AN: This fic is growing its own plot. TWENTY SEVEN PAGES ON WORD WITHOUT MY BRAIN CONSULTING MY FINGERS. TWENTY SEVEN. I'm pretty sure I have no idea what I'm getting into, but I have most everything planned out. Mostly. I'll just see where the heck this story takes me, ne?
WARNING: This story is very Hinata-OC-centric and will be told from mainly their POVs, unless something deviates from my master plan—which is probably likely—this is the golden rule. Sorry to those who don't care much for OCs, I'm mainly using mine partly as a tool anyways *laughs sheepishly*
PS. Sorry again to those who don't like OC pairings, but it's kind of important to the whole plot thing and character growth—besides, my story, my rules. It sounds harsh, but if you don't like it, lump it. And don't worry, I have no fangirly intentions of self-insert or living through my OC, I'm pretty much just interested in how I'm going to challenge my writing abilities to cultivate the relationships and get them to the points I want. Flames build character anyway, no?
Disclaimer: Couldn't own Naruto if I tried. 'Sall Masashi Kishimoto's, though I do own Tsumibitoko no Youkai, Masao Tanaka and a few others that may or may not appear later on in the grand scheme. Who the frick knows, with my runaway brain. So keep your grubby mits off.
Little something's I listened to while writing this: Fences by Paramore, Let the Flames Begin by Paramore, In the Cold by Acceptance and You Found Me by The Fray.
Edited slightly - 30/05/2012
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These Binds that Tie Us or Shatter the Preconceptions
{Chapter One: There's No Smoke Without Fire}
arc I : hand on the gate
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The definition 'curse' is a powerful one in itself, a hateful one. 'The expression of a wish that evil, ect. befall another', 'to wish or invoke evil, calamity, ect.' expresses an undeniable loathing…or, as is in this case, the violent betrayal of the trust of an already spiteful woman.
It's the age-old cliché really. A classic case of 'man who can't keep it in his pants dooms his lineage to the torment he so ran from and despised'.
A demon male, bored and restless in matehood, betrays his mate for another demon. A fickle young demon he was, so curious of mating that he hurried into one without thought and grew weary of it. His mate smelt proof of his careless betrayal upon him and exacted her revenge. Let it be known to never betray a demon priestess—for she cursed his lineage to forever be burdened with what he so ran from in a divine play of irony.
Bonds.
For dirtying her trust, for staining the tie that bound them forever to one another, for breaking the fragile loyalty that is so hard to build in demon-kind—as they were still joined together in their matehood, for forever and a day even in betrayal and hatred—she cursed his line (and hers subsequently, but hell hath no fury like a woman scorned) to the depths of despair. Taking their independence, their freedom—and in many cases, their sanity—battering their pride, tearing at their willpower, reducing it to dust and hopeless tears. She bound them to bonds—to the thing her mate had ran from. Never say that these 'holy' demonesses and demons of the chaos-gods (deity's worshipped reverently by some demons) did not have a sense of humor. A little dark and twisted, but humor, all the same. Justice in its most perverse, but deserved, form.
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"I curse you; mate, in all forms of the word. I howl to the chaos-gods and bind you in your treachery to a wretched existence for all eternity—dragging your pitiful blood and spawn with you to the icy reaches of the seventh circle of human-hell. Bonds you so ran from, matehood you so scorn in your betrayal, trust you so desecrated and stained upon me in your wickedness—you will be cursed with that which you so broke.
Bonds you may run from, ties you may hide, they will reach for you in impossible ways—they will burn themselves a brand on you and your brood, taking liberty from your clutches to be held in another's hands. I bind you to each torment possible to demon kind. You and your ill-bred spawn can run, run, run till eternity sets in the sky but will forever be attached against spirit for your sickening betrayal.
I bind you and your line, my mate, to a nomadic life—bereft of demonic contact through sin of human kind.
I bind you and your line, my mate, to a human of Daemon Cantrix—be they cruel or just—they shall be found through the smoke screen of myth and lore.
I bind you and your line, miserable excuse for a demon, to an Intima Compar.
I curse you…for your betrayal of my trust and our matehood."
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PRESENT DAY
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Western Rain Country, close to the border of Fire, in the large, mining, ore-exporting town of Kinishutsu
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Diluted morning sunlight spilled past drifting white linen curtains, rustling in the warm sunshine and fresh air as cheerful bird calls trilled quietly through the open bay windows. The room was decidedly a mess. Misleadingly boring snowy sheets spilled across the beige carpet from the king bed, deceptive to their true extravagant price. Silk draperies hung from majestic dark wood that made up the beds frame, the hangings pushed back so as to leave the view of its occupants unobstructed. The room was surprisingly open, windows thrown wide and vulnerable to the cool morning air. Unexpectedly defenseless, considering the monetary power its current inhabitant wielded. A power many would easily kill for.
Daichi Yukareshi, a young man in the prime of his life. Young, handsome, rich, soon to be heir of his father's prominent—and legitimate, let's not forget the most important detail in such a corrupt country—business. He was living the high life. Not to mention the gorgeous dame his dad had secured him as a fiancé to merge two powerful families into a single high-powered, money-making, heir-producing machine. Not bad for twenty-one, some bitter old coots might scoff.
Too bad he was an ungrateful little brat that hid his freaky addiction to sex and dominance from his family. It was undoubtedly his downfall, in the end.
Sunlight captured a hot, orange glow as the ashen tip of a cigarette was drawn deeply upon, before being expelled in a slightly annoyed sigh of smoky wisps of grey.
"Fucking brat gave me back ache." A vaguely pissed-off voice grumbled, rough from years of tobacco consumption and toned at a low register. Deceptively—like the soft sheets and the idiot heir and goddamn cheery morning—warm and slightly nonchalant.
Daichi Yukareshi may have been an arrogant, naïve shithead—but he sure made a damn good lay, Tsumibitoko could give the twat that one. Too bad she felt practically no physical attraction whatsoever—other than his apparent skill, (that she could acknowledge, even if it did nothing for her) it had been a little disappointing. Underwhelming. Boring. Unsatisfactory. Whatever you wanted to label it.
She'd anticipated a little bit more on the seducing side from such a notorious—yet well hidden from those who mattered, how he pulled that one off, she'd never know—playboy. He'd just sauntered up after a few flirtatious, challenging, fake-hot glances across the room, expecting her to give it all up on a silver platter. Like he wouldn't even have to work a little. The pompous ass was just lucky putting out had been part of her plan, else she'd have knocked him down a few notches on the arrogance scale. A few good punches aughta have done it.
Too bad the fucker was dead now.
Man, some of the kinky shit he'd suggested and made her do? Ass deserved all he got in the end. Some of that crap would've sent his one night stands crying home, off-their-face-sauced and feeling insanely violated. (They really weren't kidding about that dominance shit. She wondered vaguely if there had been something in his past to provoke such a want to extend power over women, maybe he'd been sexually abused as a kid by a nanny or something—put in a situation where he had no control.) She didn't pity the fucker, even in his deceased state, that was for sure.
