I don't even know what the fuckery this is. Yeah.
Canon ages have been tweaked slightly. (Namely Kabuto and Minato.)
But first:
Whether or not this is a romance is highly subjective. Interpret the broken mind of a twisted man as you will.
Disclaimer: Disclaimed.
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Memory is a game, drenched in blood and draped in wires.
It is a game that he plays well; he'd always been fond of them – games, that is, not memories. (No, not memories. He doesn't care for them - ) Many would think that he had an affinity for chess; they wouldn't be wrong, his all-time favorite was rummy. (And there's that memory coming into play.) Unlike poker, rummy was a game where one could relax; unlike chess, rummy doesn't require constant observation or strategy.
Rummy, he'd discovered, was the perfect game to play when psychoanalyzing. Not that many had heard of it; less, even, knew how to play.
Lay trust, present yourself as a teacher: he teaches them to play, gently instructing, guiding, showing them his tricks. He indulges them, allowing himself to be defeated every once in a while (at least, at first.)
But he never loses. Not truly.
He always beats them in the end.
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Go Fish
You are a vile creature, you know; the child is young, bright, full of promise, and you plan on twisting it, corrupting it, corroding it, until the youth fades to cynicism and the promise turns to malice.
You start by showing her a game. Checkers, this time, because she is young – she happily chats away, jumps and double-jumps, gets herself Kinged. You sit there and smile; her bliss is almost infectious, her cheer palpable in the air between you. (You find yourself smiling. You don't do that much, anymore.) She is trusting and unguarded –
And intelligent. Yes, she is intelligent. Even you – long since having outgrown checkers, of all things - can recognize the strategy, inventive and naïve and over complex in the way that children's tactics oft are.
(Yes, she is really something special.)
Not the once-a-generation prodigy you are, but a spark with potential to become an inferno...
With the right grooming, that is.
This is exactly what you need –but you also need the child to trust you. Pride has never been an issue for you – not when you gamble – and you swallow it easily as you allow the game to dwindle down to a stalemate, her king against yours.
You call it a tie and make an offer.
"Would you like to meet here tomorrow, Anko?"
The girl looks at you over the makeshift table, half-suspicious and half-eager. She spreads her hands along the checkerboard. "For what?"
Insolence, you suppose, often comes with intelligence, so you do not berate her for being impolite – not yet. Instead you smile, showing your canines, answering a question with another question.
"You're shinobi, correct?"
"Yeah…"
"Have you ever played Shinobi games?"
"No…"
"Would you like to?"
Her eyes light up. "Yeah! So, tomorrow?"
"I will see you tomorrow, Anko."
The girl nods, grins, and waves as you depart. You raise a hand in farewell as you take your leave.
The cogs in your brain are already turning.
Vile, vile thing.
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Rummy
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He does not tell her that she has been assigned his apprentice – not at first. But he tests her, trains her under the pretense of playing a game. (He refuses to take on a less-than-capable apprentice.) She goes along with the blissful ignorance of a child, unaware that as she plays her very life is in danger.
She doesn't know that the games Orochimaru plays are much, much more serious than checkers.
Balancing as she jumps from tree branch to tree branch, blind to the razor-wire he's set up in the forest. Should her kunai not reach target, she'd set off a bomb – C3.
Orochimaru has always believed in 'learn fast, or die.'
But she is competent, only managing to get thrown back once when she missteps and triggers a landmine.
When asked, Orochimaru feigns ignorance.
He guides her through the course once, then trails behind her, leaving her to her own devices.
After three solid hours they are done. The girl collapses on the ground at his feet, grinning up at him. She's panting and coated in a layer of grime and sweat, but her smile is still mega-watt. She is unaware the she just completed a Jounin-level training course (and that the only reason they're not at the ANBU one is because he couldn't get the clearance to bring her with him.)
"How'd I do?" she asks, panting.
Orochimaru regards her as one would an exotic reptile. "Fair enough," he says. He refuses to be impressed – not yet.
He sits down on the grass next to her and offers her a canteen of water.
She accepts it with a hasty, 'thankyou!' and gulps it down.
