It is stars today.

You have fewer hallucinations than you did before. Occasionally, you will hear your name on a nonexistent breeze, the door sliding open, the sensation of things poking you, or a viscous liquid on your hands, but it is nowhere as bad as it was before. Visual hallucinations, on the other hand, are much more vivid, much more numerous. You think you read somewhere that it is from a lack of stimulation that you see things— because if you could see the galaxy open up before you, someone would come and grab you— but the last time you read something on the subject feels like a long time ago, so who are you to assume?

Regardless of whether or not it exists, it is pretty.

You want to reach up and touch them. You think you would be able to if you could move your wrists; the leash they have you on is tight.
The silence is the worst of all. You can only listen to your breathing for so long before it gets tiresome.

Nobody comes in with a mop. You fantasize about that, now, staring up at the stars. A hot shower. You hope you can take one before they kill you, if they do. Last requests are things that exist. Maybe you can even brush your teeth. Not tasting vomit would be nice.

Your eyes slide shut. You are already sick of stars.

'Is he looking for me?' You roll onto your side, curling up as usual. You hope he is. You hope Donnie worries about you. You certainly worry enough about him and his family.

"Get up."

Your eyes open slightly. Your stomach is not nearly painful enough for her to be back so soon. You mumble out a question.

"I'll explain on the road." Why is her voice urgent? "We're leaving. Now. Yesterday. Get up."

As you pull your body upright, your heart stops at the jangling of keys on a key ring. "You're... gonna let me out?"

"I'm dumping you off somewhere," she explains absently. "You just can't be here. You don't need to anyway, for his plan." The cuffs around your wrists release, and you almost cry from relief. "I've got clothes you can change into. I'll take a car."

You barely hear her. "Why?"

She pauses. "I'll explain on the way." There is a thump. "Get in."

"I can't walk." You rub your wrists gingerly, heart pounding in your throat at the idea of getting in a car with her. "I—"

"You don't need to." Panic, now. "I'll carry you." You feel her lift you up, set you back down. "All you need to do is be quiet and trust that wherever I'm taking you I'd better than staying here."

'Why are you panicking?' You feel what you can assume is harsh cloth against your skin as you are forced into a fetal position, swallowing you. "Why," you ask quietly. "Why are you doing this for me?"

She hoists you up; your eyes squeeze shut. "I'm not," she says simply.

You curl up tighter than needed, swallowing bile rising in your throat. You think that the bag you are in is a potato sack, and you do not trust a potato sack to support your weight. Your fingers interlace in front of your mouth, lips moving in a silent prayer for her to not drop you.

It is odd. You fear her dropping you more than being caught.

You can tell when you leave the room. Her footsteps sound the same, but you can see the light stream in from behind your eyelids, painfully saturated. You stop yourself from asking her to shut off the light, reminding yourself that it would be a bad idea to get yourself put back into the room.

You are in that bag for a while. You have no idea how long, and you lose count of how many jerking movements she makes, but you know it is a long time. Once, she is stopped completely, and you almost cry at the sound of another voice; masculine, an adult, not anyone you know or have heard. The conversation is short. You do not hear it. She moves on.

You are dropped onto something, a bit later, in a dimmer area. Her footsteps are the same here too. You hear the slam of a car door, and you cover your mouth with your hands to stifle your hyperventilating. 'Coward,' you think, trying to focus on what is happening— you hear another door slam shut. 'Breathe. You'll die if you don't.'

She leaves you in the bag for what feels like another eternity. Your tongue is sandpaper. You are choking on nothing, trying to think about anything but the sound of the engine under you, a smooth, soft roar that pounds in your ears. You can understand that this is a nice car based on how quiet it is. You hate it. The Shellraiser, at least, has the dignity not to hide its identity, its presence.

And then she rips it off your body. "You can't wear a potato sack. There's a uniform in the glove compartment."

Your eyes squint open, hands loosening around each other. You sit up slowly, looking down at your bare body with morbid curiosity if nothing else but to not stare at the road. 'So thin.' You reach down to your ribs, pulling at the skin, cringing at the feeling. Too thin. You can hardly call yourself emaciated; the comparison to a skeleton does not seem apt, but your skin feels too tight on your body. You want to just stretch it off, let your body breathe.

"You're going to get yourself weird looks." Your eyes relax slightly as you glance over at Karai. "Put a shirt on."

You go back to pulling at yourself as if that will help. "Can't," you mumble. "I smell." You think you do, like vomit and stomach acid and period blood.

She sighs. "You aren't going to wear it after this, are you?" She does not look over at you. "Just put it on. It's better to smell than walk around without clothes."

You disagree, but you owe her, you suppose. You reach forward, pulling the compartment open to reveal what appears to be a set of clothes meant for a Foot soldier. You struggle for a bit to get it on, fingers barely able to grip the clothes to slide it over your flesh, but you manage. You feel your face burn in embarrassment; you feel like an old woman from your frailty, your lack of coordination, the situation in general. The garment drowns you in excessive cloth, but you are thankful for the heat it provides.

