A/N:This work is very AU. The initial arcs are centered around Mist, but it'll go beyond that. Sasuke's one hit kills (all of em), his genjutsu, and the EMS have been nerfed, and the same applies to the rinnegan Naruto possesses. I have written several fics that require severe suspension of disbelief and break the power scale, so for once I decided to focus less on that and more on the story and the relationships. This is the result.
Character backstories will be revealed in the fic, and the same applies to the circumstances in Mist, but keep in mind that they are significantly different from what they were in canon. How is it this way? You'll see. I don't just want to type it out in a A/N. It is less fun that way.
This fic has no Akatsuki, no Obito, no undead Madara, and again, it's not like canon at all. I am borrowing only the characters and the Village system. Time period, hm, it's not really relevant for this fic.
Sasuke won't be bashed. He is a good guy in this fic. In fact, no one will be bashed. I don't like bashing anymore and some of my initial fics make me sad.
Haku is female. This fic has no yaoi or yuri. If you have a problem with that, then apologies, but this fic isn't for you. I have no issues with yaoi, but I'll never write it cause I can't do justice to it.
All that being said, let us begin.
Chapter 1
The sky had squeezed into a rumpled red robe. A brisk breeze blew, ruffling the red mass. The shimmering clouds resembled the spreading sweat-stains that accumulated under the armpits of a loose silken garb on a stuffy day. No one in this barren country remembered what fresh drops of rain dripping down the face felt like. The scent of wet mud, the sight of verdant, vibrant green were threads of memory that'd come loose from the frayed fabric of conscious thought and floated away into the roiling fog of forgotten experience.
As Uchiha Sasuke stepped out of the tavern, feckless faces stared at him from every corner of this paradise of squalor. The luckless land, instead of weakly whelping a healthy yield, birthed a stillborn residue of blackened wheat and ashen rice, sickly flower and tarred, marred fruit.
The first few times he wandered the crisscrossing streets— reminiscent of the crosswords he and his brother, during happier times, took turns completing—he was confronted by child pickpockets, who, under the pretence of begging, extended anaemic arms and pawed at his cloak in an attempt to relieve him of his puffy purse. Then their rheumy eyes, metaphors for malnourishment, met his faintly amused ones; then with howls they skittered away, spitting out in rusty croaks a stream of curses that no child had any business knowing, their boxed, bruised ears slowly blushing the lush red of a blooming rose. Now no one bothered trying anything. The desolate landscape just endured in sullen silence the dispassionate judgement of his eyes and the rhythmic thump thump of his tread.
Gritted murmurs of Shinobi were often the norm when he drifted past clusters of people— his gait and his bearing gave him away. It was no different today, and in the pale flush of the setting sun, he admired the hostility, the venom, no, more amusing, the outright hate, in some of those gazes. Had he been anywhere else, then this could easily have been remedied; it was, after all, hardly a challenge to throw up a henge. But he was in rebel territory, and his bloodline, while problematic, was not a direct death sentence. Besides, he wanted the people to know; he wanted the rumours to take up a life of their own and traverse the land till they reached the eager ears of a certain someone.
He had been here for a week and had made little progress. No matter. He was nothing if not patient. He was in the southernmost state in the land of water, and the heat, the heat that in ironic contrast mocked this country's name, was barely bearable. But he had borne far worse with the slightest of shrugs, so the suffering here was easily endured.
He strode through the streets till night fell, stopping at the odd cigarette selling shack and enquiring in a gravelly tone about a sandy haired dustily dressed thirty-year-old he was tracking, a man by the name of Takawa. But Takawa was not the target; he was merely a ruse, a convenient excuse, a side show with a bounty on his head. In fact, he had already located Takawa. He was a Jonin who had defected from Ame and was no doubt already regretting setting foot in Mist amidst its bloody war over blood. He had seen the man the other day, and the fool stood out, what with his shifty demeanour and his unshaven look and the bloodshot eyes. Sasuke had assessed the man for a minute and deemed him unworthy of his time. So, no, he was of no interest to him; he was small fry, small time, and would fall at the first swish of Sasuke's blade. The bounty—seven million ryo, for he had stolen state secrets and then taken to his feet—was perhaps a better incentive, but not even that—
No, the purpose of stepping out, of asking about so freely and inviting the hostility of all these civilians, was to tip off—
His enquiry done, he started back to the inn he stayed at.
