Over and over again

When will this finally end

Digging- it's digging in

Underneath my skin

***

Raph wakes to a white pain across his face.

He jerks upright to get his bearings and locate the source, but one arm buckles the same second that they both rise. He's thrown to the side, slamming his shoulder onto the surprisingly warm surface beneath him, ragged breathing cutting through the silence as he tries to get a handle on his woozy world.

Sleep glazes his blackened surroundings to the point that he can't make heads or tails of anything, and so he rocks his body, letting it sag forward, forearm keeping him from toppling.

His head hangs as he stares down at the impossibly black flooring beneath him, willing his frantic heartbeat to settle. If it isn't for the fact that he can feel the surface of it beneath his scales, he wouldn't even be able to tell that it's there. The notion has dread curling, even though he can't pinpoint why. He shakes his head to clear away the new anxiety, raising it to get a proper scan of the new area.

He waits for his vision to clear.

He waits.

And he waits.

And he waits.

And- okay, he does not have enough patience for this.

He's so used to white colored walls and fluorescent lights that he's less than surprised when his body seems eager to use the dark while it lasts. He represses a yawn that encourages the opposite of an alert ninja, blinking away the reflective tears.

He pulls his knees up to his chest, bracing his body to raise up into a kneeling position. He bends his shoulders as far back as his shell will allow, listening to the satisfying pops that break the silence. A couple more stiff joints experimentally cracked and he reasons that he has a fair amount of mobility returned, the endorphins helping to wake his lagging brain.

He flexes his hand and squints out into the darkness, but he has equally as much success seeing his fingers as he does the floor. The unnameable dread twists tighter.

It occurs to him that maybe it wasn't his surroundings that were the problem, and in a horrifying instance, he wonders if the mad scientist got bored with him and decided to- no, no, no, he wouldn't, he didn't-

He jerks a hand to his face on instinct, only for his palm to smash metal and seer hot pain into the right side of the face. His body spasms from the unintended assault, gasping in air as his vision manages to pick up on light, white spots flashing in and out of his vision.

He barely notices the relative proof that he can see more than one color, grabbing hold of the fixture affixed to his beak as they fade. His fingers can't lock over the small gaps that he feels and they slip out the same moment that they try going in, light pricks tapping the skin below his cheek bones. He tries again and the same tiny stabs nip at flesh as they resume their place, snug on the aching beak that wants nothing more than to have them gone.

His hands travel away from the criss-cross metal and talons brush the leather strapped to the sides of his skull, following them to the metal square behind his head. He tries to get his fingers between the leather and his skull, but the fit is too perfect. It's as if this was meant to be a second skin, inconspicuous before he knew of it, impossible to forget now that he recognizes it was there. He can't see it, but he knows what they did.

They muzzled him. Like he's some wild animal.

They- they locked him up and muzzled him.

This- it's a muzzle. A muzzle!

Who does that?!

A snarl says just what he thinks of their audacity and he goes for the metal again, talons gaining and losing their hold, straining and clawing to pull the metal away from his skin, only to be continuously slammed in the face when his grip fails. The stings only set fire to the frustration that blossoms and boils until he can't hold it in anymore, and furious cry bursts free of its prison in his lungs.

At first, the break in the silence is refreshing, but then the searing pain takes hold.

He can feel how his action moves his mouth- how the new spikes along the sides of his jaw catch skin and hold it, embedding themselves into jowl with no remorse. He closes his mouth, but that only makes it worse. They refuse to let the captured flesh go, and it almost feels like they dig in deeper, stealing away the frustration to grant an agony that has him doubling over to claw at the floor and choke on air.

A faint trickle descends along his face like tears, warm droplets hitting his hands in slow successions. He doesn't need to see them to know what it is, a soft whine clawing its way out because they muzzled him. They muzzled him and he can't see and it hurts- it hurts and he's bleeding-

The spikes slowly release their prey a little at a time, letting him writhe in his prone huddle until they lay as bare pricks against his face, resting as a deceptively harmless nuisances. He gasps in air through a partially open mouth, curling trembling fingers into unsteady fists.

The moment that the pain dulls enough that coherency can sneak back in and rouse his brain, he forces himself back to his feet, stumbling on his first step. The black manages to swirl and swim around him but he barely registers it, moving forward until he touches the wall.

It's grounding against the hysteria; a sensation that he clings too. The cement is coarse beneath his fingers as he drops to his knees, one hand on each firm surface in his reach, inhaling through his nose. He focuses on the dark behind his eyelids and the hundreds of meditation techniques that his father coaxed him through, expertly locking his concentration on the first minuscule ounce of calm that taps his spirits.

