silver lining
{ arc I ; the remembrance of tomorrow }
part 001 ; a bloodied trail
He never stops running.
Their time is running thin, and already at nearly five in the morning, the day seems to be speeding through. The life of a shinobi is no cake walk; missions, daily concerns regarding the safety of the country's people and the nation as a whole is weight shared by those in the high ranks, most certainly including the ANBU unit. To him, however, there is little to comprehend – to do the village and his nation good. That is his main concern, what drives him through life, and he is almost sure that it isn't a concept brought on by his own intuition. As a child, as a boy crushed beneath the weight of his own existence, he never fully comprehended the concept of a ninja. He never aspired to be such; he knew he was a burden, he knew that everyone kept an eye on him – why would he look forward in life to be the one thing that wouldn't hesitate to drive his face to the ground? It took him years to realize the implications of the weight his responsibilities brought as a result of his… condition, and it took him even longer to accept it. But he's never looked back since then. He isn't the best, he knows; oh, he knows he isn't, but the weight isn't as crushing now – he doesn't suffocate in his own skin. And instead, he now suffocates beneath the weight implanted by the moral compass he developed reluctantly over the years.
Through the trees and past the village's overpass at the main entrance, three shadow like figures slice through the air in great speed. Without even so much as a sound, much less an indication of their presence in the thick fog of the forest, the three ANBU shinobi are no further inclined to further their pace. They have to keep their speed, is all; to not stop and move forward were the specific orders of their Mizukage. Track the missing nin, take him in. A simple enough task; It's a total of a three man squad, and naturally two subordinates flank the leader, as he reaches beyond the path by being at least ten feet running distance from them. Beyond the fundamental details on the mission, the briefing lasted no more than fleeting minutes before they were ushered out quickly. However, knowing their explicit aspect of their hunt, yet, their conversation inevitably takes no other direction. There's a thick air of silence – an unspoken conversation that runs through each of their heads before, finally, the shinobi to his left speaks: "—What are we going to do with the captive, exactly? Knock him out and then take him to tea?" His response is a disapproving grunt. "I mean, really – with what he's already done why should it even be a question at this point that we keep him alive?" Professionalism masks the discourse in his voice; he doesn't let more than an ounce seep through the cat shaped mask.
"The way you keep running your mouth makes it seem like you're not a native of Kiri." Says the other nin with a wolf shaped mask. "Regardless – it's the Mizukage's orders. Beyond that, there's no sound explanation; it's done and over with. Beyond the involvement with the shady shipping business that already overtook the Land of Waves, his reasons for incarceration and captivity aren't that impressive. At most, point blank, the outright murders of his whole damn class during the chunin exams years ago." He offers half a shrug, and his gaze though invisible through the hollow porcelain lands on their captain. "However, this does well to remind us of our troubles, then, doesn't it? Remember the… other couple of instances Kiri's forces had to deal with disastrous inconveniences?"
The captain stiffens almost immediately; but, despite himself, assimilates his position. Wolf-mask doesn't hide his scoff.
"Well aren't you the colorful sort today, Tsurugi?"
"Quiet you belligerent fool! Don't spew classified information like that out in the open, damnit!" He hisses out in vehemence at cat-mask, clearly disregarding the hypocrisy in his statement. "There are ears and eyes hidden in this thick fog."
However, cat-mask doesn't seem the least bit deterred, now offering a half shrug of his own. "Doesn't it seem hypocritical though?"
"Eugh. What are you on about, exactly?"
"About Kiri. The Fourth is the one who founded the beginnings of the many practices; not excluding the outright massacres of those wielding anything short resembling kekke-genkai. Even now, the Lady Fifth – bless her—"
"Bless her wantoness, I think you mean — you absolute filth." Tsurugi points out blatantly.
"—bless. The. Fifth. - and as I was saying, before you interrupted, the Fifth herself is in possession of two. For all her talk on disintegrating the horrid reputation we've built as a nation, she isn't exactly pulling her own weight. The Fourth left a mess too big that, quite really, any of his successors are sure to flop like helpless fish stabbed through the chest with a kunai!"
