(EDITED: MARCH 2014. hey guys heyy.) (ahum.)

Disclaimer: entirely applicable.

Inspiration: Assassins Creed (ii) – the things used in it and here are, of course, like, real things. the parkour is learn-able, throwing knives and hidden-blades actual weapons, etc.; kind of sort of Robin Hood legends, but that's obvious. and will probably be joked about at some point, period-accuracy can just suck it i don't caaaaarrre; AC ii soundtrack

Canon you should keep in mind/Headcanons of mine that relate/Basically Things to Note: Konoha has nobles with extremely douche-y tendencies (not limited to the "turn your siblings into often-orphaned thought slaves with the power of brain-mushing" and the "take your family's eyeballs. seriously, don't even wait for them to be done using them no do it if you want my love son" clubs); canon is a sexist universe in general (not expressly, it's not a focus, it's not mentioned as something to overcome – it just Is Expected And Is, and that makes it worse); there're no shinobi in this AU – no chakra, no jutsu, just lack of sense. probably some very strange wildlife. maybe sorcery. i don't know what i'm doing do not be mislead; think 14th century if you must have a basis, which i. don't.

Warnings: people who're uncomfortable with swearing make me uncomfortable because i don't have a filter like i've tried so that is a thing; violence. that's central, we'll see how graphic; general flaunting of law breakage.

so.

let's do this.

...

holy water
cannot help you now
a thousand armies
couldn't keep me out

...

There was always something invidious about crowds.

Maybe it was the indecipherably stifling smell. They had a way, you'd always felt, of fermenting a hundred familiar scents into a sickly, insoluble deluge and roiling it like heavy soup under a pressed, heated lid, and even without carrying on any fancy boredom-borne metaphors it sucked. But then, it could have been the noise, so clamorous it bypassed the ears and beat directly at the brain; a hundred impatient fists thump-thump-thumping against your skull, each one playing a skewed game of knock-a-door-run with your focus. And this, all of this, obscuring points of actual import and so blinding you to things you may even have found amusing if there weren't just so much of it.

Maybe it was just the uniquely disconcerting form of isolation that came with being alone surrounded by people.

Or, just maybe, it was an occupational type of thing. The chafed need for a three-foot radius of personal space and at least one sense at a time left unassaulted could well be present only on the aside from knowing that, for instance, the lady in violet that just bumbled cheerfully into you could have just as cheerfully slipped a knife into your gut.

Who could say, really?

Of course, it could be the grating yells of preachers that flocked to such populated areas like flies to an exceptionally gullible carcass.

Invidious, indeed.

It's a true wonder, you think, that they put such apparently sincere fervor into their ravings about the swarming, pestilential, absolute and utter endemic of sin that was infecting every corner of the unworthy, blackening earth - while never considering the possibility that an advocate of aforementioned sinful pest swarm could overhear. Could be staring them down from beside the honeycake stall. Trying very hard not to either flick a stone into his flapping face-holes or burst into criminally unprofessional giggles. Or both.

Really, you came along to the public square to lurk quietly in the presence of discount sweets, to the reception of a morbidly obese, sack-adorned older gentleman squawking on about Eternal Torment and Agents of Lucifer and the Destruction of this and the Profaning that and bah. Such was the penance for the removal of a few uppity politicians. It was, in your basest terms of rendition, all mournfully fucking Pharisaical to the point it would have been funny if not for the fact that it really, really wasn't.

The city will crumble into dissolution, he's saying, standing a few yards from the spot where the viscount of somewhere or other, days prior, had caved in the head of a small, grubby street child. A bumbled attempt at pickpocketing, repaid with bludgeoning, repaid with barely a caution and a congratulatory little wink and an, aye, good swing, sir.

Sickness and disease will sweep the lands into chaos, he says, and says it as though entire apartment blocks aren't coughing blood as he does. As though they aren't now laying, confined to beds ridden with the pestilence that started it, as though the funds for cures and fixes don't go to bi-monthly noble feasts, imported bed drapery, fancy lawn ornaments, a young slave (all of the above-).