Tsumibitoko patted the cold body beside her, "Repent your sins, young horny-fuck. Let's just hope God's feeling lenient for your little transgressions." A barking laughter, hoarse and amused and ironic and bitter, broke the fresh, silent air as she snorted and took another drag before glancing down at the prone young man with a slightly disgusted pull of lip beneath indifferent eyes. She stared at closed, pale, blue veined eyelids, the sickly pallor of death on his almost-peaceful face—blood marring his throat in a long, merciless gash and soaking the sheets, pillows and mattress beside her.
"Hey!" She grinned a crooked smirk, jostling the bed and she bounced down at a bent angle so they'd be face to face, even if he was lying on his side where she sat against the wooden headboard. Crossing ever-so-slightly tanned arms on the sheet-clad mattress, Tsumibitoko leant her chin on them and got close in his once-personal-space-face, cigarette hanging limp from between her fore and middle finger over to one side. "Wanna know a secret?"
Oh hell yeah I'm doing girl-talk with a corpse. Her grin widened and she leaned forwards ever so slightly in a conspiring fashion, not even wrinkling her nose at the slight odor of death and blood that would soon become one motherfucka of a potent stench.
Then, she whispered, voice hard, uncaring, yet slightly disgusted—a stark contrast to her earlier nonchalant, vaguely amused tones. "You didn't even get me off once. The last girl you fucked before you died, and a man-whore like you couldn't even make me orgasm. Shameful, doncha think?"
Then she laughed again, the sound mocking; throwing her head back a little as she turned away and hauled bare legs over the side of the mussed bed. She tucked the cigarette between her lips and stretched like a sinuous cat in his old scuffed too-big t-shirt, plucking at it in faint distain before peeling it off over her head in one smooth movement. Slipping upwards to her feet without so much as a backward glance, Tsumibitoko tossed the ratty shirt to one side and began to pick her own clothes from the whirlwind disaster that had been one-sided lust. Good thing she could act, else she might've puked.
Simple lacy blacks, scraps of shitty fabric in all honesty, but good for a job like this, made up her underwear—the murderess absentmindedly made a note to buy proper, tough-shit underwear soon. The kind of containing, supporting stuff that could hold its own in her rough lifestyle and not distract her with digging in wires and bouncing cleavage fit to burst. A fighter is only as good as their undergarments, she nodded mock-sagely—tugging on the loose, but fitting black t-shirt with short sleeves that declared the obnoxious white slogan of 'I'm silent, like a masturbating ninja'. She hadn't been willing to give up her precious catchphrase t-shirts last night—they were a part of who she was—so there was no way she'd ditch them simply to be sexy and seductive for such a jerk, thank-you very much. Besides, her lower half did the job well enough. If her uninspiring torso—despite the hinted jugs and sleek waist—didn't attract attention (the sort she wanted for this job, not the 'the frick?' attention she normally got with her…fashion sense) then the outlandish fabric cladding her legs and hips would.
Forest green short-shorts sat un-restraining and comfortable on her waist, followed by light green and dark green horizontally striped tights, till black boots that touched a quarter of the way up her calves finished the look. They were padded heavily and freaking foot-gasmic on her feet, with simple, easy Velcro straps. One human thing she never quite got the hang off was those damn deathtraps called laces.
Her job had been simple, in all truth. Her employer, behind many unknown aliases, had contacted her over the course of a few weeks—apparently testing her ability to be vaguely trustworthy under a situation of mutual benefit—before paying her to pull off the taking down of his obviously rival company. She didn't much care who the hell her brief-boss was, though he must've been the head of some other richy-rich corporation, why else would he want her to destroy the company's social and business standing and kill off the heir?
He'd let her do it her way, apparently a little surprised when she suggested her plan—not expecting a girl 'her age' (que snort at ignorance) to simply throw around sex like that, and be willing to do it for the job. He was obviously snooty in that respect. But it was perfect, really, so he hadn't dared question.
She'd easily planted a well-known reporter not a few doors down, tipping the man off about Daichi's little tryst with some woman other than his fiance. He'd snapped at it eagerly, and was obviously staking out his room not far away, waiting for the couple to make an appearance. Tsumibitoko glanced about the room in vague satisfaction. It was blatantly obvious to even the most obtuse of observers that some serious sex had occurred, what with the stained sheets and that splattered chair in the corner too—there were drugs and cigarettes and dripping bottles of whiskey discarded on most surfaces. It would destroy the reputation of Daichi and of his fathers company, it would stain his fiancés honor and her father would no doubt wage consumer warfare on the young mans own dad—for letting this happen to his daughter. And if that wasn't enough to sink the ship that was the soon-to-be-going-out-of-business company, her chakra was everywhere.
Ever since she'd off-ed the brat in his sleep, she just leaked the stuff subtly into her surroundings—something a low-class demon would do without even thinking if caught in the 'throws of passion'. It would be blatantly obvious that the boy had dabbled in the 'dark side', so to speak. It would incite disgust and fear among the masses, that such a charming, well known lad had descended to such a depraved level—perhaps jealousy from others.
There were many rumors and tales for behind beers and margaritas in bars, about what it was like once you got a demon in your bedroom. Apparently nothing compared—which always made Tsumibitoko smirk smugly. It was 'wild and animalistic and explosive'. In other tales they marked you possessively and permanently, as a warning that said to further rare demons that may come along, 'this is mine'. Even in the depths of depths of those who rejected such dominance and said to despise Youkai, they secretly liked the idea of being taken as such by a demon. She'd seen it before when many talked of such things; body language told what their mouths wouldn't. Another factor that cemented Demons dominance over Humans. They wanted demons.
We are said to be hideously and aggressively sexy, Tsumibitoko smirked darkly, inciting that primal need. Then again…all the best hunters are attractive to their prey. It was probably the subconscious dominance that came with the demonic aura, the power and sin that soaked their beings. The countless years of experience were probably all that gave Demons such a rep really—sexual prowess didn't just come with the trade of being a Youkai. Most demons had probably just been doing it for years. Lots of practice was all. There weren't many demons that came out of hiding to integrate and slip among the human race anyway, but those who did never left.
Tsumibitoko's smirk wavered slightly, before slipping off entirely.
She shook her head a little, drifting back into her thought stream as she checked over the set-up surroundings. Demons were a fad most likely. For a quite a few years, finding and getting a demon to bed has been a bit of a goal for drunken humans. Just a fad that would become one of the many others. It was shocking how naïve these mortals were, actively searching for Youkai to have them at their most vulnerable and naked. Didn't they know that even the weakest of demons could rip their throats out without so much as overextending themselves? Or was that just another kink, the danger of it all?
Tsumibitoko was caught between preening and sneering in disgust at their stupidity. She even felt, to her horrified anger, a little worried. Their self-preservation was seriously lacking in such a dangerous world.
Where bandits and missing-nin ran amok, humans had become complacent in their safety as a given. That their own ninja would protect them. Didn't they realize that most of the dangers to them were by their own shinobi? Hence, 'missing-nin'. Their own ninja who had abandoned them in favor of freedom from the regime of a village?
