“You’re finally ready to take on a genin cell, then?”

Zabuza had to refrain from rolling his eyes. “My decision to take on an apprentice isn’t a resignation from the ANBU corps, Mizukage-sama. And I have no desire to baby-sit an additional pair of brats.”

“You can’t honestly expect to bring a child with you on your missions.”

The young assassin remained silent. He was neither an orator nor a diplomat. Any decision the Mizukage made was not likely to be positively influenced by his words, so he spoke not at all, just stood and waited.

The old man sighed, for old he was, beyond his years, graying at an age when most were beginning to realize the strength and stamina of their youth was behind them. He was weary with the weight of his responsibility and years of service. Zabuza had always been a trial to him. Rather arrogant. Unnaturally talented, but disinclined to listen to advice or even orders when it suited him. Outsiders thought him bloodthirsty, mostly for his rather grisly childhood and his enlistment in the assassin corps at an age when his contemporaries were just starting to consider the possibility of entering the chuunin exams, though in comparison to many of his associates the young man rated rather low on the sadism scale. Misanthropic to a disturbing degree. He was the youngest person the Mizukage had ever met who could go months without speaking and never notice the lack of companionship. And now he wanted an apprentice. An unforeseen occurrence. One that could be very beneficial to the Mist, or rather troublesome. It all depended, on Zabuza, in his training on the boy, and on himself, on how closely he watched the development of this new relationship. He pondered. And he made his decision.

“How old is this boy, again?”

“Six.”

Six. Young. Too young, really, barely old enough to enter the academy, much less participate in A-ranked assignments. Mizukage briefly wondered what Zabuza was thinking, before determining that it really didn’t matter. The assassin was barely out of childhood himself. Skilled, but not a threat. Not now.

“Very well. I will grant your request,” and the Mizukage strained to see a reaction, any reaction to his words, getting none, “On one condition. This boy of yours, he must be. . . gifted, to catch a hold of your attention, yes?”

A barely perceivable nod, though the young ANBU’s eyes narrowed slightly at his words.

“Good. I will give you, hm, one year I believe, to put your apprentice through some training, get him up to speed. You are off the ANBU duty roster for that year. If he is as talented as he must be, that will be enough. You may then resume your duties.”

“Do you believe that is necessary?”

“One year exclusive training from you will make this boy a valuable tool for the Mist, more than worth a year’s worth of service from one of our best assassins. An even trade, I think.” The Mizukage gestured towards the door, an obvious dismissal, and turned back to his paperwork. There was a slight pause before the young assassin gave the customary bow, but he gave it nonetheless, slow and reluctant as it was.

“Thank you, Mizukage-sama.”

-

“Did you get all that, Haku?”

The boy nodded, smiling cheerily. “The Mizukage wants you to train me until I am strong enough to survive on assassination assignments.”

“Very good.”

It was perhaps premature to begin the boy’s training before he had gained the approval of the Mizukage, but he had known the old man wouldn’t pass up the opportunity to evaluate his effectiveness as a teacher, even if only out of curiosity. No one took notice of the ragged boy (not as thin perhaps, as he had been a week ago, when Zabuza had found him, and certainly not as filthy) sitting near the entrance to the Mizukage’s tower, eating a bun full of cooked pork. They certainly didn’t recognize the small pool of water in the Mizukage’s office as anything resembling a threat, here in the land of the Mist. The unique ability to transmit (teleport, really, though Zabuza hesitated to label it that so soon) sound through water was a distinctly unique ability, one the assassin had never seen before. It reinforced his own belief that the boy was likely a descendent of one of the advanced bloodlines mostly wiped out in the last war. A fortunate discovery, especially so considering Haku hadn’t looked to survive no more than a few days.

“Zabuza-san?”

The assassin’s attention focused again on his apprentice. A funny thought, that. Never before had he met a child worthy of his time, but this one might very well be.

“What is it, Haku?”

“One thing Mizukage-sama said. . . it confused me, a little. He said that I was going to become a tool for the Mist. But I thought I was your tool, Zabuza-san.”