"To speak ill of our Kage is reason enough for treason and conviction, Takumi, let me remind you of the very fact." Neither ANBU nin expected the voice of their captain to cut through, so their surprise is absolute as they snap their attention to him. "Politics don't suit your tongue, so keep it in check, will you?"
"Oh, but it suits you just fine doesn't it?" There is no mistaking the uppity drawl glued to Tsurugi's voice. Being a man of truth and outright blatant disregard for any authority he doesn't deem fit, it's no surprise that he talks to his own captain in such a way. After all, anyone could outright argue that he isn't in the best spirits due to the special arrangements made regarding this squad. It doesn't sit well with him, and he made it obvious to the Fifth at the time of announcing such news, but she had none of it. A veteran from wars and bloodshed he may be, but he is lacking respect and even pride as a nin, and, as a result, tarnished his dignity to nearly non-existence. "You must consider yourself in league with the Fifth, don't you, boy? Must be nice having the perks."
The captain offers silence as a response, but despite his best efforts and the fact that they cannot see, he smirks. "Wow, Tsurugi – you're going full senile. You never go full senile." At this, even Takumi – the youngin of the three, unsurprisingly lets out a chortle.
The older man isn't amused. "Considering the circumstances then, what are your thoughts on the discourse, captain? Care to share with the class?" He sneers, not being above sarcasm, the man is morbidly curious. "How long then – since the Fifth is so perfect, – how long until there is finally discourse throughout the entire nation right at her doorstep? As a society, humans aren't too keen to band together unless there is a reason. What other nations consider the most important aspect in any government body is what we in Kiri lack."
"What exactly are you saying?" Cuts the much younger and rambunctious voice. "Discourse? Are you implying a war? We aren't even within the parameters of other countries for that kind of carnage!"
Tsurugi's gaze is driven back, albeit not reluctantly, to the his other teammate. "You simpleton – war doesn't rely on whether or not other countries are involved. A war can very start from within the rotting underside of a nation that was never united to begin with. Funds are running low enough as it is. It's been this way for nearly decades, and it isn't just that fact; we're hitting a weak spot. Famine, economic rock-slide just a pebble away and several internal clan disputes have built over years in our village. Our practices were never stable or sound, I'll grant that. But everything has a limit – this situation in particular is one of the many catastrophes waiting to happen, I assure you. Detaining Zabuza, or even any of the Seven Swordsmen is bound to be a loss either way. It's not like harboring instigators have helped this rotting nation in the past."
Throughout the verbal, enriching, debate on the back of his shoulders, Utakata is aware of the ill poison the veteran nin is sending him; in waves no less. Discrimination be damned, he thinks, the man is full of bitterness, and he has half a mind to turn around and let him know the inconvenient weight he brings as it tips the scale of this sole mission. Behind the fox mask filled with blue markings, he chooses to overlook the old man, regardless. The Mizukage specifically made her instruction explicit, the man is aging with the knowledge that he's come in second to the very being that stripped him of many of his comrades, Utakata – understand it's not you, not the person acting as the vessel to the beast, but the beast himself. Her words, however, had been hard to ignore when, alright, no no Lady, that so does not, in fact, make me feel any less responsible, but -that's- fine, really, just pile on the weight. No big deal, it's not like-
—hell, he never thought he could be this pathetic. In retrospect, he supposes that maybe it's not that uncalled for, but still.Like a nails scraping to a chalkboard, a set of two footsteps in westbound direction yank his attention and instincts. Nearly as a bloodhound, he makes no hesitation to lunge, straying from the initial path. The men follow wordlessly, but of course Tsurugi makes his distaste clear in the whole affair.
"What is it now?" He calls out impatiently.
"Your impatience astounds me, Tsurugi. Footsteps, leaving fast, fifteen meters west. We're to hurry. Zabuza and his sidekick are very well on the move, I can feel it." Utakata ignores his disapproval. He also leaves out the fact that it isn't just their footsteps far ahead.
She never stops running.
