#cw vivisection

[wastefulreverie]

DP writing prompt: in which Danny wakes up from nightmare after nightmare, right before the scalpel cuts his skin.

taking writing prompts!!

The snap of latex gloves, the dizzying smell of antiseptic and the chill of cold metal at his back. The sharp, unyielding surgical light adjusted to blot out most of his vision. And the sound of metal on metal as his parents sort through their tools, selecting which knife will do the honors. He's long since been stripped of his suit, vulnerable to whatever fresh horrors they have in store.

Mom's stance is poised and delicate and it's the same look she has when mending his clothes after they get mangled in fights. I just tripped, he tells her and she shakes her head and puts his clothes back together again. Now the scalpel in her hand is meant to undo him. Pull him apart.

The cool metal has barely just grazed his torso when Danny jolts awake.

His cheek is wet with drool and he lifts his head as slowly as he can muster, willing his heart rate to slow with careful and steady breaths. An ingrained routine at this point. Look forward, focus on the whiteboard like it's the only thing in the world that matters.

"Fenton?" Dash says, beside him. Eugh, that's right. Detention with Lancer.

He lucked out today, because it looks like he feel asleep while Lancer was out of the room.

"What," he says. "Can't a guy get a minute's rest?"

"That—that didn't look like rest," is all Dash says, an uncharacteristic observation from the biggest human pain in his ass.

"Cool," Danny nods. He looks down at the assignment he's supposed to be working on. He nodded off halfway through the first question, so undeniably he's fucked.

He follows his previous work, double checking the equations and trying to figure out where the hell he is going wrong. If he doesn't have at least the first question before Lancer gets back...

"Are you alright?" Dash adds.

Danny lowers his pencil. "Why the hell do you care?"

Dash opens and his mouth and shuts it. "You were really... um. Twitching a lot and muttering things. About your parents."

"I'm fine. It was a nightmare, nothing real," Danny explains, as if speaking to a toddler. "You gonna bully me for having bad dreams now, or something? Tell everyone in school that I'm scared shitless asleep, too? Go ahead, see if I care."

He has bigger problems.

"That's not—" he runs a hand over his face. "Fine, okay. Yeah, you're right. It's nothing and not my fucking business what kind of nightmares losers like you are having. Just stop being so fucking weird."

Danny tries to return to his assignment, but his attention keeps slipping back to Dash and his watchful eyes. Like someone had removed the wool from his eyes and he was seeing Danny for the first time as a person and not a punching bag. What the hell.

Lancer returns shortly and Dash is quiet. Too quiet, but Danny doesn't care. It's not until their way out of detention that Dash stops Danny with a gentle slam into the wall and asks him:

"Why are you afraid of them cutting you up?"

Danny rolls his eyes. "We all have irrational fears, Dash. Shove it."

He pushes his way out of his grip and keeps walking. He just has to hope that the idiot won't bring it up again, like it's even a big deal. So what? Danny dreams about them ripping him apart all the time, it doesn't have to mean anything unless he thinks too hard about it. Because it's not going to happen. (Probably.)

"Your family is nuts!" Dash calls after him. "You're nuts too!"

Despite himself, Danny just laughs.

[gardensnakie]

research? Heh... more like... 𝓯𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓴search. and post

[neonmetro]

happy new years! this year vivisection will be your present ❤️❤️

[torchstelechos]

Peel an Orange open, Blood on your hands.

[townofcadence]

"Echoes of the past" 👀 Artair?

Echoes of the Past

This One is Pretty Dark Horror so Heed the Tags Please!

Artair's eyes flicker open with an aching languor. Consciousness drips through him at a pace bordering leisure, drawing him through his dreamlike stupor with coaxing hands. It is only when he remembers those last moments that he snaps further awake; a maw of sharp teeth dripping with his own blood biting down, severing fat, meat, and bone alike. He tries to jerk upwards, but something keeps him pinned.

The room is dark as pitch. He can't see much, save for a few vials of something gold glimmering on a nearby table. There is an amber glow like the barest lick of candlelight, and where it flits, he can see the silhouette of a lantern.

