Disclaimer: I don't own Naruto.

The first time I met the man I'd come to call 'Father', I was four years old. It was not a pleasant experience.

"You have to take it! I can't afford the drop in business and it's been here long enough!"

Crouching next to the sliding doors in a dimly lit hallway is understandably uncomfortable. Listening in on a conversation of this nature is more so. I hear a deep voice stutter.

"What- I can't- You're the mother!"

I had no delusions when it came to my situation. The woman who gave birth to me did not love me. It had been jarring at first; used to a large, caring, and perhaps a bit over bearing family as it was. Was being the most significant term. Discovering that I'd been reborn (as a bastard at that) had been a field day. But the 'Fictional World' part? That had kinda taken the cake.

"And you did that to me! Take some responsibility!"

'Mother Dearest' wasn't truly callous and unfeeling. It was simply a product of her trade. She literally could not afford me. And given who my father was, she'd opted to dump me in his unlucky arms at the first opportunity. Unfortunately for her, said opportunity had been long overdue – he was a man known for his wandering ways after all. That said- the bastard couldn't be found, let alone sent for. It was pure chance that he appeared back in this particular brothel, in this particular slum, of this particular city. Still, I was grateful that the woman had enough sense to keep me around until he showed up. Who knows what would have happened if I'd been abandoned in some backwater orphanage?

A shiver passes though my body and I choose to ignore that train of thought. Instead, I lean my left shoulder against the polished wood of the wall, faded fabric of my clothing flattening against me with the movement. My worn, straw sandals are soundless as I shift, trying to get more comfortable. Still, I keep a sharp ear to the conversation, riveted to it. My life- my future- hangs in the balance.

"Responsibility? You were never forced into anything!"

"And you should have listened to me and used protection!"

I wince at the reference to what was done. Some things a child really doesn't need to hear. Thank god I had the mind of a twenty-five year old. I can feel the prickly white strands of my hair against the nape of my neck, the coarse thickness of my high pony-tail doing little to soak up the anxious sweat building on my skin. I know what I must look like: A scrawny urchin obviously ease-dropping in a dim corner, dark green eyes (inherited from my mother) squinting, the beginnings of strange red markings barely visible in the light. I'm pouting, I can feel it, but I can't seem to care. What if he refuses to take me? What if I'm stuck here? My tan fingers curl over the jug of sake I'd been ordered to bring to one of the other rooms, small, childish hands shaking. I flinch when I hear his next words, the dead serious intonation.

"You know I can't take the kid."

'I don't want to stay,' I realize. Yes, I have been cared for, albeit grudgingly. Yes, I have been unknown, hidden from ambitious eyes; safe in my obscurity. But…

I had a chance to live. To truly experience what this world had to offer- dangers and all. And if it was taken from me… I don't know what I would do.

They are still arguing inside, but I hardly notice, overwhelmed by a feeling of despair. I was four years old. Why couldn't I just…

The relative silence is shattered by the sake bottle slipping from my fingers, falling with a dull thud against the carpeted floor. The voices cease and I can feel the tension in the air rise. My gaze is locked on the liquid slowly soaking into my shoes and I find myself breathless.

"Shirane? Come inside."

I swallow, struggling to hold back tears. I school my features like I have been taught, standing and stepping over the mess I made to open the door.

It slips over its track easily, the gentle shink of wood, loud in my ears. I keep my head down as I enter, afraid of looking up with too much hope.

The room is familiar in a soft look-but-don't-touch kind of way, silk pillows and wispy curtains lining the space. In the center is a low table, the poured alcohol on it sitting untouched. Unlike the other rooms being used today, it is bright, the lights usually dimmed for ambience turned up to show everything in sharp relief.

The woman who raised me sits primly, tanned legs crossed beneath revealing skirts, arms folded across her generous chest. Her posture is defensive, but the hint of aggression is there; in her pursed red lips, frowning brows and sharp eyes. Her glossy brown hair is pulled into a loose bun, wayward tresses falling to frame her face.

She is beautiful, my Mother.

I feel a pang of bitterness, a longing for what might have been. But she isn't like my old Mother, my real Mother, so I let it go.

