Chapter Text
Kyoko was never meant to be a ninja. She was cut from the same civilian cloth as the majority of the population, born into a fourth-generation family. Her father was different. He was a confident man, if not arrogant. They may have shared the same genes, but Takahashi Yasu, unlike his namesake, was not gentle—nor peaceful.
Ironically enough, Kyoko, written out in Kanji, was meant to refer to a “strong child.” The father had wanted a son. Unfortunately, Kyoko was neither strong nor the son her father had hoped for.
Kyoko’s father had wanted to be a ninja, desperately so. He succeeded, to a degree, making it up to genin before having spectated a chunin exam and promptly being forced to drop out thanks to the woes of his parents. To be fair, there was no prospective talent in the man either. A small chakra pool, poor control, a weak mental, and virtually no physical talent.
So, he settled. He gave up his fantasies of playing the hero, studied hard to become a doctor at the local hospital—after all, he still wanted to be a part of the action, even from afar, and even from tending to small genin injuries—and eventually found a nice woman to start a family with.
Takahashi Aya, once formerly known as Yamase Aya, was originally set on taking over her family’s fairly prominent mountain merchant business. When her younger brother came into the picture, it was like she’d been cut out of it. Once determined to take her life by the reins, Aya quickly gave in to the wills of her family after a marriage had been arranged between her and the second son of the intellectual line of the Takahashis. Arranged marriages were common in the post-war period of the First and Second Ninja Wars—even between civilian families, although the arrangements between shinobi clans were considered much more high-stakes.
Kyoko’s mother had always thought it was important to speak one’s mind. It was a right given to humans by the gods, she would say to her daughter, often while brushing Kyoko’s hair in the mornings, humming as she gently untangled knots with careful fingers.
"Even birds need to sing," she murmured once, placing a hand to her chest. "Especially when their cage gets quiet."
But despite her words, Aya rarely sang anymore. Most days, she barely raised her voice. Kyoko’s mother was also weak-willed. Weak-minded. That was why, when her husband insisted on sending Kyoko to the Academy, she hardly protested. It was also why Takahashi Aya had given in so easily to her arranged marriage. Perhaps she and Kyoko were similar in that way. Even birds forget they have wings once caged too long.
Kyoko remembered the morning her father told them she was registered. Aya had paused, mid-wash, as blood flecked the suds in the sink.
"Isn’t she still small?" she had asked quietly, drying her hands slowly. Yasu didn’t look up from the Academy form.
"She’ll be six. That’s plenty old enough. Don’t fill her head with cowardice." Aya said nothing after that. Later, Kyoko had found her mother kneeling in the garden, pulling weeds with fingers that trembled.
It was clear that Takahashi Yasu was attempting to vicariously live through his child’s life—though it was a poor attempt at that. He trained Kyoko in the evenings. Not like a ninja would—he wasn’t qualified—but in his own makeshift way.
“Tighter stance,” he’d bark. “You’ll never hold a kunai steady like that.”
When Kyoko’s hands blistered, he told her to toughen up. Her mother would bring them tea in quiet protest, placing the cup beside Kyoko with a brief touch to her shoulder. “Enough for today?” she once asked. Her husband only snorted.
Kyoko barely managed her first day before the stress got to her and she sniffled when she couldn’t for the life of her remember which freaking stance her father was pushing her to do, only to be reprimanded not only for her forgetfulness, but because “real ninja don’t cry.” How eloquently put.
Her mother had hovered just behind him, eyes wide and wringing a kitchen towel.
"She’s tired, Yasu," she tried, but the man didn’t answer her. Later that night, when she came to tuck Kyoko into bed, her mother sat on the edge of the mattress for a long time.
"It’s alright to cry, you know," she whispered. She didn’t meet Kyoko’s gaze. "It’s not wrong. Even strong birds cry when the wind is too loud."
Kyoko had just turned six three months before—when the beginning of spring arrived. Her father had been ecstatic, having enrolled her for the academy two months prior, as enrollment only begins five months before the term starts.
The night before her first day, Kyoko stood beside her mother at the stove. Aya’s hands trembled a little as she cracked the eggs into the pot for oyakodon.
"For your lunchbox," she explained, brushing a stray hair from Kyoko’s face. "I packed the ducks too." Kyoko brightened at that. Her pencil case. Her mother had spent two whole days searching the village to find the exact one.
"I’ll walk you there tomorrow," Aya said softly. “Not all the way, just to the edge of the market street.” But when morning came, her coughing had returned. It echoed into the hallway as Kyoko tied her shoes.
Kyoko’s first impression of the Academy, as she walks in with her father’s death grip on her hand, is that it’s much bigger than she thought. She’s passed by it before—once or twice, on shopping trips with her mother—but it never felt this tall. Maybe it’s the way the morning sun slants behind Hokage Mountain, stretching dark shadows. Maybe it’s all the people.
