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: I had full intent on avoiding the whole 'astral plane' ordeal, but it somehow worked its way into the story, and I am not ashamed because I think it works for the moment. Also, to stave off any pending confusion, I just want to state that this chapter is in three parts and goes full-circle.

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

...

CH 20

[The Lair, Leo and Splinter]

Despite the late hour, Leo made a beeline for his sensei, to report how their outing had gone; he held a pained expression as he once again spoke to his sensei about failure.

"Worry not, my son. That Raphael is alive is good news enough, though his spirit is weak. That bright and passionate flame that once flickered within him is dying. We will get him back, and he will be made whole. Our family... will be whole again." He gave a firm nod and his whiskers twitched.

Leo smiled and bowed to show his respect and appreciation. "Thank you, sensei. You're right. We'll get Raphael back. I suppose I just needed to hear-"

"Do not mistake my words, my son, for a well of optimism. I say this only to encourage. And because I know we will prevail. In Raphael's absence, I have done much soul-searching. I fear that I have been neither the father nor the sensei that Raphael needed. We are all to blame, but do not allow this burden to be heavy on you. Our shoulders carry enough weight. In the end, we must understand that Raphael has run off on his own. But he will come back."

Leo drew in a breath and held it for a moment before speaking with wounded honesty: "But, sensei, you didn't see him tonight. You didn't hear the way he talked, or see the way he ran. And... my jaw," he placed a hand over his lower mandible. It was unnaturally discolored, sore -but according to Don, it was neither broken nor dislocated. The structure of their jaw was sturdy and the damage was minimal, though the bruising ran deep.

Splinter's mouth quirked into a smile as he considered his spirited son's worry; his furry brows arched. "I know Raphael will return... when he is ready... simply because he ran away."

"Master Splinter, I'm afraid I don't understand."

"Your brother is hurt. His wounds are not of the visible sort; they run much deeper. He could have fought harder, but instead... he fled. As he always has when he wishes to avoid harming his loved ones. And like always, he will come back as long as he knows there is a home to come back to. Until then, we keep faith."

Leonardo thought the words over, rolling them around in his head for a moment before his own expression brightened. "Maybe you're right, sensei. I suppose for now, I should exercise some damage control with the others."

"Correct, Leonardo. As leader, you must pull everyone together and not allow the bond to continue its fray. As a family, we are too vulnerable to risk the added stress, for even the strongest ties can be severed by neglect... But first, we meditate."

"Hai, sensei." And Leo joined his master in the familiar position, closing his eyes and willing away his worries, allowing his mind to find solace while his body relaxed. Once lost in his own trance of meditation, time was something unmanageable. Seconds were just as long as hours, and minutes just the same as days. There was no rooted clock in the expanse where the mind met the astral plane. It was simply a void of existence that even the most spiritual beings rarely found themselves at.

And yet, for perhaps the first time in his life -without the direct aid and guidance of his master, the blue-banded turtle found himself slipping into the cosmic veil of existence where Exile connected with Eternity. It was more bright and vivid -lively- than he could have imagined. The planetary alignments in his view, three suns bearing down, the ground composed of some form of sediment he'd never before encountered... The way the sky was crisscrossed with moving colors of purples and blues... it was fantastic. There was a sense of peace and serenity he'd only ever feigned, and for just a moment, it was tangible in its beauty.

That moment of peace, however, didn't last long, as his spirit-self caught sight of something darkening in the sky, as if a storm was closing in. Curious, and a little disheartened that he couldn't continue to appreciate his first solo trip to the astral plane, Leo found himself running towards the storm.

Dark clouds -ranging in colors from a harsh violet to a soulless black- loomed overhead, thunder clapping and lightning striking down at unpredictable intervals.

Even in his spiritual form, everything about the raging storm urged him to turn away and run, but upon closer inspection, he caught a glimpse of a startlingly familiar shade of green...

The moment he registered the color alone, his mind was made up and he drew closer. He opened his mouth in preparation to shout his brother's name, but his voice caught in his throat as he fully took in the appearance of the other spiritual being.

