Uh.... I've been wondering if I should post this chapter XD;;; But ok, here I go. It's mostly pretty OOC rambling ;n; and it's waaaay too long XD;; I'm so sorry. I'm sorry it sucks so bad XD;;
On a totally unrelated note, I now own a Kisame plushie, too! 8D XDD I think I'm getting a bit obsessed. They way I had to set them down on my shelf is a bit awkward, but it's the only way they'll stay XD;;; Basically, Kisa-plush has made Zabu-plush his bitch XDD I seriously wanna make plushies XD I've seen some pretty awesome homemade ones.
So... I'll shut up, now. The poison question's answered here XD I didn't have and particular substance in mind when I asked, I just meant that the thing had been mentioned before. Anyways, enough from me. I've been worried about writing this and somehow managing to Keep Zabuza in character. I think I failed pretty hard XD;; I'm also still writing under the assumption that Madara was acting as the Mizukage, as Kisame kinda said in the manga. I figure he'd been stealing money from the water country to finance the Akatsuki XD that's what I've assumed. It's probably way off, but like... yeah XD
EDIT: darn, I forgot to mention. Lots of refferences to 'Sutego' here. It's a little thingie in 'Breathe again: odds and ends.' It'll probably make a bit more sense if you've read that, too.
EDIT AGAIN: I made another version of this, in which I chopped all the potentially-OOC stuff out, the things that I considered a bit of a gamble, as Rayle pointed out that, as I had feared, this was unforgivably out of character. It's posted in "Breathe again:Odds and ends" as Chapter 11, or "35- fixed". I'm still pretty attached to this version here, as it's always how I'd pictured this, but obviously I'm bias towards my own ideas, and I've gotta be open to feedback, and figured it would be worth a shot to try it another way, and see if it worked better. The response has been mixed, so far XD Rayle thinks that the second version was greatly improved, while I've gotten positive comments on this one, too. I'm leaning towards leaving this chapter in place, but I'm not sure XD I may replace it with the other one. I'd like to know what you guys think.
Disclaimer: Naruto belongs to Masashi Kishimoto, Tsubasa and Naoko belong to Nobukane
He had hated her from the moment he'd first laid eyes on her.
Filthy and barefoot as he; tiny, shivering, curled close to herself to safeguard warmth she didn't possess. The wooden bench was hard and unforgiving, but still she lay fast asleep, oblivious to the goings on around her. Unaware of the jonin discussing their fate, and unaware of the mongrel child studying her with fascination and disgust.
She slept on, trusting the charity of cold-blooded strangers to keep her safe.
This was no ninja.
That he could remember the feeling of thirteen years so vividly amazed him. It came back to him now, as he watched the light fade from her eyes. The panicked choking of her breath was all that proved she lived still– and that would end soon enough.
He had always known it would come to this. From the day his eyes truly opened to the cruel world they knew, all those years ago, he had known what he would have to do.
He could remember well enough, through the haze of time and panic. The jolt of reality through his blissfully existence of denial and child's play. When being shinobi was a goal, and not a mind set. But he'd heard, and he had understood. All their training, and all their suffering would be for nothing: one was to die by the other's hand.
He wondered if it was fate that had led him to the truth. Would any other child have realised the meaning? No, he imagined not. How many others knew death as he did? How many others could truly picture their friend dead? How many had ingrained the stench of blood in their heart as he had?
None could as he had. He knew her well enough to play the scene out in his head. The order would be given, and she wouldn't believe. She wouldn't understand– but he would.
It had terrified him, and that in itself terrified him still.
Why? What was she, when weighed against his own life? It was a fair fight, no matter how depraved; she had every opportunity he did. So why did the thought of putting the kunai to her throat make his head spin? He was to be a ninja; to take life should be as natural as breathing.
Then she was there; trying to force sense from his mutterings, eyes wide with concern. He'd tried to explain his revelation, but she couldn't understand as he had. He couldn't break her childish faith in their leaders.
He couldn't save her.
And so he'd save himself. He would take her by the throat, and prove he had the fortitude for a shinobi's so-called life– to kill his own heart in stopping hers.
But he'd met her eye as he sought to snap her wrist in his grip. They were too familiar. Cold blue as shadows on snow, and filled with a confusion and betrayal that didn't belong there. He'd hated her then. He'd hated the way his resolve faltered. He'd failed to end a little girl, and had fled in an enraged disgrace.
It wasn't bloodlust that had led him to the older students; he hadn't yet tasted that. But something beyond himself had driven him past their training ground, and some force deeper than conscious thought had taken the knife. He ignored the sleet and rain and cold. He was on a mission he'd yet to really understand, and it was only when he stepped into the chamber that he knew why he was there.
They'd been standing, close together and smiling against the wall when he entered. So they didn't know yet. A scrawny little third year, slipping in through the door unannounced and uninvited had done nothing but draw stares and raise eyebrows. He was here to prove himself, if only to himself.
There was only one girl in the room. She was closest, and he stepped tentatively, curiously, as confused by the action as she. He raised his arm, watching carefully as it was driven through her throat as though by another's hand, and blinking as though entranced at the blood that poured fourth as she fell gasping and sputtering to the ground. Zabuza's lips pulled back slowly, and he smiled.
