Chapter 8 Interlude. Hanako And Zabuza

I don't own Naruto. Slight gore trigger.

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Hanako is a child with no last name.

There are many of them in Kirigakure, running around on the streets, scared and alone. The orphanages will not take them in, because they are reserved for the children of war and business, taking in only the descendants of those who died in battle or those who were born from higher children of whores and day labourers are not given much consideration.

Or, they weren't

Everything changed two years ago when a nameless girl appeared as if born from the mist itself and began to teach them. Hanako has learned much from that little girl and is still learning. She first showed them how to harvest eels from the water, and then crayfish, and then roots and tubers and herbs. She taught them how to weave beds from the river reeds and how to hide from the adults. From here they learned how to keep moving, to keep their groups small, no larger than three at a time, and how to scatter their ashes and hide their dens. The little girl coached them on being hidden in plain sight, and how to misdirect attention when somebody looked too hard. A civilian would look away if they scrunched their faces just so as if about to burst into tears, and looked them in the eyes. A shinobi would look away if they showed fear and awe, and begged them for tidbits.

The girl taught them how to survive, how to be the living ghosts of the mists, hidden in plain sight. All she ever asked in return was that they show other children, and never, ever tell anybody about her.

(This is easy because Hanako still does not know the girl's name, even after all this time.)

Sometimes, the delicate-looking child would appear again, and the orphans' lessons would begin anew as if they had never stopped. She would come, wreathed in mist, to one of the original three that she had found in the alley that day, and teach. Only, there were more children now who knew how to do these things, because Hanako did what she was asked, venturing onto other gangs' turf and teaching the gospel of the girl who came from nowhere.

I can show you how to feed yourselves. How to stay alive.

You deserve to live, just because you are.

Hanako… Hanako doesn't know what to think about the girl from nowhere. She is so unlike anyone she has ever met. No one she has ever met has done the things that the girl has. No one ever treated her with respect and kindness before that fateful day. No one had ever looked at her and said that what they saw pleased them. No one ever took time away from their lives to teach her things. Nobody ever saw Hanako, accepted her, and cared for her.

She knows that girl is not homeless like them. She knows she has a family. She knows that she eats well, wears pretty clothes and she smells nice. The girl shared those things and gave them part of her world. She told them stories and cleaned their cuts. She gave them things and gave them the power to give to others. She shared her strength without a price. Hanako can see it in her eyes when she looks out at the faces of the children who are older than her, younger than her, dirtier and poorer than her. Hanako can see that the girl loves them, freely and without cost. It is her way, who she is.

Hanako loves her for it.

She loves the strange little girl with clean kimonos and death in her eyes, and because she loves her, she hates this village. She hates how the strangers pass her by and do not see her. She hates that no one tries to help them. She hates that the shinobi abuse them, that they kill them on the streets like animals. She hates the cruelty and the savageness of Mist. She hates the because the little girl showed her what they could be. Hanako wants to show others this vision too.

Hanako is a smart girl, and though not particularly strong, she is quick and clever when it comes to people. She never teaches the gang that caters to the adults, or the factions from which the shinobi like to recruit. She steers clear of the little ones who are not old enough to keep a secret and the older ones who are too used to the way things are. She is strict and discerning when choosing her students. She does not want to fail the one person who gave her a chance, the one who showed her that she could be more than a nameless, starving orphan. Everyone she teaches, she asks to teach others.

The practice spreads.

They mark themselves in different ways, ways that the adults brush off as grubby children's play. She hears whispers from the others she goes to visit: children in the market district are wearing feathers in their hair, and those down by the docks are stringing fishbones and shells into jewellery, just like the kids in the akasen wore burnished bottle caps and torn kimono strips on their person. They are tokens only shown to those who know what to look for, a secret shared by the nameless little ghosts.

The bones, feathers, shells, caps and metal strips all mean something though. They mean that they are a tribe.

Hanako knows what the girl meant now when she said that no child would be alone anymore. They are bound together by their lessons, tied to each other at first by a simple act of kindness. The kids she teaches are always grateful for their first meal, and later the work they share making traps and erasing their steps strings them together even more. The more time the children share in their small groups, the more those strings weave together into an unbreakable chain that binds the nameless children into a family.

