He never realized how much he appreciated time, or, more specifically, the gift of knowing time.

He thought of the broken clock in his lab and the way it always taunted him by stopping time whenever it felt the urge to, playing games with him, pushing him to see how much he could really tolerate it (kind of like Mikey would). There had been so many times he'd thought of trashing the thing, gutting out his parts to use for something a little less temperamental. But for whatever reason, he never had. And now, he'd give anything to have that clock in front of him.

There was no way to tell how long he'd been there. He'd tried counting the seconds, got as far as 16207, which was around four and a half hours give or take. But he knew he'd been cooped up in the shadows of the same room, strapped to the same table, lightheaded, nauseous, and dehydrated for much much longer than that.

When he'd woken the first time after Shredder's visit, it had been with a heavy arm cocooned so tightly in a strip of gauze that he could barely feel his fingers. It turned his stomach to think that someone—probably Baxter Flyface—had sutured his wound while he was unconscious. And why hadn't he felt it?

Since then, he'd been in and out of sleep. Because that and counting were the only things he had to keep him occupied. Otherwise, his mind would roam to places he didn't want it to be, like to the Shredder for instance, and what he was planning, because he hadn't come back once since Donnie had refused his demand the first time.

Or, if he wasn't panicking, he was noticing himself wither away, which was maybe twice as frightening and might have been a mental issue more than a physical one. He probably wasn't as thirsty as he thought he was, even though he could hardly swallow and he couldn't get his tongue to unstick from the roof of his mouth. And he probably hadn't lost as much blood as he feared he might have. Maybe it was the anxiety that was making him lightheaded. Maybe he was just stressing the nausea on himself.

Some water would have been nice though, and food of course. What he wouldn't give for a pizza right now. He'd even take a leftover slice of what was probably under Mikey's bed. Under-the-bed pizzas were one of Mikey's top ten favorite pizzas. He had a lot of those, suspiciously more than ten, as a matter of fact.

While Fishface had been begrudgingly bringing him a sip of rust-flavored pipe water maybe every five hours or so, Shredder's Motel apparently didn't provide room service, and he doubted said service would be very friendly if it did. But the hunger pains had been getting so bad over the past several hours that he allowed himself the tantalizing fantasy of screaming until Shredder came back with a cup of coffee and a slice of deep-dish pepperoni. Maybe they could barter. "Okay, Shredder, here's the deal. You give me a five-star, four-course meal with all the fixin's and I'll personally hand over the retro-mutagen to you in the year 3022. Take it or leave it."

He actually managed to get a smile from himself at that. He wondered what it would be like to eat a meal with Oroku Saki. What was his favorite food? Maybe he should ask. That'd be an interesting conversation. He looked like a pie person. He probably had cravings for something weird like rhubarb. What if he had his own garden somewhere in New York where he grew rhubarb bushes and banana trees and had his Footbots go and pick them during the summers?

Donnie giggled, and his voice bounced back to him across the empty room. His smile dropped when he heard it. Did he really sound that … weak?

He shuddered and squeezed his eyes shut, stretching out his neck as he hung his head. I am not weak.

"You're okay," he whispered to himself. "You're okay. It'll be over soon. Just keep it together for a little bit longer."

The door opened.

He turned his face away when the lights blazed on. His head swirled. It took a lot longer this time for his eyes to adjust, and when they did, his stomach clenched.

He stared across the room at Shredder who took up the entire doorway and just stood there with his hands balled at his sides.

Two Footbots crossed the room and released Donnie's restraints. He fell to his knees.

His first instinct was to run, barrel past the Shredder if he could, but his arms were shaking. He hardly had the strength to push himself to his feet.

The Footbots grabbed his biceps with iron grips and hauled him upright.

He kept a wary gaze on the Shredder who patiently waited for his minions to drag Donnie across the room before he turned with a chilling, "I have something I want to show you."

Donatello cringed, as though he could pull himself away from the Shredder's voice, but he was forced to stumble after it. And for the first time since he'd woken up in the Foot's clutches, he was allowed to leave the shadowed room and its empty, clock-less walls.

His eyes darted around the hallway, peeking into the rooms they passed, narrowing in confusion on the remnants of notices on billboards, peeling wallpaper, vacant reception desks, and the occasional dusty wheelchair or rusted gurney taking up space in the hallway.

