The Bloody Mist, over a decade after the Fourth Great War, has bloomed. Unrecognizable from the bloody home of the Seven Swordsman, it is a city coming to terms with its violent past while embracing its vibrant future. Much like Konoha was before the Third and Fourth Wars, Kiri has become a haven for branches of major clans seeking to establish footholds abroad. One such clan, the Shimizu, have done this in an... unconventional way.

Walking into the greenhouse is like hitting a permeable membrane of armpit. In the sense that it's hot and moist, not that it smells like armpit. Actually, it smells like alligator poop mixed with decomposing plant matter. Wakame doesn't mind the green, intensely loamy scent, though. It smells like home.

Sounds of gentle sloshing and large, scaled bodies pushing themselves through soil echoed through the thick air. Wakame strolled along the familiar network of boardwalks that crisscrossed over the expanse of the greenhouse. The family always called it the greenhouse, but it was in reality a highly maintained biome which offered comfort and ideal shelter to the Shimizu clan's specialized species of alligator. Shimizu gators were heartier and smarter than than their non-ninja counterparts. They grew faster and with strongly-imprinted human bonds. This characteristic had been somewhat bred into the species, but their size and temperament allowed for effective use in the clan's ninja work. Though they could survive in the colder climate of Kirigakure, the native climate for both the animals and the Shimizu clan was considerably warmer, hence the greenhouse. The biome kept the alligators comfortable when they weren't actively training or on missions, and Wakame loved strolling through to greet the various members of his scalier, sharp-toothed family.

Most of the gators were quite large, as they belonged to older relatives, but the sizes ranged from the length of Wakame's palm to three times as long as his father was tall. Crazy stuff when he thought about it. No wonder some people were freaked out by the clan if they didn't know the Shimizu legacy. To its credit, the clan had taken a considerable role in disbursing irrational fear of the large reptiles— though healthy caution was important. His parents especially offered tours and demonstrations at the clan compound to Kiri natives and tourists alike when they weren't on duty. His dad said that the Mist used to be a terrible place to live, but it had really come into its own after the Fourth Great Ninja War. That's when the clan had started taking advantage of the extensive water access and blooming economy. Kiri was a big tourist hotspot these days, and so the Shimizu Gator Park was a big hit with folks visiting from places like Konoha or Suna, where alligators— let alone highly trained ones— simply didn't exist. He was pretty sure alligators weren't anywhere in the desert, at least, unless they were in a river or something.

A significantly smaller swishing plooplooploop sound zigzagged under the boardwalk directly beneath his feet. The smack of a tail sounded on the surface of the water as his nin-gator slipped from under the cover of the boardwalk's shadow and gazed at Wakame expectantly. He stooped to lower a gloved handful of raw chicken to the growing alligator.

"What's up, sister, how've you been?" Wakame tossed the chicken towards his friend and grinned when the little gator's jaws snapped shut around the food. The little gal wasn't much longer than three feet— miniscule by clan standards— and was already showing promise.

Geta would soon be the strongest and best nin-gator in the whole clan if Wakame had anything to do with it. He make sure she got all the fresh meat she needed, plus a little extra— and no, he wasn't spoiling her, Mom— as well as medical attention and carefully monitoring her muscle growth, and soon the gator would be able to start training with him full time. That would make him a real Shimizu gator-nin, something that, even though he was barely in real training only a few years into the Academy, he was intensely proud of.

Anyone who had the pleasure of meeting the sharp-toothed young boy heard about it. He was going to be a famous gator ninja, and he would travel to all the different villages, and meet all of the clans who trained animals, especially reptiles, and he was going to see a big shark in real life. He told these eternal truths to anyone who would listen. His parents, his cousins, the waitstaff at his granny's restaurant, the two men who delivered fresh mulch, produce, and dry goods once a month. Everyone. Few people tired of it, though. Wakame was enthusiastically helpful and bred with the responsibility of a young ninja animal trainer. He was by all accounts, a pretty good kid, although his mischievousness occasionally got the better of him, but c'mon, he might not be a prodigy but he was a solid student who was willing to push himself to any lengths to be the best that he could be—

"HEY, NERD!" A shockingly loud voice crashed through the greenhouse, ripping Wakame from his thoughts. The voice didn't come soon enough to save him from stepping straight off the end of the boardwalk though. Wakame flopped face first into the shallow pool holding the large juvenile alligators. Sputtering, he hauled himself from the water towards the mulched patch of damp earth near the edge of the pool. He heard devilish, wheezing laughter that gave away his older brother.