Sometimes humanity sickened her in ways that wanted to make her just kill them all for their own safety and her satisfaction. Either that or become celibate. She felt lucky as hell that pregnancy by a mortal was impossible with her…problems.
Ignoring the sex-mussed mop of once-straight black hair that tumbled around her cheeks, Tsumibitoko scrubbed her long, side-swept, scraggly bangs out of her face, stopping the hair from tangling with her similarly dark, thick, short lashes and getting in road-dust brown eyes. Blinking slowly and taking a deep breath, she released the henge, uncaring of those who may see through the windows, letting it ripple over her like water without the usual attention-grabbing puff of white smoke.
It blended over her hair, transforming the once, would-be sleek obsidian into rough, earthen, wild brown. A single forelock scuffed over to the right from the middle of her hairline and short, rough, sprigs edged the nape of her neck. Feral, untamed, flyaway spikes framed her features, raised in a surprisingly un-natural and demonic fashion—a long thin slick of brown springing from the base of her head and tied back with a black clasp. The chakra shimmered over her skin in tingles, turning it a natural, russet brown—revealing a neat, sharp nose and thin lips framing a small, permanently down-turned, serious mouth—set just right for frowning and glaring but with virtually no bottom lip, fuller top lip, and no color to emphasize shape or texture other than her natural tan tone. Tsumibitoko knew this and didn't mind, because even when she scowled—dark, long, thin brows perfect for such an activity, that always set themselves in a frown anyway, without any input from her brain—it just seemed to emphasize her eyes and the smooth point of her chin, a soft line from ear to the tip of her jaw.
It was her eyes that were the real drawing point though, she had no illusions.
Starbursts of gold in her russet brown appearance, tanned skin and dark hair—they lit up like candles and shone like burnished bullion. They were decidedly more Tsurime that Tareme, heavy lidded in a bored, serious fashion and tapered to a sharp point of upturned lashes—the same dark, short, thick lashes as before—irises smoldering golden beneath. She wasn't stupid enough to think her appearance unique amoungst Youkai—though to humans it would be exotically so—it was just a statement of the kind of demon she was. Every demon in her subcategory had appearances as such. Green or brown or gold or dusty tan or burnt cinnamon.
Demons of the Earth.
Simply the soul of every terrain distilled into something almost human to look upon and wild to fight against. Youkai of the earth were solid and steadfast, stubborn and as varyingly remarkable as the ground itself, as mountains and sand and grass and dirt, right down to the molten core of metals and larva and pure, blinding heat.
She was very obviously demonic in this form, human but…not. Elongated fangs, almost vampiric and ever so slightly curved, tapered to wicked points that virtually touched her lower gums behind slim lips. They emphasized her wild appearance rather liberally, especially when her left sharp tooth caught on her lower lip as she grinned rakishly, like she was doing now, before running her tongue over them in relief at having the familiar canines back to normal and not hazed by the sensory disruption of henge. Her ears tapered to similar points, almost elfish, protruding from being tucked away beneath her brunette hair. Small, minuscule changes from the human norm that made her race distinct.
Tsumibitoko wrinkled her nose and tugged the collar of her shirt to her face for a sniff, almost gagging before dragging the long tail of her hair over her shoulder and sniffing that too. She stunk of alcohol and drugs and sweat and pure, old-fashioned illicit debauchery. But most of all, she smelt of him.
Every human had a base scent, something to build on with everyday things like dirt and shampoo and soap and whatever comes with your trade—she herself smelt of fresh dirt and grass and clean air, the kind of refreshing, pure stuff you only find in wide open spaces, like fields. Not to mention that little demonic spice. But, right now—covering all that—was the stink of…well…it was hard to really put names to scents…but, if she had to for this one, there was a warm, musky undertone of human skin and something almost vinegar-y—probably some posh cologne. It stung her nose and made the insides of her mouth and jaw tighten in that tingly way you feel when you're going to be ill.
She needed to wash it off. Preferably once she was far away into the forest and traveling again, after she picked up her money for the job. It wouldn't be too good to get caught in this rather compromising situation right now.
Performing another quick, basic, virtually undetectable mud-henge from the dirt in the room and on her skin, Tsumibitoko shimmered into a busty, sleep-rumpled blonde. Pretty, with seductive blue eyes, but clad in long-sleeve, button down pajamas that sat a size too big on her frame. Nothing saucy at all. Perfect for the naive damsel in distress persona she needed. It helped that she modified her scent a little with another minor genjutsu, to hide beneath the dainty scent of flowers and fragrant water.
Clearing her throat and sucking in a deep breath, the demon girl prepared herself for some serious acting. Flicking her cigarette on Daichi's body and giving him one last cheery wave—knowing the DNA on the tip of the cigarette would pop up 'DEMON' on any diagnostic jutsu—Tsumibitoko strolled casually out the door, sharply aware of how this could all go to hell (part of the attraction to the job really, the adrenaline, god she loved it) using it to fuel herself for the distraught part she was about to play.
Slipping down the hall she drew in another deep breath, held it for a few seconds, and repeated the calming action a few times as she finally stopped two doors down—he had to buy this, she had to lie her little henge-gorgeous ass off as of now—and began banging violently on the white wood in front of her.
"Help! Help! O-Oh god, you've got to help me!" Her voice cracked as she yelled, voice trembling and tears trickling down her cheeks, wailing and sobbing and slamming her fists desperately against the door. Lil' drama queen I am, heh. A few crashes and surprised bangs on the other side, followed by running footsteps announced she was being listened to, before the door was thrown open to show a man in his late twenties—clad in white t-shirt and boxers with wildly disarrayed brown hair. A professional photography camera was slung around his neck messily and various reels of those camera film things were in his hands. His worried, intrigued expression morphed to shock as she threw herself into his arms unabashedly—causing the man to drop all his supplies as he caught her, the camera digging uncomfortably into her chest and throat.
Ignoring it, Tsumibitoko managed to sob out, "Y-You're J-J-Juinji Mukeboto r-right? Th-that famous j-journalist? I-I s-saw you ch-check in last night! Y-You have to help me!" It would be natural, in such a distressed state, for one to run to something familiar—he, in this case—and with her excuse of watching him check in, she'd naturally know his room number. Plus, Mukeboto might think her a fan for observing him so closely, making the man more inclined towards 'helping' her (assisting her in more ways than he'd ever know). And she doubted having all those henged curves pressed up against him—furthermore making him stutter like a school boy, which was part disturbing, disdainful-eye-roll-inducing and amusing—would hurt her chances.
"O-Okay…uhm," the man was obviously at a loss as to what he should do, glancing around the hallway where a couple of curious and annoyed heads were poking out their doors. "How about you come inside and tell me what happened, hm?"
Yes! Score one for curiosity-killed-the-cat! Trust him to be a 'nice guy'! Oh man, payday is a commin'!
Hurriedly ushered in and seated on the plush couch before a cluttered coffee table, she refused to let go of his white t-shirt, leaving him to pry her hands off with consoling words to close the door—before leaning against it and frowning at her a little in pure bewilderment.
"What on earth is wrong?"
