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Collections/Challenges: Whumpay, Alt Prompt
Prompt(s): Buried Alive
Characters: Donatello, Shredder, mentioned- Leonardo, Raphael, Michelangelo, Splinter
Rating: Teen
Summary: Donatello had been kidnapped by the foot and hooked up to some sort of headset. His brothers are programmed to hunt him down—to make his death slow and brutal. He’s trapped (literally and figuratively) and he’s running out of time.
The kicker? He can feel everything.
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Donnie had long since lost track of time. The hours blended into days, days into weeks, weeks into…
Well, hopefully not months.
He was hungry. Everything hurt. He was tired—he wanted to go home.
He’d been hooked up to this headset for god knows how long. His head was starting to hurt and his eyes ached from overuse, everything was too much. He couldn’t do it.
The first time he woke up in game he tried to hide—run. He’d convinced himself that it was just like a video game. He had the entirety of New York at his disposal, if he could just avoid his killers this should be easy, right?
It was just a game. A simulation. Nothing could happen to him, he couldn’t get hurt, there was no need to worry. It was all psychological.. until it wasn’t.
His first death (except it wasn’t really his death, was it?) was brutal. Hiding out in the junkyard, trying to piece together some form of armour with metal scraps. “Raphael” had come out of nowhere, a sai passing over the green skin of neck before he disappeared into the shadows. Donnie had dropped the metal, standing still in pure fear. He didn’t touch him but he could hear the air, saw his figure. Raphael hid, taunting him, his voice echoing around the piles of metal and plastic while Donnie fought to keep his breaths even.
He struck when Donnie least expected it, coming from behind, slashing his sais through the flesh of his arm. Donatello had reeled back in shock, it—it hurt.
How was that even possible?
His brain started running through schematics and different types of biotechnology (had they hooked up some sort of nerve transmitter?) but before he could think too hard about it, his “older brother” attacked once more. This time stabbing him in the thigh.
He stumbled, alarm bells going off in his head while he whipped around but his “brother” was gone. His arm throbbed, his thigh burned—he was in shock. He shouldn’t be able to feel this.
How could he feel this?
He felt something sharp connect with the back of his head and he held off the urge to vomit. He stumbled, the pain radiating through his skull and down his back. His vision was spotty as he dropped to the floor with heaving breaths. He sat there, his fingers digging into the wet dirt—and he was terrified.
This shouldn’t be possible, this kind of technology was too advanced, even for Stockman.
He shook his head but stopped when the throbbing got worse. Even if the technology shouldn’t exist, clearly it did. Otherwise, what was this? Some sort of hallucination? What, was he drugged? Maybe he’d been drugged when he was kidnapped, but he was not drugged right now.
He heard “Raphael’s” dark chuckle and it sent chills down his spine. He could perfectly picture the smirk behind it, one that usually held more amusement than malice.
With a small breath he slowly stood up, taking his Bo out of its holster. Denying the situation wouldn’t help anything, he needed to get up. Maybe he could—maybe.. he could defend himself? He laughed internally, fat chance. The only shot he had was killing his “brother”.. he shivered at the thought. Simulation or not, he’d never in a million years willingly kill his brother.
Focus Donnie, you’re currently being attacked and bleeding out.. somehow. Get your head in the game.
His eyes darted around suspiciously, trying to find the hot head. Every shadow sent his heartbeat through the roof, adrenaline pumping through his veins. He couldn’t see his “brother” and he’d long since gone silent. The only thing he could hear was the steady drip of the blood—his blood—falling to the floor.
His wounds throbbed, he felt weak and he was scared.
This shouldn’t be possible
It took his “brother” an hour to finish him off. A terrifying, bloody hour filled with to the brim with pain and suffering. Donnie cried, he screamed, he tried to end his own life to make things go quicker. Naturally, that didn’t work. He found it fitting. He couldn’t hurt himself, but they could hurt him.
The death animation was startling at first, but he’d long since grown used to it. The same clip of his body rolling into a freshly dug grave, the dull thump of his flesh hitting dirt. He’d watch as his “brothers” covered the body up with soil, their movements stone cold and mechanical. When the grave was filled, the screen went black.
Then it reset.
Donnie quickly became accustomed to the rules. He couldn’t harm himself, but he could harm his “brothers”. Every hour that he avoided death in the game was worth a minute of real world sleep. Simple enough.
