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: Alright, I got a little creative with this chapter. And there's some mild April-bashing at the end. Good luck!
Questions or comments, submit via review or PM. Thank you.
...
CH 50
Despite his lack of sight and the obvious unease brought on by the feel of the loathsome fabric of the blind stretching around his head, Raphael felt oddly secure in his position, laid back on the bed with his eyes closed. As if he hadn't a care in the world... And, perhaps he hadn't. Because Central was safe. The familiar scents of the Infirmary kept him grounded, and if there was any doubt in himself and his stability, that crude red letter R was still painted on the door- blood dry and flaking, but still visible to anyone without a blind. That fact was odd but somehow comforting, to know it was there but not have to confront it.
A strange sort of passive assurance that he did not want to analyze, after all, he was not the analytical sort. That role belonged to-
'No... Don't think about them.'
In truth, he didn't want to think. Thinking seemed, more often than not, to be his own personal enemy. Thinking brought to light truths that were best left ignored. If he didn't think, he could pretend the problems away. Like magic.
For as long as he could set his mind on something simple and focus solely on that, he didn't have to think about the life he walked away from. About everyone he let down. About how he continued to stray closer to the fire even though he knew it would burn.
In his own warped logic, he could outburn that fire. He could, and he would. But now was not a time for heat or intensity.
Now was a time to endure, persevere, and carry on. React without over-reacting.
He could do this; it was simple enough.
Lying comfortably in the bed he'd claimed as his own...
'I need to brush my teeth...' The thought came out of nowhere, but it was warranted enough, he figured, due to the fact that he could literally taste his breath. Systematically pushing that small bit of information out of his mind, he focused on the matter at hand.
The bespectacled man was currently acting as a stand-in therapist of sorts, and while Raphael usually opted to keep things to himself and brood in silence, he welcomed it.
The dreaded: "How does that make you feel?" almost made Raph chuckle. Almost. Because it was so cliche, so bogus, so expected yet unexpected. But it felt good to talk, to get it all off his chest. Almost like writing. And regardless of how sloppy his penmanship was, he could appreciate writing as both an act and an art.
Somehow, this little counseling session had been freeing. Therapeutic.
Then...
"Turtle," Professor Jordan Perry spoke, voice calm and tone even, "what I would like to try is a bit outside my own expertise, but how do you feel about guided meditation?"
Raphael grew quiet, thoughtful... for half a second before responding. "Meditation blows, and I don't like ta be guided through nothin'." Then, he paused for genuine consideration before adding, "but I'll try anythin' once. Twice, if I'm in a good mood or there's a reward that comes with it."
The professor gave a nod, set his clipboard aside, moved to a dimmer-switch on the wall and doused the lights- more for effect than necessity. Then, returning to Raphael's side, his footsteps loud and purposeful, he drew in a deep breath and instructed his mutant-patient to do the same.
"Deep, calming breaths. Slow and steady. Focus on breathing. Anything you've got on your mind, I want you to let it go. Just focus on breathing. Only breathing and the sound of my voice."
Not thinking too highly on the subject but deciding to humor the good doctor, Raph complied, relaxing as much as possible before drawing air deep into his lungs, holding it, and then slowly expelling it; then, repeating. He hadn't any faith in the attempted exercise, but after a few minutes of forcing his breathing to calm, it almost seemed natural. A few more minutes, and his head began to clear itself, almost as if he was tired, half-asleep, but he was still alert, still awake and aware, yet everything around him seemed muddled, as if he was hearing and sensing it through a dense fog.
His lungs almost ached with the strain of his breathing, desiring to take in more oxygen at a faster pace despite his conscious instructions. A few more minutes, and he almost wondered if oxygen was making it to his brain at all; he felt oddly light-headed, but not sick. Not nauseous.
In time, his throat grew uncomfortably cold and dry from the stemming airflow, but he hardly noted that, too busy focusing on just how heavy he felt, as if his body was full of lead. But he kept breathing.
Breathing.
Breathing, as if the act itself was all he could rightfully comprehend.
In and out. Slowly. He could accomplish that much.
