project: lucky 13
dedication: definitely for tricky. this fanfic suits her. and i love her. that is all. ;)
disclaimer: i do not own naruto. D:
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You're not going to believe me.
Shit, I wouldn't even believe me, and you're going to hate me for bringing it up, but I have to. I can't just let this go — I can't just let this simmer, and stew, and boil, until it turns into something nasty and big. I can't forget it, and I've tried; trust me, I've probably never tried harder at something in my life — I've really tried to forget, but I can't. Not like I want to. I've got to tell you, even though you'll think I'm lying; because I need to put it out there, so you and Sakura stop asking why I'm acting strange, or why I look sick, or why I can't look you in the eye.
Besides — you know how bad I am at keeping secrets.
Something has happened. I think it's been happening for a while now, but I shut my eyes; well, metaphorically, of course — those things, those somethings, were still there, and I couldn't really look away, even though I tried to. But; but something is happening to me. I'm changing. I don't even know why, but I am; and I think it's an after effect of something bigger. I'll, uh; I'll start from the beginning.
But, shit, you're not even going to begin to believe me.
I saw your mother.
Last night, stood at the foot of my bed. She was just staring — and then she smiled, walked over, put her hand on my cheek — she was really cold, I remember. She smiled at me, in a sad sort of way, like she knew something, and then she said it was going to be hard for me. For you. But I had to look out for you — we had to look out for each other. She said you'd grown up nicely — that she'd been watching for a while. And, all the while, I was just staring — at her face, at her eyes, at the fucking gunshot in the middle of her forehead—
I'm sorry.
But it's true.
Last night, I saw Mikoto.
I was at Tsunade's, and she was making coffee, and I was sat in the front room, just thinking — about how things hadn't been the same since Jiraiya passed away. And I can't remember what I said, but I said something out loud, probably about how he was a pervy old man and all that jazz, and someone chuckled. 'cept, it wasn't Tsunade, because she didn't hear me and, besides, she was in the other room. Even if she had heard me, I wouldn't have heard her.
So, I said, "Hey, old lady — have you got a bloke around, or something?"
She laughed and said, "I wish."
Beside me, someone else said, "She'd better not."
And I turned and blinked and there was Jiraiya sat right opposite me, as if someone hadn't shot him when he was in uniform just a few days ago, and he smiled and said, "Hey, kid."
I won't lie, but I screamed.
It isn't every day you see a dead guy, right?
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And that's not even the weirdest bit.
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(un)lucky 13
prologue
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—some people are born great
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one.
Sasuke pressed his hands against his head, threading his fingers through strands of hair as he gazed blankly down at the ground below him. He paused for a moment; sucking in a deep breath, attempting to ignore the pain which suddenly shot through his head, running through his body until it became a dull throb. He rolled up the sleeves of his suit jacket, fingers fumbling with the buttons of his shirt, until he could see milky white skin gleaming underneath the light of the moon. Although the night was cold, he could feel beads of sweat dribbling down his forehead, soaking the collar of his shirt.
But he still felt cold.
His heart pounded, and his head hurt, and he grit his teeth, closing his eyes and forcing himself to relax, if only for a moment. The pain tore through him, once again, and he let out something akin to a squeak. It all hurt — his head, his eyes, his heart — it just hurt. He visited her grave — their grave — for the second time in a day, and the note on the counter had flipped back into his thoughts. He'd felt numb, then, and the lilies in his hands had dropped to the floor, and he'd turned away. But then it felt as though he were turning his back on them, and on the past, and so he'd just ran.
Past Sakura's flat.
Away from the flat — their flat — where the note was.
He just ran and ran and ran. And now he was here, sat on that park bench and he was hurting. The memories always made everything hurt. Made his head spin. His heart throb. Made him want to cry, even though he never cried, and he never would, but they made him want to all the same, because it would just be easier to cry.
It hurt.
His hand moved down to clutch the material of his shirt, just above his heart, bunching the fabric up beneath his fingers as he sucked in a long, ragged breath. He opened his eyes and looked up to the sky. The stars weren't so bright, he figured.
The stars weren't so bright.
He chuckled softly, letting his hands drop to his sides; something wet dribbled down his cheek, staining his cheeks crimson — and, although at first he thought they were tears, he realized he was bleeding. Crying tears of blood, maybe. Pretty, pretty tears, each one sparkling like rubies beneath the light of the stars. A horrid blackness filled his heart. He let out another chuckle, but this time it was cruel — awful — and he straightened, swaying ever so slightly.
The blackness overtook him.
He wasn't Uchiha Sasuke anymore.
He was this — something else. He was rotten and tainted and sin; his heart felt pitch black, and it was difficult to breathe. He was the same on the outside, of course, but inside, he felt different. Broken. Shattered. Ruined. But, all at the same time, he felt this sudden rush of power; with these eyes, he could rule it all. Rule the world as he saw fit, or let it crash and burn. With these eyes, he could control Death — and as he looked around, the flowers, all neatly lined up and pretty in baby blue, wilted; their petals wrinkled, turning brown and then grey and then black. And he thought he could hear them screaming.
He took a step forwards.
With these eyes, everything he saw turned to ash, with even the slightest of thoughts. What he wanted to break was broken — what he wanted to shatter was shattered — and what he wanted to ruin was ruined. He could destroy it all, with his swirling crimson eyes. This power — this incredible, unbearable power — it was something more. It surged through him. The branches of a tree cracked and broke; a bird stopped singing, falling stiffly to the ground; and the stars were blotted out, blackened by death itself. A late-night jogger fell to his side, wheezing, clutching his stomach, begging for him to call for help; and as Sasuke gazed into those hopeless, terrified eyes, he saw a familiar, kindly face swim in front of his eyes.
He fell to his knees.
The blood trickled down his cheeks, as he watched the jogger die, and he let out a sob.
"Sakura."
two.
When Sakura was young, she first saw death in the eyes of a baby bird.
She'd been only five, and she hadn't really understood; her parents had never truly explained it to her, even though she heard it every day — in a typical parent fashion, they'd wanted to shelter her. She was, after all, their only child; and not only that, but she was their only baby girl. She was innocent. She was precious. When they'd spotted her sat by the road, head resting on her bruised knees, gazing at the little bird with the broken wing, they'd been utterly horrified. What could they say? What could possibly explain why that bird was squawking so feebly, why its eyes were steadily turning dull, why its heart was thumping so feebly?
