Chapter two. You guys have done really well so far without making flames and what-not. seriously though, reviews are fine.
Disclaimer: I don't own Naruto, obviously. Hoshi is mine and so are any characters you don't know about.
Chapter Two
Kimimaro
Hours after Shishou left with Oto no Yoninshu to Kaze no Kuni, I found myself in the training hall, venting my anger on the straw dummies arranged in regular and irregular intervals around the room. I had set my new collection of weapons aside until I was ready to use them. At least until I could think clearly enough to use them.
Normally, thrashing about with my stick took out a lot of my anger and frustration. But this time, the only thing I could think about was being abandoned yet again—left behind to hold down the fort until Shishou's return. I felt worthless . . . unwanted . . . unneeded . . .
Unnecessary.
It frightened me. Shishou had no use for worthlessness and unnecessary things. To him, shinobi were things. Expendable items. I knew he felt that way about people, but I never thought I would end up in that same frame of mind as everyone else under Shishou.
/|\
My relationship with Shishou had varied throughout my youth. First, I was his hihogosha1 and he was my kangosha2. But, I never called him Kangosha. I called him Otousan and he welcomed me to call him otousan. For seventeen months, I was taught how to survive in the wild. We stayed in hiding until Otousan was sure everyone was done looking for me.
Then, at the age of three, Otousan told me I was too old to be a hihogosha and, therefore, didn't need a kangosha. He told me to call him Sensei for he was going to begin my training in the arts of a ninja.
He took me around the world, teaching me new jutsus all the time. Whenever we came to a new village, he would introduce me as Futatsu no Shizoku no Musume. He threw the phrase around like it was supposed to mean something. And apparently it did because people would look at little old me with reverence and awe . . . and fear. I never understood the fear thing until Sensei explained that I was that I was special . . . extraordinary . . . unique. There weren't many people like me that was capable of doing the things I can and would soon be able to do.
During my time with him, he had gathered a good number of capable shinobi. Some of them helped with my training; teaching me new jutsus that I had to master before learning a new one. I once had a buki no senmonka3 as a sensei who taught me the uses of all weapons in existence. But, when it came time for me to choose my own weapon, I hacked a branch form a special tree whose bark absorbed chakra and imbued in it my own chakra while I cut. Having chosen the staff as my primary weapon, I as put through special training on how to combine jutsus with my staff.
During that time, I saw little to nothing at all of my sensei. I had been nine when Sensei pulled me aside. Having created a new village for special shinobi like me, he was now too busy to oversee my training and my apprenticeship with him was eliminated. While everyone knew me by Futatsu no Shizoku no Musume, my second title still stuck. Orochimaru no Deshi. Since that day, kangosha, otousan, and sensei became obsolete titles—replaced with Shishou.
For the past five years, I've tried gaining a place back in Shishou's eyes, ever so wary I may have lost it without meaning to. I would do everything he asked. I didn't accept challenges willy-nilly like most shinobi were known to. I fought bravely and hard; beating anyone in the arena with me. Yet, some how, I was always left behind. And that frustrated me more than anything.
/|\
I leaped around the room, swinging my stick up, down, left, and right. But no matter how tired I got just from beating the living daylights out of bound straw—or how sore my hands were from the vibrations in the stick—I just got angrier and more frustrated and it only got worse as my fight progressed. Several times, I landed wrong and fell over, but I did nothing to correct those mistakes. I was too absorbed in my own ocean of self-hatred and wrath to care. To care about my own well-being, how ashamed Shishou would be if he saw how I was acting now.
In another heat of anger; I toppled the final dummy and whaled on it with my stick, ignoring the throbbing vibrations that jolted the nerves in my hands.
Stay at the hideout, Hoshi! Stay here and guard the hideout, Hoshi! I never get to go anywhere fun! I thought with bitter resentment clouding my reasoning. I replayed the earlier reasons from Shishou in my head and—even to me now—they seemed pathetic.
