Prologue: Watchers in the Rain

The rain was pouring down now, reducing the ground to a muddy and slippery pool. The wind howled, tearing at the trees and the roofs of the nearby houses. Lightning flashed, illuminating the dark sky for a brief moment. It was in the center of the village where a lone swordsman stood, facing three bandits who had come to plunder and pillage. He wore a blue kimono shielded with straw and a kasa hat, hiding his face behind a mask. A katana was gripped in his right hand, with a wakizashi sheathed at his waist. He was calm and composed, despite the numbers against him.

The bandits were armed with swords, axes, and spears. They wore ragged clothes and leather armor, stained with blood and dirt. They were loud and arrogant, taunting and laughing at the man. They thought he was an easy prey, a fool who had no chance of survival.

They were wrong. Unlucky fools happened to be caught in the rain, and he could see all things touched by it.

The swordsman waited for the attackers to make their first move. He knew they were impatient and reckless, and he would use that to his advantage. He watched their every move through his roningasa, looking for an opening. They were amateurs, blunt brutes with little skill, and animalistic dementors. The challenge came from not simply picking a weakness to exploit, but narrowing down which one to exploit.

The bandit with the ax charged first, swinging his weapon wildly. The swordsman sidestepped casually, avoiding the blow, and slashed his katana across the bandit's chest. He fell to the ground, clutching his wound and screaming in pain.

The other two bandits stepped back, shocked by the speed of the blade—little more than a glint of steel and a smear of rainwater in the air. They hesitated for a moment, but pride pressured them back into attacking. The bandit with the spear charged, thrusting it at the still man's chest, hoping to pierce his heart with one killing blow. The weapon was parried with the wakizashi, deflecting the spear to the side with a loud clang, creating an opening for the larger sword to pierce the bandit's throat. He gurgled and collapsed, blood spilling from his mouth.

Off to the side, a masked figure with long hair watched from the treetops.

The last bandit wielded a sword, similar to the stranger's katana but longer and heavier: a nodachi. He was furious and afraid, seeing his comrades fall so easily, but more importantly, he felt humiliated. He roared and ran towards the ronin, raising his sword high above his head with both hands. The storm raged on, as if mirroring his fury.

The swordsman didn't give him the time.

There was a flash of lightning.

Then silence.

...

It was storm season in the Land of Water, and—as the only archipelago of the great nations—with it came storms of such magnitude that they bordered on being great typhoons. This one in particular was bad—the worst so far this year. The rain was thicker than a heavy fog, reducing visibility to the length of an arm's reach even in the short-lived lulls. Thunder roared after bright bolts of lighting bisected the dark sky, rattling windows miles in all directions. The trees interspersing this particular island had green foliage sheared off as branches rattled their bark together in tune with whipping gusts. Even as the rain-swollen clouds emptied over the land with such force that the water fell at an angle, not everyone was safely inside.

The rain was relentless, pounding on the metal roof of the freight containers like a thousand drums, and the wind howled like a ghost throughout the port. The men worked quickly, unloading long crates from the container and loading them onto a wagon with gusts whipping tarpaulin covers, threatening to expose their illicit cargo. They wore masks and gloves, but their clothes were soaked, even under the thick coats. Sloppy dirt and sodden grass were smeared across those coats, from head to toe, sprinkled with splotches and particles of other, unidentifiable things—detritus deposited by the storm's hurricane-like winds.

The port was drowning in the torrential rain and concussive thunder. The storm had driven away most of the workers and the ships, leaving behind a ghostly landscape of metal and concrete. The only sign of life was a pair of horses connected to a large wagon parked near a boat, where the group of men were unloading crates from a commercial vessel down a long ramp, so large they needed to be carried by two men at a time.

They knew they were risking their lives, not only from the storm but also from the law. They had bribed the port authority, but they could not be sure that someone had not tipped off the police or the Anbu. They had to get out of there as soon as possible before they were caught red-handed. This had to happen tonight, regardless of whether this storm was going to make it easy or difficult.

"Hurry up!" The man with a mask covered in square shapes yelled. His horses are getting antsy; he's had to stop them from running several times after being scared by large claps of thunder. He and the horses were tucked under a low-hanging tarp where the workers would eat lunch, giving only a slight respite from the weather. When the wind picked up, the rain blew straight in.

The groaning men, tired from doing this for over an hour now, dropped the fifth coffin-like box onto the wagon, its weight causing the wood to groan.

"All right, one more!" The man shouted again. The rain and wind were so loud that yelling had little chance of alerting anyone who might still be close by.

"Shut your damn mouth, F!" One of the panting laborers yelled back, leaning his aching body over the back of the tailgate, limbs burning with the acidic tang of exhaustion, his back and legs being pelted by stinging raindrops. That tone was so bitter, it was surprising the guy said his alias and not his name.

