Chapter One: Face of Black and White
The air was thick with dust and acrid sweat; a group of five wandered the halls time had left to rot. Three archaeologists, a ninja, and one journalist squeezed through narrow tunnels and tight corridors, large filtered masks and thick eye protection keeping them safe from whatever mold or bacteria floated within the thick plumes of dust. Everything not directly in the murky beams of their flashlights was little more than a single smear of black, clouded with dust, haunting its disturbed grave.
The group had entered the tomb through a hidden entrance in a nearby hill. The natives had been generous with information, though their words were laced with concern. Alongside the totems around their necks, the village shaman had encouraged the men to pray to the Buddha for strength every night before going to sleep, going so far as to hand them mantras to recite while in meditation. A nice thought, and they had accepted the things and advice humbly, but none of them were all that spiritual in the first place.
They had expected to encounter some obstacles and challenges, but the trip had gone smoothly—not a single hitch anywhere. They had not, however, anticipated the sheer size and complexity of the site.
The tomb was like a maze, full of snaking twists and bends, ups and downs, and dead ends. It was also unbearably humid. They had to be careful not to touch anything that looked suspicious or out of place; strange noises and whispers plagued their subconscious, as if the tomb was alive and aware of their presence. They pressed on regardless.
The five men had been exploring for hours, sometimes splitting up to cover more ground before regrouping later to share their findings. They had found a dozen different chambers, each with different themes and decorations. One found a room filled with statues and paintings depicting scenes from a civilization's long-lost history and culture. Another person discovered a room filled with bones and skulls, suggesting that these people had practiced primitive rituals involving animal sacrifice, while another room had been decorated with corroded sculptures of explicit sexual acts and murals celebrating what looked to be orgies, possibly to venerate some fertility god or goddess.
Speckled throughout all of these locations were treasures and jewels, alluring souvenirs free for the taking, but they had resisted the temptation. They were not simple grave robbers, ruining history for a cheap payday; they were scholars, hoping to shine a light on the ancient past.
And eventually, they came upon the true crown jewel.
The group had reached the end of a stone staircase, where heavy wooden doors blocked their way, decorated with strange figures and odd symbols that might have once been a language. With the might of all five, they pushed the door, slowly opening with a loud creak.
As they eagerly entered the room, the men gasped at what they saw. The room was huge, almost like a cathedral, with a high ceiling and a domed roof. Everywhere one of the five wandering flashlights aimed, molded paintings and eroded carvings were revealed, depicting scenes of war and peace, life and death, glory and doom. No light on the floor was free of colorful stones and glass, forming intricate patterns and mosaics. The air was filled with a strange aroma—a mixture of incense and decay—potent enough to punch through the industrial masks they wore.
Their flashlights all converged on the sarcophagus in the center, its solid gold gleaming under the dusty beams. It was six feet long and four feet wide, a perfect fit for a human body. The lid was encrusted with jewels and gems, and more of the strange language At its center was a puzzling symbol, about the size of a man's palm flat, unlike anything else in the tomb: a paradoxical face, half black and white, half smiling and frowning, despair and jubilation in equal measure.
Fingers trembling, the five explorers approached the sarcophagus, their hearts pounding in their chests and choking any words dead. Awe and reverence mingled with a growing sense of unease. What secrets did this ancient tomb hold? What dangers might lie within?
As it stands, they have decided to wait. Next week would be the time, with all the equipment, tools, and helpers they could need; the anticipation was anxiety-inducing but worth it. It's not like any of them had the tools or strength to even open the sarcophagus in the first place. This early into the find, jutsus were out of the question; just one misplaced or mistimed ninja art could result in a cave-in of the entire sight. Daimaru and the ninja Daichi were the only ones left behind at the camp, waiting for their partners to gather tools and hire men to help with the excavation of this tomb.
Daimaru was a journalist first and foremost; he had worked for every major nation at one point or another, doing investigations for both ninja and civilians, even daimyo. Just as many people hated him as they loved him, for he was the eyes of the layman, exposing everything from corrupt businessmen to ninjas breaking conducts of war. He had been on the ground during the Fourth Great Ninja War, documenting battlefield after battlefield and making sure that the public knew of the heroics the Allied Forces portrayed at every battle.
Now, in a more stable time, he found himself with more time to experiment with his work. So, when his own paper was issuing an ad for a remembrancer for a journey in the Land of Demons to chronicle their journey in discovering a hidden tomb of a lost people, he jumped on it before the ad was even officially printed.
