2-14-14 Update: As I mentioned before. This story is being tweaked until I grow comfortable with it. I decided to split the first chapter into two. I don't know if this will affect the reader's over-all impression of this tale but somehow it feels right to me so I'm going with my gut here. I am a novice writer for this fandom and I am still feeling my way through most of it. I wish I could say I am confident—or at least—as marginally confident in my writing here as I am for my other fics but alas—that is not the case. I am a nervous wreck and I can't even blame that on prescription medicines, caffeine or the odd sugar high. Woe is me.

CHAPTER II:

WHEN A KIT AND A DOLPHIN MEET

Destiny grants us our wishes, but in its own way,

in order to give us something beyond our wishes.

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Mist Country

Dead of Winter

Ten years before Present Time Line

KIT

The cold seeping through the tattered remains of clothing he wore wasn't new. The grimy feel of dirt beneath his hands, the burn of cuts and bruises on his skin, even the calloused blistering heat beneath his bare feet wasn't new. The gnawing edge of hunger pangs scorching through him wasn't new either. He might have grown even warier had there been longer intervals before he received his daily dose of pain. They were the only constant in his world and he has grown to expect them in the changing sea that was his life. He has expected them since he was taken from his home three years ago and kept in a cage in the bottom of nowhere. For as long as he could remember those were the only sensations that seemed constant in his new life.

Well, that and pain. Pain wasn't something new either.

He lived with the pain, knew it at the most basic of levels, lost track of time, of passing days, of everything because of pain. He became so well acquainted with it in fact and the growing, escalating levels of it since he woke up in that dark damp dilapidated shack that he forgot for the longest time what it was like waking up without pain. He has forgotten what life was without the endless bouts of beatings and tortures, the punches and the lacerations. He has forgotten what it was like to be open his eyes and not be greeted with bruises and dried blood or go to sleep without thinking that lying down would be an annoyance he couldn't manage with a broken rib.

The first few weeks were the hardest and definitely the most excruciating. He couldn't remember being that cold, hungry or in so much pain before. All he had were his questions and his fears and the never-ending pain. There wasn't actually any time he could recall when there was an absence of pain or violence during those early weeks. He couldn't recall before when he had shed so many tears, screamed so many times he grew hoarse or whined and begged and pleaded to anyone who would listen that he didn't do anything wrong. But nothing changed except whoever it was that took him increased even more the beatings and the torture until he learned to endure, learned to survive. And learn he did. He learned well enough not just to endure pain but to never show it. He didn't just learn to survive through the beatings he learned how to give it back—punch for every punch, kick for every kick.

Only a fool didn't learn how to master the pain. Sooner or later something will give and either the pain will win or the spirit will. The body may break, but it will heal and continue on healing. Only the spirit remains and it's the only thing left that can be broken. Once that breaks, its game over and death wasn't something to look forward to.

Sometimes, during the dead of night when the beatings ceased and his tormentors vanished into whatever black hole they came from he would think and try and remember another time and another life. He remembered waking up to warm mornings in the sun, the smell of trees and grass and other things that grow. He could recall the sound of someone's warm laugh and the heat of someone's hand rubbing his back and carding through his locks. He could recall voices calling out his name playfully—lovingly.

But as the days of his in turned into weeks and then months and the months bled into actual years he has grown to doubt his own memories until they seemed more like dreams rather than actual truths. The darkness…the cold bars and the aching loneliness fast became the only things he strongly remembered ever since. And though he could still remember his name, there was little else that he could hold on to about his previous life except for the persistent snatches of voices and impressions of scents that called to a far different place than the one he currently occupies.

Sometimes the cold became so bad and the hunger so intense that he was beginning to doubt he ever had any other life but the one he has now. Those times when he would remember became rarer as the days progressed until they became few and far between and he has grown to thinking that maybe the images of another place filled with different people—with people who cared for him—were all just a dream or worse, a desperate fantasy his brain created in order to help him cope. He often argued—with his mind, his own consciousness—that if they were real, then where were the ones who once cared for him? Why haven't they looked for him yet? And why have they abandoned him? What terrible crime has he committed that made them leave him in the hands of his tormentors?

But I know once there was someone with eyes like mine and hair that shone like flames…I know that I saw them once and that they were the ones that gave me those warm feelings…

He couldn't convince himself fully at times though, that they were memories and not dreams. His dreams are usually filled with dark images splashed with fire and blood and rivers of tears. Those were the ones he recalled the most. That and the unmistakable ache of loss that tightened around his heart with the sight of trees,

Well the loss was now just as common as pain too. I've learned to live with that too. I'm not the same and nothing ever will be for me.

