The last thing he saw was Leonardo's face. And then, it was all obscured by smoke.
He felt rough, cruel arms tuck him under one arm like a sack of vegetables, felt the world lurch. Wicked blades bit into his arms, drawing narrow furrows of blood. Everything shook when he landed, and he was jostled as his captor ran.
Flashes of blue and red glowed in the periphery of his blurring vision, echoing afterimages making his dazed mind feel nauseous. The world leapt and lurched as the Shredder ran and leapt from building to building. How he could jump so high… run so far…
Yoshi, focus. He tried to drag his mind out of the mire of pain that had begun to suck it down. Breathe. Breathe. For everything you love, keep breathing.
He could not help but wince when the Shredder landed on the ground, far away. His injuries, the sirens, the motion, it all made his brain burn. But Splinter was a tenacious man, accustomed to fighting through pain. His breath came in slow, shallow sips–not enough to aggravate the wound in his side, but enough to keep air in his blood. He tried to force himself to relax, to go slack. A rat, playing possum.
He heard many footsteps and hushed voices as they moved. A rendezvous point. "How many have we lost?" The Shredder demanded.
"Fourteen have been taken away. Six of them are being loaded into the ambulances. NYPD will be meeting them at the hospital to read them their Mirandas once they come to. Brod, Jackal, Hyena, and Dingo have been arrested. They're being taken to Mount Sinai Hospital and then straight to lockup. The Tengu are a total loss. We're lucky that wasn't all of them."
Bradford. Splinter's foggy mind strained against the creeping agony that threatened to blind and deafen him to the world. He escaped.
The Shredder's gauntlet retracted its tines, the tinny whine of a small motor drawing the blades back into their sheath. Cold fingers closed around his neck, just tight enough to lift him up. "So many pawns for a prize like this. It is steep, but a fair sacrifice."
"What do you intend to do with him?"
The Shredder was silent. He threw Splinter roughly into Bradford's arms, air coming back into his throat with a soft gasp. Bradford immediately pinned his arms behind his back.
"Take him to Sevarius. I want him alive." The Shredder shot a red-eyed glance over his bladed shoulder. "But not comfortable." His cape swirled around his calves as he stalked off into the blurry distance.
"Yes, Master Shredder." Bradford bowed.
He felt himself being pressed into the ground by a heavy knee, cheek grinding into the dirt. He felt handcuffs cinch around his wrists and ankles, as well as–oh, of course they'd think of it–hands zip-tying his tail to his leg. He felt the point of a needle slip into his arm. He felt a little ball of heat swell under his skin, and the flickering lights in his eyes finally went out.
…
"Do be a kind fellow and wake up."
Splinter refused to allow his eyes to even flicker, give any acknowledgement that he was conscious.
"Really, this act?" His captor sighed heavily. "I do tire of it. I know you're awake. If you're going to be obstinate about this examination, I have been authorized to use more persuasive methods. And believe me; I am quite keen to see how the oldest living mutate in the world reacts to adverse stimuli."
Splinter allowed himself as deep a breath as he could stand. But he did not speak.
"There we are. See? Was that so difficult?"
"..."
"My name is Dr. Anton Sevarius. I'm your new primary care physician. Are you experiencing any shortness of breath? Trouble with your heart? Any family history of allergies, cancer, or diabetes? Please, do be honest. I am under orders to keep you alive."
Splinter raised his head, blinking blearily at the shape of the white lab coat in front of him. He could smell this man. He carried the odious odors of antiseptic and caustic chemicals. And blood–mutant blood.
"At least," The shape loomed closer. He could make out an unnatural smile. "For a few Exams."
Hudson grit his teeth. He sat, muscles sore and body aching, as Donatello worked on his wing. He didn't know where the boy had come across the marvelous elixir that he had injected into his skin–and he felt like he didn't want to know the answer. But whatever had been in the syringe had made the pain of the tear in his wing evaporate instantly, as if it weren't attached to his body at all.
He watched attentively as the turtle tapped a tiny pen to the ragged edge. It was attached by a cord to a whining metal box, which in turn was connected to a car battery. Smoke curled from the tip of the tool. 'Cauterizing', he had called it. Back in his day, they used an iron nail heated over flame. Donatello's three-fingered hands were surprisingly deft and careful as he stitched the wound in his wing with a needle. It made Hudson feel like a damaged doll.
