FicWad

/A/N:/ Quick author note, the content of this chapter, which, after careful planning, is focused on introducing the characters and laying the foundations of the plot, so though it may not seem like it, everything in this chapter is significant to the future plot. Significant progression won't begin until Chapter Two which I'm working on right now. Thanks for your time, now on with the show!


Kaleidoscope - Land of Sound


Shining wisps his lemon hair glimmer beneath dim light as he weaves and slashes through the crowd of thugs and mercenaries, dodging a hail of ill-disciplined, clumsy weapon swings with swivelled steps amidst the cold streaks of blood spraying concrete. They flash glances akin to lightning over puddles and pools and scattering specklets and droplets with the fallback of a gust of breeze and dancing kunai. They sail from his heels and into the air, staining the walls and stinging thugs' eyes' as a kunai whispers to his palm, twirls on his finger, and penetrates a jaw with shattering bones and splaying teeth. His foot tails the blow with a strike shot in the blink of an eye and the sandal sole slams the flat edge of a wildly swung Kama, jarring the blade in its loosened grasp which gleams under dim light and plunges into the chest of another.

A boastful grin lights his face, another bloodied kunai looped with a practiced delicacy on his fingers, and the once fine silk fibres of his black mesh-shirt balloon as he drops and sweeps the ankle of another misfooted mercenary, then he twists and he drives its moistened point deep into the exposed knee cap with a satisfying crack and scream of intense pain. A forceful tug and the blade bursts loose with a 'shunk' and shriek of incapacitation and sail of blood speckling his gloves - he sturdily flicks his wrist and the kunai sails across the room and penetrates another charging temple, accompanied in a quick successive hail of others reminiscent of rain beneath agonized cries. He doesn't think on it, he never thinks on it, as he swivels and dodges a messy death and a clumsy Wakizashi thrust with inconspicuous ease, his iris' twitch captures every movement of its bearer's tensed sinew and muscle far quicker than the straight blade's fall.

The sodden silk of his shirt snags against his skin once again, as he grasps the steel's length in one gloved vice grip with an instinctive lash of his arm, oblivious to the sharp edge pressed into his skin, boots streaking across the floor, chakra boosting the tips of his toes, as he launches himself alongside the sword's retreat. A snap of his torso, a swing of his right leg, roar in his throat, and a heavily weighted and padded shin guard careers savagely through an elbow joint with an ominous crack that echoes throughout the small room, drowning the pained scream and murderous yells as the sword falls harmlessly from its twisted limb, blade still poised in the blonde's grasp and tainted with veins of his blood streaking from his pierced fingers that heighten the broad widths ominous glint and gleam under the quadrant of dim lights.

His sandals touch the concrete with feathered taps of a practiced delicacy, breezing to a gust, swept away again in the swiftness of a blink with a twist of his arm, a push from his thighs with a burst of speed and ribs implode under the pressure of the blade that penetrates it's owner's chest. It's drawn out again in the blink of an eye with an audible 'shunk' and the body slumps to the ground... loud enough for him to toss the sword to the room's eerie hesitance; a nonchalance, arrogance, smug, overconfidence in this swift skirmish of quant, dwindling numbers. The homeless blade somers and furls and spins and twirls and shines in the light for that brief moment, before the grip lands perfectly placed in his palm and clumps to the fabric of the thick gloved hand. Red eyes laced with the densest of purple, and decorated with the intricate two-tiered tomoe seal sparkle with childlike mirth, something excitably corrupted and given little inch by the intentful grin sullying his features.

It's fun to use this thing. He charges the remaining ten with a sweep and a step and a shift and a drop and an odd elegance, in almost a silly little dance to his grace and his dodges and his offence; ill-perfection in his step, mindless to the tactic of slaughter and mayhem in such a confined space. He's too engrossed in the sheer joy of killing weak, pathetic trash in the sweetest act of revenge, like Orochimaru always defines it, to care about something like form. He doesn't need it; 'it's hazardous to his potential' he's always told.

He rides his waves of freedom which crash into guards in a frenzied storm with swipes and swings dodged and countered with the full capacity of his arsenal; a hail of shuriken mutilating eyes, a kunai buried in an abdomen, the scavenged Wakizashi plunged into a spine which severs all motor function with a silent cry. The next is an audible shriek with a broken arm jarred as another useless weapon clatters to the ground, sodden with a battle cry gurgled by a blood-filled choke with the wet shank of a kunai thrust into a jowl. He does it all amidst a wild shower of blood and mirth of animalistic savagery with his stumbled grace and wraithlike silence and efficiency amidst the guttural screams of the dying and crippled. The metal of his goggles gleam and flash beneath dim light as he lashes against the rest... and the lemon flash of his golden hair sparkling with sweat under shimmering heat.

"Kill him, bastards! Or I don't pay you a cent!" The voice is hoarse, stressed; grating, and bounces from the walls, yet the words fall to little avail.

The shadow of the office sharpens the divots of a face sitting heavily tanned and framed by glasses that hide his eyes from his associates and his enemies... eyes which crease and deepen with bags and crows feet beneath small, pearl red lenses. His gold tooth shines beneath the glinted light of a dimly lit room as his lips stretch to a sneer with the next of his thugs murdered in the blink of an eye. His hand thumbs the mole sitting on his nose to settle its itch with the crease of deep wrinkles. It's a nervous habit and a bad omen, but he dismisses it this time for irrational fear. His sheer wealth and power has amassed him an army that's vast in number this time. His mercenaries are armed to the teeth with enough weaponry to make even the bravest men and would-be heroes cower, and they always back him with a thirsty disposition and a twitch to kill anyone he asks for the bonuses he so generously promises. It's the minimum he demands.

With that firepower in the palm of his hand he felt more than inclined to wet his beak in Rice Field Country affairs and plunder their land and profits unopposed. He'd expected resistance, nothing big, so he'd expected it to be quelled with ruthless efficiency all the same. But he hadn't anticipated a setback... moreover, he hadn't expected one this damaging as another soldier of his hoard is cut down amidst a sea-red blood spray beyond the darkened lenses of his glasses, fluttering over his desk with a scream of pure agony warranted by bones cracking violently beneath the intense force of weaponry penetrating flesh, severing muscle tissue, twisting through organs and bursting through bone once again. It isn't the same thug, as the useless soldier lies sprawled like a rag doll against the far wall. Very much dead... the next writhing in pain, clutching his impaled leg with his broken arm. He's crippled and useless. The intruder moves to his next with swiftness so inconspicuous the fight born from an ambush is amount to a mass slaughter. His confidence wanes and he fails to hold his gulp...

"H-He's just a kid..." he stutters unsurely, "He's just a kid! Kill him-!"

His sentence stops short, cut by a blood spray so random he can barely identify the drowned scream, nor does he care to. Concern shifts moreover to the shirt of his business suit now soaked by the vile, ominous fluid... as the wheel of his chair slips and falls, minimal survivalist instinct acting in his head though now little more than an exercise in futility as one hundred-sixty pounds of arrogant fat clatters to the concrete floor, shedding his red-stained jacket as if it's gas to a flame before he scrambles back up again with all the grace of a waddling duckling, back pressed to the wall in superficial comfort... as far from the fighting as he can get.

He's safe, a mind's relativity... so he doesn't register the severity of every falling body as more blood falls, staining the bland concrete wall and coating it with more crimson than he's ever wanted to see, the backlash of droplets sprinkle and soak neatly gelled black hair and blotch the lens of his glasses. Another splatter stains his shoes; his sparkling black loafers were a direct buy from his plundering of a south side rice plantation. Its vast, untapped fields were more than enough to entice him to a business opportunity far too appeasing to ignore, though now one business opportunity crumbling, exposed by his own inadequacy. He'd never find fault with himself, so the blame falls to the mercenaries for their own incompetence.

Another series of debilitating cracks draws another scream of intense agony, and the mortal fear of death creeps through his being as time seems to slow... because through the dwindling number of his cowardice struck resistance and bodies piled on his floor he can see his assailant's face, wild locks of bright blonde hair and features in a morbid twist, darkened beneath the pale room light and a malicious scowl... brightening his eyes, glowing almost unnaturally like those of a demon...

Figures of imposition; strength, intimidation, fear, lay beyond him. Mercenaries massacred and sprawled like rag dolls, cut down like marionettes and piled in a collection of inferiority. The General, his first to attack and lead the charge, sits with black eyes dilated and staring into nothingness, a kunai lodged in his throat and buried to the ring... his bodyguard propped, back to the wall, a sword erect in his chest. Everywhere he looks a bloody premonition of his own fate mares his vision... The last shield falls with the sword withdrawn from its chest. Wrinkled hands quiver, fingers twitch and pupils dilate in disbelief. He doesn't notice his shades' inconspicuous slip from his face or their shallow crack to the floor, as he trembles in a daze of his worst fears.

"W-Who...?" he struggles to force back his terrified stutter, "...who... w-what are you...?"

The Wakizashi clatters to the floor with a clang of metal, the blonde tossing it haphazardly in vague boredom and a pouted lip, a frown of what looks like... disappointment...? Higher expectation...? Ignoring the question entirely. Instead he tugs at the goggles strapped to his forehead, adjusting the band and lenses and wiping away the drops of blood, neatening his unruly bright hair only for it to spring back to its urchin state. Fingers brush the black silk tunic-shirt nonchalantly, creased and dishevelled, the metal-mesh vest resting beneath it and a large orange velvet rope bow standing erect on his back, securing his shorts to his waist. In an act of almost belligerent defiance for one so young; he kicks at a small puddle of blood, a mere shadow remaining of his dreams, with a nonchalance and disrespect only befitting of someone of superior standing... and he can do nothing to quell such belligerent defiance and disrespect.

