| fallen_raidou ( @ 2008-05-07 00:36:00 |
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| Current mood: | dying |
Three is a Crowd. Four is Salvation.
Follows Three is a Crowd. Four is a Fuck Up.
It was noisy. It was noisy and cold and far too bright. Battle sounds raged in the distance. The ring of steel on steel, the crackle of jutsu biting through flesh. The screams of dying men rose high in the air. Women and children with them. Ninja. It was hard to tell the difference.
Mud crushed underfoot, ochre brown in the sunlight, redder in the shade. It swallowed the open toes of his sandals and stung the cuts on his feet, icing skin cold. Sweat burned down his face, soaking the cloth of his hitai-ate. It wasn’t new anymore, that hitai-ate, the dye had long since leeched out. It wouldn’t make his forehead blue like it had once, a few years ago.
The sun rose up higher, and Raidou’s heart thumped a slow, weary rhythm in his chest. Blood rushed through his veins, pounding a taiko drum beat through both ears. It wasn’t enough to drown out the noise. It wasn’t enough to focus him. He licked his lips, tongue catching on chapped skin. Dirt smeared everywhere; he could taste it, filling his mouth with a bitter edge. Metal hung heavy in each hand, weighing him down at the shoulders. Kunai weren’t that big, but his muscles were tired. Overused. Everyone was overused. Wars did that to people. Chewed them up and spat out the pieces.
Four soldiers crouched behind him. Kids. Genin. His team. Not by choice, but he was the chuunin. The one in charge. It was his job to keep them safe. Keep them alive. Get them home. He didn’t even know their names. Two were boys, pale and frightened. One was a girl, small and determined. The last he couldn’t tell, couldn’t read the face hidden by the anonymous bandages. All four were too young for curves. For anything but hard-earned muscle carving angles under puppy-fat.
Four soldiers behind him. Four kids he didn’t know. Had to protect. But all Raidou could look at was the man in front of him.
Two men. One behind the other.
The man behind rose up, metal glinting in each hand. A double fistful of splayed steel spikes dripping something that hissed when it hit the ground. Acid, whispered a dull voice in Raidou’s head. Behind his weapons the man wasn’t grinning. His face gave nothing away as he stared through Raidou and weighed up the four Leaf-nin behind him. The Iwa seal on his hitai-ate was scratched, the metal dinged. Dried blood filled the grooves, colouring the steel with human rust. He was a jounin. He was an enemy.
The man in front of him wasn’t.
Raidou stared up, a kunai gripped tight in each hand, at the unmasked ANBU. He was tall and sleek, dressed in black and white on a battlefield where everyone wore green until they died in red. His hair was long and brown, slicked darker with sweat and whiter with dust. The carmine swirl on his left arm stood out like a wound against bare skin.
He was smiling around the senbon gripped between his teeth.
He was dying.
Raidou stared at that smile, a lazy curl of bitten lips that seemed so familiar, and looked beyond it to the ugly wound split across the ANBU's body, ripped from one shoulder to the opposite hip. Skin and flesh had peeled back and burned away, flaking into black dust that drifted down like dry snow. Blood spilled down his chest in thick ribbons, splashing down into the mud, making it redder. Blisters crowded like flowers, bursting soundlessly in vile splatters of straw-coloured liquid.
He knew that man.
Raidou stared at one, and looked beyond him to the other. The jounin moved, muscles bunching under cloth. Behind Raidou, the genin scattered, screaming. The sound rose up with a thousand echoes, bringing the battlefield with it.
The ANBU didn’t scream. He just fell, crumpling forward to land on his knees in the mud. His eyes were locked on Raidou’s, burnt honey-coloured in a place where nothing was sweet. His mouth was red.
The jounin blurred forward and Raidou stopped thinking. He just moved.
He didn't feel the hit. He ran, dodged, lost the jounin, and cried out as a blow like a hammer strike smashed him down. Metal ripped his face open. Acid blistered the skin away. Agony spilled like oil through his body, blotting out everything else. He didn’t feel the ground when it caught him, or the scream that vomited out of his throat. He couldn’t see anything but blue that became red that became black.
He could hear the genin screaming.
His face was on fire. His shoulder was melting away, the flesh chewed down to the bone. Burning meat curled up in a scent that blinded his sinuses and choked bile from his throat. He curled around himself, hands over his face, and screamed until he couldn't hear anything else. Until he couldn't hear the genin sliced into silence. The ANBU rasping his last blood-clotted breath. Until he couldn't hear anything but himself, dying on a field with a thousand other soldiers because he'd been a chuunin against a jounin, and there was no way to move fast enough.
He was fourteen years old and the world was ending.