A Fight to Remember

Chapter 2Sweet Memories(Edited by StrayanPhoenix772)

“No, don’t go daddy!” Otso begged his father.

It was still relatively light inside the small house Otso and his father called home.

“I’m sorry son,” The middle aged man began. “You know I can’t provide for us with rice alone.”

His father was tall; he measured at around 6 feet tall. He had a hat with a long trim and bits of straw sticking out of it to one side, which sat firmly atop his head, tilted slightly to block the view of his eyes if you looked him head on. It was the same kind of hat that held the mention of hard work in it. It suited him, being a farmer and all.

His shirt was also a sign of a long day of work, dirtied from perspiration of hard labor and the grit of handling soil. He had his trusty walking stick at his side and a satchel over his shoulder. His face held the scars of a war long forgotten and the look of a man. They way he held himself and how he looked made him a very intimidating person.

“What, do you want to eat plain old rice for supper?” His father questioned his voice in a slight chuckle.

“No, but... Can I go with you?” Otso eagerly asked.

His father pondered the thought, looking at his son with judgment in his eyes. Sizing up the boy, he figured it wouldn’t hurt to have him come.

“You know what? I think you’re old enough to come to the market with me.” The farmer confirmed.

Otso’s eyes widened with delight. “Oh can I daddy, can I?” He asked, excitement boiling inside the child's head. Otso’s father brought his hand to his chin and looked at Otso once again playfully.

“Sure you can.” He exclaimed with a smile. Otso jumped in delight, almost hitting the ceiling with his head.

         It was strange but for some reason Otso was able to jump three times his own height. Even as a toddler he would jump out of his crib like it was nothing. His father knew he would be some heck of a jumper when he became a little older. He could probably jump over a full grown tree in the future.

Otso was so ecstatic about going with his father to the market for the first time, it was all he could do but jump and run around the house.

         As the farmer grabbed what little money he had, Otso ran outside to get a head start but stopped at the fence waiting impatiently. He started to jump over their fence several times while his father made sure they had everything. Once the farmer had determined that they had everything, he packed everything into his satchel, swung the it over his shoulder and set off to his eager son.

He stopped in front of the gate when he noticed that he had forgotten his jacket. Looking to the sky he couldn’t see a single cloud for as far as he could see.

Nah, I don’t need my jacket, he thought to himself, the day is beautiful and warm. It had been that way for several days, do to it being summer and all.

He shrugged it off and continued off on the dirt path, his son hopping in pursuit. The birds were singing their wonderful song as they walked. Otso jumped onto his dad’s shoulders and clung onto his head. The farmer was initially shocked by the sudden weight, but held on the Otso’s feet to prevent him from falling. They looked peaceful together, a dad and his 7 year old son. It was Otso’s birthday and his dad had planned the day out for them. He wasn't going to let anything ruin their day.

         The village market was a small one, with only one street full of vendors. They sold all kinds of stuff there. From food to furniture, they always had something good in store. The colors and the smells of the street were both wonderful and alluring to those who entered. It was a slow afternoon and not many people were out and about. It usually picked up by early evening when all the villagers when out to celebrate.

After all, today was the beginning of the New Year.

         As they reached the market, Otso’s father stopped by a street vendor, looking at what food it had for sale. Otso jumped off his dad’s shoulders and held his hand, looking at what toys were for sale. Even though the farmer knew what day it was for Otso, He kept himself quiet. Otso probably wasn’t even aware it was his birthday. Looking down upon the boy, He couldn’t help but admire him. His red hair and charming smile gleaming up at him.

He loved Otso so very much. Ever since his wife died, the only thing he would wake up and work in the fields for was that charming smile. He reminded him so much of her; he even had the same red hair. Even though Otso resembled his wife in many ways, he still could see himself in the boy.

The thought of his wife brought back sad memories. The memories of loss, regret, even anger. It has been so long since she died, and he could remember every single day since they have been separated. The terror he experienced after finding her murdered in their living room. He turned away trying to forget those bad memories.

Looking the salesman in the eye, he said, “Two please”.

As he waited, he went over the schedule again in his head.

