Lost
"Tell me more about this special young woman," Splinter said.
"She saved my life," Michelangelo admitted. "I was done for. I knew it, and the Foot knew it too. They were just toying with me. I intended to go down fighting, but Sharra had other ideas. She reached out and plucked me from their grasp."
"I am beyond grateful she did, my son," Splinter said. "Your brothers have told me what they learned of her rescue, but when you have rested I would like all the details. Our family owes her a significant debt."
"Dad, I... I want to bring her home. I care for her, alot. And I want you to meet her."
Mikey scrutinized Splinter to gauge his response, but his father's expression wasn't surprised. He sported a pleased smile as he patted Mikey's arm again.
Out of the corner of his eye, however, he noticed Leonardo flinch.
Rarely did the leader let such a blatant reaction slip. Leo's mouth hardened into a flat line. He turned his shell and began rifling through Donatello's duffle bag—as if Michelangelo hadn't voiced something potentially life-changing for them all.
The vision of Sharra's deadly future washed over him again and Mikey's heart pounded violently. He had to convince his brother to help.
"Leo, I know you don't approve but I need her. Please, please, can you go back and get Sharra? I can't leave her alone."
"You haven't even tried," Leonardo objected. His eyes held sympathy and a hint of conflict, but his face wore a controlled emotionless mask. "Give it some time. This fascination might fade. You've only been awake for—"
"Gah! Why are you being so stubborn?"
"We've already discussed my reasoning, Michelangelo," Leo said cooly. "The matter is closed."
"No, it's not! You aren't listening! I WON'T leave her out there. She needs us, and we need her."
When Leonardo only shook his head Mikey's frown deepened.
"Why do you hate her so much? She never did anything to you! And she's the ONLY one who ever accepted me—all of us—as people, without even a gasp for our mutant form. Plus, she saved my life! You haven't given her half a chance in return."
"That's exactly what I'm trying to do," Leonardo muttered, though he didn't meet Mikey's eyes or turn his attention from the bag. "Give her the opportunity for a normal life. Or at least one without our influence. And I never said I hated her."
"No? You could've fooled me," Michelangelo argued. "You glared at her for an entire day, ordered me to stay away, and almost cut her throat yourself. But regardless of how you feel, just this once, you're totally wrong."
That got his attention.
Leonardo's head jerked up and he locked eyes with Michelangelo. His were flat now, all emotions rigidly repressed.
I hate it when he does that. It's not healthy. Someday all those feelings are going to come boiling back out.
But it meant Michelangelo was swaying him. Leo wouldn't need such strict controls if the decision were truly absolute.
"Without us, her life is more than endangered," Mikey stated as Leonardo's stare bored holes into his skull, "It's over. I saw it in a vision."
Abruptly Leo relaxed. Michelangelo raised a mental brow.
He was afraid I would say something else...
"I know," Leo answered before Mikey had time to ponder what that 'something else' might be. "You mentioned you saw her under attack on the 'E' train. I'm not discounting it." He waved Donatello's tablet computer, apparently the object of his search, and dropped the bag. "Don's not the only one who can access the transit system cameras. If I see any evidence of trouble we will intercede—"
"Whoa! WHAT?!" Michelangelo cut him off as he processed the words under attack.
"You told us, like, half an hour ago," Raphael groused, drawing Mikey's alarmed gaze, "but 'dat was before ya' really woke up. I was all for heading out to find her right away, but we had to get ya' settled first."
Before I woke up? Settled? What the fuck is going on?
"I don't understand," Mikey mumbled in confusion. "That wasn't my vision. I... thought it was a dream."
"Tell us, my son. What precisely did you experience?" Splinter asked in concern, resting a paw on his knee. "Perhaps we can help you discern fact from fiction or premonition."
Michelangelo shot him a grateful glance. He wasn't sure anyone was going to take his reports of a vision seriously but...
Father understands foresight. He will be able to recognize the truth.
"The thing with the subway certainly began like a dream. There was a fuzzy sort of darkness and I was tired. So tired. I fought it though. It felt like, I dunno, I was supposed to be somewhere else?
"Donnie dropped in a bunch of times. He didn't stay, just kinda said hi and popped out of existence again. Each time he came I got a little better."
