Title: Validation
Summary: Never the perfect son or student or brother, Raphael does the unthinkable. Away from the lair and into an allegiance with Shredder, honor is replaced by his pronounced desire for validation.
Disclaimer: I have no ownership ties to the TMNT fandom or anything else I might reference. Credit to those who do.
SPECIAL THANKS TO! Bella13blue, my own personal Nemesis! (Because everybody needs one.) MY Nemesis has been a good friend; she's a great soundboard and has been kind enough to encourage and offer suggestions on my work for this fic.
Author's Notes: And now... the chapter I'm sure we've all be anxious for! I know I've been wanting to do this chapter for *insert partially exaggeratedly long length of time*.
Questions or comments, submit via review or PM. Thank you.
...
CH 48
[Raphael]
What happened next, Raphael had no recollection of.
He simply opened his eyes to find himself back at Central. The familiar white walls of the Infirmary greeting him with a blinding whiteness that only served to reflect and embolden the light from his UVB lamp.
As if the light had swallowed him whole.
Too warm.
Too bright.
For a moment, he imagined water in his lungs. Impossible glowing water. Liquid light. Encasing him. Suffocating him. Filling his insides...
Drowning him with an unreality.
But the illusion was fleeting, chased away by the familiar feel of the sheets beneath him as his hands fisted the fabric. The texture of the blanket was grounding and brought him a moment of relief.
His respite was only furthered when he closed his eyes; he could almost pretend he was safely hiding among the shadows. Safe. Somewhere safe.
He could almost pretend... but his eyes couldn't possibly remain closed forever. Once open, his vision was flooded with white.
White, and light.
The acknowledgement of the light brought a flash of memories... Memories of the sun itself. The heat and warmth. An old woman's fall- blood on her hands and sweater. A crowd of humans and the various emotions that touched their features and made them into something ugly and frightening.
The excitement, disgust, and fear...
Seeing those sincere emotions up close, Raphael had to mentally discredit every actor or actress he'd seen on tv. Because, they weren't real; their faces were all wrong... and what he'd seen in the light of day was very, very real. Very frightening. Horrifying.
The mere memory of those expressions caused him affliction that no movie ever could.
And for a moment, Raphael hated movies. Television. 'Fuckin' cinema and all its lies...' He unofficially hated any media that allowed humans to openly lie with their words and faces.
And, oh, how he hated their faces. So normal, so perfect, so grotesquely unassuming because they just looked so human: with their large eyes, defined cheekbones, collagen-injected lips, breathy porn-star voice, fake breasts, spray tans...
All of it, just another mask. A costume. Lies.
Without a doubt, Raphael hated liars. While he was many things- most of which were considerably unpleasant- he spoke the truth, always. In some undefinable sense, that had almost become his credo.
'Scout's honor.'
'Were you ever a scout, Raphael?'
'Nope, but I keep my promises.'
Honesty. Something that too few humans seemed to understand, let alone exhibit.
And once again, Raphael was glad that he wasn't human. Glad he couldn't afford the Chuck Taylor sneakers and Hilfiger jeans. Glad he didn't have a different face for every occasion...
But one thing he wasn't glad for, was how annoying that light was starting to become.
Too bright. Too warm. Too much of an oppressive reminder to a paroxysm he didn't know how to handle.
It was too much, his emotions. Too unstable and hard to outright define.
Unable to properly assess and understand how he felt, let alone how he was supposed to feel, Raph found himself focusing on the side of torrent that was easier for him to grasp. Fear, anger, hurt, loathing... The darker things that never left him alone for long. The things that gripped his heart and squeezed it tight until he forgot how to breathe...
But he was breathing. For now. Shallow breaths that were anything but calm. And his heart was beating, hard, as if it too was angered and trying to beat its own pain into him. Attacking him from the inside out.
He needed to make it stop. He needed to find the source of his misery and end it.
Without much thought, Raphael placed the blame for his stress solely on that rays of the UVB lamp. Because, yes, the light was the cause of his problems. The light he'd been forced to hide from due to circumstance. The liquid light that haunted him whenever his mind slipped away. The sun that had allowed too much clarity for the conclusion of his last outing...
'Fuckin' light... Kill it,' Raph couldn't help the thought process. If something hurt, he had to stop it. If a wound was bleeding, he staunched the flow. But there were only so many ways to handle his current ordeal. So, he did what made sense to him.