“Here you go,” the salesman gave him two sticks with balls of meat squared on to it. He took the sticks and walked over to a bench to sit down. Otso followed him and sat down on the bench, looking at the treat his father was holding. The farmer looked at the two sticks as a thought crept its way into his mind.

What am I going to do when he leaves...

The thought triggered an episode of PTSD, the world falling to black as he relived his most terrible nightmare...

The farmer blinked as he returned to reality, and quickly glanced around. There were more people wandering the street now, and the sun was nearing the end of its course. Stick in hand, he looked over to where Otso was sitting.

Hope he didn’t get bored while I was out like that, he thought to himself. He half-expected to see Otso sleeping on the park bench, waiting for his father to come back from ‘the bad place’ as he would call it. Only there was one problem, he wasn’t there at all.

Panic overtook him as he started to frantically look for his son. The market was in full swing now, and lots of people were walking in the street. It was impossible to spot a familiar face even if you tried. He now was skimming through the crowd of people, yelling “Otso!” every several seconds. He pushed past people trying to find the red haired boy in the crowd. As if he would have such luck.

Suddenly he saw what he was looking for, red hair. Running and pushing as hard as he could, he dashed through the crowd to the boy. Quickly he hugged him tightly, not daring to let go. But, something was off. He was taller then He remembered. Looking down to the child he noticed his face was hidden behind a mask, and it had red hair...

“Hey!” yelled a bystander, “Get your hands off of my boy!”

The farmer let go of the boy and turned back around to the crowd. What he say made his mind explode with confusion. In the midst of all the people were several masks with red hair. All with the same shade and style of Otso’s hair.

After several frantic minutes, the farmer managed to get out of the crowd. It was quite hard with the sheer amount of people flooding the small street.After tirelessly searching for his lost boy, he flopped down on a park bench in defeat. The stress of losing his only hope and joy was weighing down on him. His brain had picked a rather inconvenient time to go through another episode, and of all times, why in the middle of the market?! Now maybe he might as well be dead, now that his whole family was gone.

He sighed dejectedly and looked to the sky, listened to the wind. It was a strange habit he developed when his wife died, and it gave him some clarity.

Like that would help him now. The one thing he struggled to protect is gone now. He listened intently to the cool breeze, hoping to find some resolve. As he listened, he heard a soft sobbing that was not his own. Turning his head, he could see a child crying near a tree swing. He looked weak and helpless, probably lost his family in the crowd or something. Thats when he noticed the child’s red hair.

The farmer jumped out of his seat and dashed over to Otso, who was in tears next to a swing. Otso’s father picked up the small boy in his arms hugging him tightly. He didn’t restrain himself from shedding a few tears himself, there was no point.

“Don’t you ever leave me like that again you hear?” He exclaimed, overjoyed with finding his only son.

The farmer sat back down on the park bench, still holding his son in his arms. The thought of Otso leaving him was a heavy burden on the farmer, and he never wanted him to do that again.

Slowly, he drew away from the embrace and looked into his son’s face. The farmer was shocked by the state that his son was in. Otso was covered in dirt, and his nose had a trickle of dried blood running down his face. All of the farmer’s problems were tossed aside by what he saw, replaced with immediate concern for his boy.

“Otso, what happened to you?” He asked the poor boy, his voice filled with concern and regret.

Otso looked up to his dad, then shoved his face into the farmer’s shirt, crying once again. It was sad seeing him like this, no child should ever feel this way.

“Tell me boy, who did this to you?”

Otso couldn’t speak, not only from being downright fearful of how his father would react, but ashamed in his own efforts. Even though he couldn’t see his father's face, he knew that he was expecting an answer from him.

“W-w-when you stopped moving a-a-and sat on the bench, *sniff* I went over to s-s-some of the kids who were playing on the swing,” Otso said, taking a break to catch his train of thought. “T-t-they were playing ninja, and I wanted to play too. They let me, but only if I was on my own team. I tried to be the best ninja I could be, but they kept hitting me really hard. It wasn’t a very fun game. Then they started calling me ‘kangaroo’ and they all laughed at me,” Otso began to cry at full force now, not holding anything back.

