Different As It Always Will Be

Phase I:

Chapter One: The Soldier of Death

The cold darkness of the cell was a great relief to him. Nothing could be more welcoming at this point. He rested back, his shell propped in the corner, not a single ounce of light entering his eyes. Sometimes he did not know if they were closed or open in the pitch black, but he was okay with that. The thought of the glare that so often permeated his sight was enough to make him choke though, his hands shaking as he attempted to wrap them around his legs. His raw, bare skin was torn, and he could feel the warmth of the blood dripping ever so cautiously down his face, arms, and torso. His toes curled to the best of their ability, the memory of the shocking still so recent. The shocking, he finally surmised, was worse than the cutting. His durability to throwing stars, katana blades, sais, and nunchaku had grown thick, but the electricity still reached down into his core. The seizures were also growing worse though. Silently, he wished that the drowning feeling would last long enough that he would suffocate. He had passed out many times, especially in the beginning, but now his body was fighting against that too.

Donatello desperately wished that it wouldn't.

His mind wavered, exhaustion overcoming him. While before he tried to get as much rest as possible, now his care for sleep had left. He knew well after studying the Russian experiments that a sleep deprived person will go crazy, and then promptly perish. Although he already felt like he was out of his mind, the last part appealed to him.

Death? Death was the one friend that would never visit.

Shifting ever so slightly, Donatello stifled a moan. No broken bones today, which he guessed was a good thing. For now anyways. If they were easier on him this time, they were probably going to be more difficult tomorrow. Hopefully he wouldn't have to jump through the hoops. But he would prefer the hoops over the table...if they tried to shove one more probe down his throat or up his...well, he wished they understood the concept of anesthesia. He was too weak to struggle at this moment, but tomorrow? He was going to try and take as many with him as possible. He did not care how unmanly it was to go kicking and screaming- it was his only avenue to take out his anger sometimes.

His thoughts seemed to go blank as the pain in his chest began to erupt again. Leaning his head back, Donatello gasped, clenching his teeth ever so tightly. How many times had he nearly bitten off his own tongue? How many times had he hoped to choke on his own fluids? To let the poison drip into him, to let it take him away? Why couldn't he just will himself into the next world?

And yet he continued to fight. Not for his own sake, no. Only because he knew what they were doing to him. Pushing one's physical boundaries was one thing, but mental manipulation was another. The way they bore his brothers' masks, the way they mimicked their voices. The taunting of his father...the self deprecating tone that would erupt from his own mouth. They were doing everything they could to make him associate his family, and himself, with pain.

His first course of action was to ignore it, but that wore quickly. His attempt to imagine April O'Neil, the ginger that he had been crushing on for well over a year, had turned against him when he called her name out once. Just once, and that was all it took. They knew her, and were using her against him now too. His ability to daydream of days past had been stripped of him, and he could hardly even remember the stench of the sewers he called home. The laboratory that he had locked himself away in so often for so many hours was long forgotten, and the memories of the loving embraces his family would hold him in were long gone. He had no memories except for this existence, as the term life could not describe it. He was down to his last resort, and even now his obsessive chanting was becoming more droll with time. But he could not forget...he could not forget that he was Hamato Donatello. And Hamato Donatello had a family that loved him, even if those thoughts of closeness had left him long ago.

The surges that were wearing down his body had taken their toll. At this point, he knew not why breath remained with him. By ending his life, he would end their attempts. They needed him alive, and he was not going to let them break him.

Standing slowly, Donatello rose, turning around and facing the corner he was in. Closing his eyes softly, he fingered the stone,and braced himself. He took a sharp breath in, and held it.

He could see stars. His head pounded, the shock rattled his body. Grabbing the wall the steady himself, he slammed his skull against it again. He crumpled to the ground, barring his teeth. Again...he could do it again until he couldn't.

As the feeling in his neck tightened, he hoped this time would snap it. Oh...the beauty in dying. He embraced its destruction, clung to its hope. An ending wasn't always bad, and every story had to come to an end. He was ready for this one to end.

Bone cracking chills caressed his body sweetly. He could hear the mocking tones of his brothers, pretending to care as they carried him off into the light. The light was bad, but he was gone. The light couldn't hurt him anymore, and neither could they.

His form was limp, being dragged across the ground. Strange sounds fell onto his near deaf ears, begging for recognition. Commands, a motor roaring, the screams of pain. The screams for him. He wouldn't fall for it this time. They needed to let him die in peace. In his own mangled pain. He was tired of their pretending, he was tired of their abuse.

A familiar smell drenched his nostrils in an overwhelming fog. Only disgusting American, New York sewers smelled quite like that. Only the rushing crash of the manhole cover made that sound. Only the hushed, concerned voices that rose above him could be of his missed family.

A jolting pain shattered his dying meditation, and all he could hear then was his own scream.