He stays still, struggling past the weight of sensation, of pain and the wet, invisible trails from pointy metal against his cheek. He clutches to the distant memory of his father's voice, stretching out the calm that helps his world to right itself, and he simply breathes.

His eyes open, heavy and wet, and he brings a hand back over the metal.

He cups it, dwelling on the faint notion that he can't wipe away the proof of his weakness, and then he looks up. There's more dark, unsurprisingly, and no way for him to tell where the roof is. He knows there has to be an exit, but as he runs his hand along the floor, he can't remember if this feels like his Room or not.

Raph stands, left hand lingering on the wall, and begins walking. He locates each corner of the room, one of which with a disgustingly familiar drain that tells him he'll be here for a while. He heads from one end to the other while counting his steps and decides that this is not the same Room that he'd been in for... Who knows how long.

He wonders if this is some kind of new test, frowning out into the dark, but he's certain the room is empty.

There's no evidence of anything but him and these walls. He has no idea what could be expected from him or how he'd manage to complete instruction without any present.

He begins the circle around the room, feeling every inch of the wall because it would not be fun to wake up to a violent surprise, but there's no evidence of secret hatches. He does end up finding the cracks that outline a well-hidden door, but there's no knob on his side, so escape is not going to be a possibility. He growls low, satisfied with the rumble in his chest, the lack of pain from the action, and the way it slices through the silence.

He starts from the door and shuffles to the other side of the room. His brain is disoriented without anything to lock onto, convinced that he's bound to walk face-first into a surface, so he keeps a hand outstretched and movements slow until his fingertips touch. He gives in to the exhaustion in his bones, crumpling to the floor and slumping back, head bumping the wall, only the recoil when the metal buckle digs into skin.

He grunts, sending the black wall a disgruntled look.

He settles onto the floor, aware that lying on his side feels more exposed and compromising, but at least there's no cold to seep into the bones that won't stop dragging him down. He lays the top of his head against his arm, skin against skin as he brings his knees up, balancing his body so his m- the muzzle won't press against concrete.

He keeps his mouth closed, staring in the dark, and prays sleep comes quick.

***

He misses being able to lay on his back and stare blankly up at the roof.

He feels like he's closed his eyes a'hundred times, but he can't sleep.

The anxiety keeps him awake. He can't afford to lose control of his body. Every time he tilts the wrong way, the belt buckle digs harshly into the back of his skull and reminds him of its presence, and in turn, the existence of its spiky companions. When he wakes up because his head slipped and spikes became embedded in his cheek, he begins a frantic, clawing struggle to peel the muzzle off his face, a scream welling up his throat, coming out as something high and pathetic when his mouth stays clamped shut.

It breaks off in a sob as he swings his arm against the concrete. His breath hitches as he fights for some control, elbows on the ground and forehead cupped in his palms.

He just wants to sleep.

Is that so much to ask?

***

Raph can remember when his father decided to teach them how to adapt to the dark.

He'd taken them to a pitch-black, unfamiliar area of sewers and requested them to stay where he set them. Each of them was placed in a corner of the room, and Mikey started wailing from the second that he left their father's arm.

Raph's eyes were wet too, but he refused to make any sounds. He wasn't scared of what else could be lurking and would find him, because their father had assure him that nothing was there. He wasn't. He didn't want to come off a big baby, like Mikey.

He listened as their father's words crossed the boundless dark, circling him as a constant reminder of safety.

It felt like hours before Splinter urged them all to him. He heard the familiar too-loud pattering of Mikey's feet before his cries became muffled. He moves forward, one step at a time, wiping at teary eyes but breathing like his father taught them to do when they were scared and he wasn't home.

He reached their father and attached himself in his side, hands tight over fabric and burying his face in the robe. Leo was next to him a little later, sniffling as Splinter muttered about how brave they were.

His father had repeated the same training regime several times.

The location changed at least three times. He hated it at first, but the more the dark didn't attack, the less he believed that it might. They'd played a few games of hide-and-seek next, a new training that came with giggles and teasing and pride.

It was after a few rounds, when Sensei finally found Donnie, that he answered the question that they'd been asking for so, so long.

"There are many things to fear in this world, my sons. The dark is not one of them."

Raph had said something. A snide comment aimed at Mikey.

"It is healthy to fear what prevents us from seeing danger."

He thinks Mikey might have kicked at him. He whined his righteous woes as Leo tattled loudly. Sensei's hand settled over his shoulder, warm and firm.