"Don't lose sight of her!" — a deep, almost deranged voice booms through the air, penetrating the atmosphere of the forest and into her chest; they aren't far behind. "Get -that- brat!" Her attention is already skyward before he has the chance to continue speaking again. She just keeps going – I must think of my own life! Think of the-
There's a convulsion in her chest as she violently wretches herself to the left. Misdirection is what she prays for, and although she knows in the back of her head that she doesn't have even half of the capacity to reach the level of a true nin, her mind follows that precise trail of thought anyway. Desperation drives her movements, and panic is what doesn't allow her to stop. But after a beat of silence, she blinks, holding herself tense – not too wise with experience but driven with sheer human instinct to survive, she doesn't trust the silence that engulfs the air. The tenseness surfaces through her skin, causing to feel a disgusting sense of itchiness all over, but she holds herself taut, awaiting any sudden noise. The lack of anything doesn't placate her in the slightest. Her own panting and heartbeat are a great disturbance, so when her shaking hands reach out to one of the many sharp kunais in her holster, pressing it flush against her chest for a type of support system, she takes in a deep breath.
Dead leaves rustle and squirrels are tuttering.
Her bloodied hands clench the kunai in her grasp, the cool metal seeming to accelerate the pulsating of her blood. Putrid sweat and crimson droplets fall in enunciating blops on the dirt she stands on; the knot in her throat is getting bigger, and her attempt to calm herself is fruitless. When a particular, generous sized, drop of blood slides from the metal onto the ground, something in her freezes. Time doesn't seem relevant the moment her eyes travel downward, and only when her gaze locks on to the light colored puddle of mud beneath her, does she realize her position, and even then, her mind doesn't comprehend: two hands mold around her ankles. Only one thought escapes her mind as she's suddenly lurched violently onto the ground-
—is this really it?
In blind desperation, neither caring for the burning sensation of her ankles from the impact of being unnaturally held away with the weight of her body, nor the actual location of her attacker, she sinks the kunai with all her might forward. It hits nothing but vacancy, and her wrists are detained as well, gripped tightly and bended backwards. A fistful of her hair is gathered fiercely into a fist as she her head is yanked to the side, exposing the crook of her neck, and it takes her a second to realize that there is another, sharper, blade's point held right at the artery; her life pulsating, and seeping, through with every drop. The kunai she had in her grasp mere seconds ago falls heavily, and that's just fantastic, isn't it? Yet another weight onto her chest. Please, add more – it's no -damn- trouble whatsoever! Her bloodied hands, too damp for her own liking and shaking violently are held tightly; she refuses at least that. Clenched fists sting, but despite it, she doesn't let herself get past that point of panic. She's already done for.
"You've caused a loadof problems, girl." Her tongue is itching with a sharp retort, despite her situation, but before she can utter a word, the edge of the kunai deepens against her skin. It's not enough to kill her outright, but it would be in less than a minute if it doesn't stop soon. The man holding the wretched metal against her neck notices her silence, notices the burning in her teal eyes, infuriating him as he begins to dig his nails into her scalp. He will not accept that pretty heiress's locked jaw as some divine-given right to try and act tough and mighty! "You wretched little posh bitch! Do not assume we are beneath you, do you understand me?!"
"—Benten, that's enough. Nango, do not let her go." An unnecessary quip to the man holding her ankles from the mud, but Akaboshi wants to make it incessantly clear just what situation she is in. Defiance is not to be permitted, and despite her vigorous struggles, he can see the defeat etched on her pitiful expression – he knows anything more is a kick when she is down.
The gulp is too fierce, to disturbingly pronounced, but it's all she can muster – it's all she can do to have a coherent semblance of life, as ridiculous as the notion sounds to her. I'm going to die, she swallows in the thought, letting it overcome her mindset in maximum. She is going to die, and everything she ever hoped for, everything she had ever dreamed of is to be wasted. She has been drilling it in her head for the trillionth time tonight, but it's in this very second that she realizes that this is damage beyond any comprehensible salvation. All she can do, is wait. Beads of cool sweat become rivers down her temple, her shirt getting damp from the underside of her bossum, and the unfamiliar cool sensation on the right side of her waist indicates an open wound and it stains heavily on her side. All this time, she ran without even a semblance to her own physical condition: it's poor, and at it's limit.
