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: This chapter could be better, but I was glad to finally get to it! I have a few choice elements in this that I'm hyped about... Ahem, Raph's 'gifted-disguise' and Shredder's new nickname.

Questions or comments, submit via review or PM. Thank you.

...

CH 13

The rest of the day had been a blur of little more than ignorance. Night fell and, despite the haze that clouded his memory, Raph was drawn to the small familiar corner shop.

It felt important, for him to be there. Some sort of internal navigation system had beckoned him. It was an itch in his mind that he couldn't scratch and, in effort to make the nagging sensation go away, he'd found himself there, sidled comfortably within the shadows; the city alive around him.

He loved that city noise, in truth, though he'd just as soon complain about it. The angry drivers and their cars and horns. The traffic report alone could be considered its own form of music. His heart thrummed with the action of hurried citizens and frenzied motion. However, as much as he enjoyed the sounds of people bustling from place to place with their self-important egocentric posteriors, cell phones acting as lifelines as they went about their single-minded agendas, none of that was what held his ever-shifting focus.

He was loathe to admit that he still felt a slight buzz from indulging that thermos he'd been given by dear ol' Hobo-Joe. That thermos, now emptied, rested along his side held by a strap that crooked over his shoulder. But that wasn't the only thing Raphael had been gifted in his time with the rather plump and blimp-like human. A large vest lined with reflective tape was now wrapped around his shell and fastened over his plastron; a faded hardhat rested over his green dome of a head- the interior lining ripped out to allow a more comfortable fitting.

He must've made quite a sight; in fact, he'd laughed about it earlier in his time with Hobo-Joe - somewhere between the shared vodka, the slew of turtle-puns that he wasn't quite proud of, and the small series of confessions that came out when the alcohol had loosened his tongue. Though the taste was anything but pleasant -it wasn't straight vodka; it had been mixed with some kind of juice that was neither orange nor red and therefore had been discarded as something Raphael didn't care to name in the juice-category - he found appreciation in the warmth that spread through his abdomen. He'd particularly enjoyed the carefree and borderline lazy feeling that had settled over him.

During his brief time with the stout man and that magic thermos, Raphael decided that he understood why people drank themselves into a stupor. It eased him away from his problems and, while it wasn't a cure by any means, it was certainly an escape. Usually, he'd go fist-first into a custom therapy session when he was addled, but that could only work so well and accompanied the risk of him taking things too far.

Aside from the impairment of senses and the sudden lack of motivation, Raphael really couldn't fault the act of drinking. Not that he intended to do it again. But the thought was there...

Suddenly, it seemed, that the winos in the alleyway were onto something. They smelled of piss and trash and were plastered more often than not to the point of garnishing pity, but if they needed an escape, Raphael wouldn't hold it against them.

He could no more look at them with disgust than he could himself when it came to his anger. Because, even if there was no fight to be had, anger was his safety net: his fallback spot. His own personal default setting and comfort zone.

He regarded his time with Hobo-Joe for a moment longer before adjusting the hardhat on his head. He'd never say it aloud, but he'd always wanted to wear one, preferably a red one. Then again, he also wanted to wear a cape at least once, but he had to draw the line somewhere.

'A cape is more up Mikey's alley,' he thought to himself, looking over the stoney exterior of the corner shop.

It wasn't anything special. It was just one of those rundown places that passed from owner to owner with slight renovations between debuts. One day it'd be an ice cream parlor and a month later, it might be a pawn shop. Two months later, a little repair shop for clocks, or an art studio... It just wasn't special. The location was far from ideal to draw in customers, and the foundation was crumbling.

The roof still held though, and that was his destination. From his safe little patch of darkness, he caught onto the metal rungs of a fire escape; he clamored noisily up, clumsy in his effort to get to the roof, and he loudly 'shushed' himself and the fire escape after every few steps he took.

There was something about that rooftop, something important.

A rendezvous point.

'Ron-day-voo' his mind supplied.

Finally finding purchase atop the roof, he dropped to a kneel, his head spinning, the world turning on its side and then righting itself again too quickly, making him feel queasy. For a moment, those sandwiches -the ones he'd eaten with Hobo-Joe - almost did the refractory version of a reappearing act. His throat burned with pending bile but the sensation receded. He vaguely noted that his tongue felt rough and dry against the roof of his mouth.

