#seems more alike than before in regard to training clones

[fanfoolishness]

Evaluations (The Bad Batch)

A selection of evaluations of the health of CT-9904, as performed by Nala Se. Nala Se POV, Crosshair whump/medical whump, angst at a remove. ~3200 words.

---

Nala Se walks through the long white corridors to the clones’ medical bay.  Troopers march past in tight formation, each one perfectly uniform, created precisely to match their original specifications.  Behind them small cadets trail their older mirrors in imitation, small brown faces all alike, dark hair in the same short military style.  She has only to glance at them all to see her own flawless work marching beside her.

She allows herself a small, secret smile.  There have been some clones with flaws, of course.  Adjustments to obedience, size, intelligence. ability.  She is most curious to see how the clones of the 99 designation fare as they age.

Her work, she suspects, is not unlike that of the artist or musician.  Like them there is an idea she carries in her mind, the delicate dance of DNA and genetic modification, a vision she has planned and put into motion through the work of her own hands and her own vision.  Now there is only the waiting to see the finished product that remains.  She knows what she expects of her enhanced clones one day.  Yet she also anticipates there may be surprises to occur in their development, unexpected interplays of inspiration or epigenetic accidents leading to something greater than the sum of their parts.  It is a pleasant source of anticipation in her day to day, to see the finished music that her work might make.

She reaches the medical bay and the doors slide open for her.  She is mildly taken aback at the scene of disarray that appears.  A clone cadet, bio-equivalent to a seven-year-old human, sits hunched over himself on the floor, surrounded by scattered medical equipment that appears to have been thrown or kicked around the room.  AZI-3 hovers a safe distance away from the clone, and seems relieved to see her.

“Doctor Se,” he says, pitching his voice modulators to a quiet scale.  “You have asked me to inform you of any medical visits regarding clones of the ninety-nine designation.  This is CT-9904, and he is here with a minor injury, but he is proving… difficult.”

Nala Se nods.  CT-9904 would be identifiable from across any room nearly instantly; with his modifications, it is obvious. The clone’s proportions are unusual, thinner and taller than would be expected at this stage of development, and streaks of gray pepper his dark hair despite his young biological age.  She had expected that variation.  On many species her work has shown an inextricable link between hair color and visual development, and humans are no different.  

“CT-9904,” she murmurs.  “Please explain yourself.”

The clone unfolds himself and gets awkwardly to his feet, bowing his head briefly to her before looking down at his boots.  The injuries are apparent, a blue-black bruise swelling his right eye shut, scrapes up and down his rather thin, angular face.  He sniffs, rubbing the back of his hand against his nose.  It comes back bloody.

“There was a fight,” the boy says slowly.  His voice is odd, slightly raspy, with an accent to his Basic that deviates from the norm.  That variation had not been anticipated.  One of her intriguing surprises.

She waits, giving him an expectant look.  He takes a deep breath.  

“The other clones didn’t like that I’m different.”  His fists clench at his sides.  “I beat all of their scores in marksmanship.  It’s so easy.  They got mad… they started it. I tried to finish it, but there were more of them than me.”  He crosses his arms over his chest, scowling, then wincing.  

“Fights are not uncommon at this stage of training,” Nala Se murmurs. “The tendency is typically outgrown.”  Though there is the matter that with his enhanced visual acuity, CT-9904 has been training in marksmanship with clones four cycles older.  Perhaps seeing a clone so much earlier in his development excel has triggered the aggressive response from the standard units.  She turns to AZI-3.  “What is the prognosis?”

“There is a hairline fracture of the right zygomatic arch, but with the rapid growth rate and the improved healing capabilities, this is not expected to have any negative long-term effects.  Which I have tried explaining to him!”

“I don’t believe you!” the boy bursts out.  Nala Se tilts her head to one side, studying him.  

“Why?”

The boy looks furtive, anxious, fidgeting where he stands.  His hands twist together.  At last he stammers, “I can’t see!”  He tries to open the swollen right eye and fails, hissing with the effort.  

“I have informed him that this is temporary,” says AZI-3.  He addresses the clone directly.  “The swelling needs time to come down, and then you will see normally again.  All of the scans indicate that your eye itself was not damaged, only the tissue surrounding it.  You should be back to normal within ten rotations.”

“Are you sure?  But that’s -- it’s all I -- I have to --”  His face is flushed.  “It’s what I’m for!”

“Your vision will return in time, CT-9904.  Your enhancements remain intact.  The droid tells the truth,” says Nala Se.  “There are other skills you may continue training in during this time.  I will see to it that you are assigned extra training in stealth and hand-to-hand combat as you heal.”

The clone gives her a worried look, then nods, letting out a long breath.

“Please help AZI-3 clean up this mess.  After that, you should return to your quarters.  Your fellow cadets should be returning from their own training soon.”

The clone laughs slightly, a small smile shifting on his face.  “Wrecker’s going to be mad he missed the fight.  He could have taken them all out.  I know it.”

“Hmm.”  She sighs.  This is not the first time these particular clones have been at the center of discord among the standard cadets, and she has a strong suspicion it will not be the last.  Yet another unique trait in a batch full of them.  She wonders which one of them will be in here next.

---

CT-9904 is led into the medical bay by red-painted clone troopers, stripped of his armor and walking with his head down.  Nala Se is waiting.  She has been curious to assess the effects of the inhibitor chip on her modified clones; the chips themselves had not been modified or calibrated for the minds of this particular batch, and she had long wondered if she would ever see the effects on them were the chips to be activated.  Here then is her opportunity to learn, though her curiosity feels subdued from what she had anticipated.  Perhaps it is merely that she feels disquieted by the presence of Admiral Tarkin in the chamber beyond.  

My work does not need your supervision, Admiral, she thinks, then turns to the clone at hand.

CT-9904 has only rarely needed medical assistance after completing his training; as his squad’s long-range sniper, he has typically avoided the types of injuries accrued by the others.  It has been multiple cycles since she has last seen him up close, and he sits obediently on the examination table under armed guard, his eyes shadowed, his face grim.

“How do you feel, CT-9904?” she asks.

“I don’t know why I’m here,” he bites out, looking away.  “There’s nothing wrong with me.  Perhaps you should look at Hunter.  He’s been acting irrationally.”

“He will be examined in time,” she assures him.  “There are some questions I am going to ask you.”

He shrugs, sighing.  “All right.”

“Have you had any episodes of seizures?”

He sits up straight, looking at her suspiciously, a wary surprise in his eyes.  “No.”

“Have you experienced any episodes of fainting?”

“No.”

“Have you experienced any disorientation?”

“No.”

“Have you experienced any headaches?”

A short, sharp intake of breath.  His eyes focus beyond her, fixating in the direction of the Admiral, and a guilty look crosses his face.  “...yes.”  

“Thank you, CT-9904.  The examination will begin.”

One of her new medical droids hovers forward, extending a long hypodermic.  The clone’s eyes widen.  “Is that necessary?”

“Yes, it is.”  The droid injects him in the shoulder.  He grimaces, but then his expression slides into something dreamy, a placid, half-lidded stare.  He slumps where he sits and the droid eases him onto his back, preparing him for imaging.  Nala Se recuses herself to the outer chamber.

She has read CT-9904’s report of Kaller, contradicting the reports from his squadmates.  They have informed her of his attempts to convince his squad to follow orders.  It is a fascinating finding.  CT-9904’s chip may be working -- she will run the necessary tests to confirm, but the headaches are the earliest stage of an incomplete chip activation -- yet loyalty to his squad appears to be superseding its commands.  

Admiral Tarkin waits for her as the test commences.  As she has suspected, the chip is partially working, but CT-9904’s mutations have muted its effectiveness.  She transmits the order to amplify the chip’s effects as the Admiral looks on.  

The amplification process is one that she has never used before in practice, though it was developed for theoretical use in an event such as this one.  As she watches it becomes plain that the dose of sedative has been insufficient for such a procedure.  CT-9904 trembles, hands curling beside him, his chest rising and falling jerkily.  She assesses his vitals.  They are stable enough, but the elevated heart rate and erratic breathing are consistent with pain.  

She considers adding further sedation, but the process is nearly complete, and she refrains.

The arms of the machine retract.  She checks her datapad.  The clone’s vitals have returned to normal, and he is starting to stir. 

“Did it work?” Admiral Tarkin asks, voice clipped with impatience.  “If not, you may begin the decommissioning process.  But if it has worked, I would like the same procedure performed on the remaining squad.”

“Understood, Admiral.  I will assess him myself.”

By the time she enters, CT-9904 is clumsily sitting up, breathing hard.  He raises one hand to his right temple, shaking his head.  “What happened?” he asks.

“You have been found clear to return to duty.  With your squad.”

CT-9904 frowns, his face going cold.  “My squad disobeyed orders.”  He gets off the table, swaying slightly, and straightens up.  “Good soldiers follow orders.”

“And if your squad does not?”

“Then they need to be eliminated,” CT-9904 says evenly.  His eyes are blank, devoid of the suspicion and wariness that had been plain earlier.  She nods, feeling a slight pang.  She would have preferred to have had the time to study the interplay between the clone’s mind and the partially activated chip in case there were new insights to be gleaned.  Observing him for several weeks would have been most intriguing.  But she is certain now that in this regard, at least, CT-9904 is no longer unique.

---

“Status report,” Nala Se asks, gazing down at the unconscious clone in recovery.

The medical droid catalogs the clone’s injuries while removing the field bandages marred by strikethrough.  The list is long and troubling.  Ion burns to the chest, hands and face.  Concussion to the right temple.  Corneal abrasions.  Right shoulder dislocation, replaced in the field.  Inhalation injury.  It is disheartening to see such a unique specimen in such shape.  The corneal abrasions are the most concerning, given the nature of his enhancements, but the droid’s readings confirm that they are thankfully superficial and should heal without issue.

“How did this occur?”

“Exposure to an ion engine, Doctor,” says a human woman with a clipped, stern voice, her helmet carried under her arm.  “We were shocked he survived.  None of the other clones with him made it.”  Nala Se gives her a cool look.  One of Admiral Tarkin’s conscripts, her training nonstandardized, her breeding unknown.  She does not understand the Admiral’s obsession with ‘updating’ the army of the Republic, no, Empire, and it is an affront to have one of those inferior soldiers here in her own medical bay.  

The soldier is still standing at attention.  “Will the Commander be all right?” she asks, and there is something calculating in her eyes. Nala Se frowns.  Clones would never show such hints of naked ambition.

“Yes.  There is extensive treatment to be done, but he will likely be fully rehabilitated within a matter of weeks.”  They have repaired far more grievous injuries to their clones over the years.  Kaminoan work was strong, and it was reparable when desired.  “CT-9904 is valuable to the Empire, and he will recover.”

The soldier frowns.  “Even with the seizures?”

Nala Se gives her her full attention.  “He has had seizures?”

“Two, on the journey back from Bracca,” she says.  “I thought the medic told you.  Is that from the head injury?”

“There will be no further questions,” Nala Se says.  “You may leave.”

The woman shoves her helmet back on, nodding, and finally leaves.  Nala Se immediately locks the laboratory door behind her.

There is a faint groan from the bed.  CT-9904 raises his left hand weakly before it drops back against his chest.  He coughs, the sound amplified in the oxygen mask looped over his face.  

She casts her eyes over the blistered flesh above his right ear, then directs the medical droids to set up the imaging device to assess the chip.  CT-9904’s breathing rattles in the confines of the imaging chamber.  It is disconcerting.    

The machine whirs, its testing cycle complete, and it retracts to leave CT-9904 back in the open.  She frowns at the results on her datapad.  

“The inhibitor chip is damaged,” she tells the medical droid at the clone’s side.  “Swelling in the brain has interfered with its functioning.  The seizures are the result of an improper connection.”

CT-9904 fumbles at the oxygen mask on his face, making a garbled noise.  He manages to pull off the mask, and rasps, “Take it out, then.”

Nala Se stiffens.  

She has made a mistake.  

She has never spoken of the chips in the presence of a clone beyond Omega.  Now in her curiosity, with CT-9904 so wounded as to appear unconscious, she has erred.  She turns to him, wondering how she should proceed.  Despite what she had said about CT-9904’s value to the Empire, she is certain there would be no repercussions if he were to not survive his injuries.

“What do you mean?”

“I know…” He swallows, coughing, flecks of blood-tinged fluid dotting his lips.  “I know about the chip.  They told me.”

“Who?”

“Clone Force 99,” he manages.  “Said it’s… controlling me.  But I don’t --”  He presses the oxygen mask against his face again, taking in several deep breaths before removing it again.  He squints up at her through blepharospasm, eyelids struggling to open despite the pain of the abrasions.  “I don’t need a chip to be loyal.  To --”  His chest heaves.  “To be a good soldier.”

CT-9904 suddenly stares off into space, his good eye transfixing on the ceiling.  His jaw slackens, and she recognizes the prodromal signs of an impending seizure.  Nala Se gives a swift look to the medical droid.  “He will need an anticonvulsive.  Immediately.”  The droid complies, heading off the seizure before it can truly begin.  

Nala Se hesitates.  There are three paths remaining to her now.  Euthanasia of the enhanced clone to prevent possible awareness of the chip from being spread to other clones; treating the injuries but leaving the clone in his current state, potentially compromised by seizures and prone to worsening degradation of the chip; or --

She makes her choice, recalling the clone’s words.  CT-9904 and his cohort have always represented a new era in experimentation for her.  Perhaps by removing his chip now, she may continue to be surprised.

---

The walls of Tantiss press in around her, a windowless narrow world of her cell and the hallway beyond.  Tipoca City lies beneath the waves of her homeworld, her lab, her work, her calling buried in the sea; and now there is only the Empire and its brutal destruction.  

She has been a fool.  She had so buried herself in her work that she had blinded herself to the dangers of being indispensable.  She knows that she will never leave this planet alive.

The days are endless, the monotony almost worse than the clumsy efforts of the Empire to extract the information they needed by force.  Their interrogation droids had been programmed for human physiology, and while unpleasant, their methods had failed to force her to share her scientific knowledge.  They have since given up on that, and now Hemlock attempts to use the clone Omega as a bargaining chip, despite having no idea of her whereabouts.  

Nala Se cares little for his efforts.  She cares little for anything at all, now.

The one slight bit of interest in her day is her daily walk.  They bring her to the lab once daily under heavy guard and supervision, perhaps hoping she will be enticed by the technology to resume her old work.  She has no interest in the lab, refusing to examine its machines and capabilities, but she watches closely the clones walking by under their own guard, amusing herself with guessing which batches they had arisen from.  She has no way to confirm her guesses, but to her trained eye, subtle changes in the degree of aging -- the appearance of fine wrinkles starting at the edges of the eyes and corners of the mouth, a slight shift in glossiness of the hair, faint alterations to the gait -- provide significant clues.  It puts her in mind of happier times, when she could truly focus on science and take pride in the results of her labors.  

One day -- or perhaps night, there is no way to tell -- she awaits the lift with her captors and a group of clones stops beside them, waiting for the same lift.  She turns to study them and is taken aback.  One clone stands above the others, several inches taller despite the slump in his shoulders.

Her mind swirls with questions.  Had the removal of CT-9904’s chip -- omitted from his final medical report after his injuries on Bracca -- come to light?  Was he sent here for betrayal of the Empire?  Or had he merely been injured and deemed unfit to return to duty, so was sent here for study to remain useful?  

He does not meet her gaze.  She is not sure he has even noticed she stands beside him.  His face is skull-like, his skin sallow from lack of sunlight, deep shadows etched beneath his eyes.  A flicker of movement catches her eye and she notes a fine tremor, nearly imperceptible, along the edge of his hand.  He shakes his hand almost subconsciously, a small, subtle jerk she is not sure that even he has detected.  There are no obvious injuries, but there is an emptiness that is apparent, a lack of something vital.

She does not know what has brought him here, but she knows that he is a soldier no longer.

The lift arrives and the guards herd them within.  Force is not required; the prisoners know their place.  They stare down at the floor, heads bowed.  

Nala Se gazes away from the ruined clone beside her.  The music she had once carried in her head, the clever dance of DNA and ingenuity, the spark of creativity, of creation, falls silent.  She does not speak to him, nor he to her.  

There is simply nothing to say.

[cienie-isengardu]

Jango Fett about Delta Squad [Republic Commando loading screen]

[cherrynojutsu]

Title: Like Gold

Summary: Sasuke grapples with love and intimacy regarding his developing relationship with Sakura after returning to the village from his journey of redemption. Kind of a character study on Sasuke handling an intimate relationship after dealing with PTSD and survivor’s guilt in solitude for so long. Blank period, canon-compliant, Sasuke-centric, lots of fluff and pining, slowly becomes a smut fest with feelings.

Disclaimer: I did not write Naruto. This is a fan-made piece solely created for entertainment purposes.

Rating: M (eventual nsfw-ness)

AO3 Link - FF.net Link - includes beginning/ending author's notes

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Chapter 6/?: Roots

It's pouring rain by the time Sasuke awakens, a tempestuous sort of hush awash a village swathed in grey. He's gotten a very good night's sleep, only waking once around five to groggily hearken as the pitter patter of droplets began against the asphalt and metal of the roof. He'd watched the beads of liquid slowly connect to others, forming small rivulets pulled downwards by gravity on the glass of his bedroom window, before he made the decision to try to fall back asleep. To his bewilderment, it had actually worked; a rare occurrence, as it usually doesn't. No dreams, no nightmares, just blissful emptiness, like he was allowed for once to drink in the moisture of rest like a tonic, exuding into his being much like the precipitation trickling into the soil outside.