A glance to the right has him making out the outline of a thick leather strap, tightly coiled around his arm. He tries to move but his neck is strapped as well, and the same resistance binds his legs and hips. His leg is still there. His toes can move, and his ankle too despite the restraints. He can feel the half-eaten fabric of his converse, a brush of cold air through the holes.

His brain shorts on whether to be relieved or not, when he's left the frying pan for the fire. A rolling tray sits beside the table he is on. He can see a selection of medical tools and equipment. There are a few bottles of colorful liquids as well. He is... on some kind of table.

A hard, metal operating table.

The haze is continuing to lift, and that is when the pain creeps in. It starts at the edges and he nearly doesn't notice, but the more awake he is, the more it courses through him like a second heartbeat. His chest hurts. He focuses. He looks.

It’s– a moment of pain that feels almost unreal as he shifts his gaze. It shouldn’t be real. It’s like last time but the edges are sliced clean. It’s not jagged, not stone. It Hurts all the same. And he only grows more aware of it, the longer he stares. His vision blurs with gold and green and he seizes in silence. Every muscle twitches and petrifies, until he’s locked in his body like a tomb.

He squeezes his eyes shut, but it’s too late. He knows. He knows. From sternum to navel and with a line that curves just beneath it, he is open.

His head keeps spinning, and a numbing cold creeps over his flesh. He isn’t sure he’s breathing. But he has to be, with his pulse thundering in his ears like it is. He makes a choked sound, mouth opening and closing, but all it feels like he can do it exhale. What had to be inhaling was a paltry shift that felt like this woman-- this Dawn, bringing a knife down into him. Even with closed eyes, his vision goes white.

Fight it. Fight it— he doesn’t even know how. He keeps trying to finish the mantra but the words are lost to pain, dissolving to nothing. He feels pulled apart like cotton candy, and nothing comes into focus long, the longer he exists like this. He is threadbare.

Why is he awake. Why is he awake. Please stop please please stop please please it hurts please–.

His skin burns, still damaged from the monster, from the acid rain. He's silent, mouth open but empty of sound. He isn’t even sure what he’d say, but his body paralyzes on him, and nothing can come out. Blood chokes his throat. Sparks dance over his skin, and he feels a pulsing vibration. He feels drifty and sick. He hurts until it doesn’t hurt because he can’t feel anything else but agony and he's numb. The empty moment makes him so sure he gave out. Then he’s forced to inhale and it cycles again. He can’t– how is he awake? How is he alive? Stop please just let him sleep.

“There you are, Artair. Did you sleep well?“ Dawn smiles at him; her eyes settle on him like an interesting object, her saccharine smile stretching too far on her face, but not meeting her eyes. She tilts her head. He thinks about how many photos he'd found in her study, the newspaper clipping about the storm, and his life laid out in Polaroids. “You’ve done wonderfully, boy.”

He wants to be strong. He wants to spit in her fucking face. He wants to bite her or say something cutting or make her think he doesn’t care. He wants to be strong. To be brave, to be able to tuck it all in a neat little box and show his mettle, his determination and how indomitable he can be.

But he can’t. He can’t . He feels his tears running in streaks down his cheeks. He feels blood paint his lips with a cough that leaves him convulsing– which only means more movement. and that means more agony, excruciating and building up to something until he’s sure he's going to explode.

A sob escapes him, nails digging into the metal of the operating table. He pants through his mouth to stay breathing. His heart beat drowns out almost everything but her voice, and the singing and stinging of her scalpel. She is peeling him back further, slitting her way through muscle. He spasms.

“Are you awake now? I thought you’d like to talk to me at some point. Now you can. So speak.””

A shallow breath cuts through his lungs. He forces his eyes open. They shade the world in gold and green. His vision blurs until he blinks away more tears. But he does, again and again in rapid blinks, so he can see her face. He wants to memorize it. He needs to, so he can make sure they find her later. If he makes it.