Is she really such a joke?
"Didn't I tell you not to make Benten, mad?" The smothering slime of a voice is directed at her person, but the man's thumb is pointing at the one who's clutching her with an itch to disembowel, telepathically daring, begging to utter so much as another sound. "I know, I know," he continues, as if she's participating in the frivolous conversation and not being held at knife point. "He looks harmless enough – cleans up nicely for ah –erhm– a lady, but-"
"Chūshin," comes the leader's voice – cut and unforgiving. "This isn't the time. Enough of this nonsense – Benten, do not act against me! Hold her and nothing more! We have a job here!"
"But we're not even suppo-"
"Silence. Now," it takes everything in her exhausted body to not immediately jump, but she does flinch backwards and even would have outright leaped had it not been for the lady-man yanking her hair from its' roots. "— one last chance, girl. Where is it?"
And it is at this moment that something in her snaps a little on the inside. She is no fool, and her actions do not come without consequence – but hell if she isn't already done. So at the very least, she reasons with herself as she bites the inside of her cheeks, might as well go with a line that sweeps the audience away. It's bittersweet, but the vindictiveness maximizes the sweetness. With what seems to have given herself a moment of clarity — or prayer? — she unclenches her jaw, refusing to wince at the pain she put herself through to keep the mouth clamped shut, and unleashes the poison riling in her chest, reveling in the sweetness.
"Over my dead body."
— and right then, is when Benten snaps.
"Then DIE!" Her eyes are well clenched long before she can hear the weapon swoop through the air, her chest pulsating as if eager to be cut open. Choking in her last breath, flashbacks become near white flashes of light.
But something goes wrong.
"Benten, wait!What is-? FUCK!"
The sudden outburst startles her, and the mucus and stinging tears don't prove to helpful when she tries to take in the situation. Red. All she sees is a blinding red streak of light. High on adrenaline, she strives to move forward, absolutely forgetting the extra weight anchoring her down, causing her to fall back sharply on her knees, and the jerk reaction is instantaneous. Her knees just absorbed the whole weight of her fall, and she only now sees the mud-hands dissipating behind her. The bandits look as lost as she does, but their concern is no longer on her; It's above them. And no more than a mere seconds after observing the fact does she instinctively look up herself in blind panic. But the chance for clarity doesn't come because something just rustled in from behind. A quick turn of her head doesn't result in anything – the figures that were there woosh out of sight. Metals clash, steps shake the ground – she can hear all this, but she can't see anything. Everything blurs and nothing is static; her oncoming headache isn't helping and everything is spinning and she can't even make sense of who or what's a person anymore-
Something strikes her in the back of her neck.
She doesn't see where or what it came, and a flash of green vanishes from the side as she tries to comprehend. A moment of clarity, a moment where everything enlightens and radiates passes,and her eyes gloss over and nearly bulge out of her head. Somewhere in the background, in the desperation of her head wanting to gain back control of her body, she can hear quick feet on thick branches and whooshes in the air – there are cries and screams from voices not belonging to the bandits, and none of it comes out of hers. Bloodied hands shakily try to go and pick the annoying itch at the back of her neck, but all too soon, she is falling forward. Her body has become ten times its' own weight, and everything is getting so dark.
But there's a faint yet piercing voice that stands out – and, her thoughts wander to this topic of all things, it's probably because it's getting closer and louder. "Kid! Hey Kid! Keep your eyes open!" It fades again, and she tries, she really does, to keep her sluggish eyes open, seeing nothing but an incoherent blob of white, red and blue. But one second, she is on the ground, bleeding profusely from she doesn't even know anymore – to being supported onto something, and she's flying. Her cheek is on silk, and hands clench on her calves, refusing to let go. And there's a voice again, reverberating in her chest.
...name? My… name..?
"...Ho...Hotaru…."
"Hotaru, you're going to be fine." But the voice is already too far away.
And then, nothing.