Chapter Text
Scratching.
Scraping of claws against concrete, growing in volume. Squeals and snaps of jaws as the mass of rodents pour out of every crevice, circling their helpless prey.
Helpless, Mikey huffs with strained amusement. Not yet, anyway.
A good quality, Michelangelo notes about himself, is the fact he’s too stubborn to give up so easily. With his wrists and ankles bound against wood, lying on his shell and surrounded by diseased rats, he still fights against the odds pinning him down.
Only minutes ago, he had been confronted by what looked like a rotting man, his body wrapped in bandages and layered in grime. Rats had shadowed his footsteps, skittered in his imposing shadow as he punched the wall next to Michelangelo’s face hard enough to shatter the surface beside him. Eyes cold had pierced into his own fearful pair, a cruel amusement curling in the soulless core. It had given Mikey a dreaded feeling, knowing something was going to happen that he really wouldn’t like. And he was correct.
Now, he stares up at a mouldy ceiling, barely able to move as he is left to be an early dinner for an army of rats. None of his brothers are within reach, or at least within hearing distance – that thought alone makes him uneasy. His brothers are always close by. They need to be.
Not this time. Michelangelo is alone.
Teeth grinding, chest heaving, he pulls against the restraints and tries to ignore the way the rats circle him out of the corners of his vision, a doomed cloud ready to devour him. Head still throbbing from the blow he had received not even an hour before, and limbs still clumsy and coordinated, he had to admit that he may be trapped.
Helpless.
“Not happening! Not happening!” Mikey thrashes, deciding to focus all of his strength into one arm. If he could just free one he would be out within a second. He just needs to –
The turtle shrieks in alarm when he feels coarse fur scrape against his head. The hoard is becoming bold, but Mikey thrusts his beak out sharply and manages to toss the rat away into the writhing mass of bodies that churn beneath him. They grow more excited, teasing, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. Michelangelo hates the way he can see it in their eyes, a feral malice dancing in the depths of the yellowed glare that shines in the semi-darkness.
Scratching.
Scraping.
Helpless.
Instinct takes over where his mind fails; the wood is stronger than it looks. Desperate bursts of uncoordinated movement override previous, calculated movements, metal cutting into his skin as he arches his back as far as it can go.
“Leo! Raph!” It’s a last effort. “Don!”
No one comes. No one swoops in at the last second, nor does he manage to break the cuffs at the perfect moment. Instead, there is a collective shriek from the beasts below him as they all lunge forward in a hungered wave, their curled claws scraping against his scales and hideous jaws dripping with froth and drool.
Heart racing, Michelangelo hisses at the rodents. However, his warning is ignored by their destructive hunger. The hiss cuts off into a yelp when the first rat bites down on the exposed flesh between his skin and his shell, its grimy paws digging the pink flesh underneath away.
Mikey screams, much more guttural than the last, renewing his efforts to escape the hot agony that laces his skin in hundreds of bites and scratches. It tears his throat raw, chest stuttering with hyperventilating breaths and eyes widening. Skin tears and breaks away into mouths rowed with razored teeth, the squeals of the rodents rising as they begin to feast upon their helpless prey.
The turtle fights back with the depths of feral instinct, the desperate need to survive pulsing in his bloodstream. He snaps his beak at the rats that get to close, breaking their bones underneath his grip. But sheer numbers soon make this fight useless – a lucky one leaps and grabs hold of an eye and tears.
Everywhere is pain. Scales are ripped away, skin peeled back, flesh slowly being devoured. They crawl under his shell, finding the most tender areas and beginning to feast. Others try to scramble down his throat when it parts for another shriek of agony.
Scraping, scratching, squealing, snapping, over and over.
Blood pools, soaking through the wood and dripping steadily onto the ground. It’s metallic tang reeks through the room, only drawing more rats to the horrific scene. Flesh is eaten away, muscle beginning to glisten and twitch through the shining red liquid. Mikey wails, long and terrified, his thrashing beginning to weaken. The pain and horror of what is occurring drains the adrenaline away from him, leaving him a husk for the rats to feast upon. Strength wanes and he can only vocalise his pain repeatedly in blood-curling cries. All the while, the rats continue to eat him alive, crawling under his skin and down his throat, it is agony, why can’t he just die already –
“NO!”
He doesn’t know who says it. He doesn’t know who is suddenly tearing the cursed rats away from him with frantic hands. He doesn’t know who is ripping away the cuffs, who is cupping his face, who is yelling in fury, who is tapping his cheek –
He is cold. He can still hear it, the scraping, scratching, squealing –
“Mikey, can you hear me? I need you to squeeze my hand, okay?”
“It’s gonna be okay, they’re gone now, I swear –“
“Is he even –“
“Michelangelo, can you hear me?!”
Mikey whines, low and anguished. He is on fire, he is frozen, he hurts, everywhere. Have the rats gone? It’s hard to breathe, to try and understand what is being said above him. He inhales sharply, shaking under the grip of his brothers.
Brothers.
The realisation settles his mind a little, if only for a moment. Because he recognises the calloused hand that holds his bloody one, the soothing hum of churrs to his right and the soft brown eyes that stare deep into his.
“I know – I know it hurts, okay?” The words don’t make sense, but Mikey cherishes them anyway because Don says them with such a softness that instantly makes everything a little less loud. “But I need to to hold on. We’re going - we’re going to get you home and fix you up, okay?”
Coughs erupt from the youngest’s torn throat. The voices around him grow louder, more alarmed as something warm leaks from his parted beak. Eyelids heavy, he begins to let his eyes slide shut, the pain too great for him to handle any longer.
“No!” Someone yells, and moves to tap him awake. Even the slightest amount of pressure on his tattered skin causes Mikey to shriek, writhing in pain. Everything dulls around him except the thudding of his heart, the scraping of the rats, not the rats –
“Shit! I didn’t know –!”
“We need to – he needs medical attention, I don’t even know how he’s still –“
“We can’t move him!”
“There’s barely any skin left…his eye –“
“We have to get him back to the lair –“
Warm arms scoop him up. They aren’t scaled, but hold the familiarity of a brother all the same. The youngest rolls his head back, watching the world blur and senses drown under the haze his exhaustion brings.
“Look, me an’ Don’ll get him back, you two deal with ugly over there and catch up!”
Mikey’s eyes drift over to meet Casey’s own. The human is speaking to him, voice mute under the high pitched buzzing in his ear.
Scraping, scratching, squealing, he swears he can still hear it, see the yellowed eyes from the corners of his vision, feel their claws. Panicked, he jerks against the hold (why is he on the ground again?) that confines him, a garbled hiss spluttering blood over the floor and his plastron. Too much touch (are the rats back?) is poison against his skin and he shrieks with a wheezed breath, tossing his head back and fourth in frenzied movements. The rats are back, he’s certain, he needs to get away, escape, find his brothers again. Something is holding him down, sending shockwaves of pain through his body that make tears of shock form in the corners of his eyes, mouth parting in a whispered scream. He wants everything to stop, even if the voices around him beg him not to. Dulled eyes catch sight of his own hand, mutilated beyond recognition with whites of bone, lumpy flesh and oozing blood snaking up his arm. Only his claws remain intact, the rest of his fingertips seemingly eaten away.
It’s enough. Mikey gags, and someone tips his head to the side just as he feels the sour taste of bile and metallic reek of blood assault his senses.
“Hold on, hold on…” someone (Donny?) murmurs. Mikey doesn’t want to. Everything is pain and so, with a hitched breath, his heart stills and eyes flutter shut, freed of the torment he was forced to endure.