There is a voice screaming in her head that won't let her give up. For once, she can't hear the numbing reiterations of shinobi mandate - there is only fire, blood, and a desperate, desperate will for vengeance.
...
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Who are you?
She stills, eyes restlessly tracing the blank expanse around her. Cool mist chases her vision and the voice speaks again, streaked with desperation.
Who are you? Why are you here?
There is a name tugging at the edge of her mind, of autumn winds and swaying branches. It dances just out of her reach. "I...don't know," she says, a sense of serenity engulfing her. She remembers the seemingly-endless loathing and disgust that accompanied that name, that name- what was it? Perhaps it's better this way.
For a moment, there is silence. She strains her ears to the sound of distant breathing but her body is relaxed; unconcerned. It is familiar. As if it were her own.
Are you strong? The voice asks again. It sounds different now, resigned.
"Yes." The answer is immediate, almost bitter. Of course she is. How could be a shinobi if she wasn't?
The mist swells around her, pushing against her with a harsh breeze. A familiar sting draws her gaze downwards. Black streaks twist up her forearm and settle in the centre of her palm.
When she looks up, the fog thins and a small silhouette wavers into view.
Good, the voice says, and through the haze her eyes meet a familiar, vivid red.
She wakes to the smell of rust, an ache in her chest, and a sting in her arm that reminds her of her identity.
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