You raise your sleeve to your nose. You smell laundry soap. A sigh slides from your lips as you sink backward in the seat, focusing on that instead of your situation.

"It's the twentieth."

You look up at her. "Huh?"

"The date," she repeats, eyes focused on the road. "It's the twentieth."

You smile. "I didn't miss Thanksgiving, then?"

"I have no idea." She leaned back in her seat. "What day's Thanksgiving?"

"I don't remember," you admit easily, "but I know that it's after the twenty-second, because of Thanksgiving break."

"Does it matter?"

You nod. "It's a family day," you explain. "You spend time with your family today."

Her voice is almost bored. "You don't have a family," she says. "You live alone."

"Oh." You rub your wrists again, face warming again. You feel a lump rise in your throat. It is not a devastating revelation, but it's throbbing pain, a scab commonly scratched at. "Sorry," you apologize genuinely. You feel like a geriatric patient. "I forgot."

She sighs. "It's alright. It's easy to in there. I don't blame you."

You fold your legs on the seat. You appreciate that she does not stop looking at the road. It is a little reassuring.

Your eyes are stinging. The light is too bright, but you do not want to shut your eyes just yet.
Your gaze focuses on Karai. She looks very put together, you think, given the time of day. Long sleeve shirt, jeans, leather gloves, and a heavy-looking choker. You suppose that she does not always dress like she is ready to murder someone, because she is not. The thing that does catch your attention, though, is her eyes. The eye that appears to be working is lined, with dark eyeshadow. Her other eye appears to be missing.

You think to ask. "What happened to your eye?"

She takes a slow breath. "You took it."

You blink. "I'm sorry?"

"You stabbed me in the eye," she says. "I had to get it removed."

You swallow. "I see."

"I don't." She cracks a wry smile. "I'm not supposed to be doing anything strenuous for another week at least, according to the doctor. Obviously, I'm ignoring that advice."

Fear chokes you again. You consider jumping from the car. "Why are you helping me, then?"

She considers the question. "I'm not. Not really." She sighs. "I heard my father talking with one of those creatures. He thinks it sensible to form an alliance of sorts for the destruction of the planet. Naturally, seeing as we live on said planet, that would be bad."

"What does that have to do with me?"

"For whatever reason, they want you." Her fingers drum against the wheel. "I don't know for what, and they did not mention you by name. The only reason he knew it was you was by the description."

You try to follow. "What for?"

"No idea."

You look back down at your hands, scratching at the scars. "If that's all," you mumble, "then why am I alive?" The hum of the engine makes you sick.

She thinks again. "I saw you."

You bring your knees to your chest. "What do you mean?"

Her eye is fixed on the road. "When I was told to bring you to my father," she says, "I was told only of your feats. I was told you were responsible for the deaths of six men, one being Chris Bradford, and when I went to find you, I prepared myself accordingly." She takes another breath. "What I found was a girl covered in scars she did not know how to cover up, barely able to speak and too terrified to even glance down at her drink." She chuckles half-heartedly. "It's why I was so surprised by what you said; I thought you too insignificant to know anything about either the Hamatos or Orokus."

You say nothing.

"I was ashamed," she continues, "when you took my eye. You don't remember what happened, I presume?"

You shake your head.

"You fought more like an animal than a warrior." She pulls back the sleeve on her right arm; you can see bite-marks. "You bit my arm, gouged out my eye, but you are a poor fighter. If put one on one, we both know I would win in an instant."

You reach over to touch it, think better of it. Your legs fall open and you set your folded hands in your lap.

"And then," she smiles, eye glancing up at the ceiling of the vehicle, "you were dragged in by an experienced ninja, thrown in a dark room as if you were some sort of warrior who would not break otherwise. It's ridiculous." She laughs incredulously, gesturing with one hand. "His big plan to lure the Hamatos out was to use you, some helpless girl, as bait, as if that does not contradict everything he ever taught me. It's ridiculous," she repeats.

You know why she tells you. She will not drop you off somewhere you know. You have no way to contact them before it is too late anyway.
"You know something fascinating?" She glanced away from the road and you want to leave. "I am absolutely willing to hurt people, but there's no point with you. You're absolutely pathetic; it's excessively cruel, like kicking a dog." She runs her hair through her short hair. "Why am I even telling you this?"

"Who else would you tell?" The answer is automatic.

She runs her tongue over her teeth, and you see a teenage girl next to you. "I'm not lonely, you know."

"That's not what I said."

She puts her hand back on the wheel. "You make me sound weak."

"I don't mean to," you look up at her. You want her to keep talking. "I don't think you are, honest."

A barking laugh. "You're saying that because I have your life in my hand."

"You're very scary," you admit easily.