I need you here! I need you to guard the hideout! You're too valuable for this mission! Hah!—still pathetic excuses to me—"He always goes on missions with those four freaks!" I yelled that last sentence aloud, punctuating each word and syllable with a hard blow to the already dismantled dummy with my staff.
Then, I dropped the staff and bounded away, backwards, forming Handseals as I went:
Hebi. Hitsuji. Saru. I. Uma. Tora—Snake. Ram. Monkey. Boar. Horse. Tiger.
"Katon: Goukakyuu no Jutsu!—Firestyle: Great Fireball Technique!"
A jet of flame issued from my mouth and expanded around the fallen dummy. I watched the fire eat away at the dried hay. My hand shaded my eyes against the red, orange, and yellow glare; sweat forming on my forehead and face. The heat from the fire technique was intense. The fire didn't take long to die down; leaving behind a pile of ashes which I kicked at with the toe of my shoe, remaining oblivious to the heat.
I had hoped that by seeing the destroyed dummy, I would get a feeling my future would get better. Instead, my future appeared in a different form: what would happen if I remained useless to Shishou.
I plopped my butt on the floor and cradled my face in my arms.
"What's wrong with me?" I sobbed.
"Are you alright?"
I jumped up—staff in hand—and whirled around at the sound of a soft masculine voice in the doorway behind me. I had calmed down some, but having been caught in the moment of weakness caused me to feel ashamed and to be afraid of my imminent death—that's what happens in Otgakure; you show weakness, you die.
I kept my staff level with the visitor's chest; not wanting to lower my guard until I was sure the guy was just curious . . . and harmless.
"Who are you?" I demanded, haughtily ignoring the common courtesy of giving my own name before asking for his.
"Kimimaro, last of the Kaguya clan." My visitor said, gently.
"Never heard of it." I said.
"It's an extinct clan. You'll never hear of it again." he said.
I continued to stare at him. He had pale skin, vivid green eyes, a very manly face that was softly expressed to a point where my shyakugan couldn't read him. Red lines ran across his lower eyelids and two red dots were tattooed on his forehead. His silver-white hair hung down to his shoulders and was tied in two places with red tubes. He was dressed in the village-issued attire of a knee-length gray robe, with a purple rope belt tied n a knot behind his back, black slacks, and black sandals. I noticed that he had shunned the headband and turtleneck. An all-white yin-yang sign stitched onto the bottom of the robe. The robe's neckline scooped down from his shoulders and exposed a manly chest where a circular pattern of three curved lines were applied to the base of his throat. His ankles were supported by bandages that disappeared up the legs of his slacks.
Despite his odd appearance, I didn't see him as much of a threat. He carried no weapons that I could see and his posture was relaxed. I lowered my staff and released the extending technique on it.
"What's your name?" He asked, politely as he sat down on the floor, having taken a few steps toward me.
I released the Dojutsus and sat down, too. "Hoshi." I said.
Kimimaro regarded me a moment, then said "You mean Futatsu no Shizoku no Musume?"
"That's me." I said, none-too-excited about the title given me in my youth.
My response made Kimimaro more curious about me. "If you're Futatsu no Shizoku no Musume, aren't you also Deshi no Orochimaru?"
His knowledge of my second title startled me. Some who did know it, tried to bait me with it. Others were close enough to Shishou to know its significance. Was this guy close to Shishou at one time?
"There are few who are privy to that information." I said. "How did you come by it?"
"I was once a member of Oto no Yoninshu. Back when it was Oto no Goninshu—Sound Five—that is." Kimimaro said.
His response struck me as odd. First, I couldn't imagine him as one of Shishou's bodyguards. Second, he didn't sound proud of the fact he had once stood close to Shishou. Or, maybe it was just how he spoke was all.
"You were one of the Oto no Yoninshu?" I asked.
He nodded. "At one time, yes." He said. "But, I had a moment of weakness and Sakon defeated me as leader."
