Chapter 3: Bargaining

Forty-two?

Oh, bloody hell.

Sighing deeply, I lean back in my desk chair and glower at the computer screen. In bold neon-green is the mocking, infuriating number of forty-two. Despite the fact that all my calculations suggest that the result should, in fact, be thirty-eight. Despite the fact that my calculations have been rigorously checked and rechecked, I am getting forty-two from the simulated trial when I should be getting thirty-eight, and it is three o'clock in the morning, and I have run out of my entire meager supply of patience.

Goddamn. Bloody. Hell.

For one brief, lovely moment, I consider turning off all of the computers and simply walking away. But of course that isn't a real option. Not unless I want to hear yet another long, droning lecture about how I'm wasting the government's precious resources—which would be the third such lecture of this month alone—and, by Jove, I cannot do it. My already badly-frayed patience would surely snap in two.

Still, things could be worse. They always can. For all the mindless lectures I must endure, at least there aren't nearly as many maimings as there were with my last employer. I am not at all certain that I'm any more respected than I was before, however, and that really is something that needs to—

Suddenly all of the overhead lights cut off. Only the computer monitors remain, and their glow extends a mere few feet. Whirling around, I squint through the dark while engaging in a futile attempt to spot my intruder.

My voice comes out a low bark: "Who's there? Show yourself!"

"All in due time, Dr. Stockman. All in due time."

It's been at least five years since I've encountered them, but I'd recognize one of those troublesome freaks anytime and anywhere. Rolling my lone eye upwards, I silently ask the heavens just what I've done to deserve such torment. First the problems with the simulation, now this? Surely I have suffered more than enough in my life. Surely I don't deserve this as well.

But one must deal with what is and not what should be. "Donatello," I reply to the surrounding darkness. "What a pleasure to have your company."

A chuckle emanates from somewhere to my right, and I begin slowly and quietly edging towards it. "I apologize for dropping by unannounced," he explains, "but I doubt I'd have received a warm welcome if I'd told you I was coming."

"Is that why you cut the main electricity? So that I couldn't—"

"—trigger the security alarm?" He sounds amused and pleased and, dammit, now his voice sounds like it's coming from the left. "Yes. That is precisely why I cut the main electricity."

I snort. This ridiculous mutant has always thought himself far more clever than he actually is. "Well, I'd assumed that it wasn't because the glow of computer monitors is romantic."

"Oh, I don't know about that. Maybe you just never spent time in front of computers with the right person." From somewhere a mere few inches behind me, he whispers, "I can't imagine John Bishop likes to cuddle."

Snarling, I turn and angrily lash out with both arms. But all I grab is air, and my only reward is the blasted turtle's loud, mocking laughter. Rage rises within me, and it takes a bit of effort to metaphorically swallow it. But I manage. After all, the simpleton has unwittingly given me ammunition.

"It's true that Agent Bishop isn't the most charming of companions. But back when she was still employed under me, Ms. O'Neil was quite easy on the eyes, I assure you." Immediately his laughter stops dead, and I grin in triumph. I'd guessed correctly. I can't resist throwing in, for good measure, "Don't you agree, Donatello?"

A long silence stretches out through the dark. "If you ever mention April again," he says slowly, quietly, "I will kill you."

Pah. It wouldn't be the first time I've died, and almost certainly it wouldn't be the last. Perhaps it isn't only the good that die young, but absolutely it's true that only the good stay dead.

But the hour is far too late for philosophizing. Crossing my mechanical arms over my chest, I sigh. "Idle threats, my reptilian friend, and we both know it. Now tell me just why you've seen fit to invade my laboratory."

Another pause. Shorter, but not by much. "Dr. Stockman, I've come to make a business proposal."

"A business proposal?"

"Of sorts. More of a bargain, if you will. A bit of quid pro quo."

I laugh, long and hard, at the depths of his delusion. "You fool! I work for the government of the United States of America. Anything that's of any value at all—I already have access to it."

"Not this."

"You're bluffing."

"Mmm. Perhaps." His voice drops to a low, seductive purr. "But are you sure about that? Absolutely positive?"

Slowly I begin backing up. If I can keep this buffoon distracted for just a few more moments, I can reach the secret emergency alarm. "Nothing is certain," I respond in a dry tone. "Or don't you know your Heisenberg?"

Donatello's only reply is a pleasant chuckle.

Meanwhile, I'm almost to the secondary alarm. Cautiously I reach out, inch by inch, until the tips of my metallic fingers brush against the wall panel. Got it. I grin. Then I press the button. A second passes, then another, but the sweet music of blaring sirens does not issue forth. I frown and punch the button again.

"Found the back-up alarm too."

I scowl into the darkness. Bloody hell.

"Enough with pleasantries." His tone morphs yet again, from soft to hard. "To put it quite simply--I have the mutagen."

"The mutagen? The mutagen is gone, just like those damned Utroms."

He laughs, and even that is a harsh sound. "True! But you forget that we had a container of the original mutagen. And from its microscopic remnants, I was able to genetically re-engineer that mutagen's formula."

Some foolish, deep-buried hope within me leaps at hearing these words. I have not had an opportunity to play with Utromic mutagen since the Outbreak--after that, every last drop of the substance was methodically destroyed, on the government's orders. Such a terrible, tragic waste it was, too. And it is plausible that the turtle has found a way to revive it ...

Still. Some measure of restraint is prudent. "If I were to believe you," I begin, ensuring that my voice drips with my skepticism and disdain, "then clearly you're quite the genius. And what, pray tell, could such a genius as yourself possibly want from little old me?"

"Your time portal."

How the hell does he know about the project I'm working on? It's highly classified! Spluttering, I reply, "I beg your pardon?"

"Just the schematics. I don't require the actual prototype."

At that I burst out laughing. "Ah, dear, dear Donatello! The years have not been kind to you, have they? For surely, you have lost your mind."

The silence that follows is so long that I wonder if perhaps he's simply left. Then, through the pitch black comes his voice once again, sounding quiet and tired: "Maybe you're right, Baxter. Maybe I have."

I hear his footsteps, echoing loudly off the steel walls of my laboratory, as he begins walking away. It strikes me as odd, but I can't place my finger on why. Until finally I realize--he wants me to hear him. He's one of those blasted ninja, and if he wanted his retreat to be silent, it would be. I ponder over the import of all this.

I ponder over all the wonderful, glorious things I could do with mutagen. Especially since I could play with it without the burden of Bishop's omnipresent supervision.

Finally, Donatello's footsteps reach the far side of the room.

"Just ... just a moment!" If I still had lungs, now would be the moment I'd take a deep breath. "Only the schematics?"