I do not own TMNT. I'm writing this for fun, not profit!

Hidden deep in the sewers, his family mourned, but Donatello was still very much alive. He hadn't been in the fire. Not a single scale was singed. In fact, he didn't even know that there had been a fire.

Donatello had been ready to join his brothers when Leonardo waved him down. Trusting Leo instinctively, Donnie dropped back to his knees. He had intended to keep the dumpster lid a crack open, so that he could keep an eye on everyone. However, the lid somehow slammed shut. Thinking nothing of it at first, Donatello attempted to push the lid back up. It didn't budge. Assuming it to be a fluke, he pushed again to no avail. Fear began to set in, but Don didn't want to call out just yet. His brothers didn't need a distraction right now. Besides, Donnie would never hear the end of it if they had to fish him out of a dumpster.

Don fumbled for his phone and found the flashlight toggle. He ran the beam along the bottom of the lid and discovered what appeared to be a magnetic seal. Soon he located a matching one on the other side. How had he missed that? Stupid!

What was strange was that the lid hadn't locked before. Why now? Don looked closer and saw wires connected to the magnets. They must have been electromagnets activated by a remote trigger. That would explain why they were so powerful. Realizing he was in over his head, Don cried out for help. Turtle luck ran true to form, though, and the third shot rang out simultaneously, drowning out his cry.

Ice ran through Don's veins. Had one of his brothers been shot? Frightened to call out again and draw attention to the area, he scrolled through his phone controls with the intent to log into the hauler's cameras remotely. He almost dropped the phone in shock. Static! Not just static, but the signal!

Unbeknownst to Don, the static fizzle was hiding something else. It took a moment for him to pick up on the hiss of gas that had begun seeping into the dumpster. It filled the confined space quickly, and Don didn't notice until it was too late. He was already mute and going numb. Why hadn't he checked the dumpster's contents? Stupid, stupid, stupid!

Don drifted away, deeply unconscious and dead to the world. He never felt the dumpster lid unlock. He never felt himself being removed and carried to the other side of the warehouse just prior to the explosion. Donatello didn't wake at all until he was already deep underground, somewhere across town, locked in a cell that would soon become the closest thing that he had to a home.

Donatello's senses slowly returned to him, as if finding their way home through a dark and foggy night. Once he figured out which way was up, he realized that he was hanging by chains shackled to his wrists, spreading his arms and pulling them taunt. Chains were also secured to his ankles, keeping him securely affixed to the wall and unable to move in any direction. There was a collar of some sort encircling his neck. This wasn't good. Don lifted his head to look around, ignoring the throbbing that was undoubtedly an after-effect of the knock-out gas.

He was in some sort of prison cell, chained to a cement wall with a small, grated drainage channel running below it. The other three walls were thick, and composed of a clear material, possibly lucite. There was no bed or any other furniture or adornment, and the room was surprisingly well lit, for a prison cell. Two guards were posted on the exterior of each wall that he could see, each keeping a close eye on him. The guards wore clothing reminiscent of Foot ninjas, but the details weren't the same. The color was lighter, and the logo was missing. Very strange.

The cell itself seemed to be located in the corner of a larger room. The only exit from the main room that Don could make out from his vantage point was a locked steel door. Between the shackles, the cell, the guards, and the prison itself, it was quite clear that his captors really didn't want him going anywhere. It looked like he was in for a long stay.

Now that he was fully conscious, Don expected something to happen. He'd been kidnapped before, and it usually didn't take long for the bad guy to make an appearance and begin leveling threats or making demands. Given that he was pinned to the wall like a butterfly decorating a display case, he had to assume that someone would be coming for him soon. Don mentally prepared himself for the worst.

Funny thing though, no one came. A full day passed, give or take a few hours, and Donatello still dangled helplessly from the chains. He'd tried his hardest to loosen the manacles, but he'd only succeeded in rubbing his wrists raw. Even if he'd managed to free an arm or two, he knew he wouldn't have made it out of the cell or past the guards. He was cold, hungry, scared and exhausted. At least he wasn't thirsty any longer. He'd been sprayed down with icy cold water a while ago, and had managed to drink a little. Donnie rolled his neck to try to relieve some of the stress in his screaming shoulder muscles. He let his chin rest on his plastron and closed his eyes, knowing full well that sleep was never going to come. He felt the guard's eyes on him at all times. It was awful feeling so exposed after a lifetime of living in the shadows.