Now here he was, two months later, in his tent lined with red light, developing the hundreds of photos he'd taken of the sight. For what seemed like the first time in his life, he was not developing pictures of conflict, starvation, or corruption; he was archiving the past for the future. Daichi, growing bored in his role as hired muscle and bodyguard, had developed a sour mood over the past couple of days, so Daimaru was happy to hold in his tent for hours on end, not only developing the photos but meticulously labeling and sorting them.
As his eighth hour passed on the sixth day, with a fresh dinner in his stomach, he noticed something. As his latest photo sharpened in his tub of water, a black-and-white rendition of the sarcophagus, something didn't seem right. With tongs, he carefully lifted the still-wet photo from the water bath, bringing it as close to his face as he could, honing in on an inconsistency.
That's odd, he thought. His time in the tomb was vivid in his mind; it is not even a week old now. That symbol they had found, the one on the coffin, he could have sworn had been divided into the smiling white and the frowning black, yet here, in this image, the mouths were connected in one large, predatory smile.
Hmm, was his memory playing tricks on him?
Bleeding hands gripped rocks. The figure scaled the sheer cliff, fighting back against the relentless heat of the sun beating down on his back. Rushing air was unbelievably loud and stinging on his skin as he clung to the side of a high peak.
Fingernails bled, white-knuckled strength adhering Naruto to the makeshift ledges as best he could. Climbing. He had never been one to partake in that past time, but he had the basics down thanks to the simple blessing of being a ninja. It was the one thing keeping him alive right now. His ankle was hurt—sprained most likely but possibly broken as well; he could tell just by the pain. His dutiful chakra was in the process of healing it, thankfully, but still, the pain of mending muscle fibers was enough to keep him off his feet under normal circumstances until it was over. He didn't have that luxury right now, even if, by pressing onward, he prolonged the process and thus the pain.
He pulled himself up, ever up. There were no thoughts but immediate problems; there was no room for worry, questioning, or doubt. He struggled to find a purchase, so he kicked off his shoes. His baggy shirt snagged on a piece of sharp rock, so he ripped it off. When he got to a point where his left hand had nothing to grab onto, he scratched, moving around randomly for minutes until a tiny patch of loose dirt was found and he could dig himself leverage. By the end of the ordeal, several fingernails were loose, lifted, and bloody. He pressed on.
Time passed—how much he couldn't begin to estimate—but Naruto managed to pull himself to solid ground. He flopped to the grassy ground exhausted, now shirtless, sweaty, and short of breath, his muscles stinging with that acidic burn of overexertion.
A man was already at the top, resting away from the ledge under the shade of a big tree. The patterned cloth he sat on was decorated with an assortment of foods and drinks fit for an overachieving camping party.
"I did it!" Naruto mumbled with a dry wheeze. "Told 'ya!"
The elder raised a small porcelain cup of sake. "Congratulations!" His booming voice was even deadpan. "Let me contain my excitement." He chugged his drink. Jiraiya was a wide man, well built with muscle, though it was hard to tell with his clothing so loose. His wild mane of white hair was voluminous, even when tied back into a tail reaching his waist.
"'Y'a laughed at me, welp, who's laughing now!" His splayed body didn't move. Sometimes, Naruto wished that he could be more bendable, but no, when he says he's gonna do something he has to do it, even if that thing is climbing a cliff face because of a lost bet.
"Oh, I'm still laughing at you; now it's just for a different reason." Jiraiya tossed a chicken karaage into his wide mouth. "If you want a standing ovation, it's gonna have to wait until lunch is over."
His reply was broken by raspy breathing. "You...suck...pervy sage," he panted, his chest heaving.
A toad suddenly plopped onto Naruto's chest, but he couldn't say from where. The thing was barely big enough to fit in his palm, a scroll larger than it tied to its back. On it was the emblem of the Hokage, painted in bold, thick ink. With a stubborn groan and shaking fingers, he took the message and sent the toad on its way. After a few hops, it poofed away in a cloud of smoke.
"Tsunade wants something?" Jiraiya casually slung out the question with a mouth full of food.
Naruto was properly sitting on the grass now, reading the unfurled scroll with full attention. He sighed. "Yeah, apparently some important guy wants protection, and she wants the council to convene about it."
Jiraiya swallowed the last of his food. "Wow, it's pretty rare for any client to get the red carpet treatment from the council. When does she want you?"
