Mitsuki ran through the forms again. Feet spread apart at shoulder length. Right foot in front of left foot. Hands held just above the head. Arms far enough apart that they don't obstruct your vision. He swung, bringing Kusanagi down on his opponent. It struck true, cleaving the stick in half from top to bottom. He spun, turning and brandishing his blade to catch a shadow attack on the flat of the sword. He parried, knocking the invisible blade away, and ran his opponent—another stick—through. He turned, again, parrying the attacks of two more sticks, and cutting them down by slashing at the eyes of the leftmost stick and the neck of the rightmost.
All in the space of a single breath.
Mitsuki paused to catch his breath. He wiped the sleeve of his robe across his forehead to prevent his sweat from obscuring his vision. It was a beautiful day in the Land of Fire. Spring was giving way to summer. The sun was high in the sky and temperatures just below uncomfortable. Still, he persevered.
Mitsuki knew the true meaning of struggle. He struggled to fit in with the people of the Hidden Leaf. He struggled to find a place for himself; find friends. He became a ninja because it was, quite simply, the only thing he knew how to do. His memories that his father had wiped from his mind never returned. Maybe that was for the best. He had felt like a stranger for the first year. The foreigner. Until one day, quite by accident, Bolt had befriended him.
Mitsuki didn't even think it had been intentional on Bolt's part. They had been practicing their taijutsu in the Academy. It had been nothing but practicing forms and theory for weeks on end. Then, on the day it came for the class to spar, the class was forced to pair up. Mitsuki had no friends, and no one wanted to practice their taijutsu with a foreigner who looked so strange.
Everyone except Bolt. He, being the lazy genius he was, felt that he had enough experience to skip the sparring day altogether. He grabbed Mitsuki, the odd man out, and the two of them skipped school the rest of the day to hang out. Their instructor had been furious at them the next day, but Bolt took the blame, citing that he didn't need to practice because of his clan's Gentle Fist.
It was the little white lie that Bolt had taught Mitsuki a few moves that kept them out of trouble with Professor Aburame. Mitsuki didn't bother to correct the story. For him, that first day of just having someone to be with was worth ten thousand days of practice with any master.
Mitsuki smiled as he went through another half dozen stances. Those were simpler, better times.
And now he had returned to the bad times. The times when he was the outsider again. The foreigner. Sarada was his friend, true, but she was more a friend of Bolt. Their friendship had been one borne from their mutual friendship with Bolt. It didn't really count, though he did enjoy her company. But Sarada was dealing with her own issues. She rarely had time to visit him anymore. Physical therapy to recover from the Gentle Fist's damage to her pathways was exhausting and tiring. Mitsuki visited her at the hospital often. He was glad Sarada was well on her way to recovery.
If there was one thing Mitsuki was thankful for, it was that his father had constructed his body to heal from any damage efficiently and rapidly. Lady Tsunade had said he would be fine after a few days of rest. Sarada was quite jealous of him for that.
Mitsuki leapt, summoning a snake with a single hand. The serpent pulled him towards a tree. As he sailed through the air, Mitsuki cut a branch thicker than his thigh from the tree. And now his friend was in more trouble than he'd ever been in during their Academy days. Mitsuki cut the branch as it fell, cutting into five pieces before cutting all five in half before they touched the ground.
Truthfully? Mitsuki had thought, more than once, that he would join Bolt if he'd asked him to go rogue. The Leaf was a place he lived, but it wasn't his home. If he had to choose between the Leaf and Bolt, he would choose Bolt every time.
That was what he thought. When the emotions were raw and new. But now he'd had time to think on what he would do. And, he knew, that he wouldn't give up on the Leaf because deep in his heart, Mitsuki knew that Bolt didn't want to give up on the Leaf either. Mitsuki had front row seats to the slow, methodical emotional death of his friend. It ate at him. And yet, there was nothing he could do. Nothing in his power that could bring father and son together. Mitsuki couldn't even bridge the gap between him and his own father, so how could he know how to fix Bolt?
But he knew one thing. So long as Bolt continued to roam the land and sow destruction and fear wherever he went, he would never repair his relationship with the Hokage. For that to happen, he had to come home—to the Leaf, to Sarada, to his sister, and to him.
