His eyes blinked open sleepily and saw nothing but blurred shadows.
He remained still for a while, eyes staring half-lidded at the floor, the cogs in his mind just barely turning with rickety jerks. He was tempted to go back to sleep and very briefly allowed it, head rolling over to the side.
But his mind didn't want to sleep anymore, now that it had been prodded awake. It never did. And sometimes he hated it for that.
Just relax for a minute, he whined, hoping frailly that it would listen for once. Just let me sleep.
But it wouldn't. It kept trying to tell him something was wrong.
His muscles ached and his nerves throbbed and twitched with a dysfunctional temper, running signals up to his brain with red flags.
What's wrong with you? he asked himself. He wasn't all that surprised by the discomfort actually. His body hadn't been healthily operational for months and often decided it would be sore and tired and nauseous whenever the heck it wanted to be. Stupid infection ruined everything ... Which was why it made more sense to sleep longer—just a little bit longer. But his mind said no, and it always had the final say. He might as well get up and take something for pain then.
He opened his eyes again and rolled his head back around, now staring at an unfamiliar door across an unfamiliar room. His brow furrowed.
Come to think of it, this wasn't his bed he was on either. And it was quite uncomfortable lying … upright?
He tried pushing away from the thing, whatever he was on—a flat top of sorts—but he was jerked to a stop.
He blinked, confused, and looked down at his wrists, both of which were secured down by metal straps.
His heart started beating an erratic rhythm as he tried to pull his hands out of the restraints. He couldn't lift his feet either.
His breathing became disjointed and his head dizzy. He fought harder to free himself, but even as he tried, he knew it was useless.
He continued to wiggle and tug, his eyes burning at the corners.
"No," he moaned, head shaking. "No, no, no, no, no, please no …"
He looked up and peered through the shadows, glancing around until his eyes rested on a table in the middle of the room. On it lay his holster, bo staff, T-phone, and belt, all dormant and waiting for him to retrieve them and run home.
He struggled with urgency now, as though by willing his weapons to come to him, they'd magically appear on his person and he'd be free to escape.
His wrists and ankles were starting to hurt, irritated by the metal rubbing against his skin, and it only worsened the more he squirmed, but he couldn't bring himself to stop trying.
"You are wasting your time."
Donatello stilled and snapped his eyes over toward the corner where the voice slithered out of the darkness.
He saw nothing, but it was there. He knew that voice.
A white light erupted throughout the room and he squeezed his eyes shut, head pounding from the disturbance. When he squinted them open again, he could just make out a figure coming toward him, and as his eyes adjusted, the silhouette sharpened and turned into the Shredder who stopped by the edge of the table.
Donnie clenched his fists, though he doubted that would keep them from shaking. He just hoped the Shredder wouldn't notice. He tried to keep his expression calm, not to let his breathing get out of hand, but he was sure he failed epically on all accounts.
For a moment, nothing happened. Shredder simply watched at him, his expression a mystery. He might have been staring calmly, but then again Donnie wasn't sure he could ever imagine the Foot clan's leader going two minutes without a scowl.
As the silence pressed in on them, Donnie found himself growing more lightheaded and was sure he'd either vomit or pass out soon. But Shredder moved before that could happen, and he picked up Donatello's weapon.
"A bō staff," he said, his voice lingering through the air with no note of emotion whatsoever. He examined the wooden stick as though it was something very interesting to him. "Such a simple weapon for someone supposedly so intelligent."
The naginata blade popped out of the end of the staff, and the Shredder looked back to Donatello.
He spun the bō in a blurred circle and slammed the blade down through the screen of his T-phone and into the surface of the table. Donnie jumped, cringing at the sound of cracking glass and plastic. He forced his muscles to tense, begging them not to move and give his fear away.
He watched as Shredder's fingers poked their way through his belt and pulled out a smoke bomb. He held it up to the light and turned it slowly.
"So rudimentary."
An explosion of purple and black smoke filled the room.
Donnie held his breath, eyes darting around, trying to find the blade-coated figure again.
He nearly shrieked when Shredder appeared just behind him. Instead, his surprise came out as a tiny hiccup, and he could feel himself trying to shrink into his shell as the Shredder walked calmly out in front of him, now inspecting a throwing star.