He pulled the strap of the thermos off his shoulder and set the item aside; it was getting uncomfortable. The removal of the hardhat followed but the vest remained.

Finding his stomach calm once more, he looked around; the roof was empty, save for a book that rested dead-center on the platform. It could have been any old book left by anyone, but it looked too perfectly aligned with the skyline beyond to have been put there by a force less than purposeful. Too tired -unmotivated- to get up for the moment but longing to investigate all the same, Raph crawled on his hands and knees, stopping once he reached the book.

It was simple and black, inexpensive but of fair quality, with bright gold lettering, a fancy font that beamed brightly: In Loving Memory of: DANNY PENNINGTON.

Raph stared at the words as his vision drew in and out of focus. It took longer than he'd like to admit for those words to register in his brain, and something clicked, sending a painful jolt through his head as a memory re-weaved itself back in place.

'The Foot soldier. A kid named Danny Pennington... My sai, right through his throat like a spoon through a glob of jello.'

If he'd been hungry, he lost his appetite. He felt a whole new kind of sickness setting in, and a terrible bout of self-loathing began to creep over him. Suddenly stricken with an intense feeling of vulnerability, he opted to seek comfort in a familiar tool; sitting up and quickly divesting -tossing the vest over to the makeshift pile of thermos and hardhat- he reached towards his belt for his sai, only to find that his weapons were gone, still, left behind a small eternity ago...

He minutely wondered where they were, if he'd ever see them again. If he'd get a new set, or if he'd find another weapon. He couldn't imagine spending the rest of his life unarmed. His hands curled, as if holding an imaginary sai in each one, and he imagined the feel of the leather-bound hilts, the whisper of cold steel brushing against his fingers as he adjusted his grip or gave them a spin.

The turtle was startled from his thoughts when a long thin shadow stretched over the roof and mingled with his own rather compressed one. He stared at the new shadow for several seconds, his brain unable to process what he was seeing and why it was important, but he steeled his focus to the best of his ability. His gaze traveled along the shadow and stopped upon seeing its caster.

A man, quite human. Boots, simple evening wear, not too casual or out of place, and a face that Raphael never truly wanted to know but would now never forget. A haunting image scratched into the backs of his eyelids... The face of a very real Boogeyman.

"Shredda," Raphael breathed, eyes narrowing. He once again moved to grip his sais but only came up empty in his endeavor. He suddenly missed them more than air; he'd hold his breath forever if he could grip them and the security they could offer. He felt foolish without them.

The man, Shredder, was completely devoid of armor tonight. Not a single blade or plate of steel upon his visible person. Even so, he appeared just as imposing and malicious, menacing. "I'm pleased to see you here, Raphael."

Raphael opened his mouth to retort, then thought better of it before asking loudly: "Where's yer armor?"

The too-human foe waved a hand in dismissal. "Come now, Raphael. Do you mean to tell me that you're worried over something so trivial? Or does it bother you, to see me so bare? So unarmed and unprotected?"

"Maybe I just miss seein' somethin' over yer face. Not exactly used ta seein' that mug, now am I?" Raph spat, suddenly flooded with a whole new brand of frustration, though the feeling was a wavering one.

Ignoring the initial spurn, Shredder spoke in turn. "It is worth noting, Raphael, that you seem to be at a loss when you can neither properly latch onto anger nor sling your sarcasm. It appears that you have no wit to direct at me as a person, and you focus your barbs and distress on my disembodied armor rather than myself. In showing myself as a separate entity, I have taken away your acerbic ammunition."

"Ah, shut yer trap. I don't need ta hear yer shit right now." Raph bit, but the intended malice wasn't present in his tone.

Shredder took notice, a spark of glee behind his eyes as he looked down at the still-kneeling turtle. "Well then, what do you need?" He quipped. "In a world that rejects you, where do you belong? Your family resents you. You can't control yourself. You're looking for an escape. Is that why you reek of alcohol? Tell me..." He scrunched up his nose and repeated, as if he needed to reaffirm the word himself. "Alcohol..."

The words and implication making him feel trapped, Raphael got to his feet, his mind jumping through hoops of infinite clarity as he assessed the situation, his position, and his options. Falling back on instinct, he slipped into a defensive stance that could easily be maneuvered into something either offensive or more flighty. As he himself seemed to register that, he spread his feet and balled his hands into fists.

This new position virtually took away his 'flight' option.