The straps of open-toed shinobi boots glint under the flickering light beneath his shorts, as with the gauntlets strapped beneath the short cuffs of his shirt and skirting the fingerless gloves on his hands... They flash into action, from indifferent fluffing to aggression as a kunai slips inconspicuously to rest in the palm of his hand, flies from the tips of his fingers with the flick of a wrist and buries itself in the wall mere inches from the crime lord's head, snapping him from his fearful stupor back to reality. For all his bold proclamations, he can do nothing against this monster... this /demon/... Again his question is ignored, because the boy can't hear him.

"Oi, bastard!" He wilts at the sharp shriek, shivers beneath his gaze; intentful, disturbingly un-intimidated in those purple eyes. "Ain't these the weakling trash you said was gonna kill me?" The glare is murderous, penetrating, defiant, pissed off; the very same that'd prompted the crime lord's anger at such bold camaraderie and almost belligerent disrespect.

The surrealism catches him cold... the scene of devastation is a mirror of the hallways of his once beautiful base; dank and dim, bloody and littered with his guards, framed and torn by broken paintings, and speckled by the crushed remnants of glass from fluorescent lighting. They highlight every turn, every curve, and every door baring bruises; burst open with splintered cracks and ire riled to match fury yelling tales of destruction, rebellion, energy, aggression. The monotonous buzz and flicker of cracked bulbs touches completion to the scene.

The boy had located and penetrated his base in the dead of night, killing all guards he'd encountered along the way with an air of tedium and underestimation for the crime lord's power, prompting a retaliation; a bold proclamation that this office would be the resting place for this insolent little shit... because in anticipation of the brat's inevitable arrival he'd summoned his thugs to converge on this location... only to witness the swift and spectacular brutality of their gruesome slaughter, all as his former arrogance trapped him in a void of helplessness, powerless in his subconscious wall of defiance 'til the very end. He mentally curses them all to hell, as in an instant all his prior confidence and weight throwing is reduced to little more than a sobbing mess, as in an instant the boy topples his desk, flashes in front of him as only a ninja can and catches the front of his shirt with a grasp so tight the fibres bite and give and his knuckles whiten. For the first time in Satsui's life, inconsiderate of his pride, he hastily discards his ego with a sharp branding of repent as he begs pitifully for his life...


Chapter One: Sound & Rice...


The air was robbed of its cool-moistened breath, heavy and molten with an almost unnatural heat that chokes her wheezes, the same heat that chares the sky to a blood red sea of noxious smoke and the strong bitter stench of burn and gas, baking its trail of soil to solid ground and twisted chips of glass. It never fades, never relents, and a loud explosion easily half a mile back rocks her ears in ominous proximity. She can only squint tearfully, helpless as only a seven year old can be but for her legs pumping in quiet desperation, cradling the crying bundle as tight as she can, praying to all the gods in all the universe that can hear her to give her tiring arms the strength and steadfast grip to keep hold of her younger sister. Air flutters the endless tether of red locks swaying with the steady, listless breeze of her sprint and carrying the ominous chime of weaponry clashing.

Amidst the crackle of flames licking the air and for the briefest moments, she chances a glance over her shoulder, through the blackened clump of trees in the forest to see the brittle, ashened wood crackle and collapse beneath the force of bodies bursting them apart and weaponry tearing it to pieces. Struggled croaks of hoarse cries touch her ears in the blanket of heat, murderous yells gurgled by blood in the background and they only grow closer for the briefest of moments... brief before the loud crack of a burning tree silences them with its tilt and collapse.

She'd never seen so much death; the silence fades to a void of deceptive nothingness but for the unbearable heat and a momentary growth... this is her world, promised to her by her mother in words whispered with a tone so cryptic she could only fear it like a premonition. 'When the time is right, grab your sister and run...' and her feet press their burn into the tightness of her sandals and her toes prickle sharply with every step she takes in a run that lasts the stretch of an eternity. But she isn't finished yet; because she can't be finished yet... because her little sister still clings to her, still cries hysterically, still needs her... but her eyelids flutter heavily and her mind mists and her steps sway drunkenly amidst the wheezed wet coughs of smoke from her lungs. She bites her lip as her shoulder hits a tree and the splintered bark burns and shears her skin. Droplets of blood, her blood, speckle and stain the floor, fade to smoke and mist away... and she hisses as teardrops follow, her leg stings from the throbbing gash of a wayward shard of glass and swells on her skin.

Dry heaves force her stumble and she nearly collapses beneath the strain of her leg's throb, it jars from the force as she drops to one knee amidst the blood leaking from the open wound and her sister's tearful, inaudible cries... as bare feet, smaller than her own, pat the moist, heating warmth of the forest floor as she hacks on the coppery taste of her own blood, a small hand squeezes the fabric of clothing on her back, the other pats her face in a child's resort to snap her back to the waking world. Amidst worried cries of 'Tayu-chan!' the crackle of flames gaining ground on their path, the fanatical devotion to her young, innocent sibling spurs her arm to move of its own will; relinquishing the grip on her throat to cling to her sisters arm as she crawls to her feet amidst the torturous grate in her chest. Her raven hair hangs littered with dust, and sparkling black eyes stare into her soul with a frightened timidity unseen in her mother... Her sister looks just like her.

The same arm, weary, sluggish, grips the faded grey pyjama top hanging from he sister's torso to stain it with the blood that'd veined between her fingers from the agonized grip on her shoulder... and with the remnants of her strength she drags her into an embrace and clambers to her run, bursting through the throb of her wounded leg, resistant to the drag of gaining smoke and hell-hot humidity. Torrents of sweat pour down her face and slickens her fringes, birds flutter to the swollen sky and a black feather glints with a red sheen on its frayed strands, brushes the grime tattooed to her cheek and the droplet of blood... the remnants from her witness to her mother's murder she'd missed when she wiped the rest away in wide eyed shock. She ignores its feint brush, her sister's tears abate to murmured sniffles and she sniffs through sniffles to murmur cooing reassurance just as her mother would... because her mother trusts her and she's counting on her.

It's a medical mantra that spurns her pain; the cool of the slim clammy arm secured around her neck can only ward her to her sister's condition... its grip loosens as she struggles for consciousness beneath the heat yet more blood speckles to the ground and her body submerges itself in pain with thorns tearing through her flesh as she streaks through a bush... her sister cradled to her front by this time, as she charges side on with reticent memories thought dead to her burning amidst the heat licking her skin and tickling a scold to fresh, raw blisters and bruises on her legs as they burn a path of back woods she'd memorized from years of growing up here. The burn is relentless, an endless prickled sear of biting air scorching her flesh with reminiscence of vultures in the desert. If she falters she'll be a carcass... if she slips, they'll both be dead.

Her anatomy falters to pressure rebellious of her will as it wilfully defies her, indifferent to the chill of mortal fear claiming her... fear of the mob, hate for herself, fear of flames that would sear her skin away in torturous, blinding agony, as they would her sister's as they screamed and screamed and screamed, fear of joining the small wooden shack her tiny family called home burned to ground in light of the power they hold. She can't stop running... swimming amidst memories from a shadowed cupboard as the shunk of the blade driven through her mother's chest, tearing flesh and clashing with bone... little resistance as it burst from her back with a stream of blood which stains the floor in a scattered spray.

Wayward droplets that'd whispered through the crack in the doors to stain her left cheek, and she'd bitten her lip 'til she drew blood, a hand clamped desperately over her sister's mouth, biting the scream to a tearfully murmured "kassan..." drowned by a hail of weapons wielded by a mob which stabbed and finished and killed her mother, over and over again in a dizzy, bloodied haze amidst deafening yells of scorn, fear, vengeance and murder. All of it subdued by her mother's deafening silence. Her eyelids droop heavy with fatigue as they succumb to the ache her limbs stubbornly cradle, and a desperate run is reduced to little more than sluggish stumbles in faded scenery, copulated by a blind step, drunken beneath the pull of endless exhaustion faltering muscles. She trips on a rock amidst a sea of dark disorientation, and her toe breaks. The grip of her unconscious sister drifts from her neck and fingers slip from fingers as gravity claims them, and through a mind's haziness futility circulates because she's relived this in premonitions past.

The same deafening rings in a backdrop of pure panic, terror misplaced to spurn bravery in a maternal spirit that worked her arms to grab her sister and flee from the home as the putrid stench of gas descends upon the room, as its spilled across the floor, back splashing along the furniture and doused over the broken corpse in the middle of the floor. Her mind stays barely conscious enough to witness her vision's break to murky depths as she registers a plummet to her float, her body slipping from pain and reality... into the shallow valley at the edge of the forest to tail her sister's plummet, slipping and scattering rocks in her wake. She's failed... the last fading thought as her head cracks sharply against the solid curve of rock...

...and she awakes, gasping to a cold compress of a soaked shirt chilling her skin and bolting from her pillow amidst droplets of water dripping from the tip of her nose. Her hair lays plastered and listless to her forehead and drips with water to the soaked sheets fisted in her tight-knuckled grasp, and amidst the reticent pull of reminiscent terror, the comfort of her room in Sound Base; morning light hidden beyond the scattered glow of the blinds, a yawn catches her ear and her eyes bolt to the right. She summons her most fearsome glare and burns it into the annoyed, sleep-addled face of her six-armed teammate, but he merely yawns again, blinking sluggishly, scratching an odd freckle on his bare stomach in Neanderthal manner as she slaps the dripping bucket from his grasp...

