Trigger warnings: Graphic violence, death.

Chapter 16

It was one in the morning when he snuck out of their residence. He double checked and triple checked to ensure everyone was asleep, her especially; and when convinced by the sincerity of their silence, and sufficiently satisfied with the quiescence imposed by the slumberous hour upon everyone except him, Naruto vaulted the wall and wound his way to the town square, hands dappled with sweat, heart a drum.

There Kaiza waited for him. The man had changed into a tattered vest and a tight fitting bodysuit. In the sleep suffused silver shavings of the waning crescent he looked at least ten pounds overweight. There was a film of sweat glossing his forehead. He had tried and failed at tucking in his love handles, which in dough-like pouches protruded from the waist.

He caught Naruto staring, and chuckled apologetically. The illusion of demi God wavered: here stood a career man, jaded, wan, burnt out, possibly a stone overweight and looking rather the worse for wear. Even his Shinobi gear was out of date: Kaiza that night was yesterday's man. He had made a valiant effort to sheathe the wooden leg with rolls of rubber, so that when he moved there would be some purchase, some semblance of grace; but, as they started out, and as they started to sprint, the man was reduced to a parody of a pirate, doddering, struggling to keep up, and soon puffing through his mouth like a steam engine sputtering, or else a smoker on his seventh pack of cigarettes for the day. He gave up once they hit the outskirts of Wave, for he had started to lag behind: the languor of fatigue was on him; he was an amateur ice skater tottering through the rink on a pair of busted blades. He gave up— and started to limp.

Naruto, who was several hundred metres in the lead, dropped the modest pace he had set— he circled back to keep the man company.

"You . . . must forgive . . . me, Uzu …" Kaiza broke into a fit of coughs. " . . . Uzumaki-San," he finished. He laughed weakly.

"Should'a just given me a map to this place." All at once, Naruto felt a rush of sympathy. This was akin to abasement. This man was once a Chunin, yet he was now so obviously unfit, and such a shadow of his former self, that even a competent genin could dismantle him, then draw him up and quarter him. Yet here he was, undergoing an ordeal for the sake of his people; soldiering on, though himself unsoldered— every gasp a protest, every doughty exhalation a lamentation.

They ran again, and once more, after a few miles, the man's retirement caught up with him— this time he was red in the face. He raised a hand in apology and came to a halt; signalled that Naruto continue, yet himself stayed stationary. Crude words left his lips like a crow's patter. The grass was awash with his sweat, which in runnels dripped down the fretted channels of his cheeks. Naruto half expected Kaiza to fall to pieces any second and cartoonishly combust, for he doubled over, and this time looked done for good: in the sheen of the uncaring moon and the searchlights of the stars, he seemed a haphazard assemblage of spare parts foraged from some mouldering junk yard. His knees creaked, his bones clicked; he had not yet got his bearings or his breath back.

This was a man, Naruto thought, who had lost himself to his past, and would soon lose his people to the present. To prevent this, he thus disgraced himself.

"We can head back, you know." Naruto rubbed the back of his head. "You don't gotta do this. Just tell me where this warehouse is, and I—"

"No." The man pushed back into position, though not without effort and not without a wince. He had a hand on the right side of his chest— a stitch. Even the trees and the breeze seemed embarrassed for him, such their stillness, their silence. "No, Uzumaki-san. I must go. My people need me."

You poor ol' bastard, Naruto thought. You can't even stand straight.

Kaiza read his thoughts, or so it seemed; for determination, like the crest of a wave, swept through his countenance, and so overtook every atom of his being, that his rounded back tautened, a bowstring wound.

"My people need me," he repeated, as though this simple fact were the armour which would allow him to endure the shafts of fatigue, the strokes of privation, the axe of his own inadequacy. The Godhead was unravelling: this was a man, no more remarkable than Naruto himself, and perhaps worse; but a man nonetheless with the audacity to stand up to a system, to which he must have looked like nothing more than a monochromatic dung beetle with an amputated limb.

Even as they spoke the sky specked the earth with drizzle. It felt like an insult— they were being spat at by the heavens themselves.

"The supplies Gato has held up are necessary." Kaiza wiped his brow and offered Naruto a watery smile. "Without them, there will be no bridge."

"I could've done it myself."

"It's not a one man job, Uzumaki-san. It's not even a two man job, but there's no one else . . ." Kaiza sighed. "It requires heavy lifting. It requires shifting things into the four sealing scrolls I have. We're talking steel. Stones we do have, but our steel supplies were cut off once Gato put patrols on our borders. There are other things, too. Cement, for example. They've been withheld at that warehouse, and Gato sleeps secure, knowing we have no way of getting to it."