There are a lot of kids. And even more parents. Grown-ups crouch by their children, fixing collars, smoothing hair, whispering encouragements. Shouts of “You’ll do great!” ring throughout the crowd. Kyoko is sure her palms are sweating by now.
Her father lets go of her hand and crouches down to her level. He adjusts his glasses with the heel of his palm—he always does that when he’s about to say something important.
“You’ll do great, Kyoko. Don’t be scared. Your mother and I’ll be waiting for you after school—I’ll tell her to make your favorite. You know the way back home, right?”
Kyoko nods too quickly. She’s not sure if it’s the right answer, but it seems like the one he wants. Her mother was probably coughing up a storm back home in the kitchen, blood dripping down the drain as she grips the edge of the sink after barely having washed the dishes. But what does a child know? Her mother’s oyakodon is tasty.
Her father pats her on the shoulder once before standing up and waving goodbye. Kyoko anxiously grips her backpack as she sees his retreating figure.
The Academy doors are wide open, swallowing up clusters of children like a great wooden mouth. Kyoko hesitates. Then she follows a boy in a bright orange hoodie who walks like he owns the world. She wonders what that feels like. She wishes she could borrow a little of it.
Inside, the hallways are bright and clean.
The classroom she’s put in is nice, she supposes. There’s a large window on the right wall from the front of the classroom, making the nine tables aligned into columns warmly glow. Their teacher—he hasn’t introduced himself yet, but Kyoko really hopes he’s kind—extends his arm to the area in front of him and gestures to the seats.
“Sit anywhere you’d like!” the teacher calls, voice cheerful. “But be warned—I’ll make a seating chart if you cause too much trouble.” Kyoko thinks he has a nice smile.
Many of the children streamline to their friends, each discussing what seat they should take, a divide forming between the girls and the boys. Kyoko glances around and sees a couple kids like her, standing around awkwardly among classmates who seem to have been friends beforehand. A sense of relief blossoms in her chest. She shuffles to the back and thinks for a moment if the columns on the edge would be nicer than the one on the center.
Before she can decide, a boy bumps into her shoulder—hard enough to make her stumble. He’s talking with two other boys, roughhousing as they slide into the table by the window. The one she was going to pick.
They’re laughing with each other until the boy who pushed her takes notice of her staring. Kyoko flinches and averts her eyes. The boy, with fierce red markings on his cheeks, tilts his head, looking a little apologetic.
“Sorry…did we push ‘ya? You were eyein’ this seat, weren’t you? I can move if you want.”
“N-no. It’s alright,” Kyoko hastily mutters, because she can’t focus on anything except the fact the boy’s teeth are so sharp. He looks uncomfortable for a moment before shrugging and restarting his conversation with his friends.
Kyoko slides off her red backpack and neatly places it under her feet, which are a foot off the ground when she sits. She tucks her head underneath the table and unzips the bag to carefully pull out her pencil case (which is blue and has little ducks on it that Kyoko had shyly asked her parents for as one of her birthday gifts).
By the time she sits back upright, she is shocked to find another boy sitting to her right—a boy whose hair, to her shy amusement, looks a lot like a duck’s tail feathers. He turns his head to her direction, and Kyoko jumps a little. The boy furrows his brow slightly before turning back to the front of the classroom, and she does the same, though her eyes stay trained on her blue pencil case.
Her teacher, standing in front of his desk, claps his hands when everyone is seated. He grabs a piece of chalk and scrapes onto the board in neat characters:
‘Iruka-Sensei’
“My name is Iruka-Sensei, and it’s nice to meet you all! You lot have enrolled in the Ninja Academy to become ninja, a worthy profession only for the brave. But before we get started on that, I’d like to get to know each and every one of you. Starting from the back, I’d like you to share your name, your favorite color, and something about yourself!”
Oh, come on…!
Kyoko’s hands fidget under her desk and her head is bent downwards, ears pricking every time another person stands to introduce themselves. Her eyes dart to her seatmate when he stands, feet dropping to the floor with a thunk.
“-chiha Sasuke, and I like the color blue. My brother’s also a ninja, a really strong one.”
A few gasps of awe emerge from around the classroom, with murmurs of how their mothers or fathers told them about the renown Uchiha clan.
So her seatmate’s brother was a ninja. That was impressive, she thought in amazement before remembering that it was her turn next. Kyoko jumped out of her seat, standing awkwardly. She gulps and grips at the bottom of her white shirt, eyes gazing at her feet.
“M-my name is Takahashi Kyoko. My favorite is- uhm…” She furrows her brows. “I m-mean my favorite color is red…I like ducks.”
Iruka sensei nods and Kyoko drops into her seat so fast her chair squeaks., still gripping her shirt. Her eyes shake and she tilts her head down. How embarrassing.
Her seatmate—Sasuke—turns slightly toward her.
“Hey,” he says.
Kyoko peeks up.
“It’s nice to meet you,” he mutters. He doesn’t meet her gaze, but holds out a hand.
Kyoko blinks. Slowly, she reaches out and shakes it.
She smiles.