Bracing Oneself For Greatness

It was barely dawn when Wakame startled awake from a particularly stressful dream in which he'd missed the train into the Academy, and was left running behind, toting his nin-gator, Geta, in his backpack who for some reason weighed a ton and slowed him down even more. The bulky and epic Kisame Hoshigaki had been there too, looming at the back of the train, glaring at him disappointedly. He awoke feeling a sense of urgency and and covered in a gross sheen of sweat. Horrible.

It was silly to be having nervous dreams at his age, he thought. He didn't even start the Academy for another month and a half, and besides adding Geta into the mix, nothing was really different except that he was going to be training for the chunin exams with his genin team, and he wasn't nervous for that, he was excited! Wakame was determined to pass the Chunin exams with flying colors and rocket to the top of the ranks. He wanted to be the best gator-nin the Great Nations had ever known, and his name would be as loud in the books as that big guy in the dream— Kisame Hoshigaki!

He paused, mentally. Except not a criminal. Wakame always made sure to add that part. The name of the shark nin had taken on less of a monstrous villain tone among the young people of Kiri since the war, and more that of a monsterous legend. Wakame himself had discovered the man's grim-looking Bingo Book image in his Recent History textbook in school when they had discussed the rebel group Akatsuki… and the Seven Swordsmen of the Mist… and the Fourth Great Ninja War. Actually, the Third War too. Historically, the guy got around. He looked tough, though. Unafraid. Some of the more foolish kids made a show of whispering, "Sharkman! Sharkman!" Under their breath in some private joke whenever his image popped up in school textbooks.

But Wakame was enthralled. This man was so highly respected in his lifetime, and even though he was on the losing side, he read as much about the Akatsuki as any other kid in his class. The group had been at fault for a lot of things, but so were the forces they fought against. It was complex, as his last sensei had tried to explain. War was something he only kind of got, but he knew it wasn't always a battle of good and evil like old stories tried to say. But despite the shadiness and illegality of his life, Kisame Hoshigaki was committed to the causes he believed in, and he died for those causes.

Wakame was young and had a troublemaking streak half a mile wide, but he knew admirability when he saw it, and that's why he kept a traced drawing of that Bingo Book photograph shoved in the edge of his mirror. He still got weird looks when he named the Hoshigaki as his hero, but when he'd first met Same-sama, his embarrassment was put to some rest. Same-sama was sharky too, which meant he might even come from the same clan. He wasn't as young or as tough as Kisame Hoshigaki, for sure, and he wasn't a trained swordsman, but Same-sama was nice and liked Granny's cooking. He taught him how to lift heavy boxes with his knees and how to unload a forklift. He also hadn't made fun of Wakame when he started styling his hair like his hero's.

It's not like Same-sama could complain, his hair was kinda spiky like that too. Seeing that had actually been what gave Wakame the final push to branch out. Hijiki had made a point of poking the well-gelled end of his hair whenever the younger boy walked by, but Same-sama and Nezumi-sama never made fun. They hardly seemed to notice, actually, which Wakame took to mean that the look was natural and suited him. The inexperienced boy did not realize, of course, that his heavily shellacked hairdo did not seem natural in the least, but that is exactly what youth is good for.

Wakame examined himself, combing a bit more product into his hair to make sure the sides were stiff. He flashed a toothy, jagged grin in the mirror, trying to make himself look as cool and sinister as possible.

A glance at the clock on his bedside table told him what he already knew. 6:00 a.m. it was almost time to get moving. To leave. The jittery feeling he'd been repressing for a few weeks rose up into his chest, and the boy began to hop around in some style of jumping jacks to suppress the urge to violently expel last night's dinner from his face. Oh GatorGod, this was real. He was doing this. He was so gonna be in trouble, but he needed to do this before starting his secondary Academy training. He knew his dream, but he needed to demonstrate his own independence to himself. He had to get rid of any doubt within his heart.

Wakame Shimizu was all of eleven and a half, and he was going to travel the Great Nations.

Why not, he thought in reassurance to himself. There were plenty of great shinobi who were already jonin by eleven. The image of some fluffy-haired Konoha ANBU who was like, six, or something, came to him. Six-year-olds were babies, and Wakame was not a baby. He could do this, and he had a plan.

