Searing pain in the nape of her neck, flash of white light. Like something biting her, sinking it's burning fangs into the cartilage of her esophagus. She falls to the floorboards of her apartment, knocked back, onto her knees, by the pain, like a solid block of pain in her neck. Grabbing the spot, like she is choking herself, she applies pressurized chakra. Gritting her teeth, she refuses to let out a single noise. She refuses to lose the silence of being a Shinobi. If he takes that from her, he wins. That's why, part of why, she failed the ANBU exams. And that's why they won't promote her to elite Jonin, and why they won't let her lead a team of Genin, and why they try to keep her in the village at all times. It's why the Foundation is always following her, and why - Uagh!
A noise comes out, from the back of her throat. By accident. Just a small, grunting noise. A pained noise. He won. He took it from her. Then, the pain stops. Everything is calm, easy. An endorphin release, actual joy. As she lies there on her back, on the floorboards, the knots of wood pressing into her spine, staring up at the rafters, the dust hanging in beams from the windows. All this quiet, the quiet of her small apartment. What did he want? To dominate her? To prove to her he could do this? Force her to the floor, force a noise from her throat, force her to give up again? Then, release, forgiveness. He is cruel, he is criminal. Salacious in his sadism.
Pushing herself off the floor, the mark on her neck pulsating, tingling, tickling, she stands shakily up. Straightens herself out, her mesh-tank, her flexing muscles, the tool of her body, like a mechanical thing, she is, like a piece of metal, forged, beaten into shape, into utility. This is what it means to be Shinobi. To be one who endures. To be cursed like this, by the pale snake, by villainy. She swears at him. A loud, full cuss. In the dark of her mind, she hears his silvery laughter.
Then, the kitchenette. Pot of water, flicker of the stove-top. Tea-ball, jasmine. She opens the fridge, searches. All that emptiness, the empty shelves. A sheeve of wilted lettuce, a half-bottle of mayonnaise. Fine, fine. She'll go out. Later, she'll go out. After tea. She opens a drawer, a cabinet, pulls a bottle of calcified honey, unscrews the cap, smells it.
The mark still sizzles, like embers, like something murmuring. What is he doing? Ibiki, he thought they could use the mark against him. That, maybe, they could spy on him through her. For weeks the Intel Squad roamed around her mind. They had her strapped to a - like an MRI machine, she was inside of. Just her head poking out. She was like that for weeks. Sweating, stinking inside the machine. They fed her with spoons. They let her relieve herself into a basin, inside the machine. They had it built into the damn thing. And they probed her mind. They scoured every bit of memory, every lost aspiration, every tender moment. There were no secrets, then. After that. She was opened, she was flayed. Like a mental vivisection. Then - then they published their findings. Leaving out only state secrets. The entire ANBU read the dossier, the entire Jonin Council, and the Hokage. They all read it. They all know the deepest parts of her. Fuck you, Ibiki, Inoichi. Fuck you both. It all came to nothing. The curse mark, it's a one-way window. He can see her, she can't see him. The perfect jutsu.
The water boils, she turns off the stove, pours the steaming water into a coffee mug, drops the tea-ball inside, watches it bob and sink, watches the water turn cloudy brown, the tiny flecks of tea-leaves escaping the sieve of the ball, whirling around inside the mug. Her stomach tightens, grumbles. Shuttup, she says. Then, it burns again. It flickers, she feels a small arc of chakra. His chakra, inside of her. Always inside of her. Such dark, malicious chakra. No. Not dark. White. Pale. Diseased. He is sick, in the mind, yes, but also in his body? Something is happening to him. Something good is happening. He won something? He gained something. No. No she cannot know. It's all in her head. Of course she can know. It's her right to know. No, not her right. Her privilege. The men always pretend the women don't know them, can't know them in the warrior way - but she knows him, she knows him well, she knows his blood, his anger, his tenderness, and his code of honor, a sick snake honor but honor nonetheless. She knows him like the men know each-other. Like comrades, like - The curse mark settles, fluctuates. This curse of his. This black seal on her neck, like a tattoo, like an knot. This burning, ceaseless thing. His eyes staring at her, always. Watching, observing. They say, the Third says, it reacts to his emotions, to his chakra, to his torment. She agrees with that assessment. He is giddy. He is pleased. It's almost sexual, what he's feeling. He's laughing, his cackling silver laugh. His long pale white hands. The purple marks around his eyes. The way he moves his body, like he is a rubber skeleton. God, it hurts. Not the curse mark, her gut. Clenching, pressure, metallic. Like she's been stabbed. Hunger, gnawing. Another symptom. The curse mark, it sucks her dry, it takes her energy, it feeds off her like a parasite. Her metabolism is the most wild in the whole village. The doctors told her she has to eat like the pregnant women do, always, forever, until she dies or until they find a cure. The curse takes her calories, absorbs her chakra fat. She has to eat, or she'll die, she'll wither, she'll get dizzy and fall down. It's another reason they don't like sending her on missions. She can't take food pills, the curse absorbs it all. They'd have to send a cook with her, on long missions. No - they keep her nearby, in the forests surrounding the village, in the Fire Country itself, close to the center. Fuck them. Fuck the Hokage - no. No. Guilt, shame, falls through her like drapery. It was him, she's sure. Saying that, it was him, it must have been him that thought that thought.
She sips the tea. It burns. It feels good that it burns. Her lips, scalded. Her tongue, steaming. Her throat, on fire. It feels good. The inside of her mouth, seared, peeling away. All those gums, all that soft pink flesh - destroy it with boiling water. Why not. Why not. It feels good. The pain feels good. The curse mark, it simpers. She can feel it, like a tiny smile in her neck, like a smirking thing. She slaps herself, on the neck. It hurts, it feels good that it hurts. Dango. Please. She begs for it. She sets the tea on the counter, whisks her coat on, and leaves her apartment through the window. Then, the open air. Rooftops, ledges. Wind, specks of dust. Alleyways below her. Streets, people. Pedestrians, glancing up at her. She is a ninja, a blur, a dash of lines. In a few minutes, she's there, at the sweets shop. The swinging front door, the bell dinging, the counter with it's glass top. Hello, the girl says, the girl who's always behind the counter, with her little white cap, her big white sleeves. Dango, again? Anko nods, smiles, laughs behind her smile, behind her little fang, whipping her bangs out of her face - Yes, dango again, please, yes.