The Calm Before The Storm

I don't own the franchise Naruto

Captain Monga was a veteran. Not a veteran sales associate, not a veteran medical ninja or carpenter, but a veteran shinobi. He was a man who had seen and done it all. He had not only witnessed the beauties and horrors of the shinobi world, but he had also lived them, survived them, and dominated them. His duties often demanded prolonged absences from his village, depriving him of the comforts of home, the solace of shelter, and the company of women. He was a man who could make a summer evening in the harsh deserts of Kaze no Kuni seem like a beach holiday on the borders of Hi no Kuni.

You needed information about the terrain or weather patterns of a country, Monga could provide you with enough knowledge necessary to give your brain a hemorrhage. Needless to say, Monga had seen it all. What was once a blue grass boy unable to tell his left nut from his right was now a man, a shinobi comparable to few. Something of a survivalist, if you will. All shinobi were, to an extent, but most shinobi weren't of his caliber. There were levels to the innate capabilities of shinobi, just as there were in any career. You had those who were good, and others who were better. Monga was in the category of the latter.

Nevertheless, even with decades of experience as a shinobi and all the knowledge it had equipped him with, Monga found himself perplexed. For of all the blights of nature Monga had experienced, whether they were trivial annoyances or borderline life-threatening freak storms, the elements of Hi no Kuni were by far the worst he had ever encountered. Merely a day into his arrival, it had already secured the top spot on his list of regions he would rather die than ever return to.

It was hot, oh lord Sage, how hot it was. Not as overwhelmingly hot as the coolest day Suna could produce, of course, but as a man who had theoretically been to all four corners of the Elemental Nations, believe him when he said that the elements of Hi no Kuni were a phenomenon. It was contrived and unpredictable. One moment, you were deluded into thinking the day would be one way, and the next, it was pulling something totally unexpected out of its paradoxical ass, like an abusive stepmother: all love and care in the eyes of others, but behind closed doors, a more vindictive and problematic wench you never did see.

And it wasn't just the weather that left you wondering. It was every living and non-living aspect of the Fire Nation. From the colorful insects that could, no, would leave you frothing at the mouth with just a graze to the skin, to the charming creeping things that wanted nothing more than to feast on your innards if given the chance, the picturesque landscapes, inviting you in with it smiles, while telling you east is west and north is south, and that the den of a bear would be a perfect place to spend the night. It was a masquerade of treacherous allure, a bitter poison disguised as candy

Yes, this was Hi no Kuni, home to a village that prided itself on its disingenuousness. A village where even unborn twins would sooner strangle each other with their own umbilical cords than ever risk the slightest possibility of becoming a stillborn. A corner of the world where evil was at its most prominent. Hi no Kuni, heaven and home to and for beings most detestable.

Like a snake in the grass, Monga fished a flask of tepid water from his waist pouch behind his back and downed its contents. It had been a week since he crossed into the Fire Nation's borders, but his arrival in the village had only transpired the previous night. Without the aid of their Pebbles, the civilian intelligence unit, such a feat would have been insurmountable. Frig, the mission itself owed its existence to their collaboration. He had to give it to Onoki; this time, he was right on the money. Konoha had gotten lax with its border control, and with the minimal shinobi presence he discerned while entering the village, it would appear that the influence of laziness was more far-reaching than first assumed. Or was it gall on their part?

Regardless, this was the Konohagakure, home to some, no, to nearly all of the most monstrous shinobi to ever walk the Elemental Nations. If he screwed up in any fashion, if he made even an ass hair-sized of a fuck-up, he would be dead before he knew he was or how he was. Not that the idea of doing so never crossed his mind. He was a veteran, not some standard flak vest Jonin. He himself was a monster of a shinobi, and no one would infringe upon his right to impartial justice. No woman, no child, no amount of monsters Konoha had sleeping beneath its village. None of it would make no never-mind for Monga. He would kill their knight, he'd relieve them of their ace. Then, when the disgrace of a village arrives at the vanguard, prostrate and at the mercy of Iwagakure, when their hopes and aspirations resemble the embers of a burning thread, then he would take them. He would take every last one of them, slow and rough, just as the two-faced rapist bastards did to his sister. He told himself he wouldn't allow the memory of what they did to hazard his mission, but he was here, in the same village as those honorless scoundrels, and his rage wanted nothing more than to take the wheel. His heart was very much inclined to appease it.

Monga's arm quivered, his grip tightening until his knuckles flushed with strain. The flask in his right hand, unable to cope under the strain, slipped through its iron grip and fell to the ground, littered with dry leaves, with a thud. Monga looked at the canister and sighed, "I need to calm down," he whispered, reaching down and picking up the now-empty flask. He was a foreign shinobi in a foreign village and land, one that was still very much hostile to his own. Any screw-ups on his part would result in his quick and definite death. He was a professional. Now was not the time to be throwing tantrums. He would get his turn, that was for damn sure. Come rain or snow, he would complete his mission, and then he'd get his, even if it killed him.

"A little nervous, aren't we?"

Monga launched himself from the bushes he was hiding in and into the trees above so quickly that he himself was unaware of what he was doing until he had done it. Monga landed on a tree diagonally above where he was hiding, removed his Kanabō from his back, and surveyed his surroundings. This was it. He was a dead man. Captain Monga, on a sneak and assassinate mission, died by alerting enemy shinobi of his presence, all because he couldn't keep his damn emotions in check. Pathetic. Of course, they heard when his flask fell. The forest was more quiet than a graveyard. Any shinobi worth their under-the-table handjob would've heard it. One fuck-up, one mistake, was all it took in the shinobi world for your story to become a tragedy, another sorry song in a backdrop of thousands. One fuck-up, and like a ninety-five-year-old elder who trips down a twenty-flight staircase, you're pushing up daisies.

No matter, in the shinobi world, death was something of a silver lining, a trade-off from all the weeping and sorrows it supplied. He was going to see his sister, uncle, and wife, who had all died in the Third War, the latter two at the hands of the man he despised more than anything in existence, even after death. Minato Namikaze. It was a lot sooner than he would've wanted, but in the shinobi world, that's life. At least, that's what all the people say.

"What an agile little rock bug you are," the voice of what sounded like a man said behind him. Monga's response was swift, a reflex honed by years of training. He spun, his Kanabō poised to strike with a force capable of shattering diamond-laden boulders. However, the attack never made contact. The polka-dot paper the man had in his left hand stopped Monga dead in his tracks.

"The name's Yakushi Kabuto. I'm the contact you were supposed to meet."

What do we say to Mr. Death, fellow shinobi and kunoichi alike? Not today.

Unbeknownst to Monga, death was deaf.