I said nothing. I could see Sakon exploiting someone's weakness for his own gain. Sakon and Ukon were twin brothers. Both were powerful beings capable of lots of terrible things. They didn't appear to be very strong but there was just the illusion they possessed. They had coordinated attacks that made them more deadly than everyone else inside and outside Oto no Yoninshu. Yes, that was why nobody liked the Yuugure no Aojiroi—White Twins. And we all had reasons not to like them.
Kimimaro cocked his head at me, his vivid eyes staring right at me. I'm sure my thoughts were readable on my face. I pride myself for staying stoic . . . for being unreadable. But I was still upset about being flung aside like a rag. I was capable of doing anything.
"You okay?" He asked again.
"I am now." I said.
"You have an odd expression on your face. What are you thinking about?" He asked.
Normally, I would've taken offense to someone calling my facial expressions odd. But, at this point, I didn't even care. I shrugged.
"I—I just can't imagine you being with Oto no Yoninshu. You just don't seem like you belong with people like the Yuugure no Aojiroi, Jirobo, Kidomaru, and Tayuya. You're too—mild-looking for that." I said.
Kimimaro just stared, as though uncertain of how to respond to that. I didn't even know the guy and already I was being too forward with my observations. That was something I should do if I knew more about him. Besides his name and clan—and the fact he was with Oto no Yoninshu.
"Sorry to disappoint you." Kimimaro said.
I bent my head in shame. Kimimaro looked like he was a few years older than me but, because he was older and male, I had to respect him.
We remained quiet, then "Redecorating?"
I looked up and saw Kimimaro was looking around at my attempts to be rid of my rage. I looked around, too, and was stunned by all the damage I managed to do in so little time. There was not a single dummy left on their stands. The wooden targets were split, cracked, or entirely broken in two or more pieces. The stands were chipped or snapped in half. Strands of hay were covering the floor in a thin layer of straw carpeting. Only one dummy was truly missing and that was the one I had spat fire at.
"No." I said. "Just . . . releasing my anger."
"Looks to me like you had more anger than you should have." Kimimaro said.
I didn't answer, only because it was true. I did have anger problems. Usually, I could hold it back and not let it take over. But this last time of being left behind was the final straw. I couldn't handle it anymore.
At one time, Shishou taught me "anger clouds judgment. Without judgment, mistakes are made. In the world of the Ninja, mistakes are deadly." It was a lesson I understood well. But throughout much of my youth, I still got fairly angry. In my training sessions with Shishou, I would get frustrated. He would keep alluding my attempts at defeating him. I would get mad and attack willy-nilly. He would hit me; the severity of the slap would grow and grow the angrier I got until I figured out getting enraged wasn't working. I had learned the hard things the hard way. The easy stuff I was quick to learn and that was why I got to this position so far.
"So, what were you so mad about?" Kimimaro asked.
"Why the hell is that your business?" I asked, in a vicious and unnecessary manner.
"You're right. It isn't my business. But you look like you could do with a conversation." Kimimaro answered in a soft voice.
"What makes you think I'm in need of a conversation?"
"Well you just trashed the training room in a fit of rage and you're still not completely out of steam." Kimimaro answered. "You might feel better if you talked about it. If not me, who else? I'm least likely to say anything . . . and I won't judge."
"If I tell you, I'm going to have to kill you." I said with all seriousness.
Kimimaro gave me a small smirk. "Have fun with that. You might find that difficult."
I didn't comment on that. I didn't care anyway.
We stared at each other; green eyes on black-grey. I've been known to be incredibly stubborn. But this guy had already out-stubborned me. He could probably tell I was mulling over his proposition. Kimimaro probably was the best choice. If I tried to tell anyone else about my anger issues and how upset I was over Shishou abandoning me yet again, I would appear weak which was something I just couldn't afford to have. Weakness and cowardice were two things that got you killed faster than any other infraction in existence and were frowned upon more than thievery or murder.
