writing

WIP - we stand between being sheltered and close-minded [Naruto]

Kakashi enjoys reading.

This is, surprisingly, an uncommon knowledge despite the stretch of time during which he is bestowed the title of the biggest fan of Jiraiya's works. Yet, the careful — or not so much — craft of his public image was something he didn't expect, years before, to become such a resounding success.

He does like them, the series, contrary to what some of his colleagues may think. It's difficult to clearly separate what is behind a wall and what slips into the open, and wheat is not so different from grass besides what comes from each.

In reality, common sense dictates that to fully transform into the desired product of the eye, one must remain true to themselves in some capacity. In other words, to become something new, always start from the available base.

So, Kakashi does appreciate a good book from time to time. Mostly, the way he can immerse himself and deploy his mind to a different place other than his current struggles. The narratives are entertaining and silly, even getting serious at times though, most importantly, the books are a good hobby to display when asked.

No one lives solely to train and kill, of course. Naturally, he has other activities to occupy himself with, like a normal, functional person.

Or that's what he wishes to convey to his psychiatrist over the mandatory monthly evaluations, when he enters the building hours later than scheduled and spends the session's duration pretending to read the last chapter released by Sarutobi's remaining student — intent on ignoring the glare while deflecting any questions coming from Inoishi's third cousin. Inoue's patience is becoming thin after each meeting, and Kakashi guesses it will end sooner rather than later — preferably before winter’s end, he can only hope. It would be more difficult to find a replacement between the increasing number of patients plagued by the common colds of the season and the line of medics who have already tired of his behavior.

Moreover, he will certainly find it enjoyable to spend some time freed from the sensation of someone probing into his head, good intentions be damned.

“Do you know that Hokage-sama reads all of my reports, even the ones filled with the last fifteen retellings of Icha Icha?”

The air in the room is dry and could be called stale if not for the vents situated above their heads. The walls, a dull gray that greets all who enter the T&I department, are lit by a single lamp that he recognizes as the type that can be found in the shelters — powered by waste and sunlight.

He probably gets to them first, Kakashi thinks, swiftly turning over a yellowish page with only a movement of his thumb. “Who would skip such a valuable piece of literature?”

WIP - a carp on the cutting board [Naruto - OC study]

The worst kind of gift is always a surprise, was what came to his mind at first.

Not to say that Masato knew much about gift-receiving or giving. After being told, for as long as he can remember, that the scraps of the other week's saikyo-yaki for each and every meal were reason enough for gratitude, the man found it difficult to wrap his head around the shock of what it truly meant. Life for him had always been about constancy, the routine of waking up before dawn and venturing out to sea until the winds called his sail back home.

That is why it was so jarring, how difficult it had become in the past months to stomach the flesh of a black cod without the childhood reminder of the way it fought. As for now, it’s no trouble for him to recall how, while caged between his mother’s hands, the mud-colored fish would jump and writhe restlessly until it was held down on the wooden board to be cut open.

The overwhelming smell of salt water combined with the slightly spoiled odor coming from the oily sea-creature created an amalgamation of a strong, sour taste that would unapologetically sit on the back of his throat. Often, Masato would find himself desperately dry-heaving after a feed in a struggle to rid himself of the nausea that clung to him like wet cloth. It felt as if sharp fins were scraping wildly at his insides and, only after what seemed like an eternity, he would end up in a state of exhausted relief.

(Kā-san hands were steady with a surety that spoke of experience as she drove the skewer into the meat that sat above the fish's spine. Beside her on the gut-covered counter Masato, only a small child barely past the cups of infancy, was relegated to the duty of watching and learning — not yet grown for anything that might have required more strain.

“See here, Macchan?”

She would handle the animal, now calm and still, with a gentleness that would not be out of place while holding himself. Voice calm and hair slightly askew from the confine of the tenugui, his mother’s eyes shone kindly even while dimly illuminated by the dying candle’s fire.

“When we do this, by killin’ this way, you essentially cut the rope that strings its head to the body, so the fish doesn't know it's dead.”

There were no blood spots on the tissue and the flesh remained unmarred, translucent — enough evidence of a peaceful end. Far more remarkable, though, was the constant, slow movement of gills and mouth, opening and closing as if in search of water. Fascinated, Masato would touch the body of the cod soon after it was filleted in order to feel the quivering of its muscles — the electricity of life still habiting the living-corpse.