"Hey, keep the respect, fresh meat! Grunts get the shit jobs—I've done it; now it's your turn. Get back in there; grab the last one!" He ordered, standing on the wagon like a symbolic high ground. This idiot, assuming he was doing nothing while they were doing all the 'real work'—it was in the tone of K's voice. Little did he know keeping frantic horses in line wasn't all that easy.

"Hold on, F!" The other grunt tried to placate, cold drops of rain biting his hands through the gloves. "We're going, we're going!" The guy urged his buddy by the shoulders to get back up. He reluctantly did so. "Just keep the horses ready!" With a spiteful huff, the two trudged back up the boat, one of them briefly slipping on a patch of mud before disappearing beyond the metal ramp and into the boat's light.

F adjusted his sopping coat for what little it was worth now.

This entire night was a nightmare. Firstly, sneaking in the middle of the night—or morning, rather—was bad enough as it is, but this damned storm had come from nowhere. The hour they had started unloading the boat had been relatively clear, if a tad overcast. Now, just an hour later, it was a full-blown thunderstorm verging on the realm of a typhoon. Even the raincoats they'd managed to scrounge from one of the workers quarters proved to be of little help against this downpour.

They were supposed to have three others helping them, but the good-for-nothings had gone off on their own. From the direction he had spotted, it seemed like they were heading towards that village along the coast. He was talking to the boss about those idiots regardless, but if they were doing what he thinks they are, he was gonna have them killed.

All of this, because Tenzen Daikoku had something up his sleeve that he wasn't telling anybody else. F didn't know the details; no one outside of his honor guard would have enough trust, but he could infer enough. Somehow, someway, someone had gotten their hands on something they shouldn't have, and Tenzen wanted the spoils for himself. Under normal circumstances, F was one to capitalize on any opportunity that showed itself like anyone else, but something about this particular thing felt wrong. Just glancing at the chained-up crates, seeing those symbols, churned his gut.

Just then, two pinpricks suddenly jammed into his neck from the side, with enough power to force him over the wagon's rails, splashing limp in a dirty puddle. The two horses didn't seem to notice, or if they did, care—in fact, they seemed oddly passive all of a sudden. Two needles, long and thin, bit into his neck with pin-point precision.

A slender figure jumped down from above, yet the fall had unnatural grace—not even a single puddle splashed upon landing, as if there was no weight. Logged with water, voluminous, black hair was tied into a bun at the back, leaving two long bangs to frame a face hidden by a porcelain mask painted with red swirls.

The mask tilted downward, looking down at the man briefly, studying, before focusing in on the muddy trails his friends had left, the ones leading into the boat.

Haku followed them.


Daimaru was what most would consider two-faced, but he didn't see it that way. He was just a businessman; he didn't hurt people, double-cross, frame, or steal—he just made deals. Now, if those deals happen to backfire on another person, well, that's just life. Fairness was a myth, and people deluded themselves into thinking it was a natural state. If those people wanted to make deals, he would happily do so as well. By any sane metric, he was pretty egalitarian. Even ninjas are welcomed customers.

His office was a spacious, elegant room, covered with wood panels and plain wallpaper. The windows offered a panoramic view of his harbor, a sight he often found himself drawn to whenever bored. The only source of light was a crystal chandelier that hung from the ceiling. The port authority sat behind the desk, his eyes scanning the papers with a smug expression. He was a tall, handsome man, with a neatly trimmed beard and a diamond ring on his finger. He wore a tailored suit and a silk tie and smelled of cologne and cigars.

He was a normal person, unaware of the danger lurking in the shadows.

He looked at his watch. Those guys should be done by now; they were the only reason he was still in the office at this hour. He had been approached with a generous offer, and a simple one: cargo was coming in on a private ship from the Land of Fire, and all they wanted was permission to 'inspect' the goods before the pickup later the next day. The captain might be in trouble with the owner of the boat, but such is life. He got up, grabbing his tanto from against his desk, keeping it gripped in his off hand.

Time to close down the shop.

When he was halfway to the door, a shiver creeped down his spine. A voice was against his neck: "Did I not give you a warning, Daimaru?"

Daimaru reached down for his sword, but it was slow and awkward, like he was pulling it out while swimming deep in the ocean. A motion that should've taken a fraction of a second took three. The short sword felt heavier than normal. It was slow, slicing through the air like ballistic jelly; phantom bubbles followed its trail. The bubbles drifted off course almost instantly, floating in the room unbound by gravity.

The tanto clashed against a sheath, dark in color, with nine golden tails etched into its surface, like an ancient mural depicting a revered monster. The stranger was garbed in a dark robe, baggy and embroidered with orange abstracts of spirals, covered by a mino—a raincoat made of straw, though he was wearing it like a cape over his shoulders. From beneath a roningasa, a manyori mask covered everything, but only those blue eyes could be seen. It was a paradoxical thing, both black and white, half smiling and frowning, despair and jubilation in equal measure.

