When Anko was six she nearly bit a boy’s ear off “’Cause,” she said, “he was asking for it.” And she swore it up and down, to her teachers, to the boy’s parents and even to the Hokage when he asked, but it was a lie. The boy had been pissing her off, and yeah, he’d invited it on himself but that wasn’t why she bit him. She’d bit him because she’d clonked him in the nose first, and caught the scent of blood, and his ear had been the nearest thing, and mostly she’d been curious.
At seven Anko had to work harder for her fights. She’d earned a reputation, and no one wanted to take her up on it. It wasn’t as easy as walking into the wrong places or trying to get the boys to pull the ‘but you’re a girl!’ line anymore. No one started it with Anko, because no one was too keen on being assaulted by a wild beast. She threw out all the stops when she fought: she snarled, she spat, her nails were filthy and sharp but worst of all was her teeth, and it could be guaranteed she’d get a good chunk of you before you managed to shove her off and run like hell. Most kids said Anko fought like a cat, but the wiser ones would say it was more like a snake. She could twist around and sink her teeth into your ankle even when you thought you’d had her down. It was boring when they all got smart, but Anko learned that if you said the right things, they’d be angry and stupid all over again--especially if it was something about their mothers. When she came to classes, always rarely and always late, it was with a content smile and the stench of blood. No one knew what to do with her. There was no control, the adults said, hoping it was a phase. She’s a monster, the kids said, finding new ways to avoid her.
And by the time she was eight, they’d all given up on her, and Anko found herself not only bored but a little lonely too with no one to scold her and no one to challenge her and no one caring if she came to class. It set in like a hunger deep in her belly, sending her onto the streets with a restlessness she’d never felt before, and desperation when she realized that for whatever reason, the days had started growing slower the more she prowled, and scrounged and searched for prey, victims, friends, /anything/. She nearly cried when a man finally caught her killing a rat out of frustration one day, and commented “You do that well” though she’d made a show of raising her chin defiantly and asking him what the hell he wanted instead. He’d smiled at her like a fanged thing, which he was, and she’d been surprised how beautiful his eyes were, gold and narrow and predatory.
When she turned nine people often commented on the change in Anko, and how her behavior had improved. It seemed at last the girl had learned something more about control and something less about jumping other kids in the streets. She even dressed less shabby, washed her hands, and sometimes slipped and spoke politely to her elders. She attended class only on certain days, but on a nearly regular basis, traded in her cracked nails for kunai, and hadn’t hissed or bitten anyone in weeks. A wonder, the adults thought. A relief, the kids thought. None of them noticed, in passing the girl in the streets undisturbed at last, that she was only ever walking one way.
Just Another Name
At seven Anko had to work harder for her fights. She’d earned a reputation, and no one wanted to take her up on it. It wasn’t as easy as walking into the wrong places or trying to get the boys to pull the ‘but you’re a girl!’ line anymore. No one started it with Anko, because no one was too keen on being assaulted by a wild beast. She threw out all the stops when she fought: she snarled, she spat, her nails were filthy and sharp but worst of all was her teeth, and it could be guaranteed she’d get a good chunk of you before you managed to shove her off and run like hell. Most kids said Anko fought like a cat, but the wiser ones would say it was more like a snake. She could twist around and sink her teeth into your ankle even when you thought you’d had her down. It was boring when they all got smart, but Anko learned that if you said the right things, they’d be angry and stupid all over again--especially if it was something about their mothers. When she came to classes, always rarely and always late, it was with a content smile and the stench of blood. No one knew what to do with her. There was no control, the adults said, hoping it was a phase. She’s a monster, the kids said, finding new ways to avoid her.
And by the time she was eight, they’d all given up on her, and Anko found herself not only bored but a little lonely too with no one to scold her and no one to challenge her and no one caring if she came to class. It set in like a hunger deep in her belly, sending her onto the streets with a restlessness she’d never felt before, and desperation when she realized that for whatever reason, the days had started growing slower the more she prowled, and scrounged and searched for prey, victims, friends, /anything/. She nearly cried when a man finally caught her killing a rat out of frustration one day, and commented “You do that well” though she’d made a show of raising her chin defiantly and asking him what the hell he wanted instead. He’d smiled at her like a fanged thing, which he was, and she’d been surprised how beautiful his eyes were, gold and narrow and predatory.
When she turned nine people often commented on the change in Anko, and how her behavior had improved. It seemed at last the girl had learned something more about control and something less about jumping other kids in the streets. She even dressed less shabby, washed her hands, and sometimes slipped and spoke politely to her elders. She attended class only on certain days, but on a nearly regular basis, traded in her cracked nails for kunai, and hadn’t hissed or bitten anyone in weeks. A wonder, the adults thought. A relief, the kids thought. None of them noticed, in passing the girl in the streets undisturbed at last, that she was only ever walking one way.