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: The Golden Shuriken (referenced loosely from NTNM) is a powerful ancient relic that is mentioned towards the end of the chapter.
Questions or comments, submit via review or PM. Thank you.
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CH 24
"Swallow. Your immune system had been compromised; your physical form weakened..."
'I don't want the damn pills.'
"They will aid your recovery. Without them, you will be potentially bed-ridden and the slight damage in your throat will take longer to heal."
'...Fine, but I don't have ta like it. And I'll kick yer ass if the meds make me sick or somethin'... And the moment I get my voice back, I've got some choice words fer ya. Just you wait. I'll give ya an earful. Then I'll shove my foot so far up yer ass, you'll taste my toe nails.'
The conversation had been one-sided between the mutant and the professor. It had also taken place on Day One of Raphael's recovery.
In the days to follow the turtle's initial awakening, his throat hurt less and he'd found his voice, though he used it sparingly until the inflammation had gone away completely. He was tired at first, fatigued, but he refused to let a little muscle stiffness keep him inactive. He ate everything provided, skimping nowhere when his body sought the much-needed nutrition. He kept well hydrated as well, but his priorities rested on something far more promising.
Training.
He'd thrown himself straight into it without a second thought. At first, it was just stretching and mild cardio, but that was hardly enough for the potential he knew was within him. Even on that first day when his body protested, he threw himself at the first sparring partner he could find.
A sai in each hand, he gave it his all, working his rusted skills back into something more effective and potentially lethal. While he wasn't operating at full capacity, he managed to lay out Foot after Foot as they were willing to draw a weapon against him. From those small victories, he could taste success, and he had every intent to keep tasting it until he'd had his fill. As long as he came out on top, there were no repercussions imaginable.
He was invincible. Untouchable. In Shredder's words, he had 'done well.'
Despite his one-track mind, single train of thought, and burning desire to push himself harder, he grew weary fairly quick; his stamina needed work and the sudden bout of lethargy was unwelcome, but he could feel the small flicker of passion within.
Something he hadn't felt in a long time. And that flicker, however small, was something he didn't want to lose.
It urged him on, spurred him to keep going well passed the limit he'd mentally set for himself. He knew he was burning the candle at both ends, but he wanted to keep going. Stopping simply wasn't an option.
His days to come were filled with routine checkups with the doc, weight-lifting with Gunner being a very unhelpful and easily distracted spotter, sparring of varying intensity with choice Foot ninja and an elite or two, and a surprising number of brief encounters with Shredder, whom Raphael had returned to dubbing as 'Soupy.'
All things considered, life was going good.
Raphael wasn't even too choked up on the pills he'd been given by the doc, not after the initial refusal. They were something to help reduce the swelling in his throat, and of course, some vitamin supplements to aide his immune system; then the stimulants that would give him the extra boost of energy for longer training hours...
And what a boost it was, he noted at the number of reps he was able to do; the feeling of his muscles tearing from sheer exertion was something to marvel, and he longed for the burning sensation beneath his flesh as his muscles repaired and strengthened.
He dead-lifted, benched, and squatted more than twice his own weight, and he couldn't help the grin of satisfaction when he flexed and watched his muscles pump. It was physical evidence that he'd worked hard on something. It was a trophy of sorts. Proof of one more victory.
He decided that his newfound energy, the slightly inflated ego, and the seemingly endless well of motivation could have come from the pills. Vitamins or hormones or anti-inflammatory, or whatever they were. He'd been given their names- the term dopamine was in there somewhere- but the words were nothing of value to him; the scientific name did little to tell him what the hell they were.
After the initial explanation of what the pills were supposed to do, he took them without question, without thought, and without complaint. All he cared for was that it helped stave off fatigue; made him feel like he could take on the world, and then some.
The energy he felt was nothing shy of incredible; it was hard to believe he'd even been dormant for three weeks. He just wanted got go all the time. As if he was kicked up on some really strong caffeine.
And he had no room to complain.
He was so caught up in the feel of the weighted bar in his grip, the number of reps he could do, and the number of Foot he could take down before his potential crash; it didn't even occur to him that the pills kept coming, even when his throat wasn't an issue. They were simply another part of his day. Something to look forward to and then mentally check off as complete.
