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- Example: Monopoly. 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: Another word of gratitude for my readers and reviewers!
Questions or comments, submit via review or PM. Thank you.
...
CH6
Michelangelo had expected the wrath of his red-banded brother; he'd even prepared for it before setting up the childish prank. In all honesty, he meant no harm or ill will towards any of his siblings, especially Raph. He'd heard about this prank hundreds of times from television and movies and books; he wanted to know if it worked on mutant turtles like it worked on people.
Color him curious, he just had to test it out.
Leonardo was too much of a light sleeper for Mike to pull off something so simple against him. He reasoned that it was possible, but he'd quickly calculated the feeling of triumph and weighed it against the effort and risk involved, and he almost instantly ruled out the blue-banded turtle as a choice victim.
Donatello was a definite possibility for the hand-in-warm-water prank, if not for the fact that he'd entered his lab, locked the door, and had been unreachable for the rest of the night. Thus, he'd have to target his purple-clad brother another day.
So that only left Raphael as a remaining choice, a prime jestee. The emerald-skinned turtle had been stressed and angry, and Mikey reasoned that a good joke might turn everything around.
In hindsight, even Michelangelo could admit his error, but hindsight didn't save him from the strange look his brother had given him when he'd screamed his name.
"Miiiikeeeeey!"
The tone had been gruff with a distinct edge to it. Raphael's signature 'I'm-gonna-pummel-yer-face-til-it-looks-like-yer-ass' voice. And what a scary voice it was.
Michelangelo had prepared to run, to dodge, to jump and dance around the lair, taunting Raphael until he cooled off; then they could laugh about it together -y'know, after Raph had done his sulking.
But, much to Mike's surprise and dismay, Raphael didn't give chase. He simply got up, clenched his hands into tight shaking fists and spoke, voice deadly calm and a smouldering look of something akin to hatred burning behind his eyes.
"Michelangelo-" this would be the first of many times for Raphael to force such a long-winded word from his vocal cords. "I'm goin' ta shower. If you know what's good fer ya, you'll clean dis up and keep away from me fer the rest of the day. One wrong word, and I just might snap yer neck." The threat lain, his glare intensified.
Unaware and unassuming of the true animosity behind those eyes, the orange-banded brother had opened his mouth to retort, to either refute or make a joke, but instead he gave an indignant yelp when his older brother roughly shoved him aside, almost hard enough to knock him off balance.
Leaving Michelangelo to his own vices, Raphael went straight to the bathroom. His mind mused 'Do Not Pass GO; Do Not Collect $200.' He didn't speak to anyone, nor did he spare them a glance. His own urine was drying on his skin, and with it remained a fair amount of the sand he'd slept amongst. He felt disgusted. He felt angry. He focused mainly on his anger, as it was easier to understand than the mortification that hadn't quite registered.
He directed his attention on his need for a shower, knowing that if he laid a hand on Michelangelo, he'd probably take the beating too far.
Entering the bathroom, he stripped himself of his gear and belt, tossing the articles side unceremoniously; he felt only a little guilty at the sound of his sais clattering against the hard floor. Lastly, his mask was removed. He took his time to carefully untie and pull the mask away from his face. He had to peel the fabric, for it had stuck to his rough-textured skin in the way it only does when it gets wet. Between blood, sweat, and tears, it was fairly common for him to feel the pull of fiber against his flesh.
He mulled it over, ponderous as he considered the number of blows he'd taken in his short life -the amount of blood that had to be washed from his skin, not all of it his own. He considered the strain he put on his body, in training and fighting, in battling in ways that the rest of the world deemed either barbaric or prehistorically outdated, feudal. He considered the amount of times his eyes had become wet, leaking liquid emotion that he fought hard to hide... because it wasn't okay for him to cry or show weakness.
Such instances were degrading at best.
With a deep breath accompanied by a sigh, he placed the red strip of fabric on the sink; then he looked into the mirror above said sink.
In the glassy surface, he took in his appearance. A darker green than his brothers. Sunken eyes with irises colored to rival the sunset. The ridges of his shell and the upper portion of his scratched and chipped plastron. There was nothing directly wrong with his appearance; it was virtually normal, in a mutated-turtle sort of way. Yet he couldn't find it in himself to appreciate it. Aside from the sheer mass and size of his muscles, there was little to be proud of.
