He awoke much like he did he had when he had fallen asleep, and through the smoke of the recent shelling he was uncertain of when exactly that was, perhaps an hour or so ago? It had felt like days since he had seen the sun. Maybe less, more than likely. Little had changed, not that he had expected it to. It had long since stopped being a maddening fact that one could sleep amidst the explosions and fire, too long since they had just given up on trying to rationalize it. Too long had the enemy forced the necessary change in mentality upon them. It had been a month, one long endless month of nearly constant artillery strikes, all zeroed in upon anything that moved in the now mostly splintered and shattered forest the Fox and 12th company had found themselves entrenched, as their tormentors dropped shells from a higher position. Somewhere, in the midst of the reverberation of the final cannon blasts off the mountain sides that held them trapped, his newly promoted commanding officer called out the a head count of his former superior's men.

The Fox turned to his fellow trench-mate, a young officer who had snuck into his muddy excuse of a fortification about three days ago during a particularly hellish bombardment. He shook the man's shoulders, morbidly indifferent as the man's head fell back, exposing his partially missing face. Given the body's stiffness, he must have died that first night, unbeknownst to the living person beside him. It should have shaken the Fox, he should have pulled away from the sight of death's byproduct. Yet all he could do was shut the man's remaining and horror filled eye, report the death to his CO, and begin pulling items of use off the cadaver with sickeningly practiced ease.

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Naruto Noir

Chapter Three: Walking Dead in the Mad World

By

Hibiki

All rights to Masashi Kishimoto.

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Only his soft muttering of a funeral prayer rose above the harsh summer rain and odd smattering of coughs, sneezes, and various unhealthy sounds drifting over the hell that had become their life. The mud was sliding into his trench again, but he didn't stop it. All it was doing was helping him bury the man's corpse. Already most of his legs and an arm had been covered by the watery sludge. He just focused on the last rites. He couldn't remember most of the lines of the passage, so he improvised a bit, adding whatever felt right. Or at least what he felt would feel right. Finally, he ran out of words, the flimsy grip on the written scriptures the cause, the reason mostly due to his hatred of god's who could forsook them like the had. It left him staring at this body of a man barely older than himself with the urge to try and make up for the person's lack luster demise.

"I'm sorry this happened to you. Had I known you, I would have mourned you. As it is, all I can hope is you had someone to do that back home. I don't know if you had any dreams or hopes, so I can't help you in that. You'll be buried here, but if I live, I'll see if I can have them bring you to your folks one day." He paused, trying to think of something else to say. "Guess that's it." With his trench shovel he began put the man to rest, the very place where he died.

A few minutes later, his aptly named foxhole was significantly smaller, he huddled in that muddy pit, staring out. The fading rain gave rise to this worn out place and the equally worn faces of men sneaking a peak from their self made graves. Those few men left of his unit he could see, all familiar now, no longer looked living, as the dirt, blood, and strain from their time here had brought a change that made them seem already caught in death's waiting arms, as if they were unaware that they had already passed on. It disgusted him. Hadn't they suffered enough?

The tell tell boom of a cannon signaled the start of another wave of devastation, and simply told him no, they had not. He turned his head skyward as streaks of fire and steel flew across his vision like swift moving meteorites. The cloudy skies began to cry anew, as if mourning for those who would soon pass on. The Fox sat there, heedless of the water hitting his face and stinging his eyes, waiting for his turn. Enough. How many of his dreams in that haze of shrapnel and smoke had been about his end? How the thought of dying had caused the best sleep he had ever had in recent memory? ENOUGH. The trench behind and to the left of him, and the two people inside were ripped apart in as their horrific sounding scream cut short, but all it did was anger him further. ENOUGH! Why did they keep missing him? Why was he special enough to live when so many others had died? His jaw clenched so hard and so tight, blood slipped past his curled lips.