Mitsuki would become strong enough to reach that goal, or die trying.
A flock of birds took to the sky as he landed on the balls of his feet. They flew, crested overhead, then descended. Mitsuki turned. The flock had settled atop the head and shoulders of a tall man with a mohawk of brilliant orange hair. Mitsuki stilled. He recognized him. He worked for his father. What was his name? It started with a 'J', something short—
"Jūgo," Mitsuki said.
Jūgo took a step forward and the birds scattered to the wind. Mitsuki cast a quick look around. He knew that Jūgo shouldn't be in the Leaf. He was training near the outskirts of the training grounds. The barrier that covered the entire village was especially powerful near the training grounds. Someone should have noticed his arrival.
"Can I help you?" Mitsuki asked.
Jūgo nodded. "Lord Orochimaru requests your presence," he said.
Mitsuki didn't think his father was requesting his presence. It was more of sending his thugs out to fetch him—by force, if needed. Still, Mitsuki had no plans to return to the lair of his father. Especially if his theory about being the next vessel was true. He brandished Kusanagi.
Jūgo looked delighted that he had chosen to resist. His body began to change. It tinted a dark, brown-gray color. Like he had bathed in mud. Two growths, almost like horns, grew from his temples. The whites of his eyes turned black.
Then he charged.
Jūgo was fast. Streams of chakra trailed behind his feet, pushing him forward. Mitsuki raised the flat of his blade and caught Jūgo's fist as he punched him. Mitsuki grunted, shoving his shoulder against the opposite side of the sword. He resisted the force of the punch.
Then the flesh of Jūgo's forearm rippled. Three appendages, operating like vents, exhaled raw chakra. Mitsuki felt the air be driven from his lungs as he was sent hurtling through the air. Damn, he was strong. Mitsuki crashed through a tree and rolled through two bushes before coming to a stop.
Mitsuki stood, sheathing Kusanagi in the ground, and weaved rapid hand signs. Jūgo came charging through the underbrush, and Mitsuki spat a fist of water at him that struck with an audible slap of flesh meeting water too quickly to dissipate the liquid. It was like running full speed into solid rock.
Jūgo was dazed, reeling, as Mitsuki tore Kusanagi from the ground and lunged forward with an arcing slash. One cut and it would be over, he hoped. That, or it would buy him enough time for the border guards to show up and save him. Jūgo held his right arm aloft. The flesh rippled, forming a crude axehead. Kusanagi struck the edge of the axe with a metallic ring. The axe was as hard as any steel.
Jūgo swung his free arm at him, throwing a telegraphed punch. Mitsuki dodged, reaching up with his own free arm and wrapping it around and up Jūgo's arm, shoulder, and finally neck. He squeezed as he avoided an unskilful swing of Jūgo's axe. With Jūgo's guard down, Mitsuki swung himself around so that he had the man's back. His legs twisted and ensnared Jūgo's own, preventing him from moving.
With his only limb not contorted inhumanly, Mitsuki brought Kusanagi up to nick Jūgo. There was a rustle of wind against his chest. Mitsuki only had an instant to fret before he was struck in the chest by a blast of raw chakra that sent him flying. As he flew, he could see more vent appendages growing on Jūgo's back that glowed a subtle blue-white.
Mitsuki was flung back into the clearing he had been training in. With nothing to crash into, he recovered, sliding backwards on the balls of his feet. Jūgo emerged from the forest, looking more monster than man.
It was disturbing how similar their transformations were. Jūgo was more monster, where he was more man. A fleeting thought passed through his mind. Did he get his Sage Transformation from Jūgo? Was he some hobbled together experiment with a little piece of each of his father's servants?
Mitsuki pushed those thoughts aside and reached inward for the roiling mass of chakra within. He felt power blossom within him, surging through his body. It was as exhilarating as it was painful. He winced as his skull produced more bone in his forehead. It formed a single, curved horn that was stained red with his blood. Mitsuki knew, if he looked in a mirror, that the skin around his eyes would have darkened and become black. Voluminous, wispy incorporeal snakes, crafted entirely of natural chakra, formed around him.
