Every day was a fight for Ten Ten. At five she woke alongside her teammates, running, jumping, and kicking with two green beasts and one stone faced hawk. After accomplishing all that was humanly possible, she ate the same thing she ate every morning: a bowl of rice with grilled fish. Her meal finished, she inventoried the weapons for her parent's shop. This usually took her until she went out to the practice fields at around noon until nightfall. There she practiced what her sensei taught her, hard work. Every day was a fight because she always heard the same things.
"Too plain," said the women.
"Too weak," said the men.
Crunch went the wood.
A show starring Hinata Hyuuga, the curtains opened forever. Heiress to a giant clan, the hilarity of the expectations brought little amusement to her downcast eyes. She woke up to the gentle fist, ate in fear of the gentle fist, and lived under the weight of the gentle fist. It was their way and it was the path carved out for her with two fingers and a heavy tradition. All seeing eyes did nothing in the face of blind servitude. Every day was a show because she pretended she believed in her family.
"Too dim," said the women.
"Too soft," said the men.
Thud went the gentle fist.
For Sakura Haruno, it was a dance. In and out of the lives of each patient, she brought them back to life, invigorated the sick, healed the wounded, and mourned the dead. It was tiring, treading the line between life and death. What was worse was the guilt, the blame, the criticism, the heavy thoughts that wore through the soles of her shoes and caused her feet to bleed. Every day was a dance because she was spinning out of control.
"Too young," said the women.
"Too slow," said the men.
Beep went the heart monitor.
Ino Yamanaka didn't think games were amusing anymore. She used to think that diving into different worlds was fun, but crawling through the mazes created by craven criminals held no appeal to her. They used to be more like puzzles, the end result was a saved life and a mission accomplished. They quickly became memories of rape and murder, relished by the people whose minds she invaded. She woke up with night terrors, herself the imagined victims she saw through the eyes of the villainous. Every day was a game that she didn't want to play anymore.
"Too shallow," said the women.
"Too fragile," said the men.
Crack went the sanity.
When the women and the men began to scream, the village was brought to its knees, and suddenly there were no whispers in their ears. No whispers, only screams.