This is the first – and last – time that Orochimaru doesn't slip some degree of poison in her drink.
(But he is not cruel. He needs to build up her tolerance.)
He himself isn't very tired – he's run this course many a time. H
e waits for her breathing to return to normal before he speaks. "Anko," he says, "Are you aware that the Third has assigned you a mentor?"
Anko blinks, and shakes her head. "Thought only Minato was gettin' a mentor?"
At that, Orochimaru smiles wanly. Jiraiya's boy. "Your grades were just as good as his, were they not?"
At that Anko shrugs and looks at the ground, biting her lip, mumbling.
Orochimaru narrows his eyes. "Oh?"
She exhales. "Apparently," she huffs, "My 'exhibited behavior was not up to par with the standards of my age group' so, he got to train with the Sannin."
Orochimaru gets the impression that she was reciting something that had been said to her; her tone suggested what she thought of that. Good, he thinks. A disregard for the rules is a good thing.
He shrugs, and stands fluidly. "Well," he says, "Perhaps I do not care about 'behavioral standards.'"
She catches on quick. "Are you supposed to be my sensei?"
"I can be," he warns, "But only if you are willing to work."
There's a flash in her eyes, and her smile answers that question. "I'll be the best apprentice you ever had!"
He refrains from remarking that she would be the only apprentice he ever had, if everything went according to plan.
Instead (in a rare moment of kindness) he lets her have her moment.
(She will come to hate him in due time.)
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The autumn breeze rustles the leaves, the wind whistling through the trees. The girl is sweating, panting, glaring at him through damp bangs. She's covered in dirt, crossed with shallow cuts and scrapes where he hit her. (Not really). He's stayed his hand, adjusted his aim so she's only grazed, not pierced.
This is the ninth and final time he does such a thing.
Her hand is clenched around a kunai; her other arm dangles limp at her side, the muscle pulled at the shoulder and sprained at the wrist. He stays put, anticipating her next move.
She doesn't break eye contact as she lunges, kunai at the ready. Inwardly, he is derisive; outwardly he resisted the urge to snort. This was a common last-ditch effort made by genin who knew they were beat – one that he would not tolerate.
(She was above all of that nonsense.)
She had shown him her intelligence; he would expect that from her at all times.
(He doesn't tolerate bullshit.)
He is surprised, however, when she fakes left, goes right, and suddenly the clearing is engulfed in flames.
The girl herself is safe up on a tree branch, looking tired but triumphant.
Hmph.
(He supposes he owes her more credit, but he's not willing to give it out. Not yet.)
Orochimaru douses the fire with a water release. "Come down. We are finished."
She does, landing lightly. She's been training under him for just under a month; they've had four other sparring sessions and many, many more of the Playground of Death, as Anko has come to call it.
Her inane nickname makes him wonder what she'll call the ANBU field; he's almost, almost manage to convince (coerce) his old sensei to allow her clearance.
Her time here is limited, after all.
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Gin
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After one establishes trust, indulges, coaches, then the true training must begin. He ups the ante a little, still pushing, guiding, though the love-taps have gained some force (or have they merely lost their gentleness?). Now she knows what to expect of him, in what ways things can be expected from a man like him (if you can even call him a man.)
But he still plays his games.
He waits, he taunts, he allows himself to be defeated -
But he always wins, in the end.
(He never truly loses.)
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She's living in your house now, the one in the woods. You've told her – vile snake that you are – that it's a reconnaissance mission for the Hokage, A-Rank, her first official mission as a chunin.
The girl was ecstatic. (None the wiser that as far as Kohona knows, she's been KIA.)
She's growing, you can tell; at fourteen she stands just under your collarbones, which is half a foot taller than where she stood two years ago. She will always be short and young-looking, with a pixie-like face and a childish roundness to her eyes. Physical strength will never be her strong suit, but there is a tenacity under the waifish figure, an iron backbone hiding under the cheery disposition.
And she is fiery. Yes, she is fiery. You're not sure if you should admire it or not – while you do not appreciate it as a sensei, (as a scientist) inside you there is an ingrained appreciation for all things resilient, determined, hungry – and the child is hungry – for knowledge and know-how, eagerly absorbing every bit of wisdom he offers.