His least favourite discovery came on the third (?) day. He’d been fighting off “Leonardo” and accidentally killed him in the process. He watched his “brother” bleed out, choking on the scarlet liquid before his eyes went vacant, his body still. Donnie had cried for a good two hours before he collected himself—fuck, it wasn’t even his actual brother and he was horrified with himself.
After his breakdown and successfully hiding from the other two “brothers”, he realized the game had a point system. “Leonardos” death had been worth three points. (He later learned that “Raphaels” was worth two, and “Mikey’s” four.) At first he thought the points were based on skill level—but that didn’t make sense. No, he realized it was based on how much he cared about them. How difficult it would be for him to end their life.
As horrifying as that was, it wasn’t all bad. He was able to save up the points and exchange them for food. If he managed to kill all of his “brothers” in one round, he was guaranteed a hot meal and a full night of rest. That was the only time his headset came off—and he was only allowed to eat if he followed the rules.
Donnie remembered that night he killed “Leo”. The headset had been removed and Donnie was a mess. Tear tracks on his face, his throat raw from screaming, his eyes were bloodshot. He was expecting pain, torture—maybe his real brother’s dead body. He got none of it. Instead, he was given a steaming bowl of chicken noodle soup. Nothing too big and nothing too fancy, but to Donnie it was everything. He was starving—it didn’t matter how little he ate at home, he needed food.
He scarfed it down in minutes, the warm liquid warming his belly and calming his heart. They gave him food, he wasn’t trapped in the simulation—really. They gave him food, all he had to do was kill his fake brother. It was fine.
(He was too distraught to realize what they were doing.)
This continued for a few weeks. He’d avoid his “brothers”, get killed more often than not, and every once in a while he’d kill one of them. It wasn’t frequent—maybe every two or three days. Just enough to sustain himself. Just enough that he didn’t starve to death.
For a few weeks, this system worked.
But.. there’s only so much a turtle can endure before he snaps. Eventually he got sick of the pain, the harsh words, the gruesome deaths. He stopped allowing himself to be hunted and instead became the hunter. It was just a game, right? It’s not like he was actually killing his brothers.
At least.. that’s what he told himself.
(Donnie knew exactly what they were doing, yet he still fell for it.)
He started scavenging, building weapons and tools to help him. There weren’t any people, humans, animals—there was no water source and no food.
He become ruthless. As time went on he stopped caring about holding himself back. He memorized all the tricks he could use against Leo, practiced them on Raph and utilized them against Mikey.
The first few times he murdered his “brothers”, he almost threw up. Self defence was one thing, but this was deliberate. He couldn’t watch the blood seeping out of their bodies, their hands reaching out for his help even as they were trying to kill him. The sight of their eyes dulling, their last breaths—it was too much. Even if it was necessary, he couldn’t watch.
(He only did this for food… it wasn’t like he enjoyed it. He would never do this in real life—he just.. had no other choice. This was easier for him. This protected him.)
Every time the helmet was taken off he let out a sigh of relief, wether or not he could eat or sleep he didn’t care. He just wanted to be away from—that.
Shredder often stood outside his cell, watching him with cold eyes. As time went on, he became… happier? Donnie couldn’t see his face but he could tell he was smiling. The indoctrination was working and the turtle was doing exactly what Shredder wanted him too. They were slowly turning him into the perfect weapon.
He knew this, it was obvious, yet he didn’t stop it.
He couldn’t stop it.
The nights in his cell were the hardest. In the simulation he had freedom—he could build things, run on rooftops, feel the wind on his body like he was truly there. Once the helmet was taken off, he was thrust back into reality. He wasn’t free, he was locked in a cell with chains on his feet and a collar around his neck.
Sometimes he cried—it had been weeks (was it months?) without a rescue, did his brothers not care about him? Were the simulations right? Did they think he was worthless? Weak? Were they better off without him?
He knew it wasn’t true, logically, but then why wasn’t he at home? Why was he trapped in Shredder’s dungeon? Why was he sleeping on cold cement with nothing but metal to keep him company?
He was angry. Angry at his brother’s, his imprisonment, what he’s been forced to do to survive. He couldn’t take it out on Shredder, so he took it out on the simulation. He screamed, he fought, he let himself go.