She looks at you, and you stop yourself from asking her to look back at the road. "Whatever." She sighs. "It's not like you could stop it now anyways. I heard that contract was made with one of the Foot soldiers; too late to stop it now."

You wrap your arms around your legs again. "Will he kill him?"

"Who?"

"Donnie." Your mouth is on your knees. "Will Shredder kill him? His family?"

She shrugs. "I don't know about the brothers. Yoshi, he will. I doubt he cares much about casualties, though, if the world is acceptable collateral damage."

Your tongue goes limp in your mouth. You nod once and go back to staring at the floor.

There is silence for a while. You shut your eyes again, burying your face in your knees as you wait for this to stop.

You hear the car slow to a stop, the window rolling down.

She orders food.

She sets a package in front of you. "Don't get food in here," she says, digging into the bag for her own. "No need to raise unnecessary suspicion when I get back, and I don't know if I have the cash to get the car washed."

You glance over at her. She pays you little mind as she drives. Privacy, you think.

The road seems to go on forever.

She stops in an area you are not familiar with. You believe it is somewhere in New York City, but you have been too busy to give the city a good look-over. The only landmarks you can see are a crappy motel bathed in red neon and a subway railway that you do not know the name of. If there are other signs around in this relatively enclosed area, you do not see them.

"Get out."

You fumble with the door for a moment, more than happy to oblige. Your body spills onto the pavement.

She shuts the door. You do not see her, but you can hear the skidding of wheels as she drives off.

You stay there on your knees for a bit, head spinning as you try to come up with a plan. At the very least, you figure, you have nothing to be robbed of apart from your body, and you think yourself too unappealing to bother with, anyways. That, at least, you are grateful for.

You are cold.

You crawl to the wall of one of the buildings, using it as leverage to hoist yourself up. Pressed up against the brick, you begin to limp forward in any direction, hoping to eventually stumble on someone with a map, or food, or a shower.

You are singing now. Low, since your vocal cords feel brittle in your throat, but sound is coming out. It echoes in your head, on the walls of the alley you walk through— an imaginary shortcut. "Dead bitch had it coming," you mumble. "Dead bitch laying slit. Dead bitch, up and coming and won't fuckin quit." Some song you heard once, lyrics you cannot remember tripping out. "Dead bitch, always running, ends up in a ditch. Dead bitch, dead bitch, where's your spirit, dead bitch?" You smile. What a stupid song. "Snake eyes, slick thighs, where's your spirit, go and cheer it," you say to yourself, and you can hardly form the words around your giggling. It's nonsense, the lyrics; you read somewhere something about the girl in question suing the guy who wrote it for defamation and losing. "Red hair, cold stare, where's your fire, heart desire? Think I used to fuck you, now I really love you, where did you go, oh woahawoahawaoh."

You catch yourself from falling on a trash can. Your foot's bleeding. You lean against the structure, foot rising behind you— you are reminded of the movies where girls get their first kisses— to check the damage.

You sigh. "Glass," you breathe. "That sucks."

This sort of thing goes on for a while; you look down, watching the floor as to find your footing under the light of streetlamps that seem to burn bright as the sun. The progress you make is slow, strenuous, but it is progress, and you smell trash instead of vomit, so what else can a girl ask for? You do not hear many people, if any at all-- the only voice you decide for certain is real is your own, for now. You occasionally look up at street signs to try and see where you are, but if they are helpful to you in any shape, way, or form, you do not know it. All the while, stupid words trip out of your mouth and splat on the floor, and you hardly bother to go back and try to scrape them off the pavement.

"Stupid to think of stars," you look up again, vision blurry. "It's NYC. No stars in NYC."

When did you end up in an alleyway?

There is a whooshing sound-- you laugh again-- as someone lands behind you. You spin around with the balance and grace of someone teetering on stilts as you look to see who it is.
You grin at the sight. He looks different than what you remember-- taller, maybe, and pale under the shadows of the alley-- but you know immediately that it is him. "Donnie!" you cry, leaning yourself forward and wrapping your arms around him as a way to support yourself. "Long time no-- huh?"

He is crushing you a bit. Slowly, the two of you sink to the alley floor, your fingers finding the piece of cloth wrapped around his body. You cannot quite understand what he is saying, but you think it to be some sort of apology by the way he says it.

"No need to be sorry," you assure him, giddy for his familiar face. "It's just a jacket, really; we can fix it, I'm sure."

His body is shaking.

You lean back a bit to look at him again. Your hand rises to his face, your thumb running along the underside of his dark eye. Your head cocks to the side slightly as you squeeze the fabric. "Are you alright?" you ask. "Long night?"

His face moves to the crook of your neck. You can register the sounds he is making now, quiet sobs against you. "I'm sorry," he murmurs, holding you even closer. "I'm so, so sorry."

Your back hits the wall of one of the buildings closing you in. You rub his back, letting him lean against you, hold you. "Silly," you smile softly. "Why are you crying?"