Nightmare Memories

Part 2

By Dierdre

Disclaimer: If I owned 'em, would I still be driving a 23-year-old POS with more duct tape than bumper? Don't think so.

AN: More violence this time but less cursing. So it all evens out, right?

To all my wonderful readers and most especially to pacphys, Reinbeauchaser, Chibi Rose Angel, Shannon, kikiyophoenix19, Lexy8 and Sassyblondexoxo: my sincere thanks. Because of y'all and your inspiring reviews I've typed more in two nights than I usually do in two months. Y'all are the best!

The woman took advantage of the gunman's disarmament by diving behind the alley's dumpster. Pressing her back against the cold metal and trying not to smell the ancient odors emanating from it, she uselessly clutched her stolen knife in both hands and listened intently as darkness abruptly descended. For a moment all was silent, filled with nothing but anguished moaning and the frantic hummingbird thrum of her own heart.

Then chaos parted its misshapen beak and howled.

It was bedlam, pure and simple, a base sensory overload that caused her to drop the knife in her lap and clamp her hands over her ears. So much noise. The shuffling slide of shoes on asphalt and a curious sharp singing as thin metal cut the air to pieces. A steady dull thumping as bodies were struck with fists and feet, metal and wood, counterbalanced by an occasional truncated chatter of gunfire and the sporadic shotgun crack of bones giving way under stress. And, over and above it all, like icing on the cake, were voices raised in triumph and in warning, in fear and in wild exaltation. This violent potluck of sounds washed over her in a tangled wave and filled the alleyway to the brim.

The dumpster suddenly shuddered violently and hummed its vibrations up her backbone as someone, just inches away, slid down the battered metal to the ground. Oh, God, what's happening?

Knowing it wasn't the wisest thing to do but nevertheless forced by a wild need to see, she peered over the dumpster's rim and squinted into the moonlight. What she saw made her forget the unholy clamor and gave her cause to question the very foundation of her sanity.

At first she thought they were dressed in costumes, but even in the watery light of the moon she could soon tell they moved far too well to be so encumbered. There was a fluidity about them, a grace, that could never be accomplished in anything else but one's own skin.

There appeared to be at least three of the creatures, all armed with weapons so archaic they might have been laughable under different circumstances. The one closest to her, who didn't seem the least impeded by a domed shell as rigid as armor plating, was manipulating what appeared to be a long pole. A simple length of wood, yet proficient in his amazingly dexterous hands.

Even as she watched he tossed the weapon into the air, deftly caught one of the ends and spun low with the wood extended before him, sweeping three thugs off their feet. Another simple twirl and a wooden end struck two behind the temple with the clinical perfection of one familiar with human anatomy. Within less than the span of four heartbeats two of her would-be assailants were down for the count, breathing at the slow speed of the deeply unconscious.

For all their speed and skill, however, they were apparently not invulnerable. Even as the creature's weapon swept towards his temple the last man, disoriented and prone on the ground, threw his knife with the wild strength of desperation. The blade spun furiously for an instant as it cut through the air, only to quickly lose power as it slid along a length of green thigh and clattered to the ground.

Blood welled in a dark ruby line and the creature cried out, the pain in his voice sharp and surprisingly human, yet the downward path of his staff never faltered. Another criminal down.

Gripping the pole in his right fist he clutched his injured thigh and hissed. Taking a few pained breaths he appeared to center himself, before leaping gracefully to the aid of another of his kind, his staff whirling in a high arc.

They were… helping her?

Suddenly overwhelmed, she crouched back behind the dumpster and squeezed her eyes shut.

Leonardo felt the onrush of air as the last remaining mugger lashed out with a desperate bladed fist. He dodged the wild swing and grabbed the startled man's wrist, striking his flattened palm against the outstretched elbow and dislocating it with a meaty crack. His machete spinning into the night, the man immediately dropped to the ground and curled himself around his injury, too trapped in frozen agony even to scream.

There was a shivery hiss as a blade sliced air and the pommel of Leonardo's katana clipped the top of his opponent's skull. The man's eyes rolled back. A final twitch of his wounded arm, a sigh in the dirt, and just like that, the fight was over.

