Song: Wherever You Are - 5 Seconds Of Summer

I'm in the kitchen smoothing my orange apron down. I move my head side to side to make sure my bun isn't going to fall out. When I'm positive it's secure, I slip out into the restaurant's dining area.

   The aroma of pancakes and bacon lingers around my nose, making me slightly hungry. I've worked at this place for six months and I'm still not used to the inability to eat what I smell. It takes all of the self-control I have to not scarf down everything in sight.

   "Order up!" My boss, Penelope, calls as she comes out of the kitchen. The short and stubby woman, whom also happens to be my aunt, is dressed in a well-used apron. Her gray hair is tied back into a hairnet and she wears her signature grin on her face. Penelope carries a plate of a familiar yellow substance: Michelangelo's 'world famous' omelet.

   The thought of him suddenly makes my heart hurt. I haven't seen him in so long, yet I still remember him clearly. His little green freckles and his bright, sky-blue eyes are glued into my memory. I picture him any time I feel alone, and suddenly I feel better.

   Don't get me wrong; I have acquaintances in my new town. Quite a few, actually, since practically everyone know each other. Whether they're regular customers to the humble little restaurant I worked in, or the employees themselves, I always have someone to cheer me up. We aren't all that close, of course, but having any living soul to talk to makes me happy.

   I am brought back to reality when Penelope appears in front of me. "I know I've said this before, but that omelet you suggested is a huge hit!" she says, her brown eyes lit up joyfully, making her look much younger than she is. "It's the most requested meal since you started working here."

   I smile. "It wasn't my recipe, though. It was a friend's," I remind her gently.

   Penelope lets out a deep belly-laugh. "Of course! You need to introduce me to this friend of yours. He sounds like a genius!"

   I laugh as I follow her back into the kitchen. If only she knew how much the word 'genius' doesn't describe Michelangelo. Though, I know she wouldn't give him a chance if she saw what he looks like. Penelope isn't exactly a laid-back person, so it would most likely give her a heart attack.

   "What did you say his name was?" Penelope questions me as she starts to mix some more pancake batter. "Michael-something?"

   "Michelangelo," I respond as I head to wash the dishes.

   "Right! Like one of those Renaissance painters or other." She laughs again. "What a name! Kind of strange for someone in this decade. Though, I won't even start on the weird names parents gave their children back in my day. Like Penelope."

   I can't help but giggle. She may not be more than four feet and ten inches, but she sure can get a laugh out of anyone she meets. She's a wonderful person inside and out. I couldn't have asked for a better person to spend every work day with. Except, maybe Michelangelo.

   "So, sweetie, have you been passing out anymore?" she asks me.

   She means my repetitive fainting incidents. Throughout the past few months, I've had random moments where everything goes black and I collapse. However, it only happens when I'm at home. When I stay overnight at a hospital for it, nothing happens, and they send me home saying I'm probably just dehydrated.

   I'm worried it's something more, however. Every time I wake up, my whole body feels like I was hit by a bus. But I recover within a few minutes and it's as if it never happened. It's a mystery to me, but I cope, despite how annoying it is.

   "Yes," I confess shyly. I hate telling her about my problems, because she gets so worried about me. She's like my mother.

   Actually, she practically is my mother. Being my only legal guardian left in the country, I would have been forced to stay with her if I hadn't done it willingly. She took charge of me until I finally turned eighteen. Then I moved out to my own place, but she still keeps a daily eye on me. I do work at her restaurant, after all; she has a right to care about my condition.

   Penelope never asks what happened to my mother and brother. My mom was her sister, after all. I am fully prepared to explain. But Penelope doesn't seem to want to know. I accept it without question, and we just never mention my family.

   "You need to go and get that checked out, missy!" Penelope says, with a stern glance at me. "You're gonna get yourself hurt, dropping down like that in random places."

   "I've already tried, Aunt Pen," I reply, avoiding her gaze. "They didn't find anything wrong with me."

   "Well, they're wrong!" Penelope shakes her head in disapproval. "Doctors these days are so different from how they used to be. In my days, they would look you over three times before announcing your diagnosis! Then, if you behaved well, you'd get a lollipop." She adds the last part with a playful wink, to which I laugh at.

   As I dry my hands off, I glance at a newspaper set beside the sink. The cover of it reads:

The Search for Mr. and Mrs. Cyprus Continues

   In the article, it features a bunch of interviews with their family and closest friends. All of their explanations are along the lines of 'I have no clue where they are.'

   I frown. The Cyprus' have been missing for a week now. There's no sign of a kidnapping or a planned vacation. The neighborhood just awoke one day to their disappearance. They're just gone, with no trail to follow.

   They aren't the first people to vanish like that. John Patch, an older man who provides insect repellent for the crops in town, hasn't been around for two weeks. Mrs. Greenway, a mom of a lone, college graduate, is gone as well. She's a retired biologist who has been living off of her thousands of dollars in pension.