Jūgo charged like a raging bull. Mitsuki threw an arm forward, commanding two of his four serpents to strike. Jūgo barreled forward, heedless of the danger.
"Jūgo, dodge!"
Mitsuki turned and saw a woman with rosy red eyes and hair. Half her head had been shaved, and she wore red glasses.
Jūgo obeyed her.
He leapt and avoided the snakes. Shit. How did the red haired woman know? Mitsuki hadn't even sensed her.
"Thanks, Karin!" Jūgo shouted. His voice was shrill and tinged with madness.
Mitsuki commanded two other snakes to strike while he slashed at Jūgo with Kusanagi. Jūgo evaded the two snakes and blocked with his axe.
The red-haired woman was shouting again. "And hurry it up! We only have a few minutes before they realize we're here!"
Was the woman—Karin—how they managed to infiltrate the Leaf undetected? If so, would taking her out alert the guards? Mitsuki didn't know. But it was better than having a slugging match with Jūgo. He was stronger and more durable than Mitsuki was. His arsenal—attacking with raw chakra—was more flexible than his was.
Mitsuki knew that the odds of him emerging victorious were slim. And, even if he did, he would have to defeat Karin too. And there could be more opponents lurking in the forest. No, if he wanted to win here he needed to call for reinforcements.
He parried a slash of Jūgo's axe, kicked the orange-haired man in the stomach with his augmented strength, and then lunged for Karin.
It was like she knew he was going to attack.
She had already moved out of the way. Kusanagi plunged into a tree's trunk. Mitsuki had only a moment to tug at the hilt before a pillar of earth erupted beneath his feet, sending him skyward.
Mitsuki broke the single most important rule of swordsmanship: never let go of your sword.
Kusanagi remained where it had been lodged as he flipped end-over-end through the sky. He swore, turning and weaving hand signs. Inhale. Exhale. He breathed a great blast of wind downward that uprooted trees and gouged the ground. It broke his fall, and Mitsuki was content to ride the lazy breeze downward and avoid slamming into the ground.
A primal scream tore that dream from his mind. Jūgo, more monstrous than ever, shot up into the sky with an explosive leap that upturned a good twenty feet of earth behind him. Mitsuki weaved hand signs. He knew it would be too late, but he did it anyway. He would go down fighting. There was no way to dodge in the air.
Jūgo slammed into him with an explosive punch, augmented by both his leap and the vents of chakra propelling an explosive stream behind the punch. It was like having a mountain slam into him.
Even with his unique physiology, Mitsuki reeled. His vision narrowed and darkened. Jūgo hit him again, and the last thing he saw before losing consciousness was the ground rapidly approaching, and Karin rushing out to catch him—he hoped.
Bolt had only gotten drunk once in his short life. A year, maybe a little more, after he joined the Crimson Tide. Eiji had thrown a celebration for the success of their most recent job: swindling a landowner in the Land of Steam out of their property which, incidentally, had a large underground hot spring waiting to be tapped into.
He procured—most likely stole—enough rice wine for nearly every member of the company to have a full keg to themselves. Eiji then demanded everyone get absolutely shitfaced or he'd be confiscating their cut of the pay. Bolt, not wanting to stand out and also wanting his portion of that three hundred million ryō, did as he was commanded.
He woke the next day. His head ached something fierce, like he had somehow managed to sneak a small pebble inside his skull and then shake his head back and forth until his brains were scrambled. More than that, he was physically ill to a degree he hadn't thought possible. He didn't get sick. Never. His sister and father didn't, either. He trumped it up to be an Uzumaki thing.
But the hangover that next morning? He wanted to die.
When he woke, strapped to a cold, metal table and staring into a bright light shining in his eyes, he felt like he had died. Died, and then been brought back only to die again.
Everything hurt.
He'd said the phrase before. Heard others say it. People didn't realize how much everything consisted of. They meant it metaphorically. Bolt meant it literally. Every single bone, every single muscle, every single tendon, every single cell. He was in agony.
Worse, it wasn't just his body that had been ravaged.