Demon-kind will come to power, he says, as if they did not lick at the gore-thickened boots of those who murdered their brothers and climbed the corpses to power, those who watched over gleaming goblet rims as they piled up high and pale and faceless under their reign-

The wooden posts had dried under the blaring sun, and the tacked paint, you find, was wont to splinter beneath nails as easily as morning ice.

An inhalation, through the teeth.

Hold.

Hold it.

Release. Force the body to relax.

Casual. Unobtrusive, unobtrusive.

No obtrusion here, none at all, not at all, I would never dream, in fact, I am, my very self, a dream. A trick of the heat, trick of the light, trick of the mind...

Unnoticed.

Well. This was getting a bit upsetting.

Lucky Mister Mitokado.

Where the hell are you, Mister Mitokado?

Of course he was somewhere. What, after all, could a festival hope to be without a guest of honour? What could the poor public ever think to do with their celebrations if they weren't given at least one person of some remote semblance of importance to cut their ribbons for them or make a speech or hand a consolation prize or be generally schmoozed over from all directions? Oh, the humanity. The nerve. The very thought. By God, what would the neighbours say?

Gods, but stalls were so, so boring. The appeal of so many for so many may forever be one of life's indecipherable mysteries, up there with where a person even got that much sugar. Nobody needed that much sugar. Good lord. Wow. (The vendor was really over-focusing on prospective thieves from the flanks. Frontal take was insultingly possible for all involved, but standards could be lowered for sugar's sake if it all got too bland to cope with. Hm.)

In any case, it happened, coincidentally, that this person of importance – among oily runs of silk-tied politics and no small amount of gaggled fawning of his very own – beneficed a drug cartel that hooked, and then continuously sold to street children in exchange for various services. Pool cleaning was a happy assumption to make, for sure, but then were the reports – the cries – of little sisters ruined and cold and left out in brothel back-alleys like so much wasted, wasted rubbish, and…

And.

A scowl is swallowed by the darkness of a thick, pale hood. And I wish that was the worst report.

This wasn't broadcast, of course. Far from common knowledge. The ruling class could never have an associate known and proven to be engaged in such shenanigans. Konoha was a civilized city, after all, and as such there were acceptable and unacceptable ways of murdering children. 'Publically' was most assuredly of the latter. As were 'ineptly' and 'hesitantly after I said so, you ungrateful little cur, don't you know who my father is.'

Tradition, and all that.

You're glad you wore fingerless gloves for the occasion because you can just suck the honey of your fingers when you're done with the cake, and you've always preferred to avoid unnecessary messes.

You're glad also that there would always be cake.

Shouldering the chipped post and following the length of it up, you examine the technicolour fabric triangles that hang suspended and vibrant above the lively crowd. Their strings send them looping to their kin and about the plaza and make the sky, for all the world below, appear as a pale blue canvas that had been torn and restitched by a great hand with nothing to work with but ragged cuts of cloth, wire, and pity; an expansive wound fixed up with the optimistic fabric of teddy-bear patches. They swayed drunkenly even in the barely-there summer breezes, muggy winds that were hardly enough to carry the weight of jeers or the dull smoke-sweetened sizzling carnival smells.

The watcher stands, chews on their cake and wonders what everyone would do if the small, lonely figure in pale rags walked up the loud man on the crate and hit him full in the face. Over the heady atmosphere, frantic warnings about the Prince of Death and his assuredly dastardly, assuredly close at hand plots to bring their beloved city to its bloody knees just make it, if you were of a mind to listen.

Even if nobody was, it's flattering.

…

...

Uchiha Sasuke hated festivals.

Hated them.

He was not unfond of them.

He did not dislike them.

No, no no, nonono – Sasuke disliked pageantry and was unfond of noise. He was unfond social gatherings and disliked civilians/ people in general.