“It still thinks that it's alive!” he exclaimed, shifting excitedly to the top of his toes, before he was suddenly interrupted by a wall of fur smoldering his face.

“Muta, what did I say ‘bout the kitchen?” Kā-san chided, unsuccessfully trying to shoo the newcomer out of their vicinity.

Lured by the loudness coming from the cooking area, the tabby cat had hopped on top of the counter and stared hungrily at the twitching sea creature, paying no heed to the boy’s sputters nor the woman's admonishments.

“I knew feeding ‘im would come to this,” his mother sighed and shook her head. Yet, a slight crease on the corner of her coal eyes betrayed her amusement. She fondly regarded the way he took the slumped feline into his arms, almost tipping over the stoll from the added weight, with only an indignant cry as a protest coming from the cat — claws safely sheathed. “At least before he would wait until the gutting. He has become greedy, Macchan, wishin’ to feast straight from the bucket.”

“Silly Muta,” Masato laughed with difficulty, out of breath. The tabby’s long, round body had become fully stretched, inches from the height of his handler, front legs relaxed and slanted eyes scrunched, as if in distaste. The boy carefully placed him on the ground and watched as the animal shook its fur, before touting, “If you wanted fresh food you should have stayed at the docks!”

Naturally, after they clean and put the fish away to let it marinate for a few days, Muta gets his fill of cod’s head and innards.)

Masato’s name means ten thousand particles — according to his unique coming into the world. Recounted by his mother many times, the tale is as follows: back then, she was still halfway through her pregnancy, sporting a heavy and rounded belly with bloated feet and an awfully aching back. In the evenings, she would sit near the seashore of Ishikawa-ken to help the village girls shuck oysters, in hope to avoid the smell of fermented shrimp paste drifting from the market. You were an awfully quiet baby, Kā-san remarked frequently, it made us afraid that you wouldn't make it.

Masato is named after the sand because he was delivered two months earlier than expected, in a bed of honed shore close to the piers of their small coastal bourg nested on the edges of the Land of Water. It was bad luck, people often told him, that you did not wait long enough for Amane-san to go past the reefs. Wrinkled body flailing and sprinkled with golden dust, Masato was born not unlike a young turtle – shell soft and pliable, unsuitable for protection. From that day on his neck and shoulders were marked with deep crimson lines, muscles torn from the sharp shells of the crumpled bank, back forever ripped from lying down.

The worst kind of gift is always a surprise.

It could be called lousy maybe, his folks’ decision to have chosen an earth-style name instead of the common water theme bestowed upon the majority of his peers. But he’s called Masato, after the largest quantity either of his parents knew how to spell — ten times the number of thousand, for a long life. As numerous as the grains on the beach and the stars in the sky.

From where he stood on the ship’s port, it turned impossible to sever the waterline from the dying night airglow — the cockcrow’s dew and the chilling mist swallowed the space in a veil of grey, turning the scenario even more estranged. The world was ghost-quiet, except for the crack of the sails and the burbling of water crashing against the hull. No use in countin’ stars, he muses, forcefully exhaling the air from his lungs, the moonlight is hidden by the clouds, just as we expected.

Masato was still craning his neck upwards when a sudden rasping voice cut through the silent atmosphere.

“Not much to see, eh?”

In a moment, Heizo stepped around him, posture relaxed as he leaned onto the humid wood that made the godairikisen’s side — all the while with a precarious hold on a half-filled bottle. The older man smelt slightly of booze and his shoulders were relaxed in a way Masato knew that meant he was on the verge of being drunk. Not unlike his own, Heizo’s skin was deeply tanned and it clinged to the narrow bones of his legs and torso like frayed leather. Similarly, toned arms corded by slim muscles and silver scars circling around his hands betrayed hours of activity spent with a rod between his fingers. All of this, combined with his family’s signature white hair, made Heizo look deceivingly a decade older than he actually was.

“No,” Masato answered after a moment of hesitation, “Not really.”

“Quiet as it could ever be — just sea and stone for miles. I’ve seen more action during burials.”

Masato sighs. He’s been up since the last patroller went down, at the other’s day sunrise. If he were to guess, it wouldn't be long before this morning arrived. Yet, he could not rest.

