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: Long delay for a short chapter. I confess, the culprit for my decreased writing is a combination of bro-time and videogames. But I'll try to update more timely.
Questions or comments, submit via review or PM. Thank you.
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CH 33
"-I want a single katana from the one called Leonardo."
The chess match had been followed by a breakfast consisting of Vanilla Almond cereal for both the human-master and his mutant-disciple.
The turtle's head had been too full of conflict for him to appreciate the taste or texture of the food on its journey from the bowl to his stomach. After eating, he'd been offered a couple shots of bourbon and he accepted them gratefully despite how the bitterness contrasted the sweet grains and milk he had prior.
Breakfast had been hours ago.
Now, Raphael slammed his fist into the leather-bound punching bag and watched with satisfaction as the weighted form reeled, astern, jostled from its fix. When it countered from the backlash, he caught it between both hands and steadied it once more, breathing heavily. Sweat fell from him in rivulets, glistening against his taut emerald skin. He'd been at this for a while, and before that he lifted weights; and before that, he'd caught himself in an intense sparring session with an Elite and two Techs.
A bout of necessity had pulled him into physical activity; adrenaline and willpower kept him going long after he felt the war of fatigue.
His body ached and burned from over-exertion, but he wasn't done; he couldn't be. He needed to work his body until it was sore enough to override the thoughts that took up residence in his mind. More specifically, the fact that his human-master expected him to acquire a katana from Leonardo. The very idea was full of implication and duplicity.
He couldn't refuse, and he had no idea how to proceed.
He knew he should buckle down and try to work out some course of action, but right now, he didn't want to think at all. Thinking brought conflict and emotional strain. Thinking called forth memories and assumed obligations. Thinking brought disaster and grief and pain that manifested into poorly concealed rage.
And that rage he felt, if he were to be honest with himself, it felt pretty damn good. It tore through him with every lash at the punching bag. Every kick delivered. It jarred his insides and begged for release. Begged for action. For the swelling of his knuckles and the pulling of his muscles and joints.
It begged his body to keep going, in spite of the burning soreness than proved his strain.
He needed to keep active. To keep fighting. To fight against everything, and to fight for something.
He couldn't stop.
He didn't want to.
The world was his enemy, and he was its hostage.
It was no wonder, he felt so hostile. Violence would be the driving force behind his release. His escape. His mounting frustrations be damned, he wanted to maim and destroy the external forces until his internal pressures became little more than a figment.
Abruptly pulling away from the bag, Raph moved to a large open space. He closed his eyes and allowed his vivid imagination to conjure up faceless enemies. And he moved. To attack. To defend. To counter, feint, deflect, punch. To roundhouse and scissor kick. To uppercut and left-hook. In his mind he saw blurred figures coming at him, surrounding him, launching attacks.
And in his very real world, he attacked back.
Jabs and low-sweeping kicks. High kicks and right-cross punches. Everything he knew, he poured it into his imaginary fight.
Against everyone and no one, he was winning. He would be the victor. He would have the reward, the praise, the trophy.
He drew his sais.
He would have the glory. There was no pain, physical or otherwise. There was no dull ache within him. There was no worry for his pending task and obligations. There was just himself and the fight, and he would dominate at any cost.
His tri-bladed weapons sharp and primed, he slashed and stabbed and moved to counter imaginary attacks, never once opening his eyes. Never needing to. His keen senses assured him of his surroundings as he paced back with two back flips before lashing out again.
He imagined taking a foe down, a sai poised over a throat, ready to stab.
And he considered it.
The tip of a blade was inches from the imaginary column of flesh.
So close to ending a life. So close. And he wasn't even sorry. Wasn't even worried. He could do it. It wasn't real. Wasn't real. Wasn't real.
Victory was close.
So close.
He could do it.
Trophy... Another trophy.
Glory.
Praise.
Success.
He could do it. He was worthy, as a ninja, as a fighter, and as a student to his master.
And... he stabbed, hard.
In his mind, the throat of his foe suddenly appeared less blurred, more clear, articulate. In fact, it morphed into something green and leathery as blood began to well up in the wound. That throat, not human. Green. Forest green. Belonging to a turtle. With a blue mask...
Raphael jerked back, eyes snapping open, wide and panicked. His breath came in heaping gasps as he glanced towards his empty hands that trembled. He turned to look where his dying foe would have been, but there was no one there. Nothing. Empty space. Instead, his sai was planted firmly in the mat on the floor.
There was no enemy. No reptile. No blood. Just himself in the empty room. Himself and his inner demons. He'd gotten lost in his head, lost in his imaginary fight. Lost in his future goal.
And lost in the complete understanding that he didn't want to harm any of the other turtles.
'What the fuck am I gonna do? How can I get a sword from Leonardo? How can I do it without fightin' him? Fuck, fuck, fuck. What if I hurt him? What if-' He couldn't finish the thought. It hurt too much. He just wanted his thoughts to go away.
He needed those thoughts to be gone. Gone, gone, gone. He shoved his palms against his temples and pressed hard, gradually increasing pressure as he tried to force away his thoughts, to no avail. After several fruitless seconds, he dropped his hands and knelt on the mat, breathing. Hard.
Breathing deep.
Just... breathing for the sake of breathing.
He was panting; he grudgingly allowed his eyes to slip closed as he worked to calm himself. He systematically evened out his respiration and blanked his expression; he only wished he could blank his mind as well, but his efforts proved futile.
He'd tried to think the situation through, tried to imagine how the confrontation might go... but no image he could conjure seemed right. He imagined lectures and scorn. He imagined care and concern. He imagined hurt and betrayal and anger. Regardless of what emotions were displayed and what words might be passed, Raphael's ultimate vision always entailed a fight that his mind never finished- most likely because he hated to lose and he didn't want to conquer Leonardo under these conditions.
It seemed wrong.
'If I can just disarm him...' Raph's thoughts were finally working towards something less violent when they were interrupted by a sharp voice.
"Hey, Mutant. Master Shredder wants to see you in his Throne Room."
...
[Short chapter. But there's more on the way.]