Scattering sparks (tmnt 2012)

Think of this as death.

Michelangelo could do nothing but scream. He screamed until his breath gave out, only when his lungs were empty of any air, did he feel any peace- having the illusion that maybe he had finally died and he could reach any form of possible peace. Only for his throat- the pliant flesh raw and sore, to gasp for air once more. Crushing his hopes, and bringing in a tsunami of agony unto his being. All he could taste was heat and iron, despite no blood being in his mouth- it was dizzying.

His already naturally scattered mind seemed to be forcefully torn at the seems further. Michelangelo desperately tried to escape to his land of imagination- far away from the steel walls and darkness- away from the magma that ripped out of his bones and stabbed into his cells, overwhelming him with the painful feeling of burning blood. Michelangelo swore he felt his tears evaporate as they escaped their ducts and seeped down onto his face. Yet Mikey could not escape- his thoughts would never be able to carry him away from such a situation as this.
All his head would do is spiral him into a deeper and darker hole once the sharpest pains subsided.

"Please! Please- I'll tell you what you want- im just a kid! Have some mercy on me- sympathy! Anything! Im just a kid!"
That was a line he had said, yet was not met with any response or release. He had said it as the lord himself towered over him- well no not the literal lord... but the ruler of this domain, this clan. The Shredder. And of course he had no mercy to spare.

Michelangelo felt like he was going crazy! How long had he been here? It was impossible to tell. He wouldn't be fed on a schedule and he couldn't see the moon rise or fall- he had no sense of time. And he could not sleep.

So even his internal clock had failed to offer him a sense of time. He would have the weirdest sense that he was knelt infront of a jury of shadows, screeching into his reptilian auditory apparatus to explain himself. But truthfully he could not utter a testimony- he didn't even understand what his crime was. He felt like they were screaming something of treason to him- and then he was being carried away. Kicking and screaming with whatever energy and strength he had left to spare.

Giving it all he had to fight who was ever apprehending him from each side- sometimes passing out only to be rudely awoken. Michelangelo could both take this- having to bow down to the Shredder or be crushed down by his boot... and that wasn't even the half of it. They had apparently found an oddity in him- and were experimenting on him to exploit it... and it was literally torture, yet he could not die.

Why?

Instead of using all his will to fight and stay alive.
He was using all willpower to give up and try to
die.
And it simply would not happen. Michelangelo had been beaten until all his joint pads had worn and fallen off his body, he felt naked... he wasn't left with any weapons or his gear- not even his mask or bandages.

It was completely out his element, there was not a shimmering of hope. He barely had a sense of identity or control. He didn't even know where he was, he didn't think he was in the Shredder's lair- because surely if he was, his brothers would've found him by now. He was chained up by his wrists to the roof of some place. It was echoing and cold.

He tried to keep his feet off the ground- or his paws would be crunching against broken glass, and his arms would be pulled against his body weight. But he could only strain himself up for so long until he was smacked by exhaustion, and his muscles simply denied his commands and his feet crashed onto the floor and his arms felt like they would pop out their sockets. This place seemed to be made of stone and cinder block- rebar stuck out the walls and there were whole rooms blocked off by bars. Was he in a literal prison? He hoped not..

There was moss and mold growing on the walls, and Michelangelo's only conversation buddies were snails and moths- and the occasional
roly-poly. But that was only when he was left on the floor and not chained up- and he was laughed and mocked, they knew he was too weak from all they did to even attempt to escape, even if they didn't shackle him up at all. And it had all started as a normal mission too...
Yet right now Michelangelo was being strapped into a steel chair by leather straps, his squirming futile. And after being strapped to an electric chair for not even the first time during his stay- he started to accept that it was fully possible that he was in a real prison.

Michelangelo could only writhe, helpless as a fly in web- as the true fly approached him. Baxter Stockman, a steel tool in his insectoid hands. Mikey didn't recognize the instrument, but it was a molt nine. A stainless steel instrument, with one sharp pointed end- the other end was a slightly wider and dull end, resembling a cuticle pusher. The fly mutant twitching and buzzing as it moved closer to him.

Stockman took the bladed end and Mikey could barely move while his wrists were so tightly strapped down that they felt spiky with loss of circulation. He felt like he was grinding his teeth into powder as tears welled up in his eyes, and his heart dropped to his feet and sunk to hell. The bladed end of the tool sunk into his nail wall- where the flesh clung onto the keratin. Michelangelo screamed, feeling like he was going to throw up every vital organ in his body. Each fingernail was cut and loosened from the flesh.

And then dug all the way to the matrix, and the whole entire nail was pulled out. Every. Single. Fingernail. Michelangelo felt blinded by the veil of tears created as he cried- wishing to pass out and have a moment away from the torment.

And as he sat there feeling woozy, he almost bit his tongue off as volts of electricity shot through him. Every muscle clenching up as he screamed. Blood pumping agony throughout his arteries.

He needed to die.