Chapter 2: Playground Rules

Brent staggered in the door and made it to the liquor cabinet and sat in front of it perusing his options. He took a bottle of brandy and carried it into the kitchen carefully yet shakily poured himself a generous glass. As an afterthought he added ice. Rocks on brandy. He walked over the larger of the two windows in his apartment. He leaned out and looked straight down. After a moment of hesitation a small waterfall erupted from his mouth. He spat and then took a swig of brandy, reminding himself to slow down. The trouble was that half the time the romanticised notion of stumbling into your pissy apartment and taking frequent and large swigs on hard liquor was as much of a medicine as the alcohol content. Marijuana makes it much harder to throw up though. Problem, medicine, cure.

The problem is not that you drink too much, the problem is why you drink too much. The symptom of that is that you drink too much.

He could have sworn that he saw movement down in the alley. Wouldn't be uncommon. Just in case, he pointed down with his brandy-hand and smiled. "Hey," he mumbled.

"Hey," Raphael mumbled as he watched Brent consume the last of the brandy. Too quick, he thought, that'll be coming up in no time. On the other hand, Brent had been known to surprise him. Such moments where rare though - Raphael knew him well.

He glanced down at his watched, surprised at how easy it came to focus. He suddenly realised he could feel the beginnings of dehydration. He needed to get back to a bar or maybe it was time for bed. It occurred to him that he hadn't even read the time off his watch, so he looked again. 3:33. By the time he found an open bar he'd have to return home anyway. Maybe he could stay here just a few minutes longer.

---

Minutes often run into hours. "Especially when deep in meditation," Raphael added as he defended his prolonged absence to his family. The elephant named Brent remained unmentioned.

"Make sure it doesn't happen again, Raphael. Mediation is about oblivious consciousness. Too much of one without the other." Splinter looked as if he was about to say more, but either he decided better of it or Raphael was not as sober as he thought because he turned and walked away without further comment.

Raphael headed for his room, hoping to lay down and sleep of the exhaustion and emotional turbulence resulting from his night out. His lack of responsibility was not to go unpunished though. Leonardo poked his head in only moments later to announce that he was required at practice. Wearily Raphael arose and headed off to his duties, all the while wondering how Brent felt this morning , although he knew Brent would probably still be sleeping last night off.

Throughout the practice session Raphael chased ghosts of Brent through his head. Inevitably Splinter noticed his lack of concentration and regularly ordered him to focus. The real result was a few extra bruises out of the sparring sessions, both on Raphael and his brothers - neither seemed very keen on pulling their punches.

Once the session was over Raphael returned to his room and collapsed on his bed. The dull ache in his head and legs registered for only a few moments before he collapsed even further into a deep sleep.

---

Consciousness abruptly kicked Raphael in the head. The dehydration had taken a stronghold in his body since his exertion. Idly he rubbed the dry roof of his mouth with his equally dry tongue. He needed water, which meant he had to get up, which in turn meant that he would have to open his eyes.

The first part of his plan was accomplished easily. The bulb that hung above him emitted a minimal amount of light so his squint dissipated within a second. Getting up wasn't too hard either. It's amazing what you can do, he mused, with the right motivation.

He crept out of his room towards the bathroom. He could hear Michelangelo and Donatello talking somewhere, which left Leonardo and Splinter still unaccounted for. Unfortunately, given the circumstances, Raphael would rather not have had to see them until he had been given the chance to reorientate himself.

Luck seemed to be paying attention to his little backwater of the universe and Raphael made it to the bathroom undetected.

He found a plastic cup under the sink and filled it with water from the tap. It wasn't refrigerator cold and it was tainted by a vague taste of dust, but to Raphael, it was gloriously refreshing and slipped easily over his parched throat. After swallowing the last mouthful in the cup he let out an obligatory sigh of relief and filled the cup up once more. He drunk a little more and then turned on the shower, slightly cooler than usual to drag him that further inch into 'fully awake'.

The running water soothed away the edgy feeling that had brought him there and before long he was singing loudly (and poorly) in a steaming hot shower. By the time he stepped out of the shower and had dried off he could barely remember the groggy feeling he had awoken to. He left the bathroom feeling fresh and perfectly capable of dealing with any enemy and possibly even his family.

He decided to test that theory and followed the voices of Donatello and Michelangelo, which wasn't hard as they were both speaking very loudly to be heard over the television. Raphael dropped down on the couch next to them. "Hey guys."

The pair stopped talking and looked at him. Michelangelo was the first to speak. "Hey Raph, what's up?"

"Nothing much, dude. Just thought I'd come and see what you two are yelling about."

