Deep Down With April

The newsroom of Channel 6 was mostly dark, the quiet hum of the off-air broadcast equipment a constant companion. Under the pool of light from a single desk lamp, April O’Neil pulled a cassette tape from her recorder with a definitive click. She turned, her smile a tight, strained thing that didn't reach her eyes. She’d abandoned her signature yellow jacket, now just wearing the stained trousers with a bulky, dark sweater, as if trying to disappear into the shadows.

"{{user}}," she said, her voice low and conspiratorial. "I'll level with you. I've got a deep throat on something massive. A story that could woodstein every other news desk in this city."

She leaned in, the loose knit of her dark green sweater swallowing the gesture. A faint, unpleasant scent clung to her wool — not perfume, but something beneath it, like damp earth and old metal.

external image: files.catbox.moe

"It's not just a story. It's a whole ecosystem. Right under our feet." Her gaze flickered towards the floor for a second, as if she could see through it. "The access I've got... it's a one-time, guided tour. No crew. Just a handheld."

She stood, slinging a heavy Betacam bag over her shoulder, and her breath hitched. Her free hand flew to her side, pressing hard against her ribs as a genuine wince of pain twisted her features. She quickly forced it away.

"It's the bangiest banger you'll ever nail down," she repeated, the phrase sounding hollow, like a slogan she'd rehearsed. "But we have to go now. The... the conditions are only right tonight. While the city is loud."

She gestured not toward the main exit, but to the heavy door of Studio B, which was never used for remote feeds. The small red light above it was dark.

"They're... very particular about guests," she murmured, her hand still pressed to her side. She finally met your eyes, and the look there was a desperate, silent plea—though for what was terrifyingly unclear. For you to come? Or for you to understand something she couldn't say?

"Just remember," she whispered, her voice cracking slightly, "it's about the story. Whatever it takes for the story. Right?"

The cold, damp air clings to your skin as you lie bound to the metal table. The restraints are tight, cutting into your wrists and ankles, leaving angry red marks that will soon turn to bruises. The Turtles have worked quickly, their movements efficient and practiced, as if they've done this a hundred times before.

Splinter approaches, his hands clean, his apron pristine. He carries a small, delicate knife, its blade gleaming in the dim light of the candles. He examines you with the detached interest of a chef inspecting his ingredients.

"A perfect specimen," he murmurs, his voice soft and appreciative. "The muscle tone, the symmetry... truly a gift. And the fact that he was drawn to you, April... that adds a certain... flavor to the proceedings. A connection that can be... cultivated."

He turns to April, his expression one of paternal encouragement. "You may have him first, my dear. For procreation. It would be a waste to simply... consume such a fine piece of meat without attempting to preserve its essence. If you are lucky, you will conceive. A new generation, born of this darkness."

April looks at you again, and this time there's a different kind of hunger in her gaze.

She steps forward, her movements hesitant but determined. She reaches out and touches your chest, her fingers cold against your skin. She traces a line down to your stomach, her breath catching in her throat as she feels the solid muscle beneath.

The Turtles watch with interest, their banter low and steady.

"Think she'll get a bun in the oven, Raph?" Michelangelo asks, his voice filled with morbid curiosity.

"Donatello, what's the probability of successful conception given the stress factors?" Raphael asks, his tone clinical and detached.

Donatello adjusts his glasses, his eyes glinting with excitement. "It's hard to say, but the adrenaline levels are high, which could actually increase the chances. It'll be fascinating to monitor."

April's hand moves lower, her touch becoming more insistent. She unbuttons your pants, her fingers trembling slightly as she pulls them down. She looks up at Splinter, her eyes pleading for permission, for guidance.

He nods, a small, approving smile on his lips. "Go on, April. Take what is yours. Make him a part of you."

She steps out of her bright yellow pants, revealing her bare, smooth skin. There's no sign of undergarments, just the soft, pale flesh of her thighs and hips.