It's nine thirty when he rolls out of bed, reluctant to leave the warm requiescence of his comforter, but also wanting to give himself plenty of time to get ready. He'd like to shower before he heads over to Sakura’s, and he also wants to eat something light for breakfast first. He decides on ochazuke, because it’s relatively easy to prepare and he thinks he would like more tea; two birds with one stone. There are sesame seeds in his cupboard that he could sprinkle over the dish, at the end. He sets a portion of brown rice to boil before brewing a cup of the caffeinated green sencha to eventually seep over it.

It smells really good as it permeates into the hot water, earthiness propelling upwards and sinking into his nostrils. He'll have to thank her again today, now that he knows what her gift actually contained.

While he lets things stew, Sasuke considers the kitchen table, where he left the remainder of the gifts yesterday. Now is as good a time as any to find a place for each of them, he supposes. He makes quick work of washing the paring board before setting it aside to dry. The cough drops find a home in his bathroom's mostly empty storage behind the mirror; he takes the two lozenges left from the hospital and puts them there, too, to use before he opens any of the new packages.

He decides that the photo should go on the bedside table, next to the clock. He can always move it, if he changes his mind. It catches his eye for longer than is strictly necessary.

Eventually he returns to the kitchen, removing the strainer from the tea and stirring the pot of rice twice as he waits for it to finish cooking. The barrage has lessened since daybreak, not overly loud, but enough to create an ambient sort of background noise that is a nice change of pace; less of a storm and more of a quenched thirst for the earth, emptying from rooftops down the gutters and into the ground. Sakura’s building is older, too; it probably will sound much the same at her apartment.

He savors the ochazuke once it’s finished, a simple but enjoyable way to start the day, caffeine threading its way into his system gradually. Washing the dishes is his next task, followed by an extremely lengthy shower, temperature near thermogenic. The bruises from his two spars with Naruto are still sore, but not terrible; the heat feels good on the marred skin. Water drifts across more bruising that has bled into existence overnight on his shins, before it sinks between his toes and vanishes down the drain. He’s not sure why he watches it; it just seems compelling today for some reason, everything pulling downward.

When he’s dry, he throws on a comfortable pair of black pants and a matching long-sleeved shirt. He doesn’t want to read more of his book since he has a little less than half left of the one on kenjutsu, so he decides to complete some meal prep instead, testing out the paring board by chopping and slicing various produce; mushrooms, bell peppers, broccoli, carrots, tomatoes, green onions, and burdock roots are slowly removed from his fridge, cleaved into neat pieces, and then returned to their respective assortment of bags and containers. The small bits of metal attached to the board allow for cutting goods with ease, a bit ingenious. It works extremely well, much more efficient than the hassle of summoning a clone to simply stand there holding each item still. It’s not that he doesn’t have the chakra to spare, but it feels more dignified this way.

After enough time has passed, Sasuke pulls on a pair of grey socks, sandals, and his cloak before he leaves, library book concealed and protected by the black garment.

It’s marginally chilly outside, but not terribly cold like it would have been earlier in the morning. Petrichor overwhelms him, an aroma he is well acquainted with. He is reminded of the scent of the foliage the handful of times he passed through the Land of Rain, and also of drizzly days spent as a child here in Konoha. Every bit of vegetation he glimpses on the way to Sakura’s apartment complex is drinking up the liquid greedily, drop after drop of nourishment with which they will sustain themselves and use to grow.

The puddles are starting to join in their crevices, small streams of gentle cascades forming. It captures his attention like the shower drain did earlier, and it feels nostalgic for some reason, like there is some forgotten secret that the land beneath is whispering through the medium of interconnected pools, rippling outward until they touch more solid soil.

His hair is a bit damp when he arrives at her building just prior to eleven. Illumination flows from beneath doorways of variegated colors; everyone else is inside today, too. The tonality is similar to the harmony overheard at his own apartment, as he expected; he finds it comforting.

He knows he’s a little early, so Sasuke takes his time going up the stairs. Once he reaches the sage green of her threshold, he raps twice and waits, studying Sakura’s plants in their terracotta pots. There are a few amongst them that he doesn’t recognize, which is curious, given that he’s wandered so many places and has grown familiar with a vast diversity of flora. There is lucky bamboo pushed towards the back of the array, in the area that gets the least amount of light. A spider plant is to its left, and a golden pothos, along with a snake plant, are sandwiched to its right, towards the corner. A lilac moth orchid blooms near her door, a paler variety than he has seen anywhere else. Coral kalanchoe spill out the side of a taller planter, next to pink and pistachio mums, faded yellow butterfly ranunculus, and a small vessel filled with white daffodils, sunny insides flourishing outwards. There are succulents, too, tricolor lavender scallops sprinkled throughout several of the ceramic containers, along with a strain he doesn’t recognize.

Yarrow and jewelweed emerge from smaller pots on the edge of the spread, which makes him wonder if the few plants he’s unfamiliar with are being grown for useful purposes rather than decorative. Perhaps she keeps them for her work crafting antidotes; he knows that the roots of plants can often carry medicinal benefits. One of them is quite odd looking, now that he is peering down at it closely; dark plum-colored stems spread upwards with circular leaf-like shapes at the crown, trains of spiky white flowers budding from them. Another one he can’t identify has a tiny whitish yellow flower, dwarfed by the huge wrinkled leaves that surround it.

They appear as if they have been tended already, the loam damp as it is outside with no opportunity for warmth to dry them as of yet, though this verdure is more tame, less wild. She must water them in the morning. All of them are so different, yet they are all alike, too, stringy germinations and rhizomes expanding to suffuse through their similar planters.

Her door clicks open, and he shifts. Sakura smiles up at him, sunshine on a rainy day accented by a dimple, wearing an extremely comfortable-looking outfit: an oversized cream crewneck that slips off one of her shoulders a little, and a juniper pair of jogging pants that he thinks would be too long for her if not for the gathering at the ankles.

"Good morning, Sasuke-kun," she greets, eyes he loves radiant on his. "It's almost ready; come in."

He responds, “Morning,” and follows her inside, placing his library book on the console table momentarily, where her lamp is already switched on. As he shrugs off his cloak and toes off his sandals, she drifts back to the kitchen, something likely needing her attention there. He notices as she goes that there is an extremely fuzzy pair of beige socks on her feet.

As he hangs his cloak, he realizes that her apartment smells like roasted tomatoes and toasting bread, overpowering any vague notes of her tea cabinet in a way that makes his mouth water.

Sasuke reaches for his book from the console table and goes further into her living space, where the rest of her lamps are also turned on already; no hard lighting. He assumes they'll read on her couch, so he sets the text on the end table, closest to the side where he’d sat the previous night. There are two blankets thrown over the sofa now that weren't there yesterday, one appearing plush that is a color somewhere between mauve and lavender, and the other one a knit heather grey. It’s probable that they came from her bedroom; perhaps the walls are some variant of violet, a color he would not have expected.

As he turns, intending to join Sakura in the kitchen, his eye catches on a familiar photo, and he stops. Perched on one of the few empty areas of one of her bookshelves is their original Team Seven portrait, in a pale wood frame, near white. It's different in finish from the other frames adorning her walls near the kitchen, much lighter in color.

He is struck by it for multiple reasons; it wasn’t there yesterday, meaning it probably has also come from her bedroom, and it is very close in finish to the wood of the uchiwa fan he gave her as a birthday gift. He hasn’t seen it; Sasuke knows most women keep ornamental fans like that in storage for safekeeping. He vaguely recalls his own mother used to keep hers, though less ornate and made of paper rather than silk, in boxes, stored securely for future use at festivals and such in her closet. She’d shown them to him, once, and he’d seen her carrying them on special occasions, from time to time.

Sasuke studies the picture and the wood grain for a long moment, gaze softening. He wonders if she moved it out here to make him feel more at home.

He breaks his contemplation by making his way to her kitchen finally, where Sakura is flipping a grilled cheese sandwich over in a pan, one of two. A slow cooker lies atop the counter, lid condensed with moisture, with plates, bowls, and spoons laid out next to it.

It smells really good.

Green eyes fall on him, bright and filled with exuberance. "These are on their last minute, I think, so if you wanted to, you could dish up the soup while I finish them. There’s a ladle in there.” She gestures towards the drawer beneath the counter where the slow cooker rests. “It's tomato miso; I hope you like it. It should be done by now.”

His stomach suddenly feels tied in knots in the best sort of way. A gilding of warmth spreads throughout his entire being, veins and arteries and capillaries slowly immersed in something numinous.

“...I’m sure I’ll like it,” he murmurs, reveling in the blush that inks its way onto her cheeks, all the way back on her cheekbones to surround the freckle he’d touched yesterday. She looks away shyly, grinning like he has given her some grand compliment. The corners of his own mouth twist upwards.

Sasuke pulls the ladle from the aforementioned drawer, where it sits amongst other utensils, setting it in one of the bowls already placed on the counter. When he removes the lid, his olfactory senses instantly flood with a wave of savory miso; by the aroma, she must have used red, middle range, a perfect foil for the acidity of tomatoes. When he grabs the ladle again, he stirs it a few times; quartered shiitake mushrooms, kombu, scallions, and tomato chunks - he thinks they are of the plum variety - circle the pot, filling it near to the brim just below the surface. Sakura has made a considerable amount of it, much more than is needed for a single meal for two.

He shifts the plates closer to the slow cooker, bowls set atop them, before ladling soup in, careful not to spill and making sure to get an even mixture of produce with which to fill the broth in each. He rinses the ladle clean, and she mentions that there are small plates in the cupboard to his upper left, to rest the ladle on; he grabs one as she moves to open a different cupboard behind him.

Sasuke returns the lid to its place to trap in the slow cooker’s heat, rotating the dial from hot, past low and into the warming setting. When he turns back to Sakura, she’s shutting the stove off and moving the pan to a cool burner. Both of the sandwiches are resting on a cutting board, sliced diagonally.

The sandwiches smell really good, too. She veers the halves onto the empty space of the plates using the knife, before leaving it, along with the paring board, in the sink.

They each grab a plate and spoon before heading to her dining table, in front of the northern window. The dangling market lamp is already turned on, and fat droplets are slipping down the glass.

It’s a calming lunch they share, a steady lulling of inclement background noise alternating between bites of sandwich and spoonfuls of soup as they watch the street below. The avocado is good in grilled cheese; it’s something he would have never thought to add. Sakura dips hers into her soup, so he tries it, too, and finds he likes it even better that way. The soup on its own is something else, though; filling and savory, near perfectly spiced. She’s a good cook.

“It’s good. Thank you,” he compliments halfway through as she chews and swallows a bite.

She beams at him. “You’re welcome.” She studies him before adding, “There’s enough for leftovers, if you’d like any more.”

He nods and takes another mouthful, looking out the glass thoughtfully. The residential buildings across the way are also lit up, soft light blurred through the fractals of raindrops.

“Do you think Naruto’s doing his homework on a day like today?” Sakura asks eventually.

“Tch.” He turns his gaze to her. “I doubt he’s even awake yet.”

Her grin is mischievous. “You’re probably right. It's his weekend. No Hinata around to wake him up? Definitely still asleep.” She sighs exaggeratedly. “Kakashi-sensei will be so disappointed. Though it’s better than copying someone else’s, I guess.”

“...Did he used to copy yours?” He’s more amused by that prospect than he should be, though he’s pretty sure he knows the answer.

Sakura furrows fine pink brows as if she knows that he knows the answer, too, but she’s still smiling. “He used to ask if he could. I was too good of a student to let him.”

“...Figures.” A ghost of a smile overtakes him, a cleansing sort of sentimental fondness for bygone days during which their third squad member was at his most annoying.

“I think Shikamaru used to let him. It was too much effort to say no that many times.”

Sasuke exhales through his nose, a rendition of a laugh as she takes another bite of her sandwich, dipping it first in the soup and looking amused. Nara would.

He also takes another bite, and mulls over his next words.

Swallowing beforehand, he inquires, “...What’s in Suna?”

Sakura blinks in surprise, analytical eyes quickly working out that he’s referring to her comment yesterday at Ichiraku’s. She turns to the window, smirking and chewing her food as if considering something of great importance. The dimple sinks in and out as her mouth moves; he averts his eyes back to his plate before he gets caught staring.

When she swallows, she’s quiet for a long moment, then says ambiguously, “I’m not sure I should say anything. Insider knowledge.”

Interesting. Sasuke is sure she has the same friendly camaraderie with Nara that she has with everyone else, but he assumes the insider knowledge must have actually come from Ino; she is the type to know everyone’s business, given how much she apparently shares her own with Sakura, and she is Shikamaru’s teammate, though they're both Jonin now.

“...No hints?” He presses, pinning her with a stare. Now he’s more curious; it must be something good, if it’s a secret of this magnitude.

She bites her lip, still grinning, then bites into her sandwich, watching precipitation race down the glass.

“One,” she finally acquiesces, as if it’s a monumental conspiracy. He raises an eyebrow in anticipation.

“It’s in Suna sometimes. Other times, not.”

He narrows his eyes and suppresses an urge to twitch, because that could really be anything, given their line of work, but based on her bemused expression, he’s not going to get more than that. He settles for studying her until she looks elsewhere, a shy giggle escaping her throat as if this is very funny.

“Sorry. Not mine to tell.” She raises another spoonful of soup to her lips.

“...But Kakashi knows?”

She swallows. “Oh, yes. He might have known before anyone else caught on.”

“Naruto?”

Sakura appears to be deliberating. “...Mmm, he’s more observant than when we were kids, so he might. I kind of doubt it though. They’re pretty good friends now, but…”

Sasuke hadn’t known that. He waits for her to finish her thought, staring at her pointedly. Her gaze flicks back up to his after a second.

She shrugs, then. “He’s a good strategist. I kind of think he’ll hold a higher-up position, once Naruto becomes Hokage, if Kakashi-sensei doesn’t promote him before that. He’d be an asset as an adviser.”

Shikamaru became the chief coordinator of the Shinobi Union, after the war. That type of advancement would make a lot of sense. He would be well-suited to assist the Hokage even now, moreso in a few years. It speaks to Naruto’s increase in awareness, Sasuke thinks, that he would be planning ahead to compensate for areas he is less strong in by appointing sensible counsel. A clan head is an astute choice, especially one who has put in efforts to make peace.

It’s odd, to think of the roles everyone in their generation has come or will come to fill, the more he considers it. Distinctively different plants with roots distending into analogous vessels, like the terracotta ones on Sakura’s doorstep.

“Nara’s a good choice for that,” Sasuke finally says, realizing he should respond.

Sakura inclines her head before lifting her bowl to her mouth to drink the last of her broth. She’s finished her sandwich now. He’s about finished with his, too.

This is nice, he thinks as she smiles at him before glancing outside again. “It’s really coming down now, huh?”

It’s the type of question that doesn’t really need an answer, but he nods anyway, because it is. Meager ponds are collecting in the street, rills tracing pathways over the awnings of the building across the thoroughfare. Pitter patters on the roof have grown in intensity to rival those of the early morning. It reminds him almost of the summer monsoons Konoha tends to get, though this clearly isn't one, still being in the throes of spring. Moisture is good for roots, he supposes.

He sips the last of the broth from his bowl, and she looks back to him. “Would you like another bowl? Or maybe some tea? I can brew some while I do the dishes.”

Sasuke considers the offer. It was a pretty filling meal, the soup piquant and packed with produce as it was. “...Tea would be good. I can help.”

Sakura seems like she’s going to protest, so he adds, “Thank you for the sencha… and the rest. I didn’t have loose leaf yet; I like it.”

She flushes, smiling at him softly. “You’re welcome.”

A silence filled by drizzle passes in which they regard each other, and then she’s standing to collect her plates, so he follows her example and grabs his own before trailing behind her to the kitchen.

It’s early enough still that they can have caffeinated tea, so she cycles through the loose leaf options she has as the sink fills with suds; matcha, chai, ginger peach, white monkey, and rose bouquet white. “The white monkey isn’t as sweet as it usually is; I think I got a unique batch. It’s more woody and peppery than anything; I’ve been mixing it with matcha.” There are the pre-packaged versions, too, but she doesn’t read them off, since they have more specifically sweet flavors, like caramel vanilla, banana dessert, and strawberry shortcake.

He picks white monkey at her recommendation of it not being too cloying, and she grabs one of the banana dessert pre-packaged tea bags for herself. Sakura makes short work of setting the water in the kettle to boil before procuring two teacups and siphoning some of the white monkey blend into a small strainer she pulls from another drawer.

Once she’s done that, she unplugs the slow cooker and reaches for something from a lower cupboard - two hand towels - to put on the counter; he assumes one is to utilize as a dish mat and the other is to actually dry with.

“If you really want to, you can dry… But you’re a guest, so you don’t have to,” she murmurs, expression affectionate in a way that makes his neck warm.

So Sasuke helps. She washes and rinses - her dish soap is lemon-scented - and strategically sets each piece atop the first towel he’s laid out. He dries one side of the plates and bowls, then flips them over one-handed to dry the other, stacking them on the clean expanse of counter to his right. It doesn’t take very long with them working together. When she goes to empty the sink, she gives it a scrub and a rinse with the soapy sponge she’s been using, efficient as always, before rinsing any remnant suds from her own hands.