He lifted a foot and landed a hard kick to the lamp, knocking it away with a punishing force; the lamp was uprooted from its fixture and suffered a harsh collision with the tiled floor- the bulb avoiding direct impact due to the rig.
Feeling a little better at the small burst of activity, Raphael slowly sat up and took a moment to collect himself.
Looking around at the white wash walls, the word 'home' came to mind; but the thought came with a strange mix of bitterness and pleasantry.
Unsettled but not entirely disheartened, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and got to his feet. Habitually, he turned to tuck the corners of the blankets and smooth out the wrinkles before walking over to the counter. His eyes roamed over his extended collection of gear, as per usual. He claimed his belt first and foremost; his sais were in their proper holsters. Securing the belt, he fought for the memory of removing it in the first place. But his mind supplied nothing. As if a chunk of his memory just blanked itself. The last thing he acutely remembered, was...-
Maybe it was better if he didn't remember. Less detrimental. If something had been important, he would recall it; if not, then it just didn't matter. His psyche was already threatened with trauma. So, to protect himself- what was left of himself- he'd allow the ignorance. He'd continue to pretend... for just a while longer.
'Denial? Yeah, that sounds about right...'
Decision affirmed and approved, Raph reached for his steel-plated pads and guards but stopped just shy of making contact. After the hesitation, he trained his attention on the bandana he'd forgone during his prior outing.
The familiar bandana blazoned with the Foot insignia. His fingers twitched towards it, ready to take and don it with pride, but once more he hesitated.
Leaving the bandana untouched, he grabbed his pill planner. Flipping an AM tab, he procured the 14 pills he'd come to know so well.
These pills were safe, familiar, grounding. These pills helped.
Popping those pills into his mouth and swallowing them dry, he almost felt complete.
The simple task was done. On some small scale, he'd accomplished something. This acknowledgement allowed his heart to swell pleasantly and he relished the feeling. The small satisfaction he felt almost made him feel better.
He knew, however, that an upcoming task would involve kneeling before the Shredder and giving half-assed explanations for his actions. Likewise, he knew the the outcome would be negative; his punishment, severe- it had to be. He'd fucked up. He'd been out all night and half the next day, lollygagging with the very reptiles he'd been warned against.
Family or not, rules were in place, and he'd agreed to follow them.
Then he blatantly disregarded and broke those rules.
'Then again, maybe I could stretch the truth, just a little? If I can just make it simple and convincing... then- No. Shredda would know. He'd have to know. He'd know I was lying, and then the fact that I'd lied would make it all seem more than it was. Right? Besides, I ain't a liar. Never was, never gonna be. I-I'm better than that.'His thoughts started out strong, firm, but lost conviction halfway through, and he couldn't help gritting his teeth at the uncertainty.
His headache was beginning to return, sharp and piercing. Nearly debilitating.
He claimed the familiar plastic cup in his hand and turned the tap. He filled the cup and brought it to his mouth, tossing his head back and swallowing the contents in a single gulp, shot-style. Then he repeated this action several times.
His tongue felt dry and tacky when pressed to the roof of his mouth. His throat felt as if he'd swallowed a dozen cotton balls.
Swallow after swallow, he consumed the water until his thirst was quenched. Then, he closed the water tap and placed the cup in its designated place.
Then, finally, with a deep breath to steel his nerves and strengthen his resolve, he reminded his legs how to move and made his way to the door.
'Just do it quick,' he thought to himself. 'Like rippin' off a band-aid. Tell Shredda that I was out. Tell him some distorted version of the truth. And try not to give him more reasons ta be pissed.'
He placed his hand on the lever that served as the door's handle. Another slow and deep breath entered and exited his lungs.
'Let's get this over with. Rip off the band-aid. What's the worst that could happen?'
The question caused ice to course through his veins and he froze on the spot.
He may have become the Shredder's heir, but he still knew damn well what that man was capable of. He'd seen and heard punishments that were dished out, and he was certain their offenses were less than his own.
'It's fine. It'll be okay,' he coaxed himself, tightening his grip on the lever. 'I'll be alright. Shredda likes me. Shell, he's probably in that ridiculous duck-robe right now, sippin' some fancy wine and waitin' fer me to greet him.' The grin that stretched across his face was only partly forced. The amusement was there, but his insides were knotted with worry.
Despite his best efforts at convincing himself, he wasn't sure he'd still have a head attached to his shoulders after the inevitable encounter.
Another inhale- this one sharper than the last, more cutting and less soothing. And, finally, he turned the-
'What. The. Fuck?'