Leonardo indulged in a playful flourish of his swords as silence descended upon the alley once more. Sheathing the blades behind his shell in a motion so practiced it required no thought, he straightened up from his fighting crouch and looked around, seeking out the locations of his brothers.

Raphael was leaning against the alley wall, shoulders hunched, wiping his sais clean with a battered T-shirt procured from one of the fallen. At the alleyway entrance Michelangelo idly twirled his nunchucks and hummed to himself, bouncing on his heels in time to music only he could hear.

Leonardo's eyes narrowed in unease at the sight of Donatello crouched near the dumpster, speaking lowly to someone hidden in the shadows. While the fight couldn't have gone smoother and the woman had yet to succumb to hysterics (a definite point in her favor), something about this situation didn't feel right. He suddenly wanted nothing more than to ensure the woman's safety and leave. Home was starting to sound really good right now.

With this goal in mind he fished a coin out of a small pouch in his belt and tossed it at his youngest brother, who belted his weapons and caught the silver disk deftly. "Go call the police, Mikey. I think there's a payphone a few blocks from here."

"Aw, Leo," he complained. "I wanted to meet the dudette. Can't Raph do it?"

As he prepared to toss the coin at Raphael the red-masked turtle snarled and spun his sai, gripping it by the center prong and drawing back as if to hurl it. Michelangelo yelped and crossed his arms over his face. "No! I'm too pretty to puncture!"

Leo cast a quick glance at the heavens, as if asking for patience. "Just do it, Mike."

"Okay, okay! Yeesh," he muttered, fitting his hands with shuko spikes and climbing nimbly up the warehouse wall. As he hauled himself over the rim and disappeared from view, his voice wafted faintly back to them in a bad imitation of Rodney Dangerfield, "No respect! No respect at all…"

Raph once again belted his sai, and in a rare moment of camaraderie, shared a grin with Leo; that half-amused, half-exasperated expression most people seemed to acquire when around Mikey for any length of time. The moment didn't last long, however, for as his gaze flicked back to the unconscious forms around him his expression soured in disgust. Pausing only long enough to state, "I call lookout, Fearless," he donned his own spikes and followed Michelangelo's path up the wall.

Leo sighed internally but didn't protest. Raphael never did have any patience with the aftermath of one of their rescues, namely the cleanup, and it just wasn't worth arguing with him about it anymore. So he started at the end of the alleyway himself and began working towards Donnie and the girl, intent on removing all physical evidence that they'd ever been there.

Huddled for the past few minutes in the dubious safety of the dumpster's shadow, she had almost convinced herself that what she'd seen had been nothing more than a hallucination brought about by an overabundance of fear and poor lighting. Despite her original assumption they must be nothing more than costumed martial arts experts, or… or a rival gang encased in strange body armor. Yes, they must be. If she let herself think otherwise she might as well start believing in aliens, or ghosts, or alligators in the sewers.

She had almost worked herself into a state of composure when the tumultuous sounds of violence abruptly ceased. Silence rushed in, vast and echoing, only to be broken a few moments later by a soft voice asking:

"Are you okay?"

Her eyes flew open and she gaped in amazement.

Logical theories were hard to maintain, however, when one of the creatures was crouched in front of her. Cloaked in darkness and nearly impossible to see, its inhuman origins were nevertheless betrayed by moonlight, which outlined the edges of a large shell and glinted off a skull that could never have been human.

She gripped her blade with white-knuckled fingers and pressed her back to the wall.

Donatello suppressed a sigh as the woman attempted to meld her spine with the brickwork, her eyes wild with terror. He hated this.

It was better when the criminals they fought were few in number. Not only was it much easier to dispatch them and leave them gift-wrapped for the police, but they were also usually gone before the one they'd rescued had any idea of what they were. But in situations like this, when the thugs were numerous or the authorities too far away, they couldn't immediately leave. There was too great a chance one of the delinquents would awaken and harm the girl after they left, or that she would simply panic and run straight into the arms of another gang.

So it made sense for them to stay until the police were near the scene. It even made logical sense for him to speak to her; she'd just been through a difficult situation and conversation sometimes helped to lessen the fear of a traumatized person. Even conversation with a strange individual who never ventured far from the shadows.

