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Chapter Text

Amaya marks her page with a finger, twisting her head to peer curiously out her window, where a hawk cries. Her golden curls fall past her shoulder blades, damp from the shower she just emerged out of. The bird caws again, a message taped against it’s leg.

Sunlight streams through the window, nourishing exactly twenty-three plants sitting inside of her living room. September’s mornings are still bright enough where the sun warms her apartment up, rising early and providing the exact type of reading light Amaya prefers.

She rises, leaving her romance on the couch to unlatch the the window, letting the bird hop inside. It coos as she runs her fingers down it’s wings, plucking the message out from the compartment attached to it’s skinny foot. Amaya pauses, tilting her head. Why would she receive anything? She’s been off the mission roster for years now, and was taking a much needed break from her full-time rounds at the hospital. It was quite unusual for her to receive a summons. Figures her luck warranted a break from the break she was supposed to receive two weeks ago.

The hawk cries once more, taking off into the sky as it flies north– towards the Hokage’s Tower. Amaya sighs mournfully, and resigns herself to a day of ninja-ness.

She unravels the scroll, skimming it, mouth tugged downwards. The message seems written hastily, in Lady Tsunade’s curved script, asking her to come to the tower as fast as possible. She rolls it up, burning it with a snap of fire chakra that lights her fingers ablaze. She dresses herself, tying her navy blue forehead protector on, pushing her side bangs out of the way. 

Chuunin vest, white lab coat, black cargos, blue sandals, gloves, and the standard weapons pouch later, she exits her modest apartment, saying goodbye to her plants and fat tabby cat sat in a strip of sunlight.

Amaya leaps across rooftops, brick tiles clinking underfoot. Her mind races. Why would the Hokage call on her? Was there an emergency at the Hospital? Is she being sent on a mission? 

Dread pools in her gut at that specific thought as the tower arches over her, casting long shadows down Konoha. It’s incredibly unlikely she is being sent on a mission, which calms her racing heart down. Still, she was looking forward to a day of nothing, kicking her feet up, getting caught up to her recent romcom-novel-turned-soap-opera-that-has-three-new-books-that-she-has-not-touched-because-working-twenty-hour-shifts-are-apparently-the-norm.

Princess Hoshiko was the obsession of any kunoichi with taste, in her opinion. A daring and beautiful princess, a love triangle between a prince and a rugged bodyguard– set in Feudal-era Land of Fire mixed with spiritual elements. It’s really the best romance on the market. She wonders if Lady Tsunade had read it.

The Uchiha Guards stationed outside of the tower nod to her as she jogs in, signaling to the receptionist to let her up. Eyes bore into her, angry, waiting ninja sitting in leather seats fuming that Lady Tsunade has not seen them yet, despite the three pre-appointments and five rescheduling-s. As she goes up the long, winding staircase, clamoring grows– the louder the higher she ascends. Muffled yells, the sounds of things breaking, and cries of pain reverberates through the walls. Her heart races again.

Amaya approaches the firmly shut door, two ANBU standing out in the hall. ANBU Crow salutes her, black curls tightly wound sticking out of his head. Thick strands cover the tops of his ears, curling around the nape of his neck.

She wrangles her heart rate under control and narrows her eyes at him, “are you going to take a kunai to your hair again or go to a hairdresser?” She asks, putting her hands on her hips.

He bursts into laughter, a gloved hand flying up to tangle and tug at the strands covering his ears, “I don’t really know yet,” Crow says sheepishly, “I guess it’s been a while.”

He smiles lopsidedly behind his mask, ANBU companion radiating amusement. She figures that her joke helped clear the somewhat tense air, and relaxes slightly. The moment didn’t last long when a crash sounds behind the closed door, then a muffled scream. Amaya winces, “how bad is it?”

“Well–” Crow intones, elongating the vowel, cocking his head, “we have to order a new desk.” Something shatters. “Probably fix some windows, too. Brace yourself.”

“Right,” Amaya mutters, shaking her limbs out and schooling her face into apathy. ANBU Pigeon opens the door for her, and she enters Lady Tsunade’s office and the turmoil within it. Immediately, her sandals crunch across broken glass, the door shutting behind her with a deafening slam.

“–IMBECILES, IMBECILES I TELL YOU!” Lady Tsunade roars. She stomps her foot so hard that cracks spiderweb through the wooden flooring and up the ceiling. The entire Hokage‘s Tower shudders as she growls and throws a chair at the wall, it’s legs breaking.

Amaya pales a few shades lighter, thoughts racing. It’s rare for Lady Tsunade to get this upset– incidents mostly occurring from the Elder Council harping over some stupid thing, or a foreign delegate being difficult. The last council meeting was a week ago, and Konoha wasn’t establishing any new trade, so it couldn’t be because of that.

Shizune holds Tonton in her arms as she tries to calm the rampaging Hokage down. Lady Tsunade grabs a crystal glass, chucking it at the wall again. A nin blurs, dodging the follow-up glassware as an expensive-looking bottle of gin splashes against the concrete and dribbles down to the floor.

“How STUPID can ELITE SHINOBI be?!” She yells, launching her desk with a mighty kick. It splinters before it even hits it’s intended target, wood flying in different directions. The dust settles, Lady Tsunade’s pants echo through the destruction as she puts her head in her hands. Amaya stares, completely unharmed. Shizune sighs by the window, not a hair out of place. Tonton oinks.

“Shizune,” Lady Tsunade says tiredly, pointing a painted fingernail to the door, “get me the tequila that the Kazekage gifted me last month, the one with the poem about the sand– it should be in my quarters, in the cooler.”

Shizune hurries off, sandals clacking as she shoots Amaya a grimace and a mouthed, ‘sorry.’

“And three glasses! The one in the fancy Suna set!” Tsunade yells behind her. The door closes. “That bottle better be the best thing I’ve ever tasted,” she mutters, glaring at the ANBU who materializes in front of Amaya with a replacement floor mat. Tsunade grabs it, placing it in the middle of the room and sitting down cross-legged as the ANBU disappears. It re-appears with two more, dropping them, and leaving.

Tentatively, Amaya approaches, using her foot to move some debris to the side, kneeling on the cushion. She bows respectfully, rising, “is everything all right, Lady Hokage?”

“No,” she grouches flatly, waving Shizune over as she returned with a bottle and three glasses. Shizune kneels on her respective mat, beside the Hokage, placing down three crystal glasses. Cacti and flowers bloom across the silverware, iridescent when the light hits. The bottle is decorated similarly, intricate kanji detailing down the neck of the bottle. Lady Tsunade uncaps it with a flick of her chakra-coated thumb, the bottle hissing, smoke pouring out of the top as she pours all three of them a glassful of multi-million ryo alcohol.

“Soft tranquility,” Amaya blurts into the silence, green eyes sparkling, lifting her glass, “burrowing beneath the sand, a scorpion sang. It’s a famous Suna poem, written by a shinobi after the Second Ninja War when the only thing that remained after the battlefield were families of scorpions crawling over corpses.”

“There better not be scorpions in my sake,” Lady Tsunade says sourly, taking a large swig.

Shizune smiles, nodding, “the Kazekage said that there are only a handful of bottles existing, since the poet fermented his own alcohol in batches meant only for himself. When he died, and they found the alcohol, and then the poem– the drinks were refined in a brewery and left beneath the sand to deepen the flavor.”

Amaya examined the clear liquid, a golden tint radiating off of it’s reflections. She sets it down with a clink. “It’s a delicacy. My mom had a sip once, and she said it was like tasting the purest water from an oasis.”

Shizune laughs, “I don’t think I could compare any sort of alcohol to water, but I can see her vision.”

Lady Tsunade gathers her bearings, pinning Amaya with a hard look, ignoring their small conversation, “I’m assigning you on a mission.” 

Amaya recoils slightly, her mouth drying up. Oh God– this was everything she was afraid of– and with that thought, her palms started shaking. It could be non-combative, she tells herself, before nodding, a knit in her brow. Lady Tsunade continues, “I know you’ve been largely off the roster, but this is a very special mission. One I just made on the spot, actually. Ideally, my apprentice would take this, but she’s far too young, so it’s going to you.”

Amaya nods slowly again. Lady Tsunade plucked her glass and swallows the amber alcohol in that one too, setting it down. “You’ve been under Hyuuga Junko’s thumb for a few years now, so you’re competent enough not to step on our Chief of Surgery’s toes. Upon completion, you’ll be promoted to Jounin, and given compensation equivalent to an S-Rank.”

What? Amaya blinks rapidly, “I–”

“I don’t want to hear an argument,” Lady Tsunade says, drinking out of the bottle as Shizune nurses her glass, “all I want to hear is, yes ma’am.”

Amaya swallows, “yes ma’am.”

“Good. Now– the exact parameters are up in the air, since I just came up with this exactly five minutes ago. You will be required to instruct the ANBU corps in first-aid and medical-ninjutsu. The duration will be up to you, and you’ll still be working in the hospital with reduced shifts to accommodate your mission. Keep it under a year, though, okay? We’re not as short-staffed in the hospital as we once were, but it’s not exactly great.”

She nods again, “I…understand?”

Lady Tsunade pours Shizune another glass, “Fujiwara Amaya, do you accept this mission as outlined above?”

“I do, Lady Hokage. I accept.” Amaya bows once more, hands flat underneath her. '‘Although, I’m a little confused,” she continues, rising, “I was under the impression that ANBU already had sufficient first-aid skills.”

“Apparently not,” Lady Tsunade growls, shooting the wall a dark look. She takes another sip of the sake, cheeks coloring, “there is currently only one medical-nin in the ANBU ranks, with a total of twenty active members and ten on rotation.”

That meant– one per thirty? That was completely absurd, and– made a lot more sense why most ANBU barrel into the hospital and stay for a total of three hours before disappearing. 

Though they recruited from all ranks, ANBU was elite of the elite, the best of the best, handling hard, soul-crushing missions that would be suicide for your run-of-the-mill Jounin. One Medic per thirty people was downright a death sentence. Amaya knows Medics are invaluable, which is why she believes that every shinobi should have basic training.

“There are some more ANBU on standby, but they’re not active right now, so they’re not important to your mission. Hopefully, with your assistance, we’ll be able to lower the death rate per mission from fifty-six percent to somewhere around the twenties,” Shizune adds, smiling hopefully when Amaya sends her a dismayed look. Fifty-six? FIFTY-SIX?

Lady Tsunade assesses Amaya with a hard look, snapping her attention back, “I wouldn’t assign this to someone I didn’t think was competent enough to handle it,” she says firmly, “you’re the first person who ever said no to me girl, I haven’t forgotten that. You’ve got a backbone of steel, you won’t crumple under the nin in ANBU.”

Why… would she crumple? Amaya’s face seems to betray that emotion as Shizune interjects with a weak laugh, ”you’ll be just fine, Fujiwara. Just think of it like teaching your new hires.”

Amaya nods hesitantly, unconvinced. Lady Tsunade waves her hand, muttering something under her breath too low for her to hear as she rose, bowing at the waist once for good measure.

“Shizune, fill out form QF-five, put in a repair order, and get the ANBU Commander and Owl in here,” Lady Tsunade barks, tipping back the last of the tequila, “and tell Rasa to bring more damn Tranquility!”

Shizune gets up with a bow, setting her glass down, and scurrying out of the office. Amaya leaves beside her as they part with a smile and a wave.

Heading out of the Tower, Amaya winces when sunlight hits her face, blinding her momentarily. She blinks it out of her eyes, raising up an arm to shield herself. Chatter and movement bustles around her as she enters the merchant district, heading down the main cobblestone road back home.

She still has most of the day to herself, which is nice. A smile ghosts her lips as she figures she’ll still get some reading time before her shift tomorrow. Amaya figures that Shizune or Lady Hokage would inform Junko about her hour change, though it’s up in the air whether she’ll go in soon. A lot of details are going to be ironed out, so she’ll have to play it by ear. Still.

Amaya’s smile fades, gut churning with anticipated dread. She has no idea what she got herself into, and the anxiety feels like it might kill her. Civilians move around her, parents and children, vendors and laughter. She ducks into an alleyway, the shade providing a reprieve from the garish sun, using a shortcut to access a smaller, side-road.

Down the side road was conveniently Amaya’s favorite sweets shop as she enters, the bell chiming softly.

An iced coffee later, with triple the amount of the lethal dose of chocolate syrup– Amaya starts heading home. She takes a sip.

“You are being summoned–”

Amaya jumps, whirling around and chucking her cup with all of her Chuunin-induced strength at the man who just– appeared out of thin air. It explodes against his chest, cap flying off into the air as coffee and ice slide down his mask, armored torso, and cloth pants.

“What the hell?!” She cries.

Amaya stares, horrified, arm still outstretched as the ANBU stares at her silently. His mask is painted in black and white, swirls and shapes creating an animal that’s frankly beyond her. An ice cube falls out of his sleek, black hair.

“You are being summoned,” he says again, voice distorted. The cube clatters to the ground, followed by the cup, and then the lid, “by the ANBU Commander. Tomorrow, at HQ, oh-seven-hundred hours.”

“I am so sorry,” Amaya blurts, cheeks coloring, retracting her arm, “oh my God, I hope that washes out– I– I’m really sorry. Um.”

He stares at her for a moment, “I was under the impression that you were a sensor.”

Amaya’s cheeks color a darker red, “well– I am, kind of.”

The ANBU nods, “I understand. You are incompetent, then.”

“I–” she recoils, “excuse me?”

“You are a sensor, and yet I startled you,” the man says slowly, as if he’s speaking to a small child, “your files indicate that you have been off-duty for long, you did not throw a weapon at me, nor did you enter a defensive stance. Ergo,” he finishes his thought like he’s summarizing a mission report, “you are not competent enough to finish this mission.”

Amaya frowns, “that’s– incredibly rude, you know. You don’t even…know me, or what I can do, and my file doesn’t count.” Her rebuttal sounds incredibly weak, even to her own ears, and she mentally kicks herself for not being more domineering.

The ANBU shrugs, “I do not care. Oh-seven-hundred hours at HQ to discuss your mission with the Commander.”

“Yeah, I heard you,” she grumbles, “wait– I don’t even know where HQ is.”

The man sighs, “we will send an escort then. Anything else?” His honeying tone sounds like a mocking one.

Amaya glares, “they don’t dry-clean armor, as far as I’m aware, asshole.”

The asshole in question pops, leaving a plumb of smoke in it’s wake. Shadow Clone. Amaya directs her glare to where he stood, turning back in a huff and stomping the rest of the way home. She sends a flicker of chakra to smooth out the flush her face started taking, relieved that she went down the side-road where there weren’t many people around to witness the embarrassing conversation.

Her walk home was uneventful. The second she shucks her sandals off, Amaya crouches down, pressing her hand flat to the floor, her other hand curled in ram. A thin film of chakra extends in all directions around her, painting her mind’s eye in hues of blue. A distinctly human-feeling thing sits perched up in the tree facing her apartment. Bored, earth-type. Water too, with a little bit of fire. 

Amaya lets the jutsu up, storming to her window, drawing her curtains shut. Where he couldn’t see her, she flips him off.

—

“Squid,” the Commander booms, sitting at the head of a long table, salt-and-pepper hair curling around his jaw, “report.”

Seven ANBU sit in a dark, stoney room, white fluorescent lights rimming the top edge of the walls. Harsh shadows dance in the darkness, breaths puffing out in whispery white smoke. Squid, the eighth, kneeled by the Commander’s side.

Squid bows, “sir. I tailed the target, Fujiwara Amaya for thirty minutes after she left the Hokage’s Tower.” He rises, “she did not notice me, and I sent a clone to intercept her. She threw a refreshment at it.”

Crane snorts, blonde hair cascading down her back in waves. The Commander shoots her a withering glare.

“She possesses sub-par awareness skills despite being having sensory abilities noted in her file. She also is likely non-lethal, since she did not pull out any sort of weapon after my clone startled her. This theory is also confirmed in her file since her last flagged mission with possible B-Rank and above threats was approximately ten years ago.” Squid says in a bland tone. “She has a soft temper and a strong proficiency for the medical arts, working under the Chief of Surgery's thumb for three years.”

“I don’t care for her healing,” the Commander says, blank mask stark against the painted animals sitting silently in their seats. “Tell me about her skills.”

Squid nods, bowing shallowly, “she possesses the rank of Chuunin. She is classified as a genjutsu-type, and was promoted early at eight years. Her Genin squad is deceased, and she was shuffled between teams before given a field promotion at ten and assigned to the frontlines of the third Shinobi World War. In her reports, she learned medical ninjutsu on the field. She is proficient in the sensory arts, as well as medical ninjutsu. Her taijutsu is average, and her ninjutsu is average. She is of average intelligence.”

The Commander scoffs quietly, “average, huh? She won’t last a day, pity.” He waves his fingers, leaning forward, lacing them together, “dismissed, Squid.”

“Sir.” Squid disappears.

Owl sits down the left side of the table, the first one after the Commander. Her long, blue-black hair lies flat against her back as she shifts, “a competent healer is what ANBU needs.” Her voice rings like little bells, soft and melodic.

Boar crosses his meaty arms, short brown hair jutting out of his scalp, sitting across from her, “competent is the last thing she sounds like,” he says, voice low, “I’ve seen her running around, she’s a pipsqueak. I give her three days.”

“Are we betting?” Crow chirps from beside him, slouching in his chair, legs spread, one arm thrown across the back.

Crane rolls her eyes, sitting beside him with her long legs elegantly crossed, “please. Crow just got promoted, can we stop pretending his opinion is worth anything?”

“Wha– hey!”

She ignores him, turning her nose up, “besides, I agree with Boar. Medics are soft-hearted, and the soft-hearted don’t belong in ANBU.”

Owl narrows her eyes from behind her mask, turning to face Crane, “what does that mean?”

Crane waves her manicured hand, “ugh, you don’t count. You became a medic after ANBU, or something, and you have poisons to back you up. Fuji-whatever has nothing. She’s a bum, bland an inconsequential. I don’t even recognize that last name.”

The Commander shoots her a dark look, “excuse me?”

Crane holds her hands up, “I’m just saying she’s not a Clan kid. I seriously don’t think we should pretend that that’s not relevant– that much deceit seriously clogs my pores.”

“You seriously piss me off,” the Commander mocks, “watch what you say in front of me.”

She shrugs, backing off with a toss of her blowout.

Fish speaks up from beside Owl, purple hair cut in a sort of a choppy shag, “I think learning first aid would be beneficial. Owl is always overworked and under appreciated–”

“Thanks,” she says softly.

“–so most of us learning how to heal should bring down our fatality rate.”

Crane squints, leaning forward with a tilt of her blonde head, “I forget, are you guys like– fucking? Or something?”

Fish recoils as Boar chuckles. The Commander rolls his eyes in tandem with Crow.

“Enough,” he orders, the table falling silent, “you’re all squabbling like academy students. Crane, keep being mouthy and I’ll demote you. There are plenty of other candidates that could easily take your place.”

“Like Weasel!” Crow adds, ignoring the sharp glare that Crane shoots him.

Across from the Commander, sitting between an empty seat and Crane– at the other end of the table, is their seventh Captain. Largely not paying attention, Hound sits there, with his orange R-rated book in hand and tufts of silver hair shooting out of his scalp.

The Commander regards him with a keen eye, “I’m interested in your take, Hound.”

Hound tilts his head slightly, flipping a page, “Weasel would make an excellent captain,” he muses. 

Crow grins, Crane rolls her eyes, and the Commander huffs, “about Fujiwara, Hound.”

“Hm? Who?” He asks lazily, “she’s bland and inconsequential,” he continues, echoing Crane, turning another page in his book, “I’ve never heard of her, and medics piss me off as a rule.”

“Amen,” Boar murmurs.

“That makes you biased, then,” Crow says simply, “you hate medics as a rule, so you hate her as a rule. She could be different.”

Hound hums, “Do you know her, Crow?”

“In passing,” he answers honestly, “she’s nice, and good at what she does. Is it really so crazy to allow her to help us?”

Owl nods along, and Crane laughs, “funny how you’re suddenly the jury on crazy, Crow.”

He darkens, tensing, “now what the fuck does that mean?”

The temperature in the room plummets, all ANBU save for Hound jolting up in their seats. Crow goes still, cocking his head like a bird.

“Easy,” the Commander says sharply.

“No, no, I’m curious, Crane,” Crow continues, deceptively calm, “what exactly do you mean by that? Because–” his leg shoots out, kicking her chair out from under her. She flickers out of the way as it smashes into the opposing wall, shattering. At the sound, the rest of the ANBU jump into defensive positions, except Hound.

“Easy!” The Commander yells, cutting him off. “Everyone calm down! Crow, get your temper in control or I’ll kick you out of this meeting!”

Crow scoffs, clenching his fist. He brings it down on the table, hard, the sound reverberating through the room as the table trembles momentarily. Slowly, he forces himself to relax, slouching back into the seat. Crane takes the empty seat beside Fish.

After a moment, the rest of the ANBU relax as well. Hound turns a page, “tsk, touchy.”

Crow immediately tenses again. 

The Commander rubs at his mask tiredly, “I’m too old for this. Stand down, all of you.” Crow relaxes again, rolling his head back. The Commander suffers a sigh, “you’re all dismissed.” He disappears with a flurry of leaves in his wake, Crow following with a flicker.

Crane rolls her eyes just as he leaves, “what got his panties in a twist? What a baby. He’s such a fucking freak, you guys.”

“You’re a fucking freak,” Owl quietly shoots back.

Crane gasps, placing a pale hand on her chest, fingers splayed. “What a naughty word, Owl,” she mocks, falsely crooning, “do you need to be put in time out?”

Hound chuckles.

“Watch it,” Fish warns, getting up from his seat and blocking her view of Owl. Crane laughs.

“What are you, her little guard?” She asks.

“I don’t have time for this,” Boar mutters, looking like he’s deciding on whether to stay or leave. “How troublesome.” 

Hound puts his feet up on the table, reading leisurely as Fish’s shoulders hike.

“I’m serious!” Owl cries, gently side-stepping Fish. Her black hair gleams in the dim light, “really, guys! Do you know how sick I am of you people coming into the infirmary all bloody and bruised? How many people just– fucking die, because you guys are so thick headed that you won’t even consider learning medical ninjutsu?!”

“Boo hoo, bitch,” Crane scoffs.

Owl clenches her fists, “Fujiwara could change the entire course of ANBU, and you guys are so– so stupid– that you won’t even consider it!”

“Careful,” Hound warns, “choose your next words very carefully, Owl. I don’t appreciate being talked to like that.”

Owl laughs, “yeah? Well fuck you, Hatake.” She hisses, shrugging off Fish’s hand when it darts out to grab her elbow. She stalks forward, slamming her palm down on to the table. “You waltz in here– and start stirring up shit and drama, and expect us to just sit idly by?! How many times have you guys sent requests for medical assistance and I’ve been pulled out of my life to run at full speed to whatever minefield you’ve gotten yourselves into, and get yelled at for being late or being unable to completely heal all four squad members who have lethal injuries?!”
  
Hound looks up from his book, eye-hole spinning red. Boar looks away.

“How many times have you crawled into my office, eye pouring blood, as I have to heal it and monitor you coming off of a soldier pill crash because that STUPID, fucking eye, sucks all the chakra out of your BODY?!” She yells, “and I guess we’re all conveniently not mentioning that you have a fucking problem with those–”

Hound shoots up, book clattering on the table. Owl shuts her mouth, flinching backwards as he looms over them, taut tight like a bowstring. Nobody breathes as he stares her down, red eye spinning, spinning, spinning–

Boar gulps, “easy,” he says quietly. The spell breaks, and Hound looks less like he’s about to commit a murder spree, red glow disappearing.

Crane settles back into her skin, rolling her eyes with a shaky scoff, “we all have it rough, Owl.” She rebuts, “stop bitching and grow a pair. If you’re so upset, just resign. I’m sure the Hospital would love to have you clean up baby vomit for the rest of your life, though I’m sure you’d find a way to complain about that.” 

Fish looks like he’s about to defend her, but Crane barrels past that, “that was pathetic-ville, seriously. I have much better things to do with my time than listen to whatever this is.” She continues, shooting Hound a wary look before disappearing in a swirl of flowers.

Boar swallows, raising from his seat, “I think I’m going to go too. For your sake, Owl,” he addresses her, “I’m going to forget your little outburst.” He shakes his head with a mutter of ‘women’ under his breath, slinking into the shadows and out of sight.

Owl trembles, limbs shaking as Fish tentatively takes her elbows in his thin hands. Hound picks his book up, shutting it with a snap as they both turn to look at him, in defensive stances.

Fish snarls, “leave her alone.”

Hound raises an eyebrow, “I don’t remember doing anything,” he drawls in that light, airy, tone of his, “but while we’re on the subject–” he pockets his book, “–I won’t forget your little outburst, Owl,” he pauses, “see you.”

With a flash of lightning, he’s gone. Owl stares at his empty presence with a look of growing dread.

Chapter Text

“Hound,” the Commander says, beckoning him over from behind the tree line, shadows obscuring his mask. 

Team Ro spars silently in one of the more private training grounds, Tiger and Cat dueling while Hound and Weasel trade blows. At the Commander’s call, Weasel ceases, chest rising and falling as sweat beads his brow. Hound finds himself in a similar state, sheathing his sword.

Hound squeezes his Sharingan shut, grateful from the reprieve of it’s chakra drain and throbbing pulse. Already, he feels the poking of pain radiating up his eye socket and into his head. Seventeen hours post S-Rank with nothing in his body but six hours of interrupted sleep and two-thousand calories in the form of rations starts to take it’s toll on him.

“Don’t wait for me,” he states, out of breath, “spar with Tiger and Cat.” Weasel nods, exploding into a murder of crows. 

Hound turns to join the Commander behind the trunks, “what is it?”

“Come,” is all he says, in his deep, booming voice. Hound silently raises an eyebrow, dutifully following when the Commander leaps through the Hashirama trees without a moments hesitation. They take the slow route, some might even call it the scenic route– hugging Konoha’s inner wall where the trees grow the thickest and tallest.

The wind cards through Hound’s hair as he weaves through shadow, hidden out of sight. The Commander is only a whisper in front of him, flickering through the branches. Hound’s thighs burn– already protesting under the strain of a previous spar and demanding mission. Still, he persists.

Hitting the back wall, they scale up Konoha’s iconic rock, the Hokage Mountain. Up in the sky, Konoha’s twinkling lights look like millions of tiny stars. The cool breeze sends a shiver up Hound’s spine.

The Commander lands on Lord Second’s head, walking to where head meets cliff, doing a fast set of handseals and pushing his shoulder against the rock. A seal array lights up brilliant blue, the rock turning into intangible mush as the Commander slips in.

Hound repeats the motions, emerging out of the other end into a stoney hallway lit in fluorescent white.

“These lights are going to give me a migraine,” he comments in a loose tone, eyeing the flickering bulbs, following the Commander deeper into the ANBU tunnels.

The Commander glances back at him, mask glowing eerily, “everything gives you a migraine.”

Hound hums, okay asshole, pulling out an orange book. They walk through identical twisting hallways, before the Commander stops at a seeming dead end. He pushes his palm up against a stone brick, another seal array lighting up. The stones rumble, giving way to a little room.

Hound enters, the door crumbles shut. Warm, soft lamps shroud the room in a gentle glow, plush rugs and a mahogany desk littering the office. The Commander sits behind the neat desk, leather chair squeaking as the wheels roll back. Hound lounges on the sofa facing the desk. His shoulders relax upon the change of scenery, lone eye overworked.

“Unmask,” Yamamoto Riku says, placing his blank porcelain one on top of his desk, “I just had an interesting conversation with Lady Hokage.”

Kakashi clips his mask to his belt, revealing a narrow, dark eye– another pressed firmly shut as a jagged scar runs down and hides under his cloth mask. He feigns disinterest, flipping a page, “really?” He drawls in a tone that conveys how much he doesn’t care– “do tell.”

Riku’s weathered face sours, three, jagged scars cutting diagonally through his features. His brown eyes slant, salt and pepper hair thinning at the scalp. His face remains lighter than his arms, which  tan a golden brown.

He taps a finger, “one of the infiltration teams, Team Ma, got their ass chewed out by our Lady. Ostrich pulled out a sword stuck in their side– and bled to death. No one stopped him.” Riku says, pulling out a bloodied bird mask. It clatters on the table, a crack running down the middle. 

Kakashi lowers his book.  “Captain?” He asks. Riku waves his hand.

“Fired. We already hired a rookie and promoted another member to lead infiltration teams. Crow is getting the rookie, so I’m suspending his team for a week while they figure out harmony.” He pulls out a thick folder, shoving some papers around, sighing, “Lady Tsunade felt it appropriate to assign a Medic to ANBU, effective immediately.”

Kakashi scoffs, snapping his book shut. He leans forward, “this isn’t the kind of place for medics,” he narrows his eye, pinning Riku with a sharp look, “you’re not putting him on my team, are you?”

“Her.” Riku corrects, ignoring his low tone, “and no, she won’t be an active member.” He ignores Kakashi’s mutter of thank God as well, and continues, “it seems like Ostrich’s death was the last straw. Lady Hokage has given the medic full control of the mission, and she’s starting tomorrow.”

Kakashi puts his book away, “it’s the Nara, isn’t it? Nara…Shikahirano? Shikarano? She’s been begging Shikaku to recommend her for ANBU.” At Riku’s blank look, he clarifies, “the one who works in the antidote department, under Shizune.”

The Commander shakes his head, “she works under Hyuuga Junko in the ER. Fujiwara Amaya.”

Kakashi leans back, humming thoughtfully. “I’ve never heard of her. Though– Junko is good.”

Riku watches him with dark eyes. “I have Squid tailing her.” He doesn’t bother to agree or disagree or even comment on Kakashi’s statements, “I’m planning on breaking the news to the other Captains come twilight. Team Tsu is due in an hour, so Fish will be in attendance. Owl has been briefed as well.”

“Who will represent Protection? Chinchilla retired two weeks ago.”

“Off topic,” Riku mutters, rummaging through his drawers. He pulls out a cigarette and reaches over his desk to Kakashi. Kakashi leans forward, sparks flying between his fingers as he lights the Commander’s cigarette, “but no one.” Riku leans back, a puff, “I’ve shuffled responsibility for missions that would normally go under that department around. Gaurd, Tracking, and a little bit of Infiltration will start handling that. Be prepared for joint missions and less pay.”

“Great,” Kakashi says flatly, ignoring the wisps of smoke drifting into the air. His nose threatens to twitch underneath his cloth mask, “why liquidate?”

Riku shakes his head, “not enough full-time members– nor a new department head. If the medic manages to lower the death rate enough that we can rebuild that sector, I’ll assign a new Captain.”

“Medics don’t belong in ANBU,” Kakashi repeats, “all of them are non-combative in a field where combat is extremely necessary– except for our Lady. They’re dead weight.” He lets his argument sit before tsking, “now, a no-name medic without a Clan standing? That’s just cruel.”

Riku knits his brow, displeased, “birthright is not a marker of strength.” He exhales a cloud of smoke, cigarette glowing in the dim light, “you should know that better than anyone, considering who your sensei is.”

Kakashi raises a brow, “Lord Fourth had standing with the Toad Sage, as well as Uzumaki sponsorship,” he points out, “you should know better than anyone that birthright absolutely has everything to do with power, Senju Riku.”

“Hey!” The Commander growls, eyes flashing. His lip curls, scar stretching, “watch it, son. Blood has nothing to do with destiny, do you understand?”

Kakashi scoffs, watching Riku’s ugly expression. “I am not your son, sir. I grew out of being a little boy years ago.”

“No? Then why do you keep acting like one? Your reputation precedes you, Friend-Killer Kakashi, and your behavior is doing nothing to dissuade the ideas that you’re a cold, ruthless murderer.”

“I am a cold, ruthless murderer,” he replies slowly, hand curling into a tight fist, “piss me off enough, and they’ll find out.”

The Commander huffs, taking a long drag of his cigarette. “The day you drop that emo hipster tough guy attitude is the day I rejoice.”

Silence blankets them like a tidal wave. Riku relaxes, dropping his expression into one of neutrality. Kakashi follows, leaning back into the cushions. A pillow digs into his back. 

“You need to leave ANBU.” Riku continues quietly, pulling out a stack of papers.

“You don’t have the authority to kick me out.”

Riku thumbs through them, “no,” he agrees, “I don’t. Try and keep things civil in our later meeting. I doubt Fujiwara will last a week, but not because you all pushed her out, but because she’s too weak to handle Lady Hokage’s demands. If she succeeds– well, then we’ll promote a new Captain and reinstate the Protection Department.”

Kakashi nods, “anyone on the shortlist?”

“Cat, Panther, Bear and Weasel,” he responds, “in order of significance. Truth be told, I only put Weasel on the list because you and Crow endorse him. He’s a follower.”

Kakashi hums. Weasel– is an interesting shinobi. Extremely proficient, a competent fighter, enough to rival Kakashi himself on bad days– which– let’s face it, is all days. Strong bloodline, sharp decision making skills, quick on his feet and compassionate enough to look at scenarios in multiple different ways. Biggest flaw, he doesn’t like to kill. People normally don’t like to kill, but Weasel has a huge issue completing premeditated murders, to the point where he’s got a perma-ban on any Assassination missions. 

Another glaring flaw, he isn’t a leader.

Weasel could come up with a plan in under a minute, with a detailed and thorough execution that left almost nothing to chance– with one major issue. It was his plan. His skillset, his mindset. When left with three subordinates, they were left to twiddle their thumbs.

Crow on the other hand, well. Kakashi sometimes hopes that whatever churns in Crow’s head rubs off on Weasel a little, with how much they’re glued at the hip. Only a little, though. Just enough where Weasel can reap the benefits without being weighed down by the consequences.

