#minato is kinda...nuts

The metal loop settled comfortably against his palm as tan digits curled around the hilt, seamlessly pushing it through with one, smooth movement before wrenching the weapon sideways, slicing the unexpected chest like one would tear open a package. Bloodied entrails followed the blade’s wake; peeking out of the soft folds of uneven, torn skin as the still pumping organ convulsed uselessly against twisting branches.

It was a quick execution; a means he had devised after their last field run. The metal loop of his kunai swung easily around his index finger as the waste was swiped off with a sharp flick of the wrist. Blue hues barely caught the woman’s expression as she dropped to her knees; he was already moving, the chakra signatures from his earlier sensory scan twinkling like quaint little targets.

They would be quick kills, for Minato hardly had the time for mercy. A kunai through the eye for anyone stupid enough to look his way, the splattered remains of a skull of a nin ambitious enough to try and sneak up on him, whereas most of the others barely got a chance to blink before deft digits pierced their forms with relative ease. Pure chakra would bounce off his skin like a controlled gale, as his natural wind affinity reduced muscle to fleshy ribbons.

It wasn’t needlessly cruel, per se; it simply happened to be the most effective in ensuring a kill. Besides, he had stopped feeling the warmth of skewered innards ages ago.

“Kami willing may you choke on your own blood”

The words drifted into the faint breeze that swept past their drenched fields; the scent of copper and compost intermingled into a sickly fragrance which sunk into his skin, down to his very bones.

Kami willing? As if Kami existed for people like them.

And then he heard it; a constant low hum that swelled to a certain crescendo, painting his subconscious in a murmur of static. Minato blinked curiously at his quivering fingers before casting a furtive glance around the field of littered innards and crimson. Hardly a soul in sight and yet...trailing off, blue hues returned to the tremble that had somehow seeped into his wrist. He couldn’t feel the slash decorating his palm, but he could definitely see the discoloration associated with poisoned weapons. Ugly strokes of yellows and blues bloomed all over his hand like pale, deathly flowers and he nearly dropped his weapon.

Fuck.

-------------------

“Er...it wasn’t your first kill, was it?” The question was asked nonchalantly enough, as practiced hands wound a roll of gauze around his discoloured counterpart. Minato shot him a flat, unimpressed look which was met with a barely concealed smirk as he tied both ends with a vicious tug.

“I mean...you never get injured.” He continued, as Minato retracted his hand, giving it an experimental poke. “Lucky for you, you got back in time otherwise you’d lose your good arm.”

He was making fun of him, wasn’t he? “Yeah. Lucky.” the blond replied, tone as dry as the man’s wit before he curled his bandaged digits, “What about the hallucinogenic side effects?”

Would it have even mattered if it had been his first kill? The nin had been alive one moment and then he just…hadn’t. Was he supposed to feel something special about that? Besides, he had attacked Minato first.

Regardless. It had been so long ago, he hardly remembered the face associated with the deed. Since his deployment at Kusa, he had killed so many more with seldom a thought that he couldn’t be bothered to remember what they looked like. His last count had been, what, thirty three consecutive solo kills in thirty minutes? That was more than one life a minute.

Mere statistics. It didn’t matter.  

“Noise huh? It's the first I'm hearing of it.” Cue the methodical tap of wood against an unshaven chin, “Say, ever considered signing up for the psych evaluation thing they proposed back at HQ? I mean...there's nothing physically wrong with you. Maybe it's in your head." He placed his brush down on the makeshift table before letting out a snort, much to Minato’s chagrin.

“If what they’ve been harping about at HQ was true, we’d all be classified as nuts anyways.” The medic laughed, his grey hair reflecting warm honey in the dim lighting of the medical tent. Bemused, he took off his glasses to wipe a tear, before shooing him away with gloved digits. “Get going, Namikaze. We need you on the patrolling grounds. The war will be over soon, ne?”

Coloured hues met dark counterparts, bleeding ink and whispering false nothings.

“Ne?”

-------------------

Hours turned into days, days turned into weeks, and the persistent whine in his head refused to shut up. Many an evening would witness the blond shifting his reading scroll to the side, just to press rough finger pads against his closed, burning lids.

He couldn’t recall the last time he had slept. Granted, Minato wasn’t one to sleep much to begin with; he was young, ridiculously curious and had the collective energy of twelve hyperactive gerbils. Still, he had always managed to clock in a few hours before, but this...