Raphael's spirit- as Leo could only assume this was- appeared young, at least a good few years younger than his actual age. He held no visible scarring as he tightly held a pen in his grasp and proceeded to -almost mindlessly- write his own name over and over again on a single sheet of paper that was already more than filled; at that point, he was just re-tracing the letters, as if he was afraid he'd forget them.

More haunting than the frantic and clumsy writing was the haunted look in those eyes that once put shame to the morning sun.

"Raph," Leo finally managed to call out, nothing but concern in his tone.

Raphael's spirit appeared startled at hearing Leo's voice, and that temporary fear was easily replaced by a blaze of anger as passion was suddenly ignited in those eyes.

The 'storm' above became more fierce, though the thunder and lightning stopped; clouds swirled into a vortex of sorts, and from their infinite depths came a rain of loose sheets of paper, all fluttering and flapping as they spiraled down, almost funneling around Raphael. The papers were fast and numerous, and like paper-mache they began to take form and harden, forming a circular wall around Raphael.

Raphael's spirit made a move to escape the quickly-building wall, but too-soon he was closed in. Imprisoned. Once he was fully encased in a large paper dome, the storm stopped. The clouds began to clear away. And Leo's spiritual-self was left to stand there with a confused and aching heart, but more than that was a sudden sense of understanding as he found himself thrown from the spirit realm to the clutches of reality.

In his true physical form, Leonardo's eyes snapped open and he gasped, loud and startled, taking in heaps of breath that he didn't bother to control.

"Calm yourself, my son," Splinter said to him.

"But, sensei..." Leo paused, thinking carefully before amending. "Father, I think... I... Raphael's in danger."

Splinter's tail lashed out at the very idea. "What did you see, my son?"

Leo frowned, his eye ridges knitting together to show his distress as he worked through what had transpired. "In the spirit-world, he was younger-"

"Ah, a show of innocence," Splinter explained. "Continue."

"But there was a storm. A bad one."

"Raphael's emotions, of course," Splinter said easily.

"And Raphael, he... was writing."

"Your brother always did write when he was upset. I was surprised, truly, the first time he came and asked for a notebook. But I was even more surprised when -less than a week later- he asked for two more. He was always breaking pencils, snapping them with his strength. Until I introduced him to pens..."

Leo shook his head frantically. He had to explain what he saw; there was no time to take a trip down memory lane. "Master Splinter, Raphael was writing his own name over and over, and he looked... lost. His eyes looked all wrong."

The rat took a moment to consider before coming to a conclusion and announcing it. "I suppose this could be a war of identity for Raphael. He appeared innocent because... despite everything... at heart, he very much is still pure. He looked lost because, in many ways, he is. As for him writing his name, I suppose it could be a visual representation of him trying to hold onto who he is, in essence. If he is in danger of losing himself, then...-"

"But that's not all, sensei," the turtle cut in sharply, regretful for interrupting but not sorry enough to stop. "I think I can bring him back."

"How do you mean, my son?"

"Sensei, on the astral plane, when I called Raph's name, his eyes changed. I mean, he looked angry, but he also looked alive. That has to mean something, sensei. That has to mean that I can bring him back."

Splinter regarded what his eldest son was saying before giving a nod. "That is very possible, Leonardo. We must put faith in this idea, but you must not allow it to burden you so heavily. Raphael is not in his fight alone, and neither are you. Part of being family, is being a crutch to one another. Do not hesitate to lean when you become weary."

Leo nodded, but in truth, he only half-registered what he'd been told. His mind was too busy replaying the trip to the astral plane and focusing on the idea of saving his brother from any sort of misery.

Because they were family.

And that's what family did.

Then, against his better judgment, Leo uttered one last word of importance to his sensei. "Father, there's one more thing..." he hesitated, but pressed on after a moment. "Right before I came back from the spirit-world, one more thing happened."

"What was that, my son?"

"The storm changed. Raphael tried to get away, but he was trapped, sensei."