The truckers of Corvid Couriers were going to be key. He hadn't been sure how they would factor in— or even aware that they would factor in— but when Granny had told Nezumi-sama and Same-sama that they should sleep in the guest house on their night off instead of finding a hotel or sleeping, "in that clunky truck of yours! You're people, not produce, fellas!" It had become clear to Wakame in an instant.

The truck.

The Corvid Couriers truck, which would be sitting unattended within the compound walls all night. The truck, which would be traveling to everywhere and anywhere beyond the boundaries of Kirigakure. The truckers would never even know, and he'd slip away at their first stop and travel on foot. If he could be well outside the city before anyone even knew he had left, then Wakame would have a free pass to travel the Great Nations. He'd stop in all the Hidden Villages before coming home triumphant. Just in time to start the second phase of his Academy training as a genin.

This was his time to strike out on his own, and with his hair styled up in honor of the most powerful ninja he'd ever heard of, Wakame was ready. He could do this. The young boy— no, young man— stuffed the rest of what he knew to be essential products and supplies into his bag. He sloppily threw a comforter over the bed, and turned to leave the room. This time, he didn't face himself in the mirror.

There was no need. He was already gone.

The Champions' Repast

Okay, so he was gone, right after breakfast. He already stashed his bag in the pile of feed sacks near the truck, so he was ready to leave at any moment. He'd also realized in the process of getting ready that he was pretty hungry, and Granny would have a conniption if she found out he'd left town and hadn't had anything to eat. So maybe it was a way of softening any unavoidable blows to his family's trust? Also it was mostly that all things considered, this would be his last home-cooked meal for quite a while.

Wakame sat at one of the worn, picnic-style long tables at Granny's restaurant, before it opened for the day. Granny Shimizu swept around the kitchen, hastily whipping eggs with milk and throwing together various sauce mixtures. The scent of rice frying in chicken fat and soy sauce wafted heavily in the air, and despite his nerves Wakame felt himself relax slightly in the scent of home. He would miss things like this the most.

"What's got you up so early, anyways, puddin'?" Granny called over the kitchen counter, "It's hardly seven on a Saturday!"

"No real reason, just woke up and couldn't fall back asleep, so I just got up for the day." He paused briefly, "I might go into town after breakfast to look for a birthday gift for Chozame." A lie. Although he did need to find her something, since she was turning eleven soon, and he'd beat himself up more than she would if he forgot... again.

Granny smiled to herself, "Oh that's sweet, do you know what you're looking for?"

"Yeah, I think so." Wakame picked at the waxy varnish on the table, willing his granny to buy his story.

The older woman paused, casting an appraising eye over the steaming pan of rice towards her grandson, "Do you have money?"

"Yep! I have some, no worries!" Also a lie. Well, not entirely. He had about enough ryo to last him a few meals, but he was not going to entertain the idea of asking for or stealing cash from his family. He was self sufficient and would simply live off the land.

Granny nodded, "Hm, okay, well make sure you eat first, I don't want you running out the door before you've started the day."

No problem there, Wakame thought. The restaurant was smelling better by the minute, and he could feel his stomach rumble impatiently. Omurice was something filling and simple, but Granny turned the dish into an art form. In some small, sad way, he was glad this was how he would see his family off. No fuss, no big to-do, just him, Granny, and some breakfast—

"Hey, son!" A meaty hand from seemingly nowhere clapped him on the back, "What's got you up so early?"

"That's what I asked." Granny called from the kitchen.

"Hi, Dad." Wakame jumped in suprise and felt tension build slightly in his back before forcing himself to relax. Youta Shimizu was a shinobi, a skilled jounin, and ambush specialist. If he sensed his son was hiding something, he would call him out on it. Sometimes having ninja parents was difficult as hell. He'd learned from Hijiki when he was growing up, and had seen the older boy get busted more times than he could count by either their mother of father for trying to be sneaky. Their youth had often felt like a constant battle to see who could escape their parents' well-meaning but dangerously observant eyes. Then again if the boys hadn't given the adults more than enough reason to expect shenanigans every day of their lives, they wouldn't have had to be so careful.

"You in line for breakfast?" Wakame slid a kettle of tea across the table towards his father.