“I can show you where everything goes,” Sakura says, so Sasuke helps her put things away, too, mentally cataloging what’s in each cupboard for future reference. Her storage system is well thought out, organized in a way that makes the most sense for the layout of the space.

When she reaches upwards to put the cutting board back in its place, the sleeve of her top slips further to one side, gravity pulling the fabric downwards on her slender frame and exposing some of the skin of her upper back. There is a dusting of tiny freckles just above the interior portion of her left shoulder blade that he hadn’t known was there. The way they are scattered reminds him of serpens caput, missing only one of the constellation’s general equivalent of stars. He forces his stare away, ears reddening, when she turns to remove the pot from the slow cooker.

“Thank you for helping.” Sakura adds coconut creamer and sugar to her own cup of tea, stirring. “Would you like lemon with this one?”

Sasuke thinks, still a little distracted by dainty freckles, before shaking his head. If it’s woody and peppery, he’ll probably like it fine on its own. She pushes his teacup towards him on the counter with a look that tells him to test it, so he does, and finds he was right; it’s herbaceous, with a scant amount of woodiness and pepper lurking underneath. Maybe the tiniest hint of sweetness, but barely.

“It’s good,” he tells her quietly, before taking another sip.

Apparently the grey blanket is reserved for him; she takes the lavender once they head to the living room, curling up on one end of the couch with it, tea and her book on the table. Based on her bookmark, she’s about halfway through hers. Sasuke does the same on the other end, mirroring her pose, back propped towards the side of the couch with feet extending to the middle rather than going off the front. He keeps his knees slightly bent so he doesn’t invade her space too much, though he doesn’t think she would mind.

He steals one last glance at her before opening his own book to get lost in the different ways to wield a blade. The rain on Sakura’s roof is ataractic, accented by the pleasant smell of tea, the sensation of a full belly, and a warm blanket that smells like her, though it’s more raspberry this time than any lingering antiseptic.

It’s nearly three by the time he finishes his book, mind swimming with descriptions of sword forms. Sasuke peeks at her and sees she’s almost done, too, so he rereads the more engrossing passages, the ones that were particularly well fleshed-out. He’s so relaxed that he thinks he could fall asleep despite the caffeine, if he closed his eyes for more than a few minutes; focusing on rereading should help him stay awake.

Sakura closes her book after a bit; he looks upward at the sound, meeting green.

“How was your book?” She asks, lips twisting upwards; she must have noticed he finished his, despite still reading her own.

"...Good."

“Learn anything?”

“...A bit.”

Her smile widens as if she is amused; maybe he should elaborate, but he’s not sure if practical applications of swordsmanship are something she’s interested in.

Evidently they are, because she questions, “Care to share?”

Sasuke begins explaining the concept of iaido, derived from iaijutsu, the samurai skill of drawing one’s sword and cutting in the same movement, rather than cutting from an assumed stance after already drawing the weapon. It’s a simple idea, one he’s experimented with in the past, but there had been illustrations on a few of the pages showing different forms, and two of them he has never attempted. The pictures helped; he thinks to himself when he visits the library again, he’ll seek out one containing more visual aides.

He expounds upon the chapter on dual swordsmanship, too, primarily utilizing one sword to attack and another to defend; the defensive stances detailed are some he would like to try, specifically tailored as they are to be used with one arm. Some of them he’s already used intuitively, but one of the forms captured his attention, involving a slight variant sweeping of the blade to repel an attacker that would situate them at a more advantageous angle. It could be useful, if he ever needs to draw an enemy into a trap.

“Interesting,” Sakura remarks, and it seems genuine. Maybe it is interesting, in the case of someone who has, at least to his knowledge, never used a sword. He would like to ask her about medical ninjutsu sometime. “So it was a good read?”

He inclines his head to indicate yes. “...And yours?”

Sakura grimaces. “It… wasn’t terrible, I suppose. I didn’t really like the author’s writing style. Ino and I differ in that regard. She reads things more for the story itself than the way it’s told, so sometimes this happens.”

Sasuke raises an eyebrow so she’ll clarify. She shifts slightly, bringing a finger to her chin in thought. “It was too… straightforward. Limited and repetitive vocabulary, not a lot of dialogue structural variation, though it’s well-researched; I’ll give it that. It takes place during the second Shinobi War. A civilian woman’s husband going off to battle, they have to evacuate the area, the costs of conflict, that sort of thing. The ending was sad…” Her voice trails off, punctuated by the plunk of deluge, then she adds, “I guess it makes sense that the protagonist would think in limited language given the rudimentary basic education structure of everything back then, but it’s not very… poetic. It was like the author felt nothing as they wrote it, a kind of detachment from the whole thing.”

He suppresses an urge to smirk, reminiscing on her letters and extensive vocabulary. “...You like poetry.” It’s just an observation, but it’s something he hadn’t known about her, prior to now. Very Sakura.

Color floods across her cheekbones, and she looks at him with an expression that is very tender, as if there’s something else she would like to say. He could stare for hours, entranced by her as he is. “...I do.”

Sasuke wonders, then, if any of the books on her bookshelves are poetry books. He hasn’t read the titles carefully. It occurs to him that she might have more books in her bedroom, now that he’s thinking about it. When he was younger, he used to keep many of his own in his room, too, sorted by genre.

“Did you finish your other book already?” Sakura asks him, then, expression inquisitive.

He nods, eyeing her as he contemplates what he would like to say. He decides not to phrase it as a question this time; he wants her to offer, so he knows he's not requesting too much. Give her an out. She trains with Ino in the morning on Mondays and has lunch with her after, but she hasn’t said anything about her plans for the afternoon.

There’s still something in him that’s nervous, tightening as he speaks, careful to specify time. “...I was thinking of going tomorrow afternoon to get some new ones.”

Her smile unfurls slowly; Sakura really can read him well. “...I was, too.”

His chest rushes with warmth, anxiety released in a single relieved breath; it's not too much, then. The corner of his mouth quirks up, and that seems to encourage her, because she adds, “Ino and I are usually done with lunch by around one. It’s supposed to be nice out, I think. We could…” Her voice trails off, as if she’s considering. “...We could meet at the library around one thirty, and then maybe… take books to a quieter area to read, after. If you want. I... think I know a spot that should be fairly dry by then.”

“...I can meet you here,” Sasuke offers in a low voice, a confession he's more comfortable with now. The way she glows in response as she agrees is captivating.

Sakura invites him to play go with her, after. He agrees, because he wants to, and also because he doesn’t want to leave just yet. They set up the board on her dining table, a gridded battlefield of sorts beneath the market light.

She absolutely demolishes him in the first round, carefully surveying the board before each play of her white stones with careful calculation and syllogism. It’s to be expected, because she has always been smarter than him, but also because he hasn’t played in years and is woefully out of practice, ill-prepared to deal with this sort of onslaught. The second round is closer, but he still loses. It’s a challenge, as he knew it would be; Sasuke finds her moves to be quite roundabout, more about the long haul tactics of trapping than any short and quick route to victory. There are times where he realizes he unknowingly played right into a ruse more than five turns previous.

It’s four thirty by the end of the second match. Sakura’s attention flashes to the clock once as she puts away the board; he helps, sorting his own black pieces into their respective container. He will have to head out soon, though he’s not looking forward to it. He is quite comfortable here, with her.

“It’s still coming down out there,” she muses as she rises to store the box, peering through the glass before turning to make her way to the bookshelf she’d retrieved the set from earlier.

“...It is.” He gazes out the window, distracted by the puddles and their ripples below them in the street. It feels almost as if something is tugging on him to focus on them, suggesting something orphic, beyond simple rainwater.

The soft clicking of teacups and small plates being collected from her coffee table resounds behind him, so he turns to her, thinking he could offer to help wash them.

“I made enough soup for leftovers, so if you want to take some home, you can.” Sakura says, before the words make it out of his mouth. Outwardly he remains blank-faced, but something in him sighs. He’s not really sure what he's going to do with the rest of the day. Sparring with Naruto would be unwise on a day like today; he’d probably catch a cold. He could go by a store and buy a book to read, he supposes.

Being back in Konoha is odd like that. He used to just… walk, if he didn’t have anything to do on his journey, or read her letters, but now that he has had the opportunity to spend time with her, he selfishly just wants more of it. Time spent alone seems dimmer in comparison.

He would like to take some soup back to his apartment, though. It was kind of her to offer; he should probably say something.

She looks contemplative when he looks to her, though, carefully clutching porcelain, and thank you lingers in his throat, unspoken.

“Or… If you would like to stay for dinner, and do something after... you could.”

The faintest of stings begins behind his retinas, something long in the tooth stirring, aged roots buried so deeply he had perhaps forgotten they ever existed in the first place. He thinks it is the feeling of being wanted, of having a place in someone’s home.

He hopes she’s offering because she genuinely wants him to stay. She has a mountain of responsibilities, he knows, although it is her day off.

“...You’re sure?”

Pink brows furrow as if she’s confused how he could ask such a thing; she shuffles her weight slightly from one foot to the other. “Of course.”

An interlude passes in which the torrent measures time, the beat of a ballad that is very old. Her next words are hushed, pianissimo lyrics that he’s sure she has no idea just how much he has yearned for; she’s biting her lip and peeking at him from beneath pink lashes as she says them.

“I missed you, when you were gone. You… can fill as much of my free time as you’d like.”

The daunting prospect of a lonely evening evaporates completely. His tongue feels tied up in his mouth, but he nods, hoping she can read in his eyes his gratitude; he’s fairly certain that if he spoke, it would come out hoarse, not at all suitable as a response to the song she has just offered to him.

Sasuke thinks that she can see it just fine, because she gives him a breathtaking smile that could sustain him for a long time, a drop of honey added to an overflowing teacup in which he sips the surplus, with a tinge of an aftertaste that isn’t too sweet for his liking.

The dishes are tackled together. After they finish, she reheats tomato miso soup and cooks two more sandwiches for supper. Another meal is shared at her dining table, overcast skies overlapping into evening, the lights from the windows of Konoha glowing more and more as time passes. It’s just as good the second time, flavorful and filling.

They watch a geology-focused documentary on her television about lava, earthquakes, and landslides. Sakura questions him afterwards about the little time he was in the Land of Volcanoes, south of the Land of Mountains. He hadn’t stuck around for any extended time due to the extreme heat, but what time he did spend there is seared into his memory due to the intensity of it. He had come rather close to one of the region’s volcanoes, within sight of a smoking center mere miles away with lava tendrils trickling outwards, in the process of cooling but still alarmingly hot.

It makes him feel more appreciative for the rain here today, recalling it. Here in Konoha, he could touch the streamlets if he wanted to; he doesn’t need to keep a distance.

They follow up the documentary with a movie after; this time he tells Sakura to pick one. It’s unique, including some fantasy elements, about a struggle between the gods of a forest and the humans living on its edge that consume its resources. The protagonist is cursed by an animal attack, and seeks out a cure from one of the deities. While traveling, he sees other areas in which humans are ravaging the earth and warring with the gods of nature, a thought-provoking contrast considering they’ve just viewed a program detailing the inner mechanisms and wrath of volcanic eruptions, much like gods of nature in their own rights. The conclusion is open-ended; though the hero tries to broker a peace between humanity and the spirits, there is no feeling of resolution or success, no guarantee that one side will mediate with the other. It isn’t quite what he expected it to be, but he notes that the characters were quite realistic, allowing for the viewer to identify with them and better experience what they must be feeling secondhand; it was not told in a detached sort of way as she’d said the book from earlier had been.

Sakura makes earl grey tea, after, and they visit for the better part of another hour, quiet voices awash in auriferous lighting, relaxed by bergamot malt and lemon slices. She inquires about his travels, which places overall were his favorite in the four other great nations. The way she looks at him as he answers makes his heart thump, as if she is hanging on his every word.

It’s near eleven at night by the time he rises for the entryway. The kiss they share before he leaves feels like the drizzle of the rainwater outside, mellow collections grown slowly but surely deeper from time spent together, inexplicably telluric like submerging into soil.

He steps in a few unavoidable collected pools of moisture on his way back to his own apartment, drenching his socks. It makes him feel strangely nostalgic again for some reason, a reminder of a place’s capacity for change, to absorb something and thrive again.

Sasuke has seen many parts of the world now, absorbed as much as he can through his brother’s eyes, and has just relived his favorites by describing them to Sakura. She didn’t ask him about his favorite place in the Land of Fire, though.

It may easily become Sakura’s apartment.

XXX

When he sinks into slumber, he is pulled further downwards into a memory from a very long time ago, something quondam that has since dissolved.

The recollection is hazy in the ways that dreams are, slightly murky as if he is viewing it through a puddle tinged with the loam of Konoha, but perhaps there is something about Sharingan vision even unactivated that embeds the visual acuity into one’s optic nerves, to live there in perpetuity for eventual retrospect. It is one of his earliest memories, he thinks; he would have been maybe four, meaning Itachi had to have been nine or ten, though there is no one he can ask to confirm.

There had been a summer monsoon, perhaps the first one he was old enough to remember, water temperate enough to exult in without catching cold. Their mother warned them not to be outside too long in the storm, and occupied the covered porch, observing them to make sure they heeded her will. There had been no precipitation for a while prior - he thinks there may have been a drought - so the moisture was welcome. Plashets collected in their sprawling yard, causing Mikoto Uchiha’s prized white lilies to appear as if they were emerging from small lakes. She had expressed concern that they may drown upon Sasuke’s examination of them, framing the boundary of their home, but he, in that naive viridity that small children have before the world beats it out of them, thought they were strong enough to persevere.

“I’m sure you’re right, Sasuke,” his brother had said supportively, before showing him a path that allowed a step in every puddle on their family’s grounds. They had raced to the far end of their property and back; he had clumsily fallen at the end of the first pass, getting soaked, as if he wasn’t already from the warm rain coating both of them from the ashen sky above. Mud stuck between his toes, squelching and cushioning his fall while simultaneously making him filthy. It had sloughed off so easily back then in the deluge, corroding all at once and bleeding into the mess of their yard to immediate murky liquidity.

Itachi helped him up by his left hand, getting covered in his muck before the water rinsed their digits clean, and then he was being challenged to a second sprint. Sasuke emerged victorious this time, though now, looking back with eyes that are not his own, he realizes his brother obviously let him win, trained Shinobi that he was by that point. Coming to terms with that is horrifying, because he can see now that his brother was still just a child, wisdom beyond his years be damned. Sasuke is sure Itachi would have to have killed people on missions by then, completely at odds with the soft-spoken and gentle countenance he portrayed at home.

Eventually there was enough drizzle that miniature rivers of connected pools formed, capillaries of nourishment interlacing everything. Sasuke had been fascinated by the changing landscape, until Itachi had ambled up to the porch to speak with their mother. Disappointment swept into him like a tide; he had thought that his brother didn’t want to play with him anymore. But then their mother had risen and gone indoors, and Itachi motioned for him to join him at the edge, beneath the awning.

She came back carrying a small pile of paper, which confused him. He’d watched, enthralled, as Itachi folded one of the pieces into something reminiscent of a boat, simple yet perfect.

“If you put them by the gutter, the force will push them sailing across the yard,” his brother had said; he remembers the inflection so clearly, strange because it is from a time when Itachi was young enough to have the voice of a child, so unlike the rich timbre he’d held later in life.

He had trailed after his brother to the gutter, and sure enough, the paper boat was propelled by the rain streaming down from the roof; it took off as soon as Itachi let go. Sasuke had stomped after it with approximately zero grace, mud coating him up to his ankles, until it reached the boundary fence, saturated through and less buoyant due to the barrage of droplets dampening it from above.

The absolute joy he felt, when he had sprinted back to tug on his brother’s sleeve to ask if he would show him how to make one, and he’d agreed. They’d returned to the pile of paper guarded from the elements by their mother, and Itachi showed him each step, creating another one alongside him as an example. His small hands were not very coordinated back then; his boat hadn’t turned out as nice, all wrinkled sloppiness instead of crisp, clean folds.

“You just need more practice,” Itachi had murmured. “My first one was messy, too. I’ll help you.”

Larger hands had closed around his, creating skillful creases and shaping with dexterity. The second boat turned out much better. Sasuke had given his first one to his mother, then, so she could race, too. Remembering the smile, the genuine look of motherly gratitude she’d given him, bruises something in his soul, precipitation on frail roots entombed deep; it reminds him of the struggle of swallowing a gulp of water after traipsing through the desert, dry mouth making it almost painful, a gargantuan effort that takes everything in him not to look away.

She’d followed them from the porch over to the corner eaves, staying under the cover to avoid getting drenched, and the three of them had released their creations. Sasuke thinks they had to have given him a small headstart, surrendering theirs just after his, so his boat would make it to the other end of the yard first. He’d run after it, Itachi meandering along behind him at a slower pace, while their mother stayed beneath the awning.

His brother had smiled at him as he jumped puddle to puddle in glee. They’d grabbed the now-soaked paper boats at the conclusion of their path, and brought them up to the porch to set in a pile. Then they constructed and raced more, a veritable treasure of a late morning. For his last of the day, Sasuke had tried folding one on his own again, and it turned out better than his first attempt. Though a little lopsided, it hadn’t capsized, sailing strong in the current unaided just like Itachi’s.

