Promotion: the Last Straw [Private]

Genin. The word alone didn’t portray the weight of the title. From this day forward, she could call herself a shinobi and go on missions. That meant that the village trusted her to be one of its representatives. It also meant team mates would be depending on her to watch their backs. Making genin meant responsibility. Such an achievement was nearly always celebrated outside of battlefield promotions. Azami knew, she was usually the one who planned and did all the work preparing for the celebrations of siblings and cousins.

That evening she found herself back in her apartment. No one knew she graduated. There wasn’t even a ceremony. When she opened the door, naught but silence greeted her back. There was no scent of a feast being cooked, no clamor of excitement, just silence. Azami closed the door behind her and began stripping out of her sweat soaked clothes on the way to the shower. There was no one else to worry about being indecent in front of, no one to chide her for leaving dirty clothes in the hall, and certainly no one to tell her to stop wasting water and get out of the shower already.

She let the water run until it had gone cold, draining the tank. If the water had stayed hot, she might have stayed in there till she turned into prune. As it was, her fingers were already wrinkled from over saturation. She toweled off, numbly going through her routine without any concern for speed. It wasn’t as if someone else would need to use the restroom or that she needed to hurry, or they’d be late for their dinner reservations.

Azami picked up her clothes more out of inertia than for any particular reason. The place didn’t need to be tidied up for friends or family to come over. She didn’t have any friends or family here. No friends or family to take care of. Her stomach gave her a slight reminder to eat that she simply ignored. Getting dinner on the table was almost a sacred duty to her, but it was one she did for others, not herself. The kitchen, with its overhead lighting, remained dark.

She could have gone out to eat, surely, but what kind of loser went out alone to celebrate? Back at home she had been a kind of loser, but she was always happy. Here she grew faster than ever but was miserable. She would have traded all her overnight growth in a heart beat to go back home.

Azami crawled into bed early that evening, looking at her new forehead protector. It had a blue band with a metal plate in the center that was engraved with the symbol of the hidden mist. Her eyes began to water, tears forming at the edges as she looked upon the symbol of her accomplishments. She threw it across the room, burying herself under the blankets as tears began to roll down her cheeks. She didn’t want a stupid headband. She wanted her family and friends back. She wanted to go back home. This apartment, this island, this village: it was her prison.

Tears streaked down Azami’s cheeks, her vision blurred. Then something happened. Under the blanket it was dark, but she could see. What she saw though wasn’t simply her own body, but her body aglow with energy. Unbeknownst to her, her eyes had gone from bloodshot green to red, a single tomoe floating in the iris like a second pupil.

She could feel the strain taking its toll on her, her eyes sapping away her energy second by second. That night she didn’t fall asleep so much as fatigue took its toll on Azami and rendered her unconscious. To her, that was itself a gift. In the morning she would figure out what had happened, but right now she was simply grateful that there was something that could take her pain away.

[Exit]

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