Kakashi doesn’t bother to let Riku know of his agreement, shrugging, “we’ll see.”

The Commander rubs at the bridge of his nose, “you’ve mellowed out in your old age, Kakashi. That doesn’t mean you’re not a supreme pain in my ass.”

Kakashi’s eye crinkles up, “you don’t supremely piss me off anymore, so we’ll call it even,” he stands up, unclipping his mask and sliding it back on to his face. Riku scoffs. Kakashi continues, “oh and– a world of advice. Retire.”

Riku puts his cigarette out, “I will,” he says tiredly, “once you’ve grown up, Hound. Now get the hell out of my office before I demote you.”

Leaves swirl. Kakashi’s gone.

—

After blowing a Chidori-sized hole into the one girl who had probably ever loved him– Kakashi went into ANBU. It took a hop, skip and a jump, that is– getting all of the other Jounin to complain about him in missions, to the point where Minato-sensei got sick of it and booted him off into the darkness. 

Probably the best thing to ever happen to him.  It wasn’t a very high bar, but getting two of his friends killed didn’t make for a bar, really.

ANBU was great. There were a few weeks of mandated vacation, one week off per S-Rank and three weeks per botched S-Rank. Kakashi would make it four days and eleven hours before flickering back into HQ and demanding a mission. Riku was relatively young at that time, and did a no-no by hiding from Minato-sensei just how much Kakashi was on the field. Why he did that? Kakashi doesn’t care. Minato eventually found out, got pissed, fired him, re-hired him, fired him again, and then retired. 

Lady Tsunade re-hired him because of nepotism, or something.

Slowly, Kakashi garnered a reputation. Whether that reputation was good or bad– well, who fucking cared? Most of his subordinates died messy deaths from cursed missions, botched intel, and– well, Kakashi had a temper. He never outright killed any of his ANBU, but most of them probably wished they were dead. They were like that before Kakashi, though, he swears.

Hound is a department head. He oversees all of the Tracking missions, leading infamous Team Ro on suicide missions hunting men whose trails had gone cold. He lives, breathes, and eats ANBU. A calling found. Purpose created.

Kakashi was the boy who killed his two best friends.

It was plain and simple which one was more useful. Besides, Hound never let anything personal hinder him in the field. Never ever.

“Fuck!”

Ever.

A kunai slides between his ribs, ripping right through his armor as Weasel startles, “apologies.” He drops his weapon, flickering a short distance away, “I expected you’d dodge that.”

Hound glares at him, one hand wrapped around the hilt of the knife. Weasel seems to realize his mistake– rude ass kid, and bows deeply at the waist.

Sat against a tree ten seconds ago, Cat and Tiger hurry over, water in hand, food discarded. Cat’s got his chopsticks held like kunai, glinting in the low light of the moon. Tiger points with his water bottle, “is it life-threatning?”

Hound settles his glare on Tiger, “no,” he snarls, ripping the knife out. Blood gushes out of the wound, dampening his underarmor. He presses a gloved hand against the open wound, blood coating his palm.

Tiger stares, “well– if it wasn’t then, it totally is now.”

Weasel stares at the bloody knife in Hound’s hand with a pinched expression hidden behind his mask, “I shall inform Owl,” he says tightly, exploding into a murder of crows.

“Y’know, I’ll never get used to that,” Tiger comments, cutting off Hound’s scathing response.

Cat frowns, “Captain, you’re not supposed to remove objects that have been inserted in you.” Tiger stifles snickers, “You are now bleeding freely. Which is bad.”

Hound clamps his eye shut, falling into a crouch, one knee on the grass, “fuck off, both of you,” he growls. He palms his side before exhaling a curse, “I need bandages and blood replenishing pills.”

Cat follows, dropping back on his haunches to help Hound apply pressure to his wound, his hands immediately bat away with a red-tipped glare.

Tiger presents his med kit with a poof of a storage seal, fingers curled around his wrist scrawled blue. Hound snatches the box from midair, latch flying open and materials spilling onto the grass. Cat moves upwards, and unbuckles the straps of Hound’s armor instead, loosening it to help with access.

Tiger watches Hound rummage through his supplies with a little bit of dismay. A roll of previously clean bandages roll sadly across the grass, “what happened to your kit?” He asks, wincing underneath Hound’s fiery gaze.

Hound grunts, putting a bottle of antiseptic between his knees and unscrewing the cap, dumping almost half of it into a cotton pad. Tiger grimaces as he presses a cotton pad soaked with alcohol on the wound, “empty. Used the last of my supplies last mission.” Cat shoots him a look by his head as his hands pry apart the plates of Hound’s armor. Hound ignores it.

Tiger’s face scrunches up, “didn’t you just create a new one?”

“You sound like someone who isn’t doing enough laps,” Hound threatens, singular eye trained on Tiger. Under his nose, Cat swipes the not-quite empty bottle of Tiger’s soldier pills from behind a few blades of grass. He slips it into his pocket without a sound. Hound continues, turning back to his side, “quit the questions.”

“Aye, aye,” Tiger murmurs, dutifully shutting up. A crow caws, and Weasel materializes with Owl in tow. Leaves fall to the ground as she snaps to attention, dropping into a crouch. Her hair fans behind her, shining in the low light.

“What happened?” She asks, hands glowing green. Hound elbows her as she approaches, protecting his side.

“Nothing,” he says, sounding like he’s trying not to nip at her, “I’m taking care of it,” he mutters, blinking back a wince as his cotton pad bleeds a bright red, “It’s shallow.”

“I stabbed him,” Weasel offers, ignoring Hound’s sharp look. “It was with non-augmented strength and a standard kunai. I estimate I went in deep enough where the wound will require stiches.”

Grass crunches as her heels dig into the soft dirt. Owl nods, her blue-black hair fluttering. She addresses Hound with a soft yet strong tone, “move your hands, Hound, I need to see the wound.”

Hound resists snapping at her with his teeth and protects his side with his entire body. Cat tumbles backwards as his balance is compromised, landing on his ass. “I said I’m fine,” Hound hisses, “I’ve already stitched it up. Do you really believe I’d do a shitty suture job?”

“I can see you’re still bleeding freely,” she says flatly, pointing to the red staining the edges of his gloves and dribbling down his side. ”You removed an object that was preventing you from bleeding out, breaking the very first rule of first-aid.”

“I thought that was do no harm,” Tiger quips, ignoring the compound glare Weasel and Owl shoot him.

Owl crosses her arms, “listen, I won’t even touch you,” she says, “I’ll hover. I’ve got enough chakra to patch you completely without skin contact, alright? Let me do my job, and you can do yours.”

“I strongly advise cooperating with our Medic,” Weasel offers.

Hound scoffs, “so now you own a backbone?”

Weasel bristles, and Owl snaps, “I don’t have time for this.”

She shoots up to her feet, armor glinting. The soft green glow that paints the edges of her avian mask recede, “if you need assistance,” she starts slowly, tone dark, “you know where to find me.”

“Owl–”

Owl disappears, fresh, green leaves swirling in the gentle wind. Weasel stares at where she once stood with a frown, fingers outstretched. The shadows loom around them, thick and viscous. Hound huffs, replacing the bloodied cotton pad with another. Cat sifts through the grass for Tiger’s suture kit in silence.

“Where are your soldier pills?” Hound asks, taking the little plastic box from Cat. He opens it with one deft hand, the plastic rattling.

Tiger shrugs, “I ran out.”

A line of– yes, shitty sutures, and the wound closes. Hound’s legs shake as he tries to get up, and Team Ro pretends not to notice. They’re dismissed quickly after that, and Weasel already has his mask halfway off.

Itachi waits for Shisui in his childhood home, the edges of rosewood beams curling from decades past. Chakra runs through the wood, humming beneath fibers. Itachi looks up into the corner of the house where a particular clump almost glows.

It’s a house that harbors ghosts. Not even Shisui lives here anymore, and Itachi sometimes feel them walk past him, inducing a shudder and fingers trailing down his spine.

He puts the disastrous training session into the recesses of his mind, fists curling into tight fists. The moonlight streams through the firmly shut window, highlighting the severity lining his young face. He turns back towards staring blankly at the carpeted floor, sitting on a modern couch.

A figure blurs past him.

Itachi startles as Shi– Crow barrels into the kitchen, Body-Flicker sloppy as he misses and slams into his marble countertop.

“Stupid– fucking–” Crow cruses, stumbling back, rubbing his armor. “Almighty– who the hell does she think she is?!” He rants into the open air, stomping through his childhood home, “I hate her!”

Itachi gets up from his position sitting on the couch, “I heard the meeting went poorly.”

Crow seems to notice him as he scoffs, slapping at the lightswitch. Itachi isn’t fooled. Crow knew he was here the moment his feet crossed the decades old protective seals keeping the house standing. The bulbs overhead flicker, before dousing the room in bright, oppressive light. Itachi winces.

“I HATE her,” Crow continues, his painted mask glowing white, “I’d kill her if I’d get away with it! She’s so– FUCK!”

Before he can do something stupid like cause a cave-in in his house, Itachi reaches over and grabs Crow’s upper arm. The reaction is instantaneous, Crow steps back, tugs his arm down to destabilize him, and curls his other hand into a fist. Itachi breaks his hold and catches the swing. His bangs flutter back with the force of the punch.

Crow sags, letting his weight fall forward as Itachi catches him gently, “ugh, sorry,” he mumbles, voice distorted behind the mask, “she’s just so– so– I really hate her! Really!” He shoves Itachi back by the shoulders roughly, “I mean– she called me crazy, Itachi, crazy! I’m not crazy, I’m NOT!”

Itachi catches himself before he stumbles, “Crane?”

Crow’s shoulders hike, “fucking– YES! Gods, I would fucking–” He slaps his palms over his mask and screams into them. 

Itachi shoots him a sympathetic expression, “I’m sorry.”

Crow drops his hands, “the meeting went as well as you think it did. There’s a lot of– fuck, a lot of shit that’s going to be changing– but, hey– whatever. I can’t wait until you can be instated as a Captain, it’ll get so much easier knowing that someone is gonna be on my side.”

“…right,” he replies, shifting his weight subtly, “perhaps we should continue this conversation over a plate of food,” Itachi suggests, “I provided–”

Crow waves his hands, “forget that, let’s fight. I’m too– jittery to do anything right now.”

Itachi frowns, looking at the clock in the upper hand corner of the room. It’s a little past late-night, and he has a six-am call time in the morning. “I’m–”

“C’mon,” Crow whines, “It’ll be like– an hour, tops! I really need to blow some steam, and I promise I’ll tell you everything that’s going on.”

“Okay,” he folds, sighing softly, “I’m not gearing up.”

Crow beams behind his mask. Itachi reaches forward and gently hooks his fingers behind his head, finding the hidden clasp that holds the mask straps together. He presses on it, and Shisui’s mask falls to the floor. He catches it with twin red eyes.

Shisui’s Sharingan has always been a little different from the norm. A thick, black border, so dark it sucks light into it’s hungry gaze, and reds that glow brighter than any star. He smiles sheepishly, his eyes bleeding black.

Itachi pulls away as Shisui attaches his mask at his hip. His hair’s getting long– so long that he has to brush it away from his forehead.

“I know what you’re gonna say, so you can just shut it,” Shisui says, running his gloved hand through the defined curls sitting on his head, “my hair is too long.”

“That wasn’t what I was going to say,” Itachi lies, smiling.

Shisui punches him in the shoulder, “you’re so full of shit.”

They flicker out of the house, and Shisui throws the blunt end of a kunai into the light switch. It makes a dent, and he shrugs when Itachi’s flat look lands on him. The lights shut off, though, and they traverse Konoha’s empty streets to the emptier training grounds. Normally, the pair would make a game out of it, using a more parkour-ish style with creative flair and a hard chakra output limit to see who could reach the destination faster.

Shisui doesn’t seem to have the patience for that today, though, and when Itachi’s feet skid across grass, he’s already bending down to avoid the sharp swipe of a glinting kunai.

The wind blows his black shirt upwards as he throws himself backwards– upside down, palms planted firmly on the dirt. His heel connects with wrist, and when he’s flipped, he catches Shisui’s wrist cocked into a fist and spins, flinging him over his head. Before Shisui hits the ground in a brutal takedown– he flickers. The flare of chakra is enough to leave Itachi’s fingers tingling as he springs up and pulls out a kunai on the defensive.

They trade blows, then, and Itachi’s tired enough where he makes a mistake– forgets how heavy Shisui’s punches are. 

When sparring with Hound, Itachi has determined a specific fighting style that allows him the upper hand. Hound and Shisui fight similarly, quick and precise, with a heavy usage of weapons. Hound has chronic chakra depletion, and doesn’t augment any of his strikes with chakra. Shisui uses a handful of ninjutsu, versatile and fast to match his Body Flicker– all low-chakra jutsu. He doesn’t usually augment his weapons strikes with chakra because he doesn’t need to, but his bare hands– well.

Hound hit pretty hard. Itachi sometimes lets himself take a blow or two to enter a takedown combo.

Shisui hits harder. Itachi probably shouldn’t take a blow or two because he frankly can’t afford it.

In his tired, sleepless mind, Shisui’s augmented strength evades his thoughts. A critical error- rectified immediately. Well, kind of.

Shisui smashes his fist into the side of Itachi’s jaw, and he goes sailing into the sky. The bone gives an audible snap, and the arms he had moved to grab Shisui’s arm instead flail to right his momentum while he’s in midair, landing on his feet.

His jaw aches, and he can’t move his mouth. Unacceptable.

Itachi shoves all of his Hound-sparring muscle memory out of his head, letting his body fall back into the rhythm of fighting Shisui. He ducks, spins, side steps, jumps, and flips out of his way of most attacks. Itachi manages to hook one leg around his waist, heaving his body up and letting his legs climb up to Shisui’s neck, twisting to bring them both down on to the ground. Dirt kicks up as Itachi squeezes, choking the life out of him.

Shisui taps his thigh three times and that’s that.

Both of them pant as Shisui shoots up into a sitting position, coughing wildly. Purple-green bruises bloom across his neck as he grips his trachea, “I think you–” he rasps, coughs, “broke something. Good move.”

Itachi sits up as well, pointing to his jaw, signing, ‘you as well. I suggest we take a trip to the hospital.’

Shisui watches him out of the corners of his eyes, rubbing his neck. Itachi pushes himself up to his feet, holding a hand out to him. Shisui sighs, “what the fuck, sure.”

Their trip to the hospital is short, though not sweet, and Shisui is seen first. Itachi glowers at him as they take him into a room while he waits in a tiny plastic chair in the lobby. Shisui sticks his tongue out at him.

“The doctor will be right out,” a pretty nurse tells him, and Shisui instinctively flashes his cutest smile, watching her blush and scurry out. The crisp, white paper sheet they put on all the beds crinkle as he sits on it. He lists all of the items he can use as a weapon.

Three knocks resound, and a woman walks in. Shisui catalogues her twin head of curls, defined and a sandy brown. Her freckled face looks up from the clipboard in hand, “Uchiha Shisui?”

Her eyes are a bright green, and Shisui flashes that same smile, running a hand through his dark hair. He’s about to do his whole hot-guy routine before his recognition kicks in and he pauses.

“Fujiwara Amaya,” she introduces herself, closing the door behind her, “possible broken neck, potentially life or career threatening. Sparring accident?”

Her bright eyes are dimmed by the dark bags under her eyes. Shisui gives her a thumbs up as his mind whirls and he suppresses the reflexive grin threatening to burst out of his skin.

Fujiwara sighs, “okay, I’ll run a diagnostic and then heal you. I’m out of chakra to do it remotely, so I’ll need to put my hands on your neck.”

Shisui gives her a thumbs down, idle smile still frozen on his face. He’s curious to see what she’ll do next. His eyes sparkle, and she notices. Clever.

Fujiwara puts her clipboard down, “look, Uchiha-san. The only doctors on rotation right now are myself and a few others, plus upper level surgeons. None of us has the capacity to remote-heal right now, since it’s a little past three in the morning.” She levels him with a stern look, “you can leave and come back in the morning, but if that neck injury has hit your spinal cord, you will be paralyzed with no chance of physical recovery. Lady Hokage herself can come into this room and try and heal you, but there will be no guarantee you’ll get movement back.”

Shisui hums, it’s a low, scratchy sound.

“You may hold my arms if you’d like,” she adds, “but other than that, you don’t have any more options. Please choose.”

Shisui calmly holds up his pointer and middle finger. She nods, hands lighting up green, the same color as her eyes. He places his hands on her forearms, gripping them tightly. She slowly brings her hands up to his neck as her cool, thin fingers gently press into his hot, flushed skin. He feels no pain– impressive, and resists turning on his Sharingan to examine her chakra pathways.

“The damage is not life or career threatening,” she announces. Shisui can feel his bones knit together. “Tiny fracture. All done,” she removes her hands, and Shisui lets his drop as well. “Move your head as far left it’ll go–” he turns, no pain, “–good. Right. Good. Up– and down. No pain?”

“No,” Shisui responds lightly, “thanks, Doc. You should see the other guy.”

Fujiwara exhales softly and smiles, “I probably will. Try not to break your neck again, Uchiha-san. Please come back if you feel any worsening symptoms, and please try and avoid strenuous activity for three days. If you still experience pain, over-the-counter painkillers at the recommended dose is ideal. Discharged.”

Shisui leaves, winks at her, and shuts the door behind him before he can see her expression. When he waltzes back into the waiting room, Itachi looks at him with an odd expression on his face.

Chapter Text

Amaya sits at her coffee table, holding a cat-shaped mug of tea in one hand, and twirling a pen in the other. Her cat themed notebook stares up at her, blank.

“This isn’t working,” she says into the empty air. Her cat, Sitara, lounges lazily on top of her bookshelf, peering down at her with golden eyes. The sun just starts peeking out from behind the horizon as the clock strikes six-thirty.

She adjusts the bonnet hiding her curls, red-golden hues filtering through the sun-catchers strung up by her windows. Amaya sips at her tea, forgoing the coffee when her eight-plus-hour shifts got pushed to the weekends courtesy of Lady Tsunade. Another courtesy of Lady Tsunade– Amaya finally got caught up to Princess Hoshiko.

She shared some feelings with her handsome, strong, bodyguard Kenta, outside in the pouring rain, holding each other’s arms. Amaya nearly swooned out of her couch when she read the scene, and then watched it, and swooned so hard she did fall out of her couch.

She smiles into her tea, taking a small sip.

A resounding, but polite knock, echoes through her empty apartment that pulls her out of her mulling thoughts. Amaya frowns, getting up, reaching to open the front door. The encounter with the ANBU yesterday flashes in her mind, and she freezes.

Taking a step back, she curls her hand into ram, sending out a pulse of chakra out of her feet. Her surroundings light up blue, the chakra signature outside of her door rolling calmly. Slightly antsy. Earth, fire.

Amaya releases the jutsu, gently opening the door to reveal a masked ANBU with painted stripes that run along his porcelain cheeks. He wears the standard uniform– except for a dark green bandanna wrapped around his neck, posture casual. Limp, brown hair hangs off his head, brushing his shoulders.

“Hey,” he says, armored sleeves shoved into his pockets, tone a little bland behind the distorted mask, “I’m here to take you to HQ.”

She blinks, turning back to glance at her clock and then back to the ANBU, “it’s only six-thirty, I thought call time was at seven?”

The ANBU rubs the back of his head, “assume that you should always be fifteen minutes early.”

“Oh,” she says, and looks down at her matching pajama set and bunny slippers. She purses her lips, before nodding and closing the door in his face. Halfway to walking down to her bedroom, curls falling down her head, Amaya realizes her mistake. She runs back to the door, opening it back up with flaming cheeks.

“So sorry,” she says, opening the door wider, “why don’t you come in?”

The ANBU chuckles, ducking in and taking his sandals off respectfully. “You can call me Tiger,” he says, and surveys her apartment, “maybe I’m an axe slinging murderer.” 

Amaya nods, “that’s a pretty good reason not to come into my apartment.”

He assesses the plants, plush rug, leather sofas, and fat cat staring a hole into the side of his head, raising his hand up in an awkward wave.

“That’s Sitara, he might uncover your murderous tendencies but please try not to kill him” Amaya continues, “you can just call me Amaya– wait here, I’ll be out in a second. You can help yourself to anything in the fridge.”

“Makes sense,” Tiger begins, walking around her living room. He thumbs through her bookshelf, noting the romance novels and medical scrolls. No picture frames in the house. Messy, but not bachelor pad messy. “As a future reference, you probably shouldn’t invite random ANBU into your home!”

Rustling comes from down the hall, then a muffled shout, “are you killing my cat?!”

Tiger laughs, looking up at the black furball, “no, no,” he calls back, continuing to sift through her bookshelf, “just for your safety, y’know. Lot of creeps and weirdos and randos and the likes in ANBU–”

He cuts himself off, pulling out what looks like a worn journal. Flipping it open to a random page, he places his finger on the unfamiliar text. Words scrawl across the page, looping letters in a flat script. It’s not Standard Konohan, or any dialect of Konohan. The letters are completely different. Code?

“Mind putting that back?”

Tiger jumps, whirling around. Amaya stands there with her hands on her hips, protector snug around her forehead and weapons pouch strapped to her thigh. He chuckles awkwardly, putting the journal back, “sorry,” he says sheepishly, “it caught my eye. I thought it was a book.”

Good chakra control, silent steps. At least she is somewhat of a ninja. Tiger lets himself feel a little impressed, dropping his arms to his side. Her lab coat speckles white, and he absently wonders how much bleach it takes to keep stains out of it. Maybe she had a closet full of coats. Lord Fourth had one.

Amaya crosses her arms, nodding once, “it’s alright.”

Tiger salutes lazily, “cool. I lied about the fifteen minutes thing, by the way.”

“What–”

“You’re taking a modified version of the ANBU Entrance Exam.” Tiger says, “officially, you’ve got fifteen minutes to complete it. Unofficially, you’ve got thirty. Your parameters are as follows; obtain five flags scattered across Konoha. You can ask me three questions, and you need to keep me alive.”

Amaya takes a step back, “are you serious?!”

“Yep,” Tiger says cheerily. “Remaining questions, two.”

“Oh no,” she mutters, “um– okay.” Amaya runs her hands through her hair, staring at the floor with a pinch in her brow. Think, girl, think. What should she ask? “Is there a pattern or formula that influences where the flags are hidden?”

Tiger laughs, “sure are. Remaining questions, one.”

“Okay!” She exclaims, green eyes wide, “what is it?”

He makes a clicking sound, “can’t tell you, sorry–” Amaya makes a frustrated sound in return, “–I can say that it relates to how ANBU is run. No more remaining questions. During phase two, I will follow your lead, and I am unable to engage in fights.”

“Fights?” She asks, color draining from her face. “I don’t know anything about how ANBU is run.”

Tiger shrugs, miming keeping his mouth shut. Amaya narrows her eyes. The clock behind him strikes, and she flickers outside. On the roof of her apartment complex, she settles into a crouch, watching the empty streets of Konoha below. The sun illuminates the buildings, rising behind the mighty Hokage’s Mountain.

Tiger appears behind her silently, and she thinks.

Putting her palm flat on the concrete, she curls the other hand in ram, closing her eyes. Her chakra network expands beneath her fingers, webbing outwards and draping the Village below. She stretches it ten meters– fifteen– her brow furrows as the net shakes– twenty–

There!

Amaya’s eyes snap open as her jutsu breaks. Nineteen meters north-west pings a bored, earth-typed, water, and a little bit of fire. She recognizes that signature with a scowl.

Jumping off the roof, she lands in an alleyway below, running through the back streets of Konoha to approach where she hopes the first flag is. Clothesline hang through the windows above, flapping through the wind. Her heels click on the pavement as she runs, Tiger’s footsteps completely hidden behind her.

Ducking into another alleyway, she skids to a stop as the asshole ANBU from the other day stands there with a black flag tucked in his pants. Amaya takes a tentative step back, and something around them snaps, whistling whizzing through the air. She takes cover on instinct, diving behind a few trash cans as kunai rain down from the sky.

They’re not aimed at her, though. Tiger doesn’t make a sound as three puncture him, blood spurting out of his wounds. Squid charges, drawing a sword, and Amaya’s eyes widen.

‘Keep me alive.’

Amaya jumps out from her hiding place, intent on intercepting the ANBU before he can kill Tiger. A chakra scalpel forms in her palm as she flickers in front of him, slashing. He dodges effortlessly, spinning around her to continue his route to the bleeding, immobile Tiger. Amaya curses, jumping over his head with a burst of chakra to land in front of Tiger. She grabs him and transports them on to the roof of a nearby building.

She pants, her heart races. The asshole ANBU is on them in a split second.

Amaya can’t fight him. She sets her jaw and does her best to keep him away from Tiger, but the longer the fight goes on the worse Tiger starts to look. The sun rises steadily in the sky, and she has to think.

She can’t fight a member of ANBU, point blank. Her skillset is incredibly ineffective– and they should know that. Maybe– maybe there’s a way to stop the ANBU without fighting him. Think, Amaya think. She doesn’t have any traps on her, or seals.

Squid attacks, and the black flag flutters at his hip.

Of course.

Amaya ducks, letting the ANBU slash at Tiger’s throat. Before the lethal strike can tear the fabric around his neck, she darts her hand out, snatching the black cloth and ripping it off of his belt. Squid freezes like a puppet, tip of his sword pressing into Tiger’s skin, drawing a sliver of blood.

“First flag obtained, four remaining,” Tiger says, grin in his voice. “Nine minutes left. I’m uh– getting kind of woozy.”

Amaya fists the flag, shoving it in her pants pocket as she descends on Tiger, hands glowing green. Most of the lacerations are non-lethal, and most of them have either grazed his armor or are embedded in it. She keeps a kunai stuck in his arm because it won’t kill him and it stops him from bleeding out. She needs to conserve her chakra.

She drops her hands. Nine minutes left is not enough to secure the four other flags. They’ll wait for her an extra fifteen minutes– but– Amaya looks at the asshole ANBU. If she wants to prove to them that she’s capable, she needs to get this in the first fifteen.

“Right,” she mutters, pulling out the flag again. There’s a bird embroidered on it, and the eye glows red. On the back, there’s a code scrawled across it. It’s a variant of Konohan ANBU code, which is a variant of Konoha’s Fifty-Second Wartime code. Luckily for her, she knows FSW-C+, and the letters unscramble and squiggle into Standard Konohan within a few seconds.

Twenty-five meters SW from Fourth and Fifth Ave.

Fourth and Fifth is a corner away, so she pockets the flag and runs south-west. She goes through a set of handseals, hare, horse, ram– and her surroundings light up in brilliant blue. Tiger follows, as expected, and when her chakra washes over everything in front of her a fifty-or-so meters once, another signature pings ahead. A ninja surrounded by a swath of civilians.

This time, before meeting her target, she falls back and squashes her signature, landing on another rooftop. She ducks behind the fence surrounding the rim, crouching low, peering down below. Konoha has just started waking up, and merchants set up booths and stands in the streets. A woman with golden hair tied loosely behind her chats up an old man selling fruit. Her hair hides black streaks within it, and the hair tie– a light blue flag.

Amaya frowns. No one on Konoha’s side would attack out in the open where civilian casualties can happen. 

She tentatively hops the fence, sliding down the edge of the building with some chakra. Tiger stays hidden, ANBU uniform bound to raise alarms. She walks out on to the street, approaching the yellow-black haired girl.

“Um– excuse me,” Amaya starts, the girl turning her head to raise an eyebrow at her. She holds an apple loosely in her hand as Amaya continues awkwardly, “I need your flag.”

The girl scoffs, “what?”

She points to the light blue bandanna holding her hair back. It looks exactly like the black one in her pocket, and has hidden symbols weaved into it. 

It’s the flag.

The girl touches it, “it’s not a flag? It’s a hair tie?”

Amaya reddens, “I– need it. Please.”

“What the hell?” The girl laughs, “are you some sort of like– what is this?” Merchants start looking in their direction as she puts the apple down, “I’m not going to give you something that’s mine just because you asked, get out of here.”

As she starts walking away, Amaya feels doubt creep in as her cheeks flame. She turns to hop back on to the roof and freezes when the girl’s sweater falls down her shoulder. A bright, red, ANBU tattoo stares at her as the girl looks back with a smirk on her face.

She pulls the flag out of her hair and waggles it in front of Amaya, blinking out of sight. A shower of dandelions fall to the floor.

Frozen for a moment, Amaya shakes her head before clapping her hands together in ram and sending out a pulse of chakra. The girl’s chakra-trail is gone, not even a wisp remaining. She feels her hope dwindle as she lets the jutsu up and rejoins Tiger on the roof.

Instead of sitting there idly, he’s limp, face-down on the floor. Two senbon stick out of his neck as Amaya curses loudly and drops into a crouch, pulling the weapons out. They shine with a slick sheen, and a sniff identifies the product coating it as poisonous.

“Are you kidding?” Amaya grumbles, flipping him over to place glowing green palms on his chest. His chest still rises and falls, and she pulls out her wide-spectrum antivenom and antidote injections. She stabs both of the large needles in one of his thighs, watching the medicine disperse. Her hands return to his chest as she monitors the situation.

Tiger shudders, chest jumping as he takes in a deep breath. He coughs, sitting up, “four flags remaining–” he forces out, smacking his dry lips together, “five minutes left.”

Amaya disposes the needles with a wave of her hand, “is there anything you can do for me?”

Tiger chuckles hoarsely, “I’m not really supposed to.” He tugs loosely on the dark green bandanna tied around his neck, “they’d uh– kill me if I told you anything, y’know–” he fiddles with it, “I’m just uh– nervous! Because I almost died, and I’m touching this thing on my neck because of nervous.”

“I get it,” Amaya deadpans, grabbing the bandanna and pulling it off his neck. It unravels to reveal a flag with a giant Boar embroidered on it– and a tiny rip from Squid’s sword, “are you serious?!”

Tiger grins behind his mask, “two flags obtained, three remaining. Four minutes left.”

“I’m really starting to dislike you,” she mutters, and he chuckles. Written on the flag is a list of instructions.

Eighty-Fifth Senju Street North
- Target in Apartment 501-E
- Eliminate Target

Amaya’s gut sours, “you guys aren’t going to have me kill someone, right?”

Tiger shrugs, and mimes zipping his mouth. She stares at him for a beat before looking back at the flag. She balls the cloth up in her first, heart hammering.

Turning to face the sun, she starts rooftop hopping towards Senju Street. Tiger follows with a grunt, head still spinning.

The buildings grow taller and newer, glass and polished concrete stretching to the sky. Senju Street North sits nestled in the heart of Konoha, Hokage’s Tower just two blocks away. It’s habited by wealthy merchants and high level citizens of Konoha, ninja or not.

She scales the building, using the abandoned fire escape like a ladder. She uses chakra to stop it from creaking, reaching apartment 501-E. The windows and balcony door are all locked, curtains obscuring the rooms inside.

Amaya chews her lip, trying the handle on the balcony. It rattles softly, and she pulls out a hairpin from her weapons pouch, crouching and silently poking it in the lock. It takes her the better half of a minute, but the door unlatches, and she walks straight into a bedroom.

A man sleeps soundly on the bed, ANBU mask firmly in place. Her heart flutters knowing that it’s probably staged– probably. Why would anyone wear armor to bed. She silences herself, squashing her chakra signature. Before she manifests a chakra scalpel, she pauses.

Tiger stands idly in the balcony. She brings him in with a tug at his elbow.

Manifesting a chakra scalpel might alert the resting ANBU. She pulls out a kunai then, creeps closer to the bed, and freezes–

Her breaths come out in small, quiet pants. The hand she uses shakes, kunai catching the light of the rising sun. It glints, and she exhales, gripping it tighter. She brings it up, and slashes, slitting his throat swiftly. Instead of a spray of arterial blood, smoke spurts from the wound before he pops with a soft sound. A pale, purple flag sits folded neatly where he once lay, prim and clean. She grabs it.

Tiger chimes behind her, “three flags obtained, one minute remaining.”

Shoving her shaking kunai back, Amaya unfolds the flag. Another pop resounds through the room, and she startles.

A black haired ANBU stands in the room, making her reflexively move closer to Tiger, clutching the flag. They raise their hand, a silver flag hanging off their pinky finger, secured by a loop.

“Hello,” he greets, voice deep, “if you succeed in finding and catching me, you’ll obtain your last flag.”

Amaya doesn’t have that kind of time. She grits her teeth, darts her hand out to the side, and yanks Tiger close. She’s riding the adrenaline high of faux murdering another person on purpose, and orders, “give me the flag, or he dies.”

Tiger sputters, the masked ANBU stares at her, “excuse me?”

“I said–” she pulls out a syringe from her pack, stabbing it in Tiger’s neck. He chokes the moment the substance is administered, she kicks his knees in, and he collapses on the floor, “give me the flag, or he dies.”

“You can’t kill him, or you fail,” the ANBU says, tone incredulous. On the floor, Tiger stars gasping, body exploding in tremors.

Amaya hides her shaking arm behind her back, “so what? I fail this– this stupid little test, and– and still have to do my mission, or, you let a teammate die! It’s a poison of my own making–” she stomps on Tiger’s back, he wheezes, “the hospital will take days to synthesize it, and he’ll be– dead.”

The ANBU stares at her. She clenches her fist, “you’d let him die over a stupid little test?”

“You’d kill him over a stupid little test?” The ANBU retorts, mask trained on Tiger’s convulsing figure. Tiger’s hands scrabble over his chest, palming his heart. He rolls himself on his back, loudly panting and whimpering.

Amaya crosses her arms, glares, and the ANBU takes off his flag and chucks it at her. She catches the silver, unravelling it to reveal a lone wolf running through a forest. The back of the flag has another location threaded into it.

