Chapter 7
Their house is haunted.
The Nezumi household is hectic. A sprawling, traditional, estate, it lies against the cliffside of the village like an orphaned building from the Kaguya Compound. It's nearly swallowed up by the cramped, towering, structures of the Village's newer buildings, all piled on top of each other in the limited space of the ravine.
The house is huge but crowded and teeming, and inside it bustles like a rats' nest.
Her husband's sister, Usagi, is married and has six children: two sets of twin boys and two girls, all under the age of five. Hatsuka returns to find his things where he's left them, or taken up by eager young cousins, now dressed in his hand me downs. Momonga's absence is felt like an open wound, gaping and impossible to ignore. Pretty, childish, toys and clothes mark her corner of their shared bedroom and closet.
Children and their exhausted parents tumble and clamber over each other through the tatami hallways, paper screens torn and sliding doors nudged from their runners by roughhousing kids and wobbly toddlers. Mealtimes are pure chaos, tiny hands all scrambling for the choicest bits of dinner, parents struggling to keep their offspring in check, all shouts and arguments and laughter.
And through it all, silent as the grave, creeps the little spectre that followed them home from the academy. She's conspicuous in every sense, when she's allowing herself to be spotted, deathly pale and raven haired among sunny complexions and light brown waves. She's taller than any of the Nezumi children by far, and it likely won't be long before she's grown into the oversized standard issue clothing she'd traded for her academy uniform, pant legs bound in linen wraps at her ankles and sleeves rolled up to her elbows. They've insisted that she make herself at home, but it's immediately apparent that she's likely never been at home anywhere, more and more restless as days pass without their teacher calling on them. The girl speaks only when spoken to, polite but voice low, detached and words few. Seemingly preoccupied with something but unable to say what. She can do little more than watch blankly when Hatsuka's oldest cousins try to rope the stranger into some game, uncertain and unaccustomed to the concept of play.
Even without knowing her name, with one look at her eyes Nezumi Asuka would have known exactly who her father had been. Not just the icy colour or the graceful shape, but the vacant, deadened gaze, weightless and insubstantial.
Ume Gyouten had been in her own year, after all. From what she can remember, he had been a good student, always willing to help his classmates with difficult material, and a particular struggling boy, whose name and face are long lost to her, had been his constant companion. Gyouten was always solemn and serious, carrying the weight of a shinobi family's expectations on his shoulders, but never cold. Not until she'd watched him roll that boy's corpse off himself, a knife driven between the other child's ribs in their desperate, instinctive, struggle for the same blade.
Gyouten is dead, the girl informs them when they ask, and it's only then Asuka realizes she hasn't seen him in years, hadn't even noticed he was gone.
Though visibly relieved to be home, their son is still shaken, and fragile. It's a few days before Asuka and Kimaru feels he's ready to hear they're expecting another baby. He's thrilled for as long as it takes him to realize that this child too is destined for the academy.
"It's just the way things are," she assures her firstborn son. "Death is just a part of life as a ninja. The graduation exam is… It's what's asked of us. Most people can move past that. Some…" she glances over at the girl watching listlessly as a toddler screams over a toy stolen by his twin, her face set in the same haunted expression her father had worn for the rest of his days. "…Some can't. And I don't want that for you. You're going to be the head of this clan one day, Hatsuka. We need you to be brave for us all."
The boy looks up at her, round, dark eyes hesitant but still bright with life and feeling. "For you," he says resolutely. "For all of you."
Only a single bedroom is left completely untouched, Nezumis young and old avoiding it like a plague. Risu has been away on a mission, and Asuka thanks whatever merciful gods have kept the head of the clan away as long as they have.
The third day after their return, a scrawny black rat scurries across the living room floor as they've gathered there after dinner, and the Nezumis old enough to understand the meaning seem to brace themselves. Nezumi Risu stalks into their home trailing a cloud of noxious smoke, and the room goes silent.
