Name: Hachi
Age: 18
Occupation: Mercenary
Bloodline: Aburame
Physical Description:
Hachi stands at 5'3", not especially tall. Her build is lean without being fragile, the kind shaped by movement rather than muscle, quick steps, easy balance, and a body that knows how to perch, crouch, or slip through narrow spaces without thinking about it. She looks comfortable at rest, even when she’s doing nothing at all. Her skin is pale, scattered with freckles across her cheeks and nose, and faintly along her shoulders and collarbone. They aren’t uniform or decorative; they look natural, like they’ve always been there, softening her features and giving her face a slightly sun-kissed contrast despite her light complexion. Her eyes are silver—clear and reflective, almost unreadable at first glance. They don’t glow or draw attention loudly, but when they catch the light, they feel sharp and observant, like she’s quietly cataloging everything around her. Hachi’s hair falls in uneven layers, a chestnut-brown shade that shifts toward auburn in brighter light. It’s thick but not heavy, with a slightly messy texture that never seems fully tamed. Some strands always slip loose, no matter how it’s worn, framing her face and brushing against her eyes. Her tanuki ears rise from the top of her head, matching her hair in color, soft at the edges and expressive in ways she doesn’t always bother to hide. When she’s relaxed, they tilt casually; when something catches her attention, they give her away before her expression does. Her tail is full and plush, the same warm brown as her hair, moving with an unthinking ease. It sways when she shifts her weight or settles when she’s still, more honest than her face ever is. Altogether, Hachi has a presence that feels easy to miss at first—but once noticed, it’s hard to forget, like someone who blends into the background by choice, not by accident.
Mental Description:
Hachi’s mind moves in short, quick bursts, hopping from one thought to the next with very little warning. She’s easy-going by nature, rarely tense or sharp around the edges, and she tends to meet the world with an open, unguarded curiosity. She likes simple comforts and small pleasures—coins clinking together in her palm, the shine of something valuable, the quiet thrill of finding a rare beetle tucked beneath a stone. She loves money, coins are shiny, and she likes having the security of having a lot of money. It means freedom, options, and the ability to follow whatever interest has caught her attention that day.
She is kind by default. Not loudly, not performatively, but in the way she instinctively gives people the benefit of the doubt. Malice doesn’t occur to her first, and sometimes not at all. This can make her slow to recognize when someone is being cruel or dishonest, especially when their words sound friendly on the surface. Conversations often leave her a step behind; jokes land late, sarcasm sometimes passes unnoticed, and subtle shifts in tone can slip right past her. She does her best to follow along, nodding and responding earnestly, even when she’s not entirely sure what she’s responding to.
Hachi’s focus is unpredictable. She forgets things easily—names, dates, why she walked into a room—but when something truly captures her interest, her attention locks in with startling intensity. Bugs, insects, and certain animals draw out a different side of her: precise, observant, and quietly brilliant. She remembers patterns, habitats, behaviors, tiny details others overlook. Around them, she becomes confident and articulate, hands moving as she explains, eyes sharp and engaged.
She isn’t absent-minded so much as selectively present, fully alive in the moments that matter to her. Hachi navigates the world in her own rhythm, sometimes out of step, but never without sincerity. Her heart is open, her interests narrow but deep, and while she may struggle to read people, she understands the living world around her with remarkable clarity.
History:
Hachi was born in Tea Country, in the great city of Kurosawa—a place of layered rooftops, narrow alleys, and streets that never quite slept. Kurosawa was known for its markets and trade routes, for ink-stained scholars and merchants who counted coin with quick hands. It was not known for miracles.
Her mother came from a long line of the Tanuki clan, a bloodline said to trace itself back to old forest spirits and the Tanuki gods. In their family, the traits did not always show. Most children were born ordinary. But every few decades, someone came into the world marked—ears atop their head, a tail at their back, proof that the blood had not thinned. It was rare enough to be spoken about in hushed tones, rare enough to be treated like a blessing or a warning, depending on who was doing the talking.