There was a rustling near the door, and muffled words were exchanged. Donnie lifted his head to see a figure being escorted into his cell. It was - Shredder? But that couldn't be. Shredder was in exile. Donnie had watched his forced exodus with his own eyes. There was no way that he could have made it back to earth. The Utrom had him heavily guarded. There was just no way.

"Who are you?" Don's voice sounded rustier than he had anticipated. He cleared his throat and awaited an answer.

"Isn't it obvious? I'm the Shredder," the newcomer sneered.

"You don't look like him, and you sure as heck don't sound like him," Donnie pointed out. As was the case with the slightly different Foot soldiers, this version of the Shredder was not quite the same as the original. There were subtle variations in the armor, in his build and in his stature. His voice had a barely discernable Asian accent that Donatello couldn't quite place.

"You feel that you are in a position to doubt me, reptile?" Shredder asked as he ran a blade slowly along Donatello's plastron, hard enough that he could feel it, but too soft to cause any actual damage.

"You don't scare me, Shredder," Don said mockingly. He tried to sound defiant, hoping that none of the fear he was truly feeling seeped into his voice. "If you are who you say you are, you should know that you don't stand a chance against my brothers."

"Big talk, considering that you're chained to my wall. Trust me, I could have any or all of your brothers just as easily. Luckily, I don't have any use for them, yet," Shredder growled menacingly.

Internally, Don breathed a massive sigh of relief. This guy just admitted that his brothers were free. Ever since his capture, Don's worst fear was that his brothers were also imprisoned. If they were free, they would inevitably come for him. "Are you saying that you singled me out? Why?"

"Simple, I know that you're the brains of your little operation, Donatello, and I'm in need of a mind like yours. Believe it or not, you're going to help me."

Donatello gave a forced chuckle. "I think that you'd better re-check your magic eight ball."

"That feisty attitude of yours isn't going to last too long down here, you insolent freak," the fake Shredder warned.

"Flattery will get you nowhere," Donatello chided.

"Don't think for a minute that I don't see right through your little facade, turtle. I'm sure that things like you have to develop a sense of humor in order to survive. And those little jibes of yours are clearly just bravado, designed to make you feel strong when by now it ought to be clear just how very weak you really are. So, you can make all the sarcastic little comments you want. There's no one here to impress."

Don considered his responses. About a hundred snide comebacks came to mind, but those clearly wouldn't be getting him anywhere. Not only that, but he wanted answers. "So, what is it that you expect me to help you with?"

The fake Shredder took a step back and crossed his arms. "It's come to my attention that you were the driving force behind the downfall of my predecessor. Specifically, it was you who destroyed his ship, securing his capture."

"You're speaking of Ch'rell?"

"Naturally."

"So, to be clear, you're taking over as Shredder, now that he's out of the way, so to speak?"

"Yes. I'm sure that you know by now that the Shredder is a symbol, a mantle of sorts. Now that Ch'rell is gone, that mantle is mine."

"Does that mean you're leading the Foot? What does Karai have to say about that?"

At that, the 'Shredder' bent an elbow and thrust it out with the full force of his weight, connecting with the inner portion of Donnie's upper right knee. The leg was chained too tightly to give at all, and Donnie felt his knee rip out of its socket. He bit his lip to keep from screaming as the Shredder popped up again and gave the knee a finishing kick. Something tore. He then reached up and grabbed Donnie by the chin, looking him straight in the eyes. "Hear me, turtle. That's the last time that you will ever speak that name to me! My motives and the inner workings of the Foot are none of your concern."

Donnie loosened his jaw enough to choke out a few choice words. "Why would I ever help you?!" He wanted to say more, but the hand around his throat combined with the pain radiating from his knee was too much. If he kept speaking, he was going to lose his composure, and he couldn't let this guy see him suffering.

"I'm fully aware that you won't be joining me willingly. Fortunately, I'm a patient man and I'm in this for the long haul. Next time we speak, I trust that I will find you to be much more agreeable." The Shredder then turned on his heels and left.

Alone again and in a considerable amount of pain, Donnie now had nothing to do but continue to hang there, gasping for breath and struggling to maintain consciousness. He ignored the glares and whispers of the guards. Don didn't particularly regret mouthing off, but it sure did stink that he couldn't do anything about his knee. His natural urge was to clutch the injured limb, but he couldn't move at all. All he could do was try to distract himself by attempting to figure out what the shell was going on.

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