It was so damn loud. Minato couldn’t even concentrate for more than a few minutes before the constant low hum poked at his subconscious like a poisoned senbon. It tore at his mental-scape and sensory peripheral akin to flames consuming dry bark. Gone was his natural, healthy tan that had stayed resolute despite their meagre military rations, only to be replaced by a yellowish pallor, along with dark smudges underneath his weary hues.

A part of him was tempted to write to Jiraiya; the man always had answers to all the questions. They were in contact, of course, despite the state of the war and whatnot. Courier runs were few, but very dependable - but could he really divert the Jōnin’s attention from the frontlines where he was undoubtedly needed?

No, he couldn’t be that childish. Their local medic had dismissed his concerns too, so clearly it wasn’t that big a deal.

Right?

His seniors had different answers. Some blamed the weather, some considered the possibility that an enemy had contaminated their food supply [“I’ve been feeling kinda itchy myself.”] While some had nothing to offer at all. No answers. They figured he was finally losing his mind, after killing so many - in fact, most were still wary of him since even the older Chunin in their unit showed a little hesitance when it came to those child scouts who were no older than academy students.

But Minato? He operated on autopilot. For someone so young and without a hint of malice on his features, he was surprisingly cold hearted. Most of the new Chunin cadets steered well away from him, either in awe or fear whereas his older, more experienced counterparts often regarded him with complacent silence.

Not exactly friends, but comrades. They could probably share a few drinks together. Not converse though. Perish the thought.

The constant, low drone was driving him mad.

Arizuwa Yana; an experienced Chunin from the reserve strike unit apparently had a few theories. Said theories were dry at best, with little speculation as to the nuance of phantom sensations, though with plenty of promises of actual sensations.

Somehow, one thing had led to another and they had ended up intertwined together in one of the darker corners of the many, many tents in their unit. He was a few years younger than her, but apparently that wasn’t a problem.

Age didn't matter, gender didn't matter - nothing did.

The problem was that despite the hands ghosting his clothed sides, he still couldn’t feel anything; it was like his insides were frozen with nothing sans the constant thrum of sound for company. A frown settled between his brows at the thought as slender, yet calloused fingers tangled themselves within his hair, tugging with an odd sort of insistence.

It did nothing to quell the static he alone could still hear, could practically sense crawling under his skin like wild, feverish ants.

Static. It seemed that was the only thing he could feel these days.

And this…this wasn’t helping. Blue hues flickered to dark, older counterparts before tan digits removed themselves from the soft swell of her pretty face. “I’m sorry, senpai.” Is all he managed to say, not really sorry at all before the same fingers found her forehead, jutsu a mere whisper against her flushed skin.

Yana senpai was out cold in the span of a heartbeat. Dull orbs stared at her peaceful features for a few precious seconds before he rolled over, gaze fixed on the sloping ceiling and a forearm resting against his forehead.

Maa...what a waste.

-------------------

Jiraiya sensei,

How are things at the front lines? Yuuhei taicho told us that Amegakure had officially joined the fray and you would be deployed there soon. Gambatte, sensei.

Ano…sensei, I don’t know what’s wrong with me but I’ve stopped feeling things. It started out as a weird sort of numbness, as if I was looking at the world through someone else’s eyes. I don’t even feel the sting of a cut anymore.

I’m scared. Is this a good thing? Oh by the way, you won’t believe what I found about that fuuin combination you told me about that one time. If it’s truly what you say it is, the Nindaime might have been on to something. See, if you swap the earth and wind constructs then the combination gets altered. I tried something with one of my fuuin tags today and the results were kinda wonky but in a good way. Let me know when you get this and I’ll send you all the workings I did.

Minato

He purposefully left out the bit where a part of him wanted to hide behind the elder, shaggy white mane and all, and stay in the comfort of his towering shadow. He had wanted to, though - desperately, too. But his writing brush had paused, a lone drop of ink blotting the parchment and upsetting his neat signature.

That had decided it then, hadn’t it? Gloved digits had rolled the parchment in a neat scroll, bound it with a convenient little fuuin and handed it in for the next courier run.

His paranoia was silly. Kusa was one of their priority outposts; full of experienced comrades and they were armed to the teeth. They were as safe as they would ever be. Besides, he had a near perfect kill streak - no one in their right wits would target him; Konoha’s number one rookie genius.

He felt so horribly alone though.

You’re not a child anymore, Minato.

-------------------

Three weeks. No reply. The constant fighting was taking its toll on all sides; with dwindling numbers and increased recklessness. Their tiny little outpost presently served as the main rendezvous point between the frontlines fighting Iwa and the reserve forces that had set up camp a few miles away. The war would enter its final phase soon and everyone was too bone tired to complain.

