damned_institute | Night 57: Disciplinary Therapy Room 4 [M-U for Michelangelo]

Entry tags:

m-u,
michelangelo

Night 57: Disciplinary Therapy Room 4 [M-U for Michelangelo]

Preparation had taken longer than usual with this one, but he was confident that the results would be worth it. He could already feel the tingle of excitement, a build up toward achieving great things, as he entered the room. The stainless steel of the table gleamed in the light, making the sill form strapped to it seem smaller, almost insignificant despite the wealth of data that could be mined from his body.

The doctor crossed to the table slowly, taking a moment to check the steel bands and cuffs that bound the man in place before turning his attention to the tools laid out nearby. Some were simply for show, reminders of other, similar situations the creature had been in before. Times when he was younger and more naive. But the harshness of his reality had changed that, just as this time together would change him again, turn him into something new.

He hoped it would also be something better, but that was the nature of true science. It wasn't only about success; even failure could produce interesting and significant results. Success would be nice to achieve, especially with a subject of such limited availability as this one was, but it wasn't entirely necessary.

Perhaps he was starting to turn sentimental, the doctor mused as he waited for the subject to awaken. He was starting to hope more of them survived these procedures instead of the strict 'any data is good data' belief he'd maintained before. Perhaps a vacation was in order? He'd need to think on it further.

But not now. Now, there was the shining steel table and the harsh lighting shining down on the subject, the table of tools waiting just within eye sight from the table, and his subject beginning to wake.

"Time to begin."

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The first thing Michelangelo became aware of was the light on the other side of his eyelids, but it didn't register immediately. He didn't want to open them; they were heavy, and he was tired. There was something cool against his back, uncomfortably hard, and he shifted to get into a better position.

Except he couldn't shift. He could barely move.

Mike's eyes snapped open, only to squint against the harsh light above him. He pulled against the restraints around his arm, his legs, his chest--nothing. Then, there was a glint of something out of the corner of his eye, and Mike turned his head. Medical instruments, some of them familiar.

He noticed the doctor right after that, and turned to stare at him, eyes widening.

Shell, Shell, Shell-- Mike shut the panic down a moment later, focusing on his breath for a moment. Had to keep his cool. Had to stay in control. He couldn't give the guy one damn bit of information, not that anything he knew would be useful. It was more the principle of it, really. If they were going to torture him, they were going to have to work for it.

Or so he told himself.

His expression was blank when he finally spoke, "Couldn't come up with something original, could you?"

Edited 2011-08-05 19:25 (UTC)

That little moment of fear was perfect, exactly what he'd been hoping for and something that couldn't be erased by the subject's words of the way he tried to hide what had been clear on his face in the brief moment. The doctor smiled and approached the table, leaning against the edge of it almost like they were friends talking instead of doctor and patient.

"I thought it might make you more comfortable, revisiting old memories. Better times before everything changed. You must miss it a little." His tone was light, amicable, though his eyes focused on the subject's face for any changes, any flicker that might give away more than Mike cared to admit.

"And you must also miss other things, here," he continued after a moment. "How have you been finding your new body? Not too difficult to adapt, is it?"

Mike didn't reply at first, instead narrowing his eyes as the doctor spoke of "better times". How much did this man know about him? How could he know about him? That was forever ago, another life, and Mike never spoke about it to anyone. Did they have telepaths?

They almost had to, if they had Raph or the Raph look-alike. Unless, somehow, Raph had been there previously and "cured". But that really wasn't at the top of Mike's List of Concerns at the moment. He was a bit more concerned about his captor at the moment.

"Been doing okay, yeah," Mike answered coolly. "If you let me go, I'll let you see how well."

Edited 2011-08-06 20:49 (UTC)

"I'm afraid that's not going to happen," the doctor answered, smiling faintly. "We have work to do, Michelangelo, and we've put things off for long enough as it is."

He moved away, letting the significance of the name sink in as he busied himself with setting out several vials of a green, viscous liquid that seemed to catch the light strangely, looking almost like it was emitting its own eerie glow.

"It's a curious substance, isn't it?" he remarked as he worked. Answers didn't matter; let the subject think the doctor foolish for babbling his plans to the open air. There was no advantage to be had from anything the doctor would say; Mike wasn't going to be leaving this room easily.