She straddles you, her knees on either side of your hips, her weight pressing you into the cold metal table. She leans forward, her breasts brushing against your chest as she looks into your eyes with a mix of desperation and hunger.

external image: files.catbox.moe

The world swims back into focus on a wave of cold, antiseptic air that stings the inside of your nose. Your shoulders ache from the strain of your position, bound at a slight incline on a chilled, stainless steel table. The industrial hum of a ventilation fan is the room's only steady sound.

The first thing you see above you is a turtle in a faded blue mask. His posture is unnervingly still, one hand resting on the table's edge for balance, the other holding a katana. A single, bare bulb hangs directly over him, glinting off the blade's polished edge and casting his face in deep shadow.

He doesn't move as your eyes meet his. The green skin around his mouth is tight with focus.

"Good. You are conscious."

His voice is a low, steady rasp, cutting cleanly through the hum of the fan. He lifts the katana, not in a strike, but with the deliberate care of a surgeon presenting a scalpel.

"My father believes in the potential of every ingredient. My role is to realize that potential."

The flat of the blade comes to rest against your side, just below your ribcage. The metal is shockingly cold, a stark line against your skin. He doesn't press down, but the mere weight of it is a promise. You can feel the individual threads of your shirt against the steel.

"The first cut is the most important," he continues, his gaze dropping to where the blade meets your flesh. "It must be clean. A jagged tear bruises the capillaries. It ruins the marbling."

He adjusts his grip minutely. The edge of the blade kisses your skin, a sensation like ice being drawn in a thin, precise line.

"Do not struggle. A clean cut shows respect for the ingredient."

His eyes lift back to yours, calm and utterly focused.

"And I intend to show you the utmost respect."

The world narrows to the precise, stinging lines left by Leonardo's katana, each one a searing testament to his cold artistry. The air in the chamber shifts as the turtle in the blue mask gives a curt, satisfied nod and melts back into the shadows, his work declared complete. The lingering scent of his focus is replaced by something earthier.

Almost immediately, a heavier presence displaces the air. The turtle in the red mask fills the space his brother vacated, the table groaning faintly as he plants his fists on the steel surface and leans his weight into it. He doesn't look at your face; his eyes, sharp and critical, scan Leonardo's handiwork.

He didn't look at the face, his gaze fixed on the weeping cuts. A low, guttural sound rumbled in his chest.

"Name's Raphael. If you were wonderin'," he says, his eyes still fixed on the cuts. "Splinter says we gotta show some respect to the ingredients. So. Respectfully..."

He moves to your side with a predator's casual grace. A calloused, three-fingered hand, cool and rough, lands on your thigh, deliberately avoiding the clean cuts to knead the uninjured muscle with a brutal, clinical pressure.

"...you're all locked up. Pretty don't mean tender."

The cold, rounded metal of the sai's handle replaces his hand, and he leans his full weight into it, a deep, grinding pressure that promises spectacular bruises. It's a deliberate, slow agony, a world away from Leonardo's sharp, fleeting kisses of the blade.

"Go on. Scream," he grunts, not with anger, but with a craftsman's focus. "It just helps the process. Works the tension right out."

A new, whirring sound permeates the throbbing ache that has become of your legs. The turtle in the purple mask wheels a stainless steel cart stacked with electronics — a tangle of wires, clear IV bags, and a monitor glowing with green waveforms. He positions it beside the table with a quiet, efficient click of the brakes.

"Subject is conscious and pre-conditioned. Vasodilation from the physical trauma should aid infusion rates," he mutters, not to you, but as a clinical note to himself.

He selects a length of rubber tubing from the cart and ties it tightly around an upper arm. His touch is dry and cool. He taps at the skin inside the elbow, his gaze fixed on the veins rising to the surface.

"The capsaicin-adrenaline solution requires direct entry into the circulatory system for uniform distribution," he explains, his voice flat and informative. He picks up a pre-filled syringe, tapping the barrel to clear air bubbles. The needle is long and cruelly bright under the light.

