Author's Note:

Hey-o!

Uh yeah. So technically this is a crossover Au. BUT! Most of the story takes place in the Naruto Universe with only slight mentions to the other.

Also this is an Amnesiac!Sasuke fic.

So if you're cool with that then we're all good.

The reason why this isn't in the movie category or crossover category is because a. this movie has no fanfic for it on ff yet and I don't know how to make a new movie slot or whatever so it'll stay here. b. more people are going to end up reading it, meaning more people are going to be able to enjoy it. Which makes me in turn happy.

ANYWAYS.

Updates are quicker on A03, (weekly) while on here it'll probably be monthly. So if you want to read a head, I don't mind.

(I haven't' actually read/watched Naruto so if some details are off, I'm sorry. There's just alot of stuff to go through and I'm not sure if I could go through all the material to make sure everything is correct. )

Copy write blah blah belongs to the guy who made Naruto and the people at Laika.

If you want to skip the intro (which is below) Go on to the next chapter.

Or to go on to the Naruto Universe.


OoOoOoOoO


"If you must blink, do it now."

These were the words he uttered every time before he would start a story, before he would prick the stings of his mother's old shamisen and before he would lay down the cloth that contained the colorful pieces of origami that he would bring to life.

It was like a sirens call; every time they were said, time seemed to still for a second, before it would fast forward, like a flash of lighting, the waves of people would part till there was a circle surrounding himself and his stage. These words had power. A power that turned and thrummed underneath his skin: it was similar to his mothers magic; something that was calm and smooth and semi sweet like the strumming of his instrument. It hadn't always been like that. He remembered when it had been bitter with a burning rage that clung to his skin with an oily yet sticky resolve. It was almost as if he had been soaking in tar, letting it turn about him to the point of nearly drowning him.

He couldn't remember the origin of the hate. He simply woke one night with his mother hovering over him, whispering his name as she ran her fingers through his tangled hair; her eyes dark with some unknown emotion as her tears ran down her face. In all honesty, it was the first night he could remember with his mother, or any part of his life really.

At first he had lashed out at her; scared but unwilling to admit it her or to himself. She simply cried through the night till she faded away, her tears still wet on her blank face as she stared out into nothing. It was only a few days later that he learned he slept for three days before awaking. He tried to coax out what had caused the prolonged sleep or even to question what his life was like before the cold blackness that sat in the void of his memory. She would only hold his face as her hand ran through his hair, "Kubo... My dear Kubo..." she would whisper before loosing all sense of where they were, only to ask a few seconds later if he would like to hear a story of the mighty Hanzo.

As time passed, he slowly stopped asking her and accepted that he may never get an answer.


It was a few months later when he first (or at least remembered) walked into the tiny village near his home. Winter was slowly inching it's way in. The days short and getting colder; snow had yet to fall on the ground, but it would only be a matter of time before it kissed the village. He curled his father's red Yukata in his hands, trying to shield them from the cold wind as he made his way through the barren field. An empty bag slung over his back and a few bronze coins jingling in the drawstring pouch he had tied to his obi.

There was a large amount of people in the market as he danced around the crowd of people looking at the various wares. There were several children running about as well as they threaded their way in and out of the bunches of humans; the cold didn't seem to effect them as much as the adults that unconsciously huddled behind others. A small smile graced his lips before a sudden ache pierced his heart; a sadness with no origin as he listened to the shrieks and giggling of a child suddenly picked up by their older brother.

"Paper Boy what's wrong?" an elderly woman's voice asked. He was quick to wipe the prickling tears as he jumped to face her.

"Nothing's wrong".He quickly responded.

Her weathered face twisted in a little scowl before she motioned him to follow her. He dredged along behind her as she expertly made her way through the throng of people to a little wooden patio with a small little over hang to protect against the rain. There was age in the wood, from the faded brown to the little splinters that sprang about in the poles and some of the floor; though most of it was smooth with wear. A black iron kettle sat on top of a metal shelf, as a flat bowl with wide edges layed beside it.

