Dying is sounding pretty good right about now.

The chain is too short to wrap your neck around, but if you slam your head against the wall enough, you might manage to break it open. Nobody would hear you scream if you do; screams and cries have gone unheeded before. It would be easy, had you the strength to lift yourself from the floor, to drop yourself far enough. You wish you did. This desire— which you do not indulge more from lack of ability than lack of will— is fueled by hallucination. Voices, mostly, your mind's desperate attempt to fill the silence that goes on and on forever. Occasionally, too, you feel a tingle of warmth along your body, like a hand trailing your side, the ghost of a caress, or the cracking of dried blood on skin. Never enough to satisfy a hunger deeper than the one that makes your muscles spasm and cries less enthused, but enough to tease the idea of contact. It is impossible, in a room this dark, with no meals or bells or people, to tell how much time has passed, though you have to assume less than a week, seeing as you are, unfortunately, still capable of feeling the chains dig into you. The first time you had fallen asleep— because, no matter how long you do, it does nothing to cure your fatigue— you had noted how tight the chains were, unnecessarily so. You realize, now, that this is to keep you from slipping out of the cuffs as if you have the ability to run away.

The first time you slept was not bad. Cold, uncomfortable, bare skin against concrete, but fine. You slept hungry, but it was hardly unbearable. The room did not get any warmer, but you have taken to this; you cannot sweat anyways. Your lips would occasionally bleed, and you would swipe your tongue along them to taste something other than your own rotting tongue. You were pathetic, you muse those first couple sleep cycles, fumbling with your fingernails to get the locks off— which did not work— and crying your eyes out and screaming until your voice was hoarse just to fill the emptiness.

You are on your side again, now. The floor, at least, is the same temperature as your wrinkling skin, having stayed in place so long. You wish a rat would scurry by, make your skin crawl. At least, then, you might have something else to think about. At least the smell is something.

You have not said anything you remember, though you know that if they had come to talk to you, you

You do not register the door opening. You hear it, the odd grinding of stone on stone, but you do not understand what it entails. The padding of footsteps, the thump of knees on the floor, while loud in your ears, is not intelligible sounds. You do not understand what they mean, only quietly acknowledge their existence next to the pounding of your head. There is a voice, you notice, but you are prone to hearing those once and a while, now, prone to stretching your hand out with great difficulty as to feel for an absent form lying next to you, and it, too, is unintelligible. What gets you to open your eyes against inky blackness is the clinking of ceramic, the swish of warm water, the heat you sense in front of you— this room is so cold. Butter is the smell you most clearly identify. It is not a strong smell, but you do recognize it, and that is enough to get you to raise your head a bit off the floor.

There is another grinding sound as the ceramic whatever it is gets pushed towards you. "Eat."

The voice is one you recognize too, and that fact alone makes your lips crack into a ghost of a smile. Unless you are about to die— which you would not be surprised by— it is confirmation that you are not hallucinating, the sensation matched with it. You breathe out a laugh despite your throat's protests. "Hi," you form the words on your lips, bleeding, now. "Hi."

"Eat," the voice repeats. You feel hands grasp your bare arms, pushing your back against the wall.

You exhale another laugh. "Hands."

"What? Oh." You feel something press against your lips, a hand tilting your head back. "Drink."

It tastes bitter, but the sensation of something sliding down your throat is heaven. You lean into the sensation, let it hold you. When the cup runs empty, you tug gently at your restraints, trying to get closer before it's tugged away from you, and like a child separated from a favorite toy, your eyes itch in frustration. Something else is stuck in your mouth.
"Apparently you need fat to properly digest food," she says, ignoring your near inhalation of the rice. "I put fat on the rice. It does not taste particularly good, but you're hardly in a position to complain." You focus on swallowing, inhaling the first human contact you have had in what feels like forever. So what if it was someone who means you harm? It's a voice, a real one. You are not alone here, and that is all you have ever wanted.

When she pulls away, your immediate reaction is to lean back towards her, following her as best you can despite your wrists screaming otherwise. 'Don't leave me in here,' you want to cry. 'It's too dark in here to be alone!'

"I'm not here to feed you." Her voice is colder than the room. You hardly breathe. "I'm here for answers."

"No," you answer automatically. "I don't have... nothing to say."

"Not about the Hamatos." You close your eyes in relief. "Not entirely."

"Then what?"

She pauses. "What you said to me."