"But we'll change that, yeah?" Naruto grinned. "We'll piss on this guy's sleep and shit all over his dreams."

He loved the thrill in this. There was a rightness to it— a righteousness, even. He rubbed his hands together, then wiped away the spatter from the skies. The skies had turned thunderous — the drizzle was now a downpour.

Kaiza mirrored his grin.

"We will, thanks to you."

They set off again, at a slower pace this time. Kaiza needed breaks, but the man was too dignified to demand them. He would rather run and fall to pieces than request a stoppage. But Naruto now had an acute understanding of the man and his abilities, so he could predict when Kaiza was nearing burnout. He adjusted in accordance. He would dawdle about whenever he heard Kaiza huffing; he'd pick at his sandal when the man fell behind. He would reach down and fetch a twig, then scoop the grime underfoot, complaining all the while; then he would take a peek, notice Kaiza catching up, and switch to the other sandal. He did this thrice, to buy the man a few seconds' rest. Kaiza cottoned on to what he was doing, but did not call him out on it. Instead, his waxen face flushed with gratitude.

Thus they trekked, till they reached the lip of the land; there they paused, and stared at the sea.

"There's a ferry . . . but the man's in Gato's pocket. I hope you know how to water walk."

Naruto wordlessly stepped into the water, and off they went. The tide gathered strength; discarded its rhythmic undulations for the jerk and heave of an ill tempered steed. Foam flashed in cataracts, kicked up into their eyes— the sea slung down their throats its saline tang. Shoals of fish brushed against their feet. A great white snapped at their heels. Kaiza's wooden leg then doubled up as a baton— he clubbed it on the snout and the water turned red. It thrashed about and snapped again, but the man was relentless: he clubbed it a second time, a third, a fourth; stamped and stomped, then reached for a fin and hauled it out of the water, though it was thrice his size. His other arm found purchase near the tail: he tightened his hold and bent it backwards. The snaps of its vertebrae resounded. Kaiza held it, and watched in detachment the contortions of its flippers. He'd blinded it by accident; and now in the frenzy of death it flashed its teeth, each jagged tooth a bayonet brandished. Frenzy slackened into thrall; its maw oozed gore. Kaiza inverted it, and bits of broken teeth spilled out, splashing into the sea.

He caught Naruto staring in horror, and swiftly let go. Laughed in apology, even as the currents carried away the lifeless form.

"Habit," he murmured.

"The hell, dude? That was a fish. What kinda psycho does that?"

"Habit," Kaiza repeated, looking contrite. "It won't happen again. I will not delay us further, Uzumaki-san. Please, let's continue."

On they went, and soon the outline of a shore became apparent. But before they could reach it a wave broke free and uncoiled skyward, a cobra rearing its hood. It touched the stars, then descended on them. They stuck out their arms, but were washed underwater: breath became a burden; sight spurned their reddened eyes; sound was reduced to nullity, then returned in tintinnabulations. The deep roiled. Life was measured in a turbid thrashing of limbs— nothing else mattered. The sea strove to keep them under. But they did not give in . . . eventually triumphed. Naruto clawed his way out, shivering, and waded shoreward. He crawled onto wet sand, then heaved a sigh and took stock of himself. Salt and sand had smutched his headband. His hair was askew— strands of gold, like feelers from some sun dwelling insect, tickled his eyelids. His stomach churned. His eyes burned. He reclined and wished he were home, wished for a cup of hot chocolate. Then he sighed again and stood. Looked at the sea. Saw Kaiza paddling shorewards.

The man had seaweed around his neck. His hair was a patchwork pattern of flaxen and grey thatches— two prominent bald spots peeked through. The sea had watered that arid outcropping. He dropped to his knees and tried covering it up, then gave up. Retched. Spat.

Naruto could not help but laugh, his earlier reservations over the shark clubbing incident ebbing away.

He offered the man a hand and pulled him up.

"Which way, hero?"

Kaiza tilted his head and smacked his ear. Repeated the motion four times, till globs of wax and water dripped out. This done, he repeated the process with the other ear. Straightened. Stretched. Pointed into the distance, where a sea of fluorescent lights flashed in defiance of the winching storm.

"Town's that way," he said. "Gato has a chain of warehouses there."

"Ya sure he won't have men? Posted as guards, I mean."

"It's Gato, Uzumaki-san. This is the cheapest man in the elemental nations. He might have a thug or two as security, that's all. You and I— we can handle ten times those numbers if we have to."