Regardless of circumstance, he'd always hated running; ironically, when it came to his family, that's all he seemed to do.

"I ain't runnin' no more," he said to himself aloud, narrowing his eyes as he allowed the edges of his vision to blur and focused on the throb in his head and the pulse of his chest.

Shredder made no move to attack, defend, or retaliate in any way. Instead, he spoke, voice unnervingly calm. "Now, now, Raphael, you exercised the basics of honor and pride, and I will do the same. Neither of us will strike an opponent who can't or won't fight." His words, a repetition of Raph's own, were mocking, condescending. "Come, let us call a truce for now. In Danny's honor. Do we have a deal? Let's put aside our animosity... to mourn the life you stole..."

Both his stance and resolve faltering, Raph crushed a hand to his face and growled "Yer fuckin' with my head, y'know that? Yer doin' it on purpose, ain't ya?"

"No, Raphael, I'm simply keeping you grounded. Without me, you would get lost... up here." He tapped a long spindly finger to his temple, a smirk etching itself across his features as if he'd just revealed the punch line to a private joke. "Your aggression isn't your problem, Raphael, you-"

"Y'know, I'm gettin' mighty sick and tired of hearin' my name from yer mouth."

"Would you rather I call you 'Freak' and 'Monster?' What about 'Murderer?' Because I could. And I would be using terms that are nothing shy of accurate. However, I am courteously offering a truce: a truce that could very well extend to your brothers. Tell me, Raphael, would you accept... if it meant sparing your family further trouble with the Foot and myself?" His expression was one of curiosity and nothing more. Gone was all cocky demeanor. Gone was the smirk and scathing tone of voice.

"You ain't the kinda guy who would call a truce because one Foot died," Raph said, his words thoughtful. "Now, what could ya possibly want?"

Shredder raised an arm high, as if to signal someone or something.

Raphael grew wary.

Stealthy, silent, ninja-like, nearly two dozen black-clad Foot poured onto the roof and took up residence behind the lead villain. With the city lights serving as a backdrop, it looked every bit like the cover of a comic book.

"Fuckin' ambush? A trap? That what dis is?" Raph snarled, toes curling against the grain of brick beneath his feet.

Shredder said nothing. His ninja slowly, one by one, began to unmask themselves before the turtle. Only when each one had a face and identity of their own did he allow himself to speak. "Like young Danny, each member of the Foot is a person. Their families -if they have family at all- reject them, misunderstand them, use and scold them... until they are chased away onto the streets. Having nowhere to go, they come to me. As an alternative to being alone and dejected, I offer them union and goals."

"It's like a damn cult, and you know it," Raph butted in, his tone sour.

But the human disregarded his words and continued as if the mutant hadn't spoken at all. "Each one has a name, a face, and a life. They want little more than something to latch onto. Someone to look up to, to rely on. They want a purpose that exceeds what the rest of the world expects from them. I'm sure you can understand, Raphael."

And Raphael said nothing, his mouth drawn into a taut line. Because he could relate, but he'd never confess. In his mind, he conjured every fight he had with his family. Every time he messed up and dug them further into the trenches. Every lecture and look of disappointment... He knew they saw him as the muscle, the hothead, and little else... but it wasn't fair. Inside, he was burning with passion and the desire to help; he just wasn't good at it. He didn't have the proper outlets... No matter what he tried, it was either too much or too little. Never right. Never good enough. Never, ever enough to simply earn the good graces of those he cared for and secretly sought to impress.

Clearing his throat and stealing Raph from his embittered thoughts once more, Shredder gave a nod of his head to signal an expectant ninja.

In that moment, said ninja approached Raphael with a bundle of cloth in his hands. A few feet away, the soldier knelt before the turtle and presented the bundle. When Raph made no move to take the proffered item, the Foot placed it on the ground and proceeded to unwrap the cloth and reveal the contents.

Inside were two sharp, freshly polished tri-bladed weapons.

Raphael's breath hitched as he stared at the familiar set of sais.

"For you, Raphael," Shredder said. "They are yours, after all. It is a favor that does not need returned. However, I will ask you tonight, to look into the faces of each young man here, and tell me what you see..."