She quickly knelt down beside the kettle; sitting on her knees as she seemed to get comfortable before patting the spot near her. He complied; sitting on his feet as she had to her left. From this spot he could see nearly the whole market buzz about, from the people in the stalls, to a man showing off a colorful dragon, and the various men and woman going about their day. Oddly he felt himself calm as his eye flickered about from person to person.

"You know it's been a while since we've seen you around." As if broken out of a trance he turned to stare at the plump woman beside him. "We were worried about you after you bumped your head on that rock." His head slowly cocked to a side before owlishly blinking at her. "Feared the worst when you didn't come back after a few days." She turned to him, a solemn look that soured the grandmother look of her face.

"I.. I'm sorry. " He finally replied. "I didn't realize I had been gone for so long." The words felt uncomfortable on his tongue. He wasn't sure if it was because he honestly didn't feel sorry (how could he if I couldn't even remember his name without his mother telling it to him?), or if he simply wasn't use to saying it. There was a burning in his chest, as if he had wounded his own pride with the sentence; but he chased away the feeling or tried to at least.

"Aw come on now, there's no need to be upset Kubo." She nudged him with her elbow,"We all know that your mother isn't well, there's no shame in wanting to take care of her. Though you should try to grace us with your music and stories some time." With a wink and a grandmotherly smile she nudged him again till a small smile broke out on his face.

"I suppose I could try..." He peered off away from her in mock contemplation; his finger tapping his chin to complete the effect. He glanced back and smirked at her, it felt natural to do so. The woman huffed through her nose as if amused before lightly grabbing his cheek and shaking it a little.

"You a'ut to. You're getting quite pale, Kubo. Almost like a ghost. I doubt the winter is going to help but come spring you should be looking like your old self again." Her smile grew wider as he pushed away the offending hand with a disgruntled look to his face before nearly-pouting. Chuckling, she nudged him again, when he refused to look at her; a full pout now on his face.

They sat in silence for a little while; the sun now high in the sky, taking away a little bit of the chill from the air. Not enough to chase the nippiness away, but just enough to make it somewhat comfortable.

"Do you remember what made you sad?"

His head snapped to the old woman; the pout long gone.

"No I don't." A little curve of his lips appeared.

"Well then-" The old lady began before shoving the boy up with her hand "Off with you then." He stumbled up before setting her with half a glare before letting it drop.

Huffing he turned away to make his way back to the market when the lady spoke again "You're buying some rice for winter right?" There was a small nod of acknowledgment from the boy, "Then here." Old bones cracked as she sat up and walked over to him. A soft clicking from her hands signaled the exchange of money. "Buy some meat with it. I'm sure your mother wouldn't mind some."

The boy blinked in confusion before nodding with a small smile, turning, and making his way back into the crowded market.


A disgruntled growl ripped through his throat as he threw down his failed attempt of a tiger. The orange paper seemed to be mocking him the longer he stared at it. His fingers failed him every time he tried to fold the paper into the shapes he desired; as if they didn't know how to make the shapes themselves.

The old woman with the strange familiarity with him that told him of his past pastime; apparently, he once enjoyed it. He wasn't sure why he didn't enjoy it anymore, if anything, it frustrated him to no end.

He wished he could be his old self again. He felt frustratingly different in all the wrong ways.

Where he was once quiet, calm and relaxed, he now burned with a bubbling anger and hungry frustration; tempted to break everything in his path as if it caused all his woes. A burning itch flared through is neck at those times, as if begging him to feed it with his negative emotions.

He only did it once.

His dark feelings swirling about causing cacophony in the blankness of his mind as he sat before the flickering fire. White hot burning echoed from the crook of his neck as waves of fire washed over him. Strangely it felt good, as if saying hello to an old friend. The feeling quickly died as he spotted his mother standing before him; eyes glazed over yet in a stance prepared for battle, the red shamisen in hand with a puck in the other.

It felt slippery to what ever it was that slipped back to the origin on his neck. A burning rose from his throat, as his stomach churned in nausea and his eyes prickled in pain. He had spotted and taken note of all her weaknesses, calculated the time and speed to escape her attack before he could plunge his knife into her throat. Rushing away from her, he quickly emptied the rice he ate that morning.

