Just once more

Just once more

I will roll again

Today I know for sure

***

Raph doesn't remember returning to the room, but he absolutely remembers the feeling of furred hands dragging him back out, agitating the shoulder that shares his frustrated need to rest. He fights back as much as he can with the smooth cuffs keeping his arms together, digging his heels into the ground, and hating the blindfold that keeps him in the dark.

His struggle prevents him from being able to concentrate on his surroundings, and the dull throbs of pain that are practically ingrained in his cells aren't exactly doing him any favors.

He's dragged kicking and threatening until his still-healing arm is twisted. He releases a strangled gasp and Karl succeeds in dragging him into what feels like a chair. 

Raph wants to use his free legs to kick him where it'll really hurt, but the rabbit grabs his ankles, forcing them into shackles that must be built into the legs. The lock for the cuffs clicks, but Raph doesn't get a chance to make use of his free hands. 

Metal closes over the cuffs as his arms are pressed against wood. Raph tugs and yanks until he feels the blindfold slip off.  

Ignoring the smug mutant before him, Raph does a swift scan of his surroundings, finding himself in a room full of machinery. Bulbs blink, a soft hum fills the air past the blood gushing in his eardrums, and a consul sits a few feet in front of him, to his immediate left.

It's the first thing Ferrall approaches as rubber gloves are slipped over exposed skin, and Raph looks down at his arms, twisting and straining against the metal. He has as much luck now as with the shackles on the not-table in the lab.

He turns back to his captors. Karl is no longer in the room, possibly dismissed while he was distracted, and Nutjob is creepily still, merely watching him. 

Raph scowls. "A guy can't even get a few days to heal his dislocated arm?"

"I checked over your shoulder after you lost consciousness. Karl did an adequate job." Nutjob frowns, tapping his board. "Though, I'd hoped that his demonstration would have quelled that insubordination."

Raph bares his teeth, "Never gonna happen."

"Hmm." His captor clicks the pen and scribbles something down. He sets it on the edge of the consul and then lifts some wires splayed across it, importantly heading over to his tense prisoner. "To answer your question, your arm is in little danger of interoperability. I'm on a strict schedule, but I can be reasonable, Raphael."

Raph openly scoffs as he watches him press the metal padding around the wires on either side of his upper scutes, and for an inexplicable reason, they stick to his plastron. Nutjob checks it over, tugging cautiously at the wire, oblivious to the heavy dread smothering his specimen.

If Raph'd learned anything from Donnie and television, mad scientists aren't exactly the 'reasonable' type.

"I've arranged a few trials that shouldn't irreparably damage your injuries."

"Oh, goody." He grumbles. "You're only going to torture me some."

"Torture?" His statement seems to be given some consideration. "No. I wouldn't say torture. Pain is a factor, yes, but oftentimes it's the only way to test limits. A scholar tests the limits of his mind by exhausting it. Gymnasts test the limits of their bodies by training until they ache. I'm sure no part of learning- what was it, some kind of ninjitsu?- was entirely painless."

"That's different!" Raph sputters. "People want to do that stuff! It's- It's a choice! Do I look like I want this?!"

"And therein lies the problem." Nutjob points a finger in the air, turning away from the seething turtle. "You think you're people. Some messed-up reptilian conception of a man."

"I-!"

"You're delusional," Nutjob announces triumphantly, as if he'd solved a mystery of the universe. "Your reptilian DNA and animal instincts override everything needed to be truly human. You are a mutant, more turtle than man, and that makes you lesser than man. You're an animal, Raphael, and like all animals, you were put on this earth to help man thrive."

"I'm not some stray you found on the street!" He barks, a tad frantic. "I'm not human, but I'm still me! I'm a person! I'm talking to you right now, aren't I?! Make a turtle do that!"

"An average turtle is no mutant and a mutant is no average turtle." Nutjob picks up his clipboard and begins jotting something down. "Different evolutions equal different circumstances. Monkeys can complete human tasks when instructed. Mutants mimic them better."

Raphael gears up for another outburst, but Ferrall sets his attention to the consul and panic quiets him. "There's no reason to get worked up about it. Every level of intelligence fears what they can't comprehend. It's simply the way of life."

"You're insane!"

"Most genius is unappreciated in its time and I see the truth most humans can barely grasp." He calmly sets the clipboard down. "So it would be foolish of me to expect you to understand."

Raph clenches his fists as he growls in a low tone, unconsciously defending against the words that cut deep into insecurities that he pretends don't exist. He knows what he is. He knows what his family is- mutants, not monsters or abominations or animals. They're mutants- ninja- heroes- every one of them, and there's never been anything more to it.