A place running rampant with a surplus of all the above equalled, therefore, severe psychological fucking hatred.

The smell of incense, dripping thickly down from the hanging pots, conjugated in unconsecrated harmony with the ever-present musk of closely packed, unclean bodies and seemed to serve no other purpose than to nauseate him on the most personal of levels. Sasuke fancied he could see the end result churning about the crowd like an oil spillage. It made him want to retch, and the loud colours were giving him a vicious migraine.

So taxing, it was, having to stand straight-faced and upright at his post before the private building when all he wanted to do was draw his sword and slice his way through the inane chattering vendors and obnoxious stands until there finally was quiet, and he could go back to the Uchiha grounds and do the same to some practice dummies. In silence.

It really was beyond his comprehension why his father insisted upon all members of the clan being actively involved in mundane efforts of law-enforcement – their family had run the Konoha Royal Guard for generations, for God's sake. What were the appearances for? The benefit of civilians, of all people, that they would feel protected from their unanimously debased kin? The sly amusement of the clan elders? Punishment for some imagined slight Sasuke never could recall having made?

Annoying.

Making matters worse still was the way his brother, parallel to him at the other side of the arched doorway, stood aloof and content as he watched the festivities with something that might, saints forgive, even have been alertness. Not even that much could be said though for Madara and Shisui, both of whom had given up all pretense of professionalism and had leapt bodily into the rabble without so much as pretending to hear their assigned watch stations, and were at current spending their time at the rigged hoop games and within clusters of giggling courtesans intermittently.

So. Annoying.

Sasuke locked his jaw to stifle a huff and locked his arms to stifle the urge to impale the thrice-damned town crier who had been screaming ignorance about devils and crime for almost an hour.

No one takes this long to get ready to make one pointless speech to a bunch of mouth-breathers, he thought, seething. Such a waste of my time.

"Otouto, your eye is twitching."

"I know."

"It is quite disconcerting."

"I don't care."

Briefly considering not to out of mild brotherly spite, Itachi reached out to prompt an inebriated man in the opposite direction before he could collide with Sasuke and consequently bring disembowelment upon himself. Sasuke's hand, which had indeed been going for his katana, instead gave the befuddled civilian a very crass gesture and spat a few choice profanities about his ancestors.

Rather than let out a long-suffering sigh, Itachi, being Itachi, dropped his eyelids infinitesimally. Always so sour, he thought, and found himself overlaying images of a rosy-cheeked little boy grabbing onto his leg with pudgy, sticky toddler hands on top of the embittered teenager beside him now. The slight loosening of one shoulder counted, also, as a sigh.

Giving up on trying to distract his little brother form dreams of slaughter for the moment, the elder Uchiha went back to people watching – which he admittedly did enjoy – and making sure that Madara and Shisui refrained from doing anything that would put them in the awkward position of having to arrest themselves. (An unfortunate fate that, under his unforgiving eye, had happened several times before.)

By the time the obnoxious brass horns bleated the oh-so-eagerly awaited arrival of Mitokado, Sasuke had fairly cracked a knuckle from the force of his fist clenching alone, Shisui was dazedly face down in an apple barrel and Itachi was no longer having to feign the boredom in his expression. So focused was he on looking focused, he almost didn't catch the same lumbering drunkard from a while ago. The fellow now seemed unable to recall directions stretching more than five steps from his current position, and grew so startled by the sudden noise that he charged toward them-

Only to slam into a slight figure that was crossing quietly between the two and send them, in turn, slamming into the Uchiha. Shock caused the three to remain still as the crowd descended into oblivious, anticipatory murmurings and the drunk rediscovered the functionality of feet, and skittered away as fast as his wobbling legs could carry him (and end up in a prone sprawl in the dirt after face-ramming the side of a house, to which, unknowingly, the three blinked at in perfect synch).

Apparently remembering himself, the pale-clad figure hurried upright- or would have, if Sasuke hadn't remembered his own self and, cutting off the, "Ah, pardo-", shoved the civilian off of him as if to ward off infection.