Why, eventually, it would stop living?
They'd done the only thing they could do. They'd grabbed her hand and pulled her inside; they'd distracted her with every toy, every film, every book they could find — and when Sakura was happily baking cakes inside, her father had crept out to the road, scooped the bird up with a dustbin and brush, and then placed it in the nearest bush he could find. When Sakura finally thought of the bird again, it was nowhere to be seen, and so she simply assumed it had flown away.
Still, you can only hide such a huge secret for so long.
The second time Sakura saw death, it was staring at her from beneath the glass lid of a coffin, and it was gazing through her grandmother's grassy green eyes. Her parents had had no choice but to explain then, and so they'd tenderly touched down on the fact that the old woman was no longer living, before immediately changing the subject to something else — to anything else. But that was all it took for Sakura to realize that eventually she would stop breathing; that the clock would continue ticking, and she couldn't change that.
Her parents had been silly, attempting to hide such a thing from her; because, as she lay awake in her bed that night, thinking of the glassy eyes of her grandmother, she realized she'd seen those eyes before — except, when she'd seen them, they'd been pitch black, like the night sky, and they'd been staring at her from the face of a pretty little boy.
Uchiha Sasuke.
He'd seen death.
Those eyes understood death.
They hated and loathed death, but they still understood it — and they were awfully close to it, as well. She'd sat down, one day, beside him — her with her pleated skirt and white stockings, him with his ruffled shirt and messy tie — and she'd asked him. Right out, she'd asked him about death — if he knew about death.
Sasuke had looked at her.
He had pretty eyes.
Lonely eyes.
Then he'd looked away, wrapping his arms around his legs, resting his chin on his knees, and just stared out across the field. A breeze had picked up — just a slight one — and she'd been struck, even at a young age, by how beautiful he was. There was something faded about him, as if he were a memory — as if he lived the life of a memory, remembering a past time where things were better — and she'd suddenly wanted to protect him. To protect him from everything. From the world.
From death.
That was about the same time she learnt how to fix things, with her hands and her heart.
The phone was ringing.
Sakura rolled her eyes, stifling a yawn as she swung her legs out of her bed; she stood up, stretching, her over-sized t-shirt rising slightly, revealing a toned stomach and candy-striped pants. Grumbling softly beneath her breath, she stepped out of her bedroom, all the while swinging her arms, popping her shoulders, waking herself up. She pushed open the door to the living room, following the noise of the phone, and instantly scowled.
"The phone is ringing," she snapped, placing her hands on her hips, shifting her weight slightly, "Are you two night trolls incapable of hearing anything other than the screams of fictional zombies being slaughtered, or did you just really want to annoy me?"
Shino merely smiled, eyes trained on the screen in front of him, fingers flying across his controller as he watched the figure on the screen chop away at demons. The little man swung a large sword about, blood spattering the surrounding scenery, another zombie biting the dust — beside the little man, his companion — a large-breasted girl, with a short skirt and a machine gun — was moving just as frantically. In reality, Tenten was sat upside down on the sofa, legs sticking in the air, eyes fixed on the screen behind her orange-tinted goggles. She mimicked Shino's smile, tapping the yellow button and causing the woman in the video game to jump up into the air.
"They're not zombies, Sakura; they're Undead, and that's a completely different area of expertise. Shino and I are currently killing Undead, not zombies; there's a difference, y'know."
"You didn't answer my question," Sakura replied, because she couldn't quite understand her friend's fascination with video games and the virtual world.
"The phone's ringing, short stuff — go answer it."
"That's what — ugh," she gave up, throwing her hands in the air and stomping off to find the phone, ignoring Tenten's chuckle, and the fact that Shino was checking out her legs. Instead, she began to shift away clothes — dirty clothes, piled everywhere; one of the downfalls of living with a guy and a girl-who-should-really-be-a-guy — and comics and magazines, trying to find the source of the noise. Once she'd finally swept all of the junk off the table, she grinned in triumph, picking up the phone and pressing it against her ear.
"Hello—?"
"—I'm sorry."
Sakura blinked, brow furrowing. "Sasuke? Are you okay?"
"I… I, ah, guess not. Could you… could you come and find me? I think I… I think I…"
He let out a broken sob.
"…Sasuke?"
"I think I killed a man, Sakura."
She turned up right on time, in typical Sakura fashion. She was still wearing her pajama top, and he could see that she'd only hastily pulled her hair into a bun; it was messy, and strands fell across her face. It looked pretty like that. It suited her, really. He wondered how he must look to her, blood dried on his cheeks, eyes wide and frightened, crouched over the body of a young man in a black and gold tracksuit.
Pretty fucking weird, no doubt.
"Can you fix this?" He asked, and he was glad his voice didn't break.
She took a look at the man, and he noticed her expression was carefully calm. She shook her head, before reaching out for him, brushing her fingers against his chin, gently helping him stand. If he didn't know her better, he'd have said she cleared up dead bodies all the time. "What happened?" She asked.
He frowned.
"I don't… I don't know."
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three.
"…and if you take the total amount, and then multiply it by pi—"
The professor froze, eyes narrowing behind his bottle-top glasses, removing his hand ever so slowly from the board. A few of the students shifted, looking weary or bored; but that he could take. He could accept that. He'd never been the most thrilling of people — and he taught advanced placement mathematics, for God's sake — but he just couldn't take outright rudeness. He hated it. He loathed it. It made him sick to the skin; it made him tremble with rage.
All those years of high school bullying, no doubt.
All those years of being ridiculed and humiliated.
All those pretty girls, turning him down with knowing smiles and a nasty look in their eyes.
All those people who were better than him, just because of a pretty face, nice clothes and buckets of ego.
And that — that — that—
Oh, he couldn't even come up with the right words, or the polite words, to describe the insolent brat who always, without a doubt, slept through his lessons. It was awful! Unheard of! It was just plain rude and, what was worse, the brat knew that. He knew it grated on the professor, but he did it nonetheless, hands folded on his desk, head resting on those hands as he snored softly through the mathematics lesson. He knew the professor couldn't stand it, not one little bit — he'd made that clear, long ago — but still he continued to do it.
