193Thanks again to all of you! Terran/Splinter- you are a goddess! Doppleganger33, I swear, I am uninvolved and unaware of the coming season except for one tiny piece. LLama, I will do my best, and so will the guys. Thanks, Mew. Pi90katana- yeah, I kind of got creatively busy. Sorry.
TMNT are not mine- they are a MIRAGE- LOL- yeah, it's been done before, so sue me.
GO!
Splinter stood before an extremely surprised Bishop. He was tied firmly, for even though he had told these Ninja "super soldiers" of Bishop's that he would go with them, they took no chances.
"He didn't resist?" Bishop repeated for a third time, the disbelief still apparent in his tone. The leader nodded once again.
"He said that he would not fight us, Sir."
Bishop stared at Splinter with a mixture of distrust, confusion and incredulity.
Then, as Splinter calmly returned Bishop's uncertain stare with his own confident, peaceful gaze, his emotions turned to utter contempt and hatred. Before the rat could react, Bishop hit him once, stunning him.
"Take him to the lab and prepare him," he ordered, as the lead "soldier" supported the semiconscious rat. Then he turned to his Slayer. "This is an unbelievable turn of events. Though your mission is to be the death of the Turtles, I had hoped that my soldiers would have been able to follow him to where they live, challenging them and perhaps make your job easier. No matter. Soon they will be out looking for their- 'father'-" he said this word with a hateful sneer- "- and they will be easier for you to locate. You will leave tomorrow. We'll let them reflect overnight on the disappearance of the rat. Time will make them more careless."
Without another word, he left to start his work in the lab.
The Slayer followed without a word; Victor, however, was making his own plans for tomorrow.
At around six o'clock, Raph was just turning off the stove. The cheese had melted over the top of the spaghetti, and now he was carefully monitoring the best part- the crisping of it. He hated it to be burned, but he did like it a bit toasted. The secret was in knowing the exact moment to pull it from the oven and put it on the table.
The places were set, the salad and bread and drinks already out. The guys were patiently waiting for dinner and their father.
Six-fifteen, Raph was putting the meal back in the still-warm oven, trying to preserve it. No one was worried; sometimes Splinter might be a bit late, though that wasn't often.
Six-thirty everyone was beginning to fidget, trying not to become too concerned; they contemplated eating, considering that the meal was becoming a candidate for the microwave.
Six-forty-five, they put the food away and got their weapons.
"Raph, you and Don take the upper levels, Mikey and I will take the lower. We know the direction to where Sensei opens the portal, but this way we won't miss him."
Without another word the four brothers set out in the general known direction their father would take.
Splinter, they knew from their entire lives, was never late more than a few minutes. The knew something had to be wrong, though they desperately hoped that perhaps the Daimyo had pressed him to stay longer.
"We'll look foolish if that's all it is," Mike pointed out as they discussed this scenario.
"I'd rather look foolish than not look at all," Leo responded, and Mike was in agreement; but he'd felt the need to say something at that point. He needed to hear Leo's voice for some reason.
Upper level- Don was fiddling with his tracker. He had once again placed tracking devises in Splinter's walking stick and robe, not to mention his shell-cell. Once again, Splinter had removed them- or at least one of them. And, as Don knew (he had checked before they'd left the Lair) Splinter had left his shell-cell at home, feeling uncomfortable using it. He was convinced that it had a grudge against him, and would rarely work properly ("I must have offended its spirit in a previous life, it works hard to thwart my every attempt to use it," he'd said in controlled frustration one day).
"Well, the signal is coming from the direction we're all traveling in," Don told Raph, who relayed this to Leo via his own shell-cell. "But it isn't moving. That could mean he's injured or not really there."
"I hope he's injured," Don could hear Mikey faintly through Raph's phone, and hoped the same thing.
It was a long way to the signal. The only thing it couldn't tell them was what level it was on. Raph and Don, using the tunnels closer to the subways, had to be extra-careful, as there were parts where they had to pass through public areas.
