Chapter Title: 'II. Welcome, Weith'
Belonging To: 'MiKADo'
Author: Miss.Yamapi.Kara
Genre: Adventure, Drama, Fantasy, Humour
Warnings: Drunken behaviour, very mild swearing
Rating: T
Base: 'Naruto' by Masashi Kishimoto
Chapter Summary: Mikado begins to recruit the seven. The first: Weith Tondril of formerly Greater Land Mikado.

Disclaimer: I do not claim ownership over the manga, anime or other variations of what I know as 'Naruto'. I am gaining no profit from this piece.
All material other than the characters, setting and root storyline of 'Naruto' is claimed as the sole property of myself.

Heads Up: If necessary, action will be taken to protect my own writing. It would be greatly appreciated if fellow avid-writers, all readers or general persons would respect the content of this document and not copy it. If it is desired by anyone to use any part of the text on the page, I would bid him or her to contact me and it shall be discussed.

I believe it is one of the greatest things in this world to be able to create things from your own mind, heart, soul and fabric. Be proud of your own creations – they could only ever come from you.

Miss.Yamapi.Kara

Author's Note: After trying to figure out how I want this to go, I've decided to just cut everything up, throw it in the air and play it as it lies. Therefore: a few small chapters will follow each other until all characters have been dumped into the scene that will actually properly start things off. TA-DA! This also means that the next few chapters should be updated much earlier than I initially anticipated. Please, enjoy reading the second chapter of 'MiKADo': 'Welcome, Weith'!

Proceeding...

MiKADo

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II. Welcome, Weith

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I am the trick of the light.

I am the something you saw out of the corner of your eye.

I am the silhouette of the person that isn't really there.

I am the Watcher.

In this story, I am known as Mikado.

In the world Mikado, there is a man.

He is sitting on a stool in a bar with his eyes trained on the floor and his hands resting loosely around a half-empty glass. Or half-full, depending on your individual state of mind. It is night, almost midnight, and the bar should really be closed. However, with the meager amount of patrons that come by regularly, it is forced to remain open until the last sodden customer is thrown out the door and into the street. It really is a pity that this man isn't outside right now – it's such a beautiful night. So beautiful in fact, that I think it is the perfect night to begin...

Weith leaned more heavily on the darkening aged wood of the bar counter. It creaked in protest to the added strain, but nothing more. The bar was dimly lit by oil lanterns stationed evenly throughout, some hanging in the corners of the room and others left to sit on scattered table-tops. The fire simmering lowly in the red brick fireplace at the front of the room crackled quietly and sent its own glow over the weathered floors, warming the cold feet of newly arrived customers. Orange light crept over the mahogany tables and chairs and darkened to a red-brown shadow as it reached the outer limits of the space. Weith sat an even distance from each end of the bar counter, directly in the centre of the fringe of the warmth. He took no notice of the way he balanced on the boarder between the darkness and the light of the room, or of the eyes that watched him intently from the darkest corner of it. He stared blankly into his glass, at the honey-coloured liquid. It was warm and flat from being untouched for a good half hour – after all, it was his fourteenth drink and he was bound to become disinterested sooner or later. Behind him, ten-even men sat around two separate tables, engaged in a conversation that passed back and forth between them. Some were young, some were old, but all were focussed on one topic: the Fifty-year War that had them all living in squalor, even fifteen years on.

At that point, one man raised his voice, becoming loud in drunken jesting with his conversational partners, "Hey, 'ey, hold on! Hol' on! We all know i's useless ta spec.. scept.. sepictate-"

"Speculate." Another of the men offered; the first raised his mug in thanks and grinned, showing yellowing teeth and stretching his dirty blond moustache, to which the slightly more sober man raised his mug in return before taking a long draught.

"Thanks, mate! Yeah, w'all know i's bloody useless to," he paused, waving an arm clothed by ripped second-grade leather dramatically, then pronouncing the word with a wide open mouth, "speculate. We need'a know it from tha soldier 'imself!" He clumsily stood from his seat, mug in hand, to steer his blurred vision to Weith, "Buddy! Tell us, tha whores in north Kida-" he attempted to push back his chair into the small space between him and the next man seated behind him, "they real-ly as wild as people s-" the man's slurred question was cut short as he fell abruptly to the floor, one leg still bent awkwardly on the chair he had attempted to climb over. The two groups laughed and hiccuped at their fallen comrade.

At the bar, Weith snorted and downed the last of his warm drink. He slapped his bill, no tip, down on the counter and turned to leave – leave the warm glow that he couldn't feel and the orange light that he couldn't stand. He almost tripped over his own feet as the owner of the eyes that he took no notice of appeared before him, seemingly out of nowhere. Weith didn't see more than a dark outline of a person: average height, average build – really just a big black blob standing in his field of view.

As suddenly as lightning strikes, his vision became entirely dark and he felt as though he was being dragged through pure air, faster than anything he could imagine. But he felt no wind rushing past, as if he were running; he felt no movement around him, as if he were really moving. It was as if it was his surroundings that were changing, flickering, while not affecting him in any way but to tamper with his balance slightly. He felt as though he was teetering slowly backwards. Then, Weith felt panic for the first time in fifteen years. He couldn't find his voice to scream.

In the oblivion, moving and still, he heard a soft voice, genderless and ageless, "I have chosen you, Weith Tondril."

The changing sped up and slowed down – sped up and slowed down – flickered without becoming lighter, without becoming darker.

The voice was warm with reassurance, "Welcome, Weith."

And everything stopped.

To be continued...

Aah, chapter 2 written. I'm looking forward to reviews! Please do leave a message for me – even one word will make me happy! I just want to know that my story is being read. I haven't figured out the break problem yet, by the way. But I'm still working on it. (I'm just a little stupid with new programs; I basically do what I know and am reluctant to explore too much - lazy, yay.)

Again, I will reply to all registered reviewers and, if I have the time, I will also read and review for a story of yours, should you have one written. (Two, in some cases :P)

Thankyou to everyone who has read this! I hope to have the next chapter up within two days. :D