“For the time being, Haku, my interests and the interests of the Mist are the same. When you serve the Mist, you serve me. But keep something in mind, Haku. That will not always be the case.”

The boy nodded, satisfied. “I am your tool, Zaubza-san.”

The assassin smiled slightly, almost unseen through the bandages. “Correct.”

“So it’s true then.”

Zabuza didn’t bother to look up from his reading. “Do you care?”

“No. Just. . . surprised. I didn’t think you liked kids.”

“I always thought I tolerated you pretty well.”

Kisame grinned. Tall and lanky, the twelve year old shinobi’s features had lost their baby fat years before, and he had never been called on his youth by anyone except those who knew him.

“I’ll be ANBU next month. Show some respect to a peer, Zabuza-san. Or is it Zabuza-sensei, now?”

Zabuza ignored him. The blue-skinned youth was talented and usually inoffensive, but his gregariousness was occasionally grating. It didn’t seem right that someone who liked to be around people so much would be so eager to join the assassination corps, but Kisame had about as much introspectiveness in him as any true predator. He enjoyed the fight and didn’t think of the bodies left in the wake of his hobby. And that was all the ANBU was to Kisame, really. A hobby. Someone’s death wasn’t so much a goal as a result of a good battle. The adolescent was under the mistaken impression that a higher ranking would result with more skilled opponents, but he would be disillusioned soon enough. Assassination was silent killing. Your target usually didn’t even notice you until after he was dead. Zabuza didn’t care either way, but Kisame was bound to be disappointed. He had the shinobi version of innocence, still believed death came from the conclusion of a well-fought battle instead of in the dark from the back.

“But really, Zabuza-san, what do you see in this kid?”

“He has potential.”

“Zabuza-san, a wall has potential. You’ve passed up tons of opportunities to go jounin and train a genin cell. You taking on an apprentice is like me giving up sea food.”

“Stay out of my affairs.”

Kisame raised his hands in a placating gesture. “Sorry, sorry. I’m not trying to interfere. Just curious, that’s all.”

Which was why Zabuza tolerated Kisame to begin with. The kid so rarely intended to be insulting that it was just easier to take his words at face value most of the time. Refreshing to be around someone who had so little in the way of ulterior motives.

“Haku is. . . different. He can do things I thought impossible, and he’s only been in the village two weeks. Startling improvement. He isn’t nearly as frustrating as most brats.”

“Sounds like he has a bloodline limit.”

Zabuza shot the youth of sharp look, but again it proved unnecessary. With anyone else, the words would be a threat. With Kisame, it was a simple statement.

“All the advanced bloodlines were destroyed after the last war.”

“Hell, no matter how thorough the hunter-nins are, they couldn’t have possibly gotten everyone. Some of the clans had to have surviving members, and you’ve gotta figure they bred kids at some point. Besides, you know as well as I do that the annihilation of the ‘bloodline threat’ is just a line the Mizukage fed the people to get everyone to calm down. The Kaguya Clan still lives on, and so do I.”

How could Zabuza have forgotten. Kisame had been three when the Hoshigaki Clan was murdered in a night by a wave of hunter-nins out of fear of possible uprisings, though the family had fought on the side of the Mizukage during the wars. Kisame had been the only one spared, because of his age and the hope that after he reached maturity, the bloodline limit of the Hoshigaki Clan kept secret for centuries by its members would finally be revealed and put to good use by the village. It was a rather stupid idea, or would have been had Kisame possessed a single vengeful bone in his body. The Mizukage had been fortunate to have in his possession a child who lived so much in the moment. But no one’s luck was that good. Kisame had been too young at the time of his clan’s massacre to even remember his parents, much less any bloodline lore. He had no more idea of what his bloodline might be than the Mizukage, his exotic appearance offering little clue. Rather ironic that the thing that let Kisame be spared was the same as the thing that so limited any chance of using that ancient bloodline for the Mizukage’s own ends.

He had already thought of the possibility, but it was nice to know the survival of an advanced bloodline wasn’t so outlandish an idea that someone else didn’t consider it likely as well. “It seems possible. Any clans come to mind regarding manipulation of water?”

