Author's Note:

So, it's been over a decade since I've written fanfiction. Recently got the urge to give it a shot again. Would love any and all feedback: please read, review, favorite, etc. I'll try my best to start going through stories to do the same, :).

Housekeeping: I don't own Naruto. I've taken some liberties with Hidan, so, while he'll mainly be in-character, you may notice some tweaks here and there.

Cheers,

Steve.

Clumps of wet dirt crumpled in my mouth and I spat them out, wriggling my tongue. It'd been weeks since I'd been trapped in this hole, and though I didn't need food or water, even my patience was starting to wear thin.

"LET ME OUT OF HERE!"

I hadn't called for Jashin-sama today. After I shouted his name the fiftieth time, I was sure he'd appear, wonderful and awash in blood. I was positive he'd reattach my head to my body and we'd celebrate my resurgence by massacring a small village.

But he still hadn't come.

Neither had Kakuzu, for that matter. Given how much time had passed, he had to be dead—even if he was a godless heathen, he liked having me around too much to leave me here. Those Konoha bastards must have taken him out.

No partner. No god. No arms.

If I knew converting to Jashinism would have led me into this mess, I probably would have stayed a simple shop-keeper in Yugakure. If only I didn't have so much bloodlust.

Even as a kid, I often had to blink away visions of death: my classmates' limbless bodies strewn on the ground; my teachers in their dying moments, blood spilling from their lips. I didn't tell anyone though—not my parents, not my best friend, Kyuuki. For a village that had already forgotten what war was even like, I would have been the worst of all omens.

So, I kept it all to myself until I killed them all.

My name is Hidan, highest priest of Jashin. And this is my story.

I was born a little over twenty years ago, on a cold, April morning. Even when I was five, I was told no hawks screamed at my birth like they did for everyone else's—my mother always thought it was a little strange. Instead, they were as mum as statues, as if I'd stolen their songs.

"But not everyone needs to have a hawk announce their birth," my mother consoled me, after she told me for the eightieth time about my birth story. I was still a little boy then—I couldn't tell whether she was lying or not. When every other person was born, shrill hawk calls filled the village, echoing through the walls.

But I gave her a little smile instead. Thanks, mom. Lie to me.

I didn't need hawks to tell me whether or not I was different, though—all I needed to do was look at my baby sister. My aunts and uncles and cousins would come by, playing with her fat cheeks, teasing her, laughing. All I felt was disgust roiling around my stomach. True, Ayaka was a cute girl, I guess, but all she did was eat, burp and poop all day. She was annoying.

With all of their ooing and ahing, I just went to the kitchen and pulled out the pine drawer. Inside was my mom's sharp carving knife—the same knife she used to cut quail meat for dinner last week. My eyes were drawn to the glittering edge, the serrated grooves—I couldn't help licking my lips as my thumbs stroked it.

I want to see blood on it.

I would have taken it out and stuffed it into my small overall pockets, but my father was staring at me, as if he could see the demon inside me. His paint brush was on the table—my fantasies from the knife must have ruined his calligraphy session. He walked over to me and shut the drawer with a soft press of his fingers.

"Go play with your cousins, Hidan," he groaned.

He had reason to be annoyed—by now, I'd already gotten caught three times playing with knives in my room. I'd heard his conversations with my mom after the last time they'd caught me—I may have been five, but I wasn't stupid.

"Something's strange about that boy," he complained. "He's different somehow."

He didn't know how right he was. In a village of happy-go-lucky hippies, I was the only one retaining some shinobi instincts—like I was born to do it. He could try to smother me with my bumbling cousins as much as he wanted but there was no changing that.

I went back into our living room, heavy with the scent of jasmine incense. My cousin Takuya was here, dark-haired and chortling for no reason. He was a little older than me, so he was in second grade—I was still in kindergarten.

"Want to play Tour Guides?" he simpered.

Tour Guides was this stupid game that most of the kids in the village liked to play. In it, one person ran a tour shop and the other was a visitor. The tour shop owner then took the visitor around the make believe town, showing them imaginary tour sites. It was all preparation for when we grew up to become tour guides most of the other people in the village.

It was a stupid game and I hated everything about it.

"How about we play Shinobi instead?" I shot back. I wasn't surprised when he grumbled in reply—Shinobi was a game I'd made up and harassed the other kids in school with. According to my game, we made teams—one side was a team of shinobi, protecting someone. And the other team was another set of shinobi, trying to kill the target.

And so, each team of shinobi fought to the death to win. It was a great game—my heart thumped in my ears last time I'd gotten kids to play. But when I'd almost strangled a girl in my class, my teacher put me on time out.

"I don't wanna," Takuya whined. Ugh. Not like I would force him—something told me he'd lose on purpose.

Before long, my aunts and uncles had to go—it was Monday tomorrow, and the village would be getting a fresh set of tourists, so everyone had to prepare to guide them. The hot springs would be extra hot tomorrow. And for us kids, we had school.

Not that I cared. Each day was like the last, so it didn't matter to me—nothing did.

Lord, rescue me from this place.

What I didn't know then was that even the voices of five-year-olds can reach Jashin. And soon, he'd be showing me a blood-colored world I didn't even know was possible.