He hasn't thought of those memories or fantasies in a long time. He never had time to think of anything else except surviving and finding a way to get out. The pain wasn't anything new anymore. They came as predictably as the rain. Well pain and the never-ending stream of hateful words—those howling snarls and wicked whispers, hissed curses and disgruntled screams. They've numbed his ears and made his poor mind whirl around in confusion. He couldn't even figure out what half of those words mean but he could feel their malevolent intent just the same.

The heat of their anger...the frigid touch of their disdain and disgust...the bitterness of their hatred and fear...and the paralyzing sharpness of their contempt as they gazed and muttered and whispered and snarled at him...as they spat and threw things and pinched and punched and…the maliciousness of their intents as they whispered to him what they planned to do to him…the next time and the next.

At times he would wonder whether the pain was worse when it was their fists that they would use or their words. The cuts, bruises and lacerations at least were wounds he could see when they healed...the words just go around and around inside his head, infesting his dreams...fueling his nightmares.

If only he could figure out why they felt the way they did maybe he could fix it...maybe he could find a way to make them not feel the way they do. He would do anything to stop the constant flood of hatred and dislike if only he knew how…and if he couldn't well he hoped he could find another place to live and stay. Any place might be better than the dark dank place he currently stayed in.

Maybe then I could find somewhere safe to stay. Somewhere not so cold, not so dark, and not so lonely anymore. Maybe then I could even find someone to care for me. Maybe someday, I could actually find a place to call home.

But until that time comes, he will learn to endure. He will learn to live. He will learn to survive.

DOLPHIN

"HE DID WHAT?"

It was the shouted, one sided conversation that broke through his concentration. His eyes sought out the cause of disturbance and landed on a hulking figure of a man who was clutching at a small mobile phone that looked like it was just a few seconds away from being crushed within the behemoth's tight grasp.

"What the hell do you mean he's gone you idiot!? Do you have ANY idea what that maniac would do to us if he finds out about this?"

He sat on his idling truck for god knew how long, staring at nothing, his mind as usual in its run of riotous might-have-beens and reminiscing when the raised voice forced him to pay attention to his surroundings. He cut off the power to the motor and the sudden silence made the conversation even clearer to his strained senses.

"You idiots never think! What the hell are you standing around here for? Go out and look for that bastard! He couldn't have gone far! Find the bastard! You have to find him even if that means burning the damned forest to the ground! Now move your sorry asses or I will shoot you lot myself!"

He heard the furious grunting's of discontent as he pulled back the door that led to the only diner in town and tried once more to block the sound from his mind. He was in no frame of mind to listen to the sound of other people's discontent. He had his own misery to tend to. The kind that comes once every year. The kind that really makes you determined to hate particular days in the year.

Today marked yet another anniversary—the kind that never seemed to get any better or any less sorrowful despite being nearly a decade old. The date that's been branded into his very soul—October the tenth. A simple date that would forever remind him of darkness, death and loss. The day of the attack. The day he lost everything.

All day today he resented every little reminder of how his life has differed. How empty and quiet and lonely his existence seemed to him now. He resented the weather for being too cold, too bright and too unforgiving. He resented the silence of the mountains and the pristine façade created by the mist covered peaks. He resented especially the resilience of life that made everything around him seem more vivid, more vital, and more alive despite his desire to be surrounded by the same echoing emptiness that howled inside him.

Still even he knew that living in mourning wasn't something healthy. He needed to start letting go and living the rest of his life, beginning with how he dealt with his parents' death anniversary. And that's why, after so many years of being a recluse he decided to break patterns and get out of his house rather than remain and mourn like he has done for the last eight years. He decided to travel in order to stop the usual downward spiral of his thoughts and forget—even if for a few days—the lingering laceration of anguish. He was eager—no, desperate—to still the ache festering inside him, to stave off the gnawing sense of loss that continued to assail him despite his every effort.

He tried everything save out rightly killing himself—partying, working himself to exhaustion, walking until there was nowhere else to go, pursuing adrenaline-high activities, sports that risked life and limb. He tried everything that would keep him feeling alive and not just an automaton with a flesh and blood shell and an empty core. He gave up the death-defying games after one particularly harrowing one scarred his face and reminded him that it was the same face his mother once kissed fervently whenever he would receive the smallest blemish.

He even tried boozing his way to stupor short of getting his blood alcohol raised to toxic levels just to have a few more minutes of forgetfulness—of oblivion. But nothing seemed to work. The endless nights only paved the way for the nightmares to reach in and make him even more vulnerable, leaving him battered, exhausted and even more despondent. He gave up the boozing after he realized that it lowered his inhibitions to the point that his mouth would open and his every thought would come pouring out like torrential rain uncaring of who his words hurt or harmed. He was in pain—it didn't mean that he wanted others to feel as shitty as he did.