"You had better watch your step," he snapped, straightening the crumpled leathers of his uniform.

The boy caught himself.

He did not finish the apology.

Itachi, meanwhile, was taking a reflexive, cursory note of the stranger. They were a bundle of many layered material, greys and off-whites with slips of bleak red that stuffed out the oddly small figure like woollen packaging over something breakable. A drooping hood obscured their face but for a pale chin that looked, as well, strangely delicate. He almost frowned in bemusement. The stranger was still quiet after Sasuke's barb, which Itachi thought to himself was a wise cho-

"Yeah." The voice from the hood was low and clipped. "Yeah, I'll do that."

The voice was also, he found, somewhat effeminately pitched. Itachi swiftly pegged the unlucky person as a young boy with a poor family that couldn't afford proper clothing (possibly merchants, judging by the decent quality of material – perhaps without storage space for many clothes, hence the layers), and lost all minuscule interest in the event. Sasuke was occupied with growling at the minor insolence, prompting his elder brother to roll his eyes and cuff him lightly in the forehead to stop any notions of picking a fight with a commoner. It was around that time the esteemed Mitokado Homura swept across the make-shift stage with all possible regal airs streaming about him like misplaced victory banners, smiling graciously at the somewhat dutiful applause he received merely for doing so.

Neither brother had noticed the frustrated downturn of the mouth under the hood.

"In any case," began Itachi, turning calmly back, "be s-"

The space was empty, and the swirling colours of the crowd left no trace of white.

…

…

Fuck, fuck, fuck, thought the assassin, because it was a strong summation of their situation in general.

Fuck publicity, they thought, and then: This means I could've actually smacked that fucking crier.

Fuck.

To the knowledge of even the most amateurish of murderers, one of the most opportune points at which to intercept your mark was in the space between Point A (his quarters) and Point B (the stage). To the unprepared, the mere distraction caused by their own footsteps was ample to make it basically fool proof. Unless, of course, while on your merry way to do just that you were literally, actually thrown into a fucking guard station-

Deep breath. Calm.

Blend back.

It's just turning out to be a bad day.

As the assassin made their unassuming, blankly slow path towards the front of the gathering (most of which was too busy trying to look like model citizens in front of the Person of Importance to respond with more than a glare and a muffled cuss or two), they soothed themselves with images of stabbing that uppity little snot with the stupid chicken-ass hair right in his grouchy, well-bred face. It was centring, and provided an alternative from listening to Mitokado drone on about how he appreciated that they appreciated his fine work for the city, and then outlining once more just why in fact they should.

He had to go home at some point, it was reasoned, and there would come a time there where he was without servants or guards, and then, snap.

"... to my great sorrow that I must part to Suna on such short notice to you all, but it is with this city's best interest at heart that I partake in this long and arduous journey…"

A smudge of paleness in the vast crowd, the line of a white head pricked just slightly.

What.

The urgency in the tip-off suddenly made an irritable amount of sense. There was no way a noble could be gotten at in the middle of open, flat desert land surrounded by armed escorts by the tens – certainly not by a single assassin. It would have to be tonight…

Dammit.

The press of metal to wrist was cool and familiar.

It would have to be now.

The quiet boots pressing forward were sure.

…

…

At his station, Shisui was miming suicide in a myriad of different ways. Sasuke and Itachi, the latter more warningly than the former, were watching because it gave them inspiration and took their minds off of the baritone warbling from the stage. Neither even wanted to guess at where Madara had wandered off to.

By the time the first stirrings of activity reached their ears, it was already too late.

For a few stalled seconds, the scene before them did not compute. Panic was spreading through the gathered civilians like a rippling pathogen, quickly gaining in mass and in volume – originating, it appeared, from the dais. The stage was set with an unremarkable mass of white fabric drooped- or, no, crouched, cat-like, on top of the collapsed form of Mitokado Homura. One nursing hand was at his throat as though tending gently to a patient's pulse. When the hand came away, Uchiha-sharp eyes caught the loud scarlet of blood like a flare from across the courtyard.