"Hijiki!" Wakame stood like a drenched snow angel, arms and legs spread out to avoid too much contact with his sopping clothes.

He gaped at Hijiki accusingly, and the teenager put his hands up in defense, still trying to catch his breath, "I-i swear, I didn't know you were gonna fall, I'm sorry, but that's the funniest damn thing I've seen in weeks."

Wakame grimaced. Jerkface, he'd get him back, "Hey, Hijiki?"

"What?" He said through subsiding giggles.

"Shut up."

The older, long-haired boy rolled his eyes, clapping a well-meaning hand on his brother's back, "Go change, dude, before Mom sees."

"Ugh," Wakame looked down at his soaked clothing: thick striped linen, a common Kiri fabric, and a lightweight green t-shirt which was now sticking to him in all the worst ways, "yeah okay."

He hobbled off towards the exit, offering his little friend, Geta, some more raw chicken on the way out in apology for their time being cut short.

Enter The Pit

"What's that?" The tiny three year old asked from his place atop the kitchen counter of Grandma Shimizu's Gator Pit Grill, as two men carried in crates from their large box truck outside.

"Paper towels." The taller of the two replied.

The baby's chubby arm moved to another stack of boxes by the entrance to the food storage room at the back of the kitchen, "What's that?" He asked, ever more demanding.

"Onions."

"Un-uns," the young child parroted with an exuberant giggle.

The shorter man, dark hair graying at the temples and thick glasses magnifying smiling eyes, offered a small wave to the baby before turning on his heel to retrieve more boxes.

Wakame passed the man as he stepped through the door. The boy smiled at his little cousin on the countertop and set a large bag of flour on the ground. Shipment days were some of his favorites. Everything smelled like earth and food, and he picked the truck men's brains for stories about where they had been in the last month. Sometimes they would bring candy from other villages, and Granny always let them stay for dinner. The woman herself was buzzing around the restaurant, directing where certain crates should go and busying herself with sorting through the fresh produce.

Nameko Shimizu, at fifty seven, considered herself to be in the prime of her life. She took pride her her clan, her family, but most of all her restaurant. Grandma Shimizu's Gator Pit was not just a place to eat, but her life's work, and had become somewhat of a cultural phenomenon in Kiri. Over the years, the compound had gained renown for being a popular destination for tourists and school groups. The restaurant itself offered hearty meals to those who made the trek out, and, not that Nameko was bragging, but the food was damn good.

The restaurant had also been vitally important in offering the clan some alternative to entering Kiri's shinobi forces. Shinobi could be noble, sure, and it made up the majority of her relatives' occupations. But she was a civilian who'd married into the clan, and she considered it a feat of excellence on her part that she ensured military service was not obligatory to Shimizu children. She'd lived through her husband and sons' enlistment in grand armies for multiple wars. She'd seen the great, stinking head of violence rearing its way through her loved ones, and she'd throw herself into her own wood fire before she saw another child forced into shinobi life. Young people deserved an alternative, and the restaurant ensured a vibrant starting place for Shimizu youth in the hospitality and food industry. Still, many of her own grandchildren joined the Academy without hesitation. Her stress was at least lessened by the relative peace after the Fourth War.

Nameko watched her two grandchildren, one acquainting himself with every item that passed through the door with an emphatic, "What's that?" The other bustling about with the delivery men, lifting boxes only just too heavy for his growing arms and waving off the older of the two men when he commented on the shade of red Wakame's face was becoming from exertion. She was fond of the delivery men, not simply because they refused to charge unreasonable merchant taxes on bulk goods, but because of how patient they were with her family. The restaurant was often busy with a handful of small Shimizus, and Wakame was usually chomping at the bit to get information out of the men about their travels. They never snapped, never chided, and were always willing to let the kids participate, even if all they could do was "guard" the sacks of rice. For their kindness, and efficiency, Nameko kept them on, and always made sure to send them away with some tip money and full stomachs.

She eyed the taller of the two men as he brought in what looked to be the last crate from the truck parked outside, "Same-san?"

He pushed a stray lock of hair back up into the vertically oriented mess atop his head— Nameko would love to know how he got his hair to do that, and how Wakame had managed to recreate the look.

"Yes ma'am?" The man had a deep, somewhat grating voice, as though he'd spent many of his younger years screaming too loudly. His face at rest had the stern and unrelenting aura of his clan— the Hoshigaki.

There was virtually no doubt whatever about his lineage, and he made no effort to hide his appearance. He also made no effort to speak about the clan, so Nameko never asked. She wasn't into prying for information. Despite his intimidating appearance, the guy was much sweeter than any older Hoshigaki clan member she'd known— and judging by his age, he was old enough to remember the nastiness of the Bloody Mist for sure— but then again, she didn't pry.