Killing... was remarkably easy.
Her partner, pale and wide eyed, had stepped towards him still preoccupied with his her gasping, dying form. He felt no sympathy, and lunged again. It pierced the older boy's abdomen, and he collapsed on top of his friend.
He would always remember the pause. The moment of complete stillness before all hell broke loose. Then the others fell upon him. That was where his memory weakened, but he'd cut them all down, somehow or other. He remembered only the smell of blood, the pounding of his own frightened heart, and the paradoxical satisfaction he felt as each one fell.
He remembered his first taste of the instinct-driven world of a battle fading. He remembered the fear he refused to admit he'd felt since slowly taking hold in its place as he became aware of the blurring at the edges of his vision, the unbearable pain from the many wounds he'd suffered, and the realization that many of the bloodstains spattered before him on the cruel stone floors were his own. This was the panic of injury, not remorse. He shook because he could feel Enma O's breath on the back of his neck; not see him come to claim his prey. He regretted nothing.
Then he remembered Misao.
Misao, who, despite having seen the bloodshed he'd caused with his own eyes, deemed Zabuza- deemed the Demon– worthy of help.
The old fool.
He'd awakened to the sound of hushed voices and a rustle of bed sheets to find the place next to his now occupied, and by someone a bit to familiar. Medical ninja were sparse, and assisted by a handful of civilians with the proper training. It was a few of these he overheard them discussing the girl. She'd been found rain-soaked and near frozen, curled behind a garbage dumpster in an alleyway; identifiable only by her standard issue sandals and mark burned into her back. "Poor thing," they'd said, "didn't make it back."
Back? She'd been back; relatively warm and relatively safe in the tiny patch of the barracks they could call their own. The stupid girl had tried to retrieve him, and that was impossible. The boy she was searching for was long dead; or at least altered irrevocably.
Then she was curled beside him, and he couldn't understand why. She knew what he'd done, what he was; that he'd slaughtered them for reasons he couldn't give words, and enjoyed every second. It didn't matter how he tried to explain, she couldn't understand. A 'friend,' she'd called him. Sick and feverish, what use was there in reasoning? It didn't matter anymore, anyway. He'd be reassigned and rid of her soon enough. She was no longer his concern; he'd let her do as she liked. If that entailed cuddling close to him in search of warmth he didn't have to share, so be it. He wasn't sure why he had fought as he did when they took her from him the next morning.
He'd known the course he had to take since he'd first stood before their kage. The country's Daimyo were his puppets; the Land of Water was Hachidaime's. It was for this man he'd sweat, and suffered, and bled. It was because of this man that his village starved, that mama had-
He knew. It was only this man who had the power to change these things. Only this man's fate wasn't chained eternally to another's will. Zabuza would take this position for himself. He would set things right; and so he wasn't afraid when their makeshift god addressed him. He knew something the older man did not. He knew how he would meet his end.
And then he was offered the chance to return to the academy for a final year; a chance to correct his past mistake. He'd taken it, and squandered it.
She was sleeping when he reached their corner of the barracks. It was too perfect: there he stood kunai in hand, his quarry dreamy and helpless, the thrill of battle and taste of blood still ingrained in his memory– yet, something had stayed his hand. He'd returned the knife to his pocket, and laid a well-meaning hand to her shoulder– Hey, wake up, loser. Again at sixteen, it hadoccurred to himwhat had to be done. That tiny argument over her eyesight had brought something much more important to light. She was unbearably stubborn- impossible to sway. The reasonable part of him- the part born from bloodshed, the demon- had stuck; but only once. He'd met her eye, and stopped, appalled. Again not long after, as she'd bled from her own foolishness and frailty. There'd been nothing to do then but wait– he hadn''d taken her into his arms, and dressed her wounds and cared for her himself. Then there were the thousand times before, and after and between where he could have ended her, or let it happen; to turn a blind eye as she was pinned by stronger adversaries, or fail to tend to her when she collapsed from abusing her body and expending her chakra.
The demon had been born from murder, and there was nothing he did better; it was his life, his livelihood, his vocation. He had no qualms about killing. So why would his resolve waiver when she was concerned? Gratitude? For each time he'd protected her, she'd done the same for him. He'd woken more than once in a cold sweat to find Kotone had dragged him home, or out of the way to look after as best she could. No, he owed her nothing. Kotone, most likely, acted out of duty to her kage. It was for Hachidaime that she saved him; she was merely preserving a fellow tool. He acted for his own reasons.
The usual spark of wit had long since left her eyes, and they stared at him, bewildered and blameless. Even as he took hold of her weapon, there was no fear. She didn't have sense enough left to be afraid. His face crinkled in distaste as he raised the unfamiliar weapon. It was enough like Kubukiri Hocho to be passable, but too different to be agreeable. Zabuza stepped closer, and touched the blade to the back of her neck, taking aim. Ceramic charms, missing the friend she still clutched to her chest, clicked as he raised it sufficiently. The black, demon-warding cat stared at him accusingly as it spun on its thread between him and his prey.