Words… his lips move soundless. He coughs more. He’s pale, clammy, shaking. Sweat beads along his brow. Her hand comes near his face again and he flinches. His body protests like he’d thrown himself into a bed of spikes, but he didn’t care. He didn’t want her to touch him.

“W—” He chokes. The word stays lodged in his throat until a few swallows loosen it again. “…Why.”

"Why?” She repeats, and a gloved hand comes to her cheek, fingers folding over her mouth. She laughs behind them, warm and tickled. the nitrile leaves a speckle of blood on her cheek. “Because you aren’t what you say you are. My curiosity has been piqued. As has someone I work for! But I thought I would see what I could glean before he whisks you away. All great researchers need to do their part and explore the unknown. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Artair- blinks. He could barely think, barely comprehend the words, let alone understanding what the hell she could even be possibly talking about. He let out a soft whimper. “I-I—” He felt an urge to cough, to throw up, and his voice died out. He didn’t— he was just human. He just— his magic was haywire! That wasn’t— he didn’t understand. He didn’t understand.

Dawn leaves him there. She returns with a pack, one he recognizes. He had been carrying it through her house, and it is filled with everything he'd grabbed. She opens the bag and roots through it.

It’s hard to think right now. But he doesn’t understand. She holds up each item from his bag for him to see. Some of them he thought he’d lost, but it seems she retrieved them too, from the bullpen. He sees his knives, all the books he’d taken, the gauze and cream and bandages, the photos. She’s showing him everything.

His brain is saturated with suffering to a point of silence. He– can’t think. Can’t understand. He wants to. He stares at her with pained eyes, brain banging against the walls of his head in an effort to work and understand. His gaze follows each item to the metallic table next to him. His arms and legs shift. It’s painful and the straps are too tight to move.

With the last of his items showcased and set on the table, she places the bag aside. Artair watches her work, fraying thoughts piecing together what she intends. She hums as she moves, slender fingers unfurling a wrapped plastic toolkit. Inside he sees– more surgery and medical tools. It makes his heart beat faster. He feels his mouth go dry. Her fingers curve over each tool, as if she’s exploring them again, leaving the barest of marks against their chrome finish. She continues to hum, before it dies away.

Her heels click as she circles him, plucking the scissors from their place. He feels her fingers caress his hair, carding through it. They tighten into a fist and and pull the strands of his hair taut. He groans as it's pulled, pained at the movement, at the way it burns at his scalp. His heart bounds, thundering against his ribs. She comes closer to his face.

Snip.

He hears the edges cut through the strands, and then she retreats to open a case. The lock is deposited within, somewhere he cannot see.

Click click click. She rounds back into his vision. His scalp aches where she pulled, but compared to everything else, it’s nothing. But it sets him on edge. She’s humming again. Her smile has never left, and she pets his head as if to soothe him like a doting mother. "Now be a good young man and hold still."

She makes his skin crawl. His head turns away from her hand. But the smile stays on her face, and he can see it in his peripheries as she rakes her gaze over him. The bindings on his arm creaks, but even the tug cuts through him until he tastes acid burning in his throat. Each breath is a labor, a testament to his grit, his need for survival.

She leaves his face for his hand, stroking at the tendons where they just show on the skin. Down his leg she goes, until she reaches his shoes.

Her hands move methodically. They’re surgeon’s hands, doing everything with this meticulous care. His toes flex as she grips his converse, and undoes their lace. She pulls them back a loop at a time, until it’s open enough for it to be slipped off. He watches each tug where her nails reflect the overhead light, listening to the coarse brush of fabric, as each lace slid further loose. She cupped the back of the shoe, pulling it free. He could see the holes in the rubber now, when she held it up, still humming. Next came the sock, equally damaged. He feels cold air and it soothes just as much as it twists his insides like he’d applied a corkscrew to his lungs.

He can see the glint of silver, and he– complies, with her earlier command. He hears his heart in his ears as her fingers hover almost– uncharacteristically careless, over a toe, so the blades of the scissors rested open on either side. His heart found its way to his mouth.

He felt the edge dragging along his skin. The scissors snipped, and he could almost cry, scream, as all he lost was a nail. A whimper left him.