"You fellas stayin' for dinner tonight?"

The large sharkish man grinned, full of pointed teeth, and scratched the back of his head, "If that's alright with you, sure! We love your cooking. Of course, we wouldn't want to impose, though, and I hope you don't only offer on our account—"

Nameko tutted dismissively, "You don't know what's good for you, son, you both need a hot meal every once in a while," she scooped her youngest grandson off the countertop and plopped him on her hip, turning back to him, "I know there's no stove in the cab of that truck."

"You'd be right about that, ma'am." The other truck driver pitched from his place near the cold storage, unloading several bags of fruit from a wheeling cart.

"Yeah I know." Nameko scoffed fondly, "So no arguments. We're gonna have a nice dinner together. Now— what are we in the mood for?"

Slightly Later, Still in The Pit

Boisterous bodies clashed as though they were in battle. They were, in a sense, because if there was anything a Shimizu kid knew, it was that Granny's pork buns were best when they were piping hot, and no one in the family respected the noble concept of 'dibs'. There was enough, though. There was always enough, despite the rowdy gaggle of children scrapping with each other, despite the adults who would stop in from time to time to grab some take out or join their kids.

Nameko's uncanny ability to maintain a steady supply of food at family dinner was astounding— and something the two transport drivers for Corvid Couriers had not experienced in many, many years. It wasn't just that there was food, it was the undeniable warmth that emanated from the Shimizu clan dinners. It was the shining, glazed meats that mirrored the pointy-toothed grins of Wakame and his older brother. The way that Nameko seemed to have conversations with them all, overlapping one another in a perfect cacaphony of familial bonding.

For the sharkish delivery man, it rung of something deep in his chest. He was a part of this in a way, just like his teammate was. He doubted that he could find a way to have extricated himself from Namakeo's motherly and hospital grasp even if he had tried, though. He fit into this, these family dinners they got to have when they were scheduled to deliver here. The part that recognized this also knew that it was distanced. By the brevity of the visits, the nature if his professional relationship with the Shimizu clan, by even his own identity. The tall, blue skinned trucker smiled absentmindedly at the toddler who was "helping" earlier and was now staring wide-eyed at him as though he held the secrets to being able to form full sentences. Really, he was just holding a spoon.

He shoved the aching part down into his stomach. It could drown in his soup, because that feeling was a part of a different compartment of himself that had no place at this dinner table.

"Nezumi-san?" A young Shimizu girl seated next to his colleague tugged on the younger delivery man's sleeve, "Nezumi-san, why are your glasses so big?"

Same snorted. His colleague's magnified eyes, lined with premature age, crinkled, and he placed a gentle hand on the child's head, "It is because I am blind, little friend."

The girl's round eyes grew impossibly large as she comprehended the weight of those words, "Oh…"

Wakame leaned in towards his cousin from across the table, "He isn't really blind, Nezumi-sama is just joking."

Same chucked, nudging the excitable youth to his right, "I'm not so sure. He may drive the truck but I can confirm that his vision is just awful."

"I can see fine, thank you," Nezumi replied, peering at his friend.

"Maybe you can see, but with those glasses you still just kind of look like a fish." Same pointed his spoon at his partner, chiding.

Nezumi chuckled heartily— something rare for the man, "You're one to talk, Same-sama."

This easy conversation was another feature of Shimizu clan dinners that struck him. It wasn't that he and Nezumi did not enjoy each other's company. They surely did, and had been working with one another since well before the Fourth War, and in some ways he saw the small, bespectacled truck driver as a brother. But work was more difficult when they were on the road. They had a route to follow, but there was still a threat from bandits and con-men along the road, and the tension rarely dissipated when they were amongst their business contacts. Conversation between the men and their customers was rarely more than general pleasantries when dropping off a shipment, but his and Nezumi's experience with the Shimizu clan had been different. There was an odd sense of belonging felt amongst the brood of chattering youngsters. They offered their food and home to the delivery men, and asked nothing but that the two do the job they'd be completing anyways.

At the same time, there was a nagging in his mind that told him not to be naive. These people were just nice, and they'd do this for anyone. He and Nezumi just happened to be on the delivery route of some really nice folks, but he shouldn't think of their kindness as a sign of anything more than a professional courtesy. Wariness was pertinent in all cases, and he would make no exceptions for the Shimizus.

