The pain was worse when Raphael woke in the morning, his pillow damp under his face. More dark bruises and cuts had bloomed on his sides, his face, his shoulders and limbs, and he had to check his plastron to make sure it hadn't cracked. It took him a long while to rise from his bed, feeling pain spike through him with every movement.

The only thing that no longer hurt was his cheek. When he limped into the bathroom, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. The green skin on that side was unmarred, as if he had never been cut in the first place.

Raphael closed his eyes, and let his head hang low over the sink. He felt empty. Drained. Hollow. The things that had mattered desperately to him just a day ago felt small and inconsequential now, dwarfed by the sudden awareness of how truly alone he was. Even Mother's consoling words felt far away now, as he tried to figure out what to do.

With shaking hands, he placed his belt around his waist, and tied the newly-washed mask around his face. But he was unable to put on his wraps — bending his knees and leaning over sent more throbbing, stiff pain through him, so he left his legs bare.

Raphael could feel eyes on him as he limped through the corridors of the building. He had no idea if word about his failed test had spread throughout the Foot, or whether they were just shocked at his appearance. Let them stare, he thought bleakly. He didn't care anymore.

He felt a flutter of apprehension as he stepped into Master Shredder's throne room, unsure whether he was even supposed to be here. He stiffly bowed, feeling his sore abdomen and hips protesting at the motion, and looked up to see what the jonin was going to do.

Master Shredder inclined his head slightly. "What is wrong, Raphael?" he said. "Take your place."

"Yes—Master," Raphael grunted, straightening up.

He painfully walked to his place at Shredder's left, feeling Karai's gimlet eyes watching his every step. She was probably loving this, he reflected bitterly. He was hobbled by pain and humiliated, both things she had probably wanted to see for a long time.

But Master Shredder gave no sign of what he had said or done the previous night — or indeed of noticing Raphael's injuries. Apparently he saw no point in pursuing the matter further, since Raphael now knew what would happen if he defied his master. Even the bloodstain on the floor was gone without a trace.

Raphael closed his eyes, and rested his aching shell against the wall. Nothing had really changed, he realized. Only his perceptions. He had dedicated himself to the Foot Clan, not realizing what he was to them. Now the Clan and Master Shredder — and his own pride in his skill and training — were all he had, without the illusions he had clung to for all those months.

Without them, what was he? Worthless. Meaningless. A life away from them wasn't something he could even imagine — no, it wasn't even a life at all.

Raphael's injuries healed quickly, and within a week even the worst of his aches and bruises had faded away. But the hollow ache in his chest hadn't faded, and it even seemed to intensify at times.

His daily life changed little in the wake of the failed test — every day he attended Master Shredder, a silent and watchful presence lurking in the shadows of the throne room. Master Shredder appeared to have chosen to ignore Raphael's misstep, speaking to him and acting towards him as if nothing had happened. At times he almost spoke warmly to the mutant turtle.

"Your loyalty to the Foot Clan is commendable, Raphael," he said one day. "Which is why I have decided to reward you."

"Reward me?" Raphael said blankly.

The jonin looked down on him with an air of satisfaction. "You wished to be sent on more missions as a ninja. You leave tonight to eradicate a certain street gang that has repeatedly attacked Foot Clan convoys."

Raphael bowed, feeling his stomach lurch. "Yes, Master."

The gang — who called themselves the Wolverines — were no difficulty at all. Raphael led a small contingent of ninja to the small warehouse where they spent much of their time, and carved them from the face of New York. Though the gang was large, they were also disorganized and unskilled in fighting — it was like fighting petty criminals on the street for Raphael all over again, as he dodged switchblades, chains and the occasional gun. Too easy.

Raphael threw himself into the mission, lashing out with his sai and bellowing as he stabbed and slashed his way through the gang's ranks. Maybe he would feel less shaken, more sure of his place in the Foot if he threw himself more fully into serving it. Master Shredder had made him a sword, so he would act as one. So he flung himself into the midst of the gang, was swarmed by endless grasping hands trying to stab him, shoot him, choke him.

When he returned to the Foot Clan headquarters, he was covered in blood, most of it not his own. Master Shredder's eyes glinted at the sight, and he congratulated the mutant turtle on his success.

It wasn't the last mission he was sent on. At least once a month, Raphael found himself sent out into the night, to battle or to kill — and though he now knew that others saw him as a weapon, he still threw himself into the fights with all of his strength.

What else was he to do? The Foot Clan was his home, his family, his whole life — and he had no idea what he was supposed to do. There was no other place he could go, no other people he could rely on. He had dedicated everything to the Clan, to his master — even when they hurt him, he never swayed in his knowledge that this was where he belonged and all he aspired to. Every day. Every hour. Every minute. For as long as he could remember, the Foot Clan had been everything to him.

So he hardened himself, forced himself to fight and live through the devastation that had overwhelmed him on that fateful night, the pain of loss when he had been beaten by Master Shredder. He was tough. He could take it — he could handle anything, even the knowledge that to the Foot, he was a thing to be used.

His nights remained as they had been. He still slipped out on most evenings, roaming rooftops in search of petty crime to quash. Rumors began to spread of a double-knife-wielding vigilante in the surrounding blocks, who struck without warning during the night. Other, stranger rumors about the vigilante — such as his odd appearance — began to spread as well.

And when he made his way back home, collapsing into his bed, he dreamed of Mother in her ever-verdant garden, surrounded by springtime flowers that never faded. He still told her what he did during the day, but found that the descriptions of his missions always seemed to sadden her.

When he asked why, she simply said, "Because of the peril to you, my son."

"But I'm not in any danger, Mother," Raphael responded.

She sighed. "You are always in danger," she said softly. "Your heart and soul are."

So sometimes, Raphael told her nothing at all, afraid she would worry if he did, and simply enjoyed being in her presence. The hardened knots in his soul seemed to loosen when he was around her, a relief that he never experienced anywhere else. There was no one he trusted as much as Mother, even though he wasn't entirely sure whether she was real.

And in this way, six months passed.