Deciding to cut to the chase, since she was already kinda bored with how easy he was to trick, Tsumibitoko clenched her now small, pale hands in her dark blue pants.
"I-I was down the hall, i-in my room…wh-when I d-decided to g-go for a walk a-around the h-hotel 'cause I couldn't sleep an-and I wanted to t-tired myself out, so I c-could sl-sleep in…I-I…I h-heard these w-weird noises coming from room seventeen and—…" She choked off and covered her mouth in horror, throwing him a wild, teary eyed glance, so vulnerable that the man moved forwards to sit beside her. Sucker.
"Shh…it's okay…tell me what happened…" Oh, yes, she sees the hungry look in his eyes. Not just for a potential story, but for her. This form was perfect.
"W-Well…I was worried, b-because th-there seemed to b-be a struggle going on wh-when I walked p-past…so…I-I waited f-for a while, 'cause I was a b-bit scared and w-wondered if it was an-any of my business…" At this point she buried her face in his shoulder, trembling hands twisted in his shirt as she let out a sob, "I-I…I could've saved him! I-If I'd gone in…I could've sa-saved him!"
She burst into renewed tears, as he held her closer a stroked the back of her head with ink-stained hands. She could feel him getting a little grope in while he thought she wasn't noticing due to her emotional state, and Tsumibitoko wondered in a slightly disgruntled fashion if he wasn't as nice a guy as she'd first thought. What a sleaze-ball.
"Who? Could've saved who?" There was a barely restrained itching curiosity in Mukeboto's words and Tsumibitoko pulled back, drilling the full force of her watery blue eyes into his, her voice barely a whisper—but with a horrified power, like she was still struck by what she'd seen. This is too fun! "If I'd gone in sooner Daichi Yukareshi wouldn't have bled his throat out into the sheets of his bed…" Then she choked back into sobs.
Maybe a little thespian, but, oh did it have the desired effect: highly amusing pandemonium.
One of her specialties and favorites.
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Chaos Theory:
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The Butterfly Effect
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It'd been all too easy.
'Terrified' as she'd acted in her blonde henge; Tsumibitoko had led Mukeboto back to the room for the confirmation needed before they could call the police. She'd put up the necessary 'valiant, outranged protests'—not enough to deter him, she made sure of that—when he'd immediately started snapping pictures, muttering about how the contact that'd said something would go down in this hotel had just given him the scoop of the century. Little did he know she was standing right behind him, crying pitifully, while smirking a satisfied demonic, treacherous smirk when he wasn't looking. Oh god, she wanted to laugh.
The shameless, money-grabbing journalist—abiding to the cliché by all terms and without reservation, Tsumibitoko thought wryly—had written down everything. The drugs, the sex, the alcohol, the cigarettes, the death, her own comments, the demonic aura that permeated the air strong enough for even a civilian to sense—and once the demon girl figured her ditz persona would about now realize she could call the police herself, the damage had been done.
Mukeboto would slip away with his gear and his story while she went for a phone—and he'd simply become just another one of the eager writer masses at the press conference later on (albeit more smug and knowing). She had chosen him as a plant well, he knew how to skirt his way around. Wily sunnovabitch.
Tsumibitoko had talked to the police on the phone, saying it was an anonymous tip-off, because she was 'too scared to see them in person for fear of retaliation'—then disappeared into thin air. They'd searched for her, of course. Sent out messages saying that she'd be safe, as long as she came to them to give a full testimony and told them everything, but she never did. Pointless to her job.
Two days later, Juinji Mukeboto published his slanderous front page story—snuck it out before Daichi's rich-ass, grieving and panicked father could buy him or his newspaper company off.
There had been suspicions, duh—considering her own dicey part in it all and 'who the mysterious blonde was'. Why she hadn't told the police about Juinji being there, how she disappeared like smoke. Was she a jealous ex-lover? A malicious spirit? A Ninja Village conspiracy? and a number of silly myths floated through the cogs of every day society like rumor vapor, but none guessed the truth. Who would? A demon acting out a part 'cause she was on a job—since she's a mercenary—for her own gain? What a load of crock.
Her job completed, rumors and disgust and jealousy and 'how could we not have known?' rife among the masses, Tsumibitoko was prepared to pick up her payroll—she'd done all she could—but, you see, then fate decided to play a little game…women began to come out of the woodwork.
Not even Tsumibitoko saw that one coming; still, she nearly shat herself laughing when she found out the snowball effect that Mukeboto's blaring, accusing, going-down-in-history article started. Daichi's father could write off the circumstances of his son's death, yes—he could've saved his company, pulled it back from the brink in a 0.1% chance—but he could never have been able to write off all those sincere, frightened women who wanted to tell their own stories. Women Daichi had slept with, women he had treated horribly and done unspeakable things to—too scared to previously say anything with his powerful position that he'd threatened them with—then, emboldened by success, men he'd blackmailed, doctors he'd forced to supply him with illegal prescriptions and drugs, all his contacts in the underbelly of their sin-diseased world were made clear as day due to one – little – tenacious – reporter. Juinji Mukeboto.
Story of his career indeed.
He'd latched onto it in ways Tsumibitoko couldn't have imagined—he'd wondered if there was more to it than he thought and searched, and she thanked him for it—because it wasn't longer than a few months (she'd get the last installment of pay early, woo-hoo!) before the business was under; submerged in debts and financial ruin. Due to hasty, slap-dash decisions that had been intended to salvage and failed spectacularly, lack of consumers and the head-cheeses own grief—the mighty tower of his industry collapsed into finely powdered dust around his feet. The culmination of his life's work and his son, buried in the ground before him.
Tsumibitoko's pockets were lined with cash.
It'd been all too easy.
What a lucky break, ne?
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SEVEN MONTHS LATER
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Northern Rain Country, close to the border of Earth Country, in the city of Tsumaranai
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Masao Tanaka was a powerful man.
He all but ruled over most business chains, be it fast-food, hotels, ninja-equipment stores—if anything was successful, he was sure to have sat on the board of directors. He had contacts with daimyo's and royalty enough to fill a whole filing cabinet—if there was to be a party in any imperial palace; it was not complete without the charming man. He had the trade of all countries in the palm of his hand—a damn sight better than his once piteous rival, Gato, in Wave Country. He could bring the retail world to a screeching, crashing halt with but a wave of his hand—send lands into poverty, into starvation and lack of essential necessities. His investments and stocks were almost sixth sense with insight to the business and financial world. He was a man made for industry. For power. To a frightening degree.
It was safe to say then, that Masao Tanaka had a hand in almost every criminal deal this side of the equator.
Be it through a subordinate, a spy, a plant—no discussion, or sale, went by under his radar—he orchestrated half himself in fact, all to eventually be to his own benefit and gain, of course. There was no woman he couldn't bed, no man he could not buy out, and he was, by rule, a very arrogant male specimen. Not surprising really, when the financial world might very well keel over into recession without him there to oversee things.
He was also, right at this very moment, a rather smugly satisfied specimen of male.
One of his biggest contenders in the mining ring had just been crushed by, and, he was delightedly amused to say, a teenage girl.
