it tears egos apart, practices dissatisfying excuses, and only fuels its very own cycle that villages try (and fail) to break. Kizua likes to think of it as irrational, ego-centric, and — to think of yourself as better than another? — laughable.
Which is why he skulks along the sidelines.
Shouldn't take him a minute, he'll be out in less than —
CRASH
Foolish of him to think they'd last less than a minute.
"Aah!"
When Kizua's face, donned with a mask, angles, he's eying a little boy —
"brother!"
yes, of course, the brother of one of the two, now battling, shinobis. Thrown aside like he isn't collateral damage waiting to happen.
If only there was someone to save him?
(Kizua's foot is already stepping out of the shadows.)
Kizua eyes past him, scouring for a similar description. He'd not gotten intense or emotional on paper so he isn't certain, not til —
boss is mentioned.
So it is him.
"Hm."
"I'm surprised they hire the likes of you."
And it doesn't end at that. He's, once more, surprised to hear that Kizua smells good — in comparison to this Kaguya maybe? Or had he simply mistaken the brand of this company?
(One surprise after the other — it's either a mistake on Kizua's part or this simply shadows a bad start.)
[attr="class","monbody2"]The very first thing that Kizua notices upon stepping onto the island is a smell. No — an unruly stench, of what, fish? Salt? Both? And he's thinking
how unfitting.
To think he comes baring treasure to an island filled with large, strapping persons. Ugly men and women, so undeserving of the luxury that buries behind wooden planks.
Fortunately, the crates they carry are not for them. They are for —
"Kaguya."
More specifically; Vajrakīlaya.
He's clad in his best, which is to say; a coal-painted robe belted by a lighter garment — and for the sake of his furtive role — a mask reaching the bottom of his lashes.
[attr="class","monbody2"]Her expression doesn't tell him enough.
Neither do her words, and Kizua doesn't bother to linger on it. Not because he dreads her words for truth, no, no, no.
It's that wicked sense of danger, (or lack there-of).
He's sitting with rocks, he's a long way from concerning himself about his safety. Let alone his survivability. Still, he figures it's this she seeks to hear;
"alright."
And a nod too, for good measure.
And when she leaves, Kizua's sat still thinking;
shame. Perhaps some other day they will experience a proper reunion.
[attr="class","monbody2"]It settles in. Good, now for —
"Blood bending technique."
I have you
and oh, how Kizua believes them — his very own words. He's still sprung in the air, veering with the confidence that adrenaline brings but this minimal confidence doesn't stop him from racing for the ground. The beloved surface that he'd need to gain mobility again.
Little does he know, his opponent rallies a series of five or six moves. And really, the Chi can only deflect so much.
The finishing blow lands upon his chest, sends him flying back, and — despite having been tossed in the arms of the wind earlier — he's slumped. Too busy coughing up painful reds to steady his mind.
His back slams against the hunk of a tree;
THUD
and he slides down.
When a lone eye rises, Kizua learns he's absolutely blind. After all, he sees his opponent thrice as ugly, or —
no, that's just his vision giving up on him.
Oh well. Shifting the blame would be irresponsible. Fact is, he's weak.
Kizua's glance falters and spots the pebbles again. Like he can dive back into his own space if he'd just focus hard enough.
"No particular reason," he lies.
"I could ask the same of you. Besides —" "sitting by someone like me could cause you trouble." Not that Sawako was ever known to be responsible. She'd always veered a different course. One that he envied more than he did the rocks. But then
[attr="class","monbody2"]He isn't letting him think —
"Kh."
To hell with it.
Power, endurance, strength — Kizua fails to meet any of it head on. It becomes clear; his opponent stands grades above him in terms of physicality.
So —
his empty hand rises. His digits curl, and — right before the man crashes upon him — Kizua's body flickers out of sight, appearing only a second later on the branch of a tree above.
There's a soft crunch from his direction. When he pounces out from above, his katana follows behind, and —
red, solid blood encapsulates the shaft. In fact, inches are added to its tip. It is now much longer.
(Much sharper.)
Would the blade cut through the air in time, zip past any potential claws before they angle, and pierce the shoulder that it aims for
it would explode.
Blood spikes poking in all directions out of thick muscle and skin.
Kizua sees leaves first, movements second, and the picture rotates — begins at the racing feet of the jonin, shifts to the static position of the chunin.
So arrives his turn, and he's no choice but to prepare quick; his legs bend, the blade relaxes slightly, and —
air swallows down —
his grip tightens.
CLINK
a grating melody explodes, blade meeting blades. A full-blown war of the tools, scraping and screeching against one another. Kizua's feet are planted. His balance is planted, he figures it's the only counter to the deafening weight that now crashes upon his weapon. His beloved weapon — yes, he grips her tighter with grit that keeps the two from exploding away. Until
he's seeing a split second of something, too slow to evade, too powerful to block.
So he allows his feet to spur out of balance, and — when the foot cuts through the air to kiss his side, Kizua is practically flying away.
(A thank-you is due.)
"Kh!"
Alright, he still clenches teeth and swallows down a noise but that blame falls on Kizua's flaw.
Regardless, he's spinning — (he should give the other an idea of how a real dance looks, shouldn't he?) — and he's halting. And then
his steps cease, his katana whips upset.
"What will it make me?"
"You said honor, earlier. Honor will make me what?"