Apart from communicating while his throat was sore, Raphael hadn't written anything of value. No Journal. No budding angst or gut-wrenching feels he fought to lock up.
There were no monsters he sought to turn into fiction.
He was placated. Complacent. Busy when he was not resting. Always busy. Too caught up in this new world to even consider anything else.
He wasn't sure where this newfound contentedness came from, but he welcomed it. As he lined up alongside his black-clad brethren to run through a series of kata that he mastered with ease, it was easy to find himself self-possessed and borderline sanguine.
No one looked at him like he was out of place, and as he worked his skills by their side, he didn't feel out of place either. He simply did what he knew to do, and at the end of the day, he accepted the praise that was offered, usually in the form of a familiar hand on his shoulder and simple words that took almost no thought to process.
It was easy for Raphael to find himself satisfied.
Especially with the knowledge that he'd be sent out any day. The specifics of his mission had yet to be disclosed, but the anticipation made him feel alive. He could feel his blood pulse, heartbeat quicken, and lungs draw air more deeply. That one week of waiting felt as if it had been stretched into months, but it wasn't at all unpleasant. Quite the opposite, in fact.
However, as great as his days were, night was a different story entirely. His training done and his final meal of the day consumed, the evenings had Raphael returning to the infirmary to rest beneath the UVB lamp.
As well as his body had recovered in a remarkably short amount of time, Professor Perry insisted that Raph remain under that light. Part of the turtle wanted to return to his old room, but then he had to remind himself that there was nothing of value there anyways. Nothing but notebooks he wanted to forget, and nothing but Pennington's bandana tacked to the wall.
And, if he were to be honest, he was through grieving over one mistake. Pennington knew the risk of joining the Foot; he would have died eventually. As far as Raphael was concerned, he'd simply hurried things along. There was no use in crying over spilled milk, and he'd suffer no longer for the memory.
It was a lesson, and he'd learned from it.
He could say 'sorry' til he was blue in the face, but it would get him nowhere. No amount of pity would bring someone back from the dead. And, all Raphael could hope to do was fulfill his own obligations.
The Foot needed him. He would work himself into top condition, and he would again work with them to accomplish a common goal with trivial rewards. It was something to look forward to. Something to give him an edge and keep him going.
But, no amount of training and carefully-placed thoughts could protect him from what happened at night. When he found himself back in the infirmary. Alone. He'd discard his weapons and any gear he might have been provided- his own leather gear not something he'd been proffered, and he'd drop unceremoniously onto the bed. The blankets pulled over him, and he could only wait for the worst part of his day to commence.
Sleep, something he'd once welcomed, now haunted him; took away the pleasant vibe the rest of the day had provided and left him feeling something deep and chilled within. Despite the heat that washed over him, he found no warmth reaching through whatever fog decided to pull him into its grasp.
He hated the cold, but it only came at night as he awaited the chance to fall into a fitful slumber.
When unconsciousness finally claimed him, he dreampt something horrific and dismal. He dreampt of a small domed room that was entirely too white.
He inwardly blamed it on his new sleeping arrangements; the infirmary itself was too white and bland.
But worse and more unsettling than the white dome he dreampt of being in, was the red script that was etched along the wall.
The word was his name. Etched in his blood. He knew this. A faint part of him recalled that he'd put that word there, scraping his own raw and bloody knuckles along the pristine white surface, as if it was a canvas primed with a fresh coat of gesso awaiting him to paint his vision.
In his dream, he stared at the name, as if it was supposed to mean something more, as if there was some glorious revelation in the large blocky lettering. But no matter how long he stared, he only found confusion and frustration.
It felt important.
There was something to be understood, but he couldn't grasp it. The answer- as well as the question that needed answered- eluded him.
The dream, however imposing, was stagnant. It was recurring, and nothing ever seemed to happen, yet it twisted his insides into something unrecognizable. It made him think. And thinking made him bitter, but the bitterness never made it through the hazy dream and into the world of consciousness.
For Raphael, morning couldn't come fast enough.
Especially this morning.