Of course, he knew for fact this was only appearance. She was a fearsome demon girl—though not above persuasion, obviously. He only had to offer her enough money and she took the job on board. He very nearly turned his nose up at how far her race had fallen (not that he'd ever say as such to her face, despite being all-powerful pseudo-God), for the girl was truly frightening. She knew things, had seen things, had done things that he would never know—despite his best efforts to know everything—and…well, if she could do that to the Yukareshi Cooperation in a matter of months all through public opinion, he almost swallowed nervously at what she could potentially do to his own empire if she turned on him.
Not to say she'd be able to touch him, no, no—he had too much under his palm for her to really do any damage. But there was an aura of intimidation and rough-suave swagger to her stance and walk borne of something he couldn't really grasp for the life of him. And that was what she was, a mystery.
But still, the demon girl was a dangerous possibility all the same, and Masao Tanaka was a man who plowed through all in the way of his ambition. She could prove to be a very large, very worrisome road block or a brilliant ally. She may be one girl, but she was demon, and he was not a man who underestimated his opponents.
It would be a shame to rid the ninja nations of one such as her, as he had heard the stories just as any mortal—some of them sending a shiver of fear or desire down his spine, enough to incite the insatiable curiosity humankind was so known for. But, this was one novelty, or experience, he was prepared to let go—for the sake of his monetary empire. Masao was a man of steel willpower, if anything.
Therefore, he was to rid himself of this potential threat the best way he knew how—deception, intelligence, manipulation, betrayal, money and a safe distance from the danger.
He'd sent his best nuke-nin on this job. A privilege he rarely paid his enemies. A simple, highly-rewarded civilian actor decoy was to meet the demon girl at some cheap, Chinese restaurant in his name, give her the final installment from her last job, and tell her Masao was impressed with her work—so much so, in fact, that he wanted to give her another little loose end to tie up. The decoy would keep her talking long enough to get her to relax marginally (for he knew she'd never fully), and that's when his Nin would strike.
A few civilians would most likely perish in the crossfire, but he'd specifically chosen his men to be adept at close-quarters fighting, perfect for indoors. That and, Masao was sure the demon girl's attacks were nature based of some sort, being isolated from said environment might help in their advantage.
A small smirk curled his handsome lips as the debonair-billionaire stared out over the city night lights from his towering skyscraper. He was almost tempted to order a glass of wine to sip as he posed, just for dramatic affect and his own amusement—but brushed the idea aside as a useless waste of wine from his extensive, finely-aged stores. He hadn't gotten this far from being careless with his money; Masao Tanaka was the fist person to admit his wallet was tighter than a ninjas lips.
Steel blue eyes pierced the heavens, watching the dark clouds build their castles in the star-strewn darkness, sculpted from smoky clay. A storm on the horizon. It was slightly ominous. A frown pulled slightly at the edge of his lips, irritated that, even with all his power, he couldn't control the weather. No matter how it displeased him in it's possible premonition. Ridiculous superstition it may be, but it was a minor annoyance that the sky didn't hail him as the world should.
Perfectly combed, thinly wisped layers of white-blonde cresting Masao's head almost glinted in the dark—only the grey at his temples belying his age, the rest hidden beneath dye of his natural color. He only kept the grey before his ears as it looked rather distinguished and powerful. That and, it worked a subconscious psychological treat on those around him—'older, therefore, wiser, smarter, knows what he's doing, respect your elders'. (And your betters.)
Masao leaned back, hands braced against his polished oak desk, feeling rather satisfied and content—like the cat that got the cream.
"Tanaka-sama."
Masao cocked his head to the side in acknowledgement and question, knowing a black-clad missing-nin—his intelligence gathering nin—would be on one knee and bowed before the desk amongst the shadows.
"The mission failed Tanaka-sama. Tsumenohoshi-san and Hujo-san were killed brutally; a couple of blocks leveled, the civilian decoy was used as a shield by the demon and the money taken before it could be recovered. Nothing left but dust."
Masao's good mood had slowly evaporated in wake of his fiery anger during this rather blunt recap from his scouting nuke-nin—the only outward sign being the tense grip of his hands on the edge of his desk slowly tightening to a white-knuckled clutch.
"Dismissed." He hissed quietly, voice a roiling sea of vicious emotion, but none pin-pointable. The Nin took his release into prompt consideration.
Now, a little fact that might come in handy about Masao Tanaka was the fact that the man was a complete control freak. No one played or broke with his toys; no one messed up his neat, organized plans and presumptions. One of the reasons he forced his way up the power ladder, being for the fact that he thought he could do better in charge than those before him. He had to have complete control. So, needless to say, an unholy, irrational fury sprung forth when anything deviated from his precise procedures.
This was one of those times.
Masao Tanaka. Does. Not. Lose.
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At the exact same time,
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approaching central Rain Country from the North
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"That fucking, backstabbing sunnovabitch…" Tsumibitoko muttered fiercely to herself, tearing through the undergrowth as she ran at inhuman speeds through the wild forest. She hadn't exactly expected anything less from her employer, he obviously saw her as a threat, but she was still pissed there was another person to look out for in her never-ending, on-the-run status.
She was just glad the asshole had paid her first. Probably expecting his subordinates to be able to collect the money from her warm corpse. Not on Tsumibitoko's watch.
The demon girl was letting out a subconscious, continuous growl, rumbling from her throat and chest in a threatening manner. The vicinity had already been evacuated of all other life due to her murderous, demonic intent—leaving it eerily quiet and devoid of the innate chatter of nature. This made tearing angrily through trees and bushes, while trying to be inconspicuous and quiet, far harder than normal.
Breathing heavily in fury, Tsumibitoko calmed herself forcefully, starting to run through the forest more carefully—slipping into a more composed mindset that instinctively began leaving no trail to follow. Better that way.
Still, she muttered under her breath in a rather viciously homicidal way.
"When I'm done with that fucker he sure as hell won't be able to charm his way to payday with a mangled face and balls in place of his eyes…I'll tear him up so bad he'll look-look…I don't know! But it'll be fugly as shit!" She flailed furiously for a second, her heated muttering rising to a snarl.
Ignoring the branches tearing at her wild brown hair and long, swishing ponytail—Tsumibitoko hitched her pack higher on one shoulder, melding with the nature around her seamlessly, finding peace in her surroundings. Sucking in a deep breath—full with fresh air, grass, dirt, fur and berries—the tense lines around her eyes relaxed further—glad to be home amongst the trees and endless sky. God, she hated how humanity tore away at natures outlines. There was still so much left, thank kami-sama, but she feared it might dwindle beneath the mortal's crazed building onslaught. Another thing she never understood about humans. Why they felt the need to encase themselves in brick and plaster when they could lie out on the grass through wind and sunshine, feel the dew on the green blades and in the morning air, the trees rustling about them as the sun climbed the sky, blooming like an orange rose across the blue.
Nothing felt more peaceful, more at-one, than in those moments.