Nutjob doesn't know anything about them. He doesn't know how hard Leo strives for perfection or how Mikey has to be a pest at all times to get every last ounce of attention they have. He doesn't know how Donnie works himself to the ground for their approval or how hard he struggles to control the anger that festers like an ugly parasite.

He doesn't know anything about anything.

So he's wrong.

He's crazy and psychotic and cruel and wrong.

He has to be.

A smug grin turns a disgusting person even nastier and the cocky air oozing off of him reminds Raph of how Leo acts when he thinks he's won an argument. It's an air that usually ends with Raph shaking with rage, refusing to concede to any point simply because of that look.

It never takes long for Raph to lose control and Leo to find himself on the floor, forced to defend a blow to the face. Their leader is always quick to block, but he'll keep smack-talking the entire time as if somehow that'll calm the raging inferno.

The notion that Nutjob isn't Leo has him lurching against the restraints that he forgot existed, straining uselessly as he obeys the urge to knock that grin off his face.

The grin never leaves, settling as Nutjob watches his fruitless struggle. "Now that we understand each other- try not to scream."

Raph barely processes this before his plastron goes warm, the wires sparking as the mad scientist slowly increases the voltage. He thinks he'll be able to handle it this time, considering how he'd been kidnapped the same way, but the electricity feels like it bypasses the imploding nerves in his plastron and enters his chest.

"Hnng-" His body reacts, convulsing and dragging out a grunt as it spreads from his organs and through his limbs. It feels like his burning muscles are panicking as they twitch and jerk. 

Then it's cold- there's liquid nitrogen traveling through his veins, and he feels like the controlled current is trying to force its way out of where it doesn't belong. Somewhere behind his incoherent screams and the agony that is demolishing every nerve in his body, he half-expects it to blast from his veins and skin in a blood-splattering burst of lightning.

He almost hopes it would.

Raph doesn't fully realize he's screaming until he's stopped. Everything aches and trembles and he's beyond exhausted. His eyelids flicker open, heavy with the tears that coat his face, and he takes a shaky breath in, staring at the wires trailing over his legs.  

"Inconclusive..." A bitter voice mutters, blending in on itself unnaturally. Raph can't remember why, but he knows it's a bad omen, and he only wants it to leave. "...didn't even... estimated... eed... again."

He stares blankly down at the wires that tug at a memory that he can't quite reach and shudders when fingers twitch on one hand, letting his eyes close again.

His plastron goes warm and the world resumes clarity.

He remembers.

Not that it does him any good.

"GAAA-!"

***

"-AHH!"

He hits the water and instinctively closes his mouth at the cold shock, which saves him from choking on the water that swallows his body. He sinks to the bottom of the tank that's too tall for him to attempt swimming back up in this state, especially without the use of his hands. 

So he remains on the ground, shivering as the cold hits each of his fried nerves. His chest still tries to heave despite no air coming in, the rippling water around him slowly settling. The harness strapped around him makes his ball uncomfortable, but he's barely conscious of this fact, more focused on getting his jittery muscles to stop twitching.

Maybe some part of his mind believes that this sad excuse for a self-hug will help. His cuffs prevent him from moving his arms, so he holds them to his chest, knees touching his elbows. His eyes sting as they slowly get used to the contact with the water, but there's not much to see. The room looks empty, except for the tank, and he wonders if this is all there is to the latest torture.

Raph thinks maybe he was instructed to do something, but he can't recall what. He tries to remember, hoping to put off a little more pain- he's not scared, just trying to survive- and give himself something to do that'll check that his brain still works after getting seared by lightning.

Ferrall said something about... C-Capacity? Lung- capacity?

He thinks the instructions have something to do with breathing. Or- not, breathing? The second one sounds right, considering he's been chucked into a large pool of unreasonably cold water.

Or maybe his nerves are so fried they don't know what warm water feels like anymore.

When he- he gets his hands on- th- papers- pen- he'll show Nutjob where to stick- stick 'em...

Mother of- of Mutations, he's tired. Tired. Stupid-tired. Why? Didn't even- do anything. 'Cept scream. Wiggle a bit...

...

Nitwit. 

Despite the risk of freezing to death, the water soothes the new burns and helps him relax some, instincts taking over so he doesn't accidentally breathe out. He almost wishes they'd just throw him back into the Room and leave him there so he can get a grip.

Almost.

The water is nice, gently rippling around him as his body twitches and spasms, and all noise is muffled long before it reaches him, so it's peaceful, in a way. He might be able to enjoy it if his body would listen and he didn't have to think about how unnatural the movements feel. 

