They take him from the tank at some point, after they've drained his blood and pumped him full of drugs and shocked him until it hurts to breathe, let alone fight. But Raph does it anyone, because that's what he does, and he's less scared of the pain than what's waiting for him.

Bishop watches, face cold, as they wrestle Raph face-down on a table and strap him in place. The restraints dig into his skin, drawing blood as he screams curses in a blend of English, Japanese, the Italian and Spanish and Mandarin he picked up during his sponge-like first days on the streets. Nobody seems to care.

They've got him strapped in a way that forces his ass in the air and at first he thinks it's just another tactic to disarm and humiliate. Fine, he can play that game. "Like what ya see?" he rasps at Bishop, whose jaw twitches ever so slightly. He waves at something Raph can't make out.

When the ice-cold fingers lift his tail and a lube-soaked finger pushes inside him, there's no fanfare. No evil cackles, no lustful taunts, nothing to warn him or even explain.

"What....?" Raph feels like he's been shoved in a pool, gravity yanked from under him and replaced with an icy, breathless shock. He twists, trying to see, like maybe if he gets a good look it'll just disappear, like mirages melting into light.

But there are more fingers inside, stretching him, and Raph yowls, fingers scrabbling wildly at unforgiving metal. It hurts so, so bad, and worse than the pain is the sickening sense of violation, a hissing, snapping wave of wrong. He didn't know it was possible to feel this; he can barely breathe under the weight of it.

He can see a blond man in a white coat working behind him, occasionally pausing to squirt more lubricant on his hands as he slowly forces Raph open. He looks bored, like he does this all the time, for all Raph fucking knows he does.

"I'll kill you," Raph rasps, but the guy doesn't seem to listen. "I'll rip your fucking guts out, I'll--" Those fingers brush something deep inside him, and suddenly the agony is underlaid with a different, but even more unwelcome sensation. Raph slums forward with a hiss, gasping.

"Enjoying himself, freak?" Bishop asks. He's just standing there, watching, and Raph doesn't know if he's getting off on this or truly doesn't care. "We're just getting started." The blond guy spreads his fingers and Raph hears himself making an inhuman noise, chin smacking painfully against the table.

"I wonder..." Bishop runs a thoughtful finger down the side of Raph's head, stroking him like a fucking pet, and Raph's shaking too hard to snap at him. "When you beg, will it be for it to stop for us to continue?"

"I-I-I ain't gonna beg for shit, you--FUCK!"

Because the fingers are abruptly yanked out, and he doesn't even have to celebrate the loss before something cold, and hard, and metal is shoving back in. Raph twists frantically, nearly breaking his neck so he can get a better glimpse of that...that...whatever-the-fuck they're setting up behind him.

It's some unholy tangle of buttons and wires, hissing away merrily as the technicians set it up. And there's a little piece of metal linked up to it that the technicians are pushing inside him. He thrashes but that only makes it slide in deeper.

"What the fuck is that?" he screams, hearing the panic creeping into his voice and unable to turn it back down. "What the fucking fuck is that?" It's pushing inside him, deeper and deeper, and it burns, it's gonna fucking tear him open if he doesn't suffocate on this fucking table first--

"Calm yourself, abomination," Bishop says, sounding utterly concerned. "We're just harvesting some semen. Standard operating procedures for an unknown specimen."

Semen. Semen. He remembers Donnie mentioning that at some point, during the sexual-health lecture where they'd all ended up covering their ears and yelling at him to shut up, dude, gross. Semen....oh god. But he has to be misunderstanding Bishop, because even these people aren't sick enough for that. Right?

The thing forcing inside him (oh god it feels so big) begs to differ. It twists and Raph gags, fighting with everything in him not to vomit. It brushes against that place against and the accompanying spike of pleasure somehow manages to feel like a punch in the chest.

Bishop seems to misunderstand Raph's horrified expression. "Oh, relax. We're not interested in making more skimpy little parasites like you. We just want to learn how you freaks tick...and perhaps a bit more about how much you can take." He pats Raph's flank, seeming to relish how it twitches and jerks.

Then Bishop's eyes flick somewhere behind him, and a part of Raph really does want to beg when Bishop says, as casually as if he's ordering from the fucking deli, "Turn it on."

No pain. He expects pain, would relish it at this point, but instead it's this freaky buzz oozing inside him, filling him up. Raph tries to snarl, but then the electricity touches that awful little place inside him and a terrible moan slips out of his mouth instead.