The farmer couldn’t find the words to respond to what his son just told him. Not only were those kids cruel to his boy, but they made fun of his ability. The anger that built up inside him threatened to bubble to the surface. Instead of releasing it to the world, he held it in and smothered it. Somehow, he had to cheer his son up. Then it struck him.

“Otso, do you know what day it is?” The farmer asked the boy.

He looked up to his father still in tears. Otso didn’t know what day it was or even what year, all he knew is that it was summer.

His father held out a meat stick to Otso, “Happy birthday son.”

Otso’s eyes lit up as the realization dawned on him. They rarely bought anything during the year, as all their money was put towards improving the farm, managing the animals, and purchasing supplies they couldn’t grow. For his father to present him with a simple treat like this, Otso was overcome with joy. He took the stick and nibbled at it, savoring the taste. A smile blossom onto his face, and his father returned it with a smile of his own.

They started their way back home from the market, each of them with a beaming joyfulness. Otso was seven years old as of today, and his father was happy to see his boy, safe and sound. The day had been tough and tears were shed, but it was all better now. No force, calamity, or incident on the planet could change the moment they shared. They may not have many luxuries as others do, but they had each other, and that was enough.

It was getting late as they approached the farm house, the sun almost reaching the horizon. The cool air on their skin, the smell of the mountains, it was all so peaceful. Even the scent of unearthed soil was refreshing...

The farmer stopped dead in his tracks. Otso looked at him, puzzled by the apparent anger in his face.

“Son,” the farmer began, “Go into the fields, and don’t turn back ‘till I come for you.” His voice was intense and powerful. It was the voice of a warrior.

Otso looked up at his father. “Bu-” he was cut off by his father’s glaring eyes. He knew his father only had those eyes when there was danger among them. Obediently, Otso ran into the fields, hiding from what his dad was angry at.

Right as Otso went into hiding, a group of men approached from around the bend of the dirt path. There were seven of them in total; each one had a bandana around their heads, signifying they were bandits. They had a cart with them, with various types of vegetation, mostly rice stalks, inside.

As they came around the bend, they noticed the farmer and stopped in their tracks. They couldn’t believe their eyes, certain that the man they saw would be dead by now. After a few moments, they all burst into laughter.

“No way,” one of them snickered, “It’s the old geezer who owns this farm. Thought you died of some heart attack years ago. How’s it feel to be the sole remaining survivor of the Harochi family?”

The farmer stood his ground, not giving into their verbal jabs. “Hand over the crops and leave!” He demanded.

They just laughed at him. “Or what? You’ll bore us to death?” The tallest of them asked, a mocking sneer present in his voice. He had long hair that was spiking out every which way, and a bandage on his nose. From what the farmer could guessed he was the ringleader of the bunch of bandits, due to the reactions of the others when he emerged from behind them.

The farmer slowly twisted the top of his walking stick, revealing the slender hilt of his sword. He took it out, slashing the air once before taking a fighting stance.

As he took his stance, he inhaled deeply, concentrating his chakra to his eyes. The farmer hadn’t used this jutsu in ages. So long in fact, that he didn’t know if it would work anymore.

“Seimitsu (Precision).”

His eyes began to glow, turning his pupils into a pale gray, and his irises a bright red. It was his Kekkei Genkai (Blood Trait) the only thing that made him a member of the Harochi family.

The farmer was overwhelmed with the effects of the jutsu. He saw each and every one of the bandits’ muscle movements, and could calculate what they were doing just by watching them. He could also know what they were thinking by the way they moved and talked. Thus, it was no surprise to him when three of the bandits tried to rush the farmer.

With the precision of a surgeon and the strength of a heavy lifter, he dispatched the bandits, thoroughly decapitating all three of them. As their bodies fell limp to the ground, the ringleader smirked in amusement.

“Is that it?” He cocked his head to the side.

The farmer took up his stance once again, preparing for the next attack. Another bandit shot forward, forming hand signs as he got closer.

“Fire style: fire ball jutsu.” He said, sending a ball of flame towards the farmer, who could see it coming before it happened.