Their mother had made them shower and then drawn them a hot bath after, to ensure they were clean and warmed. She had parted his toes to get the mud stuck there out, soil spiraling and dissolving down the drain as he watched. He’d splashed Itachi in the bath after, and folded one more boat with a piece of paper his mother brought him, so he could see how much time it took for it to sink without getting flooded from above, an experiment in buoyancy.

She made miso soup with rice for a late lunch, with something from their aunt and uncle’s shop as a treat after, some variety of warmed pastry. Itachi had let him try his in addition to his own; Sasuke’s had been strawberry, but Itachi’s tasted of peach, gooey sweetness to top off a perfect day that wasn’t even over yet. Their mother must have made herself some tea, too; he remembers the aroma of jasmine filling the space, warmed by lamplight cast on dark wood. When she’d told Sasuke it was time for a nap, he’d become extremely sullen, because he didn’t want to sleep; he’d wanted to spend more time with his brother. It wasn’t often he was home for a full day, prodigy that he was by then and always on missions.

Itachi had surprised him. “I’ll take a nap, too. It's important to rest sometimes. You can join me, Sasuke.” His refusal morphed instantaneously to greedy acceptance. Sasuke crawled into bed with his brother in his room, huddled in the comforter for warmth as the deluge continued for hours, the dousing on their roof and peaceful breathing composing a conciliating symphony with which to lull him to sleep. Eventually he'd succumbed, tuckered out and content, though he'd tried to stay awake as long as he could so he didn't miss out on time with Itachi.

Ten year olds don't usually take naps. His brother may have feigned sleep just to get him to do as their mother wanted. That realization is trenchant, too, sharp like a blade, because it’s a cycle that would repeat itself until Itachi’s end, Sasuke never understanding until the moment had passed, always a step behind and looking backward instead of forward.

When he’d awakened later in the evening, he’d smelled food cooking, miyabi soup and some kind of grilled fish. Itachi hadn’t been beside him anymore, but after blinking groggily, his brother had appeared like an apparition in the door frame.

“Dinner’s almost ready, Sasuke.”

Drizzle is still pummeling his apartment building when he rouses in a dark bedroom, alone. No one appears in the door frame this time as he blinks unsteadily, throat choked before the silent tears come, because this memory aches, haunting his heart like some kind of drowned spectre, dripping muddy stains onto clean floors. Sasuke moves to wipe them away with his left hand, the one Itachi used to help him up from the mire, until he remembers that he doesn’t have a left hand anymore. Making a paper boat now would take twice as long.

Everything in him hurts, marcid marrow writhing in his bones as if they are dead roots that have gotten a drink after a decade spent in drought, someone trying to nurse something deceased or rotting back to life. He goes to the memorial stone under the tenebrose cover of two in the morning, but it doesn’t feel like his brother is there. All he has of him are the eyes drowning in his sockets and excruciating retrospection, intermixing with the rain soaking him outwardly.

I miss you, he thinks as he tries not to asphyxiate on the memory, hoping that his mother at least hears his thoughts here, echoed in the ponds collecting around the stone that bears her name. He has to leave eventually, because he starts picturing white lilies emerging from miniature lakes, full of life and swaying with wind and torrent, instead of cold and motionless grey granite, and he thinks he is going to start sobbing.

Sasuke returns to his apartment after the better part of an hour and stares out his living room window, nursing a miniscule cup of sencha tea, weak so as not to unsettle him too much. The weather lets up eventually, turning from a drench to a drip between the fine branches of the cherry blossom tree across the street. The puddles slowly begin to sink in, though there are remnants of dirt collected in the grooves of the pathways due to the overflow. The tree is starting to lose its petals; they float atop the collected areas of water, a hint of hope buoyant atop sorrow like a paper boat.

He isn't at all hungry, but Sakura said he should try to gain weight, so he forces down a very early breakfast of plain rice, tasteless, before he goes to rifle through the box in the closet. He averts his eyes as he lifts the lid, fumbling to turn the photo upside down without looking at it and moving it to the bottom of the container before sifting through Sakura’s letters.

He picks a favorite of his, one she wrote to him while he was passing through the Land of Savanna, the first autumn season of his journey.

Sasuke-kun,

I was so happy to see your hawk on the horizon today. I gave him some water since he had a long journey.

The way you described the grasslands changing color in Savanna was lovely. The trees are changing here, too, shedding all of their leaves and making the roads a sea of color. Naruto slipped on a scarlet one the other day coming out of Ichiraku’s. He almost dragged Hinata with him, but thankfully no one was hurt. That's providence, I suppose, though it's not a red thread.

Soon it will be the season for chestnut-flavored everything. Stout squirrels come next, and Tsukimi will be happening, too. I've only ever seen it here in Konoha and once in Sand, while we were on a mission. You'll have to tell me if the moon looks any different where you are. Don't forget to make a wish.

The air is turning crisp here, like the leaves, so I imagine it will be there, too. Please stay warm.

I miss you.

-Sakura

Sasuke comes to the realization then that he’s sitting in damp clothes, and that he is kind of cold; he hadn't thought to grab his cloak earlier, too overcome with mourning. He carefully puts the letter back, and makes the decision to take a hot shower. The heat makes him feel incrementally better, thawing him from the inside out. It also makes him realize his mouth feels dry; he’s probably dehydrated, and needs to drink more than a weakly brewed half glass of tea. He prepares another cup, stronger this time.

A mission summons arrives around nine. He uses the mirror of his bathroom to make sure he doesn't look too disheveled - the shower helped, he thinks, though he’s slightly pallid - before heading to the Hokage’s office.

He's the first one of those requested to arrive, though not by much. Naruto is sitting in his designated chair with the scroll again, looking for all intents and purposes like he just woke up.

"Teme?! Eh, really?!" The dobe turns in his chair to glare metaphorical daggers at Kakashi, who pointedly ignores him. "You're seriously not sending me with?! Bogus."

Kakashi simply inclines his head towards him, not even sparing Naruto a glance. "Sasuke. Good morning. Ready for a mission?"

He nods mutely, wondering what it could be. Naruto whines some more, but Sasuke tunes him out. There's nothing like his teammate’s complaining that grinds on him in the morning, though he’ll inwardly admit it is helping to coax him back into some sense of normalcy.

His replacement walks through the Hokage’s door next, impassive as always. He inclines his head politely at Sasuke, so he returns the gesture. Naruto heaves a sigh. "Oh, come on!"

Sai doesn't miss a beat, turning to Kakashi, absolutely devoid of any kind of emotion as he delivers Sasuke’s favorite invective. "Is Dickless not coming?"

Sasuke barely manages to suppress a snort as Naruto guffaws, launching an entire container of pens at Sai. "STOP CALLING ME THAT!" Not all of Sai's nicknames are poorly chosen. He loathes the one he has for Sakura, but Sasuke doesn't think he'll ever get tired of hearing Naruto’s. It improves his mood measurably.

Shikamaru Nara saunters through the doors last, looking extremely apathetic already. Shrewd eyes flick to Sasuke’s momentarily, too quickly for him to read anything from them, then to Sai’s, then to the pens Naruto is picking off the floor, before settling on Kakashi.

Interesting. So it’s the escort mission, after all.

Naruto is outright mad now, glowering but past the point of saying anything as he returns to his seat in silence. It seems he at least knows when to give up, these days.

"Now that I have you all here, I'm afraid I must break the news that this won't be a terribly exciting mission. Simple escort to Sand for our diplomat tomorrow. It may be a bit… overkill, but there will only be three of you on the return trip, and my newest batch of missions didn't have anything terribly exciting in it. It's better to complete something useful with enough time to get back in case we need you for bigger tickets next week; it can't be helped." Kakashi shrugs, before adding, "Sending Sai should shorten the trip and make it less taxing, at least, flying birds and all. Shikamaru will lead, like usual."

Kakashi goes on to disclose that they'll be leaving at dawn tomorrow. Apparently it's only a four day round trip with his replacement's jutsu involved; this means they’ll leave on Tuesday morning and be back on Friday evening, should nothing go awry. It’s not likely that it will; Suna and Konoha are strong allies at this point.

“Any questions?” Kakashi asks at the end of the briefing. Neither Shikamaru nor Sai say anything; he doesn’t, either. An escort is simple enough, especially one of a fellow Shinobi.

His old sensei smiles in a way Sasuke feels is directed mostly at Shikamaru. “Alright, then. Dismissed.”

Nara strolls lackadaisically out of the office as Sai follows. Sasuke gets the inkling that this will be a rather silent journey, between the three of them. He’s a bit thankful he hasn’t been assigned a mission with more talkative comrades, at least not for his first one back.

“Teme!” Naruto pipes up as he turns to leave as well, so Sasuke lingers. “Wanna spar this evening?”

His brows knit together while Kakashi looks between them, as if amused. Sakura has not invited him over for the evening, but he thinks of soft words yesterday anyway.

I missed you, when you were gone. You… can fill as much of my free time as you’d like.

“The day before a mission? You’re stupid. Pass.” Sasuke says, both because he’s hoping to spend the twilight hours with her, too, but also because he knows it will annoy the hell out of Naruto. They really shouldn't go all out the night before one of them leaves for a mission anyways; if one of them breaks something, Sakura will be stuck fixing it, and it’s supposed to be her day off.

Naruto looks miffed, a lone blond brow twitching, so he adds, “...Saturday, early morning. If you’re even awake. Dobe. ”

Before he turns away from Naruto’s spluttering, he catches an all too knowing gleam in Kakashi’s visible eye. Sasuke is suddenly sure that their old sensei is well-acquainted with Sakura’s work schedule. He can feel the hole being burned into the back of his head by blue eyes and a single dark one as he leaves the Hokage’s office, the dobe still struggling to come up with a response to his quick refusal.

He feels marginally better as he walks leisurely back to his apartment, noting along the way that more of the puddles are already beginning to dry up.

Sasuke fixes something more substantial for lunch, since he knows Sakura will eat with Ino; a chicken curry, fragrant with garlic and ginger and carrots, poured atop rice. He doesn’t have any potatoes, so he substitutes with other produce, a unique mix for curry; bell peppers, green onions, and burdock roots. It’s not bad, but maybe he’ll pick up some potatoes when he gets back from Sand.

He is looking forward to going on a mission again, he realizes as he eats. It’s probably going to be a rather routine one - it’s not likely that they’ll face any enemies in friendly territory - but it will be good to be amongst allies again, contributing to fulfilling a purpose, however slight. Sasuke thinks maybe he should make more of an effort to interact with Sai. It appears as though he and Sakura are close, if he’s been to her apartment; Ino was there, too, he supposes, but still.

Sasuke spends the remainder of his time doing the dishes and making sure everything in his fridge is wrapped well, to ensure it doesn’t spoil in the time that he’s gone.

XXX

Sakura’s hair is damp, pink more saturated than it normally is, when he meets her on her doorstep; she must have showered. The scent of mixed berries is renewed, and suddenly he is certain that it has to be some kind of soap, perhaps a body wash. She has her single fiction book in hand.

“Hi,” she says, grinning up at him with a disarming beauty that makes his heart skip. Her hair clings to her neck when she locks her door behind her; Sasuke focuses on a ranunculus bloom instead, noticing that there are two small cuttings of the flowers missing, taken from its rear portion, until she turns back around.

“...Hi.”

“How was your morning?” She questions kindly as they make their way down the stairs and out the glass door, spring sunshine filtering in.

He blinks once as he considers how to answer. “...Fine. I had a mission briefing.”

Sakura’s lips quirk upwards. “Anything exciting?”

He exhales through his nose, a shadow of a laugh. “No. Just an escort.”

Jade eyes twinkle. “Ah, I’m guessing… Sai and Shikamaru.”

“...Kakashi might listen to your squad suggestions more than Naruto’s.”

She chuckles a little. “No, it’s just that he usually sends them for that. You must have replaced Naruto; he’s the third squad cell member, most of the time. Sai’s jutsu makes it a quicker journey, especially with Temari’s fan techniques; she can create updrafts.”

Sasuke thinks he vaguely remembers a blonde woman who is Gaara’s sister; that must be the diplomat. The sibling of the Kazekage would be well-suited for such a job.

“...Maybe I’ll find out what’s in Sand.”

She smiles while biting her lip. She’s very pretty.

“Maybe,” she finally offers cryptically.

They weave through the road on their way to the library, taking care to avoid the water still lingering; it has sunken into the earth for the most part by now.

Sasuke checks out three books this time. One is another on historical samurai, this one with more illustrations as he’d wanted. The second is a historical account of the establishment of Nunogakure, in the Land of Silk. He had passed through the country twice, and had always been interested in learning more about its history, given the establishment of its hidden village by kunoichi and their record of hostility with the ruling daimyos. The third is a fiction book about an old man at sea, suggested to him by Ichika as she scans Sakura’s books, then his.

“It’s kind of proverbial, and not terribly lengthy. You seem like the type who would like it,” the librarian offers, so he adds it to his pile. It’s not quite an old lady giving him vaguely prophesying teacups, but it sounds interesting enough. He appreciates her kindness; not everyone in Konoha gives him this particular brand of easy acceptance after the debacle that was his past. Sasuke thinks perhaps showing up with Sakura helps. Ichika looks at his empty sleeve for a long moment this time; she must not have noticed the last time he was here, the unfilled end of it hidden by the counter.

Sakura says there’s a spot towards the slope of Hokage Rock that drains off the cliff, a hill that should be dry enough to sit on, so they meander upwards. It’s on the western side, just at the juncture where the grass begins to give way to harsher stone. A wild cherry blossom tree that he spotted from a half mile away is clinging to the precipice, a bit off the beaten path. It must have sturdy roots, he thinks, reaching deep into the dirt and bedrock to give it the strength to soar upwards even here on uneven ground.

As they near it, he observes that it’s losing its petals, too, late in blooming like the one across the street from his apartment; small green buds are starting to take the flowers’ place.

They read for a bit under its branches, sprawled out on the hillside. She was right; the ground is dry here, already soaked into the soil or run off the slope. It’s not too warm or cool out, an enjoyable spring day where everything is freshly watered. The book Ichika recommended is pretty good, full of oceanic metaphors, some of which he finds unnervingly relevant. Sakura might like it; it’s written somewhat artfully. He gets about a third of the way through its pages as the sun begins to hang lower in the sky.

It’s around four when he allows his focus to wander away from his book to her. He's been leaning up against the tree, in the only spot someone could; the rest of the area by the trunk is too asperous to sit comfortably, roots twisting ruggedly, but strong. Much stronger than white lilies, hardy enough to weather even the harshest storms. Sakura is on her back a few feet away, book open above her and pink hair settled in a halo on the grass. She looks extremely comfortable, as if lying like this in the small amount of shade offered is something she does all the time. Maybe this is a place she visits often.

Her book is titled Hazel Wood; he can tell by the cover it must be fiction, but he's not sure what exactly it's about. He's thinking maybe he’ll ask her later. He's also thinking maybe he should ask if she wants to do something after this; he would like to, if she's free.

She shifts slightly, and he slides his eyes to the skyline so he doesn't get caught staring, very suddenly becoming conscious of the fact that he’s been admiring her for the better part of a few minutes. When he looks back over warily, she is picking up a stray petal and situating it between the pages, sticking out like a bookmark to mark her place. Then she regards him, smiling like she's amused.

He arches a brow, unsure what could be funny, but she's setting her closed book neatly aside and pushing afoot to close the distance between them. He tilts his head up towards her as she walks to the tree trunk, and then she's reaching out. Two fingertips skim his scalp, and then she's handing him a cherry blossom petal that evidently had been caught there.

"A bookmark, if you want one," she offers, her expression saying she is incredibly entertained.

He blinks once before taking it, lone hand brushing hers for a millisecond. He's distracted by how soft her fingertips feel again.

"...Thank you." He puts the petal in his book to mark his spot as she straightens.

Now would be an opportune time to query her evening plans, but she beats him to it. "Would you want to stop by the market quick with me and then come over for dinner?" Comely green melts into charcoal when he looks up. "I was thinking of making teriyaki atsuage and cucumber salad, but I'm out of cucumber."

His agreement is immediate, insides twisting pleasantly.

As they head down the hill together to beat the evening rush, books in hand, a single crow passes overhead, swooping low towards the center of the village extending before them.

That’s providence, he thinks, though it’s not a red thread. He stares at it like he’s seen a ghost until it disappears.

He helps her cook this time. Sakura handles the cutting and chopping while Sasuke seasons and turns the tofu as it fries in one of her pans, mixing together mirin and soy sauce to create the teriyaki dressing while she slices cucumbers and tosses them with other ingredients; she loads the salad with peanuts, sauces, garlic, and red chile flakes.

It’s another gratifying evening together. They play three rounds of chess this time, and it’s just as challenging as go; she cycles through positions intuitively, sometimes with seemingly little thought involved. Sasuke thinks she might be analyzing her next moves in her head during his turns, having a few planned out and simply narrowing it down based on whether he moves a rook or a pawn. He comes close to winning the final match, at least. With more practice, he might win once in a while.

Sakura offers to make tea again, after. He accompanies her to the kitchen, and when she opens the cupboard, his throat closes, because two new jars of loose leaf sencha from the tea shop have mysteriously appeared, one for the caffeinated shelf and one for the decaffeinated shelf.

Sakura’s expression is tentative. “I thought maybe sencha this evening. I… picked some up on my way back from lunch, earlier today.”

He nods weakly, tongue-tied and endlessly grateful.

