Thanks to all reviewers...it's so cool to be reviewed by people whose TMNT fics I count among some of my favorites. Thank you!
For a millisecond there wasn't anything but pain. Normally his brain was able to filter out physical pain and allow him to function despite it. That was the way of the Ninja. Will. Control. Focus. But this was an all-encompassing, brain-searing, intestine-wrenching pain, and at the first shock of it there was no thought, there was only agony. But when a groan forced its way through his gritted teeth and he caught his breath in a gasp, his brain cleared enough to remember what was happening.
Bishop. Donatello couldn't see the man but could hear his voice, faintly, over the buzzing in his ears. He wriggled once, pulling at the straps that pinned his wrists to an icy metal table, but the leather bonds were too strong. His hands dropped back to the table and he shut his eyes, concentrating instead on just catching his breath. He was surrounded by medical equipment, measuring his heart-rate, his respiration, his temperature. The steady tones of the machines provided a harmony to the sound of his own harsh breathing.
But then another wave of pain, excruciating, slammed his head back against the unforgiving steel, and over the pounding of his own heartbeat he heard himself moan, cry out for his father.
Splinter!
His foggy brain heard himself begging, crying. Weakling, his mind screamed, don't you show him fear!
Like a child again, begging for help, for salvation, while his tormenters looked on. He heard Bishop give a low chuckle, far off. Gleeful. Gloating. Enjoying his pain. Enjoying the humiliation of his enemy groveling, writhing.
Pain like fire slashed at him, like knives of flame and acid tearing apart his insides, wrenching from him another near-scream. Blood like a river, gushing from his chest, from his mouth, spilling onto the floor with audible splashes. More blood than anyone should ever lose. He gave a small sob, then a choking gurgle as the blood in his throat stopped his breath for a moment, hot and tasting of iron, like fear sometimes tastes. Another gurgle, then the hot blood rolled down his chin, painting his skin with warrior stripes.
As the agony receded for a moment, a horrible thought suddenly struck Don. Please don't let this be what April felt…
A fuzzy shape swam into his vision and he blinked, forcing his eyes to focus. Bishop was leaning over him, eyebrow cocked with curiosity. "How are you feeling?" Donatello did not reply, only shut his eyes and turned his face to the side, spitting out another mouthful of blood. Bishop gave a huff of exasperation. "I would think that you, of all of your family, would understand the importance of what we're doing here, and how much we need your cooperation." Bishop hooked a rolling stool with his toe and pulled it up, sitting down and leaning closer to Don. "So how would you rate that pain, on a scale of one to ten?" He stared down, waiting in silence for an answer.
"Why are you doing this?" Don's voice was a raw whisper, and he hated the weakness he heard in it.
"For the betterment of man, Donatello." Bishop's eyes suddenly glinted with a strange light. "Imagine soldiers impervious to pain, faster and stronger than the enemy. Super-intelligent scientists able to create new and better ways to protect the country. Doctors able to grow new limbs for amputees. If we can isolate what it is that made you, we can manipulate it, improve it. There are no limits to what we could do."
"How long…" Don's voice hitched in his chest and he swallowed hard. "How long are you going to keep chasing this pipe dream, Bishop? The mutagen is gone. Didn't you learn your lesson before? How many monsters will you set loose on the city before you finally get it?"
"Stockman was a fool. His smug self-satisfaction colored his research, and his own ambitions were dangerous. We will not make the same mistakes twice." Bishop stood, kicking the stool backward. "I take no pleasure in this, Donatello, I assure you. I only hope that you can find comfort in the fact that your pain will help to protect future generations."
Don heard footsteps receding and he craned his neck, trying to see where Bishop had gone. But he was too soon distracted by an ominous, growing hum, the sound of electricity coursing through lines, and then a spasm of pain wracked him, drawing a gasp and a groan.
He wanted to call out for his brothers, to gather his strength and reach out for them on the astral plane, but he couldn't concentrate. He needed his brothers. Needed them both now more than ever before, but he was weak. Weak, just like always.
Donatello let out a convulsive cough, and a wet spray of blood issued from his throat, spattering his chin. The tangy iron taste in his mouth brought a hot slick of tears to his eyes and he closed them, unwilling to let Bishop see his emotion.
A flaring heat began to build in his chest, an unbearable, searing flame, until he thought he would die from the pain of it. He stifled a scream, the little bit of Don that still lived in his mind forbidding him to cry out. Instead he bit down on his lower lip, feeling blood spurt fresh from his mouth.
Searing flashes of white light blazed across his vision, and he was blind to everything but the pain. He bit down on his tongue, trying to swallow a scream, but all he ended up swallowing was blood. Every muscle in his body was on fire, cramping and seizing against the electricity Bishop was shooting into him. It felt as though his eyes had melted in their sockets and were running, thick and hot, down his face. And then that Donatello realized that they were tears.
And still the pain went on. On and on for what seemed like hours, interrupted only by Bishop's interrogations. How bad is the pain? What does it feel like? Tell me your secrets, and I can stop all this. It had become clear that Bishop was willing to take Don apart, muscle by muscle, sinew by sinew, to find what he was looking for.
He was too weak now to even cry out. He choked again on the blood in his mouth, and he felt himself grimace, tears leaking out of the corners of his eyes. Darkness began to creep in from the edges of his vision, unconsciousness coming to save him from the pain and the horror of smelling his own burning flesh, and Donatello wasn't so sure he didn't welcome the dark.