Leo and Splinter exchanged a significant look, one he guessed might have something to do with Don's current state of consciousness—or lack thereof. But since neither interrupted, Mikey continued with his story.
"During the last visit, he got upset. Said he needed to find Sharra. And suddenly we were moving, whizzing through space faster than I could run. We zipped through dirt and tunnels in a straight line, like ghosts. And then I heard her. Sharra. Pleading for help"—he shuddered—"She started screaming."
Raphael had begun to pace like a caged tiger, but now he froze midstep. "Like during her flashback?"
"Worse," Michelangelo acknowledged, "cause it was in my mind. The terror behind that cry..." He shuddered again and wrapped his arms around himself, rubbing his biceps to banish the feeling of dread. "Don disappeared again but I skidded to a stop right next to her..."
He paused for a second, analyzing everything he'd said so far. "Sounds like the start of an average nightmare, right?" He grimaced. "Fuzzy visuals, impossible stunts, someone you love in danger..."
Splinter narrowed his eyes. "Where were you?" he asked in a gruff tone.
"I don't know what station but we were on a subway platform like Leo said. The 'E' pulled up in front of us. Sharra was hurt—more than she was when I last saw her. And she was all stiff again. She couldn't move by herself." He swallowed hard against the anxiety the visual caused before continuing. "A Foot soldier was about to grab her arm."
He couldn't recount the absolute horror of that moment. Words would fail to capture the shattered cry he released, which only Sharra seemed to hear. Or the way her gaze fastened on him, broken with despair, as she awaited her fate.
She didn't believe I could save her.
Mikey trembled, chilled by how real her lost expression still felt.
Like a knife through my heart.
A growl broke the tension as he fell silent. But it didn't come from the brother who regularly voiced such things. Instead, it was Leonardo's chest that rumbled. His fist clenched and his form went rigid, though his eyes never left the tablet in his hand.
"Tell me you drop kicked that asshole onto the third rail," Leonardo snarled.
Shit no. Not even in a dream. That would have killed him!
Shocked by this bloodthirsty demand from his usually moral brother, Mikey shook his head. "I yanked her clear and tried to knock him back with a snap kick to the chin, but my foot didn't have any substance. It went right through him."
"So he TOOK HER?!"
If spontaneous turtle combustion were a thing, Leonardo would be on fire.
That reaction completely confused Michelangelo. For someone who didn't want anything to do with Sharra, Leo sure was hot under the collar over an illusion of her in danger.
But conceivably, he didn't like his honor being questioned. After all, he had sworn to safeguard her and left without giving her any means of contacting them. Mikey couldn't resist needling him over that.
"He wouldn't have if you'd kept your promise!"
Leo's face hardened, his lips stretched into a heartless snarl and he stalked forward a step.
"WHERE did he take her?"
Michelangelo shrank back, unexpectedly more than a little frightened. While he knew many facets of personality formed his big brother, the person facing him down now was a Leonardo Mikey had never met.
Just as lethal as any other version, this one was consumed by emotion. His eyes gleamed darkly through a half-crazed expression. The blue and grey ring around his iris flared like an out-of-control bonfire. His teeth clenched, holding back a tidal wave of feeling that promised to end whoever stood between him and his goal.
And right now that person was Michelangelo.
Leo advanced and Mikey raised both hands again in instant surrender.
"No- Nowhere!" he stammered, leaning away as far as he could. "He didn't take her anywhere, bro. I shouldn't have said that. It was only a dream, remember? I flew through walls. I couldn't touch the dude."
Splinter chose that moment to step in—literally. He inserted himself bodily between the angry turtle and the injured one cowering on the table. Raphael crowded closer as well, sensing the danger.
"Leonardo, focus on me."
Their father flattened a palm against the enraged turtle's plastron, stopping him cold. Mikey's eyes widened when the hand glowed; first green, then violet, and back again. He had never glimpsed the flows of chi their father commanded before, but he recognized the energy.
Green, that one's calming—like in meditation. And violet is... hmm family, I think? Maybe love.
Shock dropped his jaw though that Splinter would blatantly use such power to manage the normally unflappable leader.
What the hell is going on?
"This is an over-reaction," Splinter soothed as the pulses continued to fluctuate back and forth. "You have been triggered, but you do not have to lose yourself. Breathe and regain control. Remember who you are."