She makes some for the both of them, finishing off her own with sugar and honey. Sasuke watches her swirl the spoon in the now fading luster of her kitchen, thinking the way she takes her tea is like her very being, so sweet.

Verdant eyes peek up at him when she walks him to her entryway, hours later. He sincerely hopes that she’s enjoying spending time with him as much as he is with her.

Then, Sakura’s voice lilts up to him, a quiet murmur, "Will you… come see me, when you get back?"

He blinks, sugar and honey pouring into him now, because it’s almost an answer to the question in his head that he hadn’t vocalized. Then his brow furrows, because maybe he’s failed at conveying that he'll spend literally any amount of time with her that she allows him. Sasuke knows his communication skills aren’t the best, and he has never been in any sort of romantic relationship, so everything is new territory, stunted by his lack of practice.

Her gaze flits away from him. "Just… so I know you're okay."

Oh. She means coming to see her right after debriefing, so she'll know he's returned safe. Something pleasant pools in his belly, sinking to the extremities in a way that feels nurturing. He realizes he is taking too much time to respond; she looks nervous.

"I will."

Jade centers back on him, reassured now, and he's not sure how he's going to go four days without it, this limitless green that soothes him to no end.

"Oh. Good. Thank you." Her expression changes to one that is considerably more relaxed, a tender look directed upwards that he has never seen her wear for anyone else.

Sasuke presses his lips to hers for a long time before he departs, a soft goodbye he’s hoping will convey all the words that are caught in his throat, gratitude and affection that have been stewing there since they were thirteen.

He thinks he feels love press back from hers, a delicate flickering that makes him ache, and perhaps providence. Sugar and honey, too. Sweetness doesn’t hurt him like the recall of pastries does, when it’s experienced secondhand like this.

XXX

The mission goes smoothly. Sai's jutsu does speed things up considerably, and the Sand delegate, Temari, uses her giant fan to give them a boost in places that are lacking in higher gales. He rides with Sai on the way there, while Shikamaru and Temari drift on the other; Sasuke thinks the separation must be so she can use the jutsu, strategically getting behind his replacement's bird to give him a boost before Sai can control it and have theirs catch the subsequent updraft, too.

Sasuke and Shikamaru fulfill lookout roles, him scanning ahead and Shikamaru scanning behind. It is refreshing to see the land from above, giving way from forests to grasslands to the beginnings of desert edges. He finds himself thinking about what his hawk saw, all of the times he brought correspondence to and from Sakura. It’s not as hot this way, traveling through the air with breeze ripping around them, though they make an effort to stay hydrated, still.

Sai is quiet, but Sasuke is, too, so he can't knock him for it. He wonders, scanning the horizon for the upteenth time, if Sai knows what's in Sand that interests their squad leader. He would have to, dating Ino, but he doesn't feel comfortable asking him something like that.

They spend most of the first day in relative silence, only spying a single squad of comrade ninja from Suna traveling hundreds of feet below them, just leaving the desert. Towards the end of it, as they finally cross into the first area that is truly all sand as far as the eye can see, Sai surprises him by speaking.

"Beautiful says Ugly is stupid happy that you've returned. I am certain that Dickless is, too."

The effect the words have on him is a little jarring and complex. There is the immediate familiar disdain for Sai’s inaccurate nickname for Sakura, intermixed with immature amusement at Naruto's epithet. A feeling of brotherhood follows, and his heart blooming with something tender, vines twisting or perhaps not-so-dead roots getting another drink. Stupid happy doesn’t sound like a phrase common to Sai’s vernacular, leading him to believe it was Ino’s exact wording, likely after spending the morning with Sakura yesterday.

He thinks it over as they soar over the last bit of terrain for the day, sorting through the different emotions. His answer isn't hesitant; it just takes preparation for him to muster the gall to vocalize it to someone he's not terribly close to.

"...I am, too." It’s an understatement.

XXX

They arrive back in Konoha on Friday evening, as scheduled. No issues, just more lookout duty and enjoyable wind offering relief from the heat. Peacetime is nice; anyone they saw to or from Sand was an ally, no foes. They only utilize one of Sai’s creations on the return trip, Shikamaru still observing the rear but this time atop the same bird as them. It’s a slightly longer trip, without the diplomat to speed things up, but they still make good time.

It's a bit after six when they leave Kakashi’s office, mission report paperwork folded neatly into his satchel. Naruto wasn't there; Sasuke assumes he's either been sent on a mission or has gone home for the day already. He supposes he’ll find out tomorrow, if a banging erupts on his apartment door after sunrise. It must have stormed again recently; the soil is damp, and everything is faintly greener than it was before.

He finds he missed it, the smell just after it rains that was decidedly not present in Suna, even if it does bring hard memories.

“Good work,” Shikamaru says simply to both of them as they step outside, ready to go their respective ways. It’s not necessary for him to say it, but Sasuke appreciates the acknowledgement. He’s aware it is probably not easy to trust him, after everything. Not everyone has the same confidence in him as Team Seven does.

Sai nods towards Shikamaru, then turns to him.

"Tell Ugly I say hi." His tone sounds almost kind as he turns to part ways from them in the street. Shikamaru glances at Sasuke for an instant, expression not containing an ounce of surprise, but he doesn't say anything as he turns to head the other way.

Tentatively, Sasuke starts out in the direction of Sakura’s apartment. She should be home right now, if she didn’t stay late at the hospital. He wonders as he gets closer if maybe he should wait a bit; she might be in the middle of cooking, or eating dinner.

He wants to see her, though. He's missed her greatly, and she did say to come by; he tries very hard to swallow his doubts.

Soon he's knocking on a sage green door that is beginning to look familiar. The plants are still damp indoors, too; maybe it rained as recently as this morning. It has to have been overcast for a good portion of the day, for the sunlight through the diamond window to not have dried the moisture from her watering them just yet.

Sakura opens the door wearing a smile; it grows wider upon seeing it's him, like she can’t help it.

His heart skips a beat when she says his name. "Sasuke-kun."

"Sakura."

She steps aside while holding the door open, a silent invitation for him to come in, so he does. He stands in her entryway uncertainly for a second, until she offers, "I'm making tenmusu; there's enough for two. Would you like to stay for dinner?"

Everything in him relaxes, any and all ambiguity dried by her kindness in an instant. "...I would. Thank you."

Little flecks of gold shimmer in the lamplight, facets atop something burgeoning with warmth. There is love there, in her eyes and upturned lips. He wonders if she can see it in his, if she has any idea of the true gravity of his feelings for her, all of the things that flare to life in his belly at the mere thought of time spent here.

It’s a break in routine, but there is something he would really like to do, something he has been working up the courage for over the past few days, so he takes the risk, pulse quickening; he hasn't kissed her anything but farewell yet, really, aside from their first, which was somewhere in the middle.

It is better than he imagined, vespertine devotion saying hello rather than goodbye. He skims the freckle on her cheek again as his lips brush hers, hand tender against her skin and silky pink locks. When she leans into his touch, he finds himself wishing there was a way for his soul to graze hers, to tell her the utterly selfish thing he wished for after her letter so many moons ago. Sakura’s soul would be warm to the touch, he thinks, like freshly-brewed tea or the flux of a summer monsoon, but much more illimitable, and endlessly ardent.

Her hands on his shoulders are becoming a familiar weight, grounding him like the roots of her namesake.

When they part, she blinks up at him once, and then suddenly her arms are wrapping around his center instead of his shoulders, pulling him close. His heart swells, and he hooks his lone arm around her waist.

She smells like home, he realizes. "...Tadaima," he murmurs against her hair.

"Okaeri," she responds, soft and sweet against his chest.

[coruscantidreams]

vertigo - chapter 1

pairing: obi-wan kenobi/female reader

summary: A year into the Clone Wars, the Jedi Council, in need of inside information regarding separatist forces, send General Obi-Wan Kenobi on the hunt for a possible, and very reluctant informant.

In the glittering planet of Coruscant, a successful nightclub owner’s new life is threatened with the past.

word count: 3.4k

warnings: none for this chapter!

link for ao3 here

Obi-Wan Kenobi wondered if he would ever have another moment to himself. With the way the Council requested his presence immediately after his latest landing, he was leaning towards ‘no’. He barely had the chance to unpack and was already walking towards the Council Chamber where he was required. Only Yoda and Mace Windu were on Coruscant, the other Masters were off God knows where.

A year into the war and the fighting was in full swing. Mission after mission had Obi-Wan completely, and utterly exhausted. He knew he wasn’t the only one that felt burnt out. The intense pressure of the war was put on every Jedi in the Temple. Their sacred peace keeping ways had been lost, and everyone knew it.

The short walk from his rooms gave Obi-Wan enough time to create a basic mission report in his head. There wasn’t much else he could do. Not with the time they gave him. He would have to write the formal report later.    

“Obi-Wan, good, you’re here,” Mace Windu announced as Obi-Wan walked into the Chamber. “We’re glad to hear the negotiations on Breosnas went well. We’ll have to discuss that at a later date. There’s a new assignment for you and it must be done right away. We believe there’s someone who has information on separatist plans.”

Obi-Wan wished they would have asked for the report instead. “Of course, Master,” he said anyway. 

“Is there a problem?” Nothing slipped past Windu. Maybe Obi-Wan needed to mediate more often.

He tried not to look defeated. “No, I just didn't expect to leave so soon. I was hoping to spend some time here, on Coruscant.”

Instead of a reply, a holographic image appeared in front of him. “Master, that’s-”

“Yes, it’s her. You see why this assignment is so sensitive, Obi-Wan. The new Knights are too young to remember what happened, and you already know how she feels about the rest of the Council. She’ll be more inclined to help you than any of us,” Windu said, “and, you're in luck. She still lives on this planet.”

“No offence Master, but it’s highly unlikely that she’ll give up information, even if it is me,” Obi-Wan tried. “If she’s still upset and we provoke her, it could push her to help the separatists instead.”

“That may be the case indeed, but I’m sure you’ll find a way to convince her. Do what is necessary.” Windu looked at Obi-Wan, and he knew the mission was not up for debate.

The rest of the Council was in agreement. A possible informant was better than no informant.

“Where do I find her?”

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

As soon as the sun had set, Obi-Wan was flying through the air traffic, the wind whipping through his hair. Miles away from the Jedi Temple was the underground club Vertigo. In recent years, it had become a popular destination amongst the rich and powerful. Separatists and Republic senators alike were frequent visitors. Vertigo was a lively club that kept anyone looking for a good time engaged. Although full of politicians and celebrities each night, there was a certain anonymity they found within the club.

Before Obi-Wan had even reached the club doors, he knew he was out of his element; his senses were overloaded. The shimmering atmosphere the club gave off was far too modern for his taste. Red and blue ambient lighting created a hazy purple sheen over the bar. Crescent-shaped booths in every corner were filled, and exotic plants he couldn’t name if he tried hung from the ceiling. Loud, thumping music had the dance floor packed.

Obi-Wan eyed the room, and searched for an employee. Waving down a bartender, he spoke quickly. “I was wondering if you could direct me to your boss’ office. She and I are old friends, I’m looking to catch up.”

The bartender, Eliamer, her name tag read, eyed him for a second longer than he liked. He thought he might have to use a mind trick before she mumbled a short “follow me” and they were pushing their way to a private elevator. A few awkward minutes later they were in front of an office door.

And that was where Obi-Wan found you. 

“There’s a man here to see you, he claims he’s an old friend,” one of your bartenders says, the door to your office swinging open.

You raise an eyebrow.

She pauses. “He’s a Jedi.”

“Thank you, Eliamer. Let him in.” Quickly unlocking your desk drawer, you pull out your blaster, holding it just below the supposed Jedi’s sight. You wonder which Jedi has come for you, after all this time. 

You left the Jedi Order eight years ago when you were sixteen. It wasn’t an easy choice, but a necessary one. As a youngling, you were the definition of perfect. Obedient, patient, respectful. Every Jedi wanted you as their Padawan, knowing they’d be lucky to be your Master.

At first, you loved being a Padawan. Becoming a Jedi Knight was all you had ever wanted; ever known. You were dedicated to your training and meditating, finding that it came to you naturally. Your Master was often relentless, and that only pushed you further. 

Two years into your training and a simple mission to Alderaan was the beginning of the emotions that would later betray you. You and your Master were sent to guard an at risk Senator. Alone at night, you roamed the palace in hopes of making yourself tired. It was then in a shadowy alcove you witnessed real affection for the first time. Lovers joined, pushing against the wall in passion. All you could do was stare at the couple in awe. You had never seen anything like it; the Jedi celebrated their lack of intimacy. 

That night back in your room, all you could think about was the look of sheer pleasure on their faces. The way they looked at each other so tenderly, like nothing else in the galaxy mattered. At that moment, laying in the luxurious royal bed, you knew you could never have that. You would never know what a bond would feel like. It was forbidden, and that was the end. 

However, your envy didn’t stop when you left Alderaan. It burned inside of you each day on Coruscant, during every practice and every meditation. The desire to feel a fraction of what they did was overpowering. 

You began acting out, hoping that your Master would fix your forbidden emotions. Yet he never did, he just continued to look at you in disappointment. The once perfect youngling was a disobedient teenager with no control.

You believed you were the only one with such emotions, until a frustrated confession with another rebellious Padawan proved otherwise. Hours later, you were pressed into your small mattress, finally receiving the pleasure you had desired for so long. 

Months passed, and the secret nights you spent with the other Padawan were frequent. Yet the longing never stopped. It seemed that your desire only grew. You took foolish risks to be together, which could have only resulted in one outcome. The final night you spent together was interrupted by both of your Masters. 

By the next day, your lover was expelled from the Order, only to be sent back to his home planet in a system unbeknownst to you. He had far too many infractions, and that was the last straw. 

You should have been expelled, and you knew it. Your Master’s pleading was the only thing keeping you in the Order. The possibility that you could once again be the perfect Jedi was a risk the Council took. 

Although you had been miraculously saved with only a harsh lecture from the Council, you knew what you had to do. You gathered the few belongings you had, and left the temple to start a new life. 

You’ll never admit how hard it was finding work on the streets of Coruscant. Some days you wondered if you even made the right decision. Deep down you knew you would never have passed the trials. Living a lie was something you were not willing to do, and the Council would see it. You hated the other Jedi for what you couldn't do. Giving up your future to the unknown was terrifying. You wanted it both ways; to be a Jedi Knight and have attachments. One wasn't possible with the other, which only made you resent the Jedi more.

Eventually, you found a crowd, leading to the right connections to build a good life for yourself. It took a while, but after your club Vertigo was built, you began to understand the appeal of arrogance. Vertigo was one of the most popular nightclubs on Coruscant.

“I must say, I am surprised to see you,” Obi-Wan says, adding your name as an afterthought. He looks different than you remember. Older, tired maybe. The war has shown no mercy. 

“I heard rumours the Council had made you a General. Jedi Master and General now, Kenobi?” You smirk. You and Obi-Wan only knew each other from pleasantries. He was newly ordained as a Knight while you were just beginning as a Padawan. You decide to get right to the point. “Enlighten me General, what are you doing at my club?”

“The Council asks for your assistance. We’re in need of information on the separatists. Vertigo is well known amongst separatist sympathizers. Your intel could prepare us for future attacks,” Obi-Wan explains, his crisp Coruscanti accent almost identical to your own. 

You debate on putting your blaster away, not sensing any immediate danger from him, yet you know this could turn into a fight very quickly if you’re not careful. “If you came all this way just to ask me for information, then I’m sorry to inform you that I’m unable to help. Vertigo is a nightclub. Who comes here is none of my business, nor am I willing to spy on my patrons for the sake of the Council.”

Obi-Wan sighs, “Yes, I figured you would say that.”

A look of annoyance flashes across your face before you can mask it. “The Council knew I wouldn’t help, and they still sent you anyway? How pathetic.”

“With all due respect, you chose to leave the Order. Blaming the Council isn’t going to help you now.” He sounds defensive, and you can’t help but wonder if you hit a nerve. 

Nonetheless, the statement annoys you. You broke most of your Jedi habits after leaving the Order, though it's easy for you to forget you can show your anger. Still, you pause for a moment to collect yourself. “The Council ruined my life once. I’m not going to let them ruin it again.”

“This is a matter of life or death, and we need your help! I can’t force you to give us information, but a part of you must know that this is beyond just the Council. It’s for the Republic,” Obi-Wan says.

“Do you really think I care about the Republic?” You ask.

“You should,” he replies, “what do you think will happen to you if the separatists lose? I believe a cell at the Republic Judiciary Central Detention Center will be waiting for you.”

“You don’t have the authority to do that. Besides, neutrality isn’t a crime.” The grip on your blaster tightens.

“Maybe not, but I’m sure when the senate hears we had a possible informant that refused to help, they’ll want to know everything about you and Vertigo,” he says.

“I thought you said you couldn’t force me to be an informant?”

“You’re right, I can’t force you. The risk is yours to take,” he says.

You glare at him, eyes narrowing. “Alright, General. Let’s say I agree. Am I getting something in return, or is this charity work?”

Obi-Wan refrains from rolling his eyes. “We have nothing to offer you but the reassurance that your information will help us win the war.”

“Let’s go for a drink,” you decide. Obi-Wan begins to protest as you slip your blaster back into your desk, then guide him out of the office doorway, and down to the crowded room.

