Of Remnants
—two—
'Gallery of Drifting Solitude'

Hinata liked the rain.

Kiba had once joked that it seemed fitting for her, given her suppressed and sometimes gloomy personality. Kurenai-sensei had told him that it was a fairly thoughtless thing to say and he begrudgingly apologized, even if Hinata wasn't particularly offended. It did accentuate her personality. When the element of wind was removed, rain was something dreamy and surreal; an unmistakable smell, a watery clarity that made a soft noise that muted the entire world. When Hinata was little and alone when it was raining, she liked to stand at the edge of the house, holding her hand out, allowing the water to fall upon her open palm. She never concluded why she did that.

Rain made things quiet. The remainder of the world dimmed, lost focus, faded into a shadowy liquid embrace. There wasn't any particular logic behind her affection, which made it seem bizarre and strange to other people. But almost everything about Hinata was peculiar and abnormal to most people, so this idiosyncrasy wasn't an anomalous facet of her personality.

Her glassy-white eyes peered up into the ashen sky as rain began to fall.

She sat alone at the edge of the wooden walkway alongside the main Hyuuga house, a solitary location perpendicular to an immaculate and well-manicured garden lined with cherry-blossom trees. Her hands rested flat against the cool wood, fingers spread along the sand-gold lines, her head tilted back—her precisely cultured vision following the silhouettes of rainwater as it fell in a translucent tracery to the ground below. Invisible-while-monochrome stars, fading into a gunmetal sea.

Twenty feet from where she sat her Father and Neji sparred. She had no obligation to watch them, and she knew she would not be invited to join them, but she was worried for Neji's sake. He was still recovering from the brutal and nearly mortal wounds he had received only a few weeks prior, and even if her objections to him thrusting himself back into melee would go unheeded or even be frowned upon, she still objected, even if not aloud. So she decided to stay nearby in the event one of his wounds re-opened to make sure care would not be long in coming.

Hiashi and Neji's sparring was fairly tame and lenient. It clearly lacked the full-throttle ferocity of an actual battle—or, perhaps, a 'friendly' spar with Rock Lee—and was mostly carried out in the interest of discerning Neji's immediate capabilities to observe his convalescent process. After watching the slow and almost casual routine for a short little while, Hinata's mind began to wander. And, as her thoughts are tend to do, she ruminated on one specific subject.

Naruto.

Hinata withdrew her dangling legs from the side of the walkway, crossing them. Thunder billowed across a moving soundscape, painting noise-colors through the sky. She took a short breath, her hands resting in her lap. She felt bad for Naruto. Sasuke was Naruto's best friend and Hinata was having a difficult time comprehending how he must have felt when Sasuke left Konoha. A lot of times she would just think about the chase. What must have been going through Naruto's mind as he ran after Sasuke to bring him back. As he sped through trees, over stones, across the grass, along the wind; what mercurial thoughts must have swarmed his mind as he lingered after the moving shape of Sasuke's back.

Hinata would think about how Naruto must have felt to finally catch up to him. To overtake him, to halt his progress, to bring with him the memory of the sounds and feelings they had endured together. To then be told that, Naruto, you are my best friend, and in spite of that—or perhaps even because of that—I have to kill you. She couldn't even imagine how that must have hurt. How he could possibly comes to terms with that. But he was Naruto, and somehow he managed to keep going. Continue to move his life forward, a perpetual cyclone of perseverance. Hinata thought about that a lot.

But now he was gone, and beyond her reach. She sighed, a small and feminine sound—listening as the rain's erratic drop became a steady drizzle. She held her hand out, staring at her palm as droplets collected across its pale surface. She felt alone.

Be safe, Naruto-kun.

Years of strict martial training had elevated Hinata's sensory nerves, so even miniature changes to her immediate environment could be perceived with little attention. So as Neji and Hiashi broke away from their fluid grapple, her eyes progressed to where they parted. She knew it wasn't because of the rain. Given that actual combat disallowed such luxuries as calling off a battle due to weather conditions, training was cultivated to reflect that. Hinata worried for a brief moment that Neji might have aggravated one of his many wounds. But that concern was mollified when they bowed to each other before turning to address another member of the Hyuuga family standing underneath an old-fashioned umbrella, escorting a guest.

Cold rainwater ran the grooves of the floor as her hand returned to her side. Hinata sat up, unable to see the guest as her Father was obstructing her view.

Neji nodded to the taller Hyuuga. "Kenji-san," he greeted politely. Hinata saw a faint smile cross Neji's face. "Shikamaru-san. Hello."

Hinata blinked. Shikamaru-kun? What is he doing here?

Sure enough, as Hinata tilted her head, she made out the toughened fabric of his Chuunin vest and his characteristically aloof features splashed across his face.

"Yo, Neji," he returned.

Hiashi Hyuuga's hands found the warmth of his kimono sleeves. "Welcome to our home."