His chakra pathways were in ruins. Like a vine strangling a tree of its life, something wound around his pathways. A leech. A disease. A virus. Slowly subsuming him and making itself a part of his body in a way that left Bolt feeling violated at the most intimate level. And it was foul. Disgusting. Like he had fallen asleep in his bed, only to wake in a bathtub filled with shit to the brim.
He felt dirty.
He'd felt dirty before. When he killed so many people in the Land of Rain. Bad memories. Don't think about that. But he'd felt dirty. Couldn't wash the blood off his hands. Both physically and metaphorically.
But what he felt now? He felt soiled. Like he could never, ever go back to the way he was before. His purity had been taken from him.
Bolt groaned. He tried to rise. Failed. Something was holding him down. He tossed his head to the side, nearly falling unconscious from the effort of simply turning his fucking skull. Pain arced through him as tangible as any electricity. It radiated from his shoulder; where his neck and shoulder met. It burned. Like liquid fire was pumping through his veins.
"Oh, shit!"
Bolt stilled.
"Hey! Don't move, kid," a voice said. Bolt heard footsteps. The light that had been shining in his eyes was mercifully dimmed and moved away. He blinked. He could see again.
He was a tall, thin man. Hair as white as snow. No. There was the faintest hint of blue there, too. It reminded him of Tsuchigumo. Purple eyes; an interesting genetic quirk. What alarmed Bolt the most was the giant steel sword on the man's back. More of a butcher's cleaver than any respectable swordsman's weapon.
Bolt struggled. "Hey, hey! Don't do that. The boss'll kill me if you die while he's resting."
Bolt glared at him. "Name's Suigetsu!" Suigetsu introduced himself. "For the duration of your stay with our illustrious boss, I'll be your babysitter!"
Bolt wanted to snap at the man, but he didn't have the energy. Then he stilled. Memories came back. The Land of Sound. Hibiki. Their new base of operations. Progress.
Orochimaru.
The very name evoked a shiver of dread.
The fight.
His friends were dead. He was sure of it. Orochimaru had dismantled them like they were green Academy students. They hadn't even challenged the man. He didn't use a single jutsu the entire fight. He simply crushed them. Took down three—four, if he was counting Hibiki—of the most powerful young men and women he'd seen in all his travels.
All their power, all their experience, and they hadn't even managed to challenge Orochimaru.
It hurt.
It wasn't a physical pain, this time. An emotional one. He'd lost his friends. The only ones he'd ever have now that he was a criminal. Fuck. It didn't even matter, really. He wasn't going to leave this place alive. Wherever he was. Orochimaru was going to dissect him like a frog in the medical ninjutsu class. Pluck out his eyes and discover all the secrets they held.
He'd failed his friends. He'd failed his clan.
Most of all, he had failed himself.
Bolt felt tears pool in his eyes. He blinked them away. He was not going to cry in front of—of his captor. Suigetsu. Orochimaru. It didn't fucking matter. They'd robbed him of some of the most important people in his life.
He would make them pay.
Of that, Bolt knew. It was a certainty.
He'd play nice. Play the good little experiment. They could have his eyes. So long as he had his chakra and his arms. That was all he needed. The moment they freed him—if they freed him—he'd act.
No.
No, that wouldn't work. That was the kind of thinking that got him into this situation. He'd been brash. Arrogant. Hadn't thought things through. He'd been confronted with a threat he knew was beyond him, beyond his team, and he had still fought anyway. Knowing full well they would lose.
It was his fault Hikari was dead. Tetsu and Hibiki, too.
Dead because he'd been arrogant. Because he had been so eager to prove himself. To no one, really. Prove he wasn't a failure. To his father? No. His sister? No, not her. His friends? No, not them. They believed in him.
He wanted to prove to himself that he wasn't a failure.
Yes, that was it. He wanted to prove to himself he wasn't that scared little boy standing in front of the whole world with his shame bared.
His pride had cost him everything. His family. His home. His friends. And, now, his freedom. His life.
No more.