I took a deep breath and told him everything; leaving nothing out—except for my jutsus which are supposed to remain a secret until the last possible moment. He sat in absolute silence, watching and listening to me with absolute attentiveness; waiting for me to finish with my speech. When I was finished, he took a deep breath.
"Have you done anything to make him decide not to use you?" he asked. It wasn't a question I was expecting to hear.
"Not that I know of." I said.
"What about your anger? Do you suppose he isn't using you because of your uncontrollable rage?" Kimimaro asked.
"My rage isn't uncontrollable." I put in. "I just get frustrated sometimes."
"That didn't answer my question, Hoshi." Kimimaro said.
It surprised me that he called me Hoshi, my name. He was taller than me and could, by all rights, call me Chisana Ichi. When I pointed this out, he cocked his head at me.
"Why would I call you that? I would think you would consider that an insult. Besides, it's not your name, right?"
"Right." I agreed.
"And it isn't one of your official titles. Therefore, I shall call you whatever name you choose. Which is it?"
I thought about it. "Do me a favor and call me Chisana Ichi just this once."
"Chisana Ichi." Kimimaro said after a moment's pause. It sounded okay.
"Now, Chisana On'nanoko." I said.
"Do many call you that?"
"Just do it."
"Chisana On'nanoko."
Eh, I didn't like that as well, even coming from him. "Just call me Hoshi or Futatsu no Shizoku no Musume."
"But not Deshi no Orochimaru?"
"In case you missed it, I'm not close to Shishou any more." I pointed out.
"Ah. So, I guess that means that title is obsolete." Kimimaro said.
"I guess." I said.
"You still didn't answer my question." Kimimaro pointed out a few breaths after my response.
I sighed. "I don't think that's it at all. I've hardly had an outburst. This is like the first time I've wrecked a room in a while."
Kimimaro remained thoughtful; his piercing green eyes still on my face with a gaze that made me feel just a tad uncomfortable. I could only guess what he was thinking about. Probably trying to figure out what kind of power I had that could possibly bring me that close to Shishou. Shishou's lust for power and hunger for more jutsus was no secret to the entirety of the village. Those with strong techniques were welcome in his presence while he ignored those with minimal abilities. Or, at least those with powers he wasn't already looking for or had already possessed.
"How talented are you?" he finally said.
"Huh?"
"What I mean is, you seem to have enough stamina to take down a roomful of straw dummies and still have enough chakra for a fire-type technique. I happen to know that fire takes a lot of chakra to control—too little and it spreads, too much and it's an inferno. Also, you said before you took on a pack of twelve shinobi only this morning. You must have a lot of power available to you to be able to pull that off."
I didn't respond right away. I was trying to figure out how to explain to this guy what my jutsus were like without giving too much away. That was another rule to being a shinobi: Reveal nothing except in the last, possible moment. Obviously, he could tell I was able to use fire techniques—the dummy provided the evidence for that. But the new carpeting was done by mere poundings with a quarter staff; not the wind techniques I possessed.
"Talented enough." was my answer.
"That's pretty vague, Hoshi." he told me.
I shrugged. He would probably give me the same answer if I asked him the same question.
"How talented are you?" he pushed again.
"You're only going to get the same answer as before." I told him.
He crossed his arms over his chest. "Fine." he said. "I guess I'll just have to find out another way."
"Good luck with that. Kabuto Senpai's databook on me is as incomplete as his databook on Oto no Yoninshu." I told him.
He scoffed. "There are other ways to find out about people, Hoshi." he said.
I narrowed my eyes at him. "Yeah, have fun with that."
He gave me a small smile. "I plan to."
Much to my amazement, Kimimaro stretched his arm out to the side, and a bone knife parted the skin in his forearm; sliding gracefully into his hand while the skin sealed up behind it. I knew Shishou had picked up a few weirdos in out ravels, but nobody this weird.
I had heard of the technique before in passing—I think Kabuto Senpai and Shishou had discussed it at some point. It was a kekkei genkai called shikotsumyaku—a form of bone manipulation that was as extinct as his clan. I quickly began calculating the number of attacks available with a kekkei genkai like this. The number was infinitesimal.