Kubo wrinkled his nose in disgust at the memory. He promised he would never let those emotions take him again. He wasn't sure if he could take the mental picture of him murdering his mother again. Huffing he picked up another piece of paper from the pile beside him, this one a vibrate shade of green, took a calming breath, and began his attempt again at origami; this time a snake instead of a tiger.


Mother's instrument didn't cause him as much trouble as the origami did.

The three strings nearly hummed as his fingers came close, as if sensing the power that could be unleashed. It was pleasant to drag his fingers across the strings and hear them sing in a gentle hymn. Natural, the thought echoed in his mind as he caress the strings again, it felt natural as if his hand had always touched wire and taunt string.

Holding the neck of three stringed guitar in his callused palms felt awkward at first, the groove in the sleek wood off as his hand felt a little too big for it. Though now he could hardly feel the difference as he picked up the white triangular pick to start a new song.


Wrestling paper often woke him up in the middle of the night, though this time there wasn't a sound when his groggy black eye slowly slid open. The oppressively cold winter air pressed down on him; trying to coax him into slumber. Sleep nearly grasped him again when a soft scraping sound echoed in the cave, almost like a pair of shuffling unsure feet.

Kubo slowly turned over to face away the gray stone wall when his eye caught a black pair staring back at him. The mysterious person looked no older than himself, perhaps a bit younger. He had large black eyes that shined with emotion, pale nearly translucent skin under the moon and short raven locks that stuck out in weird angles behind his head. He wore strange clothing of blue and white that hung off him; an outlandish robe that flared out at the neck, out of season shorts, and long fabric sandals.

The child looked as surprised as he felt. It stayed like for a while; a single dark eye staring into a pair that almost seemed familiar. Kubo couldn't quite place why that was, staring at this stranger with stranger clothing almost seemed like he was staring at an echo of something long forgotten. As if sensing his thoughts, the ghost scowled at him as if he was disgusted with Kubo. A flickering sense of annoyance reverberated within himself. A near sense of loathing washed over him as the other's eyes seemed to judge him as their eyes narrowed.

A few seconds passed before the other turned his nose up as if something foal layed before him. Kubo didn't know why, but he was up in a flash, his sandals clacking on the stone floor as he marched up to the boy. The boy made no move as Kubo got in his face to glare, silently challenging for the kid to say anything to him. The child snorted before turning away, only to pause as if waiting for Kubo to follow him.

Growling, he complied, walking behind the stranger as they moved towards the entrance. At the mouth of the cave, Kubo paused as his companion kept walking. Snow left undisturbed as he went further out on the overhang. As if sensing Kubo's reluctance, the ghost spun his head towards him, and motioned with a tiny jerk to command him forward.

For a second he nearly complied, his foot inching out of the cave into the overpowering moonlight. The snow only enhancing the near enchanting light that painted the landscape in soothing dull tones. All of it combined seemed like a dream, a sweet dream that-. His foot stopped before it pressed into the freshly fallen snow. Little bells that spelled danced rattled around his head. As if burnt he brought his foot back in, his mother's strange warning of never going out while the moon graced the sky rang in his ear.

He didn't know why.

The Spirit whirled around in outrage. A snarl gracing his face as he eyed Kubo. With a translucent finger he pointed down, as if prompting a dog to come. Kubo vehemently shook his head before stepping back. The face of the ghost twisted even further at the disobedience, it's skin less and less opaque as his reluctance to follow grew. Almost sensing his resolve to not follow, the wraith seemed to deflate; the rage shedding off like a second skin, only leaving a defeated young boy in it's wake.

It's shoulders slumped forward as it's black eyes studied the ground. Kubo watched in curiosity as the little ghost slowly nodded it's head before turning it's back to him and sitting in the powdery white.

A heavy oppressing weight he didn't know he carried was lifted off Kubo as he watched snow slowly drift from the sky to the awaiting landscape.


He awoke to scattered papers skirting around the large cave. The dream of the ghost's crying slowly faded from his sleep addled mind in turn for the thoughts of cooking rice for his slowly deteriorating mother.