Lord Second’s Head.

Shoving it in her pocket, she nods, hauling Tiger up.

“He’s fine,” she says, pulling out a little pill and shoving it under his mask. Tiger takes it in his mouth swallows thickly. “It was an epi-pen, plenty of people accidentally prick themselves with it. This was just– a lot more of an epi-pen.”

Amaya grabs him, securing him on her back. She almost buckles under his weight, but flows a little more chakra to her legs to augment the muscles. “There’s nothing to be done for him healing wise,” she explains, “just some pills until his body expels it.”

The ANBU nods, Tiger groans, “how– long?”

She takes off, leaping through a window, shattering it with the chakra-blowback. The buildings fly by her as the wind whips through her hair, knees burning, “three days?”

She runs faster than she has in a while, ignoring her protesting arms and the glare of the sun. Tiger thunks his head on top of hers, emitting a low, pained noise. Amaya feels bad, but only for a moment. She hits the Hokage’s Rock and sprints side-ways around the carved heads, the Second’s in sight. Calculating how much chakra it’d take for a Body Flicker, she tethers Tiger’s chakra to her, and executes the justu.

A quarter of her reserves disappear as she lands on his head with a shower of leaves, jumping when she’s greeted with a circle of ANBU.

There’s a man with biceps the size of her head, blank facemask perched on his face. His white strands glisten, “you’re one minute late,” he growls. 

Amaya gently slides Tiger off her back, holding him up by an elbow. He’s almost dead weight. “Sorry,” she says, “I got four of the five flags.”

“Eighty percent is a pass!” A familiar sounding ANBU says, and Amaya looks up to find a painted mask in front of a head of black, curly hair.

Her eyes widen, “Crow?”

Crow flashes a peace sign as a blonde woman scoffs. She tosses her hair when Amaya turns to look at her.

“Congratulations on finishing your heavily modified ANBU Exam,” the man in the blank mask says, stealing her attention, “you may call me The Commander. I oversee all of the ANBU departments and report directly to our Lady Hokage. Each flag represents a department, save for an unlisted one.”

A woman with sleek, blue-black hair takes a step. She has glowing green hands on Tiger’s back, pulling the kunai stuck in his arm out, “I’m Owl, the Captain you’ll be working with most closely on your mission,” she says, healing the wound and tossing the knife to Crow, “I run the primary healing squad, and the department I’m in charge of is the sub-division, Seduction.”

Amaya pulls all of the flags out of her pocket, thumbing through them. Owl continues, “you did not have to obtain my flag, since we felt that it might be unethical.” She drops her hands, and Tiger groans, “I look forward to working with you.”

“Please take care of me,” Amaya replies, bowing.

Crow interjects in her line of sight, “you got my flag, congrats!”

He reaches over, a gloved hand plucking the black flag from her grasp. Amaya takes a tiny step back at the sudden invasion of her space, and Crow doesn’t seem to notice. The asshole ANBU materializes in a splash of ink behind him, and Amaya narrows her eyes. Crow waves the flag, “you met a member of my team, Squid. I’m the department head of our Infiltration-slash-Recon department, and the Captain of Team Me.”

The flag morphs, turning into a bird black as night. It caws and flutters on Crow’s shoulder. 

The blonde woman from before clears her throat, and crosses her thin, pale arms, She has teal-blue nails, claw-like, and thick, bouncy hair. Her mask is painted intricately, with reds, blues, and blacks. “Crane,” she says, voice sweet and feminine. “You didn’t manage to get my flag, what a shame.”

The yellow-black haired woman from before materializes with a rain of golden petals. There’s a mask on her face, thick stripes running across it. She hands Crane a soft blue flag, and Crane unravels it to reveal an elegant bird. Her nails creates indents in the flag as she continues, “I run the Intelligence department. I work closely with non-ANBU T&I as well as all of our departments to process classified information.”

She ends with that, and Amaya nods. A large, muscular man beside her sighs, muttering something.

“Boar,” he grunts, “I run Guard.”

Amaya blinks, he stays silent, and she swallows and nods. A man of a few words. She stretches out the dark green flag, staring at the imprint of a charging Boar.

“I’m Fish.”

She jumps, whirling around. A thin, gangly man stands behind her, choppy head of light purple hair fanning around his painted mask. He moves so silently Amaya wonders if he’s even real.

“I run the Assassination department, and I’m the Captain of Team Tsu. It’s nice to meet you, you made a good call using a non-chakra emitting weapon rather than a jutsu or other to execute a premeditated kill,” he says quietly.

Amaya nods, bows, “please take care of me.” He ducks his head, “are all of you Captains? Or just you and Crow.”

“We all run specific Teams,” Fish explains. “My flag was held by a member of my Team, Giraffe.”

At the mention of their name, Giraffe appears behind Fish. Amaya nods again. She turns to the final Captain, silver hair sprouting out of his head. He’s reading an exclusive edition of Make-Out Paradise, the one with Jiraiya’s interview in the back. She doesn’t know that piece of information for any particular reason.

The only Captain who doesn’t need an introduction. Amaya knows exactly who he is. Hound.

He flips a page, the Commander clears his throat.

“Hm?” Hound says, looking up. His eye glows red, and he snaps his book shut, “oh right. Tiger? Weasel?”

Tiger jumps to attention, the ANBU with the flag– Weasel– standing beside him. They both flank Hound as he drawls, “why did you hand her the flag?”

Despite looking right at Amaya, he addresses Weasel. 

He doesn’t skip a beat and answers, “those who break the rules are trash, but those who abandon teammates are worse than trash. I made a decision based on the information available to me, and acted in accordance of priority, despite the threat not existing.”

Hound remains silent for a second, before shrugging. He opens his book up again, “you met two members of Team Ro, Tiger and Weasel. I oversee the Tracking department. I’d say it’s nice to meet you, but it’s not.”

Crane snickers, Boar rolls his eyes, and the Commander slaps a palm across his mask. Amaya blinks.

Crow bumps her shoulder with his, swinging an arm across her. She tenses as he steers her towards the flat edge of the rock, “ignore him, he doesn’t like anybody,” he fake whispers to her, “wanna see something cool?”

He slaps his palm across the rock, a seal array lighting up, She’d take a step back if not for his arm holding her firmly in place. His mask tilts, catching the light. Amaya swears his eyes behind the mask are glowing a blood red, “welcome to ANBU!”

Chapter Text

Uchiha Fukgau sits at the head of the dinner table, a red mat placed underneath his knees. An assortment of food lays across the table on fine, Uchiha silverware. Rice, miso, fish, nori, natto– the works. He sips at the cooling tea held in his hands, plate empty. Sitting beside him, Mikoto chews on a slice of cucumber.

Fugaku sets the cup down, “have you spoken to Hatake about a promotion yet?”

Facing Fugaku, Itachi sits. A chopstick is halfway to his lips, sushi held between them. He pauses, shakes his head, and takes a bite. The burning hot taste of wasabi fills his mouth.

Fugaku frowns, “isn’t there an opening? I thought I told you to start pushing your position.”

Itachi chews, and swallows. He trains his gaze on the ridges of their wooden table, “they’re not re-opening the department that shut down,” he picks up his cup of water, “I see no point in advocating to be placed in a position that does not exist.”

“Watch your tone, boy,” Fugaku says, narrowing his eyes, “no son of mine shall be stuck receiving orders under another man. Especially one with such genius and potential.”

Itachi nods, taking a sip of water. It helps wash down the feeling of a thick glob of rice stuck in his throat. He sets it down with a clink and a shallow bow of his head, “yes father, forgive me.”

If Sasuke were here, he’d shoot Itachi a weird look. Ask him, why are you just doing whatever they want you to do don’t you have your own fears wants ambitions why do you just do whatever they tell you to do aren’t you supposed to be a genius–

Sasuke isn’t here, though. Itachi drinks some more water.

Mikoto smiles sadly, “Fugaku, Itachi seems content in the spot he is in now. Shisui is already a Captain, and famous enough where he–”

“Shisui is not my son,” Fugaku interrupts sternly. His voice rumbles, echoing through the empty dining room, “Itachi is a once in a generation shinobi. His intellect and skill rivals few, he needs to be put in a higher position in order to be considered for Hokage.”

He doesn’t bang his fist on the table, but the silverware rattles anyway. Fugaku’s face covered in deep lines wrinkles in an ugly way.

Mikoto laughs gently, “Hokage? Dear I– Itachi is only nineteen,” she says, putting her chopsticks down, “he’s far too young to advance to a position like that.”

“Do not tell me how to raise my son–”

“If you raise your voice at me again, I will ensure you take your last breath, dear,” Mikoto cuts in cleanly, still smiling. Itachi freezes, glancing at the assortment of food laid out. Fugaku does the same, eyeing his plate, eaten clean. “I’m sure if there was an opportunity, our son would take it,” she turns to Itachi, eyes soft, smile sharp, “wouldn’t you?”

Itachi loses his voice as he nods wordlessly. She beams, clapping her hands together, “that’s settled then. Here, dear, have some cucumber salad.” She uses her chopsticks to scoop some salad on Fugaku’s empty plate.

“Thank you,” Fugaku replies stiffly, taking a sip of his tea instead. He doesn’t touch the cucumbers.

Mikoto continues, “I’m sure Itachi will do his best to make us proud, so we don’t have to worry. The Clan is in good standing, we have many high level Clan members in high level positions, and for all of Shisui’s…eccentricities, he’s quite the legend.”

Fugaku nods. Itachi folds his hands in his lap, “where is Sasuke?”

“Training,” Fugaku replies, “his Sensei took his team on some sort of retreat for a few weeks. He’ll be back soon. Good riddance, too. If he wants to be as strong as you he needs to work harder than dallying in a field with that Naruto boy and civilian girl,” he scoffs, “at least Naruto is Namikaze’s son.”

“I heard that girl got an apprenticeship with Lady Hokage,” Mikoto says, “he’ll need a healer on his team if he wants to be able to grow stronger.”

“Lady Hokage only took her in because she’s an orphan,” Fugaku mutters, “there are plenty of Uchiha candidates that would make excellent users of legendary augmented strength, but she overlooks them. Why? She’s a Senju, they hate us.”

“Things could be worse,” Mikoto says, “Lord Third could still be in power.”

Fugaku exhales, “indeed.”

“We’ll have your birthday soon, Itachi,” Mikoto begins, changing the subject. She starts to stack empty dishes on top of each other, “all of the clan heirs are Sasuke’s age, so when the time comes, we’ll ensure he is wed to one of them. For you, though, we’ll invite some of the older women in high standing positions and some Uchiha. If you have your eyes set on a lady friend, don’t hesitate to introduce her to us.”

She looks up, and laughs when she’s met with Itachi’s pale look, “you don’t need to be wed now, darling.” Mikoto starts clearing his plates as well, “just think about it. It’s duty for your Clan, and duty for the Village.” 

When she stands, she ruffles Itachi’s hair with her free hand, “make us proud.”

Itachi looks down, shadows hiding his eyes. “Yes, mother,” he whispers.

—

Weasel watches Crow chat next to Fujiwara, pointing out nonsensical things as the group walks down the winding ANBU corridors. Hound walks a few paces back everyone, nose buried in his orange book.

“I feel like I’m going to hurl,” Tiger mumbles, tapping his chest with his palm. “I’m never putting myself in a situation where I’d need an epi-pen ever again.”

“She did say it was a much higher dose than standard,” Weasel replies quietly. Tiger groans loudly, hanging his head. Weasel stares at the back of Hound’s head, walking beside Tiger, “Captain?”

Hound flips a page, Weasel swallows the sour tang filling his mouth, “when there is an open Captain position, I'd– I’d like to be considered.”

“There isn’t one,” Hound says easily. “Protection has gone down so there’s a surplus right now.”

Tiger frowns, looking at Weasel, “you’re thinking of leaving our team?”

“No!” Weasel says quickly, “I just thought– if there was an open position, I’d like to fill it. For experience and…well, to advance in my career.”

Tiger looks at him strangely, “don’t you hate your career?”

Weasel falls silent, Hound flips another page. 

“I mean– if you really want to then we’ll help,” Tiger continues, lightly nudging Weasel, “sorry– that came out a lot harsher than I wanted to sound. I just– y’know you’re our teammate. You hate sleeping on the floor, you take long showers, your favorite takedown combo is Rising Calico. It’d be weird to have a new guy and learn him all over again, right?”

Weasel’s shoulders sag, “I understand,” Tiger is right, anyway, Weasel hates being a shinobi so much that it makes him shake sometimes, “thank you for your honesty.”

“It’s chill,” Tiger says, rubbing the back of his head, “you totally overuse Rising Calico, though.”

“Rising Calico is an extremely versatile and advanced takedown technique that has many different opening positions–”

Crane slides up to Hound, her blonde hair brushing his shoulders. He stops reading, and turns to stare daggers into her masked face with a glowing red eye-hole. She smiles cheekily, “team trouble?”

“No,” he replies curtly, going back to his book.

She sighs, pouts, “you’re no fun. Why don’t you come by later tonight?”

“No.”

Crane rolls her eyes. Crow laughs loudly, snatching her attention. She turns and winks at Hound, walking up to Crow and Fujiwara with a confident strut, hair bouncing, “Amaya, right?”

“Here we go,” Boar rolls his eyes, melting into the shadows. Owl and Fish stop their quiet conversation off to the side to watch her interact with Fujiwara.

Amaya smiles, nodding, a little grateful for the interruption. Crane smoothly slides between Crow and her, the former shuddering and taking a step away before they can brush arms. She grabs Amaya’s elbow, securing it in her grasp.

“You know where we should go, Amaya? I can call you Amaya, right?”

She nods, trying to tug her arm out of Crane’s pale grasp. It doesn’t budge.

“We should go to the Mess Hall! It’s probably empty, and you look like you need a break from Crow’s ear-splitting voice,” she says, throwing a backwards glance at Crow. He doesn’t react. She makes eye-contact with Hound next, lips stretching into a wide smile.

Owl’s eyes narrow from beside Fish, “The Commander, Fujiwara and I should really start discussing her mission.”

Crane scoffs, facing forward, “so now you give a shit about your work?” 

She tosses her hair with her free arm and starts dragging Amaya down the winding corridors, “ignore Owl– let me give you a piece of advice, okay?” Crane says, lowering her voice until she’s practically speaking in Amaya’s ear, “Owl is a nasty bitch. She seems nice and sweet and supportive at first, but it’s really a front because she hates doing her work. She’s always complaining, it’s always everyone else’s fault– I hate people like that, right?”

Amaya nods slowly as Crane continues quietly, “we were like– best friends at first, and then she just– ugh I can’t even tell you. Point is, be careful around her, okay? ANBU is a place full of people who would just jump you if it meant making them better.”

The hallway ends at a set of iron double doors, shining in the headache-inducing lights. The rest of the ANBU catch up to them as Crane smiles sweetly, patting Amaya’s face. She then turns and shoves open the doors.

Chatter explodes, shouting, laughing– Amaya feels her heart skip a beat as Crane yanks her into the room, an iron grip on her hand. When the lights fade from her vision, she’s met with a room packed with ANBU. They sit on benches, tables, up in the rafters, or mill about, walking, running, leaning against columns and walls. At their entrance, the noise stops,

“Wow it’s so weird that it’s full,” Crane says, putting a finger on her mask. Her nails tap against it as she drops Amaya’s arm and cups her hand around her mouth, “hey everyone!”

A chorus of overlapping greetings mix as the rest of the ANBU Captains enter the room. Crane takes a step, gesturing to Amaya, “this is the medic Lady Hokage assigned to us,” she yells, patting her on the shoulder, “she’s new, and knows nothing about us, so please take care of her!”

Sweat beads Amaya’s brow as the masks watch her from all sides, quietly observing. Her heart races, and she slides her foot back, “I think–”

Crane shoves her forward, “why don’t you introduce yourself?”

Amaya shoots her a horrified look, stumbling alone into the limelight. She freezes, looking up at all of the painted masks around her, “uh–”

Crow takes a step, fist clenched. Weasel’s hand darts out to grab his shoulder, clenching it tightly. Crow shakes Weasel off, staring at Crane, eyes spinning red. Hound closes his book quietly.

“It’s nice to meet all of you,” Amaya starts, swallowing thickly. The masks surround her, all hidden eyes trained on her unfamiliar figure. They don’t move, or even breathe. Just silently stare, “all at once…uh…my mission essentially is to lower the death rate to somewhere below mid-twenty percent. I haven’t spoken to your Commander about the specific parameters that would– would allow me to work seamlessly with all of you, but…” she trails off, swallows again, “well, um, if you have any thoughts or…opinions on this matter, you can speak to me and I’ll see what can be done to– to make you all comfortable. Thanks.”

There's a bout of silence so thick that you could hear a pin drop before Crane cheers, clapping loudly as she bursts into giggles. The ANBU in the Mess Hall shift back to talking amongst themselves, a few staring at Amaya. Most of them ignore the Captains, tossing cartons of milk or apples around in their hands. The atmosphere relaxes just like that, but Amaya can hear muffled laughing all around her.

“That was great!” Crane says, gushing. She twirls a strand of hair around her finger, playing with it, “you’re really good under pressure, I think you’ll fit in well here!”

Amaya frowns, face heating up. She looks back at all of the Captains watching her and Crane– Owl looks like she’s about to say something. Crow cuts her off.

“Crane,” he says, and the temperature of the room plunges. He takes another step, the wind blows, and five masked ANBU plus Hound surround Crow in the blink of an eye. Hound holds a kunai to his throat, standing behind him. The other ANBU take various positions around his frozen body, a few crouching, handseals ready, or a few standing, kunai and senbon in hand.

“What a drag,” Boar mutters, materializing again.

Hound tilts his head, hair catching the light, “you’re pretty antsy today, Crow,” he drawls. “If you really want to pick a fight, why don’t you pick a fight with me.”

Crow scoffs, “you’re at twenty-five percent overall chakra stores,” his eyes spin red red red– “I don’t think you’re in a position to talk.”

Three ANBU surrounding him convulse, before dropping limply. Weapons clatter on the floor as the Mess Hall ceases all conversations. Ryo starts being passed around gloved hands. Amaya clenches her fist, watching with widened eyes.

“I hate assholes like your little girlfriend, you know,” Crow continues calmly. Birds gather in the rafters, pitch black with red eyes. One more ANBU drops, choked noises wrestling out of his throat. The other starts trembling, kunai clinking. “The only reason why she gets away with all the shit that she does is because you protect her.”

“We’re not dating,” Hound says mildly. The last ANBU gives one last shudder, clutching his head before swaying backwards and hitting the polished floor with a dull sound, “maybe I just think people should be protected from you.”

A caw sounds, Crow whirls around with his tanto sheathed out of his crossbody strap. Boar’s shadow strikes.

Weasel reaches out, “Crow, your arm–”

“Enough!” Boar hollers, both Hound and Crow freezing dead in their tracks. They’re connected by a thick black shadow that writhes with chakra. Boar sticks his thumb out behind him, “take it to the pit, assholes.”

The Commander leans against the back wall, making eye-contact with Amaya. She jumps as the Mess Hall erupts in excited yells, chanting and thumping sounding through the room as many of them start filing out. She can hear repeated cries of “pit, pit, pit!”

Weasel freezes, “but– Crow, your hand–”

“What’s going on–” she asks, yelping when Owl grabs her arm and drags her out of the loud hall. She’s yanked through the clump of Captains, yanked through the double doors until her legs stumble out into the cool hallway.

“Sorry for pulling you,” she apologizes quickly, dropping her hand once the doors swing closed. With it, all sound goes, “you don’t want to stay in there, it get’s really rowdy once a fight breaks out.”

The Commander follows, opening the door a sliver so he can slide out, “we should change ANBU to DAYCARE, because these kids are babies,” he mutters, rubbing his scalp.

Amaya’s green eyes flash, “what the hell is going on?!”

The Commander grimaces, crossing his arms together. He shakes his head and Amaya turns to Owl.

“Welcome to ANBU,” Owl echoes dryly. “The pit is an arena dug into the mountain, it slopes downward so it’s walled in all four sides. There are barrier seals put up for safety as well as other measures. It’s for all-out ANBU fights,” she runs a hand through her hair, messing up the strands.

Her mouth drops, “are they– do they usually fight this much?”

Owl shuffles, “Hound doesn’t really get into fights, but Crow is a little…unpredictable. Crane antagonizes everyone, so she’s in the pit often. Sorry for her, by the way– I should’ve fought harder to keep you out of that hall.”

Amaya winces, “I guess she’s not exactly…trying to be nice to me, huh?”

Owl nods. The Commander moves, walking past them down the hall. He motions for them to follow as they turn into a set of confusing, winding corridors. Owl and the Commander aren’t talkers, so the three of them lapse into an uncomfortable silence as they reach a dead end. Amaya glances behind her, meeting creepy white hallway. There’s no evidence that the Mess Hall even exists anymore.

The Commander runs through a set of seals, pushing into the wall until it turns to jelly and swallows him in. Owl follows.

Amaya grimaces, sticks her hand in, and yelps when it starts sucking her in. She closes her eyes and scrunches her face up, emerging out of the other side. Upon opening her eyes, she isn’t met with white artificial light, just orangey candles and a cozy office.

The Commander lights a stick of incense, Owl sits down on one end of the couch facing his desk. He sits in his rolling chair, and it squeaks. Amaya sits next to Owl.

The Commander sniffs, “well?”

Amaya swallows, turning to Owl, “I thought we could begin by establishing what your protocol is when it comes to injuries.”

Owl nods once, her hair bobbing, “when a team comes in, or multiple teams, whoever is at most risk of dying is seen first. If there are multiple members who are in immediate danger, I’ll stabilize them and have some members of my squad run them to the hospital,” she answers.

Amaya unseals her little cat-shaped notebook from her arm guards. She pulls the pen out of it’s hiding spot tucked in the rings, flipping the book open and writing down some notes. “Why don’t you have the ANBU go to the hospital immediately?”

She puts up a peace sign, “two reasons. Most ANBU won’t go to the hospital unless someone else takes them, and because the sudden influx of lethal injuries will overwhelm the hospital. It was like that during Lord Third’s reign, but Lord Fourth instated the ANBU Healing division and Lord Fifth cleaned up the hospital.”

Amaya nods, a knit in her brow, “how many people are in your division, then?”

“Just me,” Owl answers, “I have my team help out and some ANBU volunteers, but it’s officially just me. We were supposed to get an influx of healers, but that was around the time when ROOT was busted. All resources were diverted– and, well, we were forgotten.”

The Commander speaks, lacing his hands together, “I diverted funding that was going to go into the creation of a Healing division to create teams to handle the sudden influx of ex-ROOT,” he adds, “there was a lot of bumps with the integration, we needed to promote captains and gear up around twenty ex-ROOT. Since Danzo had ins with many lobbyists, traders, and merchant dealers, Konoha’s economy dipped, and those companies either withdrew investments or didn’t invest according to the influx.”

Owl nods along, and Amaya hums. She writes something in her notebook, “I’ll speak to Lady Tsunade about funding. It would help me if you two could write a pitch, but she’s passionate about all things medical so it probably won’t be shot down.”

The Commander grunts and writes something on a sticky note.

Amaya continues, “In an ideal world, we would have one med-nin per team. I doubt we can achieve that, though, so I want every ANBU member who is capable to be taught field medicine. All capable candidates must show adequate knowledge and pass a field-medic certification exam before being admitted. If they’re not capable, basic first aid will suffice.”

Owl nods, “I have enough knowledge to pass medic exams, so field-medic exams should be easy enough for ninja to pass.”

The Commander crosses his arms, leaning back in his chair, “what’s the difference?”

Amaya looks up from her notebook, “there are three classes of ninja practicing medical arts. Field-medics are the lowest, they can heal cuts, shallow wounds, sterilize, and run diagnostics. Medics can heal deeper wounds, fractures, numb sites, create chakra scalpels, and are certified to be put on teams that request medical aid or assistance. Medical-nin is what I’m certified as. I can preform surgery and heal life-threatening or career-threatening injuries,” she recites, like reading off of a book.

The Commander nods, “you want everyone to be able to heal, then?”

“Everyone who’s capable,” she corrects, “some nin won’t be able to pass the chakra control threshold, which has to be ninety or above. Eighty-five can train to reach ninety, but anyone below eighty is automatically disqualified.”

He grunts, “how long will something like this take?”

Amaya exchanges a glance with Owl, “I’m…not sure,” she says, “I can work around missions, but there will be specific days candidates will need to take exams at a qualified site.”

“ANBU is understaffed and underfunded,” the Commander says, “I can’t just give you crucial operatives who could be running missions.”

She frowns, “I understand. I’ll do my best to work around you, then.”

Owl pipes up, “Fujiwara, what will happen to the nin who receive qualifications?”

“I was thinking they just continue on with their designated teams. Instead of having teams of just healers, the Healing division could be a few med-nin or medics who run certifications and training on top of missions with their regular team. It’s similar as to how the hospital runs.”

She nods slowly, the Commander sits up, “I want all of this written up and placed on my desk by the end of the week,” he says, “additionally, I want the funding to make this all happen. If you don’t get either of those in, your mission ends. Understood?”

Owl nods sharply, “yes, sir.”

Amaya furrows her brow, “my mission is overseen by Lady Tsunade. I’ll see what I can do.”

He scoffs, pulling out a cigarette, “fine, now get out. If you have any more questions, concerns, or whatnot, Owl will let me know.”

Owl nods, standing up. Amaya follows as they merge with the wall and get spit out the other end. Is he normally that cranky, or is he allergic to non-Clan medical-nin? Owl turns to face Amaya, eyes glowing white behind her mask, “do you want to see the pit?”

“What– no!” she cries, shaken out of her thoughts, “I want to see your facilities so I can start testing for chakra-control and do general check-ups.”

“…but it’s two Captains fighting in an all out brawl…”

Amaya narrows her eyes, “do you want to see the pit?”

Owl scoffs, “no,” she tosses her hair poorly, “I was just…asking if YOU wanted to see an all out Captain brawl. Why would I want to see that? It’s totally lame. An all out Captain brawl... lame,” she scoffs weakly one more time for good measure.

“Right,” Amaya says, elongating the ‘iiii’, “well I don’t want to see two people try and kill each other, so you should take me to whatever facilities you have.”

Owl sighs, nods, and points down the hall. They start travelling together, make it a few paces before there’s a breeze and Fish walks alongside them. Amaya jumps, Owl waves, bouncing her fists up and down.

“Did it end already?!”

For someone who thinks it’s so lame she sounds very excited. Amaya raises a brow, and Owl clears her throat, repeating it in a straight tone. Fish shakes his head.

“I left because I got bored,” he says softly, “can I help you two?”

Amaya nods, “we’re just going to whatever ANBU has that can help with my mission, like an infirmary, or supply closet.”

Fish nods, “we do have an infirmary. It’s rarely used, but I take naps in there sometimes.”

“It’s sterile,” Owl says.

It’s not sterile. 

Amaya’s eye twitches as the door swings wide open, dust, cobwebs, dirt and blood wafting through the air. The one singular light bulb flickers, casting long, terrifying shadows down the room. It smells like rotten flesh, looks like sepsis on a stick, and on the dusty, rusty bed, there’s the imprint of a person lying face down on the bed like a wooden plank.

Amaya turns to Fish, “you sleep here?”

He walks inside, points to the dust border, “yes.”

There’s medical equipment that looks like it’s from the First’s reign, a table missing a leg, and ripped up curtains hanging from the ceiling. The room is a square, without any vents or any way to circulate the air. She gags, pinching her nose.

“It’s sterile,” Owl says weakly. A rat scurries out from under the bed, and her and Amaya scream.

Fish throws a senbon at it, “I like rats.” It twitches and dies, rolling on it’s back. He walks over and picks it up, “I used to eat them all the time.”

“Okay,” Amaya says, because what the hell is she supposed to say to that?! Owl echoes her. She sighs, running a hand through her hair, “I need to clean this up, but I guess it’s usable.”

Fish nods, squeezing the rat until it explodes all over his hand, “I’d like to help.”

Somewhere else in ANBU HQ, Hound slides down the pit, rough stone casting pebbles and dust behind him. He lands on the floor with a crouch, silver hair glowing when the floodlights switch on. He winces, shielding his eyes. Up above, ANBU turn into moving black dots, hooting and hollering, fighting to find good seats.

Hound’s lone eye aches, which is nothing compared to the burning his sharingan produces on the daily. His vision blurs, and he tries to grab his headband to shove down his face but he smacks his mask instead.

Crow slides down in front of him, landing similarly. He waves up at the crowd, and they go wild, grin shining brighter than any light. Hound clenches his jaw, eye refusing to adjust.

The barrier seals go up, and hushed whispers form across the crowd above. Hound and Crow wait for whoever is choosen as the procter to begin the match. The barriers glow iridescnet around them, casting a faux ceiling as well.

Crow tilts his head, “you don’t look so good, Hound.”

“I could say the same to you,” he replies, looking through the crowd to find Crane, “I wonder how much your sharingan is voluntary. That drain can’t be good for you.”

He spots her, arms crossed, hair glowing. She gives him a nod, and he scoffs quietly. Hound turns back to face Crow.

“You’d know about drain, wouldn’t you,” Crow says, scratching the back of his head, “I wouldn’t worry about my eyes, Hound. You’re at twenty-five percent total chakra, you need five to continue living. That gives you twenty percent to use.”

Hound lowers, sliding his leg back, “I only need ten to decide the outcome of this fight.”

Crow laughs, throwing his head back. The speakers blare, and Squid’s monotone voice rings, “identify yourself.”

“What I wanna know is why you jump to Crane’s side,” Crow says, stretching his arms up high. He drops them, they swing.

“ANBU Captain Hound,” he ignores him, projecting his voice, “H-K.”

The barriers pulse silver, Crow sighs, “I’ll figure it out, you know. I always do when it comes to these kinds of things.”

“Captain, identify yourself,” Squid says through the microphone. Crow waves him off, turning to address the crowd.

“ANBU Captain Hound is at twenty-five percent overall chakra stores,” he yells up into the rafters. Clamoring grows, “I don’t think that’s a very fair fight, I’m at ninety-five.”

The cheering rises in volume, arena shaking. Cat stands next to Weasel, a carton of milk in hand, “what is Crow doing?”

Weasel shakes his head, whispers, “I don’t know.”

“He says he only needs ten to beat me,” Crow continues.

Hound snaps, “identify yourself, so I can finish this.”

“I think I only need five.”

Tiger starts laughing beside Cat as the arena erupts. Blue surrounds Crow, chakra polluting the air as it comes off of him in waves. His skin burns slowly as chakra is forcefully ejected from his tenkutsu and into the pit. The seals suck it in, the barriers glow a bright red.

Squid turns on the microphone, “identify yourself–”

“ANBU Captain Crow, U-S,” Crow says, swaying in place. He takes a step and stumbles, a laugh bubbling up his throat, “man– I can’t even walk, or keep my sharingan up.”

Tiger pitches forward, hands gripping the railing, “that crazy son of a bitch,” he breathes. Weasel feels sick. Cat puts a tentative hand on his shoulder.

Crane trains her teal eyes on Hound. The speakers whine.

“Begin.”

Chapter Text

Shisui’s father died when he was seven– his mother even earlier. The only memories he really has left of them is his mom reading to him a story he doesn’t care to remember and his dad pushing him on the tire swing in his backyard. Mom killed herself, dad got cancer and died.

At that stage in life, Shisui knew how to take care of himself. He’d go out on missions, buy some groceries, make food, eat, sleep, rinse and repeat. It was easy– like everything else in his life. Easy, easy, easy, easy.

Shisui took no pleasure in killing solely for the reason that it was so boring. Dead things can’t talk, dead things don’t gossip, they don’t laugh– or cry. They’re just dead. Why would Shisui kill someone? It was so easy, and so stupid.

He would stay up all night with his sharingan cutting the darkness in his room, replaying his enemies last moments over and over and over again.

He hated them. They died so easily and just left him alone. He hated death.

The next year, on a mission, a man attacks him and Takami, his Genin teammate. Takami was stupid– he was loud, annoying, civilian born, and better than Shisui. No matter that he was five years older than him, he wasn’t supposed to be better than Shisui. Everything always came easy to him, but that didn’t mean it could come easy to anyone else.

Shisui hated when people died. He hated Takami too.

There was a man who attacked them, the two of them– Shisui doesn’t remember where their third teammate went, but, Shisui and Takami fought a man. He was fast, strong, exciting– Takami was struggling against him, and Shisui felt– felt–

The man swung his weapon– he doesn’t remember what weapon it was, but it was big to eight-year-old Shisui. Shisui with his glowing red eyes and quicksilver speed saw an easy opening, a slash to the side that would destabilize the attack and let Takami kill the man. Why would Shisui help Takami though? He hated him. Hated that he was stronger, faster, more popular, prettier, better than Shisui.

Stupid Takami would have to struggle against the man. He’d have to kill him later, exhausted and weary, with bruises and cuts. He needs to know that he’s not the best at everything ever– he needs to know that he’s not better than Shisui. Stupid Takami wouldn’t die to that man.

When the man’s strike hits, he cuts Takami’s head clean off.

The spray of blood was redder than Shisui’s sharingan, glowing against the leafy backdrop. Takami’s head bounced, rolled, eyes dull and blank as the man turned to Shisui.

He doesn’t remember what happened next, but he wakes up crying and cradling Takami’s head in his lap. His eyes burn– blood running down his face and dripping on to Takami’s blank face. Shisui wraps the bloody stump in bandages, using the last of his suture kit to sow him back on to his body. He performs CPR for half an hour after, talking to the corpse.

“Why did you die, Takami?” he asks, twin flames burning in his eyes, redder than the copper staining his knees, “i hate you. I hate you. Why did you leave me alone?”