Hearing this, Splinter's ears flatted against his head and a worried expression took residence on his face. There was reluctance in his demeanor before he found his own tired voice. "For as long as Raphael is alive, there is hope. We must hold onto that."

...

[Don and Mikey]

Mike and Don had both come home to the lair with the intent to take up residence in Raphael's room. Strangely enough, it was almost an unspoken agreement, that they occupy the room one at a time. Otherwise, it seemed crowded, suffocating. And yet, tonight was destined to be an exception.

It was almost a race to get there. Both turtles had started off in that direction and, upon noting that the other was going as well, they picked up speed until both were at an awkwardly brisk walk -not quite running.

As if arriving first assured their right to be there.

It had been neck-and-neck, but Michelangelo was first with Don only two broad steps behind. The orange-banded ninja was hesitant but, instead of claiming his prize as the victor, he pulled the door open and gestured for his older brother to enter.

With a mildly surprised look, Don accepted the invitation and stepped in. Mikey followed and shut the door behind them. Entombing them with the ghost of their brother's memory and essence.

The purple-clad turtle took a breath and looked around. Everything in the room was bittersweet with remembrance of their hotheaded brother. After he'd scanned the room entirely, he shuffled over to the hammock, grabbed the stuffed turtle and got comfortable in its place. Then, resting in the hammock, he lightly traced his fingers over the soft texture of the toy before allowing his gaze to seek and find Michelangelo.

Mikey wasn't at all happy with Don's location, but he supposed it couldn't be helped, given their predicament and current methods of coping. He seated himself on the floor and grabbed a notebook.

"What's that?" Don asked, curiosity winning him over.

Mikey smiled softly, his eyes almost twinkling with sincerity. "Raph had... little diaries."

"You mean Journals, right?" Don asked, propping himself up to get a better look at his youngest sibling.

The orange-clad turtle shrugged. "Same thing. There's stuff in these that you'd never guess."

"Should you be reading them? If it's personal..."

Michelangelo huffed, his mood suddenly fluctuating. "He wants us to read 'em. Here, let me show you..." He paused, digging through the stack of notebooks and pulling out a specific one that had tribal doodles randomly inked over most of the cover. He flipped open the cover and began to read aloud.

One of them days again. Tired. Didn't sleep. Worn out. Thought about joinin' the family but... Splinta's with Leo doin' the meditatin' thing. Don's in the lab, possibly comin' up with an effective method to kill roaches- probably not, but I can hope. And Mikey, shit- Mikey. Fuckin' Mike. Always with the jokes... He might be an annoying pain in the ass, but I wouldn't trade the twerp fer nothin'. I ain't ever gonna tell 'em dis, but he is funny sometimes. Mostly when I'm not the victim of his pranks.

Kinda lonely sometimes. Like, I got this family; then there's April and Case, but they all see me as this single... thing. They put clear labels on me. I know I ain't the best of the batch, but it ain't fair ta put labels on me. To add the expectations. To push me into this cookie-cutter life.

It ain't right.

I could be more, y'know. I could. Ya think my anger is the problem, but how many times has it saved us in battle? Nah, I think the problem is that I'm just not what you guys want outta me. As a brother or a teammate.

I could be more. Maybe not the leader, not like Mr Perfect. Not the brain, my genius bro. Not the heart- that's you, knucklehead; we all need ya- But I really could do more than hit and beat on stuff; you just don't give me the chance.

Sometimes... I wish you guys could read these stupid Journal-thingies. Then, I could tell ya everythin' that I don't get ta say. Because, I can't say 'em. Even if I found the right words, they wouldn't sound right. Ya guys wouldn't hear what I meant. If Leo said 'em, you'd know. If Don or Mike said 'em, you'd understand and believe. But if I said 'em, they'd mean somethin' completely different.

It's not fair. But hey, who said life was fair? We're stuck...
And I'm chokin' on my selfish pride while you guys get as close to the limelight as ya can.
But I ain't gonna blame ya. No matter what I say, don't ever fuckin' accept the blame. Yer better than that.
Just wish I could say the same 'bout myself.

