Vizem
patreon
Chapter 39 - Déjà Vu Gone Wrong
🕑 Added 2025-05-21 14:20:47 +0000 UTCThe sun was already climbing by the time our client finally showed up, accompanied by two carts, one jittery hired hand, and enough noise to rattle a mission report out of your hands. You’d think, with all their bell ringing and canvas flapping, they were preparing for a fucking parade.
We’d been standing at the village gate for close to half an hour. Longer than expected, but not unexpected. Merchants and punctuality don’t have the most stable of relationships—it’s always “five more minutes” and “almost ready, shinobi-san” as if the enemy would wait politely for them to load their silk bolts and mystery crates.
His name was Gendo or Genzo, with a polite smirk and a smooth way of talking. The kind of man who didn’t carry a weapon but always had a knife metaphorically behind his back. The sort who could sell you your own sandals and make you feel grateful for the bargain.
He directed his worker, some rawboned boy probably getting paid in leftover rice and debt threats, with all the leadership finesse of a man trying to herd cats through molasses.
Of course, the wagons weren’t ready. The straps weren’t tight enough; the axle needed one more adjustment; a box of expensive-smelling sacks had to be rearranged “for airflow,” whatever that meant. Merchants always had an excuse for standing still while being in a hurry.
Sai was the first to arrive, even before Naruto and I. He stood like a decorative scarecrow, posture perfect, head tilted just slightly as if listening for frequencies no one else could hear. He didn’t blink much and made people nervous. His uniform was crisp. Not a wrinkle or stain on him. Unlike his social skills, which were permanently soiled. I’d told him once he had all the warmth of a wet scroll — he took it as a compliment. And that was indeed scary.
Naruto, of course, was the opposite kind of chaos. All life and noise and limbs swinging like he’d burst at the seams just from standing still. He’d already made fast friends with our client’s worker, the rawboned boy. Inari, his name was. Something about it scratched at the inside of my skull. I knew that name… or maybe I was supposed to. It scratched louder the more Naruto laughed with the boy, nudging shoulders like they’d had a hundred shared memories already. I let it go.
Of the team, Sakura was the last to arrive.
Bags under her eyes, skin pale under the morning sun. I expected glares. Anger. Her usual cute little hate-pout and puffed cheeks. Instead, she was silent most of the time and avoided my eyes like they were thorns. But I saw her watching. Caught her behind every glance, those wide green pupils locked in with something.
I had done a lousy job rekindling her fire. Still, that was not unexpected. And for the mission, it was better this way; she would be less confrontational. I already showed her what happened when she crossed my line; she will not do it anytime soon, but I won’t bet on it.
Sakura Haruno’s strong-willed and quite prideful. She’s a fuse. Sooner or later, she will start biting again.
Still, physical intimidation seems to have an odd effect on her; if used sparingly and paired with psychological cues, she will be docile for a time.
There was no perfect team. This wasn’t a genin fairytale of friendship and first kills — I hoped it was. I didn’t expect her to be fine. I just needed her to follow orders and not get herself killed trying to figure out what kind of man I was. Because I wouldn’t lie again. Not kindly.
It was nearly ten when the last strap was tightened, the final canvas flap tied down, and the merchant—Gendo, yes, that was his name—waved his hand with the pomp of a man who had no idea what kind of teeth waited down the road. The carts creaked into motion beneath the glaring mid-morning sun, and we followed in a formation.
The B-rank mission thus started.
Escort a client to Nami no Kuni—the Land of Waves. Keep the rich idiot and his wares unmolested by bandits, minor thugs, or any low-level shinobi dumb enough to attack a Leaf-tagged caravan. Simple work. Clean on paper.
Officially, it was a standard escort.
Unofficially, I was expected to investigate.
Land of Waves, again. Three years too late and far too quiet for it to sit right. The bridge had already been built, dubbed the Great Kaiza Bridge.
In this timeline, that story didn’t belong to Team 7.
And with that many uncertainties.
It made a strange tension settle in my chest. Like déjà vu gone wrong. A scene I knew the lines to, but all the actors had been recast.
Still, the road was calm. The merchant didn’t seem nervous enough to be lying. And even with everything going on—Sakura’s stolen glances, Naruto’s unchecked optimism—I wasn’t worried. Yet.
This mission had teeth, maybe. But they weren’t sharp.
— — — —
HAKU
The shack sagged against the bruised sky, half-swallowed by creeping vines and the slow rot of rain-soaked wood. It wasn't much, but it hid well enough. No light leaked through the warped doorframe as Haku approached, arms full of what could be scavenged — a bundle of firewood, a handful of pilfered vegetables, a coil of fresh bandages tucked discreetly beneath a fold of cloth.
The latch scraped against calloused yet delicate fingers. The door gave way without sound.
Inside, Zabuza-sama moved in the gloom, a dim shape sharp with familiar threat. Steel flashed — his new blade, hefted and brought down in a sudden, brutal arc that stirred the dust. Steel no longer stained with old blood, tempered by a cleaner violence. Zabuza-sama’s stance flexed, balanced despite the healing wounds the last battle had carved into flesh and bone.
He didn’t say anything, but Haku could tell he liked it.
Haku set the basket down in the corner. Fingers hesitated a moment longer on the rim, eyes trailing the restless dance of blade and body.
It was good to see strength returning. It should have been a reassuring sight.
Instead, a knot tightened between ribs. The wounds had barely closed. And now Zabuza-sama pushed harder, testing limits as if pain could be outpaced by sheer will.
And knowing Zabuza-sama, Hakus thought, it could.