Shikamaru didn't bow, but he did lower his head slightly. "Thank you for your hospitality, sir."

"I assume you've come with business of a sort?" Hiashi asked. Though his voice was even, he generally didn't approve of uninvited guests at his household. Regardless he maintained the stature of social courtesy one of his station was expected to. "We may discuss this inside if you'd prefer. I'm certain that we can get you something to drink if you wish."

"I'm fine thanks," Shikamaru answered, placing his hands in his pockets. "And yeah, I've come regarding a mission."

Neji nodded, glancing briefly at his bandaged hands. "Although I'm still recuperating, I would be happy to be of whatever service I may."

"Good to know," Shikamaru returned. He smirked, his face conjuring a faint irony. "But you're still a bit shaky after I put you through the ringer last time."

"Nonsense, don't blame yourself. I was happy to be of use before as I am now."

Hinata's breath hissed sharply as she drew in. She didn't doubt Shikamaru was a talented leader, but the last venture he had taken Neji on crushed him to less than an inch of his life. Such were the dangers of a shinobi she knew, but she was also fully aware that if called upon, Neji would act. Even were his entire body livid with atrophy and disease, he would cast off clinical sheets and curative medication and plunge into the clouded, obsidian waters of violence and death that strode alongside every dangerous mission.

A strange thought intercepted her worried considerations as she realized she would do the same if necessary. She opened her small hands, staring down at the smooth chalky skin; flesh contoured in soft crescents underneath her thumbs, fingers perfectly straight, crowned by fingertips marred with tiny calluses from hundreds of hours of training. Her left hand, glistening wet with fallen rain, appearing to her to be so fragile in that moment as if porcelain instead of flesh; glass instead of bone.

She wondered how old she was when death stopped being a statistic. When its eventuality crashed into her life because someone told her this person died on a mission, and the concept was now a reality because she actually had known who it was. She couldn't remember. Maybe it had always been this way.

Across the garden in the rain, Shikamaru then said, "Actually, I'm here to see Hinata. Is she here?"

Hinata's eyes widened, her ruminations crumbling. Me. . .?

Hiashi seemed to pause in momentary surprise. "Yes, Hinata is just behind us over there if you need to speak to her." He stepped to the side, gesturing with his hand towards Hinata as she sat alone behind them. His features were narrowed with an emotion Hinata could not discern. "Hopefully she will be of use to you and your mission."

Shikamaru met her eyes with a slight smile. "I don't doubt she will. Thank you." He turned, facing the battered Genin, raising his hand slightly. "Take care, Neji."

Neji nodded. "You too."

Hinata was struck with the realization that in spite of growing up alongside Shikamaru for the majority of her childhood, she had only spoken to him directly a handful of times. Her occupancy among others was generally a hazardous affair as her self-doubt enslaved her thought process—she considered herself unremarkable given her failings as a Hyuuga and with someone who appeared to be as perpetually irritated as Shikamaru, she always assumed he'd simply be burdened by her presence. Whether or not that was true, she never made an attempt to discover.

In spite of that, she tried to smile as he walked over to her, soaking wet. "Hello, Shikamaru-kun. Um. . . you came to see me?"

His sandals met with the cobbled stones with a wet scrape. "That'd be the case," he said. With a sigh he hopped onto the walkway next to her, underneath the overhanging roof. Water dripped from his hair and vest like a shattered crystal: without pattern, flickering in the fading sunlight as aqueous jewelry. He looked down at her. "Do you have a minute?"

"Y-Yes," she replied, his looming presence making her somewhat uncomfortable. "Would you like me to get you some tea?"

"No, I'm fine," he stated, sitting down next to her. He crossed his legs, leaning back against a thick wooden post. His head tilted back, tapping the surface with a low thud. "Whew. I hate getting all wet." He rubbed at his eyes with shining fingers. "Hopefully this won't last too long. . . I don't want to end up trapped indoors all evening."

Hinata noticed absently that Hiashi and Neji resumed their casual sparring, drizzle-haze from the emerald greenery making them fade into an iridescent prism. The distance made them silent. Her fingers coiled together in her lap. "Are. . . Um-" she paused, looking back over at Shikamaru as he sat indifferently across from her, "are you here to see me about a mission? Kiba-kun and Shino-kun have been gone for a few days on a mission to Grass country with Kurenai-sensei. . . I don't. . . think they're back yet."

Shikamaru, who had been detachedly watching Neji and Hiashi, peered at her from the corner of his eyes. "Why would I care about them if I was here to see you?"

"I-I just assumed you wanted to gather our team. . ."

After a moment passed, he sighed; a familiar sight that she knew of in spite never having been close to him. Everyone knew of his short patience with pretty much everything. He shrugged. "If I had the luxury, I'd just pick my team up and use them. Unfortunately I've been saddled with a pretty troublesome mission and my first few choices wouldn't really work out. So I have to improvise and come up with an alternative plan."

She nodded. ". . . I see."

"Hey, Hinata."