The week was up. Finally. Raphael had waited this long, and it felt like a small eternity had lapsed. He was quick to rise from his bed in the infirmary- When had he started seeing the bed as 'his'?- He tossed the blankets aside and got up. He stretched a bit, feeling his muscles pull and joints pop; he sighed blissfully at the feeling before glancing at the bed, rolling his eyes, and setting to work at fixing the blanket on the bed properly, tucking the corners in nice and tight.
The bed successfully made -a task that seemed like a waste of time but was decidedly something small to accomplish -one more little victory- he turned off the UVB lamp and made his way over to the counter near the sink. On the counter rested a daily pill planner he'd become well acquainted with over the past week. Flicking open the tab labeled AM, he drew out a small handful of pills -eight, eight pills- and popped them into his mouth. He hated the taste and texture, the feel of them on his tongue, but he quickly focused his attention to a small plastic cup - an upgrade from the paper Dixie cup- and addressed the sink. Turning the taps, he filled the cup with water and used it to down the pills. After that, he filled the cup three more times and drank them in succession.
Turning the water off, he moved to claim his current set of gear. The black belt that holstered his sais. The criss-crossed utility straps that slung over either shoulder, specifically meant to hold smokescreen pellets, projectiles, and small blades. The leather wraps that covered his forearms from wrist to elbow. Lastly, a long-tailed scarf around his neck, a deep burgundy with a familiar yellow Foot symbol emblazoned.
Raphael was over-geared, he knew, especially for so early in the morning, but this day would be a special one. Today, he'd be given the details of his pending mission, and it would suffice to say that he was anxious. Had he lacked self-control, he might jump around like a kid at Christmas time.
But control seemed easier and easier to rein these days. And he did not rejoice and act upon infantile whim. Instead, he placed his hands at the hilt of each sai and drew strength from their presence. Then, he turned to the door.
He was glad- more than anything- that there was no need for the door to be locked again. The freedom to enter and leave the room as he pleased was not something he took for granted, though he refused to voice his gratitude over something so menial.
Even he had pride enough not to grovel and slobber at anyone's feet- or so he liked to think.
He was not an underling, and he refused to act like one.
Maybe his own ego was getting to him, but the fact remained that he was not expendable. He was something of value. He knew this, and it showed in the new way that he moved- the way he strutted with near-perfect posture, like some kind of cock of the walk.
Opening the door and stepping out, he was greeted almost immediately by Shredder; the man was armored, but his helm and menpo mask were missing. The look on his face was unreadable, but the gleam in his eyes foretold of something big being planned, and Raphael could only guess what it might be.
He'd been trying to guess, but a large part of him refused to get his hopes up too high. Whatever his pending mission was, he could only wait to find out.
"Good morning, Raphael," the human's words came effortlessly. Polite. "Would you be joining me for breakfast? It is, after all, a big day for you." His tone, deliberately light, airy, conversational.
Raph offered a grin and a dismissive hand gesture. "I gotta eat, but I can guaran-damn-tee my mind won't be on the food. I wanna know what kind of task I'm up fer."
Shredder took in the turtle's enthusiastic appearance and mission-ready gear. "Of course, Raphael." He offered a smirk and little more. "A quick meal, and I'll brief you on your mission and expectations." With that, Shredder turned to walk down the hall. His stride was brisk, assiduous, powerful. Every step was carefully measured. The way he moved demanded attention, yet denied anyone who would give it. It was a display of his own superiority.
And Raphael followed, his own stride just as arrogant, overly-confident, full of pride and ascendency. His own show of dominance over anyone who could not best him in battle: anyone inferior by his standards.
The trip to their destination was short, but not silent.
"Sleep well, Raphael? How has your morning been?"
"Slept like a rock. Haven't been up long. You?"
"My sleep was fair, but my morning has been much longer than yours."
Polite conversation. Between the leader of the Foot and a mutant turtle that was formerly pegged as an enemy and a nuisance. The idea was laughable, but if anyone dared laugh, they wouldn't live long.
The duo, bound by word and bonded by supremacy, found themselves seated at a familiar table that had already been set with expensive ware.
Well-dressed servants immediately began placing down various foods around the table before awaiting the request of beverage.
Having been in this position more than enough times to know his queue, Raphael gave his drink order without prompt. "Rum and coke."