Youta shook his head,"Nah, just thought I'd stop in to say Hi to my saint of a mother before the mission squad gets called today."

"You're eating, Youta, you don't have a choice." Granny replied sharply in her well-mastered brand of aggressive caring.

"I second that motion babe, breakfast first." Wakame's head snapped up as he heard his mother speak, realizing that she'd come in with his father. The woman stole a forkful of sauteed mushrooms off the bowl on the counter, much to the irritation of Granny, who swatted her with a dish towel.

"Wait till it's ready or I'll burn yours on purpose!"

Wakame kicked himself for not even hearing her come in— or his father, for that matter. It wasn't really his fault though, his mom was an eerily silent presence when she moved about, which lent itself well to her stealth specialty. Sungai and Youta made an excellent team in that regards: reconnaissance and ambush, a force to be feared on the backs of their massive nin-gators.

Seeing them act so jovial with one another made his heart ache slightly again. They were gonna be so disappointed in him for not telling them he was leaving. But he wanted to prove that he could be on his own, and if he couldn't even hone into his senses enough to hear them come into a room, then he needed this trip. It might be a trial by fire, but it would shape his instincts and skills, and with Geta along with him, he could form a deeper bond with his most important teammate. His parents may be about to leave on a mission, but Wakame had his own mission to attend to.

His mother had come over to take a seat next to her son. She wiggled a finger at his cheek, "What's up 'lil man? You look kinda constipated."

Wakame stretched in his seat. "Just tired," he lied, "Do you know how long your mission's for?"

Youta poured his wife a cup of tea, "About two weeks or so. Maybe less if it goes well. It's just a routine thing though, so we'll definitely be back for your first day of Secondary."

"Oooh!" Sungai cut it, plopping her chin in one hand and gazing at her youngest, "How did our tiny baby boy child already get old enough to start chunin training? Could've sworn it was just yesterday that I popped you out."

"Oh my God, Mom."

A Swordsman's Tennets

Kisame Hoshigaki knew five things.Granted, if he examined himself, he would probably discover that he knew several more things than that, but there were five pieces of infinite knowledge that he lived by. Those snippets of know-how— those irrefutable rules— had gotten him much further than, technically speaking, he deserved credit for.

The first rule was self explanatory: Never pass up a restroom.

When he had spent years at war and on the run, and then more years working a long-haul transport gig, he'd learned that there were too few usable toilets in this world, and even fewer were what the man would consider "decent". You see a restroom? You use it.

Number two: Never neglect a weapon.

This was something he had learned well and often throughout his life. A weapon that was not at peak performance was a weapon that was open to failure, and caring for his blades properly had been one of his greatest joys. Even now he grew nostalgic for the smell of the special salve he treated Samehada with every night. That sword had been so much more than a simple weapon, and he often lamented its absence.

A large part of the sword's tolerance for him had come from his meticulous care and maintenance. It was unique among the blades of the Seven Swordsmen, and Kisame had mastered it. Weapons were like loved ones, and if neglected they would fail you. Neglect was not an option for Kisame, not when he found his many callings in life, nor when he plunged into the elaborate scheme of false fronts that had shrouded him for the last decade. Some may say that neglect and loyalty are two sides of different coins, but they were the bi-colored thread which wove his very core, and when your life had been saved by well kept weaponry as many times as his had, you did not neglect it. It lived in your heart, like family.

Third rule: Never trust completely.

Kisame had understood the idea of family, once. He had experienced friendships, the bonds of fellow soldiers and allies. He had seen bitter betrayals coated in both fiery hatred and saccharine kindness, and from this, knew that one could never put absolute trust in anything. It was less a view of pessimism than it was practicality. Treachery aside, allies changed. Motives shifted. People died. Life was not absolute, and the lives that mattered so dearly were not guaranteed to anything but to end eventually. Well, except for Orochimaru, he didn't know what the deal with that guy was and he didn't want to know.

There were very few exceptions, otherwise, and Kisame had learned to prepare for the hardest blows. In politics, relationships, and battles this philosophy allowed him to function effectively while receiving very few surprises. The biggest shock of his life had been, funnily enough, when it failed to end. By all logical accounts, his summons should have torn him to pieces, just like he'd commanded them to in that last desperate attempt to break free in the only way that felt possible in that moment. And yet here he was, years later, very much intact and alive. Apparently he couldn't even trust himself fully. Not to die when appropriate, at least.

