Hello everyone! This is going to be a series of one or two-shots surrounding Obi. It will feature other characters, but mostly just Obi, because he's my precious little adorable baby. Plus he's super angsty sometimes, and I love angst.

A/N: This is a friendship fic! No yaoi whatsoever!

Enjoy.

Title: Beginnings

Zen had been wondering for a while now where, exactly, his new messenger came from. He'd been with them for a week now, and all the Second Prince had learned about Obi was his name and former occupation.

That wasn't exactly great to go off of when nobles asked him where he found such a skilled warrior - such a skilled weapon. Zen wanted something to prove to them - to himself - that Obi wasn't just a weapon with the gift of a name. That he was human, that he cared.

That he wanted to be here.

So one day, when they were training and Mitsuhide was off dealing with some paperwork and Kiki was cleaning her own sword on the far side of the ring, he sprung the question.

"Obi, where are you from?"

Obi froze, wooden practice sword dropping to brush the tip on the ground. He tilted his head to the side, studying Zen for a moment. Suddenly Zen felt as if all his life motivations, dreams, and hopes were being scrutinized in order to see if he was trustworthy.

Obi averted his eyes.

"I wonder, Master..."

Zen's eyes widened, the reply clicking into place. "You - you don't know?"

The ex-assassin's mouth twisted into a wry grin, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Why, Master? Would you like to meet my parents? Or perhaps see the streets where I grew up?"

Zen flushed, and looked away. "No! I was just wondering, that's all!"

The streets where I grew up. Did Obi mean that literally, or not? Zen sighed. One could never tell with Obi. Half-truths and self-depreciating riddles were all you would get if you poked to far.

What would happen if Zen pushed until he snapped? Would he attack? Run? Spill his entire story? Or simply refuse to tell at all?

"...But then, I suppose I don't really remember them, Master, so you'll have to do without."

Zen's head snapped up. "You don't remember - did you literally mean the streets?"

Obi raised a brow, eyes darkening with a challenge at Zen's tone. Curse me, break me, burn me, but don't manipulate me. "Yes. I did. Not everyone has pleasure like you do, Master. Some are born to fight and claw and kill."

Zen's eyes great as wide at saucers. "You - You can't mean that. No one is born to kill."

Obi nodded, not meeting his eyes. "True. But they are raised to." He lifted his eyes, golden orbs serious. "Never forget that, Master. Not all of us are what we seen - in the underground, we had one purpose - to kill and then disappear like we'd never been there. Every master we serve is different, but they're all the same in what they want."

I have killed people. Zen heard the unspoken message in Obi's voice. I have been passed around like an animal in a cart, used and driven until my legs give out and I fall. Then they let me rest for a day, and use me again.

"Obi - " Zen ground out, reaching out to touch him. Obi stiffened, and shied away, eyes wary. Zen dropped his hand. "I'm sorry."

Are you? Obi's eyes asked.

Zen nodded. "I am."

The other boy stared at him for a moment, and then turned and set off toward the trees. A few moments later, he was upon the rooftop - safe, where no one could make him question who he was and what he was.

Zen watched him go, a sudden sadness at the world that could take such a funny, smiling, happy boy and turn him into a weapon of war and messenger of death.

"I am sorry." He whispered.

I know, the wind blew.