He liked breathing.
Breathing was important.
In and out. He could do it forever.
Professor Perry watched over the mutant with a curious glint in his eyes. He had a specific set of instructions to follow, and he intended to do just that. So, after reading through his notes and assuring himself of his loyalty to his employer, he spoke again to the turtle, this time lowering his voice an octave or two, drawing his words in a soothing manner. "Feel the steady rhythm of your heart, and focus on that. You're too tense, too stiff. Relax your body slowly, starting with your toes and slowly, slowly working your way up."
Raphael obliged the doctor's orders, but there was almost no thought behind doing so. Complying, at this point, almost seemed like an auto-response. His toes uncurled; his ankles allowed his feet to slacken against the sheets beneath him; the muscles in his calves lost their tautness, and little by little, he allowed himself to virtually melt into the bed. His hips and hands, wrists, elbows, and shoulders- every bit of him grew lax. Lastly, his lips parted, mouth open wide as his breathing became just a bit more audible.
The professor watched with rapt attention, studying the mutant before him for several long minutes that seemed to stretch into a small eternity. Then, with a mix of caution and curiosity, Perry reached over and placed a hand on Raphael's forearm, half-expecting a violent or startled reaction. What he got, however, was nothing. No movement, not differentiation in respiration. Moving his hand down to the mutant's wrist, he was pleased to see that to see that Raphael's pulse was normal as well.
Pulling his hand away and reclaiming his clipboard, the professor jotted down a quick note before clearing his throat and speaking again to the mutant turtle. "Can you hear me?" he questioned.
But no response came.
He tried again. "Turtle, if you can hear me, raise your hand."
Still no response.
"Wiggle your fingers or toes. Do something that suggests cognition."
Nothing.
Frowning, Perry quickly turned to look at his eavesdropping employer, uncertain of what to do at this point.
From his position near the door, Shredder stood, clothed in simple black garb- ironically so, a turtleneck sweater and slacks. Standing there, poised, silent, he radiated with an aura of patience he usually spared no one. Because this was his project. This was his game. And it was his turn. Each move he made had to be precise and controlled, and in the end, he would reap the reward for his work. But first, baby steps. He couldn't crush the mutant all at once; it had to happen a little at a time, so as not to cause alarm. He needed the turtle's trust and devotion for now...
"Raphael," Shredder said sternly, voice relatively quiet, but it sounded as loud as dynamite in the too-still atmosphere of the Infirmary.
Raphael's breath hitched the slightest bit at hearing his master's call.
The professor took note.
"Raphael," Shredder spoke again, "raise your hand. Now."
Without the faintest hint of hesitation, Raphael's left arm bent 90 degrees at the elbow-joint, and his hand rose.
Perry stared, gawking, astounded. Being a man of science, a practice of this nature eluded his understanding. This was well within the realms of hypnosis, which he also found to be full of fault and distortion. Cult-fiction. Yet here he was, watching undeniable proof as a completely conscious being lost direct control of their actions.
"Your other hand, Raphael," Shredder cut in, interrupting the professor's musings, speaking in that same stern voice that the mutant had obeyed previously.
Without further prompt, Raphael lowered his left hand and raised his right on queue.
"Can you hear me?" Shredder questioned, voice losing its sharp edge and becoming almost conversational.
No response.
"Raphael, you will answer my questions without fail, or suffer the consequences. Now, can you hear me?"
"Yeah," Raph spoke easily enough, voice a little rough, as his throat had gone dry. Then, he moved to lower his right hand, only to be stopped by his master's command.
"Keep your hand up. In fact, raise it higher," Shredder said, keeping a distance for now and nodding his approval as he watched a green 3-fingered hand inch its way skyward until it could go no further. Then, "Higher. You can do better than that, Raphael. Just a little higher..."
Raphael's right arm was raised as high as it could possibly go, from shoulder to fingertip, a steady inclination; yet, at the human's order, he worked his muscles to comply, regardless of futility. His entire arm quivered with the effort.
"Just a bit further, Raphael," Shredder coaxed, eyes gleaming with faint amusement.