Kiyoshi was not designed for beheading, but he was strong enough, he knew, to drive it clean through her neck regardless. Well, not cleanly, but it would do, and he drove it downwards with the necessary force, breath held in anticipation of the inevitable crack and spatter of blood.
It never came. The blade stopped short, a hair's width from it's mistress's skin. His arms gave out when he tried to raise it once more, and the cat mocked him as it dangled. He refused to believe her superstitious drivel. It was not any charm's power, or spirit of a long dead mentor, or any will of the blade's itself, he decided, that kept him from hitting his mark. It simply couldn't be like this: being killed by her own weapon was simply too humiliating. She deserved at least better than that.
"Zabuza kun...?" Her voice was weak. He dropped her weapon, and before he really realized what he was doing, had crouched down beside her.
"Yes, Kotone chan?" Why he called her this, he didn't know. It was a strange compulsion that he'd decided to humor. It was harmless; there was no one to hear, and she was not long for this world.
It was dark, the only light coming from the nearby village and contained by the blanket of clouds overhead. A dusty, muted kind of glow. There was little he could really see of her, and he was thankful, but he could see well enough. Her hair was a single fluid shadow in the darkness, as thought she was part of it, and between the inky strands he could see her eyes struggle to remain open. It was a losing battle. "I'm cold," she whispered.
It had been a long time, but he remembered the cue. Zabuza sat beside her, and gathered her carefully in his arms, arranging her in his lap as he had once before, here. She'd been dying then too. He hadn't the time for this. He had things to be doing, important things– but this was important as well. He was fulfilling a very old promise: to sit with her if ever he found her weakened with no hope of survival. Zabuza rarely gave his word and held himself to it when he did. How else could he believe the things he swore he'd do?
She was warm to the touch. Of course she was, her heart was beating itself out in her chest exactly as Shinju had said it would. It was only later, on another trip to see her patient that the medic had indulged his curiosity and explained the paradox of the drug's mechanics. The sedative was actually a kind of stimulant. The body overreacts to the drug's effect and the body is slowed and calmed as the pills are overridden; however, her body has its limits. In excess, the drug defeats the body's self correction. When the heart is finally driven faster than it can stand, it stops. He'd only meant for her to sleep. He'd meant her no harm when he stole the remnants of her pills from the drawer where she'd stashed them away, and crushed them into the drink.
As she had said herself, fourteen years side by side afforded a kind of familiarity. He knew her inside and out. Kotone was still on edge every April fourth (though she no longer had to be coaxed forcibly from bed), the number still terrified her; she had nightmares regularly about her father, failure, and certain horrors only kunoichi were subjected to; and Kotone had been wrong, as a child– red looked beautiful against her hair (he knew well enough from crimson bloodstains and Kiyoshi's thread-wrapped hilt). He also knew that she'd never once finished an entire glass of sake. He'd planned for this. One sip was enough to make her sleep untill well into the next day.
Of course, there was one thing he knew well enough about her that he'd failed to consider. She was both unpredictable and reckless. She hadn't been spared a drop. In the end, there'd been no need to steel himself and kill her. She'd done it for him. He could wait, or help her along, but the end result would be the same.
She was breathing shallowly, and irregularly and he could actually feel her heart racing as he held her. She kept trying to move. "Zabuza kun..." she muttered weakly. "I feel.... I...." It trailed off, but the bewildered grimace expressed her discomfort well enough. Her grip slackened, and the little red cat rolled from her fingertip to the icy snow.
"Shh," he said softly, brushing her hair from her face. He plucked the maneki neko from the slush and pressed into her palm and closed it in her hand. "Save your strength. Just lie still." There was no need to make a show of concern, but he did. It didn't matter what he said, she couldn't understand him; it was only the tone that mattered– like watching Haku try to gentle a panicked rabbit. The leopardess was something more of a panicked rabbit herself, now, if only in heartbeat.
"I'm scared.....I just want to sleep," her eyes were closed now, and he continued to stroke her hair; it seemed to calm her. There was no need to distress her now. These were her final moments, after all. He supposed some kindness was warranted.
"Then sleep. You're safe," he lied, as his hand curled snugly around her throat. She paid it no mind, and relaxed gladly against his shoulder. Her dark brows furrowed as she shifted slightly, ear to his chest. She whimpered, and her eyes opened just wide enough to look up at him.
"Your heart's not beating..." She informed him groggily. Of course: she couldn't feel it through the reinforced material of his flak jacket. Perhaps he simply hadn't one to feel.
"Shhh..." He eased. Thoughts back to the last time they'd been this way troubled him. The blood suited her. Ume Kotone was a fierce Kunoichi. She wasn't meant to die this easily. She was meant to go down kicking and screaming to the very last, and leave a great bloody mess behind. The helpless thing in his arms had fallen short of her potential. That's what one gets for trusting a demon, he thought sourly. "You poor stupid creature." He whispered. She didn't respond.
He'd wasted enough time. She was mewling and gasping for breath, and failed to respond to her voice or his touch. It wouldn't be long now. He should just leave her...