But, then again, that may just have been her demonic connection. Tsumibitoko knew that she'd go fully batshit if she didn't have contact or sight of nature—it was just who she was, integrated into her being and every fiber, she belonged to the earth in ways humans would never understand. The way others of her kind were tied to fire, or lightening, or water, or wind. She was a complete land-lubber, whereas others lived in storms—relished in the thunder and freezing rain, the stark, cracking flashes, the thunderous roar that shook the fabric of reality, the maelstrom of lightening. That was where they belonged the way others belonged in the ocean, floating on currents and tangled in the seaweed, kicking up sand and breathing in the salty liquid, playing with schools of shimmering fish. Then others in fire, dancing within inferno's either of their own making or of humans—of bursting, raging jutsu's or an arsonists addiction—swirling through the heat, the crackle-and-pop, breathing with the smoke, sashaying with their own kind and swaying to the heavy beat of fires call. The way others pranced and flew playfully with the wind, gliding on timeless tides, caught between the Earth and the sky, dancing with the clouds and laughing as clear and free as a bird.
The same way Tsumibitoko danced with the trees, and they danced back. The way she felt Earths heart thudding beneath her feet, enveloping her with warmth to her very core, how it gifted her when she fought—their age old contract holding strong as a mountain. The way she could shift with the earth, burn with its magma, sing with its glades, laugh with its inhabitants—for they too loved Earth just as she, and it was easy to relate on that concept—she wouldn't be able to live without the dirt beneath her and the life around her. If Tsumibitoko had to choose between Earth and her next breath, she'd surely choose Earth, without second thought. Even despite the demonic, irrational terror of death—she couldn't think of existing in a world without the one thing she loved.
It was the same for each and every one of her kind. All they could love was the element they were tied to.
And this wasn't the love humans had. No. It was based purely on existence, the kind of love you wouldn't be able to survive another second without—the grief and passion and affectionate adoration tripled to thrice the amount any human could handle. Demons didn't have a vast variety of emotions to speed through as easily as mortals, but the love for their element was an exception.
This love was incredibly diverse from the human kind; mortal love didn't even touch the sides. Humans felt love, then got married or split up—this love was far from that fickle. You were bound. Plain and simple. From birth, for eternity, till death. Demon elemental love wasn't exactly the same as demon mating, per say—the demonic equivalent to marriage—but the binding part was pretty solid, exempting the lack of love that came with a mate.
Mating involved no love—unlike silly human ideals—you chose a mate on compatibility. Involving appearance, power, strength, elemental connection, various aspects of personality that you may like—that could perhaps liven up a lifelong obligation. It took many centuries, thousands of millennia, to find an appropriate mate for any demon—you didn't just hitch up and stain each others skin that permanently without there being, at least, a deep rooted…trust of sorts. More like a mutual benefit kind of thing, strong demon-spawn and all that. Then there was the ever elusive myth of Heart Mates…and Tsumibitoko just wasn't even going to let her thoughts go down that route. Not now.
One of the reasons for demons being such a rare species was because of mating—it was one hell of a complicated thing to get saddled with and took ages to find a fitting candidate. Tsumibitoko always felt violently nauseous whenever she saw humans throw around marriage so freely—wedlock wasn't the same kind of insane bond demons had in mating, but it was a close enough comparison for her to have to hold her lunch down when she watched one mortal flick through marriages like pages of a book. It was just so wrong by her ideals. One of the reasons she was also a violent commitaphobe. Mating freaked her the fuck out. That level of utter…tied-down-ed-ness. She had her reasons of course—that fucking curse… but just thinking about it made injustice boil in her stomach, and she was really over this rapid change of emotions anyway. They were making her head spin. Too human.
Besides. She was hardly appropriate demon-mate material anyway. What with—…
That's enough on that subject. Tsumibitoko growled mentally—too many things I don't want to think about, too many taboos to my own mind—hands wishing to be bathed in blood, feeling far too bare and spotless for her liking, something absent in her chest. She missed the metallic scent in the air, the scarlet splatter across her feral grin—the blood drying and tangling in her hair, soaking her clothes as she laughed. That level of control. Fuck, she needed a demonic fix.
Tsumibitoko came to a screeching halt, bobbing up and down on the balls of her feet like she couldn't bear to stand still—ears and nose twitching, lips pulled into a snarl, whole form practically vibrating with tension as she searched the air.
There! From the West!
She was off like a rocket, shooting through the undergrowth in a matter of seconds—desperate to drown out her thoughts and rapid slide-show human feelings in blood and revert to her nature. She wanted to feel numb again. To feel fulfilled and satiated of the blood and death and gore. To feel frickin' whole. Was that too much to ask?
Goddammit, stop thinking about it! Tsumibitoko howled mentally, desperate to an animalistic, primal point now—racing as hard as her body could push itself. Desperate to outrun her thoughts and past and memories—before it caught up and engulfed her in its burning tidal wave. There was no rhyme or reason to her terror now, just the untamed, fraught fear of a wild animal cornered.
It all happened in under a second. She caught the scent, veered course, and plowed into one of the bandits she'd been tracking. There was barely any time for breath or change of mind, almost too fast for her own limbs to follow—and the demon slammed her quarry up against a thick oak, shaking the sturdy, ancient wood violently.
This was the one she wanted to find first—one isolated from his group, apparently picking away supplies from the surrounding woodland if that scattered basket of berries was any indication—she wanted information before tearing them all limb from limb. Information was a form of control, she needed that right now. To feel in charge of a situation of her own making, she hated this whirlpool of helplessness.
Body plastered against the stunned mans, hands gripping his wrists and pinning them to the tree—face right up in his personal space, she was barely giving him any room to think or breathe, let alone retaliate.
A little intimidation goes a long way. Seeing him begin to recover from his shock, from the tight pain of her grip and slamming introduction to the tree bark, Tsumibitoko figured she should discourage him from shouting for help. Feeling her vocal chords hum as they geared up—demonically altered, animalistic—she pulled her lips into a haughty sneer.
"Name, human." It wasn't a question, it was an outright demand—a burning, growling, deep-from-the-throat, echoing snarl. She didn't really care much for his name, she just needed something to say to use her voice, to let him realize she was a demon and dangerous, scaring him into submission before getting to the information she needed.
It had the desired effect, to say the least. A little intimidation goes a long, long way.
"…B-B-Buji T-Taka, m-m-ma'am…" He stuttered out, eyes wide and pallor blanched bone-white as he took in her fangs, scorching-on-skin golden eyes and inhuman appearance. The claws digging into his wrists weren't helping matters. He was apparently still coming to the instinctual, bullet-sweating, knee-knocking realization she was not human. The poor sod was so freaked and scared for his life he wasn't even blushing from her tight proximity.
"Bandit." She obviously expected agreement, with only the slightest of inflection to indicate question. Her voice was deadpan, face flat and eyes burning. He nodded rapidly, almost dislodging his greasy bandanna, mouth clamped into a pale, petrified line.
"Group." Tsumibitoko 'asked' in the same fashion, to receive another feverent nod as to 'yes, there are more of me'.
"Numbers." This time he hesitated, but, despite them being his 'comrades', the life of a bandit has always been rather solitary—she knew that. Nomadic and switching from group to group, no loyalty. He was not about to defend the other outlaws in place of his own life. Tsumibitoko saw this and didn't bother to begrudge the little human of it. She wouldn't want to die either.