Therefore it was no surprise when the call came through that Leo and Mike had reached the signal first.
Don didn't need to hear Leo's voice to know that bad news had been relayed to Raph; he could tell just by the look of frustrated anger and grief on his brother's face that the guys had only found the source of the signal and not their father.
Though it was late, Bishop was eager to begin. He supervised the preparations, participated in the insertions of various catheters, tubes, and I.V. drip (to keep him alive; Splinter was pretty sure they would not be feeding him, and he wasn't disappointed). Vials of blood were drawn, long needles drew off samples of bone marrow, and tissue samples were taken from his tail. Through it all, Splinter uttered not a sound, and refused to even register pain.
"I told you I'd finish what I'd started out to do," Bishop said, as the assistants and he left the lab. The lights were shut off, and Splinter was left strapped to the cold table, as the I.V.. drip slowly entered his system, its sole intent to nourish him.
Splinter recalled similar words from his dream; but at least his sons were alive. He knew they would search for him, but he prayed that they would stay safely away from Bishop and his men.
He was sure there was some sort of drug in the I.V. to keep him from escaping. He felt great pain, but at the same time, he was noticing a lethargy creeping over him that was not natural.
It was dark and cold in this lab. He wanted to escape- the table was hard and his body shape was not suited to this type of reclining. He wanted to turn over on his side, curl up, and sleep.
But in spite of the lethargy, he found sleep far from him. His thoughts turned to his sons, and he found himself meditating without thinking about it on his sons.
He recalled Donatello's first invention:
"It's a remote control toaster!" he enthusiastically explained to his father. "See, this remote control works the toaster! You can be sitting at the table, and press the button, and the toaster will automatically make the toast! You won't have to get up to use it!"
"Hey, brainac!" Raphael had asked in that teasing tone. "Does the remote control put the bread in the toaster for you?"
As the others laughed, Donatello had looked sorrowfully at his father. But Splinter had smiled at him, and put an arm around him.
"I am so proud of you, my son," he had simply said, and the smile was just as bright in his memory as it was that day.
There were sounds around him, but he didn't focus on them; strange breathing sounds, odd movements, soft scuffing noises- but he ignored them for the most part. Background noise to his memories and situation.
"Michelangelo!" he remembered raising his voice in shock when he'd found this seven year old son trying to practice "the way of balance" on an old pipe close to the edge of one of the many swift-moving sewer currents. It had rained for days, and finally stopped. The water level had dropped, but it was still dangerous, and Michelangelo had been disappointed that he was not as good as the others in crossing the beam in the dojo. He had tried practicing in there, but his brothers were a tiresome audience.
So he'd been sneaking out here to practice without his brothers' prying eyes or teasing comments.
Just as he had spoken, the rusty pipe had started to give way- and Michelangelo did the most beautiful back flip dismount he'd seen, landing safely away from the edge.
He knew he wasn't supposed to be out there, and was ready for his punishment, but Splinter just couldn't bring himself this one time to do so.
"What? He gets ta teach us how ta dismount?" he could still hear the disbelief in Raphael's voice at his decision to have this "youngest" brother demonstrate this skill...
Splinter had no way of knowing how long he'd been like this. All sense of time had left him, left him along with his energy.
The only thing left to him were thoughts of his sons and his determination to survive- survive until he could find his will to escape.
He was determined to survive...
Time had no meaning today. Bishop and his assistants had reappeared, and the real work had begun. Pain was all he was aware of, in spite of whatever they were giving him to keep him from fighting, pain was all he could think of- pain.
Tubes were inserted, and he wondered if this were his dream...
More samples... more blood... more samples...
The hum of machines filled his ears, but the pain was more intense than any noise.
"Can we perhaps get a few tissue samples from the organs?" he heard one of the assistants ask, and his ears tried to close themselves to the suggestion, to block out the sound of what that might entail, to protect his mind from the knowledge that they were going to dissect him right then and there...