Naruto reads a few extra lines. His back stiffened, and his lips pursed. He slowly turned his head towards his sensei, his blue eyes wide with worry. "F-five minutes ago…"
There was a pause. Then the sannin gave a hearty laugh. "Oh, you are so screwed! Hahahah!"
…
There was something nice about lazy days, and it was even nicer when all the cleaning was done. Hinata had a day off and nothing to do—a recipe for the perfect day to spend with loved ones. One was here, snuggled up with her on the couch; the other was off with his godfather—or, so the note said, at least. While she appreciated Naruto trying not to wake them up, some things she just preferred to be said in person.
Still, she had Haku to snuggle with, and while it was different from Naruto's body, it certainly wasn't a downgrade. They had gotten an extra-large couch just to fit the three of them, fitting the two of them comfortably with plenty of room to spare, even with limbs intertwined.
Hinata is a nurturing, motherly soul by nature. Her voluminous hair was free to fall over her shoulders, spilling down the muted pink shirt and ending just before the ankle-length skirt. She was a delicate wallflower in appearance, and her mild-mannered personality gave an unsuspecting eye the impression that she was harmless. However, those who knew Hinata well were aware of the hidden depths of her personality: the fierce intelligence and determination obscured by a delicate smile, and with powers comparable to both Naruto and Haku, this Hyuga was far more than she seemed on the surface.
She was currently a blanket over Haku, her arms holding his back to her chest as they lazily watched the TV. Between Naruto's duties as one of the Hokage advisors and being head of the Anbu, his free time was horribly inconsistent. Haku was his second in command, known throughout the ninja world as the Winter General, a moniker he earned last year during the Fourth Great Ninja War.
Haku was an androgynous beauty with a face disarmingly delicate and a soul sweeter than honey. His long but neatly kept hair was tied back into a satin ponytail slung over his shoulder, roping down the cherry blossom tree stitched into his pink kimono. Haku's preference for crossdressing dumbfounded many men and women alike; the revelation that the pretty little thing in the shorts or a skirt was a man always caused the most hilarious reactions. Jiraiya himself had been fooled on their first meeting; a very clever yet devious trick, he had admitted to them.
Fingers lazily trailed against Haku's stomach, underneath the fabric of his soft kimono. The ticklish sensation caused him to giggle. "If you're bored, you can change the channel." He held up the remote above them.
"Why do you think I'm bored?" She kissed his cheek; it was amazing how soft his skin was.
"I don't know," he mumbled, now slightly embarrassed. "It just seems like you have idle hands, that's all."
Hinata laughed against his shoulder. "I'm not touching you out of boredom, silly. I'm touching you because I want to." To emphasize her point, she placed a kiss on his neck.
Haku was such a shy thing. His reputation as one of the most feared ninja in the Leaf belied his golden heart and soft demeanor. To Hinata and Naruto, it was amazing how someone so strong could still be so fragile with the right people around. Of course, the exact nature of their relationship put some amount of anxiety on his shoulders as well; when they officially moved in together, the rumor mill turned in the village, but as of right now, only the people closest to Naruto knew the truth about the three of them.
The front door suddenly burst open, startling the two on the couch. A blur of color rushed past them, knocking over a candle in its wake. The door didn't even shut.
"Naru, what's going on?" Haku called out, but the man didn't answer. It was obviously Naruto, and it sounded like he was in the master bedroom, judging from the stomps overhead. This was a good, quality house, so for them to hear footsteps from above meant he was really rushing it.
He shouted from their room. "Meeting!" Haku and Hinata gave each other a confused look. "Was having lunch with pervy sage when I got the message. Where's my damn belt—oh, there it is!"
In under two minutes, he was already back down the stairs, his footsteps echoing on the hardwood floor. His fancy, formal attire is a wrinkled mess still in the process of being put on. He ran right past the two cuddling on the couch.
Hinata pouted. "Hey! Don't we even get a kiss goodbye?"
"Running late as it is—bye!" Their front door slammed shut.
Haku and Hinata could only look at each other for a brief second before breaking into fits of laughter. He had screamed for his belt, but the doofus didn't even have it on.
Daichi ran as fast as he could, but the walls seemed to shift and bend with every step. He felt like he was trapped in a nightmare, a psychedelic, distorted version of his home. Reality itself turned kaleidoscopic, with broken edges and cracked distortions like horrifying mirrors.