"Bout time you woke up..." He yawns sleep-addled slurs, unmoved by her glare as he rubs sleep from his eyes... "All that moaning was getting kinda annoying..."


"Oi, oi! Snake eyes guy, where're we goin'?"

The darkness of Fire Country's endless woodland held an eerie beauty sung by chirping crickets as Naruto stumbled over camouflaged tree-roots, occasionally lodging his feet into the thick bed of shrubbery, leaves and twigs as he trudged blindly along the forest floor. His counterpart walked a good few feet ahead of him; gliding adverse to the darkness with a distinction and grace lacking in his own stumbled jog, and it pissed him off. His counterpart's face held a strange beauty, yet its cowl was fiercely frightening, as with the reptilian features laced within which caught him stark cold... as the elder looked over his shoulder, smiling that smile stretched on milk-white skin. His voice was deep, eloquent and dipped in his throat, and still sent deep chills down his spine. "To confirm the value of your existence, Naruto-kun." He spoke his riddle with a coolness lost to the child, who merely quirked his eyebrow perplexedly, tilted his head in confusion and recovered his voice inarticulately.

"Neh... Whazzat mean?"

"If you have the energy to question me then you have the energy to walk... when we arrive, I assure you, you will find out."

"Feh!" he waved a hand dismissively, crossing his arms and glaring impatiently, "Is that all ya gonna tell me?"

Naruto scowled expectantly, questioningly, clumsily as he failed to watch his path, nearly tripping and toppling face first and slipping the grip of his backpack for the umpteenth time since they began their journey. However surreal it was to believe an entity as raw and powerful as the Kyûbi could be contained by a mere child, it was even more difficult to fathom the beast being held by a child as... odd... as this one. Whether he could harness it would be left for time to tell. He chuckled openly at God's ironic concept, earning a squinted, speculatory scowl from his tiny companion. "Tell me, Naruto-kun..." his eyes glowed with a mirth that shook the young blonde to the core - the boy oblivious to his question so expertly evaded - and the self-satisfying such an easy coerce. "...Tell me about Konoha."

He watched intently with a deceptive, frivolous gaze over his shoulder as the boy's demeanour visibly dropped, shoulders drooping, granting a somewhat distinct silence to the surrounding forest. The boy found interest in his sandals as he glared contemplatively at the worn, faded fabric intently. Hand me downs no doubt, the boy looked the subject of such... a black t-shirt one size too large and faded to a murky shade of grey, loud orange shorts passing beyond his knees, patches of dirt tainting filth onto otherwise tanned skin. He was defiant to his status however, something even he had to admit, spoke volumes of character.

"Neh! It's stupid!" Naruto's voice burst through the elder's subconscious with a startling volume, but he did well to hide it, as was often the case. He merely raised an eyebrow. The vessel's blue eyes squinted with obvious anger, a child's distain. "'Cuz everyone hates me... Everyone's stupid, that whole place is stupid!" Bravado. Though the underlying note played all too clearly... pain. Pain skilfully moulded to a mask of fortuitous toughness, aggression; pain that could be harnessed. He laughed at it, a gesture, tossed so frivolously, he remembered, could manipulate and draw emotions to the surface... and the blonde's eyes narrowed dangerously, the predictable result, zeroing on him. The zest of his questioning glare burning a hole through his back... and he smirked inwardly, impassive and unfazed by a murderous intent shelled and confined in patience for his tutelage to crack. The pain went far deeper than the mere superficial shell the boy expressed. He'd seen it for himself...

"Hey! What's so funny!" the blonde yelled in obvious anger, one brushed by like dirt from the elder's shoulder... ignoring him. He ran to cut the man's path, stomping as quickly and aggressively as his stubby legs could carry him... he would not be ignored; he'd had enough of it. "Hey! I'm talkin' to you-!" oblivious to his path - eyes narrowed, forcibly shoving away all previous intimidation he held for the man despite the quiet awe for his fearful demeanour - his words were cut as he stumbled on a stray log, tumbling a good few meters ahead of the man's - his watcher's - stride, rolling comically among leaves and twigs before landing harshly on his face... But he didn't cry, the boy refused to cry. Admirable.

"Ungh..." he groaned, crawling to his feet, leaves falling from his clothing and chipping as they touched the forest floor. He clutched his face, hissing in discomfort, eyes glistening with tears forcibly withheld and brows narrowed so menacingly, so filled with hatred and contempt, Orochimaru had to forcibly withhold a gleeful grin of sheer excitement. Those eyes would have cowed any other; such was the fearsome calibur he'd unearthed in Naruto-kun. He couldn't doubt the boy's character, nor resist the delicious demeanour of his boiling hatred. No doubt he'd make an adequate host subject for his experiment, he held the researched capacity to survive... then he would make a fine student, a challenge to destroy physically, break emotionally... to rebuild to his making, and to watch and admire as a fearsome war weapon.

"Is that all you intend to tell me or is that all there is to tell...? I'm not interested in listening to childish whining for miniscule problems." he looked at the blonde, revealing that smirk; eerie, ominous, permanent... mocking. "If you have the will to complain of your problems so openly then you have the spirit to fix them."

Ocean blue eyes screwed shut and Naruto scowled in anger. "How! S'not like I can jus'-!" His sentence was severed as a hand snagged his fist faster than his eyes could fallow, jerking him into the air with an ease and blinding speed only becoming of an elite ninja. He could only stare hypnotically, and grudgingly admirably at the hand gripping his fist, the gentle breeze swaying his legs as he hovered above the ground. Yellow eyes glowed beneath the lace of black, burning, stripping his face, staring into his soul.

"You fight, Naruto-kun." The coarse words tickled his ears, a flash... before his rear end met the forest floor with a painful and unceremonious 'clump', billowing dried leaves and fallen twigs. 'You fight, Naruto-kun...' They poked through his shorts, leaves clung to sweat-moistened skin and he stared blandly at the retreating figure... mulling on the tether of words slipped so coolly from the elder's lips, words repeated so many times to him they were a worn mantra, falling at the seams with every academy failure, burning in the depths of his mind with every glare he'd ever received, with every repressed memory of forced solitude. He'd known the sensation of adrenaline wasting away with every roar of his lungs that one day he'd know true strength... Yet every day he'd get no closer, his roar was smothered to a whisper, trying was an exercise in futility... 'What did he know...?'

"Hey!" he stumbled and clambered to his feet as he dragged his backpack, crushing shrubbery beneath angry stomps. He glared, eyes aflame at his elder. "I can't fight back... I..." a whisper wilted... beneath the weight of apprehension and the fixed gaze of a reptile, ready to lash with its tongue. He wilted beneath his shame... his neck drooped, eyes squeezing shut, refusing to meet the ground. "...I don't know how..."

"Hmm...?" A test; challenged with an amused grunt... and the boy grit his teeth in torturous memory. He hated admitting defeat, and this snake-eyed freak was really pissing him off.

"I tried... at the academy... but... I was the dobe... Nobody showed me how..."

The elder chuckled; the softest, faintest wisps of breath from the act kissing the air... in lieu of his personal observations, the knowledge of this child's loneliness, mistreatment, in knowledge of words chosen with meticulous malice, and with anticipation of its results. "Nobody showed you how... Excuses..." And eyes snapped open, shame faded to anger... Little fists clenched before his face, pain of his cheek forgotten...

"What do you know...?" A whisper, filled with distain and contempt; the large, angry bruise already healing, an impressive testament to the bijuu's power. He observed the sinew of swollen skin lace and fade to a sun-kissed tan before the boy launched into a bitter tirade. "What do you know 'bout me! You prolly had family! You prolly had friends, a bed and food 'n' stuff! You prolly never...!" he hesitates, shame in his breath, wavered in his eyes as they water... "You prolly never had to worry 'bout people try'na ignore you when you wanna find your way home, or looking at you like trash or somethin'!" A sniffled secret revealed... as he listened impassively. "Your parents prolly got you all that fancy stuff to wear, toys 'n' stuff! You never got laughed at in school 'cuz don't wear nice clothes or 'cuz you don't have parents! What do you know you... you... sissy-haired, girly-man!"

Steps halted, barely a bristle under the blonde's glare, noting the fearlessness, the boldness, the impudence... and he laughed... a loud, majestic, mirthful laugh cultivated and copulated by the alcoholic rust marring his voice. The boy didn't know whom he spoke to, nor whom he insulted, but he still drew amusement from a fortitude and perseverance forced into a nine-year-old where others would crumble in a similar situation. He pressed on through the maze of darkened woodland forest, impassive to the blonde's confused stare as he left him behind. "Dry your eyes before you follow..."

Another sniffle, "...wasn't cryin'..." he mumbled, unconscious to his arms wiping his eyes of fresh tears.

"Baka..." he chuckled. "Hiding emotions of this magnitude from yourself for so long, no wonder you can't fight. You're weak..."

"I'm not weak!" the blonde yelled in defiance, blue eyes screwed in that cute fashion.

"Aren't you?" he smirked.

"No! I..." he wilted, but a glare sets his tone and spurs a yell... to spite the creepy faced bastard. "...Someday I'm gonna be the greatest ninja ever!"

"...And when you become this great ninja, what then?"

Naruto's prideful boast was severed and he muttered an indiscrete 'huh'...