“You know, I don’t think that was a broad enough topic, Zabuza-san.”

Finally, some recognizable sarcasm, even though it lacked the proper bite.

“Haku is six, Kisame. I’ll be sure to narrow it down for you in a few years.”

Zabuza went back to his reading. Not that a scroll teaching the basics of henge- a technique Zabuza had long since mastered- was all that interesting, but he needed to brush up on the beginners stuff if he ever wanted to be able to instruct Haku, and it was a convenient way to indirectly tell Kisame to stop bothering him. Not that the twelve year old took the hint. Friendly and extroverted Kisame might be, but he had no concept of social cues whatsoever.

“You might want to stick with the writings of Hanashima, Zabuza-san. Akito’s scrolls are pretty dry.”

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

Kisame grimaced, his sharp teeth flashing in unintentional viciousness. “I was supposed to start training with Kano-sensei ten minutes ago.”

“You should know by now the surest way to piss him off is to be late.”

“Like I care. He beats the shit out of me either way.”

Kano’s unnecessary roughness with Kisame had been noted by the higher ups, but they had decided to leave the issue alone until something more serious than bruises and cuts came along. An attitude that was likely to get Kisame killed, eventually, but Kisame was a katana fighter and the only other ones vaguely qualified to train him were otherwise occupied. Zabuza himself might have done a decent job of it, but Kisame was too talented to be left in his charge for long, especially considering their less than impressive age gap. Nami would have been the best choice, but leading an ANBU squad took up too much of her time to spend any of it as an instructor.

“You should go anyway. You’ll never get better, otherwise. That and he’ll come looking for you soon, which is the last thing you want.”

“Thanks for the advice, Zabuza-sensei. You really should consider a position as a council member. They like to push their opinions on those who don’t want it, too.”

“Kisame, it would be a good survival tactic to learn when to shut up while addressing someone who could so easily knock you unconscious.”

A genin, who in reality was probably the same age as Kisame but appeared years younger, crept into the room with a mouse’s fearful hunch. “Kisame, Kano-san is searching for your whereabouts. You might want to go to him. He’s very angry today.”

Kisame grimaced again, and the genin flinched, though the look wasn’t directed at him. “Damn it. I guess I’ll be seeing you, Zabuza-san.”

“Try to survive today. I have a few techniques I want to demonstrate to Haku and I need someone to practice them on.”

After managing a weak grin, Kisame left, looking as dejected as Zabuza had ever seen him. Zabuza went back to his reading, but silently made a note to himself to never make Haku dread his training as Kisame did. No matter what some elder shinobi thought, fear was hardly the best motivator. He would come up with something else to stimulate his apprentice.

It wasn’t until he had to squint to be able to see his apprentice that Zabuza realized what time it was. They had been training since early morning, only taking a short break for lunch, as they usually did every day, but usually Haku’s fatigue stopped them long before sunset. Not so, now. The young boy had been perfecting his throwing form for hours, but his focus was, if anything, sharper then it had been when he started.

“Haku.”

There was no pause in the quiet thunk of shuriken hitting cedar wood.

“Haku!”

His apprentice faltered, one of his throwing stars flying off into the dark undergrowth as he turned towards his teacher. “Zabuza-san?”

“It is time we returned.”

The boy nodded in acquiescence, as he always did to whatever Zabuza suggested, and ran towards the human-like target where his shuriken were embedded. After collecting them and carefully storing them in his side pouch, he started towards the forest where his last was likely buried.

“Haku, forget about it.”

“But, Zabuza-san. . .”

“You will never find it in the dark. You can look for your shuriken in the morning.”

Slight hesitance. Such an edict went against what Zabuza had taught his young apprentice about the care of weaponry, and Haku took all such lessons to heart. He was hard pressed to go against one, even at his teacher’s order.

“Haku, some weapons are more important then others. A shuriken can be wiped free of rust, but if you become ill, you will be of no use to me for days.” It was a legitimate concern. They were at the beginnings of winter, and snow already lightly dusted the ground. Both Zabuza and his apprentice were dressed for training, but not for the cold.