“Don’t worry dear. We’re not done yet.” She crooned, patted his ankle. Her hand continued up his leg and he wanted to ignite every molecule of himself with lightning like he had these scant handfuls of times, just so he could stop her from fucking touching him.

His shoulders tensed instead. His eyes looked for the door.

He shouldn’t expect it anymore. He shouldn’t. But he could just– imagine. Imagine Elias and Eevie and Prince breaking through, rushing to his side. Imagine them touching his face, pressing their head into his and telling him he’d be okay, he’d be okay, they wouldn’t let her go any further. He was safe.

But her hand continued up his side, curving to touch his forearm, where it wasn’t restrained. They didn’t come. They wouldn’t. He…

He was alone.

And a worse, sickening thought sunk talons in his brain, making him twist further into knots: he hoped his friends who might be looking didn’t find him. He didn’t want them– anyone– to find this place.

Artair tries to shift, away from her as she nears him again. his parted chest reminds him why that is a fool's endeavor with another seize of his body. He screws up with a thready breath.

Her voice bounces in a sing-song. "Don't worry about falling asleep on me, dearie. You won't until I want you to."”

Artair’s eyes flick blearily back to her. It took a moment for the words to register, but when they do, he feels…cold. Cold at the limbs, at the tips of his fingers. He— he didn’t know what that meant. But if he focused, if he really tried, there was a faint buzz, a steady if fractional thrum of magic through the cool metal on his back. There was a spell in place.

He shouldn’t be awake. She wanted him to be.

Her gloved hands find a scalpel and let it glide along his shoulder to his bicep. He stays as still as he can, with a tremble he can't control, so it does not cut. Of course, it does not matter.

It starts as a threaded hiss through clenched teeth, as she slivers slices into flesh, tracing a perfect square. His blood is back to red-gold, glittering and stark against his pale skin as it beads and seeps from her blade's precise strokes. She seemed to measure, giving him a breath.

He screams, when the scalpel plunges further, parting dermal tissues, cutting through fat and capillaries and spilling more blood, now in a steady flow. His back arches and his voice goes out, fracturing and breaking before falling to silence as she digs and keeps digging. His chest feels like it’s tearing. The blade sings with a burn. It’s cold metal and hot viscera and his knees jerk.

His arm does too, and it sends her slightly off course. She clicks her tongue and cuts a little more away from him, makes the sample a little bigger, a perfect square.

He feels like he’s frothing at the mouth. His body wants to move, make it stop, but every twitch is worse, makes him feel like he’s so so very alive and dying at the same time. He’s aware of it, aware he could die here, aware of how she could snip and pull and tear until he’s just a collection of samples on the table in her lab. It was– visceral. It pierces through him, the realization puncturing him like stone through his gut. He could die here. He could die, she could kill him he could die–

He can’t hear her. His heartbeat is too loud. The only thing louder is the wet sound of his blood pouring into a basin beneath him, and the slick plop of his own flesh, dropping into the metal case. Is he breathing still–? It’s all white noise in his ears and his head is starting to spin.

But the magic means he can’t sleep. He can’t stop this. He can’t move. He’s helpless.

"Open your mouth, sweetheart. Keep it wide now."

He can hardly process her sugar-laced voice, but at the sound of it, his eyes flick to her. She’s smiling that smile that makes him want to rip off the rest of his skin. She’s smiling and she has a small, metal bar in her hand. She’s smiling and her eyes are sharp and cold and it makes her look more like what he feels when he sees her. He tries to edge away, turn his face, shake his head no. A hand finds the strap that curls over his neck and she yanks. It keeps him further still, belting him into place. He chokes and she meets it with a hum.

It’s such a soft one. A casual one. She might be reading an article about some new discovery in science. She might be studying a rock she’d found while hiking. She brushes at his face and he snaps at her, brain blank and limbs only not shaking from how still he’s held.

She tuts at him, like a mother scolding a child, or an owner at their dog. The metal bar is pressed against his lips. He forces them to stay closed.

