Long time ago, I guess you could say we were happy.
Starving, beaten and bruised. But still, happy. I like to call those times when I still had a heart. Still whole as a person, not broken. We had an air of innocence. Age really didn't seem to matter when we were young. There were twenty years old who could whip out a sword and skin you in seconds.
Of course, I'll admit. We were badasses. Or still are. I don't see that group of kids anymore. Regulus. Bellenivue. Shizuka. Yung. That childhood, when I look back on it, it's like watching a television show. A movie. When I watch that little girl bury her best friend's sister, it's like watching from afar. I suppose I should be thankful that I can distance myself, from myself. Hah, thankful.
Oh yeah. I am sure thankful. Because being stuck in this stupid village with the shinobi which seem to breed like rabbits is where I want to be. Stuck making swords and repairing broken tools, laughed and stared at. When I grew up, I remember, out of all the lessons that were beaten into my skull, and do mean beaten literally, shinobi were the worse. Never lie, they said. Never bow, they said. Aim to kill, they said. But if was one thing that the drunk adults in the bar recited over and over again, shinobi are the worse. They killed us by the number, dragged our bodies and sold them. We were no different, of course. Assasins, mercernaries like us made a living off of chopping heads. But the damned shinobi. Oh, how they irked everyone. They, who thought themselves superior than us. It became a hate, a hate that was bred into us, one by one. Kids, if they survived starvation, grew to hate shinobi. But I guess, we never had a choice. We were given swords and seals and chakra natures and were expected to kill. The worse of it, was it was true. Superior to us in every way. The girls who dieted themselves on purpose, throwing out such waste when I knew people who would eat the rice, dirt and all. They could kill and kill, but their names were marked down in a Bingo Book, they were given medals and names of honor. We, mercernaries and assassins, could get no thing. I'm not complaining.
Shinobi, by tales, were smart and powerful. We as kids, sitting by the fire-side, told tales of such legends. Of shinobi with powerful flames that swallowed countries and swords that were taller than buildings. They were foolish stories and probably false. But with a little bread and some dried fruit that we had stole earlier, we could dream. But no matter what happened, the hero of the tale, the worshipped shinobi, would always encounter us. The bad guys, the villians. At most, we were stupid, big and brawny, never female but male. One in every tenth story there would be the cunning, the smart assassin. We never knew why the assassin was so cruel to the shinobi, I guess they never wanted us to know what the shinobi did to the assassins in the first place. After all,
But we learned quickly, that it was foolish to dream.
Regulus was the first to lose his dream, his heart. His father burned him alive when he was young, marring his face with twisted skin, charred black that never returned to original peach skin color as he aged. I killed my first man that day, along with Bellenivue, burned Reg's dad in the same way he killed his son. That day, we learned that the world was untrustworthy.
Bellinvue's dream died when his sister commited suicide, having fallen for a shinobi who broke her heart. He died that day, and crossed the place over his heart with a blade. The first of our traditions. He lost his heart that day. Reg an' I, we raced after that shinobi, ripped him to shreds. We learned that the world was unforgiving.
I lost mine when I watched Canary died. Heart ripped out, voice screaming. Seven years old, never hurt a fly. But killed nonetheless, because of the importance he held over the heads of our town. We learned that the world was unkind and unjust.
Regulus started his own gang, rising in rank and terror. Instead of bowing to his fears, he embraced them. Known everywhere as the Dragon Lord for his powerful flame attacks, he is the man I can call brother when my own abandoned me.
Bellinvue was the Green Man, a powerful earth jutsu man whose signature color was green, tanned brown skin marred by three pale scars on his left cheek.
And me, a blend of both, but never one to use jutsu. I was more of a metal lover myself, my signature blade the thin Bonechiller and two axes on my belt.
I once believed in heroes. I once thought that we were heroes. But I know better now. Heroes lie and decieve. Shinobi are heroes, but I am not a hero nor shinobi.
I am Renn of a thousand scars, who fights and claws and bites. I am imperfect and flawed, with a world chewing on my ass because of something I once was.
I am the shadows, I am fear.
I am the villian.
