before her eyes, the Freaky Space Glitter gleamed as though it was truly there—brightening and dimming in time with the ticking pounding against her skull. Moss green eyes scanned the Lab warily, checking every dark corner for some hidden trickster or strange force and finding none. Without a word, she reached out and touched the specimen vial—felt the cold glass and the inexplicable warm pulse of its contents—and steeled her nerves.
She was always running…always hiding... She was done running and hiding—whatever came for her, well, she would damn well meet it head on like the strong woman her Gran'da supposedly raised! She never noticed the racket in the room beyond the lab or the mutant genius watching her from the doorway.
Donatello stood unsteadily in the doorway, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, torn between confusion and worry. Confusion, that he could explain by his lover's silent and single-minded approach of the vial he'd had under constant surveillance. Worry…now that emotion was harder to pin down. He worried at her mental state—somewhere between empty and intense—worried at how she didn't even notice anything beyond that damnable glowing dust. Most of all, he worried that their time was up, that whatever unexplained phenomena drew her from her world to his was about to take her back out of it.
"I know yer thar."- Donnie startled at the sudden accusation, at first, missing that Amber had voiced it to thin air. "I knuw yer watchin' us,"- she repeated addressing the strange force she could not see, her speech twisting and her volume increasing to a near-yell, then almost to harpy-shriek. "Yar beein' such a sleekit creeper, ya arsehole! Quit fookin' hidin'! Tell me whot tae dae!"- The words—twisted, brogue-gruff words Donnie understood but had only ever heard from the Amber in his dreams—softened into a painful croaking plea.
"Palease…tell me whot tae dae,"- she begged falling roughly to her hands and knees and digging her fingertips into the concrete floor as though fearing it would buck her off. Amber O'Brien, the woman from another world, was at the end of her rope and barely hanging on. The light emitting from the stoppered vial brightened and dimmed as before; it had no answer. "Ah doonae want ti go,"- the broken woman on the floor admitted tiredly. "Thurs nothin' in the world Ah wan' less…but if Ah go…if Ah see fer meself…"- A calm settled over her, steeling her nerves and stiffening her spine; right before the genius at the door, the woman on the floor went from broken to determined. "If Ah go," she asked the unhearing dust, her words sharp with warning. "…well ya take me 'wae? Well ya lemme stay here—stay'ere with Dunnie?"-
"Like I gotta choice?" The words—spoken in a familiar feminine voice—sent both human and turtle flying into action. Donatello dashed into the room, slammed the door and bolted it shut, and dove to the Lair's security-system control panel. With the press of a ridiculously convenient button, the entire Lair was completely locked down—the owner of the voice had nowhere to run. Just as happened the day the strange visitor left shimmering dust on the bathroom floor, though, it got away, taking with it the inexplicable glow and the unseen ticking clocks.
When the mutant and the Otherworlder emerged from the Lab, April was beside herself with worry. Before she could get out a single word, Amber cut it off. "Ah—I have to go back," she admitted, catching herself quickly after her slight fumble. "I've gotta see Willsdale—it's not the one I left behind, an' it ain't the one I died in, but there's no doubt in my mind I've gotta see it for myself."
"What?!" Casey bellowed, but Amber shot him a perplexing smile.
"Someone's gotta keep your arses out'a Meth-Lab Motel...and no one can show ya around like a local." Casey sputtered in rage but was otherwise incapable of voicing another argument. Moss green eyes met a pair of shifting hazel ones over Amber's shoulder, both saying words that their owners weren't quite ready to speak.
I love you, my Sweet Speccy.
I love you, my Crazy Celt.
WORDS because this chapter's a doozy!
- Skint – Scotch slang "Broke, having no money."
- Bleatin' – this localized slang term is actually a personal favorite IRL—it has all the OOMF of bleedin' but more impact from the t.
From the really rough scene, mostly twisted, Scotched, and slurred
- "I know yer thar." – 'I know you're there.'
- "I knuw yer watchin' us." – 'I know you're watching us.'
- "Yar beein' such a sleekit creeper, ya arsehole!" – 'You're being such a sneaky creeper, you asshole!' (sleekit - Scottish Slang for sly or untrustworthy, Amber usually uses it as 'sneaky' when she's teasing someone with it.) (creeper – slang for 'peeping Tom, sneaky person, or that weirdo who calls you and just heavy-breathes into the phone')
- "Quit fookin' hidin'! Tell me whot tae dae!" – 'Quit fucking hiding! Tell me what to do!' (Fooking – Scottish pronunciation of "fucking," which you may recall her associating with her Gran'Da) (Whot tae dae – Scotch-mangled "what to do."
- "Palese" – no, she's not saying 'call the police,' she's just saying 'please.'
- "Ah doonae want ti go" – 'I don't want to go!'
- "Thers nothin' in the world Ah wan' less!" – 'There is nothing in the world I want less!
- "…but if Ah go…if Ah see fer meself…well ya take me 'wae?" – '…but if I go…if I see for myself…will you take me away?'
- "Well ya lemme stay here—stay'ere with Dunnie?" – 'Will you let me stay here? –stay here with Donnie?'