By the time they had taken a step, set hands to their hilts or minds to the chase, the figure in white was vaulting out of view.

Chase itself was made impossible by the masses of terrified townsfolk streaming in the opposite direction, so desperate in their need to escape that they shoved back against the guards in a hysterical tide. Itachi had to grab his hissing brother by the rough to prevent him forcefully mowing them down in pursuit.

By the time the hustle had dispersed (fifteen seconds at most, Itachi catalogued, not truly enough time, not nearly, surely), there was no trace but the gently expanding pool of red beneath the ex-councilman's cooling body.

And the assassin had vanished.

Again.

…

…

Twenty seconds and six chimneys away, the source of much diplomatic anguish and even more decimated professional pride was fairly skipping from rooftop to rooftop.

A good day after all, it had turned out. Stealth was the only thing that stopped them from whistling while they essentially pirouetted around an unstable collection of shingles and hopped from a balcony ledge.

He had apologised.

While he lay with a blade through his neck and swallowed back the blood from his throat, while he had lain there and died, Mitokado Homura had looked up into the shade of the hood above him and he had said that he was sorry. And dying men, knew the assassin, did not often tell lies.

It really was nice when they did that. It was grounding. It may even be enough to renew some semblance of faith in humanity – but then, did it make them better or worse, that they could see the barbarity of what they did, even as they continued to do it? Cloaked shoulders shrugged, hastily dismissing the philosophical route the mind was venturing down, and down and down. Therein lay madness.

Anyway, it may have been the highlight of the job, the rep-

"I'M GOING TO FIND HIM, NI-SAN. I'M GOING TO FIND HIM AND I'M GOING TO FUCKING GUT HIM WITH HIS OWN GODDAMNED SWORD."

Distant voices caused the lauded victim of the threat to pause.

"I'LL HAVE HIS HEAD ON A STICK. MARK MY WORDS. JUST YOU FUCKING MARK THEM. I'LL RIP HIS FUCKING HANDS OF AND MAKE HIM FUCKING EAT THEM."

The raging words dissolved into raging noises of general antipathy, and what sounded like the brutal annihilation of a market stall or two, and, okay, now that would be the actual highlight of the job. When the hood was flipped back, it revealed a satisfied half-smirk to the empty rooftops and, after shrugging off the thick white over-layers to stow in one of the many rooftop niches at convenience for later collection, pale locks of pink to the ebbing sun.

When the assassin dropped lightly into an alleyway it was with laughter spilling, careless and feminine, from her lips.

"Share the joke with an old veteran, won't you, my dear?"

The assassin snapped around-

-and was met with the city's coat of arms emblazoned across an armoured chest and, above that, smirking eyes of deep, Uchiha red.

Nope, thought Sakura, which was again a strong summation of her situation in general.

Definitely a bad damned day.

…

i don't want your money
i don't want your crown
see, i've come to burn
your kingdom down

...

well. that could be anyone.

Psst: basically a prologue, i think, just to get a general feel and stretch idc it was fun as hell; lyrics sandwiching the text are from Seven Devils by Florence & The Machine; oh and the original artwork on the cover was submitted by shihou on pixiv, but i did edit it a bunch out of early block.

Things em has learned in the time spent writing this: (EDIT, MARCH 2014: i'd like to say, 'i have the attention span and commitment stores of a young and disappointing goldfish' but i already knew that and am sufficiently as apologetic about it as is dictated by past experience and tbh regular state of existence. hello again friends. this is for you. i am helltrash.)

(Unrelated) Recommendations: assassins.. creed. uh.

i have a vague idea of what to do with this but i don't know. i feel kind of swishy about it, so i might just let it gather dust, i am so completely not sure. gah.

inspire me maybe?

(EDIT, MARCH 2014: all still very applicable.)