He had no idea what was chasing him or why. He only knew that it wanted him dead. He had seen glimpses of it—a collection of light fractals in the loose shape of a figure that moved with unnatural speed and grace. But all he could ever see was its mask, black and white, both frowning and smiling. A mask that mocked his fear and pain, his happiness and pleasure.
He stumbled into the kitchen, hoping to find a weapon or a way out, but it was no longer familiar. The cabinets were twisted and warped; the appliances were melted and fused into homogenous parodies; and the floor was now covered with sharp shards of glass and metal alike. He felt something cut his foot but ignored the pain. He had to keep moving.
He lunged for the knife block, but before he could reach it, the biggest knife was suddenly flung out, embedding itself in the wall behind him. He spun around, his heart in his throat. The figure was standing in the doorway, its eyes glowing red. It tilted its head, as if amused by his futile attempt.
He backed away, his eyes darting around the room, searching for an escape. But there was none. The windows were sealed shut, the door was locked, and the vents were too small. He was trapped. He could see the freedom teased by the night sky, but the word itself was stopping him from reaching it. He felt a surge of panic rising in his chest, and he let out a scream.
He burst into the living room, his heart pounding in his ears. He scanned the room, but there was no place to hide. The couch was gutted open, and the TV was now smashed, playing childhood memories like they were films. As he darted through the room, the fireplace suddenly sparked into angry life, setting the whole wall ablaze in seconds. He felt a searing pain in his arm, but he ignored it. He had to find a way out.
He spotted a vase on the coffee table and hurled it at the window. Instead of shattering the glass, the vase bounced back and struck him in the face. He crumpled to the ground, clutching his bleeding face. On his periphery, a figure stood in the doorway. It cackled, a sound that made his blood run cold.
He scrambled to his feet and ran to the stairs, but even they were no longer safe. The steps were slick and uneven, and the railing was loose and now lined with jagged splinters like spines. His ceiling was collapsing and raining debris, begging for a cave-in for no reason. He felt something strike his head, but he ignored the pain. He had to keep moving.
He reached the second floor and burst into his bedroom. Even that sense of familiarity had been taken from him. The bed was broken and bloody, as if it were a living creature wounded; the closet was empty and dark, yet an emaciated finger peeked from the shadow and beckoned him to come join in the darkness; the body mirror was shattered, each shard reflecting memories of past traumas and jubilation. He felt something slice his chest, but he ignored the pain. He had to keep moving.
The world itself cracked, suddenly splitting into a jagged shard. Daichi's bed was suspended in the shard like an image reflected in a mirror. An arm reached out from within, emerging like a monster slithering out of a lake. Daichi looked into the mask's eyes and saw equal parts hatred and madness, joy and sadness. He knew he had no chance of survival. A jester's laugh cackled across twisted infinity.
He had no chance of survival, yet instincts propelled him forward. Daichi spun on his heel and ran. There was no destination in mind, no end goal, but the urge to put space between the monster and him.
He…had…to…keep…moving…
(End of Chapter One)
Author's Notes: So, this is a bit of an odd one. You see, when it comes to pairings I—this may surprise you—don't really care. I've never, in my life, shipped any characters; now there are some ships that I like, in canon, like Gajeel and Levy from Fairy Tail, but even then I don't actively ship them, I just like their relationship (and some of the fanart is cute, I will give them that). When I'm writing a relationship I want to do something different each time—either switching up the power dynamic, or being closed or open; just something else that will make it at least a little different from the other pairings I've written. When I was thinking what to do for this story I realized I haven't done a poly one yet, and it sounded like a fun challenge. I chose Haku off the bat because I love Haku (my favorite part 1 character, by far) and I have a lot of different directions to take him; then I chose Hinata because, with her being a Hygua, it gives me fun story opportunities later down the line, should I continue this story. Also, with HInata, since she is the canon bride, I can allude to a lot of history and most people will understand implicitly from the show, so I can focus a bit more effort on their relationship with Haku and build it from scratch.
As for the story, I'm currently reading Billy Bat, by Naoki Urasawa (if you know the name it's probably because of Monster), and I am fully committed in saying the man is the god of manga; guy writes berserk-level masterpieces like fanfic writers shit out smut, lol. This story just sorta popped into my head while I was reading it; if it seems like it has a weird pacing, that's why. This might just be a one off, or I could continue it later, not sure yet.
