by So about 1 or 2 years ago I started a fic on Zabuza, putting the focus on his childhood, his rise to power and finally meeting Haku and his failed coup d'etat. I never finished it, but here's the first part I wrote. It's really emo and prolly poorly written 
; but I hope some of you will like it.
...also if someone can point me to anyone who would be willing to make me a banner that would be awesome.
Nobody quite knew where he came from, the little boy that wandered the streets of the Mist Village. Most people ignored the infant as it slept in filthy alleys and lived off what most people would consider to be trash. Children feared his eyes, adults shunned him. Nobody even knew his name. People couldn’t recall exactly when the child had appeared either. Most would have guessed a couple of months, but the truth was that he had been around for over a year now. Ever since his 4th birthday, his life had been one of solitude. The child knew no friends and the past year his eyes had changed. No longer were they warm and hopeful like the eyes of so many children, but cold, cruel. His eyes revealed that he no longer expected warmth, comfort, perhaps even love. His unwashed body hadn’t known the warmth of a mother’s hug for a long time, his memory had long forgotten. His messy black hair was covered in dust, his forehead had become unused to a mother’s kiss goodnight. A child such as this should still be having fun and know the love of a parent, however this particular infant had learned to take care of himself before his 5th birthday.
The child lived day by day, never looking further ahead than finding a place to sleep for the night. His life was an endless struggle for survival, he had to fight stray dogs for every crumb of bread he found. During the day, when he wasn’t sleeping or gathering food, he would wander through the village. He would see children his age playing ninja with each other, laughing and having fun. Though he didn’t know why, a small part of him longed for companionship like that, he also wanted to play, but whenever one of the children would notice his presence, it would get frightened and run off, followed by the others. This made him feel even more lonely as he grew older over the years.
It was a miracle that this infant had survived for so long on the streets. He had just turned 10, though he himself had long forgotten his birthday, so it was a regular day for him. He was lying in a collection of garbage bags that didn’t fit in the dumpster when he was woken up by the sound of several dozens of children his age making their way to the center of the village. The child looked at them, still lying down, though slowly sitting up. They all had different looks on their faces, some looked nervous, a very select few looked excited but in general they all looked sad. The boy got up now and patted some of the dirt off his clothes, arms and legs. He decided to follow them, since this was the first time he had seen such a procession. Keeping a safe distance between the children and himself, he also went to whatever their destination was. When he arrived, he saw it: an enormous arena, built to hold thousands of spectators. The child manage to sneak in, it was very crowded near the entrance and he managed to make his way through countless legs. He managed to find a seat close to the center of the arena, which seemed to be a small artificial lake, with in the center a concrete island and small steps leading from the island to the various gates in the arena. Slowly all the seats were taken and the child saw that the audience consisted only of adults. Some of them looked worried, though he didn’t know why. Others seemed to be expecting something and looked rather impatient. Finally, an old man in white robes, who was sitting on a stage, opposite the infant, rose and pointed at the arena. At his command the gates were opened and hundreds of children slowly, reluctantly, walked in. Each of them seemed to be holding something, though the child couldn’t quite make out what it was yet. When all the children had gathered on the middle island, with still plenty of moving space left, the old man spoke: “We are all gathered here today to find out the progress the future of our village has made. Today we shall learn which of these children has what it takes to become a Hidden Mist shinobi!” The spectators cheered, though some of the people seemed to look even more worried, the child noticed. The old man continued: “As you all know, we, of the Hidden Mist village, have a tradition to determine our next generation of shinobi by having the children fight each other to the death. Every child has been paired with another child by means of a shirt of the same color. It is the goal for the children to kill the child with the matching shirt.” These words were spoken so casually, though