“Find anything good?” Zabuza-sama asked. He lowered the sword, planting the tip against the floor with a dull thunk.
Haku crossed the room slowly. The smell of old blood and oil clung to Zabuza’s skin in faint, stubborn layers.
“Some food. Firewood,” Haku said, voice mild, hands folding neatly behind the back.
Zabuza-sama grunted again and lifted the sword in a two-handed grip, studying the way the hilt sat between palms.
The blade would serve well enough. It wasn’t the weapon that mattered.
It was the hands holding it. That said, this one was undoubtedly special.
Haku’s gaze flickered down, lingering too long on the lines of strain hidden in Zabuza’s shoulders. Fresh scars tugged when the arms lifted. The knot of worry sharpened, small and cold at the pit of the stomach.
Silently, Haku moved toward the hearth and knelt by the cold remnants of last night’s fire. Tinder, twigs, careful sparks struck into shallow life. The fire caught slowly, coughing thin smoke up the battered chimney. It gave no real heat yet, but inertia was better than cold ashes.
“There were others,” Haku said, keeping the voice mild, almost casual. “South of the bridge. A gang, small but armed. Outfits too clean for simple highwaymen. They were harassing a caravan near the water.”
“Shinobi?”
“Not trained. But paid for muscle.” Eyes flicked up, gauging reactions under the low jut of brow and bandaged jawline. “Too organized for amateurs.” A pause. “Can’t say if there’s shinobi behind them. The villagers were afraid, however.“
"When aren’t they?” Zabuza-sama snorted, “Fear’s the only thing those worms are good at."
“Raids on the bridge seem a frequent affair.“
“Huh. Gato’s rot lingers longer than the bastard himself.”
The name sat between them for a breath.
“Three years since his throat was cut," Zabuza went on, more to himself than anything, "but cockroach money breeds fast.”
Chin lifted, sharp gaze cutting toward the door like it might already reveal the enemy beyond mangled wood.
“It’ll be one of Gato’s heirs, or some lieutenant who thinks little leagues can muscle in now that no real lords watch these backwaters.”
Haku said nothing. Observed. Weighted options while reaching for calm.
Zabuza-sama was the opposite, already moving. Fingers drummed once against the hilt of the sword, impatient.
Money. Always about money. No blade sharpened itself without coins. Supplies. Bribes. Weapons with reach enough to start war — again.
“You’re thinking of making contact,” Haku said softly.
“Or robbing them blind.” Zabuza-sama's lips curled upward, a humorless smile. “Whichever comes first.”
“They are not weak," Haku offered cautiously. "And getting... involved draws attention. It might be wiser to observe a little longer before making contact.”
Perhaps because Haku was a coward, but the latest escape had been too close. The Fourth Mizukage’s hunters were tenacious, their anger fermented over years of surviving two failed coups. Each one had sharpened the assassins they sent. If Kiri caught wind again so soon...
Zabuza chuckled once under his breath.
“Running doesn’t win wars. Fear doesn’t carve out kingdoms.” The sword slipped from hand to shoulder with a thunk, balanced easily. “If we sit here waiting, we rot next. Like that bitch Mei.”
Another breath. Another pause. Haku chose the rhythm carefully, timing the words like stepping bare feet across ice-thin ponds.
“We could wait a little longer. Heal. Scout.” Haku tried again.
Zabuza-sama tilted his head, considering before jerking one shoulder in a shrug.
“Maybe. Maybe not.” Eyes sharpened, pinning Haku with something close to cruelty. Or honesty. “You had a choice. You still do.”
The reminder cut closer than any insult. Haku bowed slightly from the neck, controlled and measured.
"It was already made," came the answer with a smile.
Zabuza's smirk deepened. "We move at first light," He said. “If they’re fools, we bleed them. If they’re smart, we take contracts like before.”
If Zabuza-sama wanted the future carved from the corpses of bandits and false heirs, then so be it. Haku will be there to sculpt.
The fire cracked once, one sharp pop, as resin in the wood caught and split. Haku fed another branch into the flames, motions slow, mind turning quicker underneath.
The thief problem mattered. The hunger for gold, for weapons, mattered.
But something else itched along the spine.
“And…..“ Haku hesitated just slightly before asking, “What about the masked man?“
Zabuza-sama shifted, settling further into a crouch by the broken wall. One knee bent, sword laid across thighs. “What about him?”
“He wore no village insignia,” Haku said, voice mild. “Moved like a shinobi. But heavier.” A pause. “He knew things.”
Haku struggled to find the right words to express the wrongness of the masked man.
“So?“ Zabuza-sama shrugged one thick shoulder, indifferent. “Plenty of dead things know things.”
That dismissiveness did not comfort.
“You told him no.”
Zabuza’s mouth twisted between disdain and grim amusement.
“Offered us a place in his little circus. Mercenaries, assassins. Some half-witted dream about breaking the old world.” A scoff. “As if I need someone else’s leash.”
“He didn't seem... disappointed," Haku said. "When you refused.”
Zabuza barked a laugh. “No. He didn’t.”
Haku’s fingers stilled for a moment around a damp branch, subtle but tight. Not fear. Instinct stacking warnings.
“He felt wrong,” Haku said softly, giving up trying to find a compelling argument. “Like something pretending.”
“Tch. Forget him.” Zabuza said simply. “If he wants a fight, he’ll get it.”
The certainty was part of what made following Zabuza so damned natural.
Still —
Still, Haku remembered how even the air had recoiled from that masked man.
Haku fed the rest of the wood into the fire and sat back onto knees, hands resting lightly on thighs. “I hope we’ll be ready,” Haku murmured.