Bolt discarded it. Locked it away. Deep inside where it would never see the light of day again. He had to be better than that. Better than he'd ever been. Better than he had ever hoped to be. No more throwing himself into battles to prove himself, to himself. No more putting his friends, his allies, in danger. He would think before he acted. Cold. Methodical. Ruthless.
That was how he got out of this situation. That was how he got revenge for the death of his friends.
That was how he would kill Orochimaru.
The tears came again as the weight of everything he had lost settled upon him. Bolt tried to hold it in, but couldn't.
His captor cleared his throat awkwardly. Bolt steeled himself. Stopped the tears. Avengers didn't cry. "Hey, kid. Look, don't be afraid. I know this whole thing looks... bad. It isn't, really. The boss is a real upstanding guy once you get to know him. He's just—" Suigetsu paused, looking over his shoulder. Bolt follow his gaze. A door. "—not all the lights are on upstairs, you get me?"
Bolt stared at his captor. Not glared. He was being—not nice, but civil. Bolt could do civil. This would be the start of his vengeance. Bolt nodded. Suigetsu smiled, baring row upon row of sharp, pointed teeth. Like some sort of shark or exotic fish. Bolt stilled. Right. Orochimaru. His people would be deceiving. Monsters clothed in human flesh. He'd nearly made a mistake.
Suigetsu was not his ally. Not his friend.
His captor moved out of his vision. Bolt heard the clink of metal-on-metal. "Alright, so this is probably going to look bad. It's not, I promise. You're taking to the seal badly. I gotta pump you full of this shit to make sure it doesn't kill you," Suigetsu explained.
Bolt stilled. His captor turned to face him and was holding a large syringe with a needle nearly a foot in length. Bolt didn't fear needles—he feared what Suigetsu had said. He was... taking to the seal badly? What seal?
Memories.
Orochimaru. Sinking his fangs into his neck. The pain. Orochimaru had placed a Cursed Seal—oh, fuck. Was he going to turn into one of those monsters he'd spent the past month killing? Orochimaru was going to turn him into some sort of abomination? Take the Byakugan. Twist it to his purposes?
Bolt didn't even feel the needle as it dug deep into his neck. The pain faded, ever so slightly, and then returned with a vengeance. More painful, more agonizing, than ever before.
Bolt glared at Suigetsu hatefully before darkness took him.
When Bolt woke, he was, thankfully, not strapped to that metal table.
He was in a dark room. Soft bed. Light spilling out from beneath the door. He blinked. He felt better. Still wracked with pain, but he could manage it. He'd felt worse. He wasn't in agony. That all-consuming pain that destroyed rational thought. The medicine Suigetsu had given him worked, apparently.
Bolt threw his legs over the side of the bed. They felt weak. He was pretty sure he'd fall if he stood. He tried strengthening his body with chakra. It didn't help any. He was too weak. He didn't know how long it had been since Orochimaru had taken him. It could have been hours or weeks. But his chakra hadn't replenished itself. That was worrying.
Bolt managed to pull himself to his feet and braced one arm against the wall. He was wobbly, knees weak, but he could stand. He hobbled to the only other door in the room; the one without light. He hoped it was a bathroom.
It was.
Bolt flicked a switch and a sterile white light filled the room. A small, efficient shower and toilet sat in one corner. A sink and mirror in the other. He hobbled to the mirror. Bolt stared.
He was pale. Unnaturally so. Like he'd lost a lot of blood. But he hadn't, as far as he knew. He was dressed in a wispy hospital gown. His clothes had been torn in the fight, he imagined, and disposed of. Just another way to dehumanize him.
Bolt winced as the fabric of the gown brushed against his neck. With great care, he leaned forward and gently tugged at the collar of the gown. Bolt suppressed the instinctive urge to panic. A seal had been placed neatly between where his neck and shoulder met. An inky black pattern; three small dots with the smallest of tails. It reminded him strongly of the Sharingan. The pallor of his skin made the seal stand out in all its horror. Around it, the skin was red and inflamed. Bolt traced the pattern with his fingertips.
Pain coursed through him at the slightest touch. He removed his hand.
Alright. He could work with this. He was an Uzumaki. Fūinjutsu was in his blood. He could remove it. It would take time, Bolt knew, but he could remove it. He hoped.