So maybe he'd never been inside of one, but he'd watched enough Grey's Anatomy to recognize a hospital when he saw one.

His nausea intensified. His mind immediately jumped to needles, forceps, extractors, gags, probes …

He struggled against the Footbots who paid him no general mind.

His breathing quickened.

If Shredder was moving him out of the room, there was definitely something sinister up his sleeve. Donnie tried to calm himself, tried not to allow his quick-paced mind to bounce from one form of torture to another. He forgot about asking him what his favorite food was. Instead, his arm throbbed with the phantom pain of his last discussion with the Shredder. How much more torment was he planning to inflict? How far was he willing to risk damaging Donnie's body? How much did Donnie think Donnie could handle it?

He pressed his lips against a moan.

He wished he was with his brothers, with his sensei, at home, in his lab, researching chemiluminescence or something. So what if they fought? Who cared how loud they argued and how often they dragged him into their arguments? They were brothers. That's what happens when you have siblings; they fight and you fight with them. He'd take that back now—all of it. He didn't want to be here. He wanted to go home. He wanted to fight and argue with his brothers again.

But he held his tongue against begging the Shredder for such a thing. He could only shudder at the response he'd get.

Shredder traipsed down the halls with an intensive stride. It was amazing really how quiet his footfalls were for a man of his stature. The Footbots were just as silent, and Donnie staggered along with them, hardly even half as graceful, until they pushed him through a doorway and closed the door on both him and the Shredder.

Donnie straightened himself up and backed as far away from Oroku Saki as possible, a little baffled that they hadn't put him in more restraints until he realized that they didn't consider him a threat - not by himself.

His eyes darted around the room, searching for a way out, and his intestines twisted when his gaze passed over Tigerclaw standing in the far corner of the room, camouflaged by shadows. His cat eyes glinted at Donatello and a low growl cut the air in half.

Donnie tried to swallow.

"Come and look, turtle," Shredder said, gesturing to the window he was standing in front of.

Donnie hated himself for doing it, but he stepped up and peeked through the window, which allowed the view of another room that was much bigger and filled with Stockman-looking materials.

A door opened to this room. Baxter himself then hovered inside and behind him trudged Fishface and Rahzar holding between them a squirming Michelangelo.

Donnie's heart dropped into the pit of his stomach. "M-Mikey?"

"Lemme go!" Mikey grunted, pulling against the grips on his arms. "Don't make me go badass Mikey on you guys! I'll do it. You'll never see it comin'. One minute you're cutting off my circulation with your boney fingers, and then BAM! And your eye's gonna roll across the floor. And you—"

"Just shut up already." Fishface moaned. "Jesús! You've been smack talking the whole way here and haven't gotten away yet. I don't want to hear it."

Rahzar groaned to himself. "… so annoying."

Donnie's throat tightened. Mikey should not have been there. Where had they gotten him? Where were the others?

"Maybe I was just waiting to see where you'd take me. Huh? Ever thought about that?" Mikey said, still wiggling around with no success. "Now tell me what you did with my brother, before I really …" He grunted and growled, working his hardest, but Fishface and Rahzar were dragging him along like he was a teacup puppy on a leash.

Donnie didn't realize how close he'd gotten to the window until his breath fogged up the glass.

Fishface and Rahzar forced Mikey down onto a table much like the one they'd had Donnie on, and his limbs were strapped down. He continued to wiggle and squirm, but that got him nowhere. His two captors stepped away, and Baxter turned on a Bunsen burner sitting on the table next to Mikey.

"Let'z-z-z start off with something z-zimple."

Donnie's eyes widened, he snapped his gaze toward Shredder as though he was going to narrate what was about to happen, but the Shredder kept his eyes forward and unfeeling, hands now clasped behind him, shoulders back, breathing calmly.

Donnie looked back to his brother, his palms pressed against the glass as though it might somehow grant him permission to melt through to the other side.

"You don't scare me, Blockster," Mikey said with a sneer. "Just wait 'til my brothers get here."

Rahzar snickered in the corner. Fishface's lips turned up into a grin.

"Z-z-zorry to diz-zappoint you," Baxter buzzed. "But your brotherz-z aren't coming."

Stockman picked up a thick iron stake with a pair of tongs, and held it over the blue flame of the burner.

