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: Half of this chapter is mostly Raphael in his thoughts. I'm edging towards another plot point, and it'll start to come together towards the end of this chapter when we welcome a guest character: Professor Jordan Perry- the scientist from TMNT II: Secret of the Ooze. I needed a scientist and didn't want to go the route that almost EVERY other TMNT fic follows once a scientist is brought in.
-Also, brumation comes into play.
-I mention TGRI -not the be confused with TCRI. I made this choice consciously.
Questions or comments, submit via review or PM. Thank you.
...
CH 21
Exhaustion. Freezing cold. Tingly numbness, followed abruptly by emptiness.
Fear, guilt, and regret. A sudden bout of apathy. Apathy replaced by an emotional pain so intense that it held no name.
Fighting for his own sense of security, he couldn't hold onto anything more than his thoughts. The rest of the world seemed so far away, like a dream he only half-remembered.
'I should write it all down,' Raphael thought. 'Put it in words and hide it all away. Close the book, let the hurt fester on a page instead of inside me. Now, where's the pen? I need... Pen.'
Caught in a haze of darkness, he tried to feel around for the object in question. The mighty pen that would cut through his misery and spare him his wounds. But, try as he might, he could not find the writing tool. His fingers would not curl in an effort to pick anything up. His hands, limp and useless, heavy, unable to do what his mind commanded.
And, all at once, for seemingly no good reason, his lungs seized.
It was torturous, as if his mind was too agitated and restless to focus on the fact that he should be breathing, yet his body knew that it needed the life-sustaining air. He could feel himself convulsing, his lungs caught between parallel rungs of activity; his brain struggled to grasp understanding of what was going on.
His eyes refused to open.
'Can't see... Too damn dark.'
He felt entirely too cold.
'Too fuckin' cold.'
Some vital and instinctual part of him warned that he was shutting down.
And, in deepest recesses of his mind, he found acceptance. As if his plight meant nothing simply because he was one insignificant being in a world that would sooner deny his existence than understand it. The realization was both frightening and liberating. Because, if he meant nothing to no one, then there were no true obligations.
In his mind, he withdrew, and there was safety there, among his thoughts. Where the outside world couldn't touch him. Where he couldn't cause harm to anyone but himself.
In his mind, he imagined a flurry of colors, all in contrast with one another and all quite vivid, almost fluid... because the colors moved like living beings, shifting in size and shape as they swam through empty space. Like a cosmic aquarium.
For a moment, Raphael could be content to sit and watch, unblinking, mesmerized by the impossible display- but he could only do this for a moment. Because it had a calming effect on his inner psyche, and once he'd reached any sort of tranquility, his head became too clear and too focused. Focused enough to process the turn of events.
Focused enough to once again process his feelings.
And, once emotions were brought into the picture, remaining any kind of stable was almost impossible. His own emotions -specifically his affliction and turmoil- caused an almost literal collapse of the fluid colors in his mind, like dripping paint; the colors crashed downward and melded into something of a sick earthy tone that grew darker and darker until it reached a rather nocturnal color.
Raphael couldn't properly identify the color, but he loathed it for taking away the perfect illusion he had before. Even if it was nothing more than an illusion, it had been comforting. It had been something to draw him away from the dull ache of depression that had settled and festered like a disease.
'Disease...' Another thing Raphael hated- not just the ailment, but the word as well. What it implied, what it was, and what it could do... He was quite aware that humankind was the reason for most existing diseases and cancers, just as they were the creators of the alleged cures that tended to cause other potential harms when used to counteract.
A cycle of sickness and treatment that, once started, could only be considered a constant battle, of which Death would merge as the true victor.
And humans, desperate to be both the creators and destroyers- the Alpha and Omega, were conceited enough to self-exonerate their deeds; to overlook the damage they caused as long as it brought them money and recognition.
Because, that's what humans did. They destroyed so they could recreate and rebuild. They attacked so they could save. They killed so they could feel alive. And they only lived because they believed it was their mandated right to claim immortality.