Donatello tilted his head to get closer to his handiwork. Michelangelo had one hand pressing an ice pack to his face, blood-soaked gauze shoved up both nostrils. He pressed another ice pack against the back of his brother's head, shifting forward to keep it in place as he worked.
Don looked up. "I dunno how good your solar regeneration is, Hudson, but you're definitely not flying home tonight."
"I'm sorry I couldn'ae stop him, Donatello."
He tied another knot, snipping the line before dipping the needle back into his wing membrane for another stitch. "You… did your best. Thank you."
The turtles' battered green lunchbox lay open on the rooftop of the Ottendorfer Library on the Upper East Side, its contents scattered across the pavement. Lexington was wrapping April's hand, and Brooklyn was butterfly-bandaging the gash on Broadway's arm. Bronx had a nasty-looking laser burn on his shoulder, and Casey's mask was cracked. Leonardo was sitting up, resting against a rattling ventilation unit. Raph knelt off to the side beside him, helping tape a gauze patch over the gunshot wound on his brother's chest. Goliath was rinsing out his eyes with a bottle of water, trying to get his eyesight back.
"Well that sucked." Casey peeled his cracked mask off of his face and spat out his mouthguard. He started smearing aloe jelly over Bronx's shoulder. The beast whimpered at his touch, ears low.
"Where's Elisa?" Mikey asked, peering around at the crowd. His voice sounded a little stuffy.
"Probably doing her job." Broadway suggested, looking morose. "She's on duty tonight, after all. She's gonna be over there for a long time."
Raphael tore off another strip of medical tape, affixing the square of gauze securely to the scute just over Leonardo's heart. Their eyes were hard, distant, their faces downcast. Brooklyn grimaced as he taped closure after closure across the knife wound on his brother's arm. Neither of them made eye contact with the four turtles.
April's eyes were red, sniffling as Lexington wrapped the last of the Ace bandage around her knuckles. She squeezed her eyes shut, and sank face-first into her knees, sobbing. Lexington patted her gently on the back, murmuring to her quietly. Casey leaned against Bronx's side, face unreadable. The beast grumbled quietly, nuzzling Casey's shoulder with his nose.
They had won. But at a cost that was far too high.
Goliath rubbed the heels of his hands into his eye sockets, grimacing, trying to get the last of the blinding powder out of his eyes. Slowly, his eyesight returned. And the sight that greeted him was a dismal picture indeed. His heart panged at the sight of their faces, seeing the defeat that seemed to sink into their shoulders and drag them downward.
He set the bottle of water down on the ground. "Our victory tonight came with a dear price."
"No shit." Raphael snapped. Leonardo tried to glare at Raphael, scold him with his eyes. But he couldn't. His heart ached too much for it, and it had nothing to do with the bullet his shell had stopped.
Goliath continued. "We must regroup, decide our next steps. Rescuing your father will be our highest priority." He found each of the turtles' eyes, holding their gaze with solemnity. "We swear it."
"Agreed." Brooklyn tossed the package of butterfly bandaids into the lunchbox, removing an Ace wrap and returning to Broadway. He began wrapping his arm to protect the closures. "You've helped us. Let us help you."
"Thank you. Really, we mean it." Leonardo pulled himself to his feet.
His knee faltered for a moment, Raphael catching him under his arm. The tendons over his kneecap burned like red-hot wire. The cracks in his shell ached, points of heat radiating from each screw driven into his carapace. He'd overdone it during the fight with Fox, and he knew he'd regret it more later. For Raphael's part, he could feel the crack under his arm creak with each movement. He'd popped a wire during his fight with Bradford, and it dangled from one of the screws drilled into his side.
"We aren't exactly in any shape to get into any more fights tonight." Lexington said cautiously. "And we have no idea where Shredder's taken him."
"You're right, lad." Hudson opened and shut his wing, slowly, testing the rows of black stitches that closed the rent in his membrane. "We need at least one sunrise before we're ready for another battle."
"And we need time to track him down." Leonardo added. "That'll be our task, guys."
"Odds are good that if Master Splinter's alive, he's been taken to wherever the other mutants are being held." Don thought aloud.
"Whaddya mean, 'if?' " Raphael shot a fiery glare at his brother. "Splinter's alive! He has to be!"
"We don't know that." Don said, voice hard. "Raph, I love him, you know I do. But this is Shredder we're talking about."
"No, Raph's right." Leo said thoughtfully. "If he'd wanted to kill him, he had the perfect chance to do it. He wants him alive. He wouldn't have captured him otherwise. Shredder isn't exactly the kind of person to take prisoners. Not unless he wants something from them."