they had an enormous impact on the young ones. Some of them started to cry, others looked at their ‘target’, with pity, determination or hesitation. Only a handful seemed to not object to killing others. The old man now gazed upon the children. “Students! Take your kunai!” The children reluctantly obeyed. They all reached for the kunai they were entrusted with. When the young boy saw these weapons, he began to shake. Somewhere deep inside of him the mental chains that had bound memories so horrible broke and these memories began reliving themselves inside the young boy’s mind. At first they were just flashes; a young woman screaming, a man with several kunai stabbed into his chest, arms wrapped around him, blood dripping down his shirt, a mother’s last words. The young boy’s eyes started to build up tears. He wouldn’t blink when said tears started rolling down his cheeks. He shivered and stared at the kunai. Vaguely a voice yelled “Begin!” the voices of young children attacking each other, but this boy couldn’t hear them, couldn’t see them. He was reliving his nightmare, the nightmare that had been sealed inside of him for so long…
It was a summer’s day. Sun was shining upon his face, warming him. The child was much younger and much cleaner. He heard a soothing laugh and when he looked up he saw the face of a young woman he recognized as his mother. “Mommy,” he joyfully exclaimed, wrapping his short arms around her, clinging to her as if trying to become one body with her. “Happy birthday, Shin!” The little boy grinned from ear to ear. “Look at what your father got you, Shin!” He looked back and saw his father walk into the room carrying a beautifully decorated cake, with four small candles on it, lit. His father put the cake down on a table and sat offered a chair to Shin’s mother. She sat down on it, with the child on her lap. The young man then sat down as well. “Make a wish, Shin,” he said, with a warm smile. The boy squeezed his eyes shut, thinking long and hard, finally, he opened them and blew out the candles, however one remained. He turned to look at his father, with a proud smile but his father looked different. His father’s eyes were open, but dim. Something wasn’t right. Then he heard his mother scream. It pierced straight through his heart, as if the scream were a knife that stabbed through it. He felt something drip on his head. He looked up at his mother, surprised and saw blood pour from her mouth and throat, an oddly shaped knife stuck in her throat. Shin fell off her lap in shock and hid under the table. He heard the noise of men entering the house. He saw their feet as they came in. He heard a thud and saw his father suddenly lying next to him. Blood dripped from his mouth and the same knives were stuck in his body. His eyes were wide open and seemed to be staring directly at him. Shin’s eyes started to tear and, while covering his mouth, he silently cried. The feet disappeared and he crawled out from under the table. His mother had fallen over and her head and right arm were resting on the table, her fingers dug into the cake. Shin crawled up to her, shaking, crying. He wanted to make it all better, he saw the knife and, using both of his hands, he pulled it out, expecting to heal her that way. He shook her once. Nothing. He shook her again, crying louder, calling out for her. Nothing. Shin backed away from her. “Mommy! Mommy! Wake up! Wake up mommy!” He kept shaking her but neither his shakes, nor his cries could wake her up. He clutched the knife and ran outside, tears clogging his vision. He ran and ran, pressing the knife against his chest as he went, until he collapsed on the side of the road, exhausted…
His body was shaking, however he had stopped crying. Back then he was too young, but now he felt ready. An anger overcame him, he bared his teeth, growled, glaring at the children. His right hand dug into the pocket of his pants and pulled out a bloodstained kunai. The boy examined it, then clutched his fingers to it. With a roar that overcame the noise of the children left standing he jumped over the railing separating him from the children in the arena. He landed on his feet, on one of the steps. The children had stopped fighting and were now staring at him, stunned. His eyes. His eyes had always scared them, but now more than ever. They weren’t just cold anymore, they showed hatred, rage, a thirst for blood. His free fist was clenched so tightly that a small drip of blood ran down his fingers and landed on the step. Growling like an animal, Shin charged at the large group of about 100 students, snarling and growling. He charged straight at the child closest to him, it was a young boy, wearing a red shirt. His kunai was bloody and this infuriated Shin even more, he leapt up into the air and with an extremely violent stabbing motion, he brought