He couldn't– he wouldn't. He'd sworn to end her with his own hands. He'd failed his own agreement with himself time and time again when he'd given in to childhood reflex and allowed her a place in his arms. He allowed her to be weak in his company, and though he never partook, knew well enough he was free to do the same if he was so inclined. He swept away the last coarse, straight, cobalt hairs that had fallen across her throat, and let her head fall back to better expose it; his hand closed around it.
He'd always wondered why she alone was safe from his ferocity. The demon was in the habit of blanketing the battlefield in mist and attacking unseen and unheard. He victims hadn't time to know they'd been killed, let alone alert others. His prey was mute, and faceless. Kotone was not. He'd always been an auditory creature. The eyes could be fooled– they were not to be trusted– but his hearing had always served him well. Of all the targets he'd faced not one had any place in his heart or mind. This woman's face– and she was a woman, he had to stop thinking of her as a girl. She was well into her childbearing years, especially by their country's standards– had a familiar voice attached to it. He could picture not only the tone and timbre, but her behavior and speech patterns and vocabulary. He could picture her asking him to stop, imagine her outrage, her bewilderment at his betrayal.... but never begging him for mercy.
She choked, but her shallow irregular breaths continued. Zabuza growled in frustration. He was strong enough to tear her throat out, and yet he couldn't force strength enough to strangle her to his hand. The tendons and muscled tensed and constricted, but the grip remained slack. So great was his distraction that he failed to notice the crunching of snow and underbrush as someone approached.
"Zabuza San...?"
"What are you doing here?" The demon growled, "I thought I told you to get the others. I'll handle this."
"I have, Zabuza san. They're ready as they can be, and waiting where we agreed. You've been an awfully long time. I was afraid there'd been a problem." Haku replied placidly as he approached. Zabuza knew from his pace the second he grasped the scene before him in the darkness. He stopped dead.
"Not a problem, exactly," the older man answered, a bit late. "Something just didn't go as we'd meant it to."
"I...I see." The boy's voice wavered, and Zabuza eyed him skeptically before tearing his eyes away and fixing them on the other side of the clearing.
"You'll see worse than this, Haku. You're no use to me faint-hearted..."
"No, no!" It was rare to see the boy's composure gone, and the frantic outburst startled him. "Of course not, Zabuza san. Never... I'll gladly do whatever you require of me. I'm your weapon," he assured, "tell me to kill and I'll do it. I was simply...surprised." Haku was hiding his sorrow well, but it leaked through the cracks in his small voice. He stepped closer, tentatively, and knelt down beside his teacher and the near-corpse growing paler in his arms.
"This bothers you." Zabuza looked back to him again, careful not to let his gaze drop to her. It did, and stayed there– his grip on her neck, specifically.
"She was kind to me," Haku admitted, but put on a brave and flawlessly feigned smile. "But my loyalty is with you." Zabuza nodded, distracted by his own thoughts. "Besides," he was trying a bit too hard to sound cheery, "Kotone san died peacefully. Not like Mama...." he winced. That particular wound had yet to heal properly. It would never, really. Zabuza knew that all too well.
Perhaps he was going about this the wrong way. His instincts were good, and his capacity for murder greater still. No, he decided. It wasn't that he couldn't kill her... some part of him had simply realized it to be a bad idea. Ume Kotone was a member of the shichinin for a damn good reason. If it weren't so, he could have simply dealt with her when the need arose and not in the
pre-emptive fashion he'd chosen. If she fought him, he was uncertain of the outcome. A victory would be hard-won, besides, and would no doubt leave him too weak to win another battle. If she died now, the village would be missing one of its strongest come morning...
"Haku."
"Yes, Zabuza san?"
"Kotone's mask is at the house, correct?" The boy looked bewildered, but nodded and awaited an explanation. The village lights were fading as the night grew darker still. Nonetheless, Haku could see the disquieted expression across what showed of the other man's face. "Good. I want you to take it, destroy it, and join the others." Haku agreed immediately, but the puzzlement on his features justified elaboration. "Kotone isn't like I am," he began, taking a more secure hold of the lifeless girl, gingerly. Zabuza and Kijin were synonymous– two aspects if not simply two names for the same whole. Hikyuu was different; nothing but a mask and a hollow interior created to serve the village. Kotone hadn't changed when she'd taken up the alias– it was an alien set of values, characteristics and behaviours that the mask invoked. Kotone was possessed by a demon of her own creation. She shared her body with the Leopardess willingly, if only to please their Kage.
He hated it.
Kotone was also replaceable. Hikyuu existed only in the mask– it could be passed to another after her death. Aoyama Naoko would take up the role when Ume Kotone met oblivion, and no one would be the wiser; another would replace her in turn. Hikyuu was immortal as long as the mask could be inherited. If it was destroyed, Hikyuu would be given a face. Kotone was ridiculously stubborn and nothing if not strong-willed: the two could not exist simultaneously. If the infernal mask was destroyed, Kirigakure no Hikyuu died with it.
Haku scampered off to do as he'd been asked.
Zabuza pushed himself to his feet, holding her fast against his chest with one arm, the other in the crook of her knee, and took to his heels as though Enma O himself were chasing after.
Perhaps he was.
vvvvv
Haku ran a small hand over the polished surface, tracing the cat-like tear-track pattern of red from the eye and down the cheek curiously.