"What could he possibly want?" Broadway's eyebrow ridges knit themselves together. "Information?"
"To hurt him." Mikey said quietly.
They all looked in Michelangelo's direction. There was a weighty silence on the roof of the library, broken only by the whisper of the October wind. No one wanted to admit he was probably right.
"What are we gonna do, Goliath?" Broadway folded his arms, scowl turning down the corners of his mouth. "At this point, Xanatos is definitely going to know what we've been up to. Now, there's no way to hide this from him. Going back to the castle seems like a bad idea."
"If we can't go home, then where do we go?" Lexington asked him. "We can't just sleep up here."
Goliath closed his red, watering eyes. He kneaded the bridge of his nose with one hand, trying to think. They had so few options. And more than that, the castle was their home. It was the only place they had left to truly call their own. He and his clan had built its walls with their own talons, watched it rise from nothing. So much sacrifice had been poured into the mortar. The thought of abandoning it to a villain like Xanatos…
"We cannot allow him to take our home from us." Goliath said in a low, sonorous voice. "We will not be bullied out of our castle, not by the likes of him. No matter where or when it is, no matter what. Castle Wyvern is ours."
The gargoyles looked amongst each other. Their expressions ranged from doubt to fear to resolve. Lexington tucked his claws under his armpits, wing-digits curling around him. "We're going to have to fight him, too. Aren't we?"
"It is likely."
"Then we will!" Brooklyn's eyes flashed. "To hell with that guy, he doesn't get to throw his weight around and get away with it!"
Broadway closed his eyes for a moment, putting one hand over his mouth. He rubbed his chin, looking off into the distance. He was looking up at the castle. He looked back over at Hudson, exchanging a quiet glance with his father. Hudson's fanged frown deepened into his white beard, a pensive look in his eye.
"We must decide now. Do we seek shelter elsewhere? Or do we stand our ground and defend our home?" Goliath raised his chin.
His wards and his elder seemed to consider it. Brooklyn lifted his beak. "I want to go back."
Lexington looked up at his brother. He closed his eyes, and he nodded. "So do I."
Broadway looked between them. "I still think it's a bad idea… but we can't split up."
Hudson walked forward to stand beside Goliath. "Then it is decided, lads. We will confront Xanatos."
Leonardo stood, one foot slightly off the ground. His family stood at his left and right, bruised and battered. But no less resolute. Leonardo looked Goliath in the eye. He raised his chin, pressed his palms together, and bowed to him. The other turtles and April exchanged a few glances with each other before they, too, offered their respect to the gargoyles.
"Good luck, all of you." Leonardo straightened up.
Goliath opened his wings. "Good luck to you, Hamato Clan. We shall meet upon this rooftop each night henceforth, one hour after sunset. If any are absent, then we shall assume the worst."
"Agreed."
And so, they all departed.
Xanatos had a headache. That headache had ten wings and six tails.
He paced his office, worried that this was where it would all go wrong. Sure, he expected them to encounter and interact with each other. He'd accounted for that in his plans. But he wasn't expecting such a strong alliance, and so soon. It was too soon. The attack on the studio had been well-coordinated, clearly well thought out, and showed a worryingly intimate familiarity with his schemes. And now, three of his best players were out of the game. This was bad.
Owen entered, gently closing the door behind him.
"Please tell me you've got good news, Owen. I could use it."
"I believe I have identified the source of our leak. The gargoyles made contact with a human woman, and she has been their nightly liaison for at least the past two weeks." Owen passed him a photograph–a blurry print-out from the camera of a Foot Tengu–and a few sheets of paper. Xanatos skimmed it.
The pixelated image showed a woman, with tawny brown skin and a thick mane of dark hair. The shape of the blue blur on her red-hued body suggested a bulletproof vest, with four white squares that possibly read 'NYPD'. A pixelated gun was leveled at the camera. He recognized the place, even if the picture quality was poor. This was the construction site, the night the first drones were being tested.
The second picture was significantly clearer. The timestamp was two hours ago. It was difficult to read the first image clearly, but this second shot was plain as day. The same woman, wearing the same red leather jacket under the same bulletproof vest. She was tall, graceful, built like a marathon runner. Her features were smooth, and she was clearly beautiful. But there was nothing soft in her eyes or the set of her jaw. A badge glittered on her belt, next to a standard-issue police sidearm–16123, NYPD. She stood beside a police cruiser, looking on as Jackal was being escorted into the back of an ambulance, two uniformed beat cops holding either arm.