"Nara Shikamaru!"
The boy had the audacity to ignore him.
In fact, the brat let out a soft snore.
The professor bristled, trying his hardest not to let it get to him — but he couldn't stop himself from crossing the room, his chalk still clutched tightly in his hands. The students whispered, sharing grins and sniggers, watching as the little professor with the wiry grey hair and the thick glasses marched over to the laziest slacker in the world. There was a moment of silence, in which the tension grew, and the professor found he was clenching his fists so tightly that his nails were biting into the palms of his hands. He let out a long sigh, in an attempt to calm himself down. "Nara Shikamaru," he snapped again, crossing his hands over his chest.
He mumbled something.
Other than that, the boy didn't even make an attempt to get up.
"Wake up," and, with that, the professor threw the stick of chalk at the other's head, watching as it smacked against the other's forehead before rolling to the floor.
Shikamaru blinked, raising a hand to rub his forehead, where there was a white smudge; he blinked again, before yawning and stretching, finally noticing the irate professor stood over him. He took a moment to look around him, gazing at each and every gleeful face, all of them turned to face him; and then he let out a sigh, turning to the professor.
"You were asleep," the old man snapped. "Again."
"Was I?"
"Yes," the professor's voice lowered to a threatening hiss, "You were."
"…oh."
"Is that all you have to say?"
Shikamaru paused, brow furrowing as he attempted to think of something other than the fact he really wanted to go back to bed, before shrugging, a little half-smirk plastered across his face. The professor felt his features twist into a smile, before he could stop himself, and he turned away, immediately confronted by the watchful faces of thirty or so prestigious students. He was reminded, in those few seconds, of exactly how much he hated them all — these children, who had the nerve to call themselves gifted, purely because they were smarter than the other brainless dolts of their generation. Each one of them was no better than the other, all of them thirsting for a little bit of drama.
Well, he'd give them drama, alright.
He moved forwards, wiry little fists entangling themselves in Shikamaru's shirt, as he hauled the lazy brat to his feet — the boy looked vaguely surprised, before his features fell back into his permanent expression of sleepy boredom. The professor found himself growing angrier by the second. He wanted to shock that brat.
Humiliate him.
And he did it in the only way teachers know how to.
"Solve," and he jabbed one hand at the board, "that advanced equation. And I'll see how much you've been listening, you little brat."
Then he let go, throwing the boy back into his seat, disgust etched across his face.
"And if you can't, you won't be setting foot in this building ever again."
The professor smiled, then; a thin, cruel smile, which curled slowly across his face, because he'd finally defeated that brat. He'd never be able to solve the equation, of course; it was far too advanced for any of these above average idiots. No, he'd been rather cruel in attempting to teach it to them anyway; but a few of them had begun to grasp how to solve it, after three lessons of studying. For each of those three lessons, that lazy brat had been asleep.
There was no way he'd solve it.
But instead of quaking in his boots, as he should have, Shikamaru merely smiled, lacing his hands behind his head and shrugging.
"That's easy."
four.
Karin frowned, crossing her arms over her chest as she peered at Shikamaru — her gaze wandered, and she found herself staring at the professor. Never before had she seen the old man so furious; and if she could tell her friend to watch his back, then she would have. But, in her opinion, he sort of deserved it; after all, he'd slept through each and every lesson, and it was hardly polite — she'd gotten used to his narcoleptic tendencies, and his lazy personality. After a while, it became endearing.
Besides—
She just loved watching his mind work.
Shikamaru let out a long, exaggerated sigh, amusing himself as he watched the professor bristle — they'd never really quite seen eye to eye, after all. The truth was, he didn't sleep just because he was lazy; when he slept, the best ideas came to him — the brightest and the most beautiful. The ones which made him wish he had the money to fund his ideas; wish that he wasn't just a kid who'd flunked twice out of college, for failing every test, despite the fact he knew every answer.
It made him aspire to be something.
That really scared Shikamaru.
Still, the equation on the board was nothing. He lazily stood up, stretching his arms, swinging them backwards and forwards before tucking them into his pockets; around him, the students began to murmur. He caught crimson eyes watching him, and offered her a tired little shrug; Karin merely rolled her eyes, and a single thought filled his head.
—you shouldn't stir him up so much.
it makes you look like an ass—
He shrugged again, making his way steadily down to the board. He wondered, briefly, why the students weren't fed up with him — this happened practically every single mathematics lesson, purely because the professor didn't understand; and, besides, Shikamaru enjoyed his sleep. Both of them were stubborn, although in a roundabout way — Shikamaru would never have openly admitted he was taking part in a war with a teacher, because it was petty and childish and stupid — but it sort of was a war.
He stopped in front of the board.
Distantly, he was aware of someone else sitting within his mind — and he smiled ever so slightly, shaking his head. Karin liked watching — watching from within the mind, instead of outside of it. She said that was where all the pretty things happened. She said that was where she saw ideas blossoming, and that there was nothing more beautiful than a blossoming idea — and that was where all the raw emotions were, straight after they'd traveled from the heart. She said even the average mind was a wonderful place. Inspiring even to Karin, who was one of the bitterest people Shikamaru knew.
It was pretty.
He was sort of proud to know she liked his mind best of all.
—hey, what were you dreaming about?
wait, karin, no!
…that is disgusting, shikamaru. i'm probably never going to look at you in the same way ever again, you dirty boy.
i didn't even know you were into that stuff—
He took it back.
It was creepy she knew his mind so well.
After her initial amusement, Karin settled down, sitting within Shikamaru's mind, watching the thoughts and ideas spiral about her. They were all so pretty — little glimpses, like a photograph, of bright shining lights, and symbols. They floated through the air, briefly, before fading away, disappearing like smoke. It was all so pretty, those different colours — and that wasn't even the half of it. She stood, then, straightening and dusting herself down, taking one tentative step forwards, letting one foot follow the other as she got used to Shikamaru's mind.
She'd been there so many times before that it didn't take long.
There was a particular place in Shikamaru's mind that she truly loved; his memories. He might have found it creepy, and she knew she would have, but she didn't really care. It was as if she were walking down a corridor, at first — she passed the Thoughts and the Ideas, paused briefly by Emotions, before her fingers clasped the handle of the Memories door. She pushed it open, stepped inside, and was immediately greeted by a girl she'd gotten to know quite well, hanging about in Shikamaru's mind.