Behind his sharingan, the memory replays. He sobs, “why did I kill you?”

Something changed, after that. Shisui glowed brighter than any star, or any spray of arterial blood. He killed quickly, instead of playing with his enemies in an effort to draw more expressions, or words, or anything– from them. Quick and painless. Faster and faster. He moved faster than a meteor shower, faster than the glint of a decapitation strike.

Konoha's Shooting Star; Shooting Star Shisui.

When he meets tiny Itachi, fast and nimble, he doesn’t see Takami. He sees something to protect, something to hold dear. It didn’t matter that Itachi won a handful of their spars, or that his mind worked just as fast– maybe evern faster than his. If noticing those things meant murder– Shisui stopped caring.

Itachi wouldn’t leave him alone. Shisui would make sure of it.

He had an orbit, Itachi, Genma, Tenzo, Kurenai, Kakashi, Gai, Asuma– they revolved around him, basking in his warmth, in his brightness. He shared laughs, jokes, drinks, everything with them. They hung out, played games, went on missions– everything. Shisui loved it. It beat killing, it beat Takami, it beat– everything.

At night, he’d replay those moments with red eyes over and over and over again.

Kakashi withdrew first. Gai and Genma followed. Tenzo went with them the minute he was shuffled in to Team Ro and Shisui was booted out. It made him angry– at first, but then he was promoted to Captain, so it was okay. Then went Asuma and Kurenai, Itachi remained.

They all still hung out occasionally, but late night sparring sessions, talks, or sleepovers went exclusively to Itachi. They became glued at the hip, inseparable. Genius to genius, resentment to resentment. Itachi hated conflict, killing, fighting, and Shisui hated death.

More and more often, their sessions included Shisui’s spinning sharingan eyes.

“Shisui,” Itachi said, eyes wide as they sat side-by-side on a cliff, the Naka river flowing beneath them, “what is it?”

“Hm?” Shisui asked, turning to face him. Sitting so close that their breaths mingled, he could count every sparkle in Itachi’s dark eyes.

“Your sharingan,” Itachi said, lips ghosting around the words he spoke.

Shisui blinked and pulled away, rummaging for a kunai to stare at himself in it’s reflection, “huh,” he mumbled, starting at his glowing eyes. He laughed, “I didn’t even notice.”

“You didn’t notice…your sharingan?” Itachi asked quietly, a knit in his brow. Shisui shrugged, putting his knife away. He stretched his arms up, leaning back to lay down on the grass.

“Guess not,” he said, “I like it, anyway. Everything gets so–” he reached his hand out to the black night, “slow.” He makes a fist and catches a star. When he opens his hand, the scene is destroyed by a flash of lightning and Hound’s silver blade whistling through the air.

Crow laughs, flickering off to the side, “you’re too slow, Hound!”

The lightning makes an arc when it slashes low, crackling against the ground and ripping up chunks of rocks. Shi– Crow sways, leaping out of the way of another strike. Hound sticks to melee weapons for now, and they engage in a deadly battle of fists– in Crow’s case, and kunai in Hound’s.

I can’t–

Crow flickers away, back, front, right, left– right– right, again, until he’s a blur all around Hound. Multiple Crow’s flicker in and out of sight, only one real.

I can’t turn it off–

Despite his dwindling reserves, Crow’s eyes glow a red so bright it’s seen from up in the crowd.

I can’t turn my sharingan off!

Hound strikes, cutting through a fake. Hound pries his sharingan open, tears streaming out of it as it burns hotter than the face of sun. Shisui can see that– can feel it. He can feel Hound’s parasitic sharingan like it’s his own, calling out to him.

Hound spots the real one, charging with a kunai tipped in white-blue. The charge makes Shisui’s hair stand up as he bends backwards, the lightning singing his armor. He twists, slapping Hound’s hip with a chakra-enhanced strike. Hound grunts as his hip cracks, flying through the air to slam into the barrier. He bounces, landing in a crouch.

Crow’s vision wobbles, and he brings a glowing blue hand up to his head to forcefully shut off his eyes.

His world speeds up, he slows down. Colors fade, like rainbows melting into varying shades of grey. Crow scoffs, pulling out the tanto strapped to his back. His moves are clumsy, exhaustion threatening to topple him.

Still, adrenaline flows through his veins, a grin taking over his face.

He flickers, and everything feels right.

Hound dodges his upper-strike, ducking out of the way of his follow up and jumping away from his kick. Crow lunges, his wrist protesting as he brings his dagger down again. Pain radiates up his arm as Hound blocks, the ground beneath them cracking. He uses Crow’s momentum against him, ducking to grab his arm in an attempt to slam him back-first on to the ground.

Crow’s played this game with Itachi so much that it becomes second nature to augment his body enough to lift Hound over his head and toss him into the ground. Crow lands in a crouch, Hound hits the floor, rolls once, and gets back on his feet.

Crow chuckles, bouncing on his feet, “come on, Captain, is this all you’ve got?”

He has maybe three more strikes left in him. After that, it’s lights out. Crow doesn’t care about winning this fight– that’s not the goal he has. He blocks Hound’s kunai with his tanto, and his wrist aches– struggles– and snaps with a deafening sound. Crow yelps, dropping his tanto as Hound’s kunai slashes down the length of his inner forearm.

He flickers back, hits the barrier, cries out, and flickers away three times to the very corner of the arena. He pants, grabs his wrist with his other hand, shaking it around uselessly. His fingers won’t contract, “fuck!”

Hound picks up his tanto. He stares at it for a moment, shifting slowly into a stance that looks almost forgotten. The sight is foreign, but white, hot chakra runs along the length of the blade until it glows ethereally. The Uchiha emblem sways in the soft breeze.

“You dropped something,” Hound says, and moves.

Crow grunts as the hilt of his own short sword is thrust into his midsection, armor creaking as he’s shot backwards. He hits the ground, cracks spiderwebbing off his multiple impacts. Hound moves like he’s made to wield the tanto, turning into a streak of white as he leaps over Crow and throws the dagger into his shoulder.

It pins him into place, blood spurting out of the wound. Crow cries out, unable to grab the handle with his broken hand as the other stays restricted.

“–AAH! FUCK!”

Itachi drops his kunai, flinching backwards, “Shisui!”

“Ow– you– you you fucking– my HAND–”

“Shisui I’m– I’m so sorry–”

Crow thuds his head back into the ground, groaning loudly, “shit.”

Hound pants, a kunai spinning in his hand as he crouches beside Crow’s head, brandishing the knife across his throat, “yield.”

Crow laughs, blood trailing down his chin, “I don’t yield, Captain.”

In the end, Shisui doesn’t even need to make eye contact. His eyes are– precious, special. They’re everything that’s right with him, no other sharingan does what Crow’s sharingan does, and Hound staggers back. He drops his knife, slapping his palms over his mask as he makes a low, wounded noise.

“What–” he chokes, taking in a shuddering gasp, “are you doing– to– my eye?!”

Crow grunts, hooking his forearm plate under the hilt of his tanto, pushing it out of himself. The wound bubbles with blood, spilling down his front as the dagger clatters to the floor. He props himself up, vision swinging and swaying as he stumbles to his feet.

“Hound,” Crow says, eyes spinning red red red. He lifts his good hand, curling his fingers so that only two rise. He flicks them upwards, pointing to right in between Hound’s eyes, “I’m in your head.”

Hound gasps, doubling over as he pain blossoms in his chest. His knees buckle, and he hits the floor– which opens up below him. The ANBU in the rafters morph into flying black birds, shooting off into the sky. Crows caw, flocking and flying as their cries turn into screams and Shisui’s figure flickers until he’s surrounded Kakashi. Kakashi palms his face, dog mask missing.

He tries to dispel it with his sharingan, but his eye melts out of his socket into nothingness below him.

“No–” he says, digging the heel of his palm into his empty eye, “no no no no–”

Genjutsu– genjutsu– where is his chakra? Kakashi pries his skin open, trying to find the lightning that crackles through his veins but turns up empty. His heart races, his palms sweat– he heaves and pants and spins around in this void-space where thousands eyes look at him, into him–

Crow takes a step. His knees buckle, his eyes roll to the back of his head, and red fades into black as he thumps lifelessly on to the broken floor.

Hound gasps, genjutsu shattering as he’s brought to his knees. The microphone screams, the seals activate and freeze them in place. He hears yelling, shouting, chanting– his ears ring. His sharingan seals shut with a mixture of blood, puss, and tears as Hound takes heaving breaths on all fours. His forearms shake holding him, an ache spreading like chill through his body, and it takes a long time for him to slowly get up.

In his peripheral, Weasel drops into arena, breaking the ground underneath him as he runs to Crow’s limp, unmoving figure. Blood pours out of Crow’s two wounds, staining his skin and armor Uchiha-red.

Fuck, Kakashi hates that fucking color. His stomach rolls. Hound. Hound hates that fucking color.

Tiger and Cat race to him, their voices wobbling like they’re underwater. Cat reaches out, and Hound snatches his hand and twists. Tiger yells something, Cat grunts, Hound releases.

“Don’t touch me,” he says, tongue thick in his mouth, “I– genjutsu. I’m going home, I’m going home.”

Tiger says something again, but Hound drags the remaining five percent of his chakra capacity into a series of body flickers that throw him out of the pit. He sees Crane watch him on his way out.

Cat exhales, holding his shaking hand, “that was unwise of me.”

“Are you alright, man?” Tiger asks, inspecting his hand. He wishes he could chew on something, “is it broken? He sounded– he sounded spooked– what the fuck did that crazy bastard show him?!”

“Shut up!” Weasel yells, voice breaking. Tiger and Cat jump, whirling around. He’s kneeling over Crow, tears running down his face, hands shaking, “he’s– I can’t find–”

Tiger’s eyes widen at Crow’s pale, unmoving figure. He feels his heart give one large beat, stomach threatening to fall out of his ass, “holy fuck– is he–”

Cat disappears in the blink of an eye. Tiger slaps his arm guard and unseals his medical kit with a poof. Weasel presses his hands on to Crow’s chest, locking his elbows and pushing one– two–

Tiger kneels down, rips open his kit– Crow gasps, eyes popping open as he shoves Weasel off of him and explodes into a coughing fit. He almost hits Tiger in the face with his fat head, “what–”

Weasel jumps on him, wrapping his arms around his shoulders as Crow startles, “what the hell–”

Tiger rips Crow's mask off, exposing wide, black eyes framed with thick, long lashes and rosy cheeks. He shoves a pill in his face, “you died, asshole, swallow.”

Shisui snorts, then grins, tired eyes filled with mirth as he swallows the mystery medicine Tiger gives him. He pats Weasel on the head, who’s clinging on to him for dear life, “I’m fine, guys,” he laughs, “it’ll take a lot more than Hatake fucking Kakashi to take me down.”

Weasel trembles lightly, and Shisui gently strokes his hair, “hey, I’m alright, really. I think the pill kicked in– woah, yeah,” he shudders, “what is that, chakra-pill?”

Tiger grunts, packing up his kit and sealing it away. Shisui continues comforting Weasel softly as Owl materializes, her heels denting the rock as she lands.

Shisui shoots her a closed-eye smile, “my wrist is broken,” he lifts and shakes the unresponsive limb, “and I stopped breathing at one point, I think.”

Owl cracks her knuckles.

“I gave him chakra,” Tiger supplies as she presses green hands to Shisui’s spine– not before smacking him flat on the back.

“What was going on in that thick head of yours?” she demands, black hair fanning her face, “you could have damaged your chakra pathways beyond repair!”

Shisui chuckles, “aye, aye– sorry, Owl. I really can’t help myself sometimes. Stuff just…gets to me, you know.”

Cat hovers, cradling his hand. Squid comes down alongside Pigeon and Flamingo, the rest of Shisui’s team

Squid ducks, “are you alright, Captain?”

Shisui grins and flashes a peace sign, “fit as a fiddle, my loyal subordinates.” Squid nods, satisfied that his Captain isn’t going to kick the bucket as he rises. Shisui glances at the newest member of his team, “hey, how’s Flamingo integrating with you guys? She’s your age, right, Squid?”

Squid shrugs, “we managed to run a drill using diamond formation three.”

Flamingo nods, punching her palm, “Squid and I won against Pigeon in a spar!”

“Aw, that’s great!” Shisui smiles, reaching over and ruffling her pink hair, “you know, I’ll probably be out of commission today, so why don’t I release you guys early?”

“Really?” Flamingo asks, lighting up. Squid even loses his dark aura for a second.

“Really really,” he confirms, “didn’t your super secret Sensei say that you had special training today?”

Flamingo nods, flickering away in excitement. Shisui takes no offense and smiles at Squid, “you should go join her and her team. I told her Sensei he might expect a fourth.”

He shuffles, “…is that an order?”

“Aa, nope.”

Squid grunts, and turns into a black splash of ink. Pigeon sighs, “Team Me is like a baby sitters club.”

Shisui shrugs, “they’re cute kids. Why don’t you go off on a hot date with your girlfriend?”

Pigeon sputters, turning red under her mask as she disappears. Shisui waggles his previously broken fingers, Owl shooting him a glare as she wraps a thin hand around his thick wrist. His wrist glows green, and the bones mend inside his skin. Weasel slowly pulls away from him.

“I’m sorry, please forgive me,” he says quietly, bowing his head, hands trembling. 

Shisui balks, “what for?”

Cat and Tiger watch them interact with sharp eyes, even when Owl moves off of Shisui and takes Cat’s hand in her green grasp.

“Your injury,” Weasel says, “it was my fault– I broke your wrist. I didn’t– I’m sorry. Please forgive me.”

Shisui smiles a fond smile, “don’t sweat it. I got what I wanted out of Hound anyway, so I don’t really care that my wrist got fucked again.”

Tiger cocks his head, “you lost the fight.”  

Shisui gets up, stretching like a cat. He grunts, brings his arms down and lets them swing, “while he was busy with the genjutsu–” he taps his temple, eyes shining, “these babies went through his head. Pilfered a few memories, thoughts, whatever, it’s gets into one big jumble in my head, honestly, but I found what I was looking for.”

Shisui’s smile, charming and goofy, morphs into something sharp and dark, “I don’t lose, Tiger. It all works out in the end, anyway. Isn’t that how these kinds of things go?” he claps Tiger’s shoulder on his way out, Weasel at his side.

Tiger clenches his fist, “what did you show him?”

 Owl watches silently from the sidelines, Shisui stops, “hm?”

“The genjutsu,” Cat continues, taking a step, “what did you show Kakashi.”

“Oh,” he says, scratching the back of his head, “dunno, I don’t really have control over that,” he says lightly. Weasel freezes.

“You don’t…control your eyes?” he asks, sounding horrified.

“Nah,” he replies, “I hope Hound gets better soon. You two should check on him or send a medic. If I died for a bit, there’s no way he’s feeling too good right now.” Shisui throws an arm against Weasel, holding his hand up to wave goodbye to Cat, Tiger, and Owl, “see you.”

He flickers out of the pit. Shooting Star Shisui.

—

Kakashi pukes his guts out in his toilet bowl for the hundredth time. He’s leaning against it, knees resting on his tiled floor, head resting on the edge of the seat. His ass was on that seat this morning. Kakashi gags, and hurls again.

For the past fifteen minutes, he’s been throwing all of his intestines out.

If Kakashi didn’t want to die on the regular, this would be his thirteenth reason. Chakra exhaustion hugs him like a warm, ill fitting, sweaty glove. It’s really the worst feeling in the world. That, and watching your two best friends die.

He reaches upwards and tugs on the handle, flushing all of his watery vomit down the poop and pee pipe. Poop, pee, and vomit. He’s still wearing his bloody uniform, mask thrown somewhere in his bedroom. Every time Kakashi turns his head, he’s hit with an overwhelming urge to eject his stomach.

Kakashi feels too hot and too cold at the same time, and his genius solution is to pry off all of his clothes until he’s kneeling in a pile of bloody fabric clad only in his paw-print underthings. No, it’s not a thong. Yes, it’s horribly juvenile. He shivers, heat radiating off of his pale skin.

When he curls his arms around his midsection, he can count the ridges in his protruding ribs.

Kakashi decides on a whim to take a nap. His sharingan has refused to stop leaking fowl smelling fluid, or even open, for that matter– or stop fucking HURTING. His body feels like one big giant bruise, and he hasn’t been able to keep down his meals today. Obviously, to fix all of those issues, he’s going to lie down beside his toilet and sleep it off.

No mission scheduled for the next twenty four hours. He’ll probably be asleep for most of that.

Kakashi makes himself comfortable. That is, curling up into a teeny tiny one-hundred and fifty pound ball. The cool tile satiates his nausea, at least a little bit. Shivers rack his frame otherwise.

He closes his eyes, and promptly passes out. That’s how Genma and Tenzo find him– shivering, with sunken cheeks and shallow breaths. Genma breaks into his house with the senbon he keeps in his mouth, Tenzo disarms all of the traps like it’s child play. To a Wood user, with chakra-nullifying properties, it practically is.

“He’s maskless,” Genma says, adverting his eyes. Tenzo has seen Kakashi’s face, so he enters the bathroom, opens a cabinet, and gently secures a medical mask to his face. It doesn’t hide how fucked up he looks.

Genma chews on a replacement senbon, “should we move him to his bed or couch? I kicked his dog mask underneath his bed so we don’t step on it.”

“The fact that our noise is not enough to rouse him worries me,” Tenzo says, crouching down to pick up Kakashi. 

Genma grimaces, “his existence worries me. I don’t know how to help him, I don’t even think he wants help.”

Tenzo carries him bridal, “we’ll put him down on his bed so he’ll be more comfortable. I can do his laundry if you’ll handle making a meal?”

“Yeah,” he says, defeated. “Should we take him to the hospital?”

“Seems like the best course of action,” Tenzo says, “Kakashi would hate that, though.”

He tenses, “Kakashi doesn’t like anything!” Genma yells. Tenzo shoots him an alarmed look and he shuts his mouth, running a hand through his hair, “sorry. They took my bandanna to make a flag and now I hate that I can feel the breeze on my scalp.”

Tenzo’s deep, creepy eyes sadden, “I don’t know how to help him either,” he says quietly, “he needs to want to help himself, before we do anything. We can’t force him. All we can do is be steady, supportive friends until he feels ready to ask for help.”

Genma nods, fixing his hair again, “okay, okay, you’re probably right,” he rambles, “I’m– I’ll go make him some meals that’ll last the week. If he takes a turn for the worse, we can grab Owl.”

Tenzo walks to the side of Kakashi’s large, king sized bed, placing him gently on top of the covers. He uses his throw to cover him, so he doesn’t get too hot. Genma walks off into the kitchen as Tenzo places the back of his hand across Kakashi’s forehead. He’s burning up, common with chakra depletion.

Pots and pans clank in the kitchen, the sound of the faucet running water fills the house with white noise. Tenzo lets him rest as he picks up all of Kakashi’s laundry from the bathroom, exiting the bedroom to the laundry closet. He finds his detergent and fabric softener arranged neatly at the top, and runs a load.

Genma’s in the middle of cooking some mixed greens when Tenzo places a hand on his shoulder, “he’s burning up, I’ll grab a washcloth and bucket of ice-water.”

He hums, “ice is in the freezer, I didn’t see a bucket but he has a huge bowl in that cabinet over there,” he tilts his head to the side. Tenzo grabs the ice, grabs the bowl, and pads softly back into the bedroom. He soaks the washcloth, wrings it, and folds it gently on top of Kakashi’s forehead. He makes a low noise as it cools his rapidly reddening skin.

“He should have painkillers!” Genma yells from the kitchen.

Tenzo stops himself from thinking about Kakashi as he distracts his thoughts with mindless tasks. He rummages through Kakashi’s bathroom, finding old, stale, painkillers. He doesn’t have any muscle-injection types.

“Do you have tramadol in your medkit?” Tenzo calls out, holding two fading orange bottles in his hands. He places them back under the sink, closing the cabinet doors.

“Not the oral kind,” Genma replies. A poof sounds, he jogs into the bedroom and tosses his plastic medkit to Tenzo exiting the bathroom with a side of smoke. He grumbles, “everyone always asks for my medkit.”

“It’s stocked well,” Tenzo says in lieu of an apology, “can Kakashi have tramadol?”

Genma pauses, pots sizzling in the background, “I’m not sure. He only overuses soldier pills, and they have a painkilling aspect that works more like adrenaline than medicine, I think.”

“He doesn’t keep any muscle-injectors,” he says slowly, looking down at Kakashi shaking, sweaty form, “maybe– we shouldn’t.”

“He’s in a lot of pain,” Genma argues, “we should ask–”

Kakashi stirs, slapping the cloth on his forehead, “Sensei?” he asks in a small voice, pupil blown wide. He shudders, whining as a wave of pain washes over him. He pulls the cloth off and tosses it somewhere on the bed, “I t-told you, I’m fine.”

Tenzo and Genma freeze as Kakashi mutters incoherently. Tenzo can see the scene in front of his fade into a crabby sick teenager laying on bed, clock ticking in the corner of his room. Lord Fourth sits at the foot of a twin bed, smiling sheepishly as the cloth smacks him in the chest and wets his shirt. His hair is rumpled with the remnants of sleep.

“I know, Kakashi,” he says, getting up to drop the cloth in the bucket full of ice he shoved under his bed. His blue eyes glimmer like pools in the height of summer, “let me know if you need anything.”

Kakashi glares as best he can with the heat of a fever warming his face, “I’m not a-a baby,” he slurs. Minato runs his fingers through his sweaty, silver hair, “I’m not– your baby,”

Minato smiles sadly, retracting his fingers, “I know, Kakashi.”

Genma breaks the scene with a pale arm, reaching over Kakashi to grab the washcloth crumpled with his bedsheets. Tenzo takes it as he slowly and gently injects the tramadol into his upper arm. Kakashi flinches, then relaxes as the fast-acting painkillers rush through his cells.

“I better check on the food,” Genma says. Tenzo nods and hops on to the edge of the bed, curling his fingers into Kakashi’s silver, sweat-soaked hair. He relaxes further, melting into the pillow. Tenzo can see his lips tremble around two short syllables. Tenzo’s chest squeezes.

In a large, two-story home built quietly off the side of the abandoned Senju compound, Minato sits alone on his porch. The sun warms his scalp as he paints another seal, knuckles dipped in ink. The house behind him is silent, empty.

“I wonder what you’re up to now,” he says softly, voice lost in the wind.

Chapter Text

“Ow, ow ow owow–” Shisui hisses as Itachi swipes a cotton pad soaked with alcohol down the faint pink skin that covers his tanto wound. “I think it’s already, healed– ow!”

Itachi tosses the pad in the trash can, “the fact that it hurts means it needs to be cleaned.”

Shisui groans, “you just made that up.”

Itachi smiles a secretive little smile as he unbuckles the clasps holding Shisui’s forearm guards together. Shisui narrows his black eyes, tugging his arm close to his chest. Itachi laughs, and they argue in the doorway of Shisui’s apartment. There’s a shoe rack digging into his back, his sandals arranged neatly on the top rack– which is more than he can say about Shisui’s.

“Go take a shower,” Itachi huffs, leaning back against the rack. He shoves Shisui with his foot, who topples over and smacks his head on the hardwood floor, “you smell terrible.”

Shisui grunts, slapping his foot away, “Gods, you are such an asshole.”

“I’m an asshole who smells like roses.”

Shisui barks out a laugh at that one, getting up slowly. His black eyes sparkle as he rubs his head, messing his curls up, “when did you get so snarky?”

Itachi shrugs, and Shisui gets up to his feet. Itachi holds a forearm guard in his hand as he clasps the other into Shisui’s outstretched one, letting himself be pulled up. Shisui follows the momentum and tugs him into a one-armed hug. Itachi startles, putting his free arm up against his chest. Shisui mumbles into his shoulder, “sorry for scaring you today.”

Itachi nods stiffly, holding his hand and forearm guard against Shisui’s sternum. He can feel his heart beat slowly and steadily under his palms. After a moment, Shisui pulls away and gently shoves Itachi backwards, “time to hit the bathroom! I’ve got stuff in the fridge if you wanna make us something.”

Itachi’s starstruck look morphs into a blank one as he narrows his eyes, “you want me to make you a meal?”

Shisui jogs down the hallway, clapping his hands together, “with side dishes, thanks! you’rethebestandIloveyouverymuch!”

The bathroom door swings open, Shisui disappears, it swings closed with a bang. Itachi’s bangs blow in the wind. He huffs, “what am I, a stay-at-home shinobi?” he mutters, looking at his attire. He’s covered in blood, none of it his, but still gross anyway.

Sighing, he tugs at the straps of his chestplate, pulling it over his head. He unbuckles his shin guards and forearm guards next, peeling off his gloves. Shisui has a laundry room, and Itachi walks there, going through the living room. He turns on the lights and dumps his armor on top of a plastic table.

Itachi rubs at his chest absently, curling his hand into a fist and coughing into it. The dust seems to be aggravating his lungs. He pays it no mind and opens the lid of a machine to put his armor into it. There’s a specific setting that’s for shinobi-wear, and he pushes the button, loading the machine up with pods and a little bit of anti-blood detergent.

In Shisui’s closet, there are spare clothes in Itachi’s size. He has his own rack in Shisui’s bedroom, but he doesn’t feel like tracking the tang of blood into the space where they’re supposed to sleep in. 

Itachi frowns, his heart flutters, and his lungs spasm to force another series of coughs out of him. Scrunching his nose, he rubs at his chest again. What is with this room? Peeling off his under armor, he changes into a comfy pair of bottoms and a t-shirt that has a faded Uchiha symbol plastered on the back. Setting up another load of laundry, he heads in the direction the bathroom.

Shisui’s showering, and the rush of water reverberating through the thin walls confirms that. Itachi knocks twice, and Shisui’s humming stops– a small smile twitches across Itachi’s face– with a cry of “come in!”

Itachi enters, steam blinding him for a moment. The mirror has fogged up, humidity thick. He turns on the dehumidifier so the ceiling doesn’t start peeling, “I can put your armor in the wash with mine,” he says, stepping around the bloody pile of clothes.

Shisui would not know how to keep his place neat and clean if it smacked him in face. Fortunately for him, he has Itachi, who’s basically a housemaid at this point. He spends more time cleaning up Shisui’s apartment than he shares a meal with his family. They think he’s busy training and running missions, blind to the fact that ANBU is a cesspool of randos and weirdos who do basically whatever they want when they don’t run missions.

Itachi is now a weirdo.

“Thanks!” Shisui says, muffled by the spray of water, “hey, I forgot my shampoo. Can you get it? It’s on the rack by the sink.”

Itachi hums an affirmative, grabbing the black bottle sitting by the faucet. Odd, “It’s not on the rack… why is it by the sink?”

Shisui laughs, reaching his hand through the slit of the shower curtains, “I thought I got blood all over it.” Itachi puts it in his wet palm, and he takes it into the shower. Itachi’s brow knits.

“…how?”

“Dunno,” Shisui says, the sound of the bottle uncapping pops through the splash of water, “I did somehow, or else it wouldn’t’ve been bloody. I washed it in the sink and I guess I forgot to put it back.”

Itachi gathers all of Shisui’s dirty clothes, careful not to soil his fresh ones, “okay,” he says softly, “I’m going to put these in the laundry.”

As he leaves, he clenches his fist around the clothes, bottle staining the back of his eyes. The cold air raises goosebumps on his pale, thin skin, a contrast to the sweltering humidity in the bathroom. An image of Shisui washing his shampoo bottle refuses to leave his head as he walks to the laundry room.

There’s a price to pay for every drop of genius. No man can be as talented as Shisui without a drawback weighing him down. It’s the same for Kakashi, the same for Itachi, and the same for Lord Fourth. Itachi separates Shisui’s armor from cloth.

He opens the top of the machine. It’s not known how early Shisui developed his sharingan. He himself doesn’t remember, which is odd, considering the fact that all sharingan has perfect recall. Shisui does know when he developed the mangekyou, at a mere eight years old, the youngest in Clan history.

There’s a price to pay when negotiating power.

Itachi runs the laundry, trekking to the kitchen. A dent the size of a fist broken into the drywall, as well as knife scratches and even a smudge of blood stain the white walls. Itachi ignores it and opens the fridge. Shisui eats a lot, he’s two-hundred and fifty pounds of muscle, and his meals reflect that. Clear tupperware of prepared food sit in the fridge, words scrawled on to them.

ANBU offers meals for nin who can’t make their own food, because it didn’t matter if you had mental health issues bad enough to stop you from taking care of yourself, you still needed to do your duty.

Itachi pulls out leftover rice and slams the fridge door shut. It rattles.

It didn’t matter if you were a danger to yourself or others. As long as you did your duty and reported to the Village– or Clan, it was fine. The smudge of blood on the trim of Shisui’s wall glows, and Itachi’s nose sends a twinge of ache whenever he scrunches it up.

He uses some tuna to fill the rice balls he shapes, wrapping it with seaweed. There’s leftover nikujaga that he heats up on the stove. Mikoto makes a great cucumber salad and Itachi copies one of her recipes, adding sesame oil and soy sauce to the sliced vegetables.

The bathroom door opens quietly and shuts loud. Shisui towels his curly hair as he walks into the living room, draping it over his shoulders to catch the droplets. He’s wearing sweats and a shirt that says ‘HOTTIE’ in bright red.

“Just got a mission,” he whines, “how annoying.”

Itachi hums, serving the food in ceramic bowls, “what about?”

Shisui shrugs, helping him bring the bowls over to the low table where they kneel, “just a Jounin thing, solo. I’m going to check out this new Village that just popped up, Hidden Light, or something.”

“I forgot the chopsticks,” Itachi says as he gets up and grabs two pairs. Shisui chuckles, grabbing his pair.

Itachi breaks his apart as he starts with the cucumbers, “you figured out why Hound indulges Crane, right?”

Shisui groans, “come on, Itachi, I just started eating.”

“I didn’t mean–”

Shisui waves him off, taking a slice, “I get it, you’re curious, everyone is. I didn’t get everything, didn’t have enough chakra to take a thorough look, but I got enough where I can put the pieces together.”

Itachi chews silently, Shisui takes an onigiri in his hand and bites. Itachi swallows, “I didn’t know you could go through people’s…memories?”

Shisui chews, covers his mouth, “can we not do this right now?” he asks, fatigue weighing his eyelashes down, “the chakra-pill is fading and I need to decompress before I pass out for a few hours. You can pick my brain later, I promise.”

“Right,” Itachi says, “sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Shisui replies, “we can watch a few episodes of that rom-com you like so much after the food, Princess Ho-whatever.”

“Princess Hoshiko,” he corrects. 

Shisui smiles, “yeah, her. Don’t look so gloomy,” he says, pointing at Itachi with his chopsticks, “your sad eyes make me feel like I skinned Sasuke alive and ate him.”

“Ew,” Itachi says flatly, eating his own onigiri.

In the end, Shisui falls asleep on Itachi’s shoulder. The episodes play out at a low volume as Itachi pulls out a book and reads for a few hours, careful not to disturb him. Shisui doesn’t bring up his promise for the rest of the day, and so Itachi keeps quiet.

The fist-shaped hole in the kitchen catches the light, the one that broke Shisui’s wrist after Itachi had parried a devastating blow meant for his head. In the aftermath of a brutal psychotic break, Shisui spent a total of three hours in the hospital. They bandaged his hand up, patted him on the head, and he returned to ANBU the next day.

Duty to the Village, duty to the Clan. Power comes at a price, and Shisui’s sanity pays for his moniker, Konoha’s Shooting Star.

Itachi waits for the day his debt catches up to him too.

—

Amaya is the only authority in the hospital that doesn’t come from a Clan.

So far, she’s seen about thirty patients, ranging from three to ninety. She heals the ninjas enough where they won’t die before booting them out of the hospital, or transferring them to inpatient care. She uses civilian techniques to check up non-nin folk, and write up prescriptions or findings to be faxed to their local civilian doctors.

She assists in one three-hour long surgery, and leads a two-hour one under the watchful eye of her superior. 

During the very brief downtime she has, Amaya finalizes her plan for ANBU. Lady Tsunade cleared the funding request without a second glance the minute it was put on her desk, which made things exponentially easier.

The first part of everything was to do thorough physicals on all members, checking chakra health as well. During that portion, she would test for chakra control using a specialized seal. The seal is essentially a large spiral, drawn on chakra-sensitive paper. The user flows their chakra following the spiral as best as possible, and how accurate the flow is compared to how much the paper reacts gives an accurate estimate of chakra percentile. Amaya’s is in the high nineties, and Lady Tsunade has perfect control. The last she checked, the average for all Jounin is around mid-eighties.

The second part is separating the candidates. Lessons happen during ANBU downtime, which is whenever the members aren’t taking a mission. Anyone who misses a lesson can ask for a quick remedial recap, but they’re essentially responsible for learning it on their own. If they can’t for whatever good reason, they can stick to first aid.

The exam period will consist of written and practical knowledge. Members who fail the written portion won’t get a chance to demonstrate practical knowledge because it’s dangerous. If you don’t know what you’re doing, don’t bother doing it at all.

Amaya makes Lady Tsunade’s pupil clean bedpans because healing isn’t all about saving lives and being heroic. The girl is great, she makes a few faces, but does as she’s told without a fuss.

Amaya walks down the hallway of the pediatric section, flipping the papers on her clipboard. She has a twelve-year-old kid who fell out of a tree during training. Possible broken arm. She sighs.

She pushes ANBU duty into the recess of her mind, stethoscope bouncing atop her collarbones as she walks down the rooms. Most rooms have privacy seals, but it seems like the one in room 332-P is broken.

“I told you, you didn’t HAVE to come! I’m not a DUMB BABY, dad!”