“You'd think these cursed fellas woulda’ a better sense of time,” Heizo drawled, squinting straight ahead in search through the fog. “If they don't show up soon we'll cast the anchor. I'd rather not come back home empty handed,” he continued, dryly, “Risa would hang me, and she would make it hurt more than they ever could.”

“Maybe somethin’ happened?” Masato wondered quietly, rhythmically hitting his nails on the wood. There was still time, he knew, despite what the older man suggested — an hour or two until they were supposedly free to leave, at least in accord with the agreement in place.

Heizo barked a laugh, gaze cold when they shifted towards him, “Of course somethin’ happened! There’s no way those fuckers woulda’ come all the way up ‘ere if there wasn’t a chance to leave with some sort of reward,” he takes a swig of what Masato now recognizes from the faded glass impression as a popular sake brand from one the Middle Isles, before sneering with finality, “No hunter ventures to a place it knows bears no prey, boy.”

Before Masato could muster any kind of reply, they were interrupted by the sudden shrill calling of a kestrel far ahead.

The signal, both realized at the same time. They’ve come back.

And as sure as Heizo’s predictions would be, when the dinghy was rowed silently through the mist to their port as if appearing out of thin air, Masato could barely count one figure more than those who had left earlier from the single flickering lamp they carried aboard. Because there was no gain in guessing, he put his arms to good use and pulled the ropes thrown from below until he could only feel the ache on his shoulders, instead of the pressure of any passing doubts.

The strange crew came to view, as steadily as he and Heizo could drag them up, and Masato had only one thought raging in mind as his gaze fell, as if bewitched, upon a blood-stained head slumped onto the boards of his companions’ tender:

There is no goin’ back now. — Masato had just turned six when he stole for the first time.

He started small, filling his hakama pockets with only two or three shrimps from the bucket Chikashi-san left unattended by his booth after he would return from the sea each morning. He won't notice, the boy reassured himself while he walked back home, heart almost beating out of his chest, eyes staring dutifully ahead. The light weight on his pockets was heavy on his mind.

At dinner that night, Kā-san praised him like no other, eyes glassy and smile trembling. My son is so grown, she muttered, that now he comes home with his own fill of food to share. On the other hand, Chichi-ue, Masato knew, wasn’t so easily fooled.

After a month of watching the constant progression of dark circles under his father’s eyes and the loss of weight on his frame as he came back home later each passing day, there was no mystery of why Masato kept doing it again and again. Maybe there was somewhat a bit of truth to what the other fishermen would whisper as he passed them by the docks, spending the dawn helping his father drag the miserable pounds of fish off the nets down the weathered road. None of the men would make the trip to the harbor alongside them, claiming bad luck, which left his father alone to tow the heavy amibune through the sand. Amane is with child – not sick, you idiots!

The sun was moving up on the sky, rays golden on the sand, and they were only a few houses down from their own with a fast gait from the light biddle, when Wūji ordered, voice made of steel, “You will stop takin’ from Chikashi’s fill, and you’ll do it now.”

There was no way to mistake his father’s expression for any other than angered shame as he dragged a hand on his face, posture hidden inside itself. He was getting older, it was easy to see, and his strength was not the same anymore — not nearly enough to fish for three, even less four mouths.

“I’m sorry—” Masato stops and turns his eyes to him, helpless. The child, engulfed by guilt, tried to plead before being interrupted.

“I did not teach you to shit near where you eat, Masato.” Wūji shushes between clenched teeth, tight grip on the satchel. There’s a finalty on his words that the boy finds difficult to forget. “If my son has the misfortune of needin’ to be a thief, then he will at least be a good one.”

The boy doesn't quite manage a nod, but the solid lump on his throat recedes slightly. Morning air, gentle and fresh on his face, hid the sting of any tears that managed to fall.

(Masato was lucky, really, that none of Chisaki's sons had caught sight of his stray hands darting from between their father’s booth. If they had their way, Wūji is sure of it, the child would have lost at least a couple of fingers for the dare.)

Later that same week, Chichi-ue was the one that made him go to the neighboring village, waiting deceptively silent at the haven. His hand was heavy on top of his shoulder when Masato came back with a bucket full of squids, still alive, crawling on top of each other — unsuccessfully trying to get out of their confinement.