She holds his nose until he’s forced to gasp for air, and wedges it in. It locks behind his teeth, jammed against his tongue and unyielding to any pushes. His chest is rising fast, breaths leaving the room spinning. The metal beneath him is getting warm.

He hears the clack of metal. He hears it and he knows what’s coming but he can hardly parse it. He can’t breathe. Saliva pools on either side of his lips, running down each cheek. His breath comes shallow, ragged, as he sees the tool in her gloved hands, feels the metal slide against his teeth as it enters his mouth. He feels tension on one of his incisors.

Tensing doesn’t help. It doesn’t help he can’t stop it he can’t stop it he’s cut open he’s injured he’s bleeding he can’t do anything he can’t fucking do anything—

He wails as it gives way, feeling flesh rip. His back arches again, curving excruciatingly upwards until he’s sure he’ll snap in half. He’s seeing stars, and static bursts along his skin. Gold fills his mouth, paints his lips.

She seems unperturbed. The metal below him warms further as he sparks. They light up her face and she’s still smiling. “Good boy.” He sees the fang in her pliers and hears the click of his tooth in the box. He gurgles and coughs, and his whole face is painted in blood, where tears don’t track it already. He can’t breathe, he can’t breathe.

But he won’t fall asleep.

She doesn’t want him to.

[missusfuzz]

OK guys here we go. My ex fiances outlast self insert that I made nsfw of 👍 [bonus with mine as well] [warning for genitals + whole lotta blood]

Doctor & Nurse, the silliest billiest prime assets as not pictured here [yes they have lore I made up]

[burritello3000]

The Fifth Turtle

Chapter 3: Long Road to Recovery

When she was done, Mikey inched forward, a curious expression on his face. “What’s your name?”

She picked up the pen, fumbling with it for a few seconds before getting it uncapped. 49, she wrote, putting down the first name that came to mind.

She hissed, shrinking backwards as Bishop entered her cage, pulling out something from his pocket. “Now, now, 49,” he said with a smile, moving closer. “No need to be scared. All I want is a saliva sample from you.”

He pulled out a q-tip and a vial from his pocket, but they looked like knives to the scared box turtle. “Maybe I’ll even give you some water,” he purred. “In fact I’ll give even it to you before, to make sure I get a good sample.”

She licked her dry beak, hesitating. She was really, really thirsty. The last bit of her resolve vanished as Bishop left and returned with a bowl full of water. He put it on the ground in front of him, a gleam in his eye. 49 couldn’t help herself. She darted towards the bowl, dipping her mouth in because she couldn’t use her hands. 

The water tasted like clear sunshine to her. Her head cleared a little as it drove back her pounding headache banging at her temple. 

“Now,” Bishop said, as she licked the metal bowl dry. “How about that sample?”

Before she could do anything, he grabbed her head and opened her mouth harshly, making her jaw ache. His hand quickly entered. She acted on instinct, slamming her beak shut just as he pulled back. 

Bishop grunted with pain as her teeth sank into his hand. 49 released immediately, fear clouding her thoughts. He yanked his hand back, fury twisting his face. 

He kicked her in the nose.

49 fell backwards with a startled yelp. Bishop backed up, examining the bite, a disappointed look on his face. “Now, I thought you were better than that, 49,” he said, his eyes glinting coldly. “You know what happens to dangerous beasts…”

He pulled something out from behind his back. Everything seemed to get dark as he revealed the muzzle in his hands. 49 couldn’t move, terror spreading through her veins.

“They need to be caged!” His voice echoed as he slipped the muzzle over head. She tried to open her mouth, but the muzzle tightened, making movement impossible. It turned into a muzzle made of fire. It burned into 49’s face, melting her scales. Bishop’s evil laughter rang in her tympanum. She couldn’t even make a noise as everything went black.

———————————————————————

Bishop stepped forward, a sadistic look in his eyes as she struggled against her restraints. Tears pricked at her eyes as the thick, black tendrils holding her down seemed to suck out her strength, leaving her limbs cold and lifeless.

Gotta hide! She squirmed, her heart beating faster as he showed her the giant knife held in his hand.

