I've seen him running around the village before, usually in the company of his crazy-ass teacher. This time he is strolling down the street, friends at his side and a smile on his face. His cheerful voice rings around the village, edged with a hint of laughter.
I don't know him very well other than the fact that he can't use chakra at all. The only memories I have of him were those that are filled with jeers and mocking laughter. We'd been in the same year at the Academy and if anyone wanted to be accepted by the hierarchy of students, all they had to do was offer some sort of comment that slighted his outdated clothes, his braided hair, his oversized eyebrows, or his lack of ability in everything. Hot-blooded, dork, loser, failure; any of them would suffice.
I remember when the cruel, expectant faces of my classmates had been turned on me, the boy standing in front of me, waiting. My mouth opened, then shut again. A collective sneer swept through my audience. I clenched my tiny fists, determined to be accepted, to join this small community. When I met the boy's dark eyes all I saw was sorrow and longing, but he stood as tall as a six year old could, his expression defiant despite his trembling lower lip. Somehow he made me angry. He didn't deserve to be here. He was a failure, a hopeless cause. I'd heard my parents laugh about his entering the Academy, and I'd seen the teachers disapproving glares.
"Eyebrow freak," I hissed with all the conviction I could muster. The boy winced as the others broke into uproarious laughter, as if no one had ever thought to call him the name before. I was showered with words of approval and praise, rewarded with the grinning faces of the masses. As I allowed myself to be led away by the mob of my classmates, I glanced back at the silent boy and watched in horror as a lone tear slid down his cheek and dripped off his chin.
Never had I felt as ashamed of myself as I had at that moment. He had learned to accept the inevitable, and he had the strength to withstand my insult. Not one of the twenty other children even bothered to comfort him. They all wanted too badly to tear him apart. It was disgusting, yet I did nothing. I simply let myself be swept away by the crowd of children, trying to forget the expression of pure sorrow on the boy's face.
In recent years I have come to understand the cruelty of children, the vicious words and tactics designed to bring them to the top. Even today I can t understand the force that drives them that drove me.
Yet here he is, a successful shinobi graduate. A genin, not quite chunin, surrounded by the grinning faces of good friends and the support of a caring sensei. What has become of me? I am a nobody, going nowhere, no time soon. So I suppose that in the end, the real dropouts and losers are the ones who slap labels on others as easily as they might label canned goods. The real victors are the ones who defy the labels and strive for true excellence.