"Sir," Perry spoke up, brows knitted together in confusion. "I'm afraid it is a physical impossibility for-"
POP!
The sound was deafeningly loud and sick as Raphael's arm dropped uselessly, the joint having been forced out of socket by stubborn will alone. If the emerald-skinned mutant felt any pain or was even aware of what had happened, he gave no visible reaction.
Surprised but not shaken, Shredder finally moved away from the door and closer to his inhuman disciple. Once he was at Raphael's bedside, he found his voice once more. "You've been telling Mr Perry an awful lot about this recurring dream of yours... The one with the golden puddle that tries to suck you in. Raphael, I want you to recall that dream. Let your mind wander back to it. Then, describe it to me. Like a movie. You like movies, don't you? "
"Movies are cool," Raph responded, shifting slightly, as if trying to get more comfortable.
"Walk me through it," Shredder coaxed, grabbing a nearby chair and pulling it closer before seating himself. Then, he closed his eyes and proceeded to do his own breathing exercises as Raphael once again obeyed without heed.
"Colorful," the turtle said, eyes opening wide behind the blind, yet remaining functionless. "Skies... All red and yellow, like a sunset that don't go away."
In his head, Oroku Saki pictured the mesh of colors. "Keep going," he goaded.
"There's... so much red. The colors, alive; they... feel. They're angry and hurt. The colors, they-..."
"What about the colors, Raphael?"
"I... can't tell you," Raphael said, voice quieter than it had been, almost as if he were disappointed. "No one else can know." He kicked his feet out in a gesture of restlessness. "I don't want you to know. If I tell you, it won't be mine anymore. It has to be mine. Only mine."
Hearing this, Shredder opened his eyes and leaned forward in his seat, planting his elbows on corresponding knees. "You're... possessive of this dream, even though it scares you?"
Raphael's physical form twitched unnervingly, as if struggling beneath a something heavy and unforgiving, soul-crushing. His dislocated arm jostled, but the pain was lost on him.
"I won't take it from you, Raphael." Shredder attempted to soothe. "I just want you to describe it to me. It'll be our little secret. And, who knows? Maybe I can make the golden puddle go away."
"The puddle, it's so damn bright," Raph grumbled, sounding irritable. He raised his good arm, bringing a hand before his cloth-covered eyes, as if to shield himself from an entity such as the sun. "It's bright, but it's- it's down there... It can't get me."
"Down where, Raphael?" Shredder prodded, voice deceptively gentle. He reached out, taking Raphael's left hand in his own and guiding it down to a resting position. "Don't hide from it. Go to it. It's safe. It's warm. Observe it. Tell me about it."
"...don't wanna. Too bright."
"Do it. Now, Raphael. Find the golden puddle. Face it. And let me pull you from its hold."
Suddenly, without any warning, Raph bolted into an upright position, mouth open wide, caught between a silent scream and a desperate attempt to gulp in air; his body twisted horrifically, muscles straining, as if combating an invisible foe. He shook his head feverishly. "Safe..." he gasped. "This is supposed ta be a safe place. But it ain't," he said in a hushed tone, face scrunching up to convey a mix of pain and grief.
"Raphael, you are in the visual representation of your entire self. This is where your mind and spirit converge. You trust me, don't you? Then, let me in. Tear down those walls. There are no enemies here."
Raphael's good hand gripped at the sheets, knuckles paling, nails biting and tearing into the sturdy blend of cotton fibers. His teeth gnashed together and he dug his heels into the foot of the bed. "Can't... I ain't gonna... I need-" He ground out the words through clenched teeth, his sentences incomplete. His entire body grew stiff, muscles bulging, as if trying to explode from their hold beneath his skin. He let out an agonizing wail and doubled over, retching, projectile vomiting a sick mixture of acids. The foaming liquid mess covered his legs, ankles feet, and blanket in a gnarly spray, but he showed no signs of noticing. Breathing in short choppy breaths, one shaky hand moved to grip at the hilt of a sai, and there was a notable sense of relief in his body language at acknowledging its presence... despite the fact that the other sai was still planted in the dead-eye of the camera on the wall. Gripping the one remaining sai and pulling it from the respective hold, he struck out blindly, almost catching Professor Perry on the arm.