The lure of untapped power was there. But Bolt wasn't a fool. A Cursed Seal traded power for freedom, pound for pound. If he used it, he would slowly but surely become a slave to Orochimaru.
Bolt realized why his chakra was so diminished. The seal was leeching his chakra to make itself stronger. To force himself to use it. To become dependent on its power. He would have to fix that. Soon. Somehow.
Bolt let a ragged sigh escape his lips as he ran a hand through his hair.
There was a knock at the door.
Bolt stilled. He crept back into the bedroom—his bedroom, Bolt assumed. A moment later, the door cracked open. Light spilled into the room. Bolt saw the silhouette of the butcher's cleaver before he saw the man. Suigetsu. "Hey! You're up. That's good. Lord Orochimaru wants to see you," he said. He pushed a handful of neatly folded clothes into his arms. Bolt nearly fell to his knees. "Put these on."
And then he was gone. The clothes he had been given were simple, yet fine, robes. The top cut lower than Bolt thought was decent; baring his chest and neck. He couldn't hide the Cursed Seal. A sash of thick, woven purple rope. It was dated. Fashion from fifty years ago. He'd seen something similar in the history textbook his class had.
Suigetsu was waiting for him outside. Walking was difficult, and it seemed the white-haired man knew it. He walked slowly. Bolt both appreciated the gesture and hated it in the same breath. Bolt wondered how good he was with that sword. Suigetsu was thin and lanky with hardly any bulky muscle. He doubted it was easy to swing the massive sword.
Bolt supposed he would find out the hard way, eventually.
Bolt wished he had remained conscious. He didn't know where he was. The lair of Orochimaru was surprisingly modern and immaculate. Clean, really. Like a hospital. Bolt supposed that didn't bode well for him or any other guests.
He was led by Suigetsu to a wing of the facility that was less hospital and more barracks. Row upon row of doors, some open. Inside where beds and lockers. A few doors were sealed with large, heavy locks. Something to keep in mind. If it was worth locking, it was worth breaking into.
Suigetsu opened a door and held it open for him. Bolt entered. He was aware of Suigetsu shutting the door behind him, but he didn't care. His attention was focussed solely on the man seated at the head of one of the dining tables in what he could only assume was a mess hall.
Orochimaru grinned. That predatory grin that bared fangs as his tongue darted out. It was exceedingly disturbing. "Take a seat," Orochimaru hissed. It wasn't aggressive. Just the way he spoke. Almost like a lisp.
Bolt did. Not because Orochimaru asked, but because he didn't think his legs would keep him upright for much longer. He'd let the snake have this small victory. Orochimaru grinned even wider.
Bolt was silent. And still. What exactly did you say to make small talk with the veritable monster who kidnapped you and killed your friends?
Orochimaru chuckled. It was that dark, grating, eerie chuckle. The one that sounded like he found your very existence—it was difficult to describe. Comical? Pointless? Like you were an insect and you were lucky to be in presence.
It was irritating. Bolt grit his teeth.
The silence between them was doubly awkward. Bolt had no doubt Orochimaru was enjoying it. He seemed like the type to enjoy watching people squirm and struggle. Bolt felt trapped; cornered. Like a fly in the spider's web.
Fine. If Orochimaru wanted to play, he could play too.
"What did you mean?" Bolt asked. Orochimaru hummed, as if to ask for clarification. "You said we both got to where we are in life because we're failures. What did you mean?"
It was the little emotions. That predatory grin faltered for just a moment and something pained took its place. Then, it was replaced; the predatory grin was back, tinged with just a hint of pride. "It's simple, really," Orochimaru said with clear enjoyment. "We're quite similar, you and I. You are the monster parents tell their children to be wary of. I was that monster many years ago. We both came to be that monster for one, simple reason: we failed."
Bolt didn't believe that. He had nothing in common with Orochimaru. Nothing. "And what did you fail at?" Bolt asked.
Orochimaru smiled. "There was a time when I wanted to be Hokage. I was passed over—for your grandfather," he hissed.
