I'm doing my damndest to keep updates frequent. Reviews help me do so, hint hint. Fair warning, graphic stuff ahead. Nope, they're still not mine. Dangit. (Thanks, Willowfly, for catching my error here)

Donatello opened his eyes and stared at blinding light above him, at the ceiling that was so white it seemed to suck in all the colors of the room. The single light cast eerie shadows on the walls, illuminating a room full of ominous looking medical equipment. He was lying on a slab, the cold metal leeching the warmth from his bones.

The sound of footsteps against the tile floor drew his attention and he moved to sit up, to reach for a weapon, but his body wouldn't respond. He looked down and saw that his hands and ankles were strapped to the table, bound so tightly that the circulation to his hands was cut off, turning his fingers an ugly dark color.

He began to struggle against the bonds, thrashing and pulling, but was shocked into stillness as a face came into view. It was the leering face of Bishop, who was eyeing him with sinister glee. "Don't be afraid." Don's heart skipped a beat and he swallowed down a wave of nausea as he felt Bishop's hand caress his cheek.

"I'm trying to help you." Bishop's touch was soft, almost sensual, as it traced down Don's cheek to his throat and brushed against his pulse point.

Then the touch disappeared and Don lifted his head again, frantically looking for Bishop, searching for escape. There came the clatter of metal on metal, of surgical instruments on a tray, and then Bishop drifted back into view, scalpel in hand. His fingers grazed the skin of Don's throat like a lover's touch, but Don felt only the coldness of death.

"It's going to be all right." The scalpel bit into Don's flesh, tracing a line in crimson blood across his throat. Don bit down around a groan, feeling more rage than pain, and he pulled again at the straps that held his wrists, his biceps straining.

"Don't be afraid," soothed Bishop again, drawing the scalpel across Don's flesh a second time, deeper this time. With those words, he laid down the blade and placed his hands on Don's bleeding skin. "Everything will be fine." With icy fingers, he grasped the edges of the incision and pulled with all his strength, tearing the flesh and sending a well of blood pouring from the wound.

"Think of all the lives you'll save…"

Don arched his back against the agony of it, breath coming in panting gasps, hands squeezed into white-knuckled fists.

"Your sacrifice could help millions…"

The well of blood grew to a fountain, splashing on the table and the floor in loud, sickening splats.

"You should be so proud…"

Bishop dug still further into the wound and Don could feel him wrenching at his insides, exploring, yanking, tearing. His legs began to spasm in a palsy of pain and shock, his heels drumming against the table.

"You should be thankful that you can teach us so much…"

Don wanted to call out for help. But he could only scream.

"You will be a hero…"

Why wouldn't his brothers come? Where were his brothers?

Don woke with a strangled scream, the dream strobing in his brain. He tried to flail out against the memory of it, to grasp his throat, seal his wounds, but his hands were still bound tightly to the table. He shut his eyes, trying to slow his breath, to still his hammering heart. Was it a dream? Hot tears burned the backs of his eyelids, filled his head with heat. Fear clutched like a steel band around his stomach.

"Finally awake?"

Donatello's breath caught in his throat at the voice and he snapped his eyes open, putting on a blank mask, hiding his fears. Bishop's face swam into view, hovering just within Don's line of sight. "I'm glad to see you conscious. I had started to wonder if you were ever going to come to." Bishop pulled a stool up to the table. He dropped to a seat and crossed his arms over his chest. "It's so very difficult to gauge the research if you're not awake to tell us how you're feeling."

Anger boiled in Don's chest, and he managed to summon enough strength to send a mouthful of spit in Bishop's general direction. He heard Bishop jerk back and send the stool clattering to the floor. A grim smile slashed across Don's face. "Glad to help, you son of a bitch."

Bishop's strong hand suddenly latched onto Don's throat, cutting off his air. He pushed his face into Don's, snarling with hatred. "You should feel lucky that I didn't kill you outright, you freak." He seemed to catch himself, to strive for control, and his grip loosened. Don sucked in a strangled breath.

"Well, why don't you do it? Do us both a favor." Don's voice dropped to a low growl, filled with every ounce of spite he could muster. "I'd rather die than help you." It's nothing less than what I deserve.

"That can be arranged." Cold control had returned to Bishop's voice. "But don't think that you'll get off that easily. Whether you cooperate or not, I'll find the answers. I'll extract them from your beating heart if I have to." He leaned back over Don, forcing him to meet his gaze. "And then I'll use what I learn to find your brothers. And I'll learn even more from them. Don't think that you're so special. You're just the first in line."

Don tried to lash out, to fight, bucking against his straps. He would have torn Bishop's throat out with his teeth if he could, such was his rage. "You lay a finger on them and I'll drink your blood!" he screamed. "I'll make you suffer, you bastard!" He writhed, struggling against his bonds, wanting nothing more than to close his fingers around Bishop's throat. He heard the hum of electricity, knew what was coming, but his anger left no room for fear. "If you touch my brothers I'll kill you! I will kill you all!"

The pain cut his voice dead in his throat, a soundless scream wracking his body. But down deep inside him, where Don's soul lived, he was suddenly glad that it was he rather than one of his brothers. He would swallow this torture down, soak it in like a sponge, if only it could keep his family safe.