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 wanted to have this update sooner, but real life got in the way.
Questions or comments, submit via review or PM. Thank you.
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CH 29
[Journal Entry]
I've been thinkin'. Everyone always says ya can't run from the past... but I think we CAN run from it, hide from it, abolish it, treat it like a disease, and acknowledge it with all the degradation of a fucked up nightmare... But, we ain't never able ta let go of it, not really. It becomes part of who we are. And one thing we ain't able ta run from, is ourselves. No matter how fast we are, we can't keep the pace necessary to hide from our own faults and insecurities.
I can ignore them, yeah, but only for so long before I give in and welcome 'em back with shame and sorrow and damning relief. No matter the distance time has supplied, it's never far behind.
It's like I'm runnin' a marathon in circles, never truly goin' anywhere but refusing to remain in place. I can't keep stationary.
So, I'm just goin' ta keep going until somethin' gets in my way. Then I'll dispatch it and keep goin.'
Right now, only one thing stands between myself and this blood-lined anchor that is my past. That thing, I'll hold onto it. But, in doing so, I'm testing personal boundaries that are best left alone. I'm testing strength I ain't got. And I'm tryin'... tryin'... to...
Any words that followed were harshly scribbled to the point of tearing the page. Blue ink and torn paper forming a mess of hidden angst. Over-inked, under-told.
The words that rested with and without excess ink to hide them were written in a familiar notebook and tossed aside hours ago. More currently, Raphael stood on a rooftop with his back to the wind. Geared up in his radioactive heated belt and a set of new metal shin guards with matching bracers, he flipped his sais around in his hands, twirling and adjusting his grip in a constant stream of motion that displayed years of practice, yet he made it seem so effortless...
Under a dark moonless sky, he allowed the openness of night to drown him. It felt good to get out of Central. To find himself free of obligation and just... be alone. Ironically, he'd always hated being alone, but now, he welcomed it.
Being out like this, he felt almost peaceful. His emotions, for just one precious moment, were a million miles away. All that mattered was himself under a blanket of stars-not that the stars were plentiful in the smog-laden city.
He scuffed his feet against the grainy textures beneath him, curling his toes in a familiar way that calmed his heartbeat, granted him the illusion of perfunctory serenity.
Yet, in the blink of an eye, the imaginary emotional-oasis faded away; in a single instant that lacked the slightest provocation, he was tanked by thoughts.
Recent chronology warring with memory and and idealism.
In truth, the emerald-skinned mutant was no Zen master. His world was full of chaos and strife, and no matter how he chose to deal with it, it was never the right option. Never enough. Never anything positive or productive. Just one more mess among a million other faults he had. But tonight wasn't a night to mope. Tonight had nothing to do with his insecurities.
Tonight was about escape. The way some people might read or play videogames, he sought physical banishment in favor of finding freedom from obligation and personal horrors.
He slipped his sais into their respective slots in his RTG belt and crouched down on that roof, leering over edge to peer at the city like a gargoyle. This spot, this position, it felt good. Almost as if he was on another routine patrol, keeping watch like some sort of protector.
Where no God would dirty their hands to save this city from moronic douchebags with villainous intent, Raphael would step in and do so. He'd own the city. For all intent and purpose, the city was his. For all the effort he and his brothers had put into it, he certainly deserved some claim to it.
The thought made him grin, prideful at the montage of memories- memories of himself apprehending and tying up masses of robbers and potential murderers and rapists. Memories of himself knocking a ski-masked man to the ground and ordering victimized children to go to the police station and call home. Memories of himself knuckling lowlife after lowlife and ridding the streets of Purple Dragon scum.
The good ol' days.
Then again, as those memories flitted into his mind, they were also accompanied by others that were less than gratifying. The perps that got away. People with guns. Close calls. Numerous injuries to himself, his brothers, and innocent humans who got in the way. And, worse than anything, the terrified scream when a young woman might get a fair look at his mutated form and panic...
It hurt, knowing that he'd never live up to some imaginary expectation. He could be a saint and a hero, but never in a million years would he be seen as such.
Never the magnificent being on posters and in newspapers, televised interviews, he'd always be the thing left to rot in the shadows: the horrific beast under the bed and in children's nightmares.
No matter how hard he tried, he'd always be less than wonted. The thought left a chilling pit in his stomach, soured his expression.
