Whenever Ashita experienced the perpetual boredom that came with living in the Sound Village, she nearly prayed for her father to send her on a mission somewhere.
How the snake pit worked was entirely reliant upon Orochimaru's mood. There were teams. Sometimes. Not of any traditional numbers, but of the old bastard's will whenever he deiced to make them. And there were some that always worked alone. Like Kabuto. Or Ashita.
Even so, her father didn't have all too much for her to do. So during the off times, the young woman would sit inside her room, thinking about just anything her brain could grab a hold of while staring at her pet snake, kept within a glass tank.
Nothing about that space was complex. It was practically barren and resigned to a twin bed, a desk, and a closet with a few drawings posted on it. Shoved into a corner was also a pile of books that grew dust like a damn fungus. They were old and yellowing. Frankly, Ashita wouldn't read them if she was forced to. They were all terribly dull and almost obsessed with chakra, and basic ninja techniques, as well as advanced crap. Each one was university level and broke it all down to a sleep inducing scientific bore.
Each one had been a birthday gift at some point.
But all that shit sat on the outside.
Whenever Ashita felt safe enough, she'd take her snake from the cage and drape him around her shoulders and go digging into her closet. At a first glance, that area seemed pretty normal as well. Just a mess of terribly plain cotton kimonos, and terribly plain cotton obis, with a couple of terribly plain cotton garments that weren't even worth describing.
But way deep in the very back was a chest where Ashita kept the best things. The collection began the moment her father became really and truly ill. There were no eyes to chase her down when his entire body was rotting away with his bizarre leprosy, and finally, Ashita was given just a bit of freedom.
The girl was still sunk deep in that steel iron cage. It surrounded her like air that weighed a thousand tons. But the pressure finally weighed down so bad that a bar broke, and one of those pale, skinny arms could poke out and touch the floor around the prison. It was like a step closer to that unabashed dream called freedom. Probation after jail time.
The first thing Ashita did was steal a bunch of shit.
In her black lacquer chest, with all the beautiful red flowers and golden locks, was make up she wasn't supposed to have, a stack of bills, gold and jewelry torn from the necks and wrists of many a spoiled bitch.
It was almost like a dowry. Except Ashita didn't plan on getting married.
Whenever Orochimaru was too sick, taken over by some awful plague and could hardly open those cold, yellow eyes, Ashita would look inside her treasure chest.
The day when all that red powder and rich lipstick would touch her face was like a dream, because it might never come. All the money she had stolen from her father's enemies, she'd take and buy expensive silken kimono with expensive silken obi and the most wonderful of shoes; all the shit she could never have trapped so far underground.
Thinking about it made the scars burn.
But still, those pale hands would shift through that gorgeous mountain of emeralds and rubies and diamonds and gold and pearls, filthy and rich and empowered. They shined, even in the piss poor candle light that barely kept the girl from going blind.
And Ashita dreamt of life somewhere else. Anywhere. Countries away in the most extreme parts of the globe. Where she could be an author, or a singer, or an actress. Hell, sometimes her mind would even play on the realistic side of things. Like medic, or teacher. Or trophy wife.
But no matter what the fantasy, one theme was always the same. Ashita could never take herself away from a small, traditional Japanese home shoved somewhere at the edge of a village, where there wasn't the city to ruin the view, but there was enough green to make it beautiful. So when it rained, the earth around her would smell like a hot cup of green tea. And the crickets could be heard at night time, with practically no interruption from the human voices. Shit you'd hear perpetually in the middle of it all.
All of those thoughts took her right out of the Sound Village.
The crime was boiled down to ritual. Snake went on shoulders. Box dragged to the center of the floor. Golden clasps opened. Look at everything.
There was an adrenaline rush to it. If the girl got caught, she would be beaten again. Have her little fucked up dowry confiscated and wish for her father's demise even harder. Those hands would wring themselves so violently in prayer, they'd come out chaffed and bloody afterward. Scrubbed down for nothing but a glimmer of hope that always leads into a letdown the next day.
If they even had a shrine here, Ashita would ring the bell so loudly, not three, but one hundred times. And every fraction of wealth she had would be given, to see that bastard buried six feet underground, in a tacky purple coffin with those stupid fucking minions around him, weeping. Even the thought of it was like an opiate fever dream.
Ashita's fingers brushed past that massive collection of stolen, blood soaked bills, while that curious little snake found a way into her sleeve.
A sigh of contentment. Like exhaling pink cigarette smoke. Sweet and gritty.
Those eyes only lingered a minute longer, because her heart was squeezing up too tight with the occasional patter of foot steps outside her door.
The lid shut. The clasps sealed. The chest was pushed quietly back in place and Ashita put the snake back into its habitat. He coiled up against the heat rock after taking a quiet dive in the pool.
They'd always look at one another a moment afterwards, because that little white snake knew just about every last one of her secrets.
But his pink albino eyes kept a promise no one else would.
Ashita went outside for a walk.
To clear her head after clearing her head.