Leonardo closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
"Michelangelo is not the threat," Splinter said, "He is your brother. You care for him deeply."
"I do," Leo affirmed.
Silently, he drew in another lungful of air. At the third inhale, his eyes opened. Fire still glowed in their depths but it was a more controlled burn, less driven by the wildness that could not tell friend from foe.
"I will not harm him, father," he vowed, as Splinter withdrew his hand. "But Mike, I cannot promise this will not hurt."
Sorrow flashed through the anger as Leo reached around Splinter and set the device he was holding on Mikey's knees. On-screen a looped video clip played. A petite figure spun into the frame, right before two arms swathed in black stretched in and seized her.
Sharra.
Her hair, her clothes, and the split-second view of her frightened doe-like eyes all slammed into Michelangelo's chest like a fist, knocking the breath out of him.
"My dream was real?" he gasped.
"You suffered an out-of-body experience, my son." Splinter's hand was on him now. "It was not the future or the past you saw, but the present. It happened in real-time."
Mikey stared at the video—holding his breath—waiting for Sharra to reappear. But a few moments passed and the train pulled away without him sighting her again.
The clip started over.
Her eyes flashed with fear.
The fist relentlessly pummeling his chest became a claw that pushed through his plastron with agonizing slowness. Michelangelo began to hyperventilate as it grabbed his heart and squeezed.
No.
The camera didn't capture much. From the angle it was mounted at, it had to be in the tunnel pointing toward the platform—because when the Foot soldier hauled her backward they both disappeared.
"Is this all we got?" Raphael snapped. "Was there another view?"
That's not what happened.
Splinter said something, but Mikey was no longer concentrating on the here and now. His mind raced through the rest of the incident, trying to recall what he had done about the situation.
Because he hadn't simply stood by and watched the girl of his dreams get stolen away.
Not even when I thought it was a nightmare.
He had grabbed her shoulders and spun her from the platform's edge. The camera caught that. It was the only reason they had any footage at all. When he focused on that starting point, the scene played out again behind his glassy, staring eyes in frightening clarity.
"RUN!"
He shouted the word but she could no more respond to his commands than the ones her own brain was surely wailing. Mikey whirled and kicked at the man's jaw, but the blow never landed. In fact, the ninja didn't register Michelangelo's existence.
When Sharra didn't move, the Foot soldier seized her. One hand snared her bag and the other her coat collar. With a quick twist, he yanked her from her feet and dragged her down the concrete ramp into the darkness of the subway tunnel.
Michelangelo howled and gave chase, swinging fists and feet to no avail.
"NOOOOO!" he screamed. "Sharra, PLEASE! You have to fight! For me!"
She hadn't twitched as the ninja hauled her over sharp gravel, but she winced as Mikey's despairing cry pierced her fear-fogged mind. Miraculously, she began to thrash, her answering yell silenced by the collar crushing her windpipe.
The bandage on her neck saved her. The bulge of wadded-up gauze formed a gap. She shoved her fingers through and jerked hard enough the fabric gave way. Then she tore at the buttons of her overcoat.
"Where?" Raphael snarled in the present. "Where is this footage from?"
Mikey's brothers continued their analysis of the situation, unaware of the violent movie playing out in his head.
"50th street. The southbound platform," Leonardo managed to utter through renewed rage. "We got lucky. She used the station nearest her home."
The lapels fell open. With the extra room to maneuver, Sharra rolled to her hands and knees. The Foot soldier's counter tugged the coat over her shoulders and yanked her arms out from under her. Her chin hit blackened stone and split.
Mikey growled and chopped a hand toward his throat but once again the turtle's attack swiped right through.
While Sharra knelt in abasement—arms caught in twisted sleeves behind her back—the evil ninja laughed. He balled a fist in her hair and she shrieked. The scream morphed into a choking cough as his pointed boot slammed into her side.
Michelangelo crumpled, clutching at his chest as stabbing pain lanced through their connection.
"Miii-huh—huh-ee—" Sharra croaked. It was an awful wet gasping sound. A plea, in the form of his name— mangled beyond all recognition — and Mikey lost it. He ripped a shuriken from his belt, forced himself upright, and aimed for the jugular.