Naruto scrutinized Kaiza: the bald spots, the sickly pallor, the unfit frame, the exhausted expression. Water walking had burnt the man out. He looked as if he would keel over any second.

"Uh, huh," he chimed in, dubiously. "Sure we can."

The gale gathered force. The lights flickered and went out even as they hit the town's periphery.

They plodded on nonetheless.

Everywhere Naruto gazed he sought beauty, and everywhere he was greeted with primitive functionality and a repetitive listlessness: the tenebrousness of tin roofs; the rundown porches where runnels of rainwater accumulated; the chafed, chapped wall fronts, painted a sickly white and presently being peeled away by the pouring rain. He stared at the walls, and half expected to be greeted by the sight of maggots festering in that shroud of white.

"Lost in thought, Uzumaki-san?"

"They're. . . awful."

"What?"

"The houses. They're all the same. They're rotten. They look like . . . temporary shelters. Well, not exactly, but you get what I mean."

"You mean they're cheap."

"Yeah. I thought it was just Wave. But these . . . they're everywhere. I mean, this town— this is the tip of Fire country, isn't it?"

"It is."

Kaiza stopped and considered the houses.

"If you have a functioning brain, Uzumaki-san," he said softly, "you do not invest heavily in housing. Not in border areas, at least. That's the same across the world."

"Why?"

Kaiza grinned.

"You know why."

"War?"

"Yes." Kaiza pointed towards the sea. "That way lies Mist," he said. "When there's a war, this is the first shore they arrive at. When that happens, you gather your family and run. These shanties? They're worthless. They'll be ash."

"Sounds like a shit life."

"A civilian's life is the worst life there is. There are regular skirmishes between villages, mostly in disputed regions and border areas— and that leads to the occasional refugee crisis. Streams of people, forced to piece together what's left of their lives and start anew. Some lose their livelihoods; others, their families."

"Yet everyone loves them."

"I'm sorry?"

"Everyone loves the people running the show, I mean. The people responsible."

Kaiza's face lit up with amusement.

"Do they?" He asked.

Naruto froze mid step. Found himself thrown off balance.

"Well, don't they? It's what we're taught at the academy— it's what we're told. We protect Firecountry. People here love us. Well, not everyone, obviously . . . but most people."

"Uzumaki-san." Kaiza's tone was grave, though his eyes were twinkling; "I did not take you to be the kind of person who believes in fairytales."

"You're telling me they don't?"

"You were in Wave. You wore a headband while walking around. I'm sure you felt the love."

"That's one place."

"That," Kaiza said, "is every place. That's the entire continent. Take your headband off and ask around. If you're smart about it— if no one suspects you of being a shinobi undercover, that is, or a threat to their life— they'll tell you what they really think."

Naruto so desperately wished to believe what he was hearing, for Kaiza was reiterating beliefs Naruto himself had held for years— beliefs which he thought to be eccentric oddities that were peculiar to him. So to hear that he was not weird; to be told that this was the consensus, and what he considered closeted ideas were in fact stamped with the general seal of approval, was a prospect both relieving and terrifying. However, it warranted challenge and exploration. It demanded confirmation.

"But . . . I've seen it, yeah?" Naruto said. "I've seen the respect my sensei gets. Every place we stopped, they saw her headband and gave us tip-top service right away."

"I'm sure they did."

"How do you explain that?"

"They do not love her— they fear her. And little wonder."

Kaiza closed his eyes.

"We come from the seas," he intoned, "and bring death with us. We pour through their plains and ransack their lands. They are victims in our wars; they perish in our plunder. They are butchered in innumerable droves but leave no trace on history. Their lives are in insignificance, their suffering is in silence— theirs is an eternal stillness and an unending dread. Transience dogs them from dawn to dusk; transience and death, displacement and suffering.

"They know their life is forfeit the day we go to war. They know their homes are dust the day we go to war. Speak to a civilian, tell them who you are, and they will worship you; but their worship comes from a place of fear. Make no mistake about this— lurking under their fanaticism is a loathing so extreme, that if ever the roles were reversed; if it were us at their mercy, instead of them being at ours; then we would not live to see another day."

The man's voice was suffused with the ardour of conviction. On occasions such as these he seemed to transcend himself— transcend the limitations of his mortal shell. In these moments one saw more than the man.

"You've got strong opinions about this," Naruto said.

"I've lived through it."

"But you were a former Shinobi, weren't you? Your file said it."

"Served Kumo seventeen years."

"Seventeen years, huh? You musta risen up the ranks, and all."

Kaiza chuckled.