The Shredder cast a steely-eyed glare in the turtle's direction before clearing his throat. "Is that a wise choice, Raphael? It might not mix well with your... medication."
Raphael waved him off. "It's just vitamins, right? Can't hurt." His resolve was firm, but he still turned to one of the female servants and amended, "And bring me some water too. Don't need Soupy over here to blow a gasket."
Shredder requested a fine red wine, and the two of them waited for their drinks before indulging in the food provided.
"So," Raphael said awkwardly, resting one hand at the hilt of a sai and bringing his other hand to fiddle with the utility strap that ran across his chest. "Can ya give me any details 'bout the mission? Where am I gonna go? What I gotta do? Am I takin' any Foot or goin' solo?"
Shredder looked thoughtful before simply saying: "In due time, Raphael. In due time. You must be patient."
Before long, a set of servants returned with their drink orders. Shredder's fluted wine glass was filled with the red liquid, and Raphael was offered tumbler of iced water and a multi-faceted table-glass cup of stern Russian quality, in which was the familiar dark liquid that fizzed lightly and smelled rather inviting...
He had a soft spot for rum, less potent than vodka and easier for him to maintain a clear head. And he had a soft spot for the quality of the Soviet table-glass; the hard and thick build offered assurance that he wouldn't break it if he gripped too firmly or even dropped it. He had to admire the quality.
Some distant part of his mind reasoned that, if he were a cup, he'd be that exact one. Sturdy, useful...
But he was not a cup, and the musing was short-lived.
He was a mutant turtle, and with each passing day, it was becoming less apparent as to why that fact used to bother him.
He took that thick cup into his hand and brought it to his mouth. He took only a sip at first, appreciating the taste before tossing his head back and consuming it all in a few quick swallows. After that, he turned his attention to his food and water.
He chewed carefully between bites, but not once did he focus on the way it tasted. He was sure it was good, but his mind was elsewhere. In his mind, he imagined himself slinking along shadows and jumping across rooftops. He imagined the feel of night air against his skin...
He allowed his thoughts to consume him as he ate and drank almost mindlessly.
His attention was drawn by Shredder only when the human had concluded his own meal and was decidedly ready for the all-important discussion.
"Raphael, about your mission..."
Those words got the mutant's attention in a fraction of a heartbeat. His head lifted, his shoulders squared, and his own sunset-colored eyes met that of the human's.
"I am quite aware that this goes against everything you stand for, Raphael, but tonight, you will be stealing. It cannot be helped. It is an ancient relic that should have been mine, yet its ownership eludes me, and there is no monetary price great enough to bring it into my custody."
Raphael's expression was ponderous.
'Stealin' ain't somethin' I do, but if Soupy's dead set on gettin' his hands on it, I have no doubt that he'll get it eventually. The only difference is, if I fetch it, he'll get it sooner and I get the glory...'
He drew in a sharp breath as he considered.
'One more trophy. It's just a stupid relic. Probably some dumb ol' rock, or somethin'. I could get it... I know I could. Been waitin' ta do this all week.' His mind made up, Raphael voiced a question. "Alright. What is it, and where am I gonna find it?"
"Patience, Raphael. You are ready, no doubt, but we will discuss this further in the throne room, where you will also be presented with new gear."
Raphael frowned, browline creasing. "New gear... You mean, like the headset?"
"No. I told you last time that you should not rely on it, though it did serve its purposes; I'm afraid it will be of no use to you for your pending task, as it will be performed in solitary. I do, however, have something new for you to try out. It is a modified low-grade subcritical multiplicator radioisotope thermoelectric generator-"
In response to hearing the technical jargon, Raphael nodded mechanically, but the glazed film that settled over his eyes was proof enough that he wasn't really listening. Such long-winded words took up too much of his head for him to bother processing.
Thankfully, Shredder seemed to catch on and simplified it. "It's a nuclear-reactive heat source that has been re-designed and engineered to properly regulate your body temperature and avoid future mishaps involving the cold. I assure you, it is perfectly safe as long as the fuel containment unit remains in tact. Should that unit break, the gamma radiation-"
And Raphael once more tuned the human out. Instead of listening to the babble, he got to his feet and waited for Shredder to do the same. In truth, Raphael didn't care how something worked as long as it got the job done, and he really didn't want to be reminded of his body's betrayal: when he'd physically shut down simply because of a little cold. It was embarrassing at best. For all intent and purposes, he just wanted to go to the throne room to discuss his upcoming task at length.