"Will it provide the be-all and end-all of your problems?" He dismissed the youthful ignorance, puttering chuckles through tightly knit lips. "Heh... being a ninja alone won't make you strong." He held the boy's rapt attention in the palm of his hand. "The strong utilise their emotions - embrace them to draw the strength they possess, that includes ninja... but what do you do?" The blonde flinched inwardly, and he smirked more so in self-satisfaction. "You smile and you ignore it, absorb and take it... then you go home and cry, revel in the pain and sink into depression, then you bottle up your emotions, lying to yourself only to repeat the cycle all over again... day, after day, after day..." The forest fell into silence with serenity and self-contemplation - self-loathing... and a realisation that snake-eyes guy knew him better than he thought.

"The village hates you, they detest you, despise you, and do little to hide it... but amidst the hate you're still weak." He moves to protest, but sheer experience and wisdom delivered in assured eloquence robs him or a retort. He can't argue and he hates it. "You're weak because you're blind, you're weak because you don't hate them - truly hate them - for what they do to you. Instead you shrivel and wilt within yourself, wasting hate you can use to spur your desires... instead of allowing yourself the freedom to embrace your emotions and hate them back." Another flinch, as if a physical blow... "Hate weakens you, Naruto-kun, where it should strengthen you..."

The boy's mouth fell open as if pre-programmed to protest, but he fell into silence once again, allowing the elder to bask in the serenity of the pre-morning woodland, the quiet serenity that symbolised his young follower's inconspicuous venture from his innocence, ignorance and wishful thinking, enough to absorb his preachings as so many preceding him had done so... easier still, the seeds of his corruption had been planted by Sarutobi's foolish pipedream of a united village rejoicing the vessel's name for 'housing' the subject of their darkest fears, their trauma, their sorrow, their nightmares and their anger. It was watered by his village's ostracizing and abuse of their unwilling protector and potentially greatest weapon with a coldness and cruelty only fear could cultivate. Such a waste of power for the sheer sake of irrational hate disgusted him to no end... proof, ignorance was a dangerous thing; the prospects for this child were... truly delicious.

Masked by darkness, a long tongue - snake-like - moistened his lips in pure anticipation.

The gentle lull of the sun hued the dark sky to the easiest of deep blue... dawn, when he realised how long they'd been walking, though he'd timed every aspect of their journey with an accuracy meticulous only to the level of an elite. The dust of the natural worn path came into view; an opening of the forest canopy marked the separating trees. There was an inn situated less than a mile from here beyond Fire Country's boarders and adverse to their patrol. The Hokage's inspection of the boy would take place in a mere three hours by a rough estimation - the dawning sun having yet to cast its shine over the forest canopy - but it made little difference. The boy had followed of his own free will, the dead of night worked with the elder of the duo, so their departure bore no witnesses. Even so, the boy was just a villager, regardless of his enrolment in the academy and regardless of housing the Kyûbi, so he could not be declared a missing-nin. He'd more than likely be declared dead within a week.

Retrieving the Jinchûriki would be a waste of valuable resources for a Konoha still recovering from its losses as well as a self inflicted blow should the Sandaime choose to 'drag Naruto-kun back to the depths of despair'. He'd be doing himself no favours nor endearing his pitiful ideals to the boy's heavily crumbled faith. He chuckled inwardly; it paid to have a man on the inside, who better than the prodigy; Yakushi Kabuto? Truly Sasori knew what he was doing when instilling such a spy within his ranks. More so, Konoha was turning its inevitable destruction to an act rivalling divine retribution with this child. Naruto-kun had a destiny intertwined with his own.

"I wanted to be Hokage..."

He barely caught the boy's words beneath his breath... it was a whisper. Naruto spoke with the same sluggishness that dragged his feet along dirt-clouded stone and shrubbery, it was amazing to think of such stamina in one so young while any other would have been asleep on their feet. "Hmm?"

"...You said I was weak 'cuz I jus' sit back while the villagers hate me..." the open, sombre expression caught the elder, before it morphed to that familiar perseverance. Cute. "...That's why I wanted to be Hokage, to prove them wrong so they'd have to recognise me." And thus, the watcher witnessed a determination, tainted, but otherwise undeterred, by an infant's frustration. "I wanted to shut them up, wanted to force them to like me... t-to... need me." A hopelessness, one he'd hoped to see within a well of emotions, melted the boy's seemingly foolish perseverance, "I-I... jus' wanted to... prove that I could be strong... I jus' wanted to..."

"...To confirm the value of your existence."

They stopped a mere footfall from a meadow, locking eyes; a physical and emotional weariness to a craved understanding, and the boy accepted the understanding as understanding accepted him. "Konoha is far behind us, Naruto-kun... the hate, the suffering you've known all your life is all far behind us. That is what you craved, isn't it... escape, acceptance?" A shy nod was the expected response, delivered after a length of time obliviously contemplating an internal decision or paradox. How fitting that the road to the base was blessed with a glow once the sun hit the fields just right... and the wealth and prosperity of Konohagakure sat beyond the murky depths of a dank forest. However, a shy nod of acceptance was not the reception.

He recognised the glare shot balefully yet listlessly at him, one he read as the predictable stubbornness one of his status would naturally harbour to survive for such a length of time... yet, the boy appeared misplaced... unsure of himself, and it showed in the mere meaning of the menacing look. His earlier words had perhaps penetrated far deeper than he'd anticipated. It was an unexpected drawback, but the boy somehow took his words for pretence and, as such, he responded with another refusal to admit defeat, however tired and wearily he delivered it.

"I'm not runnin' away..." it was an unconvincing attempt at self-assurance.

"Is this how you always planned to show gratitude to those who would bring you freedom?" He never lost the amused tone, because throughout their journey the boy never failed to entertain him. Much to his disappointment, the blonde didn't respond this time, instead he merely stood, staring slightly unnervingly at him, glaring defiantly yet searching for leadership... so he tussled his hair with almost feigned affection, one he was sure, rather pathetically, the boy had never known. And an annoyed screw obscured Naruto's features, yet he waited... before he brushed the hand away. "...I've brought you this far, Naruto-kun, but the choice is yours as to whether you wish to go further."

With that he left him, his feet carrying him with grace, fingers kissing the moistened tips of grass in an endless meadow surrounded by mountains rising to bare their beauty to the rising morning sun... aware of the figure, stunned to a silent stupor a fair distance behind him. Innocence; pure, beautiful... annoying, a hindrance. Little feet shuffled to catch him, sandals pressing frantically to grass and soil, a scepticism - he could only imagine - threatening to seal his eyes shut with an inquisitive screw... "Orochimaru." The answer left his lips before the boy could voice his question... and he glanced over his shoulder, noting the dissipation of the blonde's burst of enthusiasm, weariness claiming him yet he was tirelessly wilful not to show it.

"My name..." Yellow eyes turned to the onward path, focused on the future; the low suns slow rise toward the dark sky, rays casting the faintest orange glow beneath an ocean's shadow of hued blue clouds. "Orochimaru..." He missed the boy's speculatory scowl.


Shinobinaku is a neat plane of grassland nestled between Sound and Kusa, and bar the quaint village and modest patch of farmland the country is barren of life, consisting mainly of the forest of its namesake... or more accurately, at least in Naruto's point of view, it's covered in dark, dank, wet, sweaty, muddy, smelly, humid, crawling mesh of trees, leaves, poisonous plants, snakes, insects, wildlife, and perhaps, most predominantly, wetness... lots and lots and lots of wetness. Perhaps most importantly, it's where Satsui had chosen to mount the latest of several strongholds in the surrounding region.

Naruto hates it. He hates seeing it, he hates being in it and he hates going through it, but as much as he hates it during the day, he hates it even more at night; when he doesn't know and couldn't even see exactly what that wet patch he'd stepped in had been... fortunately speed is just one of an array of his talents and perhaps the most prominent at that, seeing as he'd received Orochimaru's rare acclaim for it. It'd been a very, very lacklustre comfort and being woken up at three in the morning to perform the mission had everything to do with it, never the less he'd shaken off his sleepy haze and donned a mask of professional deliberance, navigated the forest and located the target's base within the first three hours of his departure from Sound, executing numerous scouts in the process and evading the rest.

The initial infiltration and navigating its hollow halls had been easy, as had finding his target and killing, crippling, maiming and massacring nearly every one of his converged 'army' as he called it, or some shit like that. All in all it'd been one big disappointment. After psyching himself for the oncoming challenge, planning cool new dynamic Jutsus, fighting techniques and otherwise generally basking in his own total awesomeness; he'd initially failed to recognise the subtle clues such as the near ridiculous ease of locating the base and the absurd number of guards his target used to protect himself, and decipher just how potentially anticlimactic a challenge this would prove be. The added consolation of a hell raising performance laced within in movement of remarkable swiftness and fluidity couldn't mask the near incredulous disbelief that he'd ended the mission by tearing through the army purely on Taijutsu, without the use of even one Kage-Bunshin. Thus, he hadn't bothered to smother his huff as he'd tied the unconscious sack of crap and dragged his fat ass from his devastated base a measly hour after infiltration.

That was when, unfortunately, he'd suddenly realised, as if by some weird twist of all semblances of logic, locating and capturing the one-hundred-sixty pound target had been the easy part of his 'prioritised mission', bringing him back was the conundrum Orochimaru had left him to figure out. Satsui was fat, which was proven by the rolls of flab that'd rippled over every divot marking the base's concrete floor. Every. Single. One... And Naruto had whined and bitched and slurred and cursed the tubby asshole vehemently for it as only Naruto could, throwing a few phrases from Tayuya too. Needless to say, despite the obvious hatred, seeing the mounds and layers of Satsui's body fat rippling was more than enough to make Naruto physically sick, that being a rarity in itself, which was reason enough for the blonde to despise the man he'd dragged for miles on end even more than he already did.

