The village crouched, steaming in the early morning half-light. The sun was still a rumor, and the night was still a threat. The only sound that permeated the twilight was the song of crickets, the rustle of the leaves in the trees, and the up-tempo thumping of fists and feet on wood. The training yard at the Academy was completely deserted save for a lone silhouette ruthlessly attacking a thick wooden post standing vertically in the ground. The wood splintered beneath cracked and bleeding knuckles as Takeo fulfilled a dual purpose; training and letting off some steam.
And steam he did. He was stripped to the waist, his bare torso glistening in the light of a not quite yet risen sun. The cool spring air of the mountain upon which the village sat caused Takeo’s skin to let off tendrils of mist as the heat he was generating escaped from his body. The boy gave a guttural growl and grunt of effort with each blow, envisioning his uncles pudgy, drunken face being pulped instead of the blameless log. He had been training since just after midnight, when his uncle had gotten home from the bar and decided he wanted to pay his favorite punching bag a visit.
Takeo ceased his unrelenting assault, his arms hanging limply by his sides, the lactic acid burning in his muscles and blood dripping from his fists. Why? Why did he let his uncle walk all over him? He just stood there and took it day after day; living like a dog in a ramshackle shed in the back yard, eating whatever he could scrounge up from the forest floor, letting him beat him senseless whenever he came home piss drunk, which was more often than not. The uncountable scars that covered his entire body, many of which were clearly evident on his back and chest, portrayed the story of sorrow and pain that had been his entire life.
BAM! Takeo slammed his forehead into the wood. BAM! Twice. BAM! Thrice. A small trickle of blood ran down his face, mingling with his sweat and dripping off his chin. He leaned heavily on the wood, digging his aching forehead into the grain and panting heavily. He brought his exhausted, shaking hands up to his face, examining the wounds on his knuckles. The blood soon clotted, and the scabs fell off only seconds later as his unnatural healing ability kicked in [Thick Blood & Healing Factor]. He slowly clenched his healing hands into tight fists and let them fall down to his sides as his panting turned into quiet sobs.
That was it, he was done. Done with being treated like he was worthless, done with taking his uncles shit… no, everyone’s shit. He was a person, Raiden damn it! But how? How could he possibly free himself from his uncle’s tyranny? He couldn’t wait for his genin exam to become his own legal guardian any more, and he sure as hell didn’t want to go to an orphanage. The kids there were treated almost as badly as he was sometimes. What could he do? Who could he turn to? The sad fact of the matter was…
He was completely and utterly alone.
And steam he did. He was stripped to the waist, his bare torso glistening in the light of a not quite yet risen sun. The cool spring air of the mountain upon which the village sat caused Takeo’s skin to let off tendrils of mist as the heat he was generating escaped from his body. The boy gave a guttural growl and grunt of effort with each blow, envisioning his uncles pudgy, drunken face being pulped instead of the blameless log. He had been training since just after midnight, when his uncle had gotten home from the bar and decided he wanted to pay his favorite punching bag a visit.
Takeo ceased his unrelenting assault, his arms hanging limply by his sides, the lactic acid burning in his muscles and blood dripping from his fists. Why? Why did he let his uncle walk all over him? He just stood there and took it day after day; living like a dog in a ramshackle shed in the back yard, eating whatever he could scrounge up from the forest floor, letting him beat him senseless whenever he came home piss drunk, which was more often than not. The uncountable scars that covered his entire body, many of which were clearly evident on his back and chest, portrayed the story of sorrow and pain that had been his entire life.
BAM! Takeo slammed his forehead into the wood. BAM! Twice. BAM! Thrice. A small trickle of blood ran down his face, mingling with his sweat and dripping off his chin. He leaned heavily on the wood, digging his aching forehead into the grain and panting heavily. He brought his exhausted, shaking hands up to his face, examining the wounds on his knuckles. The blood soon clotted, and the scabs fell off only seconds later as his unnatural healing ability kicked in [Thick Blood & Healing Factor]. He slowly clenched his healing hands into tight fists and let them fall down to his sides as his panting turned into quiet sobs.
That was it, he was done. Done with being treated like he was worthless, done with taking his uncles shit… no, everyone’s shit. He was a person, Raiden damn it! But how? How could he possibly free himself from his uncle’s tyranny? He couldn’t wait for his genin exam to become his own legal guardian any more, and he sure as hell didn’t want to go to an orphanage. The kids there were treated almost as badly as he was sometimes. What could he do? Who could he turn to? The sad fact of the matter was…
He was completely and utterly alone.
