a/n Oh boy, another fic from Wings! This is a departure from my usual narrative, a very fun experiment in style, and my first shot at an AU fic. It will probably be a four or five shot.
*Spoiler* in case you are feeling lazy, I'll just go out on a limb here and tell you that the POV is Hinata's:)
Title: The Forest
Summary: Everyone knows the Japanese Mafia owns the US Northeast; but as different factions vie for power, and the reemergence of Uchiha Sasuke throws everything into chaos, how will Hinata survive? Drugs, assassins, and Sasuke is a vampire—oh my! AU. NaruHina.
Please note: I will update after this chapter gets at least ten reviews:)
Chapter One: Waiting For My Man
Saxophones started blowin' me down
I was buried in sound
The taxicabs were driving me around
To the handshake drugs I bought downtown
To the handshake drugs I bought downtown
~Handshake Drugs, Wilco
You are standing on at the corner of White and Eutaw Street, in the smelly, hairy armpit of East Boston. The street has the peculiar, mixed perfume of stale urine, beer sludge, vomit, and rotting half-eaten fast-food. Putnam Square Park is eerily quiet, except for the whining airplanes overhead, coming in and out of Logan International; how you wish you could hop on one of those outbound planes for anywhere but here.
The first few times you came here, you felt as out of place as a Barbie-doll in a soul-food restaurant, with dreadlocked rastas looking at you disparagingly over their plates of gingered collard greens. You don't feel out of place anymore, even though your straight black hair and your pale, white skin attract the attention of every hoodie-clad bro in the vicinity of the park. The so-called "bros" don't bother you anymore; the last time one of them laid his greasy hand on your shoulder, saying hey baby want to have a good time— That's when you funneled blue chakra into your fingertips and jabbed them into the fool's sternum, fracturing a few ribs.
No, the bros don't bother you anymore, though Naruto still chews his fingernails nervously every time you insist on doing a deal by yourself. You huff, your breath frosting on the cool, evening air at the thought. Your boyfriend can't protect you forever; and if you are going to be a member of The Forest, you need to pull your own weight sometimes. Even if the responsibility scares the shit out of you.
Besides. You're a bad-ass. You can take it, you lie to yourself, fingering the loose ear-bud from your electric-blue ipod. The other ear-bud is plugged into your left ear, because even though you should be alert for your man, he's always so god-damned late and you need something to do while you stand on this godforsaken corner, something to drown out the roar of the low-flying aircrafts. "It's okay for you to say what you want from me, I believe that's the only way for me to be: exactly what you want me to be," you whisper along to the music, your breath puffing and misting with every enunciation. You think of your father, and you call yourself a fool, a damned, weak fool—
"Hey Hime, talking to yourself? Did I keep you waiting long? I'm sorry," her man says, his head obscured by a grimy gray hoodie.
You spare him a humorless smile for the well-worn nickname. You are hardly a princess, and if you were, you wouldn't be kept waiting in East Boston for your fucking cocaine, now would you? He probably found the name on Wikipedia or something, hoping to impress his Japanese client. You are not impressed. You toss your glossy black hair impatiently over your shoulder. "Just singing along," you murmur, wrapping your ipod up in your earbud wires and stashing it in your messenger bag. "Do you have what I asked for?"
"Of course Hime, of course. And you—"
"I've got the ten grand. Come on." You take his arm, even though touching him makes you feel dirty. Your sneakers crunch the dried, desiccated leaves from the sparse smattering of deciduous trees lining the park. Your footfalls lead you to the familiar bench; the one obscured by the defaced statue and the gnarled oak tree decorated in knifed hearts and carved gang-names. "Give me a taste." It's not a question, it's a demand, because damn it, it's gotten late and you don't want to walk ten city blocks and through Breemen (nicknamed "Semen") park to get to the T-stop. Maybe you will break down and call your boyfriend for a "lift"…
Your man takes a spoonful of the white powder and carefully lines it up on the back of a hardcover book; you idly note it's a Stephen King novel, Jurassic Park. You shiver, and not just because your Catholic-girl-school skirt rides up above your knee-high socks, and the whorls of cold air make goosebumps appear on your inner thighs; not just because you can see your man take surreptitious looks at said thighs, pale skin glowing a sallow orange from the street lamp about twenty feet away.