From his perch, he spat and watched with disinterest as a wad of spit made its way downward until it reached the pavement below. He imagined the squelching 'splat' that didn't reach his ear slits.
Then he sighed and planted a hand over his eyes; he rubbed his beak and drew in a breath before lowering his hand and returning his attention to the streets below. He watched sparse groups of humans mill about, cars pass, street lights blink.
To an extent, he simply watched time fade away.
Then, after an immeasurable amount of time, his keen eyes caught a series of moving shadows that he knew all too well. Seeing them, he almost smiled.
The Foot.
His brethren.
He knew most of them by name and skill-set. By rank and weapon preference. He knew most of them by the color and shape of their eyes beneath the uniform masks they wore on missions. He knew a few of them enough to be clued into their personal lives. And while he wasn't exactly on friend-to-friend terms with everyone, he harbored no ill will towards anyone; as far as he knew, the feeling was mutual.
As Raphael stared down at the small group of ninja, it was easy enough to see what they were up to.
They were playing transporter. Picking up precious cargo and moving it from one lot to another to be picked up by an awaiting party. Acting as a delivery service. A simple, clean, effortless job that required little more than patience and stealth. And even that much was considerably optional given the small amount of human traffic in this part of the city.
Raph didn't need to be here to witness the job. He himself wasn't on any mission other than to clear his head and waste the night away; it was by pure chance he'd even come across the group of ninja.
Still, almost like a guardian, he found himself watching. He counted them off, eight ninja in total. Two were working together to move a large wooden crate; one was holding a box of various metal components; two were carrying briefcases; and the last three were simply armed and ready to fight if necessary.
Raph did smile at that. As he watched the way they moved, he caught onto their formation and already- even from such a distance- could tell that these Foot were some of the 'expendables' that resided in the Barracks. Lower than rookies, not even on the map. These were the older runaways that came seeking a place to belong, a purpose in life. For them to successfully pull even a small job like this, it earned them brownie points to potentially move up in rank. Higher privileges, improved status, liberties and advantages.
Being in the Foot could grant them opportunities. Skill-sets. Schooling. A future they otherwise might have missed out on...
And the turtle was almost happy for them. Because, this was what they wanted. A chance to understand themselves, their capabilities, and prove their worth. A chance to mean something, even if they were used as tools and nothing more.
The world had dealt them a bad hand, and they were trading cards under the table, trying to improve what they had to work with. Raising bets and calling bluffs. Trying to alter the inevitable outcome. Trying to find success where fear and loathing might have otherwise been pulled into play.
Despite intent and deeds, it was routinely stressed that everyone acted on their own accord. Whether or not they conformed to Master Shredder's wishes, it was ultimately their own choice. Their hands thieving supplies and instruments for destruction. Their eyes and ears prying for information. Their souls traded for the illusion of pride. And their honor stained red when things got out of hand.
Raphael's smile faded; he sighed heavily and dropped his head.
He pondered humans, as individuals and as a whole.
'The price of life, it ain't much. Humans are so abundant. This city... is overrun. Unless ya know 'em personally, one human is just the same as the next. Potential victims and criminals all crammed together. Always attacking or being attacked. Never peaceful fer long. So stupid. Selfish. Everyone's just goin' day to day, survivin'... But, un-being dead ain't the same as bein' alive. They're all wastin' their time. Wastin' their lives away. They're all the same. Copies of each other, all wearin' different faces. Different masks.'
He raised a hand and lightly traced a finger around his eyes where his own red mask once resided. The very idea of wearing a mask seemed foreign. For the first time, it occurred to him just how pointless those masks were. The masks didn't conceal anything; if nothing else, the masks made himself and the other mutants easier to identify. Yet, he could so easily recall a time when it was deemed necessary.
Perhaps those masks were a symbol of unity among himself and his brothers?
It was a plausible idea, but he dismissed it. They were united no longer. He didn't belong with them. He was not a member of the Hamato clan. He bore no mask; there was no need for it. He'd earned his spot among the Foot; he'd knelt before the Shredder; and he'd forsaken the rodent whose nonexistent approval once meant the world to him.