"Um, yes?"

He turned to face her completely. "What kind of missions have you done before?"

She blinked. "What do you mean?"

"You know," he said, as if it explained everything. After another moment of silence when he discovered that it didn't, he forced himself to elaborate. "Like, what kind of missions. Not what ranking, but what was the content of the mission. Escorting, for example. Or infiltration. That kind of thing."

"Oh." A temporary silence revived as she opened the labyrinth of her mind, reaching gently into its cavernous depths. Hinata had in fact been on a lot of missions, even if most were quite safe and adrenaline-free. A kaleidoscopic radiance of memories burst forth as she began to recall the myriad of experiences. She was somewhat disheartened as the psychological rummaging had revealed a decided lack of diversity. "Well, um. . . both escorting and infiltration. Though not very much infiltrating," she admitted. Her voice was quiet as if she were ashamed of her accomplishments, or lack thereof. She generally saw her failings before her successes. "A lot of D-Rank missions. And. . . That is- well, a lot of escorting. . . now that I think about it."

If her lack of diversity was an issue with him, he did not show it. Instead, the corner of his mouth curled up in thought. "Hmm. . ." He looked at her blandly. "How much combat experience have you racked-up in the last two years since we graduated?"

"N-Not very much. I've fought very little. . . most of it was at the Chuunin exam."

"I see."

He was surprisingly difficult to analyze. Hinata was usually fairly adept at recognizing people's emotional states: her infatuation with Naruto had initially begun because she was capable of perceiving all of the anguish he internalized underneath his jubilant and extroverted personality. But here Shikamaru seemed disconnected, inserted into an alternate frequency of reality with his body simply a wraith of flesh and movement. He was deep in thought, but he did not appear annoyed as she suspected he would be. If anything, he seemed rather conflicted.

Hinata looked away, speaking quietly. "Am I no good?"

He was pulled from his thoughts by her voice. "What?"

"Am I- um, for the mission. . ." She knew that he wasn't here to collect her for Hokage-sama, because he would have already told her so. If he was here for a mission it would be for the sake of recruiting her via his own choice. That baffled her. She was hardly the most skilled ninja in the village. In fact, most of the areas where she did have some degree of prowess such as stealth and perception, there were still others that outclassed her. "Do you think you should get someone more experienced?"

He shrugged. "Experience would be great, but what I really need is someone dependable. So I don't know. Are you good? Can I depend on you?"

"I. . . I will do my best. But—"

"But?"

". . . Why, um. . . me?"

"A few reasons," he said. His voice was calm and lacked the irritation she was used to hearing from him. Perhaps he had other things on his mind. "I picked you Hinata because a Hyuuga would be extremely useful for the current configuration I have. Byakugan is going to be a tremendous asset to this mission. And with Neji still not in top shape, you are the only other Hyuuga I know personally, and I'd prefer to work this mission with people I'm familiar with. And, as you said, Kiba and Shino aren't in town."

"Oh."

"If it makes you feel any better, I'd probably still take you along even if they were."

She looked at him in open confusion.

He yawned, stretching his arms and locking his fingers together. "You're nice. You aren't loud and obnoxious. Given who else is going to be on the team, I want someone who'll make the group run. . . smoothly. Bringing Kiba along would just make people end up butting heads, and bringing Shino would- well. . . would open old wounds. Since he did beat that guy last time. . ."

Hinata was losing her mental footing as his speech seemed to pivot more towards himself, her left to fend for herself in his vague sentences. She swallowed. "Who else is coming?"

"From Leaf? We're it."

Other countries involved? That was very unusual. "That's all? Who else is involved, then?"

An odd smirk crossed his face. "Remember those Sand-nins from the Chuunin exam? Gaara, Temari and Kankuro? Yeah. Them."

Dark shades dangled a particularly wretched memory across Hinata's glassy, fragile thoughts. Her breath shortened as her fingers tightened in her lap. "I-I see. Is. . . is that okay?" Vividly the memory returned to her: concealed in the bushes with Shino and Kiba, listening as the threats were made, then the smell—the horrible smell—of putrid decay and melted copper and blood, sand filaments writhing along the grass, Gaara standing with his arms crossed, eyes cold like doors opened to a glacial universe, watching and holding the man in his fist of sand, the virulent stench melting over everything and everywhere before he raised his hand and

Hinata caught herself. She knew things were different now. But still. She had looked upon Gaara and felt pure, absolute terror. The rising serpentine majesty of a spectral cobra, fanning its scales out to eclipse all the good things in her imagination. There, in those bushes, she had known death; an intimate embrace that violated her dreams months after the encounter.

Her eyes met Shikamaru's. She hoped she wasn't trembling. She was. "Is that a good idea? They're. . . very dangerous."

He nodded. "True, but they were kind of being forced into attacking us the first time we met them. And Gaara isn't quite as unstable as he once was."

"But. . ."

