A/N: This'll be the last chapter that's setting up the scene; after this, it's going to flow better, and be more real time; so, you'll experience the day to day and the action. Just bare with the background info first, ey?
Only A Moron
Chapter Two
I joined the shinobi academy when I was four. It wasn't some spur-of-the-moment decision, where I'd run to the building and demand tuition. In fact, I'm pretty sure the adults around me tried to manipulate me into it.
As soon as my year group was around that age, we were visited in the orphanage by a shinobi. It was a Chunin; generic, but strong, and had been entrusted in ensuring the future of the village. When he approached us, he was all bright smiles and laughing eyes; the children immediately warmed to him. I was suspicious; what was he doing, here of all places? Was this stranger going to adopt one of us?
Instead, the caretakers sat us all down and the man began talking. He spoke of duty, honour, privilege and pride. All that we could accomplish under the Hokage himself. And, even though we were only four, he told us about the payment plan; it was then that I truly saw our places in this world.
We were nothing more than investments. As orphans, we didn't have any parents to pay the academy fees. Instead, after we'd graduated, we were to give a sixth of each pay check to the Hokage and his underlings, for at least five years. Not including the already present tax reduction. Even if only one of us were to extraordinarily excel, the amount of money our government would get from all of those missions… I felt used.
And yet, I was excited at the same time. I didn't want to be a civilian; how many countless hundreds of them died in the many, many wars and invasions? I'd thought about all the possibilities and drawbacks. Being a Shinobi… It was like signing my own death warrant. I would die young; there was no question about it. Around here, hitting the thirty mark was getting unbelievably old (or very, very lucky). I would get hurt. Injured, all over, with poison, cuts, abrasions, broken bones, you name it. But still, a large, vocal part of me insisted; I thought about how I would feel if I never took this opportunity. To stand there, working a normal, humdrum job, looking out at the Shinobi, and wondering if I'd missed a fantastic opportunity.
The Chunin tested us, over the period of several weeks; they were disguised as games, quizzes, and a bit of fun. Sometimes I'd get caught up, only to look up and see the calculating gleam in the man's eyes as he watched us, seeing if any of us could have potential, to develop the ability to kill in cold blood.
Ten of us were picked, including myself, and we were quickly ushered to the academy. The classes covered normal lessons, like Maths and English; but, at the same time, there was an out-of-place syllabus, that only stood out to me because of my previous experience in schooling.
Physical education, for instance, was held for one hour, every day of the week; we were even expected to attend weekend classes, too. There was a slow, gentle introduction to weapons, where we initially would be shown images and flash cards, and have to identify them. When our teachers spoke of death and killing, it was only ever negative when our own people died; even then, I picked up a high amount of intrigue and respect when they spoke of how our enemies managed to execute the final blow. Many lessons such as war and history were so different than what I'd known, that in every lesson I felt so incredibly out of place, as I saw my many classmates absorb it all, slowly loosing their moral inhibitions in the way that our teachers cultivated and structured. The subtle manipulation of our collective psyche was, admittedly, incredibly interesting to watch, but at the same time rather chilling as I recognised it affecting me, too.
Of course, most of this was very gentle at first, but surprisingly sped up and a frightening rate, as they soon expected us to know how to handle and throw things like shuriken at the age of five.
I didn't understand; surely, our movements were too awkward and our fingers to slow? We needed time to properly absorb all of these new reflexes. It was startling to find that our class was slowly becoming on par with that of one two years older.
It all had a reason, of course; the war with Iwa was going on, bloody and brutal, and it was the academy's job to churn out as many soldiers in as little time as possible. Each year they became more efficient at cramming in the education, and people were graduating younger and younger. Those with any hint of potential and genius were pushed so hard that they were entering the war at the ages of eight, seven and six. I was one of those, thanks to my heightened awareness and ability to perceive the world around me, as well as being able to grasp harder concepts a lot faster than my piers; the fact that I was very mature counted very well, as I would always be able to follow instructions as they were given. And, at the age of six and a half, I graduated the Shinobi academy.
Despite being mentally older, the test was horribly difficult; moreso than what I remembered from the manga. Although, luck was on my side, as I found using chakra far easier than any other student in the academy.
It isn't boasting, being arrogant, or some strange super-skill, but rather experience. Everyone else had been born with chakra, was used to it, and passed it off as something that had always been there, feeling it as if it were simply blood flowing through their veins. Except, I'd never felt anything like it before, and I was painfully aware of the coils as they developed and grew within me. Chakra was foreign to my mind, and so I could always instinctively tell wherever it was, the quantity, quality, and exactly what it could to; to me, it was such a tangible thing, that manipulating it was so obvious. To others, it was like grasping at water; for me, the streams of chakra felt more like thick, prickly, obtrusive ropes, where grasping at it was uncomfortable, but easy to do and grip onto. My chakra muscles were constantly flexing, and it became a nervous twitch, as my mind tried to cope.
I practiced every night; pulling at the chakra, drawing it through my coils and pushing it out towards my hands as my fingers fell into well-practiced position and something surged – I felt it prickle – sometimes burn –
- my skin splintered, something shattered and broke – something pressing the air out of my lungs – whipping past my face – being squeezed at every angle –
- And then, with only a displacement of air, my whole self had pushed its way through time and space, swapping places with an old, chipped log.
I fell unconscious the first time that happened; I woke up in a hospital bed the next day, bright eyes and energetic, ready and terrified to try it all over again. I was lectured, of course; I was only five, what was I doing, practicing jutsu by myself?
It worked, though, it's why, that day, so many years ago, I stood before the teacher's desk; unable to see over the mahogany wood, with my arms outstretched, reaching for the heavy weight of a Konoha hitai-ate. It was too big for me; The metal plate was made to fit the forehead of older people, and so it was quickly slipped around my neck in an attempt to protect my vulnerable throat, rather than my vulnerable head.
I turned – looked back at a class full of joyous, excited children – and my blood turned cold at the calculating gleam in the teacher's eyes.