"Hurry up," you mumble, not wanting to be caught with ten thousand dollars and many kilos of coke. Even though you have cast an illusion over this place, making it look like there is nothing and no one here, you don't have much confidence in your jutsu.
He hands you a straw and you pray to the spirits that it is clean, oh Kami—
You snort a line that overlays a dinosaur's spine; your man's attempt at humor, perhaps? But you only get half-way through before you eye your man warily. You put down the straw and the book on the bench; the air around you buzzes with electricity. "Are you trying to fuck me?" you hiss. "This shit isn't pure."
"The fuck, Hime!" he spits, and then begins shouting, and accusations, and shit, your man is strung out—has he been getting into the meth again?—but you are no one's fool, you are ready for him.
A switch-blade appears in his hand and he swipes at you, but your eyes have been watching for him; you twist out of the way like a lithe dancer, your hands glowing with a blue light. If your man was in his right mind—which he isn't—he would stop. But his eyes are wide and frenetic, he lunges at you again, the dance of knife-lunge-dodge-roll-kick-punch begins. Shit, you think, trying to stay calm despite the snafu; you don't want to kill your man, he's your only good connection on the this side of town, and your clients in New York are counting—
But your hesitation proves to be your downfall, for now your man is lunging with the unpredictable movements of one heavily inebriated, or insane. And you, you've had a bit of cocaine mixed with something else that makes your mind spin more than usual, and you stagger when you should fly—
His blade grazes your cheek, a wet line of crimson blooming across your white skin, and you curse your own incompetence. The knife probably isn't poisoned, but that's not the point. You're a mother-fucking ninja. You should have dodged that. Hinabi could have dodged a blow like that in her sleep, Neji-niisan would have deflected the attack effortlessly. You tremble with shame and terrible frustration, but your man attributes it to fear.
"Just give me the money," he pants, "and I won't hurt you."
The words are a deep insult to your pride, because you are not some damsel in distress, you are not a fucking kitten stuck in a tree—damn it all! Snarling in frustration, you lunge for the man, your glowing palm hitting him squarely in the chest. His red beady eyes go wide before he passes out on the ground from instantaneous heart failure.
"Fuck," you mutter. You're not upset that you've killed; no, you've murdered so many times, you are numb to it. It's the fact that you've lost a good contact; the fact that you've botched yet another c-ranked mission. You're such a failure, a voice whispers in your head, what the hell is wrong with you? If father knew…
You snort at that: if your father knew you were trafficking significant amounts of cocaine in the first place, he would tan your hide right after he killed Tsunade-sama. You shake your head, squeezing your eyes against the treacherous tears that you can never, never hold back.
"Get a hold of yourself," you mutter. "You're a member of the Forest now; Forest members don't cry." This only makes the tears fall faster. Biting back a scream of frustration, you check on your illusion jutsu, patching it up where it has become weak. Then, you ransack your man for the kilos of coke, for money, for his cell phone, and for his switch-blade which is smeared with the incriminating evidence of you blood. As you bend over, you hear the strains of music: apparently, you forgot to turn off your ipod. You can hear the tinny sounds of the Velvet Underground singing, "He's never early, he's always late; first thing you learn is that you've always got to wait. I'mmm waiting for my man." You snort at the irony and turn off the music.
Once everything is stashed securely in your messenger bag, you funnel chakra into your Hiraishin tattoo. Looks like you are going to need a lift out of here after all.
a/n I know, not my usual fare. Let me know how you like it via your kind review!
Reviews=faster updates! :)