“Time to see what’s really going on in there,” Bishop said with a smirk, lowering the sharpened scalpel. 

“B-but, Mr. Bishop,” a hazy voice said. “Shouldn’t we sedate her before?”

49 recognized this person. It was the only scientist that had not treated her like a monster. The box turtle missed her. The scientist had gotten fired a few days later, specifically the day after this. Probably because she’d argued too much and had shown too much compassion for 49.

“No,” Bishop said coldly, turning his attention back to 49. “It doesn’t deserve them. After all, it’s only an animal.” 

The nice scientist fell silent.

He leaned forward, bringing the knife down on her plastron.

A scream escaped 49’s lips as he started carving. She watched, her vision blurry with tears and pain, as he removed a piece of her plastron. He then reached inside, and 49 blacked out, embracing the comforting void…

———————————————————————

49 woke up, her heart beating rapidly. She hated these memories, especially when they came as dreams. She relaxed, nestling back into the soft bed and closing her eyes to block out the soft lights shining overhead. 

… Wait. Lights? Soft?!

Her eyes snapped open, flicking around wildly. Her headache was still throbbing, but she felt a bit stronger. Something was at her feet. As she twitched, the orange-masked turtle woke up, his sleepy face turning into a smile. 

“You’re awake!” He yelped, jumping to his feet. Fear clouded her senses. A loud beeping came from her left side, causing her heart to pound faster. The beeping got even louder. The turtle was staring at her. “How are you feeling?” He asked worriedly. 

Without warning, she bolted. 49 jumped out of the bed, letting out a cry of pain as one of her legs buckled out from under her. Something was pulled off her plastron, the beeping stopping immediately. The turtle was shouting now, his voice drowned out by the blood rushing in tympanum. She darted towards the door, but only took a few steps before falling to her knees. Her stomach heaved. 49 threw up, clutching her sides. 

The only thing that came up was a yellow liquid. It dribbled from her mouth, forming a small puddle on the floor. She retched again, more bile coming from her mouth. 

Something grabbed her, wrapping their arms around her. 49 squirmed around, terror blinding her. After a few moments of struggling, she chirped in distress, going limp. The person’s grip loosened and, without thinking, the desperate box turtle twisted around and bit the person.

Their skin was really tough and kind of spiky, but she kept gnawing anyway. She whimpered as it pricked at her mouth, but still hung on. 49 snarled, keeping her teeth clamped down. 

After a few seconds ticked by, a low purr rumbled from the person holding her. She fell still. Another turtle?

The turtle kept purring, a deep sound vibrating in their chest. It soothed her. She released her hold, letting out an answering click. The purring grew louder, new voices adding to the low one.

49 chirped, snuggling closer to the noise. Slowly, she calmed down, her heart returning to its normal pace. She lifted her head once the fear faded away, and found herself staring into warm blue eyes. The turtle took a step back, and 49 recognized him as the blue-masked turtle.

Brother!

“Are we all good now?” He asked, holding up his hands. 49 hesitated. Should she talk? Could she trust them? She decided not to speak for now. She responded  with a nod. The turtle’s face furrowed and he opened mouth, about to say something, but the turtle holding her beat him to it.

“Raph’s sorry for grabbing you,” he said gently. “Can I put you down now?”

Oh, right. Leo, Raph, Donnie, and Mikey.

She nodded again, looking up at his face. He carried her back to the soft bed and set her down. The room was quiet for a bit as they all stared at each other. 

Donnie broke the awkward silence. “Okay, so first things first. What’s your name?”

He was talking to her. Her mind drifted. How will I answer? Can’t talk to them. Maybe talk? They are brothers. My throat hurts. Well, at least my head doesn’t hurt anymore. Maybe I should—

Donnie cleared his throat. 49 realized that she’d been staring off into space for a few minutes. Mikey shot up, causing her to flinch. “I know! You must be thirsty. I’ll be right back.”

“Good idea, Mike,” Leo said, a small smile on his face. “Can also grab some ice chips and something light for her to eat, like crackers.”

The box turtle nodded, doing a small salute, before running off. They waited some more. 