So when that mysterious girl steps out of the fog, Hanako is glad to see her. She is not glad for long though.

"I will not be able to come after today's lesson," the child says.

"They chose yah for the Academy, didn't they?" Hanako asks, worry filling her. You cannot get away once they have selected you, not unless you're already dead. She can see now why the girl is not wearing a kimono. The baggy black pants take on a sinister look, and the clean grey sleeveless turtleneck no longer looks so cosy. What will Hanako do then, once she is abandoned? Where will she turn now?

The girl looks up at her through thick black lashes and reaches out to hold her hand. Somehow, the usually comforting gesture is lacking today. "Listen to me Hanako, this lesson is not one I can guide you through. After today, you have to forget you ever knew me. You have to let go, and trust in all the other children. Share skills with each other. Learn to grow from each other, not me," the child says softly, her voice barely carrying to her ears. She can feel the tiny hand squeeze hers, so cold and so small. "I won't forget you, but until I can visit without being noticed, I cannot come again. I won't risk bringing attention to what is happening."

Hanako can see it again, that look she glimpsed on

the girl's face the first night they met. That look, that empty, and knows better than to try and argue. So, in hushed voices, the two share a lesson.

She learns of kingdoms and governments, and something called unalienable rights. She hears people's voices shouting out against their rulers and learns the basics of the economy. She is taught to always be aware of ideas, and what people believe in because ideas and beliefs are powerful things. She learns that it is ok to be afraid, to run, and hide. That these things are healthy and sometimes anonymity is safe. She learns that one day, there will be a moment, and she will have to choose. She learns that the tribe is hers now, has always been hers, and she must lead them when that time comes.

"Listen to them, respect them, and they will do the same for you," the thing in a girl's body says.

Then, the girl squeezes her hand just once more and stands tall. The child is younger than her by several years, she thinks, but she has never seen something quite like her before, so she cannot be sure. She has a presence, something that is both hard to find and impossible to forget.

"Take care, Hanako," the girl whispers, right before she is swallowed by the mist and snow. Hanako promises then and there that nobody will ever learn of the girl from her.

Yet…

Yet she will not let her be forgotten.

Soon, a story spreads through the ranks of nameless children, from the trade district to the market, from the akasen to the slum quarters. Every kid who wears a feather in their hair or sports a herringbone necklace knows it.

"Look there," they whisper. "See that magpie on the vine? See that spider in its web? Those are its eyes, which watch over us."

With little hands, they will point. "Do you see that cat near the trash? Can you spot the fox in the reeds? Those are its ears, that hears us."

Small faces will lean in close, eager to talk. "Can hear the dog howling? Do you hear the sparrows chirp? Those are its voice, singing for us."

Tiny eyes will light up with knowing. "Can you see the fish, hidden in the water? See that snake beneath the stone? The toad by the creek?"

"Who? Who is it?" The new ones will ask, impatient. The others will smile, sly and sweet.

"The one who reminds us that we are not alone. The one who knows we matter," they will reply. And Hanako, well, she will just smile along with them.

She knows the plan.

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Zabuza Momochi swipes the stone in his hand slowly, lovingly, down the blade of a sword on his lap. He likes the motion, smooth and controlled. He likes to feel the gritty slide of his whetstone down a blade, honing it down. With each stroke, the blade in his hand grows a little bit more useful, a little bit better of a tool. He likes, that something so simple can tame a hunk of steel into a deadly weapon.

He likes to control.

If you can control things, then you can use them as your tools. It is nice to use things because it makes the world simpler. Tools make the world easier. They turn complicated tasks into easy ones. A hammer makes it easy to drive in nails, a fishing rod makes it easy to pluck fish from the water, and a blade makes it easy to take a life. Zabuza like tools almost as much as he likes control.

He slides the stone down the edge of the blade again, caught up in his thoughts. His thumb is dangling off the side of it, and there is a string and a bead of crimson. Sudden, irrational rage fills him. His teeth gnash together, and he wants to roar and break and destroy—

He exhales sharply and drives down the rage.