The fire crackled pleasantly that cold winter night as he sat comfortably on the Tammi mat come bed. Currently his mother swirled around, her black hair like a curtain as she acted out the story she was telling. She was always animated while she told the stories of his father.

Hearing these stories always brought some joy to his monotonous life. His life felt dull and somewhat lifeless compared to the tales his loving mother would retell him at night.

Her glassy unseeing eyes when she was away were the bane of his existence; he yearned for her to be mentally there with him all the time, but he knew that was wishful thinking. Though it never detour him from accepting her affections either it be hugs, her gentle teasing, her fingers gently carding though his misbehaving hair, or the occasional kiss on his head. It felt as if he had gone through years of loneliness. He knew it couldn't be true.

At times though, he wondered about it. Occasionally a bout of crippling pain would echo through her eyes as she would stare down at him. Her eyes almost seeing someone else instead of himself. Kubo most of the time wrote it off, thinking that perhaps she saw her Hanzo, his father, in him. Sometimes he wasn't so sure.

"Kubo?" A pair of golden brown eyes worried over him.

"Sorry mother." He gave a little smile, "I was just thinking is all."

Her eyes slightly widened and with a nod, she smiled back at him.

It was a sad little thing.


Despite his freezing feet, he continued to march though the snow. He wore his determination on sleeve as he made his rounds in the area near his and Mother's home. Or as most people would call it; exploring. He would call it scouting out the perimeter .

The area directly surrounding the cave wasn't very interesting; it mostly consisted of dark gray stone, rocky cliff sides, and occasional jagged shoreline. While he wasn't particularly scared to go these areas he kept a healthy dose of caution. Perhaps when the snow was soaked into the ground during spring he would venture there, but now he currently strolled down an unseen pathway in the woods near town.

Ancient trees blocked the rare sunshine, making the area even colder. His feet sometimes dipped into powder further than he liked, curses slipping between his flaky lips as he tried to wipe the offending ice from his thighs. While he enjoyed his mothers company, either her being there in body or mind, the itching feeling of being coped up grafted at his nerves. So that morning he wore as much warm clothing that he could, created a bonfire in the middle of the cave, and draped both his and his mothers blankets onto his mothers back before setting out on his wonderful winter adventure. Which wasn't really fun he dully concluded.

He was contemplating the adverse effects of the bonfire in the middle of his home with his mother when the murmur of a stream came from behind him. Quickly turning on his heel, he spotted a sizable stream that lazily sleeked by. What caught his attention wasn't the water but layed on the other side; a small cemetery with aging gray headstones clustered together in an almost intimate gesture in a semi circle cleaning. The trees surrounding the area branched over it as if guarding it from the heavens. Magic almost seemed tangible there. A few seconds is all it took before the oddity seemed apparent.

There were footsteps in the fresh snow that led from the staircase of stone to the edge of the river. Kubo's head snapped back and forth from the mysterious prints and the small shore. It didn't seem as if anyone else was around. Like a jolt, an idea came to him. With almost dread like fear in his stomach his black orb tracked his freshly made snow indents to the edge of the river. They lined up perfectly. His eye grew as big as a saucer. Excitement quickly occupied the space dread had dwelled in a few seconds before.

Giddy glee rumbled through his body as he nearly ran up to the edge of the river before stomping the top of the water, placing his full weight into it. Which admittedly was the stupidest things he had ever done. He wasn't sure what he had been expecting. Maybe somehow be able to walk on the surface or something silly like that. He really should've known better he would chastise himself later.

A girlish screen tore from his throat when he realized that yes, his foot was going through the water's surface and yes he was going for a nice winter swim. A chilled stinging zipped through his body as he went under. It stole his breath for a second, a barrage of bubbles reflecting his lack of air.

Like lightening he was out of the death trap and onto sweet snow covered land. His legs felt shaky and tingly as if a jolt of fire had raced up from his feet. He wasn't going to question why he wasn't in the watery grave, just glad he was out and on his feet. He eyed the river in disdain as he frog walked his way between the graves of peoples ancestors and up snow covered stairs.