Donnie's chest tightened. "W-Wait …"

"Want to know where I found thiz-z-z?" Stockman said to a wide-eyed Mikey who watched the flame like it was gun pointed at his head.

The corner of his mouth trembled, but turned up nonetheless, and he coughed a laugh. "In the pile of horse shit you had for lunch?"

The fly ignored him and rotated the stake like he was roasting marshmallows over a campfire. It began to glow bright red.

"It waz-z-z s-sticking out of the ground just outz-zide." Stockman chuckled to himself. "I hav-ve no idea what it waz-z-z doing there."

Mikey forced himself to yawn. "That's a very interesting story, Stinkbug."

Donnie couldn't tell for sure, but it seemed that Baxter actually smiled. His eyes gleamed excitedly on the stake, which was now a radiant white-yellow color and emitting waves of heat.

"It'z-z Stockman."

He turned and floated over to Mikey with the stake, and whatever grin Mikey had managed before vanished.

"No, wait. Wait!" Donnie banged on the glass, but the fly did not appear to hear, nor did his brother. Donnie's eyes shot back toward Shredder who didn't move.

"Dude, that's hot," Mikey said, his voice trembling. His fists curled and twisted against the restraints as he tried to inch away from the approaching threat. "What're you doing?"

Donnie watched a dawn of fear flood his brother's blue eyes. All of the fake machismo vanished from his features in just a short second. He shook his head, eyes growing wider as the stake hovered over his shoulder.

"Wait," Mikey gasped. "Wait! Okay, Stockman, I'm sorry. I know your name. I was just messing with you. Can't we—m-make a truce or something? Stop! I'm serious. Back up. Back up!"

Donnie could never explain what happened to his insides when Mikey screamed. But for half a second, he was paralyzed with revulsion as he watched the point of the stake touch his brother's skin and slowly melt through his shoulder.

Mikey flailed, but the vigor behind it seemed involuntary this time. His body was trying to save itself because his mind had forgotten everything but pain.

Donnie's body shook, as though so mindful of said pain that he began to feel it himself. He finally found it in him to move and rushed back toward the door he'd come through. He yanked and pushed and twisted the handle, but it wouldn't budge. He rammed himself against it, kicked it, punched it, then gave up and ran back for the window. He threw his fist at the glass, but it only sent throbbing shots of pain up his arm.

He held back a whine and turned to grab a chair, but before he could throw it at the glass, it was snatched out of his hands. Tigerclaw seized the ridge of his shell and picked him up off the floor.

He kicked his feet.

"Stop! Please, stop it!" he shouted at the Shredder who didn't respond.

Still Mikey's screams divided the air in waves that made Donnie cringe. His throat tightened.

"Shredder, please," he begged, yelling over the horrific volume of his brother's suffering. "You don't have to do this!"

Shredder didn't appear to acknowledge him, but he did lean to his left and press a button on what looked like an intercom. "Stockman," he said, his voice echoing around the room on the other side of the glass.

Baxter pulled the stake away, and Mikey's gasp was immediately followed by unfiltered sobbing.

Donnie's eyes glanced toward him, which was a mistake. He couldn't see the wound very well, mostly because there was blood everywhere. But it was the tears on his little brother's face that made him hold his breath and look quickly away.

Shredder turned toward him. "Will you agree to make the retro-mutagen?"

It wasn't a question, but the Shredder expected an answer, and all Donnie could do was stare.

What a monster.

How vile, how evil, how disgusting of a man do you have to be to watch a child suffer and never bat an eye, to turn away from pain and anguish and demand recompense?

Donnie's brow furrowed with both fright and disgust. He wasn't even sure he was looking at a man.

Shredder's eyes tightened when he gave no response. He waited only a second longer before turning back to the intercom to press the button.

"Proceed."

Donnie flinched. "No!"

But Stockman had already reheated the stake, despite Mikey's desperate pleas, and stabbed it into the wound he'd already created.

Mikey's shriek sent a painful chill through Donnie's shell. He grimaced at the noise and covered his ears, unaware of the whimper that escaped him. His muscles ached to burst through the glass and punt Stockman to high heaven, but Tigerclaw wouldn't have any movement from him. He even yanked Donnie's hands away from his ears and forced him to face the window.

He watched his baby brother squirm against the table, watched his blood drip down to the floor, and could swear he already caught a whiff of burning flesh seeping into the room. His teeth clenched and his head shook on its own. He stomach threatened to push up a wave of vomit.