Finishing up, Mikey set the Journal aside and looked at Don. He cleared his throat before addressing his older brother. "Some of these are really old, Donnie. From back when we were kids and he couldn't even spell half of what he was writing. Reading through the notebooks, you can see him growing up, y'know?" He offered a strained smile. "His words get better, but his penmanship doesn't improve too much." He paused, expression falling. "His thoughts get darker though... Even around us, he doesn't feel like he fits in. Feels like he has to constantly prove himself. Like he's not good enough. I mean, I knew he had insecurities because he was so bad at hiding them, but... I didn't think he was so..."

"Alienated and sub-virtually adrift? Emotionally impoverished?" Don supplied, surprised by how choked up his voice was with the few words he'd given.

"Yeah," Mikey whispered. After that, silence filled the room. The air grew stale. In time, Mike spoke again. "Hey, Don? Where do you think Raph is? I mean, he has to be staying somewhere, right?"

Don pulled the stuffed turtle closer and shifted to a more comfortable position so that he rested on his carapace; his eyes, half-lidded, were trained upward. He took several breaths to consider the question directed at him, but he hadn't any answer. So, when he next spoke, he voiced his own query instead. "I wonder..." he blinked at the ceiling. "Do you think this is what Raph looked at every night before bed?"

Suddenly curious, Michelangelo looked up. Setting the notebook aside, he moved closer to the hammock, leaned back and allowed his gaze to join his brother's. "I guess..." he said, but he couldn't find any significance.

Don chuckled, but the sound was hollow, devoid of mirth. "I suppose it doesn't seem like much, and maybe Raph thought the same thing. It's hard to say. All I know is, when we get him back -because we will- I don't want him to ever think like that again. I don't want him to sulk in here and think he's an outcast among us. I don't want him to feel stuck, like he's expected to fill a role and unable to be anything else."

Taking in the words, Mikey reclaimed his prior position on the floor. He reached for another notebook. "So, uh, should we read on, bro? I mean, dude, I've gotta say, there's some heavy stuff about you, Donnie, and I'm a little jealous." He cracked a small but unquestionably authentic smile. He flipped the page open and began to read...

'Sparring today. Kicked Don's shell. Totally dominated the fight. He went down with a wicked kick and a solid jab! I laughed pretty good. Mikey too. Leo- fuckin' Leo- gave a lecture about being conceited. But fuck that. The way I see it, I won fair and deserved somethin' fer it. Credit where credit is due, right? Isn't there somethin' 'bout that?
Still, I made sure to see Don later about it, to make sure he was alright- not physically. I kinda said somethin' ta him earlier. Somethin' bad. I wasn't thinkin'. Called him useless and-'

"Wait, when was that written?" Don couldn't help asking.

"Don't know, bro," Mikey responded. "These aren't exactly dated. I kinda guess the order on how well he writes. But if I had to guess, this definitely took place after he almost knocked Leo off a roof and before I bribed him into a Star Wars marathon."

Don gave a slow nod to process what he heard, and his concluding thoughts tugged at his heartstrings. "Then, this is a Journal written about the fight Raphael and I had... when he tried to apologize by making me coffee... and he broke the mug." He couldn't help the smile. Back then, the moment had been tense with Donatello's uncertainty and his red-banded brother's sorrow, but the memory itself was clouded over with the a time-fluxed fog that could only make it precious. The kind that blurred away the bad and left it all with a warm affectionate vibe. "Read on, Mikey, if you would..."

...

[Foot Central, Raphael]

They called it 'The Barracks,' or so Raphael had been told.

It was fair in size but still too small for the number of occupants. It was all wood and rough-textured brick. Cold and damp, dimly lit. The smell... of musk, sweat and wood-chips, like the part of a pet store where uncleaned hamster cages might be kept from the initial view of inspectors.