"Difficult to obtain, but well worth the effort."

Was he supposed to be afraid that the bastard knew his name? Because he wasn't. If they knew so much about him already, his name was only one more thing. Mike wasn't going to feel fear because of that.

He was much more concerned about the liquid in the vials. No, it couldn't be-- it should've been impossible for them to get the ooze without being detected. Either from Shredder's Transmat or from the one in the TCRI building, since time didn't seem to matter to these guys. Both had security out the wazoo, and they should've been shot full of holes.

But then how had they gotten his body and brought him back to life? Not that he would've known what had happened, but his brothers would have stopped them from taking him. (Unless they were also--no. He wouldn't go there.)

Mike barked a laugh, but it came out more more like it had stuck in his throat. "You really gotta get original material. I'm human now. What good will that do me?"

The doctor tutted, shaking his head at Mike's assumptions as he set out the last of the syringes with a soft tap, automatically arranging it to be perfectly aligned with its three siblings before turning back.

"If this were the original substance, you may be right," he commented. "But we're not interested in studying what made you what you are, Michelangelo. We have enough data on that already. No, this is... something different. My own design, so you can understand that I'm proud to show it to you."

He smiled warmly in a way that didn't reach his eyes. "I hope you enjoy the effects it will have."

Mike started to breathe a little faster. He'd need the extra oxygen if he was going to try to escape. The former turtle tested his restraints again, pulling at them, trying to slip his hand free, but the restraints were too tight and wouldn't budge. He wouldn't be able to slip out of any of them, and he didn't have the tools hidden on his body to try to escape by other means. Mike pulled harder for a moment, then forced himself to go still.

It wasn't any use.

All he could do was take stock of the room. Note the syringes, note the medical equipment (had to be for show), try to find the nearest exit. The doctor had to let his guard down eventually and leave an opening for Mike to exploit. He would strike then.

His heart was beating faster. The rhythm was all wrong. It wasn't his heart. This wasn't his body. He wasn't as strong as he should be. His agility wasn't what it was, either. If there was a moment of opportunity, he might not--

Stop.

"I'll enjoy it more than your face," Mike growled as best as he could. "So just get it over with."

Edited 2011-08-09 13:53 (UTC)

"And here I thought that perhaps your sense of humour had gotten better with age," the doctor tutted. "But, if getting right to the, hmm, point is what you'd prefer, far be it for me to let you down."

A good conversation was always enjoyable, but he also could respect a man - or turtle, in this case - who preferred to get right down to business. They both knew the score here, so there was no point in delaying matters any further. There were more important tasks at hand.

Selecting one of the syringes, the doctor carefully turned back so that Michelangelo could watch as he drew the contents of the vial into it, carefully freeing the trapped air bubbles and setting down the empty vial again. Next came a brief swab with a medicated wipe to sterilise the chosen area: a section right in the centre of a large scar on the man's body.

"I would tell you that this is only going to be a little pinch," the doctor said, amiably, "but we both know that's going to be lie, don't we?"

With that said, he pressed the tip of the syringe to the flesh, pushing it down and into the muscle and then slowly releasing the vibrant drug.

Mike didn't reply as the doctor continued to yammer on. There wasn't a way to escape yet as far as he could see, and delaying the doctor's procedure would serve no purpose. The best option was to get it over with as soon as possible so that this would be over. Sure, there was a chance that whatever this was could kill him, but he was already on borrowed time anyways.

He worked to control his breathing, keeping it slow and even. His hand curled into a fist. Mike would like to sink it into the doctor's face, but that would have to come later. All he could do now was stay calm, blank his face, keep quiet, and give the man no satisfaction.

Mike didn't lift his head to watch the doctor swab his left thigh. Although he needed to watch to see for the effects, but he never liked needles. The liquid felt cool as it was injected into his muscle, but almost immediately, it began to sear, slowly growing more painful as more drug entered his system.

The former turtle grit his teeth and kept completely still.

The doctor didn't give any outward sign of disappointment, though he would have enjoyed at least some reaction, a bit of banter or even fruitless threats, to accompany the procedure. If he'd wanted to talk to someone who couldn't offer anything in return, he'd have become a dentist instead.