The third paper was a brief summary of her work over the past six months and–sure enough–there was her badge number again on top of a police report. She was there when the Pack had dropped the ball at the Blockbuster.
So, the gargoyles had collected a pet detective. Wonderful.
This was very little information. He knew the gargoyles were clever, and he'd at least planned for the possibility of them forging an alliance with Oroku's rivals. That was well within his expectations. At the very least, he knew Oroku's mutated rogues wouldn't go to the authorities. But for the gargoyles to take that step, extend that much trust? This changed everything.
"Okay, not great news…" He sighed. "But I think we can work with this."
"You certainly seem optimistic, Mr. Xanatos."
"You know that no plan survives first contact with the enemy. We'll just have to readjust."
Owen's face was placid, undisturbed. "I would like to remind you, sir, that we have one card yet to play in this game. It may be the opportune time."
Xanatos seemed reluctant to accept this idea. He put his thumb under his chin, one finger curled over his mustache. It was as if he were trying to physically ward off the frown in his eyes from reaching his lips. "Asking Demona to reveal herself to the gargoyles is something we can only do once. Are we sure this is the time? Once she's in play, there's no putting that genie back in the bottle."
"With all due respect, Mr. Xanatos, I believe that circumstances have forced our hand."
Splinter slowly came to again. Waking up from sedation was never pleasant. He felt woozy, nauseous. The world seemed to trail echoing afterimages with every movement of his head, afterimages that made him fight to avoid revisiting his last supper. He rolled onto his back, keeping his head straight and snout pointed to the ceiling to try and alleviate the sensation.
His joints burned. His bones burned. His side burned. His eyes, lungs, and mouth burned.
But what hurt the most was the fear. The uncertainty. He knew his sons would try to rescue him. And he had no idea if they would succeed, or if they would die.
"Who…" A raspy, thin voice found his ear. It was nearly a whisper. "Who are you?"
Splinter couldn't answer. He held up a single finger, and slowly–arduously–he tried to sit up. His spine whined, his elbows, knees and hips registering their complaint as he moved upright. He buried his face in one hand, trying to rub some moisture back into his dry eyes. He felt a weight shift around his neck, like a thick plastic ring. A finger traced its edge. He heard a soft beep.
Oh, he knew what a shock collar was. And he had a good feeling that he knew who had clasped it around his neck.
He lifted his head. There was someone in the cell with him. Her shape suggested a woman, veiled under a coat of golden-blonde fur, caked and matted with sweat and dirt. Her hair clung to her feline head, frizz flying free from unwashed grease. Her round ears were pinned against her head, her arms and knees drawn up to her chest, lion's tail curled around her feline ankles. Wings, a soft brown and shaped like a bat, curled from her back and around her shoulders like a long shawl. She wore a torn white t-shirt and dirty blue scrub pants.
"An old man." He rasped, throat dry. "No one for you to fear."
"W-were you human too?" She asked. Her golden eyes, pupil drawn into a thin slit, regarded him with paralyzed fear.
Splinter's black eyes fell. His heart panged. He knew her eyes… he knew those eyes far, far too well. Sixteen years ago, they gazed at him from his own mirror. "Yes. Once."
She looked at him with pity. Her leonid lips fell into a frown. "I'm sorry."
"I have made my peace. My body does not define my soul." He turned a clawed, pink hand, knuckles gnarled like driftwood, opening his palm to her. "Tell me, young woman. What is your name?"
She seemed to hesitate. Slowly, only slightly, she uncurled from her corner of the cell. "Maggie. Maggie Reed."
"Decided she didn't want to pick a new one." A husky voice, muffled by a wall, spoke up. "If you decide you wanna start over, old-timer, we won't judge. No going back to your old life anyway, now that you're a freak like us."
Maggie curled deeper into herself, nose just above her knees. There was the sound of a slap in the cell next door, and a cry of surprise. A higher voice chastised, "Wingnut! Really, I'd expect Fang to be that insensitive. You know better! Apologize!" "Right, right. I'm sorry."
Splinter's hand found his side. He wasn't terribly surprised by the fact that his yukata was gone, replaced with a shirt and scrubs. But he was a little surprised to find that under his shirt, his side had healed. His fingertips found a swollen, puckered red scar where the Shredder's blade had opened him.
Well, that was a surprise. He briefly remembered the vial in his son's hand, in April's living room, less than 48 hours ago. So, they used it on me. He thought. Well, that certainly explains how terrible I feel–more than usual, anyway.