He tried to open the door. His grip tightening even more, knuckles paling, jostled the handle every which and way, but it refused to make the complete turn that would allow the door to open.
Which could only mean one thing.
The door... was locked.
From the outside.
Rather, he was locked in.
His already fraying nerves were further frazzled, and he pressed his forehead firmly against the cool metal door, taking a moment to calm himself.
He breathed.
In and out.
Repeat.
If calming himself down was considered to be a task of some sort, he'd failed to complete it.
He felt insulted and angry at being locked in. Frustration came to light, demonstrated by his fist planting itself against the solid and unforgiving surface of the door.
The act came without thought.
Active reflex.
His hand hurt from the action, but the exploding pain in his knuckles was a good thing. It gave him something to focus on- something other than anxiety and loathing.
For that moment, pain was a safe place to be. He almost welcomed the familiar sensation.
So, he stepped back and threw a hit at the door again, this blow followed by the toss of his other fist.
Hit after hit, punch after punch. He attacked the door with little to no tact.
He needed this.
His eyes were caught on an imaginary focal point, and he continued to lay into the door as if it was the cause of the mess that had become his life. As if the very steel surface beneath the breaking skin along his knuckles was the object of his disdain.
A particularly hard hit had his knuckles sliding across the metal, leaving a smear of red behind.
Seeing the red, he stepped back a few paces and stared, distraught at the sight. At the color. His own blood dusted on the surface of steel.
In a white room.
Trapped.
His head hurt.
He placed both hands over his eyes and drew in a shuddering breath.
If he couldn't see his blood etched along the metal surface, he could pretend it wasn't there. He wasn't there. He wasn't trapped. This wasn't his life. He was somewhere else. Someone else...
He had a fearless leader who looked down on him, not in spite, but out of brotherly concern. He had a genius brother with an infectious aura of calm. And he had spontaneous and bubbly knucklehead that could brighten the darkest of days...
The thought made his mouth twitch with the desire to smile. Because, yeah, he had that.
When his nerves were less jumbled, he slowly lowered his hands and his eyes took in the streak of red.
In an instant, his feel-good expression faded, replaced by something dark and downright heinous.
'Who am I kiddin'? Why do I keep tryin' ta- The reptiles aren't...- I don't deserve 'em.'
The crimson streak captured his attention and held it. Held his stare almost hypnotically.
'This is what I got, what I made of my life. This is mine... All mine. What I deserve. I need to accept it, or it's gonna drive me fuckin' insane. Heh, then I'd be a real psycho. Wouldn't that be hilarious?'
He did smile then, bitterly. Because, how else could he react in this situation? His insides hurt, but the feeling was starting to go away, replaced by a numbness that he wholly welcomed as he stared at the streak of red on metal.
That red stain, foreboding but consistent and familiar, was his life. The things he once had were no longer something he could count on in this life he presently led.
He pulled his hands into fists and widened his stance, considering another assault on the steel barrier. Not for any real reason; simply because he could. It was there, and he had no reason not to. An aggressive act, carried out blindly. That's what he knew; that's what he did so often. That was the static norm.
But, for once, he did not throw another punch.
This time, he moved his hands to hover over the hilts of his sais.
Slowly, he turned to face the camera.
The one in the corner that had been there for as long as he could remember. Since he'd first disconnected the cable, it had remained unused and he'd almost forgotten its presence. But now, the cable was fixed. The little red light indicated that it was in-use.
Someone was watching. Always watching. Spying.
And right now, Raphael wondered if that someone was laughing at his foolish behavior.
'Enjoying yer little nature documentary?' he mentally quipped, lips curling back to bare his teeth, snarling. 'Enjoy watchin' me make a fool outta myself while you sit in a damn chair and make fun of me? Yeah, make fun of the mutant psycho turtle. See where that gets ya. A sai in the eye would shut ya up, wouldn't it?! See ya watch me then!'
The thought was aggressive, heated with hate and disdain. Threatening. For a moment, he considered what he could do... if he got his hands on the man behind the camera. His bare hands, green and scared with only 3 fingers. Monstrous hands with fantastic strength. 'I could rip ya apart... Tear yer arms right outta socket.' He chuckled darkly at the very idea, imagining a lazy slob of a worker, eating Cheetos while eying the surveillance feed but not really paying attention. He imagined what he might do, with or without a weapon. The feeling of soft flesh under his fingers as he might choke the life out of some dumb fuck.
It was almost amusing to consider, however unlikely.
The thoughts in his head, however unwarranted and merciless, were fleeting enough.
