((Thanks to all the readers out there! I hope you all will continue to enjoy the story as it progresses. Just a note, words in italics are thoughts. And of course, the Naruto verse is copyright Masashi Kishimoto))
Chapter one : Shades of Gray
"Hai!"
The words echoed in the training facility, sharp and terse, like pin-pricks. It was definitely feminine, not lacking in grace, but rather deficit of the shyness normally associated with girls and young women.
Within the training ground, two lone figures faced each other squarely, preparing to spar. The dojo was plain and undecorated, the only picture being an austere portrait of an old sensei on the northern most wall. Several windows lined the wooden surfaces, allowing a soft, natural glow of the September sun to effuse the room. A black mat covered the ground, on which the fighters stood.
One is a tall, slender man of roughly 45 years, with black hair pulled into a high-set ponytail. His face was taut, much like his hair, and no clear expression was shown. He nodded to his opponent, a girl, whose age and appearance belied her skill.
She was rather short, only coming up to the man's chest level, with elegant fingers and nearly scrawny legs. Gosling-white hair reached her knees, bound at the end with a metal clasp, save three large, green-tinted dreads that hung loose. Her bangs framed her porcelain face, and glittering green eyes shone through glossy strands, opened with attention. Barely visible were two moles, one above the other, below her right eye. Her lips, which were light peach, are as thin as a knife's edge, and pressed tightly.
Wearing hakama pants of heavy, black fabric and white gi tops, the two remained locked in each other's gaze, trapped by the fierce, pure, pull of hesitation.
Not a single muscles flinched in either combatants' body. They were mirror images of each other, both with legs apart, one in front of the other, the front knee lowered slightly. Their arms are relaxed at their sides, not strained, with elbows bent slightly. With mathematical precision, their weight is distributed with 60 percent over the front foot, 40 percent over the back foot.
With a grace like that of dancer, the man brought his hands in front of himself, readying himself. His eyes squinted for a moment, and he launched forward, bare feet padding against the practice mat. His body was a blur of white and black, nearly undetectable, a line dashing across the room toward the motionless girl. The air particles became charged with the energy of anticipation, and yet his movements were noiseless, like that of an attacking cougar.
He parted his dry, chapped lips to reveal clenched teeth, his left canine missing, the other sharp as a kunai. He pulled his right fist forward, index and middle finger first, targeting the girl's chin. His eyes were alive, bright and fiery, as he moved ever closer to his opponent.
I cannot win
A sudden feeling of discomfort shot into his sternum, and spit frothed at the man's mouth. He felt his balance being manipulated, his wits leaving him. A hand, flat and firm, pushed into his lower chin, knocking his head backwards.
Within seconds, the older, seemingly stronger man found himself plummeting onto his own back, the air forcefully pushed from his lungs.
Regaining his senses, the attacker looked up at his adversary, still in a defensive waiting stance, arms bent, but not forward.
Her eyes were closed, and her face was still composed.
The laugh that erupted within the dojo took the girl by surprise, and caused her to open her eyes at once. She relaxed her limbs, face and emotions indiscernible.
It was a sound she was not used to.
"Sensei…have I done something wrong?" she asked, her voice devoid of the resolve previously shown. Her teacher is still on the ground, leaning back on his hands, arms straightened and elbows locked. His eyes were misty from the sudden bout of mirth.
"To think that I was taken down by such a simple, basic maneuver as the shomenate…clearly you have dominated me in this field…" the man said in between bursts of laughter, which now filled the room. He clasped a hand to his face, covering his black eyes in humiliation and embarrassment, "With your eyes closed, nonetheless!"
"Please…do not waste words such as that on me…" a light blush glowed on her whitish-cheeks. The girl turned her gaze away from the defeated man, "You are my master, my superior. It was simply luck."
"Chihiko-san…words are not wasted when used to describe a fighter such as yourself," he replied, now becoming more reserved.
"Hitaishii-sensei, I am not a fighter…I am your student," said Chihiko, visibly uncomfortable by her teacher's use of an honorific, "That is my purpose. I must become a Jounin for my village."
"This is true. But one cannot overlook their own talent. One must value their own strengths, as well as their weaknesses," Hitaishii replied quickly, concerned. He carefully observed his student's reaction, "To become a Chuunin at the age of 11, and have a chance at attaining the level of Jounin at 15 is no easy feat."
The girl remained quiet, looking at her feet, toe-nails clipped short and clean to the dojo's specifications. Her bangs cascaded in front of her eyes and mouth, hiding them. Reaching for one of her dreads, Chihiko began to fumble with it, twisting the thick curl between her delicate, long fingers.
