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 apologize in advance for pending confusion. More Notes at the bottom.
Questions or comments, submit via review or PM. Thank you.
...
CH 44
The signs were there, in the way he held his head up, neck muscles strained, and the way his broad shoulders stood high and tense, making him appear larger than life. He was hyper-focused in the same way that he was on the battlefield, but this fight had him stationary, seated before a table and a checkered board. His eyes, colored to rival a sunset, bore into that of his opponent with such heat and intensity; it was almost overwhelming. The signs were there: the nervous energy of one who had victory on the cusp. Raphael knew he could win; it was only a matter of moves. With an air of satisfaction, he lifted a hand purposely to poise it over a rook. "Castle takes yer scientist."
The rook slid over to claim the bishop.
And Donatello smirked. "It's called a trap, Raph. I set up an easy score, and once you take the bait..." He paused, grabbing his own knight and moving it to overtake Raph's rook. "You take the bait, and I step in to cripple your own strategy."
The emerald skinned mutant's expression turned smug, the corners of his mouth upturning to articulate a smirk. "I ain't usin' a strategy. Not fer this. If I was, you'd figure it out and counter it. So, I'm just doin' what makes sense. No plannin'. Like, I took your scientist, and now I'm gonna take yer bitch." Raph made his move. His own queen claimed Don's.
With a half-shrug, Don made to reach for a piece but stopped dead in his tracks, browline creased. "... you took my queen," he said simply.
Raph nodded. "Yeah. Bein' a little redundant, ain't ya? I just said I was gonna take your bitch, and I did."
"I know," Don cut in hastily. "I allowed that setup deliberately. I figure, you wouldn't go after my queen because it would be pointless when my knight is perfectly in line for retribution. I could have just as easily taken your queen in turn, and it would have been an even trade that served neither of us, but-"
"But ya moved your horsey last turn, and now the damn thing can't make its L-shaped jump over ta my bitch. So, she's safe."
With a hard frown, Donatello surveyed the board. He was lacking a rook, bishop, knight, four pawns, and now his queen. How he'd gotten to this disadvantage was beyond him. He honestly thought it laughable that his brother asked him to play chess, but now it seemed as if he'd been hustled. "Raph, this is going to sound a bit... odd, but is there something you're not telling me? Perhaps, a reason you seem to be the chess equivalent to a pool shark?"
Raph huffed in a show of indignation. "I ain't hustlin' ya. You're the smart one, so I thought dis would be somethin' we could do together. Not my fault ya suck."
"I do not 'suck,' Raph. I was going easy on you."
"Suuuuure. Whatever gets ya through the day."
"It's true. Let's finish this game and go again, and I'll prove it to you."
"Forfeit this match, and we'll start a new game right now, Brainiac."
With a shake of his head, Don refused to forfeit and made his next move, his eyes never leaving the board, constantly analyzing and planning his moves in advance while simultaneously making a note of which pieces Raphael's hand would twitch towards before fully deciding what he wanted to do.
By the end of that round- ending with Raphael as the victor- Don knew for certain that Raph preferred using his rooks whenever possible. Even when the small castle-shaped pieces weren't being moved, Raph's hand almost always hovered over one before redirecting its course where necessary.
With the pieces back in their starting lineup, Don affirmed his decision to school his brother in the art of a quick-check.
"Pay attention, Raph. You might learn something," Don said, voice lilting in just the right way to convey a friendly jest.
"Someone's arrogant, especially since I beat yer intellectual ass last game," Raph rebutted.
"Arrogant? No. Confident? Yes. In fact, I'll even tell you exactly what I'm going to do, before we even start." The purple-masked turtle pointed towards one of Raph's pawns. "See this pawn at F7? I'm going to attack it as soon as I can, and after I've made only four moves, you'll be in checkmate."
Raph stared at his pawn for a long hard minute, speculating, trying to see how such a feat would be possible. Finding no success, he shook his head and mumbled a lofty: "We'll see."
Don, using the white pieces, took the first move. He moved his pawn from E2 to E4, freeing his queen for future action.
Raph's move was next.
Don's queen cut across to H5.
Raph again.
Don's king's-side bishop to C4.
Raph once more.
Finally, Don's queen moved to F7, claiming Raph's untouched pawn. "And... checkmate," Don declared simply.
Raph stared, unblinking. The series of moves had been subtle and non-threatening, completely unexpected. But with the current setup Don's queen was right next to Raph's king, and the only way Raph could negate the check would be to use his king to capture the queen. However, Don's bishop was perfectly in line to prevent it.
"I believe that is check and-mate; read it and weep, dear brother."
"How'd ya do it, Donnie?" Raph asked, almost mystified.
And Don smiled. "Honestly, if you had moved or guarded that pawn on F7, this trick would have been an impossibility. Other than that, this strategy works in as few as four moves. The opening move frees the queen. The second moves her into position. The third brings the bishop in for assistance, and the final move finishes the game. It's an easy trick, but if your opponent is wary of it, it's not hard to combat."
