With 'Naruto'.
The rat was digging diligently through his bruised digits, frantic to escape, as his thumb and index crushed against its neck with the intention to end the affair without a squeak. Somewhere in his mind, the rare notion of pain, caused by the Rodent Teeth of +3 Biting and Rat's Claws, registered dully, and there was nary a reason to risk a yelp and let go of the creature. He needed silence, though not the alarming kind of silence that grated on the nerves, demanding inspection, No. He needed the natural kind that melded harmoniously with where he was hiding, behind the looming visage of the dumpster. He needed the type of silence that harmlessly dissuading anyone from checking out what lied beyond the shadow of the dumpster in the filthy dead-end behind Yamanaka's Flower Shop.
'Naruto' quickly grabbed the rat head with his left hand and a twist later, the rat laid limp and dead; what little of its and his shed blood was smearing hotly over both of his palms, coating over a thin layer of dried, crusted dirt and grime on his hands.
'He' set the poor rodent aside. The little creature had been chewing on a silver foil with leftovers on the edge of the dumpster, and the sound of its teeth biting the foil had grated on the nerves of the hiding child. There was too much noise. He could have chased it away, but what if it ran outside? What if someone had seen the scampering rodent? Would it have raised the question of 'What chased the rat outside?'. A farfetched, paranoid observation for civilian, but he was among the, so alluded, best shinobis of the Elemental Nation. Shinobi thrived in paranoia as fish thrived in water. Thus the rat had to go, or so 'Naruto' rationalized.
I will risk no sound. Not a squeak.
For tonight was October 10th. This day, ten years ago, the Nine Tailed Fox had been valiantly defeated by the Yondaime, the Fourth Hokage, at the ultimate price of his own life.
As the Tailed Beasts were, technically, perpetual chakra construct, which chronically reformed upon dissipation, The Fourth could only prevent another attack through a highly unorthodox, desperate measure. He sealed the mindless beast into an innocent new born, turning the child into a jinchūriki, a human prison for the beast. Stressed by keeping the Kyuubi power at bay for the duration, and the fact that a particular irate God of Death ripped the soul out of the Fourth the moment the sealing completed, no consent of duty and responsibility was stated nor excepted; the equivalent power to become the human sacrifice was lost, granting the child no peculiar ability beside standard jinchūriki perks. In direct accordance of his action, the Yondaime actively condemned the child's fate to face the hatred of the village.
Who cared if the prison was not the prisoner?
What the people did saw was not a child cursed by his own parent, but an outlet for all of their resentment and hate.
And all of that hatred was paid in blood and pain, through the annual festivities. Hauntingly so. One wondered the sheer cruelty of man to subject the child to the festivals, yet alive.
Thus, all thoughts stilled when 'he' heard urgent voices echoing over like deadly, haunting whispers from outside the alley.
Go away. Just pass by. Please.
His jaws clenched in terror. His sun-kissed hair damped, glistened even under the depthless darkness of night with cold sweat. The wildly golden hair spikes were dotted with brown traces of mud and grime, and the asymmetric side bangs, encasing his whiskered, sunken cheeks, were lightly fluttering with each of his stilled breaths. His seemingly glowing cerulean eyes diluted as his attention attuned to the dry crackle of torches outside, to the rasping tight leathers clinging to armors and cloths, to the heavings of breath of those urgently rushed by, and to the distinct, loud sniff of the nose.
What!? Tracker!?
*SCRA…SHH...SSHH...SSHH*
At that moment, a heel stepped into the alley. The feet sounded drawl, deliberately scraping the soles against the dry dirt, actively hurting his inner ear, in probable bored treading.
His breath was no more. His fingers unconsciously tightened into tiny fists. His thoughts were diluted with ample amount of fear and desperation. The dire gravity of the situation suddenly collapsed unto him, right at that instance. Butterflies were having all-you-can-eat in his stomach as his mind wandered to the past beatings and tortures. His mouth was scorched; his throat dried from all the rash running in the search for a safe haven to hide from the festivities.
*SCRA…SHH...SSHH...SSHH*
His ears strained in rising terror. His spine arched and ached in tensed anticipation to the distinct scuffing of standard issued Leaf-nin sandals, against the sand and dirt. He had taken that sound to heart by pain and blood. Ninja of the Village Hidden in The Leaves excelled in jungle warfare, and the village itself was among the lush greenery, and thus standard equipment were to provide maximum advantage in forest engagements. As ninja often took travel to tree striding, jumping from tree branch to tree branch, the soles of the boot were designed to be lightly jagged as sharp teeth, eliminating slipperiness when landing on wet barks. By applying chakra to the leg for a powered take off from the ground, the jagged sole would scrape against the dirt, and mess up the directional indication of the footprint to delay trackers from finding out which tree they took to.