Because, if there was one thing Raphael hated more than anything else in the world, it was his tendency to think. The ability itself: a horror in its own right.
He preferred action.
Action was always better. Action got the job done. Thinking just caused problems.
So, he didn't think when he drew a sai and gave it an expert spin in his grip.
He didn't even consider the consequences when he let his vision tunnel on the camera.
And... he'd stopped caring altogether by the time he launched the sai and watched the blade of it pierce the camera's eye.
Because, someone would come. Someone would come to either check on him or fix the camera. Someone would be pissed that he'd thrown the small tantrum.
But Raphael couldn't care less.
Because that also meant that someone would open the damn door.
And for that, he waited several breaths. Then several minutes.
Then he stopped measuring time.
With no one coming to investigate the busted camera, and with himself essentially locked in a white box, he was at a loss of what to do. And his distress showed plainly on his features as he turned his focus back to the bloodied door.
Approaching it hesitantly, he stared at the red. He breathed in the coppery scent. Then, hesitantly, he raised a hand and pressed a finger to the door, dipping the digit into the still-wet essence.
Experimentally, he dragged his finger down, painting a long line.
He stared at the line.
Red.
The color of life and death. The color that haunted him. The color that once meant the world to him.
He dipped his finger in the blood and drew another line- this one curved and connected to the first.
He stared at his newest line for a solid three seconds before re-dipping his finger and drawing one last line, this one straight but running downward at an angle.
When he was decidedly done, he found himself staring at a large red letter R.
Bold and triumphant. Crimson.
Some simple part of his mind rationed that the act as well as the sight of the letter should make him feel better. It should have offered him some sort of comfort.
But, instead, he felt next to nothing.
The anxiety he'd felt was gone. Ripped away and replaced by emptiness.
Coldness.
The anger and frustration, replaced by a hollow sensation he couldn't explain.
Unsure of what else to do, he tore his gaze away from the door- away from the R- and moved to sit on the bed.
He looked around aimlessly. Not knowing what to do. Having no objective. Feeling completely like a useless tool.
Inanimate.
Unreal.
For a moment, he brought his hands before his eyes and stared, questioning reality and his role in it. His existence... nightmarish at best.
He dropped his hands into his lap, his appendages limp and without purpose.
Unused tools. Unproductive. Unnecessary.
Opening and closing his eyes slowly, his vision threatened to blur. His mind tried to drift, but he curled his toes and looked back to the door.
His mind was pulling, as if trying to detach itself from his physical form.
Still, he kept his eyes focused on the door.
Some small part of him was hoping the door would unlock and open up. And someone would be there to help.
Someone would be able to distract him, or take away his problems altogether.
His hope started to dwindle with each passing second.
Reluctantly, he closed his eyes and lowered his head, chin nearly touching his upper plastron.
There was an underlying temptation to let his mind go. To free it. To unburden it of his woes.
And perhaps he would have... if the door opened in that exact moment, allowing two familiar humans to enter the room.
The first human. An unarmored Oroku Saki, clothed in simple slacks and a black turtleneck. Hands in his pockets and a look of appraisal on his face.
The second human. None other than Professor Jordan Perry. White lab coat on and a clipboard in hand.
Hearing them enter, Raphael looked up, but his eyes were unfocused, and he could just barely make out the fuzzy outlines that stood before him. "Don't feel good," he said, voice raspy, mouth dry, head spinning.
"Doctor," Shredder began, but no further command was necessary as Perry moved in to examine and assess.
Raphael closed his eyes tightly before opening them, hoping to clear away the bleariness in his eyes, to no avail. He raised his 3-fingered hands, holding them mere inches away from his face, but the details of his scarred flesh were lost to his eyes. Lowering his hands, he settled his gaze on his human-master.
"I can explain," he tried to speak, to explain himself, but the human cut in quickly.
"I do not require an explanation unless you want to give it. You are in no way, shape, or form obligated to tell me your whereabouts or actions. However... I'm afraid I need to exercise a bit of damage control for the sake of the city. You've caused quite a scare."
Raphael paid no heed to the professor as the man jabbed a needle into the firm muscular bicep and extracted a vial of blood. Instead, his focus remained wholly on his human-master. "Sorr-" he tried to apologize, but he was once again cut off by Shredder.
"Save your apologies. None is needed here, Raphael. I have considered what little I know of your outing, and I've decided an appropriate punishment."
"Punishment?" Raphael repeated softly, almost dazed, head spinning. He felt sick.