Hachi was born with both. Her father did not see a blessing. The delivery was difficult. Her mother bled more than the midwives expected. By the time the child cried, small and fierce, her ears pressed flat against her damp hair, her mother was already slipping. She never opened her eyes again.
Hachi’s father, a man from a branch of the Aburame clan, stood over the newborn and saw brown ears where there should have been none. A tail curled instinctively at her back. He saw betrayal before he saw lineage. He saw proof of an affair he could never confirm, because the one person who could answer him lay still and silent. Grief turned into suspicion. Suspicion hardened into resentment.
He refused to claim her. He said little publicly. The Aburame branch he came from dealt in insects and trade, not politics, and they preferred their matters quiet. But in private he made it clear: the child was not his, and even if she was, she had taken his wife from him. He would not raise her.
It was his younger brother who stepped forward. Hachi never learned her uncle’s given name. To her, he was simply Uncle. He was quieter than her father, thinner, and less respected within the clan. When he took the infant into his arms, ears and tail and all, it was not dramatic. There was no speech. He simply said he would take responsibility.
The clan did not approve. Taking in a child publicly rejected by her own father, especially one rumored to be born of infidelity, was not wise. The fact that she bore visible Tanuki traits only complicated matters. Whispers spread. Her uncle did not argue. He did not defend himself. He left.
He walked out of the clan compound carrying a swaddled infant and never returned. They settled in the slums of Kurosawa, where roofs sagged and alleyways stayed damp even in summer. It was there that her uncle officially gave her a name. Hachi. Eight. A small, simple name. Easy to write. Easy to call out across a market stall.
Life was not kind, but it was steady in its own way. Her uncle worked wherever he could—odd labor, courier work, assisting in insect cultivation for merchants who didn’t ask too many questions. Money came and went in uneven waves. A child made it harder. He could not travel far. He could not take on dangerous jobs. So he built something small.
Using his Aburame training, he began collecting and preserving rare insects. Not just common beetles, but unusual specimens—bright-winged moths, iridescent scarabs, intricate cicadas. He taxidermied them carefully, mounted them in small frames, and sold them to collectors and scholars. Alongside them, he hand-printed small books. Guides to insects. Field notes. Simple illustrations with careful annotations. He did not sign them with his clan name.
When Hachi was still very young, he implanted her with Kikai. It was done quietly, without ceremony. She was too small to understand what it meant, only that afterward there was a new sensation inside her—a hum beneath her skin, a presence that did not frighten her. The insects responded to her naturally. Perhaps it was her bloodline, perhaps her temperament. She took to them without hesitation.
By five, she was working. Not in heavy ways. She caught beetles in jars. She learned how to coax insects out of hiding without crushing them. She ran small deliveries through the market, weaving between legs and carts, tail tucked close so it wouldn’t be stepped on. Her ears drew looks. Children stared openly. Some adults stared longer than they should have. But Kurosawa’s slums were full of oddities. People grew used to her. She became known. The girl with the tail who sold bugs. The girl who could tell you what kind of beetle you’d found in your garden just by glancing at it.
As she grew older, her skill sharpened. She remembered habitats, seasons, patterns. She could track an insect population through back alleys and rooftop gardens with unsettling precision. Scholars began to visit their stall. So did collectors with more coin than kindness. Hachi didn’t always recognize the difference. Her uncle watched over her quietly. He corrected her gently when she underpriced something. He reminded her to count change twice. He never spoke ill of her father. He never spoke of the clan.
When she was twelve, he began coughing. At first, it was manageable. He worked through it, though more slowly. Hachi picked up the slack without being asked. She negotiated with customers, wrote simple receipts, handled deliveries alone. The cough deepened. His hands trembled when mounting specimens. Medicine cost more than they could spare.
Hachi worked harder. She took on additional errands. She accepted low-paying jobs she should have refused. She learned which apothecaries would extend credit and which would not. She forgot meals. She forgot sleep. But she did not forget to feed the Kikai or tend to their stock. By fourteen, her uncle could no longer rise from his futon without help. She managed everything. The stall. The printing. The rent. She moved through Kurosawa with a coin purse tied tightly at her waist and dark circles under her silver eyes. He died in late autumn.