"I have no talent, Uzumaki-san. I wasn't anyone important. Just a lowly chunin, really. No specialization. I filled in for a bunch of people based on mission requirements. Infiltration, assassination, sabotage— you name it, I've done it."

"They chucked ya out or somethin'?"

"No. I was let go after I lost my leg . . . but they gave me a pension and a small residence. There was a ceremony in my honour. People on the streets thanked me for my service."

"Sounds good to me. What's the catch?"

"Catch?"

"Sounds like a good life. Ya gave it up. Moved on. Moved into this . . . how did ya put it? Life of suffering. Why?"

"Ah. That." Kaiza stared straight ahead, into the dark. "Have I told you how I lost my leg?"

"Pretty sure I'd remember if ya did."

Kaiza reached into his pocket and produced a cigarette. Stuck it between his lips. Sucked on it for a second. The other hand rummaged around his pouch, and out came a lighter. With his right hand he tented his lip, while with his left he pushed down on the lighter. Four times he pressed; then a spark flickered to life, defying the dark for a second before being doused.

He sighed and repeated the motion— successfully this time— then slipped his lighter back into his pouch.

He took a drag. Exhaled a spume of smoke, which the downpour dispersed.

"We were given a mission," he rasped. "I won't bore you with the details, but suffice it to say that we were told to poison the water supply of a town on the outskirts of Iwa.

"Now, this was six years ago. It was a time of increased skirmishes between us and Iwa. We both prized the same land: Rice country; and we were perpetually at odds over it. Ours was meant to be a retaliatory attack to avenge what they did to a town in Lightning country. They staked people, set crops ablaze— we wished to return the favour.

"Well, we did what we were asked— the attack was a great success. We woke up the next day to the news that hundreds had perished, and felt nothing but satisfaction over it. However, we weren't out of Earth country yet . . . and we had Iwa Shinobi hot on our trail."

He unwittingly bit down too hard, then burst into a volley of coughs. With a trembling hand he reached up and removed the cigarette, then tossed it into a puddle nearby.

"They caught us on the Kumo Iwa border," Kaiza whispered hoarsely. "They were better than us. I lost my team . . . I lost my leg. I'd have lost my life if not for a border patrol that discovered me and repelled them. I was catatonic by the time they got me a medic— I was distraught, but I thought I'd done my job. I'd served my village."

Kaiza looked at the sky, as though recalling a memory. Let the rain run down his face.

"A week later, Kumo announced an alliance with Iwa. The hatchet is buried, they said. It's a new beginning, they said. A new chapter. A new era, to usher in peace and prosperity for all. And . . . it was as though all the lives lost on either side meant nothing."

There was a fulminating flash of white, accompanied by a peal of thunder. The unlit road ahead was awash with the song of cicadas and the stridulating sighs of other insects besides. A diaphanous sheet of mist moved over it, and made it seem as if the road led to a vacuous whiteness where all journeys ended and only the abyss awaited. Kaiza stopped and stared at it, then looked away and examined a glazed storefront to his right. Took in the discordant pelt of rain against fogged over window panes. Said nothing. Sighed, and said nothing. A speckled, peat shaded water snake crept by his leg. Naruto pointed to it; but by the time the man looked down it had slithered away and found the comfort of an open drain. It looked their way and languidly flicked its tongue— for a fleeting second Naruto had an odd conviction of its sentience. Then it dipped into the drain and was carried away by the rush of moss matted water. They both watched it disappear from sight, then took the road ahead.

"The thing with forced retirement, Uzumaki-san," Kaiza said at last, "is that you sit there with nothing to do— and for the first time you start thinking. You've been tossed aside . . . and now you see things as an outsider. You see what goes on; but there's no self talk anymore telling you to close your eyes and look the other way. You're looking at yourself; you're looking at the limb you lost, and you're saying: I gave up seventeen years of my life for this.

"They told me I was doing it for Kumo— for our freedom. Our liberty. They said we were bettering the world, one village at a time. They said there'd be casualties, but that at the end we'd bring peace to everyone. And I believed them.

"I bled for that land, Uzumaki-san. I did things I'm not proud of— I have the scars to show for it. My life will never be the same, because I sacrificed when asked, did everything I was asked . . . and there they were, embracing the same people who chopped my leg off. Who killed my team. People I was told were our enemies. Everything's forgotten, Kumo said. The past is the past. But my leg's gone, my life's ruined. I killed hundreds of people over nothing.

