The worst torture was not the physical agony, but the uncertainty about his beloved sons. Splinter had nothing but time to consider every horrific possibility, as the day slowly crawled by. Dully, he watched the last rays of the sun fade over the roar of cars, concrete, the clusters of brutal young men that constantly fought like starving dogs over the last scrap. Inwardly, Splinter shivered at the brutality and the tragic waste of the whole thing. Had he time, were he human, he might have considered at least talking to a few of these poor, confused souls, and see if kindness and attention could unearth the gold, the humanity, under the hardened sneers each seem to have. They seemed as lost, confused children, and not the vicious soldiers who had invaded his home and took him captive.

Ruefully, Splinter recalled those bitter moments. He had given his sons permission to burn off their relentless energy above, and he was looking forward to a quiet night of solitude, and reflection. He had just finished lighting the last of his beloved candles, brewed a cup of tea, and had taken refuge in the unusual quiet. Oh, he loved his sons, there was no doubt. He relished these brief times of peace. He had sank back into the comfort of his arm chair, when he heard a footfall. He had bolted out of the chair as if shot by a canon, and landed in defensive position, the walking stick raised, and his fur standing on end. Pausing, he tilted his ears forward, listening and waiting. He could hear the sounds of several feet treading in near silence through the dark tunnels that concealed the Lair. Splinter turned off the lights, and silently made his way to the entrance of the Lair, taking care to mask the sounds of his paws on the bricks.

He had lived long enough in this place to know the difference between the footsteps of a human and those of his sons. The Lair itself spiraled off into the concealing darkness, and could only be reached by navigating the endless quagmire of tunnels. Even if a human were to stray into the sewer itself, there was no way one-let alone this many could accidently wonder down here by mistake. Splinter's kidnapping had been as swift as it was brutal. Had it been skill alone, Splinter would have never been caught. In the end, though, it was useless. No ninjitsu could quell the flood of those black-hooded invaders, as they stormed into his home, surrounded him, beat him senseless, and then dragged him, bleeding and stunned, through the tunnels, up through the manhole. Splinter had doled out his own punishment, pummeling and swirling in the feverish attempt to stay free. He did not relish that several of these young ones would nurse bruised and broken bones. The odds were too cruel for it to matter, now. In the end, it wasn't skill, but simply being outnumbered, and violently subdue. He vaguely remembered another blow to the head, as he crumbled, and being tossed into the back of a van. The world swam, the engine roared, and his awareness flickered in and out of awareness, between the dull ache and the growing horror of what had all transpired. He had been violently kidnapped, torn away from his beloved sons, and the only thing he would leave would be his blood staining his old chair, and his broken walking stick. His heart broke anew when he pondered what his beloved sons, their bewildered anguish at finding their one refuge torn open, and him gone.

He remembered the creaking of the van wheels, being dumped into the floor, and kicked into submission. He had curled around his cracked ribs, his aging body screaming in protest as he shut his eyes and focused on maintaining his silence. He knew full well the brutality that the human world would inflict on those who were freaks of nature. Calling on every scrap of his animal senses, he tensed in his sprawl on the floor and searched desperately for an opening, or a chance to bolt free. Splinter forced himself to remain still, knowing that this ride would eventually have to end, and that they would have to take him out.

Shivering again, Splinter resigned himself to waiting, keeping his eyes shut and listening to the muttered whispers around him. The van was literally packed, and Splinter was surrounded and unable to maneuver, or even rise from the floor without brushing against them.

Focusing on his breathing, Splinter ignored the ache in his battered side, and calmed. He knew full well the ugliness of the human world in the streets, and the violence. But these weren't common criminals. They were skilled ninjas, they knew where he was, and during their decimation of his home, he heard them speak the names of his sons.

Splinter felt his heart quell with terror. Who ever had him, knew. All the years that he had spent constructing the frail, concealing fortress and prison of his love, all those years that his poor children had been denied light and condemned to live like the damned in the dark, to prevent such a thing was now useless.

Dread clawed at his soul, and he shuddered at the realization. The van abruptly squealed to a halt, and Splinter tensed when he felt the pressure of knee caps on his spine, the savage grips on his wrists as his arms were yanked forward and shackled by the chains. He snarled at the cold metal collar suddenly being locked over his neck, at the jab of a blade dancing over his quaking throat and bloodying his fur again.

He was hauled to his feet, and dragged forward by too many hands to fight off. He was choked and beaten before he could even shuffle forward a step on his own. They hauled him out of the van, heedless of his scuffling paws, heedless of the bloodied trail that trickled from the van to the concrete.

He instinctively flattened his ears against the high whine of the halogen lights that dangled from the soaring ceiling. The light was nearly blinding as his captors marched him past the manmade corridors of stuff piled to the ceiling. Splinter squinted in dismay. They were in an enormous, abandoned warehouse, in the part of the city long isolated by poverty, despair,and violence. The whole place lay before him, wide and disgusting as an unhealed wound. He heard the gleeful cackle, the weight of their eyes as he was turned forward and slammed into the chain link fence. He was unresisting as they twisted his arms upward, hoisted him so high that his claws could barely scrape concrete, and shackled him.

He warily watched the shifting shadows, the flicker of the lights off of those men, as they snickered and leered or gaped at him. He waited for them to slit his throat, beat him to death, anything besides watch him helplessly dangle and tremble from the strain.

He didn't have to wait long.

He could sense the change in the youths around him before he could locate the source. They went from lounging like overfed cats into rising and forming orderly lines, rigid and tense and waiting for something. Splinter squinted, puzzled as they arranged all fell wordlessly in arrangement, as if awaiting a visit from a god. The silence was as oppressive as an oncoming storm. Splinter swallowed back the bile, weary at the knowledge that his situation was getting much, much worse.

His sons. What was he to do about his sons?