The sooner he knew what he was in for, the sooner he could plan and prepare. After all, this would be his first solo mission. And, from the way it sounded, Shredder was counting on him to succeed.
But Raphael had to be patient. It would be unwise of him to move ahead of Shredder. The man was a walking ego, and he knew better than to challenge him and risk his wrath. While Raphael suspected that he could take the man on, he wasn't about to find out. Not when he was so close to being useful.
So close to doing something that would prove that much more, just how worthy he knew he was.
'Shredda needs me ta fetch his stupid relic. He needs me, whether he likes it or not. He can try ta put me down or act like we're all chummy, but really, what it comes down to, is the fact that he needs me. He knows... that just 'cause I got muscle, don't mean that's all I am. I'm better than that.'
Raphael waited for the human to take his time getting up from the table, having refused to follow the turtle's lead. Once Shredder was good and ready, he stepped forth and correctly assumed that the mutant would fall in line.
He didn't bother hiding the smirk that tugged at his lips as he made his way to the elevator, then to the highest floor: to his personal throne room. With Raphael in tow, Shredder entered the lavish room, claimed his kabuto and menpo from a decorative stand, and pulled them on. The helm came first, and the menpo mask snapped over it. Then, he took his seat on the posh throne.
Raphael stood several feet away from the throne, his eyes on Shredder, awaiting the order he knew would come.
When the man spoke next, his voice came through the filtered grate of his menpo. "Kneel, Raphael."
Raphael hated this part. It was degrading. In essentially bowing before someone, he was submitting, acknowledging his place at a lower point in hierarchy. And yet, as if on auto-pilot, his knees met the floor and his gaze dropped instinctively.
Now came the worst part. The waiting. Sometimes, it would last mere seconds, and other times, it would stretch into minutes. The silence. His own lack of motion as he willingly knelt before a man he was once taught to hate with little understanding for the feud's origins.
Blind hatred... something that had been taught to him. Something that held him back... Yet, even away from his former rat-master, he found it in him to hate.
Example: He absolutely hated waiting.
But it was necessary. He couldn't be sure why, but it had to be.
Then, just when he was beginning to grow restless and agitated enough to stir, Shredder's voice cut in and stilled him. Calmed him. Quelled his instability.
"The item you are after, Raphael..."
And Raphael drew in a breath, waiting.
And waiting.
And waiting...
"-is the Golden Shuriken. An ancient relic. An amulet with mystic powers sealed within. Obtain it for me, Raphael, and reap your rewards. Your praise and glory. Your victory. Obtain this for me, Raphael. Prove your worth, and you may take your place at my side. As my pupil. As my student. As my son."
In that moment, Raphael could almost swear that his heart had stopped.
His vision blurred, but he didn't feel angry. He couldn't begin processing what he felt. But, after several choked breaths, he found that the source of bleariness in his sight... was the building wetness that welled in the sunken depths of his eyes before escaping in trails.
But he refused to admit the tears, even as they dropped onto the floor. Just as he refused to acknowledge the shudder that racked his frame and shook his shoulders.
Because crying meant weakness, and he would not show vulnerability.
A sudden hand on his shoulder caused him to stop abruptly; his breath hitched and his head lifted, chin pulling up defiantly and iridium eyes turning to meet the gaze of the man who dared lay a hand on him in his moment of emotional deficiency.
Shredder stared at Raphael knowingly, his expression mostly hidden behind his metallic guise. As he drew his hand away, his next words were firm, portraying the fact that he was in no mood for nonsense. His words: "Rise, Raphael."
And with one last hitching breath, Raphael drew to his feet and stood at full height. His head felt both heavy and empty, but his chest heaved with swarming emotions he couldn't quite understand. Still, he drew in a harsh breath and carefully blanked his face. Emotions would do him no good when his mission was so close.
He would have to make time later, for comprehension. For now, he accepted the words and awaited further order.
...
[Another chapter down! Another one started...]