"We weren't yelling," cried Donatello quickly, although clearly embarrassed by the notion.

Raphael tilted his head sceptically. "I could hear you from the bathroom."

Donatello suddenly lost his enthusiasm and dropped his vision. Michelangelo picked the conversation up, but seemed troubled. "Oh, sorry man, I guess we were just getting carried away. Did you hear what we were talking about?"

"Nah, but probably through lack of trying. Why? Were you guys talking about me or something?" he teased.

The stunned look on Michelangelo's face said it all. They had been talking about him. Michelangelo stuttered through a denial.

Raphael smiled politely. "So what were you talking about then?"

Donatello suddenly regained his voice. "This documentary," he said, waving a hand towards the television. "Its fascinating. It's about the Curie's early experiments."

"Uh huh," Raphael replied flatly. "Sounds riveting, but I think I might go for a walk." His brothers were lying to him and talking about him behind his back. All he wanted was to not have to sit there and make polite conversation, wording their way around the one thing everyone wanted to talk about. Behind his back he could almost hear the pointed stares his brothers were no doubt exchanging.

"Take care, huh Raph?" Donatello offered.

"Yeah, sure thing, dude. Catcha."

With those words he almost made it out of the room. But as he reached the doorway Leonardo suddenly loomed before him. "Raph, I don't think you should be going anywhere." There was a quiet determination in his words.

"That's nice, bro, but I think I'll go anyway."

"I don't think so." Leonardo continued to stand in Raphael's path.

Raphael tried to push past Leonardo, but Leonardo simply swung himself to the side, slamming Raphael into the doorway before forcing him to stumble backwards into the room.

Michelangelo jumped up. "HEY!" he yelled, but his disapproval was unheard by Leonardo and Raphael.

Raphael quickly reacted, jumping at Leonardo, setting a very square fist in his face. "That was definitely not cool!" he yelled in Leonardo's screwed up face. Donatello then joined Michelangelo in his protest, jumping up ready to separate the two if the need arose. Although for the time being the warring pair were engaged in a heavy standoff, staring one another down. Raphael broke the stalemate though, walking angrily around Leonardo and heading for the door once more.

Leonardo hung his head in defeat. He had lost his temper and he knew it. That never happened to him - the cool, calm and in control one. He heard Raphael start towards the door and felt the tension that had hung so imminently in the room, dispel. He looked up and saw another shadow approach.

"Raphael!" The commanding voice of his teacher stopped Raphael in his tracks. He slowly turned around to see Splinter standing in the opposite doorway.

He raised a defiant brow, but said nothing.

"Raphael, I do not know what purpose visiting Brent serves, but I do not believe any good can come of it. Can you not see that your family is concerned for you? I believe you should remain in the lair tonight."

The tension that had begun to build in Raphael again almost audibly cracked. He punched out angrily at the television. The glass was harder than he had anticipated though. 'The damned thing had lied to me about its strength through all those damn late night films' he thought. The irony didn't even occur to him. He tried again, hard, but still not hard enough. The glass stood strong. His knuckles did not. Blood smeared across the screen and it took his mind less than a second to equate the image with a thousand nameless slasher movies. He looked up at his teacher. "Why?! Why can't I have a friend?"

Splinter looked sadly upon Raphael's despair, understanding that the feelings of isolation would pass with time, but unable to make Raphael understand that. "You have four good friends here. And even you must be able to see that watching Brent is unhealthy. It has made you moody and violent. You no longer focus in your training. Such a distraction can prove fatal."

"Damn it, it's not like my life revolves around the guy. I just enjoy it, alright? Since when did my private life become your business anyway?!"

"As soon as your private life began affecting your relationship with your family." Splinter stared down Raphael who was by now breathing heavily with frustration.

Raphael kicked the television once more for good measure before waving a dismissive hand towards his family as he walked out the door.

---

It took Raphael longer than usual to find a wholesale store that would sell him anything - he had been running his usual sources to the point of misgivings. When he eventually did find one he made a note of the location, but knew that he couldn't return for another few weeks to avoid arousing suspicion. He didn't let that worry him. Raphael just wandered and drunk.

The streets were dark; Raphael was angry, alone and drunk. All he wanted was some company. He looked a few metres ahead and recognised the damp brick walls. It was strange that he did not even have to think to arrive here any more. The map had imprinted itself on his brain, eating away at his mind, becoming an integral part of him. Maybe he would become concerned if he wasn't focussing so hard on staying awake. As he approached he kept an eye on the movement in the bright flicker in Brent's window. Time to find out if the dreams or the nightmares were more accurate, he thought and for the first time he emerged from the alleyway's shadows and made his way to the building's entrance.