Disclaimer: I don't own Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles
Title: Freedom? Freedom.
Summary: AU-ish. Freedom is a rather obscure, confusing word, one that he wasn't sure what the definition was. A word he hadn't understood in a VERY long time.
Warning: May be triggering; mentions of blood, imprisonment, fighting, death, etc.
...
Freedom is a rather obscure, confusing word, one that he wasn't sure what the definition was. Someone had told him, long ago, what is meant, but words were utterly useless to him now. Even without the definition, he had a vague feeling that arose from within him when he heard or thought the word: endless room to run, the fluttering emotion one felt when jumping headfirst off a high building, aware that they would be caught, and enjoying the momentary weightlessness.
His name started with a letter. In his current state of mind he found it impossible to remember which letter it was. It came and went, his wavering grasp of letters and words, and, right then, it had already went. The gaps between were... lengthening. He feared it would someday never return, and he would be left utterly feral. He'd swore to fight his imprisoners, not kill them.
They wouldn't let him rest, forcing him to pace the small, dark cage. He was to put fear into the hearts of the guards and his enemies, put shivers on their spines and lodge terror into their throats. He couldn't do it lying around like a beaten puppy. Cattle prods (or perhaps they were better off being called 'turtle prods') were pushed between the bars if he slowed to much. Most of the time, he was out of their reach, but the instinctual fear pushed him to move faster. They only made him pace, however, when he was soon to be put in the ring. So be it, he thought grimly, they hadn't broken him yet, and they certainly wouldn't be able to now.
The chains clinked and clanked as he moved in a small circle. The circle was small to avoid the turtle prods, and the circle was a circle because he was to impatient to go the full rectangle. The chains were old and worn, but no one was brave enough to take them off of him long enough to replace them. That would be an opening for attack, after all. His neck, wrists, and ankles chafed, but he was far used to the sensation.
One the way to the pit, he vaguely noted a new monster. Amber eyes with a scarred body. He snarled. It snarled back. The chains were pulled foreword. It wasn't until later that he realized he'd merely been staring into a mirror.
He blinked away the pain of light, gritting his teeth. The guards pushed him further into the ring. He tripped and fell. The crowd roared.
The pit smelled of blood. Blood and death, as well as the vague odor of decay. He wrinkled his nose and struggled to his feet. His days of gagging were long behind him.
The announcer began his fast-paced speech. It was the same thing every battle, but with his ever-waning knowledge of speech, he couldn't understand exactly what he was saying. He could, however, pick out words such as 'freak' and 'tame.' He snarled at nothing.
At first, his arrival had led to many of these sort of confrontations. A one-of-a-kind monster, strong and capable of tearing things to shreds, was an amazing prize. But he never broke, even if he did bend, and the challengers grew less with every failed attempt. Now he rarely left his cell, and was instead left to himself and the guards- most of whom found it hilarious to wake him from a deep slumber with a painful prod of the electric kind.
The man was scrawny, with long dark hair and a shaved face. In his hands he held a rather new whip. He resisted the urge to laugh. The man obviously had no clue whom he was challenging.
They yanked at his chains, attempting to secure them to the wall. He yanked back. Eventually, they fixed him to the walls, the chains just long enough for him to get a legs worth of room, but not enough for him to actually move around. The man smirked. He returned it. He only needed a leg-full of room.
He cracked the whip in the air, yelling something- something most likely offensive- and pointing a finger his direction. He didn't understand a word of it, but he did know a bragger when he saw one. He thought that because he was free and he wasn't he'd lie down and let himself be hurt.
He was about to be proven wrong.
He snapped the whip in his direction. He dodged, letting go of the weight on one of his legs to better place it on the one he landed on. The chains loosened.
The crowd was buzzing. Alcohol permitted the air. And older, larger man threw a cup at him. It landed on the side of his face, splashing the liquid over his chest and neck. Enraged, he turned and charged. The chains held him back. The man laughed.
The man with the whip turned to the crowd, arms raised. They began to cheer. Seeing his chance, he grabbed the the chains holding his wrists and struggled foreword, putting all his weight on the old, rusty bonds. To anyone watching, he looked like a savage attempting to charge at the man so close to him, yet so far away. They were about to be proven wrong. They crumpled, then broke with a clang.
The crowd quieted at the noise. The man slowly turned around. The chains hanging loosely from his limbs, the smirk on his lips transforming into a feral snarl. The whip fell from his hand. He charged.
The man lay bruised and bloody, the red liquid staining the already dark stone, the smell permanently encased by the cold rock. One more blow, he thought savagely, raising an arm clenched in a balled fist, he'd kill him, then escape. He was free, now, after all.
He paused, the word burning into his skull. Free, free, he was free! He could, he could... what could he do? He tried to remember freedom, of running free in the night, sneaking through the dark streets, of having family by his side. The memories blurred and swirled, hanging just outside his grip. Like a taunt, one he couldn't catch.
He jerked. Electricity burned his shell, forcing every part of him to jerk and shake. Vaguely aware of the fact that he would have yet another burn, he collapsed onto the ground. The crowd shrieking in his ears, he gave in to the darkness.
Hours later, he awake in his cell. Shiny new chains locked tightly to his skin, he sat up and stared around him. So close, yet so far. The guards chuckled wickedly at his expression.
To sad to be angry, he slowly stood and paced over to the small metal window, ignoring the food laid out for him. Outside, the stars twinkled. A breeze blew. He closed his eyes, letting the once-familiar scent of freedom flow through him. Dew, water, and rock. The smell of purity. The smell of freedom.
Raphael, he remembered with a start. He name started with an R. R for Raph.
Sinking down onto the cold metal floor, he suddenly remembered what freedom truly was.
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