Later that night his mother politely asked why he was completely drenched when he arrived home. The two old blankets that they owned swamped his form except for his toes that curled in the warmth of the crackling fire.

"The river and I had a disagreement" he moodly answered.

Her laugh tinkled like a chime.


Hush fell over as the next set of cords echoed in the silent market.

Pay careful attention to everything you see, no matter how unusual it may seem..."


Paper monstrosities that mocked the art of origami were strewn all about in a circle of frustrated tension. They were mostly forgotten in favor of a familiar worn instrument that semi layed, semi leaned on his thighs. Nimble fingers glided over wires as Kubo tightened and stretched the wire over the red neck. Pricking at the newly corded string, they purred as if content, the high zesty sounded to be about pitch. He blew through his nose as if stating he expected nothing less from himself, then he eyed the graveyard of paper around him in ire. The pride he had for a second quickly melted as he gloomly eyed his pit of self made hell. Paper folding, apparently, wasn't his forte. Or at least it wasn't anymore.

His playing had significantly increased since he first picked up the shamisen, unlike his origami skills that a toddler could out perform him. Something felt missing every time he took a piece of colorful water pressed wood and attempted to make a seemingly two dimensional object into a three dimensional object. With a bit of annoyance he took the pick laying to his side and began to strum; the stress of origami ebbed out from his shoulders.

He wasn't really playing anything in specific at that moment, more of ambient sounds for the turning cogs of his wondering mind. Or at least that would be his excuse for not noticing the shifting of crinkled paper corpses. The particular place his thoughts occupied were of the ghost he wasn't so sure wasn't real. He defiantly remembered waking up to a disaster of paper all over the cave floor that would give a rainbow a bad name. But he also remembered someone standing at the mouth of cave. Unlike the last ghost, this one just stared, it's cold black eyes like a vertex drawing him in. They unsettled Kubo on a primal level, as if he knew what they could do; knew of what they had already done. He quickly turned his back from the figure outlined in the silver moon halo and squished his one eye tight, hoping, praying that it would leave or at least the moody snow ghost would appear.

Flickering black caught his eye as he dragged his mind from the memory; his breath caught in his throat. There a few centimeters from his stretched out feet stood a little black origami figure. Its little face peered at Kubo in an almost mocking gesture; if it had eyes, Kubo might of said it stared like a predator stalking pray. He swallowed before slowly taking his hand away from the strings to grab the nervous-wreaking-mock-man. Almost like a broken curse, the figure burst into a mess of black paper, scattering itself around the area of combustion. At first he wasn't sure what to do as he stared at the explosion in front of him, was there really anything he could do? He scratched his head; his black hair smooth and feather-like as his fingers went through it.

A light bulb flickered on before he strummed the strings again. With an eye glued to the paper, Kubo's fingers flickered over wire as a peppy beat echoed in the cave, the pick forgotten to his side. After a minute or two of nothing happening, a scowl formed on his face at the lack of motion. He nearly gave up at the notion of self folding origami when the paper not in front of him but to his side began to fold itself. In shock, the music died down, as did the figure emerging from the dark blue recess. Rectifying his mistake quickly, he started the melody again, abate this time slower than the original speed. Almost like a waking flower, the paper started to refold itself several times till a small person formed.

Kubo might of been surprised or even a bit curious as to what the object mimicked if he didn't' already recognize it.

The little paper ghost frown at him, it's whole face morphing at the movement. He could help but chuckle at it. It was nearly a perfect mocket of the ghost, from it's weird neck robe, to the shorts and weird shoes, to the ridiculous spiked hair that reminded him of water fowl.

"Hello little ghost" he whispered, fearing that paper could be triggered unlike a bomb by a raised voice.

A blue head tilted up, eyeing him with curious disdain. The eyeless stare made him uncomfortable as he tried to clear his throat to speak to it again.

"Why are you so mad all the time? Why do you stay here?" He instantly felt stupid at asking paper to answer him. He nearly stopped strumming when he remembered the last time he did that. A strange sorrow filled tune reverberated through the strings. It's non-existent stare tried to pin him before motioning towards Kubo's foot. Swirling black levitated a little by his sole. Shivers ran through his body as a humanoid stepped out of the tornado of paper.