For that fact alone -because it was a fact- Raphael could confess, he was glad not to be human.
But, that didn't mean he was glad for what he was. His physical form, he could live with it: being this green freak with an odd number of fingers and a big, heavy, practically useless shell on his back. He didn't mind his actual appearance, save for the fact that he was a freak in every sense of the word. What bothered him about himself, was the translation between heart, head, and outward expression.
Because his heart and head could very well agree with each other on a subject, but they always warred with response and imposed stress, and he favored to react with aggression. He expressed even the more tender thoughts with grunts or snarls.
There was nothing gentile or peaceful in him; he was raw and rash, insensitive. Impulsive to a fault.
His ugly nature, crude behavior, and dismal outlook couldn't be helped.
Mad passion was the force that allowed him to endure.
He wasn't the 'let's hug it out' type of guy, and he never would be. He wasn't the 'we need to talk about this rationally' type of guy either, though he had tried to be on a number of occasions- most of which ended in either a contest of screaming or a trade of physical blows. If Raphael had to decide what kind of guy he was, as much as he hated to admit it -and he'd never admit it out loud, of course- he'd say he was a two-headed hybrid of a one-punch assassin and a coward.
Because, he was always torn between running and fighting. His more favorable option would always be to attack with gusto, to deliver whatever beating something or someone might deserve. But, while he hated it, he hypocritically opted to run from his problems more often than not. Granted, he could face any foe without an ounce of fear, when given the pending emotional grief, pang of guilt or well of remorse, Raph would come undone in the worst way.
When he fell apart at the seams, he never simply 'fell apart.' He exploded. Damage was inevitable, and innocents -specifically three other turtles- often ended up caught in the crossfire.
And each time this happened, he grew more and more fearful that the damage would be permanent and un-fixable. Each time, he told himself it wouldn't happen again. Each time, he made an effort to control himself, to repress his anger, or to run off before he lashed out.
But he couldn't run all the time.
His control wasn't something caught in an iron grip. No, control was like a very real hot potato in a human child's sensitive hands- it was bound to be dropped, tossed, or thrown.
In his mind, Raphael conjured up his family: the thing he ran from most of all- the ones he lost control around too often, too easily. His brothers and sensei, and April and Casey. In his mind, he saw them all... just as he remembered them. He focused mainly on his brothers. Not in the way they were in battle or training, but in the way they were when they thought no one was looking.
When Raphael was looking.
He conjured up Leonardo's sudden boast and arrogant smirk and gleaming eyes that spoke volumes of satisfaction at hard work... If Leonardo could help it, he'd never let on that he could be smug or over-confident, but whenever present, those elements hung around him so heavily it was nearly impossible to miss. And while there were many times Raphael had called him out for it, there was an understanding that even 'Fearless' deserved the flaw: his own little piece of humanity. In essence, that little bit of lavish ego was part of who he was, just as much as his honor and leadership. And Raphael wouldn't take it away.
He conjured up Donatello's awkwardly quiet laugh that only came when he was too mentally exhausted not to find something funny. After going a few days with little to no sleep due to tampering with a gadget or working on repairs around the lair, it wasn't unheard of for the intelligent turtle to succumb to a mild case of stupidity. Though, Raphael suspected he might be the only one to have witnessed it more than once, the way Donatello would laugh with little provocation, more gasping than laughing, nearly choking on air before revealing some strange quote or algorithm that Raphael couldn't understand... Strange as it was, it was wholly Donatello, just the same as the high IQ and insatiable curiosity- just on a different level altogether.
He conjured up Michelangelo's sudden and intense stare, the one he only used when the situation was dire and even he knew that playtime was over. It was rare, for certain, but Raphael could recall at least a few times he'd seen that expression, both at the lair and on the battlefield. Specifically notable, it was, when Splinter had gotten pneumonia and almost didn't make it; he was on his deathbed. Everyone had looked to Michelangelo for a reason to smile and hope- everyone except Raphael whom had refused to ask so much from anyone in his over-taxed family. The youngest turtle had worn a hardened expression, and he refused any opportunity to joke or lighten the mood. Instead, he drew into a bout of intense thought; his expression was solemn and he was caught up in worry and angst. And, given the circumstance, Raphael sat alongside his younger brother and did the same.