"Sir," Perry cried out in alarm, nearly shouting his surprise. "He's panicking. Whatever you're attempting, abort it! Abort it now!"
Offering a sneer to his employee, Oroku Saki hissed: "I do not take orders from you, Mr Perry. If you are so concerned, then you may either strap him down or sedate him... I am not done here. Should he attempt to harm me, I will put him in his place and be done with it."
...
[Astral Plane]
Raphael found himself on the ground, beneath the crushing hold of his monstrous, mask-wearing duplicate. Struggling seemed futile, but he had to fight it, whatever it was.
This monster was taunting him, teasing him, and sucking the life right out of him, and there was little he could do about it from his position.
But he had to try. His own brash and defiant nature bade him to do so. If words were his only weapon, he'd wield them with pride.
And yet, he settled for an accusing glare and a rather confrontational quip of: "Who the fuck are ya?" He managed to ask as the colorful atmosphere around him began to shift and turn an ugly sepia tone before greying completely. Then, even more unsettling, the skies flashed with a pending storm. Blank papers flew about in an imaginary whirlwind, and lightning struck in the distance.
It truly looked like a scene from a black-and-white horror flick.
The masked spirit-creature obliged the question with a deep chuckle and a long-awaited answer. "You," it said simply, voice dark and foreboding. "I am the thing inside you that makes you run. I am the thing you try so hard to escape. I am your failure. Your regrets. Your anger... I am everything you fear, everything you hide from, and everything you let go. I remember ever ounce of blood you've shed. Every dark thought in the deepest recesses of your mind... I... am what controls you when emotion takes over and your vision becomes null. I am your guilt and sorrow; your anger and pain. And, like a daily dose of medication, I feed it to you... And the only reason I'm here, is because you like it." The creature opened its gangly jowls wide, the stench on its breath nearly visible as it swiped its tongue over the shark-like teeth.
For a moment, Raphael was frozen, wide-eyed, staring into this monster's mouth and wondering if it might eat him. But the fear passed, written off as something ridiculous as he worked to focus on what this beast had implied.
'You. Like. It.'
As the words registered, Raphael decided then and there that he would have none of that. He would fight tooth and nail to deny such sick and twisted bullshit. "I don't fuckin' like it! I'm not a monster like you are!" he shot back, struggling beneath the beast's crushing weight, fire burning within him, urging him to overpower the impossible.
"You like it." The taunt continued, simple but effective.
"Fuck you." The rebuttal, crude but unshakable.
But the spirit-creature only laughed. "Fuck me? Oh, not even in your dreams, Raphael. Now, let me save you."
"I'm fine! I don't need savin'!"
The beast chuckled darkly, bringing its face closer to Raphael's; its breath... rank, like dead rodent... Roadkill. "I think you do need saved. You just don't want it. Not yet. You're too busy enjoying yourself. Being a martyr. A masochist. A psycho, and a freak."
Shaking with anger and frustration, Raphael's spiritual self let out a frustrated cry, trying and failing to get his own inner-demon to relinquish him. "You ain't even real," he countered, speaking the words more for himself than the larger turtle. "You're a voice in my head. You're words on paper. Fiction. You're fuckin' fiction!"
"And you're a delusional little shit who ran away from home. And, in your self-righteous plight, you justify playing puppet to the enemy."
"Shredda ain't my enemy!"
"But you are a puppet, aren't you? That human moulded you so well; I can barely see the seams..."
Raphael growled lowly, closing his eyes tightly. He didn't want to be in this position or hear these words slung at him, but he was trapped. In his own mind, beneath the personification of his own inner darkness.
It would be poetic, if it weren't so terrifying.
Lightning struck in the distance, and as a small stretch of silence fell between himself and the monster, he allowed himself to get lost in that flash of light.
For a moment, he felt like he was suffocating, but there was no panic to that fact, so he dismissed it entirely.