Then again, he couldn't help but catch a glimpse of Wakame's spiky hair as the kid tore into a fresh pork bun, burning his tongue, and making every variety of absurd facial expression to dull the pain. Half the bite of bun fell out of his mouth and onto his plate. He blew on it for a moment, then scarfed it back down. Same forced his eyes away, pretending he hadn't seen that particular display.

The kid had very obviously started spiking his hair up in a very familiar fashion a few months after he'd started to deliver to the restaurant. Same, for the life of him, didn't know what kind of gel the kid was using to pull it off. His own hair just kind of… did that, and Wakame's had taken on a stiff, almost plastic rigidity ever since he started mimicking the hairstyle. It might be simple flattery from a child, but he found something endearing in the occurrence.

Staring at the bottom of his soup bowl, he pursed his lips over serrated teeth. Maybe he'd make an exception for the kid.

Not in a Literal Pit, Just Metaphorically

Nezumi took his glasses off and rubbed the bridge of his nose. From this distance, and without the aid of visual correction, his reflection in the bathroom mirror looked almost like how he remembered. He could see little more than a fuzzy blur, but the shapes were there. Fair skin and dark, wide set eyes. He could see a ghost of himself as a young man there— but just a ghost. Though he couldn't see it unaided, he knew he did not look the same. His face had creased from stress and eye strain before he had found someone who could match his prescription. His hair had grayed at the temples was was not the silken black sheet of his youth, but had grown coarser.

Aging was something Nezumi had rarely considered in his childhood, and when the Fourth War began—much before then, something reminded him— the concept of getting old became what felt like wishful thinking. Now that he had the ability and time to consider the possibility of life continuing onwards, he spent too many moments dissociating into the mirror. Nezumi wasn't old, by any means, and the fact that he started going gray in his early thirties didn't have anything to do with it. As he saw it, he really just wasn't supposed to make it this far. There was no explanation for the dumb luck that had graced him, and he wasn't about to look too deeply into it. His eyes might be shot, but he had a friend and a small income, and that was more than could be said for most of the people he grew up with.

Nezumi sighed, tearing his eyes from his own reflection, dragged a brush through his hair to get it out of his way, and began scrubbing his face. He had a ritual: Hair back, face scrubbed and moisturized, medicated eye drops in, hair back down and braided, teeth brushed, and then to bed. Structure helped Nezumi, and the worst times during work were when he didn't have the opportunity to complete his routine. To be honest, that happened more often that he'd like, what with how desolate some stretches of highway were.

But nights like this were superb. He made a mental note to to thank the Shimizu matriarch again before they left. After dinner, Same and he had been offered a room in the compound's guest houses. The pair usually did not stay for longer than a few hours since the scheduled routes had to be followed, but tonight was open since they didn't have another pick up due at Courier headquarters for another day and a half. This fortunately meant that not only did Nezumi get to fulfill his calming and sacred evening routine, but he also would allow himself to sleep in the next morning— an absolute luxury if he'd ever known one. There were so few things he cherished more than the chance to sleep for longer than his job usually allowed.

All things considered, his life was infinitely easier than it had been for the first two decades or so, and as long as he committed to this life, to his comfortable identity, there wasn't a need for undue complications—

"Mmhey Itachi? You done in there? I gotta use the can." The door to the bathroom cracked open as one small, sharkish eye peeked through, squinting as it adjusted to the light.

Upon hearing the name, his own given name, his head snapped up to look in the mirror again. Not Nezumi's face. Not the half-baked cover story for the impossible nature of his current life, but Itachi Uchiha. Cursed tenfold and over again by his own actions and the decisions of his ancestors. Sometimes the name reminded him of home— what used to be home. Used to be family. Other times, like now, the name triggered a disconnected response, as though he'd be called something unsavory.

It felt so painfully familiar and yet foreign at the same time. Itachi was dead, twice. Was supposed to be dead, at least. And Nezumi picked up where that death left off. He was a different man now, with different thoughts and goals, and he didn't spend long moments agonizing over his own existential identity when his friend was waiting to pee.

"Hey um, if this is a bad time, I can wait for a few minutes." Came the voice on the other side of the door.

"No please, you're fine, I'm finished." The dark haired man secured his braid at one end and shuffled out the door past his friend, mentally shaking himself from the funk. He privately smiled to see the shark tooth print pajamas which he found to be both on-the-nose and ironic, considering the man's age and size. Just imagine if the Great Nations knew that the most infamous son of Kirigakure was not only at large, but wore shark p.j.'s.

"Goodnight, Kisame." Itachi said over his shoulder as he flopped onto one of the two beds in the small bedroom. That extra sleep was going to be absolutely divine.