…Nevertheless, he should have just waited for Mikey. Good-humored and loquacious, his brother was much more skilled at putting people at their ease. He actually seemed to enjoy these infrequent talks; taking great pride in coaxing a smile or even a shaky laugh out of one of the recently rescued. He'd brag about his psychiatric skills to his long-suffering brothers ("That's Dr. Mikey to you, dudes!") and be happy for days afterward.

Donatello, on the other hand, had no such knack and was even now cursing himself for so rashly volunteering to play spokesman. The fight had been quick and flawless (the slice across his leg notwithstanding) and he'd still been coasting on an adrenalin high when he'd crouched by the dumpster and spoke to her as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Stupid, stupid.

It had only taken a moment for her horrified expression to purge the last of the endorphins from his system, leaving him with a terrible awkwardness that seized his tongue and filled his chest with a leaden weight. Surrounded by the comforting familiarity of his lab and family it was often easy to forget how different he was… until moments like this brought the truth home with all the subtly of a sledgehammer between the eyes.

Swallowing the sudden lump in his throat, he tried again. "Take it easy, ma'am. I'm not going to hurt you. I'm one of the good guys."

She didn't seem to find much comfort in this honest statement, for she still clutched her knife like it was her last link to sanity, a fearful expression peeking out from behind strands of her wavy hair. Feeling a little desperate, he took a cue from the conversation taking place behind him and said, "One of my brothers is going to go call the police, but it'll take approximately twenty minutes for them to arrive. So I need to know now, ma'am; are you all right? Do you require any immediate medical attention?"

He stopped speaking and waited hopefully for some sort of reply, but was quickly disappointed when the silence began to stretch to painful lengths. Watching the woman's hands shake he realized, with a sudden sick lurch in the pit of his stomach, that he'd never felt more like a freak.

Enough of this. Enough.

Sudden bitterness burned through him, bringing with it a taste like corroded copper pennies in his mouth. Hating the feeling but unsure how to deal with it, he rocked back on his heels and straightened. "Just… stay there, okay?" he said brusquely. "The police will be here soon."

He had turned away and was about to aid Leo when a feminine voice, sounding hesitant and not a little stunned, suddenly asked, "Who… what are you?"

Don turned around to find that she had straightened out of her fearful huddle and was now sitting almost normally, her eyes wide at the sight of his standing form outlined in moonlight. She was still afraid and bewildered, but the sharp edge of her terror was dulling under burgeoning curiosity.

Eyes narrowing at the question, he stiffened his already erect posture and answered with cool pride, "My name's Donatello. And I am Ninja."

Donatello, she thought dizzily. My rescuer is a giant ninja tortoise named Donatello.

And why not? In a world gone suddenly mad it seemed perfectly natural for talking reptiles to be named after famous Renaissance sculptors. Hell, the aliens were probably named after Cubist painters.

A hysterical giggle threatened to claw its way out of her throat. She choked it back with difficulty, overcome with a sneaking suspicion that once she started laughing she wouldn't be able to stop. Get a grip, girl, she told herself sternly. You can go gibber in a corner later. Right now you need to find out just what the hell's going on.

Feeling mentally shaky but resolute, she pushed herself to her feet. Unable to suppress a wince as pain lanced across the soles of her tattered feet, she awkwardly shoved the long knife into her jacket pocket.

Donatello kept his expression carefully blank when the woman stood and pocketed her blade, the hilt peeking almost comically out of the dark blue fabric. His forced aura of indifference began to waver, however, when she took a few mincing steps into the moonlight, fixed him with a searching gaze, and then grinned crookedly.

Noting with some relief that the woman's hands had almost stopped shaking, he was unable to stop himself from smiling slightly in return, although his voice retained its steely edge. "Feeling better?"

"A bit," she replied, her voice still unsteady but growing stronger by the moment. "I've come to the conclusion that I've either gone stark-raving loony… or this is the strangest thing that's ever happened to me." She raked her fingers through her hair and gave him another exploratory glance, her expression a strange mix of lingering disbelief and rising awe. "I'm guessing it's the latter. You're not a hallucination, are you?"

He shook his head, irony in his eyes. "No, I'm afraid not."