He bit down on the mutinous chill setting into the pit of his once-starved stomach. Zabuza san had taken Kotone san somewhere safe, for help. Of course she would be alright, and after tonight, she'd no longer be an enemy. Once Zabuza san's dreams were realized, they'd have nothing to fear from Kotone san. He wouldn't have to hide anymore.... That thought filled his heart near to bursting, and a smile spread across his round, young face.
Unless, of course, he failed. Zabuza san had warned him time and time again that he faced great peril; what awaited them if they were caught– torture, misery, death. He knew why they had a few days rations and supplies stashed away at strategic locations on the outskirts of the village. But Haku was happy. He'd gladly die for the man who'd given him a reason to live– his life was Zabuza san's to begin with.
Still, he found himself hesitating at the order, and hugged the supposedly demonic mask tightly, guiltily. Zabuza san always valued his ideas. Whatever you're thinking, spit it out. You have a good head on your shoulders, he'd told the boy whenever he hesitated with his opinion, you're clever– that's of use to me too. And Haku had just had an idea– a good idea–and Zabuza san was nowhere around. He would simply have to trust his own cleverness...
He didn't have to destroy the thing. Kotone san had, despite his teacher's warnings, become precious to him, and if he simply kept the mask from her it reached the same end. The mask could be of use, still. He would give it a new face.
The boy smiled at the thought of the fast approaching chance to prove his worth to Zabuza san, and the prospect of safety before flitting from their home to the place where they'd stored their supplies, and carefully– surreptitiously– tucked the mask into his pack.
vvvvvv
It wouldn't do to let her die, he assured himself. She was valuable; of use still and no threat to his aims. When morning came, their kage would be gone. Kotone was not the type for vain loyalty; she'd have no allegiance to a dead master. It was worth it of only to see the look on her face, he decided, as pines and birches whizzed past. The expression when she found the man she'd been so faithful to cut down while she'd been powerless to stop it. She couldn't die now. He hadn't had a chance to gloat yet. He made the mistake of glancing down again.
She would never forgive him for this.
Zabuza could count the number of people who'd met his eye as though he were a human being on one hand. Haku, Shinju, Hatsuka, Misao...Mama, when she had been herself enough to recognize him as her son. Misao had seen him as nothing but the inevitable product of their culture; something to be observed, and perhaps even pitied. Shinju was the same to a lesser extent; Hatsuka, however warily, had indeed had a certain esteem for his skill as a captain at the very least. Haku.... He didn't know the right word to describe Haku's attachment to him: a kind of unmerited adoration, he supposed, though he'd done nothing to earn it, or imply that it mattered to him.
Kotone, however, was unique in a way he'd always been grateful for. When he snapped at her, ignored her, even hurt her, she'd always glared back. She never discredited his misdeeds as the result of insanity, a demonic nature or even ignore them completely as Haku did. She'd always met his eyes accusingly, and held him accountable for his actions. Zabuza was imperfect, and far from blameless. He was, in her mind, ultimately in control of himself, and his actions- not a slave to madness or the diabolical.
The sound of his feet as he flew over the icy ground changed as the forest faded into street. He was faster now than he had been the last time he had needed a medic. He could make it to the village's hospital in time, he assured himself, ignoring the odd tightness in his chest. Not that it mattered wether he made it in time. It was preferable that she live, but if she died, so be it. Nothing would change. He pondered that for a moment.
Fourteen years, day in, day out, she'd been with him in some way or another. There was always a bit of a shock when he reminded himself suddenly that she was against him– he found himself naturally incorporating her into his plans. Whatever it was he felt for her, if it was anything at all, she was familiar at the very least; a part of everyday life; a constant. One of the few such things he could rely on.
In the heat of their argument, she'd allowed herself a rare lapse in composure and self-restraint. She'd let something slip. Because I- Did she think him a fool? She'd stopped herself, yes, but he knew full well what she had been about to say; what only a decade and a half of training prevented her from saying. What else would she feel was better unsaid? What one simple, destructive phrase was to be avoided at the cost of her very life?
They were ninja– there was only one such sentiment.
He couldn't say he felt the same way. He couldn't say he felt at all, but though he did, to some extent; not completely. Truth be told, he was never really sure what he felt if he did indeed feel. Emotions were intangible, and volatile and difficult to comprehend. Kotone was an expert in the appearance of feeling– she read sentiments and feeling as some read words on a page– but Kotone read as indifferent schoolchildren drone aloud from dry texts. She could interpret and understand the behaviours of the guilty, the bereaved, the wrathful, without knowing the actual feeling within herself. It was alien to her, and she could give it no name or proper response short of pretending it wasn't there. Perhaps he was the same way, in reverse. He recognized the feeling, but not the cause or the name for it. He knew it was there, and simply chose to ignore it, as it best suited him.