He's a gaunt man, small and bony, eyes and features sharp with his dark brown hair pulled into a short, messy plait. "So," the head of the Nezumi clan grumbles around the cigarette clenched in his teeth, "where's the little coward? Where's my chicken-shit of a nephew?"
"Welcome home, Uncle." Hatsuka replies with a strained kind of civility as he disentangles himself from a previously giggling pile of small children, determined to ignore the barb.
Risu is unimpressed with his demeanour, and sneers. "What I hear," he begins, tone mock-pleasant and biting, "is that you ran up the fucking wall the moment the shit hit the fan. The heir to the Nezumi clan, outdone by a filthy little lightning-blooded bastard. And a girl," he adds, dark beady eyes falling on the misplaced girl watching him carefully. He gestures unsteadily, chuckling to himself. "Well. I've got a girl of my own waiting in the wings, don't I? If they're sending a little weakling like you out with Zakuro, you're not going to last long. Hopefully your sister will make a better apprentice than you." He dismisses Hatsuka with a violent, shrugging, wave of his arm and storms clumsily towards his room.
"You're drunk again, Risu." Kimaru admonishes, eyes narrowed.
"Yeah? Well," he furrows his brows in concentration. "Well fuck you, little brother," is all he can come up with before staggering triumphantly away, poisoned katana swaying in its sheath at his hip.
The living room full of rat-nin plus one guest breathe a collective sigh of relief when he leaves, both his suffocating presence and the mingled stench of tar and smoke and sake lifted from the air.
"Does he often come home from missions intoxicated?"
"Huh?" the startled boy turns, to find Kotone addressing him without prompting for the first time in three days. "Oh. Oh, yeah he's usually drunk," Hatsuka admits sheepishly, mouth quirked to one side in a mortified grimace.
"Hmm," the eight-year-old girl hums critically. "Well that's really fucking unprofessional."
There's no way she had meant it to be funny, but Asuka watches her son stifle the first real, heartfelt burst of laughter he's let out since the massacre.
/ / / /
When Momochi Zabuza drifts back to the land of the living, no one is more surprised than he is.
Zakuro watches as he slowly shakes off the sedative that's kept him unconscious for days. Primarily, he believes, for the benefit of the staff. Few civilian medics are willing to come anywhere near him, and even the more skittish medic-nin are cautious. He squints against the harsh fluorescent lights, breathes the stinging sterile smell hanging in the air, and immediately begins to take in the rest of his strange surroundings, the sounds the unfamiliar thin pajamas hanging off his bony frame. Judging by his reaction, he's never seen a hospital before. He panics. The boy struggles to get up, to free himself, and starts to claw at the IV line running into his arm.
"Woah, woah, easy there, kid."
The boy stops abruptly, the tubing taught in his grip, and slowly releases it when he realizes he's being watched. He's still disoriented (but if he can move this well already, the medics have clearly done an excellent job), eyes wide and wary as he appraises the strange man addressing him.
"It's Zabuza, isn't it?"
"Yes…" the boy begins slowly, narrowing his eyes. "Who are you?" he demands, voice hoarse from the extended disuse.
"My name is Zakuro Misao," the man replies, smiling easily. "You'll be in my charge for the foreseeable future." He thinks for a moment that the drugs have still left him addled, as his attention seems to drift, but it quickly becomes apparent that he's simply become aware of the nurses speaking in hushed, nervous tones outside of the room.
…That little thing? Are you sure…?
…should be dead after losing that much blood, but…
..over a hundred, all dead…
…they're saying he isn't human. That he has to be some sort of…
Misao raises his eyebrows approvingly. Both his penchant and ability for eavesdropping are promising, in a prospective student. They disperse in an anxious flurry when they notice the subject of their gossip observing them, and disappear either way down the hallway.
The boy turns back to him, tone and expression suspicious. "You're really not going to kill me?"