This version of the black figure from the not-quite-dream screamed of danger. Even if it was paper, there was something distinctly wrong with it. Swishing long coat with a weird neck collar, a long ponytail that sat limpy on its neck, and a think black sword protruding from the recess of the flowing sleeves; all that composed of it, seemed all too familiar, something that should stay in the dark and never be recovered. A black paper face turned to him, it's malice seeping into Kubo's pores.

Krickkkkkshhh.

Origami paper layed crinkled under foot, as he took steady gulps of chilled air. It took a few minutes before his erratic breathing slowed something close to normal. He didn't dare move his foot even if it layed in an uncomfortable position. Something told him it wouldn't be that easy to get rid of the looming figure.

A sharp pricking in his knee drew his attention from the black crater of paper to the little paper ghost. It had a particularly smug face.

Brows narrowed before Kubo angerly stage whispered "Oh don't look so smug, duck butt."

It jumped in surprise before an even smugger face appeared. Kubo wasn't sure how paper could look so smug with itself, as if it knew something he didn't.

"Fine, then. Be like that." a growl came out, "Just tell me what would make you happy for you can leave me in peace."

The ghost gave a particularly scathing look almost asking if he was stupid before uncrossing its arms. He expectantly stared at infuriating navy blue paper, impatiently waiting for it to do something. "Well?"

Desert sky colored paper began to cautiously shift and fold into complicated shapes. Only a few seconds later, there was a little mocket of his mother. The long flowing hair and long flowing kimono, with a kind but tired stance; it really captured her essence. Kubo's eye opened in shock before turning back to the paper ghost. Only to find it gone and a miniature version of himself. From his shamisen to his father's yukata, even his sandals and gourd for water. The only thing that remained was the ghost's stupid gravity-defying hair. He silently watched as the paper Kubo ran over to the small mother and hug her and the blue mother hug him back.

The strumming stopped as the real Kubo rubbed his eye. His eye itchy from the prickling tears threatening to spill.

"Stupid. I said what would make you happy, not me." ,

Whipping the remnants of tears from his face, he stared at the origami figures that somehow stayed in tact. Sniffing a little before swipping his nose with his palm he started to reach for the pair before the paper underneath his foot wrestled. He nearly had forgotten about the terrifying figure. Nodding a little, he snatched the paper from the ground, almost expecting it to snap at him like an alligator, crumpled the black paper into a ball and depositing the mass into the fire starting to burn low. Then thinking better, grabbed the rest of the inky black paper in his collection and tossed them in as well. He kept silent vigil as remnants of paper shivered around like black snakes.

It was a few minutes after the new fire fuel fed the hungry flames that he turned back to his origami-version family. Smiling a little, he placed them near bed, beside the charm of Mr. Monkey. With a huff he stretched out on the Tami mat before slightly pushing down the crazy bird hair of his other self. He most certainly did not have hair like that.


He most certainly DID have duck butt hair, he realized in horror. Winter's harsh winds and icy snow finally succumbed to warmer Spring times that felt welcome to it's counterpart. Despite it being only early spring, Kubo found himself at the river washing every single piece of cloth him and his mother owned; the foal stench of body stench and unwashed clothing egging on the choice.

Again he stared down at his reflection from the sluggish moving stream. Yep. Still a duck butt. He tried patting down the unruly hair only to watch as it popped back up like a spring. He wasn't sure if he should be disgusted or impressed with the fact his hair refused to sit flat with the weight of soil, oil, and whatever else that decided it needed residence in his hair. The thought instigated a good itch to his scalp and then his arm and then his chest before he stopped himself from starting the itching cycle all over again. An aggravated sigh escaped his lips as refused to view the gray gunk that was undoubtedly wedged under his fingertips. He already felt gross, he really didn't need to any evidence to his uncleanliness.