There were no grand rites. No clan representatives came. Hachi sat beside him until his breathing stopped and then sat a while longer, ears drooping flat against her hair. She did not cry loudly. She handled the arrangements herself. Afterward, the stall remained open for a time. She tried. She really did. But fourteen was young to run a business alone, and Kurosawa was not gentle with young girls, even ones with a reputation. By sixteen, she had sold off the printing equipment. The preserved insects went next. Finally, the stall itself. She drifted.
Tea Country was wide beyond Kurosawa’s walls. Hachi took odd jobs—courier work, pest control, assisting herbalists who needed specific insects harvested without damage. She kept her Kikai healthy, tending to them with more consistency than she tended to herself. She slept wherever she could. Some weeks were good. Others were not. Coin came and went. At seventeen, she made the choice that seemed practical. Mercenary work paid.
It did not require lineage or loyalty. It did not demand permanent ties. It offered coin in larger amounts than she could earn selling beetles, and she had grown tired of barely scraping by. She was not particularly good at fighting. Her instincts were sharper with insects than with blades. She learned to rely on her Kikai for reconnaissance. She learned to take jobs that suited her strengths—tracking, infiltration, information gathering. She avoided contracts that required brute force. She counted her pay carefully.
Hachi never returned to Kurosawa for long. The city remained in the back of her mind—its narrow streets, its markets, the small stall that once smelled of ink and pinned wings. She carries coin now with a little more weight in her purse. She still pauses when she sees a rare beetle glinting in the grass. Her ears still tilt toward the hum of insects before she notices the hum of danger. She was born marked by two bloodlines—Tanuki and Aburame—and rejected by one. Raised in poverty by a man who chose her anyway. Shaped by loss early and often. She does not dwell on it. There is work to do. And somewhere out there, something new is crawling just beneath the surface, waiting for her to notice it first.
Age: 18
Occupation: Mercenary
Bloodline: Aburame
Physical Description:
Hachi stands at 5'3", not especially tall. Her build is lean without being fragile, the kind shaped by movement rather than muscle, quick steps, easy balance, and a body that knows how to perch, crouch, or slip through narrow spaces without thinking about it. She looks comfortable at rest, even when she’s doing nothing at all. Her skin is pale, scattered with freckles across her cheeks and nose, and faintly along her shoulders and collarbone. They aren’t uniform or decorative; they look natural, like they’ve always been there, softening her features and giving her face a slightly sun-kissed contrast despite her light complexion. Her eyes are silver—clear and reflective, almost unreadable at first glance. They don’t glow or draw attention loudly, but when they catch the light, they feel sharp and observant, like she’s quietly cataloging everything around her. Hachi’s hair falls in uneven layers, a chestnut-brown shade that shifts toward auburn in brighter light. It’s thick but not heavy, with a slightly messy texture that never seems fully tamed. Some strands always slip loose, no matter how it’s worn, framing her face and brushing against her eyes. Her tanuki ears rise from the top of her head, matching her hair in color, soft at the edges and expressive in ways she doesn’t always bother to hide. When she’s relaxed, they tilt casually; when something catches her attention, they give her away before her expression does. Her tail is full and plush, the same warm brown as her hair, moving with an unthinking ease. It sways when she shifts her weight or settles when she’s still, more honest than her face ever is. Altogether, Hachi has a presence that feels easy to miss at first—but once noticed, it’s hard to forget, like someone who blends into the background by choice, not by accident.
Mental Description:
Hachi’s mind moves in short, quick bursts, hopping from one thought to the next with very little warning. She’s easy-going by nature, rarely tense or sharp around the edges, and she tends to meet the world with an open, unguarded curiosity. She likes simple comforts and small pleasures—coins clinking together in her palm, the shine of something valuable, the quiet thrill of finding a rare beetle tucked beneath a stone. She loves money, coins are shiny, and she likes having the security of having a lot of money. It means freedom, options, and the ability to follow whatever interest has caught her attention that day.