"Look at it this way," he said, sympathy evident in his voice. He had stared down the abyss of Gaara's gaze before, so he too knew its ghastly depths. "If it weren't for those three, Kiba, Lee and myself would be very dead and we wouldn't even be having this discussion." The look he gave her concealed nothing, and she knew that he really would have been. "They came to our aid when we needed them, so I trust them. And he's different now. . . you can tell just by being near him. I stood near him just a short little while ago, and. . . I wasn't afraid." He paused, suddenly reminiscing over his darker moments with Gaara in the past. "Maybe for a moment or two, but. . . I know he's different now." He sighed. "I'd still much rather group with others from Leaf, but since I don't have a choice in this case, I have to make due with what I've got. And when all's said and done, I could have wound up with a lot worse. Having him on our side is invaluable."

Large pearly irises examined his face, analytical like a microscope of ice. She found only honesty, and accepted his words, though she would be very careful around Gaara when she met him. She took a breath. "I see. Sorry."

"Don't apologize," he said, shaking his head. "I know how you feel. Believe me."

That only left one question. "So. . . what is this mission?"

He appeared pensive. He took a long, somewhat unsteady breath, turning his head to watch Neji and Hiashi. The rain had intensified, blurring them further, seeming to entrap both Hinata and Shikamaru on an island separate from the world. "This is the tricky part," he admitted. He was frowning, a thoughtful expression cloaking his skin. "I haven't officially asked you if you want to come on this mission yet because there are a few details I want you to know before you say 'yes'." He sighed, turning to face her again. "The first thing to know is that it's going to be a kind of lengthy mission."

Hinata was fine with that. She nodded. "How long?"

"At the very least? Three weeks. And that's if we do everything we have to in amazing time. I really doubt that'll happen." He paused, re-engaging his meticulous mental instruments of surgery on the information he possessed. "You know, I think it'll probably be at least a month or more before we're done. There's a lot we have to accomplish."

"A month?"

"Or more. Maybe even several months." He looked at her straight in the eyes. "Are you okay with that?"

Why wouldn't I? she thought. I have nothing to miss. . .

". . . It's not as. . . as if I have anyone to return to right now, anyways."

Shikamaru took a long moment to observe her carefully. There was a deliberate and unmistakable sadness in her soft voice, and she worried that he might think less of her if he knew how lonely she really felt. Or at how selfish she thought she was to feel such a thing. He continued after a moment. "There's a lot we're going to have to investigate, but the main thrust of the mission is. . ." he trailed off. He was clearly having a difficult time discussing the specifics of the mission. "It's kind of. . . hard to ask you to do this, since I know you've never had this kind of mission before."

Hinata really didn't want to be a disappointment for him, since he had chosen her in hopes of her being the opposite. She swallowed. "Wh-Whatever it is, I promise to do my best."

His face was empty. "I'm not going to lie to you, Hinata. You might not be ready for this. So it's alright if you say 'no'. I won't hold it against you or anything."

Ice blasted through her ribs, swarming her lungs with an arctic vengeance. Realization was beginning to spark, casting frosty shadows through her body. It was an ultimate eventuality that came with being a ninja; one she feared would come before she was ready. She had been given skills to do terrible things. To transform into an instrument, an autonomic machine, to do what weaker people could not. But he had faith in her, had come to her specifically, and she would stand up to that fear and embrace the eternal silence that she was meant to hear.

"I. . . will do what I have been trained to do." She closed her eyes for a moment, gathering strength. She opened them, a warm emptiness enveloping her brittle gaze. "What is our mission. . .?"

He said nothing. Then he confirmed the whispers of the winter-dragons inside her chest.

"An assassination."

x x x x x

Sakura fell back onto her bed with a strained oomph. She was content to lay on its cushioned surface, staring blankly at her unadorned ceiling through tired eyes. Her breathing fell into a quiet rhythm as she listened to rain patter against her window: watery instruments orchestrating a soothing interlude, liquid fingers tapping glass. After another complete day of medical training she was utterly spent. It was still early in the evening but Sakura could already feel sleep reaching out with a grasping claw; not sundering, but instead softly embracing her mind. . .

She had already begun to doze off when her Mother's voice ebbed through the door. "Sakura-chan, you've got a visitor!"

Sakura blinked, then rubbed at her aching eyes. With a sigh she stood, walking back out of her room. Given her demanding training she was adept at keeping her exhaustion out of her movements, but those who knew her well would have been able to see the hesitation in every step and the slight quiver in every breath. She held the wooden side-rail as she descended down the stairs into the landing, where she met her visitor.

Her eyebrows raised. "Hinata-chan?"

Standing next to Mrs. Haruno with a now closed umbrella was the timid Hyuuga. Water dripped around her sandals from her umbrella and somewhat drenched legs, and she was blushing from her rather disheveled appearance.

Hinata smiled shyly at Sakura. "H-Hello. . ."

"Hey," Sakura greeted simply. A tired but amused look swept her pale face. "What brings you to my boring pocket of town?"