"Listen, my sons. There is nothing wrong with being cautious of what you do not know. But we, more than anyone else, have reason to embrace the dark. When we are within the dark, and we stay out of sight, we remain safe. It is here to assist, and I will teach you how to use it. One needs not fear a tool once they have mastered it."

Now, as Raph looks out into the black, he wonders if it was ever really theirs.

He thinks, like so many other things, it's something that they had to borrow from man.

***

Raph gives up on sleep.

He begins pacing the enclosure, training his mind to accept the fact that no matter how far he walks, there will never be more past the wall. There's no deep impossible expanse. It's just him and the dark and the silence.

Nothing more and nothing less.

It helps to have something to focus on, but it doesn't take long for that fear to be tamed. He goes through a round of stretches and then establishes that he can do cartwheels from one end of the room to the other. He pictures the punching bag that he has at home, envisioning the fabric underneath his fingers, treating the air around him like the bag has taken its place.

He runs through every kata that he can think off. And then he goes through them again.

He goes through them a third time for good measure, plopping down to the ground as sweat soaks his skin, panting through a cracked open mouth. He sits, staring out into the dark as the air seems to swim before him. His eyes burn and his limbs shake, so he curls up, arms around his legs, and tries to focus on everything but his dry mouth and the pit in his stomach.

He stares out into the dark, gaze lingering on the estimated position of a hidden door.

***

Food never comes.

He waits until his stomach begins churning to let himself feel concerned. He swallows the little spit in his throat, wondering if Ferrall really did get bored with him and this is some kind of torture tomb of concrete. Maybe he's just going to let Raph whither away.

Raph can't muster the strength to feel anything about it when there isn't anything that he can do. Not in here.

Heck, not even out there.

There's no control left to fight for. Ferrall decides everything for him- when he rests, when he trains, when he deserves punishment and when he doesn't, when he gets to breathe, when he sleeps, when he eats, when the pain begins and ends.

Whether he lives or dies.

Strangely enough, death doesn't seem as scary when it's not in his power to fight it.

Was this how Splinter felt? Knowing each second until he...

Well.

Raph was always mad at him for accepting it. He hates that he can understand now.

It's quite literally out of his hands. Even if he's not planning on leaving him in a concrete box to starve, Ferrall is bound to purposely or accidentally do away with him. It's inevitable and that very prospect should have been terrifying-

But, he's not... Scared. He's not even angry.

He can spit and hiss and fight all he wants, but nothing ever changes. Ferrall has all the control and zero room in his conscious for a shelled green freak like Raph. If this is how he chooses to kill him, there's nothing that he can do.

It's like being scared of getting punched as he watches the fist fly at him. It's just gonna happen, and it'll sting, then it'll be over. He can brace for it, but there's no point in fearing it.

Still, that doesn't mean it's not going to suck big time.

He doesn't realize that he's been nodding off until the muzzle bumps his knees and pain shoots up his chin. His legs kick out on impulse, taking him away from his position, carapace hitting the wall. He keeps his body bent forward as he takes in the room, confirming that the ache was his own doing and no danger is present. He can't see anything, but that doesn't phase him, ninja senses kicking into high gear.

He listens, motionless, while hot pain radiates as the spikes come loose.

The silence echoes.

He locks his jaw to breathe through a yawn, keeping a calculated air intake, eyes watering.

He blinks the tears free and settles in a meditation pose, shoulders slumped and hands tucked under his thighs, aptly balanced as he allows his body to slip into a doze. His head droops slowly, eyelids heavy as exhaustion fogs his brain. His body jerks with every little slip forward, but he never actually wakes fully.

He'll take what he can get.

***

He can't take it.

His bones feel like they're vibrating with the need to do more than sit and stare.

He bites down a growl and yanks himself to his feet.

He's sure that he's normally in the white room by now.

He's probably been through multiple sessions.

He falls into a line of katas without meaning to, kicking and swinging at open air.

He moves with the aggression that's pent up and suffocating him, swifter than Sensei ever allowed in a dojo setting. He doesn't care that he's slaughtering the form or that he can barely track his own movements, dark or not, forgetting caution in favor of fluidity.

He regrets it immediately when his outstretched fist meets wall.

He chokes on the feeling and the oxygen in his lungs, falling back to clutch as his hand, sticky liquid from his knuckles smearing across his palm. He squeezes over the stabbing pains and flaring heat, forcing breaths to stay through his nose.

He can't believe he did something so stupid.

He swears not to make the same mistake.

***

The vibrations dig into his bones, pressing down on his lungs.

The pain along his knuckles has calmed into something easily ignored.

He feels impossibly exposed.

His gut screams warnings.

He's leaving himself vulnerable, sitting out in the open.

He needs to move. He needs to do something.