"Sensei…" she started, but soon she silenced herself, realizing she had nothing else to say.
Frowning and disconcerted, the master walked towards his pupil, closing the gap between them until she could feel his breaths bearing down on her.
"Is that what you truly believe?"
She clamped her lower lip between white teeth, grinding them gently in stubborn indecision.
"I see. Then, let's go again…student."
Like a robot, Chihiko's body became rigid, as she walked back a few paces, taking up her stance once more, eyes locked on her master, like crosshairs attached onto a target.
It is the same stance as before. It is the same stance as a hundred times before. A million.
Perfectly-honed, like an arrow's point, the girl fell into the mindset of a pupil, as if it was her only function. Her disorientation was gone now that she has been given a command.
"Hai!"
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The practice session lasted nearly 4 hours, with quick resting periods to break up the monotony of training. Skin flushed from exertion, Chihiko wiped the sweat from off the training mat as protocol demanded. As routine instructed.
She soaked the cloth using the water from her red, plastic bucket and ignored the burn in her arms from performing the same reversal throws and interception techniques hundreds of times over. A bruise on her left shoulder showed blatant failure during one of her attempts, and she rued it desperately.
I cannot disappoint them. They will leave me… she thought to herself, tossing the sodden cloth into the bucket, finally finished her task. She touched the blue and red mark, testing its sensitivity. There was only a short wince of pain before it faded. It would be gone in less then 2 days. Sighing, Chihiko lifted herself off the ground, mouth pursed with fatigue.
Hitaishii, sensing that she is finished her task, called to her from the dojo's exit, a large duffle bag slung over his shoulder.
"Chihiko…if you are finished, you may go home," he said. Wearing a light, casual kimono, tied loosely in the front and plain sandals, the man no longer appeared to be a teacher nor a fighter, but instead an everyday commoner. Chihiko eyed him from across the room.
"Yes, sensei…" the kunoichi responded immediately, obediently, causing the man to give a heavy sigh.
"You don't need to call me 'sensei' when we are no longer training."
The girl looked at him disapprovingly, but nodded anyway. It was not in her to refer to someone so informally. The chief would not have it that way in any circumstance.
"Have a good day, Hitaishii-sensei," said Chihiko, trying to strike a healthy compromise so that she did not have to abandon her ideals. She bowed gracefully, and Hitaishii smiled lightly, knowing that he could not win when pitted against Chihiko's stubbornness for etiquette.
"Good day to you as well, Chihiko-san."
She watched carefully as her teacher left, the air becoming rather stagnant as the door closed behind him. With the windows closed and shutters drawn, the dojo was actually rather dark and close.
And yet for Chihiko it was her second home within the Waterfall village.
The wood of the floors held the memories of her first training endeavors, and the walls had watched her earliest attempts at mastering the arts of Ninjutsu.
Foremost, the portrait of the grandmaster Kobayashi Mochihito, was always there to peer down on her, scrutinizing her every move, driving her to perfection. He had seen her blood spilled when her techniques had proved disastrous, just as he had witnessed victories such as those of today. It was a simple picture, but it showed the face of a man Chihiko would fear to meet, and yet at the same time she would be honored to share the same air as him.
Mochihito-sama died many years ago, much earlier then when Chihiko had entered the dojo at the age of three. But he felt very real to her. She could feel those stony, grayed eyes zeroing in on her at all times, always keeping her on her guard. His image alone could project shame into her heart.
It was for him that she practiced and trained endlessly. For him that she strained every fiber of her being to the limit. For him that she cried at night from the pain of her injuries and broken-pride.
If she failed to appease Mochihito-sama, as well as the other leaders of the village, there was no reason for her to even breathe. She knew her purpose well, and she abided by it every minute of every day.
Plus, if she did not become a Jounin…there was no way for her to see "him" again…
I'll see you once I become a Jounin! I promise!
So long ago, so far away in her life. But she remembered his voice like a recording trapped in her memory.
We'll be friends…always…
Picking up the bucket, Chihiko carried it towards the dojo's washroom. She felt another presence watching her. Or at least she hoped he was watching her, from some distant land, on some amazing mission.
She placed the bucket in the sink carefully, tilting it to one side, letting the dirty water splash down the drain, as she placed the wet cloth in a wooden basin by itself. She tried to concentrate on her task, but couldn't in spite of herself.
"No time for daydreams…" she admonished herself, picking up the nearby washboard. As she scrubbed the cloth against the ridges of galvanized steel, Chihiko felt her thoughts slipping away once more. The monotonous task of cleaning caused her focus to slip, drift, and eventually fall out. The cloth began to wear thin, but she hardly gave it notice or care, as she started to reminisce.
Zaku…