Minato wanted to send another message, but if Jiraiya hadn’t had the time to respond to his previous letter…

Sigh. Clothed shoulders sagged a little while the side of his face met loosely curled digits, expression forlorn. Next to him, Inuzuka Saito quirked an eyebrow but said nothing. They were both stuck with watch duty, in case the platoon that had been sent out to assist their frontlines against Iwa a few days ago came stumbling back.

Initially, Minato had been a part of it too, but Yuuhei taicho had ordered otherwise. He and a few others would be used to sneak from behind and attack Iwa’s unguarded backs. His experimental jutsu was perfect for the purpose, and he had a near flawless strike record so far.

And in the off chance he failed? It would be...understandable. The wars saw their fair share of victims and the Memorial was an honour for any loyal, Konoha nin.

The very thought made him taste bile. Tan digits curled into a trembling fist at his knee, as frigid blue hues glared a hole through the encroaching shadows of dusk that surrounded their camp. Kusa was known for its rich forests; gigantic fauna and rivers that made it the perfect terrain to hide and lie in wait. Nightfall usually witnessed the shadows that clung to its natural, beautiful scenery slip from their places and creep inwards, bathing all matter; living and non-living, in its eerie, peaceful silence.

Yet he had not experienced any blissful silence in so long; the static was a constant thrum in his mental-scape, one he had learned to accept. The Namikaze would be damned if he lost what constituted as his sanity to a useless murmur of sound; he had not survived through the countless murders to plead death by insanity, had not endured the constant stench of rot and copper which hung around his frame like the scent of mustard oil that he used to maintain his weapons.

Had not sliced through flesh despite the whimpers begging for mercy--

Cue a shuddering sigh as eyes squeezed shut and he felt the urge to rip out his own hairs. Trembling digits inched upwards, intending to do just that before Saito’s voice broke the spell.

“Are you okay?”

“Fine.”

Namikaze Minato was going insane. Maybe he had always been insane and by Kami, he couldn’t bring himself to care anymore. Blue hues snapped open, staring listlessly at the dark and he swallowed thickly against his now dry throat. His frame tipped forwards; forearms resting against his knees as long, blond bangs hid his terrifyingly monotonous expression.

They would learn to loathe him, to fear him and he would slaughter them like the pointless sacks of meat that they we--

“Mail call!” A second interruption, though this time something actually managed to hit him in the back of his head. Fumbling hands barely caught it before it could hit the ground as the designated courier nin giggled, “Sorry, Namikaze.” Boots crunched against the leaf littered floor before he moved inside the camp, similar calls echoing in his wake. Minato blinked owlishly at the nin’s retreating figure, before shifting his gaze to the messy paper wrapping and miniature scroll that hung listlessly from one of the many corners.

It wasn’t from Jiraiya sensei.

Minato no baka,

Heard you were stuck in Kusa. That sucks ne? You’re surrounded by giant weeds and laughing shrooms. I’ve sent you some of those weird sticky quail egg things you like to cheer you up.

Guess who’ll be deployed soon. Me, that’s who! Maybe we’ll even be at the same outpost. You can show me all the nice napping spots ne? We got news the other day that the war wouldn’t last long. It’s been years already. I hope you’re still…you know, you. I miss you. Why did you stop writing?

Take care of yourself. Better not die or I’ll drag you back from the clutches of the shinigami just to kill you myself.

Kushina

Weird sticky quail egg things? Wait, was she talking about the sticky sweet beans he had accidentally spilled on her once?

“What are you grinning at?”

“Hm? Nothing, nothing.” And yet, there was something. He couldn’t help the silly little smile that tugged at his lips while his current patrol mate shot him a weird look. He was about to open his mouth to ask a second time, but then he saw the half open wrapping resting in the crook of Minato’s arm and made a quick swipe for it.

“Is that natto? Kami it’s been so long! Can I have some?”

“Sure.” Minato wasn’t even paying attention to the greedy fingers that had grabbed the miniature treats as soon as the words left his lips. Blue hues were still trained on the inky scrawl that denoted the kunoichi’s kanji. Kushina had always been an unpredictable little oddball. He didn’t even remember the last time he had written to her, but she clearly did. It made him feel strangely warm.

---And now he wanted to rip his own heart out and squeeze the treacherous, woeful thing until it would beat no more. Trembling digits rolled the scroll before a sweaty palm was pressed harshly against his aching forehead, the fingerless, leather glove providing little comfort to the uncomfortable warmth that stung his tightly closed lids.  

Kami...what was wrong with him?

As if Kami existed for people like them.