Being forced into any mission that involved finding and capturing some guy he'd never heard of from the middle of a forest was more than enough to piss Naruto off, doubly so when all the guy had to show for the 'immediate orders' hype was a bunch of piss-poor thugs and mercenaries. Naruto had felt 'pissed' by the barrelful. However being pulled from a blissful sleep at three o'clock in the freaking morning to find and drag a weak, fat guy he'd never heard of from the middle of Shinobinaku forest on immediate orders made pissed a gross understatement of how the blonde had felt. He'd been damn right homicidal. The weather hadn't matched his stormy disposition.

The midday sun had blazed brightly in the sky and shadowed distant mountains overlooking vast wet rice fields when he'd returned to the quaint, serene borders of Rice Country that afternoon, far contrast to the chilli darkness of early morning, and he'd felt it as his Bunshin clones dragged Satsui with an unfeeling callousness only a child could cultivate, looking rather haggard with torn, sweat-stained, shrubbery covered clones and muttering curses and grunts of distaste at regular intervals. He'd felt particularly vengeful having far passed his bout of righteous pissed-off-ness. Hell, vengeful didn't describe it; he'd been in that all too familiar anti-authoritarian mood. The first thing that'd come to his rebellious mind was to kill the unconscious Satsui and personally deliver the corpse just to contest the whole unfairness of the situation. Unfortunately, emotional state withstanding, even he knew killing a target you're supposed to capture was a 'breach of contract and clientele trust', like Orochimaru would say, and if he did that then it wouldn't warrant pay.

Through his sleepy haze that morning, throughout his mission briefing, he'd noted Orochimaru's uncharacteristic interest in this specific target, one that disregarded his usual dismissive indifference about any contract he charged his subordinates with the task of terminating. Among other things, he'd dismissed his notice of a pigtailed Sound kunoichi he'd never seen before, most notably because the light had reflected far too brightly from her hitai-ate at that hour of the morning and that would only agitate him further. Needless to say, killing the fat bastard was something Orochimaru had strictly prohibited, so it wasn't an act worth considering as an option to sate the blonde's anger. The thought hadn't crossed his mind, as everyone knew the belligerent disregard of the proclaimed de facto Otokage's order was count amount to an act of rebellion and Orochimaru would quell any rebellion and punish treason, swiftly, mercilessly, brutally, and joyfully. Others wouldn't have that much luck; usually they would have had to commit an act so treasonous, displeasing, and indiscriminately foul to bring about the distinct misfortune of a 'mysterious disappearance', almost as if they were simply wiped off the face of the earth.

'Who'd wanna betray Sound?' would be the first thing on the blonde's mind.

Sound is an escape, a refuge, a home; his home... He can't answer that question, he never could, so he'd sticks to his own status quo... hate the sin and despise the sinner. Yet, still, however much he instilled and reaffirmed his own loyalty to Orochimaru, he couldn't dispel that innate curiosity and wariness of urban legends, a trait carried over since early childhood and one that was oddly nurtured by Orochimaru's lessons. 'Always be suspicious and expect the unexpected'. As always he'd taken those lessons to heart, Orochimaru's promised mantle of strength and greatness insisted on it, and those nefarious legends of the Snake Sannin, however young and twisted they were, were thoughts that never failed to send cold chills down his spine. Not for himself though, Orochimaru would never do that to him... they were cool like that. Besides, he was loyal, unlike some trash walking around Sound base... although... he didn't exactly know who they were... so he couldn't exactly do anything about it.

The idea had brought about the sudden suspicious, contemplating tightness to his lips as he'd continued on his way, plodding the outskirts of a northwest rice plantation. As such, he'd severed that train of thought almost entirely, distracting himself with wistful thoughts of a far more subdued revenge that maybe couldn't be mistaken for insubordination or treason and maybe didn't involve Satsui in any way, just to be on the safe side. Hell, he could even look on the bright side. Maybe, when whoever hired him for the mission was done with him, he'd get the distinct honour of wasting the tubby asshole. It made sense, Orochimaru always told him that good things would come to those who wait and that he should be patient, and he'd been as patient and tolerant as he'd ever been in his life. The thought had kept his face forcibly serene; hiding his glee at his own undoubtedly brilliant logic as he'd strode one of many barren paths that weaved neatly throughout Rice country. After all, 'appearing too eager would denote distrust and distrust would be bad for business'... or something like that.

Throughout the majority of these constant lessons it hadn't taken the blonde long to realise that Yakushi Kabuto was like a walking encyclopaedia. If his brick-like personality, frightening love of algebra equations and those simply huge wire frame glasses were anything to go by then that four-eyes had 'NERD' tattooed to his forehead. He probably read the dictionary for fun, which, Naruto had admitted, wouldn't come as much of a surprise. He'd snickered at his own thought for all of seven seconds, as the barren path he'd trodden hadn't been as barren as he'd thought . A merchant had crossed his path.

Inarticulate or unworldly as he was, or at least as he'd been told he was, Naruto was knowledgeable on at least the basic aspects of his country... though his knowledge on his economics is limited, which by all accounts consisted of selling stuff to pay for stuff... stuff like ramen... good, sweet, delicious stuff like ramen. Merchants aren't a foreign sight to Rice country, in fact they are, in many ways, the country's lifeblood. However excitable and eccentric as he'd been described, he was a shinobi, a trained killer, and as such he'd been trained to be discretely observant. Merchants were more common in the numerous market districts dotting the south-west, toward the more prosperous countries such as Fire and Wind, the closest marketing district was easily a mile south from here, so seeing any located in an area this rural was a far cry from the farmers and labourers who worked the rice fields and the familiar Sound shinobi who patrolled them. Naturally, his inquisitive nature would make him suspicious. Even amidst hilarious reminiscing on the total dorkiness of Orochimaru's personal assistant, or whatever he was to Orochimaru, he'd found enough scope to notice the passing man stare at the oddity in Naruto's lacklustre demeanour, in several Narutos' lacklustre demeanours and the bound and gagged, human-shaped bundle they dragged...

Naruto had taken it for pretence, he hates being stared at, he hates those feelings they riled, those memories of being judged, those of being dismissed as nothing or something awful and /dirty/... and he'd cast a silent glare at him, radiating that dark killer intent he'd practiced endlessly, the very same the Orochimaru had promised him would command respect and instate fear into anyone who underestimates his strength... and he'd bitten a devious smirk as the merchant's step had faltered beneath the wave and the aggression and intent warding his own death. He could hear his steps' crackled drags of concrete and dust beneath sandals as he'd stumbled in mid-step.

Learning this wasn't standardised, as was the same for the majority of the Snake Sannin's lessons; the man was a fan of practical assessment and practical demonstration, less so for the more lethal Jutsu, though executed with soulless dismissal and ruthless consistency all the same... and , in a strange way, Naruto's thankful. He's thankful he knows that smell, those feelings and sensations; that fear/... it's the very cacophony of sensations that'd been driven to their intense peak under Shi no Kumi's murderous gaze; that potion of aggression blended within the most evil chakra Naruto had ever felt. He'd been frozen beneath it, mouth agape, tears prickling his vision under the gauge of his body cavity bursting, skin /ripping and tearing by the carve of blades severing and penetrating with wetness in a scarlet mist; wisped, liquored stench of his own blood spilling all over the place, loads and loads of it splattering everywhere with a mesh of guts and bone and blinding pain too intense to scream and scream...

...he'd shaken his head then, violently dispelled those grim visions, fresh in reminiscence as they'd been in experience as recent as a year ago as he'd stared into Orochimaru's golden, predatory eyes, his fingers locked in that exotic seal he'd never seen before. Up until that moment he'd never thought it was possible to do... that/... with killer intent, to paralyse someone with shock, with /fear/... to make them /see that sight and feel that feeling and smell that chemical stench and taste that taste and experience that torture and agony and that utter hopelessness and helplessness and complete vulnerability, like prey... because in that instant that's what he'd been... prey... a plaything, a meal, something so completely and utterly... mortal... and human. That was sensation at its most /raw/.

He's above human though, Orochimaru tells him that all the time, better actually... he's superhuman, the very reason he survived and prospered in life and training where others would crumble. Perseverance... the bloodline project lends weight to the tale... but he'd awoken from his senses' comatose, the cold compress of rough concrete pressing sharply to his knees, and he'd found himself alone, shivering from the fluttered burst of a chilli wind as if it was hurting him... and he'd been crying silently for reasons he hadn't even known. He still doesn't know. He still doesn't know why he'd felt so vulnerable, why suddenly falling prey to something so savage would invoke the feeling of cold eyes' hundreds of miles away burning scorn, or why, in that instant, regardless of acclaim, he'd felt so hated by... /everyone/, as inhuman. Its strange for him experience it, yet Orochimaru uses it to define the importance of him experiencing the same Jutsus he'll inflict on his opponents... 'because it'd steel his heart for that decisive strike, the mark of a shinobi." The second reason he'd left him to discover on his own.

Throughout his rueful reminiscence he realises the ever-present frustration of the day's early mission is gone...