A shrill, prepubescent voice rattles the door off its hinges. Amaya’s eye twitches, and she stops in front of the doorway. She sighs, knocks twice, and opens it to reveal a blond kid in eye-catching orange holding his arm. She freezes in the doorway as Lord Fourth attempts to quiet him down, sitting in a plastic chair. Upon her entrance, he turns to her, blue eyes impossibly bright.

He smiles sheepishly, “sorry for the noise, Sensei.”

Amaya stares, green eyes wide. The wind knocks out of her chest as he watches her with those shining, glimmering eyes. They sparkle like diamonds under sunlight. He has what looks like thin eyeliner surrounding his eyes, a deep black. It coats his waterline and whiskers out into a small, sharp wing, making his eyes feel like they’re glowing. “Lord Fourth,” she greets, voice small.

His son, Naruto Namikaze harrumphs, sitting on the bed. Naruto kicks his feet as Amaya closes the door behind them in a daze.

“Please,” the Fourth says, smiling. A little fang glints, “just Minato is fine. I haven’t been Hokage for a while.”

Amaya nods, turns to Naruto who’s glaring at her. She reviews her notes, fingers shaking, “you fell out of a tree?”

He squints, “wouldn’t you like to know, lady.”

“Naruto!” Minato exclaims, frowning deeply. Amaya does a double take as the former Hokage blushes a firetruck red. He turns to address Amaya, “I’m so sorry,” he apologizes, those intense eyes boring into her, “he fell out one of the Hashirama trees and broke his arm.”

Amaya’s too stunned to speak. She nods mutely, breaking the eye contact. Man, talk about the blue-eyed stare.

“I’m FINE!” Naruto yells, making her jump, “I’m a real ninja now, not a little kid! A stupid fall is NOTHING! I wanna see Sakura!”

“At least let the doctor heal you, Na–”

“NO!” Naruto screams, “I WANT SAKURA! You always treat me like a baby, but I’m NOT,” he tells Minato, blue eyes burning, “you didn’t have to come with me, I told you A LOT that it WASN’T SERIOUS and that I was FINE, but you never listen! Why can’t you be more like Sasuke’s parents?!”

Minato reels back like he’s been struck, Amaya feels more and more uncomfortable by the second. She looks at the door, clenching her clipboard tightly “…I can give you two a moment–”

Minato shakes his head, getting up, “no, no. Stay.” he sighs, turning around. Away from his son, his expression falls further, “I understand, Naruto. I’ll wait for you outside of the room.”

He takes his leave, and Naruto mutters something under his breath. He pitches his arm forward, the limb dangling uselessly from the elbow. His scowl seems etched on as his mood doesn’t brighten after the bane of his existence leaves with the soft click of a door. He sniffs, “are you gonna heal me or what, huh?”

Amaya’s mouth flattens as she puts the clipboard down, “I won’t if you’re going to be rude to me.”

Naruto’s mouth opens in shock, like no one has ever told him that before. It makes sense, if he’s the Fourth’s son, probably no one has ever told him no. In most situations, Amaya would have rolled over and healed him, but Minato’s dismayed expression stays plastered behind her eyes. 

Also, she hates little brat bullies.

Naruto turns so red she worries his head will explode. He heaves in a few breaths, inhales a lungful of hair, and screams, “DAAAAAAAD!”

Amaya flinches when Minato breaks down the door, kunai in hand as his piercing eyes zero in on her. The door snaps, crashing into the wall and cracking the doorstop attached to the bottom. She doesn’t let herself falter where she normally would, because the freaking yellow flash has a knife pointed at her. Faltering means Naruto brat Namikaze wins, and she is spiteful enough where she’ll face down the former Fourth Hokage of Konoha.

Naruto points his grubby finger at her, “SHE WON’T HEAL ME, DAD!”

Minato’s brow furrows, and he lowers his knife. Amaya seizes her chance and bows as deep as she can, “Lord Fourth!” she cries, “I’m terrible sorry for my disobedience, but I refuse to heal your son!”

He blinks, loosens his stance, and goes, “…what?”

“Daaaaaaaaad,” Naruto whines.

Amaya straightens up, saluting, “sir, I have the right to refuse service to anyone I choose to, and your son has spoken to me in a rude and disrespectful manner. I will not heal him.”

Minato’s mouth drops a little, the same look Naruto gave her rising on his face. His blue eyes go impossibly wide, looking between her and Naruto a few times. It’s obvious he has also never been told no. She can see him think on his face, expression shifting.

“Dad!” Naruto says urgently, holding his arm “do SOMETHING!”

Minato’s mouth hardens, and his eyes follow. He puts his kunai away, facing Amaya to bow, “Sensei, I apologize for my son’s unacceptable behavior.” he says, turning to Naruto, “you can suffer with a broken arm for a few more hours if you want to be rude to ninja who try and help you.”

Naruto glitches, like he didn’t even consider that this was in the realm of possibility. Minato turns to leave, and he sputters, “wait!”

Minato stops, turns around slowly, and crosses his arms. His blue eyes are as frigid as ice. Amaya shudders, not even the recipient of his I’m-not-mad-just-disappointed look. Naruto pouts, glares, and grits his teeth. He stares at Amaya.

“Sorry,” he grunts.

She side-eyes Minato, watching his expression. After a beat, his eyes soften, and blue-green meet.

That was the shittiest apology in the history of shitty apologies ever shat, but the Fourth Hokage is giving her puppy-dog eyes while his son sits cross legged on a hospital bed holding a broken arm. She folds, “good.” Before Naruto can celebrate, she adds, “if you pull anything like that in this hospital again, none of my staff will even treat you for a runny nose, got it?”

Minato beams, and his smile alone is enough to kill armies. Naruto sweats, nodding rapidly, “you got it, boss lady!”

Amaya nods, and gets to work. Minato fiddles with the broken door, fixing what he can, and Naruto behaves. She runs diagnostics, numbs the site, and her cool, healing chakra runs into the wound. It’s the Hokage’s son, so she does a perfect job on a patient she’d slap a cast on and kick out.

“…are you really the boss lady?” Naruto asks while she’s bending his elbow back and forth. Minato is able to open and close the door so he takes his leave again. It shuts with a tiny bang.

“Yes,” Amaya lies.

Naruto squirms, “I really didn’t mean to be rude,” he mumbles. “It’s just…my stupid dad, y’know. He’s always doing everything with me and he doesn’t get that I just wanna be my own person, y’know!”

Amaya opens her mouth, Naruto cuts her off with a glare, “you can save it with the whole–” he pitches his voice way up, “–your dad is the friggin’ Fourth Hokage! You should be grateful! There are starving children in Suna, blah blah blah!”

She pinches him, he yelps, “I’m from Suna, brat.”

“Were you a starving child I should feel bad for?”

She pinches him again.

Naruto grumbles, rubbing the pinched site. “But you get it, right?” he whines, “imagine if– there was another super cool boss lady that was your boss lady, and all everyone said to you was about your boss lady! You only made friends because of your boss lady, people wanted you to be exactly like your boss lady, and your boss lady DOESN’T GET THE HINT that you WANT TO BE YOUR OWN PERSON!” he yells that last part towards the wall separating room and hallway.

Amaya finishes healing his arm, standing up, “I guess that would suck.”

Naruto wiggles his arm, previous ire evaporating, “hey lady, you’re pretty good! Can I see Sakura now?”

She sighs, nods, and pulls her pager out, exiting the room. Minato leans against the wall, arms crossed, head lowered. Amaya asks for Sakura in the little radio attached to her hip, and she takes a break from constant rounds to stand beside Minato.

He smiles at her, but its small and sad, and nothing compared to how his face lights up with a grin. She’s always been the awkward type so she stands in silence with him.

Minato doesn’t seem to mind as he studies her, “thank you for standing your ground in there.”

Amaya blinks, surprised, “…you’re welcome.”

He faces the floor, “I always thought my reputation would protect and keep him safe, but, I guess it’s only made him resent me.”

Amaya raises her brow, “he’s twelve,” she says, “most kids resent their parents when they’re twelve.”

Sakura choses that moment to run down the hall, pink hair tied up, scrubs on. She pants, jogging to a stop by Amaya and Minato, “you–” a gasp, “asked for me–” another gasp, “Fujiwara-sensei?”

Sakura straightens, and bows again with a squeak when she locks eyes with Minato. Her pink hair swings.

He hums to himself, “Fujiwara…?”

“Naruto is in there,” Amaya says, tapping the door beside her, “he fell out of a tree, I healed him, but he asked to see you.”

Sakura’s green eyes widen as she nods, bowing once again for good measure. She opens and closes the door to Naruto’s room, an immediate crash following. Things clatter to the floor.

“IDIOT,” Sakura bellows, heard clearly from outside the room. A nurse turns the corner, freezes, and turns back. Naruto screams.

Minato laughs sheepishly as he listens to his son get beat up by a pink-haired little girl. Amaya’s pager crackles to life, and she sighs, pushing herself off of the wall. Minato interrupts her before she can say her goodbye.

“Fujiwara-sensei,” he says, a glint of recognition entering his ocean eyes, “Amaya, right? Fujiwara Amaya? We were stationed at the same camp during the third war.”

Amaya nods, “I’m surprised you remember.”

“How could I forget you?” Minato asks. She freezes, and he opens his mouth to continue before a large crackle from her radio stops him. He smiles as she sighs and quiets it.

“I’m sorry,” Amaya says, “I need to get going.”

Minato waves her off, “when do you get off? We can chat then.”

She pauses, “you…want to talk to me?”

He laughs suddenly, scaring her a little, “of course!” he exclaims, “I’ll have to be in disguise if we don’t want a bunch of people coming up to us, but I’d love to get coffee or something and catch up! That is– um, if you want to of course!”

Amaya stares at his earnest look, much like an excited dog, and nods, “I get off in three hours. You can wait for me by the back of the hospital near the parking lot.”

Minato brightens, practically glowing, “okay! Yeah, totally! I’ll see you in three hours!”

As she walks away, she puts in a work order to fix up the privacy seals and the door that teeters dangerously. She can feel Minato’s eyes on her back as she leaves. He strikes her as odd…mostly a little lonely. He’s lost his Hokage robes, his role as a ninja, his wife and two students. Amaya would be lonely in that situation too.

Deep within the tresses of ANBU, Crane sits at a desk, her feet up on it. There are piles of papers scattered by her, maps, reports, photos and letters. She sifts through them, a bottle of red wine propped by her arm.

She takes out a map, a red circle drawn around a segment of it. She flips it around and holds it out to the people sitting in the room, some ANBU, some not.

“This,” she says, tapping it with a manicured nail, “what is this?”

A voice pipes up, “a new Village that just emerged. Hidden Light.”

She turns it back to herself, studying the location. Crane hums, “I want someone to investigate this. Make sure the Hokage makes that happen.”

Nara Shikai nods in the dimly lit room, white armband around his bicep. It’s the same one Shizune wears when there’s foreign nin in the Village, the one that designates her as Lady Tsunade’s right hand man.

Shisui packs his mission gear, chakra humming uncomfortably under his skin. Dark circles stain the undersides of his eyes as he yawns. Chakra capacity, forty-seven percent. Not bad for a mission where all he’s essentially supposed to do is walk in, walk around, and walk out. Maybe raid a few government buildings, maybe kill a few people. He shoves a few extra chakra-recovery-focused protein bars in his pack anyway.

Odd for Lady Tsunade to send him on a mission like this without three days notice. Odd for it to be a solo one in a Village that they don’t know anything about.

He straps his tanto on, the blade shining in the moonlight. Shisui watches Itachi sleep quietly in their bed, chest rising and falling. His silky black hair drapes across his pillow, most of the blankets piled atop him.

Shisui smiles a stupid soft smile at the sight, eyes lightening. He packs the last of his shit and leaves, closing the window on his way out.

Chapter Text

When Amaya walks through the halls of ANBU, conversations dim. It’s almost comical how much they dislike her, turning into Academy students fighting for the top spot in their class. In this case, there is no top spot, just the dislike of having an outsider meddle in private affairs.

Amaya gets it, kind of. She’ll pretend like she does because it makes it easier. 

Crow is gone on some sort of normie mission, Hound is even more trigger-happy than usual, and Crane seems like she’s on top of the world. Boar is just– gone, and Owl and Fish walk on eggshells. It’s currently a tough time in the ANBU political world, so Amaya tries her best to stay out of it.

On a brighter note, the “sterile” ANBU clinic is now actually sterile with the help of Team Ro and a few seals Minato conjured up. The minute the word seal left her mouth, he perked up, which is a feat in of itself, because Minato is always perky. He then started talking and didn’t stop for about ten minutes, pausing to thank the lady who brought them their coffee before launching right back into his incredibly detailed recollection of the history of spiral seals.

She recalls the scene as she walks into the empty clinic.

Minato drums his fingers on their circular table, sitting outside on the patio of a cute, upscale cafe. The kind that advertises matcha-everything. Speaking of, Minato has a matcha croissant with a matcha drizzle covered in matcha flakes with a strawberry filling sitting in front of him. Amaya sticks to a cookie.

His version of a disguise seemed to be coloring his hair brown and putting it up into a ponytail, a pair of circular glasses sliding off his nose. The blue eyes remain, which Amaya is not thankful for.

They stare into her soul.

He also didn’t bother to change at all, wearing the same tight blue top and baggy pants. Amaya feels incredibly underdressed in her scrubs and lab coat, curls sticking out of her head.

She bites into her cookie, Minato watches her in that creepy way of his.

“I’m glad you pursued being a med-nin,” he says, “you seemed really good at it.”

Amaya nods, “thank you,” chews and swallows.

He tilts his head, “is it different from healing in the field? Being in a hospital?”

She pauses to think, a bird perching on the little white fence that separates the patio from the street. The sun starts to set behind them, painting the sky pink. There’s a pleasant breeze, and shops start to close for the twilight.

“Yes,” Amaya says, before she’s fully finalized her thoughts, “there’s always an element of adrenaline when healing injured patients, but it’s different in a setting catered for recovery,” she explains. Minato listens to her with rapt attention, “on the field, I have to be a little more…creative. Certain elements aren’t available to me, so I need to either make it up on the fly or improvise. It’s like a puzzle.”

“Huh,” Minato says, resting his chin in the palm of his hand. He leans forward, elbow on the table. 

Amaya realizes he acts much younger than he actually is, not in a childish way, but the way that it seems like the world is weightless on his shoulders. There’s light in his eyes, glow in his skin, and energy that buzzes through his limbs.

It’s weird, and creepy.

“I like puzzles,” Minato says, “it’s why I like sealing.”

“I like sealing too,” Amaya agrees. Minato’s eyes widen as she continues, “I’m working on an alternate assignment that involves spiral seals. It’s a seal that holds chakra in it, and the ink directs it along the spiral. How accurately the chakra follows the ink indicates the waste percentage and how much chakra ends up in the seal indicates the output percentage.”

Minato’s grins, “I’ve heard of those! They’re for determining chakra control, right? You measure the highest point of leakage around the spiral and compare that to perfect spirals. Results can only be accurate if the entire seal is full of chakra, right?”

“Yes,” she confirms.

Minato’s eyes sparkle, “did you know spiral seals originated from Whirlpool before–”

Amaya tunes him out, biting the rest of her cookie. She doesn’t feel great about it, but she just came off of an eight-hour shift. Minato talks like he’s animated, hair bouncing, hands waving. He demonstrates something with his croissant, ripping it apart into pieces and holding them up. He then eats it. She tunes back in when he licks his fingers clean pulls out a crisp pack of sealing paper.

It rustles on the table, a few heads turning towards them. There’s an iced mocha in front of her.

“…what are you doing?” Amaya asks warily, picking up her coffee. He pulls out a square.

“Spiral seal!” Minato exclaims, holding up a brush. He puts a pot of ink on the table, where did he even get those from? “I can make a chakra-control one right now. I’ve never made one before– but it should be easy.”

He dips the end of his brush in black ink, and starts drawing alongside rough pencil marks. There are groves etched into the brush that he uses to measure components, “I’m just starting with the spiral. Most Whirlpool seals have it somewhere in their main matrix because of how stable it is. Spirals seals are usually used to hold things that need a high amount of margin of error. Since Whirlpool used their seals offensively on the battlefield, it was almost a requirement.”

He ensures it’s symmetrical before branching outwards, “Konohan characters for chakra, hold, and reaction. Reaction can be a tricky one but there’s a matrix that stops seals from blowing up, so it’s a good idea to add that to any character that can be interpreted as an explosion.”

Minato adds smaller characters, “what’s the output limit on chakra-control spiral seals?”

“Twenty centimeters,” she says.

Minato hums sheepishly, “I made the spiral too big, whoops.” He adds the limit anyway, measuring the curves of the spiral to find exactly where he should draw the matrix. He uses another piece of paper to scribble numbers down on.

His fingers are stained with ink as he holds up the paper, a glimmering seal painted neatly on it. It looks very similar to the ones you can buy in bulk, except it’s got pencil lines and scratches scrawled all over it.

“Only thing now to do is to test it!” he chirps, placing it back down. Amaya balks.

“Shouldn’t we test it in a field? Not– in a public place?”

Minato laughs, “it won’t blow up, or anything,” he reassures, packing his things away neatly. He rubs his hands together before taking an encouraging sip of his matcha latte, “don’t you trust me, Fujiwara?”

Maybe it’s wrong, but she doesn’t. Not one bit. Minato sees it in her expression and he smiles in an abashed way, adjusting his fake glasses, “well,” he says brightly, cheeks pink, “you should!”

He holds the seal between his thumb and forefinger, pooling chakra into it. Amaya leans over as the seal glows blue, color crawling up and around the spiral. Minato sticks his tongue out as he concentrates, his chakra inching through the seal. It hits the the end, and he lets out a woosh of air, letting the seal flutter down.

They watch it for a moment, Minato tilts his head, “isn’t it supposed to–”

The seal glows again, dark, black lines shooting out of the spiral in varying length and thicknesses. The lines are all relatively the same, but abysmal anyway, and there’s a huge splotch of black where Minato cut off his flow. Amaya pauses, pressing the tip of her finger into the seal. For a former Hokage, his chakra control should be near perfect. She scans for any deformities in the matrix and finds none.

He flushes, holding the seal up, “I guess that means my control is pretty bad, huh?”

Amaya looks up into his face, and freezes, “…your eyes…”

Minato tilts his head, ruby, red eyes shining in the dusk. The marks around his eyes have deepened, the wings of his eyeliner stretching out, the black rims around his eyes thickening. Fangs poke through his lips, the faint outline of whisker marks slashing across his cheeks as his eyes widen.

“Sorry!” he blurts, clapping his hands together, ducking his head. He hides his face using the back of his hand, the other one pulling the collar of his shirt down a little, exposing a small, black seal inked into his collarbones. Minato presses on it, and the markings recede, eyes bleeding back to blue.

Amaya sits back down in her seat as the silence penetrates the previous light air, “I didn’t know the Nine-Tails’ chakra affects you this badly,” she says quietly, the seal stark against the cafe tabletop.

Minato smiles sadly, “it’s a flaw with the seal itself,” he admits, “I created it on the fly, and my top priority was making sure it wouldn’t kill me or release the fox. Unfortunately, my chakra network and his network are tangled up in a jumble, which–” he gestures to the spiral seal, “–y’know, has it’s own set of problems.”

“I’ve never felt a Jinchuuriki-like presence when sensing, though,” she pauses, closing her eyes and curling her hand. Minato shudders as a wave of chakra rushes over him, “you feel normal.”

Fire, wind, lightning. Strong chakra, a little surprised and maybe a hint of gloom.

“I didn’t know you could sense, too!” Minato exclaims, brightening, “and that’s because of this guy,” he taps the seal on his collarbone, pulling his shirt back up to cover it. “I can add stuff to my container seal but I can’t modify the actual seal itself.”

“Huh,” Amaya says. He flashes her a thumbs up. 

The streetlamps flicker on, the last dredges of the sun disappearing behind the looming Hokage’s rock. Minato watches it with something like wistfulness hiding beneath his glimmering sea-blue eyes.

After a soft minute, he crumples up the seal, downing the last of his coffee. He places the cup back down, “I think that’s enough for me.”

Amaya nods, his empty smile illuminated by the yellow glow of the lamps, “it is getting dark.”

The corner of his eyes crinkle, “do you need me to walk you home?” Minato asks, standing up to push his chair in. He grabs his coffee, gathering up any trash he has.

Amaya shakes her head, “thanks for the offer, but no need,” she looks inside the store, “um, shouldn’t we pay first?”

His smile turns into something a little mischievous, a little more real, “I already did!” he grins, “you can get the next one, if you want.”

She pauses, “the next one?”

The breeze ruffles their hair, making the back of her coat flutter in the wind. Friends slowly leave the patio, hand in hand or elbow in elbow. Amaya doesn’t remember the last time she hung out with anyone who wasn’t a hospital worker or a member of ANBU. Yikes.

Minato freezes, “um– I mean, if you want to!” he blurts, "we can hang out again, sometime. If you want. I’m not busy or anything, so I’m free all the time!”

He really strikes her as lonely, chatting up anyone who’d give him the time of day. Amaya returns his tentative smile with one of her own, “we should. I have a bird summons I can use to contact you.”

It works out for her too. The hospital and ANBU can’t be the only places she frequents, it’s bad for her mental health.

“Great!” he says, relief dotting his features. He pulls out a piece of normal paper and pen. It seems like he has an unlimited arsenal of stationary on him at all times as he scribbles down his address, “I’ve got frogs!”

Amaya pales, “uh, keep an eye on your frogs. My birds might try and eat them.”

Minato’s expression freezes as she takes his address.

Amaya cringes. “I’ll tell them not to, but you should know in advance.”

“Oh, okay,” he says, blinking a little warily. He fiddles with the end of his fake ponytail, flashing her a bright smile. He bows, “It was nice catching up with you, Fujiwara.”

“Amaya,” she responds gently, “if I’m calling you Minato, you can call me Amaya.”

Minato’s grin widens, “Amaya then,” he concedes, his eyes turning up into little crescents, “see you!”

Instead of flashing away, a pile of leaves sway to the floor. Amaya watches them flutter with a frown.

Flicking on the lights, the singular lightbulb washes out her earlier memory. Instead of a dust ridden cavern of rats, the clinic looks more like a standard hospital one. With the help of some sanitizing seals Minato created, the room is able to be used.

Minato is certainly a character. She introduced him to chess and he destroyed her immediately. He’s got an entire room in his gigantic house full of chakra-paper and chakra-ink and notebooks. Another room that houses books and scrolls and artifacts and everything anyone would ever need to know about sealing.

She stares at her clinic. Amaya replaced the entire bed and it’s accessories, replaced the desk and chair. She added a rug, some cute photos, and plants here and there. Still no vents, but that was a future-Amaya problem.

She puts her hands on her hips, large shoulder bag hanging off her arm. Amaya walks over to the desk, sitting in the wheely chair she stole from her hospital office. Plopping the bag on the desk, she starts unpacking it.

Medical supplies, her stethoscope, stationary, and a huge pile of spiral seals. Minato offered to make her a batch but she opted to go for the standard issue ones to be as accurate as possible. There’s a copy of Lady Tsunade’s spiral and a copy of the average readings of all Jounin. She uses a pin to press them into the corkboard above her desk.

She balances her scale, puts up an eye chart, and shakes her nerves out.

The first team on her list will be drawn by a lottery. Before she can dig into the folded papers of all the teams the Commander gave her, Owl knocks on the open door. “Are you ready?” she asks, walking inside. 

Amaya nods, “do you want to help me draw the first team?”

Owl approaches her, peering over her shoulder to the box filled with folded up white strips. She snorts, “sure.”

They reach into the pile together, fingers tangling as they rustle the papers around. Owl draws the first slip, opening it up, “Team Ki,” she says, handing it to Amaya. The Commander’s script is neat. Owl shakes her head, “off on a mission. Your turn.”

She sifts through her basic knowledge of ANBU– Teams K_ was…intelligence? Teams S_ for seduction, Teams M_ for infiltration, Teams H_ got shut down, Teams T_ is for assassination, Teams N_ for Guard, and Teams R_ for tracking.

Amaya sets the slip aside as she ruffles through it, pulling out a slip, “Team Me, isn’t that Crow’s team?”

“Crow is off on a mission, so their team is off duty. That’s a no go,” Owl says, “my turn!”

She seems far to excited to pull out random slips of paper. Amaya raises her eyebrow as she sets hers aside. Owl pulls out a small one, unraveling it. She pauses.

“…what?” Amaya says, reaching over to take a peek at it. TEAM RO is written in the Commander’s heavy hand, blank ink stark against the light paper. 

Owl hands it to her, “Team Ro is in today, that’s Hound’s team.”

“Oh,” Amaya says, “well, I guess I can start with them.”

Owl shuffles, silence poignant before she nods sharply, “just a warning,” Owl says, “Hound can be prickly when it comes to check-ups. Don’t let your guard down, okay?”

Amaya nods slowly, wary expression enough to satisfy Owl before she disappears. Amaya stood down Namikaze brat Naruto a few days ago, how much worse can a moody twenty-something year old be? That’s the logic she keeps with her as she puts the stethoscope around her neck.

The telltale silence feels heavy as Team Ro emerges in the hallway, Owl in tow. Tiger makes a move to go first, but she stops him with a palm on his chest. He pauses, and she turns to face Hound.

“No,” Hound says blandly, orange book in hand.

“It’s an order,” Owl says, “the Commander will rain hellfire down on you if you don’t comply. If you’re not scared of him, you should be scared of Lady Tsunade.”

Hound glowers, “you’ve got a lot of nerve talking to me like that.”

Before Owl can do anything else, Amaya peeks her head out of the doorway. Her eyes land on Hound as she attempts to smile in a non-threatening way, but judging from his unimpressed look, it falls flat, “Captain? You’re up first.”

Hound snaps his stupid book shut. He hates Fujiwara’s stupid face. It’s obvious her stupid smile is stupidly fake, but there’s something earnest swimming in her too-green eyes. She won’t last in an environment like this.

He clicks his tongue, bones heavy from constant chakra-depletion. He woke up in a pile of his own sweat and vomit on his bed– he must’ve blacked out getting up and landing into it–  a little bit ago. Too soon to feel good but too late to do anything productive. Piles of pre-made food also appeared in his fridge. Either he forgot about cooking a shit ton of it, ordering it, or someone told Minato that he was out for the count and he snuck in to try and help. Wouldn’t be the first time. 

Thinking of Minato makes Kakashi shake with– with– whatever, so he shoves that deep into the tresses of his mind.

The Commander was totally in on it too. He seemed sympathetic to Hound’s pathetic state and carefully delegated missions that would normally go to his powerhouse of a team to other ones. 

Asshole. That man should just fucking retire already.

“Fine,” Hound says, really not in the mood to argue. He could land Owl or Fujiwara flat on their asses without looking up from his erotic literature. He puts his book in his pocket, shoving his hands in there as he follows the light haired medic into the little clinic.

Tiger whistles lowly, “woah, someone’s a little pissy today,” he mumbles, turning away when Hound glares at him.

Hound closes the door behind them, but slamming would be a more accurate word. Amaya turns back and raises her brow, and he doesn’t designate her with a response as he walks over and perches on the little bed. Stupid hospital paper is strewn across it.

She puts on a pair of stupid gloves, and grabs a stupid clipboard with a stupid pen attached to it. She sits in a stupid chair and stupidly rolls to Hound.

“Anything bothering you?” she asks.

“No,” Hound lies. 

She writes something stupid on her clipboard, “okay. I’m going to start a chart on you because I don’t have your identity, and can’t pull hospital files.”

Everyone and their mom knew Hound was Kakashi Hatake. The Sage of Six Paths probably knew his name. He settles on a glare.

“Age, pre-existing conditions, allergies?” Fujiwara asks, looking into his mask. 

Hound doesn’t shuffle because he’s an elite shinobi, “twenty-six,” he says finally, continuing, “none, and none.”

Fujiwara writes that down and prattles off another list of questions he doesn’t bother to think about. No he doesn’t smoke, yes he drinks, do soldier pills count as drugs? It’s none of her business if he’s having sex or not so he just glares at her when she asks that question. No he doesn’t take any medications (do soldier pills count?)

She makes him stand on a scale, flattens his spiky hair to write down his height, and hooks up some sort of horror machine to his bicep. Fujiwara takes his blood pressure. Frowns, takes it again. Takes it one more time.

“Is your blood pressure normally low?” she asks him carefully. Hound shrugs. Fujiwara writes something down.

She adjusts the stethoscope on her neck, wearing it in her ears, “could you remove your chest piece for me please? I need to put this against your skin.”

“No,” Hound says blandly. 

Fujiwara frowns again. She doesn’t fight him, which is typical of weak med-nins. She tests his reflexes, tests the vision in his regular eye, and frowns when he refuses to let her test his sharingan.

“I’m going to test your chakra health, now,” she says, tone not betraying how frustrated she feels with his dismissive attitude. She hovers her palm over the gloved knuckles on his fist, “you’ll feel a cooling sensation, that’ll be my chakra. It’s important you try not to fight it so you don’t hurt yourself.”

Fujiwara’s hand glows green, and true to her word, Hound feels her chakra worm it’s way into his skin. He shudders involuntarily, her soft fuzzy chakra washing over his jagged, charged pathways. It soothes them, like salve on a burn wound. Aloe on lightning scars. It’s cool quality flushes his fever from inside out.

Hound tries not to get too lost in it. Fujiwara’s face is screwed up in concentration, eyes shut, brow furrowed. She must be plain stupid to close them in his presence. Like hearing his thoughts, when his entire body buzzes with her chakra, she opens her light green eyes, lighter than the leaves that fall in Konoha. He watches her face, freckles splattered across high cheekbones. Lashes frame her almond eyes, highlighting the thick green ring around her iris. They’re not just green, they’re varying shades of blue and gold.

She frowns. The spell breaks.

“…your pathways are extremely damaged,” Fujiwara says, something like wonder in her voice, “you’re at…ten percent total chakra levels right now? You’ve got two locations that carry the most of the damage and general chakra exhaustion. Your coils aren’t producing enough.”

Hound shrugs, she writes something down on her clipboard, “who did your eye transplant?”

His hackles rise, and he keeps his mouth shut. Fujiwara looks up at him after the silence turns rude, “I recommend it be taken out. If you can’t part with it, have it re-implanted.”

Hound scoffs, “I’m not letting anyone touch my eye.”

“The risk is low,” she says, “next to zero. It’ll be overseen by our Lady herself and the best ocular surgeons in Konoha.”

“No,” Hound says blandly.

It seems that Fujiwara has had enough of his attitude because she sits up straighter, expression flattening, “look,” she says thinly, “I’m going to be frank with you. If you don’t take that eye out, it will kill you.”

“Boo,” Hound says, pitching his voice, “gosh, miss med-nin, you’re so smart. I had no idea and I will one-hundred percent totally do whatever you say because you’re just that awesome and cool,” he drops his voice, “no shit. I’m not doing that.”

Fujiwara scoffs lightly, pulling her chakra out of his body. She ignores his blatant disrespect, “what about the damage in your right arm? Alongside chakra damage you’ve got nerve damage as well.”

Hound shrugs, “jutsu.” More like one jutsu. That’s his Chidori hand, or the friend-killing hand, or the I’ve-lost-the-ability-to-feel-pain hand. Lightning scars run up his palms like livewire, bright reds, whites, and blues. The skin atop it is patchy and discolored, some of his arm hairs permanently burnt off. The longest scar runs up to his shoulder.

“Can you still differentiate sensations on that hand?” she asks.

“No.”

“Great,” she mutters, writing something down in her notebook. “Your coils’ inability to produce chakra at a regular rate is due to many factors, including your eye,” she starts, “to the extent that your body is at requires another factor. How frequently do you take chakra-enhancing drugs like soldier or chakra pills?”

The temperature of the air shifts, a chill enveloping them both. Hound’s eye-hole glows red as he tilts his head, “what exactly are you trying to accuse me of?”

Fujiwara swallows thickly. Minato’s golden hair and piercing blue eyes flash behind her eyes; “thank you for standing your ground in there.”

Namikaze brat Naruto and Hatake asshole Kakashi seem to be made of the same material, raised by the same man.

“I’m not accusing you of anything,” she says diplomatically, “the most common cause of coil-non-production is an overuse of artificial chakra. ANBU is the highest demographic at risk of artificial chakra overuse.”

Hound scoffs, “get that demographic out of your tiny little head, then, med-nin. I don’t overuse anything.”

She should argue. Tell him off and kick his stupid ass out of her clinic. She doesn’t do any of those things.

“Okay,” Fujiwara says simply. “We’ll move on, then. For this next portion I’ll need you to take of your ANBU mask.”

“No,” he says.

She doesn’t throw her hands up, but its a close thing. A glare manifests on her foreign features, out of place with her soft skin and light eyes. 

Minato moved a knight, letting her bishop capture his queen. She looked up, “you shouldn’t let your queen go,” she said, the backdrop of a traditional, wooden home surrounding them, “I’ll beat you now.”

He met her eyes, iris’ gleaming like Uzushio high tide under the setting September sun. He smiled, “do you believe that enough to stake your strategy on it?”

Amaya leans back in her chair, assessing Hound, “If you won’t work with me, I’ll recommend you be removed from ANBU.”

He laughs, it’s an ugly thing, “you’d never be able to do anything on your own.”

Minato won, in the end. Two rooks and a knowing look in the curve of his lips.

Her green eyes sparkle, “do you believe that enough to stake your career on it?”

Hound freezes in his spot. The Commander’s sagging stature flashes in his mind, the whispers surrounding him and ANBU too, and Lady Tsunade’s growing looks of irritation. He thinks of the med-nin sitting in front of him, well known and respected in her field, well known and respected by Lady Tsunade. He thinks of Crane, her flowing blonde hair and sharp teal eyes. Oh fuck.

