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 TMNT. Credit and appreciation 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:
Ch1 takes place before the Prologue. The prologue set the tone of Raph having been away from his brothers for months; this chapter -and likely the ones that follow- will have a starting point and eventually lead up to Raph's allegiance with the Shredder.
CH1
[10 Months earlier]
"Raphael, your form could use some work; you can't rely on brute strength alone. Why don't you practice an extra hour -" it was a trap, those words. Phrased like a question but the tone used was firm, a demand, an order. The owner of that voice, his eyes held the sharpness of a blade as he squared his shoulders in an attempt to appear more authoritative. "You lost to Mikey in a sparring match," the last sentence could be added to the 'insult to injury' category, but there was no injury to be had, unless one could count bitterness.
Bitterness and loathing. Contempt. All those horrible shallow feelings that never stayed beneath the surface for long.
Not missing a beat, the younger of the two rose to the occasion, took the bait, and opted to defend himself- it was only natural. "Mikey's fast, Leo. That's it. He's such a space-headed dimwit, jumpin' around like a stupid... jumpy... thing-" the red-banded turtle's voice dropped the accented lilt and drew into a growl, words coming to a jumbling halt before he collected himself and tried again. "He's fast and stupid. He got lucky. It was a fluke, Fearless. I'm still a better fighter. Stronger, more-"
"Face it, Raph. Michelangelo beat you. Stop cutting down the fact that he did something better than you. Give him his moment and then work harder next time."
"Hold up! Wait, ya say he's better than me? Mikey?! Fuck you, Leo. I ain't gotta take this shit, not from you! Get offa my case before I knock you fer a loop."
Leo narrowed his eyes, his posture perfect and his stance firm and unshakable as he inhaled deeply and puffed up his chest in a show of dominance. Being older and leader, he needed to exert himself to exercise some form of control. "I don't think you could, Raph. I think you let your anger get the better of you, and you don't even try to stop it anymore. You just run head first into the fray, and you swing your fists as if they have all the answers in the world. As if they can solve anything. One of these days, someone is really going to get hurt, and I don't know what's worse: The possibility that you might hurt one of us... or the possibility that you might hurt yourself." Leo drew a breath and waited several heartbeats, letting his prior words sink in before opening his mouth once more. "Raph, you can't-"
"Can't- WHAT, Leo?! What can't I do? I'll tell ya what I can't do! I can't stand ta listen ta dis shit from ya anymore. Ya wanna get on my case and shove your perfectness in my face, then fine! But one of these days, Leo, yer gonna chase me away, and I won't come back. Then who's gonna be stuck in your fuckin' shadow, Splinta Jr?" Raph's whole body tensed, muscles bulging, the little vein at his temples pulsing. He could almost taste his heartbeat, and it didn't taste good. Clenching his fists, just barely reigning his anger enough not to draw his weapons, he turned away to avoid the temptation of tackling the eldest turtle. It was a last minute decision for him to noisily stomp across the lair and head for the exit.
Fresh air would do him good, he hoped.
Leo's first instinct was to go after his brother, but he held off, deciding it might be best to let the red-banded turtle have his space and blow off some steam. Sighing in a bout of resignation, the eldest brother stood back and watched his brother's retreating shell. 'Clear your head, then come home, Raph,' he thought, knowing better than to voice this aloud under the strained pretenses.
Just then, a loud whoop resounded, accompanied by the grinding wheels of a skateboard across the cement flooring. The rider of the skateboard finished with a flourishing kick-flip before dropping to his feet with athletic grace and collecting his board in his three-fingered hands. "Hey, Raphie," Michelangelo called out loudly, a bite of amusement on his grinning face and in his jittery temperament. He paused at seeing Raphael mid-trek towards the exit. "Raph!" He tried again, louder, before his brother could bolt. His sudden presence and loud voice was enough to jar Raphael into a dead halt. Noting that he had his hotheaded brother's attention, Mikey gave his message. "Sensei wanted a word with you after training. I think he's upset about your last outing with Casey. Not sure why." Knowing that the words wouldn't go over well, the orange-banded ninja held up his skateboard in front of his face, pretending to shield himself from an expected attack. "Don't shoot the messenger, bro!"
Dealing with Leonardo had been rough enough on Raphael, and Mikey's obnoxious demeanor wasn't going to aid the situation.
As if on queue, the trigger questionable, Raph finally snapped, eyes turning white with rage and fists shaking in a blind desire to unleash their unbridled fury. He'd almost unconsciously slipped into an offensive battle stance, fingers uncurling to rest at the leather-wrapped hilts of each sai. His breath came in angry gasps, too hard and too fast to satisfy his beckoning lungs as his vision flecked with red and blurred at the edges.
Suddenly, everything stopped.
The world ceased to spin.
Raph's shoulders slumped and his breath became regulated; his heart gradually slowed to something more manageable. Through sheer willpower, he'd managed to cage his aggression for the time being, but if he were the slightest bit angrier, he knew he'd have attacked either brother. But he didn't. Instead, he forced himself to ignore Leo and focus on what his younger brother had said. And in a raspy voice, he found himself repeating: "My last outing with Casey?" His head hurt; his muscles were screaming for him to hit something, but he refrained. A bitter chuckle began with a shaky inhale that was followed by expulsion. Head high and resolve firm, he gave his verbal affront. "Tell Master Splinta that he doesn't have ta worry 'bout my outings with Casey. 'Cause, my last outing with Casey was... my LAST outing with Casey. Ain't gonna do it no more. So, you can all just fuck off and hope I don't do somethin' stupid."
