The next morning crawled in with pale light shining through the window.
Zabuza stirred on the hard floor, his body still a bit stiff from a night of shallow sleep. For hours, he had drifted in and out of restless dreams and nightmares, in each dream he saw fragments of a life not lived, bathed in fire and blood, shadows of one gigantic beast that kept roaring behind his eyes. Each time he woke up, there was an insatiable hunger for a good fight there, gnawing faintly in his gut, reminding him that he was no longer what he had been.
When he finally pushed himself upright, the room looked no less miserable than it had in the few short moments of clarity during the night. A rundown shack made up of stone walls. A narrow window too high to reach. A futon thin as paper in the corner, the stuffing leaking from tears in the fabric. Broken furniture sat piled near one wall, discarded as if no one cared to fix it. The place reeked faintly of mold.
"So this shithole is what I call home?" he muttered to no one but himself.
He sat there for a moment, staring at it, the word home rolling bitterly in his head. The Failed God had given him an Ogre's power, yes — but that did not change the reality of the body he now inhabited. He is a nobody. And apparently, a poor one at that.
"Figures," he muttered under his breath. "Even in this world, being poor sucks, as it does in every world."
He stood slowly, stretching his sore limbs. His reflection in the broken mirror, hanging on the wall, showed a boy with sharp features, messy black hair, and eyes that were too old for his face. His shirt was a simple black one, torn and patched, his ribs faintly visible. He looked more like a homeless child rather than a future shinobi.
He touched his jaw, testing the sharpness of his teeth with his tongue; they're sharp, resembling some animals' teeth with their shape. The thought should have frightened him. Instead, it steadied him. He isn't just another starving child. He isn't powerless.
'I'll survive this place. Whatever it takes.' he commented to himself mentally.
With that, he pushed the wooden door open and stepped outside for the first time.
The sight nearly stole his breath.
His "neighborhood" was little more than a row of decaying tenements. Roof tiles cracked, walls patched with mismatched planks. The streets were dirt, packed down by bare feet, puddles reflecting the gray morning sky. The smell of fish guts and stagnant water hung in the air, and there was endless heavy fog.
Children ran barefoot between buildings, their faces sharp with hunger, but even so, they found reason to laugh, even amidst this cruelty. A woman leaned out of a window to scream at someone below. Somewhere farther off, a dog barked, the sound swallowed by the roar of the ocean that was not far enough away.
And beyond it all, looming in the distance, stood several towers, the highest amongst them being the tower of the Mizukage. It was tall, imposing, half-shrouded in mist that rolled in from the sea, and it was the village's token of authority, reminding everyone of where power lived, and where they did not.
Zabuza took it in quietly, his chest tight. This place… is rotten.
He was about to step further into the street when he noticed a man standing next to himself, followed by a knock rapping against his already half-opened door.
The man was wearing a flak vest and a cloak, his face marked with black lines, and his eyes looked dead. He radiated the kind of stillness that screamed danger, even though he did not move. The man's blank stare fixed on Zabuza.
"Zabuza Momochi?" the man's voice was calm, flat.
"…Yeah."
The Shinobi inclined his head. "I am tasked to inform you. Your father has died in service to the village. His body was not worth recovering, and will not be returned to you. He sacrificed himself for the success of a mission."
The words did not particularly strike Zabuza, as he had no recollection of the man who was once his father. Zabuza blinked, uncertain whether to feel anything. He searched inside himself for grief, for anger, but found nothing. His memories of this man called his father were non-existent. He simply didn't remember the man.
The Shinobi continued without pause, as if rehearsed. "This home is registered under his name. With his death, it will be reassigned to another shinobi and his family. You will be expected to clear the place within three days."
Zabuza's jaw tightened. "So I'm being thrown into the street?"
"You have two choices." The Shinobi's tone did not change, as if he were reading from a script without any emotions. "You may leave the property, fend for yourself, and live as a civilian in the lowest caste of Kirigakure. Or you may join the Academy, where the village will house and feed you as you train to become a shinobi. Given your father's service, the latter is… recommended."
Zabuza narrowed his eyes. "I understand."
The man tilted his head slightly, ignoring Zabuza's tone. Zabuza's tone was provocative, and normally insubordination, or provocation against a shinobi is the same as signing up for your death sentence, but this guy was patient with Zabuza because he knew losing family made you do irrational things. "You are still young, Shinobi life offers food, shelter, and status. Here in Kirigakure, the caste system is pretty simple — Clan Shinobi stand above shinobi, and in return, shinobi stand above civilians, and civilians above the slaves. If you stay here as a civilian, you will always be looked down upon. Because you're weak, and replaceable."
Zabuza clenched his fists at his sides, assuming for the worst, but this setting is basically forcing you to become meat in the meatgrinder. You either join and become a tool in the Kage's hands, or you don't, and end up becoming part of the very soil you are standing upon.
"You speak like I don't have a choice at all."
"Oh, you do have one," the Shinobi said, for the first time showing an emotion. Amusement. "To join or to not join. This village does not care for those who are too weak and drown."
Once he spoke his part, he turned to leave, then paused for a moment just a step away from the doorway, his face tilting slightly back toward the boy. "If you decide to accept, come to the Mizukage's tower by the week's end, sign up your name, and begin training. Otherwise, be gone from here before the three days are over."
And with that, the shinobi disappeared into the morning mist, vanishing with a flicker of movement.
Zabuza stood in the doorway for a long moment after, staring at the empty street.
'Da fuck is this start?!' He complained internally about this bullshit-like situation.
His father was dead, and now his home was gone too. And his only two viable choices were to become a shinobi or nothing else.
The words of the Failed God whispered in his ears again. Change the fate of this world.
'Motherfucker, I need to change my own fate first, before I can even consider changing the world's fate!' He kept complaining in his mind.
He stepped back into the room, shutting the door behind him, and sat on the floor, his back leaning against the door. For a long while, he simply stared at the cracks in the opposite wall.
"Shinobi, huh?" he muttered. "At least I get food and shelter. Better than rotting in the gutter."
His lips curled into a thin smile that had no warmth because he knew that there's no true alternative besides joining, if he so much as attempts to leave he will be executed.
"Some choice this is."