A very pretty girl, with a horrid scowl and bright pink hair.
—hey, tayuya.
"Hey, Karin," she replied, waving a hand — she was wearing a low-back necklace, the colour the same as autumn leaves. "Is he still an asshole?"
—who, shikamaru?
The girl nodded.
—yeah, i guess. though, he probably misses you.
"There's no use telling me," Tayuya replied, flapping a hand away. "I'm just a Memory. Go and find the real me, and tell her that. I bet she'd slap you. And then she'd probably say she misses him as well. I know that's what I'd do. Why did I move to Oto, anyway?"
—just ask yourself that.
Karin gestured about her, and Tayuya turned, following her hand. Around them, there were various copies of the same girl — sometimes wearing a jumper, others in their underwear, one in a spotty yellow bikini, the other dressed fully in black — and Tayuya smiled slightly. "Yeah, I guess. I mean, that Memory is probably here somewhere."
They both fell silent.
"If you're here, then Shikamaru's probably doing something amazing."
Karin smiled.
—yeah, i guess he is.
Shikamaru solved the equation in three point one four minutes.
The professor handed in his resignation slip only two and a half hours later.
—i guess you could say you won that war, then.
Shikamaru frowned, glancing over his coffee at the red-headed girl, his brow furrowing. "Stop speaking with your head — there are people around," he spoke, clearly, before returning to the Sudoku in front of him. "I look as though I'm talking to myself. It's troublesome. People will ask questions."
Karin scowled.
"It's fun, though."
He didn't look up, before continuing, "And stop skipping into people's minds, without them realizing. That's creepy. And an invasion of their privacy. You shouldn't do that."
"But that's fun, as well," she frowned, crossing her arms over her chest, before re-thinking, reaching out for her hot chocolate and taking a sip. She placed it back down on the table before fixing Shikamaru with an intense glare. "Why do you always have to take the fun out of everything? Is it part of your job to be the police of everything fun?"
He raised an eyebrow. "I'll just answer yes, and we can leave it at that."
Karin rolled her eyes.
"I'm not a superhero, Shikamaru — I can use my powers any way I want to."
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five.
There was a black thong at the bottom of the stairs.
Hana was stood opposite it, glaring at it in the hope it would simply burst into flames; sadly, no such luck, and she picked it up, pinching it between her thumb and forefinger as she made her way up the stairs. On the tenth step, there was a bra — a pretty thing, she thought, black with little white love hearts and white lace — and she scooped that up as well, placing it over her shoulder. At the top of the stairs, were her brother's trousers and his t-shirt. She kicked them to the side, picked up the little miniskirt beside it, and searched frantically about for a female top.
It was incredible.
The girl — whoever she was — had taken off her underwear before her actual top, and had somehow managed to lose the latter item of clothing; unless it was in her brother's bedroom. There was every chance it was in there, with them. She strode over to the room, knocked once on the door, before stepping in, ignoring her brother's splutters of protest. She threw the clothes at the girl — prettier than the usual ones, with brown eyes and freckles —, fixing her with her best glare.
"Get dressed and leave."
"Fuck, Hana—"
She glowered at her brother. "He's on his way. Unless you want her to be here when he arrives, she needs to get up, get dressed and get out," she turned to the girl, lips stretching into a thin smile that didn't reach her eyes. "You heard me. Now, be a good girl and get moving."
The girl's mouth dropped open in shock and horror, as she held the blanket against her chest; she turned once from Hana, to Kiba, to Hana again, before finally settling for Kiba, fixing him with a look which said you slept with me last night, now fix this. Kiba shrugged, though, smiling ever so slightly as he swung his legs out of the bed, standing and stretching. "Sorry, babe," he murmured, reaching for his boxers, which had somehow ended up swinging from the light bulb. "You probably ought to get dressed. If it's any consolation, though, I really want to meet up with you again, at some point."
The girl smiled.
"Oh, Kiba — you have my number."
"Yeah, I know," her brother replied, with a wink.
Hana rolled her eyes, turning and leaving the room. Sure, Kiba probably did have her number — but it was tucked safely in his socks drawer, along with about fifty other numbers, written on sugar wrappers, napkins, old bus tickets. He kept them. He collected them. And he never phoned them back, even though he said he would, because he was like that. Hana retreated into her bedroom, throwing open her wardrobe and choosing a couple of t-shirts, a couple of pairs of trousers, and then placing them in the backpack she kept beside her bed. She knew Kiba would be doing the same thing.
Eventually, that girl would realize her brother wasn't a good guy.
"Hey, do you have any money?"
Kiba blinked, peering at the girl. Oh, she was pretty, of course, but that was why he'd picked her. That was why he picked anyone. They had to be pretty enough to distract him from the ugly; they had to be able to distract him from all the cruel, and all the horror, in his life; and so he frowned, biting his lip, patting his pockets down. Nothing. He glanced, absently, at her phone number, scrawled hastily on a train ticket, and then back up at her.He liked her freckles.
They were cute.
"Actually, no," he pulled a face. "Sorry, babe, but I'm sure you can walk, right? Burn some calories, or whatever."
The girl scowled, drew back her hand, and then slapped him. He blinked, touching the cheek — it sort of stung, actually — and he blinked again, looking at her. She was angry; she slapped him again, her lips sculpting the words he'd heard so many times; the words he knew so well. In fact, practically everyone he slept with ended up saying it.
"You, Inuzuka Kiba, are a jerk!"
"Has she gone?" Hana called, from her place in her bedroom; her backpack was pretty much full, and she was now packing memories instead; a photograph of their mother, a notepad she'd kept writing in since she was six. "We need to hurry up. If we're not gone in the next ten minutes, then everything we've done. would have been in vain."
"So hurry up then," Kiba replied, still rubbing his cheek, his backpack slung over his shoulder as he leant against her bedroom wall. "I've been packed since we bought this house, sis. All we're waiting for is you."
"Funny. How's your cheek?"
"Fuck off, Hana."
She chuckled, shaking her head slightly.
"Are we taking the car?"
"No."
