Chapter Text
Miro learned to listen to her father even though his actions were sometimes strange and unpredictable. The country of rain was a ruthless place. The wars destroyed the country and the people, the few that survived, were scattered across the land. Most were shinobi. Civilians didn't have anything to stay for.There was no economy, the fields that the people would've been able to use were confiscated in the war and now were littered with weapons, rendering them hazardous. Amegakure was silent through all the suffering.
It's been three days since they burned down the house that used to be their home. Miro remembered being slightly sad, but her father's hands on her shoulders grounded her. Nothing of value was left in the house anyway. Only memories, she supposed. Maybe parts of her mother, but what good would those do when the woman alone was long dead. Miro remembered only bits and pieces of her mother. Hushed, calm voice and warm hands. It dawned on Miro years later, that the woman was probably too soft to live in that hell, shinobi or not. Her father didn't like to talk about it. He didn't like to talk about most things. Their family was always a very quiet one. Miro picked up on her father's cues easily.
"We're approaching the village, kid. Don't fight. They won't kill you unless you resist."
"Sure." Miro nodded and pulled out the kunai that she kept on her on all times. "Should I throw the knife away?" It's a little rusty, but it's sharp.
"Don't."
"Mm." And that was it. She put it back into her pocket and hummed again. Fighting was not an option in Ame. And she liked exploring. Having a weapon on her was a necessity. One of the passing shinobi, she forgot his name and his hitai-ate but he was missing an arm and rambling about his wife non stop, taught her how to hold it properly. The nameless ninja stayed a few days, before he continued on his way towards the Suna border. Miro knew he probably never got to meet his wife again.
The presence of the village made her physically sick for a moment. Her father called it 'chakra sensitivity' and it was apparently a trait she inherited after her mother. The small ghost town she grew up in had no chakra users. The passing ninja were usually exhausted and their charka was almost nonexistent so Miro knew they couldn't harm her. It's the bigger and colder signatures she learned to avoid. They usually came a few days after the passing ninja, hunting them down. She learned her lesson after one shinobi with a particularly disgusting chakra cornered her and almost killed her.
Small bodies are easy to hide.
Her father keeps a hand on her shoulder as they pass through the village's gate. She's looking around and trying to take in all the new colors and chakra signatures. It's like waking up, but better. The place is buzzing with chakra. It makes her smile and she can't wait for the moment she will be running around. She can already tell that the place is nothing like Ame. There are shinobi, that's true. Still armed to the teeth and always vigilant. The guards have flak jackets on and the two women walking around hand in hand have shuriken pouches above their knees. But they're way different than the husks of men she's used to. So much more...colorful.
The building they are being lead into is bigger than any other she's ever seen and her feet stop for a second, before her father pulls her forward. The inside of the building is complicated and if Miro had to voice her opinion, weird and gloomy. They separate them after a few minutes of walking and her father pats her head and nods. Don't fight. She nods back and grins. The man leads her a little lower and nods towards a room. There's not much, just a bed and a chair. Miro bows slightly to the man but he keeps a stoic mask.
"You'll be called in within a few hours, try to get some sleep."
"Yes, sir." Why not? The bed is soft and warm, after all.