That's just the way it was. There was no fixing it. There was nothing to fix. He'd chosen this path, stepped onto it, and walked down it. It wasn't smooth and simple; it was jagged and rough and made him weary, but he was too far along to stop. There was no turning back; he could only go forward. This was his life. He'd wanted it, and he got it.
His family now was clad in black. The closest thing he had to a paternal figure was the Shredder. And Raphael couldn't be bothered to be upset about it.
It was his life. He didn't have to share it. He could have privacy if he wished it. He could train or run the city. He could be alone if he wanted. He had respect and responsibilities; he was offered praise for his success.
'So why can't I just be happy with it?!' With a grunt of frustration he trained his eyes on the Foot below, tracking their every move. 'Need ta work on stealth,' he thought idly as he watched them shuffle around, huddled together to obviously discuss their next movements. Raphael surveyed them from his post. He carefully blanked his expression as he watched the ninja finally fade into the darkness and leave his field of vision. With any luck, they'd succeed and come into a few perks that would urge them to keep going, keep them wanting to earn the Shredder's good grace. Before long, they'd be trapped between the guilt and praise, and... in time... the praise would outweigh the guilt. In time, they'd draw strength and motivation from menial and trivial blessings.
Eventually, they'd become slaves to their own desire for recognition.
Just like everyone else, Raph included.
And for a moment, Raphael felt sick. Because he was no better than them. And they were no better than him.
Wanting to feel worthy. Wanting praise that had always eluded him. To a small extent, he could almost find logic for the rat to withhold commendation and words of approval. But if this was the case, why would his brothers receive it in doses while he was left embittered in its absence?
'At least Master Shredda gives credit where credit is due. I don't have ta bite my tongue or do any flips when I fuck up. Haven't... Haven't had ta flip fer punishment in forever, but it's a humiliation I can't forget. Doubt people would understand... but... it's like... like on TV, when a kid gets called out in class ta stand in front of a board to work out a math problem they don't understand. That's the feelin'. That nervousness. That embarrassment. The worry that yer gonna look stupid... I wonder if the old rat can even flip anymore. He's off his rocker; he's gotten slow; he used ta be this invincible thing. He used to be a parent. My father and my sensei, but he stopped bein' my father, and I rebuke him as a teacher... I hope the bastard gets mange.'
As Raphael fought to sort through his thoughts, part of his mind opted to reinstate that his involvement with Shredder was about more than the lack of praise from his former sensei. It had nothing to do with the ridiculous punishments he'd been subjected to in the past. It was more important than that; less superficial.
As he regarded the matter and his reasoning, his mind recalled red; his fingers recalled the warm stickiness of fresh blood. For a moment, he felt a surge of panic and had to glance at his sais just to make sure they weren't dripping crimson. He calmed instantly upon seeing them glint. Flawless steel, unmarred. Beautiful.
He pushed his more horrid thoughts away just in time to make room for another. In particular, he thought of three green faces, all smiling by varying degrees.
His brothers- formerly.
Their innocence.
In his mind's eye, those smiling faces morphed into expressions of discontent, each accompanied by a voice.
Leonardo's disapproving glare. 'You need to work on your form. You are too impulsive and rash. Too focused on brute force. Your lack of respect for-'
Donatello's worry vaguely coveted by a mask of calm. 'It's alright, Raph; I know it was an accident.'
Michelangelo's large fearful eyes right as Raphael moved in to bludgeon him with a pipe. 'Raphie...'
With a hard shake of his head, Raphael fought to dislodge the thoughts. He was out of their lives now. He would no longer endanger them or cause them worry. He would not harm them. And he would not be the source- direct or otherwise- of their corrupted innocence.
He chuckled softly, almost bitterly. But it was worth it. Trading his own dignity and honor for theirs. His brothers- the other turtles- those reptiles, true to the Shredder's word, the other mutants had gone unharmed and un-targetted. This was the one thing Raphael could do for them. A small sacrifice on his part, to spare them grief.
If his pride and sanity slowly evaporated as well, he'd endure it. And if he garnished a hand on the shoulder now and then, he could live with that.
Despite his inner conflict, he'd made his choice. Life wasn't all that bad, and he needed to stop feeding the illusion that things would change anytime soon.
In time, he was sure he'd be able to put his past behind him; it was only holding him back, making him weak and emotionally unstable.
Given enough time... anything was possible.
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[Chapter done! More to come!]