Torment
Donatello's eyes fluttered open. He focused on the tense form of the turtle hovering above him but couldn't immediately identify who it was. His head felt full of molasses, thick and clouded by the residual medication he took as he fled from consciousness. However, his beloved vintage 1984 digital alarm clock revealed that the interloper wore a blue mask.
Leonardo.
A count of three passed before Don marshaled his thoughts enough to speak, but he was aware this particular brother was on his shit list.
"What?" The demand was so flat Leo flinched.
When an explanation was not immediately forthcoming, Don's gaze flicked away to check the time. Four hours had passed. That was enough sleep for most of the drugs to clear his system—with the help of his mutant metabolism—but it was insufficient for him to recover his equilibrium. If he wanted to escape from the agonizing 'what ifs' in his head again he'd have to take another dose.
This better be an emergency. If he woke me up to chat because he's feeling guilty…
"Well?" Donatello prodded.
"Do you hear that?" Leo pleaded in a pseudo-whisper.
Hauling one arm from under the warm covers, Don pinched the bridge of his snout and screwed his eyes shut. Otherwise, he might have reached up to throttle his older brother for the simplistic question.
I need more information than that!
He had just awakened. Of course he heard things. A lot of them. But now that he'd been prompted, his mind started a running tally—classifying all available audio.
Water whining in the pipes. The ion gas exchangers cleaning the air so we can breathe this deep underground. The rumble of a subway passing by somewhere high overhead. Rats in the outer tunnel. The drip in the bathroom sink…
The list went on and on. And now he couldn't quit hearing EVERYTHING. Sometimes, especially when he was lacking sleep, his brain chose the most irritating minutiae to focus on. And it didn't help when his brothers asked such open-ended questions. He found it beyond annoying.
"Exactly WHAT am I supposed to be listening for?"
Don spat the question, emphasizing the 'what'. But the moment the words left his mouth he detected the anomaly. Not a clear auditory signal but a strange pulsing just below the threshold of actual perception. A second later, he realized he'd already been processing whatever it was. It had been in his dream. And the sensation had passed straight through to waking—thus masking its atypical nature.
He sat up abruptly and tilted his head to pinpoint the source.
Leonardo nodded at his reaction and heaved a sigh with a rueful grimace.
"Thank you Ancestors! There is something there. I'm not completely insane."
"Yet," Donnie corrected, holding up a single finger. He spoke almost absently as he twisted his head this way and that. "We still need to talk about your recent decisions and how they defy rationality, but we'll shelve that for now. When did this start?"
"A few minutes ago—"
"Ah-HA!" Don pounced, sliding his hand under his pillow and pulling out a Tech Tab. It continued to pulse an alert, vibrating in his hand as it chirped.
"Here's your insanity…"
He stopped the alarm and skimmed over the readouts. It wasn't an emergency, just a dropped connection. "Sharra's lost her health monitoring bracelet," he muttered, then frowned. Before the report cut off, her readings were all over the place.
"I better go put it back on her."
He pushed his way out of bed without looking up. Leo stepped back to make space, but protested, "I heard this down in the dojo. I don't think it's your tablet."
Why must he question everything?
The genius transferred his glare from the data to Leonardo, prepared to give him a piece of his mind. Or at least as much of a tongue-lashing as the part of Don that was awake could summon. But as he paused to take a breath, his brother's body language finally penetrated his sleep-addled thoughts.
There were signs of deep stress around the older turtle's eyes. Leo's breathing was way too rapid. His pupils were dilated far more than the dim lighting required. He kept shaking his head. And his gaze darted from corner to corner, clearing the room for enemies repeatedly—though the only entrance lay behind him.
That level of anxious paranoia was off the charts for Leonardo.
Donatello might be angry with the leader, but he wasn't stupid. Something more than leftover trauma from the night's misadventures was going on here. And when he curbed his irritation enough to apply additional logic to the situation, he realized the disturbing vibration still pulsed behind his ears as well.
"What do you think it is then?"
"Emotions," Leo answered without hesitation, "from outside ourselves—trying to get in."
Don's eyes widened. Recent events had made him more inclined to investigate the metaphysical side of things with caution rather than immediate disbelief. And there was no denying the fact that, between the two of them, Leonardo's aural abilities were stronger. Yet, he had come to Don for an explanation. So whatever this sound was, it was a manifestation Leo had not experienced before.
"Any ideas on its origin?"