Shedder nodded curtly in response. "Yes, a punishment," he reiterated.
"Ya... gonna confine me here? Ta this prison?" Raph ground out, his mind surfacing memories of punishments he'd received when under the rule of his former rat-master.
To Raph's surprise, however, Shredder responded with a simple: "No." After a moment's pause, the human added, "Central is not a prison, and you are not a prisoner. You are free to come and go as you choose. We've established this."
Raphael's browline creased in confusion.
The professor jotted down a few notes on his clipboard before moving to test the mutant's reflexes.
Shredder procured and held up a long thin stretch of fabric.
A particularly red strip of fabric.
He held it out towards Raphael.
"This, Raphael," the human said simply, "is your punishment."
Without any conscious thought, Raphael found his hand reaching to touch his own emerald face, to lightly trace around his eyes where his mask once resided. The very concept of wearing one again seemed foreign. Strange. Uncomfortable. "My... mask?" he asked hoarsely, eying the cloth warily, as if it might bite him.
But Shredder didn't answer right away. Instead, he closed the gap between them in two long strides before pressing the cloth over the turtle's eyes and tying it securely.
Raphael felt his breath hitch. "This... is my punishment?" He reached a hand to the back of his head and felt the knot and tails of the fabric.
Opening and closing his eyes, his vision was null.
"It is not a mask, Raphael," Shredder said with a knowing smirk that went unseen. "You will find no eye holes for allotted vision. It is a blindfold."
"But, how-?"
"You will wear it. And you will not take it off for the next forty-eight hours. That is your punishment."
"What am I supposed ta do if I can't even see?"
"If you need assistance, Raphael, you will ask. And you will ask nicely, or be denied."
"I could just take it off," Raph mumbled, mostly to himself but loud enough for his master to hear.
Shredder crossed his arms and observed his mutant-disciple for a long moment before responding. "Yes, yes, you could. But you won't. It is your punishment, and you will serve it without complaint. And when it is over, I will remove the blind and you will thank me for it. Consider this another trust exercise."
"Trust?" Raphael echoed needlessly, frowning deeply.
"Yes, trust. I will trust you to obey my simple rule of not removing the blindfold, and you will trust the Foot to assist you when needed. Likewise, you will trust me to keep my promise and remove the bind in two days' time."
After that, silence became a tyrannical force, almost overwhelming.
Perry continued with the routine checkup, concluding it with a declaration of good health. "Everything seems to be in order..."
Hearing that, Raphael was hesitant but slowly shook his head. "Doc," he addressed quietly, shifting uncomfortably. "I might not- I, uh, ain't been feelin' too good," he confessed awkwardly.
Perry cocked his head to the side in a questioning manner. "Everything checks out. Even your blood pressure is normal- well, normal for you. What seems to be the trouble?"
Again, Raph was hesitant before slowly raising a hand and resting it on his head. "Headaches. Weird dreams. Feel sick."
"Well, I'm not a licensed therapist, but- color me intrigued- I'd be willing to listen, if you want to talk about it."
Raph drew in a deep breath, held it, and decompressed his lungs languidly. "We got that doctor-patient confidentiality thing?"
Perry turned to look at his employer. "Sir, if you don't mind, I believe the turtle would like some privacy..."
Raphael couldn't see a reaction, and no words came as an answer, but he was easily able to pick up on the sound of trailing footsteps as someone in Oxford shoes walked away, heels clicking against the tiles in tandem. He didn't have to listen hard at all to hear the door open and shut. Then, he heard nothing but breathing. His own, and the doctor's. Another deep breath, and Raphael found himself moving to lay down on the bed, legs stretched out and hands behind his head.
Then... "Don't make fun of me, or I'll punch ya... But sometimes, I dream when I ain't even sleepin'. It's amazin', ta see all these colors. They look like they're alive- but that's impossible, right? Colors can't be alive. But, it feels... different. Can't explain it. And, in my dream, I look different. Like, I know sometimes people dream themselves to look like they wanna look, but it ain't like that. I'm still a turtle. Still a freak. But, I ain't got all the scars. And then, there's this paper, but it ain't really paper... And then there's this puddle; it's so damn bright..."
As Raphael, blinded but comfortable in the familiar bed, tried for the first time to explain the vivid images in his head, he didn't take note of the extra human in the room- the one that had never really left; rather, the human had faked an exit and remained by the door, silent, curious, listening...
...
[Next chapter is being outlined. In-Progress!]