Raphael nodded, still staring at the board for a long moment of contemplation before drawing his eyes up to meet Don's. "Good game," he complimented gruffly, reaching a hand across the table: the universal gesture to shake hands and display good sportsmanship.
Their hands connected, each grasping firmly and moving to complete the customary ritual.
Then, Raph sat back in his chair and looked around aimlessly. His own restlessness making him tense now that the game had come to a close and he lacked an objective.
He actively worked his mind to focus on the present and enjoy the brief company of kin but occasionally drifted to remind him that he didn't rightfully belong here.
The reminder made his heart clench.
This was not his home, and his brothers -these reptiles- they could never understand the motives or actions that came into play during his time away from them. All the blood he'd spilled, the bodies buried. More than once, he'd played the role of a thief. Time and again, he'd willingly bowed before the Shredder...
The other turtles, they'd be ashamed and abhorred. Disappointed.
All the red he had to scrub from his hands. The twinges of guilt that had him teetering on the brink of stability...
It all seemed necessary at the time. And, in retrospect, he felt no remorse for his actions; he'd almost grown numb to the memory of what he'd done with little to no residual grief. But if the other reptiles knew, they'd blow it out of proportion and find nothing but disgust and contempt towards him.
In his own right, his every action had been justifiable. A necessity of sorts. It had been for a good cause. He had proven his abilities and strength and loyalty. He had worked to satisfy his human-master, and he was pretty damn sure any one of the other turtles would do the same if the rat had asked.
Of course, there was still the matter of Raphael needing to acquire the katana... Something he should have done sooner. In retrospect, back on the roof, he should have claimed the sword and made a beeline for Shredder. He should have played the role of a good little boyscout... but the lure of the city had called to him; circumstance and snap-judgement had brought him back into a world he no longer belonged.
And for too long, he entertained the idea of kinship.
'They ain't never gonna understand. Hell, they didn't understand me before shit got messed up. I'm alone in this mess, and it's my own damn fault. Spendin' time with these guys... pretendin' ta be a family again, it's just gonna end up hurtin' 'em when I leave again. And I gotta leave. Can't stay. Shredda's already miffed; the Foot needs me; and by doin' what I do, everythin's fine. Everyone's safe. It's fine. I'm fine.'
Lost in his own thoughts, the rest of the world ceased to exist for Raphael.
Subtly, so as not to cause alarm, his view of the room, the chessboard, and Don seemed to shift and spin and warp into something less concrete.
Absent. Hazed. Redefined.
His world... suddenly draped in blank sheets of paper that gradually became filled with ink from an imaginary source. The ink, initially blue but quickly greying.
The letters on the paper. Words. He tried to read them. They seemed important. The mere sight of them caused his insides to flash with heated anxiety.
But after reading the simple words, that heat quickly diffused, replaced by a dousing of ice cold emptiness.
The words. A brief but haunting cluster of words that did not belong in his personal world of impossibilities.
The darkening ink on the paper seemed to run down, liquified, bleeding grey-blue onto nothing, puddling on an imaginary surface, reflecting nothing. Being nothing. Making Raphael, for that instant, feel... like nothing.
Unsure of what to make of everything, he turned away from the sight, only to come face to face with another impossibility. A large hulking mass of muscle and leathery skin, emerald green beneath a rigid and partly deformed carapace with misaligned plates. This thing Raphael stared at: monstrous duplicate of himself that bore a familiar red mask... Just like the last encounter with the spirit-creature, it opened its mouth to speak, but this time... words came out, sounding apathetic, borderline-mechanical, as if read thoughtlessly from the paper Raphael had turned away from.
"The difference between Heroes and Victims, is a cross between Action and Notoriety. Ethics and Glory."
A personal statement? Or a cryptic message? The line seemed to sear itself in place among Raph's conscious, causing a literal burning sensation in his skull.
He opened his mouth, tongue heavy with the need to speak, to question.
Then...
"Helloooo. Earth to Raph. Do you copy?" Don snapped his fingers inches away from Raphael's face to gain his attention.
Startled, the emerald-skinned turtle bolted up, posture straightening, and he looked around, wide-eyed with rapid blinking, taking in his surroundings as if to remind himself where he was. His breath came in small gasps as it dawned on him that he was still at April's, still in Don's company.
"The difference between Heroes and Victims, is a cross between Action and Notoriety. Ethics and Glory."
The words wouldn't leave him alone; he could almost hear them repeating in his head. If he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine them carved into the backs of his eyelids, taunting him, daring him to ignore them.
He felt his fingers involuntarily curl, as if to grasp a pen that was not present. Those words were important; he needed to write them down. Turn it into fiction before it became more real than it already was. As if time was a contributing factor to the abstraction.