She is kind by default. Not loudly, not performatively, but in the way she instinctively gives people the benefit of the doubt. Malice doesn’t occur to her first, and sometimes not at all. This can make her slow to recognize when someone is being cruel or dishonest, especially when their words sound friendly on the surface. Conversations often leave her a step behind; jokes land late, sarcasm sometimes passes unnoticed, and subtle shifts in tone can slip right past her. She does her best to follow along, nodding and responding earnestly, even when she’s not entirely sure what she’s responding to.
Hachi’s focus is unpredictable. She forgets things easily—names, dates, why she walked into a room—but when something truly captures her interest, her attention locks in with startling intensity. Bugs, insects, and certain animals draw out a different side of her: precise, observant, and quietly brilliant. She remembers patterns, habitats, behaviors, tiny details others overlook. Around them, she becomes confident and articulate, hands moving as she explains, eyes sharp and engaged.
She isn’t absent-minded so much as selectively present, fully alive in the moments that matter to her. Hachi navigates the world in her own rhythm, sometimes out of step, but never without sincerity. Her heart is open, her interests narrow but deep, and while she may struggle to read people, she understands the living world around her with remarkable clarity.
History:
Hachi was born in Tea Country, in the great city of Kurosawa—a place of layered rooftops, narrow alleys, and streets that never quite slept. Kurosawa was known for its markets and trade routes, for ink-stained scholars and merchants who counted coin with quick hands. It was not known for miracles.
Her mother came from a long line of the Tanuki clan, a bloodline said to trace itself back to old forest spirits and the Tanuki gods. In their family, the traits did not always show. Most children were born ordinary. But every few decades, someone came into the world marked—ears atop their head, a tail at their back, proof that the blood had not thinned. It was rare enough to be spoken about in hushed tones, rare enough to be treated like a blessing or a warning, depending on who was doing the talking.
Hachi was born with both. Her father did not see a blessing. The delivery was difficult. Her mother bled more than the midwives expected. By the time the child cried, small and fierce, her ears pressed flat against her damp hair, her mother was already slipping. She never opened her eyes again.
Hachi’s father, a man from a branch of the Aburame clan, stood over the newborn and saw brown ears where there should have been none. A tail curled instinctively at her back. He saw betrayal before he saw lineage. He saw proof of an affair he could never confirm, because the one person who could answer him lay still and silent. Grief turned into suspicion. Suspicion hardened into resentment.
He refused to claim her. He said little publicly. The Aburame branch he came from dealt in insects and trade, not politics, and they preferred their matters quiet. But in private he made it clear: the child was not his, and even if she was, she had taken his wife from him. He would not raise her.
It was his younger brother who stepped forward. Hachi never learned her uncle’s given name. To her, he was simply Uncle. He was quieter than her father, thinner, and less respected within the clan. When he took the infant into his arms, ears and tail and all, it was not dramatic. There was no speech. He simply said he would take responsibility.
The clan did not approve. Taking in a child publicly rejected by her own father, especially one rumored to be born of infidelity, was not wise. The fact that she bore visible Tanuki traits only complicated matters. Whispers spread. Her uncle did not argue. He did not defend himself. He left.
He walked out of the clan compound carrying a swaddled infant and never returned. They settled in the slums of Kurosawa, where roofs sagged and alleyways stayed damp even in summer. It was there that her uncle officially gave her a name. Hachi. Eight. A small, simple name. Easy to write. Easy to call out across a market stall.
Life was not kind, but it was steady in its own way. Her uncle worked wherever he could—odd labor, courier work, assisting in insect cultivation for merchants who didn’t ask too many questions. Money came and went in uneven waves. A child made it harder. He could not travel far. He could not take on dangerous jobs. So he built something small.