"A-A-A-Ab-b-out t-twenty o-o-or so m-m-ma'am…" He managed to choke out, barely shifting his lips as if frightened that stirring the air or too much movement would incite her wrath and his death.
"Association." Seeing her 'questions' were seriously confusing the young man, and rather boredly amused for it—of course he was too frightened to ask what the hell she was going on about. She elaborated slightly. "Ally. Connection. Involvement with a Ninja Village. Give me something to work with here bandit-scum."
Catching onto her rapidly increasing impatience, the brigand scrambled to answer, "N-No! No affinity or r-relation at all ma'am! C-C-Completely N-Ninja f-free."
Tsumibitoko nodded amiably; glad that no repercussions would come of her slaughtering the lot of them. It would be a very small possibility, but some bandits had loose treaties with villages. A sort of 'Don't step on our turf or terrorize our people and we wont slaughter you' kind of thing. She wouldn't have to worry now, wouldn't have to wonder at the slight likelihood of retaliation from a village. They wouldn't be mad about the bandit groups' deaths, duh—that would probably be kind of helpful—it's just that they might be thinking one menace was replaced by a new one; one they had didn't have stats on or a territory 'treaty' with. Retaliation from a village would be a nuisance; Tsumibitoko had managed to stay under the radar so far and would've liked to keep it that way. Being branded as a danger by a village would seriously piss her off; since she'd be known and that was enough to set her instincts on a knife edge and grinding at her nerves in a rather nervous, discordant manner.
"Skills. Rare techniques. Stats. Bloodlines." Again with the odd inflection and rare possibility—but she wanted him to know there was no room for avoiding or not answering her queries, so she demanded, and it was better to be safe than sorry.
"U-U-Um…n-n-not that I kn-know of…m-ma'am…j-just you're regular b-bandit camp!" He tried a feeble grin, Tsumibitoko smirking despite herself—even if it looked positively feral and fierce—at his hutzpah and weak attempt at trying to lighten the atmosphere. Even if it wouldn't alter the inevitability of his impending death.
Apparently the bandit was relaxing an inch—as it obviously seemed Tsumibitoko only wanted info for whatever reason, maybe they were encroaching on her territory or something—and it seemed he was finally starting to come to the realization that yes, this was a demon, a rare demon…the kind of demon he'd heard about in The Rumors. And as the fear stopped hazing his view into something less than 'this is the person that's going to kill me'—he appeared to finally note her immediacy. The poor mites face almost melted off with the heat.
Smirking viciously, Tsumibitoko leaned forwards—breath fluttering hotly over his mouth, eyes burning and in their usual bored, heavy-lidded set. He was so focused on her, his eyes heated in a different way to hers, that he never noticed her slipping a knife from his thigh-pack. Not a ninja kunai, as bandits rarely had ninja training—those were missing nin, obviously—just a simple, sturdy, wooden-hilted dagger.
"You know what I am, bandit?" Tsumibitoko murmured, voice back to normal, roughening it to a degree. A warm purr that skittered a shiver down his spine—she held back another smirk, darkly gleeful amusement darkening her eyes.
"D-Demon, right?" The bandit was thoroughly seduced, easy. Probably hadn't been with a woman in a while, considering how far into the woods they were.
"Yes, little human." She growled in his ear, fangs bared, lips brushing the lobe and she licked her lips slowly, gagging inwardly. "I am demon, but I am something else too. Care to guess?"
Horny, would be an apt presumption—let him believe so. He was obviously itching to grab her and throw her down. To find out if those itty-bitty, oh-so-troublesome Rumors were true.
"Hungry for your death." She let the split second spear of doubt, shock and fearful desperation piece his hazed mind—before plowing the dagger deep into his armpit, yanking hard and slamming it straight into his heart—ripping through sinew, bone and lung. The dagger was completely useless now, of course. She'd broken it to get through the bone as it was rather poor quality—but what better insult than to kill a man while aroused and with his own weapon?
Blood splattered the tree and grass as he gurgled, and she held a hand over his mouth as he choked on his blood and tried to shout for help, spasming—the noise might attract other humans. A direct hit to the heart this way didn't kill him instantly, but the dagger was surprisingly well-made (probably stolen), so it had done its job. Just a few seconds left as it valiantly tried to pump blood around his body…aaaand done. Tsumibitoko let him slump slowly to the forest floor, leaving a sticky trail of blood streaked above his form on the oak.
"Return to the Earth, pitiful human." She murmured religiously against her index and middle fingers pads, lips whispering against the skin and blood as she spoke, before pressing a kiss to the flesh and holding it imperiously in the bandit's direction. A salutation to the Earth. Not even moving, she shifted and changed the Earth to absorb his body and blood—a scientific decomposing taking apart every inch of his skin, muscle, weapons and clothing, breaking it down and returning it in its original components back to nature. Her usual ritual.
Tsumibitoko stretched, relishing in the harmony of that connection—returning life to the earth as it so gave it to her, like touching god, there was always a momentary blinding link of feeling purely, devotedly, utterly whole for one second, then it faded and she was stuck back in reality again. Scowling fiercely, she turned and set off west—not that far to the bandit camp—ready to dole out some probably deserved punishment in the form of 'divine retribution'. Or her slaughtering to feel better.
Hey, she never said she was a saint. She's a demon.
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Not long after, in the midst of a massacre
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Tsumibitoko swept into a smooth duck, gliding beneath a random bandits punch—slipping into his guard under his overextended limb, one hand cupping the back of his head roughly and her other fist swinging round in a punishing fist, cracking across his cheek twice ruthlessly, blood slick across her knuckles. Throwing the dead outlaw to the ground, she span into a crouch—leg sweeping and knocking another charging man to the ground in a hard, ungainly thud, hand whipping out into a fist in his direction, her tightly curled fingers to the ground, squeezing and bringing the Earth around him in an improvised 'Sand Coffin'. She'd seen some Suna kid take down a couple innocents in a rage this way once, she had been able to smell the bloodlust and jinchuriki on him—it had almost been enough for her to swallow nervously, he'd scared her more than the beast he imprisoned did—but his killing method really was impeccable. Beautiful for returning all that lovely blood to the Earth. A scream and crunch echoed through the air, not as clean or muffled as the original, blood dripping with sandy splat…spat…splat's to the dusty clearing ground. She'd leveled the clearing on arriving at the camp base—wanting a clean, unobstructed fighting environment to manipulate the earth to its full advantage.
Her fighting style was a kind of meld really. Always low to the ground, mostly in a crouch or hunched in sweeping moves. Brawling, dog-fighting, ruthless, stubborn, invisible, bloody, gory, wild, primal. All these words and more could describe the eye-brow raising sight of her fighting with bare hands. All flashing, snarling unruliness, rough roars and cusses and she ripped her way through her enemies, golden eyes afire and blazing, fists flying, claws tearing mercilessly, fangs shredding skin and smearing blood around her mouth, Earth crunching, engulfing, smashing—unrivalled strength and unparalleled fear.