The weapon turned to smoke the second it left his hand. But the Foot soldier snapped his head around to see if her scream brought back up. Michelangelo used the distraction to haul Sharra to her feet—adding his strength to her resistance and towing her in the direction of the ramp.
Her assailant appeared startled by this show of resilience, but he did not back down. He raised the coat, and her arms, higher. Sharra yelped as agony shot through both their shoulders. Mikey immediately released his hold to ease the pressure, and she slid a few paces backward.
"NO!" she gasped. "Don't let go! PLEASE!" Tears poured down her cheeks. "I don't care if it hurts! I can't go back to that hell. I can't—"
"Fuck this. I can't just sit here. Let me go search for them."
"Raph, you can't—"
"Save it, Leo! You heard her screamin' before. Whatever they did to her, I AIN'T lettin' happen again," Raphael yelled.
Sharra sobbed as Mikey's arms snaked around her waist. He clutched her against him, stabilizing her more cautiously.
"That will NEVER happen," Michelangelo swore.
Her head burrowed under his chin. Her soft body molded to his front and a shock of adrenaline hit his bloodstream; bringing everything into focus. He glared at the dark ninja over her head. He couldn't strike at him directly but they were both interacting with Sharra!
Her hair tickled his face. Her clothes rubbed against his skin. Everything on or about her person he could touch...
"I don't care if it's morning. I'll wear my leathers and stay in the underground," Raph spat as Mikey blinked rapidly and rejoined the present.
Leonardo's face twisted, torn by conflicting priorities. His outrage dictated he locate Sharra ASAP. But the secrecy of the family took precedence, no matter how angry he was.
"They've been gone too long, Raph!" he grated out.
"Yeah, an' if we wait until nightfall to investigate we can kiss ANY clues to her whereabouts goodbye!"
"GUYS, STOP IT!" Michelangelo interrupted. "If everything in my dream happened, I got her out."
All eyes snapped in his direction. He scooped up the tablet and slid the video scrubber with a shaking finger. As he advanced the feed by minuscule amounts, he prayed what he recalled actually occurred.
Sure enough, right before the train pulled away, Sharra marched out of the darkness. She was on camera for less than a second. He would never have seen her if he hadn't examined the clip frame by frame.
Mikey paused the shot. In it, Sharra's back arched slightly like she was being pushed into the car. And his hand tingled as if her trim waist were still pressed into his palm.
"I couldn't touch him," he murmured, his finger stroking tenderly down Sharra's image, "but I could touch her."
A million options chased each other across his mind before he settled on the simplest one. One arm remained anchored to her waist while his free hand drew a short dagger from his belt.
"I've got you, babe. Straighten your arms and hold very still."
Sharra locked her joints and Mikey sliced the sleeves of her coat near the shoulders. When they were cut almost through, he slashed the straps of her pack at the base in one quick motion, bracing her against the abrupt release in tension.
The Foot soldier didn't have any such safety net. He hauled against their combined strength with all his might, so when the fabric gave, he fell—taking the bag, and several pieces of wool, with him.
"Run. Now. Quickly."
Michelangelo's hands drew up the remainder of her jacket before one nestled in the small of her back. He swept her up the ramp and into the subway car—just before the doors snapped closed.
Mikey outlined the gist of the struggle to his brothers before hitting play. On-screen the train pulled out. There was no sign of the Foot following or trying to board.
"Did you stay with her?" Leonardo demanded.
His question recalled another memory. The feel of something tugging at Mikey's consciousness. Another potent demand from his older brother.
"Michelangelo! Come back to us."
Mikey made a soft noise of frustration deep in his chest at the command, dismayed at being ripped from Sharra's side. But he could not deny the call that echoed through his soul. With great care, he guided her to the nearest vertical pole. He wrapped her fingers around the cold aluminum and squeezed them gently.
"Stay out of sight until I can come for you," he pleaded in her ear.
Leaning in he let his lips ghost over hers, savoring one last sip of honey from her sweet mouth. "Please," he begged, tracing a thumb over her cheek to wipe away tears, "Stay safe. I need you more than I can possibly say."
Mikey blinked through the image of her tear-streaked face and swallowed hard against the lump in his throat. The danger his beloved faced without them was all too real.
"Did you STAY with her?" Leo asked again.
Each word was weighted with turmoil and Michelangelo gulped in response. Though he didn't believe his brother would relapse into threat mode, Leonardo's fevered gaze still reflected intense emotion.