Minato crouched by him, ignoring his tiny glare, sat leaned against the trunk of a tree. Kakashi sniffed, “I don’t need a team, I can do missions by myself. Obito is stupid.”

He laughed, “teammates are there to watch your back. They’re your friends for life, the people who will be there for you later, Kakashi.”

Kakashi shakes his head, “I don’t need friends, I need to complete my mission. A shinobi must never abandon the mission.”

Minato cocked his head, “do you believe that over everything? Enough to stake your teammates lives?”

He did, at the time. Hound wishes he could take it all back. Minato, the fucking hypocrite. Coming home to a team of children, upending their worldviews with blue, blue eyes, while desecrating innocent towns and killing thousands of people for the sake of the mission. He returns with bloody Konoha headbands grasped in his fists and deep, sparkling sadness in those stupid, fake eyes.

Fujiwara stares at him, mouth hard. Well played, med-nin. Kakashi brings his gloved hand up and slowly takes off his porcelain dog mask. A dark eye bores into her, the other one squeezed shut. She sees the glisten of moisture surround his sharingan, and sits up.

She heals his sharingan with a grimace until the pain dulls into a soft ache. She writes him a referral to a dietician, instructing him to eat more. She schedules a meeting with a chakra specialist, which, funnily enough, is her. He channels what measly chakra he has into a seal, she announces his control falls around the Jounin average. She suspends him for two days.

Kakashi tenses at that. Her hard look leaves no room for argument.

Well played.

Chapter Text

Yamanaka Mayumi knocks on a door, standing on the porch of a quaint home. The wood is harsh under her heels, chipping and peeling with age. She runs a manicured hand through her blonde tresses, fixing it up. The door opens after a moment.

Kakashi glowers at her, medical eyepatch covering his sharingan. She smiles, pink gloss shining on her lips, “we need to talk,” she says sweetly.

Kakashi glares at her for another moment before swinging the door open. Mayumi lets herself in, not bothering to take her shoes off at the start of the steps. Her heels clack against the polished hardwood, a soft blue skirt swaying when Kakashi shuts the door. 

“I heard Amaya put you on leave,” she says airily, white sweater hiding the palms of her hands. Mayumi is stunning, standing in his hallway. Her skin gleams like glass and her features compliment her sharp face.

Kakashi adverts his gaze. She notices anyway, and she smiles a slow, seductive smile. It makes his gut roll, “for two days,” he says, walking past her into his house, bile stinging the back of his throat. Mayumi follows.

“Someone’s going through a little power trip,” she singsongs, ending up in his living room. A pan sizzles in the background, and she turns to look into the kitchen. She laughs, dozens of boxes and dishes lined up on his counter top. They’re packed to the brim with various rice, noodle, and meat dishes. An opened bag of protein powder sits on his table, a cup poking out of it, “don’t you think that’s a little much to eat by yourself?”

“I don’t remember asking for your opinion,” Kakashi says blandly. All of his coping mechanisms are bad, except for one. Sometimes, if he had enough energy for it, he made food. A lot. He doesn’t eat most of it because he can barely stomach some plain crackers on a bad day– and every day is a bad day– so he donates a lot of it, freezes some, and a few go bad.

If he didn’t have enough energy for it he’d lay on his bed and stare at the ceiling. Maybe crack open a cold one. Maybe hop on over to the memorial stone and stare at it.

Mayumi walks over, peering into the bowls and boxes. Her eyes light up, spotting some kaarage. Kakashi doesn’t stop her when she grabs the bowl, taking it with her back into the living room. She sits on his couch, crossing her dainty legs, using her nails to pick up the pieces of fried chicken to pop them in her mouth.

“Oh my God,” she mumbles around the food, “this is so good. I’d get– like– so fat if I lived with you.”

Kakashi leans against his wall, crossing his arms, “we’d never live together,” he mutters, mostly to himself before raising his voice with a narrow look, “why are you here? Get to the point.”

The minute she leaves he’s tossing that bowl out. Mayumi tips all of her nails in enough poison to kill an army. She licks the oil off of them clean. Maybe he should eat something out of it and see if it kills him. That’s too close to real suicide, so he dismisses the thought. 

Three rooms down, there’s the shadow of a bloodstain on the floor and a shock of long, silver hair.

“Some of my friends found something strange a couple of weeks ago,” she says, eating another bite, “it’s being investigated, but I thought I should let you know.”

Yamanaka Mayumi, ex-ROOT intelligence master. She’s got a kill count almost as high as Kakashi’s, though mediocre combat skills.

“Strange, how?” he asks.

Mayumi pushes a strand of hair behind her ear, “there’s a nin checking it out, so we’ll see. What happened with you and Crow?”

Kakashi darkens, “I’m not going to pay you for this measly amount of information. You shouldn’t have come if that's all you have.”

She scoffs, looking up at him through her long lashes, “maybe I just missed you.”

Kakashi inhales. Exhales. Counts to ten, stops at three, and clenches his fist, “get out of my house.”

Mayumi swallows, leaning forward and putting the ceramic bowl down on his coffee table with a clink, “I don’t think I will.”

The temperature cools, Kakashi’s fist whitens. Mayumi doesn’t flinch in the oppressive atmosphere as she fixes her hair. “Your fight with Crow was pathetic-ville, seriously,” she says evenly, shaking her roots out, “that bitch Fuji-whatever and I have one thing in common, and that is we both want you in tip-top shape.”

“Mayumi,” Kakashi says slowly, through gritted teeth, “get out of my house.”

“No,” she says, “not until you get your shit together. If you’re going to lose to a shitty what’s-his-name Uchiha, then we’re done.”

He scoffs, then laughs in disbelief, “we’re done?”

“We’re done,” Mayumi says simply.

Kakashi pushes himself off the wall, “bullshit,” he growls, “you need me. Besides– I didn’t lose. I don’t know what you’re on right now but it’s pissing me off.”

Mayumi scoffs, uncrossing her legs. She stands, “you only won because Crow lost. I don’t need a shinobi who can’t even get himself out of a measly genjutsu.” she says, turning to walk out of his living room. Kakashi freezes.

“Mayumi,” he says. She keeps walking, “Mayumi.”

It’s the desperation that makes her stop, bending over to fix a strap on her heel. Kakashi launches forward, “Mayumi!”

She turns slightly, expression cold. She doesn’t speak, but Kakashi swallows, arm outstretched. He retracts it, she straightens.

Kakashi breathes in, out, “fine,” he says, “I’ll– get my shit together. Don’t–” Don’t leave me is on the tip of his tongue, but he’d rather cut it out than say something like that, “don’t walk away now. We’re in too deep.”

She faces him, “I’m not going to walk away from it,” Mayumi says lightly, “I’m going to walk away from you.” Kakashi’s stomach drops, “I’ll give you another chance, I guess, but if you fuck it up, you’re on your own.”

He lets out a shaky breath, she walks towards him. Mayumi thumbs her pocket, pulling out a bottle of pills. When they’re face to face, she presses into his chest, noses grazing, “if you’re going to get better, you need this,” she whispers.

Kakashi knows what it is without looking at it, “I don’t need them from you,” he says, trying not to sound too cold in case she changes her mind and drops him like the trash he is, “they fucked up my coils so I’m not taking any until I’m on a mission.”

She scoffs, her breath fans his face, “do what you want, Kakashi. And here I thought you cared about us.” Mayumi pulls away, putting the bottle of pills back in her pocket. She lets her hand linger on his chest before trailing it down, dropping it to her side.

Silence washes over them like a tidal wave. Mayumi tilts her pretty head, hair swinging. Kakashi knows exactly what she wants, and it makes him cringe internally. When it’s clear he’s not going to…indulge in her whims, she turns without a word, and disappears in a shower of flower petals. They drop to Kakashi’s floor, staining the hardwood a myriad of colors. He leans back against the wall, sliding down until his butt hits the floor. He stares at his ceiling, food burning.

When his fire alarm goes off an odd twenty minutes later, he peels himself off the hardwood. Scraping, tossing, and shoving later, he’s lost all the energy in his body but packed up all the food away. There’s a hot, steaming, mouthwatering bowl of udon in front of him, decorated with thin slices of fish. There’s a burnt pan in his sink, still smoking and stinking up the place.

Kakashi does normal things, like put the bowl in front of him on his barely used dinner table. He takes a normal seat, chopsticks and soup spoon placed neatly beside him. The food smells divine. Normal. His stomach rolls.

The clock ticks, Kakashi stares at his food.

He stares at it until it goes ice-cold, sunlight dimming. His chakra is at eleven percent.

He’s hit with a genius idea. Fujiwara Amaya. Med-nin. He’s low on chakra, but antsy, and pissed off.

Kakashi gets up, shoving his chair back. He speed-walks into his bedroom, donning non-descript, ninja wear. He slaps on his Sukea wig, fixing a pair of black goggles to his face and a thicker style of face mask.

He’s going to break into her apartment. This is probably the best idea he’s had since making Minato put him into ANBU. Also ration bars.

Kakashi stocks up on weapons. He could break into the Hokage’s tower and go through her file, but that seems like a lot of work for a med-nin. Hospitals have started digitalizing files so it’d take long to find her records there. He could try the Commander’s office– but he runs the risk of not finding anything since the Commander doesn’t really facilitate her mission, and she’s not an ANBU member.

Genma knows where she lives, though.

Kakashi casts a quick transformation, turning into himself in standard Jounin blues. He exits his house, walking down the desolate path that connects to Konoha’s side roads. The Hatake compound has been abandoned for generations, most plots of land sold to farmers or converted to wildlife preservations. He could have moved out of his childhood home– and he did, for a short while, but eventually moved back in. Deep in the Hatake grounds, no one can see, or bother him.

He ducks into an alleyway, and casts notice-me-not genjutsu on himself. The sun has dipped below the horizon line, so it’s easy for Kakashi to stick to the winding shadows and travel through alleyways largely out of sight. Most nin take rooftop paths, and most civilians mill about below. 

Genma is either at home, training with Team Ro, training with other Jounin, or out and about. He’s a social creature, opposite Kakashi. Kakashi starts with his place because it’s the most likely spot he’s at. Genma lives in a residential area known to house high-level nin. He was apart of the Fourth’s guard platoon, so it’s an incredibly nice flat in an incredibly nice building in an incredibly nice area of Konoha. Kakashi pauses before he starts breaking in. 

This might be easier. 

He scales the side, ignoring the doorman at the front, hopping on to Genma’s level. He takes a quick peek around the floor to make sure there aren’t any weird stragglers, and knocks. Waits.

It’s a great place, so Kakashi doesn’t hear Genma’s footsteps behind the door. It swings open, revealing him in his disheveled glory. He still chews on a stupid senbon even in his home, and it almost falls out when he lays eyes on Kakashi.

“Captain,” Genma says, eyes wide, “uh, Kakashi. Hey.”

He’s shirtless, wearing plaid pajama bottoms and bunny slippers. Kakashi doesn’t care.

“Where does Fujiwara live?”

Genma stares at him, suspicion lining his gaze, “…what?”

The sound of rustling carries through the apartment, a muffled voice asking who’s at the door. Genma turns his head to look back, scratching the back of his head, “just Kakashi!” he calls, “sorry,” he faces forward, “it’s Raidou. Do you want to come in? How did you even…get up?”

“No,” Kakashi says, “where does Fujiwara live?”

Genma’s expression shutters, “it wouldn’t kill you to have manners, Kakashi,” he chews on the senbon, eyes cold, tone deceptively casual, “I can’t help you, good luck.” 

Kakashi puts his palm on the door before Genma can close it, keeping it open.

Genma’s flat expression turns into a pissed off one as he moves the weapon in his mouth to the other side. He bares his teeth, “back off, man.”

Kakashi does not do that, “where does Fujiwara live?”

“I can’t help you,” he repeats, “back the fuck off,” Genma says, struggling to keep his tone even. 

Raidou appears in the hallway, hearing the commotion. He narrows his eyes, hair pulled back, scar distorting. He leans against the wall and crosses his arms, spits a lazy, yet dangerous, “you heard him, Hatake.”

Kakashi scoffs and drops his hand. The door shuts and locks with a click. Fucking Genma and his shitty ass boyfriend.

Well, that was a bust. He sighs. He could just track her, Kakashi is meant for tracking. The only issue is that he wants to break into her home right now, today, before she gets back. He doesn’t want to wait and do it tomorrow.

He clicks his tongue, leaving Genma’s apartment complex. It’s time to break into the Hokage’s tower, then.

It’s easy. Almost too easy. He observes the guards rotation patterns, Boar at the helm. They don’t repeat it because that makes it predictable, but Kakashi goes through his mental roster of all the rotations that Boar uses. He identifies which sub-section of sub-section it is, identifies the pattern, and slips in when they rotate. Inside the tower, there’s another set of guards.

It’s easy, again. He knows where the alarms are, sets of seals that Minato created that releases sound when activated. They go for a few hours before running out. Kakashi carefully draws the counter seal around the first one, holding the seal inside of it and making it inaccessible. He uses a piece of paper to transfer the ink, sneaking to the other alarms and pressing it on the seal. The seals are chakra activated, so pressure doesn’t do anything to them.

Dropping down, he knocks out the guards.

Easy.

The file room is locked as well, keycards required. He scours the passed out ANBU for anything, recognizing one as ex-Protection and another one yanked out from the roster. The non-permanent member holds a keycard, and Kakashi swipes it. The doors open.

Shinobi files, Chuunin directory, female, genjutsu-type. He opens the file cabinet and sifts through them. It’s dark, so he pulls out a little emergency flashlight from his pack, shining the light on the papers.

Fujiwara Amaya, bingo. Kakashi pulls out the file, sitting on the floor and tugging his mask down to put the flashlight in his mouth.

Her photo is an old one, years old. She can’t be older than fifteen, with short, unflattering hair. She’s listed as an inactive shinobi, which is why her photo isn’t recent. Kakashi looks down to her personal information, a few addresses listed. He chooses the last one, since it’s the most up-to-date address, and shuts the file.

Address found. He doesn’t care for anything else.

Kakashi puts everything back the way he found it, giving the keycard back to the guard . He uncovers his bandaged eye with a grimace, using it to cast a genjutsu that wakes them in five minutes and makes their memories hazy. Hopefully they won’t break it.

His eye protests, alongside his measly reserves. He takes off the counter seals and high tails it out of there.

She lives on Sarutobi and Twelfth, a good area near the Yamanaka compound. Kakashi himself lives much farther, near the Uchiha compound by the Naka river. He bustles around in disguise, keeping low and out of sight. Her apartment complex comes into view, a short, few story high building.

He climbs up the back wall, stops at a window covered in white curtains, and places his palm against the glass.

He can feel the hum of her traps– pathetic-ville, standard Chuunin traps. Kakashi’s mouth sours. This is a bad, terrible, no good idea. He has better ideas, like going home and passing out, but, he can probably do it fairly easily. Break in, that is, her traps are C and B-Ranked at best, and she’s not even here.

He’s also very tired, and chakra-depleted. Breaking in would not be a good idea.

Kakashi never really had much self-preservation anyway, so he disables the traps on her window and quietly opens it. It makes minimal squeaking sounds, which is a relief, and he soundlessly hops in, avoiding the plants on the windowsill. 

His feet hit tile, the fake kind that looks like wood but smells nothing like it. Kakashi drops into a crouch in her empty bedroom, tense and alert. It’s clean, thankfully, and nothing like his house on bad days (which is ALL DAYS!) She makes her bed, pretentious asshole.

Kakashi grumbles mentally, cataloguing the plants in her bedroom as non-poisonous. He can’t smell anyone in the apartment, except for cat, ew, and moves on to the nightstand.

Kakashi opens up the drawers to rifle through them. Boxes of cosmetics and jewelry sit in the first one, well used in a language he can’t decipher. It’s definitely from Suna, but the dialect eludes him. His sharingan could probably decode it, but he doesn’t care enough to pull it out.

The rings and necklaces look to be a couple decades old. Her file said she had one immigrant parent from Suna. He moves on.

The second drawer has a cube of sap, scratched to hell and well used. There are folders of music underneath it, as well as packets of extra violin strings. Kakashi wrinkles his nose, music is very civilian. He drops them like hot potatoes and dusts his fingers off. Figures clanless Fujiwara does something so…clanless in her spare time.

He closes the drawer silently, and peeks under her bed. Kakashi pulls out a big, black case. Wood, fiber, and sap are the strongest smells that hit his nose first, followed by fabric and…horse? He unzips it, revealing a shiny violin.

Ew. Music.

Kakashi zips it back up and shoves it under her bed. He doesn’t know what he’s looking for but he’ll probably have better luck finding it on her bookshelf. He gets up, moving on to it. Her shelf overflows with scrolls, some worse for wear, others brand new. More than half of them have to do with chakra-control, chakra-theory, and new medical procedures using chakra. She did say she was a chakra-specialist.

Kakashi nabs one. She probably won’t even notice. ADVANCED CHAKRA THEORY VOLUME ELEVEN. Who the hell wrote eleven of these things? He turns it over. That makes sense, it’s Orochimaru.

He pockets it, turning to leave the bedroom. Her door opens soundlessly, and he steps into the cool hallway. She keeps her lights off, but the sun is high enough in the air where it doesn’t matter. The next door he finds reveals the bathroom.

Rubbing alcohol, bleach. Kakashi wrinkles his nose. Clean, with conditioner sitting on a rack drilled into the wall. No shampoo, but gel, hair cream, protein masks. He inspects each one, picking up the colorful bottles. Some are Konohan, others not. Kakashi can’t fathom buying anything that’s not local, or even made in Fire. The hair products are probably better for her curly hair overseas, but they’re from overseas.

He puts the bottles back, crouching down to open the white cabinets under the sink. His eye roams over the various cleaning products and spare rolls of toilet paper. There is a small basket filled with toothbrushes, toothpaste, pads, tampons, towels and soap tucked into a small corner, as well as some rubber gloves. He moves onto the attached drawers, opening them to find various medicinal bottles, essential oils and pills. OTC painkillers. Typical.

The second drawer has medical equipment, gauze, bandages, wipes, and anything that is supposed to be in a standard med-kit. Or, whatever. He never took that class in the Academy since he graduated at– like, five.

The third drawer has tiny wooden boxes of dried herbs. He doesn’t even need to smell them to identify them as Fire Country poisons. Some of them even look Wind Country. Kakashi scrunches his nose and closes it.

He leaves the bathroom, switches the light off, and shuts the door behind him. He skims past the random paintings bolted to the wall and photos of her in her youth taped on. He stops, backtracking to a photo of her.

Kakashi stares at a young Fujiwara, faint traces of recognition itching at him. The earlier photo on her file also seems to hold some weight now.

In the photo, she stands tall, all limbs and gangly frame, hair frizzy and cropped to her shoulders. It’s puffed out in an unflattering triangle, dwarfing her face. There are dark circles under her eyes, face slim and bony. She stands with a couple other shinobi, clearly older but still haunted. The Hokage stands with them, medallion in hand.

57TH BATALLION UNDER UCHIHA HISOKA-012899 OF THE 51ST YEAR. MEDAL OF BRAVERY AWARDED TO SHINOBI OF KONOHAGAKURE, FUJIWARA AMAYA-012973, FOR OUTSTANDING PERFORMANCE DURING THE KONOHA-IWA WAR. AWARDED BETWEEN 48TH AND 51ST.

The Medal of Bravery, huh? What a joke.

Kakashi rolls his eyes, turning back to the hallway. Anyone could get a Medal of Bravery if they didn’t die during the war. Shell shocked Genin were the the main recipients in an effort to stop them from killing themselves or deserting. Children do stupid shit, and acknowledgement from powerful people stop them from doing said stupid shit.

Another photo makes him stop, this one a family one. A dark, stunning woman with green eyes that glow and long, dark, curly hair stands beside a Konohan man. He has light hair and light eyes, pale skin and a wide smile. The couple look happy, the woman exhausted but with joy in her eyes. At their feet stand a teeny tiny Amaya, light hair from her father and a mix of skin tones from her parents, inching on the darker side. She smiles wide at the camera, hair a curly heap on her head. Kakashi flips it over, words scrawled in a language he can’t read. He leaves it and moves on.

When he enters the living room, his eye zeroes in on a fat cat plopped down in the middle of the room. It stares at him, he stares at it. The stupid cat blinks slowly at Kakashi, yawns, and loafs. Stupid cat. Kakashi walks around it. There’s no way its a Summons.

Why does she have so many plants? His nose twitches, sensitive from all of the pollen in the air. Her living room is sparse, just a few couches arranged in the middle of the room and a TV overlooking them. There is a blanket thrown on one of the couches, and a copy of Princess Hoshiko strewn across it. 

Ah, a fellow rom-com fan.

She doesn’t seem to have the more R-rated Make-Out Paradise in her repertoire, but he recognizes the multitude of colorful books in her shelf by their spine anyway. She’s not a fan of erotic literature, shame.

He keeps snooping. Her coffee-table is clean, and alongside her rom-coms, more academic texts sit. A few books written by Tsunade, more written by Orochimaru. Some journals in a script he doesn’t recognize, and a Yamanaka book about basic plant care. No picture frames. It looks like the only photos she has are the ones hidden in her hallway.

Kakashi goes through her kitchen next. It’s almost as desolate as his, which is sad, and the fridge is half empty. She keeps a neat home, and has a tiny laundry room behind the kitchen. He doesn’t think he’ll pilfer her underwear because that’s incredibly weird, and decides he’s seen everything he needs to see.

She’s a bum, bland and inconsequential.

Kakashi ignores her stupid cat and walks back into the bedroom, leaving the way he came. He fixes up her traps, smooths out her curtains, and hops out of the window. His scalp starts feeling hot under the wig, and he shuts her window, jumping down into the alleyway below.

When he gets home, he chokes down some of the food he made earlier, strips, and jumps into bed. His chakra wavers around eight-percent. He’s not going to go to her appointment.

Kakashi dozes off. He might go to her appointment.

—

Itachi is no stranger to chakra.

It burns, colder than ice picked from the Land of Iron. It flows through his body in continuum, twisting and turning, ebbing and flowing, until all he feels after a brutal mission is the sting of frostbite. Never any physical symptom to match this pain, just dull aches and pains. 

His father always says that pain is a weakness. Itachi can’t afford weakness, not when he’s the pride and glory of the Uchiha Clan. No one knows about his pins and needles, about how his breath tightens after a Fireball, or how his skin buzzes after a wave of water.

It doesn’t get better, but it doesn’t get worse. He accepts that using chakra at five years old like he was some sort of twenty-year-old veteran damaged his pathways enough that it just– constantly hurt. That he can feel the edges of chakra like a poorly insulated wire. That he can feel the static of ninjutsu.

Itachi molds chakra fine, so it is fine. He can handle it, he’s not weak.

Fujiwara doesn’t seem concerned about his confession, all pinched eyebrows and sparkling green eyes. She sits in front of him, glowing hands hovering over his bare arm. Itachi feels her chakra run through his skin like a trail of bugs beating their wings. It takes all of his mental energy not to fight and expel it.

Temptation gnaws at him. She surely feels the spikes.

“You have naturally opposing natures,” she says, “incredibly rare.”

Itachi nods behind his Weasel mask, murmuring, “I see.”

Fujiwara looks up at him, lips hard, “I can feel what you’re talking about. The reason why we don’t recommend children under the age of eight to mold chakra is because the pathways are weak,” she says, drawing back. Her chakra leaves him and Itachi lets out a soft, relieved breath, “they’re soft and mushy. By casting jutsu at a too-young age, you’ve stripped the inner lining of your pathways, making them sensitive.”

She writes something down on her clipboard, continuing, “I’m worried about your lungs. Is it safe to assume that the first jutsu you learned was the Uchiha Fireball?”

Itachi nods.

“Your pathways there are very weak. In an effort to protect them, your chakra has been diverging and pooling in other areas of your body. When starved of chakra, cells begin to die. This can look like coughing, wheezing, chest pain, and pulmonary failure, in your case. Symptoms vary based on where the divergence is occurring. It’s called dischakra-exitalis.”

Itachi nods again, a gloved hand coming up to grasp at his chest. His armor lies beside him on the clinic bed. Fujiwara looks up from her clipboard, eyes softening.

“I’m sorry, Weasel,” she says gently. Itachi stays completely still, “we caught it in the early stages, but it’s not curable. You can continue being a shinobi with heavy modifications to your fighting style, but your lungs will eventually fail if a cure isn’t found.”

“I see,” Itachi says hollowly, “I don’t understand…I– what…what–" he stumbles over his words, heaves a shuddering breath, and turns to stone, "best case scenario, what will my life look like?”

Fujiwara nods, cold and professional. Distantly, she's aware that she should...try and comfort him? Maybe not...maybe...she sticks to what she knows, “best case scenario, you retire and seal off your chakra. If you can’t retire, seal off your chakra and learn to fight without any of it. Foreign chakra that matches your chakra frequency will be put into your lungs, and then that and your chakra will be sealed off. Within the seal, it freezes, which is why you’ll be unable to mold chakra. That includes tree-walking. Your constitution won’t get better but it won’t get worse.”

Retire. He can retire. He can retire.

No more violence, no more blood. No more war, and pain, and hurt, and duty to the Village, duty to the Clan–

The hope that swells in Itachi’s chest winks out like a flame atop a wick. He can’t retire. What will his parents think? The Village? ANBU? He’s too much of an asset to retire. Itachi works in his casket, scratching at it’s walls.

At least he has Shisui.

“I don’t want to retire,” he lies. “Nor do I wish to stop using chakra. What are my– my options, then?”

Fujiwara nods again, expression stern, “you’ll have to stop casting jutsu that uses your chest as a medium, and limit intensive chakra techniques. I’ll refer you to myself in the hospital and I’ll go much more in depth about your condition then, but you will deteriorate. If you decide not to do anything, your condition will become fatal in four to five years. Limiting chakra can range to upwards of ten years. Sealing it off completely will put you closest to your natural lifespan without the condition.”

“I see,” Itachi says, unfeeling. The world blurs around the edges.

Fujiwara continues, but he doesn’t hear her voice. Her mouth moves in shapes, but he doesn’t read them. His thoughts walk the street in flowing white, stark against the blacks of his hair and eyes. He walks past his coffin, the body inside wearing a Weasel mask and holding an Uchiha relic. It's a sword, because of course it is. He walks past himself until his bones turn to ash and waft through the Uchiha gates.

The mask doesn’t burn, nor does the sword.

Itachi gets up, ignoring Fujiwara’s concerned expression. His spiral seal sits on her desk, near perfect.

He walks. Walks past the door, past Tiger and Cat. He walks, and his chest tightens. Like a funeral procession, Cat walks behind him. Itachi’s knees buckle as his ears ring. One palm scrabbles at the wall as the other grasps his chest, breaths coming out of him in sharp gasps. Weasel stands in front of him, dressed in all white.

Itachi looks up. There’s a sword in his masked mouth.

Chapter Text

Sasuke throws shuriken at the target until they all cluster in the middle. Sweat dips off his bangs, his shirt stuck to his back. He wipes at his face with his forearm, narrowing his eyes and hurling another batch towards the tree. 

They all hit with sharp thwacks despite his shaking shoulders.

He grins, punching the air with his fist. Sasuke laughs, flopping backwards on to the grass. He sighs, letting the breeze and blades tickle his sore skin. The sun warms his face, the wind dries his sweat.

“SASUKE!”

Sasuke’s good mood evaporates. Naruto, the loud idiot, runs towards him, sandals thumping on the dirt. A shadow obstructs the sun. 

Sasuke opens his eyes to Naruto’s squinty-eyed glare, “what are you doing?” he asks, putting his hands on his hips, “you’re smelly, baking in the sun like that. Gotta keep the tan up, huh?” Naruto bursts into giggles, “get it? Cuz you’re so pale?”

“I hate you,” Sasuke informs him.

Naruto giggles harder, “hey, hey, I saw Sakura in the hospital the other day!”

“Yeah?” Sasuke mutters, reluctantly pushing himself up into a sit with his knees up to his chest, his palms flat on the ground behind him. Naruto joins, sitting cross-legged on the grass.

His knees jiggle, the idiot. He can’t sit still for the life of him, “I got my ass chewed out by this brown lady ‘cause I was being rude, or whatever– even though it was totally NOT my FAULT,” he inhales, “my stupid dad was there too, being all weird and mopey.” Naruto pouts, picking at his skin, “ugh. I literally hate him, Sasuke.”

Sasuke blinks, “none of this has anything to do with me.”

Naruto glares, jabbing at his chest with a grubby finger, “I’m TELLING you my FEELINGS, Sasuke. My FEELINGS are VERY IMPORTANT, Sasuke! You don’t care about my feelings?! I have a lot of them, Sasuke. It’s called being awesome, Sasuke. You should try it, SASUKE.”

“You’re so weird,” Sasuke says, scrunching his nose up, batting his hand away. “Did you ask Sakura about the book she was supposed to give me?”

Naruto laughs sheepishly, “um– no?” Sasuke shoots him a flat look, Naruto waves his hands, “I totally forgot, y’know! Sorry. We should go right now!”

Sasuke narrows his dark eyes, “didn’t you see her like– a week ago? How do you know she’s still working?”

Naruto jumps up, “I just do, y’know!” he taps his temple, a wide grin on his face, “I’ve got a fifth sense for these kinds of things!”

Sasuke bursts out laughing, getting up, “you mean sixth sense, idiot.”

He reddens, “WHATEVER! Let’s just go!”

Sasuke takes a dip in the lake before he trudges to the hospital smelling like death incarnate. Naruto uses a tiny wind justu to dry him off, but it’s hot enough where his clothes don’t really feel wet. They shove each other while they walk through the Village, chuckling about some stupid thing and brushing shoulders. Naruto puts his hands behind his head, ignoring the hushed whispers that surround him.

Sasuke glares daggers at a gaggle of fangirls wearing bright orange, Naruto doing the same to a group wearing all black. They exchange looks and giggle silently, continuing down the roads. The sun peeks above the horizon.

“Did you end up getting tree walking?” Sasuke asks as the hospital comes into view.

Naruto rubs at his nose with his finger, “heh, yeah,” he gloats, “Oro-sensei taught me a neat trick after my arm got healed.”

Sasuke nods, “good. He wants us to do water walking soon.”

“WHAT?!”

They enter the hospital, walking through the packed waiting room to the front. Shinobi with varying degrees of injuries sit on thin plastic chairs. The civilian side is blocked by a partition. Naruto bounces up to the receptionist, who does a double take and bows. She looks dead on her feet, the poor woman.

“Hey, hey!” Naruto says, “we’re Sakura’s teammates! Can we talk to her?”

Sasuke rolls his eyes. Naruto didn’t even notice the tentative line, cutting straight to the front. No one gives him any shit for it though, fear of incurring Lord Fourth’s wrath. It takes a few minutes to clarify that no, Sakura is not a patient, no, she is REALLY not a patient, and no, it's not Sakurajima something-something. Seriously, so many Sakura's in Konoha.

They get directed to a lady’s office, Fuji-whatever, the med-nin in charge of supervising Sakura this month. She’s apparently not here today, which is balls, but they can talk to her stand-in and Sakura will come see them when she’s not busy doing…whatever baby med-nins do.

Sasuke politely knocks on Fuji-something’s office door, holding Naruto back from barging in. Predictably, no one answers, and Sasuke is about to suggest they leave before a bone-chilling voice stops them.

“What do you two children think you’re doing?”

Both of them jump, whirling around. A Hyuuga stands there, long, brown hair pulled up into a severe bun. She’s got a pair of glasses on, mask hanging off her ear. Dark circles stain the undersides of her pupil-less eyes.

Naruto cries, “what the hell, lady?!”

Sasuke smacks him over the head and forces him into a low bow, doing the same. Naruto thrashes as Sasuke’s iron grip doesn’t let up. He rises, Naruto does not, “please forgive my teammate,” Sasuke says, “Uchiha Sasuke and Namikaze Naruto. We’re Haruno Sakura’s teammates?”

Naruto sputters as Sasuke’s hand is removed. He rubs the back of his head, whining.

“Haruno Sakura is not in today,” she says, tone as cold as ice, “if you are not injured, please leave.”

Naruto looks like he’s about to start screaming. Sasuke slaps a hand over his mouth and bows, “thank you for your patience. We’re sorry for intruding. Let’s go.”

Naruto licks a slimy trail across Sasuke’s hand. He yelps, pulling away and holding his wrist with wide eyes, “what the fuck, dude?! Why is– why is so wet?!”

“All I had to do was think about Ichiraku Ramen, and my salivary glands did the rest!”

“You’re so weird–”

“Boys.”

The duo shuts up, jumping. The Hyuuga looks one second away from blowing her gasket and gentle fisting the fuck out of them. The veins around her temples bulge, “leave,” she snarls, “right this instant.”

Sasuke nods, wiping his spittle covered palm on Naruto’s jacket sleeve, grabbing his elbow to drag him down the hallway. They make it a few paces, running down the stairwell until Sasuke passes a windowed door, and freezes.

Naruto slows down up ahead, one hand on the bar handle. He turns to shoot him a puzzled look.

Sasuke stares through the window, blurry figures moving a gurney down the hallway. He sees a shock of black hair and a painted mask, and his eyes widen. His stomach rolls as he touches the window with his fingers, “I think– that was my brother?”

“What?” Naruto asks, joining him. He takes a peek out the window into the empty corridor.

Sasuke’s heart pounds as he shoves open the door, racing down the hallway. His shoes smack loudly on the polished floor, ignoring Naruto’s yelp and hasty follow. As they run down, clamoring grows louder. The squeak of wheels, the cry of machines. A feminine voice shouts muffled instructions.