Bolt stilled. Well. That was awkward. Bolt hoped Orochimaru didn't have any hard feelings. "I had nothing left after that. So I left. It's the same for you. Exposed in front of all those foreign dignitaries? The Kage. The samurai. Your friends and peers. If you hadn't stayed, you would have had nothing, too. You would never be trusted by your peers. The civilians would curse your name. Your team would suffer, too. No one would hire the team with the cheater on it. So you left," Orochimaru said.
Bolt didn't like how logical that sounded. He liked to think he had something left. If he'd stayed. If he'd been strong enough to stay. Sure, he'd never have a good working relationship with any ninja in his—or any—village. He would quit his team so they weren't dragged down with him. His father—his father might have accepted him. Maybe. But his mother and sister? They would have loved him no matter what. His friends? Sarada wouldn't leave him alone. He liked to think that Mitsuki wouldn't either.
So, no. He and Orochimaru weren't the same. He had to believe that. Yes, he had been too weak to stay. But so had Orochimaru. The difference was he accepted his weakness. The question was: did Orochimaru? Would twisting the knife in this situation be worth it? He peered over the table at Orochimaru.
No.
Bolt had already resolved to be better than he had been. He had always been eager to prove himself and that had gotten him injured and nearly killed more times than he would like to admit. Orochimaru had already proven he was superior in every way. Bolt didn't want to find out what would happen if he tested him.
If he wanted to escape the viper's den, he wouldn't do it through strength—he'd do it through cunning.
Orochimaru grinned. "My turn for a question, it seems. Why haven't you used my gift yet?"
Bolt stilled. How to handle this. 'Gift' was not a hard analogy to understand. The Cursed Seal. Bolt settled for a shrug.
The grin faltered. "I thought you would have used it by now. At least once. You'd feel better; stronger. Your chakra reserves would be bolstered," Orochimaru hissed. "Enough power to fight even me."
Bolt didn't rise to the bait. "I'm not an idiot," Bolt answered.
Orochimaru chuckled. "Yes, I suppose you aren't. Fūinjutsu is in your blood, isn't it? I must admit, that seal on your forearm was quite intriguing. The security measures were quite impressive," he hummed.
His breath caught in his throat. Had Orochimaru figured out what was inside? He kept the security measures the Uzukage had originally imposed on him. Only an Uzumaki could access the seal. He'd just upgraded it to store more objects. No. bolt would have faith in the Uzukage. If Orochimaru knew what he had hidden inside—the treasure trove of Akatsuki—he wouldn't be sitting here so calmly.
Bolt just nodded.
Orochimaru seemed displeased he hadn't expounded upon his answer. "We both tinker in the sealing arts, it seems. Fascinating. Perhaps I could teach you a thing or two," the Sannin offered with a chuckle.
Bolt wasn't sure if he was serious. It sounded like he was. He wasn't sure if he wanted to accept either way. Nothing Orochimaru could teach him that he couldn't learn on his own—no, that was arrogant. There was nothing Orochimaru could teach him that his clan couldn't teach him. Bolt believed that. "Thank you," Bolt said. The snake's grin widened. "But I'll have to decline."
The grin fell. Orochimaru hadn't expected that. "A pity. Perhaps something else, then, if not fūinjutsu? I've spent decades collecting and mastering every jutsu known to man. The most destructive elemental ninjutsu? Medical ninjutsu that even the Slug Princess would envy?" Orochimaru pondered aloud.
Bolt shook his head. What did Orochimaru want? That was the question.
He continued on. "You don't seem like the type to use illusions. No matter. The Sharingan makes such things pointless. Perhaps assistance with the evolution of the Gentle Fist? There are many secrets the Hyūga have forgotten over the years," Orochimaru hissed.
Tempting, but no. Bolt shook his head. Orochimaru wanted to—to recruit him? The allure of promised power? He wasn't that foolish. Even he could see that Orochimaru would never truly give him what he wanted. Sure, the snake would feed him a technique or two every once and awhile—just enough to keep him interested; loyal. But never enough to step out of the shadow of the Sannin.
Orochimaru frowned. Paused. Grinned. "Kinjutsu, perhaps?"