He tried distracting himself by concentrating on pursuing his education, taking on course after course so that he could be busy all the time, distracted from the past by simply focusing on the now, not thinking of anything further than the next subject, the next test, the next requirement but the effort he poured in only made the studying end that much quicker. He gained his degree a on education full year ahead of schedule and his master's degree on history the year after. He tried supplementing it whenever he could especially around the dreaded date so that he wouldn't have the luxury of time to think but the seminar he had just attended ended. And today was actually the tenth. And all he had waiting for him was the silence and his empty hotel room. All in all, his plans were going to hell on a beribboned hand basket.

Even the weather today seemed determined to mock him. Instead of being gloomy or somber or even cloudy—it was autumn after all, blast the gods—it was sunny and the skies was a brilliant blue. It was then that he decided to while away the hours in a conveniently open bar. He could drink the rest of the day away and walk out when night descends a happier and hopefully, not so sober man for it. For the first time since waking up to the date that he loathed the most a small smile bloomed on his lips.

Three hours later and he can't even recall feeling anything worth smiling about. It was just his rotten luck when he found out it was more diner than bar and that the strongest spirit they offered wouldn't even down a half drunk rabid squirrel on sugar-high. They had beer but that was all that he had the stomach to accept. The fare offered at the diner was pleasant enough but even indulging in his sweet tooth and considering all the ways being high on sugar would be detrimental to his already tempestuous mood, he couldn't shake the feeling of depression that was creeping up to him. After four hours he finally gave up and stepped out, annoyance and bemusement warring inside of him for the utter failure of his plans. He was wrapping his scarf around his neck absentmindedly when he heard it and found his head whipping around in alarm and concern. He couldn't mistake the sound.

It was the distinctive sound of gunshot coming from the woods that stood no more than a few feet away from him.

KIT

Those bastards were shooting at him! The hell was wrong with these people! I'm a freaking kid, you overeager bastards!

Another shot echoed just behind him and he could finally feel the heat of the cuts that flying shrapnel cut into him after his chaser got a little too close for comfort. There was a deep cut already burning at his side, not to mention the sorry state of his feet and arms but they were tolerable for the most part. He tried to think past the pain but it wasn't the easiest thing to accomplish—especially when the only thing he could tell was that he was in a freakin' huge ass amount of pain. Everything hurt and he knows that if he had to run for an extended period, he wouldn't make it very far. His feet were already blistered and bleeding and them being bare and nearly frozen certainly wasn't lending him any aid.

Not like I could've asked the bastards that 'cared' for me for any shoes.

The dumbasses never even gave him socks let alone decent shoes. Nevermind that, they didn't even bother to check if he was still alive at the end of the beating, the stupid stooges. Hah! Well he showed them of the errors of their way now, didn't he? Those dumbasses wouldn't know what'd hit them once they try beating up the dummy he left behind and by the time they discovered his little gift, he would be, god-willing , well away from their stupid clutches. And as he continued to run heedlessly forward he prayed that he was actually getting out of the woods rather than any further into it. He couldn't afford to get lost or get caught. He didn't think he had the strength to run for very long or even fight much if it comes to that.

Gods am I hurting or what? Great…now I'm turning insane too! This is what I get for talking to myself for so long. Gods why does everything hurt!

Of course everything about him would hurt. He was beaten pretty badly last night and it wasn't It seemed like even his teeth ached...it hurt to move the smallest bit, to even blink and every time he would draw a breath it was like heated knives were being plunged into his flesh. The pain confirmed that the fall he took from escaping through the second floor had done him some major damage. But then again, what was a broken rib to someone who has had them broken so often he wonders if there was even one left without a single fracture mark. Still running and panting with a broken rib that nagged at him like a huge-ass splinter on his side was a huge pain in the ass.

Well what the hell do they think I'm supposed to do? Sit around and complain and have them catch up so that they could beat me up again? And they call me an idiot, morons.

Hell no, he's had it with the beatings and the hunger and the pain. He was running away and this time, he would not be getting caught. There was nothing for him back at the hellhole they call an orphanage. Nothing there but misery and pain. Nothing but hatred and endless days of loneliness and hunger and despair. He would run away and do things his way. No more getting hurt. No more hateful words. Never again. Not as long as he had strength in him. Death might be more appealing than a single moment back in that shithole.

He looked around and noticed that he has reached the town square. He's seen the place lots of times from his tower but he never been there before. He hasn't been anywhere since they took him from wherever it was that they found him. His stupid guards knew that he would run the first chance he got.