"How come?"
"It's at the garage. It broke down again."
"Again? Why don't we just buy another one? Or steal one. Or, y'know, I could make one, if you gave me enough shit to make it from," Kiba said, crossing his arms over his chest and raising an eyebrow.
Hana frowned, shaking her head. "No. Firstly, we don't have the money to buy a car. Secondly, we're not stealing anything. Not for our gain. Only for mum; we promised her that. Well, we sort of promised her that. And, third, I don't think you could do it. You're not practiced enough. You can't always control it. Don't run until you can walk, and all that jazz.
You might end up dead."
Ibiki frowned, as he pulled up outside the house, bringing his car to a smooth halt. He paused for a moment, peering out of the windscreen up at the house; it was old and battered and unfit for inhabitation, in his opinion, and he wrinkled his nose. A window on the second floor was entirely shattered; the rest had all been boarded up, and there was a hole in the door, down by the bottom, big enough for a mouse to fit through. The paint was peeling off the walls, and the grass in the front garden was wild; it had grown to a ridiculous height, to the point where it brushed against his thighs, as he walked steadily up to the front door.
He wiggled the handle.
As he'd expected, it was locked.
He sighed, shifting his weight to his left foot, drawing his fist up to his chest; then, without a moment of hesitation, he punched forwards, with all his might. His fist thudded through the door, just to the left of the handle, and splinters rained down to the floor; he reached around the door, wiggling the handle until the lock clicked and the door slid open.
He stepped inside.
"…shit."
The house was practically empty. Only a few things remained — a battered leather jacket, unwashed cutlery, an odd pair of socks — stupid things, which weren't really needed anyway. He took the stairs two at a time, irritated; because he knew they wouldn't be there, and the state of their bedrooms merely confirmed that fact. A wardrobe had been entirely ransacked; the bed covers were messy. He scowled, let out a frustrated sigh, and then raced back downstairs again.
The backdoor was open.
Ibiki swore beneath his breath. He was too late, again.
They were gone.
"Hey, Hana."
"Hm?"
"Is there something wrong with me?"
"…no, of course not. You have a gift. It might seem scary, or weird, or wrong, and if people knew, they might say something was wrong with you, but I know there's nothing wrong with you. Well, there's everything wrong with you, because you're my little brother, and you're gross and icky and a jerk, but there's nothing wrong with your… with your power. No, it's perfect.
You're perfect.
There's everything wrong with you, but I wouldn't have you any other way. Now, run faster, idiot."
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six.
When Gaara was little, he used to build sandcastles.
He'd go out early in the morning, away from his brother and sister, and head out with a bucket and spade; he'd walk for a little while, until the city of Suna turned into the beginnings of a desert, and then he'd sit down and dig. He'd dig until he had enough sand to build his first castle, and he'd pack it up inside the bucket, turn it upside down, and given it the magic tap. When he'd pulled the bucket away, the sandcastle had been perfect. He'd built more and more and more, around him in a circle, until it was around about nine o'clock; then he'd head back to his house, and his siblings would be awake.
As time passed, he didn't need the bucket and spade anymore. He'd just use his hands, and then he'd think it in to shape. He would move his fingers, and the sand would shift beneath them; and, at first, he was amazed. He raised his left hand into the air — and, below those fingers, the sand began to shudder and shake, before a few grains slipped upwards; and, as time passed, he began to move more sand.
He felt as though he could do anything.
He was ten years old when his father found out; at first, he didn't know how to take it. The idea that his son could be so weird. A mutant. A freak. No, it wouldn't do anything for his reputation, either; his father was an influential businessman. He'd done the only thing he knew how to do — thrown cash at the problem, in the hope it would go away. When Temari hit sixteen, he bought the siblings a flat, on the far side of Suna, closest to the train station, as if he were trying to say something.
Gaara'd never known how to take a hint.
He was too young, at the time, to understand the hint, anyway.
When he was younger, he'd hated high school.
He was weird.
Not a good weird — good weird was for the girls with the rainbow hair, and the skinny jeans, because they were a little bit odd. Good weird was for the boys who cried at romantic comedies, because they were just a little bit sensitive and a little bit different. Good weird was for the people who wore the black eyeliner and the black lipstick and the black clothes, because they didn't want to conform to society norms. They were good weird. They were an acceptable weird.
He was bad weird.
He was the sort of weird no one wanted to talk to. He was the sort of weird people shifted away from. Even the teachers saw it. He didn't look weird, not straight away; no, he couldn't afford to look weird. If he did, there would have been no chance of anyone ever coming near him; because he just had a vibe.
A weirdo vibe.
That's why no one ever spoke to him.
He was so lonely.
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seven.
"People like beautiful things, Ino."
That was the first thing her father ever told her. She was sat at the kitchen table, and he was sat opposite her, a vase of flowers positioned in front of him. There were lilies, daffodils, cosmos, roses, honeysuckle — and there were flowers she still didn't know the name of. She watched as her father shifted the flowers, the colours, until they fit; but the different colours still managed to clash, and yet it was beautiful. Wonderful. Vibrant, like fireworks.
He caught her looking, and smiled. "It's true. Your eyes have been captured by these flowers. You can't look away, even though you know they'll eventually wither and turn to black; but they are beautiful now. That's all that matters. This, I would assume, is something a bit like art. It's beautiful, right?"
Ino nodded.
Inoichi's smile widened, "Beautiful things get noticed, Ino. You'll be quite beautiful, if you don't mind me saying — after all, you look exactly like your mother. You'll be beautiful, just like the flowers."
His gaze fell back to the flowers.
"You'll be beautiful."
"Beautiful things get noticed," Ino said, gesturing towards the canvas in front of her. "Right, Sai?"
He shrugged, plastering his usual smile across his face, before ducking back behind his own canvas and easel; she watched, absently, as his arm moved backwards and forwards, painting vivid, electric colours across the page. She liked it when Sai painted. He only knew how to paint beautiful things; she had never once seen him paint anything ugly, like age or death or disease — because that could never be beautiful. Sai was a beautiful man, as well.
He couldn't paint ugly things.