Cautiously reaching down and grasping the weapons, the mask-less turtle turned them over in his hands, giving a thorough inspection and watching the evening lights glint from the shiny metal. His eyes then traveled from the weapons to his unarmored foe, and then to the group of ninja, one by one. His eyes passed over their faces, taking in their features and expressions... trying to ignore the Foot insignia that rested somewhere on their clothing where familiar bandanas were sashed and tied around their necks or biceps.

After a bit of thought, the answer came plainly enough. "They're just kids," Raph said, voice low and conflicted. Seeing that not a single enemy on that roof was armed and yet he held his sais, he felt wrong and out of place. He slipped them into his belt and scuffed his foot before he reaffirmed his position, standing to full height and feigning bravado. "So, now what, Soupy?" he asked awkwardly.

"Soupy?" Shredder asked, a strange lilt to his voice.

Raph shrugged. "I was gonna call ya Tin-Can, but ya ain't got yer armor. So, I went with somethin' inside the tin can, and I called ya Soupy."

"You could just as well continue to call me Shredder. Or, my name is Oroku Saki."

"Nope, I gotta say, I kinda like callin' ya Soupy. That one's gonna stick fer a while."

Shredder - Oroku Saki - Soupy, raised a hand and pinched the bridge of his nose for a moment before taking a breath and expelling it along with his own tension. Once decidedly calm, he found his voice and refocused the conversation. "The point I am trying to acclimate is, when these children have nowhere to run, they know they are not alone."

"Because they have a pompous windbag like you fer a master?" Raph chapped.

But Soupy was quick with a backlash of words, both defensive and offensive. "No, because they have each other. And, Raphael, I mean to offer you a truce. From this day onward, no one else has to die by your hands. Just as your blades have been wiped clean, so shall be your slate of morale. I will allow you to deliberate, but first... remove your gear. You are in no danger and need not protect yourself. This is, after all, a memorial service. Do not disgrace young Pennington."

Frowning and looking around once more, the turtle realized that the human foe he'd dubbed 'Soupy' was correct. No one else was armed or armored. Glancing down at that book that had seemed so important before, he felt out of place, as if he'd intruded upon something sacred. Uncertain, he began to remove his elbow pads first...

His actions were automatic, his thoughts a million miles away; his heart felt like it was beating too slow. 'Can it really be that simple? Is the price of a life worth so little that the slate can be wiped clean, just like that? What of my brothers? I have ta go home eventually, don't I? Will they... hate me? I wouldn't blame 'em if they did.'

Dropping both elbow pads and following them up with his knee pads, the belt was the last to go. He felt odd, standing there so bare before an armor-less villain who refrained from fighting altogether. Even more strange was the apparent lack of distrust. Crossing his arms, Raphael tried to draw his mind back into focus.

It seemed as if a makeshift memorial service was underway. A young Foot had taken the black book in hand and begun to read through a few pre-written speeches about the late ninja's life.

After that, several Foot lined up, all close in age and degree of expression. One by one, they took turns telling short stories and anecdotes, revealing high-spirited times and pleasant memories that they all shared while in and out of their shadow-esque attire.

All in all, it was mostly strange for Raphael. He'd never attended a memorial service of any kind, and while this was low-key and unprofessionally put together by Danny's friends, it still managed to tug at his heartstrings.

"He was so proud when he got his bandana with the Foot insignia. We all started callin' him BanDanny," a younger Foot said. "Okay, so I called him that one time, and he stole my lunch money. He gave it back though..." There were a few chuckles and murmurs from other members of the Foot clan.

"He helped me with my algebra homework," someone acknowledged. "Got me my first C!"

"He taught me to stand up to my dad. Now, dad don't hit me anymore."

A few more accounts, then... "Danny was like a brother to me... All the Foot are, actually..."

While possibly a hundred things had been said, all in good grace and varying degrees of sincerity towards the fallen ninja, it was that last line that choked Raph up a little, though he tried to cover it with a feigned cough.

He'd never thought, though he should have at least considered, that the group of masked delinquents might be something more than pending criminals. Now that the thought had surfaced, he had no choice but to dwell on it.

They considered themselves brothers, and they'd lost one of their own. If he understood correctly, their biological family ties were frayed at best, and they relied on support from each other and guidance from a Master. That master just happened to be ol' Soupy himself and, while the man's morals and methods were decidedly corrupt, Raphael could understand why the teens would listen. After all, the man was a voice of reason with power and authority backed by public support and a few well-placed words.