When he came close enough to a bright, well-lit building he leaned against a wall, keeping well into the shadows and tried to catch his breath. His arms were trembling and his knees were knocking so bad he knew someone was bound to find him soon. All they needed was to listen out for the sound of two knobby knees rapping like a pair of percussion sticks in the dark.

He knew he couldn't stay out in the open for very long. That's just like hanging a neon sign over his head inviting the idiot people chasing him to descend like demons to beat him up. He had to find somewhere to hide and fast. He could feel the tendrils of exhaustion just beckoning near and soon he would have to succumb. He could already feel the spell of unconsciousness beckoning, pulling him under.

And oblivious as he was to most things, he knows that he couldn't afford to become even more vulnerable than he is. So he did the only thing he thought he can do—he moved towards the battered pick up just parked in front of the diner and climbed into the open truck bed. He burrowed beneath the dirty, dusty canvass tarp that draped the open truck bed floor and made sure that it looked as undisturbed and lumpy like it used to, praying all the while that whoever drove it would come out soon and leave. He couldn't afford to stay out like a sitting duck praying that the ones chasing him would ignore the vehicle that conveniently stood before them.

So exhausted was he from running and the rush of adrenaline running through his entire system that the moment his back touched a flat surface he was out like a light, never knowing that this was the one time his exhaustion brought him exactly what he desired—the means to finally escape.

DOLPHIN

"Well? Did you find the little hellion?"

"N-not yet. He ran into the woods and we lost track of him after he has been there for a few hours. W-we are calling for reinforcement—t-trackers—!"

"You fool! You better make damn sure they find him or I will string your innards like a damned pennant. Damnit! Where the hell did that spawn of a hellion go"

"We had him cornered back in the base—!"

"And just like the incompetent fools that you were you just had to let him go! Now he's gone ground and we don't know where the fuck he is! The boss is going to eviscerate us when he finds out how he got out! But before that happens I will kill you myself."

"Boss, the fucking bastard bit me! You try to hold on when something that vicious sinks his fangs into you and you'll understand!"

"No I won't and I don't understand. There's only one thing I DO understand and it's fairly simply. If he doesn't come back neither will any of you. Now stop standing around like idiots and go and find that bastard! We can't afford to lose any more time! You! Go and searched the woods again. The rest of you come with me and we can scour the city."

The voices outside the diner were escalating to mob-like proportions and he wondered idly how it was that no one had interrupted them yet. The men making ruckus certainly looked like they were bad news. Well the gunshot certainly reminded him that he was in a less-than reputable part of the country after all.

Well-dressed bad news from the looks of it. But bad-news all the same.

It was then that he recalled exactly why the area of the country he was currently visiting was listed under a special advisory. Although the five elemental nations were at peace and the Land of Fire was said to be the most peaceful and powerful, there was nothing to signify that there weren't any unrest at any given point in time. Especially when one ventures close to Konoha, said to be the stronghold of the most powerful clans in all of the Fire Nation.

The people who visit near this tourist spot were given extensive instructions regarding causing any kind of chaos or disruption and for the most part people obliged them. Despite the archaic theme and the true-to-god drool-worthy scenery, only a fool would forget that technically, Konoha is a specialized village filled with people with unique skillsets. After all who would like to antagonize a bunch of people who could kill you with nothing more than a randomly plucked toothpick or even a passing piece of paper?

But the disturbance this night was more than just the sounds of nighttime disagreement or random marital spat. Nor were the drunken ramblings of the few who imbibed and were actually loud enough when they do. No, the sounds were similar to those of a hungry pack closing in on a kill. This was a pack out on a hunt and from the vibe he was getting, they weren't very successful at it.

I doubt that they would remain as relatively restrained as they are now. Their nerves seem to be fraying quickly.

He didn't know who or what they were chasing but no one deserved to be hunted like that. Least of all by these group of men who he would be willing to bet what remained of his entire fortune wouldn't be the kind to simply vent verbally on whomever it was that they were tasked to capture. He didn't doubt that they would be ranting using their fists along with their mouths.

Best leave them to it. Ignorance in this case might be for the best and I am in no frame of mind to speculate. I can only pray that they never find whoever or whatever it is that they're looking for.

Without any further thought to the matter, he turned towards his old battered pick up and started the drive back into the hotel he was occupying during the duration of his stay. He would go home tomorrow and forget the events of this painful and ultimately fruitless night. Perhaps tomorrow, he might be in a far better frame of mind. He always adjusted better after the anniversary date has passed. And so, after one final apprehensive glance at the group of grunting frustrated men who never threw him another look he drove away from and carried with him, unknowingly, a cargo that would soon turn his entire life and world upside down.