She'd learnt that, of course, over time; and she liked watching him paint. She liked beautiful things. She liked jewels and clothes and flowers and rainbows and glitter — because it was pretty and, in time, it could be beautiful. She liked it all. She stood up, then, moving around the different easels to drape her arms across Sai's neck, linking her hands together, chest pressed against his back. He didn't stop painting, but his smile wavered, just briefly, and he seemed vaguely uncomfortable.
It was sort of cute.
"That's so pretty," she whispered, lips brushing his ear. "So beautiful. Just like you. Beautiful things get noticed, Sai, by beautiful women."
Her fingers closed around his wrist, and he paused in his painting, blinking; she used her other hand to turn his head to face her, tipping his face down so that she could press her lips against his. And, as she did so, a jolt ran through them — passing from her to him in a matter of moments. It pulled him closer to her, and his eyes widened; because it felt electric, and it was so good. His hand moved around to grip her hip, the other shifting her leg over his, and, tangled together, they fell across his easel, splashing paint across both the canvas and their bodies.
She felt a smirk slip across her lips.
It worked.
Her power always worked.
It was like a kiss of death. Sort of. But prettier, beautiful, nicer.
One kiss, and they were under her spell.
And, oh, Ino loved it.
Ino kept a list.
On it, were names, and she crossed them off one by one. Top of the list was Uchiha Sasuke — midway down was Sai, and there, at the bottom, was Uchiha Itachi, Sasuke's older brother who'd recently vanished. Sat in the bathroom of the girl's toilets, fixing her face and her hair, she pulled the list out of the pocket of her jeans, and, without another thought, she crossed Sai's name off. She hummed softly to herself, a small smile slipping across her face. "And another one bites the dust," she whispered, before grinning, letting out a little chuckle.
Her eyes met the eyes of her reflection.
Pretty, pretty blue.
Beautiful blue.
"Notice me, baby."
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—some achieve greatness
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eight.
"You're the sweetest guy — but you're just not right for me."
Juugo blinked, before nodding, pressing the mobile phone against his ear and dropping the bouquet of roses in his other hand. He watched as they fell to the floor; then, stepping forwards, he pressed one foot down on them, grinding his foot until the petals turned into a mushy red mess. Then, after saying a polite goodbye and promising her he understood, he threw his phone at the wall, watching with little satisfaction as all the bits of metal clattered to the floor.
Then he sat down.
He wondered if she knew he were just sat outside her house; that, as she'd dumped him, he'd been wandering up to her house, to give her roses and take her to the cinema and tell her he loved her. He suddenly felt as though the tickets in his pocket were laughing at him; and so he pulled them out and ripped them into confetti. Then, he put his head in his hands.
In front of him, his friend shrugged, tucking his own hands into his pockets, white hair falling across his eyes as he watched the other. He looked concerned. Juugo didn't blame him. Recently, his emotions had been extreme; ridiculously extreme, to the point where even he didn't understand them anymore; and he knew Suigetsu was worried. He just didn't know the right words to tell him not to worry. So, he simply sat where he was, wondering idly if he should have kept the tickets and asked Suigetsu to go with him, or if that would have just seemed weird. Judging from the look on his friend's face, the other probably wouldn't have questioned it.
"Come on," Suigetsu spoke, eventually, extending a hand to help the other up. "There's no point in hangin' around here, big boy."
"Yeah, I guess you're right."
"You guess I'm right? When am I ever wrong? C'mon, let's get out of here."
They walked in silence, shoulder to shoulder, staring in opposite directions. Idly, Juugo wondered what the other was thinking of; but then he took a look at the toothy grin, and decided he didn't want to know. Instead he sighed, running a hand through his hair, and decided he wasn't going to wallow in self-pity. All the girls he dated pretty much ended up saying the same things; that he was a nice guy, but he was too good for them — which was nice in theory, but wasn't so brilliant to hear as an excuse as to why someone had dumped him.
"How's your, uh…" Suigetsu trailed off, tapping his head and raising his eyebrows knowingly.
"My head, right?" Juugo replied, not even looking at the other, tucking his hands into his pockets and shrugging. "Yeah, I guess I'm alright. I mean, last night, I don't even know what happened. I blacked out. When I woke up, I'd trashed the entire bedroom, there was blood on the walls, and my mum locked herself in the bathroom to cry. But, I guess, other than that, I've got it all under control."
"You should see a doctor."
"Since when were you the voice of reason? You never saw a doctor when you flooded your flat — and there weren't even any taps running, I saw it. You were sat on the sofa, with me, and all of a sudden the taps just started pouring — and then you said, don't worry, I'll fix it; and your arms suddenly turned to water and you flooded the entire place."
Suigetsu scowled, "Yeah, but there wasn' a risk of me killin' someone."
Juugo looked as if someone had slapped him in the face. That had actually stung. It had cut him right in the heart, and it made him angry, and he really didn't want to get angry — not with Suigetsu around. They were friends. If he got angry, he might end up doing something he'd regret. The two boys glowered heatedly at each other, before Juugo gave in, throwing his hands in the air with a frustrated grunt, and then spinning to face the opposite direction. Sure, he was a nice guy, but there was only so much he could take before it was too much; and this, coupled with the dumping from earlier, was that too much.
Besides—
He really didn't want to get angry.
His friend sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, as Juugo turned and frostily began to walk in the opposite direction — within a few seconds, Suigetsu was walking steadily after him. "C'mon, wait up, Juugo — y'know I didn' mean it. You had a point, and you know how I hate it when you have a point. C'mon, 'm sorry, I swear."
He finally ground to a halt.
"Seriously, big boy — I'm sorry."
He fixed Suigetsu with a look.
"You're a dickhead."
"I know," the other boy replied, grinning sheepishly. "But you still love me, right? Otherwise, I'd probably get abandonment issues, and you wouldn' want to see that, I promise you. Besides, you wouldn' have me any other way."
Juugo let out a resigned sigh. "You know what?"
Suigetsu flashed him a grin.
"You're probably right."
nine.
Suigetsu opened the door to his flat, stepping aside to let his friend pass by — Juugo rolled his eyes, but otherwise said nothing, moving easily through the small hallway area into the living room, where he tossed his coat to the ground. Suigetsu took a moment to lock up, but followed after a few seconds, abandoning his coat in a similar manner. Idly, he realized the area still felt of damp. There was still a darker patch on the carpet closest to the bathroom door, but he ignored it, and so did his friend, which was nice of him.