He's not meant to be still this long.

He rises to his feet and raises his arms.

His knuckles ache as he curls his fingers into a fist.

The fear quiets as he kicks out.

***

He completes katas.

The punching bag feels his tempered wrath.

***

A migraine drills through the side of his brain.

The room echoes with his own grunts.

He trades the punching bag for Leo.

***

Katas.

Sparring.

***

He hits the ground.

This is the part of the spar when teasing ensues.

Where the anger leads to a brawl that sends the unfortunate brother rolling.

A skirmish that falls into pleas on a bad day and laughter on a good one.

His eyes burn with tears as he pants through quivering limbs.

He stands. Mikey is traded for the punching bag.

***

He can almost hear their voices- Leo, Donnie, Mikey- as he takes them on.

For ninjas, they never could shut up.

***

His brothers won't shut up.

He doesn't remember when he began losing.

He remembers hitting his knees, shaking and lightheaded, and thinking that he should stop.

Leo holds out a hand, but he ignores it.

He stands and fights through the clenching of his gut.

***

Raph falls and doesn't get back up.

The room spins and he wants to throw up.

It's stupid, that his body wants to hurl what it doesn't have anything to spare.

It's idiotic. And probably suicidal.

Kinda like him.

Better to die fighting, right?

He snorts.

The sound crackles rough on his throat. A smile stretches cracked lips.

It fades as he stares out into the black.

He breathes out, disappointed.

He can't remember the joke.

***

Raph can't pass the line of doze.

He doesn't feel anymore rested when his eyes open.

He sits and counts, just to see how high he can get.

***

The walls are hissing.

Wait, why are the walls-

***

Raph wakes up to his muzzle digging into the side of his face.

He turns over as he waits for the throbbing to die down, discomfort crawling down his neck from the new position. The fog over his brain seems to twitch, letting a single thought slip through.

It doesn't hurt.

He sits up, a hand flying to the buckle on the back of his head. It's been covered in some kind of cloth, cushioned so sleep is no longer an impossibility. He lays down to test the theory, so lost in the jubilation of realizing that he can lay down without pain that he removes any chance of him actually being able to fall back asleep.

He pretends he's not crying as he sits up, touching the metal and realizing that it's been loosened. The spikes are no longer as daunting, giving him slightly more space to open his jaw. He tries to figure out when this happened and if he was really drugged so that he could be made more comfortable, looking around the room despite being aware that there's nothing to see.

It doesn't really add up to the mad scientist M.O., but he's grateful anyway.

It takes a minute for him to clue into the fact that he actually does smell something and it's not his brain losing it on him. The smell envelopes the rooms and instantly has his stomach contorting painfully, gnawing away at his insides as he tries and fails to rise to his feet. He settles for a stiff crawl, sharp fireworks shooting up into his stomach.

He flinches when his hand touches a curved surface that has never been found in the dark before. It's cold to the touch and he follows it, fingers brushing over metal that's been screwed into the wall. He lingers over the familiar sensation of something that isn't the wrong side of comfortably warm before he turns his attention to the metal rim.

A light tap earns him a soft echo. More experimentation tells him that it's a bowl being supported by the rim. A tap in the middle has his fingers breaking the surface of liquid. His heart pounds in new adrenaline as he carefully scoops up the bowl of- soup.

He takes it in both hands and finds that the bowl is a lot wider than the ones at the lair. The temperature is only a little warmer than that of the room.

Hundreds of thoughts race through at once, but he doesn't acknowledge any of them as the bowl rises- until soft prick rests against the side of his jaw.

He freezes, closing his mouth as he realizes that any motions to dump it through the muzzle were going to result in more of it hitting the floor than his tongue, especially if he can't open his mouth fully.

He swallows, and the lack of saliva rolls down his throat like a blade. He's almost desperate enough to risk it, but he has too many distant memories of younger years with too-little food and what came with refusing any portion of meals.

He stares down at the invisible soup that is overwhelming his senses and forces himself to put the bowl on the ground. He stares, hands presses against the floor but around the bowl, just in case it were to disappear and his self-restraint was all for not.

He flies through every idea that presents itself, refusing to experiment until he's certain that it's a possibility, and he pauses the vague image of humans leaning over a bucket filled to the brim with water and apples.

The bowl is in his hands and his face is ducking forward and then the warmth of rice and vegetables are hitting his face through the muzzle with broth against his cheeks and he has an entire mouthful of food and holy mother of mutations- is it good.

He swallows the first bite and then the second and a third- pulling away when he gets a squishy veggie of some sort with it, not caring about the broth staining or dripping down his face. He dives back in after he swallows and takes a breath, inhaling the food with as much desperation as a strangled person takes in air.