Leonardo shrugged. "I'm not one hundred percent sure. But Sensei thinks Sharra may be an empath. And she is the only new addition to the lair. Maybe she's projecting a nightmare?"
"It's a plausible theory. Her vitals did spike—"
A blood-curdling scream cut the sentence off midstream.
Leo's full attention jerked to the door. "Mikey?"
Michelangelo hollering in the night was not uncommon. During their adolescence, their youngest brother had been plagued with night terrors. He had startled the whole family awake many times in the past. But never had they heard anything like this. His voice was so twisted with torment that it was almost unrecognizable.
Don exchanged a frantic glance with Leo then bolted towards the infirmary.
Agony sheared into Michelangelo's skull as a violent blow connected with his cheek. His head snapped back and he dropped to the merciless stone floor—cradling his face. His body screamed in protest, both from the force of the strike and the collision with the ground.
Normally, neither of those things would have phased him. He'd learned how to shake off a punch and how to avoid injury when falling when he was still a turtle tot. But for some reason, his muscles weren't responding.
He was still suffering from his injuries. The beating the Foot clan gave him before Sharra saved his life was severe. And the fall from the rooftop hadn't done him any favors. But he should at least have basic control.
Experience said a follow-up kick would be aimed at his ribs, so the moment Mikey landed he attempted to dodge. But despite his brain's explicit command to roll, a leather motorcycle boot made violent contact with his side. The air whooshed out of his lungs.
As he fought for breath, he took a second to check the rest of his condition. His head pounded in time with his pulse. His limbs trembled. His stomach complained of a hunger so bad it was ready to eat his spine. And he was dying for some water. He felt in terrible shape—worse than before Sharra found him.
Where did this guy even come from? The last thing I remember is Dad in the infirmary.
He forced his eyes up to assess the room.
Concrete walls. Steel door. Single overhead bulb.
Looks like one of Shredder's holding cells.
He'd been in enough of them to know. Both as a 'guest' and while freeing his brothers. But to be sure, Michelangelo looked up into the face of his attacker.
Sweat formed instantly under his armpits. His blood turned to ice in his veins. Terror more powerful than any drug squeezed his chest tight. He thought he might throw up.
What the shell is going on?
The guy leaning over him wasn't a Foot soldier. And though the dude looked like some sort of ax murderer, hulkingly big and heavy-set, he was a typical goon. At half-strength—or even half-dead—Mikey could wipe the floor with him.
So why am I about to shit myself?
This has got to be a dream.
The brute saw the fear in his face and offered him a maniacal grin. He leaned down and snatched up a handful of hair— yanking hard to drag the turtle across the cement.
Mikey gasped, blindsided by the unexpected pain. Before his head cleared, he found himself on his front with his wrists and ankles clapped in irons. Short chains attached the manacles to the ground above his head and below his feet. They stretched him out flat and left him unable to curl up in a protective ball, or even reach his face to probe his tender snout.
Wait. Hair?
His scalp had distinctly ached as the thug pulled, but Michelangelo had never had hair in his life. He jerked to the side and examined his arm. Shredded cloth that might once have been a sleeve clung to him, but the scales underneath weren't green. Pale human skin flashed from the ripped fabric. Dirty black hair hung over his shoulder and stuck to his face.
His heart rate kicked up another notch.
I'm not me.
"So, princess," the monstrous man chuckled, "here we are again."
Though Mikey's mouth was clenched shut, a small whimper escaped his chest. He felt each sensation, but the voice was not his. It was female. And horrifyingly familiar.
Sharra?
Last night he had tied his lifeline to hers so thoroughly he controlled her breathing. He must have missed releasing some part of their mental link before he fell asleep. Now he was stuck in her dream.
That has to be it.
The other option was unthinkable. An out-of-body experience would mean she was in real danger. It had happened once before. She'd been nearly kidnapped in the subway.
But she can't have been snatched away again. Not from the lair, with my family standing guard.
He was yanked from his thoughts by the thug.
"I know how much you look forward to our little games," the bastard said, running a hand over Sharra's back. He slid it down the curve until he cupped her ass. Then he smacked her butt.
Mikey bared his teeth and growled.
No. No way. No one's touching my girl ever again. Even if it's not real.
"Sharra," Michelangelo called, making his mental voice a loud shout. "Wake up, sweetheart. This is a nightmare."
Nothing changed. The man continued speaking.
"Today we are going to do something a little different."