"We're not going to kill you," the swordsman says plainly. "You've got talent; we're going to use you. And I'll be the one overseeing your training." Not exactly a talkative little thing, Misao thinks to himself as the boy keeps the same uneasy gaze. "I have some questions for you, if you're feeling up to it." The child says nothing, his strength failing as he reluctantly settles back down against the hospital bed. Misao takes this as a yes. "Keep in mind that I've already spoken to the girl."
"No reason to talk to me, then. She'll have told you everything."
"Perhaps," Misao says, shrugging with an evasive sound in his throat. There's a screech as he drags a flimsy metal chair closer across the tile flooring, and eases himself down. "Confirming what I already know, filling in blanks that I don't."
The echoes from the hallway meld into a hazy din outside, voices, machinery, the persistent wail of an unanswered call button. Inside there's a steady blip of a heart monitor and the drone of the fluorescent lights overhead. Misao takes in a slow breath, asks the only question that really matters to him, although objectively, in the eyes of the Village, it's irrelevant.
"Why?"
Zabuza's eyes flicker towards him, and after a long moment, a humourless smile pulls at his lips. "I've heard that's how a guy proves his worth, around here."
Misao quirks an eyebrow. Judging by his contemptuous tone, this is likely the best answer he'll get. "Why spare the girl?" The boy doesn't respond, pretends not to have heard. Misao repeats the question more insistently.
"I…" The boy shrugs uncomfortably, wincing as some stiff join protests the movement. "I know her. Fighting her would be like fighting the rest of them put together, and I didn't have the strength left for that."
"Did she put you up to this?"
The question startles him. "No," he snaps quickly.
"But she taught you, didn't she?"
"No. Yes," Zabuza shakes his head, eyes screwed shut, in frustration, in thought, against the painkillers and the bright lights. "I made her do it," he asserts sharply, eyes steely when he meets the swordsman's gaze again. "She would have starved without me. She owed me. I made her do it."
He falls silent again, shoulders hunched and temperament prickly, letting the steady blip of the heart monitor fill the silence. Misao sighs when it becomes apparent he isn't about to say anything more. "She's here, you know."
Zabuza abruptly turns his attention back to the older ninja, blinking in surprise. His expression, for just a moment, before he can reign it in, is hopeful.
"Mhm. When they told me they planned to take you off the sedative, I stopped by and asked if either of your little teammates wanted to come along. Hatsuka— Oh. Yes, Hatsuka. You missed one, by the way—isn't exactly fond of you right now. She was anxious to see you though. She's been here all day. I think they've got her waiting just outside, if you'd like."
The boy's disbelief turns to apprehension, and he shakes his head hesitantly. "Who says I want to see her?"
"Going to have to deal with her sooner or later. Usually it's just whatever jonin and whatever three genin are available, but it's just the three of you, and just me willing to deal with the three of you, so…" He shrugs, and pulls himself back to his feet. A few strides across the small room takes him to the doorway, and he leans out. A quick whistle draws the attention of the child sitting alone in a waiting area full of hard benches, flipping through some outdated newspaper.
"No— wait—don't," he can hear the boy hissing behind him. Zakuro ignores him, and waves her over.
Kotone (it's an effort to remember her name. She is, by far, the least remarkable of his students) drops the paper on top of the pile of worn reading material whence it came, and hurries over, quick, light footsteps inaudible even on the tile floor.
Her height and her somber disposition makes her seem older than her eight years, and the girl can easily peer over the edge of the high hospital bed. He tries to ignore her, hunkering down into the thin sheets and turning away, but despite himself or simply because she refuses to take the hint and leave, the boy's eventually drawn to glance back at her, bracing himself for the inevitable barrage of questions. It doesn't come.
Her expression doesn't change, but Zakuro notes how she sits up on her tiptoes to lean in closer, and generally seems encouraged by the attention.