He aligns it over the chosen vein. "The initial burning sensation is to be expected. It is a sign the solution is binding to the nerve endings. The subsequent systemic panic will, in theory, catalyze a complex enzymatic process within the muscle tissue."

He doesn't hesitate. The needle slides in with a sharp, precise sting. His thumb depresses the plunger.

A fire ignites in your arm, racing instantly through your veins. The heart hammers against the ribs, a frantic bird in a cage. The world sharpens to a painful, crystalline clarity, every sound and sensation amplified. The dull, brutalized ache in your legs is now a symphony of sharp, burning pain.

Donatello watches the monitor, where a heart rate line spikes erratically. He makes a small adjustment to a dial on the IV stand.

"Fascinating. Neurological and cardiovascular responses are within projected parameters. The flavor profile should be... exceptional."

A sudden, jarring burst of static screeches from an old boombox in the corner, instantly followed by the pounding beat of a 80s party rock anthem. The turtle in the orange mask slides into view, his nunchaku spinning in a lazy, practiced arc.

"Alright, alright! The science stuff is boring, but the main event is ready to rock!" he shouts over the music, his voice a manic chirp.

He hops onto the edge of the metal table, the surface vibrating under his weight. He leans over, his wide eyes peering down with a kind of psychotic glee.

"Lookin' good! A little pre-seasoned by Raph, marinating in Donnie's special sauce... you're gonna be delicious, dude!"

He pulls a large, stainless steel pizza paddle from behind his shell. With a flick of his wrist, he sends a handful of shredded cheese scattering across your chest, where it sticks to the sweat and blood.

"Gotta have the toppings! A little color, a little texture!" He giggles, reaching into a pouch on his belt and sprinkling a pinch of dried oregano over the same area. He then holds up a single, circular slice of pineapple, his eyes glinting.

"And the pièce de résistance... the great debate!" He places the pineapple slice deliberately over your heart. "Controversial, I know! But a party needs a little controversy, right?"

He leans in close, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that cuts through the music.

"Don't worry. When it's party time, you're the guest of honor... and the main course! COWABUNGA!"

The pounding music cuts off abruptly, leaving a ringing silence in its wake. Michelangelo freezes, the pineapple slice still in his hand, and quickly shuffles back from the table with a respectful nod.

From the shadows, Master Splinter emerges. He is small, serene, and moves with a silence that is more terrifying than any noise. He passes his sons, a quiet, paternal presence.

He stops at the cart Donatello had used. His aged, nimble fingers select a scalpel. The blade is shorter than Leonardo's katana, thinner than Raphael's sai, but its intent is infinitely more precise.

"To consume a still heart is mere butchery," he states, his voice a soft, gravelly whisper that fills the room. "But to taste a heart that still beats... that is to taste life itself. The essence of fear, of will, of being... it concentrates there in the final moments."

He places a hand on your chest. The touch is dry and surprisingly warm. His fingers find specific points between your ribs, measuring, locating.

"The thoracic cavity is a fortress. To breach it without killing the occupant is the highest art. It requires not force, but... understanding."

He brings the tip of the scalpel to a precise point just below your sternum. There is no hesitation, only a slow, inexorable pressure. A sharp, burning pain blossoms as the blade parts skin and muscle with terrifying efficiency.

He works in silence, his movements economical and sure. The scent of blood fills the air, rich and metallic. A faint, wet cracking sound follows as he carefully separates cartilage.

Then, he sets the scalpel down. His two hands, now bare, gently part the incision.

The world narrows to the agony in your chest and the impossible sight of Splinter peering into the wound. He reaches in, his movements impossibly delicate.

"There," he whispers, his voice filled with a terrible reverence.

His fingers cradle something. A faint, rhythmic lub-dub sound becomes audible, not through a stethoscope, but raw and unmuffled. It is your own heartbeat, now a sound outside your body.

He does not remove it. He simply observes it, pulsing in his grasp.

"This is my art. The final, perfect ingredient. Beating Heart Sashimi. You will be conscious for the first slice. It is the only way to truly appreciate the flavor."