“... So,” Leo said, raising an eye ridge. “What’s your name?”

49 shifted uncomfortably, unsure how to respond. She simply pointed to her throat. The message seemed to get across.

“Can you not speak?” Donnie asked bluntly, earning a smack over the head from Raph. 49 recoiled at the sight, fear rushing through her. “Ow, It was just a question!” Donnie hissed, rubbing his head. 

Raph froze, eyes flicking quilty at 49, obviously because of her reaction. “I’m sorry,” he apologized, looking at the ground. She just tipped her head to the side and nodded, clicking reassuringly.

Leo’s eyes narrowed. “She can talk, I heard her.”

Donnie raised an eyebrow at the blue-masked turtle, doubt written all over his face. “... Sure. Anyways, it doesn’t seem like she can talk now, so she can use this.” He handed her a pen and pad of paper. 

She fiddled with the pen as Leo glared at Donnie. “Can you write?” Donnie asked, ignoring his brother. In response, she used the pen to write a wobbly Yes on the paper.

Mikey returned, balancing several things in his arms. He handed something to Leo, who then held it out to 49. “Here’s some ice chips,” he explained as she took the cup from him and inspected it. “They’ll help your stomach. Suck on them one at a time slowly.”

She did what he told her to do, wincing at the sudden cold. It felt nice, though. It eventually melted on her tongue, turning into water. 49 ate them all, her throat and stomach feeling a tiny bit better. 

Leo took the empty cup back and gave her a glass of water. “Try not to drink too fast,” he warned, carefully handing it over. “Your stomach might still be a bit upset.”

She tried to go slow, really, but when she sipped the water, all caution flew out the window. Leo let out a startled yelp as she drank it all, her stomach gurgling happily. She chirped pleadingly, holding out the cup for more. His shocked expression turned into a smile. “You heard her, Mikey. Get the girl some water!” 

The box turtle left, then quickly came back with more water. 49 practically inhaled that glass too. After several more trips, her thirst was finally quenched. She then ate the crackers, unable to eat slowly. Her stomach felt satisfied for now as she finished, wiping crumbs off her beak.

When she was done, Mikey inched forward, a curious expression on his face. “What’s your name?”

She picked up the pen, fumbling with it for a few seconds before getting it uncapped. 49, she wrote, putting down the first name that came to mind. 

“Scoff,” Donnie said, peering down at the paper. “That’s not a name. What’s your real name?”

49 hesitated. Not a real name?

“That’s just the number that Bishop gave you,” Leo explained, a concerned look in eyes. Oh.

Little Kappa, she tried again.

“That’s not a name either,” Donnie told her flatly. “That just looks like a nickname or a title.”

49 thought for a few moments, before shrugging. Then I don’t have a name, she wrote, completely oblivious to the shocked and pitiful looks on her brothers’ face.

“... I guess we can just call you 49 then,” Raph said, after a few minutes of shocked silence. 

“Okay,” Leo, Mikey, and Donnie chorused. 

“Anyways, I’m Michelangelo!” Mikey chirped. “But I go by Mikey.”

Raph shuffled forward. “And I’m Rapheal, but call me Raph.”

“My name is Leonardo, or Leo,” the blue-masked turtle told her.

Donnie was last. “Donatello, but I prefer Donnie.”

A smile tugged at her lips as she nodded. 49 pushed down the slight twinge of jealousy that rose in her chest. 

“Now with all that out of the way, I have some exciting news to share,” Donnie announced, pulling out a clip board. “I took a blood sample from… 49 while she was aslee—”

“Donnie!” Leo hissed, interrupting him. “You can’t just take blood samples from people while they’re sleeping!”

“I had a good reason,” the purple-masked turtle retorted. “I needed to see if she was related to us or not.”

I am, 49 quickly wrote down without thinking. Mikey leaned over to see what she had written as Leo and Raph scolded Donnie. A smile spread across his face as he saw what was on the paper. 

“You are?!” He squealed, jumping up and down happily. His commotion caught the attention of the arguing turtles. They all looked at the paper, Donnie was the first to speak.