As it was, he smiled brightly as he withdrew the now-empty syringe and set it down on an empty tray.

"Not so bad, I hope? Though do tell me if you start experiencing any cramping. That shouldn't happen for some time and I wouldn't want the procedure to be interrupted halfway. That would be unfortunate, not to mention fatal. And messy." He chuckled while preparing another syringe. "I'm getting too old to spend time hosing down the mess."

"I ain't sweet; I won't melt," Mike gritted through his teeth, closing his eyes and ignoring everything else the man said.

The heat was growing worse and so was the pain, and this was just the first injection. Mike knew he was in too deep. He had to get out of there, before all of the medication was in him.

Mike pulled against his restraints again, trying the one around his wrist before the two holding his ankles. No budging. But they had to budge. He had to get out of here--

Stop it.

Mike grew still again. Rubbing his skin raw wouldn't help him get free. Blood wouldn't provide enough slickness to get free. If only he had his tools....

"Melting isn't really the sort of reaction you'll be expecting," the doctor commented idly as he checked the next syringe carefully, a few drops of the brightly coloured liquid escaping the tip of the needle. He set it down again briefly in order to select a spot just above where Michelangelo's arm ended so abruptly and swabbed it neatly with alcohol again.

"Ready for the next round?" he asked, though there was little point in waiting for an answer, even if he'd actually cared what it was. The experiment would continue regardless of the patient's involvement.

With that in mind, the doctor pressed the tip of the syringe against the flesh before slowly driving the needle deep into the muscle to deliver another dose of the strange chemical.

No, he wasn't ready, but Mike knew he had no choice. The second needle went in, and the pain worsened. Mike squeezed his eyes shut and grit his teeth. No talk--he had to focus on keeping it together. With the liquid in him, he wasn't sure he could talk without groaning in pain.

It was starting to feel like his body was really getting warmer....

Mike hoped it wouldn't get as bad as That Day, the one he would never forget.

A sound escaped the back of his throat, but he said nothing more.

Shell.

"Halfway there," the doctor commented, setting down the syringe and selecting another. He prepared it quickly, then set it back on the tray again before turning to his subject.

"The others are going into some more difficult to reach places, so I'm just going to have to move you a little, Michelangelo," he said. But if the mutant was hoping for a break, something he could use to get away, then he was going to be disappointed. Instead, the doctor made some adjustments to the table and picked up an attached remote, slowly elevating and tilting the table to give him better access to a wide gap below Michelangelo's back.

"You have some extensive scarring here, don't you?" he said, moving back around to select the prepared syringe and another swab. "Plenty of places to choose from."

Mike growled at him as he was moved. It was no where near as impressive as Raph's, but Mike couldn't risk opening his mouth. The pain was getting worse, and there was no way he was going to give the doctor the satisfaction of hearing him scream.

Why the hell was the doctor injecting it into his scars, anyways? The skin was thicker, harder to penetrate. Mike didn't have the medical knowledge that Donny had, so he had absolutely no clue why--

--the doctor was going to inject it into the scar tissue in his back. Mike's breath hitched. He didn't have a shell anymore. His back was unprotected. He had absolutely no way to defend himself.

All he could do was shoot the man a glare, hoping in vain that looks really could kill. He wasn't going to give into him, even if there was no hope of escape. Turtles never gave up.

Unsurprisingly, the doctor ignored the glare, concentrating instead on the mass of scar tissue on the right side of Michelangelo's back. There was more than enough here for him to work with; it was almost a pity that he only had a little more work to do with the creature.

"Not much further to go now," he murmured largely to himself. "Then we will be able to see if you have what it takes to survive. ...or if you end up broken again."

Leaving it at that, the doctor swabbed neatly at a patch of the darker scar tissue and pressed the tip of the syringe into it. It was much thicker here, and he had to work it in particularly hard. But it was worth it as he felt the syringe hit the target level and he slowly injected the substance into Mike again.

"One left." The syringe was withdrawn neatly and the doctor set it down, preparing the final one with slower movements as he enjoyed the motions and the strain on his subject's face. "This one is going deeper than the others, I'm afraid," he said, not looking apologetic in the least. "But you've been doing very well!"

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Night 57: Disciplinary Therapy Room 4 [M-U for Michelangelo]

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