For a moment, he could almost see himself in their shoes. Chased away by a family that could never understand. Alone and seeking guidance, and finding purpose among masked strangers... It was harlequin bullshit if he ever heard it, but it made sense enough.

...

The memorial service -if that's what it was- concluded, and Shredder handed Raphael a notebook with a pen tucked into the spiral. Seeing the turtle's look of confusion, he explained: "In that notebook is the name and contact information of several young members of the Foot, many of which were on this rooftop tonight. I have made a decision to help you make up for taking Pennington's life. Success will be your own personal baptism."

Raph blinked slowly, uncomprehending.

Shredder's expression turned to a one of seemingly infinite patience. "You took a life. You broke apart their team, Raphael. Accident or not, you still did it. Now, I leave it up to you to fix it. Until further notice, I leave every Foot in that notebook under your care and order. Should you refuse, they will be abandoned and without direction; and if they succumb to gun-toting street violence, it will be on your conscience."

Raph's eyes bulged slightly, mouth falling open, jaw unhinged. He held the notebook in his hands and it suddenly felt much heavier. "I don't understand," he said bluntly. "If yer tryin' ta tell me somethin', I ain't gettin' it."

The human turned away and easily slid into the shadows, but his eyes still managed to catch a haunting gleam before he completely vanished. Ultimately, it was his disembodied voice that spoke to Raphael one last time. "Those Foot are yours. Help them. Use them. Their fate is in your hands. Report to me if there is any trouble." And with that, he was gone. Shredder. Oroku Saki. Soupy- whoever the fuck he was.

And Raphael just stood there stupidly, holding a book and staring at it like it was going to either explode or release some kind of neuro-toxin. The turn of events didn't make sense to him. All he'd wanted was to mourn Danny's death, apologize to the boy's father, and then seek forgiveness. Now, everything seemed upside down. His greatest enemy had offered a truce and then entrusted him with the lives of multiple young and impressionable men.

He considered leaving the notebook and fleeing, but after swallowing a rather thick lump in his throat and catching a glimpse of a moving shadow, neither fleeing nor failure seemed like much of an option. He thought of all those young faces, and while it was the last thing he wanted, part of him already knew what he had to do.

The moving shadow came closer.

It wasn't a Foot.

Forest green skin glimmered in dim lighting, and on that skin, a familiar blue cloth with waving bandana tails.

Leo.

"Come home, Raph," he said simply, stepping further into view.

Raphael's breath hitched; his heart thumped wildly against his plastron. He gripped the notebook tightly in his hand and bit back the reply that threatened to tumble forth. He had too much to think about; he couldn't say the wrong thing too soon, so he set his jaw and said nothing. Still holding that notebook, keeping a death-grip on it, he disregarded Leo and turned to reclaim his gear, belt and sais first. He ignored the hardhat, vest, and thermos he'd obtained from his construction-site friend; it just wasn't important anymore.

His perspective and priorities all seemed to have found a new order of hierarchy.

Four more figures appeared alongside Leo, and Raph didn't need to look to know who they were.

April and Casey, Don and Mikey. Lined up with Leo and expecting to take a distraught and mask-less turtle home to the sewers.

Fully geared and notebook in hand, Raph turned to regard them all directly. "Leonardo," he said, voice surprisingly calm. It felt strange, the full name, but it also felt right. In that single moment, he felt more grown up and mature than he ever had before. Taking it as a positive sign, he continued to address everyone in the same manner. "Donatello." His breath drew in a little deeper as he regarded his last sibling, wearing orange and looking completely lost and almost fragile. "Michelangelo." And finally, his human friends- if they still were his friends. "April... Casey..." His resolve began to crumble, but he held onto it the best he could; he couldn't add last names to their title, nor could he bring himself to alter the names in any way.

He was glad not to feel angry or empty, but whatever it was that he felt, it was not pleasant or welcome. In a way, he supposed it was a sense of duty, one that Leo himself probably shouldered every single day, and the burden was harsh.

"Raph, we're bringing you home," Leo said, voice firm.

"It's... not home without ya, bro," Mikey whispered, his body trembling slightly. "I'm sorry... for the pranks and stuff."

Don opened his mouth next, but what he would have said, no one would ever know. Because Raph chose that time to speak up, his words final.

"I ain't goin' home. Can't. Not yet." A quick glance at the notebook, and he leapt from his position on the roof and fell into the concealing darkness below.

[Another one down. More to come.]