But still the rule stood: trust could be had— but not completely. You always had to to consider the consequences if you found yourself alone.

That brought him directly to rule four: If you're going to die for something, you had better believe in it.

Along with the trust rule, Kisame had shaped his life around this one. His loyalty did not come cheaply, or easily, but it came with the guarantee that if Kisame Hoshigaki found himself in a position of loyalty strong enough to believe— truly believe— in a cause, he would put his own life on the line.

This held true when training for inheritance of Samehada, and it came forth in his decision to slaughter his master to win the weapon. He believed in his ability to obtain the blade just as strongly as he believed in his right to wield it.

It held true in his commitment to the brutality of the Bloody Mist. There was something horrible and chaotic in the system which raised him, and despite its terror, it was a world he'd thrived in. For a time. And when that system failed, he'd revoked his loyalty.

The Akatsuki were the last cause for which Kisame would have died. In hindsight, there were few points at which the organization was not following a bee-line to destroying themselves, but the group had provided a driving force, a rhetoric that he desperately needed after forsaking the life he'd known. He wasn't afraid to admit this many years later that he had needed support. He had, and had given his life in return, in rebellion against the organized systems for the Great Nations. He was younger then.

Now he did not devote his life to causes, but to people. It sometimes conflicted with his principle of no complete trust, but he learned that those who were worth his loyalty gave him few reasons to distrust them. He still braced for disaster at any turn, and he was ultimately prepared for imminent betrayal or abandonment should it arise. Even now, the shortlist of those he actually believed in was, well, short. A few civilian co-truckers, Nameko Shimizu, and his companion—his friend— Itachi Uchiha.

He had meant the last words he ever intended to speak to the man when he was barely out of childhood and carried the weight of a dead clan on his shoulders. Itachi, despite his difficulties, immense sorrow, and to be honest, multitude of war crimes, was a good man. Kisame held him in the highest respect, and when he'd discovered that the young Uchiha had somehow miraculously stayed alive in the wake of the Fourth War, after literally dying and being resurrected, the two had rejoined.

There was no accounting for their deaths. Even less accounting for their lives, and Kisame believed, more than any cause he had joined with, more than Itachi, more than himself, that he should not question the nature of his survival. In fact, he's bank his life on his assuredness that he didn't want to know too much about it.

There was one bit of knowledge, though, that Kisame had never in his life wavered upon. It was fueled by every fiber of his being, and this knowledge alone had prevented the demise of not just himself, but the deaths of hundreds. On this rule, he was uncompromising, and it his mission to see it through, he was steadfast. It was not an option for him to fail in this, and it never would be.

"Rule five: Never skip breakfast." Kisame tugged on the left foot of a still-groggy Uchiha, who grumbled and buried his face in a pillow. He swatted on hand lazily.

"Unghhhhh not hungry." Came Itachi's voice, muffled by bed covers. Honesty the guy slept like he was trying to fight a wild boar. The beds had been made with military precision when they'd gotten into the room last night, and Itachi's was now tossed asunder, comforter twisted and sideways, exposing one foot and trapping the other in what Kisame could only assume was a vice like grip. The man's dark hair was half out if its braid and flopped across the pillow.

Kisame rolled his eyes, "You will be, dingus, and we're not stopping until the rest stop at the edge of wave country. Plus Nameko-san invited us and we're not going to be rude."

Another groan sounded from the general direction of Itachi's face, "Ugh. What time is it?"

"Almost seven, we're late." He tugged at the exposed foot again, and the sack-o-bones on the bed slid about three feet off the end of the mattress, "Get ready, please."

He was answered with a last sigh heaved into the pillow, and the form of the younger man rose from beneath the comforter like he'd been struck in battle. You'd think a hardened career criminal who'd technically died once wouldn't have had so much difficulty being woken up, yet here they were.

Itachi shuffled miserably towards the bathroom, and Kisame chuckled, "You've got this, you'll pull through."

His friend flashed a tired salute at him in the mirror before closing the door.