reviews/flames appreciated. standard disclaimers apply. techniques based on the anime. first paragraph derived from 'of buzzing & chirping'. thanks for Santeira for appreciating the prologue.
Hyuuga Hinata has faultless airs with regards to her life, cognizant of the reality, being the head of her kin – in which tragedy loiters in their selves – and at the same time a supposedly mediocre life. She strives then to eventually dissolve alter the meaning of strength and weakness, or so she says to herself. It would only be a matter of some hours until tragedy once again take its footstep by her life's doors; it is hypothetical on her part as she muses, trying to beckon the emotional attachments. And all these; they had the duty to enlighten her... the hunger for immensity – even those trivialities that pull together the feeling called recognition.
Psychedelic Soul
"Sentimental Analgesia"
The articulation is intelligible, but there was a sentiment that habituated the entirety of Hyuuga Hinata's mental processes like some conscience – although devil-may-care – and dictates upon her the free spirit of determination; this phenomenon, the "scrutiny of the mightier", is as recurrent as the sunbeams it became almost innate on her part to retort in such a way where she bows her head down, and proceeds doing the housechores instead. And this is the role of the heiress tonight: to sweep the training grounds of the mansion before any member, especially her father, could see her, because she doesn't want them see her training; for one thing, sweeping exercises the upper muscles of the body, and that way she can position her arms in good locations and accurately mold chakra. Down by the dregs and sediment that became the core of the Hyuuga's establishment as a formidable force of Konoha, down by the grounds lit only by the platinum moon and slightly frozen by the winds, Hinata's music was the sounds of the brustles – like the rough sways of the leaves – and there was content, one way or the other. No one's to undermine her, her skills and her ego, her true self – no one'll stab her with profound scrutiny. This, she says, is intelligible.
And so she sweeps. Now as far as her mind and body are concerned; on the other hand, her thoughts are far-away strangers that seem to bury her beneath their radiance that she hesitates to even own them. Never was tragedy a visitor to her world of pure judicious conduct; pure judicious adulteration, pure extrapolation of emotions from the everydayness of the world, her experiences. But it will be, tomorrow – she is, after all, an unintelligible articulation like Shino – easy to be judged but barely looked at. The crows started chanting and she stops clearing the training grounds, eyes focused and byakugan activated, giving her an almost absolute skill to see certain things in temporality and space. The winds are gentle, caressing her, and the moonbeams make her skin glisten as she takes her pink sweater off. Jewels of sweat are visible to her forehead. And she starts craning her arm as her foot copes up with the movement, her body gyrating and she starts molding her energy, directing it towards the tip of her fingers. Her footgear whispers with the dusts as she steps forward, and her arms become weightless. The locks of her hair hesitantly jazz with the amiable breeze and she could now see a bug by the old trees, and she smiles at the realization. She lengthens her sight – and with more to see, the people and all, with more to be sentimental about – she halts, heaving a sigh, and just savoring the pleasure behind it all.
"She got C-class. Stolen scroll on the historical archives, supposed to belong from Nidaime. Shinobi guards injured by some special doton. Gathered inferences and deduced. Agent to journey to the Stone and retrieve it, along with some information regarding its cold war against Konoha. Thief probably chuunin. Has fifteen hours, wait...that'd be, uh, seven hours to prepare. Well?"
"Eh?"
"Rest of team eight on other solo missions,"
"And Kurenai?"
"On a mission. A-class I think. Want me to read them?"
"Thanks Iruka, no. I've heard almost all of the others' missions."
"...hey, aren't you gonna ask about your own cell?"
"Uh, they don't need me anymore anyway. Naruto's with Jiraiya-sama and Sakura's under the Hokage now,"
"That isn't so bad now, ne? You taught them shinobihood, I think that's most important."
"Thanks Iruka, gotta go. Hokage-sama's overworking people nowadays."
Entailing anti-theses ensue within the mind of the Hyuuga; she's a girl for everyone and but no one – not because from unnoticed recoils of a kunoichi lacking enough prowess for some proof of stregth but because she is discrete (and would rather be), and isolated from the trends of her generation she endeavors, as far as she remembers, to create her own genesis, to struggle against weakness. She has a sentimental analgesic against the analytic world, her supposed innocence, the psychical unkowing of human nature and its grievous condition. And this presupposition has been so effective, so she authentically thinks, a bad faith of her superficial self. She's prude; that's her objectification.
She jumps, high enough and lands on a stout branch, and the forest is pathetic-fallacy (the smiling woods) to her strength. Kilometers away, houses as big as he thumb lay themselves – the first town of the Stone – and she purses her lips at some sudden enthusiasm that shot her and settles on what to do next. The wind picks up and she leaps to another tree, then another, and she races against the falling leaves, following her with every spring. She dances with nature, graceful but precise. But her movement soon gets disrupted. Her head swivels, taking out a kunai. The veins in her face are perceivable, her craft of interpreting the meaning of being situated in certain time and space, endowed with a predetermined scenarion so she can do something about it, with others having roles to play and she having a principal one.
And exactly in this place – leaves are falling, the winds have changed its ambience; she stretches her sight, gripping her kunai. Wind against metal and a kunai flies directly towards her, avoiding it as the blade stabs the antiquated tree. Her body twirls in the air and dodges another one, and emitting her chakra another one fails to touch her. Her eyebrow raises. Hinata stares but found herself confused.
