Disclaimer: I do not own Naruto.

Status: Incomplete

Kanzu had watched her leave with his heart jumping in his throat. Her braid swished down her back, brushing the small of her spine and her steps were steady and calming as she was brought out the door, the tall, dark-haired teenager moving in step with her. He had heard the door close with a soft snick and then took a deep breath, his grip tightening on Emika and Tatsuro's shoulders.

His younger siblings mewled into his touch, their tears making his breath hitch and his own eyes burn with anger and fear. He wanted to never have opened the door that night. He wanted to never have not noticed that it wasn't Sakura who signed the symbols for entry. He wanted to never have not noticed the red, spinning eyes that had copied every single one of Sakura's movements and mannerisms and gain enough time to reach over and grab them by the scruff of their necks and drag them out of the hole in the wall.

It had been terrifying seeing his siblings screaming and sobbing as they were pulled out of the Underground, their bodies vibrating with fear and horror as the Uchiha Monsters chained them up with the inhibitors and pulled them out of the district, jarring their bones and cracking their joints. His heart had been beating so fast in his chest he could barely concentrate on trying to keep them from leaving-the only thing he wanted, the only thing he concentrated on was getting Tatsuro and Emika to stop screaming.

Never show weakness, Sakura had told him once, eyes blazing in the steady, burning way that they usually did, you are invincible, untouchable. Once they know your weakness, they can take it away from you. Defend it like it's your own soul.

But in that moment, as he heard the screams of his siblings and felt the calloused, itching hands of the captors on his neck, he had forgotten every single lesson Sakura had ever told him. He had screamed and bucked and kicked, trying to get them to release their hold on him-Fight. Sakura said, fight like it's the last thing you'll ever do—and snarled, growling and spitting and churning his rage to try and get to his siblings. Their sobs and screams were echoing like gunfire in his ears and he needed to reach them when—when—

Sakura slammed into the ground, her eyes burning. Her face was tight and pale, her lips pressed into a strained line. Her eyes, so green, so bright seared into him for a single moment-anger, endless, destructive fury scorched so fiercely he nearly flinched-and then she was moving, slamming her foot into their captor's neck, throwing her body in the way of their siblings, giving them ample time to escape. There was a flicker of her energy levels, deadly, luminescent knives dangling in the air, their cuffs were gone, and she swiped Tatsuro and Emika up and out of the way, dragging him back to the district.

They weaved through the crowds, Sakura's pink braid whipping into his face, Emika on her back, Tatsuro safely in his clutches. He had heard the grunting, choked screams of the men behind them and had urged himself forward, Sakura nearly dragging him by the rope around his waist, his knees skimming the cobblestones.

He had thought, for one, glorious, relieving moment as they turned and spotted the arch of the district entrance and the whorehouses that lined the streets, billowing, sticky steam rising from the ground, that they would make it.

And then, they had caught her.

They had caught Sakura the girl who never bowed or lost, the girl who was illusive and never truly quite able to be touched. And she had gone down, her body stilling for one, quick moment and then her eyes had rolled back into her head and her legs gave way, into the awaiting cuffs that the Monster Men had for them.

Seeing her there, her limbs brokenly assorted, her hair flush against her cheeks with Emika screaming as they dragged her away from them had killed him.

Seeing Sakura who was so strong, so bright and so angry lying there, her head lolling, her arms jumbled and uncoordinated as they lifted her by her ratty brown cloak, had killed him.

Sakura never bowed. Never lost. She was always careful and she always won.

He saw the greed in their eyes when they watched her. He saw how they envisioned her a murderer and a killer; a girl without family or ties, a girl without much tether to her sanity.

A cannon fodder girl.

The breath had seized in his throat and he groaned, reaching out to grab her, to take Emika and Sakura away, to keep them safe—because—because—they couldn't take her—they couldn't.

The first time he remembered seeing Sakura was in the Cage. Her hair was drawn in a braided ponytail, falling all the way down her back; bone fragments glinted in the dim light of the Underground tavern, flickering through the metal bars, knotted around her hair. The familiar face-paint; red stripes under her eyes for bravery, green lids for concentration, blue lips for courage. It looked faint, blurry, in the dim light, as if the paint had already begun to run down her cheeks, a macabre picture of brutality and light—the little girl with the beautiful pink hair, yet vicious black eyes.

Her fingers had spun around glittering knives, dancing along her knuckles at a pace so fast, his eyes could barely follow them.

He was stumbling, nose broken from the last fight, words slurring and feet dragging in the dust.

She was the prodigal daughter, the prizefighter, the one people bet their livelihood on.