"D'you want a beer or somethin'?" He murmured, but Juugo shook his head.
"I don't like them."
"You're such a girl, Juugo," Suigetsu replied, rolling his eyes. "You don't even deserve the title big boy."
"That's good, because I don't want it. It makes me sound fat."
"It's obviously referrin' to your height, idiot. Due to the fact you're so tall and all."
"Now you're just making me feel self-conscious."
"Y'know what? I'm goin' to go get a beer — you can just wallow in your pansy ass-iness," Suigetsu flapped a hand, before turning away and heading towards the kitchen, ignoring Juugo's soft chuckles. His friend could be frustratingly smart when he wanted to; and due to the fact that Suigetsu was more of a rough and tumble sort of guy, they didn't seem as though they should click. Juugo was the guy who'd made them pull over during busy traffic, because some hedgehogs were crossing the road — Suigetsu was the guy who'd continue driving because he didn't give a fuck.
Girls thought Juugo was sensitive.
Whereas, Suigetsu just thought he was a wuss.
"The TV isn't working, Sui," Juugo called, as Suigetsu began searching through the fridge for a beer.
"Kick it, you moron," he replied. "And don't call me Sui. I sound like a dinner lady."
"That's Sue, neanderthal."
"Big words for a big boy."
Juugo didn't even justify that with a response.
Therefore, Suigetsu won.
"Hey, Suigetsu?" Juugo asked, when they were both finally sat down; him on the couch, slouched forwards ever so slightly as he strained to see the image flickering on the television screen, his friend sprawled across the floor, legs sticking out to make a triangle. "Can I ask you a question?"
"You jus' did."
"Don't be smart, it doesn't suit you."
"Fine," his friend murmured, finally, taking a sip at his beer. "What's your question?"
"I wondered," and Juugo found that his voice was getting quieter, smaller, as he didn't quite know what to say. "I wondered — do you really think I might kill someone? I mean, I thought — I think you might have a point. I'm — I'm more dangerous than I thought I was. Mum was really crying. She was scared. Of me. I'm her son. Since dad went away, I'm supposed to protect her and all that, but I just — I just — I just ended up terrifying her. What if, next time, I kill her? By accident? Because I can't control it?"
"Tha's easy," Suigetsu replied, not looking at him. "Firstly, I don't think you could ever kill someone — that was a cheap shot, by me, and I'm willin' to admit that, big boy. You — you're way too nice. That was one thing that tart you were dating — y'know, whassherface, the one with the big eyes and bigger tits — had right. You're a nice guy, Juugo. You can't change that. You couldn' kill someone, even if you tried."
There was a brief silent.
"Plus, you're a pussy."
"Don't be a dickhead, Sui," Juugo replied, pressing a hand against his forehead, but he couldn't hide the small smile on his face — and his friend was also smiling, "That was a nice heartfelt speech until you got to the end."
"I could say the same about yours, big boy," Suigetsu took another chug of his beer. "'sides, if you're really scared, you can just stick with me. I've got the room, haven' I? Bein' roommates would be fun, I guess. Since we're already pretty good friends, and all, so I guess, you could just move in, if you wanted to. If you were really worried."
"What about you?"
"What about me," Suigetsu replied, heaving himself to his feet, raising an eyebrow, "I'm made of water. If I want to, I can put my own hand through my stomach, big boy. Here, watch, it's pretty cool."
He took a step backwards, before furrowing his brow, placing his beer on the floor. Then he rolled up his sleeves, before clenching the fist of his right hand; he tugged up his shirt with the other hand, and Juugo rolled his eyes, opening his mouth to make a witty comment, but instantly being shushed. Then, with a look of concentration on his face, Suigetsu began to push his right fist through his stomach. Juugo's eyes widened, and he found himself blinking; it was pretty incredible, actually. One second, there was pale skin and flesh and bone and blood — and then, all of a sudden, Suigetsu's stomach was rippling, a translucent blue, the colour of water, and he plunged his fist into the water. There was a slight splash.
"…see? I told you so."
"I'm not sure whether to be impressed or disgusted. You can't hurt yourself doing that, can you?"
"Oh yeah," Suigetsu nodded, removing his fist as his body returned to the way it normally was, "If my stomach turns back too quickly, my entire fist gets stuck inside, and it fuckin' kills. I only did that once, and I was in hospital for a month; I managed to half get my hand out, but my knuckles ended up stuck, and the pain was so bad I couldn' turn back to water again. I had to just pull my hand away. Ended up with a chunk of my stomach missin', bucket loads of blood and stitches."
"That's sick."
"This is where I say somethin' about how your face is the same, but I'm not complainin', right?" Suigetsu chuckled, sitting back down and taking a swig of his beer. "But that would be childish, right?"
"You just put your hand inside your stomach. Doesn't that worry you at all?"
"It used to," Suigetsu admitted, before flashing Juugo a grin. "But that's because I thought I was the only one. And then you said weird things were happenin' to you, and I stopped carin', because I wasn't on my own anymore."
"…Suigetsu, that was kind of sweet."
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ten.
Hinata liked watching people.
It was interesting — very, very interesting. She liked seeing the people walk past; liked knowing each of them had a different name, a different face — each of them was a different person. Each of them, every single one of them, had their own feelings, their own problems; they faced their own difficulties, as time passed, and each of them would change. Two friends, walking side by side, could easily become two enemies. A mother and a son, so close at such a young age, could grow bitter and fall apart. People changed, and things made them change. She liked guessing; she liked looking, and making guesses — and although she would never find out if she were right, it was still fun to think.
And the best bit was, they couldn't see her.
She was sat there, on the park bench, not too far away from where a jogger had died only a few days before, watching as the people rushed by. Her gaze was focused on a young woman, with her little daughter. The woman looked tired; she was distracted, a mobile phone in her hand, gazing at the screen absently as if waiting for something. The daughter was skipping and humming and singing. A single mother, Hinata guessed, struggling with the life of a single mother — and if she were struggling, no doubt, she was probably newly accustomed to that life.
She watched as the little girl strode over to the roadside; the little girl swung her arms backwards and forwards, gazing at the cars zipping past. Ahead, the lights switched from green to amber to red. The little girl took a step forwards.