Hinata's hand tightened around the umbrella's handle. "I was wondering if. . . you could do me a favor?"

x x x x x

"That bastard," Kankuro seethed. "Two hours my ass. We should just kick the door in."

Creeping dusk was drowned underneath a pouring deluge, rain slashing across the multi-faceted crevices of Konoha. Gaara, Temari and Kankuro stood in front of the apartment that Shikamaru had requested they meet; safe from being drenched by a canopy of sand Gaara had draped several feet above them. The walkway beneath them clanked with rainwater contact, droplets cascading down in fractal patterns to the ground below. Kankuro paced restlessly where the dry pocket allowed, while Temari simply leaned against the railing keeping to herself.

Gaara inclined against the wall with his arms crossed, his gourd pressing against the plaster gently. "I'm sure he wouldn't approve of that."

Kankuro stopped pacing to look at him. "Since when do the proud shinobi of Suna answer to tardy, sleepy and whiny Leafies? So he doesn't approve. What a tragedy. We've been waiting here for over twenty minutes now on his schedule, and you know what?" He made grand, overstated gestures to his damp clothes. "I'm wet. I hate being wet. Tch. . . they wouldn't even let me in to see Baki-sensei. What gives with that? That wasn't so much to ask, was it? I wouldn't be in such a crappy mood. If we're allies now, they sure have a weird way of going about it."

With a grunt, Kankuro gave the door to the apartment a solid kick, ignoring Gaara's previous comment. "I bet he's not even making his way here. I'll bet he's inside, where it's nice and dry, sleeping." He frowned, kicking the door once again with less force. "This whole town is backwards. So we attacked them behind their backs. So what? Who hasn't? Doesn't mean they have the right to. . . ah, forget it." A pause interrupted his irritated diatribe before he muttered, "I'm cold."

"Stop talking," Gaara said.

Kankuro sighed, rubbing his eyes. "Have you got any other way to pass the time? The least he could have done was told us that he might be late so we could go and get something to eat. Then we wouldn't be left starving, cold and wet on his porch while he. . . does whatever it is that he does. I say we just ditch him. He's probably playing some power game by making us wait outside in the rain. Proving to us that we're his. . . his lackies, or underlings, or whatever." Kankuro paused, somewhat embarrassed, as his stomach growled audibly. Neither of his siblings said anything. Eventually he continued, this time with less intensity; his protests were merely the death-throes of agitation at being unable to see his Sensei. Pessimism smoked out of hibernation through routine rather than honesty. "I say screw him. I'm not giving him the satisfaction. I say we walk. Drop everything and just walk. See how he likes it."

Kankuro turned to look at Temari, who until then had been silent. "What do you think? Should we bail?"

Temari's attention was elsewhere. Her forearms propped atop the metal railing, she had been content to watch sunlight perforate the cloud-line at the very apex of the horizon. Misshapen orange-magenta helixes running a tattered sunset across the streaming black: a colorful and glinting sequence, vanishing between the rain and the distance. She turned to face Kankuro with a sleepy expression. "Hmm? I'm sorry, did you say something?"

Silenced briefly at her response, Kankuro eventually muttered, ". . . I hate you. I hate you right in your stupid face."

The muted sound of shuffling feet and crinkled plastic warped around the corner, a nearly undetectable movement of noise. Their attention was diverted from Kankuro's irritation, redirected towards a person cresting the stairs, striking a gloomy contrast against the darkened rain. Hinata stood there alone at the edge of the walkway, looking back at them with a pallid, anxious gaze; umbrella held above her in a shaking hand. A white grocery bag hung at her side, her movement frozen into a portrait of sunlight and despair: a porcelain figurine given animate shape. A strength in weakness.

Hinata took a quivering breath. "Uh. . . hello. . ."

Kankuro, still mostly involved with his fluctuating dissonance, gave a surly nod. "Yeah. Hey."

Temari turned from the railing, facing Hinata with a solid, confident look. "Hey, does some punk kid named Shikamaru live here? We've been waiting for him for a bit."

Hinata took a few cautious steps towards the trio. Her voice was smothered by the rain: a timid organic white noise, like a soft murmur along the edges of a waking dream. "Um, not technically. But you're in the right area. . . Shikamaru-kun was going to have us meet at this apartment."

Temari crunched the numbers immediately, nodding. "Ah, so that means you're the fifth team member. Welcome aboard, then. I'm sure we've met before, but just in case we haven't, I'm Temari." She chucked a thumb at her companions. "These are my brothers. The quiet one is Gaara, and the oaf is Kankuro."

"P-Pleasure to meet you. . ." Hinata's articulacy stumbled in the entrapment of darkness: her eyes drawn inevitably to Gaara's shadowy form, his very presence surging anxiety through her body. She stopped just short of the sand-canopy, her hands tightening around their respective objects. Her eyes fell beneath their faces, her skin aflame in a blush forged of both spectral-terror and genuine respect. ". . . My name is Hyuuga Hinata. I hope. . . we do well together."