Trying to escape the thoughts of anything and everything that could be on his body at the second, he opted to study his reflection for nearly the first time since awaking. A single wide harrowing hole of an eye while the other hidden by a well worn eye patch, a thin bridged nose that was relatively on the small side, a low set mouth with pale pink lips, soft but high cheeks, a short pointed chin, sun washed bone colored skin stretched over his lanky but strangely muscular form, and wild midnight hair that refused to be tamed; other than his stupid hair, he wasn't that bad looking he mused. Defiantly different than his mother in some aspects of looks, but that was probably the genes of his father showing itself.

Gulping, Kubo straightened his shoulders and back before plunging himself in the gentle current. He instantly regretted it.

A wracking shiver vibrated through his body as the chilled water ate away the little warm he may of possessed. He nearly jumped out when he remembered why he was taking a bath in the first place. Nodding his head at his self-made mission, he grabbed a thin frayed rope that strangled a ball of cloth and dragged it towards him. With trembling hands, Kubo dunked the gray cloth into the stream before allowing it to surface and scrub it between his hands. Small suds appeared on the worn cloth. Scrubbing as hard as the makeshift washcloth would allow, he rubbed his skin till a searing unassociated with the burning cold could be felt.

He continued his war on filth; blazing a trail of fresh skin as the encrusted dirt came off in nauseating frequency. When it came time to wash his hair, he held his breath for a few seconds, sent a prayer to whoever might of been listening, and dunked his head in before instantly coming back up. His teeth chattered in a clacking fashion. Raking his digits through his heavy hair, he scratched, rubbed, and scraped at his scalp and tangled rats mess till he felt somewhat satisfied, before rubbing the cloth into his unwelding hair. It was a good bit of time before suds finally sat in, turning a murky brown before being washed away with the stream water.

The third time Kubo rubs his hair down is when he notices the strange black mark on the junction of his neck and collarbone. Tilting his head forward and twisting his head to the side, the strange black markings come into his partial view. Kubo isn't quite sure what to make of it with it's strange flame like circle and swirl like trinity mark, almost like tomae. He blinks at the word that popped into his mind. He tries to recall what exactly a tomae is or what it does, but his mind is uncooperative as usual, unwilling to share the secrets it might hold from him. Snorting at the middle finger his mind practically gave him, he goes back ignoring the strange mark and back to scrubbing his soapy hair.


It's a mild spring night that Kubo finds himself waking up from an otherworldly dream. He can't call it a nightmare, it's too bizarre for him to say that. It almost felt like he was watching someone else's nightmare playing over and over again like a needle of a record player off it's track, doomed to keep repeating it's self.

Intruding is maybe the best word for how he feels. Something extremely personal to someone but he feels mostly indifferent to the horror unfolding before him.

There's a man and a woman sitting on the ground, their heads bent in submission. Their faces are blurred almost like an eraser scrubbed through what once their faces. Both are dressed in black in the shadowed room; they nearly blend into the inky blackness that the pale moon doesn't light up. A stifling suppression hangs heavy in the air as a child no older than Kubo himself appears behind them, gripping a sword tightly in his hand.

Unlike the two adults in front of him, his face is unobscured. Deep ridges gorge the boys face, mocking tear tracks. His dark hair is pulled into a low ponytail and his skin shines pearl-like in the moonlight. And the eyes. They're the brightest crimson Kubo has seen, like ripe cherry tomatoes or freshly split blood. A shutter races through his spine. Those eyes mean danger, they mean pain, and death and he's unable to look away as boy plunges his sword into the awaiting couple. Oddly they seem like sacrifices as they accept their doom.

Their red, red blood spill over the wooden floor. He's sure if the blood flows over his feet; his toes feel sticky and wet. But he doesn't dare look away from the boy in front of him. It's almost like he's under compulsion.

The scene then repeats itself. With each alliteration, the full moon dyes redder and redder as more and more blood flows around Kubo's feet. The sharp tang of copper tickles his nose. He's not sure when he starts to notice the odd things with the scene. He's sure it's somewhere near the tenth replay that they become apparent. The slumped shoulders, the heavy world weary look, the tears streaming down the predispositioned tracks, the distraught and anguish; they all come to him in a woozy realization.