But his extended fury was the key to unraveling his odd behavior. For if his agitation were only associated with honor, the rage should have cooled on learning Sharra escaped.
That left only one rationale for Leo's wrath — passion. The complex emotion also explained his endeavor to distance her from the clan.
How did I not see it before?
Leonardo burned for Sharra, secretly harboring both adulation AND desire for the tiny, pixie-like woman—though he acknowledged neither.
"Give it some time. This fascination might fade."
That's what Leo had advised, but he was talking about himself. Call it what you will: admiration, adoration, veneration, devotion, or just plain awe—Leo had put Sharra on a pedestal so high she was practically out of reach.
It's his version of romantic attraction.
Leo could have handled that but add in physical lust and the situation became more problematic. Leonardo could not guard against both his heart and his mind at all times. One or the other was bound to break free of his iron control and disgrace him at some point, so to simplify life, he banned her company altogether—though he presumably didn't comprehend the decision at such a granular level.
Michelangelo was the best at breaking down shit like that.
Hell, Leo was probably ashamed the moment he realized he was drawn to the girl I adore.
Amazingly, the thought of his sibling wanting Sharra didn't provoke jealousy in Michelangelo. Instead, it released a flight of butterflies in his stomach. A swirl of anticipation and pleasure tightened his skin from toes to scalp; causing his pulse to jump and his fingers to tingle.
I could handle a co-mate...
Michelangelo surprised himself with the thought. Despite his earlier twinge of denial when he thought Don was moving in, he found he had absolutely no problem with the idea of a polyamorous relationship—IF Sharra wanted that. Though only one involving his brothers. When he pictured another human in the mix the whole concept soured.
As distractingly pleasant as this train of thought is, none of it matters if we don't find Sharra before that explosion hits.
Every moment they delayed made the deadly future more likely. Mikey's eyes narrowed with the stern mental rebuke and the dynamic in the room shifted. He straightened his spine.
"I wanted to stay with her but SOMEONE pulled me back," he said belligerently, ignoring Leo's show of aggression. "When I re-centered, I was here with you guys."
"Do you have any idea where she was headed?"
"No."
"But she was ok when you left her?" Leo prodded.
"She was... not good. The bastard got in some hits I couldn't intercept. I think he broke another rib and he nearly crushed her larynx. She was upright and walking, but we need to find her!"
"Would she go back home?"
"No idea. Don has access to her cameras though, right? We can check."
Leonardo grunted, the flames in his eyes dying to banked embers as his strategic mindset pivoted to the forefront.
"Can you reconnect? Find out where she's at? Where she might be going?"
"Honestly dude, Donnie did the driving on our little jaunt. I don't understand how he tracked her down OR how we got there. And it doesn't look like he's going to wake up anytime soon; unless you pull the same trick you did with me."
"I believe using the awakening code would be unwise at this time," Splinter cautioned. "Donatello pushed himself well beyond acceptable limits today."
"Noted," Leonardo said with a stiff nod. "Give contact a try, Mike, but don't exhaust yourself. Then you should get some rest. I'll check Don's tablet regarding her cameras."
He reached down and grabbed the duffle at his feet, but Mikey interrupted.
"Hey Leo?"
The leader's eyes snapped back to his and locked.
"When we find Sharra you're bringing her right here."
It wasn't a question or a demand but a simple statement of fact.
Leonardo dipped his head in agreement anyway.
What. The. Hell. Was. That?
The situation had developed so fast that Sharra wasn't sure any of it was real. From the time she detected the Foot soldier to when Mikey put her in the subway car, was less than a few minutes. And she hadn't stopped trembling since.
Everything was fine until I got to the platform.
Then she had stood stock still, vibrating with tension as she waited on the train. Something was wrong, but she couldn't locate the danger. A quick movement near her feet was her only warning trouble would not be coming from the rush-hour crowd.
After her night of terror, Sharra skipped straight past fight or flight. When she registered the Foot soldier, her body instantly froze. Her throat closed. She couldn't scream, move, or even jab the panic button on her bracelet.
And under the weight of such paralysis, her mind fractured.
Help! OH GOD, he's getting closer! HELP! SOMEONE! PLEASE!