Words like hoarder and cage and unsanitary briefly entered Raphael's mind, but he couldn't quite latch onto a single thought for more than a few seconds before it fell away completely. In his mind, he scrabbled for anything concrete. Something stable. Something that would ground him and keep him from slipping away.

In the dank and murky barracks, he took in the sight of -not just misguided teens, but also children. Some appearing as young as five or six, wearing ragged old pajamas, their faces tinged with dirt; one child even still sucked his thumb. Not one person, regardless of age or physique appeared to be masked or geared. Instead, they looked at-ease, laid back.

One look at them- the way they lounged or chatted quietly or gave the occasional playful punch- and it was obvious that this was their homestead.

"Welcome to the Barracks. Home sweet home," one young ninja said, smiling too brightly and waving his hand frantically in front of Raphael.

The turtle's only response was a long slow blink of strained recognition.

The too-chipper teen continued. "C'mon, it's not so bad. I mean, for the Foot, it doesn't get any lower than this, but... it's not hard to climb in ranks as long as you're an active participant. And the higher the rank, the better the privileges. Better housing too. Better food..." The teen's stomach growled and he laughed it off.

A few others joined in, as if it had been some sort of inside joke among them.

"Really not that bad."

With effort, Raphael processed the words that had been directed at him and worked himself to articulate a verbal response. "You... got family, right?" His words were slow, quiet, uneasy.

The teen shrugged. "Sure do. Got a mom, dad, a sister, and my cousin comes over a lot. I got good grades, sorta. Except in math. I got a girlfri-"

Raphael cut in then, his voice a little louder, tone more harsh and less weak-sounding. Gruff. "Why don't ya just go home? There ain't nothin' here fer ya."

The teen frowned and sat down, pulling his knees to his chest. He looked thoughtful for a moment before shrugging. "Bad as it is here, it's better than home. No dad to yell at me. No mom to sit around and shoot up all day. No baby sis to act like it's my responsibility to take care of her-"

Raph's breath hitched then, as if the cloak that had settled so thickly over his mind had begun to tear and allow some form of understanding. Yet, what he heard, he couldn't quite fathom. Confusion shown clearly on his face as he interjected "But if she is your sister, you are responsible fer her. As family, that's how it works. Ya don't get ta choose what-"

The teen smiled sadly as he interrupted. "I never said I did the right thing. Some problems are easier to avoid than to face. Besides, I like it here. I'm never bored or lonely. No one ever asks me to do something apart from training or an occasional outing, and I still get to go to school and stuff."

Raph sighed and turned away. Whatever attempt he'd made towards being social had been dropped; there would be no unnecessarily false pretense at work on his part. His head was still spinning a little, caught in some proverbial web weaved out Shredder's most recent words. Between the possibility of a young Foot's death and his own lack of determined value, his internal strife was pitting white-hot coals of dread between his heart and stomach, and an almost physical ache had manifested.

Raphael hated the internal ache, almost as much as he hated feeling useless.

He vaguely registered the discomforting cold temperatures of the Barracks, but the fact seemed trivial at best.

Part of him wanted to go to sleep and wake up to find everything back to normal, with him doing a few morning stretches before joining Soupy to find out his daily agenda, whether he were to run through a few obstacle courses or spar with his brethren, he could be happy if only-

'No,' he caught himself mid-thought. 'Normal would be the lair. Normal would be Leo with his polished swords, perfect form, and appreciation fer tea. Normal would be Don fawning over coffee and blabberin' about some sciency-thing. Or Mikey with his pranks and jokes and messy kitchen escapades...' The corners of his mouth twitched, but no actual smile formed. Thoughts of his family -his real family- seemed to quell the inner ache, if only temporarily.

The fact that he'd turned away from them, regardless of intent, was something he still struggled to fully comprehend. As if at any moment, he might wake up and find himself home; as if everything had all been a bad dream for him to write about in his Journals.