his kunai down upon the young boy’s shoulder. Their eyes met as it sank deep into the boy’s flesh, one pair shocked, scared beyond belief, the other furious and hateful. Shin’s fist touched the boy’s shoulder before he withdrew the kunai. The boy dropped to his knees and with a violent kick in his throat, Shin sent him flying back a few feet. He charged at the next child, his vision turning red, as blood spattered across his face, hands and arms. He would make them pay, he would make them all pay. “You had no right!” Those were the words he kept repeating over and over. He couldn’t see, he couldn’t hear. All he could sense was the fresh warm blood that sprayed over his body whenever he would bring his kunai down into the flesh of his victims. When there was nobody left standing, he collapsed, sitting down on the concrete floor, hugging his knees, the bloodstained kunai still in his firm grasp. Tears started rolling down his cheeks again. “Mommy… Daddy… I made them pay… Can I be with you now…? Can I be with you again…?” A shadow was cast over him. He looked up slowly, his tears mixing with the blood of those lying around him. It was the same old man from before, he looked down upon him with a look that showed a curious interest, as well as hesitation. “Do you know who I am, boy?” Shin shook his head slowly, still dazed. “I am this village’s Mizukage, Momochi Soun. What’s your name, boy?” Shin looked down and slowly shrugged, the kunai in his hand was released and it fell onto the floor, in between his legs. “You fought very well, boy. Stand up.” Shin obeyed and slowly got onto his feet, his eyes blank. “I will make sure you receive the proper training, boy. You have an enormous potential inside of you, do you know that?” Shin shook his head again. “I will take you in as my son, my child, so I can watch over you and make sure you get to use all of your potential, but you will need a name.” The old man thought for a while and then he spoke it: “Zabuza. Your name shall be Momochi Zabuza from now on.” Shin didn’t quite understand and looked at the Mizukage. “Come, Momochi Zabuza. Welcome to the Hidden Mist.” And as he and Shin walked out of the arena, the entire audience, who had also seen his potential rose to their feet. His name echoed through the entire village: “Zabuza! Zabuza!” Shin didn’t fully comprehend what was happening, but for the first time in years he felt like he was ‘home’. When he and the Mizukage arrived at the Mizukage’s palace, the elite jounins, the Seven Swordsmen of the Hidden Mist were there to greet them. Their leader approached Shin and kneeled down so he could look him in the eye. “I heard you put up quite a fight back there… So tell me, child, what is your name?” Shin looked him in the eye with the same cold eyes as usual and in a monotone, yet powerful voice he replied: “My name is Momochi Zabuza.”
; but I hope some of you will like it....also if someone can point me to anyone who would be willing to make me a banner that would be awesome.
Nobody quite knew where he came from, the little boy that wandered the streets of the Mist Village. Most people ignored the infant as it slept in filthy alleys and lived off what most people would consider to be trash. Children feared his eyes, adults shunned him. Nobody even knew his name. People couldn’t recall exactly when the child had appeared either. Most would have guessed a couple of months, but the truth was that he had been around for over a year now. Ever since his 4th birthday, his life had been one of solitude. The child knew no friends and the past year his eyes had changed. No longer were they warm and hopeful like the eyes of so many children, but cold, cruel. His eyes revealed that he no longer expected warmth, comfort, perhaps even love. His unwashed body hadn’t known the warmth of a mother’s hug for a long time, his memory had long forgotten. His messy black hair was covered in dust, his forehead had become unused to a mother’s kiss goodnight. A child such as this should still be having fun and know the love of a parent, however this particular infant had learned to take care of himself before his 5th birthday.
The child lived day by day, never looking further ahead than finding a place to sleep for the night. His life was an endless struggle for survival, he had to fight stray dogs for every crumb of bread he found. During the day, when he wasn’t sleeping or gathering food, he would wander through the village. He would see children his age playing ninja with each other, laughing and having fun. Though he didn’t know why, a small part of him longed for companionship like that, he also wanted to play, but whenever one of the children would notice his presence, it would get frightened and run off, followed by the others. This made him feel even more lonely as he grew older over the years.