Yet, the jagged edge of the boot made it a very painful kicking gear, and the scrapping sound made be each edges digging against the dirt was unique, bloody unique.
Shinobi. 'He' cursed mentally as his traitorous heart started beating faster, louder, thumping a serenade to his imminent doom.
"Clever to coat yourself with smell of rat blood, trashes, and dirt, demon; just the befitting smell of your kind …"
At once, 'Naruto' heaved a heavy, exasperated breath as the rasp, guttural voice sickeningly caressed his unguarded nape. How was 'I' caught? The smell of permeating alcohol wafted to his nostrils. The smell of sour, plum?, chilled sake kicked his mind into survival overdrive as usual, calming his entire body.
No escaping this one…
"…but the Inuzukas are also known for our ears…"
Inuzuka. Hoping for the best, 'Naruto' turned his body and his right fist shot straight at his estimation of the voice origin.
*BANG*
Unfortunately, a palm thrust greeted his forehead, and his parietal bone was introduced to a thick metal surface.
"Violence is not your exclusive trade, demon."
However, 'he' could not perceive the speed of the strike, nor the resulting pain, yet, and all that 'he' felt was a sudden loss of balance as 'he' was pushed back. A dull ache soon greeted the back of his head, and he could feel his blood hotly trickle down to his neck.
What happened?
Black and dots of white dominated his vision as he tried to take a glimpse at his attacker; 'he' willed to coil his left leg to kick the attacker away for some breathing room. To his horror, the leg failed to response; the thin, malnourished limb hung lifelessly, as 'he' fell onto his rear, leaned against the looming dumpster behind.
'No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no …' 'He' could hear female voice wailing desperately in his mind even in this dazed state.
Before 'he' could make head or tail of the current predicament, a hand firmly caught his wild blond locks and started to use them as the grip to …
*Bang* *Bang* *Bang* ….
… viciously smash his head into the dumpster metal side, repeatedly, in great fervor, as if his head was a bouncing toy.
With each contact, his vision exploded into entire new schemes of colors he never knew existed. The pain didn't register; 'he' thought that as his brain was mercilessly introduced to so much blunt traumas, some of his senses – pain in this case – must have failed critically as the parietal lobe was probably heavily damaged. Perhaps the cerebral cortex could have been damaged too as he didn't feel too concerned about freeing himself from the vice grip of the perpetrator. Nor was he concerned about the jelly-ish liquefied brain matter gushing out from his nasal channels. 'He' was familiar with the feeling of brain matter flooding his noses, courtesy of the festive lynching last year. His ear lobes felt wet. Was his ear bleeding?
'He' did not know, nor could he care more about the trivia.
What was catching his attention was the kicking, nauseating sense of vertigo from the way his brain shook so much. It felt like a hairy hand was shoved down his throat, reaching his stomach, mixing his intestine about for fun, and starting to pull everything UP and then, OUT.
'He' was about to retch reflexively in nausea, even on empty stomach for days, when the hand dragged his head up, by the iron grip on his hair. His scalp protested in snapping sounds as he was lifted off ground. His back quaked with a loud 'thud' as he was slammed into the wall of the alley, forcing all the air in his lung out, inadvertantly assisted cleaning his clogged nostrils. His neck creaked as another hand caught it and started to throttle him.
Even as dazed as he was, vision ringing in multiple shapes floating around, 'Naruto' could still see two black, contended, and dilated with arousal eyes peering into his own. Before 'Naruto' could capture the full facial visage of his attacker, he grunted breathlessly as two kunais pierced his upper torso, through the gap of collarbone, and buried to the end ring, effectively nailing him to the wall behind.
"Now you wouldn't be wondering why I am here, are you?" A throaty voice growled into his ear.
Because your presence are to serve a purpose.
Because you are an but an instrument to my end.
Because I am in control of my own sufferings.
...
..
.
Naruto could have spat the truth into his attacker's face, and watch as it consequentially twisted in fifty shades of confusion for amusement, but the farce was yet to be done with.
All journey began with a single step. This night signified that irreversible step for him. For Yoto. He murmured. His mind briefly wandered to the ill-fated family member before re-concentrating on following the plan.