"Oh." She stared at the body-strewn alley for a long moment before abruptly blowing out a breath and extending her hand. "In that case, my name's Constance. Thank you for rescuing me, Donatello."

Shocked but nevertheless pleased with this unexpected development, his anger quickly faded into memory as he slowly took the offered hand. He shook it once. "Everyone calls me Don," he said, his tone once again warm. "And you're welcome."

Constance grinned again, and Donatello decided he liked the way it made her eyes sparkle. "Call me Connie."

David Snider had never had any patience with horror movies. It had always irritated him to no end that, while hiding from the generic monster-of-the-week, the future victim would invariably do something stupid to get him/herself caught; like sneezing, screaming, tripping over something obvious or in the case of one memorable B moviebelching loudly. As the blood began to fly and the bones to crunch, he would sit back and watch with satisfaction, secure in the knowledge that they'd gotten what they deserved.

But now… now he sympathized completely. It was pure and utter torture to lie with his forehead tucked under the crook of his left elbow, unmoving, soundless, while his attackers picked their way amongst the unconscious bodies of his fellows. His hand was thankfully beginning to numb but his head was still aching horribly from when the red-masked creature had tossed him against the dumpster. A migraine pounded in time with his heart as he breathed in the dusty air, the urge to sneeze was becoming almost desperate and something hard was digging painfully into his shoulder. To top it all off, he really needed to take a leak.

Yes, torture was an accurate word, but he nevertheless concentrated on not moving a muscle. When heavily-armed real-life monsters assume you're unconscious, it's not a good idea to give them cause to rethink.

He could hear one of the creatures walking steadily towards him, its gate pausing occasionally in a way that made him nervous, as if it was systematically searching every inch of the alley. Gripped by a sudden horrible suspicion, David cracked open one eye and peaked out at the world through a narrow gap between his arm and the concrete.

Outlined in silver against the moonlight, a bulky figure was bending over and picking something up from the ground. The creature straightened and dropped the object into a pouch on its belt, but not before it glinted in the dim light and gave David a glimpse of its shape. He suppressed the urge to groan. The pronged metal disk was a twin of the one buried in the flesh of his right hand.

As the creature moved closer he allowed his eye to slide closed, mentally squaring his shoulders against the ordeal to come. Trapped in what was rapidly becoming his own private hell, moments passed like hours before he finally felt a presence looming over him. David began to pray for strength from a god he'd long since ceased to believe in.

He had difficulty suppressing a shudder when the thing encircled his wrist with a hand that felt somehow wrong and gripped the shuriken tightly. The pain was sharp and blinding as the metal was extracted from his flesh, but somehow, in a kind of twisted miracle, he didn't cry out. Not a moan, not even a twitch. He was as limp as a dead man.

The monster seemed to suspect nothing as it dropped his wrist and swiped the shuriken across the back of David's jacket, wiping the blood away. It straightened and for a moment simply stood over his recumbent form, filling David with a sick certainty that it'd seen through his ruse. However it finally turned on its heel and began walking deeper into the alley.

David could have cried with relief. Perhaps there was someone watching over him after all, for not only had his opossum impression worked but he'd finally figured out just what was digging such a painful groove into his right shoulder. He'd fallen on the barrel of his pistol. The grip was nestled in the hollow of his collarbone, rendering it invisible to the creature but only inches away from his good hand.

Not daring to move his head from its position, he bent his left elbow further and stretched out his fingers one millimeter at a time. It was an agonizingly slow method that required all his limited patience, but when his fingers finally wrapped undetected around the grip of his gun, he felt a surge of gleeful triumph.

He had a pistol with a full clip and the advantage of surprise. The freaks were as good as dead.

AN: (Sighs in resignation) Sorry about this, guys, but I am apparently incapable of writing a short fanfic. Which means this story is going to take at least two more installments to tell fully. I hope y'all can bear with me as I continue to develop this long and increasingly more complex plotline.

I've also come to the conclusion that I need a beta reader. I know this second part needs fixing, you see, but for the life of me I can't figure out exactly what. So… is there anyone out there willing to be my beta reader? You'll get a mention at the beginning of my story as well as my eternal gratitude. And a virtual cookie.

…Yeah, the cookie'll be the clincher.