The soup crashes into the empty pit that was his stomach, filling him with a heat that rivals that of the room and scratching the itch that allows him to breathe easy again.

He barely processes the moment that the soup starts to lessen, muzzle hitting the bottom of the bowl and refusing him the little morsels that are left. He flips the bowl over, broth, bits of rice, and squishy vegetables landing in his palm. He pokes the bigger pieces through the muzzle and into his mouth, shaking the wet off his hands.

He's pretty sure that soup was the best thing that he's ever had in his life, but he's also been alive long enough to know that's the body's immediate reaction to all kinds of food after a period of not eating.

Now that his hunger is satiated, his body turns its attention to the other pressing concern. He mouth stays shut as he yawns, setting the bowl back to the floor and trudging away from it.

Raph goes back to his side of the room and flops down to the floor. He has the fleeting note of panic as his head touches the ground, but the bare minimum of discomfort brings a conflicting barge of emotions that almost crush him. He closes his eyes, arms sagging beside him as a tear trails the side of his face, and focuses on the warmth of a fogged brain and full stomach.

***

When he wakes, the room has lost the soup smell.

He misses it as he trails a talon along one of the lines that forms a door. The stand for the bowl rests to his left, but the bowl itself is gone. It makes him nervous. There could be multiple reasons for it to be missing. The main two conclusions that they amount to say it's gone so that it can be refilled out there or it's not coming back.

He hates the second one. Now that the hope of future food has been rekindled, it gives him a reason to fear the return of the hunger pains.

He shakes his head, standing as the faint hissing continues about him. He hasn't been able to find the origin of the sound that's slowly faded into background noise. He'd reached as high as he could along the walls, but no vents revealed themselves. Then again, he can't touch the roof, so he really has no idea what's up there. The idea that there's space he can't identify as safe makes him uncomfortable, so he tries not to dwell on it.

Raph almost thinks the hissing reminds him of those white noise asmr videos since it doesn't seem to be choking the life out of him or knocking him out entirely.

He has a funny taste on his tongue, but air travels in and out of his lungs without problems, so he accepts the hissing as another part of his living situation within the cement box.

He refuses to acknowledge the goosebumps over his arms or the feeling of impending doom. He doesn't let his thoughts stray to the intense notion of having eyes on him, because no matter how many times that he circles the room or how hard he listens, there's never anyone there.

It's just him letting his imagination run away with him now that he's not dead exhausted or caught up in starvation. He's not going to be a big baby.

So, instead of thinking about it, he begins a round of katas.

Then, only slightly lower than the sound of hissing, there's scuttering.

He stiffens, returning his arm to the safety of his chest, wrist pressed against plastron. He hesitates in his next action, certain that his mind is playing tricks on him until he hears it again.

A light scuttling across the floor, not even a few feet away.

His first instinct is to panic, but that's overlapped with some level of sanity. Out of everything he's dealt with, a singular tiny insect should not have his heart pounding this hard.

He lets out a frustrated grunt, stomping over to where the sound originates.

He's not going to be scared by the unexpected presence where there shouldn't be one, but he is going to figure out where it came from. Maybe if he does, he'll figure out how it got in. Maybe that could be his ticket out.

Raph spots something- a flicker of yellow- and he whirls.

There's only dark, and him. He turns back, certain that he's by a wall by now, and reaches out.

His hand bats air. He takes another step and throws his arm, determined to have his fingers brush the concrete domain. He's introduced to more air, and he obeys the impulse to dash into the black. He reaches out- waiting, waiting, waiting- for his hand to touch or smack or for him to run straight into his enclosure. He moves, faster and faster and faster until he feels absolutely stupid and skids to a stop, search the black frantically.

He's walked across the room, like, twenty times! So where the heck is the wall?! It's not like it could have WALKED OFF! IT'S A WALL!

He crouches down, hand on the floor, listening for the previous scratching in the dark.

The area is silent, deprived of the hissing that had given it an ominous character. He watches as the impossible becomes possible, and a shadow moves within the black. He rises up cautiously, trying to figure out how that even makes a lick of sense, muscles tense when it appears again.

It's large, clawed hands hang limp at its side, rising to full stature. It takes a step- heavy foot thudding the ground- and Raph tracks the wires, looking up to the piercing red glow.

It shrieks, filling the space between them, mandibles closing with an audible click.

It takes Raph a moment to process, mind doing back flips between shock and confusion, body leading him backwards.

Eyes wide and heart pounding, the truth finally seeps in.

OH, FOR THE LOVE OF-