"Look," she says finally, pulling her sleeve towards him to show how she's tacked her hitai-ate to it, rather the way Zakuro wore his own. Her eyebrows knit together slightly. "I forgot to get one for you. I should have… They said to take one, so I—"
"I'll get one for him," the swordsman interjects from the place he's taken by the door, borrowed chair drawn away from the two children.
With that, she settles back into contented silence.
The boy speaks up finally, dark eyes narrowed incredulously and his tone uncertain. "What are you doing here?"
"I came to see you," she answers simply, puzzled only that he's asking. "You were in a bad way, before… I wanted to make sure you were alright."
Misao tries not to chuckle to himself outwardly as the boy's scowl deepens. Such a serious little thing. He's trying to scare her away, and it isn't working.
"You've heard what they're calling me, right?" She nods after a moment's hesitation, ponytail bobbing.
"It… I'd do it again, you know," he warns her, the same grim, humorless note in his voice. "I enjoyed killing them. It was fun."
She just studies him, unflinching, but does incline her head in thought. "That's strange," the little kunoichi admits finally. "I didn't feel anything."
The swordsman isn't surprised, and judging from the boy's reaction, neither is he. It didn't take Zakuro long to categorize her among the many broken shells of weaponized humans Kirigakure counts among its arsenal. He had deemed her useless within moments of meeting her, but it was a small price to pay for the other two. All Zakuro had to do was train her long enough to pass her into the general ranks of their village's forces. She'd be perfect for their Kage's purposes, cannon fodder to be used and discarded and without the sense to care, heartless and soulless and empty. The intended product of the academy assembly line.
"Zabuza?" She shifts from one foot to another, bites at her lip with a pointed tooth. "If… If you hadn't run out of steam when you did, were you…? Were you going to kill me?"
This gives him pause. The boy lets out a slow breath, opens his mouth to speak, then reconsiders, and then again. "Yeah," he says finally. He can't look her in the eye when he says it. Whether it's because he's ashamed or because he's lying, Misao can't yet be certain. He has his suspicions.
A flicker of something like hurt actually passes across her face for only an instant, her eyebrows drawn together and eyes wide. "Oh," she murmurs, directing her gaze to the floor and only glancing up through her dark lashes. "Oh." Kotone takes a measured step back.
"I think that maybe I had um," she begins hesitantly, still intent on studying each scuff and chip in the floor tiles. "I think maybe I misread our relationship, somewhat. I assumed we were friends, and I really shouldn't have. I'm not even sure I'm capable of— I…" She pauses, looks up at him again and her features sink back into their familiar icy indifference. "I'm sorry for the misunderstanding, and hope our work as teammates won't be affected."
With that, she quietly excuses herself with a quick, polite, bow to her new sensei and then her even strides bring her to the doorway before she pauses again. Zabuza says nothing, expression stony as he watches her leave. "Oh, and," she begins when she turns back towards him, just failing to meet his eye, "Hatsuka is terrified of you. You should be nice to him. I think it would save us a lot of time, as a team." Kotone looks away in earnest again, ducking behind the inky curtain of her hair where it's slipped loose of her careful ponytail, and hurries down the hall.
An uncomfortable silence settles over the room, only the hushed roar of activity outside and the sharp metronome of the heart monitor breaking the stillness. Slowly, so as not to disturb the line intruding in his veins, the little demon rolls away, and shoulders hunched stubbornly, he hunkers down into his bedding.
Zakuro stands with a heavy sigh, writing off the potential for anything like progress today when the surly little genin fails to acknowledge his presence. He returns later that evening to deal with the discharge papers, leaving a stack of small, standard-issue gear on the edge of the hospital bed, and the first unowned hitai-ate he'd been able to find resting on top. There are stares and surreptitious whispers exchanged between hospital staff as they pass, and in the dim city streets the odd ninja gives the same wary, knowing glance as they piece together what must be following him. Villagers part instinctively at the sight of the wave-patterned metal. The boy trails after him like a stormcloud in ill-fitting clothes, silent, and surly and hopping to re-roll a mutinous pant leg or shove an oversized sleeve back up to his elbow.