The mental shriek was a last instinctive appeal because nothing more than a pitiful whimper left her mouth. Both were useless. Experience taught her that pleading never bore fruit.
Yet someone pushed her out of the way. And her skin tingled at the contact—insisting there were three distinct fingers on that hand.
It can't be... Mikey?
"Run!"
His worried command echoed inside her head and almost shattered her eardrums, but Sharra could no more obey it than her own brain's innate demands. Besides, the dark ninja already had her on the ground, dragging her through the tunnel.
Michelangelo yelled again, begging her to fight back. The frenzied despair in his voice crushed her, but it also melted her muscles. Her body could ignore its own suffering, but her soul could not bear his heart-wrenching cry.
The ensuing struggle was brutal, as she knew it would be. Her throat got smashed. Her lungs demanded air. Another rib broke. Her shoulder was virtually dislocated. Yet she fought against a bubble of hysterical laughter.
Pain is an old friend and this is nothing compared to what Saki did to me.
Mikey darted in, helping when he could, but she couldn't get her eyes to focus on him. It wasn't until the Foot soldier had her screaming on her knees that she realized Michelangelo was more than staying in the shadows. He was actually—somehow—not... visible?
The shock nearly broke her.
"Please... I can't go back to that hell..." she begged. "I can't—"
She didn't know what she was actually begging him for. Rescue? And end to the agony? Death? By now she couldn't discern her own volume. She might be whispering, screaming, or merely projecting her thoughts.
Regardless, Michelangelo answered her. He took her in his arms and murmured in her ear, holding her so close his breath puffed against her hair.
"That will NEVER happen. I got you, babe."
His tone left no room for doubt. As insane as his invisible presence was, Mikey was fighting for her. No one had done that since her parents were murdered and she found the experience overwhelming.
As she tried to get her head around the idea of someone being so completely on her side, he proceeded to actually save her. In seconds he dislodged the evil ninja, righted her clothing, and placed her on the train. He even escorted her to a handrail and braced her shoulder as the car jolted into motion.
"Stay out of sight until I can come for you."
The warning echoed in her mind before his lips caressed hers, oh so softly. His thumb traced across her face, gathering tears. He implored her to be safe and she wished with all her heart she could see his incomparable eyes as he whispered,
"I need you more than I can possibly say."
Before she could reply, he was gone.
Dazed and entirely shocked by his sucess, Sharra had raised her hand to touch her lips and stared into space as the subway swayed along the tracks to its next destination. At the stop, she managed to wake up enough to snag a seat as the crowd danced through the intricate steps of simultaneously boarding and disembarking during rush hour.
Wedged back against the cushions, she scanned each new person's face as they entered. If someone looked at her sideways she was ready to flee, but nobody gave her more than the briefest passing glance.
Gradually, the train began moving again, and conscious thought slowly returned.
Have I lost my mind? Was all that a hallucination?
She eyed the patrons around her. They didn't seem agitated enough to have witnessed a woman fighting for her life. But most of the struggle occurred in the tunnel, and some of them had left at prior stations. Also, her body throbbed, her coat was shredded, and her bag was gone. So the attack had been genuine.
But was the defense?
Michelangelo was out cold the last time she saw him. So injured he couldn't even walk. Was this version of him some figment of her imagination? One conjured by her terrified mind to help deal with a dangerous situation.
What gave you the first clue? The fact he was invisible? Or the way he spoke in your head?
Another rumble. Another stop. Another breathless moment as she surveyed the oncoming crowd for danger. She couldn't keep this up. Her eyes slid half-closed as her brain tried to shut down from incessant anxiety.
At the next break, Sharra bailed; pelting from the car to the stairs and up as fast as possible. All the while hoping the ninja hadn't yet reported in. The extent of the Foot Clan was massive. If they mobilized to find her, they could have someone monitoring every exit.
She didn't dare tarry streetside either, so she hurried down the sidewalk trying to move fast without running… to blend in.
Nothing to see here... Just a woman out for a jog.
Every bouncing step jarred her ribs and sent agony through her shoulder and head, but she blocked it out and kept going. Randomly, she turned down different roads checking each time for pursuit.
Eventually, she slowed and began to do more than flee in panic. Mikey had asked her to stay out of sight. She needed to get to the waterfront.
God, where even am I?