The Fûma clan mansion sits near the outskirts on the far west end of Rice Country, as opposed to the Sound base, Otogakure, situated far east, which would explain Naruto's relative unfamiliarity with the serene, grassy terrain and near constant annoyance at the length of time it'd taken to find it. It'd been almost a pilgrimage to get here and after an eight-hour mission it's fair to say a pilgrimage was by far the last thing he wanted to do. Baring this in mind, Naruto is naturally in no mood to uphold the constant lectures of professional protocol and the characteristic Sound etiquette in front of clientele, even if the clientele is the de facto leader of Rice Country, the room clearly expresses it. It's far from bland, the cultured, decorative blend of furnishing and artwork are intricately accomplished and meticulously placed, almost reminiscent of the artwork he had a ball destroying in the Shinobinaku base. It speaks volumes on the crime lord's personality as his royalty complex was reflected in his lavish decoration to the point of impairing his judgement.

A forest base situated underground would generally be considered a temporary hideout, and, as such, is supposed to be inconspicuous. He'd accomplished the second part surprisingly well; it'd taken extensive Sharingan use to notice the random inconsistencies in leaf foliage and shrubbery on the forest floor, even if the site was situated in a maze of scouts hidden almost adequately in the trees. Almost/... Maybe that was his downfall, too much interior designing and not enough strategizing, which, in the crime game, you really needed... hell, in /any game, you need strategy. Any retard knew that. Despite this, a sliver of respect begrudgingly makes its way into his mind, the fat bastard's not a complete waste of time like he first thought... he did get to practice using this awesome Sharingan, and that's something Orochimaru tells him to do as much as possible.


Otogakure sits east of Rice's main plot of civilisation, a mile off the border, and tales of the base's unprecedented size are the only whispers to reach the ears of the inhabitants of surrounding Rice, the tale to the label Otogakure or Village hidden in the Sound. All other information is carefully filtered and controlled and few would wilfully attempt to pry into the dealings within the shrouded walls themselves and decipher that mystery beyond its obvious purpose of cultivating ninja at an astounding rate. The true nature behind the base's stout illusiveness remains just that, blotted and hazed, illusive... yet the measure of its ominous shadow emits an air of dread and infamy for Sound, suspicion and distrust to the surrounding regions as none truly know of their intentions, yet wariness and uncertainty is spread throughout its ranks.

The lowest levels of Orochimaru's base are amount to forbidden and few operating ninja would wilfully explore its depths unless specifically ordered to. Beyond the musked dankness and stark darkness, the solitude is almost spectral and the constant flicker of dismal candlelight does little to cast the haunting away; yet she insists on it. In the dankness, the darkness, and the solitude, she burns and beats her anger and frustration with an obsessive diligence and religious consistency, shapes and moulds and perfects and polishes and cultivates her body into a bladed weapon with a meticulous perfectionism in power and technique only she can practice, because she's searching for something within that concrete and those iron bars.

She hasn't found it yet, what she's searching for, nor does she know what it is, but she'll do anything to find what it is she's searching for because when she finds that undecipherable thing, that essence of absolution, she'll recognize it instantly and seize it. That's the curse of an avenger; Mizugi always says... she's a silent observer today, hidden somewhere in the eighth level's darkness surrounding this cage. She can feel the berth of hazel eyes, so she's somewhere down here, but she feigns indifference or deceptive obliviousness. Even she can't tell; her own expression is undecipherable, unrecognisable, like herself, as she searches and stares at the blood streaking the concrete. Her near complete adversity to the darkness is a natural commodity; as it bathes the far corner of the room, her eyes trailing the streak's scattered tail to the ripple of a scarlet puddle that soaks and shimmers the barest reflection of candlelight on its surface. She can smell it, almost taste it; so she knows there's more of it because she can feel it with the lingering tinge and faint crackled backlash of chakra. But she can't see it, and that's the prominent issue.

The first concern that comes to mind is she needs more candles; that darkness could become hazardous to her training. Maybe a light bulb would be better suited. But then she thinks better of it. The ambience of the room would suffer, a relatively new thought because she usually doesn't care. Training's a perpetual obsession and relentlessly preoccupies her; still, certain aspects of it need adequate lighting and this just won't do. The irony is almost laughable, her eyes have never noticed that darkness before, yet... the thought of possibly becoming more like Orochimaru than she's comfortable with suddenly flutters unnervingly through her mind, as she ponders idly and muses listlessly on the stream-less torrent of sweat that cops her forehead. A stray beaded trail slips down its surface, escapes the shadow of a her hood, and tingles the bridge of her nose before it slips the tip and taps the smoked bale of concrete, fading and misting with the lightest lingering hinted sheet of dark chakra she can still feel in the room.

Her fist throbs with a steady beat; her knuckles sting and her fingers beat their pulsed swell to her silent, impassive indifference. As her blood veins and soaks the black tape tightened to her hand and forearm, she realises with an almost conversational dismissal that her hand is probably broken in numerous places and her arm is probably fractured in numerous places too... but she doesn't acknowledge the pain; instead she notes the evidence it entails... The Jutsu is far from perfected; her chakra's running near empty, and her body feels the toll weighted by its intensive control and exhaustive elemental manipulation, pressed with the stoned grains of untouched, unmarked, un-maimed concrete that's pressing her rear, a rare find in her arena. It still jars from where she'd slumped; yet beyond her shallow discomfort her ears still peak through the sharp yet fading ringing and perk with that ever-present alertness to catch the gentle rail of blood dripping and 'tipping' to the floor, and her eyes queue their drift to the dripped streaks of splattered blood dipped in that same pooled shadow at the corner of the room. Her eyes take less than a moment to adjust until she can make out the dulled shine of the far wall marred by a mass web of fresh cracks.

She savours her next glance with almost meticulous practice, as her eyes drift further and tail cracks in the wall which converge on a deep impact crater and the mass of scarlet that veins and soaks into the stone surface. In the centre's sits a heavy exhibit of bloody lacerations and sodden, shredded fabric on a corpse, spread and embedded from impact, face frozen to sport a horrified twist, and eyes; cold, white, and lifeless . He bleeds from every orifice. The feint frost pink of her lips twitches to a smile, the Jutsu isn't perfected but it's highly effective. One step closer to finding what she's searching for, yet she still searches the body with almost... diligent indifference, listening with almost listless fascination as the blood rails along the wall. If there was more illumination, she'd be able to see it all, the same way she imagines it all with a fanciful wonderment.

She can almost picture the air's swelled pulse, the shrill metronome ring of chakra with its inconspicuous burn into its victims chest, the sharp biting, agonizing gusting laceration of flesh in the ever-present explosive burst that peels the grate and twists the metal bars of the cell, the same that buries its victim in the wall with such force that bones shatter, fragments impale organs and flesh, blood spills copiously to the wall and floor, the brickwork cracks and implodes to a tomb amidst the falling crumble of rubble and dust... and a shallow whisper, hidden in the sharp, omnipotent ring, presses a lulling urge with a warm pulse on a tight stretch of skin... whispering her enjoyment of the sounds they bring, calling her fingers to idly drift within the curve of the hood to her neck and brush the purged, blackened flesh of an intricate tattoo nestled at its crook with an assured, comforting and caressive delicacy to its spreading warmth.

Soon... she reassures... as her fingers ceases the anticipant roam, and her eyes flick briefly across the floor to the twisted iron bars and the darkness blanketing beyond it... the Jutsu was unforgiving. The glance is barely seen beneath the curtain of the hood, but she catches the beads of flame flickering in a rare whispered breeze as they grant a camouflaged silhouette the faintest glow for a brief second. The room is large and circular, though the pool of darkness grants a 'corner' of shadow at the end, where the corpse sits imbedded in the rock face. The silhouette's owner is a very good spy, she decides, as she stares at it with disinterest... she drawls Mizugi a worn greeting.

"I was starting to wonder when you'd show yourself..."

It's answered with a feint 'humph...' and shift to a stride almost sardonic in its casual sway as Mizugi draws into the pale flicker of candlelight. The rosette twinge to her cheeks is a permanent one which stands out on her pale skin's iridescent glimmer under candlelight, the same unison flickering that flames the shimmer of black hair... braided to pigtails over her bare shoulders. A black tank top sits across her chest, rustling with the rattle of her chains strapped across her torso, echoing through the sparseness of the concrete plain and cradling a large scroll resting at the base of her back. The slow tap of black sandals drag for the stretch of an eternity toward the seated kunoichi. Mizugi ignores her friend's innate abruptness, her steps halting a mere footfall from her seat, and she toys casually with a roped pigtail... "I thought I'd find you here."

"Hmm... because I'm always here."

The comment's spoken so frequently it's delivered with a script, followed always with Mizugi's huff and a sharp upward puff into the loose bangs of lightly flamed hair on her forehead that flutters with sheen beneath the dull flicker of golden brush. And if she recalls, next would be an act on her ever-present natural fidgety restlessness expressed with a comment deceptive in its listlessness...

"Now ain't that the truth, and here I was thinking life as a ninja would be a little more... fun."

And there it is, Ami doesn't spare a look or a glance as years of frequent contact tells tales of Mizugi rolling her eyes after any such inane comment. She can always tell. Nothing ever escaped her eyes; Mizugi's long since noticed that yet to a different perspective. The depths frustratingly hide a torrent of waves and memories and moods and emotions beyond the cream pearls of guarded blankness, and in those rare twilight hours of self-seclusion her curiosity can only wonder suddenly on their depths and mystery for a girl she's known for the better part of a decade... and the focus with undecipherable fascinated wistfulness on the rare instances that tan-tinted face, foreign to her estranged clan, escapes the ever-present grey camouflage hood of that jacket and she meets her with a look of such sparseness it defies definition. She delivers that same look now, barely an instant and her pale cheeks flush flame for some foreign reason, and her eyes duck subtly to the concrete.