"You see these things . . . you get angry. You were not even a human being. You were . . . a tool. A number and a name tag. That's it. You were a cog in a machine that turns the way the wind turns. You're replaceable. Chuck in a few ryo— the legless man will go away. He'll live out the rest of his life a hero— but what is that? I got a title, and they wiped me off the books. My team got a wreath . . . but before their bodies went cold, they were forgotten.

"Life went on. Everything was ok. Everyone was fine and dandy. Everyone but me.

"I was still in the medbay, dosed on drugs, drowsing off to nightmares, waking up to no one. I was left in a sea of strangers, one of whom told me I'd never walk again, not without assistance. Then one day a man showed up and said to me my mission was a state secret— that to confide it to anyone would mean death. And that was that. I was discharged with appropriate honours.

"That's when I realized . . . friend means nothing. Enemy means nothing either: the people you hurt today, you fight beside tomorrow. We weren't doing good, Uzumaki-san. We weren't protecting people or upholding justice. We were enabling cruelty. We were enacting cruelty. And for the first time I saw I'd put my faith in the wrong place. For the first time I saw . . . that I'd thrown away my life."

There was nothing to be said to that. No consolation to be offered. The man seemed distraught, and Naruto half regretted asking him about it.

"Wave," Kaiza said, after a spell of silence, "is my penance. That's what that place means to me. I could take my family and leave today, and not a soul would stop me. But I have a conscience to answer to."

"You're a God to them."

Kaiza laughed.

"I'm just a man, Uzumaki-san. That's all I am. Not even a whole man, but a broken one. I don't deserve anyone's respect. I did things that I regret— and now this is all there is for me."

"If my sensei gets to know," Naruto sighed, "you're dead."

"When you take on a man like Gato, you see death look you in the eye . . . and you embrace it anyway, because to live in silence is the worst thing there is. Oh, you look at me like I'm mad; but there are times when you are given a choice between principle and life. People get to pick for themselves— and whatever they choose, I do not hold it against them.

"But I, Uzumaki-san— I'm a man. Maybe I can't shake things up or make them happen; maybe I'll leave the world as I found it— cold, cynical and filled with evil. But I can't stand the grief in my land. I can't stand our suffering. So I have to try. I have to try and make this one little corner of the world what it should be, because I can't stand what it is right now."

"And when ya die?"

"Plant a flower bed next to whichever ditch they throw me into," Kaiza laughed.

The road snaked rightward and widened, as if winding down into the gullet of some great beast. A sense of drabness was ever present: even their steps were as the march of mourners in a funerary procession. Through the sleeping town they made their way, and were greeted by oblong advertisement hoardings that tantalized with wisps of fantasy: they showed daedal lands and windrowed vistas and snow capped mountains, all far removed from this human sewer, this theatre of tragedy winnowed by the gusts of sickness and suffering.

"How far?" Naruto asked.

"Not much. Over that bridge, then right around the corner."

"Hold on a sec."

Something was off.

Through the pervasive whiteness and the descending rain, this pothole ridden land seemed one vast canvas of unreality; so every rustle and every twitter triggered a reedy sense of dread. Naruto spun around and searched— he knew not for what— but searched nonetheless, and saw in each glimmer a pair of animalistic eyes. Cocked his ears. Heard the faintest of splashes to one side. Sped there and looked about . . . but there was no one. A puddle to his left caught his attention— it had a roseate hue and gave out a spectral gleam. He rushed to it and caught a flicker this time, as if of the redness of a dying lamp; but once more it came to nothing, and he was befuddled. He studied the skies, the houses, the storefronts and the street lights, but nowhere was there any movement, nowhere even the hint of a single oddity.

"What is it, Uzumaki-san?" Kaiza was on guard too.

"I dunno. Something doesn't . . . feel right."

Kaiza cast his gaze about. Closed his eyes and brought one hand up in an obscure seal. He stayed that way for five seconds, then opened his eyes and shook his head.

"I sense nothing," he whispered.

"You a good sensor?" The hair on Naruto's neck had pricked up.

"Competent."

Naruto studied the abandoned alleyways one last time.

"Must be my imagination," he said.

"Nights like these give life to strange fears," Kaiza murmured. "Let's not be frightened of our own shadow. If there's something, then let it come to us. To waste even a minute worrying is futile."

"Yeah." Something was definitely off. "Yeah, you're right. Up ahead, you said?"

"Just round the corner."

They crossed the bridge and took the turn ahead. But now the sense of wrongness was pervasive, and even Kaiza, despite his words, shifted about uncomfortably and looked this way and that, as if expecting the shadows to turn predatory. The plashes their feet made were eerie to their ears. The slush sucked in their steps. The streetlight by their side flickered to life once; and in that moment Naruto surveyed the rooftops and saw a shaded shape.