It's like he's a puppet on a string, jerked about by a bored toddler who doesn't understand how to use him.

It's around the time that his body finally grants him some control that he realizes his lungs are aching, begging for him to allow them some oxygen. It's not painful yet, but it warns that it could be, which snaps him from the unthinking daze. 

Raph cautiously rises to his knees, weighed down by the surrounding liquid as he squints upward. He can't see anyone, not with how distorted the water is, but he knows that they're up there, and he wonders how much longer they're going to leave him here.

He stands on shaky legs and the movement turns the warming water frigid again. A shudder zips down his spine, goosebumps prickling across his limbs, and he treks to the wall of glass. He cranes his neck, trying to catch a glimpse of his captors, but he can't see anything past the distorted surface. Panic stirs, but it's ignored, and he looks to the harness line that follows him over, debating his options.

He doubts he can climb up with his hands essentially useless, and he has no concrete proof that there's something he's supposed to do before they pull him up. Is it as simple as holding his breath or are they going to keep him down here until he remembers? They'd probably just assume he's being stubborn if he doesn't do it, and he has no way to ask.

He doesn't think they'd let him drown, but Nutjob clearly doesn't know squat about mutant turtle biology. Shouldn't hurt, my shell...

Raph knows that turtles are known to hold their breaths for insanely long times. It's one of the things that they test out on occasion, satisfying Donnie's yearly curiosity with championships that focus on the turtle part of being a mutant ninja turtle.

Raph can't hold his breath for more than forty minutes, even with taunts and bribery from a smug Mikey who always beats them- this year by two measly minutes. Being a natural at things that don't matter always was his shtick.

"So the great Raphael can be knocked down a peg. Nice job, Mikey."

A fist bump is traded as Leo hides a smile. Raph scowls bitterly.

"Don't make me come over there, Don."

"Aww, don't cry, Raph! You just don't got my natural talent. 'nothing to be ashamed of!"

"Mikey, I am one wrong word away from sabotaging the competition."

"Green's a bad color on you, bro." 

"It's my only color, Mikey."

"I don't know how you live with yourself."

"That's it! Get over here!"

The swelling panic softens at the thought of his youngest brother and he can picture him, eyes shining as he sets hands on his hips, flashing a cocky grin full of pride. It's a close mimic to Raph's own, yet so undeniably Mikey. Sometimes, he doesn't know how he feels about rubbing off so strongly on their youngest. 

Raph tries to influence him in ways that matter. He wants Mikey to be able to take care of himself. He spends too much time in his head. One day, it's going to get him seriously hurt. 

Or worse.

He wants to prevent that in every way he can.

"You don't think I can take care of myself! I'm just as much a ninja as you are!"

"Sure, you are. I've had to save your shell in a fight, how many times?" 

"I never asked for your help!"

"I know! You're so delusional, you don't even realize how badly you need it!" 

The last thing he wants is for Mikey to actually be him.

The pressure against his plastron is growing the longer he stands, so he allows his legs to buckle underneath him- not out of weakness, but out of necessity.

It feels like the air in his lungs is pressing against his ribs, but he knows that letting it out will only make not breathing ten times worse. He squeezes his eyes shut and closes his fists against the ground, wishing he had something else to think about other than how easy it would be to just release the breath and get that moment of relief.

But there's no air!

He focuses on the thought, even as the water settles and the area around him doesn't feel as moist. It's disorienting, how soundless and dark and comforting everything is. Maybe they pulled him out. Maybe he never went it. Maybe it's all in his head. He needs to breathe. He should breathe- 

Both fists slam the ground before he's even conscious of the frustration that influences the strike, and he wants to scream the fury out, but that would only be giving in to the pleas that would hurt rather than help. Breathe- NO- can- CAN'T- breathe- DON'T-!

He slams the ground, over and over, until his arms ache. He hates how hard it is to punch with the water weighing him down, and he almost doubles over when a spike of pain against his knuckles makes his body try to release a reflexive gasp. He clamps both hands over his beak for all the good that it will do him, startled when a sharp whine shoots through the water. 

His eyes shoot open at the sound, but he can't find the cause.

It's shoved to the back of his mind as his lungs burn, body joining his mind in the battle to breathe. He knows he's not going to last much longer, so he releases his mouth to grab the harness line and yank.

Pull me up! Pull me up! I need to breathe, need to breathe, need to-!

***

-MOVE-!