In this line of thinking, it was almost possible for the emerald-skinned turtle not to feel so disconnected, knowing that Leonardo had pride, Donatello wasn't an unshakable machine, and that Michelangelo could also be the brooding type. The fact that all of his brothers could share those characteristics with him, it was almost a comfort. But it was also unsettling. Because, if he could take the time to know his brothers so well, he had to wonder if they'd bothered to do the same for him- to see him as something more... To reveal and review Raphael under a different light.
Probably not.
It was a silly thought, and he'd regard it no longer. There was simply no point. Muscle was muscle, and that's all it ever would be. All he ever would be in their eyes.
Trapped in all his thoughts, Raphael decided that he was tired of thinking. And yet, that's all he seemed capable of doing.
His eyes... wouldn't work. He tried to blink. Tried to open them. But nothing came of his endeavors.
He didn't feel like he was asleep, but his body was unresponsive.
A sudden bout of panic speared through him. He opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came out.
...
"Two days," Shredder seethed openly, his voice dripping with malice and irritation. "He's been catatonic for two days, and the best explanation you can come up with, Professor, is hibernation?"
The man in question, lanky in build with thin timid shoulders, greying hair and thick glasses, held his clipboard to his chest and shook his head in a chiding manner. "Not hibernation, sir," he explained. "The correct term is brumation, which is the reptilian equivalent to a mammal's hibernation."
"I really don't care what it's called. I need Raphael awake. I've been more than patient enough, waiting for him to adjust and deal with his own petty teenage angst. I am not a parent, and I won't act like one. Raphael needs to shape up for his next pending assignment, and there is a very short window of opportunity to-"
"Sir, you must understand, this is something that can last for several weeks. It's not a matter of waking him up; his body has defensively shut itself down. His immune system is compromised, and I can't be certain if it is due to his reptilian instincts or if it has something to do with his mutation."
Shredder glared at the man in the lab coat, drawing in slow deep breaths. "One month," he said finally. "If he is not alert and operative in one month, you're done." He did not bother to elaborate the 'or else' that was implied.
The professor understood well enough, though his breath hitched and he bit back a protest. Because, even in a normal captive reptile with favorable living conditions, brumation was still common and could last days, weeks, or even months. He couldn't even begin to guess how long a mutated humanoid turtle might be stuck in a near-comatose state.
Ordinarily, the shifting in temperature wouldn't warrant such an abrupt bodily shut-down without warning; the reptile had lived his life with the changing seasons and he was conditioned to handle it well enough with only slight lethargy in the colder months, but the lair- his home- had always been at least a little chilled and damp, so the contrast hadn't been as severe as it could have been. Then, during his stay at Central, he spent a fair amount of time retiring to his personal quarters, where a heater was on near-constantly, despite the fact that the weather was already fair in warmth; his body had adapted to the added swelter and, after his trip to the Barracks, the sudden chill coupled with excess stress was a literal shock to his system. When morning had come, no one was able to rouse him for breakfast or training.
It had been two days since then.
Shredder, refusing to admit his folly, called in the assistance of Professor Jordan Perry, a former worker and representative to the company TGRI. Perry had his own share of experience in handling and disposing of the 'ooze' that had resulted in the turtles' mutation, and if anyone would understand the mutagenic properties, it would be him.
And, being the curious man that he was, Perry could not refuse an opportunity to study and observe the mutant.
"If he's as reptilian as I think he is, he should have plenty of nutrition reserved for this occasion but he still requires hydration. And, for obvious reasons, he would need a complete physical examination. And there are a number of tests that I-"
"One month," Shredder interrupted, his tone clipped and final, allowing no room for argument. "He needs to be on his feet and able-bodied in one month. If not, you are replaceable, Professor."
...
[There we go! Sorry for the delay. Next chapter is 3/4 done and on the way.]