It was a miracle that this infant had survived for so long on the streets. He had just turned 10, though he himself had long forgotten his birthday, so it was a regular day for him. He was lying in a collection of garbage bags that didn’t fit in the dumpster when he was woken up by the sound of several dozens of children his age making their way to the center of the village. The child looked at them, still lying down, though slowly sitting up. They all had different looks on their faces, some looked nervous, a very select few looked excited but in general they all looked sad. The boy got up now and patted some of the dirt off his clothes, arms and legs. He decided to follow them, since this was the first time he had seen such a procession. Keeping a safe distance between the children and himself, he also went to whatever their destination was. When he arrived, he saw it: an enormous arena, built to hold thousands of spectators. The child manage to sneak in, it was very crowded near the entrance and he managed to make his way through countless legs. He managed to find a seat close to the center of the arena, which seemed to be a small artificial lake, with in the center a concrete island and small steps leading from the island to the various gates in the arena. Slowly all the seats were taken and the child saw that the audience consisted only of adults. Some of them looked worried, though he didn’t know why. Others seemed to be expecting something and looked rather impatient. Finally, an old man in white robes, who was sitting on a stage, opposite the infant, rose and pointed at the arena. At his command the gates were opened and hundreds of children slowly, reluctantly, walked in. Each of them seemed to be holding something, though the child couldn’t quite make out what it was yet. When all the children had gathered on the middle island, with still plenty of moving space left, the old man spoke: “We are all gathered here today to find out the progress the future of our village has made. Today we shall learn which of these children has what it takes to become a Hidden Mist shinobi!” The spectators cheered, though some of the people seemed to look even more worried, the child noticed. The old man continued: “As you all know, we, of the Hidden Mist village, have a tradition to determine our next generation of shinobi by having the children fight each other to the death. Every child has been paired with another child by means of a shirt of the same color. It is the goal for the children to kill the child with the matching shirt.” These words were spoken so casually, though they had an enormous impact on the young ones. Some of them started to cry, others looked at their ‘target’, with pity, determination or hesitation. Only a handful seemed to not object to killing others. The old man now gazed upon the children. “Students! Take your kunai!” The children reluctantly obeyed. They all reached for the kunai they were entrusted with. When the young boy saw these weapons, he began to shake. Somewhere deep inside of him the mental chains that had bound memories so horrible broke and these memories began reliving themselves inside the young boy’s mind. At first they were just flashes; a young woman screaming, a man with several kunai stabbed into his chest, arms wrapped around him, blood dripping down his shirt, a mother’s last words. The young boy’s eyes started to build up tears. He wouldn’t blink when said tears started rolling down his cheeks. He shivered and stared at the kunai. Vaguely a voice yelled “Begin!” the voices of young children attacking each other, but this boy couldn’t hear them, couldn’t see them. He was reliving his nightmare, the nightmare that had been sealed inside of him for so long…
It was a summer’s day. Sun was shining upon his face, warming him. The child was much younger and much cleaner. He heard a soothing laugh and when he looked up he saw the face of a young woman he recognized as his mother. “Mommy,” he joyfully exclaimed, wrapping his short arms around her, clinging to her as if trying to become one body with her. “Happy birthday, Shin!” The little boy grinned from ear to ear. “Look at what your father got you, Shin!” He looked back and saw his father walk into the room carrying a beautifully decorated cake, with four small candles on it, lit. His father put the cake down on a table and sat offered a chair to Shin’s mother. She sat down on it, with the child on her lap. The young man then sat down as well. “Make a wish, Shin,” he said, with a warm smile. The boy squeezed his eyes shut, thinking long and hard, finally, he opened them and blew out the candles, however one remained. He turned to look at his father, with a proud smile but his father looked different. His father’s eyes were open, but dim. Something wasn’t right. Then he heard his mother scream. It pierced straight through his heart, as if the scream were a knife that stabbed through it. He felt something drip on his head. He looked up at his mother, surprised and saw blood pour from her mouth and throat, an oddly shaped knife stuck in her throat. Shin fell off her lap in shock and hid under the