Voracious – this, she shares with Kabuto.
You do not appreciate beauty – there is no need for it, in your world –but the girl is pleasing to the eye.
Youth is beauty and beauty is youth; but there is no place for power among them.
And power is all that matters.
You do not allow stalemates anymore. So far the girl has tied you twice, bested you none, but is getting closer every day. You are powerful, and you do not make the mistake of not knowing your own power; you do not hold back on the girl.
Oftentimes, you have her and Kabuto spar. Kabuto has proven proficient in both medical jutsu and ninjutsu, and is non-too-pleased to be sparring his junior – less pleased, even, to be defeated by her.
But Anko is your top specimen; Kabuto your right-hand man.
"She is two years younger than you," you tell Kabuto. "Not twenty."
It would be easy, you muse, if they liked each other –
But this little rivalry is just so fun.
What matters: Kabuto's devotion does not waver. Nor does the girl's.
But Kabuto is docile, merely a dog that pulls at its chain. The girl is a wild thing, a rabid thing at her core, and wild things cannot be tamed, forced, or even coddled; (not that you'd coddle anything), they must be pushed, pulled, instructed.
But once a week, you make a point to sit down with the girl and play a game. Sometimes it's chess – which she is surprisingly adept at – and, now that she's outgrown checkers, you've taught her rummy, Shogun, poker. Here she can best you – though you've given up holding back long ago.
The girl is good at poker – she's a natural, her impish grin and childish demeanor acting as the perfect poker face. It lulls you into a false sense of security – a sense that you find yourself being drawn into more and more frequently. She is open, welcoming, inviting – and you do not follow that train of thought.
Your mind is slowly unraveling, you can tell; your wit is sharp and you're clever as always, but you're not thinking quite clearly – that balance within your mind-soul-body has been disrupted, your psyche damaged. It is a risk you run when you experiment on yourself, you presume, but…
But still you train the girl.
She is getting stronger every day, learning and developing jutsu as time goes on. (Four hundred seventy-six, impressive but still coming up short - ) She is immune to any and all poison (save for cyanide, that is, you're working on that) and her faith in you remains unquestioned (but she will hate you, in due time.)
On her sixteenth birthday, you give her two gifts:
The first is pack of beautifully illustrated tarot cards. (More games, you figure.)
The second is the Cursed Seal of Heaven.
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Her neck was soft and warm beneath your mouth, her blood delicious as it pooled on your tongue.
Vile, vile thing.
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500
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One in ten.
One-tenth.
Point – one – percent.
That is how many survive the seal.
And somehow, he knew she would be the one. He knows she is resilient, a fighter; she has succeeded – he has succeeded - though there is a price. Her trust in him has been shattered. Most likely, beyond repair.
But he does not care. (Yes he does. She is his student – of course he does.) Instead he sends Kabuto to care for her – no matter how strong she is, Anko will be bedridden for the next week – and downs a large bottle of Sake.
He tells himself it's in congratulations, but does not deny that it dulls the sorrow in his chest.
(Not sorry for the experiment, no, the Seal must be on her. Not sorry for the look in her eye, or the way that she screamed.
Sorry for the potential that was lost.)
He passes the time by setting the centipedes on fire.
(Play with fire and you're gonna get burned)
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He is torn between admiration and agitation when he catches her trying to escape.
Kabuto notified him of her absence. He'd caught Orochimaru in one of his moods, and had received a sound backhand in return – you idiot, why didn't you GO AFTER HER?! – but he doesn't waste time. His house is a decent thirty miles from Leaf – close enough for him to make an appearance every once in a while, far enough to be discreet – but he doesn't put it past her. He can't put it past her.
He trained her, after all.
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It's raining.
You've always liked the rain.
(It's raining, it's pouring, the old man is snoring)
It makes the grass slick and the air cold, but you don't mind –
Thunder booms. Lightening crackles, illuminating everything in techni-watt for a split second.
You grin to yourself, vile, vile thing that you are.