For all their trepidation, the medics have outdone themselves. There isn't a scratch on the boy anywhere. No scars, no lingering injuries, no outward sign that he'd ever been at death's door.
Something in his eyes, though, marks him as changed. There's an intensity burning there too, a drive, and its in this that the swordsman sees so much promise.
/ / / /
Old instincts kick in the moment he steps out onto the familiar village streets, and Zabuza has to stop himself from habitually noting every safe nook or cranny he passes, every unguarded pocket. The shops and stalls are busy, many villagers just wandering home from their day's work, frequenting the little businesses still open in passing. The smell of different foods mingle in the air, a dusting of snow flurries is trampled underfoot, and it's all bathed in the orange glow of the streetlamps overhead, some half lit or flickering, others completely dead.
It's a long walk from the hospital, winding through the main streets and then through smaller, narrower passages lined with older buildings, closer and closer to the mountains marking the edge of the village basin. He recognizes the compound the moment it comes into view.
Zakuro passes casually through the gate of the Kaguya quarter someone he'd once known had so dreaded, past empty manors with boarded windows and overgrown with unkempt foliage. Among the dozen or so abandoned buildings, however, is the occasional lit window, the odd new frame and panel of glass stark against the aged exterior. The man is taking a circuitous route along the wall, Zabuza notes, carefully keeping as far as possible from the occupied houses.
"So close," he hears the older ninja lament under his breath when a door creaks open as they pass. It's hard not to stare at the hulking creature that leans out, appearance only tenuously human, and he ducks to keep from knocking his great round head against the doorframe. Long, bright-orange hair falls down his back and sits atop his head in ornate rolls. Despite his massive size, there's no sound but a curt greeting as he steps out onto the porch. "Fuguki," Zakuro acknowledges in return, tersely.
"So," the man says, his wide mouth splitting into an insincere smile, baring two rows of huge razor-sharp teeth, "this is the 'demon' then?" His eyes trail slowly down to the boy, and Zabuza stands a bit taller to meet the massive ninja's gaze, shoulders squared and eyes narrowed, refusing to cower as he's sure the man's expecting. He notices the defiance, and chuckles to himself.
"Word travels fast," Zakuro muses, eyebrows raised.
"You forget who it is you're speaking to. My business is to know your business." He keeps his tone the same mock-pleasantness, a threatening note thinly veiled. "He's an awfully scrawny little thing, isn't he? You're sure you can make a ninja from that?"
"Well, we're certainly going to try," the older man replies, already turning impatiently to continue the way they had been headed. "Starting bright and early tomorrow morning, in fact, so if you'd excuse us… Come along, Zabuza-kun, we're almost there." He shepherds the boy along, hurriedly. "Asshole," he mutters under his breath when he hears the door slam shut and he's sure they're out of earshot.
Zabuza follows along, scurrying to keep up with the taller man's longer strides. He makes a face, curiosity weighing on him. "Who was that?" he finally asks.
Zakuro glances down, eyebrows raised in pleased surprise when he speaks up, but his face clouds a moment after. "Suikazan Fuguki. Another member of the Shinobigatana— Ah, right, I should explain. The Swordsmen are—"
"I know who you are." He remembers the notes on the group, laid down devotedly in neat letters and blue pen. Their role, answering directly to the Mizukage, taking the village's most dangerous and illustrious missions, all seven weapons, all carefully drawn out and noted. He's sure she must know something about every owner each blade has ever had.
Zakuro smiles. "We're not all terribly fond of each other," he man continues. "Fuguki, especially, I don't trust as far as you could throw. He runs the Intelligence division, a nest of vipers, spiders, and all manner of bottom-feeding creature. Hey, look at that," he says cheerily, "you're learning all kinds of fun things about the village, already. Ah, here we are."