He had learnt early that when one wanted something, it was best to offer the other party an illusion of control, of choice, of being, in fact, in a position to determine freely their fate and dictate terms. Dust ground to dust dignity; the tepid toil undertaken every day to simply survive taught one subtlety. It was important that he—
He sensed them before he saw them. There he was, approaching his inn, the mouldering wreck he lived in, ignoring the pockets of people that under the starry vaults of the sky exchanged with each other in oddly accented monotones a string of warbled mumbo jumbo; then the sounds stopped, and in files the people seemed to make a sluggish scramble towards shops, inns, bins, towards anything that would offer cover. They, the people, were all cross eyed, he noted, as though under a weak gengutsu; and with detachment he took in the haze that had descended on him. Silence replaced sound.
The rebels had twelve territories under their thumbs, to the twenty-two that the loyalists controlled. The central figures of the rebellion, you see, were Mei Terumi and—
"Uzumaki," Sasuke said. He'd made no motion as of yet to defend himself. He tilted his head and turned on his sharingan, and the mist assumed translucence. The shape before him was slender and shapely, and when he turned his head, the shape behind, though male, seemed to signify, through its carriage and its build, middle age.
"But you're not he," he continued calmly. They were, at best, high A rank, and while his estimate could be off, he did not think it was; they quite simply did not project the aura of a Kage level opponent, something that the Bingo book promised him Uzumaki Naruto would.
"No." The voice of feminine, and as the slender form in front of him stepped out of the Mist, he took in the hunter nin mask, the slashed-out Mist headband wrapped around her neck, and the plain white robe. "But my master would like to meet you. You will come with us." It was an order. She was probably sixteen; she spoke with authority and had in her left hand a fistful of senbon; and the term she had used for Uzumaki, when tied in with a quick run through of the rebels' names he had memorized, would make her Haku, Uzumaki's lapdog. High A rank ice user. The other one, then—and this was only a guess—was probably Momochi Zabuza.
Fascinating. So he was worthy of two powerful personal guards, but not of the region's commander in chief himself. Tricky opponents, no doubt, but also complacent ones, for they hadn't noticed his eyes for an instant bleed the blackish red of the eternal mangekyou. The area wide genjutsu had already ensnared them; they had already lost.
He raised an eyebrow.
"And if I refuse?"
The figure behind him was now closing in, and in a rumble, it said to him, "Then we will make you. "
He could obey, and perhaps things would still play out as he wanted them to. Perhaps Uzumaki would even be impressed at his obedience, and then he too could be lapdog, a loyal little lapdog.
But being underestimated to such an extent rankled. Yes, his Bingo Book page ranked him at high B or low A; yes, it said his ability to use the Sharingan was limited; but that was from over six years ago, when he was twelve, when in desperation he had fought a Jonin and lost. Even assuming a linear progression, they should have prepped for a tough opponent.
"I see," Sasuke said. A snide little fuck you smile played on his lips. "I'm afraid—" he brought up his hand in a single seal, "that answer to no one."
The man behind him was going for the meat cleaver and the girl in front had already raised her senbon.
His smile widened into a smirk.
The man dropped first. The mist broke. The girl's mask fell off and hit the pavement with a dull thunk.
She wobbled. She gasped. She threw up.
Then the screams started.
After what felt like an eternity, she fell forward, face first into her own vomit. He noted she had a pretty face.
Or as pretty as a face could be when smeared in sick.
Sasuke gave her a bored look, and then with a whistle he strode forward. First he hefted the girl onto one shoulder, taking care to keep away the puke—she had it in her hair too now. It was a pity he had to go through this charade and couldn't just do away with her. Then he picked up the man, taking in, with a nod of appreciation, his meat cleaver. He'd keep that for himself, he supposed, till the Uzumaki found him. Then he made his way over to the dustbins on the right. There were a couple of men cowering behind them, and as he approached, one shot to his feet and bolted away. The other stayed crouched, his face frozen in a paroxysm of horror.
"My good man," Sasuke said, "please do me a favour. When your ruler makes his way here, please tell him—" he tossed both unconscious Shinobi into trash cans, "that I took out the trash. If he wants to talk, then I'll be right there." He pointed to his inn. "Room 342." He leant forward. "Now repeat that to me, please." And when the man, choking back a squeak, did so, stuttering all the way, Sasuke nodded encouragingly and stepped away.
Then, whistling the tune of an old song that his mother used to sing to him, he picked up the sword, walked into the inn, trudged up the steps, made his way to his musty room, and, without bothering to get changed, sank into bed.
Tomorrow would be fun.
I know this chapter was short and Sasuke centric, but I promise most of the fic will be Naruto centric and that he'll be introduced next chapter. Also, I'll make the next update soon and maybe my chapters will be longer. This was just a teaser.
Thank you for reading this chapter! Please review! I appreciate them so much!