"Nothing about a shinobi is fun unless you have focus," she speaks casually, "something you sorely lack." It's taken years of practice but Mizugi recovers amidst the lull of silence mere moments later, the same sardonic character that delivers a puffed sigh and a quirked eyebrow as she fiddles with the chain locked to the waist of her camouflaged pants and idly scratches the back of her head. Unsurprisingly, Mizugi chuckles at the condescending tone. It lacks all shock or spark or pure forceful feeling as when the words had first left her friend's lips so long ago. She matches it with one laced with sarcasm...

"And I guess the great Ami Hyûga, master shinobi, has unlimited focus, right?" Ami doesn't respond, too lost in a glare into the guise of that corruption, that farce of her family name to notice the near desolate sigh that escapes Mizugi's lips. "I'm not surprised. You spend so much time down in this dump anyway doing god knows what..." she pauses. "...What do you do down here anyway?"

"You've been spying on me for three weeks now and you still don't know...?" Ami chuckles humorously, as Mizugi, for her part, scowls indignantly, a darker twinge to her cheeks in memory at how easily she'd been discovered. "You know that's unacceptable for an Otogakure shinobi, Mizugi-chan... Orochimaru would have your head."

"If you're gonna break into another one of your little lectures then spare me." She scoffs. "The last thing I need is even more fun sucked out of this job."

"I'd gladly argue that point but it'd be a waste of breath on you."

"Whatever..." She idly brushes odd specks of dust and cobwebs from the camouflage cargos.

Mizugi had spent a little under ten minutes circling the bars caging in the makeshift prison, idly spying on her friend with careful concealment, wondering on the anonymity Ami seems to share in the breadth of this place and rekindling months of self induced migraines attempting to uncover the attraction and attachment the Hyûga feels to it. Beyond the now decimated bars of the cage, endless collection of ancient scrolls and eerie candlelight there's little else but shadows, nothing very appealing about that, if at all. Mizugi's often wonders what the purpose of such a place could be, but the ominous reticence of Orochimaru's near ghostly presence usually prevents her from delving deeper into those thoughts. She doesn't want to know what his purpose for this place could've been... what it still could be; even more so considering its ominous chime and air of decadence fits Orochimaru's essence with unreal perfection. Regardless of his being commander and chief, prying into his rumoured dealings would be a serious threat to her mental state as a legacy of ruthlessness beyond any she'd ever encountered in her thirteen years are a recurring theme in his recurring tales.

Though it is, in essence, an opinionated plus in his value and leadership. She'd be hard pressed to find many who aren't wary of that unpredictability in a decadent, joyful malevolence. In theory that makes him built for leadership; no one questions his decisions or his orders... ever... and an unchallenged leader is one akin to omnipotence in the eyes of those he leads. Orochimaru has that air, though... its contrast to divinity, more demonic and intentful, like a beast in human form sporting a cryptic grin. That'd been one hell of a first impression he'd made on her, and in this game, first impressions are the mark of character and can potentially save your life in the long run. Of course, all of this is /in theory/... she'd be hard pressed to find many who fully trust the man they call Sannin even within his own rank of soldiers. There are, of course, those who do, those who owe him a debt of loyalty, those who claim his understanding, and, perhaps ironically, she could be included in that group, though for reasons far less sentimental than others she's encountered. Perhaps as a rare insight, they do share a common personality trait, so her level of trust, admiration and loyalty goes a little further than the supposed status quo.

She's faithful but wary, a little less than most... and in her mental revelations she misses Ami's voice breaking the seemingly eternal silent lull between them she's become accustomed to over the years, as well as her train of thought... "Your meeting."

She shakes her head lightly, clearing her thoughts before glancing at her friend, a quick, inarticulate "Huh...?" leaving her lips.

Ami, for her part, smirks in superiority and chuckles a little patronisingly... "It looks like your listening skills need work too." as a sheepish grin spreads across Mizugi's face, accompanying the near permanent flush to which Ami decides to annunciate each syllable of her sentence with doleful sarcasm characteristic of the often subtly superior Hyûga kunoichi. "You had a meeting with Orochimaru this morning." she begins with patronizing simplicity... "What was it about?"

Through the lingering pause, Mizugi casts a quick glare into the Hyûga's abnormal cream eyes. "A mission." she answers curtly, to little effect at the amused kunoichi.

Ami quirks an eyebrow. "At three in the morning?"

"Yeah."

Another silence. "...And?"

"And...?"

She sighs in amusement. "A mission that early is a little abnormal, don't you think?"

"So..."

Ami rolls her eyes. "How did it go?"

"Successfully."

"That all you plan on telling me?"

"It should be for your pissy attitude." she mutters with a humph, one expressantly clear in her annoyance.

"Hmm... You'd think you'd be used to it by now..."

Another glare is Mizugi's only response, one matched in pillared fortitude with a rare flicker of cream eyes from the shadow of that hood, slowly gaining infamy with its camouflage mesh of grey tones, died and blended dully in contrast to the sharp black on the rest of the sleeveless jacket. Even on the floor, she can tell her friend wears it with the usual attire. Black shorts, fitting with a hem halting half way down her thighs, topped with grey camouflaged cuffs covering her knees and fraying below her ankles, covering the tops of her black sandals. A little revealing for her tastes, but practical all the same. With a sigh near laced with a hint of fondness, she relents...

"Does the name Uzumaki Naruto strike a bell?"

Ami lends a rare, uncharacteristic pause. "...He's one of Orochimaru's students."

"You've heard of him?"

It's a statement, not a question, and at Ami's affirmative nod, thoughtfulness sinks the seated kunoichi's head and she stares into the scattered chips of pebble and stone engrained into concrete. The expression is lost to Mizugi, and, looking quizzically into the fibres of her hood, she misses the brief flick to the bloodied corpse still embedded into the far wall that's escaped her notice, even now, and that innate curiosity that enters her eyes. The memory of that tattoo on Ami's neck, however, doesn't escape her notice, and a ghosted glace sees her hazel eyes boring into the reticent crook of her neck shrouded behind the hood.
"He's supposed to be strong..." she mutters. Beneath the conversive tone, there's a twinge of something challenging, which Mizugi cant truly uncover...

"One of the best of the Genin group actually." she confirms. "Orochimaru sent him out on a B-Rank to Shinobinaku this morning to capture some lowlife crime lord. Satsui something, I can't remember his name."

"Tasatsu Satsui?"

"Yeah," she nods, "something like that." Ami's silence is her queue to continue. "His thugs attacked a rice plantation down south, killed most of the workers, captured the rest and held the plantation for ransom too. Apparently he wanted some power over rice and the Fûma family didn't take too kindly to it. Orochimaru promised to deal with it..."

"...And so he sent Naruto. What does that have to do with you?"

"I'm not even sure. When I asked him what the mission was he just told me scout him, see if he had any difficulty completing the mission..." Ami spares a sparse glance at Mizugi, who sighs, shaking her head... "I didn't get it either, if he really did train Naruto then why would he have any problems taking out a bunch of hired thugs?"

"...Did he...?"

"No." The Hyûga shows little surprise, she'd expected it. "The forest scouts were pretty good for a bunch of mercenaries, probably had some low level experience in the ninja field, still, he took them out pretty easily, and from what I could tell the ones in the base were child's play."

"From what you could tell? You didn't follow him?"

Mizugi shakes her head. "I wasn't supposed to be seen by Satsui's thugs or Naruto, Orochimaru forbade it. I couldn't interfere with Naruto's mission and following him too far into the base would've been too big a risk if he caught me, but he came out less than an hour later without a scratch on him, nothing but blood on his shirt which was most likely from Satsui's army, and Satsui tied up and unconscious." There's a pregnant pause uncharacteristic of Mizugi's usual debriefing and it catches Ami's attention. There's something she isn't telling her. She locks her in an attentive glare.

"He wasn't dragging Satsui, at least, not the real him..." she pauses. "He used Kage Bunshins to do that."

Ami's expression is unreadable, as it often is... though for Mizugi her silence is an all too clear show of serene contemplation lead with the pearled cream eyes staring into the ground, grooved with the faintest crease of delicate brows into a scheming frown. She hates that look, she doesn't know what the kunoichi's thinking... she hasn't fully know for the past six years. It last barely a moment, then almost instantly she reverts to her characteristic indifferent disposition tinted with the faintest frown. "How many?" Her voice is barely above a whisper.

"Five in total." She chuckles lightly, "all of them were bitching about how such an 'awesome shinobi like him' was woken up at three-am to do 'Snake-bastard's' dirty work."

"Kage Bunshin." she mumbles, humming contemplatively. "That's... strange."

"Hmm?" she screws her brows inquisitively, noting Ami's darkening tone. "How?"

The Hyûga remains elicitly silent. Her heels drag against the concrete as she stands gingerly to her feet, favouring the pulsing swell of her left hand. The pain only now begins to set in. "...Kage Bunshins need a large amount of chakra to create and maintain, I should know, I've tried and still can't create one. It's a Jounin level technique..." she groans in clear discomfort. "A Genin with the chakra capacity to do it is a very rare find... but one with the ability to create several at once and still have enough energy to bitch about a mission is practically non existent."