Then they were plunged once more into darkness.

A sudden rush of blood. He knew he had seen a human form, and so he fixated his gaze on that one rooftop.

He traced the shape.

Saw it flicker out of existence.

And in that moment he kicked Kaiza out of the way and dived to his left.

The wall behind them exploded, raining concrete on them.

Naruto was back on his feet before the dust settled. He had a kunai out, and was as tense as a wound spring. Kaiza, meanwhile, took longer to gasp his way back to his feet; and though the man attempted putting on a brave front, there were the first inklings of dread in his demeanour.

The shape emerged from the decimated wall, and Naruto saw it was a kunoichi. Wrapped around her forehead was a slashed Iwa headband. She had sharpish teeth and sallow skin; but besides those two distinctive features, she was nondescript in nature and appearance. She was middle aged, perhaps, and decked in dark clothes. In each of her hands was a blade— they were each the length of an arm, and she spun them about with the confidence of someone that excelled at their art.

The Warehouse they sought towered behind her.

"You said there'd be no one," Naruto growled, not taking his eyes off her. At least a chunin, he thought to himself. Possibly higher.

"I don't . . . understand," Kaiza muttered. He dropped into a defensive stance. "There should've been no one."

The kunoichi stepped forward and spun her blades.

"I've been expecting intruders," she said pleasantly. She pointed a blade towards Kaiza. "I recognize that man. I can guess what you are here for."

"Lady." Naruto held up a hand. "This ain't about ya. Just let us take what we want, and no one's gotta get hurt over it."

Her response was to ignore him and thrust herself at Kaiza, who hobbled out of the way of her first swing, then ducked and rolled out of the second.

She spun— the third would have cut him in half.

Naruto got between them and parried with his kunai.

"Manners, lady," he admonished, clucking his tongue. "Don't ignore me when I'm talking to ya."

The kunoichi skipped backwards, then laughed.

"Pathetic," She said, looking over his shoulder and addressing Kaiza. "A chunin reduced to being kept alive by a child in his diapers." She smirked. "Fine, then. I'll kill you first, kiddo."

Naruto looked around. The area they were trapped in restricted mobility and doubled up as an obstacle course. His own combat experience had never been in these conditions— so the first thing to do was to find an open strip of land where he could maximize movement. This surrendered her certain advantages too, especially given the length of those blades— but he did not like his odds in such a closed off area against someone who had quite possibly fought in the field for a couple of decades, if not more. She would have a better sense of spatial and positional awareness— and the first thing to do was to try and nullify that.

"Imma take off, chief," he mumbled to Kaiza. "Find somewhere to hide."

"I can fight."

The man was nothing if not obstinate.

"You got one leg. You'll cause me trouble. Just stay put, yeah? Lemme deal with her."

The man's jaw had a stubborn set to it— but he grudgingly gave in and limped away. The kunoichi followed his laboured endeavours but made no motion to stop him.

Her eyes were fixed on Naruto.

Naruto sighed. Hoped the lessons he had learnt would now stand him in good stead.

Then, with a silent prayer, he turned and sprinted in the opposite direction.

She trailed him through deserted streets. She relentlessly dogged his zig zagging retreat, spurred on by condescension and the certitude of superiority. Cobblestone cracked under her feet, ripped asunder by the riptide of her strokes. Her blades were whirlwinds; they were twin pincers; they were eely tentacles of death. She twirled them in intricate motions. There was a barbarous beauty to their whispered rhythms; they hymned to the heavens in a language unknown and flashed through foliage and gravel alike, leaving in their wake only a trail of destruction.

She pushed him about at will, taking advantage of his momentary awe. She sneered at him and maneuvered him towards the bridge, then forced him to one side and swung at his feet. Naruto vaulted the blades, vaulted the bridge, and dropped into the gush of the gleaming torrent below. The kunoichi raked her blades across the bridge's fretwork, rattling the air with a sound akin to a cymbal being struck; then she plunged in after him, into the wildered water. Her fingers wove through elaborate hand signs even as she descended; she mumbled in muted tones even as her toes touched the torrent.

The torrent's gush gained teeth, and there emerged from underneath a regiment of translucent hands. These clawed at his ankles and clasped his clothes; and when he shook himself free, they elongated and ascended, then descended on him, their aqueous fingertips devolving into daggers. And in the midst of this the kunoichi whirled after him in scything motions, her blades a restless rush of blurred sliver that cut through the currents and cast into the damp night a shower of droplets.