It was something unsettling; an attachment, he supposed. His insides had gone cold now, as he held the dead weight closer to him and drove his feet faster. He had enjoyed her company, though he couldn't imagine why. She was reckless and incredibly stupid for someone so bright. She had no sense of self-preservation, or common sense to be spoken of. Tenacity, though, yes she had that in excess. Tenacity and loyalty.... blind, senseless and foolish though it might be. It bothered him when she put herself in danger with her carelessness, or submit so gladly to their bastard-leaders demands, or the times she returned from an assignment quiet– the early mornings that found her unable to meet his eye, and showering long after the water had grown unbearably cold. He found himself missing her annoyances, and found his attention drifting from whatever work he'd busied himself to the few sounds she allowed herself; a sigh, a yawn, the shift of fabric as she moved or the click of her sharpened nails being drummed impatiently against a tabletop; or watched, unnoticed, as she in turn watched Haku recite the words of a novel that she couldn't read.
If that was a sentiment, it would have to go nameless.
He turned to push through the hospital doors with his back, refusing to sacrifice his speed, and startled the small woman carrying boxes of supplies towards a stairwell. Shinju's eyes went wide, and the cartons of gloves and surgical masks clattered hollowly to the ground. "What happened?" She demanded, and Zabuza found himself caught off guard. His mind was playing tricks on him– it was the stress of the battle he knew to be imminent, he suspected– and he hadn't noticed her move. Shinju had seemed to simply appear beside him.
"I found her this way," he lied.
"Set her down," the medic ordered anxiously, thin black eyebrows knitting, round, grey eyes troubled with concern. He didn't like this place. He'd never liked it. Though the huge, dark, concrete space was less intimidating to his now adult height, the smell of charred flesh would always follow him here; charred flesh and antiseptic, and dirty, rainwater soaked hair. He moved to the side of the room, and the same unforgiving wooden benches set there for concerned families and nervous patients, and set her down.
There was a twinge of something familiar and still unknown in his chest. Here she was again, eyes closed, oblivious to the mutt, the demon boy- no, man- watching her with that same aversion and fascination; as though any minute, the man who'd brought him to this accursed place would pull him away again, mocking.
"She's cute, eh? You're a lucky boy." A cruel, knowing laugh; the true malice of which he'd only learn three years later. "That one'll probably be teamed up with you. Last-minute street brats, an all."
"Zabuza senpai," she looked at him apologetically and shook her head. "There's no pulse." The demon furrowed his brow and pressed his ear to the exanimate kunoichi's chest– nothing. "I'm sorry," the medic said more softly– regretfully, "but she's dead; there's nothing I can do for her."
Zabuza shook his head. "Her heart can be started again. I know it can be done."
"Only for a short time..."
"She's still warm," he insisted, neglecting what he knew to be the rational corse of action: agree, leave, meet the others. "It can't have been long. She was breathing when I found her."
Shinju sighed, and her eyes flickered from the pale not-quite corpse to his eyes, and she bit her lip. "I've been working all day, and a great deal of my chakra is spent. I can't hold out long on my own. It's late; only my mother and I are on duty tonight. She should be down that hallway– go get her. I'll do what I can for Kotone...I....I'll try."
He followed his ears, straining for the sound of able footsteps over the beeping of machines and the groans of the sick and injured. Kasumi San was to be found up a flight of stairs, and down a hallway that seemed to grow as he ran, tending to an academy student who had lost an eye. Hiraku, Zabuza noted, took after his mother. "A kunoichi was poisoned." He said without introduction and without meeting her sea-green eyes. "No breathing, no pulse. Shinju needs assistance." The older medic had already finished with the wounded boy, and darted away before he had a chance to finish his clipped message. Though rarely used in battle, he learned, a jonin level medical ninja could jump a flight of stairs to save time, land unscathed, and keep running.
He lingered, watching the face of the one-eyed child contort in fear as he realized what it was standing in the doorway to the children's ward. Not who... no, he couldn't know who, but Zabuza remembered full well the sheer presence an elite ninja possessed. He grimaced behind his bandages, and turned wordlessly back down the hall. There was no one in the waiting room when he reached it.
He'd done all he could. She would be alright. What use was Shinju's expertise? Shinju knew how to treat humans; Kotone was– had made herself– something more than that; or perhaps something less. Kotone had no regard for what was, and was not "possible;" she didn't abide by it. She would live, but he was of no help; there was no use staying here, but he did. Zabuza lingered. He paced, and circled the empty room, letting his feet fall heavily to make dulled, clunky echoes fill the room, if only to distract himself.
There was no use being here. He could do nothing for her, but couldn't leave. The place kept him spellbound, and he kept glancing back to the spot he swore he saw a girl, asleep, out of the corner of his eye. Of course, there was nothing but his footfalls there with him.
"You're still here." He was as surprised as Shinju was when she returned. The medic was spent, and weary, and dismal. Zabuza said nothing, but watched the smaller ninja– if shinju could be called a ninja– warily. "We managed to get her heart going." There was no trace of triumph or satisfaction in the medic's voice, and the tightness in his chest constricted further. "We've done all we can for now. She's alive, but barely. There's no guarantee her heart won't stop again. In fact, there's almost no chance it won't."
She sighed, and in a familiar gesture, pushed her straight, jet black hair behind her ear. "Mother's been a medic for a long time. She's treated a great many people... she says this was familiar."