Back at the bar, you order two cocktails. “You see that guy in the white suit? He’s a warmonger. He gives up any Republic plans he hears to the separatists. For a price of course. That woman, over there, the one in the red dress. She’s a spy. I heard she got close with one of the Republic captains. Oh, and him, the guy standing next to her! He’s an assassin from the Outer Rim. Technically he works for either side, but the separatists pay more.” You take a sip of your violet coloured drink. “Now, I will continue to tell you about every separatist here on two conditions.”

Obi-Wan stares at you. “Go on.”

“I want you to let me into the Council Chamber and the archives,” you say. There wasn’t much you could bargain for, nor that you wanted. You didn’t need money, and this would be far better than anything the Republic could offer.

“You can’t just walk into the Council Chamber!” Obi-Wan looks at you in disbelief.

“I wouldn’t be walking in, you’d be letting me in,” you remind him. 

“It’s not happening.” His answer is firm.

You raise your eyebrow at him. “Do you want information or not, General?”

“I can ready a cell for you anytime.”

“Fine.” You give in. “Just the archives.”

Obi-Wan looks at you so earnestly, your palms start to sweat. You feel as though he’s looking directly into your soul, leaving you raw. You know he can force his way past your mental barriers, even if you put up a fight. You definitely won’t get past him, even if you try. Years of practice and strict meditation means he can hold out much longer than you.

“The archives… it’s about him, isn’t it?” he says. It’s not really a question, rather a statement.

Of course Obi-Wan would clue in. You wasted months trying to track down the Padawan boy you loved, with no luck. The archives have records of each Jedi that ever lived in the Temple. If you could just look at them, you’d know which planet he was from, and maybe where to find him.

“The archives will have his information,” you answer. 

“If you wanted information, that’s all you had to say. I would be happy to look through the archives for you,” Obi-Wan offers.

You almost laugh at his proposal. “This isn’t negotiable, General. I’ll take my chances when the war is over. I won’t go back on my offer to help, if that’s what you’re worried about. You have my word.”

Obi-Wan looks conflicted, until he knocks back the entirety of his drink. With a wave of his hand, he tells you to continue. You’re not surprised he gives in. The value of what you know is worth the price of letting an ex-Jedi into the archives.

You don’t even know where to begin. Hundreds of patrons pass through Vertigo every day. Looking around the club, you recognize several associated members. The three humans you pointed out to Obi-Wan are regulars. The aforementioned man in the white suit, Kenth, drinks with his outfit of criminals most weekends. You try to avoid the oligarchs, they're far too arrogant for conversation.

The spy, Kandri, is a mystery to you. She’s cunning and beautiful; it's unsurprising she managed to work her way into the depths of the Republic army. Of course, none of that could be true. Espionage is a facade after all.

Troleveen, the assassin, often does business in Vertigo. Rich trade members are always looking to eliminate their problems. Millions of credits have been paid to Troleveen within the club walls. Usually you would frown upon that much money being traded in Vertigo, but it's nice to have an assassin on your side. 

For as much as you have heard, most attack plans are kept secret. They rarely pass through Vertigo. If Obi-Wan wants direct knowledge from the Separatist Council, you’ll have to make some inquiries. Count Dooku has never come to Vertigo, and you wouldn't want to know even if he did.

You start by telling him what you already know. Months of secrets and hushed whispers turn into hours of conversation. Memories and credits passed under the table between senators, deadly glances that can only mean one thing, Obi-Wan knows it all. To the rest of the club, it looks like you and a Jedi are having a lengthy, casual conversation. It is well known that you are neutral in the war. No alliances means no enemies. 

Still, giving up secrets is not something you want to be caught doing. All you needed was a rumour to spread that you were leaning in one direction, and a bounty would be placed on your head before you could even blink. It makes you wonder if you’re doing the right thing. Being sent to prison is obviously not what you want. You’ve heard about the terrible conditions at the Republic Judiciary Central Detention Center. Even if you were lucky enough to escape Coruscant, you would be leaving everything you worked for in the past eight years behind. Before Vertigo, your only home had been at the Jedi Temple. Having never known your parents or your home planet, Coruscant was all you had. Thinking about it brought emotions to the surface you’d rather not deal with.

The conversation has mostly come to an end, there isn’t much else to be said. “I believe that’s all I can give you tonight, General,” you say to Obi-Wan. “You’ll have to give me more time to make my inquiries.” With the information you revealed to him, his grasp on the politics the Jedi don’t often hear should be enough for the Council to start with. 

“You’ve been quite helpful,” he replies, a certain twinkle in his eye. “You make a promising spy.”

“Hardly. We’ll have to meet at my apartment from now on. A Jedi showing up here every week isn’t good for business.” You can’t help but smile at him. He looks soft, far more relaxed than when he first entered your office hours ago. It could be the alcohol, too. Vertigo only serves the best, possibly illegal liquors. 

Business, you remind yourself. That’s all this is. You didn’t necessarily like Obi-Wan, particularly because of his perfect Council obeying behaviour, yet talking to a Jedi again was somehow refreshing. You love your life, it's something you never thought you could have, though there are moments when you wish you could talk to someone who relates to your previous experiences. Your staff knew why you left the Order, but they could never quite grasp it. Understanding the rigid lifestyle inside the Temple walls was something only a Jedi could comprehend. For an ex-Jedi who left due to attachments, you sure are bad at forming them. 

“Alright,” Obi-Wan says, “I have to return to the Temple now, I’ll be ready in a week or so. I trust you’ll set a meeting by then?”

You nod in response to his question. “Tell the Council I say hello.”

“Just hello?”

“It’s bad taste to have a messenger for more than ‘hello’ in my case,” you answer. 

He shakes his head at you, his stern look more for show than anything. You watch him slip through the crowd and up the stairs, back outside to the streets. The music has been turned up since he arrived, it’s later in the night, and it drills into your head. The bar is mostly empty, everyone has migrated to the dance floor or into the VIP lounge. 

Rather than hanging around the bar, you toss back your fourth drink that night and head towards the elevator to your office. You’re tipsy, but not enough to find a stranger to hook up with. The thought itself makes you feel sick. You don’t dwell on that thought, instead you find yourself suddenly exhausted, practically falling asleep right at your desk. With a flick of your wrist the ceiling lights are turned off. You leave your datapad online as always, the blue glow coating the room. The cool glass of your desk calms your heated cheek as soon as you rest against it. Your eyes shut, the drowsiness taking over.

[a-crimson-lion]

MHA/BNHA AU Dump (#1)

I forgot people did this!

*Ahem* And now, to cope with the fact that I'll probably never get to most of these, here's some MHA AU Plot Bunny Dumps!

#1: All Due To One Mistake [Deku (Villain) AU]

We've all seen this at some point or another, but here's my take on it: Izuku's life follows cannon... up until the [first] sludge villain incident. All Might saves Izuku, crushes Izuku's dreams on the roof, typical school day. Only, the sludge villain never leaves All Might's pocket. Katsuki never gets a reality check. Izuku walks on the street, heading home, briefly contemplating killing himself... and then he gets captured. Perfect. But... these villains are different. Sureb the hands guy is only midly annoying, but Kurogiri is courteous, and the man behind the screen, "Sensei," is completely supportive of Izuku. At such a low point in his life, Izuku never thought that villains of all people would treat him with respect... treat him like he's human.

That's the day where, instead of All Might discovering the next Symbol of Peace, All for One discovers his second successor.

Things go about as well as you'd expect. Izuku disappears completely off the radar, leaving Mama Inko in a panic and Katsuki aggitated. Izuku eventually leaves a note for his mother (no such luck for Katsuki), telling her everything will be alright, and that he misses her. Since joining the League of Villains, Izuku's changed a great deal. His analytical skills are used to disect the quirks of both heros and villains, making the villains stronger and heroes steadily weaker. Izuku merely observes at the USJ incident, and is completely unsurprised when good ol' Kacchan goes and ruins Thirteen's noble attempt to restrain Kurogiri. Shoto never learns that it's his power. At Hosu, the heros valiantly defend against the Nomu while Stain quietly kills off Tenya. Izuku doesn't witness it. Class 1-A is absolutely floored. Regardless, the final exams come and go. The training camp is quickly approaching.

The League still wants to capture Katsuki; Izuku will not help them in the slightest.

Instead, while the Vanguard Action Squad is out causing chaos, Izuku knocks out Muscular (who tried to kill Kota), delivers him to Eraserhead via Kurogiri, and proceeds to keep Himiko from cutting Ochako and Tsuyu. Unfortunatley for Izuku, Ochako strikes up conversation. In an odd OOC moment, Izuku takes the time to listen. He accidentally spills a few tidbits about himself, and he honestly doesn't see the problem... until Katsuki is successfully kidnapped. Izuku warns Ochako to either try saving Katsuki or go back to camp and tell no one of their meeting, and Kurogiri warps him away.

Kamino Ward is a lot worse.

There is no Kamino Rescue Squad, the police get lucky and find Katsuki after the battle between All Might and All for One. He doesn't seem physically injured, but mentally speaking, he's got a few bruises. Turns out All for One enlisted Izuku's help in the climactic battle, but when Izuku comes face to face with All Might, he hesitates. Izuku's admiration of heroes has been stubbornly fighting to stay alive, and that costs him greatly. Not only does All Might die, but All for One has used the last of his power in order to kill him.

Izuku is devastated. All Might's last gift to the boy he let down is a teary "I'm sorry." All for One's last gift to his successor is his quirk.

The dorms are implemented, and the Provisional Liscence exams are underway. Through it all, Katsuki is pissed. All Might is gone, Deku is still on the loose, and nobody is doing crap! Not getting a provisional liscence alongside Icy Hot doesn't help things. What really sets him off is that Round Face has been acting... off lately. She hasn't been talking to others as much, and she aewms focused on something Katsuki can't quite figure out. When she sneaks into one fo U.A.'s fake cities after curfew b Katsuki follows. What happens next shocks him to the core: Round Face has been meeting with Deku in secret.

I'll leave the rest to your imaginations; I've already said too much.

-Funfact!: This AU is called Deku (Villain) because it's one of the few AUs where another Izuku uses "Deku" as his alter ego. By this logic, the Deku (Hero) universe is the cannon My Hero Academia universe. In my opinion, there are four universes that make up the "core" of the MHA Multiverse. Here's the third one:

#2: You Can Do It, Izuka! [Dekiru (Fem-Izuku) AU]

Everything's the same, except:

Everyone's now the opposite gender than they were in cannon.

Katsumi (fem-Katsuki) actually realizes she's been a total bitch to Izuka (fem-Izuku), and she makes amends with her after their second fight.

Here's the obvious one: instead of using the hero name "Deku," Izuka instead chooses to call herself "Dekiru" because of Ochakuto's (male Ochako) personal interpretation of the name.

That's all I've got clear cut for now, but I'll leave you with this: male Midnight and Mount Lord (male Mount Lady) cat fighting and a loving father-daughter relationship between Shoko (fem Shoto) and Rin (male Rei).

-Funfact!: This AU was inspired by Horikoshi's (BNHA/MHA's creator) official genderbend artwork. Also, Izuku's female name depends on her status in the AU. If she's the main "Izuku" in her universe, she's "Izuka." If she's a relative or clone to the original Izuku, then she's "Izumi." I'm fairly certain "Izuki" could also make a good fem Izuku name.

So right now we have a Hero Izuku, a Villain Izuku, and a Fem Izuku making up the multiverse's core. What could the fourth one be? Oh, I think you know...

#3: Quirkless Ain't Worthless [Dekiru (Vigilante) AU]

This AU is a more "cannon" take on vigilante Izuku. (My own Vigilante Izuku fic is merely self-indulgent, and has a varying degree on being unrealistic.) Izuku still gets bullied and is arguably depressed, but unlike cannon Izuku, he decides to do something about it a LOT sooner. He starts teaching himself self-defense around his first year of middle-school, which catches the attention of Mr. Oguro, his next door neighbor. Mr. Oguro decides to take Izuku under his wing, and teaches him the ropes of self-defense, amongst other things.

Around his second year, Izuku discoveres vigilantes.

Well, more like he's saved by the vigilante Knuckleduster (Mr. Oguro's alter-ego), and Izuku is immediately hooked at the time. When Izuku starts getting into the mix, his first few operations are close, but overall successful. Mama Inko is oblivious, but she's aware that something's up.

Mr. Oguro moves away just before Izuku's third year. He at least tells Izuku goodbye, unlike a certain Hisashi Midoriya.

Luckily, Izuku meets Mei after rescuing her sometime in his third year, and he may have duped her into making... say, a gigantic sword, a high tech scabbard, a grappling hook, and a bulletproof hood? Mei is suspicious, but ultimately complies. Later on, Izuku also buys a new black All M bandana, dark green fingerless biker gloves, and a pair of yellow lensed pilot goggles.

No one is suspect of what Izuku does most nights.

Eventually, Izuku reunites with Knuckleduster (still oblivious of his real identity) and occasionally joins him and the other Naruhata Vigilantes (Pop☆Step and The Crawler) on several occasions. Izuku still saves Katsuki when it comes to the sludge villain incident, and he brushes off All Might's rejection of his dream; Izuku figured it would be his response. All Might doesn't catch up with Izuku in the end, and they end up going their separate ways.

Izuku doesn't go to U.A.; he's kinda given up on being a hero when he's already saving people as a vigilante.

Unfortunately for Izuku, being a vigilante isn't easy. Pro Heroes and the police alike are always after him, he barely sleeps, and he becomes a recluse to anyone who isn't his mother. Eraserhead and Detective Naomasa Tsukauchi are the two most driven individuals for Izuku's case. Eraserhead happens to be passing by an alleyway during the Hosu incident when he notices the vigilante Dekiru saving one of his students from the Hero Killer. In the midst of the battle, Izuku's disguise slightly slips, revealing his bushy green hair and freckles. This is enough for Eraserhead to get Naomasa to run through the database, and the discover Dekiru and Izuku are one and the same. They'd arrest him right then and there, if it wasn't for one thing: his lack of a quirk. The two spend hours upon hours trying to figure out what to do.

Erasehead comes to a decision: Izuku will transfer to U.A. so they can monitor him.

Izuku isn't suspicious when a letter regarding his potential transfer is sent to the Midoriya apartment. To be safe, Izuku fills out the paperwork for the Gen Ed. Department. But then Eraserhead invites Izuku to the Hero Course Summer Camp, and NOW he's suspicious. He brings his vigilante gear as a precaution; Katsuki is not happy to see his former punching bag in the slightest.

Of course, then the Vanaguard Action Squad attacks, leaving Izuku with a difficult decision...

Well, that's all I got!

Hope you enjoyed my AU concepts! I'll post more later. And remember, PLUS ULTRA!

-CrimsonLion (12 March 2019)

[amandajoyce118]

Friday Five: This Is A Black Widow Post

I know a lot of people aren’t thrilled with Black Widow simply because of the actress that plays her. And while I agree that Scarlett Johansson shouldn’t have taken on some of the role she has in the past, robbing women of color of what could have been their big break, Black Widow is one of my favorite comic book characters. So, this week, in honor of her part of the Avengers: Endgame puzzle, my Friday Five is built around her.

That being said, there will be spoilers for Endgame here. I’ve managed to go a week without posting/reblogging anything other than images/gifs from trailers. I’ve got this tagged as “Endgame Spoilers,” so if you’ve read al of this and blown past the tags, and you get mad at me for being spoiled at that point, it’s on you. You’ve been warned.

Here we go.

Five: The Black Widow Movie

There is a Black Widow movie on the way. A script has been drafted, rewritten, and people have been cast. It’s supposed to start filming this year - June, in fact. It seems pretty clear at this point that it’s going to be a prequel. Rumors have everyone from Taskmaster to Yelena Belova appearing in it. But you know what would be great? A Red Room movie. An actual prequel set when Natalia Alianova Romanova ended up in the Red Room and became the Black Widow, giving an up and coming actress the chance at a big role. Instead, rumor has it set in the late 90s/early 2000s before the events of Iron Man take place. Here’s hoping we get to see Natasha recruited to SHIELD since she was an agent for about a decade before she made her MCU debut in Iron Man 2. I mean, I’d also love to see what happened on that oft-mentioned Budapest mission with Clint Barton too, but I won’t hold my breath on that one since Hawkeye is getting a Disney+ series and Black Widow gets a movie.

Four: Where Are The Other Black Widows?

One thing that has long bothered me about the MCU is that we never see evidence that other Black Widows exist. In the comics, Natalia ends up becoming one of the best students after a difficult start. Initially, she’s horrible at everything and the leaders are set to wash their hands of her. Thanks to a bored Enchantress (as in, from the Thor comics), she ends up trying to escape and showing how tough she really is. She doesn’t make it out, but the teachers and military officials see the potential in her and invest more time in her training. There are 29 other girls in her Red Room class though. And we know that, at the very least, the precursor to the Red Room exists in the MCU thanks to Agent Carter and Dottie Underwood. Now, I know that because she hasn’t been the focus of any movie yet, we haven’t learned a lot about her background. The only person who’s crossed paths with her in the present who she talked about seeing in the past was the Winter Soldier. Even the potential of their being another Black Widow out there hasn’t been addressed as an Easter egg, and I’m curious why not. Where are they? Is the MCU going to go the route of her having to kill everyone else to be considered a graduate of the program? If so, where’s the new generation? I have a lot of questions about the Black Widow program, clearly.

Three: She Couldn’t Walk Away

Okay, here is where the more spoilery stuff starts if you ignored my warning and kept reading. You’ve been warned again.