Temari found herself smiling at the quiet, internal girl. A peculiar fondness bloomed. "I'm sure we'll do just fine."

Kankuro scratched his elbow, looking down at Hinata. "So where is this guy, anyways? We're getting tired of waiting."

From behind them, Gaara said, "You're getting tired of waiting."

Kankuro's head turned. "Oh, and you're not?"

"Not everyone is as impatient as you."

"Tch," Kankuro snorted, rolling his eyes. "Keep talking. I know it's getting to you, too."

Hinata's feet shuffled. Her eyes darted back and forth between the glistening steel underneath them and the blackened sand shifting above them. The bloody smell was unmistakable, particles merging in a slither reminiscent of murky lake-water churning a throbbing undertow. A spectral phantasm draped like a sodden cloak, waiting to descend and unravel in the soaring forms of ruin and chaos. Hinata swallowed. "Um, Shikamaru-kun told me that he was going to be a little bit late. . . so I went and borrowed the key to the apartment so we can wait for him inside."

Temari grinned. "Good job, Hinata-chan! Then we can snoop around and see what kind of guy he really is while he's not around to stop us."

Gaara pushed himself away from the wall, crossing his arms. "This is not his apartment."

Temari blinked. She turned to face him. "It's not?" She frowned. "How do you know that?"

A reply was not in coming. Gaara's blank stare simply met his sister's eyes, leaving it up to her to fill in the blanks. Temari sometimes despised Gaara's sense of seclusion and personal secrecy, but she knew nothing would come of pressing him. She was fairly confident he wouldn't take her life on a trivial whim simply for questioning him as he might have once, but she was also completely certain that he wouldn't divulge any information he didn't want to regardless of earnest curiosity. Forefinger scratching her cheek, she simply sighed.

"G-Gaara-san is right," Hinata said. She bit her lip, recoiling internally for a slight moment as the attention of all three of them was foisted back upon her. "Shikamaru-kun lives with his parents on the other side of the village. . . this apartment is Naruto-kun's."

Kankuro snapped his fingers with recollection. "Oh yeah, that guy. Hey, what's he been up to lately? Haven't heard much about him since that time we saved your guys' ass and all."

Temari punched him in the shoulder. "I thought you wanted to go inside?"

A growl scraped against the back of Kankuro's throat. "Shut up. . ."

Hinata hesitated for a slight moment before stepping forward. She pulled the umbrella down, forcing the spokes to flatten against the plastic pole as not to jab the points into her new 'companions' as she walked between them. A faint ghost swept across her face as she stepped underneath the yawning cover of sand; standing now only a few feet away from the three most terrifying people she had ever met in person. Forcing herself to look away from Gaara, she placed the now folded umbrella under her arm, using her then free hand to fish the spare key to Naruto's apartment Sakura had lent her out of her pocket.

She licked her lips, her entire mouth starved for moisture. "I. . . went out and bought some instant ramen in case you haven't had supper yet," she told them quietly as she began to insert the metal key into the lock. Her back was to them and they were very aware of how acutely inflamed her senses were at that moment. Body poised for immediate and momentary change, reactionary force preprogrammed into nerves and tendons. Her body fibers hummed with paranoia energy. She continued speaking as the key twisted. "I didn't. . . know what kind of kitchen facilities Naruto-kun would have, so. . . I'm sorry it's such low quality food."

"Nope, sounds great," Temari answered, smile gone. Hinata's obvious intensity extinguished her previous cheer, so Temari had adapted a neutral tone as her instincts drew her back into a preemptive defense. Suna and Konoha weren't that close of allies yet. "We're very hungry. We appreciate it."

The door opened with a metal crack as hinges rolled back, swinging the wood inwards. A cold darkness beckoned in the dry cavern within. An abandoned world estranged from the inundated forest of movement outside its walls, a lifetime of memories none of them could perceive haunting its empty grounds. Hinata paused before entering as the smell of Naruto himself struck her with a ferocious intensity: he had lived in these rooms for years, pieces of his existence still lingering in his absence. With tangible contact of him, he infiltrated her psychology with a sad, flickering surge—a film-projection concluded, left to spin on its wheel, running a blank frame through the lens over and over and over.

Hinata stepped inside, the three of them following shortly thereafter. Her hand found the light-switch next to the door, flicking the diode and allowing meager illumination to filter into the living room. She quickly slipped her sandals off and stepped into the room proper, turning sideways to keep the other three in view. A frustrated despair shot through her as she felt her elbows slightly spasm as Gaara entered: sand whispering down from the canopy outside into his awaiting gourd with a scratchy noise similar to a needle touching softly upon the surface of a record, amplified several-fold. Temari closed the door behind them and then they were all inside.

"Finally," Kankuro said, breaking the silence.