Down the road, a red car picked up speed.
Hinata was too busy watching the little girl to notice.
If she had, things might have been different.
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eleven.
"From up here, the stars don't seem so high anymore."
It was something Neji had realized long, long ago. As he flew high above the tallest buildings, the wind whipping at his hair, he thought he could move the moon — move the sun — if he wanted to. His wings, white as the wings of an angel, pushed at the air around him, and he moved higher and higher and higher, and he felt as though he could walk on clouds. It felt so good. And none of the people below — as small as ants — knew him; they couldn't see him. He was a secret. Even his cousin didn't know.
He sort of wanted to show her.
He smiled.
"No, not high at all."
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twelve.
When Tenten woke up curled up on the sofa, her arms clasped to her chest and her knees pressed against her elbows, the television still beeping away where Shino had forgotten to switch it off, she knew she was going to have a bad day. She could smell bacon cooking in the kitchen, which meant Shino was up — and if Shino were up, then it was probably late. The guy was practically nocturnal. He only ever woke up when the sun was high in the sky.
Which, therefore, probably meant she was late for work.
"Shit," she mumbled, rubbing her eyes, sitting up and heading for her shared room — Sakura had long since left, "Shit, shit, shit, shit. Shino, why didn't you wake me up?"
"You were sleeping," came the response.
"That's why you wake me up, idiot!" Tenten snapped, discarding her pajama top in exchange for a spotty bra and a black button-up blouse; she slipped off her trousers, picked up the white and black polka dot skirt, and slipped it on. Her black converse would be good enough, she decided, and her hair looked neat enough in her opinion. She skidded out of her bedroom, popping her head around the kitchen door, "But don't worry, Shino; I forgive you, just because you're cute. I'll see you tonight. Want me to bring back a coffee?"
"Sure," he nodded, offering her something like a smile. "Have a good day."
"I'll try to," she replied, before turning and heading out the door, pausing only to grab her purse and keys. The Coffee House wasn't too far away and, if she ran, she'd only be an hour or so late; her boss would forgive her, because he liked her too much to let her go; but she wouldn't push her luck. She'd be good. She began to pick up speed, arms pumping backwards and forwards by her side; and she suddenly felt so free. So good and so happy and so free. She ran and she ran and she ran, until the world around her was a blur, and she was laughing.
It felt so good.
She only realized the path below her feet was cracking when she slid to a halt outside the doors of the Coffee House. Her eyes widened in surprise, and her hands slapped against her mouth, and let out a little "oh." The people she'd passed — they were holding their clothes, as though the wind had suddenly tugged at the material; each of them was sharing surprised glances. Tenten realized, then, that the crack ended by her feet, and so she swung open the door and stepped inside.
Tayuya raised an eyebrow. "What's up with you? You look like you're going to puke."
"I might, I think."
"Okay, I was joking. What happened?" She crossed the room, that permanent scowl still plastered across her face, and placed a hand gently on Tenten's shoulder. "Something bad?"
"No," Tenten replied, gripping her co-worker's hand and tugging her over to the window, pointing at the long, jagged crack. "I did that. I was running, Tayuya, and I was going so fast that the ground just cracked. You believe me, right?"
"…are you insane?"
Tenten sucked in a breath.
"I think I need a coffee."
"Is that normal?"
"What — running so fast you end up cracking the ground? You end up actually breaking pavement?"
"Yeah."
"No, that's definitely not normal."
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—and others have greatness thrust upon them
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thirteen.
Naruto was just walking down the road when it happened. By his side, stood Jiraiya — his god-father, who'd been dead for nearly three years now — and the old man was happy, despite the eleven gaping holes in his stomach, ringed with red. He was whistling. Naruto was trying his best to ignore him; after all, no one else could see Jiraiya, and so if he responded he would just seem insane. In an attempt to stop himself from snapping at the old man, he crossed his hands over his chest and took a glance around.
He swore he saw a girl made of light, sat on the park bench across the road.
He went to cross over, and heard the screech of tires; and, just to the left of him, was a little girl. She had frozen in shock. Her eyes were wide. It was too late for her to even cry. Ahead of her, gathering speed, was a red car — a sleek sport's car — and she let out a piercing shriek, just as her mother screamed. Naruto didn't even think twice. He launched himself forwards.
There was a dull thud.
A body flew through the air.
The little girl picked herself up, just a few meters from where the car might have hit her. She had bruised knees, a cut above her forehead, and long, thin scratches across her arms. Her tights were ripped. Her dress had a hole in it. One of her bunchies had come undone, and then she began to cry. Her mother raced across the road, arms wide, mumbling the same words over and over and over again, until she finally scooped the child into her arms.
The red car drove away, tires spinning, the driver sobbing.
A blonde boy, with pretty blue eyes, died.
A few minutes passed.
Someone called an ambulance. The little girl and her mother crossed to the boy who'd died; a complete stranger. He had pretty eyes, the mother thought; they looked happy, even in death. Blood dribbled from between his lips. He was dead. The mother began to whisper those same words again, over and over and over.
He was dead.
"Oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God—"
The dead boy groaned.
The mother let out a scream.
"Oh my God, he's alive!"
Naruto heaved himself into an upright position, spluttering and coughing, as he felt his bones and flesh knit back together again; he moved his head gingerly, until he felt a pop in his neck, and he let out a sigh. His throat hurt; his voice was croaky, as he told the concerned woman in front of him that he was okay. His gaze turned to the little girl. She looked scared. She was still crying.
"It's okay," he told her.
"You were dead," the little girl whispered. "Mummy said so. Your heart wasn't beating. You were dead."
He smiled.
"I know."
"Are you an angel?"
"Ha, I wish," Naruto chuckled, forcing himself to stand up. "Nah, I'm just unlucky."
"Unlucky?" The mother scoffed, her voice hysteric, an equally terrified little giggle afterwards. "Don't you mean lucky? Lucky, lucky, lucky. Oh my God, you were dead. I swear you were. You're so lucky."
He grinned.
"I guess I am lucky."
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notes1: okay, so these chapters will probably be massive. but they include misfit superheroes, so what can you do? ;)
notes2: watching toy story three for the first time. :D
notes3: reviews are loved, thank you very much!