Their roles reverse, so blatantly, and Kizua realizes it is his position that agents a misunderstanding. A lack of understanding — all of it — because, really,
what does she mean?
As gently as the noise of crackling stones, Kizua's brows rouse. Elevate with the question that holds his tongue, and renders him static.
And so, as a result, it is Sawako that shifts next.
(His gaze hardly follows.)
But then — like a waterfall penetrating through the walls of a dam — Kizua's head perks and the lightbulb on top flashes bright. It is the touch that lays upon his skin, pats with an unfamiliar docility. It is that which serves a hint; a piece to the puzzle. And so
[attr="class","monbody2"]His gaze falls back down after a short, unlucrative moment.
"It's foolish, isn't it?"
(Yes — he hears them cackle in one ear.)
Although, how intrusive. Not only her presence, her demeanor — Sawako had always lacked the foundations of formality — but the very question that escapes her lips as an insult and a half would when they were younger. And —
ah.
"It's been a while."
"How have you been?" but he doesn't mean for it to sound so lifeless;
a puppet, strung and poised like its owners had meant for it to be. No, Kizua's head hardly perks in worry. He reasons — with his own person — that Sawako will understand. That she's always understood, and that if she doesn't now —
well, then he probably didn't deserve her understanding.
Crevices and cracks; they don the gray palettes so nicely that Kizua's gaze lingers seconds longer than he'd like. But it goes nowhere further. This fact trembles in the very center of his mind. The digits laying on top of his lap curl; he hears them. Not enough, his mother would say — pathetic, his father. And
even as they lay in their graves not that far of a distance from here,
perhaps they are correct.
After all, he sits on top of hard, wretched terrain envying rocks.
(And no, he would never admit to such an absurd thing out loud.)
But that envy soon comes to an end, just like the delicate touch that wraps around the handle of his blade, and Kizua's attention snaps from the envied pebbles to the intrusive feet. She's stepped, arrived, and now she stands here, and the lone thought that results from this goes as such;
Kizua ought to do something about his weakening sense of danger.
"To think someone would come up here."
"Then again," sharp shapes trail in the direction of her blues, "if anyone, it'd be you, wouldn't it?"
a familiar titter sounds in his ears, urges him to reconsider his own question. Kizua still says —
“what makes you believe I will do as you say?”
You can’t be so naive, he wants to add. Holds his tongue, instead, because those same words corrupt his throat before they can escape him. They are swallowed back down.
But he is spared no time to gawk. Idle with knitted brows.
Clutched in-between the slender of his fingers, the blade shrieks. Calls for him to wake his senses as a terrifying noise rips from bellow. A warning call, and it pushes Kizua to plant a single foot backward in hopes of grounding himself would the anticipated blow come to life.
He’s too slow —
no, he isn’t. Nothing happens to him —
Another pause, and Kizua feels at home with this trademarked silence of his.
And then; “is this your ability?”
(An answer for an answer.)
Because if it was, Kizua wouldn’t give him any points. The dance was horrendous. But his shoulders jerk, and he's shifting anyway, and he’s now gazing on top of a blade raised in the air. It points, and — in Kizua’s place — it declares;
[attr="class","monbody2"]Kizua's eyes roll to the side — a pace that practices indifference, that lacks a sense of danger.
And you'd think to regret it, being branded a prey for others to hunt. But nothing of such a feeling encompasses him. Instead, it's a cocked brow, a tightened grip. For —
spotting the man fuels regret.
He sees nothing pretty, nothing endearing to the eye. Only the rough-edged shape of a figure, bulky, tough, ugly. And what poor design, what poor —
blades.
He can't help it; his eyes greedily fixate a little, and they take in the strangely shaped claws. And it's suddenly all quite interesting because it seems as if the stranger, himself, views his person to be animalistic. Awareness is always valued in Kizua's book.
A moment of silence takes place following the gutturally voiced question (and the visual shift of balance).
"Quite well."
"There are many spots around this forest that I enjoy," he lies. Shifts his foot.
"I see," he says instead, the feeling automatically lacing itself onto the quiet words.
But then the man goes on, and Kizua realizes he's now practicing pure patience, for the scoff remains at the tip of his throat, threatening to escape his lips would this senseless rambling go on any longer. Arrogance plays a brilliant role in these shinobi that only speak to speak. He realizes this. And yet, something brims inside — forces his own hand to retreat to the safety of his lap.
The way his melody takes with his own confidence, the blatant display of fangs — traditionally considered a weapon — it all provokes something. Causes shrouded fingers to flinch. Knuckles to tighten.
Kizua quickly rules it for a memory. One of a similar man.
"Forgive me."
A sharp eye rises to face the reds.
"I fail to see what you mean with enjoyable experience. After all, we've hardly finished our tea and yet you treat me as if I were a courtesan you'd just spent the night with."
And then they flutter shut, and his next words are softer;
"Though I suppose you dog-persons love to play senseless games."
[attr="class","monbody2"]It settles ever so gently; curves and crevices upon untouched features. The eye that previously focuses elsewhere, now, cracks upward. Meeting the fiery ones in an attempt to dissect them. And when it still doesn't come out — a word of thanks — Kizua's brows knit further together.
How arrogant.
But it hardly lasts long enough to suggest anything.
"A social setting."
The lashes bat back downward, and Kizua's thrown back onto the luxury of his drink.
"Is it what you see in this?" the words escape him as a murmur would.
