Be It Ever So Humble
I suppose it has to have been a few years now. The sprawling underground base has become a local stigma. Not to say it wasn't a local stigma when it was operational. The population accepted that living within a certain radius of any of Otokagure's bases runs certain risks. The horror stories were countless: darkest and more terrifying at their rural points of origination before spreading across the known world as rumors. I scarcely thought it could get any worse than tales of kidnapping, human experimentation, necromancy and genocide.
But news of the murder of Orochimaru spread like wildfire. A violent wildfire. The Tyrant Great White Snake was dead. Surely the rest of the world celebrated this immediately but those of us in Rice country- we froze for a few days. Living in the shadow of such a man, we found it hard to believe he could simply be gone.
He'd come to be feared as some sort of dark god. The kind of dark god parents scared their children obedient with and the kind that preceded dead heroes in grim fairy tales. The kind that travelers of superstitious build carried totems to ward off as if he were a vampire or goddamn demon. Or the Devil himself.
The news settled like a blanket over the villages nearest the base said to have been the scene of the crime. In actuality Oto was known to have dozens of bases all over the world and many more no one even knew about. I thought surely the people over-romanticized the fall. There was an excited hush upon younger denizens. Talk of freedom and all that nonsense. The elders knew not much would change; the country was still devastatingly poor.
Daring chatter of looting the base cropped up in drinking holes and eateries soon after. That seemed like a terrible idea, the worst possible in fact. But much of this country regularly bathed in desperation. Coupled with the lack of stimulating activity around here the local brigands took the idea to heart. I haven't seen a number of them since.
At the time I smugly thought they begot what they deserved for doing something so pointlessly radical, a stupid venture in the den of snakes, dead or otherwise. Now I stand at the once gaping entrance into the base. The dark archway was choked in vines as well as debris. My eyes toyed with the idea of vague shapes of fallen men beneath but I am sure it was just the adrenaline seeping into my brain. I had never even come near this place in all my days. I had thought the country folk silly to be stuck in their superstitious past but I religiously shied away from the faded little snake painted on the arch's pillar.
In recent days my father mustered up the gumption to push his trolley down into this little slice of darkness. He was sure he could find useful glassware or scraps of metal to sell, the enthusiastic collector he was. I insisted it must have all been plundered by now but my frail old man with his large half-rusted trolley tottered off into the dark, whistling no doubt. He assured my mother the snake was dead and its most faithful disciple had fled long ago. But he has been gone a few days and I have been urged to come and find him.
I had hunted down one of the bandits first to loot this place. I had known him from childhood as a prideful rough-and-tumble thief. I asked him for a safe way in. The price for this information was a long-winded boast. I was regaled with a harrowing tale of his survival, undoubtedly exaggerated and refined over years of retelling. All I took away from it was being profoundly glad Lord Orochimaru's loyal subordinate had left this place. The boy was said to have gone quite made at the loss of his master. More mad than the usual Otokagure madness.
As I skirted around the main entrance I looked about for the vent my bandit friend instructed me about. It was little more than a glorified hole in the foliage. Although it was exceedingly unremarkable I was struck by a feeling of dread staring into the impenetrable black beyond. I had never experienced such foreboding fear in all my simple life. I stood paralyzed a moment. This was going to be the most daring thing I've ever done. Working the rice patties and taking care of my parents was no means for excitement or adventure. I was always much more reserved than my spontaneous father. I thought about my white-haired old man shuffling about into God-knows-what with a lackadaisical grin. Here I was scared stiff just standing outside of it.
Eventually I gathered just enough waning courage to carefully lower myself into the gaping blackness. All that courage I gathered fluttered off in all directions in the seconds between letting go of the edge and my feet hitting the ground. I stumbled with a small outcry, having struck something on the way down. My cheeks flushed in embarrassment as I glanced up towards the only source of light to see it had been a gutter constructed to catch the rain.
It was far too dark to begin exploring, especially with the infamous use of booby traps in the snake's bases. Thinking back to stories I've heard of entire structures flooding thanks to a self-destructive trap, I became ten times more anxious about the lack of light. I stooped against course stone to gather my lantern, no more than a glorified candle holder my father no doubt gathered up decades ago. I found myself hoping the flint would relieve the oppressive and somewhat damp scent lingering in the air when I struck it. It did not.
As I lifted my new light source about what I felt was my safe radius I realized I was lucky there was no gas or chemical leak and I didn't just explode. I could have died four times already and I haven't taken a step. I appeared to be in a room that was once lived in, most likely by a foot soldier or a servant. It was quite small and contained only a stripped, moth-eaten bed and an overturned nightstand. As this was obviously ransacked long ago I tried to assure myself that if bandits had gotten in and out so could I.