Bolt stilled. Was it worth it? A single kinjutsu technique for feigned loyalty? Forbidden techniques that no village permitted to be learned or studied? The Union classified his augmented Gentle Fist as such because of its permanent damage to chakra pathways—but, in reality, that was a simple technicality. A real kinjutsu was a technique whose very name evoked fear.
Was it worth being indentured to Orochimaru? The man who murdered his friends?
No.
Bolt shook his head. This time Orochimaru frowned. "A pity. I had hoped we could come to an agreement," he said, forming a single hand sign with one hand.
Bolt tensed. An instant later, the pain came. Not quite agony, but it still ate and whittled his world away until the only sensations he knew were the pain, the cold stone of the floor, the fire coursing through his veins, and the way his muscles tore as he spasmed.
When the pain receded, the first thing he was was Suigetsu looming over him. He looked uncomfortable. The white-haired man picked him up, as gently as he could, by the armpits and placed him back on the bench of the table.
Bolt rested his head on the cool, wooden surface. He didn't care if Orochimaru saw. The Cursed Seal fucking hurt—
His eyes found his arm. Inky black patterns, like flames, flowed down it. The influx of chakra. Adrenaline coursed through him. The pain was forgotten. Instead, he was left with a pleasant high he felt only in combat. And he felt good. Better than he had in—in a long time. Not just stronger, but happier. Being away from his sister didn't bother him as much as it did. The aching wound that was the death of his friends was raw but numb. There, but not debilitating.
The Cursed Seal wasn't so bad—
Bolt crushed those thoughts. This was Orochimaru fucking with him. He closed his eyes, focussing on pushing the Cursed Seal back. If he let it take hold of him now, he would never be free of Orochimaru.
And—fuck. It was hard. It would be so easy to just give in. To pull instead of push. To give himself over to that high. To immerse himself in it fully. Bolt knew that if he did, all the pains—physical and emotional—would go away.
But he knew he would be a slave to Orochimaru.
The seal receded. The markings, once inky black, flared a bright red and flowed back up his arm and coiled within the Cursed Seal on his neck.
Bolt let out a long, ragged breath.
Orochimaru chuckled. He sounded pleased. Bolt wasn't sure if that was a good pleased—as in he had just passed some sort of test pleased—or pleased as in he had just given Orochimaru another excuse to cripple him with a healthy dose of agony.
"You are fascinating," Orochimaru hissed. His tongue darted out. Bolt looked away. High praise, even if it came from a psychopath. Orochimaru was still a Sannin.
Orochimaru stood. Bolt tensed. As he passed, Orochimaru set his hand on his shoulder. His fingers ghosted over the Cursed Seal. "We'll talk again, soon. I think you'll be more receptive to serving me then."
Bolt didn't know why Orochimaru wanted him. Something about Mitsuki? His memories of the battle were hazy. Bait? Bait to draw Mitsuki out? A weight settled in his stomach. No. That would be one of the worst things he could imagine. Orochimaru had already killed his team. Now he was going after his friends in the Leaf? After Mitsuki? His own son?
Then Orochimaru was gone. Bolt breathed a sigh of relief. Suigetsu appeared. He was smiling. "Not bad, kid. Most people snap, or Lord Orochimaru snaps them. Usually it's the latter," he said.
Bolt shrugged. He wasn't in the mood to talk. "Come on! Back to your cell!" Suigetsu barked. From the tone of his voice, Bolt could tell he was trying—and failing—to impersonate a brutish prison guard. It wasn't funny.
Bolt didn't move. Suigetsu hauled him to his feet and half carried, half dragged him back to his room. Bolt let him. His legs felt like jelly.
A/N:
Little bit shorter chapter this time. I really disliked how few disadvantages the Cursed Seal had. That, or nobody ever decided to explain them. I took a different route.
So, I finished Worm. Wow. What a blast. If you're into "superhero" stories, I highly recommend it. Long, high quality writing, excellent pacing, and focusses on a believable anti-hero.
In other news... how many of you guys branch out to other fan fiction sites? I was thinking of expanding. AO3 (don't really care much for it), Wattpad, Spacebattles, etc.