He stalked to the far side of the room and returned with a long thin strip of graduated black leather. Sharra's eyes rolled in terror as he snapped the whip over her head, inches from her face.
"Sharra… baby," Mikey begged, "don't do this. Wake up."
His stomach clenched when she didn't reply.
Can she not hear me?
He sank inside himself and sought their connection point, looking for the bright thread of her consciousness. He had to stop this mental punishment.
Come on… where are you, babe? Where—
CRACK!
A violent spasm arched Michelangelo forward with a screech. Just like with the hair, he'd never experienced such a sensation. His shell had always dulled any impact on his back.
The sharp strike of the whip was worse than being stabbed.
CRACK!
The torturous implement landed again.
And again.
And again.
Mikey was beyond frantic now. He smelled Sharra's blood in the air. Tasted it on his tongue. Felt the agony of each stinging blow. But no matter how much he cried out, he couldn't wake her.
Smell. Taste. Pain.
Oh shit.
These were things that didn't appear during REM sleep. He knew this because he had more than his fair share of nightmares as a kid. And Donnie, being the compassionate big brother he was, had spent his turn sitting up with Mike—on a particularly bad night—doing his usual spiel of over-explaining everything in scientific terms to make it less scary. Don had said only one in every ten thousand dreams involved a single sense other than sight and sound. So while fear was common, the visions could not really injure him.
Tonight that knowledge made the situation more frightening.
This is real!
When Sharra began to writhe and scream with each strike, Mikey's emotions spun into a frenzy.
I've got to get out.
Coping with the pain wasn't a problem. As new and sharp as it was, he could endure it. But this was happening to the woman he loved, and he couldn't allow it to continue!
He probed hesitantly at the confines of her skin, trying to break free of her physical form. The last time he was ejected from his body, his spirit could act on its own. And he managed to manipulate anything she was in actual contact with.
Maybe I can pick the locks? Or at least snatch the whip away the moment it touches her!
If he got hold of that leather cord he would strangle the guy without a moment's hesitation.
But it didn't look like that was going to happen. A barrier more solid than a brick wall blocked his exit. They were bound together too tight.
Mikey drew back. He didn't want to force his way through and hurt her worse. With enough time and effort, he might locate the bond inside himself and loosen the connection. But right now, with her screaming, focus was in short supply.
And he wasn't sure he wanted to succeed.
What if I undo it too much and my soul zips back to my body?
He might never find her again. And Sharra would suffer alone.
"Sharra… I'm here baby... I'm so sorry. I'm trying… I'm here. I won't leave. Sharra... I can stand it. I'll stay with you, no matter what..."
Pain blazed through them. Over and over. Michelangelo felt helpless. He couldn't even see. Sharra had clenched their eyes tightly closed and he couldn't pry them open again. He tried to focus on what he could control, their breathing.
The volume of air moving in and out of their aching lungs helped to diffuse the pain, but Mikey almost sobbed with relief when her skin finally became so flayed that the nerves went numb. Still, the torture master didn't stop beating her. Not until he could no longer wring out a single sound. Only then did he exit—leaving them bolted to the floor.
The metal door clanged shut like a death knell behind him.
Before the echo died away, a horrible scraping noise announced a change in the room. Sharra's eyes snapped open. She blinked rapidly to clear her tears, to see this new threat, but it made no difference. A black void had stolen their sight. The light was gone.
And the darkness hid monsters.
Skittering began near the back wall. A dank smell swept into the enclosure. Michelangelo groaned. That scent was commonplace in the open sewer.
Rats.
Feral ones.
Tiny claws scrabbled over the rock as dozens of furry bodies flowed into the cell. They hesitated to approach at first. But as the minutes dragged on, the beasts grew bolder—drawn in by the exposed blood.
One nipped at the tip of her fingers.
Sharra squeaked in terror.
Mikey lashed out. Controlling her hands, he batted it away with balled fists. But more were approaching. He couldn't protect much of her body from the inside. Tied down, they were completely vulnerable.
The next beast snuffled in her ear.
Sharra whimpered—her throat too raw to make any louder sounds.
Mikey turned her face to the floor and locked her mouth and eyes shut to protect the soft tissues. He hunched her shoulders and squeezed her biceps tight against her ears and cheeks.
That was all he could do.
Claws dug into her side as several rodents clambered onto her back.
When they began to feast, Michelangelo threw back his head and roared.