Placidly, he takes the stone in his hand and places it on the boulder to his side. He grips the sword handle in his hand with his uncut hand and squeezes it so tight his knuckles turn ashy white. He inhales deeply, then exhales again, long and slow. Colour returns to his flesh. Carefully, he slides the newly sharpened blade into the sheath by his side and lays it down on the hooks behind him and goes back to the cement bench.

He sits down. With calculating, manic eyes, he observes the damage done. His thumb has an inch long slash down the centre of it, oozing blood onto the callused pads of his finger. Training will be harder tomorrow, he thinks, staring at the liquid. It makes him think of the akasen district, its streets bathed with red light. The akasen makes him think of the girl.

His heartbeat picks up, his breathing sharp. The girl is interesting. It is exciting.

Zabuza remembers that night in perfect clarity, a memory he has played over and over again inside the confines of his head. He remembers going out that night to pick up something for his teacher, ending up in some dirty back alley, waiting behind a pile of trash at the back door of a brothel.

He remembers hearing the wailing first, the sound of a small animal in distress. He had turned his head then, peering through the gloom for the source, struck by a mild curiosity. What he saw was a grown man, his arms carrying an upset girl. She was small, dwarfed by the adult's form and size, and she was dressed in the kimono many of the working girls favoured. Silently, he watched on as the man dumped her in a pile of garbage and leaned in close, his breath misting in the air. He had faced forward after that, trying to ignore the activity going on only yards away. He didn't need to see this, it was gross, and he wanted to go back and deliver the package already.

"I'm not for sale!" the crying girl's voice screeched as she kicked uselessly.

He turned back at that, eyeing the man with even more disgust. Everyone knew that you didn't steal the young ones if they weren't on display. That was just common sense. The local yakuza would do you in for that if the brothel didn't hire a shinobi first. It was just bad business, stealing flesh in a place where it was so openly sold.

"Let me go, let me go, let me go!" she cried again, her quaking voice filling the air.

He almost groaned out loud. Couldn't the baby do anything other than cry? This was Kiri, not Konoha. No one was going to help her, and her voice was grating on his nerves. Her kicks held no strength, and her hands were already pinned. Such a weak little thing shouldn't be out this late in the first place, especially if she wasn't for sale. It was stupid. She was weak and stupid. Maybe she deserved this.

The man leaned in close, and he could see his hands roaming, trapping the girls struggling limbs and pressing her close to him, caging her. She was dead already, she just didn't know it. The hold utilized the man's greater size and strength, and he saw the realization in her expression as the man pressed her into a makeshift embrace.

Then, he remembers, that what that man held wasn't a little girl anymore.

It was as if the whole thing happened at a slower pace than the world around them. The girl's eyes shuttered, and what looked out of them was hungry and alive. The dark orbs were filled with the malice and blood-lust of the beast that was possessing her. Her mouth descended and sunk into the tender flesh of his neck. The monster tore at the man, shook her head and ripped with her jaws. Blood steamed in the night air and flooded down her face and her pretty robes, staining them both. Her hand reached up and joined in the carnage, shredding the flesh of her assaulter, killing him then and there.

Zabuza remembers the excitement that ran in his veins, that shuddered and clawed through his heart. He recalls the possessiveness that shot through him when he looked at her, snarling and spitting and roaring at the corpse, her hair wild and robes askew. He recalls the need to own that monster, the one that stomped on the dead man's eyes and popped them like grapes, the creature that flung the flesh back at the dead body and howled in the night about the success of her kill.

He remembers the demon that dressed itself once more in the skin of a child and walked calmly back into the night.

Zabuza looks at his thumb, and the trailing red. He places his bleeding appendage in his mouth and wonders if the taste is the same one she tasted that night. He wants that girl. He wants her to be his tool, to control her and wield her where and when he needs them. He wants to tame her and temper her and hone her just like the blade he had held in his hands. He grins at the thought.

A monster, just like him, held at his beck and call. He hears they have finally found her, hiding in her fake skin. He hears that she will be joining the Academy soon.

He will make her his.

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AN: Okay! Just a look into some of the minds that Ryuishi is affecting. Thanks again to my beautiful beta, the Hate child, as she makes my work readable. Also, welcome Zabuza!