Using his Aburame training, he began collecting and preserving rare insects. Not just common beetles, but unusual specimens—bright-winged moths, iridescent scarabs, intricate cicadas. He taxidermied them carefully, mounted them in small frames, and sold them to collectors and scholars. Alongside them, he hand-printed small books. Guides to insects. Field notes. Simple illustrations with careful annotations. He did not sign them with his clan name.
When Hachi was still very young, he implanted her with Kikai. It was done quietly, without ceremony. She was too small to understand what it meant, only that afterward there was a new sensation inside her—a hum beneath her skin, a presence that did not frighten her. The insects responded to her naturally. Perhaps it was her bloodline, perhaps her temperament. She took to them without hesitation.
By five, she was working. Not in heavy ways. She caught beetles in jars. She learned how to coax insects out of hiding without crushing them. She ran small deliveries through the market, weaving between legs and carts, tail tucked close so it wouldn’t be stepped on. Her ears drew looks. Children stared openly. Some adults stared longer than they should have. But Kurosawa’s slums were full of oddities. People grew used to her. She became known. The girl with the tail who sold bugs. The girl who could tell you what kind of beetle you’d found in your garden just by glancing at it.
As she grew older, her skill sharpened. She remembered habitats, seasons, patterns. She could track an insect population through back alleys and rooftop gardens with unsettling precision. Scholars began to visit their stall. So did collectors with more coin than kindness. Hachi didn’t always recognize the difference. Her uncle watched over her quietly. He corrected her gently when she underpriced something. He reminded her to count change twice. He never spoke ill of her father. He never spoke of the clan.
When she was twelve, he began coughing. At first, it was manageable. He worked through it, though more slowly. Hachi picked up the slack without being asked. She negotiated with customers, wrote simple receipts, handled deliveries alone. The cough deepened. His hands trembled when mounting specimens. Medicine cost more than they could spare.
Hachi worked harder. She took on additional errands. She accepted low-paying jobs she should have refused. She learned which apothecaries would extend credit and which would not. She forgot meals. She forgot sleep. But she did not forget to feed the Kikai or tend to their stock. By fourteen, her uncle could no longer rise from his futon without help. She managed everything. The stall. The printing. The rent. She moved through Kurosawa with a coin purse tied tightly at her waist and dark circles under her silver eyes. He died in late autumn.
There were no grand rites. No clan representatives came. Hachi sat beside him until his breathing stopped and then sat a while longer, ears drooping flat against her hair. She did not cry loudly. She handled the arrangements herself. Afterward, the stall remained open for a time. She tried. She really did. But fourteen was young to run a business alone, and Kurosawa was not gentle with young girls, even ones with a reputation. By sixteen, she had sold off the printing equipment. The preserved insects went next. Finally, the stall itself. She drifted.
Tea Country was wide beyond Kurosawa’s walls. Hachi took odd jobs—courier work, pest control, assisting herbalists who needed specific insects harvested without damage. She kept her Kikai healthy, tending to them with more consistency than she tended to herself. She slept wherever she could. Some weeks were good. Others were not. Coin came and went. At seventeen, she made the choice that seemed practical. Mercenary work paid.
It did not require lineage or loyalty. It did not demand permanent ties. It offered coin in larger amounts than she could earn selling beetles, and she had grown tired of barely scraping by. She was not particularly good at fighting. Her instincts were sharper with insects than with blades. She learned to rely on her Kikai for reconnaissance. She learned to take jobs that suited her strengths—tracking, infiltration, information gathering. She avoided contracts that required brute force. She counted her pay carefully.
Hachi never returned to Kurosawa for long. The city remained in the back of her mind—its narrow streets, its markets, the small stall that once smelled of ink and pinned wings. She carries coin now with a little more weight in her purse. She still pauses when she sees a rare beetle glinting in the grass. Her ears still tilt toward the hum of insects before she notices the hum of danger. She was born marked by two bloodlines—Tanuki and Aburame—and rejected by one. Raised in poverty by a man who chose her anyway. Shaped by loss early and often. She does not dwell on it. There is work to do. And somewhere out there, something new is crawling just beneath the surface, waiting for her to notice it first.