In the end, despite the many boat rides they share over the years, Wūji never asked where Masato got any of the food from.

—

They throw him over the deck.

The men formed a loose circle around the prisoner, villagers and foreigners alike. With anticipation permeating the air, it was no longer than a minute for him to twitch, less so to try to free himself from the thick binds around his wrists and shins from where he laid on the floor. For that, they shove him down and kick the back of his knees until he could only get as far as picking himself on his hands.

Even though surrounded, the boy stretched his spine and braced his shoulder stifilly — proud and seemingly unfearful. However, Masato couldn't help but notice how he first looked around and searched for an exit — no different than any other animal that found itself caught in a trap.

“Well,” One of the men started slowly pacing around, “there was a good thing we noticed you missing, wasn't it?” His smile was insincere, voice dripping condescence. No one dared to speak, the only sound was of the biting breeze against flapping cloth. ”Who knows what could’ve happened to such precious cargo, deep in Chigiri waters?”

The prisoner’s eyes flashed dangerously as he moved closer.

Hunching, the shinōbi hummed while he forcefully took the younger man's chin between his fingers.

“A job well done,” Oki praised, even though he didn't let his gaze stray from the battle of wills with the other. It wasn’t hard to see how the boy's neck strained against the grip, jaw clasped tight, brows furrowed deep. After a moment where neither moved, Oki laughed and slapped a hand on his knee before getting up and turning to the others around the boat. “Congratulations, gentlemen, you're gonna have enough fish to last a lifetime!”

While the villagers around him boosted and murmured excitedly, Masato tried to steal looks around the other men stacked near the far points of the deck. The foreigners sported queer teeth, filled like sharks, and muscles covered by a thin layer of fat in a way that spoke of well balanced meals, available meat and fresh fruit. He mused that even without the huge swords strapped on their backs, that they would have stood out enough to frighten anyone that came upon their way, without even trying.

Masato's neck prickled. It was the prisoner.

He turned around.

The younger man was pretty, impossibly so, with a full mouth that managed to stun him even while crinkled in a sneer. Auburn hair, swept over his ears, was set around an acorn-like face that exuded effortless elegance. His skin, now littered with bruises dark as tar, was a color of gold that reminded Masato of the mellow-brown light that bathed the mangrove in the morning, when he and the other Ishikawa-ken children would go search for swimming blue crabs that would hide under the muddy floor of the pools, near where the sea met the river.

Stretched, sky eyes seemed to pierce through him, as though the younger man could see into the depths of the fishermen’s soul. It’s doubtful, but maybe that’s what held Oki’s attention, Masato thought to himself, unnerved. No one could be held by this gaze and remain unbothered.

The prisoner spat next to the nearest man’s feet and received another kick on the mouth in response.

“Rumors will’ve that Shusen-ō does not care for the state of his storage after they see how you behave yourself, Shunbajunki.”

Breaking the silence he’d held tightly until that moment, the prisoner let blood flow freely from his lips, stained teeth bared in outrage. “You have no right to say that name, water scum!”

That created a rise from the crowd.

“Scum,” Oki tastes out loud slowly, as if savoring the sounds on his tongue. “A dirty mouth for one so regal. What would mother dearest say in face of such uncouth words?”

The boy lunges, but just as he moved, one of the armed men appeared and delivered a punch to his face, making him land harshly on the wood. Then, Oki strolled until he could place a foot on the prisoner’s shoulder, to push him on his back. Shunbajunki coughed, chest trembling from the strain of broken ribs.

“Should we bow, Ojō-sama?” The men laughed and the leer became obvious. “You’re at least pretty enough for that.”

“Very well.” The shinōbi rests a hand over one of the many knives strapped to his waist. “You, come here.”

“What do you think Kirīgakure will accomplish with this—“ the prisoner trashes as they firm their hold, “Other than a swift end?”

“Revenge,” Oki replies, “Power. Though it’s not really that personal, you see.

Chaos is a ladder we will use gleefully.”

Oki turns to the men holding the boy down.

“Don’t worry, we don’t need him whole.”

The boy's eyes were bright with fear and Masato could, at that single moment where he was caught in the toils of despair, admire the way they shone with the moonlight. It made it all even more tragic to see them dimmer after Oki slit his throat.