When I finally do look at him, I am not as shocked as I should be. He is a mountain of a man; tall, broad-shouldered. Mother is dwarfed by him and I- I am a child. There is no comparison.

'But then,' I think, 'there is.'

I have his unruly hair, all spikes and daggers. His markings: the bloody tear-stains that run down his cheeks. I'm sure there is more, but I'm captured by his eyes, his face. He is younger than I thought he would be; but I hadn't really been paying attention to dates up to this point and, to be honest, the timing had always been unclear to me, even in the Before.

His eyes are dark, unfathomable.

I can't read any emotion in them and it scares me, because though my world has been a sharp mask of smiles and changing faces, I could always, always read the lies in their eyes.

In his- there is nothing.

I see the large hands in his lap curl together tightly, the only sign that he recognizes me as his. He can clearly see that his blood runs though my veins and I think it shocks him enough that he gives that little tell.

And it comforts me, because at least if I'm left here- I know that he knows what I am.

I step into the room, ignoring the other adult seated there. I lift my head defiantly, daring him to question my existence. And I stare Jiraiya down, refusing to look away from the Toad Sage Sannin; the man who helped create me.

My first words to my Father are little more than a bold statement.

"You don't want me."

I know the silence has turned awkward. And I know I shouldn't care that he doesn't answer, because, damnit, I'm an adult in a child's body and I can take care of myself.

But it still hurts.

I turn away stiffly, slowly folding my tiny arms behind me and bowing in my Mother's direction.

"Is that all you needed, Mother?"

She flicks her wrists, looking uninterested.

"Yes."

Her voice is smooth like chocolate- dark, with no hint of sweetness. And I ache, because even though she doesn't love me, I love her. And it's unfair that I feel this way, but my mature mind has trouble with these innocent emotions, because I remember the nostalgia of childhood and know that this is not the way it is supposed to be.

My head bobs in a nod and I turn heel, sliding the door shut behind me. I want to cry, but again, I hold it back. Dropping to my knees, I begin rolling up the carpet I've soiled, removing the ceramic sake bottle as I do so. The discussion in the room behind me doesn't resume and I know it is because they are waiting for me to leave, keeping me in agonizing suspense.

'Why does it matter?' I wonder as I finish my task. I know that, unlike others, I don't want to change anything. I don't care to make the world better; neither do I care to make it worse.

I want…

'I want my family back,' I murmur internally. I want the smiles, the jokes. The warm feeling of contentment that comes from just being in their presence. In the Before, I had loved my personal space and the 'me time' that came with it. Now… I wish I hadn't been so selfish.

I stand, balancing the heavy fabric in my arms as I reach down to grip the bottle. It's a difficult task for one so small, but I mange the weight of both, somehow.

Looking to my future is bleak. I would grow up, become a prostitute, maybe run away to do… something else. I don't know. At least as a shinobi, I would have purpose in life, a goal. I'm lost and I don't just say that because this hallway never seems to end.

The kitchens come first and I quietly slip the empty bottle on the table, struggling a little as I do so. Then I'm pattering silently towards the very back of the building, used to how the mysterious splendor of polished wood and wafting perfume fades into shabbiness and harsh soap. The carpet is disposed of and I hurry back to the kitchen, racing though the hallways to deliver the far-too-late liquor to its recipients. They are understandably displeased, but too caught up with each other to care overly much.

I beat a hasty retreat back to the kitchens and inform the cook (a large, but kind, fellow) that I am ready for duty. Surprisingly, he takes one look at me and sends me gruffly off to bed.

Of course, I don't realize that my eyes are red from crying, because I'm only four and it's tough to discover that no one wants you.

I go to bed in my rickety cot stuffed in a closet, clutching a worn, hand-sewn frog toy that had been with me for as long as I could remember. Then I sleep.

I dream of strong arms lifting me, holding me close enough that I can smell ink and parchment, until I feel like I'm awash in a wave of white.

I don't know that I'm crying in my sleep, despite the small smile on my face.

AN: Well? What do you think?

Review Please!

Shirane means: White wave.

~Delgodess