   Like the Cyprus', there's been no sign of an incident. They just aren't here anymore, and it leaves the neighborhood terrified. We never used to lock our doors at night, but that's a distant memory lately. Everyone keeps everything locked because we can't trust anyone with our possessions.

   Despite the catastrophes, it all brings us together as a community. We look out for anything suspicious and report to the police regularly. Everyone has a position and they complete them well.

   "Kind of spooky, ain't it?" Penelope breaks into my thoughts. She is leaning over the article as well. "People disappearing without a trace. Makes me wonder how they do it. Maybe I could learn their trick, because I'd love a few days off," she jokes.

   I smile faintly. She always knows how to turn negativity into a laughing matter.

   "Teach me too when you find out, will ya?" I reply teasingly.

   "Oh, please!" The older lady chuckles as she puts the butter back into the refrigerator. "You're youthful; you could run this whole place with one hand tied behind your back."

   I felt my face grow hot. "Only someone related to you could manage that," I say modestly as I help her put away the milk gallons.

   "Well, you are my daughter," she tells me with a wide grin.

   I return the smile and set back to work.

~*~*~*~

I'm exhausted when I get home. My arms are sore from carrying stacks of plates around, and the heels of my feet don't feel much better. I have to literally drag myself into the shower, when all I want to do is sleep.

I get out and head straight to bed, not bothering to eat dinner. My stomach feels queasy and gross, though I've only eaten fruit all day.

My whole body relaxes as I settle into my mattress. As my head connects with my pillow, I can't help being reminded of the pillow Michelangelo let me borrow back at the lair. Though it was stiff compared to my current head-resting place, it somehow made me sleep better. Either because I was training and it thoroughly wore me out, or because it smelled like Michelangelo. I decide to agree with the first reason.

Training. I still do that. I practice every other day, keeping Leonardo's moves fresh in my mind. They're a souvenir of our friendship.

I suddenly remember the dagger Leonardo gave me right before I left. I remove it from my nightstand drawer and run my fingers over it. Still old, still scarred. But I love it the strongest way I can, without being creepy.

I can still picture the sorrowful look in Leonardo's deep blue eyes as he handed it to me. I hear his voice echoing in my ears. "Game on," it says.

I swallow hard. Those are the words my brother and I always shared, and somehow it became mine and Leonardo's thing as well.

I still speak to the turtles occasionally. Michelangelo and I talk on the phone whenever I can catch a break between my job and ballet. Donatello texts me, and Raphael less so. But Leonardo is different. I've barely heard a word from him since I left. It's silly to let that bother me, but it does. A lot.

Just talking to the turtles isn't enough, however. It leaves an empty space in my heart. I long to see them again and tell them how much I miss them. I can't do that over the phone because I risk bursting into tears. Plus, I don't want to seem clingy.

I have to close my eyes tightly to prevent emotions from spilling out. Why am I suddenly reminiscing over them again? I haven't done that in months. Maybe it's just a build-up of everything I left behind.

I place the dagger back into the drawer. My gaze trails over the hand-written note I found in TCRI. It's an apology message from my mom. To this day, I'm still not certain what she means about the 'truth' she never informed me of. I wretch myself away from it and lay back down.

Pushing away all sad thoughts, I ready my brain for sleep.

"Lizzy!"

A voice forces open my eyes in shock. In front of my face is a set of familiar eyes. The curve of the nose, the shape of the lips... It all rings a bell.

"Lizzy!"

As the voice speaks again, I realize it's coming from the lips in front of me. And suddenly, I recognize the sound. No... It can't be...

"Lizzy! Help me!"

The features turn into a real face. It's my brother. I can't see around him, so I have no idea what he needs help from. But it's him. I can never forget those vividly green eyes.

I sit bolt upright in my bed. My heart is racing and I have perspiration on my upper lip. I wipe it away and pull my knees to my chest.

I haven't had a dream since I left the turtles' lair. All of my nights were black and imageless. But that streak is obviously gone now.

I chew on my bottom lip as I go over paranoid things in my mind. That wasn't a regular dream. It was too vivid. It felt like he had been right there...

I shake my head to halt my crazy train of thought. My brother is dead. The dream wasn't real. I'm just grieving for him, once again.

But the more I try to convince myself that it isn't real, the less I believe it. My brother and I were pretty close, so I knew when he was distressed. In the dream, his eyes were too dull, and his cheeks too hollow. There appeared to be something wrong with him. I can't recall a time that he ever looked like that, and it startles me.

Without considering I might be going insane, I get out of bed and pull on some clothes. I put on my two daggers sheathes, something I haven't done in a long time, and stash my weapons into them. I bury my mother's note into my pocket and head out the door. I'll call Aunt Penelope while I'm on the bus to inform her of my plans.

I only have one friend that can help me figure out my problems, and it's time I pay him a visit.