A/N: My first attempt at a chaptered story, and an AU one. What happens when social studies class gets boring...please comment!

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Bang, Bang!

The forceful pull back sent him sprawling, the boy's small body was forced backwards, unprepared for it completely. The rifle, however, so long and dark, with shiny iron that dazzled in the dim light, didn't escape his grip for a second. The young boy held it upright with tiny balled fists, his knuckles whitening. One finger was still held on the cold trigger.

"Pein…Pein! Dear child, are you alright?" A worred female voice called from across the grassy field, devoid of creatures, as they'd all scurried away at the loud noise. The small boy's tightly shut eyes shot open, vision adjusting as he turned towards his mother. She was a middle-aged woman, the type that always looks older than their true age due to years of poverty and hard work. She had small creases around her eyes and mouth, worn from time and stress. She wore a long dress of faded grey, handmade with fine stitches and beautifully made for such cheap material, durable throughout the long time, billowing gently in the soft breeze as it passed. But even the dress, which despite her fine hands and craftsmanship, could easily been described as misshapen, could not hide her slender form. Her hips were well formed, with a thin and slim waist, and an endowed chest that proved once more her former beauty. Black hair was strewn up into a messy bun, strands falling in front of her ebony eyes, set with an almond-shape upon her pale demeanor, very few blotches staining it.

They lived in a small house, mad of whatever wood that Pein's father could aquire. The small boy liked to place his tiny and pale hands on the rough, cold logs that his father had put so many hours into shaping and sawing to build a shelter for his family. And it helped, the small connection that was felt by this, for his father had died long ago.

The boy had little memory of the man who'd fathered him, only that he was a tall and well built man, with a mess of orange hair. It was odd, but the one thing that flashed brightly in his young memory was the dazzle of the glimmering earrings that he wore on pale ears. His mother so often begged in her frustrated tone to sell them and grow up, but he'd refuse with a charming laugh, claiming they were passed down from his great-great grandfather, who'd fought in the Battle of New Orleans, causing the woman he'd married to shake her head with a sigh.

Pein had seen what he shouldn't have, after the perish of his father to the horror of pneumonia. In a small box in his mothers room, which smelled so sweet like her, he'd found his fathers old earrings. He'd thought that she'd sold them for sure, but she hadn't. He'd also heard her crying at night, letting out despondent sobs that echoed through the craftily handmade walls.

His mother was so strong though, keeping their small family of two together. She sewed so often, day in and day out, trying so hard to raise sufficient funds for them both. He loved her with the unconditional love of a child, uncaring to the taunts of 'Momma's boy' from the other kids his age. He stayed by her side as much as he could, the only person who brought a smile to his face.

Well, that wasn't completely true, for he'd had one other friend. A sweet girl from school named Konan. She had sparkling eyes and beautiful blue eyes that spilled over her slender shoulders gently. He remembered that beautiful origami flower that she'd worn in her hair all the time, and she'd attempted to teach him as well. Unsuccessfully though. Dreams, hopes, they'd talked of everything, but she'd moved not too long ago, much to his sorrow, leaving him with but one real person who cared for him.

The crisp smell of gunpowder wafted into Pein's nostrils, and he stood up on shaky legs. His wide eyes gazed down to the musket, amazed by the sheer strength of the object. He'd always had a fascination with it, the weapon that sat in the family room gathering dust. But only a few times before had he had the courage to try and shoot it, working on his sharpshooting skills. He wasn't good, but still had a bit of an advanced edge in comparison to the other boys his age. And he was really getting a feel for it, something that vexed his mother to no end. He looked over to her then and gave her a silent nod of reassurance, hoping for relief, but knowing that wasn't what was coming.

"Darling, you know I hate you touching that thing." His mother stated tiredly, a deep frown set on the face that must have once been so very beautiful. Pein dropped the musket immediately as he heard the concern that troubled her sturdy voice. He turned a sheepish glance to her, for he knew this all to well.

"I'm sorry Mama." He said apologetically in his small voice. The smokey smell cleared, and the boy rose a small fist to his hypnotic eye, rubbing it as a bit of dust entered and troubled him. He'd never admit it to his worried mother, but he absolutely loved the crisp smell of gunpowder, the sheer force as the bullet rang out.

His mother turned her hardened gaze away, muttering wildly under her breath with annoyance and, he detected keenly, nervousness.

"Don't worry, Mama. I was only trying to help." He told her with wide, naïve eyes.

"Help? How? By shooting yourself? Or perhaps by scaring me half to death?" Her stern voice came, a hint of southern drawl. "Please, child."

"There was a rabbit…" He muttered in feeble explanation, not that it was rare or non-understandable for a boy's instincts to bring home bacon to kick in. His mother, like so many others, was the kind that mastered the ability to bring her son guilt with one look of disappointment.

"Why don't you go get us some water from the creek, boy?" She said at last, breaking the awfully uncomfortable silence that weighed heavily between the two. Pein, being the obedient child he was, nodded solemnly and began to drudge away. The gun was still held in his hand, trailing along the ground behind him and causing a slight line of removed earth to appear behind him.

"What do you think you're doing?" His mother asked with a raised eyebrow, amusement in her voice as she eyed the rifle.

"Going to the river…" He replied evasively.

"With that? I don't think so."

"Aw, c'mon Mama!"

"Child, I said no." Her tone turned stern now.

"I just wanna take it for a bit…" Whining entered his voice.

"Fine. But be careful, darling."

"Thank you!"

"I love you, baby."

Pein skipped off happily with this acceptance, musket trailing on the ground still. He glanced back at his mother and gave her another wave before turning away for the last time and continuing along the grassy field of green to the creek. A bit of a way away it was, and he had to cross through some light woods to arrive there. He gazed around, distracted by all the wildlife around him. The smell wafted of animal and beautiful flowers, the tinge of gunpowder from the older hunters still remained in the air if you sniffed hard enough. The smell of sap as well entered his nose, the familiar combination that of his favorite scent.

Soon he arrived at the muddy banks of the Pottawatomie river, the bucket from the house in the hand that did not clutch the musket. The quick sloshing sound of the roaring river carried throughout, and he bent over and filled the pail with the muddled dark blue water, watching the fish swim away in glee. Hesitating, he placed down the pail and the musket carelessly, and then walked along the side of the stream, gazing down at his reflection at the fish. He sloshed a hand through the water and watched in childlike fascination as they again broke their school up and swam in all different directions, a small giggle escaping his lips as he was absorbed by the fascination of this simple stream.

It was a long time afterwards that he grabbed the rusted metal bucket, the wire handle gripped tightly in his hand, the musket in the other again, dragging the heavy weapon on the ground as not to tire out his arm, still weak like a child of his age's tended to be, before the muscles really strengthened. He looked up at the sky, and realized with a sharp pang of guilt that his mother would be worried, for it was quite late now. Way past his bedtime. His eyes steadily adjusted to the new dark lighting as he rushed through the woods, a horrible feeling in his gut as he made his way to the house. Twigs and leaves snapped under his crudely made shoes, bushes russeling as tried to get home as fast as possible, while still keeping the water in the pail from spilling onto the ground.

Soon, the house came into view, and he felt a sigh of relief escape his lips, until the scream ripped through the calm night, and the bucket fell from his hands with a loud clatter as water stained the earth and mixed with crimson blood.