Naruto reacted with a frictionless freedom of motion. He reached into the domain of muscle memory and relied on the reflexes he had painstakingly attained over the previous two months. He bobbed and weaved, sidestepped and slipped, leapt and backflipped, and weathered the savagery of her strokes with slick footwork and the wildest of grins. Then he put together combinations of his own. The descending blades were dispelled by a winching gale, while the steel ones were met with a sonorous set of parries. He pushed her back with a kunai in each hand, countering her reach with timing and speed. He leveraged his body weight; he brought it to bear against each stroke. And though his arms were numb, and though his shoulders jarred, he slowly but surely began to overwhelm her. He suffocated her: timed her swings, read her feints, restricted her range of motion. He left her floundering by moving out of range, but never allowed her to work up a rhythm or build pressure— always countering, always cutting distance when she gathered steam.

He disrupted. Destabilized. Pressured with purpose. Slipped her razzled right stroke, which whizzed past his ear at warp speed, then countered with a crunching left hook, delivered with the handle of his kunai protruding from between his fingers. It sent her reeling— it opened up an aperture across her jawline.

He had her on the ropes. To end it was an easy matter. But Naruto hesitated . . . and in that second's hesitation she slipped away— backpedalled, and blinked away the wooziness from his blow. Then she straightened and ran through another set of hand signs.

The cataracts roiled and fermented into water clones. She had created half a dozen of these— and now they rushed him, attempting to buy her respite. They had her speed but not her durability; and though they sought to hem him in, they had no answer to the rasengan he conjured, or to the violent keening gusts that buffeted them with each swish of his arms. Yet one stolidly adventured on through the carnage and the groans of her disintegrating comrades . . . and received for her efforts a tremendous spinning back kick to the chin. She was blown backwards on impact— fathom deep she plunged into the tempestuous torrent before dispelling.

The kunoichi had perhaps hoped for five minutes of recovery time.

She got thirty seconds.

She purveyed the wreckage Naruto had wrought; then with a defeated growl she left the waters and scaled the bridge, daring him to follow.

Naruto gathered chakra under his heels and skipped after her. He too scaled the bridge, and had a moment to gather his bearings, before she was on him again. She had decided, it seemed, that this was to be their final, fateful exchange; and now though shrouded by a pall of exhaustion she streaked forward and plied him with cataclysmic blows.

The twin blades whistled through the descending rain. Whirred and chirred, and left splashes of sparks every time they scraped the ground. She pushed him back, pinned him against the wall, then pirouetted with him when he ducked under her swings and wove his way out. She gave him no breathing room. Over and over she skewered the air, over and over she hacked and hewed, yet this time her blades were met with no resistance bar the token parries he offered in retreat— analyzing, ever analyzing. He had seen the best she had to offer, and now he feared her no more. Naruto noted the increased frenzy in her movements, the growing irregularity of her strokes. Noted also the predictability of her combinative patterns and her galling lack of grace. He adjusted accordingly. Avoided confrontation. Saw that she had worn herself out, and recognized that this was her frittering away the last of her energy. As a result, the entirety of his endeavours were reduced to retreat.

Round and round they went in a breathless, highly synchronized waltz of death, her pressure nullified by his agility. She sought to eliminate space while he sought to create it, and for a while neither one upped the other. But soon she began to fade. Lagged in her pursuit. Verged on repetitiveness and truncated her swings mid-motion. Her shoulders heaved and dipped; her form slipped; her technique disintegrated.

The kunoichi bent forward and threw a parting pair of petulant swipes, which were easily avoided. Then she gave up her pursuit and let him speed away. Spat into the murk. Let loose a snarl, her jaw coming unhinged and revealing a set of spire-like teeth. Her sallow face was flushed with frustration and slick with sweat. Her exhalations were heavy and nasal. Her hair streaked the air like a nest of vipers trodden on.

He zoned away from the frustration on her face and the tension in her shoulders. Studied the crook of her knee. Went further down. She was heavy on her right foot: she used that to spring forward; pivoted on it, placed all her weight on it. The most malicious of her combinations had a right sided bias. That right hand delivered seismic strokes; it was her technical coup de grace. The left, then, he discerned, was a distraction, used for defence and the occasional thrust and parry. It was meant to pry away his guard and force him into awkward positions. It initiated combinations or punctuated them halfway through, but she never ended with that. She separated their functions, the way a master craftswoman never would: the right was her hammer; the left, her scalpel.

She was not ambidextrous.

That would be her undoing.