'If I could wake up and find things different... which reality would I be hoping fer? Home with my brothers, where I can't live up to their expectations and I'm stuck underground? Or among Soupy and the Foot, where I'm still strugglin' to make things work and failing? There ain't no way ta get the best of both worlds. Both got their advantages and disadvantages, but at this point, weighin' pros and cons... I guess I'd just do whatever would most benefit my family. And that lands me here... Fuck. Here, where I'm just as useless... Shouldn't... exist.'

He knew all too well. Even when he was trying to do something right, he'd managed to fuck it all up.

Perhaps that was his role in life, beyond being the muscle and hothead. Perhaps he was also, in more blunt terms, the fuck-up.

'Now that's one hell of a label ta give myself... I'd almost prefer just bein' the muscle. At least the muscle could be potentially useful.'

Raphael sighed and mimicked the young Foot's position with his knees drawn close to his plastron. He couldn't remember the last time he'd sat like that, but he imagined he'd been a kid.

"Ya got a name?" The voice was Raphael's though he honestly didn't recall opening his mouth to voice it.

The teen in question jumped, surprised and delighted. "Yeah! But, uh, there's no point in giving it to anyone yet. Until I move up in rank, I'm expendable," he confessed, giving an awkward chuckle.

"Expendable..." Raphael echoed. 'Demoted... so low. Expendable.' Raphael closed his eyes and pressed his face to his knees as he let it sink in. 'What does expendable even mean? I'm sure Donatello could give this long-winded explanation, but... really... doesn't it just mean that it's worthless? That it can be just... thrown away?' He drew in a deep breath. 'If I'm down here with them, and they're all expendable, then so I am... but that can't be right... Even if Shredda got all whacked out and said that I shouldn't exist! I mean... by all logic -not that logic is my fuckin' domain- I shouldn't. Mutated turtles aren't natural. But, I mean-'

Raphael was stolen from his thoughts when the teen spoke again. "Don't worry about it. Being expendable really just means that you haven't shown your true potential! It's not hard to climb the ranks here, but... the Foot have been so inactive lately, there hasn't been any chance to prove ability or loyalty. So, we're all kinda in suspension. The Foot's version of Limbo." He flailed his arms in a wild gesture that had virtually no meaning, as if he simply needed to move but had nothing better to do.

Raphael didn't bother suppressing the groan, but he refused actual words. A large part of him wanted the kid to shut the hell up, but a smaller, less hostile part was glad for the company. 'I'm the reason the Foot has been inactive,' he thought sourly. 'Because of me, these kids are stuck in rank. Cold. Probably hungry. And, judgin' from the smell, some are potentially ill. Some kind of infection...' He groaned again. As far as he could tell, there was no way to win.

He'd dug himself into a trench and whether he stayed or tried to run, he'd just keep sinking deeper and deeper. The only question was, did he want to sink slower or faster?

"Y'know," the teen said after a while. "A few times, Master Shredder has put his higher-ranking operatives down here as punishment. Never for long, but long enough to motivate them to try harder. Maybe that's where you come in." He reached over to offer an awkward double-pat to the turtle's shoulder, and Raphael immediately recoiled. After that, the teen withdrew. "I tried," he said tiredly, exuberance suddenly gone as he got up and walked over to one of many bunks. It was late, and he was tired of playing the 'welcoming committee' to someone who was less than receptive.

After the teen had left him alone, Raphael allowed his thoughts to stew- well, at least the thoughts that bothered to complete themselves and be processed appropriately. Between said thoughts were an immeasurable number of blanks and empty spaces that he couldn't quite fill.

He knew something was wrong, but he couldn't quite pinpoint what that something was. It was as if some sort of spark was missing.

He really couldn't be sure of how much time had passed as he sat in silence, breathing deeply and focusing on the calm feeling it brought.

In time, his mind drifted away, and for some reason he couldn't fathom, he imagined his name over and over. Like a mantra. A chant. Something repetitive and important. Almost sacred.

He imagined his name on paper, inked in blue. Drawn in hard, crude lines.

Over and over.

RAPHAEL.

As if writing it would confirm something on a deeper scale. Somehow, there was almost something comforting in the way his name looked, the way the pen felt in his grasp as the tip scratched against that paper...