Don stared at his brother, taking in the shift in body language and the light sheen of sweat that coated the emerald skin; the twitching fingers and slight tremor. Voice carefully calm and clinical, Don spoke. "You zoned out for approximately five and a half minutes. Your eyes were open; your pupils dilated. You were moving your hand in the air, telegraphing, as if trying to write something... I've been talking to you; I even touched your arm, but you were completely unresponsive. Raph, be honest with me. Are you alright? What's going on? Do you need-"
"I'm fine, Donatello. Fuckin' peachy." Raph snapped, harsher than intended, causing Don to flinch. "Just a headache, and yer makin' it worse with that thing ya do when ya flap your jaw and obnoxious babble comes out."
"I was only asking. Raph, if there's anything wrong, then-"
"Dammit, Donatello, ain't ya listening?!" Raph's voice boomed, nearly yelling as he slammed his fist against the tabletop, knocking several chess pieces over. "I said I'm fuckin' fine. Stop houndin' me and pretendin' like ya give a damn. You ain't my doctor, and I ain't your patient. So, just... shut that... flapping jaw of yours... and stop talking." With a huff, Raphael got up from his seat. He stumbled, uncharacteristically off balance; his hand shot out to grip the edge of the table as the wave of nausea passed. Once he was secure in his ability to remain upright, he stormed out of the room, making sure to knock down everything in his path.
'Chair... lamp... priceless shiny decoration thingy... Oops, that one broke... Have fun gluing it back together.' The entirety of Raphael's demeanor seemed to do a one-eighty, and his thoughts weren't any better.
"The difference between Heroes and Victims, is a cross between Action and Notoriety. Ethics and Glory."
The words seemed to hit a nerve, serving as a driving force. His pending actions, unknown; all he knew for certain, was that he had to do something.
His head ached; his chest felt tight. He needed space... And he needed it now.
Donatello's eyes were wide with worry and confusion as he watched his brother's hulking form move about with all the grace of a bowling ball being dropped onto a crystal surface. Rarely had the young genius ever been on the receiving end of his hotheaded brother's wrath, and this fit seemed to come with little to no provocation. But what really troubled the purple-masked turtle, was Raphael's episode of absenteeism followed by apparent dizziness. As a brother, let alone designated family physician, Don couldn't help the fretfulness. With only slight hesitation, the purple-masked mutant followed after his brother. "Raph, talk to me. Use your words, not your hands."
"I did enough talkin'," Raph spat, grabbing the nearest item- a framed picture of quaint and familiar farmhouse- and gripping it tightly, readying himself to throw it. He gulped in a few heaping breaths before taking a moment to look at the picture. The scene was nothing special. Just a house, a barn, a silo and a field peppered with animals. A rusted truck and a small group of chickens rest in the foreground... Carefully, Raph set the picture down and pressed his hands to his temples. His head throbbed; he could feel and hear blood rushing in alarm. His body ached with the need to exert itself. He needed an outlet. And, until he got one, no one around him was safe.
Looking around, the walls felt like they were closing in. Seeing all the other turtles file into the room to check on him only made it worse.
It was too crowded.
He could feel his heart pounding, trying to punch its way out of his chest. He had to get away before he lost it completely. It wasn't fair. Not to him, and not to the others that sought his presence. But it was getting hard to breathe. Hard to think. Hard to-
"Raph, did something happen? Are you alright?"
It was Leo's voice. Leonardo. The one in blue who dual-wielded the katana.
"Raphael was fine one moment, then seemed to have an episode of some sort resulting in his own lack of awareness, generally associated with-"
That one was Don's voice. Donatello. The one in purple who wielded the bo.
"Raphie, bro, you okay?"
And Mike. Michelangelo. The one in orange who wielded the nunchaku.
Their voices, so loud. So painfully loud, almost echoing. But not nearly loud enough to drown out the white-noise mantra of: "The difference between Heroes and Victims, is a cross between Action and Notoriety. Ethics and Glory."
The words in his head were unrelenting. His mind painted them in vivid bright colors, demanding attention.
Thinking was an elusive feat. His body ached for physical activity.
Raphael had to leave. And that's exactly what he intended to do. In a blind and claustrophobic panic, he raced to the door and tore it open, unaware and uncaring when the hinges snapped. Stepping outside, he didn't heed Leo's warning of: "Raph, wait. It's still daylight."
Nor did Raph see an emotional Mikey cast an accusing glare at Don before tackling him.
Raph couldn't have possibly seen Leo jumping in to run interference and break up a would-be fight.
All Raphael could focus on, was those tormenting words that were growing into white-noise and losing meaning. His vision faded in an out, reality attempting to fuse with his own personal un-reality.
...
[I'll try to keep the confusion to a minimum. Raphael's psyche is torn between the identity of who he was and who he's becoming. He subconsciously attempted to find solace among the Astral Plane, but his spirit is also in turmoil. The result has left him disoriented and frustrated and caught between consciousness and spirituality. To write this, I've loosely referenced a form of psychosis with delusional and hallucinogenic properties. But don't worry; for all intent and purpose, this is temporary. If you have any questions, feel free to ask.- Next chapter is outlined and In-Progress.]