"About what?" The events of the past are foggy in your head, memories relating to her especially so.

"Hamato Yoshi."

Your breathing slows. You have an idea of what she is asking, now. "What?"

"Why did you call him my father?"

"Is." Why can you not think of the words? "He is."

"He's not."

"Says who?"

"My father."

"Liar," you grin, reveling in the sensation of your skin being pulled across your face, the creases on your lips dripping blood, which you lick off. "Your dad's a liar."

"Hamato Yoshi?"

"Shredder."

"How dare you?"

"Tin man." You giggle. You feel fuzzy.

She snaps her fingers in front of your face. "Focus."

"On what? I'm blind."

"You're just in a dark room."

You stick your tongue out at her. "How would you know if I am?"

"Because there isn't anything that would make you lose your vision here."

"Not with that attitude," you laugh.

She takes a slow breath, exhales it. "You're delirious."

"Then why are you here?"

"I want answers. Real ones."

"I'm giving you what you want," you say. "You just don't wannem."

"Because they can't be true."

"Why?"

You hear her stand up—your heart jumps to your throat at the thought of her leaving. "Because it makes no sense." You can hear her pacing. "Why would Father raise me if I wasn't his daughter?"

"He's your dad."

"So you admit you're lying?"

You gasp dramatically. "I'm not a liar!" Another fit of giggling. It is absolutely absurd, what is happening, as far away and fantastic as some spy thriller you might have been dragged to see. You feel your voice crack as you raise it above a whisper. "I'm as honest as water, as rock! Or is that immovable?"

She stops pacing, sighs. "You're delirious," she repeats.

"Am not," you protest. "And if I was, it wouldn't be because of that."

"But you keep contradicting yourself."

"B... bio..." you mumble to yourself, trying to find the word. "Biolistic— no, that's not... bio..."

She takes a slow breath. "Biologically?"

You tug at the chains, snapping your fingers habitually. "That's the word!" You smile proudly. "Biologically, Hamato Yoshi's your dad. But Shredder raised you, so I guess it's just whatever matters more."

"So you don't have an answer for me."

You turn your head. "I dunno," you pout. "I'm not you, Missy. What do I know what you care about?"

You expect her to leave. You dread it, still, but you do not hear the door.

You hear her thump down in front of you. "I have another question."

"Hit me." You love that your throat is burning.

You hear her pick up the dishes. "How do you know?"

You cock your head. "What?"

"They don't know, do they? The brothers?"

"Nope." You sigh. "Speaking of, they're not dead already, are they?"

You can taste a hint of bitterness. "Not yet. Feel lucky; Father would have killed you already if you were no longer of use."

You beam. "I'm so glad!"

"You're the only one. Answer my question."

You think for a moment. "Do you know the simulation interpretation of the world?" You chew on your bleeding lip. "That everything's a simulation?"

"No."

"Well," you slide back down the wall carefully, lying down, "where I'm from, you're a character on a show."

There is a silence.

"Well?"

"So you are nuts."

"This is why I didn't tell you anything in my dream either," you groan. "What do I have to do to convince you?"

"Change what is and is not possible."

"Then what do you want from me?" You want to make her happy, to keep her here. "That's the truth."

"No, it's not." You can hear the sadistic smile stretch across her face. "You're hiding something, aren't you?"

"Nope." Your attempt to pop the P is sad, your lips still painfully dry. "I'm being honest."

"Then you're crazy."

"I'm not!"

"Then tell me something only I know."

You think. You pray. "Your favorite type of tea," you say tentatively, "is sincha."

You have no way to tell what her reaction is. You hear her— sense her, more like— rise to her feet. Your stomach drops as you hear the grinding of stone again.

"Don't leave!" You tug at the chains again, pushing with weak legs off the wall towards her. Your knees easily buckle.

You wish you at least had light when the doors open.

—

She comes back another eternity later.
She brings you more food and bitter drink, feeds you, and asks you questions you answer to the best of your ability. She does not mention the Hamatos but does ask about information she has not been given. You figure that means something, that she believes you. When she leaves, it causes the same panic as last time— you have no way to assure her return, and she only ever comes soon enough to make sure you do not die of starvation or dehydration— but, if nothing else, it gives you some way to keep track of time, her visits.
Every time, it's rice and tea. The same amount each time. You always feel hungrier after.