At Zabuza’s words, Haku smiled, as he always did whenever his value to his teacher was mentioned. It was as common and predictable as the boy’s obedience, but Zabuza couldn’t help but always smile back. The darkness hid it as effectively as his bandages ever did, which is the only reason he didn’t bother to restrain the response. Encouraging sentimentality never ended well. Not when you trying to train a killer of men.

“My apologies, Zabuza-san. I was not thinking.”

“Forget about it, Haku.”

----

“So what are you getting Haku for his birthday?”

Pausing momentarily in the cleaning of his sword, Zabuza looked blankly at the ANBU captain. “Haku doesn’t have a birthday.”

“Zabuza, please don’t shame your old mentor and act like an idiot. The boy is human, after all, therefore one can surmise he was born. Thus, he has a birthday.”

“He’s never mentioned anything about his birthday being around this time.”

Nami raised one eyebrow. “And why would he? In case you didn’t notice, Zabuza-kun, Haku worships the ground you walk on. You never speak of birthdays, so the boy most likely assumes that such a childish thing doesn’t matter.”

“It doesn’t.”

The female ANBU smirked. “Tell that to the brownies I gave to Kisame for his thirteenth birthday. How long did they last? An hour?”

“You give him brownies every year.”

“And every year I ask you what you want on your birthday and you say that your day of birth is nothing to celebrate. Just because you’re morbid doesn’t mean you have to pass on your tendencies to your apprentice.”

“I have two months before I return to my ANBU duties and Haku must accompany me. If he is to last through the experience, we cannot take time out of his training to satisfy your every whim, Nami.”

“Just give him something to commemorate the fact that he survived long enough for you to find him, then. Even you can’t find anything wrong with that. The kid probably doesn’t remember when his birthday is anyway, though I bet you a week’s wages he was born in winter. He seems the type.”

Zabuza sighed in irritation. “Fine. Just stop bothering me.”

The ANBU captain didn’t move.

“Nami, what are you still doing here?”

“What are you getting him?”

“Why do you care?”

“Because you’ve never given anyone a present in your life. I can’t imagine you’re very good at it.”

“I’ll buy him a new set of kunai. Will you please go away now?”

“No good.”

Zabuza glared angrily at his sword, since he didn’t dare glare at Nami. Good tempered the hira-tsukuri (1) wielder may have been, but her anger often flashed hot and lethal. He breathed in quietly through his nose before responding. “Why not?”

“Haku is going to be seven. You don’t give a child throwing knives for his birthday.”

“I received arm guards. Kisame was presented with that ungodly heavy blade he carries around. What do you mean, children aren’t given weapons? You’re the only person I know who doesn’t give weapons, Nami.”

“He wants a rabbit.”

Zabuza. . . blinked. “A what?”

“Haku wants a rabbit. Even you couldn’t have helped but notice the way he stares at the snow hares every spare moment he gets.”

“That’s because he likes to kill them for lunch.”

“No, that what’s he does to them when he catches you watching because he doesn’t want to disappoint you. Haku isn’t stupid, Zabuza-kun. He knows you disapprove of anything that isn’t capable of killing things in some way or another.”

“Haku doesn’t have time to take care of a rabbit.”

“A rabbit isn’t a dog, Zabuza. You feed them and that’s it. Let the kid have a childhood. It isn’t like he’s ever had much of one.”

“Haku is a shinobi.”

“Haku is a child, and if you are having so much trouble comprehending that, take this as an order from a superior. Get him a rabbit.”

“Fine.”

“By next week.”

“Fine.”

“A white one.”

Zabuza hissed vehemently through his teeth. “Are you sure you didn’t teach Kisame at some point? You’re as irritating as he is.”

Nami flashed the younger jounin a bright smile, knowing resigned agreement when she heard it. “Haku will love it, Zabuza-kun. Trust me.”

----

The small boy stared at the small white rabbit. Through the weave of the basket, the rabbit stared back. Haku glanced inquiringly up at his teacher. “Zabuza-san, why is lunch in a cage?”