Far from attentive at her friend's words, a gentle 'tipping' touches Mizugi's ears through the brief, silent lull, and she notices Ami's laboured breathing and the taped arm favoured to her abdomen... swollen. It isn't a rare sight, the Hyûga frequently trains hard and trains often, and under Orochimaru's initial tutelage, obsessive, agonising arduousness is a method brutally enforced and thus naturally engrained into her friends psyche. A bloodied or injured Amatsu Hyûga is a sight so frequent she barely bats an eyelash at it, despite her inner concern, but it is rare to see a weakened Amatsu Hyûga. It would explain the thick overlay of chakra she'd felt when she'd entered the cage ruins and the feint hint that'd lingered outside it. Suddenly, unconsciously, the fluffed brush end of her pigtail finds its way between her fingers and once again she toys idly as her eyes fix in a stern gaze at her friend shuffling past her... "Where're you going?"

Ami pauses in mid step, "I need to find Kabuto."

"Why?"

"I need a new sensei..." Her eyes tail to the pooled shadow at the corner of the room, casting a whispered glance at the bloodied corpse embedded in the wall... before she continues impassively, sluggishly on her way, breathing with every sluggish step and wincing with every sluggish breath. "The last one was weak..."


The water drop drips with iridescence as it falls from the cracked pipe. It sparkles with a mirrored glint beneath the dank crook of light filtering through the small window pane, blotched by its mass of streaked smears on its surface and fading to the murky depths of the basement. Satsui watches as the drop ripples a small puddle soaking below the leaking pipe, its sheeted surface shimmering with the dusk trails of light. His eyes spell disinterest... but, as a tumbler hit's a lock, a dull knob twitches, prompting his anxious jolt... and the creased claw of steel squeeze with coarse restriction, pressing with a sharp force and a bladed chill that cuts through the veil of a thin shirt and gnaws with painful irritance at his arms and chest. The move is too tight for his seat... he's bound by chains to his wooden chair, back to the far wall, but the breeze still cuts sharply as the door's opened and prickles the raw swell of his black eye with the sudden gust burning with the crook of light from the hallway... though through his squint, the silhouette is all too familiar; regal in its stride, dignified in its grace, mockingly distain in its neutral features as the broad stream of light illuminates him and his shuffling accomplice... enough for Satsui to discard his sliver of venerability and lunge forward into his dulled jaw of chains.

"I apologise for the lacklustre accommodations, Tasatsu-san, but your arrival was rather... abrupt." A flood of obscenities flood the muffle of cloth gagging his mouth - irritating to his broken nose - slewn with a taut rattle of chains and a murderous gaze, yet Fûma Ishizue is unmoved by it, unconcerned with its futility, stoic and still with regal dignification... the standard mark of Fûma. His hand slips into the sleeve of his yakuta and he retrieves from its depths a single small file marked with the simple kanji of Satsui's name.

Casually he flips through it, tutting idly as he eyes scan the text, briefly licking his thumb as he turns another page. The process is performed repeatedly over the next several minutes with the Fûma head still spelling his casual indifference to the crime lord now weary from his futile, muffled cries of indignation, pained from the chain's bitten assault on his flesh and the injuries from this... travestied kidnapping they had the nerve to call a retrieval. Blood still speckles his shoes, stained to the gleaming leather. His glare, however, hasn't lost its ferocity; fixed as Ishizue whispers to his associate who, in turn, glances at the file, raising his brows in consideration, flicking a flashed glance at Satsui before meeting Ishizue's once again and nodding in agreement with a silent whisper. The file is then closed abruptly and placed into the hands of his assistant before he regards Satsui sceptically... almost in musing; sizing him up as the crime lord waits, seething with obvious rage.

"I was about to say, I wished this meeting could've taken place in a more civilised setting, considering the circumstances..." he begins, striding slowly toward the seated criminal, "...but after reviewing your file, I believe this place would be more than appropriate... wouldn't you agree?"

The confusion is evident on the crime lord's face.

"Don't look so surprised, Tasatsu-san, we've acquired documents of every criminal offence you've committed over the last five years, and I must say you have quite a record considering how limited your region of business has been." The humorous suggestion doesn't defeat the sternness of his tone. "Twelve counts of extortion, seven counts of racketeering, nine counts of drug trafficking, ten counts of bribery, six counts of kidnapping, sixteen counts of murder, seventeen counts of sexual assault and molestation, twenty-seven counts of physical assault... the list goes on, Tasatsu-san." He clears his hoarse throat, coughing into a cloth in his hand and motioning his assistant to remove Satsui's gag. "Had I known this was the extent of your record I'd have exercised more caution in our business dealings..." he coughs again, heavily this time, "...still, everything went according to plan..."

"Traitorous bastard!"

The outburst cuts the words from his throat, as he'd expected. The immediate lull that follows is laced only with the constant drip of the leaking pipe and Satsui's laboured breath... perhaps he'd removed the gag too soon.

"Don't patronise me you traitorous bastard..." what's meant to be a yell comes out in mid breath, barely a wheeze tailed with wet sputtered coughs. "Don't feed me bullshit and expect me to eat...!" his words trail as he steadies his breath. "We had a contract-!"

"I apologise for your ill-feeling, Tasatsu-san," he interrupts, "but I assure you, breaking that contract was necessary-"

"Necessary!" He pulls harshly against his chains, yelling in incredulous disbelief. "You call this necessary!"

"Yes, Tasatsu-san, certain obstacles needed to be removed in order for us to progress." Ishizue folds the white handkerchief into the palm of his hand, impassive to Satsui's wild outburst and hateful glare.

"Do you have any idea, any idea, who you're dealing with! Do you know what you've just done!"

"I've never ventured into any business decision in the past twenty years without first knowing what I'm doing, that I can assure you." Ishizue responds, impassively, humoured. "I requested your army be killed in your capture for a reason after all..."

"I'm not talking about those pathetic cowards! When Gatoh finds out about this-!"

"If my contacts are to be believed..." he interjects, "...then Gatoh has no baring over your fate nor does he pose a threat to Rice." He clears his throat, wheezing into his folded handkerchief. "Both he and Momochi Zabuza are dead." he labours. The disbelief is clear on Satsui's face, frozen in the silent lull and backed with the water drops and his incoherent sputtering."

"...W-wha... when... W... w-wha... H-how...?"

"A week ago." he begins, "According to some he was killed by Zabuza after a disagreement over payment discrepancies, others say he was assassinated by the Copy-nin, Hatake Kakashi, and a group of Konoha Genin, the only clear consistency remains that both are dead. It's been confirmed."

...The pipe's water drips pitter to a halt, the small stream of water from its worn metal rails to a underwhelming trickle along its surface... almost in tune with a forced humility that consumes Satsui's vengeful ire, silencing the once proud crime lord in his seat, wrapped in chains. He digests the information with an almost internal persistence in his incredulous disbelief... coupled with the gentle negative shake of his head. He thinks, mind running a mile a minute yet drawing constant blanks, over his future and everything he's built, so consumed in his futile exercise that he misses the Ishizue's steps a mere three feet away... as the ageing Fûma removes from the belt of his yakuta an object that's been seated there the entire time, a thin detailed scabbard, with a frighteningly familiar hilt erect against its end. A wave of ominous helplessness wells within Satsui, one he hadn't felt since encountering that demon boy in his forest base not twelve hours ago.

"W-What are you doing... w-what... what the hell is that...?

He fails to keep the tremor from his voice, eyes locked... as a blade gleams from its seat on the scabbard and its handed to Ishizue's otherwise mute associate. He's silent as he does this...

"Ishizue..." He's unresponsive. "Ishizue!" desperation taints his words... "Damn it! We had a deal!"

The ageing dignitary stands unresponsive to the crime lord's desperation... as he turns his back and makes for the basement door. "Our deal has been terminated as I told you before, Tasatsu-san. Certain obstacles need to be removed before progression is attainable..." his tone is cryptic as he turns and stares into Satsui's gaze... "You and your cohort are one of those obstacles."

As he exit's the basement of the Fûma compound, Ishizue wonders on Rice's permanent alliance with Orochimaru's Sound on Tasatsu Satsui's gurgled choke...


End of Chapter 01


/A/N:/ Shi no Kumi - Death Foreseeing Technique. The Jutsu Orochimaru used to paralyse Sasuke and Sakura in the Forest of Death... I think. My Source is Wikipedia so I'm pretty sure it's right, but if I'm wrong then please feel free to correct me.

Whew! With all the stuff going on in my life right now that took the better part of a month to type up, give or take a few days or so but there you have it; a brand new chapter in all its glory. The next one, I'm pleased to say, is coming along far easier than anticipated. Now before you say anything, I know, I know; there seems to be a trend on the Naruto board nowadays where OC's are these super powerful ninja to match this whimsical fantasy of a super powerful Naruto. Well, to put your minds at ease; NO, Naruto will NOT be super powerful in this story, just stronger than your average Genin, pushing toward Chûnin, nor will he be some creepy-ass bastardised clone of Orochimaru, and NO, my OC's will NOT be super powerful either. I don't introduce characters to a story unless they lend a significant influence to the plot.

As a side note, for those of you looking for a story with a villainised Uchiha Sasuke, you've come to the wrong place my friends. I can't reveal the details of his role in the story yet (for obvious reasons), but what I can tell you is that at some point the will play a significant role in Naruto's development throughout this story. Now, to wrap this up, I'd first like to say that you can look forward to a little more of Tayuya in the future and a lot more of Ami and Mizugi. Next, everything from the purposes of both Naruto and Mizugi's missions to Tasatsu Satsui's death will all be covered in this arc of the story. And, before we conclude this chapter, I wanna thank my buddy RI100014 over at FanFiction.net for the beta reading this multiple times and all the help he gave me with the structuring, I appreciated the effort. Next chapter will be up as soon as possible; don't forget to drop a review, looking forward to hearing what you guys think...