Disclaimer: I don't own Naruto.
Mikoto listens to the musical sound. Wind against wind, with a metallic clang to crash between wind. It is fascinating and foreign. It comes from the enclosed training ground nearby, whipping against the stone walls.
It is a girl who is the source of these sounds, maybe three or four years younger than Mikoto herself. She holds a massive iron fan, nearly as big as she is to bear with a strength unheard of in one so slight and slender. Mikoto takes in her cloud of honey hair, her smooth, sun-kissed skin, her glowing eyes, her dark brown kimono top and cream-colored skirt—
—And her Sand hitai-ate.
Mikoto instinctively reaches for her kunai and activates her Sharingan; she readies for a fight, tensing every muscle in her body. Then a few disjointed phrases flashes through her mind—Chunin exams…armistice—and relaxes.
The Leaf are at peace with these people now.
The girl continues on oblivious—Mikoto would be surprised and impressed if she could hear her over the siren of the wind she makes—so as to allow her watcher to gaze for a few more moments unnoticed.
With the Sharingan, Mikoto can see what this girl is doing. She channels her chakra through the fan to create precisely concentrated wind, filled with dense chakra blades to slice and cut. They create clean cuts, which Mikoto knows bleed far more than a ragged cut from shuriken could.
She dances through her dangerous wind with grace and a complete lack of fear or even knowledge of the potential fatality of the wind to its mistress. She slips through eddies and swords with the agility of a supple dancer, and either doesn't notice Mikoto or doesn't care that she watches.
It's all too fascinating. Mikoto has some sense that if she continues on unstaunched she will be drawn to destruction as ships were drawn to the rock of the sirens, to be consumed by the rocks or devoured by the beasts.
"An enclosed space really doesn't do you justice." It's true; this girl is obviously used to fighting with an unlimited swath at her feet, with no wall or rock face or vegetation to impede it.
The blonde holds her fan behind her back in one arm (again, Mikoto is astonished by her sheer strength). She looks behind her, with one glimmering green-onyx eye to fix her in a gaze more intense than that of a Hyuuga.
"I feel more at ease out from under the trees," she answers in a soft, accented voice; her tones hold the wind, not the wind she creates with her fan, but the desert wind, hot and bright and unending in its grasp. "Where your people do not hide." Her skin smelled like sand and desert flowers.
She continued on, whipping and dancing and reveling in her creation that raises her hair and exposes her mesh-clad thighs, completely unconcerned that someone might be watching.
She is foreign and strange; Mikoto does not understand her at all.
And as she walks home, and for many days afterwards, the sound of wind, and a metallic clang in between, echoes in her ears, long after the girl has continued on.