I cocked an eyebrow at him. "Are you challenging me?" I asked, meaningfully with the kind of tone that suggested I was all for accepting. If this guy had been in Oto no Yoninshu, he would present an interesting challenge.
Kimimaro rested the knife in his other palm; his eyes tracing its shape. "I suppose it would be." he agreed.
I considered it. "Why? What do you have to gain? I'm no longer Shishou's protege, so there isn't anything to gain by beating me. So what is it?"
"You're right, I have nothing to gain by beating you. Which is also my point. I do not want to beat you. I will have won nothing—not that I want to win anything—but I will have something to prove. And something to do." Kimimaro said.
"Okay, two questions. One, why do you need to have something to do? And two, what do you have to prove?" I asked.
"I'm not like other shinobi." Kimimaro put in. "I'm not much use to Orochimaru-sama so I don't get used any more. And when I don't get used, I just lay around and get old and fat. I've just been bored these last few days looking for something to do. I figure you might be a bit of a challenge to me."
I didn't know how to respond to that so I didn't. Instead, I crossed my arms and waited for him to continue.
"As to what I have to prove, it's more of like a point to myself, than a point to you or anyone." He held up the bone knife. "Do you know what this is or how I created it?"
"Yes." I said, stretching the affirmation out as long as I could in one breath. "It's a kekkei genkai called 'shikotsumyaku'."
"Correct. I'm glad you know the name and its classification. This will save some time." he said, laying the knife down again in his hand. "Kekkei genkai are called thus because they only appear in people sharing the same DNA. Some are more rare than others. My kekkei genkai—in particular—is especially rare. Only one person in each generation is born with it. In our clan, anyone born this way is handled with kiddie gloves. We are stashed away in the very underbelly of the clan headquarters; kept from prying eyes and anyone would would want to harm us—or kidnap us.
"When I was discovered to have it, our clan head took me away and only brought me out when it was time for a fight. My clan did not study the way of the shinobi. They were more like savages looking to prove their worth through killing. The last time we went to war was a mistake. Our opponents were from Kirigakure—Village Hidden in the Mists. They slaughtered everyone but me. I was nine years old and I had no clan and no family . . . nothing. I was nothing until Orochimaru-sama found me."
"What does that have to do with proving a point?" I demanded.
Kimimaro regarded me. "Are you always this impatient?" he asked in a tone that wasn't severe but might as well have been.
I didn't answer, so Kimimaro continued on from there.
"Since my kekkei genkai was now extinct with me being the one who possesses it now, there is little known about it. My clan were all fighters, not scientists, so no tests were run to discover the secrets to shikotsumyaku. But Kabuto discovered that my anatomy was different than that of normal humans. Apparently, my body had to be different for the kekkei genkai to exist inside me."
He stopped there because he saw I was getting a little more impatient. I liked things to get to the point, not ramble on and on and on and—
"Long story short, my kekkei genkai was poisoning me. I am—in a sense—dying. This was why I was cast aside to make room for Yuugure no Aojiroi. And since there is no one else like me, there is no cure for the terminal illness I am currently carrying." Kimimaro said, cutting into my thoughts.
"So wait." I said. "You're dying. And yet . . . you wanna fight me?"
"I'm not at deaths door yet, Hoshi." he said, calmly.
"But you soon will be." I pointed out.
"Not as soon as you think. Kabuto has given me a formula which has slowed down the progression of the disease. I may have a few months. Until then, there are some things I want to do. Challenging Deshi no Orochimaru is high on my list."
I got up and paced around; thinking about everything he just told me and wondering if challenging a sickly man would make me a coward.
He challenged you, Baka! I realized.
I donned my hood and mask and activated my Dojutsus. "Bring it on then, old man! Mokuton: Nagai Mokujou no Jutsu!"
1 ward
2 guardian
3 weapon's specialist