She squinted at the nearest street sign but her headache made reading the tiny letters impossible. She recognized the old burned-out store on the corner, however. Soot stains might mar the facade of pale stone and brickwork, but the scorched business name was still legible in foot-tall letters— '2nd Time Around- Antiques and Collectibles.'
There wasn't much left of the structure except four walls and a roof. The windows were long broken out and boarded over. And no trespassing signs plastered the wooden covers.
Shit. I'm at 11th and Bleecker. I shouldn't linger here.
The place had a horrible reputation. The city should have razed it. The land had to be valuable, but word on the street was the building was off-limits—to everybody. Graffiti tags reinforced the idea in neon-colored spray paint. Their warnings dire enough even desperate squatters dared not enter.
Whoever owns it, I never want to meet them.
Sharra scurried south and a little west, skirting along the avenues until a final right brought her to the river's edge. This wasn't the 'docks' as most people pictured it. The extensive cargo ports with their metal containers had long since moved from Manhattan proper to Staten Island, Brooklyn, and New Jersey.
Cruise ships and the giant aircraft carrier museum made their berths farther north of here. And though a few water taxis and ferries remained functional most of the original pierage was rotting and abandoned.
The wharves here were old and despite attempts to gentrify the vicinity by turning them into recreational areas, this neighborhood had a long way to go. It was populated by condo-converted warehouses that had seen better days, bars, and pleasure centers.
Lifting her head, Sharra spied the establishment she was seeking. It was impossible to miss the huge sign with the black silhouette of a flying bird of prey. "The Falcon" was a thriving leather and Levi's motorcycle club that occupied the ground and cellar levels of a double-fronted six-story building.
It also, conveniently enough, hosts my fall-back hide-away on the roof.
Usually, she felt safe once she made it within a block of the place. Troublemakers, like the Purple Dragons, combed the surrounding streets but the majority of their number steered clear of this area for fear of the bikers.
Breathing a sigh of relief when her stolen access code still worked on the alley door, Sharra headed straight up the stairs. She paused, however, before the last flight to the top. While her cozy little den had heat, a soft nest, and plenty of food stores, it didn't have many other amenities—like running water.
And a hot shower sounds vital right about now.
The girl who lived near the end of the hall might let her in. She was one of the few souls who knew at least some of Sharra's past with the Foot. They had spent time together on the streets when Sharra was first getting her life reorganized, though afterward, they hadn't kept in close contact.
Asking to use her shower wouldn't hurt, right? I mean, it's not like she'd be... entertaining in the middle of the morning.
Sharra fidgeted and rubbed a hand over her forehead indecisively. The smear of dried blood and subway dust on her palm doubled her longing for hot water. Hesitantly, she flitted to the third doorway and tapped.
Nothing happened so she gathered her courage and knocked a little louder.
"Damn it! I JUST got in!"
The piercing voice echoed as if its owner stalked down a long hallway. "This better be good! Somebody damn well must be dying if you come thumping on my door this time of the morning—"
The loud complaint cut off as the door swung open, exposing the woman on the other side.
Exposed was the operative word. Her shirt was off, revealing a tight, eye-watering hot pink balconette bra pushing up an ample bosom. A black vinyl mini-skirt encased her broad hips. Tall, thigh-high boots, in matching fuchsia patent leather, with sharp stiletto heels graced her feet.
Plenty of skin was on display, all tanned and smooth, even though it was the middle of winter. Her long blonde hair was tied up in a slick ponytail on top of her head. Her makeup was pristine—with intense red lip stain and winged eyeliner cut sharp enough to draw blood.
She was stunning, despite the fact she had obviously been caught in the act of unwinding from her night's 'labors'. And next to her, Sharra felt about as feminine as a field mouse. Her eyes filled with tears at the thought of her own shabby appearance and multitudinous scars. But the woman's face softened.
She reached out a hand to touch Sharra's shoulder, but when Sharra flinched back, those bright inquisitive eyes scanned her thoroughly. She grimaced at the torn coat, the bruised and bloody forehead, the split chin, and the dirty bandage on her neck. Anger creased her brows as Sharra's glistening red-rimmed eyes overflowed.
"Oh no! Darlin', what happened?"
"S-S-Silvy—"
Sharra choked back her tears, and tried not to sob as she beseeched, "Can I come in?"