With a quick sidestep and a powerful slash of his weapon, he struck the fourth bandit in his lower abdomen. His sword completed the motion without much effort, sending the bandit to the ground in two clean halfs.

Another man tried to catch the farmer off guard by attacking him from under the ground, but failed to have the desired effect. The farmer could sense him the entire time, and struck down on the patch of earth. Before the bandit could even scream out wails of pain, he was silenced. A pool of blood formed in the small hole that was created by the sword, confirming that he was dead.

As the farmer looked up to predict the attack of his next opponent, he was stopped by the sudden wave of pain coming from his right leg. He looked down towards the limb, but was shocked by what he saw. Or in this case, didn’t see.

His lower leg was gone, leaving a bloody stump. With his balance gone, he fell to the ground with a thud. The pain was unbearable; he clenched his eyes shut at it, utterly helpless to protect himself.

Through the pain, he opened his eyes to see his son, watching from within the tall reeds of the field...

Otso was in complete and utter terror as he watched his dad hit the ground. He had come back to see if his dad was okay, only to find him being struck down.

“DADDY!!” Otso yelled, sprinting across to his injured father. The leader of the bandits glanced over at the boy, surprised by his sudden appearance. Otso came within feet of his dad, before he was halted and lifted up into the air by an unseen hand.

“Well, well, well! What do we have here?” The leader sadistically questioned, “I knew you had gotten together with that ninja from the hidden leaf, but I never knew you had a son.” He held Otso high up into the air, his fingers tightly gripping his head.

“NO! Leave the boy alone!” His father yelled desperately. The bandit ignored him, marveled by the new finding.

“The great Shikara has a son!” He laughed, amused by what he held. “Oh this is just rich! I can’t even describe what this feels like.” He had a dark grin on his face as he looked down towards the farmer’s face.

“Hey! Boy! What’s your name?” He demanded.

“O-O-Otso” Otso replied trying not to feel the pain this man was giving his head.

“Otso… Well Otso, I’m Akira, and let’s make daddy cry now shall we?” Akira said as he kicked Shikara in the stomach. The farmer doubled over and cringed. Otso was in quickly reduced to tears upon seeing his father get beaten up like this.

“Now, I shall do my worst!” Akira mischievously proclaimed, turning to Otso with a sinister grin. Otso flinched as his stomach came into contact with a balled fist, pain surging through his body.

Akira proceeded to pelt the child, relishing in his misery. Each blow was harder than the previous, and Otso was beginning to spit out blood at the impacts. Shikara could not bare to see Otso receive this torment and looked away, feeling utterly useless at his ability to protect his own son. Akira would have continued to beat the child, but something shimmered in his peripheral vision.

Akira looked over towards the slender sword that was lying on the ground. His grin spread even wider at the thought of his next move.

As much as he loved to torture children, he found it much more appealing to proceed with the next phase of his next plan. He carelessly tossed the kid to the ground and walked over to the blade, chuckling darkly in his stride.

Otso crawled across to his father, tears flowing freely down his face. Shikara turned to face his son once again. He saw the pain in Otso’s eyes, and it hurt him beyond the pain of his missing limb. It was the eyes of a child begging for help.

What just happened? Shikara thought to himself. Just moments ago they were having a wonderful moment and now, he lay here, dying…

He could only think of one thing in that moment, and he had to say his last words to his son.

“Otso,” he began, “there is something I have to say, I may not be able to get through this so listen good. I need you to-“

He was stopped mid-sentence by a thin sword plunging into his chest. Shikara glanced at the weapon and saw the crest of the Harochi family on the center of the blade.

It was his own sword, stabbed into him like he was nothing. He coughed out a mouthful of blood and began to choke. Otso got up and went over to his father, screaming at the scene that just played out.

“Daddy no! NO! NO!” Otso cried.

He now knelt down next to his father, cradling his head. “Son, *cough*, Be strong, be strong for me ok?“

Otso could not respond through his tears. All he could do was shake his head 'yes'.

"Good, I *cough* love you so-"

Shikara wasn’t able to finish the last word, as the darkness crept across his vision, forcefully dragging him to whatever lay beyond.........