With a quick swipe of the handle of his sword, the tanto was smacked out of the port master's hand and onto the floor. Daimaru cursed under his breath. "You…"

"Do you know about the cargo on that ship?" The masked man asked.

Daimaru seemed lost. "What, I don't—"

The butt of his katana pressed against Daimaru's jugular in an instant, cutting him off. "Did you know what was on that ship?" He asked again, more aggressive this time. With little resistance, he forced the businessman against the wall, pinning him by his throat.

Daimaru put it together quickly. "No!" He gasped. "No! It was just another gig, I swear!"

The masked figure leaned closer. With a tilt of the head, the straw hat lifted, exposing those cerulean eyes, now glowing with an inner power. Outside, the rain fell harder, pressuring the building so hard that it groaned under the force, pelting against his windows like rocks tossed at glass. "Well, this 'gig' of yours has landed you in the thick of it."

Lightning split the sky before thunder shuddered the windows. "You are going to spill everything you know; understand me?"

...

The rain violently poured down like a waterfall. The wind howled and the thunder roared, making the large ship sway and creak. A lone ninja of a slender, agile build moved swiftly within groaning hallways. Even chained, it felt like the ship could be ripped out to sea at any second. The lower deck, where crates and barrels were stacked high, was ignored. Containers filled with mundane goods—rice, silk, spices, weapons, and the like—held no interest.

Where he needed to be was marked by a muddy trail.

He came to a door that was open, revealing a dark and narrow staircase. He descended, feeling a chill in the air. He reached another door, also ajar, with a sign that said "Authorized Personnel Only". Cold air seeped through the crack, as if wind were blowing against a hunk of ice.

He entered the hidden deck.

Two bodies were on the floor, frosted over with thin ice and already-melting snow. The room was devoid of most things, except piles of chains and ropes lazily discarded to the floor. Against the opposite wall is a coffin-like container made of metal and wood. It was chained to the floor and inscribed with seals and symbols. A figure stood within an arm's reach of it, shorter than himself, with a coat of straw similar to his draped over a wet kimono.

Haku knew he was here but didn't turn towards him.

"Hey," the voice was feminine, with a masculine smokiness to it.

Naruto only stopped walking when shoulder-to-shoulder with him. "Well," he said, his voice slightly muffled by the manyori mask. "This night turned out interesting; wouldn't you agree?"

The night had started out normal enough, casting a wide sense through the storm to look for any trouble. Of course, he stumbled upon those savages ransacking a tiny, forgotten fishing village of only a dozen houses. Dispatching them had been easy enough, but the last one had pleaded with his life, offering to give up his fellows if he let him run away. Of course, with lightning burns across his body, he wasn't going to get far, but people do strange things when at death's door.

"Being awfully casual about this, aren't you?" Haku chided. "You saw the wagon."

Naruto nodded. "I know…I know." He reached out, gently placing his arm around Haku, giving his arm a gentle caress, and pulling him closer. Haku was short enough to not bump the edge of Naruto's straw hat. "Daimaru is gonna come by tomorrow with all the information he can dig up on the owner of the boat. Good job keeping that one guy alive—thanks to that, we got two sources of information."

Haku was quite adept at medical ninjutsu—or just the human body in general, really. Putting someone in a state of suspended animation was simple for him. Haku reached for the hand wrapped around him, threading painted fingers with Naruto's bigger, callused ones. "What do you want to do with them?"

"We're not leaving them here, that's for sure." Reluctantly, Naruto separated from Haku. "We already have the wagon and the horses; take this one, and we'll ride out. Under the storm's cover, we should be fine."

They turned to face each other. Their masks were polar opposites; one covered everything, leaving only slits for the eyes, while the other covered everything but the eyes. "Me and a clone will take this out—go get the horses ready." Haku nodded and dashed out the door that same second.

Naruto turned back to the container, his eyes focusing on a single mark, one that had plagued his attention since first setting eyes on these things. At the head of all five of them was the insignia of the Hidden Leaf.

"Well now," he muttered to himself. "What the hell am I gonna do with you?"

(End of Prologue)

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—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 something: Haku! I love Haku (my favorite part 1 character, by far!) and I have a lot of different directions I can take him, and his and Naruto's relationship almost writes itself if I'm being honest. If I end up making another chapter I'll have time to actually focus on them—since this was the prologue, I had to focus on setting the story up first and foremost.

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 probably why.

So, there you have it. I don't know if this is going to be a one off or not (because my dumb brain can never stop thinking up different stories), so let me know if and why you think I should add this one to the rotation.