They've stopped in front of a house backed into the farthest corner. It's by far the best-kept of the buildings, restorations matched carefully to the style of the architecture, a single perfect structure among the ruins as though it's misplaced in time. A willow clings to the last of its leaves beside the porch, well-tended bushes, trellises, and an autumn-bared garden bed lining the path. A single plant is in full bloom, lush, deep-red flowers nestled among the foliage, fallen red petals dusting the snow underneath.
"You have flowers," the boy states almost accusingly, crinkling his nose in distaste at one of the most feared ninja in their village.
Zakuro glances back at him over his shoulder as he turns his key in the door. "They're camellias," he replies flatly, before disappearing inside.
He's never been inside a house like this before, with its tatami mats and sliding panel doors. Just as he's about to step up the little ledge from the entryway to the house proper, Zakuro's voice drifts from what looks to be the kitchen, reminds him to remove his sandals. The swordsman's warming a pot of soup on the stove when Zabuza pokes his head into the kitchen, the smell slowly coaxing him into the room.
"You can relax, you know," he says without turning around. Somehow, despite Zabuza's seemingly silent footfalls, the man had known exactly where he was. "Go on, sit," he urges when the boy doesn't move. Cautiously he climbs into a kitchen chair, feet nowhere near touching the ground and dangling stupidly. "There we go," Zakuro encourages, leaving the stove to rummage in the refrigerator for a moment. He reaches over Zabuza, sets a hard-boiled egg down on the table in front of him before continuing around to the chair opposite, taking a seat himself and setting to peeling away the shell of his own. "Figured something quick, tonight. You must be starving by now."
There's an ache and an unfulfilled rumbling in his belly, but it's nothing like what he's been used to in the past, nothing he can't ignore. Still, there's food in front of him and he sets to prying the brittle shell from the soft meat inside, trying to ignore the invasive feeling of being scrutinised prickling at him.
Of course, he's used to being watched— she's always had this way of studying people: him, passersby in the street, the cats in the alley, her classmates, anything— just silently, unblinkingly, taking everything in. Not just the tiny details of techniques or any tell of a next move, as he's so adept at doing, but just watches someone with the same care and detail. Of course, it's never bothered him. She's never made him feel quite as…. vulnerable as he does now, under the jonin's eye, and it's set him on edge.
Thankfully, before Zakuro can resume his attempts to lull Zabuza into a conversation, there's a knock at the door. Whoever it is doesn't wait for an answer before throwing the door open and stepping inside, the intruder making enough noise, presumably as a courtesy, for their movements to be apparent even from the kitchen.
"Misao," the stranger calls, "you home?"
It's low, and husky, but undoubtedly a woman's voice. A wide smile spreads across the man's face as he stands to meet her. "Ameyuri-chan," he says fondly. "Come in. We've got some soup on, and I was thinking of a pot of tea. Care to join us?"
"I'm just stopping in before leaving on a mission," she replies, finally stepping into view. She's tiny. Her powerful voice had suggested someone much larger, but she barely comes up to Zakuro's shoulder and under the bulk of her baggy, warm clothing he sees spindly wrists and ankles. Dull burgundy hair is pulled into bunches at her temples, and falls down her back. She's pale, and dark circles ring both eyes. The girl can't be more than fifteen, but her teeth have been ground into the same unmistakable points.
"Zabuza-kun," Zakuro says, gesturing between them, "this is Ringo Ameyuri, another member of the shinobigatana. Amyuri-chan, this is Momochi Zabuza. I'm sure by now Fuguki will have told you all about him."
"Hmmm," She eyes him carefully, a grin pulling at her lips, and Zabuza bristles. Between Ringo and Suikazan, he thinks bitterly, it's starting to feel like the whole village is stopping by to gawk at the little demon. "Kaminari blood in him," she appraises, as though he isn't there to hear her, and the boy tenses warily. "If he turns out to have lightning chakra, I may have to steal him from you."
Zakuro's reply is a sympathetic raise of his eyebrows. "Still no luck then?"