"When they brought you in, they said you were the oldest living mutate on the planet!" A boy's voice asked. "Are you, like, a hundred? A million?"
Splinter hadn't noticed the cell across from him. His eyes were still blurred from the side effects of whatever anesthetic they had given him. He saw two shapes. One, a pillbug as large as an 8-year old boy. Mandibles clicked as he spoke, antennae twitching. Large, flat chitinous plates ran from the back of his head, all the way down to his hip. His two main arms and two legs were segmented, twiggish, ending in four digits each. Six smaller, vestigial legs twitched along his sides from his chest to his hip. He wore only a pair of blue scrub bottoms that were torn off at the knees, like a ragged pair of shorts.
The other was a shape that made him double-take. "You… I must be seeing things." He rubbed his eyes.
The turtle took a step back. The back of her t-shirt had been torn free, the frayed collar slipped over her head. What was left of the front had been tied up to resemble an apron. Long, braided strips of dirty white fabric pierced the body of the old shirt, tying it around her bulky shell, knotting it in front with a droopy shoelace knot. Her scrub bottoms might have been blue, once.
"No, I'm definitely a turtle. And my brother's definitely a pillbug." She lifted her head, greasy ash-blond hair clinging to her scalp.
"I'm a roly-poly!" Benny corrected, mandibles clicking. "And I think I'm stinkin' cute!"
She put a three-fingered hand to her plastron. "My name's Erin. Erin Mainsew. This is my little brother, Benny." Benny waved.
"Your brother. I see…" Splinter said carefully.
"Far as we can tell, the kids have been here a long time. Almost as long as Leatherhead." A low voice said nearby. It sounded like it came from the cell next to Benny and Erin. Splinter couldn't move–his knees and hips were still stiff–but he could lift his head.
Splinter looked into the children's cell. "I am truly sorry."
Benny's jointed hand found the collar around his segmented neck, tugging it into a more comfortable position. The chitin around it was cracked and peeling where it wove underneath the plate behind his head. Erin's own scaly green neck was rubbed raw, and covered with sores.
Splinter found it hard to hide his sorrow, keep it from finding his face. She couldn't have been much younger. No more than a year or two.
Erin shook her head. "It's bad. But we still have each other."
"Hang onto your brother, kid." The low voice said. "Don't ever let him go."
He heard a rustling in the other cell across from him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw another cat mutant, clothed in the same uniform, sit down. His shape was strong and athletic, black fur painting him like a shadow against the gray-white of his cell. The winged panther laid his back against the wall, black wings caped under his shock collar. He had sad, expressive green eyes.
"They call me Talon. Before Maggie, I was the newest one here. I'll apologize in advance for Fang. He isn't here right now, but once he's back–if he comes back–you'll meet him, too. You can't see them, but the two quiet ones are Claw and Leatherhead."
Splinter lowered his head, as polite a greeting as he could manage. The plastic collar dug into his throat.
Talon tilted his head, regarding Splinter with curiosity. "So… a rat, eh? Sevarius finally falling back to stereotypes? I thought he was more creative than that. His Exams are certainly imaginative, as far as torture goes."
Splinter's whiskers rose in a smile that almost suggested a quiet laugh. "I have been as I am for a very, very long time. And I am no stranger to pain, nor imprisonment. I may be in this cell, but he has shackled nothing."
" 'Stone walls do not a prison make, nor iron bars a cage.' Oh, yeah, we'll get along great. You sound like a philosophical type." Talon leaned his head against the plexiglass. "It's easy to lose time here. I think I've already lost track of how long it's actually been for me. He scrubs tallies off the walls when he takes us out. Not that it matters."
Maggie curled up into herself again. She sniffled, wiping her small pink nose against the back of her hand.
Splinter sighed. Slowly, ponderously, he fought his joints to unfold into a standing position. One hand against the glass, he hobbled to her side. He slowly sank into a kneel beside her, his thick pink tail resting behind him. He put a hand on her shoulder. She looked up, gold eyes finding his black ones.
Splinter patted her shoulder. "Your friend quoted a part of a beautiful poem. I know the rest of it. Would you like to hear it?"
Maggie slowly nodded her head. Splinter rested on his heels, regarding her.
When love with unconfined wings
Hovers within my gates,
And my divine Althea brings
To whisper at the grates;
When I lie tangled in her hair
And fettered to her eye,
The birds that wanton in the air
Know no such liberty.