The red swims up to his ankles. The air clogged with the sweet copper and biting salt smell. The fancy room lit with a strange red light that has no origin. Whoever this child is, he's not controlling his actions. Someone is forcing him to kill these people who sit defeated in his presence. With the realization the world almost shifts as a new presence bleeds inside. It's sticky black substance stinking of sweet decay and infection. It's clawed hands grip the boy, influencing his motions, pushing him when needed and pulling back when not. The tar-like substance gains form slowly and surely till a shadow forms.

Kubo remembers the form. The form his black origami paper took during the biting winter when he first shifted paper with his shamisen. It doesn't notice him at first, which he thinks is for the best. He's not sure what he could do in this world, the lack of control eating away at any confidence he had in waking life. He's merely an observer. Forever unable to interact.

Eventually his luck stops as the shadow creature stares at him, it's wide red eyes swirling with mania. A wide grin stretches across it's face as the rest of it's body crawls out of some hidden crevice. Kubo can't help but to think of a spider or centipede. It side steps the familiar scene, as it's feet splash in the miniature blood lake on the ground. He's trapped. His feet refuse to move as it stalks forward, like a predator that knows it's already won.

It stops only a few feet away, it's form towering over his own. It raises a single hand to him, two fingers pointed out while the rest are tucked behind it's thumb. He's squints his eyes as the fingers poke his forehead. Kubo blinks at the figure as a warm smile replaces the sadistic one it wore only a few seconds ago. He almost prefers the crazy Cheshire grin than this human like emotion it displaces. It turns away from him before cracks form in the creature and it bursts open as loud squawking crows fill the room.

He wakes up with sweat crusted in his brows and a heart that refuses to calm even after several long breaths.


It's late spring that Kubo decides he's going to story tell at the market that day. In all honesty, he's terrified. The gnawing feeling in his stomach intensifies as he strolls in unsure where to place himself or even how to start. Small crowds fill the noisy market, making it hard to set his makeshift bag down without it getting trampled.

"Kubo! Over here!" a familiar voice calls. He spots the old woman stationed by her normal post, waving her hand in an enthusiastic manner. Trudging over; he's careful not to jostle the instrument or loose any of his precious paper before stopping before her. Her brown eyes grow wide when she notices the neck of the crimson shamisen and her face lights up with giddy glee. "Going to tell us a story today young man." She nearly purrs in content.

His face flushes bright red at the not question but comment. Nodding he offers a timid smile before stating. " Yes. But I don't know where would be a good spot to set up."

She warmly smiles at him before gesturing the to small intersection-like area they where near. It's relatively clear of the bustling people with a few random villagers hanging close to buildings near by. "This is a pretty good spot if I say so myself. A lot of fine people walk by here."

Kubo nods at her suggestion before stepping out a little bit away and setting down the cloth pack. The papers slightly rustle from within as he unties the knots revealing the multitude of colors hidden within. Standing up he breaths out some of the overwhelming nerves that jitter in his chest and bones before he slings his instrument before him. The grooves feel reassuring as pulls out a pick. Another shuttering breath goes through his nose as he closes his eye and tries to find his zen. His eye snaps open at the sudden inspiration, his nerves almost calmed.

He lets the words flow through his mind to his mouth.

"If you must blink. Do it now."


Summer swelters as Kubo fans himself. The air sticky with humidity and heat from an unfallen rain.

The heat reminds him a place he can't quite recall; where it was always warm even when it was winter.

Beads of sweat roll down his back and along his hairline.

He takes his long black hair and puts it into a short pony tail to keep his neck a little cooler.

And if it happens to hide his bird-like head of hair, he won't complain.


It started like any other day.

Wake up early, collect the strewn origami paper, make breakfast, feed mother, watch the sunrise with her before leaving, entertain the people of town with stories, leaving at the stroke of the evening bell, returning home at sunset when his mother "awoke", spending time with her before bed; it was a simple schedule.

Even a little monotonous with the rinse and repeat motion of it all.

But he would give up anything for that daily notion of what to expect then the cold emptiness he felt.

If he had known what would've happened at the festival he would've sworn it off.

How was he suppose to know what was to come?


"If you look away, even for an instant, than our hero shall surely perish."