He hated the fact that there was a mirror in the lair at all; he hated the fact that he bothered to look into it. He acknowledged the fact that a mirror in a bathroom was a considerably normal thing, but it bothered him to know he could never look into it without seeing something so horribly abnormal.
He didn't mind that he wasn't human. Granted he envied their freedom to walk in the sunlight and have a social life without his form of anxiety, he wouldn't begrudge what they couldn't help. He wouldn't wrongfully fault them if he could help it. While it was impossible for him not to wonder what it would be like if he were human, it was never a subject to dwell on for long, and it didn't leave a bitter taste in his mouth afterwards. What troubled him was that despite him having three very similar companions, of the four of them, he was the most monstrous. He was bulkier, more intimidating and emotionally raw.
In many ways, he was a monster among monsters, a fact that he didn't bother to hide. There was no point.
The term 'alienated' comes to mind, but the thought is fleeting.
He glared at the mirror, as if it had assaulted him in some way, as if it had been the reason for his vexation and grievance.
His reflection baiting him, he lifted his head in a show of defiance; whether it was defiance against himself or circumstance, he couldn't be certain. He was just barely able to restrain himself from the volatile urge that had set in; though he felt the fierce desire, he didn't slam either fist into the awaiting mirror. Instead, he turned to the showers to rid himself of filth.
-His shower wasn't a long one. Being raised in a sewer, there was only so much respect one could have for cleanliness, but he did make sure to use soap, and he was only decidedly finished when he was free from the physical evidence of the shame he carried.
Because he was ashamed and embarrassed at the consequence of Mikey's prank.
Even if it wasn't his fault, he felt foolish for what had happened -for waking up to that.
Getting out of the shower and grabbing a towel to dry off, he tried to focus on the events of the past couple days, to understand and accept everything as it was. To simply get over the martyrdom of it all.
He'd lost a sparring match against Mikey. He'd been chided by Leo. He'd run off, had a brawl with the Foot, of which he was the victor. Then there was the strange and questionable encounter with the Shredder. The trip home. The interaction he had with Splinter that left him feeling more hurt than angry. His little excursion with his punching bag. And finally, his nightmare.
The nightmare seemed important, somehow; it had terrified him to a nearly traumatizing extent. But now, he could only remember it in flashes. Blurry, vague, muted flashes that were gradually losing meaning. His mind recalled something wet. He recalled sinking. He remembered yelling for help, seeing his brothers and father and knowing that they wouldn't bother to help. And... that's where his memory runs dead. Low battery. Empty.
He took a deep breath and pulled on his gear. The pads and belt came on easy; he wrapped his hands and wrists, and his mask was tied on last.
He rested his hands at the hilts of each sai to ensure the comfort of their presence before exiting the bathroom.
Out of habit, if nothing else, he headed for the kitchen. Entering the kitchen was a lot like entering a movie reel. Each scene almost appeared to be spliced with the one next to it and could be singled out accordingly.
Splinter, with his solemn gaze and a cup of tea between his small clawed hands, his tail restless.
Leonardo, shoulders tense and eyes trained on his activities as he sat at the table and polished his swords.
Donatello, standing beside the coffee maker, familiar broken mug caught between his hands and mouth as he took a drink.
And Michelangelo, a nervous ball of energy, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, fingers fidgeting.
It was quiet, much quieter than most of their mornings.
With a decisive nod, Raphael concluded that he didn't mind the odd silence; he had nothing to say to anyone anyways. He went over to the cupboards and pulled out a bowl and a box of cereal. He set the bowl down on a counter and opened the box, pouring the cereal into the bowl until it filled and began to steeple. The box was nearly empty by then, so Raphael opted to finish it off. He shook it to encourage the last of its contents to join his meal- but, cereal wasn't the only thing that came tumbling from that box.
A small blue rubber roach clamored from the cardboard casing and fell atop the pile of sugary grain. Seeing the insect, regardless of how fake it was, caused his breath to hitch, nerves frayed.
His heart pounded, vision blurred.
Suddenly, hunger was the last thing on his mind. His gaze turned to Mikey and his vision tunneled. He stared directly at his orange-banded brother, but all he saw was red.
...
[Another one down. Next one coming soon.]