“What the hell, Sasuke?!” Naruto yells behind him, panting, “are– are you sure?!”

Sasuke grits his teeth and slides across the floor, facing the door he saw the gurney go in. He’s about to barge in before a masked ANBU stops him, materializing out of thin air, their hand grabbing the collar of his shirt.

Sasuke bats it away, glaring up into the mask, “was– was that ANBU Weasel?!” he asks the man with short, spiky brown hair. His mask has little cat ears, “what’s wrong with him?!”

Naruto stops beside him, out of breath, “jeez, dude. Why are you goddamn fast?”

“You are not authorized to enter,” the ANBU says. Naruto makes a face.

“That’s my brother,” Sasuke says desperately, “I saw him, is he hurt? Did he come back from a mission–”

“You are not authorized to enter.”

Naruto glares, taking a step forward, “look, dickwad–” Sasuke drags his palm over his face, Naruto blocks Sasuke’s side as he raises his head, “–do you even know who I am? Huh? Huh? Open your eyes, ANBU, I'm Namikaze goddamn Naruto! 

Sasuke nods along, a pained expression on his face.

“My dad, THE FOURTH HOKAGE OF KONOHA, owns you guys,” he continues, pulling out one of his father’s famous kunai, “and if you don’t move your stupid ass out of this doorway RIGHT NOW–” he points it at the ANBU, “he’s gonna defund the SHIT out of you!”

“Yeah,” Sasuke mutters, “and– and my dad, the Uchiha Clan Head…will hear…about this,” he cringes.

Naruto nods along enthusiastically, “if you care about your job, you’ll let us pass.”

The ANBU stands there awkwardly, “um–” he starts.

Sasuke makes a run for it, and Naruto screams, charging at the ANBU with his kunai. The ANBU jumps, dodging Naruto’s blow and subsequently letting Sasuke smash through the door. The ANBU curses, jumping out of the way of another attack.

“GO GET THEM, SASUKE! RAAAAAH!” Naruto cries, formulating a Rasengan in his palm, “if you hurt a HAIR on my HEAD, my DAD WILL HAVE YOU EXECUTED! RASENGAN!

Sasuke bursts into the room, eyes zeroing in on a pale Itachi Uchiha throwing up rivers of blood by his bedside. A light haired, dark skinned nin with the greenest eyes he’s ever seen crouches there with a bucket, startling at his entrance.

Itachi retches, eyes screwed shut. He’s pale, shivering, and Sasuke says in a small voice, “…brother?”

Itachi’s dark eyes snap open in pure, unaldulturated shock. The woman's eyes widen, and before Sasuke can catalogue what’s going on, the ANBU from before grabs him by the scruff of his collar and tosses him out of the room. He hits the floor ass-first, tumbling backwards. The door slams shut as monitors in Itachi’s room go haywire.

Naruto wriggles around on the floor, gagged and bound. Sasuke springs up to his feet, “what the hell happened to my brother?!”

The ANBU stands guard outside of the door, “you can’t see him in such a state, it will only make his condition worse.” As an afterthought, he adds, “please leave. He is well taken care of.”

Sasuke glares, and falters. He tsks, staring at floor with his shoulders hiked up to his ears. Itachi’s expression, usually so calm and devoid of expression is twisted up in pain and shock– with tears rimming red eyes refuses to leave his head. His expression, hard to interpret but always with a gentle undertone, screwed up in twisted pain. An inner kind of pain– not like a stab wound or drop of poison.

He’s twelve, not stupid. He knows what mom and dad say to him, say to everyone else. Itachi doesn’t struggle with fighting, or ninjutsu, or weapons. He struggles with himself, with meeting expectations, with standing up for himself.

It’s not a fight Sasuke understands. He used to feel shrouded in Itachi’s dark, looming shadow, but maturing has made him realize that it’s Itachi stuck in his own shadow. Under that oppressive darkness, Sasuke does his own thing on the side and thrives.

No one cares about him, and it’s the most freeing, yet loneliest feeling in existence. Naruto knows. They talk about it a lot. Naruto wishes he could blossom out of his father’s legacy, and Sasuke wishes his brother could blossom out of his.

The ANBU stares at him, and Sasuke clenches his fist. He turns away, pulling a kunai out and slashing the ropes that restrain Naruto. Naruto yanks the tape off his mouth with his own hands, sputtering and coughing. He whirls around, pointing his grubby finger at the ANBU, yelling, “I’M TWELVE, YOU WEIRD BDSM FREAK!”

Sasuke smacks him upside the head, “shut up, idiot. Let’s go wait for Itachi in the waiting room.”

Naruto swats him back, “so– you’re just giving up?! WELL I NEVER GIVE UP!”

He grabs him by the ear, yanking his head down, “this is a hospital, have some class, Naruto,” Sasuke hisses, “you’re going to stress my brother out with all your yelling!”

“My DAD is the FRIGGIN’ Fourth HOKAGE–”

Sasuke drags Naruto down the hall, who thrashes uselessly. He points to the ANBU with a grubby finger, legs dragging across the floor, “you haven’t seen the last of me!”

ANBU Cat sighs, shakes his head, and leans his back against the wall. He closes his brown eyes.

In the other room, Itachi panics. Clouds hang heavy outside in the late-afternoon sky, rain looming across the horizon. Fujiwara blocks the light as she covers Weasel’s chest with two glowing hands, the latter gasping and coughing for air. Blood leaks down his mouth, staining his teeth and the collar of his shirt. Nurses burst into the room pushing an emergency cart.

“Easy,” Fujiwara says sharply, “try not to fight the nurses, they’re just hooking up an IV,” she instructs, pulling his ANBU mask off to reveal a wide-eyed Uchiha. His gothic features are splattered with bright, red, blood. She recognizes him as Clan Heir, Uchiha Itachi. He’s very soft, with gentle cheekbones and large eyes. Amaya immediately sees Uchiha Mikoto in him, and it seems like her genes overtake Fugaku’s in general since even Sasuke looks more like her than his father.

The nurses inject a gentle sedative into his IV as Amaya fixes an oxygen mask over his face. She takes out his ponytail so he can lay back into the pillow without having it dig into his head, putting the ribbon on his bedside table. Itachi pants, brow furrowed. He rolls over on his side, curling up into a ball with his eyes screwed shut.

Amaya sighs softly, glow receding from her hands. She orders labs for him, specifically chakra-focused scans and some standard ones like a blood-test and ultrasound. She tosses in an x-ray too for good measure. He’ll have the room for an hour, maybe two, tops, but then he’s going to be kicked out for another patient.

She opens the door to his room, exiting. Cat waits there, tilting his head.

“He’s alright,” Amaya says, peeling off her gloves and dropping them in the biohazard bin outside, “let’s go back to HQ. I’ll check you and Tiger up quickly and dismiss you two. Weasel might be here for a little bit.”

Cat nods, and they embark.

When Itachi gets out, Sasuke meets him outside of the Hospital. Naruto, bored out of his mind and whiny waits the entire two hours with Sasuke, leaving once Itachi emerges. Sasuke prods at his brother, but his brother keeps his mouth shut with a haunted expression. Sasuke tries not to get too pissed off but fails a little. They get dango, and Sasuke forces down the disgusting sweet balls. Itachi doesn’t look like he feels better.

When Amaya gets back to her clinic, she resumes her checkups. Tiger is very normal. He’s healthy, with fine chakra control. Witty, in a committed relationship– which is nuts for shinobi, let alone ANBU. He drinks a little more than Amaya would like, but his liver isn’t screaming for help so she lets it be. Smokes, too, but “only the good stuff.’ Doesn’t regularly do recreational drugs but admits to have dabbled. 

Cat is…weird. He’s healthy, but not in the way where he looks out for his health, but in the way where it seems like his body forces him to be healthy. His chakra system is plain weird, very saturated and grounded. If he wanted to learn Sage Arts, it’d probably be a breeze. She tells him that and he squirms. He doesn’t drink very often, and doesn’t smoke at all. Both good things. His control is very good, and she flags him for med-nin training. Amaya takes another peek at his chakra, because it’s very weird, and figures that if he was ever depleted of chakra, it’d take a meal and a nap to get him back at one-hundred.

Again, weird. It takes Amaya about a full day with three meals and snacks in-between to get her chakra back up. It would probably take someone like Hound closer to a week.

She asks if he wants to see a chakra specialist. Cat says no, and that’s that. The next teams go by like a blur, healthy, not-healthy, fine, healthy. Three of them can do med-nin training, one can’t. Not-healthy, fine, fine, and fine. All of them have the chakra control necessary to take the course. After most of the teams she managed to squeeze in, she’s inching past plain exhaustion. Her reserves aren’t depleted, but they are empty, and she’s glad that she doesn’t have a shift tomorrow.

Amaya goes through the steps of closing up. Disinfecting, cleaning up notes, sending referrals, stacking, organizing, unplugging machines, etcetera, etcetera. When she gets home, she flops face-first on her bed. Before she sleeps, she recalls ADVANCED CHAKRA THEORY NUMBER ELEVEN. She’ll re-read it first thing in the morning since it has a section on dischakra-exitalis. Unbidden, another memory manifests behind her light eyes as she closes them softy.

Chakra had memory.

One of Orochimaru’s biggest, unproven theories was that chakra remembered. 

Amaya personally didn’t know whether to believe it or not, pencil twirling in her hand as she sat in the back of her super awesome ninja class. She rested her chubby cheek on her hand, kicking her tiny legs under the table. She sighed, blowing a puffy strand of hair out of her face. 

Kenta-sensei was droning on about the handseals to cast ninjutsu, and how they could find out their chakra nature by channeling their chakra into some sort of special paper. She wondered why the paper was so special. She wouldn’t raise her hand to ask, though, knowing better. Her mom always said she was smart.

Her mom and dad finally let her go to the academy, after the Hokage went to her daycare and talked about all the cool stuff ninjas can do.  All her friends went to the academy, like Arya, Misaki and Hotaru. It wasn’t fair that they could go and she couldn’t, so she whined and whined until her dad let her enroll. 

Around the Academy and on the streets, they had bright, colorful posters about buying Konoha food and eating at Konoha restaurants and being a Konoha ninja. It was when the posters came up that mom said they couldn’t buy a lot of mangoes anymore– even if they were her favorite– because the price was too high. She said if they lived in Suna, they could have mangoes every day.

Amaya really liked Konoha, even if they didn’t have mangoes. She’d become a ninja and grow as many mangoes as she wanted and eat them with mom. Dad didn’t like mangoes.

She was soooo bored in class, even though the Hokage said it was supposed to be awesome. Her old sensei, Momo-sensei never explained anything ever, so she’d taken up reading chakra theory scrolls in her free time. There were a lot of big and confusing words though, so she borrowed her dad’s big thick dictionary at home and carefully wrote the meanings on her arm. 

She ran out of space pretty quickly, so wrote them down in her class notebook instead. Amaya made sure to put the dictionary back exactly where and how she found it, so dad wouldn’t get mad and hit her. Misbehaving children got punishments, which made sense. She didn’t know why borrowing a book was misbehaving. Maybe it was because it was his book and not hers.

She asked Momo-sensei about some of the words, since she was still a little confused, but Momo-sensei gushed and gushed about how smart and strong she was. It was weird, but next week, she was put in Kenta-sensei’s class. She was the tiniest in the class, so the big kids would pick on her and pull her hair. She told her mom, and mom cut it short. Her hair looked kind of like a triangle, but mom said that it was normal because dad didn’t get the proper con-di-sh-oner for her hair. She said if they lived in Suna, she’d have long, shiny and curly hair.

Amaya still really liked Konoha, even if she couldn’t have long, pretty hair. She’d become a ninja and grow her hair long and pretty and buy the proper con-di-sh-oner for her and mom! Dad didn’t believe in that kind of stuff, and his hair was straight anyway.

The big kids didn’t pull her hair anymore, but they still called her mean names and made fun of her for crying. Kenta-sensei told her to do something about it after she went to him for help.

Amaya was smaller than the big kids, and weaker, but ninja were strong and the best, so if she tried hard enough, she could beat them.

Her plan didn’t work though, even though she ran more laps and did more pushups than she was supposed to everyday. She was still being beaten in spars, and it WASN’T her fault! She didn’t really know the academy style since she was put into Kenta-sensei’s class before Momo-sensei could teach them. Momo-sensei taught her a little in preparation, but it still wasn’t enough.

All the kids knew that, so they would ex-pull-oi-t her weaknesses. She complained about that to Kenta-sensei and he said that she was being a whiny brat and that a real enemy wouldn’t care if she didn’t know how to fight.

She cried in the bathroom after that, wiping her eyes in a stall. She went to the academy library right after, checking out the basic academy taijutsu book. The ninja there didn’t say anything about her red eyes and snotty nose, and that made her happy. Her dad laughed at her when she got home, but she didn’t cry again, and ran up to her room. Mom got worried after she barely came down to eat for the whole weekend, focused on training. The book gave her a bunch of numbers, so she got her dad’s big ruler and drew numbers on the floor with pencil under the rug, covering it up before they could get mad at her.

It didn’t really help, so her mom came into her room and told her a secret. She used to be married to ninja back in Suna, and everyday after school, before dad got home from work, she’d teach her what she remembered. Alongside learning from the book and what mom could remember, she slowly got better. It was still super hard and fus-t-rate-ing, and wasn’t good enough to beat stupid Botan and his bullying.

Stupid Botan was the best in the class because he had dumb fancy eyes and a snooty family. He bragged and bragged that he was so smart because he was moving up a class soon, despite saying that for like– the whole year!

He would also still try to pull her hair and be mean to her because she was smaller than them.

The fateful morning, her dad was super mad and threw all the food that mom made for them on the floor, breaking all of special plates that mom brought from grandma in Suna. They started fighting then, but it was more like dad bullying mom, so Amaya just left for school. She didn’t grab her lunchbox, or eat breakfast, so she was feeling hungry already. She felt mad at her mom for not using her fancy ninja moves on dad, or making the food properly, but whatever.

Stupid Botan was sitting behind her that day, and kept throwing stuff and poking her the whole time. Kenta-sensei didn’t even say anything!

At lunch, she went to the lady who always gave food to the or-fans, but since her name wasn’t on the list, she didn’t get anything. She didn’t even have any friends to eat lunch with, because all her old friends were in the lower classes.

They had sparring today, so she was tired and sad and hungry, and wanted to cry really badly. Kenta-sensei said that ninja didn’t cry, so she didn’t, even though she wasn’t a ninja yet– but she really really wanted to.

She was paired with stupid Botan on that day, and he smiled in a really mean way. Instead of doing the Academy style, he did a special one. His Clan, the Hyuuga Clan, had their own special eye-style thing, called the Gentle Fist. It was a dumb name, in her opinion, since they didn’t fight with a fist or gently. Kenta-sensei started the fight, and Botan ran at her.

She was learning the academy style better, plus her mom’s special style, and was able to block his attacks and put her feet perfectly on the ground. It made it hard for him to knock her over, which made him mad. Amaya did pretty well on her own, able to block and parry a lot of the attacks even if it did hurt her arms! She still wasn’t able to punch him back, since he’d dodge and hit her with his palm.

Stupid Botan was starting to get annoyed, because his eyes changed and these big veins ee-rup-ted on his face.

“Hah!” He yelled, big dumb mean smile on his face. He hit her really really hard, and really faster, which made it really harder and harder for her to block, “you don’t stand a chance against my eyes, civie!”

All the mean Clan kids called her that sometimes, and it hurt her feelings, because she was just a civilian kid.

“I’m not a civie!” she argued back, ducking under a jab to get kicked in the knees instead, “You’re just a big stupid bully!”

He got super mad at that, punching her in the face. She yelped and fell to the ground, but since she wasn’t out of bounds, the fight was still on.

“What did you say to me?” He asked darkly, stepping towards her. His shadow cast over her shaking figure, “I’ll make you regret your words, cannon fodder.”

Amaya didn’t know what that word meant, but the way the other clan kids laughed made her angry. Tears welled up in her eyes, and she sprung up to shove him as hard as she could. He only laughed, sidestepping as she missed and tumbled to the ground.

“What a crybaby,” He sneered, kicking her while she was on the ground.

“I’m not a crybaby!” she yelled, getting up and stumbling up into her mom’s special style. Kenta-sensei’s gaze sharpened at that.

“Oh yeah?” Botan mocked, shifting his stance back to the Gentle Fist.

She didn’t have fancy eyes, or ninja parents, or a big dumb clan to help her win, but she had chakra. Orochimaru’s papers were full of big words and confusing sentences, but she spent hours and hours hunched over it and a dictionary, trying to figure it out. Orochimaru was talking about the chakra-memory thing, and how it flows through your body auh-toh-ma-tick-ally. Kenta-sensei had them practicing channeling chakra to stick leaves on their body, and she was really good at that! 

Since chakra flows through your body and can be put into different places, Orochimaru said that it was chakra memory that en-han-sed your arms and legs. He said that after a long time, ninja would use the memory in their arms and legs without even knowing it! That’s why they were so strong.

So, she yelled really loudly to throw Botan off guard and faked a punch, ducking low and charging towards his legs instead. She wrapped her little arms around his knees, pushing as hard as she could as he yelped and fell down. Amaya scrambled up towards his chest, grabbing a handful of dirt as he flailed around and tried to get up.

Avoiding his arms, she threw the dirt on his face and rubbed it in his eyes, managing a good scrub before he flung her off of him. She hit the ground with a crack, head smashing against the dirt as she rolled around a few times.

He screamed fur-ee-ous-ly, wiping at his eyes as the veins subsided. She tried to get up, but was kicked down. His sandal stomped on her stomach as she cried out in pain. Tears streamed down his face as he seethed, keeping her down by digging his foot into her abdomen.

“You bitch!” he yelled, “I’ll fucking kill you!”

No one would save her from him. Kenta-sensei was just waiting out his injury to get back on the field, uncaring about what was happening in the ring as long as they didn’t step out of bounds.

An enemy wouldn’t care about her broken nose, tear streaked face, or the fact that it was an uneven match up since he was the best taijutsu student and she was in the bottom.

His hair tumbled down his shoulder where he was looking down at her, pin straight and silky. It was the color of those milk-chocolate treats her mom would sneak her after dad was being mean. Now, looking at it, she felt nau-sh-ous, but maybe it was because she hadn’t eaten anything all day and he was stomping on her stomach. 

Orochimaru said that chakra could make you stronger.

The sight of his stupid hair, long, silky, shiny, and well taken care of in-fu-ree-ated her. His dad probably got the right con-dish-oner for his hair. He had no right pulling hers and being mean, since he had everything and she had nothing.

Not nothing, maybe, because Amaya had chakra.

She grabbed a fistful of hair, like he always did to her, and yanked.

They learned how to channel chakra, so she did just that, focusing on the feeling beneath her skin and making it move to her arms. She was careful to not put it out, like for the leaf exercise. His hair tore off his head in a loud riiiiip, chunks fisted in her hands so hard her knuckles bleached white. His body slammed into the earth beside her, a dull crack resonating through the air. 

Kenta-sensei was upon them in an instant, yanking her back and away from stupid Botan. She didn’t hear his screaming at first, but as her eyes settled on the arc of bright red blood spattered on the floor and chunks of skin and flesh attached to the hair in her grip, she understood.

Kenta-sensei put a paper on her desk the next day, face blank and as impassive as ever, that said she would be moving up a class next month.

Chapter Text

Kakashi gets the missive that Team Ro is to embark on a mission in twenty-four hours.

He’s at home, sitting in his bed with the scroll unraveled on his blankets. The nights have bled into October, leaves swaying red, yellow, brown in the winds. Rain pours outside, marking the beginning of autumn. He rolls up the mission, pocketing it.

The door to his bathroom stays open, humidity streaming out of the cramped space and clinging on to his bedroom ceiling. Kakashi has a towel draped across his broad shoulders, droplets dripping off of his hair. The vents in his house are old, so he needs to air out the bathroom manually. The ceiling peels in some places, but he can’t bring himself to care.

Kakashi sighs, throws on a pair of sweatpants, and trudges into his kitchen. The rain beats steadily against the shingles of his roof, drip drip dripping down the eavestrough. He ignores it for focusing on the potential mission.

It’s a tracking mission, busting a crime ring desecrating parts of the Land of Fire. The only reason Konoha has interest in the tiny towns scattered around the country that are victims of this ring is because they think an ex-Konoha Jounin is running it. Enter Hound and Team Ro. 

He opens his fridge, pulls out a container of old rice, and puts it on his counter. He grabs a can of barely tea to go with it, closing the door. He doesn’t bother to re-heat the rice, and plunges his fingers into the solidified mass. He shoves it in his mouth.

Someone knocks on Kakashi’s door. Kakashi scowls, and yanks his mask back up, rice sticking to his chin.

The entire point of staying in the abandoned Hatake compound is so that no one can bother him. This is someone bothering him. 

Kakashi shakes rice grains off his fingers, walking towards his front door. He wrenches it open, singular eye glaring.

Shisui stands there, bright smile on his face. He’s tanner, scratches and cuts littering his hands, the pull of exhaustion weighing some of his movements down. Rain soaks him to the bone, dripping off black curls. Shisui’s fist is raised, poised to knock as he grins sheepishly.

“Hey, cap,” he says, scratching at the back of his freshly-cut hair, “just got back in. Can we talk?”

Kakashi stares at him. The rain pitter patters atop the porch.

The last memories he has of Shisui is his eyeball falling out of his skull, so no, they can’t talk. Shisui smiles in that sheepish way of his, guilt swimming in dark eyes, “I know uh– I kind of, went a little overboard the other day. I just wanna talk.”

Kakashi cleaned his room, took a shower, and is eating real, tangible food. Mayumi has largely ignored him, and his eye has been tame since the med-nin used her magic hands to soothe it. Chakra at twenty-three percent. He’s in a good mood. Wordlessly, he holds open the door.

Shisui’s smile widens as he comes in, sliding his wet sandals off with a squelch, “I brought you something!” he says cheerily, rambling, “I saw you knew how to wield my tanto, so I got you one. It’s ceremonial, not really meant for combat, but uh– yeah. I know you prefer a ninjato now, so I didn’t bother getting a practical tanto.”

Kakashi blinks, catching the scroll Shisui tosses him. They meander in, Kakashi’s lone eye trained on the gift. He’s not sure how to take it, and settles for taking it as a tentative apology, even though Shisui doesn’t really have anything to apologize for. It was a fight. People fight.

Shisui walks around his kitchen, droplets of water falling off of him. He has enough decency not to wring his wet clothes out onto the floor as he opens cabinets, “do you have yuzushu?”

“Fridge,” he replies, pulling back a dining chair and sitting on it. Kakashi unravels the scroll and Shisui rifles through his stash of alcohol. The tanto pops out with a poof of smoke, the blade a shiny silver, hilt a wrapped black. Navy blue and white detailing run up up the sheath, a white ribbon topping it off. A chain dangles down the dagger, a fang followed by a full moon.

He lifts it, “where did you even get something like this?”

Shisui sits next to him, uncorking the bottle of yuzushu and pouring it into two glasses, “mission,” he says, “it was close to the Land of Iron, so I made a pit stop and commissioned a sword. There were a few Hatake blacksmiths and samurai there.” He takes a sip, relaxing into the wooden chair, “man,” he stretches, “that hits the spot, really.”

Kakashi seals the sword back into the scroll, pocketing it alongside his mission one, “you wanted to talk,” he says neutrally. Wow, he really is in a good mood today, “so talk.”

Shisui lets a small smile grace his lips. He sets the cup down, “you’re working with Mayumi.”

Kakashi freezes. Shisui continues, “that’s about the gist of what I got from–” he taps his temples, pointing straight into the sides of his eyes. “I got a lot of other stuff too, more…personal things. For someone who’s not dating her, she’s in your bed quite often.”

Rage simmers underneath Kakashi’s skin. He debates taking the tanto and skewering Shisui with it.

“Course, your dynamic doesn’t seem the healthiest, yeah? Anyway! I’m getting side-tracked. You put up with her shit ‘cause she puts up with yours, right?” he pokes the yuzushu, watching the contents ripple, “you guys are working together towards a common goal. You have an inferiority complex and feel the need to try and prove your worth, she has a superiority complex and has you wrapped around her dainty little finger, and so it goes.”

He takes a peek at Kakashi’s hard features, and cracks another smile, “look at me,” Shisui says, “being all…presumptuous.”

A shimmer of something enters his dark eyes, and his smile tinges melancholic. Shisui leans back until the chair tips over. He laces his hands together and stares up into the ceiling, “do you honestly think I want to be like this?” he asks Kakashi softly, balancing the chair on it’s back legs.

Kakashi hopes he falls and hits his head, “what the hell are you on, right now?”

Shisui laughs, a hollow rattle, “I guess I do, yeah," he answers himself, continuing, "I don’t know any other way, and– well…the person who matters puts up with it, which is all that matters to me.”

Kakashi really could not care any less. Shisui's feelings make his skin crawl, and he's plunged into a void of discomfort. Alongside his eccentricities, Shisui has a talent for emotional manipulation like no other. Kakashi isn’t even angry anymore, just...feeling weird. Oh, well, at least the apology gift makes sense.

“Sometimes I want to kill everyone I get my hands on and run,” Shisui says, staring up at the ceiling. His sharingan spins a bright red, “is that weird, Kakashi?”

Kakashi raises a brow, “I’m duty bound to report you,” he says instead of answering. His dark eye narrows, “what’s stopping me?”

“I am,” he replies, a slow smile spreading across his face. Shisui turns to look at Kakashi, eyes redder than the twist of a knife. Kakashi’s stomach drops, “if you say anything, everyone in the entirety of Konoha will know that you and Mayumi are working with Danzo again.”

Kakashi’s chest spasms, his eye widens as his voice gets stuck, “you– how–” he chokes, thoughts spinning, “I thought you said–”

Shisui sits up and knocks back the cup of yuzushu, “I say whatever I want, Kakashi,” he says, “you’re the dumb fucker who believes it. Look, squeal on me and I squeal on you. Guess what? I know why you’re working with him. I know that you–”

“Stop!” Kakashi yells, hands shaking, “fucking– shut up. Look, I get it, okay?”

Shisui stops, expression neutralizing.

“What do you want?” he asks, hands grabbing the fabric of his pants, “why the hell are you here, Shisui?”

Shisui hums, getting up. Kakashi watches his chair scrape back, “just wanted to give you a heads up, I guess,” he says, eyes back to black, “I have everything right here–” he raises finger and taps his temple, “–so I don’t need anything. Not from you, at least.”

"Why didn't you just start with-"

Kakashi watches as he turns his back on him and walks out, stopping by the door to put his sandals on. He doesn’t bother to say goodbye or anything like before he flickers away and leaves Kakashi sitting there, trembling from head to toe, words stuck in his throat.

Men like Shisui knew where to hit, and how to make it hurt. For all of his years, Kakashi never managed to figure it out. Itachi is lucky in a way, never having to see this side of his friend. Kakashi knows Shisui can’t turn on Itachi the way he turns on everyone else– for whatever reason. Maybe he’s soft for him, maybe he simply can’t bring himself to.

Kakashi’s not a crier. The last time he can remember crying was when he left Minato’s house. He buries his masked face in his palms, doubling over. His forehead hits the edge of the wooden table as he sits there and shakes.

The rice stays forgotten on the counter. The bottle of yuzushu glimmers.

Itachi sits on the edge of his bed, a bottle of pills between his palms. When Shisui gets home with an exaggerated call, he vanishes it with a poof of smoke. Outside, lightning strikes.

—

“We leave in an hour, Team Ro,” Hound says, tossing the three of his subordinates copies of the mission scroll, “memorize, then burn it. We won’t be hunting, so assume formation five. Cat is second in command.”

“Yes, Captain,” all three of them chorus. Weasel ignites his scroll first with a snap of fire chakra, followed by Tiger and then Cat.

Hound nods, “gear up, then. Pack light, this shouldn’t take more than a few days.”

Everyone disappears, heading to their ANBU lockers or homes to strap as many weapons as humanly possible on to themselves. Hound spends the hour stretching in the empty field, a kilometer out from the west Village gates. His thoughts swirl in a nauseating spiral, and the repetitive movements help banish Kakashi from Hound.

Tiger keeps all of his things in his locker, so he straps his thighs with weapons pouches and stuffs the seals on his wrists with his arsenal of projectiles. He straps his medkit to his side, normally where a sword might go. His armor is polished and ready, mask snug tight against his face. 

Cat goes home and collects various weaponry lying around his living room. He opens a closet full of weapons pouches, choosing one he deems most tailored towards the mission and putting it on. He slips on full, black gloves, reaching into his closet to strap his tachi to his waist. Lastly, he fits his mask to his face, flickering out of his home.

Weasel takes the most time, quietly going through he and Shisui’s closet. Shisui cracks his eyes open the moment the wooden doors creak open, sitting up in bed with the worst case of bedhead imaginable.

“Mission?” he croaks, rubbing at his eyes. Weasel nods, strapping his weapons pouch to his waist and sheathing his katana. It slides right down at his side, belt hanging low off his hips. Shisui yawns, “I’ve got leftover rations if you want them.”

“Thank you,” he replies, digging through Shisui’s pack until his fingers wrap around protein bars. They’re all marshmallow flavored, his favorite. He smiles, “I’ll be back soon. Don’t wait up.”

“Okay,” Shisui says, yawning once more. He snuggles back under the covers, “stay safe, Itachi,” he mumbles, “goodnight.”

Weasel clasps his mask to his face, buckling it behind his head, “goodnight.”

Team Ro rendezvous at the meeting point, nodding to each other. The moon is strung high in the sky, glowing an ethereal white. The ground is damp underneath their feet, droplets of water leftover from the previous shower shimmering under the stars.

Hound turns on his heel, crouching before leaping through the trees. They follow him, assuming formation as they leave Konoha’s walls.

Hound’s at thirty percent total chakra, Cat and Tiger at one-hundred while Weasel oscillates between eighty and ninety.

Weasel has this sinking, sinking feeling as they blaze through the trees.

—

Shisui bangs on Amaya’s door way past sunset, large, jade Uchiwa earrings dangling from his ears. He’s got a bit of eyeliner action going, hair spritzed with some sea-salt spray and messed up to hell. He’s wearing a top that clings to him, black and sheer, with a pair of wide legged jeans and sneakers.

Amaya opens the door and blanches in her matching Princess Hoshiko pajama set.

He smiles, it takes up his entire face, “let’s go out tonight!”

“Um,” Amaya says.

“There’s this bar down Senju, Senju and…Noriko? The Rusty Kunai,” Shisui continues, eyes bright, “I know you didn’t have work today, and I know you don’t have work tomorrow, so let’s go out and get wasted!”

Silence befalls them. Amaya blinks at him for one long moment before a very awkward expression overtakes her face, “um–” she repeats, “…who are you?”

Shisui stares at her for a second. Two, before his eyes widen and he bursts out into laughter, slapping a palm over his face. His earrings jangle, “I– I’m so sorry,” he giggles, “I totally forgot you don’t know me without my mask on. It’s me!” he grins, like she’s just supposed to know. His hair is familiar, dark and curly, though freshly cut and not like the messy-haired ANBU she knows. “Crow!”

Oh. 

Realization dawns on her face like sunrise, pink filling her cheeks, “oh,” she voices quietly, swallowing, “nice to meet you, Crow. Uh–”

“Shisui!” he exclaims.

“Shisui,” she corrects. “Okay,” Amaya says, doing a one-over on herself. She wiggles her toes in her bunny slippers, deciding, “I’ll go out with you, like friends do, right?” she looks away, “sorry. I’m not– uh, doing anything right now except talking to my plants…I mean cat…and I lost one of my scrolls…”

Shisui flashes her a thumbs up, cutting off her trailing thoughts. He takes no offense at her hesitation nor at her declaration of friendship. “I’ll meet you at the bar in two hours?” he asks, “that should give you enough time to get ready.”

The sun peeks out from behind the horizon line, dying Konoha’s skies the fiery red they’re known for. It’s an Uchiha sort of night, and Shisui blazes.

Amaya nods, mentally cataloguing all of the clothes she owns that aren’t white jackets or scrubs, “what’s the dress code?”

“Slutty,” he says with a sharp smile, drawing attention to his…flashy outfit, “or casual. Not Jounin-blues casual, but casual casual. It’s a nice bar in an upscale part of the Village.” he explains, “demographic is also a little older, so we won’t have to deal with teenagers getting drunk for the first time.”

“Okay,” she agrees, “okay, I’ll see you then. Shisui.”

“Amaya,” he says, and grins. It glints like the edge of a katana. Somewhere in backwater Fire Country, Weasel thumbs his, leaves crunching underfoot. Tiger is tense, and quiet, unlike him. His sinking feeling has not evaporated kilometers deep into the mission.

Two hours later, Amaya stands in front of a large, wooden building. Orange-yellow glow bursts out from behind windows, laughter and music blaring out into the street. The sun has set, streetlamps lit running down the streets. She smooths the fabric of her denim skirt, the faded appendage coming to mid-thigh. She wears a thin, brown belt, matching the color of her boots. A green, satin backless top compliments her eyes, golden hair braided back.

Shisui leans against the walls of the bar, joint in his hand. He inhales, tip glowing red before he spots her and smiles. When he exhales, it’s with white smoke and the joint slipping from his fingers on to the concrete at his feet. He stomps on it, “Amaya!” he waves.

“Shisui,” she greets, walking over to him. His pupils encroach on his dark irises, swallowing them whole.

“Cute earrings,” he says, her hand flies up to touch the thick, dangling pieces. Amaya opens her mouth to thank him, but he walks away with his back turned, “c’mon! First round is on me.”