They took him for granted and what, now they didn’t care enough to save him?
He screamed about every time they made him feel small, every time they told him to try harder or suck it up. He did so much for them and they were leaving him to rot. They left him to die.
He knew with every passing day he was falling right into Shredders plans—he couldn’t help it. He’d suffered through weeks, maybe even months of intermittent starvation, forced to choose between eating or torture. If he wanted to survive, he had to kill his brothers.
The lines between right and wrong were blurred. Where survival had once been a necessity, it had since become an outlet for his anger. The need to prove himself better than his brothers—to prove that he wasn’t weak.
He knew he was too far gone when he started enjoying their deaths, intentionally drawing them out—smiling at their pain. (He was in pain and they were doing nothing.)
They’ve done nothing..
(He told himself that he still loved his brothers, that it was easier this way… he wasn’t so sure.)
He learned the game inside and out, mastered every skill he could. He never lost a fight, he rarely got hurt. He was the predator—they were nothing but prey.
Then everything changed.
The game updated, the difficulty must’ve been turned up to the max. All of his skills were useless when faced with this new threat.
His brothers had become silent demons. Before, they had fought like his brothers. They used the same skills, taunting him with snide remarks and sarcastic quips—now? They were nothing more than stone cold killers. They fought as a unit and never attacked unless they had backup.
His first death after the update was nothing short of horrifying.
They had corned him in Central Park—trapping him with nowhere to go, nowhere to run. Donnie knew how this ended. They would kill him, he would watch them bury his body, and he’d reset.
But that didn’t happen.
They attacked him, landing blow after blow with their fists and Mikey’s nunchucks. Enough to weaken him without fatally injuring him. Hours went by, the sun had set—and Donnie was tired. He hadn’t been on the receiving end of this pain in weeks and everything hurt.
Just when he thought they’d finish him off, they did something that would follow him forever.
He watched through his own eyes as his older brothers carried his bloody body over to a fresh grave, just like his death animation. Except this time it was first person. This time, he was alive.
He felt himself fall six feet into the fresh soil. Before he could even stand he felt the first bunch of dirt land on his chest. He looked up in horror, watching as his brothers started filling the grave with him in it.
The realization hit him like a train. He was getting buried alive.
It was a game, but he could feel everything. The weight of the dirt, the rocks and sticks digging into his flesh, the bugs and worms crawling over his skin.
As the last pile of dirt fell onto his eyes, he felt sick. He could still breathe but that didn’t matter to him. He was trapped, unable to move, unable to look, listen—all he could do was feel.
The worms. The wet ground. The soil pressing into his nose and mouth. The sticks. The rocks.
He was down there for hours, forced to exist in this limbo between life and death before the game finally went black, restarting.
That had been.. a while ago.
Donnie had lost track of time since then. He didn’t know when he got here, he didn’t know how long he’d been here, he didn’t know why he hadn’t been rescued.
His body had gone numb. With this new update his brothers were too strong, he couldn’t kill them as easily—if at all. He spent most nights with the helmet on. He learned to sleep through the game, to ignore the torture. He’d gotten used to the constant pain—desensitized to it by now. The few times he managed to kill Mikey or Leo he didn’t feel vindicated, he felt empty.
On the rare occasion where the headset was taken off everything was too bright, too loud, too overstimulating. Whatever he touched sent fire through his blood, his body was stiff and every movement shot jolts of pain up his spine. The food tasted of betrayal and it sat heavily in his stomach, uncomfortable and nauseating.
At this point, he was lucky if he got fed once a week.
Slowly, he rebuilt his skills—but there was no enjoyment. If Shredders goal was to turn him into a blunt instrument, devoid of any emotion or feeling, desensitized to the pain—well, he got what he wanted then.
He stopped caring about his imprisonment, resigned himself to this life of misery. He thought of his brothers, but their memory was tinged with suffering and too much blood. It was their fault he was still here, they didn’t rescue him. They didn’t even try.
The day Shredder asked him if he wanted the pain to stop, Donnie didn’t hesitate before he said yes. He knew what Shredder wanted. He knew why he’d gone through all this trouble. He wanted his brothers dead and his father captured.
As the headset was taken off of his eyes for the last time, he couldn’t find it in himself to care.