One of the things I loved that Endgame did is leaving Natasha as the one holding down the Avengers fort five years after the snap. Captain America is probably the one we all would have expected to be stubborn and not let go, right? Tony was able to build a new life, and Steve found a new way to help people. Everyone found a way to adapt to the new world they were living in, even if they didn’t like it. But Natasha, she decided to live at the Avengers compound and stay in contact with everyone - world government leaders and aliens alike - to make sure someone was still there to stop the bad guys. In the scene where she has a conference call with Okoye, Carol, Rhoadey, and Rocket you can tell she’s desperate for there to be something she can fight. She wants that earthquake (which is likely an Easter egg, but we’ll talk about that another time) to be something important. She wants to get her hands dirty. And I love that the woman who was a spy, who always followed orders, and who always found a way to sneak around the truth, is the one holding on tight to being an Avenger and not letting go. I love that even when Steve tells her that maybe they don’t need someone sitting in the compound and coordinating schedules, she can’t accept that. She’s finally something other than a spy in the narrative, and I think that’s a great note for her to go out on.

Two: It Had To Be Them

The teamups for the time travel portion of the movie were really interesting to me. Nebula and Rhoadey - both people who had machine parts to help them survive, but also both people with extensive combat experience and completely different personalities, out to stop a single thief. Rocket and Thor - likely paired up primarily for comic relief, but also because Rocket was probably the only one willing to handle Thor’s guilty conscience at that point since everyone else was on board with the plan, but Thor was still stuck in his depression with seemingly no way out. Captain America, Iron Man, Ant-Man, and Hulk - the most power heavy teamup, but also the one that had the most obstacles to get through is, of course, the one that not only loses a stone, but takes the long way around to get it again, and it’s also appropriate that Captain America and Iron Man get the biggest nostalgia filled trip.

Then, of course, the reason for me writing this at all is that they pair up Black Widow and Hawkeye for the sacrifice mission. I want to know how that was decided. Nebula knew that someone had to die at Vormir, even if she didn’t know all of the details. Did she look at this group of people and go, yeah, which part of this group loves one another the most, and suggest them? Did Natasha and Clint volunteer for this part of the mission when they heard there was murder involved because they have the most “red in their ledgers” at that point and thought they were going to kill someone else? Or did Natasha get paired with him because she was the only one willing to wait five years to find someone everyone else thought had become a serial killer? I want to know how that decision was made.

From a writing standpoint, of course, I know how that decision was made. No other teamup would have worked for Vormir. There is no one else in that group who has the relationship that Clint and Natasha have. At the point the movie takes place, they’ve known each other for at least 20 years. He recruited her instead of killing her. She saved him from being brainwashed. She was the only person he trusted to know his family before the events of Ultron. They were partners. Now, up until the reveal that Clint had a family, would I have thought they were romantic partners? Yep. But the two of them as platonic soulmates works for the events of the movies. Other than his family, Natasha is easily the person Clint cares about most in the whole world. He’s also the first person Natasha is able to think of as family, so I think it’s easy to say the reverse is true as well. No other members of the Avengers team left have that bond. The people they were bonded to (Rocket-Groot, Steve-Sam-Bucky, Nebula-Gamora, Scott-Hope, etc) were all gone. The sacrifice had to be one of those two characters. Once you know it’s them going to Vormir, you know one of them is stuck.

One: Can She Come Back?

The language regarding the Soul Stone is pretty deliberate. You’re exchanging a soul for a soul, giving up that which you love. There’s a lot of talk about the exchange not being undone, but… look, this is a comic book universe, and there’s definitely some wiggle room here. I mean, what happens when the Soul Stone is returned to the dominion of death? (Also, side note: How do we think Cap reacted to seeing the Red Skull was the one he had to return an Infinity Stone to? I would have liked to see that scene.) If the stone is returned, and this a soul is given back, shouldn’t one of the souls taken be released? Wouldn’t that make sense? Why couldn’t Cap, on his trip to return Mjolnir and the six stones, say, “hey, since I brought this back, can you give me something in return? I’m readily giving you this soul. Why don’t you go ahead and give me Natasha’s back?” It doesn’t lessen the sacrifice because Clint still was forced to let her go. In theory, he never used his Pym particles or time travel GPS to go back to 2023 since he decided to live out his new branched timeline life, but someone else could have. Or, you know, there could be a Natasha flying around in space for nine years hanging out with aliens. Or, maybe the Red Room cloned her like they did in the comics, and there’s someone other there with her memories walking around still living the spy life. Who knows?

That’s it for this week! Avengers: Endgame Easter eggs will hopefully go up at some point this weekend if you’re interested in them.

[maliwarm]

Orange

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@writeblrs April prompts, day 8

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The air drifting in through the cave was pleasantly cool compared to outside, bringing the scent of dust and heat with it as it brushed against the pair’s skin with gentle fingers. Original and clone were equally silent as they faced each other, stock still, in matching cross-legged sits. Eyes, glacial blue and oceanic green alike, were closed. All focus was directed internally, to the living presences in their blood; to the respective warmths shifting and rumbling below the skin.

Frag couldn’t stand another second if it.

Words spilled from his lips in a rush, brazen and loud with frustration that had finally reached its peak. “I can’t keep doing this.” He rose abruptly, fists clenching by his sides with audible grinding and clicking. A scowl alighted on his young features. “I want some real training, old man. Not this close your eyes, open your heart nonsense! It’s not doing shit!”

After a silence stretching on over several seconds, ice coloured eyes finally flicked open to regard him silently. K’’s expression was unreadable as those eyes bore into the clone’s own. Fragor did his best to refrain from shifting under the cool gaze. K’ may be scruffy and old, but there was this intense air about him that kind of cowed him. Even if wasn’t always obvious, considering he seemed so damn lazy otherwise, spending most of his time doing little but napping when he wasn’t eating or moving about from one destination to the next.

In spite of his misgivings, Frag made sure his posture was straight and firm, and that he didn’t let his usual shyness didn’t come into play to stray his gaze to the side. He was dead serious about this. K’ had promised to teach him control over his own powers about a week into their companionship, and while he trusted the old man’s judgement for the most part, he also felt that the current method wasn’t cutting it at all.

“You want something more hands on?” There was no change in expression, nor any notable emotion in K’’s tone when he deigned to speak. He received a single, firm, nod as a response. “Fine.”

Frag hurried to hop back a few steps, giving K’ room to rise. He dusted his rear off before jerking his head towards the bright entrance of the cave. “Let’s take it outside.”

He tried not to let the excitement burbling behind his breastbone explode out of hand. It was contained, barely, to a small pump of the fist and a giddy grin the moment K’ turned and started shuffling away. He trotted after him eagerly. Finally, he might start seeing some results!

Blistering afternoon heat bore down on them the moment they stepped out from the cool confines of the cave, the sun at its harshest. Neither seemed to be affected by this detail in the slightest, even in spite of donning heavy clothing. K’ took up a position in a relatively clear area a ways away from their hidey hole, arms folded across his chest. Frag scurried further away, fiddling with the aid in his ear. If he was going to be using his powers, he’d rather not burst his eardrums and destroy what little hearing he had left. A few rocky clusters were weaved through to take up a position across from K’. His heart thudded in his ears, loud enough that, had he not already turned his aid down low, it would have drowned out the occasional gust of wind sweeping through the little clearing and the cry of a hawk somewhere above the rocky walls encompassing them from all sides.

“I’m ready,” he called out, focus now quashing his excitement to a duller, more manageable, level.

K’ unfolded his arms. His left hand slipped into the pocket of his hoodie. The right was held away from his body, palm up. Sunlight made the battered red metal encompassing it glint blindingly. Frag’s gaze remained trained on it, body tense with anticipation. He hadn’t gotten a chance to see the old man in proper action in the fortnight they’d been travelling together. He’d only ever caught minor glimpses of the power at his source’s disposal; vicious and efficient hand to hand attacks and a generous smattering of his translocation skills. His fire on the other hand... that was something Frag had yet to see outside of being used as a light source or for cooking food. And it was that power that he desperately wanted to see.

Flame spilled from the scuffed and crag-ridden metal palm. The movement of it was smoother and more akin to molten liquid than the usual crackling flare. Rather than stand tall at attention, it slithered downwards like milk into a glass. It may just be his eyes tricking him, but Frag thought the flames also appeared to be denser, to the point of partial solidity. But that couldn’t be right, surely? Still the flames kept coming, even after they’d finally kissed the parched earth, puddling into messy coils that somehow didn’t tangle. The construct rippled and shivered, licks and sparks of orange breaking from the main body on occasion, even after it finally stopped lengthening. The end twitched about in such a way it reminded Frag of a curious snake’s head.

K’’s hand clenched. It was when he moved it, the flame construct slithering to follow his motions, that Frag realised what it was supposed to be; a bullwhip. It whoosh-crackled loudly when K’ gave it a testing lash off to the side, sparks bursting from the impact site. Apparently satisfied, he widened his stance.

He raised his gravelly voice to a holler so that Frag might actually hear him. “Gimme your best shot, kid.”

Ordinarily, Fragor would have placed more concern in K’’s state of wellbeing, because the way he saw it, not only was the old guy not fully recovered, but he looked like he was probably one wrong movement away from breaking his hip or something. But today? He’d been made to wait for this opportunity for far too long; there was only so much meditation and sitting still that he could take. The time for something more hands on was long past overdue. And thusly, he didn’t hesitate to rush forward and initiate an attack.

The perpetual warm rumbling under his skin was drawn out, building within both palms. A handful of sparks burst to the surface of the gold metal encasing them, fizzling and popping. Itchiness spread across his hands, the hidden skin fracturing and peeling away in preparation for the explosions about to be granted an outlet. His left hand lashed out as if to throw sand at K’’s face. Flame, blinding white swallowing up a tiny orange core, bloomed to life in his palm for barely half a second. It ate at itself, shrinking to a mere pinprick before violently expanding outwards; there was a flash and deafening bang, smoke and fire bursting forth. All things said and done, Frag prioritised K’’s frail health over all else, so he made sure to hold back. Thusly, the explosion wasn’t as big or damaging as those he usually doled out. Neither was the second, aimed at K’’s ribs when he danced backwards to avoid the first.

Left hand still lodged in pocket, K’ ground a foot into the cracked earth and shoved off, leaping to the side to avoid the second explosion. Using his momentum, he pivoted to get behind Fragor whilst the boy was still recovering from his rushdown. His lip curled into an unimpressed sneer.

“Piss weak.” A most undignified yelp was pulled from Frag when the fire whip lashed, sharp and quick, across his rear. He actually heard the crack of its impact, albeit muffled. “Step it up.”

He stumbled and straightened, red-faced. After a quick pat down to ensure there wasn’t a long hole burnt out of his pants (there wasn’t, thankfully; the heat was just intense enough to soak through the material and sear his skin, was all), he rushed back in for a second round. Mark his words, he would show the geezer that he was capable!

A few minutes in and it became clear that kiddie gloves weren’t going to cut it. None of his attacks were connecting; not even the sneaky ones. K’ dodged every single one with relative ease, delivering a retaliatory lash of the fire whip and a scathing comment in response. There were streaky scorch marks all over Frag’s clothing, but the old man barely seemed ruffled at all. He was starting to get frustrated by it, powers becoming more unruly with his growing agitation. And only became moreso when the whip lashed out, snapping at his palm whilst he was in the middle of gathering energy for another attack.

Frag cried out when his attack detonated prematurely, temporarily stealing his vision. Frantically, he tried blinking the whiteness away before K’’s next attack, bringing both hands up defensively in front of his face. Heat wrapped around an ankle instead. Too late, Frag realised his mistake, and all of a sudden he found himself on his back, prone and winded. His attempt to rise was met with a foot to the chest.

K’ was a blurry dark shadow against an equally blurred and darkened backdrop. The fire in his palm had shifted forms, the bullwhip now gone, the usual dancing tongues taking its place; a lone bright spot that hurt to look at. A few moments later they wisped away to nothing. The foot was removed, K’ shoving the gauntlet into his pocket. He didn’t look impressed.

“Don’t bother asking for another sparring match unless you’re serious from the get-go. You’re just wasting my time and energy otherwise.” He turned on his heel, stalking back towards the cave without a backwards glance. “Training’s over for the day; go make yourself useful and hunt me something to eat while I nap.”

Humiliated and pissed off, Frag picked himself up and stalked in the opposite direction to cool off, still squinting and blinking to clear his vision. Heat prickled behind his eyes, gathering moisture seeking to undo his progress. Stupid old man. Making a fool out of him when all he wanted to do was prove himself. Now his chance at moving on from the stupid meditation crap was wasted. He rubbed at his still smarting rear, sulking.

Thankfully for K’, he was so caught up in his bad mood he missed when he stumbled. Both hands had been yanked from his pockets to catch himself on a nearby chest high rock. Now he clutched it for dear life, eyes clenched shut, as dizziness and exhaustion assaulted him in merciless waves. The shifting under his skin had become sluggish and weak, further feeding into his general state of drainednes.

Thank Christ he’d been able to nip things in the bud when he had... Maintaining that whip any longer and he would have passed out; the kid already thought of him as a weak invalid as it was, so he’d rather not feed into that image. That manifestation burned up a ton of energy on a good day, and this was most definitely not a good day. In hindsight, he could’ve and should’ve schooled the little punk with something less strenuous. He’d definitely overestimated how much he’d recovered.

Groaning, he pushed away from the rock to stagger the last few metres into the cave. Beating himself up could wait until after a long, hard rest.

[verbumincarcerem]

The Fanged God

So I started writing this because I wanted to write something dark, something without any good people, something that was solely for me and me alone. The only person in the world who’s ever read this is @editoress, and she? Really loved it? Even said it’s some of my best work, which I do actually agree with?

I was inspired by a few things when I wrote this. Uprooted by Naomi Novick, for one. The Hades/Persephone dynamic, only where Hades is evil and Persephone isn’t too upstanding herself. And then there’s the whole Chaos vs Cosmos thing in Dissidia: Final Fantasy. All of this pushed me to craft this story about a young Sith getting herself entangled with the literal embodiment of the dark side of the Force, the Son. It’s about exploring power and the things we’re willing to do or sacrifice for it--and the things we’re not willing to do or sacrifice. It’s about the things that get taken from us anyway and how we get them back.

Here is the beginning.

I.

They didn't want her to be chosen.  

If this was to be the one time every Sith in their company agreed on something, Melody was glad it was about this. She didn't want to be chosen either. Perhaps Ventress or Savage did, but that was to be expected. They were prone to rash decisions in their mad rushes for power.

She liked to do things a little differently. When it came to attaining power, Melody preferred to take her time, the same way she’d taken her time to assume her Sith title, Darth Inferna.

Melody loved the name, but she loved the one she’d always had with her since birth, too. A weakness of sentiment, as Darth Sidious would only be too pleased to remind her. Maul walked by her side, a fiercely comforting presence, as he drilled her once more. "Don't pull ahead or fall behind. Stay with the pack. Don't do anything to stand out or draw attention. Nothing special, no surprises." It was rare for Maul to say so much in one sitting and so quickly, a sure sign he was worried.   "Yes, master," she said. "No funny business or showing off, I get it. I’ll keep the fireworks to a minimum." But her smile was as feeble as her attempt to lighten the mood. It didn't assure either of them. A tense silence passed and she finally voiced her fear aloud. "But what if I do get chosen?" "You won't," Maul said with utter certainty. "Not if you do as I've ordered." "But what if, despite that, I do?" Maul halted in his tracks and she slowed to her own stop. Blazing, sulfuric eyes bored into her icy blue ones pretending at calm. Maul was the first to break the connection, continuing to stalk forward. He didn't say another word. He didn't have to. The promise of vengeance, of war and destruction in his gaze was all too clear as to what his answer was. 

At least, Melody thought with dry consideration, this event wasn't to be holovised. She'd almost expected it, given the Fanged God's rumored vanity, but in truth the Choosing was rather clandestine. In the end, it made sense. Somewhere else in the galaxy, the Winged Goddess was choosing her own champion, a Champion of Light to pit against the Fanged God's Champion of Darkness. Neither wanted to share information as to who those champions would be. Not for the first time, Melody wondered why all this was necessary. Light and Dark were fighting each other just fine without the gods' interference during the Clone Wars—which had been abruptly halted, the fighting forced to a stop and the lines divided as if the war had never happened to begin with. Melody got the sense that it wasn't so much about the conflict of Light and Dark but about neither immortal wanting to directly and personally fight the other. That was all well and good, but her sympathy was limited, coming to a clear stopping point against anyone who threatened herself and her people.

With one last look, Maul left her to join the other masters, who for reasons unknown were as barred from being a contender as the apprentices were all forced to compete. Dooku didn’t seem to care, but Sidious was furious. Even now she could feel it. It was the only thing about this matter that made her smile. But her smile faded when she thought about Plagueis, at his noticeable lack of reaction, how he’d only wished her luck. It was moments like this one which reminded her that, despite their camaraderie, he was a true enigma, his seeming omniscient wisdom something beyond her reckoning.

Despite the hundreds of people, human and alien alike, gathered in the space—a cross between a training ground and a courtyard—finding Ventress and Savage was remarkably easy. She only had to look for the nearest brawl, which had been swiftly brought to a heel by the sadistic pair.