Without preamble the three siblings removed their sandals. The room itself was a small, cozy if not sparse domicile equipped with the most basic acquiescence to both comfort and necessity. Simple unadorned walls enclosed the room, cube-perfection marred by entrances to the kitchen and bedroom/bathroom respectively. Several chairs sat around an oaken table blanketed with a thin skin of dust. Several feet away, against the wall, was a blue couch that didn't look particularly comfortable. Several holes punctured the rough-looking fabric.

Across the room, on a poorly fashioned and tilted ledge, was a picture.

After a moment of running his eyes through the room, Gaara spoke. ". . . Just like him."

Kankuro eyed Gaara briefly. "So. . . yeah." He looked around awkwardly, watching as Hinata began to make her way into the unlit kitchen. He took a breath. "Kind of barren in here. . ." Spotting an empty corner perpendicular to the door, he shrugged and walked over to it. As he did he slung the bandaged Karasu from around his back, resting the sealed doll against the wall since he assumed he wouldn't be needing it for the time being. "Hey—Hinata, was it? What's the deal with meeting at this apartment? Why not a restaurant or his own place or whatever? Or did he say?"

Her voice came from the kitchen, sounding muffled through the wall. "Yes. He told me that Naruto-kun's place was practical since it's vacant for the time being. He said that he wanted to meet in a private place where most people wouldn't suspect us to be."

Kankuro stood aside as Temari and Gaara both followed his example, placing their respective burdens next to his in the corner. In enclosed spaces such as the apartment those weapons would prove to be more cumbersome than useful given their reliance on wide-open spaces. Should the possibility of violence arise, they were all perfectly capable of defending themselves in the time required to retrieve them, at any rate. Kankuro scratched his chin in thought, speaking aloud to himself. ". . . The way he looked at that Mountain Secretary guy. . . guess he's not very trusting. Still. Kind of defeats the purpose if he's going to leave us outside for twenty minutes and give away the secret."

After placing her battle-fan against the wall, Temari yawned with a slight stretch. "I'm sure he was planning on being here on time." She blinked sleepily, turning a sardonic look on Kankuro. "And even if he didn't, I'm pretty sure he was planning on the people who waited for him would be quiet."

Kankuro shrugged. "Hey. . . extenuating circumstances. Out of my hands now."

Hinata spoke again from the kitchen. "I'm going to start boiling the water. The store only had beef and chicken ramen since they were closing up when I got there. . . is that okay?"

"Fine, Hinata-chan," Temari called back. She stood there for a moment, lost in thought. Her lower lip bent inwards, disappearing into her mouth as her eyes peered with a guarded analysis at the kitchen. Eventually, she began to follow Hinata's example and made her way out of the living room. "Hey, I'll help. I'm not exactly a kitchen wizard or anything, but I don't think that boiling water will be too much of an arm wrestle."

Energy dimmed even further as both girls left the room, giving the desolate zone the guise of an entombed cell that had slept for eons in the bowels of a buried civilization. All the tiny influences on the room—the couch, the table, the ledge, the picture—then resonated in the dark wasteland as if they each held multitudinous secrets, stories that dated back to a life beyond time and space. The very room itself felt off, as if the brothers weren't visitors but intruders; plunged into a dead universe never meant to touch their lives. It was an odd feeling.

Kankuro let out a breath, finding the apartment very cold. He dropped himself onto the tattered couch without ceremony, sighing with a degree of relief to finally sit down after traveling for several consecutive days. He tilted his head back and closed his eyes, trying to imagine himself in a place more familiar and welcoming, making an effort to soothe his raw and stripped nerves. He could feel Gaara moving about the room quietly through the shifts in the air.

Without opening his eyes, Kankuro spoke. "So. What's your assessment?"

Gaara's answer came from the other side of the room, near the picture. "I think you would do well to trust his instincts."

Kankuro's right eye cracked open. "Why?"

Lacking the gourd that seldom left his back, Gaara's visage in the gloom was almost wraithlike. Arms folded in front of a thin body, concealed by a deep burgundy ninjutsu garb; sharp features lining his face drowned in the ghost-light. His expression was inanimate. ". . . Konoha must hold his abilities in high esteem to give him command over a unified mission. Also, Temari seems to trust him."

"Maybe," Kankuro conceded. He shrugged. "But. . . I don't know. There's just something about him that seems. . . seems brittle. He acts tough, but I don't think he really is. I don't like someone with that kind of fake attitude put in charge. He could get everyone killed."

"Mm," Gaara replied neutrally.

Kankuro was silent for another moment, both eyes opened and staring at the ceiling. "They. . . tore away his memories."

Gaara's head turned, looking across the room at him.