"Tasukete! Tasukete!" Mikey screamed.

Donnie's throat closed. He couldn't hear himself sobbing over his brother's cries. The ghost pain returned and he saw himself on that table, screaming, bleeding, aching for someone to appear and stop the pain.

He swallowed the bile that rushed up his throat.

"Yamete kudasai," he said, ripping himself away from Tigerclaw to face the Shredder, who again didn't acknowledge him. "Yamete kudasai!" he repeated. "Shredder, he's just a kid!"

Oroku Saki didn't even blink. Mikey's screech reached a pitch that made Donnie's whole body coil and before he realized what he was doing, he found himself on his knees at the Shredder's feet, clinging to the end of his cape with his eyes shut and his head low.

"Okay!" he bawled. "I'll do it. I'll do whatever you want …"

He wasn't sure he heard the screaming stop. It was still ringing viciously in the back of his mind and he was trembling too hard to notice much else.

"Please let him go," he whispered.

He could feel Shredder's eyes staring down at him, probably reveling in the fact that he was groveling on his knees. It made him sick, but he'd rather press his face into Shredder's boots than listen to his brother cry for help.

Donnie cringed when Shredder finally spoke. "Get up."

He put extra effort into swallowing then pressed his palms to the floor and gathered his breath before he shakily pushed himself to his feet. He could only tolerate staring up into Shredder's milky blind eye for half a second before he turned his face away and shivered as he watched his brother squint up at the ceiling, his expression warped with pain, tears still running down his freckled cheeks. He was trying not to look at his arm.

Donnie grimaced.

"Tigerclaw," Shredder said beside him. "Take the little kame downstairs."

Donatello snapped his head back around. "Please let him go," he begged. "He's not—"

"That is not a request you have room to make," Shredder said shortly, his expression blank as ever.

Donnie whipped his gaze back toward Tigerclaw who left the room and appeared shortly in the other room. Shredder shoved Donnie toward the door before he could see what they were going to do with his brother. He tried to run to the next room, but Saki snatched him by the rim of his shell and pulled him in a different direction.

"Please. D-don't let him bleed out," Donnie said, looking up at the man. "He has to be—taken care of. Some-Someone has to take care of him. You can't just lock him up and leave him—"

"Enough," Shredder said quietly, handing him over to another pair of Footbots, who took over the job of escorting him down the hallway again in the Shredder's wake.

This time, Donnie spent the walk staring intensely at the floor and forcing himself to breathe.

It was taking all the willpower he had to stuff the ghostly echo of Mikey's screaming out of his mind, and even then he could still faintly hear it ringing between his ears. He couldn't even be sure it had actually stopped. What if they were still torturing him? What if they'd cracked his shell open the moment Donnie had agreed to make the retro-mutagen and left the room?

His heart jumped into his throat and he tried to run back, but the Footbots wouldn't allow it. They practically dragged him the remainder of the way down through the bowels of the hospital until they reached an empty morgue.

The Footbots walked Donnie to a table in the center of the room and forced him down into a chair.

He squinted through his blurred vision at the array of chemicals and equipment before him. Were he and his brother not being held captive by their enemies with their lives dangling over their heads, he might've actually had the heart to appreciate the spread of untouched materials. He'd have killed for a chemistry set like this when he was younger.

Now … it just made his stomach tighten.

"Should you find you are missing anything, you will notify me immediately," Shredder said. "Stockman will be monitoring your progress. If you decide to make anything that is not retro-mutagen, I will personally behead your brother in front of you … Do not keep me waiting."

Donnie kept his eyes on the table as Oroku Saki moved away and the Footbots followed. The door closed heavily behind them and the silence grew so pressurized that he feared being crushed by it.

Chills rippled through his veins. It was freezing in the room. But he could hardly be bothered by it.

He knew he was being watched, knew there must be cameras set up in every corner, knew that the moment he tried to make a move they didn't approve of he'd suddenly become the baby of the family.

He seized up at the thought, and choked on a moan before burying his face in his hands.

He could feel the anguish swelling up within him quickly, tightening the muscles in his body until it couldn't take the pressure of it any longer and the silence was broken by his childish sobs.

Maybe if he'd been alone the thought wouldn't have scared him so much. But he wasn't.

They were going to die. And he was terrified.