He hadn't known her name then, or her kindness, and when the shot had gone off, he'd lurched forward, desperate to survive, if only for a little longer, if only to taste his dying grandmother's soba noodles again—

(This was one fight he couldn't lose, this was one fight he needed to win—grandmother was going to starve if he didn't—)

Landed a single punch to her cheek—

And she'd slammed her fists in his face, flipping over him, diving between his legs, twisting around him. She played him like the knives that danced across her knuckles, played him like the pretty marionettes he sometimes saw in the Okiya, the rich children laughing and clapping as a whore dangled the pretties from her fingers.

She was vicious and cruel, unrelenting and she beat him into the dirt, made him taste his own blood, made the skin on his knuckles break and bone shine through his muscles, tattered and chalky white.

She didn't pull her punches—raining her fists down on his every movement, bruising his spine, his stomach, his chest, his face—and he choked on his spit, a tooth dislodged in his mouth, rattling against his bloodied tongue.

The crowd roared and cheered, unhinged on bloodlust and blood money, and when she flipped him over her like a doll, he saw that the paint on her face was, in fact, running down her cheeks.

The last thing he'd seen was the brutality in her eyes and her leather gloves coming down on his nose before he blacked out.

He woke to the sludge of the gutter, shit pressed against his cheek, sludge seeping in his clothes, plastic stuck in his hair. He smelt of bad Udon and he wheezed, muscles trembling as he tried to lift himself out of the gully. Tears fell from his eyes and he cursed the girl, he spat on her name and wished she'd die a thousand deaths, wished her family was cursed by a fire-breathing chicken and that the Overground Men would take her away and kill her.

"Well," A familiar voice had drawled, and he'd looked up to see a skinny girl with too-big eyes and a hard edge to her jaw. "That's a lovely monologue. All for me, darling? I've never been privy to a hate-rant before."

He'd flushed then, anger and shame blooming in his cheeks because she could beat him into the ground ten-times over and he'd just insulted her every ancestor with language his grandmother would smack him twice-over for and rinse his mouth with soap for good riddance.

"What do you want?" He'd spat out, hate making him draw on the last vestiges of his dignity, and pulling himself up with all the pride of a noble.

She'd eyed him, sharp and clear, and he wondered when he began to realize that her eyes were green instead of black and cruel as night. She looked washed out and tiny without the face paint and the bones in her hair, or the leather gloves that covered the smashed, scarred knuckles that the knives had danced over hours before.

"I heard your old lady's dying." She said, calmly—because of course, he hadn't realized yet, that Sakura was kind even if her words were mean, even if she spat on you and cursed you for all you were worth.

Back then, though, he had felt rage flicker in his stomach and dangerous, furious heat rise in his cheeks and he'd stumbled forward, a wobbling fist reaching for her face.

She'd sidestepped him of course, bastard child that she was, and let him fall face-first in the rotten sludge, a carton of ramen pressing into his cheek, full of blood and mud and half an eye.

Of course, back then, he hadn't known how to quit or how to read the tense, nervous line to her shoulders, or the anxiety that made her curl her fists and he'd risen from the sludge again, wiping mud and dirty things off his face and tried again.

She let him swing at her until he was panting and blood trickled from his open wounds again and he had no choice but to stay down. He wheezed, sludge and mud and blood mixing at his collar, the front of his shirt ripped open, skinny ribs and starved stomach for all to see.

"Stay away from me," He'd hissed, almost like those alley cats he'd tried to pet when he was still little enough to believe in good things and the promise that Papa would come home, Kanzu-chan, don't you worry.

She'd stared at him again, longer than before, and something flickered in her eyes.

Then, like the completely infuriating, cunt she was (and still was, he admitted to himself sometimes) she'd shrugged and threw something that was half-soggy and torn at his chest. "Keep it."

He watched her walk away, the rhythm to her steps making her hips sway in a way that a child's was not supposed to, her braid dangling like a leash, shoulders pulled back and he imagined her face would be proud and fierce, eyes hard and vicious, ready to beat innocent children into the ground for sport again.

When he'd looked down his heart very nearly stopped in his chest.

Ten thousand ryo.

Ten thousand ryo.

It sat on his chest, edges torn, banded together by rubber, mixing with the gutter gunk that had landed on his chest.

(It wasn't much, not like the money in the Overground, but in the Underground, ten thousand ryo lasted for seven months.)

That night, he cried as he stuffed his face with his grandmother's warm, piping hot soba noodles and thought of the girl with the hard eyes and vicious fists.

And so, as he kept his hands tight on Emika and Tatsuro's shoulders, eyes piercing, teeth caving through his lip, he did what he would do a thousand times over.

"We're ready." He told the other shinobi, unable to lessen the loathing that lined his words.

The monster eyed him for a moment. "Very well."

He straightened, drawing on the last vestiges of his dignity, and prayed that Sakura would return to them.

If she didn't, he thought half-deliriously, I will tear down the entire district to find her.

More background and some Kanzu p.o.v! Tell if me if you like it :)