"Hn,"
"It was twenty years ago," the medic recited, watching him. "A jonin– a tracker, I think– ran in here are quickly as his legs would allow. His lover had stopped breathing. She had been ill for a long time... It was treatable, but she refused. She was pregnant, and the medication would kill the baby." Zabuza tensed, and narrowed his eyes, but listened intently. "The man was called away on a mission... Mother says he rushed back as quickly as he could, but...." Shinju shook her head. "She died."
"And the child?" He asked, watching the fluorescent circles of light reflected from the ceiling in the mottled concrete floor.
"Cut from her post mortem. Half-dead and much too early. But.... they managed to keep it alive." Shinju said, wincing a smile. "Until now, anyways."
The silence was deafening, and he found himself forming words if only to break it. He only realized what it was he'd said when he heard it pass from his lips. "I want to see her."
"You can't." He was taken aback by the refusal. He'd said it unthinkingly, but now that he'd gotten the idea in his head, being denied didn't sit well with him. "You don't want to....trust me, it isn't pretty." He'd seen her torn to pieces and bleeding herself out across an entire clearing. He fidgeted at the thought of whatever could top that. Shinju's expression changed, and her smile faltered. "Besides, how do I know you won't simply try and finish the job you started?"
"I don't know what you're talking about." He spat back too quickly.
Shinju's features twisted into an accusing frown. "Ume Kotone would never take her own life. It isn't her own. Her life belongs to Mizukage Sama, after all." Her tone was more bitter than suited her. "That leaves only you." The demon's eyes narrowed dangerously at the accusation, and he growled low in his throat. "I suppose that mean now's the time, then."
"How did you....?" His eyes widened, and his stomach knotted. Of course. "Misao."
Shinju nodded. "Someone had to lead us after Senpai died. He chose me as his sucessor." Us... the other group of traitors. Kasumi Shinju was leading the other group of rebels. It was perfect: who could suspect the village joke?
Zabuza sneered, and crossed his arms over his chest. "You?" he taunted. "The old man was clearly losing his sense. You're useless." And then, she was gone.
"I'm stronger than you think." Came her voice, from behind him. " I don't employ all my talents..." she said from the doorway, "that doesn't mean I have none." she finished, back before him. He'd never seen her move. Not even Kotone was that fast– no one was, unless....
"Ah.... so that's how it is." Her round, normally gentle and now horrifically familiar eyes met his unwaveringly. She nodded. "What is it you want?"
"Don't act," she answered quickly. "At least, not now. I can't begrudge you your aims, but you're going about this all the wrong way. You can hack our kage into as many pieces as you like, nothing will change. Bloodshed begets more bloodshed. Who's to say you wouldn't be every bit the monster Hachidaime was?" Shinju explained. She meant to rally every civilian and ninja who'd listen. If everyone stopped fearing the kage, and tolerating oppression, she insisted, things could change. "Join us. Misao had always wanted to combine our initiatives. He'd meant to add your group to ours."
Zabuza's hands clenched into fists. It was no mystery how he'd hoped to reach him; how he'd hoped to convince the demon to his side. He'd meant to convince someone else, first. Someone who could perhaps sway him, in turn.
So he was to be pitied, observed and used, then? Zabuza sneered. He would have none of this. The ambitions of a dead old man were not his concern– only his own, and now was the time.
He turned on his heel, and left without another word, ignoring when she called after him.
Things were clearer in the darkness. The mist that curled along his ankles by day had dissolved, and left the road sharper. The sky, however, remained hazy. It was a peaceful night– unfitting but convenient– and the villagers dreamt peacefully, unaware of the demon prowling the streets below them with murder on his mind, and a taste for blood on his lips. They had nothng to fear, though. He had only one quarry in mind. Not yet, he's told himself again, and again as he choked back his hatred. Yes, he thought finally, now.
He started for the meeting place, breathing deeply to center his resolve, and exterminate the one distraction that plagued him. Whatever Shinju was, he was sure he could sneak past. How long would it take to find a dying– no, he reminded himself, a simply incapacitated– woman in that hospital? And then what? It shouldn't– didn't– matter in the slightest. What was he going to do? Sit with her? Hold her hand? Whisper soft apologies and reassurances to a girl who couldn't hear him? He scoffed. No, it wasn't in his nature to be.... compassionate, or warm. The very idea was absurd.
Anything he might have to say, he would have plenty of opportunity to say in good time. He had no need for final words, or farewells. He would succeed, and she would recover.
He'd had.... thoughts, of course. Things he'd considered, and promptly abandoned for the sake of his goals. He could not deny a certain attachment to the kunoichi that he couldn't quite label decisively. He'd grown far too close to her, and that was problematic; a mistake he'd sworn not to repeat a second time, and had taken the necessary steps to distance himself from Haku from the very beginning. He was failing, and he knew it.
He'd withdrawn from human companionship for the sake of his dreams. Come morning, with his plans set in action and ambition realized, Zabuza could finally allow himself a tiny bit of hard-earned weakness. He knew he hadn't the ability or practice to properly convey whatever it was he felt, but he could try. He could try to earn her forgiveness, or whatever fondness she may have had for him...Haku would be free to do as he liked, and safe under Zabuza's protection. They'd been– well, he was hesitant to say 'happy,' but content, once. Perhaps...