(Where is my apprentice, I wonder? I'm not afraid of the rain and thunder…)
"Anko~Cha~an," you sing, voice carried by the howling wind.
(Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens -)
You follow the trail of blood (hot and wet and red) and stop when you come upon her.
(London bridge is falling down)
She is panting, staggering in the rain. She hasn't noticed him yet – or perhaps she has. You watch in quiet disdain as she falls to her knees, bleeding from her mouth and dry-heaving. You tsks to yourself () just loud enough to be heard over the rain.
The girl whirls, eyes narrowed. A hand instinctively goes for her kunai pouch but – and here's the but – there's nothing there. You had her stripped of all weapons beforehand. Not because you were anticipating something like this (though, in truth, you'd be disappointed if she hadn't at least tried) but because you didn't want her damaging Kabuto.
Her eyes widen in fear as you shake your head and step towards her. "What a pity," you say, voice dripping honey-sweet poison, "You were such a perfect specimen…"
The girl scrambles backward on her hands and knees, and you revel in her terror. (Sick, twisted, vile thing that you are.) You can't help but chuckle. She is far from the puppy you once thought her to be, returning no matter how many times she is kicked.
Cave canem, you remember, words from a long-forgotten language. The dog bites when it's threatened, runs when off the leash. Beware.
But in the end, all dogs return to their master's feet.
Willingly or not.
Two more steps in the salt-slick rain, and you back her into a tree. You're counting on her being disoriented, terror-stricken, and – and this is how you know you are a bastard – devoted to you. You are unaware how the ties between parent and child work but you are more than familiar of the bonds that exist between mentor and student, master and servant, scientist and specimen. You've practically raised the girl, watched her grow for half a decade. You know she'd never admit it…
…but the girl idolizes you.
And that – that devotion, idolization – is what causes her to hesitate.
You crouch down on one knee, cup her cheek with on hand. "Why would you run?" you murmur, stroking her cheek with the back of your knuckles. "Where would you go?"
You can see the futility in her plans, and the hope die in her eyes as you show it to her.
The girl is so panicked that she does not notice how you nick the base of her ear with a miniscule needle. She struggles to respond but – (one-two-three-four-five-six-) she only succeeds in half-shoving you away –
(seven -eight-nine-)
-before she slumps in your arms.
"Ten."
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He carries her back, (he's magnanimous like that) slung across his shoulder like a little lost lamb.
(The analogy is more accurate than he thinks)
That's what she is, after all: misguided, scared, suffering delusions of grandeur. The grass was certainly not greener, not on the other side, not anywhere, the girl would do good to remember that.
He pawns her off to Kabuto (now sporting a purple bruise) with the instructions, "Keep her sedated." Nothing more is required, not now – soon he will test the limits of the cursed forms, see just exactly what the seal will do –
But now he needs rest.
(Who's fleece what white as snow)
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Repose
The Devil, he wore such a fine, fine, shirt,
And it stayed so clean as he dragged me through the dirt.
(Intermezzo)
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He's woken by the light streaming in from the window. Groggily, he opens his eyes.
There are five empty sake bottles on the table before him. He doesn't remember drinking them –
(but he doesn't remember much nowadays, does he?)
-and he doesn't know how much time he has spent here, in this twelve-by-fourteen-foot room, with only a table and two chairs and a single, dusty window.
He decides that it's time for some different scenery.
He decides to check on his rebellious protégé.
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You're leaning against the doorframe of her room for some time before she acknowledges you. You know she noticed you – the telltale tightening of her shoulders was a dead giveaway.
She sits up on her cot, but she remains facing the wall. "Gonna drug me again?"
You walk forward, each step echoing in the empty room. As you near she turns around, eyes narrowed.
You half-smirk in amusement. So fierce (so fragile.) You have with you a pack of basic playing cards. Wordlessly, you sit on the edge of her bed and deal seven cards each. "To five hundred," you say, setting the deck between the two of you and flipping the top card. "Your move."
The girl scowls. She makes the vicious sentiment look cute. "I'm not playing," she says, turning away.