"Told you you'd have fun," Bishop says smugly, and Raph forces himself to keep his lips pressed tight rather than risk letting out another of those noises. His hips are shaking, twitching out of his control.

His crotch...he can feel it start to bulge, the way it does when he's looking at a dirty magazine or accidentally stumbled on a couple in an alleyway. The fact that it's doing this here makes no goddamn sense, but what part of his life does?

"Electrostimulation," Bishop muses, reaching down between Raph's legs. His stomach curls in at itself at that, but his stupid fucking dicks jumps at the idea of being touched by any hand that isn't his own, no matter whose. "Used primarily to harvest bull studs, although its use can be...diversified in a pinch."

Raph squeezes his eyes shut, willing himself not to drop down no matter how painful it gets. Bishop just chuckles. "You're only making this harder on yourself, you know. Your duty is to serve your betters, and there's no getting away from that."

He fucking slaps Raph's ass, and Raph opens his mouth to scream at him, but more terrible whimpers and churrs spill out. It feels so good and he's hurting so bad, and Bishop's casual chuckles just makes everything worse.

So he sinks his teeth into his own hand, the only he can reach from here. The blood that fills his mouth is welcome, but Bishop just lets out a sigh and reaches over with impossibly strong hands, yanking Raph's teeth apart. He doesn't have time to rest free before someone's shoving a gag into his mouth, leaving him to choke on the wretched taste of rubber.

Mother, he begs silently. Mother, please help me. She doesn't come, and he feels guilty for trying to drag her into a nightmare like this. But he can't help himself, can't stop begging.

The only answer he gets is Bishop saying, "Turn it up," and then there's a fresh bolt of electricity jolting through him. His dick swells free before he can control it, and it's already growing hard, jabbing and thrusting at the air.

"That's it," Bishop murmurs. "Good freak. Very good."

Raph closes his eyes and forces himself to think getting diarrhea from eating bad meat, Splinter whacking off, rotting corpses, the time Mikey let the milk out and--

He can't stop it. Nothing can. His body seems set on betraying him, it seems.

Raph slumps in on himself with a sob as the orgasm rips out of him, cum and tears dripping over his scale's somehow's got a goddamn cup under him, rattling off something about volume as it flows and flows, shudders pulsing like mocking laughter.

When it finally, finally stops, Raph presses his temple to the cool metal and struggles to breath. He's choking on shame and horror and his own filth, but it's over now, it's done, they're going to put him back in the tank or vivisect him and he'll never have to think about this again.

Then Bishop says, "Turn it on again."

Raph stops breathing. "Sir?" a technician asks.

"I want to see how far it can go." Bishop gives him a vicious smile. "These little freaks have pushed me in every way imaginable, it would be rude not to return the favor."

"No no no--" But the technician just shrugs and flips the switch like it's nothing (because to him it is nothing) and the electricity is boiling back into Raph, unspooling him.

He begs his body not to listen, but it just keeps twitching and jerking like a fucking wind-up doll, like he's the animal Bishop says he is. The meditation exercises Splinter and Leo taught fly through his head, unable to hold together under the weight of these cold eyes, the pain and humiliation and the damned parts of his brain that insist on seeing this as good.

Raph's one triumph is that it takes a little longer this time, to the point that Bishop has started to look at his phone by the time he finally spasms. But that just means it goes on longer, just means that he can be more easily reduced to so much background noise.

It's an ugly feeling, and it gets even worse when someone passes Bishop the cup of cum (cup of cum, and Raph holds himself still because he's worried if he moves he'll end up screaming or laughing hysterically). He doesn't even look at it, just throws it in the trash, meeting Raph's eyes all the while.

Maybe he should be grateful for the honesty, the fact that they're not dressing this up as something useful or sane. But he just feels so damn degraded for no reason at all, and now fresh tears are trickling down Raph's cheeks. Bishop offers up a little smile at the sight.

The third orgasm is when things start to hurt. It's as if something inside of him is rubbed raw, stretched beyond the breaking point. At least there's less pleasure, now, but that doesn't make him want to bury himself alive any less as the scientists watch fresh cum puddle beneath him.

They don't bother to collect it this time, just leave him puddled in his own filth. He has to lift his head off the table to get away from the smell, has to meet their eyes.