"Do you make these yourself as well?"
Donatello did not respond.
"The crest of the Hamato clan," Shredder said, passing his thumb over the embroidered flower. "This is what led me to this godforsaken city in the first place—how I knew Hamato Yoshi was still alive."
He turned his eyes down on Donatello who forced his shiver of disgust to stay in his chest. He stared back, eyes probably wider than he meant for them to be, probably as visibly frightened as the Shredder wanted.
"You do not look like you are more intelligent than the imbeciles I have available to me. How old are you? Sixteen? Still only a child."
He paced a couple of feet to the right, never moving his eyes from Donatello's. "But as I'm sure you know by now, my men are all shambling buffoons and hardly of any use to me—with the exception of Tigerclaw maybe. But even he can't seem to eradicate my growing pest problem. Obviously, here you are, and your brothers and that rat you call a father are still hiding beneath the streets like bugs. But I keep my servants around because I need the muscle. Stockman has been trying my patience and I would have been rid of him long ago if he did not provide me with some of the information I need … Apparently, you know how to create a successful retro-mutagen."
Donnie tried to swallow. His throat was too dry.
Shredder rolled his shoulders back and a cloak of demand seemed to drape over his figure. "I will only ask you once. And I suggest you carefully consider your answer before you give it to me. To disagree will force me to take further drastic actions, and I assure you, that is not something you are going to want. I need that retro-mutagen, and I need you to make it for me. I will allow you once to voluntarily agree to do so. What is your answer?"
Donnie clenched his back teeth. He stared into the Shredder's eyes as firmly as he knew how.
He said nothing.
Oroku Saki's milky, blind eye gave an involuntary twitch, and the only thing Donatello knew next was pain.
The Shredder flew forward faster than he could comprehend and stabbed the point of his own shuriken into his arm. The pain that shot up through his shoulder unlocked his throat. He screamed, and uselessly tried to escape.
"Silence is not an acceptable answer," Shredder said, raising his voice over Donnie's cries. He twisted the shuriken deeper into his arm, carving through the strained threads of muscle and puncturing a vein that spewed blood down his forearm.
He still tried to tug his hand free, probably only inviting the point deeper. A tear broke free without his permission and slid its way down his cheek. His ears began to ring. He barely heard Shredder barking at him to respond. And then the man's five-fingered hand was around his throat, squeezing the air from it with a grip that tightened with every choke that Donnie made.
"What is your answer?" Shredder said, dragging the tip of the star up his arm, ripping his skin apart.
Donnie allowed himself a sob, though his voice was strained now. His wrists twisted, trying absently to get a hold of the threat and push it away. But he was useless to himself at the moment.
"I am growing impatient," Shredder growled. "I will have no more of your childish whining. No one can hear you. Your brothers are far away from here. They have no idea where you are. The more you struggle, the more you will suffer. Give me an answer and I will make the pain stop."
Donnie turned his eyes on his father's greatest enemy and, just like that, he grew quiet—as though the Shredder's haunting features cast a spell over his voice, silencing him with his dominant glare.
He sniffed and tried to swallow past the Shredder's grip.
"What is your answer?"
Donnie forced as much resolve into his voice as possible when he opened his mouth and choked out a "No."
The Shredder's glare tightened, but that was all it did. He released his grip on the turtle's throat and yanked the shuriken out of his arm.
Donnie gasped and blinked rapidly as his vision went out of focus.
"Very well," Shredder said. And with that, he turned on his heel and stalked out of the room, shutting off the light on his way out and encasing the young turtle in darkness.
Donatello knew he should have worried, knew he should have feared what the Shredder was going to do next, should have been alarmed by how easily he'd walked away. But all he could do now was tremble violently as he peeked down at his injured arm.
All there was to see was blood that gushed copiously from his bicep and drained down his forearm to turn his fingers sticky. The metallic stench of it burned his nose and he gagged and turned his face away, squeezing his eyes shut.
Maybe when he opened them again he'd be home. Maybe it will have all turned out to be a horrible dream.
His lip trembled. A surge of bile rushed up his throat, but he pressed his tongue against the roof of his mouth and refused to let it out. He wouldn't lose any more dignity today, not as far as he could help it.