"Later. There will be plenty of time later. For now we will make do with this," Bishop replied.
More pain... more pain... thoughts of his sons found their way through the pain...
"It hurts!" ten year old Leonardo cried uncharacteristically, as Splinter managed to extract the last of several large pieces of glass from his foot. He and his brothers had been exploring where they shouldn't, and now Leonardo was paying the price.
Usually he was the one to tough it out through injuries of this nature, but the amount this time had not only scared them all, it had given Splinter a fright as well. He managed to get the glass out, and cleaned it as best as he could.
Now came the hardest part- the stitches.
"Stitches?" all four had shouted, and the others' faces mirrored the look of horror on his eldest's.
"Yes, stitches," he had said as calmly as possible. "Donatello, you must help me with the threads and needle. Keep them clean and ready to hand to me. Raphael, you will help by holding onto your brother."
"And what about me, Sensei?" Michelangelo had asked in a quavering voice, torn between wanting to help and wanting to run and hide under his bed.
"You, my son, must keep your brother distracted. This will hurt worse than the glass I am afraid. But it must be done."
So the brothers had their first lesson in dangerous wounds- more importantly, in family support. Raphael was a strong presence, and he kept Leonardo from jerking out of his seat several times- though Splinter remembered that he'd kept his eyes closed the entire time.
Donatello, once his initial revulsion was overcome with his natural curiosity, began to study with great interest the work of his Sensei, and even asked if he might attempt a few stitches himself- causing Raphael to have a very hard time keeping Leonardo in his seat!
And Michelangelo had told jokes and annoyed Leonardo to the point that the pain seemed forgotten in a jumble of laughing one minute and groaning the next, depending upon the jokes.
"All finished, my sons," he had finally announced, and the four of them marveled that it was over so quickly.
But to Splinter, it had been the longest twenty minutes of his life.
"Time to call it a day, gentlemen," came the hated voice through the pain.
Splinter opened his eyes to see the Slayer watching him. Bishop was finishing up his ghoulish activity for the day, and the last of the implements he had been using on Splinter were cleaned and put away.
He turned to the Slayer, holding out the rat's blood-stained robe to him.
"Use this as your bait," Bishop said. "Remember, I want them dead before me."
Then he left the room without a glance back at his suffering victim. To Bishop, he was nothing except his valuable donor. He would make sure he lived as long as possible, but that was all.
The rat exchanged looks with the Slayer. He still gazed at Splinter impassively- yet Splinter seemed to think that there was some emotion in those eyes. He was probably imagining it, he thought. He remembered that Michelangelo had said that he had discovered that the Slayer was human, but Splinter knew better than to count on that. Gratitude is short-lived in some.
He closed his own and bit back the painful cries he so desperately wanted to emit. His body hurt so! His spirit was strong, but the pain in his body was trying to overpower him. Despair was trying to work a foothold into his resolve.
"What is the name of the one who gave me the book?"
Splinter's eyes flew open in surprise. He had thought the Slayer had left on his mission to kill his sons.
He looked at this being, who was still impassively staring at him.
He wanted to know the name of his son- for what reason? To lure him to his death?
"I only have a few minutes before I must leave," the Slayer said, his voice lowered against the chance of being over heard. "I have only twenty-four hours to find the Turtles and kill them. I swear to you that I will not do this thing. But please tell me the name of the one who gave me the book."
Splinter stared hard into this beings eyes- and saw what his son had seen. There was something alive in his gaze; there was something "human" in this being- more human than in Bishop.
Splinter decided to trust him.
"Michelangelo," he replied.
"Do you have a message I may give them?"
Again, he decided to trust this being- this person.
"Tell them I love them and to stay away from here."
The Slayer started to leave.
"Wait!" Splinter called as loudly as he dared, suddenly desperate with a memory. "Wait! My son- my son mentioned to me that- please, have you chosen a name?"
"Victor. I am Victor. I will not hurt your Turtles- your sons. I promise."
And he was gone.