Raphael's viewpoint:

Dying must suck. I don't think it's anything like those cheesy movie endings, where the hero gently breathes his last in the arms of his beloved, and he's quietly ushered into the happily ever after, leaving behind a bunch of blubbering idiots and a sad, but worthy exit.

That sure as hell won't be my ending. How could it be? Whenever I felt poetic enough, I always thought my bucket-kicking would involve bleeding out in a street somewhere, with a bloody wound to my gut, and the only witness being a streetlight, an alley cat, and the Almighty.

Nope, none of that deathbed bullshit for me, thank you.

So, when awareness finally slithered back for me to finally wake up enough to realize that I wasn't dead, I was still too woozy and out of it to really figure out where I was, or what had happened to me while I was out.

My mouth.

I couldn't open it. I couldn't scream, or snarl, or anything, and my jaws felt as if somebody had slathered them over in concrete, and it took way too long for me to open them. Panicking now, I forced my eyes open, and could see something that looked like a damn muzzle strapped over my beak. It was a metal cage looking thing, that held my jaws together so tight that I could only grunt. After all the things that I had been through, it seemed like a minor, stupid thing to lose it over,but I found myself snarling in rage and banging my head against that table, or trying hard to rub against the strap in the hope that the damn thing would open somehow. All my little tantrum accomplished was a massive headache, and even more anger and fear. I breathed out a shaking breath, and forced myself to cool it, while I tried to piece together what had happened. I found myself staring dumbly at a shiny metal ceiling, with bright, glaring bulbs, and white walls. I felt the straps-thick, leather, ugly and buckled over my wrists and ankles and plastron. I could feel the cold metal table underneath me, and I shuddered. It felt exactly like one of those metal things I've seen in those stupid crime shows, where they autopsy the body. That was definitely not a pleasant thought.

I snarled and tried to rip them off, but they were so strong and tight that I couldn't even raise them off the table. I couldn't move. I was helpless.

You know what sucks about being strapped down in a strange room? It's not the fear, or the endless crawl of hours, or the terror of wondering what the hell is going to happen next. It's the thoughts. I didn't have much to do besides think. And for me, thinking is bad, because it leads me to dark places that I can't really escape. And, if there's one thing that I have learned, the only thing worse than a physical prison is the one you construct and carry around in your own head. And, yes, right now, the prison cell was clanging shut.

I tried to scrape together enough memory and thought to remember what the hell had happened to me, and how long I had been out. The last thing I remember was that bitch shoving that needle full of God knows what into my veins, and her nasty hands rubbing my forehead like I was a scared little kid as I finally went to la la land. I remembered that dark, strangling sense of falling, and the terror being smothered by the shot…it was horrible.

I didn't have too long to think about it, or what happened to my brothers and father, or where the hell I was because I heard a click in a lock and I jerked my head around to hear a door being opened, and human footsteps, way too many of them, come marching into the room. I could see that they were all wearing what looked like nursing scrubs, and face masks, and I didn't know if it was for the intimidation factor, or the idea that they could catch a disease from me. What really scared me though, was when I looked into their eyes. From the encounters that I have had with people over the years, I get a lot of reactions, ranging from pants-pissing terror, disgust, maybe a bit of awe, but at least something.

These people were staring down at me as if I were a cockroach to be smashed, or more likely, a thing to cut open and study. They weren't looking at me like I was a monster. They were looking at me like they owned me.

It was terrifying. I flinched when I felt somebody put a gloved hand over my muzzle and tap it to make sure that it wouldn't come off. I snatched my head away with a growl, and I saw him recoil and back away. I glared at them, but they started yapping in front of me as if I wasn't there at all.

"Careful. Look at the size of that thing's teeth. You wouldn't want to lose a finger."

"Should we bring in the other one now?"

"Might as well. The other one is still recovering from the effects of the exploratory surgery."

"Is the other one restrained as well?"

"Restrained, and mildly sedated as a precaution. The blue one got rather violent when we attempted to remove him from the holding cell after the second time. Apparently, it wasn't very keen on going to surgery. We've found it to be safer to just dart him first, let the sedative knock him out, and then move him."

"And the red one here?"

"Apparently, this one was injured when he was extracted. Even when he was wounded, he put up a hell of a fight before we finally got him here. And, he's still injured. We've had to watch him, but he seems to be mending. He's in much better shape than when we found him, certainly."

"Should we bring the blue one in, then?"

"Go ahead."

And with that nasty exchange, the humans proceeded to wheel the limp and butchered body of the brother that I had lost, I had hated, I had loved, and I had honestly thought was dead.

I couldn't hold back the bewildered whimper that somehow escaped my clenched jaws, or the hollow, cannonball-sized ache that came to rest in my heart, my throat and my gut when I saw Leo.

They had him sprawled and strapped down on a gurney, with tubes and needles trailing from an IV pole, where some liquid was dripping into his veins. He was so still, I couldn't tell if he was drugged, or dead.

I stared at him, bewildered. What in the hell had they done to him?

His hands were dangling from the edge of the table, fingers flopping into the empty air, and his feet were slack, and I could see from the odd tilt of his neck that he was either really, really out of it, or I was looking at his body.

I saw his face. His eyes were shut, and his mouth was open, and I nearly cried when I saw the slow, steady rise of his plastron.

His plastron…I could see the perfectly carved out places, the weird glue they had used to put his plastron back together after they had cut into him. It looked like he had been sawed open. I could see the pieces, neatly assembled back like puzzle pieces, the scars that were precise little lines, that went from the top of his chest to the bottom of his rib cage. There were huge, dark lines at his side, where they must have cut first, when they were digging around inside him.

I felt so shocked that I was shaking, and I couldn't help what happened next. I whimpered and vomited all over my little metal mouth cage, and I choked.