But somehow, even the thought of staying strong seemed to take every bit of vigor out of him. Somewhere along the line he stopped resisting his restraints and reverted back to wishing for more sleep.
It was so silent in the room. Normally, he'd give up an arm for this level of quiet. Now, however, didn't seem like a very fair time for irony.
His throat tightened as he watched the shadows blur out of focus again. For one fleeting moment, he could almost convince himself that he was staring at Splinter's silhouette hovering in the corner of the room with his hands behind his back.
"Daddy?" he whispered into the shadows, observing as the shadows shifted into a younger version of himself peeking through the painted screens that separated his father's room from the dojo.
"Donatello?" Splinter said after opening an eye. He was sitting on his mat, legs crossed, back straight, surrounded by guardian candles that fought the darkness away. "What are you doing awake?"
"I couldn't sleep," Donnie whispered, ducking back behind the screen.
Splinter gestured for him to enter and Donatello scrambled over to him, climbing up into his lap. He allowed his father to fold his arms around him.
"Did you have a nightmare?"
The young turtle shook his head. "No … Daddy?"
"Call me Sensei, Donatello," Splinter said, brushing a hand over his head.
"Oh. Sensei?"
"Yes, musuko?"
"What does dying feel like?"
Silence flickered through the room.
Splinter ran a hand down the length of Donatello's tiny arm. The little turtle glanced up at his face and saw him staring straight ahead. Donnie nuzzled closer to his father's chest and let his eyes fall to the flames of the candles.
"Why do you ask, my son?" Splinter said finally, his voice quiet.
"I just want to know." Donnie shrugged. "So that when I die, I won't be scared."
Splinter shifted stiffly. "Who said that you were going to die?"
"Everybody dies. Don't they, Da—I mean, Sensei? I was reading a book that said, 'Death is Life's fraternal twin.' That means that they always go together. There can't be one without the other, right? They're inter…inter…"
"Interdependent?"
"Yeah, that's what it said. It means they depend on each other doesn't it?"
Splinter reached up and stroked his beard. "I suppose that is true. What book was this did you say?"
Donnie looked down at his lap bashfully. "Oh. Just a book I found."
"Maybe you should show me this book in the morning."
"Okay ... But what does it feel like?" he asked again, looking up at his father with round eyes.
Splinter sighed. "I do not know the answer, musuko. I have never died. But as far as I know, death itself brings about no pain. It is like falling asleep."
"Oh. Then why don't we die when we fall asleep?"
"Because our bodies keep us alive. Even when we are not conscious, our hearts continue to beat on their own, our lungs continue to breathe."
"But some people die in their sleep don't they?"
"Donatello ..." Splinter turned his son around so that they were facing one another. "Are you worried that you will die?"
Donnie pursed his lips and looked away again, his cheeks becoming very warm. He twisted his fingers together. "I just want to be prepared."
"Musuko," Splinter said gently, tilting up his chin. "As long as you are here with me, nothing will ever harm you. I promise you that. Hai?"
Donnie nodded and Splinter smiled. He kissed his son on the forehead and stood him on his feet. "Now, go to sleep."
"Hai, Sensei." Donnie began to walk away and turned again once he reached the divider. "Sensei?"
"Yes?"
"Why don't you want us to call you Daddy anymore?"
Splinter's brow became furrowed, as though this question disturbed him. For a moment even, he looked confused. "Because I am your teacher now," he said carefully. "And when you are a student studying under a master of martial arts, it is respectful to refer to your teacher as Sensei."
"Oh." Donatello nodded. He looked down at his feet and shuffled them. "But you're still our daddy … right?"
He looked back up and his father was smiling again. "Of course, musuko. I always will be."
Donatello blinked, involuntarily granting permission to another tear that made its way down his cheek. He swallowed past the knot in his throat and ached to wipe his face. The pain in his arm was searing, to the point of numbness. He curled his fingers, just to make sure he could still move them.
His eyes glanced across the room toward the door again which sealed him away from the world outside, from his brothers and his sister, April and his father.
"I should have listened to you," he whispered, narrowing his eyes as they blurred over. He rested his head back and prayed that sleep would steal him away. "I'm sorry, Sensei."