"His goal is to starve me, right?" This is her third visit. You are proud that your sentences sound less slurred than usual this time. Just as quiet, seeing as your throat is burning, but more distinct.

She stuffs another clump of rice into your mouth. "Generally."

You swallow greedily. "Then why are you messing with him?"

"Because you have the intel that I want." Another mouthful. "You can't give me that intel if you cannot speak. Besides," she exhales, "I'm supposed to bring you a drink anyways, every few days. Not enough to satisfy, but enough to keep you going, so you can confess. I'm just bringing you extra."

"Is that all?"

She considers this for a moment. "No." She sets the chopsticks down in the ceramic dish with a clink. "I've been in here before. I pity you."

You wish desperately to see her face. "What for?"

"Discipline." You can hear the rustle of cloth on cloth. "Secrecy. My father sees in black and white; obedience is met with benevolence, and disobedience... this."

You lay down. "For how long?"

"No more than a week." You hear her stand up, pad around the room. "I was never chained up, and I was fed. Irregularly, but I was."

"Do you consider it cruel, then?"

She thinks again. "Not particularly." She always paces in this room, it seems. She only ever sits long enough to feed you, and then goes about the rest of the conversation pacing. "But you look absolutely pathetic. There's no honor in defeating someone as emaciated as you."

You know that word. "What is emaciated, again?"

She pads towards you. "Thin," she says simply. "Malnourished to the point you are at."

"Can you see me?" Panic snares you. "Am I—"

"No," she interrupts, irritated, "you're not blind, for the last time. I can tell when I give you food; your skin's cool, and I can feel your bones through it."

You exhale. "You scared me."

You can hear her smile. "That's what did it?"

"Yeah." You nod, forgetting that she can't see you. "Honestly, you could be Jack the Ripper and I would be happy to see you."

"I remember," she agrees. "When they would slip me food, I always tried to grasp whoever it was' hand."

"I probably would, if I wasn't tied up." You laugh breathily, minding your throat. "I'm so lonely I can barely breathe a lot of the time."

"You get used to it." You hear her sit back down to pick up the dishes. "Maybe that's another reason he locked me in here, so that I was not bothered by it so much."

"Maybe." You doubt it.

You hear her stand back up, walking and stopping in a portion of the room. "Sometimes," she says, "when I was a bit older, he would leave me alone in here with another ninja, blind on blind. He would never let my partner go all the way, but I always tried to." She taps the spot with her foot. "I lost once. Right here."

"How do you know?"

"Father had to come in, let in some light. Besides, I know this room well."

Your eyes slide shut. "That's unfortunate."

"Not necessarily." She sighs. "I wouldn't be who I am otherwise, so some good must've come from it."

"Sure." Your stomach growls angrily. "Are you going to come back?"

"Why?"

"I told you why."

She considers it. "I don't know." She starts towards the door. "We'll see, I suppose."

Your heart jumps to your throat. "Wait!" Your voice cracks as you yank forward in the direction of her footsteps. "Answer something, please!"

She stops. "What?"

"The date." You do not bother asking about Donnie; if they had him and his family, you would be dead. No point in asking redundant questions. You just want her to stay. "What's the date?"

She thinks for a moment. You hear the grinding of stone on stone, and she is gone again.

This time, you do not cry. 'She would not leave me for dead.' You curl your legs towards yourself. 'They need what I have.'

Your head is tucked towards your knees.
You wonder about him, between cursing your body for its inadequacies and reenacting scenes in your head. You like to think he is looking for you. You doubt that he is; if you remember correctly, the Kraang invasion is due, so he has bigger priorities. You do not mind that. You only hope that he does not get himself hurt on your account.

You hear his voice sometimes. His and your mother's. You hate that you do. It implies that he and your mother share a fate, which you refuse to believe. You are not there to act as a bad-luck charm, and he's resourceful. He would not die in the course of however long you have been here.

That part you hate too, that you cannot tell how much time has passed. You estimate that it has been about nine days, but you have no way of confirming that or any idea of when you were brought here. You hope you haven't missed the holidays, at least; thanksgiving is coming up.
If you leave, you will make a turkey. Your mother always made the best turkeys for thanksgiving, and you think you remember how she did it.

You swallow. You do not want to cry again. It makes your throat hurt.

So, you close your eyes, mouthing some poem or book or whatever comes to mind, something simple that will not make you cry.

You do not remember ever feeling this alone.