table. He heard the noise of men entering the house. He saw their feet as they came in. He heard a thud and saw his father suddenly lying next to him. Blood dripped from his mouth and the same knives were stuck in his body. His eyes were wide open and seemed to be staring directly at him. Shin’s eyes started to tear and, while covering his mouth, he silently cried. The feet disappeared and he crawled out from under the table. His mother had fallen over and her head and right arm were resting on the table, her fingers dug into the cake. Shin crawled up to her, shaking, crying. He wanted to make it all better, he saw the knife and, using both of his hands, he pulled it out, expecting to heal her that way. He shook her once. Nothing. He shook her again, crying louder, calling out for her. Nothing. Shin backed away from her. “Mommy! Mommy! Wake up! Wake up mommy!” He kept shaking her but neither his shakes, nor his cries could wake her up. He clutched the knife and ran outside, tears clogging his vision. He ran and ran, pressing the knife against his chest as he went, until he collapsed on the side of the road, exhausted…
His body was shaking, however he had stopped crying. Back then he was too young, but now he felt ready. An anger overcame him, he bared his teeth, growled, glaring at the children. His right hand dug into the pocket of his pants and pulled out a bloodstained kunai. The boy examined it, then clutched his fingers to it. With a roar that overcame the noise of the children left standing he jumped over the railing separating him from the children in the arena. He landed on his feet, on one of the steps. The children had stopped fighting and were now staring at him, stunned. His eyes. His eyes had always scared them, but now more than ever. They weren’t just cold anymore, they showed hatred, rage, a thirst for blood. His free fist was clenched so tightly that a small drip of blood ran down his fingers and landed on the step. Growling like an animal, Shin charged at the large group of about 100 students, snarling and growling. He charged straight at the child closest to him, it was a young boy, wearing a red shirt. His kunai was bloody and this infuriated Shin even more, he leapt up into the air and with an extremely violent stabbing motion, he brought his kunai down upon the young boy’s shoulder. Their eyes met as it sank deep into the boy’s flesh, one pair shocked, scared beyond belief, the other furious and hateful. Shin’s fist touched the boy’s shoulder before he withdrew the kunai. The boy dropped to his knees and with a violent kick in his throat, Shin sent him flying back a few feet. He charged at the next child, his vision turning red, as blood spattered across his face, hands and arms. He would make them pay, he would make them all pay. “You had no right!” Those were the words he kept repeating over and over. He couldn’t see, he couldn’t hear. All he could sense was the fresh warm blood that sprayed over his body whenever he would bring his kunai down into the flesh of his victims. When there was nobody left standing, he collapsed, sitting down on the concrete floor, hugging his knees, the bloodstained kunai still in his firm grasp. Tears started rolling down his cheeks again. “Mommy… Daddy… I made them pay… Can I be with you now…? Can I be with you again…?” A shadow was cast over him. He looked up slowly, his tears mixing with the blood of those lying around him. It was the same old man from before, he looked down upon him with a look that showed a curious interest, as well as hesitation. “Do you know who I am, boy?” Shin shook his head slowly, still dazed. “I am this village’s Mizukage, Momochi Soun. What’s your name, boy?” Shin looked down and slowly shrugged, the kunai in his hand was released and it fell onto the floor, in between his legs. “You fought very well, boy. Stand up.” Shin obeyed and slowly got onto his feet, his eyes blank. “I will make sure you receive the proper training, boy. You have an enormous potential inside of you, do you know that?” Shin shook his head again. “I will take you in as my son, my child, so I can watch over you and make sure you get to use all of your potential, but you will need a name.” The old man thought for a while and then he spoke it: “Zabuza. Your name shall be Momochi Zabuza from now on.” Shin didn’t quite understand and looked at the Mizukage. “Come, Momochi Zabuza. Welcome to the Hidden Mist.” And as he and Shin walked out of the arena, the entire audience, who had also seen his potential rose to their feet. His name echoed through the entire village: “Zabuza! Zabuza!” Shin didn’t fully comprehend what was happening, but for the first time in years he felt like he was ‘home’. When he and the Mizukage arrived at the Mizukage’s palace, the elite jounins, the Seven Swordsmen of the Hidden Mist were there to greet them. Their leader approached Shin and kneeled down so he could look him in the eye. “I heard you put up quite a fight back there… So tell me, child, what is your name?” Shin looked him in the eye with the same cold eyes as usual and in a monotone, yet powerful voice he replied: “My name is Momochi Zabuza.”
