2

Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap….

The pencil was nothing but a yellow blur as it was drummed rapidly and persistently against the surface of the wooden desk. Gripped loosely by an olive green hand, the writing device's musical rendition was abruptly halted as it was moved to hover over a thick pad of white paper. The pencil quickly descended to the top sheet and skated across the surface, leaving a behind a gray trail in the pattern of various words. Halfway down the page it stopped again. After a few seconds hesitation, the pencil was slammed onto the desk. With a loud rip, the paper was torn from its sheath, squashed into a crude ball, and hurled in the general direction of the trash bin which was already overfilled with other paper that had met a similar fate.

Watching his projectile miss its target by a good six inches, Donatello gave a sigh of frustration. The pounding in his temples were indicative that he was about to earn himself a massive headache for all his trouble. He pinched the bridge of his nose in a feeble attempt to stave it off, if only for a little bit. The turtle genius had reached the point where coffee no longer helped and eyed his now empty mug with miserable regret.

A glance at the clock on the wall above his desk told Donnie that he had been shut inside his lab for nearly four hours. Four hours and he had failed to produce an answer to the question plaguing his mind. Don was not a stranger to failure. As a scientist, he knew better than to expect to a solid answer one hundred percent of the time. But this time he couldn't even produce a tentative answer – nothing, nada, zip, zally, zilch. Books were stacked in haphazard piles over the entirety of his desk, a few of them open to random pages. They had been scoured carefully and not one of them had been helpful. Neither had his internet search which was stilled displayed on his laptop screen. No experiments could be conducted, no tests run. All of his sources had let him down.

The gurgling of his stomach reminded Donnie of his hunger, but he was loath to leave his sanctuary. Going to the kitchen surely meant that he would run into at least one of his family members who would undoubtedly demand to know what he had been doing for so long.

Wasting my time, that's what. He thought bitterly, his lips pulled into a pout.

The growling sounded again, this time with more urgency and Donnie knew he couldn't ignore it much longer. Groaning with dismay, he decided to surrender to his basic need and stood from his chair. He stretched his stiff muscles. As he brought his hands back down from above his head, he held them in front of his face. His features morphed into a withering glare as he scrutinized the three-fingered prehensile part of his forelimbs. Curling them into fists, he turned and marched for the door, his mind set.

He was not going to give up. Oh, no. He was going to keep trying. One way or another he'd find a solution to Mikey's random question.

"Hey, Donnie, why don't we have fingerprints?"