Each chapter is titled after a song by one of my favorite bands, Hammock. They are an ambient post-rock group that I love listening to while reading. Check them out and listen while you read if you like! The music has a positive, calming vibe to it I think anyone could enjoy. Thanks for checking out my story!
Donatello laid his head across his arms on the workbench. His mind was heavy; clouded thoughts swirled within him. It was late. Beakers, test tubes and spreadsheets lay scattered over the bench. The turtle sighed as the weight of his thoughts seemed to crush his body under their gravity. Mutagen Man. Kirby O'Neil. Foot Clan robots. April's boyfriend. Even in his mind he said the word with utter disgust. The thought repulsed him.
Donnie tilted his head to glance at the T-phone across the work table. He willed it to ring. But it remained silent. He sat up with another sigh and began shuffling the papers into a neat pile. He placed the glass tubes back on their racks. He drained the beakers of their chemicals, carefully disposing of them in the lab's sink. No progress on a retro-mutagen. Again.
Rain drizzled on the streets, creating a gentle patter in the sewers below as the falloff ran into storm drains. Gentle rolls of thunder rumbled miles away. Donnie's T-pod was turned to a low volume so it would not drown out the sounds of the rain. The songs were soft and wispy, almost like they did not quite belong in such a harsh sewer, in such a harsh city, in such a harsh world. Though the music was mind-numbing, the turtle could not quiet the tempest in his head. He found it difficult cope with the loss of Timothy, now Mutagen Man, but he knew he could come to grips with it in time. There was confidence that he could reclaim Timothy's mind once again with patience and experiments. But it was the loss of April's trust that ached like broken hands. Constant, agonizing, raw.
Donatello took the clean beakers back to the bench, placing them upside-down to dry. He looked across the table at the hole in the brick wall, now boarded in a rudimentary fashion. Was a retro-mutagen even possible? Had he and his brothers made irreversible mistakes? The notion sickened him. Donnie sat back down at the bench and gathered his spreadsheets in his oversized hands. He thumbed through them, hoping a flash of inspiration and clarity would come. Each paper stared back at the turtle, mockingly empty of value. Red X's and scrawled captions marred each page. "No visible result." "Condition worsened." "Failure."
Pulses of pain shot through his head. He always ended up with a migraine when he stayed up late, especially after staring at charts and books for hours on end. The turtle tossed the papers aside and stretched his aching back. He sauntered over to his box of medicine only to find his bottle of Ibuprofen empty, but he knew there was another in the kitchen.
Donnie slid the large metal door of his lab open as quietly as he could, noticing a lifeless Michelangelo on the couch of the lair. The dim light of the TV, now only showing color bars, illuminated the turtle's path to the kitchen. Mikey's limbs were sprawled like a rag doll and his mouth lay wide open. Donatello would have mistaken him for a corpse if he had not made the occasional gurgling snore. The lanky turtle opened a medicine cabinet and dumped three red pills into his hand. He dry-swallowed them on the way back to his room, watching Mikey's plastron rise and fall slightly.
As he slid the door closed with a metallic clank, a veil of sleepiness came over him. The drizzle outside had turned into a deluge, the heavy droplets smacking the asphalt above. Donatello flicked the light switch, leaving only a soft floor lamp near his bed to illuminate the space. He grabbed a book from the workbench before stepping towards the bunk. His leather belt and sash fell to the floor with a clink and he climbed between his silky plum-colored sheets. Donnie was quite sensuous; he enjoyed having soft sheets and listening to relaxing music. It helped to combat the struggle in his mind lately.
As the downpour continued the batter the streets, Donnie sat up in his bed, skimming over a book about biochemistry. His eyelids could not hold out for long, though. Eventually, the turtle succumbed to his exhaustion and fell asleep propped up with the text in his lap, heavy head lolled to one side.