She has half a mind to tell him she doesn’t drink, but Shisui leaves her in his dust. When the double doors swing open, the full brunt of idle chatter, chortling, and music fills her ears. The bass shakes her with every boom of the stereo. Light fades, and Amaya stands in a bar packed to the brim with shinobi.

Shisui flutters over to a group gathered at a table who cheer when they see him coming. He greets them with a huge smile and handshake pulls that end with taps on the back. Amaya doesn’t recognize any of them, so she does an awkward sweep. Near the opposite end, a shock of blond hair catches her attention.

Minato sits at a table, smile devoid of expression as he talks to the group he’s with. His blue, blue eyes flicker to her, and his face lights up so fast she’s sure she imagined his previous apathy. Before she can catalogue it, Minato is coming up to her, waving off his group of friends.

“Amaya!” he exclaims, grinning, “it’s good to see you here!”

He hasn’t done much to his appearance, just swapped out his jeans for dark cargo pants and his top for a tank top and a baggy windbreaker tied around his hips. There’s a bandage covering up the seal on his collarbone.

“Minato,” she agrees, smiling. Shisui bounds over, slinging an arm around her shoulders. Amaya tries not to stiffen. He lights up when he sees Minato, saluting.

“Lord former Hokage,” Shisui says, “nice to see you here!”

Minato smiles, tips his head. His eyes glimmer, “Shisui,” they flicker between her and him, settling on his arm and the bunching of her shoulders. He decides not to say anything, “how’d your mission go?”

Shisui blows a raspberry, launching off of Amaya. He smells like weed and smoke, with a hint of a woodsy cologne. The smell clings to her thick hair, “no work talk while we’re at the bar. Whaddya guys want? I’m buying.”

Minato laughs, pointing his thumb over his shoulder, “I’ve got shots waiting for me back at my table, so I’m alright,” he says, picture polite, “thank you for offering.”

“Boo,” Shisui responds, running a hand through his hair. He turns to Amaya with an expectant look.

“Oh,” she says. A table near them erupts in hoots and hollers, “I don’t drink alcohol. I’d be open to a mocktail.”

Shisui narrows his eyes at her, “heathen,” he condemns. He assess her with a long look before putting his hands on his hips and nodding, “I’ll get you this yuzu mocktail that I’m in love with. Be back in like– five.”

Shisui speeds off, Minato chuckles, “he’s certainly a character. I didn’t know you two were friends.”

Amaya nods slowly, “I’m…not sure if we are. We just formally met today.”

“Huh,” Minato says with a secretive smile, “typical of Shisui to take someone he doesn’t know well partying.”

“You know him?”

Minato opens his mouth to respond, but is cut off with a soft, “Fujiwara?”

The duo turns, a couple holding hands walking up to them standing in a quiet-ish part of the bar. The woman is gorgeous, with long, stunning blue-black hair. It’s tied up in a low bun, hair sticks poking through it. Her pale skin and milk-white eyes designate her as a Hyuuga. Where has Amaya seen that hair before?

The man is long and tall, hunched over a little with violet hair and matching eyes. His gaze is half-lidded, and recognition flashes through her.

“Owl,” Amaya says, breathless, “Fish.”

“Hyuuga Nanohana,” Owl corrects in her signature melodic voice, “this is Hirasaka Hayato,” she bows low, “Lord Fourth. Fujiwara.”

Minato waves a hand, cheeks pink. Fujiwara bows back, “please,” she says, straightening, “call me Amaya.”

“Call me Nanohana, then,” she replies. Hayato nods along. Shisui takes that moment to bounce over, drinks in hand. He’s got a couple caught in the crook of his elbow.

“Hana!” he exclaims, straw poking out from behind his lips, “Hayato! How have you guys been?”

“Shisui,” Nanohana says, watching the drinks slosh over their rims and splatter over his sleeves. Shisui hands Amaya her mocktail, dropping his straw into a fizzy, bubbly drink. He slurps. She eyes him, “you look…well.”

“Fit as a fiddle!” he beams, nose scrunching at the burn of his drink, “I’m gonna do a lap! Find me if you need anything.”

“Shisui–”

He’s gone, just like that. Amaya frowns, and Minato shoots her a sympathetic look. “Do you all want to come back to my table?” he asks, “it’s a little calmer than…wherever Shisui might drag you.”

“We cannot possibly impose,” Nanohana says. Minato waves her off again, turning to lead them to the back. Amaya follows, unsure what else to do. Nanohana and Hayato walk behind her, hand in hand. She wasn’t aware they were together, but it’s not surprising. They seemed like good friends, at least.

Minato’s table is housed with two others, an old Yamanaka and an old Nara. Amaya recognizes them as their respective Clan heads. Nara Shikaku smokes a cigarette, playing shogi with Yamanaka Inoichi. They both look up when Minato’s shadow falls over them, cataloguing his entourage.

The group somehow squishes into the booth. Amaya presses up against Minato as he knocks back a shot of…something. Inoichi moves a piece, and Shikaku narrows his eyes. They’ve both got tentative flushes crawling up their cheeks.

Nanohana exchanges her vaguely uncomfortable look with one of her own. This is going to be a long night.

Weasel cuts down one of their target’s hired muscle, his katana cleaving their arm off. The person howls, blood spurting out of the wound, and he puts them out of their misery with another well-aimed strike. Bodies drop around him, a full out brawl taking place as Tiger goes through enemies with the shine of ninja wire, Cat keeping his tachi at his side as mud spikes rise and skewer. Hound is nowhere around.

They fight in what used to be a bar, turned into the headquarters of a drug ring. Glass crunches underfoot, lights glowing a bright, warm orange.

Weasel ducks under an axe, sword flipping up and cutting the woman’s head clean off. Her body sails above him, toppling another mercenary. Blood arcs, gets in his hair. His moves are purely mechanical, detached as he strikes and slashes, gliding through masses of people. He moves with such an ease he feels like he’s floating– his sword slides through people, human lives like softened butter–

He falters, a cough bursting out of his chest. It’s strong enough to make his head spin.

Weasel’s hand flies up to his chest as it tightens, throat going bone-dry. A mercenary takes advantage of his momentary lapse and hurls a cleaver at his skull. It’s deflected with Tiger’s kunai and a well-aimed body flicker.

“Are you fucking sick?!” Tiger yells, grabbing the back of his chestplate like a cat and hurtling them both up into the rafters. Weasel continues coughing, an ugly, rattling sound. He does it with his full body, blood splattering the inside of his mask. Tiger his the ground, hands flying through seals as he starts a long-ranged offensive while Weasel recovers.

He looks down at his gloved hand, katana discarded somewhere beside him. Weasel rips it off, panting and gasping for air that doesn’t seem to be enough. He watches his pale, slender fingers tremble. His nails have started bluing around the edges, and he sets his jaw, dark eyes spinning red.

Come on, he thinks. A blue glow encases it, looking almost black as red dyes his vision like freshly spilled blood.

Come on, he pleads as the blue flickers in and out. His pathways glow bright with saturated chakra, burning up his chest. Every time he takes in a wheezing breath, a series of dry, bloody coughs follow. Black spots dot his vision.

Near-perfect chakra control– chakra frequency– interacting with cells at a molecular level– yang to yin ratio– 

Amaya handed him a thick stack of books as he sat on the edge of her clinical bed. The view outside of the window was gorgeous, up high in one of the upper-floors of the hospital. He could see all of Konoha stretch below, painted houses colored light pastels. The research floors, she called it. No emergencies allowed.

“If you want to learn medical ninjutsu, start here,” she said, handing him another stack of papers. It breaks him out of his melancholic thoughts and he holds them in his arms. “Practice tests. Read through all of these and pass the knowledge test. Do not attempt medical ninjutsu on anything or anyone at this stage,” she said, dead serious, “you will kill someone if you do.”

Itachi nodded, holding the books to his chest. He passed all of the practice tests, that night, after an energy drink, a raging headache, and the pounding of rain to keep him company.

It doesn’t take long for him to go back on his word.

Come-fucking-on you piece of shit!

Shisui’s tenor cries the last thought for him, red eyes flashing. Weasel’s hand flickers blue-green-blue-green as Tiger hides him from sight. The glow is enough to reveal their position, but Cat keeps the mercenaries busy and Tiger doesn’t say a word. The former pulls out his infamous wood release, which now means no survivors.

Yang to yin, yang to yin, ninety-percent yang ten percent yin– near perfect control– matching frequency– even chakra distribution– ninety percent– ninety percent– ninety percent–

His hand glows a bright, soft green, the exact shade of Fujiwara-sensei’s eyes. Weasel sags with relief, fingers and toes tingling as he slaps his palm on his chest. Pain explodes across his lungs, as if someone took a knife to his skin and started carving him like a chicken. He clamps his mouth shut before he can utter a sound, keeping his hand on his chest.

Tears blur his sharingan, red bleeding through his vision. He looks down to make sure he’s not fucking anything up as the glow heals his chest from the inside out. Weasel pulls out a bottle of pills, the rattling making Tiger tense.

Labelled, prescribed. He shoves one under his mask and swallows it dry. He carefully directs chakra into his lungs, struggling to stay focused through the excruciating pain. Weasel uses his medical ninjutsu to repair any damage as it occurs. Sweat beads at his temples, soaking his bangs, plastering them to his face. A few tears escape, and he clenches his hand into a fist, doubling over.

Finally, finally– his throat loosens, his chest sags. He coughs up one last mouthful of blood until his breathing sounds crystal clear. He takes a big breath that sounds more like a desperate gasp, black spots receding. He blinks the tears away, craning his neck up.

“I can’t keep them off for longer,” Tiger warns, “whatever the fuck you’re doing, hurry it up.”

Weasel smiles behind his mask, a full, wide, relieved smile. He lets the ninjutsu drop, using his hand to wipe at his eyes under his mask. He leaps back into the fray, vaulting over the railing by Tiger’s side with a grasp of his katana, other hand curling into tiger. A fireball incinerates a majority of the mercenaries as Tiger startles and curses.

Hound fights their target one-on one off in an underground room. He’s losing, but that’s okay. 

Chapter Text

“Shisui! Shisui! Shisui! Shisui!” Nanohana chants, banging her fists on the table. He holds a can of seltzer to his lips horizontally, chugging the drink from a hole made by a kunai. A friend Amaya doesn’t recognize drinks in tandem, the duo competing.

The can crinkles, Shisui rips it away from his mouth and slams it on the table. Cheers erupt, he laughs, bright and loud, a flush sitting high on his face.

Minato chuckles quietly beside her, hands shoved in his pockets. Nanohana screams, punching Shisui in the shoulder. Shisui grabs her and throws his arm around her shoulders as Hayato takes a photo on his digicam. It flashes bright white, making Amaya's light eyes twitch.

The loser finishes his drink, curses, and throws the can to the floor. It rolls to a stop by her feet.

This is…an experience. She’s not not having fun, and it’s entertaining to see Shisui destroy every challenger who faces him. Amaya picks up the can and moves to toss it out. When she walks back to the group, she twirls in a slow circle to find Minato again. Hayato taps on her shoulder, wordlessly pointing to her left.

Minato and Shisui stand side to side, kunai in position. They pierce their cans when someone brings their hand down, shoving them to their mouths and slurping. The chants are skewed to “Fourth! Fourth! Fourth!” as lone Shisui supporters struggle to make their voices heard.

Amaya’s brow twitches, and she sighs, thanking Hayato with a nod of her head before leaving the rowdy table. Shikaku and Inoichi are still locked in their battle, bordering on two hours now. She doesn’t disturb them, and instead orders a soda from the bar and puts the straw in her mouth. She walks around, pushing open an exit door. The sound shuts with every swing of the rickety door, voices fading in and out. The cool air and quiet soothes nerves she didn't know she had.

The door leads out to a tiny balcony, overlooking the street below. The moon shines down, bleaching couples and friend groups that walk about a soft white. Amaya hauls herself over the railing, heels pressing into the stubby landing. She hops up, sitting on the thin, black rail. Her soda sloshes, and she drinks. Seventeen ryo for a cup of soda. Criminal.

The quiet settles into her skin, drones of the rowdy bar faint behind her. Amaya looks up into the full moon and shuts her eyes softly. The sound of the door sliding open startles her, and Minato steps out. Despite drinking almost two full bottles of forty-five percent alcohol, multiple shots, and seltzer with Shisui, he’s got the barest hints of a blush staining his cheeks.

“Did you win?” Amaya finds herself asking. 

Minato laughs, joining her on the railing, “it was a tie," he admits, wiping the corner of his mouth with his thumn. He stretches, "I haven’t done something like that since my youth, so I was a little rusty.”

“You’re not that old,” she says.

He waves her off, yawning and staring up into the cloudy night sky, “I’m retired, with a kid entering his teens. I’m pretty old.”

Silence cascades like a waterfall, the buzzing of Konoha’s nightlife district roaring behind their eyes. Minato’s blue eyes sparkle, and she’s sure it’s intentional. Maybe some kind of chakra manipulation, because there’s no way eyes can look like that, ever. The glow of the exit sign paints his back a soft crimson.

He continues, “I heard you’re busy with ANBU, now.”

ANBU secrecy is waved for Hokages, probably. Or– ex-Hokages. She’s not going to tell Minato that it’s a secret, because he’d probably laugh at her. Amaya nods, “I just started my lessons. It’s only assigned reading for now, but I’ll do a practical soon.”

Minato smiles, “mind if I drop in?”

She freezes, jaw loosening, “you…want to learn medical-ninjutsu? From me?”

He bumps her shoulder with his, “medical ninjutsu is good for chakra control, right? Besides, you’re plenty capable. If you were able to save my life when you were a child, I’ll trust your skills as an adult.”

Amaya blushes, face going firetruck red, “I– I didn’t save your life, it was a minor wound, really,” she mutters, “besides– good chakra control is required for medical ninjutsu, not the other way around. I wouldn’t mind if you dropped in, but I doubt you can learn it where your percentile sits.”

Minato hums, twisting his face away. His hair sways, and he fiddles with it, “what do you recommend then, doc? I’ve tried everything I could get my hands on, y’know.”

Her brow furrows, “everything?” he nods, she continues, “for chakra control? What about elbow-knee climbing?”

Minato nods again, tipping his head up, “elbow-knee, fingertips, control seals, tree fibers, twenty-thousand leaves, shadow clones in tandem,” he lists them off with his fingers, kicking his feet, “I’ve gotten much better at those exercises, but it’s not enough to bump my control up to where I want it.”

The soft breeze holds a hint of rain, a whisper of the downpour dribbling down a few days ago. Amaya tilts her head, “where do you want it to? Remembering your seal, you sit somewhere around…fifty, I think. Maybe sixty.”

“Just about,” Minato confirms, “I want to get to eighty, at least.” She tries not to make a face, but Minato bursts out laughing, “you don’t think I can do it, huh?”

Amaya opens her mouth, closes it, and opens it again. She cringes, “I’m sorry– I guess not.”

If he got anywhere near the high seventies, she’d bury every single ryo in her bank account deep in the forest of death. He doesn’t seem offended, and just smiles in that secretive way of his. There's a flash of ruby in his ocean eyes.

“Well,” he says, sounding only a little embarrassed, “you should have some faith in me. Any pointers? You’re the one with near-perfect control.”

Amaya hums and tilts her head up heavenward. She taps her finger on the edge of the railing, before an idea strikes. She turns to look at Minato, who’s buzzing like a puppy.

“Do you know how to create chakra strings?”

Her mother clings on to culture and tradition deep into her failing marriage. Amaya grasped everything she could get from her, dates, stories, jewelry– everything. A decade later from her death, all Amaya has left are the whispers of a language she’s barely fluent in and half-baked stories. Most of the space in her head has been crammed with PTSD war flashbacks, and the name of every muscle and bone inhabiting the human body.

Kenta-sensei’s face and voice loom larger in her memories than her own mother, and Amaya doesn’t know who to hate for that.

Minato cocks his head, “strings made of chakra?”

She nods, holding up her hand. Her fingertips glow a soft blue, and Minato jerks as his arm is raised without an ounce of his will. His eyes widen, and his jaw drops, hand suspended in the air. He uses his other hand to feel around for it, swiping at empty.

“Essentially,” Amaya says as she lets the strings recede, “they require precise chakra control.”

Minato grabs his arm, patting at it, “I’ve– never heard of chakra strings.” he raises his palm, staring intently at it. A bright, blue glow overtakes his entire hand, and he struggles to isolate it to his fingers.

“It’s not a Konohan technique,” she explains, “the version you’ll learn is non-combative. When done incorrectly in combat, chakra strings can damage or outright destroy chakra pathways.”

Minato lets the glow recede, brow furrowing, “how?”

“It’s chakra that you take back in. A lot of things can, and will go wrong. Drop the chakra without recession and you alert every enemy nin to your presence.”

He nods slowly, “I understand. I assume there’s precautions someone would need to learn to operate it for combat.”

“Yes,” Amaya says, and doesn’t explain how. Instead, she demonstrates the technique again, “push your chakra outwards, and focus on keeping it restrained in it’s shape. Practice picking up leaves with them.”

Her fingers glow blue again, and piles of leaves swirl from below the street up into the air.

Minato watches them flutter with a smile. She makes them dance before dropping them, flowing through the gentle breeze and down the road. He flexes his fingers, flashing her a closed-eye smile, “thank you, Amaya. I’ll try it.”

They settle in silence, blue glow receding. She finishes her soda, the white of the moon illuminating Minato’s skin with an ethereal glow. He breaks their tentative silence, “how’s Kakashi doing, then?”

“…Kakashi?” Amaya repeats. Hound, ANBU Captain Hound. She doesn’t say supreme-pain-in-the-ass, but it’s close. It takes her an embarrassing amount of time to remember that Minato was his Jounin-sensei. “We’re not friends, sorry. He’s…provocative.”

Minato laughs, “I figured as much. He instigated a lot of fights as a kid, as well. Funny to see how he hasn’t grown out of it.”

She doesn’t point out the fact that both Hound and Naruto have the same issue. It’d be rude– and not very helpful, though one more child that is placed under his care with regulation issues would make it a patten. Instead, she asks, “are you two close?”

Minato doesn’t answer for a long, long time, bugs buzzing below. The wind ruffles their hair, and Amaya tucks her flyways behind her ears. He smiles, but it’s not a happy one, “not really,” he admits. “We’re not…speaking, anymore. Not because we fought, or anything, but because Kakashi just– stopped reaching out. He got busy, Naruto grew up– and, well– I got busy.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Amaya says, instigating Minato’s reflexive hand-wave gesture.

“No, no,” he says, “it’s fine, really. He’s not a kid anymore, people grow apart, it’s natural. I mean–” he rubs at his face, blue eyes bright despite the furrow of his brow, “it’s unreasonable for me to hold the man Kakashi is now to the little boy who was in my care for– a couple of years, y'know?. He grew up, and so did I.”

Before Amaya can respond, the side door below them slams open. The red exit sign flickers, giggles echoing off the wall as two pairs of shoes slap across the concrete. Minato grimaces, shaking the thoughts from his head, “we should go back in.”

A trashcan falls over, the giggling replaced with a more breathy quality of sound. 

“Yep,” Amaya agrees, immediately hopping off the railing. She practically runs inside as Minato makes a face, shutting the door behind them. It swings a few times before it bangs closed. The bar hasn’t quieted, despite the late hour, and the duo exchange looks as they try and find their respective parties.

Shisui is easy to spot, as expected. He’s loud, and boisterous, and incredibly smashed. He’s got his hands on the hips of a stunning woman with dark hair and darker eyes as the music thunders. Nanohana and Hayato bob with the beat, sitting in a darkened corner of the bar as Hayato plays with the mousetraps he found…somewhere. It clamps on his finger, and he stares at it with a sad look, wiggling it.

Amaya is just about done for the night. She scratches the back of her head, mentally mapping out her route home. Minato points at the booth Shikaku and Inoichi have occupied for the past– what, three hours? There are five pieces on the board, and Amaya has no idea how to play Go, but Inoichi looks like he’s about to rip out his long, luscious hair.

“I think I’m going to go home!” Amaya yells over the music. Minato turns to her, blinks, and nods.

He smiles, raising his voice, “do you need me to walk you home?!”

She’s shaking her head before he finishes his sentence, “it’s a short walk, thanks! I’m going to say goodbye to Shisui, Nanohana and Hayato!”

The bass shakes her shoes. Before she can leave, Minato puts his hand on her shoulder gently. His expression is wide open, twinging with an emotion she can’t describe. “Amaya,” he says, with the weight of…something behind his light voice, “can you do me a favor?”

She has to strain to hear him. Amaya nods. He continues, “look out for Kakashi,” he says firmly, “even if it’s just the bare minimum, whatever you decide– keep him in your corner. I understand that’s a lot to ask of you, but, if you can– I’d appreciate it.”

Amaya shuffles, his blue, blue eyes boring into her with the shine of the sun, “…okay,” she says after a moment, “I’ll try. I can’t promise anything.”

Minato drops his hand, his expression brightening like the first rays of sunlight after a storm, “I know,” he reassures, “I understand. Whatever you can, I’ll appreciate. Thank you, Amaya.”

Her goodbye to Nanohana and Hayato is straightforward. Shisui rambles incoherently about something, face bright red before he pulls her into an uncomfortable hug. The woman he's with rolls her eyes and grabs his collar the moment he releases her from his bone-crushing hug, dragging him away. Shisui waves, eyes half-lidded, grin on his face. Amaya tuns away before she can see the woman pull Shisui in for a searing kiss.

She leaves the bar, walking out into the open night. When she gets home, she tosses her shoes off in the entryway and collapses on the couch, yawning. The moonlight filters through her curtains as Sitara meows, coming out from under the dining table. She drags herself to the bathroom to wipe of her makeup and change before she crashes into her bed. Her bookshelf is in disarray.

Tiger rips out his kunai from the chest cavity of a random mercenary, stumbling back with the force. His sandal crunches on glass, and he curses, looking down to watch his steps.

Bodies litter the ground, stray weapons and limbs rolling across the broken floor. Cat appears next to him, Weasel in tow. They pant, shoulders shaking with the exhaustion of cutting down numbers closer to triple their team.

“Where’s Hound?” Cat asks, predictably. Tiger scowls. Cat’s hard-on for the lone wolf alpha male Captain would be cute in any other scenario but this one. Weasel gloats for no good goddamn reason beside them, looking chipper despite the bloody scene around them.

Tiger shrugs, “fuck if I know.”

He tries to sound as nonchalant as he normally is, but Cat looks at him for a long time. Weasel pipes up, “perhaps we should check the lower levels. The ground sounds like it’s hollow beneath.”

For trackers, they’re pretty shit at it. Team Ro stays on their guard as they open up a hidden trapdoor behind the bar, lowering themselves down the rickety ladder. Weasel leads, an eerie red glow shining behind his mask. In the darkness, Tiger stubs his toe on something and curses. Cat shoots him another look.

Blue blanches the hallway in front of them, chirping crackling through the air. They lurch, bounding through the darkness as the sounds of clashing clamor grow. Tiger turns the corner just in time to hurl a kunai straight past Hound, an ex-Konoha Jounin widening his eyes as he ducks, giving Captain enough time to shove a lightning ridden hand right through his face.

“Clear!” Weasel yells, jumping back as Hound crackles with electricity. The body sparks, going limp as the blue glow recedes. Cat and Tiger hop on to the walls, avoiding the tiles surrounding Captain and their target with wary apprehension.

Silence blankets them, save for the crackling of electricity. Hound pulls his hand out of the man’s gaping face cavity, blood, gore, and shattered bits of bone stuck to his pale hand. He moves like he's underwater, eye holes dark. Tiger can feel it before it happens, Hound shakes it all off, sways, and promptly passes out. The flesh slaps on to the floor with a wet squelch, black charring the edges. Hound thumps beside it.

Weasel waits for the corpse to stop convulsing before he hops down, crouching low beside Hound. His eyes glow red, “shallow breaths, steady pulse.” he murmurs, fingers twitching. He decides not to do something, whatever the fuck it was eluding Tiger as Weasel looks up like a dog to wait for instructions. Cat accepts the change in leadership smoothly because it happens almost every mission.

Cat nods, “let’s move out, then. No need for cleanup, Konoha ETA is around two days. We’ll stop three times in between.” he says, and then looks at Tiger. Tiger resists the urge to roll his eyes, but just barely, “Tiger will be in charge of transporting Hound. Formation five, Weasel leads.”

Great. Fan-fucking-tastic. Tiger jumps down and grabs Hound by the shoulder, hauling him up and rolling him on to his back. He secures him with rolls of razor-sharp ninja-wire. Immediately, the stench of blood gets into his mask. Hound breaths raggedly, blood seeping into Tiger’s armor. Tiger gnashes his teeth.

“Cat,” he stars slowly, “we should check him out.”

Cat watches him for another long moment before nodding sharply. “We’ll make four stops, first one at least twenty kilometers away in a suitable clearing.”

Weasel salutes, then blurs. Tiger’s legs ache as he jumps into formation, following the dark stain against the walls of the bar out into the vast Fire forest. Cat lags behind them, alternating from left-to-right as he scans for irregularities and a possible tail. Weasel’s fast, body kept low and red eyes cutting the darkness of the forest. Tiger keeps his mouth shut and his legs moving as Hound weighs down on him like a stack of bricks. 

He doesn’t stir until they descend into the clearing. Weasel and Cat check and set up a perimeter as Tiger sets Hound down into the grass. He pulls out an emergency flashlight, switches it on it’s lowest setting, and shines the light on to him. His shoulders ache, but he persists.

Blood gathers on top of Hound's clothing, splattered across his chest and drenching his hand. His hand twitches, spasming minutely as Tiger holds it down to get a pulse. Steady, fast. He takes out his plastic medkit and lays it on the dirt, using the flashlight to catalogue the wounds. The light flickers, and he shakes it with a frown. When was the last time he changed it's battery?

Cat and Weasel appear. Cat says, “secured. How’s everyone doing?”

“Fine,” Weasel responds politely, still in a good mood. It’s weird, and freaky, and Tiger just grunts in agreement. He’s got a few cuts on his fingers and a scrape alongside his calf but slapping a bandage on it will be fine. Weasel touches his chest gently, rubbing his sternum.

Cat nods, looking down at Tiger who's kneeling beside the prone Hound. “Captain?”

“Still alive,” Tiger says, much to Hound’s disappointment, probably. “Injured, but not critically. He probably passed out due to low chakra. Again.”

Seriously. Hound’s fucking unprofessional and asshole-ish behavior is really starting to piss him off.

Cat shoots him another look. It seems like mister I-don’t-know-how-normal-emotions-work has caught on to the massive rod jammed up his ass. “Tiger,” he starts slowly, “is everything alr–”

Hound gasps behind his mask, shooting straight up as he grabs Tiger and slams him right into the dirt. Tiger chokes, mask shoved askew as wooden pillars shoot out of the ground and wrap around their Captain. The lightning shooting down his arm fizzles out with the pulse of sacred Wood Release.

“At ease!” Cat yells, “Hound, you’re safe.”

Tiger goes limp under his crackling hand, the ends of his hair sticking up. The dirt pushes into his mask, coating his cheek and pressing into his nose. Hound looks around wearily, and then leans back, relieving his air crushing pressure against Tiger’s head. Hound sits back down, a slouch curving his spine. The wooden beams recede, doing fuck-all for Tiger’s safety incase Hound decides to remind the world why he’s called Friend-Killer Kakashi.

“Status?” Hound asks, voice dry. He clears it, and reaches for a water bottle hidden somewhere in his pack.

Cat salutes, “sir. Mission completed, all operatives in stable condition. En route to Konoha, four-thousand kilometers to go.”

The stars twinkle overhead, Hound sighs, “good,” he cracks his neck, rubs at his trembling hand, and relaxes, “we’ll take a short break. Just– an hour, or two. Tiger.”

Tiger pushes himself up, spits a chunk of dirt out, and fixes his mask. He glares into Hound’s stupid, stupid mask. The trees sway overhead, and moonlight filters through the thick canopy.

“Where is your medkit?”

Tiger pauses for one second, two. A cricket chirps, and he grabs fistfuls of the grass underneath him, “is that really all you have to say to me?”

The temperature cools, Weasel tenses. Cat sighs quietly as Hound narrows his eye, red one clamped shut, “excuse me?”

"Is that all you have to say to me?” he repeats, standing.

Weasel takes a small step forward, “Tiger–”

“Shut up!” he snaps. Weasel flinches back, eyes wide.  Tiger pants, shoulders hunched. He curls into himself, shaking, and then spits out, “I’m so sick, so unbelievably sick about Hound’s pathetic behavior!”

Hound sharpens, and Cat shuts his eyes softly. Tiger continues, “every mission goes the same. We go in, he talks about how teamwork is so important and so vital and then solo’s the target like it’s a cage fight! Why the hell are we here as backup when he obviously doesn’t want backup?!”

“Tiger–”

Tiger interrupts Hound, whirling around to Weasel. He points, “and you! You show up and do whatever anyone tells you to do! It’s so fucking annoying, you’re always sullen and moody about your shitass boyfriend for good goddamn reason and you were hacking up a fucking lung this mission because you couldn’t go, hey guys, I’m actually kind of sick today–” he grabs Weasel’s armor straps and pulls him closer, “what the fuck is wrong with you–”

Wood shoots out of the ground and rips them apart as Cat yells, “stand down, Tiger!”

Tiger tsks, the roots snaking around his body and pressing him into the bark of a thick tree, “I can’t fucking take this dysfunctional team anymore–”

Hound gets up with a concealed wince, cutting through the moonlight, “no one is forcing you to be on Team Ro, Tiger,” he says with feigned indifference, “your insubordinance is cute, really. Clearly ANBU isn’t the right place for you if you’re crumbling under a little bit of pressure.”

“Fuck you, Captain,” Tiger laughs, “you’re such a pathetic little man it’s hilarious. No one will accept a place on your dysfunctional team ‘cause they’re gonna be terrified you’ll kill them. At this rate– and with your track record, it’s not an irrational fucking fear,”

“Tiger!” Cat yells again, hands laced together. His tone holds a hint of disbelief alongside the anger.

Hound narrows his eyes.

Tiger continues, “why don’t you pop some more fucking soldier pills, get us all back to Konoha, and go home and spend hours puking into your toilet until–”

Weasel crashes into Hound mid-movement, wrapping wires around his outstretched hand and torso, the Captain mid-lunge. More roots bubble out of the grass as Weasel ties Hound’s hands behind his back in a whirl of motion, eyes bright red. “Please stand down,” he says softly.

Tiger scoffs, heart racing. 

Cat looks between them as Hound glares up at Weasel’s dark figure, “let go of me.”

To no one’s surprise, Weasel obliges. After a short pause, and a glance to Cat– the wires come off, leaving deep red lines that cut into Hound’s skin. They don’t bleed, stinging in the wind. After a quiet moment, the wood restraining Tiger melts into the bark.

Cat straightens, “after we get back, we are all going to sit down and have a long talk,” he says, “Tiger, you spoke out of place today, and that will be addressed. Captain–” Tiger is surprised that Cat’s usual brand of Hound ass-kissing seems to be tame today, “–your behavior will also be addressed. I’m taking over as second in command.”

“Over my fucking dead body,” Hound mutters.

That doesn’t deter Cat, “if you wish to defend your position, then we will fight.”

Tiger rolls his eyes as Hound flexes his hand, crouching. Cat’s relatively uninjured, with most of his chakra intact. Hound is neither of those things. A red glow emanates from an eyehole as he prepares to pounce.

Weasel strikes again, a simple chop to the side of Captain’s neck. Hound goes down like bowling pins, hitting the ground with a smack.

“Tiger, you’re carrying him,” Cat instructs.

Weasel is silent the whole way home. Cat gets them back to Konoha with Hound wrapped up in what looks like a wooden coffin in the hopes it’ll help with his abysmal chakra recovery rate. The coffin is secured to Tiger’s back. The whole way home.

His back, knees, feet, and shoulders ache like no tomorrow upon arriving in Konoha. 

Cat reiterates that they’re all going to have a long conversation soon.

Weasel curls into himself in the hospital room, rocking lightly. Tiger doesn't want to fucking talk, he wants to beat Hound's fucking face in. Cat uses his creepy face.

Fuck.

—

“All of you have been gathered in this room because your skills and aptitude line up with what I require in my trained medics,” Amaya says, standing at a podium overlooking rows of masked ANBU. The University classroom Lady Tsunade shut down for her purpose houses multiple lethal and anonymous nin, all staring creepily at Amaya. The windows are blacked out, guards stationed around.

She drops a huge, towering stack of thick textbooks on the desk beside her, “all of you will get a copy of this, with a sheet highlighting the portions and topics you are expected to master.”

Owl leans against the door, arms crossed. Way up in the back, Minato adjusts his fake glasses. 

“This is the first lesson,” Amaya continues, green eyes hard, “first of many. If any of you fail the end-of term test, you’ll fail ANBU. If you’re not interested in continuing lessons after you pass the test, you can sign a form and be done with it. A pass is a score above seventy-five.”

Alongside Minato, there a few more bare-faced nin. Local Academy teachers looking to implement a course for their children. Some of them fiddle, squirming with discomfort being so close to non-human killing machines. Some watch her and smile.

“I’ll provide a syllabus as well. After I take questions, we’ll begin with safety.”

A few hands go up, gloved with fingers exposed. Crane sits mid-high with her legs extended on top of the desk, heels crossed. She files her manicure and yawns. Fish sits near the front, figure hunched. Crow leans back in his chair up in the last row, head tipped back, dozing off. There are dark bruises peeking out from behind his collar, creeping up his neck.

An ANBU speaks, “are you a stand in for our teacher?”

Amaya shakes her head as their hand goes down, “I’ll be your instructor as a certified med-nin with more than a decade of experience.”

A few more hands go down. She sighs. Crane blows on her fingernails.