"ENOUGH!" He declared to the world as he rose from his shelter. From his hip, he drew his sword like knife and turned towards the enemy position. They must have seen him as the sounds of the blasts grew towards him. Only madness was in his eyes now, any fear had long since been lost against the enemy's demented attacks against them. Too long had they pushed him and his unit, until he could take no more. His legs pumped, the bloody mud and splinters that made up the forest floor churned as he gained purchase. His old dugout was hit, the dirt and kinetic force pushing him towards the dragon-like maws of the enemy ordnance, belching flame and death at him. But then he was free. The dragons could not shoot at their own feet. He almost felt like laughing when he realized that. Just how long had they let the enemy kill them so easily? No matter. He pressed onward, then without warning a cheer went up on the line and Fox was no longer alone. Racing up the steep mountainside, under the big guns line of sight, the battered and emaciated members of the twelfth regulars had been reborn. Like vengeful ghosts they serpentine upwards, even against smaller but no less deadly weapons. These men fought for freedom, for vengeance, for anything more than the slow inevitable death that had awaited them in the muddy pit behind. Even if the struggle only gave a quicker death, it was better. But the enemy's will and forces, so long content under the superficial enhancement of the cannons were paper thin. Soon Fox and the others were over the small almost disappointing cover the enemy had casually erected, and into the trenches that held ammunition and supplies. Into the face of their tormentors and killers alike. The enemy surrendered. Surrender wasn't good enough. The blood of the enemy troops ran down the mountainside, staining it. Freedom from their personal purgatory was obtained.

474 men had walked into that valley. Only 22 crawled out. The fighting 12th were disbanded, but only after learning the orders that had sent 452 of their regiment to their deaths was a failed lure to bring out the main enemy force. From the start they had been expendable bait. Many could not deal with the knowledge. Two ended their lives before long. Others still, tried to resign, but war had no place for deserters. Those eight were executed for treason, leaving just over half, 12 ironically enough. These cattle, though resentful of the action, were added to a newer but weakened regiment. Not a single Twelfth added the new regiment's colors or insignia, and not one veteran of the strengthened twenty fifth blamed them for it.

The Fighting Twelfth had become legends to the rest of the army. But for them, the war would never be the same. Many of the twelve would carry both physical and mental scars of the farce for the rest of their lives. The Fox was no exception.

The little street urchin, the one known only as the Fox who had lived by trickery and deceit, who had lied about his age to join the military much sooner than allowed, and who had, despite all odds against him; gained a new title from his lone suicidal charge against the artillery.

Akki no Kitsune. Devil Fox.

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The roar of thunder, much like that of cannon fire roused him from his slumber. Dreams of walking dead reaching from a war torn world, desperately pulling at him, trying take him back were he should have died. The pale figure of the half faced man being uncovered, the same pale blue listless eye suddenly turning to him, accusing him of it's owners slaying.

A knock on the door brought him completely from his semi lucidness and back to his dingy little office and the figure beyond his sullied glass. His shaking hands reaching for the bottle of undiluted alcohol kept for such occasions as this, downing several swigs before the tremors faded away. The knock came again, this time Fox was ready for them.

"Wadda want?"

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Naruto pulled back from his typewriter and looked out into the summer thunderstorm that had paused any investigation on Shikamaru's case. Chewing nervously at his favorite pen he let his mind run over the frightening similarities that had brought him into the case in the first place.

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The scene was eerily familiar, as Naruto stood at the mouth of the alleyway peering into it as members of T&I combed over the evidence. He had pictured it in his mind's eye, but to see if for real didn't help his growing confusion. Like his character namesake he quickly went over the many similarities he could make out from his location. Ino's worried countenance brought all the more real this was to him as he tried to make sense of the feeling of dejavu

"Uzumaki, get lost." A jounin he could barely remember called out from deep in the alleyway. The rest of the investigation squad paused in their study to look at him. "Just because you write about it doesn't mean you understand it."

Naruto just went too far for me to enjoy anymore and RL has left me with no interest in trying to keep writing in this fandom. Therefore, this fiction is as finished by me as it every will be, and any one may continue should they wish. PM's are always welcome if you would like to know where I was heading with the story. Adoption papers are a go.