The Rubik Cube
A sharp clang echoed in the lair, and Donatello quickly picked up his fallen screwdriver.
Within seconds of reaching down his worktable for the instrument, he was back, sitting as hunched down his work as ever. A routine procedure, it had seemed, an automatic reaction to a mundane cycle.
Sure enough, the silence in his area was broken with a loud ringing. Without looking away from his machinery, one hand continually tinkering with the wires and cogs, he reached for an overused set of earphones and a microphone and answered the incessant noise.
"Hello, this is Donatello, your friendly IT consultant. How may I help you today?"
An automatic response to a mundane cycle, however, he had no complaints. It had been engraved into his cranium for as long as he could remember, being the one whose head was always stuck to a book or his face shoved in front of a computer. Sometimes, he took a break from those certain activities to focus more on his engineering and maintaining the Lair systems and transportation.
He never complained.
Five minutes passed slowly, and he placed the headset back on the stand. Three calloused fingers from a deformed green hand rubbed the sides of his head. Given three seconds, the adamant turtle was back on his work.
The cycle continued until Mikey got home and midnight ticked in faster than Donatello could imagine. A few cups of coffee, more ranting calls from frustrated and clueless customers, and before he knew it, Master Splinter was already awake brewing green tea on the stove. His back ached, his eyes were drooping, his hands were stained with oil as he greeted his brothers an automatic good morning.
He never complained.