Blue
Cotton
dis.claimed.
When she was little she'd splattered a girl's dress with mud. The assaulted, blushing wildly (humiliated, stunned, hurt), had held the skirt of the dress in front of her, glaring at the mesh of soft cotton blue and shit-brown. Tenten, with great pride in her aim, had lectured on the impracticality of dresses and skirts—how a true ninja was above such vain concerns, a true ninja would have dodged, a true ninja would know better then to challenge someone who obviously outclassed them.
Her teacher had interrupted then, placing a stern hand on her shoulder. A true ninja, he murmured, did not pick on the weak. They did not prey on the weak.
She did not care. She was not weak and she was not a victim.
Tenten didn't wear dresses.
&
When she was thirteen she fell.
Not to the group of children she'd tormented daily as a child. Not to the people who justly deserved revenge on their old playground bully. They'd likely had forgotten her by then, anyway. She'd be glad if everyone forgot the days when she thought nothing of stepping on the littlest boy's foot. She'd thought nothing of stealing the slowest child's lunch if they hadn't moved fast enough for her that day.
She was not that little girl anymore. That horrible little waste of a girl.
Tenten would pay for her crimes anyhow.
Maybe she would have resisted. She would've clung to the air—she would've curled herself into a ball and braced for impact. But she saw the fan and the cocky blonde girl that awaited her descent.
By then she was tired. So she stopped running. She let air slip through her fingers.
She often found it funny how a bully was a victim to none but themselves.
She broke against the fan, blood escaping in her gasp. (Mud covered her face.)
Tenten was defeated by a ninja in a dress.