Maggie unfolded slightly. Her head lifted as Splinter spoke. His voice was soft, raspy, but still calming. It felt, to her, like the voice a father would use to read a bedtime story to his children. Her father, her mother… she hadn't thought about them in a long, long time.
In his cell, Leatherhead raised his head. He closed his eyes, sat very very still, and he listened. Claw, his head resting against the wall of his own cell, lifted to listen. A weak smile reached his eyes. Wings akimbo on the floor, like arms splayed in exhaustion, he lifted them slightly. Somewhere in his memories, Claw remembered someone. A face he knew a long time ago.
When flowing cups run swiftly round,
With no allaying Thames,
Our careless heads with roses bound,
Our hearts with loyal flames;
When thirsty grief in wine we steep,
When healths and draughts go free,
Fishes that tipple in the deep
Know no such liberty.
Benny and Erin huddled next to the glass of their cell, pressing their ears–or what was left of them–to the glass to hear. Erin's eyes were wide with wonder. Benny tried to scoot closer, straining to hear.
Erin thought she remembered hearing something like this on a TV show once. Maybe a Saturday morning cartoon, a long long time ago. She remembered sitting on a woven rug, next to her brother, sharing a box of dry cereal. A heavy gloom had been hanging over those memories. There was a reason they'd been sleeping outside, and she'd never forgotten it. She remembered, and she felt–for the first time in almost half a year–tears of regret.
Benny put a hand on her shoulder. His face wasn't the same as it used to be. He knew that. But Erin didn't need to see his face to know how he felt. She smiled back at him, wiping the tear out of her eye with the heel of her three-fingered hand.
When like committed linnets I
With shriller throat shall sing
The sweetness, mercy, majesty,
And glories of my King:
When I shall voice aloud how good
He is, how great should be,
Enlarged winds, that curl the flood,
Know no such liberty.
In his cell, Screwloose lifted his head. He leaned against the shell of his steel dog crate, looking up at its ceiling–his little cell within a cell. He could not blink, and he could not shed tears. Not anymore. But a warmth filled him. A warmth that he hadn't been able to fully enjoy, fully feel, since the day he lost his humanity.
Wingnut, for his part, seemed to diminish. He folded his ears down, looking off to the side. In his heart, he remembered a part of himself that could never feel that joy again. It only reminded him of the hollow place in his chest where something used to be.
Screwloose's delicate insect hand reached out from between the bars of his crate, and found his best friend's wrist. He patted him gently, offering him a reassuring smile.
It'll be okay, Screwloose mouthed silently.
Wingnut found himself smiling back. He had a best friend who believed in him. And that, for him at least, was more than enough.
Stone walls do not a prison make,
Nor iron bars a cage:
Minds innocent and quiet take
That for an hermitage.
If I have freedom in my love,
And in my soul am free,
Angels alone, that soar above,
Enjoy such liberty.
Talon's ear twitched. His face seemed to change, becoming distant and thoughtful.
"Before you go to the Academy, I want you to remember something, Derek."
"What, Dad?"
"This is something I had to learn the hard way. And I want you to understand it before you jump into this. But what we do, as Maza's, isn't something we fight against. It's something we fight for."
"Fighting for what?"
"Hope. Love. The truth. This city. A lost cause. Take your pick. But no matter what you pick, remember one thing; no matter how bad it gets, you're never out of options until you're out of breath. So keep breathing."
Talon watched the cell across the hall from him as the rat finished his recitation. Hope. An idea that had been dead just long enough that the joke was almost funny. He tugged on his collar, just beginning to rub a bald patch in his fur. He knew there was a microphone in it. He knew Sevarius was listening in. No point in planning an escape if his captors already knew what they were planning. He was probably laughing.
He wished the glass weren't so shiny. He hated seeing his reflection in it. Almost as much as he hated seeing his fellow prisoners looking so hopeless. But for the first time since he'd been here, he started seeing some life–some color–coming back into their eyes.
Wait… Breath. Glass.
A spark reached kindling, somewhere in the dead depths of his heart. An idea began to grow. An idea fed by something he thought he had lost. The idea grew, spreading, glowing, burning. The flame illuminated the dark that had begun to swallow up his soul, and his eyes lit up.
He tapped on the glass, trying to get their attention. A few eyes looked his way. He breathed on the glass, letting condensation form on it. He took one black, furry finger and began to write backwards.
Don't talk. He wrote. He puffed a few more breaths, and continued to scribble. I have a plan.