Michaelangelo slowly turned when the curve of his shell suddenly rocked him too far against a flat surface. He gasped and caught himself with an elbow. Pain suddenly shot up his arm and pooled like a brain-freeze in his head.
"Ugh, funnybone," he announced to himself with grinding teeth. The shock wave subsided, and he turned onto the flat plates of his plastron for more stability.
Taking deep breaths, Mike opened his eyes and blinked repeatedly. It was so black that it was becoming difficult to tell if his eyes were even responding at all. He groped around the area with his palms. Jagged concrete jabbed out everywhere he explored.
"Leo?" he paused in surprise at the volume of his own voice. It boomed and shivered the stuffy air. "You in here?" he said more softly.
No answer.
He decided to reply to himself instead, "Where ever here is."
His outstretched fingers butted against a vertical surface. He pressed his hands against it with a heave. It was just the same, solid through and through. Following the height of the wall, his knuckles touched a ceiling. He lifted both hands and pressed against it. A box. He was trapped in some sort of concrete room! Michaelangelo continued to pan the wall counting each corner crevasse and feeling for seams. Two of them were deeper then the others, most likely a removable wall he surmised.
With a sigh, he sat back on the cold floor in lotus position. He had judged his container to be about five feet in both length and width. Just enough for him to stand and lay down and only him. He was alone. A swelling of panic seem to broil in his gut before seeping up his spine. Alone.
"Ah, you're awake, and sooner then I thought. We'll have to adjust the sedatives accordingly."
Donatello blinked groggily at a blurry face hovering over him. "Hm-what?" he mumbled drowsily.
"Don't trouble yourself. You'll be back to sleep in no time," the face said almost chipper-like.
The bright-white room slowly focused. Donatello's heart seemed to swell to an unnatural size as he began to move unresponsive limbs. Turning his neck to the side, he could see a firm chain around his left wrist. He quickly twisted to observe the same on his right.
"W-who are you? What's going on?" Don fought to sit up.
"No matter," the man responded while rummaging through material on a counter.
Don craned his neck off of a padded table watch him, "Are you-? What is that?"
The human finally stood in Donatello's line of sight next to the entrapment. He looked middle aged with fine wrinkles collecting on his face in which gave him a disturbingly amused and excited expression. He was rather short and skinny with long, white coat tails fluttering with every movement. Don groaned inwardly. Not a scientist.
The man approached with a smile Donatello would wipe off in heartbeat if his arms weren't restrained. Knowing it was futile though, the turtle looked away to stare at the blank ceiling as the man lashed a strap taunt about the thick of his biceps.
"Pump your hand, please."
The only response Don offered was narrowing eyes still fixed upward.
"Don't make this any more difficult then it has be, mutant. I will resolve to any method for your cooperation."
Donatello felt something fall down his throat as his tense muscles slackened. As much as he ached to rebel, he knew scientists better then that. Things would only go downhill, if that was possible, and at this point, he knew it was. He finally submitted, hesitantly clenching and unclenching his fist as told. He could feel his arm strain with stale blood. There was a deep prick in the crook of his elbow and the rush of blood as the scientist drained it away.
"Good. Very good," the man chatted while managing the process, "Master Shredder will be pleased with my report of your behavior."
Don suddenly wretched his arm away. He ignored the deep tearing the needle caused on his arm to swing out with his elbow and crack the edge of a tin pan. Surgical tools clattered to the floor and the scientist howled with fury.
"YOU! You insolent FREAK," the man ran to the counter to apply a cloth to his hand where a blade had sliced it.
Donatello watched the red liquid drip and stain the starch lab coat with satisfaction.
The man was shaking with fury, "My master will punish you dearly for this!"
Don was tempted to roll his eyes, but focused on his arm instead. The damaged skin from the syringe was bleeding profusely. Dipping his arm downward, he steered the stream underneath the shackle around his wrist. There, it created a slippery surface for his hand to wedge out with some difficulty. Using his free hand, Dontello released all the other locks and stood from the table. The scientist slid to the floor and scooted to a corner.
"Please, n-no. Don't hurt me..he-he made me!"
Don loomed over the pitiful form.
"I won't hurt you if you answer my questions," the turtle finally said in a surprisingly rational tone.
"Yes, of course! Of course! Ask me anything," the man broke eye contact and looked at the floor.
"Where are we?"
"Foot Headquarters. New York."
"How did we get here?"
"We h-had the specim," he paused with a frightened look, "er...you – relocated."
"Are my brothers here?"
"I'm not sure- gack!" The scientist croaked as Donatello took him by the throat.
"Two are the 12th floor and-and one in the basement!" the man rambled quickly.
Donatello tightened his hand over his vibrating larynx, "You're not lying, are you?"
The man shook his head vigorously, but it came out more like a bob as the turtle clamped to his neck.
Don studied him closely before releasing him. He stood ominously, "Thank you."
The man slumped as Don crushed a pressure point in his shoulder.
"But let's not have this conversation again," Don mused as he tied the unconscious scientist's feet and hands with some rope he found in a nearby closet.
He cleaned and bandaged his arm quickly with the supplies before leaving the room. The halls beyond were shallow and long, decorated with deep reds and Japanese artifacts. Nothing looked promising as cover, however. Forming a plan in his head, his mind came to a halt hearing a soft ding. Immediately he set off toward the sound.
A blonde woman in a lab coat wheeled out from an elevator with a cart and a machine strapped to it. Around the corner Don eyed it with a wince. Judging by the saw blades and controls, he figured it was designed to saw through some tough material. He reached over and patted his shell. Thank God he got out of there when he did.
The woman walked with a purposeful strut, her heels clacking against the tile. Don waited behind the corner until he could hear the wheels squeak noisily as she turned. While kneeling, he gripped the front of the cart as it approached and shoved it forward. The handle butted against the woman's stomach and she fell back gasping. Her eyes widened as his shadow passed over her.
"Hate to do this, but-"he leaned down and executed the same maneuver as on the man. Her lids closed and her head rocked against the floor so her cheek was level with the ground. Grabbing the hem of her coat in one hand, and the handle of the cart in the other, he dragged them back to the operating room and set her carefully on strewn table he had occupied just moments before. Donatello then examined the machine. Exploring with his hands, he brushed up against a cord. With a tug, it popped out and it dangled like a useless snake in his hand.
"That should do it," he looked over his handy work. He wasn't going to take any chances. No way he would allow this thing to ever operate.
Satisfied, he left the room closing the door quietly behind him.
After stripping the plastic from the power cord he had stolen, he wrapped the exposed wires around the doorknob. He then wove them back into the main wires to complete the circuit before inserting the prongs into a socket near by. It sparked and sizzled to life. A good zap will keep those scientists in there. He didn't want them sounding any alarms once they woke.
Taking off once again, Donatello returned to the elevator where he forced the doors open and began climbing up the shaft. The lights above the door indicated to him that this was the tenth floor. If he could get to those two on the 12th floor first, he'd have twice as much help in rescuing whomever resided in the basement.
The turtle bounded up the ladder rungs at first, but started to slow. His muscles began to strain and prickle oddly, and all wounds including the arm and minor ones from the beating the Foot offered earlier throbbed mercilessly. Breathing became difficult with his head swimming for consciousness. The sedatives were kicking back in! When he realized this, a foot slipped and he clung to a single rung with two hands. He dangled in the darkness, not able to conjure enough strength to lift himself back up. Before too long, Don's arms gave out. The black shaft swallowed him noiselessly.