No– it was a fool's paradise he was envisioning. When the land of Water finally was his to correct, his life would be more restricted than ever. Duty to his country and the constant threat of being overthrown in turn would consume all. He'd need to be more steadfast than ever. To drop his guard would be disastrous. Human weakness would destroy him more quickly after daybreak than it ever would have before now.
If ever there'd been a time for frailty, it had long passed.
vvvvvvv
This time, thee body he carried was considerably lighter as he flew over the frozen ground.
Haku's eyelids flickered open and shut as he, and the two men trailing behind him, fled the infuriated shinobi they could no longer see, but knew would still be pursing them doggedly. The handful of others who had survived had broken off earlier in a different direction, and the two near-identical men still eyeing their leader incredulously were close to the point where they too were to break off from the group, and head for their own stash of supplies and hideaway.
The brothers, as well as the rest of the Demon's followers, had been dumbfounded to see their leader take flight, barking an order that had never before passed his lips– retreat.
He didn't understand it himself, and the frantic beating of his regretfully real heart against his chest had only begun to relent. It had gone all too well... the others fended the surprised guards and coincidental late-workers near effortlessly, and his prey had been alone and off guard in his office despite the late hour– or so he had thought.
The kage had only smiled as Zabuza drew his weapon, and his gloating died on his lips the moment the other man met his had stood, and approached the transfixed traitor leisurely, until they were face to face.
An oddity finally occurred to him, as he stared into crimson eyes, filled near to bursting with a nameless, groundless dread that locked his knees and his stomach churned rebelliously, threatening sudden, untidy illness. He had known nothing of terror until now. There was no precedent for the bizarre and unexplainable fear that had taken hold of his once unshakeably will.
His eyes.... his entire face.... Zabuza had never seen it before. It was a stranger staring him down with those terrible, inhuman eyes. It was a foreigner.
"You've never seen a real demon, have you?" The man– the younger man's brain was screaming an explanation but the panic didn't allow him to cipherit– looked only mildly irritated. "I have. They level cities and being entier nations to their knees. But you? You're nothing to that. Demon– hah!" The black haired man sighed. "I could kill you," he admitted, "but you could serve a purpose yet; a distraction..." The stranger who was Hachidaime's lips curved into a cruel smile. "Run."
And he had. Without sense or explanation he had taken to his heels on the fear's momentum.
It was the boy's talents that saved them. With a burst of chakra that had left him half-dead, Haku had frozen the main and most convenient exit to the building closed in a sheet of ice that would take days to thaw.
Gozu and Meizu shot him a final skeptical look before veering off to the left, into the forest, the sound of their chains rattling behind them fading as they disappeared between the spruces. Their own cache of supplies and equipment was a bit further along. The things he had never really intended to resort to... In a few days, when things had begun to calm down, they would rendezvous with the rest of the group, and leave the Land of Water. Temporarily, he assured himself. They were alive, and he now knew what it was he had fallen prey to.
The Sharingan; a dojutsu from across the sea, the pride of Konohagakure no sato. 'Mizukage sama' was an Uchiha, and a powerful one at that. The skill needed to cast a genjutsu capable of completely eradicating his face from the memory of all who saw him without alerting them to the trick...? But no matter– Zabuza would find some way around the Kekkei Genkai...
Once he determined how to defeat the Sharingan, he would return, and he would succeed.
He would succeed then, yes, but this had been a failure of the highest degree. The culmination of his ambitions– the years of hard work, and toil, and skulking, and self deprivation finally put to use... and he had fled with his tail between his legs.
"Zabuza san...?" The boy stirred in his arms, and glanced sleepily at their surroundings; the firs and birches whizzing by at an incredible speed. The older man grunted to indicate having heard, slowing and halting as they reached the stashed supplies. "Is Kotone san going to be angry with us?"
Zabuza glanced down at the child, before shaking his head and setting the boy down. They would be safe here, for the night. "No, Haku. She won't."
It wasn't a lie. There was no longer a Kotone to be angry. She was dead or dying-- there was no use pretending otherwise.
Haku smiled, as he ran to his small, well-stocked backpack. "What happened, Zabuza san?" Haku was sharp, and Zabuza wasted no time in explaining what had passed before their flight. The boy proved remarkably insightful, and could perhaps make something of the story that Zabuza himself had missed, or failed to consider.
Haku listened intently, nodding, as he dug his blankets from the pack, and giggled to himself as he re-buried his stolen treasure at the bottom of the bag. Best not to let Zabuza know about the mask until he had a chance to give it a new face.
Hopefully, Kotone san would be alright without it until they returned.
Kotone's entire character was sparked by one line in the wave country arc. "I have fond memories of this mask." I heard that, and figured they'd explain it, but they never did. Which left Ren all, lolwhut? O.o I hadn't thought it was Zabuza's, which meant he must have stolen it from someone he'd killed, right? But like... Haku hated killing people. So.... 'fond memories...?' How was that possible? I mean, what ninja would have been close enough to Zabuza to know the bloodline user he was harbouring...? Which got me thinking... xDDD;; And here, we have the reault.
Again, I'll shut up now. I hope you liked it! Please review, and have a great day 8D
Oh gosh, I'm so nervous about this chapter XD;;;;