Donatello was exhausted. He hadn't slept in a long time — how many days had he been here? — and had spent much of that time fighting the paralytic with all his strength. His muscles refused to move except for small twitches and quivers, and those small struggles led to painful spasms rippling through his body. He didn't let the pain stop him; he fought through it, as he had fought through… through…

He didn't want to think about what Racer had done to him. But it was always there — a throbbing, dull pain in the core of his body, forcing him to remember. How vulnerable he had been, how weak he had felt… the feeling of Racer's body pressed against his carapace, the heavy hot breaths in his ear, the scraping painful thrusts —

He gritted his teeth and tried to force the thoughts out of his head. There would be time for him to think about this later — someday — but there wasn't now. The mysterious client who had ordered his capture was coming for him now, meaning that soon he would be dead or taken from here. And April would be left alone, at the Dragons' mercy…

April. He felt her arms tightly wound around him, her head resting against his shoulder. She hadn't moved since Dragon Face had made his announcement about the client's impending arrival, clinging desperately to Don like ivy entwining a young sapling. Her fingers dug into his flesh, and her warm breath washed against his throat. But she also didn't look him in the face any longer, keeping her eyes fixed on the ground. As if she couldn't bear the sight of him.

Suddenly Don's memories were filled with her soft, slender body pressed against his plastron, her hands caressing him all over, her lips pressed against his as she whispered words of comfort to blot out the jeers of the Dragons… he shut his eyes, feeling pain lancing through him again. He knew that she hadn't wanted it, that Racer had made her do it. The pain in her tear-filled eyes as she had mated with him still wrenched at his soul.

With an effort, he managed to raise his head, and look at the outside of his cell. Dragon Face was leaning against the bars, his face grim. Racer was staring straight at Don — or perhaps at April — with a sullen expression. And the other Dragons were milling around uneasily, their eyes flicking around as they uncertainly waited for the client. They seemed not to know where he was coming from, or where he might appear.

Then a cold breeze seemed to blow through the room, carrying with it the smell of dead, crumbling leaves. The naked lightbulb overhead seemed to grow dim and flicker.

Then he saw them — two clots of darkness pooled on the floor outside the cell. Slowly they began to flow upwards like smoke pouring from a smoldering fire, filling out into shrouded figures that loomed high above the shivering Dragons. They were forming into tall, skeletally thin shadow figures. Figures without faces.

The same as the figure Don had seen in front of the Battle Shell.

Don stiffened, a strangled gasp coming from his throat. Beside him, April jerked suddenly as if someone had poked her with something sharp. She was staring wide-eyed at the specters, with the same look of terrified recognition that Don suspected he had on his own face.

Then a swirl of blue energy appeared on the concrete wall facing the cell, growing larger and more intense with every passing second. In less than a minute, it had expanded to the size of a door, and stretched from the floor to the water-stained ceiling.

Don raised his head with an effort — his neck muscles were still stiff — and grunted softly as he saw the energy portal. He could feel April's fingers clutching his hand, and all he could do was hold her hand back, trembling slightly as he did so.

A faint shadow appeared in the center of the portal, growing darker and clearer as it approached, until a tall, thin figure stepped out into the dank room. He had a stark, bony face with a narrow beard trimmed close to his face, and eyes like black pebbles. His heavy brocaded robe swished the ground around his feet, with many tiny copper amulets tinkling gently from where they had been sewn into the sleeves. Around his neck was another amulet of smoky glass and obsidian, which glittered slightly in the dimmed light.

Another tremor passed through Donatello's body as he tried to look more closely at the man. This was the mysterious person who had hired the Purple Dragons to capture him and his brothers? He had been expecting someone like the Shredder, or some other enemy that the Turtles had made during their various adventures. Someone he knew.

But he had never seen this man before in his life. And he was sure that he would have remembered him — the cold, penetrating eyes and gaunt, high-boned face were very striking.

The robed man slowly turned towards the Purple Dragons. "Dragon Face," he said in a deep, rolling voice. "I have returned at the appointed time."

Dragon Face stepped forward. His face was unusually pale, and his tattoo stood out starkly. "Yeah, Sarkis," he said.

"Baron Sarkis, please," the robed man said . "You have the mutant turtles I contracted you to capture?"

"We got one of 'em," Racer said confidently.

Sarkis' dark eyes narrowed. "One of them," he said.

"We're going to get the other three soon," Dragon Face said quickly. "They'll come looking for this one, and we'll catch 'em then."

"That was not our agreement," Sarkis said.

"You didn't give us a time limit," the Dragon said. "We're gonna get them all for you. Soon."

The robed man was silent for a moment, but eventually nodded. "Show me the Turtle," he commanded.

Don closed his eyes. He was tired. So tired. He didn't want to fight anymore — he just wanted to let his aching body melt into the floor and slip into unconsciousness. But as rough hands suddenly seized his arms, yanking him off the mattress, he still grunted and tried desperately to brace himself against them. A spasm traveled up his rigid spine, and his legs moved limply under him like pieces of meat as he was dragged onto the floor.

"No!" he heard April cry, and felt her fingers being pried off his shell. Then other hands — hands with thick fingers and torn nails — seized his biceps and hauled him up onto his knees. One more hand grabbed the back of his neck and yanked his head back. His eyes fluttered open on reflex, and he found himself staring up into the cold, pebble-like eyes of Sarkis.

"Take a look," Racer said smugly. "Just what you asked for. Still alive, though we roughed him up a little." His smile was as long and sharp as a newly-sharpened sword.

Sarkis looked down thoughtfully at the Turtle, stroking his thin beard with a long forefinger.

"So this is the mutant turtle?" he said slowly.

"One of them," Dragon Face said.

The sorcerer moved closer to Don, and his two shadowy attendants moved with him. Don gritted his teeth as their cold presence seemed to leech the warmth from his skin, leaving a numb chill that bit into his body like a lungful of frosty air. They were even more unnerving close-up, with their faceless heads looming over him, and their smoky immaterial bodies billowing like pillars of smoke.

But even colder was Sarkis' gaze, his piercing eyes staring straight into Don's. The Turtle felt naked and exposed, as though he had been stripped of his belt and pads and left staked to the ground in a field. Sarkis examined his features carefully, as if memorizing every one, then placed his long cold fingers on his face and turned it slowly from side to side.

Then his gaze moved down to Donatello's body, tracing over his muscled arms and legs, his broad shoulders, the heavy shell on his back. Don felt every piercing look as if it were Sarkis' cold hands poking at him, and they made him shudder slightly, as far as his body could.

Finally Sarkis straightened, and his black eyes became even colder. He swung around to stare at Dragon Face.

"This isn't the right one," he announced.