TL;DR: Amber is so completely messed up by the idea of losing Donnie AND going to ANY Willsdale that she's mentally regressed back to her old habits of speech, much worse than her Why bother? Donnie doesn't mind or the more rare I'm too pissed to think straight! moments, and doesn't even realize it until the bizarre unseen visitor is gone.
Sorry to say it, but this scene's dialogue is pretty indicative of how Amber O'Brien talked before she decided, during high school, to squelch her personality and took on the 'twang' of her neighbors to fit in better. (Not that it WORKED, but whatever. Small towns are fickle like that.) This 'assuming a new identity to fit in' is something she has in common with Kimber Bryant, though she doesn't know it, as Kimber trained herself out of her twang and forcibly took on the thick Jersey dialect to pass for a local rather than a runaway from Hicks-ville USA.
EXTENSIVE NOTES
^ Granny Square – if you've ever seen a crocheted blanket made with squared panels sewn together, you've seen a Granny Square afghan.
^^ E-cig ban – Electronic Cigarettes are included in the Smoke-Free Air Act, which forbids the use of them "in places where smoking is prohibited, including bars, restaurants, offices, parks, and beaches." (Found on an NYCdotGOV page dedicated to New York City area Laws) I found nothing specifically forbidding their use in stores, but – at least around here – most stores have been designated 'non-smoking,' especially anywhere the second-hand yuck might affect the merchandise. There has not been enough conclusive research yet regarding whether E-Cigs are safer for the environment, but most Mom-and-Pop stores would care too much about damaging the merchandise OR customers to allow their use. I, personally, don't smoke OR know anyone who does AND is knowledgeable about the environmental effects, so this has all been based in research.
#Bink Krosby – fake musical artist whom we can compare to the best sides of Frank Sinatra and Bing Crosby in our world. Also, NEVER make the mistake of getting water into melted chocolate! Bree could maybe have repaired the damage with MORE water if not for the lemon juice in it.
## I'm not sure if this can happen with window-units—central A/C, Baby!—but it CAN happen with indoor central units. It happened with my old place after a long, humid summer and it happens at least yearly with our current living situation because our apartment's so friggin' humid outside winter. Unless you catch it in time, it's a MESS to clean up after—a quick fix, if you hear the usual drainage drip stop, is to dump an anti-algae tablet into the drain pan like you would an aquarium—it prevents growth and keeps things properly draining. We usually have to treat our beast yearly or more often, depending on if it starts clogging.
* Oh, Masta' Splinta! I don't know nuttin' 'bout makin' no babies! An intentionally warped reference to "Gone with the Wind." Don't read it, don't watch it, don't even think about it—that'll be time you'll never get back! Okay, a more honest answer is I love classics, especially romantic classics, but I hated this story to bits, you're toates free to do as you wish—several of my family have read AND loved it, and stories become classics for a reason.
* EFX-NYC / Channel 9 – I'm totally bullshitting this one based on the Bay-verse April finding another reporting job, and an episode of the '03 series where April steals a yellow jumpsuit and masquerades as a reporter from 'Channel 6' to get people away from Saki tower before it blows up. Honestly, I have no idea what episode this was and I'm currently too friggin' tired and sick to spend time looking it up based on a single remembered blurb.
There's bound to be some confusion over the two Willdale, Missouris, so here's a quick refresher: They are both the same town, but in different worlds—they are situated at the very northern edge of the Missouri Ozarks, west and a few cities shy of Branson, Missouri, and they are primarily agriculture-based small towns. Though fundamentally similar, they will have some significant differences and are worth distinguishing.
The Willsdale Amber comes from will henceforth be called 'her Willsdale' or 'Old Willsdale' or after the next chapter, simply 'Willsdale.' It experienced two top-level tornados eight days apart—one badly damaging the rural southern and a larger one carving a path of destruction through the very middle of what passed for 'in-town; the junior-high-highschool took a direct hit after suffering severe wind-related damage and was leveled.
The Willsdale in Donnie's world will henceforth be referred to as "New World Willsdale" or "New Willsdale," the only exception being next chapter, the END of Part II. It only experienced one EF-5 tornado through the rural southern half and left most of the city unscathed, but had a higher damage cost and death count, particularly because it hit the local Senior-Citizens' meeting hall and a local child-care facility.
Lastly a disclaimer because political people are political and, even stereotyping aside, apparently we Americans like overreacting and arguing "jus' 'cuz." I am NOT making any political statements by having the President speak at the 'school starting' ceremony or re-running. This fictional world's government is not ours, so all y'all other Americans and worldwide readers, don't take this as an excuse to assume my personal leanings – I don't put that shit in my stories because politics stinks no matter how you stir it.
This event is simply inspired by something (kinda) similar that happened in Joplin, Missouri, upon which much of Willsdale's trials were based. In the 2011 Joplin tornado, Joplin High School was totaled on 'graduation day,' PotUS came to inspect, cry, kiss babies and vow support, then returned to speak at the next graduation in honor of the many students who would never be able to walk across the stage. There were a lot of them…
As always, this story is not meant to trivialize anything. Rant over.