I steeled myself to step out of this room into an inevitable hallway. This assurance shrank away as I looked both directions. Either way the hall continued into impenetrable darkness dotted only occasionally with soft light coming from one of the many doorways lining the carved walls. I stood for what seemed like ages. I felt like I was five. The ritualistic sprint performed down the hall late at night to my parent's room. I remember how it felt as if pressure mounted in the darkness just at my back and the utter terror. I imagined so strongly the horrors that could be lurking within I was always in tears by the time I reached my mother. Only in this situation the terrors could very well be real.
How did my father even get in here? His trolley was twice his size and twice his age. He must have gone through the front entrance. How was I even supposed to begin looking for him? What if something has happened to him? What if he has fallen down some crevice, or trapped his leg in some rubble, or fell victim to some awful exposed chemical? The village thought my old man fearless. I always thought of him as less fearless and more oblivious. And now unspeakably selfish to make me come in here after him all for scraps!
My anger trumped my fear and I chose a direction out of spite. I picked my way with purpose to the right, stepping over rubble and the occasional defunct piece of unidentifiable equipment. I glanced in each doorway as I came to it, hoping beyond hope that perhaps my father would be lingering in a room beyond. No such luck of course.
Most of the doorways were merely similar rooms to the one in which I started. Others still were sad and empty storerooms or eerily still washrooms. This must have been some semblance of servant's quarters. Most of the world at large only associated Lord Orochimaru's bases with the man himself and only a handful of others: his loyal spy, the last Uchiha boy from the Leaf, as well as whomsoever was pertinent to whatever experiment he had his fingers in that month. I suppose we never thought about the scale of the base. Such a place would need upkeep and service. I scowled slightly at the notion; the sheer number of people's daily lives it took to sustain this one man's flighty sinister whims.
Eventually the hallway turned sharply to the right. The wall now in front of me was adorned with an elaborate snake carving once accentuated with a candle holder at the head. I had a feeling I would get awfully tired of snakes by the time this was over. For the time being I felt the direction change of the hallway was making progress. This was, of course, stupid. As I further padded my way to the right the hall seemed to change. It got wider and the ceiling became vaulted.
The doorways, now anointed on either side with rusted candle holders, were few and far between. Beyond these were impressive rooms apparently of various purposes. Some rooms had worn desks, podiums, or merely places to sit. Bookcases or shelves lined the walls. These had nothing remaining in them. My father remained elusive.
I cautiously ventured into one of these larger rooms for a place to rest my feet only because it was lit from the surface by a similar vent. It appeared to be another room for reclining, also lined with barren shelves. I stayed on one side of the room as at the other end was a stagnant water feature and a pile of broken string instruments. As a carefully sat on the edge of a sandstone ottoman I thought about how much more eloquent this section of the base was as compared to where I started. The Giant Snake must have been wholly hedonistic if the base only looked regal and livable in the areas he apparently frequented.
I bent over to remove my sandals and massage my feet. I felt perhaps I was being a little melodramatic about it, as I've been on my feet all my working life. The light coming from the surface was indeed a few hours later. I was trying to come to terms with the fact that the sun would eventually go down and leave me in the dark. I followed the light beam back down to my toes as I put my sandals back on. I noticed a scrap of material wedged under the ottoman.
Plucking it free and bringing it to my face I could see it was torn from a fine silk cloth. I don't think I'd ever even handled anything made of such a fine material. It was the kind of silk you may walk by in the big city markets, displayed in a royal vendor stall, and sigh dreamily as if it were a distant dream to have any. I then glanced about the room once more. The seats and benches had once all had cushions draped in silk to sit and watch the fountain or listen to the lyrical strings. Despite the pang of hatred for all this decadence I did feel sad that a room so calm and warm had been ransacked to nothing and left to the cold.
I tucked the scrap into my pocket and sighed heavily. I built up my resolve once more to venture out into this horrible place. My father had to be around here somewhere. I cursed at my old man under my breath as a walked ever onward. I almost didn't notice the hall open up on one side to a large area. In all honesty I had no idea what it was once as any furniture was trampled to rubble and strewn about. I was afraid still to pass through the middle of an open space even though I had seen no other living thing since I ventured in here. It took several minutes for me to leave the safety of the hallway.
/Part 1. Hey nerds: The hideout Orochimaru is murdered in was actually in the East & not in Rice Country. But you know. For literature. -Orochimartyr