"Just the one chunin. He's… he's not ideal, but lightning type chakra is rare." She crosses her arms across her narrow chest, mouth quirked irritably to the side. "I'll start training him soon. Can't afford to waste any time."
The worry in his face deepens, a look of parental concern Zabuza's only ever observed, always directed towards other children. "Yuri—"
She holds out a pale hand flat to silence him. "I have to be going," she interrupts, her other hand resting at one of the branched swords at her side. "My prey isn't going to corner himself, and I can hardly wait to see if he's worth my while."
"Of course," the swordsman says gently, seeing her to the door. "Happy hunting."
"It always is."
Zakuro sighs, heavily, when the door slides shut behind her, slowly makes his way back to the kitchen. He produces two bowls from a cupboard overhead. "They're not all bad," he assures Zabuza, as he sets the two steaming servings of miso soup down on the table. "Ameyuri's vicious, but she's an honourable sort."
He's not sure how someone could be both.
Later that night, Zakuro shows him to the little room he's put aside for the boy, containing a bedroll, a pillow, and another identical set of too-large clothing folded neatly.
"We'll get you something that actually fits tomorrow," the swordsman promises when he nearly face-plants right into the tatami mat after stepping on the hem of his other pant leg. Then he insists that it's bedtime, and retires to his own room on the other side of the house.
Zabuza grumbles to himself stubbornly as he pads towards the bathroom. He feels as though he's just woken up, but though he isn't sleepy, a different kind of weariness is weighing him down, one for which he has no name.
Returning to his room, he turns out the light and makes his way towards the fat, thick, futon and blanket through the darkness, tests it with a probing nudge of his bare foot. It's soft, and fluffy, and when he climbs in, he finds himself comfortably warm as he hasn't been since he was orphaned.
Something digs into his back when he rolls onto his side, though, and he remembers pocketing the cloth and metal thing Misao had provided him with. He digs it free, and studies it, scowling.
The forehead protector Zakuro had found for him clearly wasn't meant for a child. The fabric strip is absurdly long, the subtle curve of the metal meant for an adult's skull. He'd tried to tie it on as he'd seen most shinobi wear it, but it had simply slipped down over his eyes.
He moves to toss the stupid thing across the room, but something stops him and instead he sets it down gently by his bedside.
Kotone had been willing to die for this.
Kotone, he thinks, sighing and settling back under the quilt. He's been trying to put her from his thoughts all day, ever since she'd finally fled his hospital room. Good, he tells himself, because as the looks of horror he's been getting remind him, he's an unrepentant monster, and demons have no use for attachment, or affection, or friends. No use for little girls with pale eyes, and almost-smiles, and a worryingly limited understanding of the outside world.
His stomach knots, and it must be the lingering effects of the sedative that's left him feeling so hollow and heavy.
AN: Hi everyone! As always, I sincerely hope you guys are enjoying the ride so far. This chapter was mostly set up, so I hope it was still interesting, but it seemed like a good place to end it. Thanks so much to everyone who's reviewed so far, it totally makes my day! Thank you all so much.
I finally remembered the thing that I keep meaning to mention! Ok, so the actual time-period Naruto is set in is kind of an anachronism mishmash. Things generally seem to be set far in the past, but with instant ramen, and walkie talkies, and computers and televisions, and according to the epilogue they're only a few decades from laptops. So because of this I'm always a little hesitant about what should, and shouldn't be part of this universe, and I'm kind of playing it by ear. Especially in the sense of modern-day, western food items. I've been looking up character's favourite foods kind of haphazardly to see if anything like pizza shows up xD (No Pizza yet but Hinata likes Cinnamon rolls, how cute is that?) Anyway, since it seems like pretty much anything short of guns and cars goes, I'm going to try and keep anachronistic stuff to a minimum, but I'm not going to be super strict about it, especially with food.
Next chapter, the official debut of team Zakuro, and we get to genuinely meet Hatsuka!