Then, the creature spoke again. "Stop fighting your instincts. That fire that pulls you into the fight and carries you through life, you're losing it. You're becoming domesticated. And what's more, you're letting it happen. You're becoming a pet to a filthy human."
"You're wrong," Raphael grunted, but the agitation was forced, almost completely devoid of conviction. "Shredda's been there for me. He took me in. He offered me redemption. He-"
"He bred you into a thief and a murderer, Raphael. And you let it happen."
"That ain't true." As Raphael's spiritual self spoke this time, his voice was low, despondent. The weight of his inner-demon was literally crushing him, yet he stopped struggling. Stopped pushing back. "I didn't let nothin' happen. I was in control. My actions were my own." Those words, so easily spoken, parroted.
Words he'd heard preached to him by the Shredder himself on a regular basis.
"My actions were my own..."
"Were they?" As the dark creature hissed out the taunting question, he pressed all his weight against the smaller turtle's form.
Unable to form a response, Raphael forgot how to breathe.
...
[Physical world]
"Sir, the turtle isn't breathing! If we don't do something now, he is not going to wake up! At this rate, he will die-"
"Mr Perry, will you kindly shut your mouth before I am forced to cut out your tongue? I'm close. I can feel the barrier Raphael uses to protect his mind and house his spirit; it is weak, and I intend to breach it."
"There won't be anything to breach if the turtle dies!"
"He won't die. And, even if he did, it would be no concern of yours."
"But-!"
"Mr Perry, you are dismissed. Please leave. I'll call for you if I need you."
...
The professor paced the length of the hall, ignoring the inquisitive stares cast his way by a number of teens and young adults in Foot attire. Stress and unease ate away at his core.
Yes, he was indeed a man of science. Yes, he was loyal to his employer. However, some things were beyond justification. While the mutant turtle fascinated him, he saw no reason to allow harm- or death, if it could be avoided.
His pacing continued, hand in his pocket and gripping his phone, awaiting a call that would grant him access to his ailing subject.
After nearly half an hour of pacing, he felt the familiar vibration of his private cell, alerting him of a call. Caught between apprehension and relief, he drew his phone, and answered, expecting Oroku Saki's voice to fill the other line with a simple command.
What he got, however, was: "Jordan Perry? Associate of TGRI? This is... Carmen... San... Diego... from Chanel -uh...- the NEWS! Calling to request an interview to discuss-"
"Mrs... Diego? I'm afraid now isn't a good time. You see-"
"-oww, Donnie, I'm trying! Shhhh!- You stepped on my foot!- Wait!- Hey!" with that, the line went dead.
Perry was baffled.
...
[Meanwhile...]
"Jeeze, nice going, April. -Or, should I say: Carmen SanDiego?" Donatello's voice was heavily laced with sarcasm and frustration. "Really?! That's the best you could come up with?"
April flushed at the indignation before raising her chin defiantly. "Excuse me! I was under a lot of pressure!"
Rolling his eyes and waving her off, Don showed no sympathy for her plight. "Next time, why don't you try claiming to be Megan Fox? Even that would be more believable."
April huffed and crossed her arms. "I was trying to help. You're not doing a great job either, Donnie," she muttered heatedly. "If I didn't know any better, I'd think you didn't want to find Raphael at all."
Hearing that, Don froze, eyes wide, blood turning to ice, hurt and disbelief coursing through him like he'd never known. "What?" he choked out the word.
"You're quiet about your problems, Donnie," April added listlessly, "but it's no secret that Raphael gets in your way. Always getting injured and needing you to patch him up and kiss his boo-boos. He takes up a fair amount of your time, taking you away from your experiments... Even now, I bet you can't remember the last project you had time to focus on due to Raphael's ridiculous departure."
"April, my brother is not burden, nor is he ridiculous. My last project was your damn microwave... Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go... before I do something I regret." As he made his way to the window that would grant him access to the roof, he paused, almost needing to get in one good shot at her to retaliate against her implications. "Never thought I'd say this, April, but... Casey can do better."
...
[There we go. Next chapter outlined and In-Progress. But for now, we've got a cliffhanger and an impromptu moment with Don.]