Zabuza rolled his eyes. Trust a child as intelligent but, in the end, single-minded as Haku to so quickly translate ‘rabbit’ into ‘food.’

“This isn’t lunch, Haku. It’s yours.”

The boy once again looked the rabbit, confused. “Mine?”

“It’s supposed to be kept as a pet.”

“So I don’t have to eat it?” Haku sounded hopeful. Zabuza mentally scored another one for Nami. His apprentice truly didn’t like to eat rabbits. Trust the self-appointed mother of the ANBU corps to notice such a thing.

“No, you don’t.”

The boy’s eyes went wide, and he quickly knelt by the basket. It was with shaking hands that Haku slipped the latch holding the small animal captive. Said small animal quickly jumped out, but Haku was in the way, and the white rabbit subsequently leapt straight into Haku’s arms. The creature had evidently been seeking a warm and safe hideaway, and finding both in the grasp of the small boy, the rabbit immediately went to sleep. Haku stared in wonder down at his small charge, before a wide grin, so unlike the quiet smiles that were the child’s habit, spread across his face. He hugged the animal close to him.

“Thank you, Zabuza-san. Thank you very, very much.”

Score two for Nami. Damn the woman was good.

Zabuza really couldn’t have cared less about his apprentice’s new pet, but he still felt obliged to ask. “Have you decided on a name, Haku?”

The small boy thought for a moment, before nodding his head in a gesture of firm decision. “Mister Fluffers.”

Damn it, not good. How in hell was Haku ever going to be taken seriously as a shinobi when he had an animal with a name like that? Perhaps it would have been wise to follow Kisame’s suggestion and give the kid a fishing pole. At least then he would still be killing things.

But looking down at Haku and the joy that showed on the child’s face whenever he looked at his newly christened pet, Zabuza couldn’t find it within himself to be very regretful.

(1) Hira-tsukuri: A Japanese straight sword

Zabuza didn’t allow his annoyance to show on his face, but Haku was perceptive and probably caught his vexation anyway by the way his grip rhythmically tightened and relaxed on his zanbatou. Kisame was late. The younger man had promised he would help Zabuza demonstrate several of the more complex throwing techniques to Haku, but Zabuza and his apprentice had been waiting over half an hour at the west training grounds of Kirogakure and Kisame had yet to show up.

Haku was unusually patient for his age, but waiting around for thirty minutes without even the tension of a mission for a distraction would bore a saint, much less a seven year old, so it wasn’t long before the boy (after a glance at Zabuza for permission) ambled over to the edge of the training grounds where he had earlier placed the cage that held Mister Fluffers, unhinged the latch and started playing with his pet.

After Kisame failed to meet them at the scheduled rendezvous point at the decided time, Zabuza had been willing to let a few minutes slide, but half an hour was unacceptable. Kisame was not absent-minded and would not forget a scheduled training session, therefore the teen was either keeping them waiting on purpose, or he was dead. In the mood the zanbatou wielder was in, it had better be the latter. Zabuza was angry; he hated wasting time, and normally would have started Haku training with those senbon needles he had gotten inordinately fond of recently, but the training planned had been close-up taijutsu and the only throwing weapons either of them had bothered to bring along were some spare kunai so as not to be caught off-guard if the Cloud decided to bother Kirogakure with one of their impromptu attacks.

It was exactly thirty minutes after their arrival that Zabuza stood up abruptly from his sitting position on one of the numerous boulders spotting the training grounds and started walking back towards the village. Haku hurried after him, panting slightly from the effort of putting his rabbit back into its cage in record time and catching up to his teacher. “Zabuza-san, what about-”

“The idiot has kept us waiting long enough. Go back to our apartment and practice your ice manipulation. I’m going to have a talk with Kisame.”

Haku quieted. Even at seven, the boy knew that when his teacher said ‘talk,’ he really meant anything but. When he finally did speak, his voice was barely above a whisper. “Zabuza-san, please don’t hurt him too much.”

Zabuza didn’t reply.