Number four, and the ache is getting worse. He grits his teeth and tries to focus on that rather than the rest of this living nightmare. His thighs are trembling so hard he's worried his legs might shake apart, his head spinning like mad.

"Are you ready to beg now, little mutant?" Bishop asks. Raph can see his own wretched body reflecting in those glasses, rutting mindlessly into nothing. He looks away, sinking his teeth into the gag in a desperate attempt to ground himself.

They're talking now, making notes about stamina. He hears the distinct click of a camera, the clacking of keys and the scratch of penciled paper. He can see white droplets pattering off the edge of the table.

The fifth one takes the longest yet, stretching out until he finds himself actively leaning into the pulse, desperate to get this over with. Eventually even Bishop gets bored, barking at them to turn up the electricity.

It's so much, blazing heat lancing down the now painfully-hot metal, a snake snapping vicious coils of sensation through his tender guts. It's fangs seem to sink into his insides when he comes and Raph cries out through the gag.

By number six, he can't hear their voices anymore over his own desperate, muffled gasps and groans. The pride seems to be draining out of him with every convulsion, replaced by the building sense of battered and ruined and drained by something he can't stop.

The semen stops trickling down his legs at some point, but they keep wrenching him through dry orgasms anyway. He didn't know buys could have dry orgasms. Then again, he didn't know electricity could turn your body into a rattling machine, or that humans could be so tremendously cruel.

Raph's body, the own he worked so hard to build up and turn into a weapon, is reduced to a shattering, shaking mass of scales. There isn't even any pleasure to drag him into a brief white haze. He feels as if he's trapped on a nonstop roller coaster, no way out and not even the semblance of control.

But he doesn't beg. Not until the eighth (ninth? tenth?) one, when the word slips out of him with another pulse of sensation. "Please," he rasps, lifting his eyes to meet Bishop's gaze. He hates himself instantly, but there's no taking it back.

Bishop stares, and a crazy broken part of Raph's mind dares to hope, to think he will be magnanimous out of satisfaction if not kindness. Then Bishop smiles.

"Turn it up higher," he says, going back to his phone before the technician can even yessir.

Raph thinks he starts screaming at some point, and doesn't stop until his throat is bloody.

He thinks he passes out a few times, and then gets woken up again and again.

He thinks he slams his head against the table in a desperate attempt to not be here, so they add more buckles.

He thinks he retches, mixing with the other stuff seeping up under his cheek.

He thinks he prays for his mother to come save him, or his father to come kill him, or anyone to join him in this torment, and shatters into grief and rage when no one does.

But he's not sure about any of these, because his mind melts into a haze of pain and sensation and pleasure gone sore, of unforgiving steel and letter, of the endless of burn of electricity through his fevered brain. It's hard to put things together in all of that.

How long before they decide he can take no more? How long before they figure they've had enough data? Hell, how long until Bishop gets bored of his screams? Looking back, Raph's never quite sure. He doesn't know if not knowing how long he was there makes it better or worse.

When they do finally stop it's almost....anticlimatic (yeah, yeah, ha ha). One minute there's electricity, and the next there isn't. Raph's still hunched over on the table, still shaking, and it takes a few seconds for his mind and body to catch up to the fact that he's not being hurt anymore.

Someone abruptly yanks the metal thing out of him and he wants to help, but all that comes out is a soft little sigh. He feels bruised and raw in his mouth, ass, and groan, like he's been seared from the inside out. Burning the candle at both ends, he thinks insanely, and his hysterical laughter manifests as a soft spit bubble.

Bishop approaches and saunters over to his table, elegantly stepping over the puddle on the floor. "How are we feeling, abomination?" he asks sweetly. "Did you have a nice ride?"

Raph stares up at him for a second. Somewhere inside the exhausted, ruined wreck of him a little spark flares up, the part of him that never could resist a challenge no matter how broken he feels or how much it hurts.

"F-f-fuck, yo-you," he wheezes.

Bishop blinks, looking almost surprised, then turns away. "Get him back in the tank," he calls.

Raph slumps back onto the table, too numb to feel the filth staining his scales anymore. He's too tired to fight when they undo his restraints, but his eyes follow Bishop as he makes his way out of the lab, tracking the path to the exist.

He lets himself sink back to a corner of his head where their hands can't touch him, where the electricity is only a distant buzz. He settles there, reassembling his forces, and plots death.