"YAH!" She screamed, clawed right hand tearing upwards from right hip to left shoulder—cleaving the last bandit in half and leaving her wild-eyed and panting. They were easy kills, but the adrenaline pumped high enough for her to feel whole again—to feel untouchable. Coming down from that high was the worst. Being hit by fact yet again.
"Return…to the Earth…" She murmured. Having caught her breath, with hollow eyes, she kissed her index and middle finger in salute and reached it out before her limply—body stained with blood and hair loose, form held back in a proud, commanding slouch, arm straight before her. It would've made quite the painting of a bloodied battle field with those burning golden eyes and stiff upper lip—never bowing, never yielding to horror or guilt or self-hatred like many do after death. An image of fierce defiance and…freedom.
But not of the curse.
And it's about to catch up to her, no matter how far she runs.
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AT THE SAME MOMENT
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Fire Country, Konoha—Village Hidden in the Leaves, Hokage Tower, Mission Room
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Hinata Hyuuga had a scouting mission.
Made easy by the use of her byakugan, she was to head to Rain Country, scour the last known co-ordinates her target was seen in, pinpoint a location, and tighten the net for a team of ANBU to swoop in and take the mark out. It was impeccably planned, the assassination of her target—fool proof and water-tight to a surprising degree. The client really wanted their mark gone.
Konoha had every piece of info possible on the target. Last known employers, jobs, appearance mapped out to a T, characteristic traits, common facial expressions, usual body language and habit ticks, and as many of the targets physical/jutsu skills and capabilities as possible. Unfortunately, it was still all rather sparse—whoever she was, the mark was good at covering her tracks. Practice, Hinata supposed—but it was still a daunting amount of information for a ninja to receive. Their employer was obviously very tenacious. He must've had contacts up to his ears for that information.
Apparently, Hinata was not to tangle with the subject under any situation—life-or-death battle mayhaps resulting—as the target was apparently a bloodlusting power-house. Not one to trifle with or bump into in a dark alley, that was for sure. It was a little intimidating, and the usual doubts slithered in under her radar—what if I'm not good enough? What if the target senses me? What's the marks intelligence network like? How do I know this mission won't have complications? How do I know I won't end up fighting the target?—but she resolutely pushed them under the carpet and focused on the question that gave her strength.
What would Naruto-kun do?
Well, even Hinata wasn't besotted enough to ignore the fact that Naruto would most likely end up entangled in the targets personal affairs, protecting them from Konoha's powerful client against all odds for whatever reason. But she knew enough of what he'd do to know, I can do this. I'm a ninja of Konoha. I'll be fine. Besides, just thinking about him gave her vigor.
She had applied for a solo mission because really, Hinata just wanted some out-of-the-village time, alone. She wasn't above using missions to do that—especially since she was desperate to escape her father/her sister/the clans judging white eyes and slowly tightening claws. She felt suffocated. Especially since, and she was horrified to say, Hiashi Hyuuga had been actually dropping hints of a possible arranged marriage. That brought up a whole slew of thoughts she really didn't want to deal with right now, so she pushed them under the rug to join her doubts and nausea.
Hinata took the mission.
There was just one thing nagging at her—(it tugged at her mind far more than any other missions information would—than any mission information should, she corrected—it just didn't…sit right, filled her with a premonition or some such…anticipation-fueled anxiety)—oddly, there was no name of the target.
No one knew the targets name. Not even the client.
This was a bit peculiar, and had raised a few eyebrows in the mission room, but ninjas were known for being weird—it was easily shrugged off. In a world that threw quite a few strange right-hooks on a daily basis, you learned to roll with the punches.
There were code-names of course—nick-names the target gave to employers, and always with the same secretive, bitterly-amused smirk, it was said—for them to call the mark by during her service. But nothing stayed fixed or permanent enough, as the target flickered from boss to boss, to become a well known moniker in the underworld the mark breathed with.
…Kegareta Tenshi…Bachiatari…Osen sa…Tsumi ni Aisa…
…Dirty Angel…Cursed or Damned…Tainted…Loved by Sin…
Were some of the many used names. They were all of rather black mindset and seemed somehow tinted with a gloomy, ironic amusement—Hinata could almost hear the voice of her target saying them in a darkly amused voice. A rough, warm, comforting, deep tenor, tilted by an odd lilting accent and buried in the dusty heat of the Earth…Where did that come fro—
"'Nata-sama!"
Hinata almost jumped out of her goose-bump-prickled skin as the exact voice she'd imagined suddenly whispered through her mind like a lost memory. She only tensed imperceptibly and glanced about, despite her ninja training—finding no one there who had such a voice. For kami-sama's sake, she would never have been able to imagine such a voice that clearly—and the way she described it was truly odd…even in her own mind. 'Dusty heat of the Earth'? Where on…well, Earth had that come from?
But…despite herself, Hinata found something oddly addictive in the affectionate, warm tone, almost laughing in amusement—she wanted to hear it again, would do anything to hear it again (so at odds with what she was used to in the Hyuuga family, of frosty words and pointed pitch). She'd heard such caring inflections from her teammates, from Kurenai-sensei—such warmth and comrade-love—but this was…different. There was a deep love there, a fond devotion—more affection in the 'sama' than any sour-faced branch family member. It made her ache a little, because even though being addressed so highly always seemed cold and awkward to Hinata, there was something personal and loving about this. Like it was a 'sama' and nickname all for her; like she was special.
Hinata shook her head fiercely, inky strands slipping against her pale cheek as she swallowed nervously. I'm putting way to much thought into an imagined voice…am I finally going crazy?
Shaking her head again, Hinata composed herself and set off to the Hyuuga compound—determined to avoid her father and pack a few supplies.
Just another mission. Nothing to worry about.
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Demons have a saying in their native tongue (Tongue of ages, language of time, and lyrical words of none but sinner blood).
"In vinculis etiam audax"
Latin for "In chains yet still bold (free)"
Tsumibitoko no Youkai is about to find out how truly hard the upkeep of such a right is.
The curse is about to catch up to her, no matter how far she runs.
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AN: Btw, if you're having trouble picturing Tsumibitoko, look up Toshiro Hitsugaya from Bleach on Google images. I was having seriously bad imagination problems, my brain-machine just decided to crap out of me and stopped supplying ideas, so, I was surfing the net for anime hairstyles and stuff I could use, discarding every one of them. Then I saw the light at the end of the tunnel. Toushiro Hitsugaya. I just stared at him in awe for a few seconds, cursing my stupidity at not thinking of it before, just basking in the glow from my screen all reverent like—before crying out in my head 'THAT'S EXACTLY IT! THAT'S EXACTLY HOW I IMAGINED HER!'
Of course, there are a few minute changes, but the basic facial structure and eye-shape is all To-chans—oh, and the hair. Gotta love the hair. I feel like a rip off, but imma lazy fuck and I have no excuses. Besides, it suits her exactly how I wanted her image. What can I say? This fic's already run off without me, may as well do something to make it easier for my poor, abused little brain.
PS. Reviews are like medicine to my battered cranium *not so subtle attempt at subliminal messaging*