“Aw man, you ruined my announcement,” he whined.

Next Chapter

Previous Chapter

[saltedsolenoid]

can't think about asu-naro too much because you think about how the line between a double-blind experiment and a cult-like adherence draws ever thinner, and you think about the ram leading his own lambs to slaughter knowing that mutton will be served at the final feast as well, and you think about how the self is god but if you are god then what do you serve, who do you vivisect yourself for, who are you for, what were you made to do and if the act of creation is god, then who partakes in destruction, and if god is science then what is art, and if god is science then what is the organization, and if the organization is god, what is she? and the self and the god are simultaneous, who are you? what have you given everything up for? who are you, what have you done?

[the-vagabond-decepticon]

[M!A] You are to seek out FIVE of your followers and ask them ONE question that has been on your mind in regards to them.

Do you refuse? Then you must reveal FIVE secrets about yourself.

He scoffs at the anon, thinking they must not realize how many mutuals he has. He's only interacted with four, maybe. Might be three; does liking a post count as interaction? And he doesn't have curiosity about people in general.

Five secrets... Does he even know five secrets about himself?

Vagabond bluescreens for a moment, half a dozen errors spiraling up in his processing unit.

"... It counts as a secret if no one knows, yes?" he asked cautiously, and then fell silent. "... Desire to remain secret does not factor, I will define it by most exact definition."

He lifted his servos and began to count on each digit.

"I don't remember if my yellow optic was Decepticon or Autobot... I built my cloaking tech out of three different bots... The scanner was built out of two and different parts that were not from bots, I was very conservative and efficient, you know, I will require praise later for that, I have thirty-seven refining recipes for energon that has already been in a bot, none of them taste good, and... I..."

He's bluescreening.

"... I cannot fit the parameters of the question. Too much data purged. Question is irrelevant," he decided, decisively, and proceeded to ignore the anon.

[the-freakiest-rooker]

Miriam does not get periods anymore Viola did a surgery on her so now her uterus is gone

[gardensnakie]

Its inconsistant sorry gang i had to get it out of my system!!! Hope you like some parts of it!!!

Odile does exactly what you think she does- [makes knife poking gesture at you]

[paintingpuff]

Anatomy practice sketches

[stars-obsession-pit]

Technically not vivisection, but still very traumatizing

It turns out the GIW has a new weapon. It’s not an energy blast but instead a shotgun, and the shot pellets have special anti-ghost properties.

And how did Danny learn this?

Well, he got hit by it.

He expected the pain, but not the way his power short-circuited. It was pure luck that he avoided the next shot and that they didn’t get a good look at him. After that, though, his experience allowed him to roll with the chaos and get away.

But the blood and ectoplasmic loss finally catches up with him just as he enters the house. He collapses to the floor, delirious.

That’s how his parents found him.

The realization that their son is Phantom—is a ghost—is shocking, but right now they have a more urgent concern: making sure he survives his injuries.

Taking him to a hospital is out of the question. Never mind if they’d even be able to treat his type of biology, it’d reveal that Danny is… whatever it is that he is. If he could fully return to his human form, they could take him. If he could go fully ghost, his powers might help him recover. But the pellets are still inside his body, still forcing his powers to go haywire.

They need to remove them.

Which means surgery.

Neither of them are professional surgeons, but they have to try.

They don’t have any real anesthetics (would they even work on a ghost?), so they strap him down to prevent him from thrashing. They don’t have blood bags, but Ecto might be able to delay that issue (or would it make it worse? He’s their son, they need to get this right).

They pull out their tools get to work.

And Danny wakes up screaming.

[hansel-the-idiot]

HOLY FUCK THIS LOOKS SO COOL WHAT

He got what he wanted in the end.

AAAA I FINALLY POSTED AGAIN.

I've been wanting to make something with a more serious tone for a while now :3

[the-freakiest-rooker]

Sandra should commit vivisection on Vivian like that one Weird Al song parody

[gardensnakie]

loop being 10x more relaxed and giggly and at ease after a thorough dissection is everything to me