Your arms is lightning-quick. You fix your palm under her chin, gripping her jaw easily. "You will," you say, narrowing your eyes. You do not tighten your grip; instead you remove you hand, caressing her cheek with the backs of you knuckles. You need to reestablish the trust, lull her back into a sense of security. (And what better way to prove that you're benign other than a game?)
She glares some more, moving away from your touch.
"Your move," you repeat, and move back. You set your cards in order, watching her through your lashes.
She remains still, stubborn – but…
Cave canem. The dog knows when it's cornered.
She fixes her cards, and draws.
(All dogs return to their masters feet.)
Willingly or not.
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Roulette
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His favorite game, however, does not involve cards, but chance. Luck. It was developed in an icy country far to the north that was – is still – known for its brutality and cutthroat methods, its callous attitude and icy heart. Sometimes he makes his failed experiments play it, for the sake of entertainment; the winners stay alive, moves to a second round or – when the fancy strikes him – he releases them, to be the foxes for the next round to hunt.
(He's a bastard like that.)
She's on the cusp of twenty now, beautiful in the way a shattered mirror is – beautiful because it is broken.
She is powerful now, (seven-hundred-twenty-eight jutsu under her belt) though her prowess is overshadowed by Kabuto. She is a bruiser, quick and fast and striking – but she is no tactician. No subterfuge. (There is nothing subtle about her) She is a queen in this proverbial game of chess, and one has to be careful, when one plays the Queen.
(Kabuto is more akin a knight, or a bishop; infinitely valuable but expendable)
And, like a queen, the girl kept proving her use.
(Just in time to save her game)
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Broken like a mirror and powerful (beautiful) like a queen.
That's what you think when you catch her (this is the twentieth time in four years.)
She puts up a fight; of course she does. You wait it out, bear the brunt of her frustration –
-but you make the mistake of underestimating your student. (Snarling, wild creature that she is) She manages to pin you, kunai at your throat and sneer upon her face.
Still, you remain calm and collected (a rare feat for you these days). "You wouldn't," you say in your mentor-voice, calmly reminding your student of her limits.
"Give me one reason," she snarls, malicious and beautiful, "One reason why I shouldn't."
You are slightly perturbed by these new developments – her viciousness, that is. You are cruel, yes, and Kabuto is merciless – but this is not cold and cutting; this is scathing and hot and angry.
"Where would you go?" he says, reminding her of the futility of it all. "Leaf? They think you are dead. Any other village? Why would they take you? What have you to offer?"
She presses the kunai to your throat, skinny elbow digging into your collarbone. Half of you is surprised. The other half is not. You must play this, gamble your way out – it is the only way, you know.
After all, you trained her.
All in a decade's work, you figure, and wonder where (if) you went wrong.
You hadn't wanted to summon Manda, but there was no choice. The monstrous snake appeared, effectively throwing Anko off him.
("Twenty human sacrifices," you promised him, for every time he's summoned.)
You stand on his head and laugh. "You want to run?!" you say. "Fine. Go. Run. I'll even give you a head start – one."
She's already out of sight.
"Two."
(Runrunrun as fast as you can, you can't catch me I'm the gingerbread man!)
"Three-four-five,"
(All around the mulberry bush, the monkey chased the weasel)
"Six."
(Mary had a little lamb, little lamb, little lamb)
"Seven."
(raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens)
"Eight.
(One dark night in the middle of the day, two dead boys went out to play)
"Nine."
(wax and clay will wash away, my fair lady.)
"Ten."
(Ashes, ashes, we
All
Fall
Down.)
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This was a gamble he hadn't planned on loosing.
(Miss Mary Mack, Mack, Mack)
Then again, he reflects, dimly,
(All dressed in black, black, black)
He was the one who taught her.
(She has a knife, knife, knife)
Cave canem.
(Stuck in her back, back, back.)
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Roll of the dice
Take a spin of the wheel
Out of your hands now
So how do you feel
But you're not gonna win
You'd better go back again
Yeah...an alternate title for this was 'A 4000 word essay as to why I belong in an asylum'
Bottom lyrics credit to Iron Maiden - The Angel and the Gambler.
Middle go to Deb Talen - Rocks and Water
Thoughts?