With that, Raph was gone. Exiting the lair and entering the sewers. Climbing up and out the nearest manhole and gulping in heaps of crisp night air once he made it topside.
Darkness as his ally, all he wanted to do was clear his head and get away from his family before he hurt them... again.
His body burned with tension, but his head hurt so much worse. He grit his teeth and slipped into an alley, making his way to a rickety fire escape. The familiar structure beneath his feet, he scaled.
The rooftops were his destination. His own source of elevation where he could almost pretend that, like his brothers, he too was on a pedestal.
Silent, stealthy, ninja-like, he ascended. Once his feet were firmly planted on the roofing he looked around, his bright-eyed gaze sweeping over his surroundings. He took in the sky, stars hidden among the haze of light pollution. He took in the familiar scent of the overrun city. He drew in the general sounds of restlessness, cars and people, all bustling about even in the latest of hours.
The rush of sound and motion was almost a comfort, free of anything that might have stifled the turtle and added to his hostility.
Finally alone, the tension in his mind and body began to slowly ebb away. He drew his sais from his belt and twirled them absently with effortless skill. He wanted to clear his head; his thoughts continued to plague him, though their intensity had muted considerably in the absence of his brothers.
On some level, even he had to admit that his brothers weren't entirely in the wrong. He did rely on strength rather than technique, but that worked for him. Trying and failing to quell the bitterness inside, Raph grumbled "Who said I wanted to be perfect anyways? If I was perfect, what would be the point in tryin'? Far as I'm concerned, lack of perfection is just motivation," he smiled at his own words, proud of his own insight.
For the briefest moment, he wondered if his brother Don or Master Splinter would agree with his logic. It made sense enough, didn't it?
Shrugging it off to the best of his abilities, he dropped that line of thinking and continued to twirl his sais; adjusting his footing, he closed his eyes and began to run through a series of simple kata. Hoping to ease his mind and keep physically active without getting himself in more trouble than he already was.
No, tonight, he'd behave himself. He might not have been the perfect son or student, nor the best brother, but he could try...
His form was nearly perfect in the beginning, rivaling that of his eldest brother, but as the more complex kata came into play, a primal part of his mind became more active and excitable; his movements gradually became sloppy, more reckless, exerting more strength than necessary in his choppy kicks and jabs.
In his mind, he relayed his last sparring match with his orange-clad brother, trying to decide where he went wrong and what he could have done to counter it. No matter how he turned it around in his head, the results were he same.
Annoyed once more, Raph allowed himself to scowl. "A fluke, it had to be a fluke. Mikey's just fast," he reasoned with a sharp nod. He rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck. "Gotta be a way to get past that. I ain't as fast as he is. But I'm stronger. One hit. I get one hit on him and I get the upper hand." He took a deep breath and expelled it with fervor, once again replaying the match in his head.
Then, Michelangelo's most recent words reclaimed a spot in the forefront of his mind.
Sensei wanted to talk to him about his time with Casey... But why?
He couldn't help feeling like a double standard had come into play; after all, Donatello was often with his human friend April, and their sensei rarely had a negative thing to say about it. And yet, a few late nights with Casey, and Raph was subject to lecture at the very least. Punishments often included suspension from television, revoked topside privileges, and even extra chores, and Raphael didn't mind them, really. But the lectures... were awful. The strict tone and disappointed expression on the rat's face was nearly unbearable.
That expression hurt more than anything else ever could.
Never the good son. Never the perfect student. Never anything right. The bitterness ripened within him at the very thought. No matter what he tried, any attempt to act like himself resulted in something bad, but he couldn't give it up.
Leo would never be asked to give up his honor, nor Don his experiments, or Mikey his humor. It seemed unfair that Raph would be expected to give anything up, to be scolded for partaking in one of the few things that made him feel good about himself.
The internal hurt ripped through him harsher than any weapon ever could. The injustice was there, intentional or not, and it ate at his core.
"It's bullshit," Raph fussed, grip tightening on his sais, knuckles paling. "I ain't did nothin' wrong." He looked down at his feet and curled his toes, feeling the rough texture of the roof beneath his calloused skin. "Why can't anyone else ever get in trouble?" he mulled, expression softening, eyes downcast and a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. "I try ta do things right. I just ain't good at it. I ain't got a big brain like Don. I ain't got Leo's perfectness and patience. And I ain't got Mikey's speed or good fuckin' nature." Slipping his weapons back into their respectable slots in his belt, he looked at his hands.
Green, three-fingered, and littered with scars. His hands looked like something from a human child's nightmares.
For a moment, he was almost disgusted with himself. The fact was, he could be the good guy and save the day a hundred times, but he'd still be the stuff nightmares were made of. No matter his disguise or good intent, he'd always look like a monster underneath. Not that he'd ever admit it out loud. It hurt sometimes, to know that he'd always be seen as a freak, that his appearance would always outweigh his deeds.
Curling his fingers, balling his hands into tight fists under his own watchful eyes, he couldn't help mumbling the question "Is this all I'm good for? Being a freak? Throwing a punch?" His voice was so soft, he barely recognized it. His chest felt too tight, as if his ribcage shrank and was too small to properly house his thudding heart.
Caught in his own reverie, he failed to notice the approach of several black-clad figures... Solid shadows advanced, weapons ready. And Raphael was none the wiser.
...
[And, we cut it off there. Next chapter coming soon.]