Ventress had her foot planted on some poor human’s throat, a cruel smile on her serpentine face, while Savage spread the crowd into a wider and wider circle, warding off any would-be rescuers.

Melody slipped right into the circle, and the crowd noted how Savage let her approach. To Ventress, she lifted a dark eyebrow. “"Busy winning friends and influencing people, I see."

Ventress’ throaty laugh was enough to send shivers down any hardened warrior’s spine. She matched Melody’s tight smile with a dark smirk. “I was provoked. Don’t make the same mistake as the General by thinking you hold my leash, Inferna.”

With a pang, Melody was reminded that Grievous hadn’t been allowed into the Choosing, either. Though deadly efficient with a lightsaber or four, he wasn’t a Force user. A real shame. She could have used his gruff humor and sparking anger right about now.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” she said, throwing a pointed look at the human, who was currently having trouble breathing. “But perhaps now isn’t the best time. Save your energy. He’ll be here soon.”

It was the reminder of their would-be host that caused Ventress to draw back than any regard she had towards Melody or mercy in general. She pushed off the human with her foot, leaving him sputtering and coughing as he rose to his elbows. The crowd parted easily for them as she, Melody, and Savage walked on.

“There’s a lot more people here than expected,” Savage noted, his towering mass able to look around them with ease. “Who would have thought that there were so many dark Force users in the galaxy?”

“Maybe they’re not all a part of our galaxy,” Melody noted.

“Does it matter?” Ventress replied. “All of them will fall under my saber regardless. The same is true for either of you if you get in my way.”

Savage scowled, his hand drifting to his own lightsaber. Melody raised her hands in a placating gesture. “He’s all yours, Ven. Honestly, I’d rather take a nap against the wall.”

“But you’ll be competing the same as the rest of us,” Ventress coolly observed.

“Not like I have a choice. Orders are orders.”

“Such a perfect soldier you’ve become,” scoffed Ventress. “At least it’s clear who holds your leash, little dog.”

“Woof,” Melody scoffed right back, not riled by her taunts in the least.

Savage laughed. “I’m sure, Ventress, that Master Dooku will be devastated to hear how badly you want to toss him aside for a new master. I’ll be happy to take your place.”

“My dear, sweet Savage, never fear. I penned him a strongly-worded letter.” Ventress’ saccharine tone was offset by her baleful smile. “But feel free to tell him for me, if you’re still alive.”

Their banter could have continued, would have, if not for the sheer presence that descended on the training ground with all the swiftness and stifling air of a lowering ceiling. Its weight increased, determined to break and crush, and the silence it brought was one of both anticipation and fear.

And even though no one had been in the center of the grounds, suddenly he was, standing in the midst of them.

The Fanged God was even taller than Savage’s seven-foot frame by a few inches, but far lankier, all sharp angles and pointed joints, his black and red garb clinging to him like a second skin. His build wasn’t malnourished or ill fitting, however, as lean muscles broadened his shoulders and defined his long arms, legs, and torso. Red tattoos adorned his bald head as well as under his glowing red eyes—which were stark against solid black sclerae—forming a thin line down both of his high cheekbones. His thin, colorless lips were pulled back in a pleased smile, and when he spoke, his voice was deep but with a deceptively soft edge. It carried effortlessly in the space around all of them, commanding their attention and bringing with it an unseen dread.

“Ah, so many. So many.” He brought a finger to his lips, a pensive gesture, but his quick smile was a joke he wasn’t sharing. “I wonder how many will be left.”

An alien of a species she'd never seen before stepped forward, clicking and spitting in an unknown language, but their inflection was unmistakable. They were issuing a challenge. The Fanged God smiled lazily, hardly bothered by it at all. "Oh, yes, we shall certainly get to it, since you're all so eager." His gaze found hers in the crowd easily, jolting her to attention. But he passed on, sweeping it over the others, and she realized how catching Maul's paranoia over this whole thing was. The god hadn't noticed her, no more than anyone else. He hadn't even been looking at her but at someone behind her. She was fine. "You know what's at stake here,” the Fanged God continued. “The Light has issued us a challenge. It's only sporting that we meet it. Use any weapons or skills you have, crude though they are. Survive until I'm—more or less satisfied." He waved a hand as if he severely doubted that any satisfaction would be met. "I will select my Champion from however many of you are left.

“We will return to Mortis, where you will serve me, and only me, as your true master. There, your training will really begin, until that fateful day where champion is pitted against champion, and then—” Pitiless eyes surveyed each of them, and his razor sharp smile attracted as much as it repelled. “You will win. You will destroy the Light, and the Dark will reign supreme until the next Choosing. And if you do not…”

It was only when he trailed off that Melody noticed the silence. Tense, fearful, rapt. And angry, so destructively angry, barely kept in check by desperation and quiet hysteria. (She wasn’t the only one who didn’t want to be here, whose ambitions lied on other shores.) And it was all feeding him, she knew. He was preening with the pure power of it.

“If you do not, you will die, along with everything you care about.” And with that, he snapped his fingers and the whole terrain underneath them began to shake. Savage and Melody threw alarmed glances at each other as they fought to keep their balance. Next to them, Ventress was steady, her mouth widening in a smug, victorious smirk.   "Do enjoy yourselves." The Fanged God was no longer among them, but his voice sounded clearly and effortlessly over the noise, as if he were bypassing all vibrations of sound to speak right into her head. "I know I will." And then the chaos started.

Melody slowed her sprint to a light jog, keeping an eye on the tree line as she approached the forest.

Three days. She had been out here on this backwater Outer Rim planet, competing in this insane mess, for three days, and she was still alive.

She stopped, panting and leaning a hand against a tree for support. Her blue eyes flicked to her surroundings. No enemies here. She was safe to rest for a moment. Bracing her back against the tree, she uncorked her flask, spilling a few precious drops of water on her parched tongue.

Who else is still alive?

She hadn’t seen Ventress since that first day. With only a final word of warning, she’d leapt into the fray, full of bloodlust and laughter, her lightsabers shattering the chaos as only their distinctive hums could. She and Savage had quickly lost sight of her, leaving the strange courtyard far behind.

The morning of the second day, Melody lost Savage, being separated from him during an ambush. She still had the blood and gore from that encounter coating the front of her tunic and her gloves. She didn’t regret the lives she’d had to take, not when they were so heavily invested in taking hers. But still, she worried about Savage, who didn’t have as much training as either herself or Ventress. It had been three days, and dusk was coming.

Melody glared at nothing in particular and gripped tight the hilt of her lone lightsaber, the last one she had left after its twin had become damaged in a recent skirmish.

What the hell was the Fanged God waiting for?

A sudden disturbance in the Force was the only warning she had. The sound of a singing blade suddenly cut through the air, and Melody dove to the ground just in time.

Igniting her lightsaber, Melody pushed herself to her feet and turned, searching for her assailant.

It was another species of alien she’d never seen, this one with two legs and four arms, built like an ox but with the fur of a bear crossed with a wildcat. His pointed snout was turned up in a snarl, and the axe in his hands was so large it could cut through at least three men at once. The tree, at least, hadn’t made it. The towering pine crashed to the ground, bark flying in all directions, leaving behind a decapitated stump that was almost as tall as she was.

“I’m sorry. Was that supposed to be my head?” She mocked, spinning her lightsaber with an unnecessary flourish. Inferna the Sith had come out to play.

The alien roared at her and charged, handling his axe with obvious finesse and skill. Inferna held her ground, widened her stance, and brought her lightsaber up to block.

The pure energy in her saber sliced clean through whatever metal his axe was made of. She dodged the ricocheting steel, expecting it, and with a final slice, she relieved him of one of his hands.

The alien’s roar this time was full of pain and shock. The remaining half of his axe clattered to the ground between them, his missing hand still wrapped around the handle, and he staggered back, eyeing her red blade with fear. She pursued, stepping forward with light, casual steps, and he swung wildly at her with his remaining hands. Dodging them was child’s play. She wondered if he was so surprised and in pain that he’d forgotten how to access the Force.

It didn’t matter. It was clear that even she didn’t need it for this fight.

“Never seen a lightsaber before, have you?” She smiled. Then, with a quick lunge, she gutted him, the tip of her saber protruding from his back. “That’s too bad. They’re kind of great.”

She cut clean through several organs, scorching his insides, and when she jerked her saber out of him, he was dead before he hit the ground.

On impact, dust and dirt kicked up around his fallen form. She stared down at him for a moment, saw how the red glow of the sun glinted off his metal breastplate and the remaining axe fragments. How archaic, she thought. Then she looked up and took in a truly breathtaking sight. Her lightsaber bled and blended against the harsh sunset like an oil painting. In the far distance beyond the plains, night chased the fleeing sun, the faint light of distant stars dim on the edges.

After so much struggle, so much raging need to survive, peace had descended, just like that, almost as if she’d never even killed another living being. Time marched on. All was forgiven.

She’d taken four steps from the body when her lungs seized and stopped working.

You’re kidding me was her last coherent thought, before her hand came up to claw at her throat, which was working furiously to draw breath and failing. Distantly, she felt her feet leave the ground and kicked out in reflex, but stopped when the movement only expelled her remaining oxygen faster. There wasn’t a single physical block around her throat. Someone was Force choking her to death.

At last, she sensed him, but it was too late to do her any good. Her attacker stepped out from one of the trees, and around her dimming eyesight, she saw that he was a Rodian, a blaster in his hand instead of a lightsaber. His other hand was extended out to her, mimicking a choking gesture.

“I thought that beast would destroy you,” he said in Huttese, closing his grip ever so slowly. “But it seems that pleasure will now belong to me.”

I am not dying at the hands of a Rodian, she snarled to herself, irrationally.

Despite what Maul told her—for surely he didn’t want her to die at the expense of remaining inconspicuous—she kicked out with her right foot, intending to send a burst of fire blazing towards the Rodian to scorch him alive.

But her lack of oxygen made her fire weak. As quickly as it formed, it died, burning a sputtering flicker of light as opposed to the inferno she planned. Darth Inferna, the Firemaker, indeed. The Rodian only laughed at her efforts, and his hand closed. Melody’s vision went black and her heart beat a scattered, terrified rhythm in her chest. Any second now, she was going to die! She was going to—she was going to—

Another roar broke through their surroundings, much more familiar, and Savage was there, barreling straight for them. The Rodian raised his blaster, but it was too late. Savage deflected the first shot with his lightsaber, and the next thing Melody knew, she was on the ground, and she could breathe.

Gasping, she gradually sat up, inhaling large gulps of air into her burning throat, frantic and disoriented. A presence approached her on her left, and she jerked, intending to protect herself, to kill if necessary.

Her lightsaber was blocked by another, and the matching red glow threw her next attacker’s face into a severe light. Deliriously, Melody thought she had attacked her master, that Maul had somehow made his way here, but when he opened his mouth to speak, it wasn’t Maul but Savage that spoke.

“I save your life, and you try to kill me?”

She backed off instantly, internally shaking herself. “Savage. You found me.” She gave herself another shake, another blessed breath, and then she looked at him with utter sincerity. “Thank you.” "Don't mention it," Savage demanded, a gruffness to his usually authoritarian voice. "Do you have any idea what Maul would do to me if I let you die?" "You’re his brother. Whatever you're imagining, I'm sure it wouldn't be that bad.” She smirked, jerking up her chin at movement over Savage’s shoulder. “But here, let me return the favor."

A female Bith rushed them, or tried to. Harnessing all her pent up rage, every shred of fear from her near-death experience, Melody unleashed it all in a wall of fire from her left hand and targeted it at the Bith. The flame consumed her instantly, eating through her flesh like a living thing, and the scream it wrenched from her was the crackling, snapping sharpness of burning wood. A smoking husk fell to the ground, the fire still greedily consuming it, but neither remaining Sith had time to celebrate their victory. That scream had attracted others as had her display of power. Soon, Inferna and Savage were surrounded again, but instead of separating, this time they stuck together.

Two more days passed. There was still no sign of Ventress.

After a week, it appeared that the Fanged God had finally grown satisfied. Or bored.

One moment, Melody was with Savage, picking their way through a series of crystal caves, and the next, they were back in the courtyard, along with the other survivors, whisked there as effortlessly as they had all been initially to this single point in the galaxy.

There weren’t many. Where hundreds of Sith apprentices and dark Force users once stood, only around twenty were left alive and mostly whole. A human female lay on the ground, clutching what remained of her leg, and a Twi’lek sat against a wall, dazed and unseeing as if his body had made it through but his mind had not.

Melody spun and searched the crowd frantically, looking for the familiar lithe frame; the dark, faded markings; the twin, curve-handled lightsabers.

“There!” Savage pointed, and Melody breathed a sigh of relief.

Ventress, for her part, scowled when she saw them. She sauntered their way, barely any the worse for wear aside from her own gory tales marring her smooth face, and the disgust perched there was unmistakable.

“Are you two still living?”

“You’d miss us if we weren’t,” said Melody. She would have embraced the Dathomirian if it weren’t an almost certainty that Ventress would kill her. Quite frankly, Melody didn’t want to have come all this way just to die like that. She would have been better off with the Rodian.

But her good mood ended when the air shifted, becoming cold and stifling all at once.

The Fanged God’s voice commanded the very air they breathed. “Well, now. There are certainly less of you than I hoped.” He emerged from pure darkness, free of both light and shadow, and stepped forward, gazing at them all with mild interest. He steepled his long, gloved fingers, tip to tip, and said with a mocking smile, “But definitely more than I expected.”

Melody knew about toying with her opponents; she did it often, especially if she felt they deserved it. But this was different. This was all a sick game to him. Their lives meant nothing in the end. Only his Champion mattered, and even that was debatable. She glared at him with hatred and fury, the feelings coming innately in his presence or perhaps because of it, and she hoped he felt them.

Instinctively, they all seemed to know what he wanted. One by one, the survivors—the ones who could stand—lined up single file, knuckles white around their weapons, prepared to defend themselves if necessary. Just how they intended to go about doing that against a god—against the living embodiment of the dark side—was a mystery that no one wanted to think too hard about.

Melody brushed shoulders against a fellow human who flinched away from her. She barely sparred him a glance. He had enough demons to fight without her adding one more to the list. Savage stood strong and vigilant beside her with Ventress on his opposite side, one hand perched on her hip, utterly assured. She was just waiting to be named the victor.

Melody almost hoped that Ventress was the one chosen. As much as she didn’t want her to go, Melody believed that Ventress was by far the most prepared, the most skilled out of all of them. For as long as Melody had known her, her proficiency and relationship with the dark side had never wavered.

Like they were cattle and he the wealthiest, pickiest buyer, the Fanged God strolled lazily down their line, sizing them up one by one. To some, he stopped to speak, adopting that strange tone that was painfully earnest and teasing all at once. Melody allowed herself to relax, to zone out. She wouldn’t be chosen. She knew it. She’d narrowly avoided being killed, and even though she’d survived, she never once did anything substantial or noteworthy, aside from perhaps saving Savage’s life. But that was hardly something that appealed to the dark side. That was weakness, that was—

“Ah, yes. You.” The Fanged God’s voice rumbled from right over her head, shocking her back to the present. The cool material of his glove brushed her face, tilting her chin up so that she met his unnerving gaze. Her neck craned back painfully to take in his height, but she kept her features blank and uninteresting. He only moved closer to her, studying every facet he could. “Tell me. Is it the rage that hides the sentiment, or the sentiment that hides the rage?”

She clenched her jaw and remained stubbornly silent. He didn’t seem to mind.

“And pyrokinesis. Not exactly a common power in mortals, but nothing special.” He tilted his head, eyes tracing her brow, the straight line of her nose, her lips, before flicking back to her eyes, searing and determined. “But what you did wasn’t mere generation, was it? There weren’t enough molecules to manipulate to create a fire that powerful. They were just the flint; your emotions were the fuel. And in the end, there was nothing left of the body. What you did was pure creation and destruction both.”

He released her and stepped back, assessing her for one final time. Melody kept waiting for him to move on, but he didn’t. In fact, he never once looked away from her, and his smile was turning towards both dark and gleeful.

“Yes,” he breathed, the hunger evident in his eyes and his voice, “you’re the one I want.”

“What?” Ventress hissed and stepped forward, but Savage held her back, eyes steady and wary on them. Melody barely perceived anything beyond the Fanged God’s sly smile and the hand he reached out to her, expectant and pleased.

But Melody knew the truth that very few of her kind wanted to admit. The dark side was a relentless temptation, looking for the most opportune moment to appear, waiting until you were at your most vulnerable, the most desperate, and then it would appear like a reassuring friend, like a panacea for all your despair. It dressed itself in the most attractive splendor, choosing the form of the poison you wanted most. But in the end, the dark side could only tempt you. It couldn’t force you.

The decision to choose it, to use it, was yours alone.

So in the end, it was obvious what she had to do.

“Not interested,” she said softly, steel wrapped in silk. She stared him down, and that by itself was one of the most terrifying things she’d ever done, including the fortnight Maul had once spent hunting her down, all in the name of training. “Choose someone else.”

His smile faltered at first, but when it returned, it was tinged with regret, with something akin to pity. But those same emotions weren’t in his eyes; there was only a depthless, remorseless cruelty inside those glowing red orbs and the dark that surrounded them. It dawned on Melody then that her truth was a lie, that she was wrong about the dark side, so very, very wrong.

And with a mere eight words, the Fanged God proved it. “Then I guess I’ll have to force you.”

That’s when the screams started to erupt all around her.

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