He collected chakra, then propelled himself at her. Rasengan rippled the air with scraping sounds. Its blue lantern ripped away the pitch canvas of night, illuminated with light her face and furrowed brow. She pushed off too, and met him halfway, the left blade thrust forward, the right reaping the air. He slipped the left and rammed his rasengan into the right, halting it, lowering it, opening up her guard. Her right thus thwarted, her left behind him, he made his move. He had a free shot at her exposed form. The chakra he had collected in his mouth churned: he opened his mouth, took aim at her right knee, and fired off.

Her eyes widened. She tried adjusting, but was slow to react.

The air crunched with the sound of her tibia shattering. Screams followed. The blades were forgotten— they slipped nervelessly and clattered to the floor. Her hands shot to her lower leg, which was bent grotesquely at a ninety degree angle. She struggled in futility to set it straight, then stumbled backwards, sobbing, her countenance distended in agony. She fell to the ground and crawled away. Raised an arm, an open palm, and shook it— a plea, an appeal for mercy.

"No more! I give, I give."

Naruto let the rasengan die out. Felt guilty. Started to say she was secure; that there was no need to fear them, since they were only there for supplies anyway and had no issues with her, so they would let her go. He had opened his mouth to explain all this, when a kunai cut through the rain and sank through the soft flesh of her eye. It went so deep that only the handle jutted out— her last gesture was a crude rasp of surprise. Her head hit the ground; her functioning leg kicked the air three, four times; her form shuddered; a rattle escaped her throat and floated skyward. Then she went still— eerily still.

The rain and the gash turned her hair into a crimson curtain.

Kaiza lowered his arm. There was steel in his eyes and a grim set to his face.

Naruto stared in shock at the miscible mixture of rain water and red. Swallowed. Said nothing. His knees quaked. Sense had left him, as had his voice. Her pleas played back in his head, over and over.

Then he whirled around, furious. Threw his arms out. His voice, when it emerged, was fanged with venom.

"Why?"

The man was not even remotely fazed.

"You would have let her go."

"She was finished. She was no threat. What kind of heartless savage. . ." Naruto gnashed his teeth. He couldn't get her plea out of his head.

"She'd have gone straight to Gato." Kaiza moved to stand by his side, then gently placed a hand on his shoulder.

Naruto knocked the hand away.

Kaiza took a step back, then began to speak.

"Let her death be on my head," he said softly. "You are kind, Uzumaki-san. You see the best in people. I've seen the worst, and I know how to deal with it when it's staring me in the face. To me this was an easy choice. The people I protect will always be worth more than a missing nin who knew what she was getting into."

Naruto could not deny what Kaiza said; yet even as he processed the words he thought of Minato Namikaze, who when confronted by the Kyuubi must have had a similar choice to make; and who, much like this man now, had chosen the many over the one, even when that one was his own son.

Kaiza looked past him.

"You go on ahead," he murmured. "I'll get rid of the body."

Naruto turned around and shudderingly observed her stillness for a final time. He glanced at her headband. That reddening rectangular strip spoke of desertion. The jagged horizontal line she had etched into it signified lost loyalty. What pressures, what privations, what firmness of ideal had caused her to break away from the convenient subservience of idolatry? What immensity of cause or what secret griefs inspired her to wander through this wilderness of ramshackle buildings, forever scraping together a living, forever looking over her shoulder? In the village lay safety; whereas the world outside was a savanna, where lurked innumerable adders. And this way of life she had willingly embraced. So though this kunoichi served Gato; though there was an element of amorality in her; he saw only the desperation in her dead form, and wondered over the tragedy of her circumstances. He saw himself in her— saw himself laid low like that, except the kunai sticking through the eye had been cast by his sensei. And all at once he was bereaved— he grieved over this stranger who portended the price of discovery and meant everything and nothing to him.

"Still feeling guilty?" Kaiza asked. His voice was sympathetic.

" Nah." Naruto laughed hollowly. "You got no clue, man. Ain't got shit to do with that. It's just . . . that could be me someday."

"I don't think so."

"Huh?"

"You have heart." Kaiza tapped his chest. "You're a fighter. A survivor. You'll always find ways to get by. I've seen a lot of people . . . and I think you'll one day be up there with the very best of them." He patted Naruto on the shoulder, then rolled up his sleeves and moved towards the prone form.

"I truly believe that," Kaiza said. "I believe in you."

A/N: When I introduced him, I said Kaiza was a character study of sorts. This chapter covers all his aspects. His relevance to both Naruto and the plot are now (mostly) fulfilled.

Three chapters left in Wave. Writing this one has pretty much broken me in half, so don't be surprised if the next update takes more time. Reviews, as always, are much appreciated.