----

It took Zabuza about an hour to find Kisame’s apartment. As a rule, shinobi avoided visiting each other at home, but Zabuza had ignored far more inviolate taboos in the past for less than the opportunity to punch the crap out of someone who deserved it. His anger had somewhat cooled by the time he had tracked down one of Kisame’s ANBU comrades and used some of his authority as a senior member of the assassin corps to drag the location of the boy’s residence (and thereby his current position, as Kisame’s ANBU squad was not on duty today) out of the other shinobi, but for Kisame, that didn’t really mean anything. Zabuza had never had any trouble killing people he didn’t even know the name of, so beating someone he actually didn’t mind so much unconscious was hardly a ping on what little moral fiber he had.

Despite whatever myths civilians tended to spread about the Hidden Villages, shinobi for the most part used the front door. This was not so much out of a sense of propriety as it was a sense of self-preservation, as any ninja who had been in the field more than a week always developed a healthy (or not so healthy) paranoia, and therefore was given to trapping all obvious entryways to their homes to provide themselves with some peace of mind. Even if one was entering the home of a close friend, one never used the window, or the skylight, or the laundry-shoot, because even if you knew all their traps, a new one was all too easy to add without warning. This was the precise reason Zabuza was standing out on Kisame’s doorstep, his breath misting in the cold air, as he waited for the younger shinobi to answer his knock. He waited. And Kisame didn’t answer.

Stifling the urge to simply break down the boy’s door, Zabuza knocked again, this time accompanying the action with some rather terse words. “Kisame, now is not the time to be trifling with me. Open the door.”

After a few seconds’ pause, Kisame’s voice responded, sounding oddly subdued. “Just a minute, Zabuza-san.” The sound of a latch being unbolted reached Zabuza’s ears, and it wasn’t long before the door (finally) swung open. On the other side was Kisame, and all thoughts of retribution for the boy’s tardiness immediately left Zabuza’s head. Leaning heavily against the wall, bandages covering the entirety of his torso and his right arm in a sling with his pupils slightly unfocused in a way that suggested sedatives, the other katana wielder looked like he had just barely survived a war. Despite his impairment, Kisame still noticed the way Zabuza’s eyes narrowed as he examined the other ANBU’s injuries, but as often happened when the boy observed social cues, he completely misread the source of Zabuza’s ire and bowed his head in apology. “I beg your pardon for not assisting you this morning, Zabuza-san, but I was sleeping off some of the drugs the medic-nins put me on and didn’t think to send word to you.”

“Who did this to you?”

Kisame’s gaze jerked off the floor as he met Zabuza’s eyes, looking slightly confused. “Sorry?”

“You didn’t have a mission yesterday, and these wounds look recent. Who injured you?”

The younger boy rubbed the back of his head with his good hand, rather looking like he wanted to change the subject. “Just got hurt training last night. It’s nothing, Zabuza-san.”

“Your broken arm was not incurred in the same attack as the sword wound in your side. You can’t get hurt like that training.”

“I pissed off Kano-sensei.”

Zabuza didn’t visibly change expression, but inside he was seething. Teachers weren’t supposed to hurt their students, at least not intentionally, and Kisame’s injuries looked very much intentional. “What did you do this time? Show up late again?”

“I cut his arm. He didn’t take it well.”

Zabuza forgot what he was going to say next, because the words that had come out of Kisame’s mouth hadn’t made any sense. Kisame was only thirteen, and while skilled, he was not supposed to be good enough to hurt his instructor, who had ten years on him in both age and experience. Especially considering Kano was supposed to be one of the elite swordsmen of the Mist. Either Kano was getting sloppy, or Kisame had just gotten lucky (or not so lucky, as it were). Or there was always the third alternative that Kisame was close to surpassing his teacher. Personally, Zabuza thought that last was unlikely. Kisame was close to brilliant while using his Samehada, but Zabuza trained with the boy on occasion and had joined Kano on one or two missions and knew it would be at least another three or four years at least before the young ANBU could hope to match his instructor.