He'd traced over his name more than a hundred times, and it seemed as if his own turmoil had been all but forgotten. As long as he stared at his name and held that pen, he could stake claim to some sense of identity.

In an ironic turn of events, the phrase 'I'm Raphael, and this identifies me' seemed like something calming, grounding. He needed to affirm that much. He needed to attach himself to something that would confirm what he should already know.

Reassurance.

Something to do with virility...

His thoughts, that name on paper, it was comforting.

However, the calm that he'd so desperately grasped for completely vanished the moment he heard his shortened name "Raph," in a horrifically familiar voice.

That voice, so familiar, caused immediate stress and tension. That voice lit a fuse, and in an instant, he knew it would go off with all power and destruction packed into an atomic bomb. The moment he felt the burning heat of aspiration and sudden unadulterated enthusiasm within, he noticed a fantastic cyclone of paper that whipped about in an angry fashion before steeling itself against the ground around him, being joined by countless copies of itself. Too quickly, it formed a ring, and then a wall, and finally a dome.

Raphael had scrambled to his feet and made a dash to escape when it was at 'wall-level,' but it had been too late. Being made of paper, he'd tried to attack it. Tried to rip, gouge, and tear, but to no avail; his efforts were fruitless. For something as weak as paper, it felt stronger than steel.

Or maybe he was just that weak...

There was a moment of feeling helpless. But, the fact that someone had called his name- the fact that someone familiar was on the other side of his paper prison was motivation enough to hold himself together.

Motivation to hope.

After all, it was only paper. Paper was not dangerous. But it was entirely too white. Too plain. Too unsettling.

Before long, he grew restless, irritable. Surrounded by white walls of nothing but... nothing.

Like being trapped in an asylum and expected to lose himself. If this white shell of a prison persisted in being bland, he imagined he very well could go mad. But he needed the little sanity he had. He needed it like he needed freedom, like he needed air.

He sought his pen from the ground and moved to write on the walls. He pressed the tip to a random spot and made a firm stroke, but- nothing. He tried again. And again, but was met with the same results.

When he needed it most, his pen had failed him. In a fit of frustration, he attempted to stab the pen's point through the paper wall, but it didn't even make a dent. With a strangled sound he'd never admit to releasing, he dropped the pen.

The solitude was getting to him.

The color white... too plain for the world he knew to be so chaotic.

Suddenly, a curious idea struck him. He reclaimed the pen and studied its point. It was dull, but it was still something. He tested the point against his skin, but it did nothing. It wouldn't be enough to cut- not that he was trying for mutilation; he simply needed something sharp. Compared to the dull point of the pen, he'd be better off to -

'My fists,' The thought was sudden, abrupt, but for all intent and purposes... it was valid. Something he could say with more certainty than he thought possible in his given state of mind.

He'd busted his knuckles with almost no effort before, and he was positive he could do it on purpose. Turning his focus to the wall, he curled his fingers, forming two tight fists as he slipped into a proper and familiar stance. Then, drawing back one arm, he slammed it forward and allowed it to connect with the too-solid paper. He repeated the process with the other fist.

Another swing. A jab. Blow after blow, he poured himself onto that wall in a way that gave him the familiar rush he'd denied for so long.

Again and again, he swung at varying speeds of succession, dragging his knuckles along the surface of the paper until he saw red- red- familiar red, etched all over.

All his knuckles thoroughly split and spilling their own tainted red ink, Raphael took a shaky hand and, with a knuckle pressed to a clean part of the wall, he carefully began to script in large, blocky letters, moving to use another knuckle when the smear of blood ran too thin.

The letters...

R.
A.
P.
H.
A.
E.
L.

For as long as he could stare at his name, he could be sure... He knew... There was security in there. The red, familiar as it could be, was very much a part of him in every way, starkly contrasting the pristine and conforming white that he loathed... That was him. The red, the name. All of it. And for as long as possible, he'd hold onto that fact.

...

[Another one down! Another one In-Progress!]