He flips over another barbbot, wet hands slipping out from under him. His jaw hits the smooth floor and blinding pain pierces his tongue, followed by the bitter taste of copper. The copper snaps him back into the moment, and he resumes his stance on all fours, charging away from the two barbbots converging behind him.

The lasers aren't even trying to get him, spinning in a fluid circle above his head. There are only six, and if he times it right, he can flip or stand momentarily, but he can't stay upright without risking his torso getting sliced in half. 

He assumes that this is Nutjob's payback for finding a loophole in his "training".

His lungs burn as they try to manage the change from no air to constant oxygen and the sensation keeps him alert enough to avoid more barbs in his flesh. A barbbot appears directly in front of him- don't touch, don't TOUCH, EVADE, EVADE- and he slides while completing a sharp turn. He's not quick enough to stop, and a barb hits his side, prompting a cry of pain.

Instinct prevails when he kicks out in a moment of agonized impulse. The barbbot spirals, hovering wildly into the air and then getting sliced in half by one of the lasers. It splits and explodes, the pieces landing just a few feet away from the frozen turtle, and for a moment, everything around him seems to freeze as well.

Then the laser shuts off and the lights come on.

His blood goes cold as he scrambles to his feet, staggering away from the door. His cuffs lock when he stands, making his hands useless for defense, and he can't help the terror and fury that seer through his bones. His carapace hits the wall. "No! No, that's not fair! That's not fair- it's not- I didn't mean to! I didn't mean to! I was evading, I didn't-"

***

"-m-mean too, didn't..."

Another shudder prompts a trembling exhale and he watches it form into a cloud of steam before his eyes, dissipating into nothing. He squeezes his legs in tighter, glaring at the blur of a door. Barely coherent pleas continue to break the ringing silence, even though Karl had discarded him in his room and disappeared long ago.

He hates this place so much. More than meditation, more than bugs, more than space. He hates it, hates Karl, hates Nutjob, hates the cold, the tests, the Room- he hates everything!

"-w-wasn't my fffault, 'm tired, w-was, n't fffair, d-didn't mmean t-too, 's not fair-"

He doesn't know how he can feel each shudder that wracks through his body with the shivers that claim it, but he thinks he hates them too. Even if they make his body feel a little less numb.

He can barely feel his fingers, and they're unreasonably stiff when he tries to move them- to get any feeling back into them. Most of the water was knocked off during Karl's vicious beating- "At it again so soon? Aren't I lucky!"- but he can still feel some clinging to his skin like the blood, not quite ice and not quite liquid.

Supposedly he's the most warm-blooded out of all of his brothers, but he doesn't feel that way now, unable to get any warmth beyond his venomous thoughts and burning hate. Even anger can't keep him warm, not that he has the energy to be properly angry anymore.

All he can think about is how cold the room is- way colder than the water was. He can't remember ever being this cold in his life. Beyond anything else, he wants to obey the urge to duck into his shell in the hopes of preserving some body heat, but his cuffs are still locked together. He has no idea if they'd fit inside even if they are apart, but he's not even allowed a chance to try.

He hates this.

He hates this.

He hates this-

Yet another cough tears out of his lungs and he can't hold it down, aching with the little movement that comes with rolling on his plastron to steady himself. It breaks off in a wheeze and he collapses again. 

Each breath of icy air stings his chest as the wall blurs in and out of his vision.

"'s dumb, n-not fff-ai-h-hate- not- can't- eva-aded- was- cold- hurts-"

A whine escapes as he curls into the tightest ball that he can manage. He doesn't want to do any more tests. He doesn't want to return to the training room or any other room or even stay in this one Room that was supposed to be safe-

It was stupid to assume that he would be safe anywhere with Ferrall in control because Ferrall was the one in control. Not him, not Karl- it was so stupid. He's impulsive and angry- not stupid. Not- it was his fault he got caught. His fault. So stupid. His fault. Why was he so stupid?

"-ssstupid- stupid-stup-p-"

He wants to go home.

He wants to feed Chompy and be dragged into real training. He wants to get knocked off his feet by a harmless, annoying prank, and throw insults at bad movies with professor brainy-off. He wants to call Mona when he's not supposed to, and let his brothers talk him into a 'family bonding activity', and sit on the couch with soda and snacks and comics and- and dumb jokes and pillows- heaters- blankets- 

He wants to stop being so-

"-cold." 

He whimpers as a final proclamation to the uncaring world, falling limp as his brain comprehends what his body doesn't yet.

 He can't get warm. 

He can't win the tests. 

He can't stop the pain. 

He can't. Do. ANYTHING. 

He-

He can't go home.

He just wants to go home...