So that meant Kano had overcompensated for his confidence issues when it came to his own skill and almost killed his student in some weird quest to get back at the boy for making him doubt himself. For a moment, Zabuza felt the almost overwhelming urge to track the wakizashi wielder down and slit his throat, but he managed to suppress the desire after some thought. Zabuza reminded himself that while Kano was the most unsuitable person he had ever met to be a teacher, he was not only a better swordsman than Kisame but Zabuza as well. That didn’t do much to temper the knowledge that Kirogakure would probably be better off in the long run if Kano was found dead in a ditch somewhere in the next few days.

It was with a rather uncharacteristic absence of mind that Zabuza told Kisame they could show Haku the throwing techniques some other day and to go back to bed before he fell on his face. Kisame complied easily enough, though he sent a worried glance over his shoulder as he watched the older shinobi turn around and start to walk away. Zabuza wasn’t unreasonable. It was just that his reasoning was something that was usually beyond most people, including Kisame. The young ANBU just hoped his friend wasn’t planning on doing anything stupid.

----

“I’m sorry, but we cannot assign Kisame-kun a new instructor at this time.”

One of Zabuza’s hands clenched, but his composure for the most part remained untouched. “You told me yourself, Mizukage-sama, that you thought Kano was too rough with Kisame. This instance of all things should push you to give Kisame another teacher, if only to insure one of the brightest rookie ANBU in the corps will survive long enough to make captain.”

The Mizukage shook his head sadly. “I would at any other time, Zabuza-kun, but this war with the Cloud is pushing our resources to their limits as it is. I cannot afford to take a katana user skilled enough to teach Kisame-kun off the front lines. It would weaken our position too much. Maybe when Nami gets back from her mission in Stone, I will reconsider. But not now.”

“Mizukage-sama, Nami won’t be back from Stone for months-”

The Mizukage’s face hardened. “I have made my decision, Zabuza. You will not question it.” Zabuza stiffened, and even with the bandages covering the lower half of his face the zanbatou wielder’s fury was obvious. He turned and stalked out, only pausing at the threshold when the Mizukage again spoke, this time a warning in his voice. “Zabuza.”

There was a pause, and when next Zabuza moved, it seemed to take all the willpower the assassin had to turn back to face the Mist’s leader and execute an almost tortured bow. “Thank you for your time, Mizukage-sama. I will excuse myself now. Haku expected me an hour ago.” The door slammed behind him, making the Mizukage frown. Zabuza was skilled, but lately the Water Shadow had been wondering if the ANBU’s talent made it worth it to put up with his recurring insubordination. He was growing very tired of the boy’s insolence, and one really couldn’t leave such a defect to fester too long before it turned into something else entirely. Something dangerous.

----

The Mizukage was a fool. More specifically, the Mizukage was an old fool who should have stepped down years ago and left the ruling of Kirogakure to someone who hadn’t gone senile ten years ago. Weaken the Mist’s position? Bullshit. The Mist were winning against the Cloud, and Zabuza knew personally that at least one katana wielder good each to teach Kisame was currently waiting in a shinobi camp less than two days’ travel away writing a play about the glory of rice balls and dango while he waited to be assigned a mission. The way things were going, the Water Shadow was practically sending an approval letter to Kano for a hit on his student. Sometimes Zabuza wondered if the Mizukage wanted Kisame to die to get rid of the last of a clan that had caused him so much worry in the past.

If so, Zabuza wouldn’t allow it to happen. He might not have been an ANBU captain yet, but he was next in line for a command position and that gave him a certain amount of power. Such as the power to get Kisame’s squad sent on a long-term assignment. Say, for the next six months. Perhaps a lower A-class mission that would keep the boy from suspecting a setup but make it unlikely that Kisame have the opportunity to get himself killed. Perhaps by then Nami would have returned and the Mizukage would go through on his promise.

It wasn’t enough. Zabuza knew it would never be enough unless he could completely demolish the chance of anything like this ever happening again. To anybody.

Quietly, in the dead of night when Haku was asleep and no one was around to hear, Zabuza renewed a promise he had made seven years ago when one of Kirogakure’s horrible traditions had pushed him to murder every single one of his classmates on their graduation day. “I will become the Mizukage. And then when I change things, no one will be able to raise a voice to stop me.”