The shinobi lifts his face up to meet hers and a gray mask covers his bandaged head; his right hand holds a scroll and Hinata wonders. He had no forehead protector, or any indication he hails from Stone; but she's already by the borders of the village and infers he's some kind of sentinel. A border guard with a scroll? But she concurred with silence and prepares to launch herself at the shinobi; the latter steps backward, understanding the context of situation. He reaches up for shurikens, making them glide against the air and he leaps backward, opening the scroll; Hinata falters, and boulders are swarming her like Shino's bugs.
This is only the second time around that she will use it in combat; she still has to measure the amount of chakra needed to execute her technique. In this train of thought she already evaded several boulders, and seeing the shinobi preparing another seal her left foot creates an audible friction with the dry earth, her arms dancing in the air, her palms with raw energy. Shugo Hakke Rokujuuyonshou. Lines of chakra are rhythmic, sclaing the boulders like million knives, turning them into smithereens, giving her absolute defense against the rocks that dare injure her with their force.
The shinobi gulps. He takes out his kunai instead. The infrangible defense also has its end, and this is a weakness, giving the user susceptible to attack. The dust settles. Hinara reaches for her kunai but the ninja has already slashed through her and reveals her meshed shirt, and but the mask cracked, and it falls down the other's face. He swallows hastily. It was a bunshin.
Hatake Kakashi pauses. His body moves in a spiral at the sound of cracking twigs and hunches some pursuers. He creates more kage bunshins, and they ran in all directions. He gasps, closing his right eye, and jumps to another tree, proceeding northwest. He can hear the rhythm the river's making and his pace quickens; a shinobi jumps and with overwhelming speed the scarecrow was already behind him, and both landed on a tree. A fumashuriken flies up above, soaring towards them, and another shinobi appears, and Kakashi could only muster a kick and he gets hit. The smoke indicates it was a kage bunshin, and several Kakashi's swarm the two ninjas, each with their own kunai. Several moments after and there was only one white-haired scarecrow, holding a bloodied kunai, with both of his enemies welcoming death through their own weapons. He looks up the sky. He creates more copies of himself, and he vanishes in smokes.
At the other end of the border, Hyuuga Hinata pragmatically passed muster the idea of running off and ignoring the figure that's been waiting for her next offense; forming substanceless bunshins, she proceeds northeast, the others in all other locations. The grasses flatten with every step, and her practical rationality, her fuel for the adventures of the day, is quickly drying up, and the only thought lingering on her sentimental mind is that the enemy will soon discover her. She jumps, seizing the barks tight, twisting her body up in the air and runs again en route to the unfathomable pavements engrossed by the almost dry foliage; her right foot penetrates the filth with a slight revolution of her body and the fumashuriken approaches with great speed. Gathering enough energy, she emits them – as if forcefully, abruptly – and the large shuriken changes its direction. The shinobi springs from the overweight stems, "Bark up the wrong tree," she hears. Hinata puckers her lips.
"But I... I..." he mutters in an inaudible voice, but the all-seeing lass has enough vision to read those hidden lips that seem to be moving like pebbles in the waters, battling each other, forming the cerulean sky now, and the scorching heat fades. The zephyr is colder, she thinks, and the waves of ocean pummeling against the masses of firm minerals soothe her ears. The stars are starting to appear, swarming around the moon and they shine in the pattern of her heartbeat, sparkling at the threads of dark hues that line the sky. She sighs, and at the distance, fog comes into the picturesque view, signaling the presence of issue of hot waters underground. The shinobi comes closer, and Hinata's unawareness and enthrallment to the genjutsu violently stops as strokes of his kunai wounds the genin by the shoulders; and but with sufficed range, with enough force and with the quality of the psyche to confront her idiocy, her right arm hurls in the air, stretching her palm – and striking the left side of the adversary.
"Jyuken!"
The moon has already been exhibiting its alienation up in the azure sky when Kakashi decides to camp, with only provisions in hand and with no comfortable mattress to lay his apparently exhausted body, his physicality which appears to position itself in metaphysic realms, and the sole compensation is its sensual gratification. He sighs.
He sits in the largest stem at the woods, lying his back at the sturdy trunk; he removes his vest in the most careful movement of his fngers and with kunai cuts his left sleeve with precision. He frowns at the stupidity that lurked in his psychedelic soul. Beside him is the scroll that will for more unethical ends, a scroll that gives profound sense in all the nonsensical state of affairs that will inexorably have their own genesis, their own generation of reality; he takes out a canister, pouring its content by his left shoulder, caressing it, hoping that the coils of chakra will eventually unclog from another kind of vigor that whelmed its natural flow.
In this stillness, Hatake Kakashi smiles; the smile of the true ass in the realm of the senses shows itself to no one but himself, to no one but the gloomy shrubs that hid him from Stone's shinobis, because he happened to assassinate the jounin that will make liaison with the Thunder to beckon the case of the Hyuugas. And this authentic grin, the honest grin of pure adulteration, pure abstraction of impurity from the everydayness of the world, his experiences – but its effectivity can only be intelligible when it's disguised, a bad faith of superficiality, because he has his own emotional analgesia, his impurity, that makes everything candy-coated even in the bitterness of his life.
He shifts, trying not to feel the pain, and instead directs his consciousness at those exotic lines, those beautifully lethal lines that appear in the heat of any battle. In these thoughts the breeze gets colder, substituting standard time and he now knows too well it's midnight. A rush of blood to the head and his impurity, the psychical unknowing of innocence – he whispers in a voice understood only when one's tainted, and the mask and bandages fall from his lap, and he breathes more in ease this time around.
tbc.