Kankuro didn't return his gaze. "Baki-sensei. I asked. They wouldn't let me in, but. . ." Kankuro made an odd noise at the back of his throat—not quite irritated, but too alien to his personality to be anything else. His teeth sank gently into his lower lip for a moment. "It's stupid. They can't even judge how deep it is. Someone really. . . someone wasted his mind. They said they don't even know if he understands who he is anymore. It might just be a temporary thing, but it could be permanent. They won't know, until. . . They might never find out. Who the—" He stopped, shaking his head. "Who the hell could've done something like that? That's not ninja-for-hire work. That's insane genjutsu. Just insane."

"I won't pretend to know."

Kankuro gave a half shrug. "I didn't ask you to. It's just so. . . pathetic. What a stupid-ass way to be brought down."

The chronic ticking of a wall-clock from the bedroom pulsed into the silence.

Kankuro swallowed. "Ah. . . Dammit."

x x x x x

Hinata's soft breath peeled a craggy layer of charcoaled flakes from the top of an over burner. Miniature shards twisted up and halted in a momentary float before dangling back down and stockpiling at the rear of the oven, drawing a scattered line of black speckles across the dusty white. Hinata's fingers then brushed across the burner with a slight push, collecting the burnt remnants of a pot that hadn't been adequately prepared for extreme temperatures. She sighed to herself at the disarray the kitchen externalized, noting with a detached fondness that it made sense Naruto's kitchen would be mess, before placing a pot full of tap water onto the stove.

Her hands reached over the pot then to twist the temperature knobs. "I hope Naruto-kun has been keeping his appliances at least somewhat clean. I'd feel awful if we started a fire by accident."

Behind her, Temari could only nod. The process to cultivate instant ramen wasn't a spectacularly complicated one, and while no means a culinary artist Temari was very aware of how it was done. Her presence was only for informative purposes: she knew nothing about Hinata, and though she seemed like the kind of girl that Temari could see being friends with, her recoiled and hyper-alert senses were painfully obvious. And Temari's doubt was an intrinsic facet of her personality—the result of being raised around frauds and a homicidal brother, she suspected.

Temari looked around the kitchen with a bland expression. "Kinda dark in this dive." She noticed a single, mostly used candle sitting atop a small table. Its lavender wax had pooled around the base in a clump of solidified tears, capped by a crescent-shaped wick. Temari placed her thumb and forefinger over the singed rope, running a sudden flare of chakra through her digits. The chakra sparked with a conscious push, igniting the candle. A soft flame replaced her fingers as she drew her hand away. The small kitchen was aglow with a curving and elastic orange. "There we go. Better?"

"Yes." Hinata had stepped back to watch the water simmer. "Thank you."

Eyeing Hinata carefully, Temari stepped beside the smaller girl to the counter. "This the stuff here?" She gestured at the loaded grocery bag bulging with ramen cups and what looked to be like bottled water. Temari blinked. It was a rather thoughtful gesture, one that hadn't escaped her. Perhaps she really did mean well.

Hinata nodded. "Yes."

Temari untied the plastic knot Hinata had fashioned around the top of the bag, thin crumples drowning the sound of the burner as it began to vibrate with increased heat. After giving a quick glimpse, Temari deduced there was no henge placed to disguise any of the items in the bag as something sinister and then began to empty its contents on the counter beside them. In a peculiar sensation, Temari wanted to give Hinata the benefit of the doubt and allow for her on-edge demeanor. It made sense. They had attacked their village less than a year ago, so Hinata probably had every right to be less than fond of them.

With a shake of her head, Temari suppressed a yawn. She decided the only way to find anything out about Hinata was to get her talking, so Temari spoke first to encourage banter. "Back at home the boys never made me cook. Kankuro used to until he finally realized I just totally suck at it. Survival mechanism. Weird how that is. . . Mom was supposed to be a great cook. Same with Grandma." She paused as she placed a few more bottles of water on the counter, chuckling at that memory. The look on Kankuro's face had been forever immortalized in her thoughts. "But me? I'm all thumbs. Now Kankuro won't let me near any kind of stove or microwave or wood and box of matches unless he makes it perfectly clear that he doesn't have to try anything I make. I always told myself I had better things to do with my time than learn something frivolous."

Hinata's eyes darted from the water-filled pot to Temari, pale white tracing the outskirts of her peripheral. "At home. . . I hav—had a lot of spare time, so I guess I just don't really. . . I don't mind doing it. Nobody really asks me to, but I like doing it. Even if it's just for myself."

"Lucky you," Temari observed. "Free of hounding and talent obstruction. I'm jealous."

"It's nothing special. . ."

As Temari emptied the last of the ramen cups onto the counter, her eyes fell onto Hinata's hands. They were held to her chest, fingers locked together as if shielding something precious within their grasp. Their pallid surfaces glistened slightly from the rain; black smudged along the fingertips from when she had brushed the oven burner. She seemed fragile, as if a strong wind would crash through her, storming through her veins and cracking her into pieces. There was a distinct trembling in her joints, and Temari felt her previous distrust transform from distance into pity. Hinata wasn't tense or alert or prepared for attack. She was afraid.

Temari spoke carefully. "Hinata-chan?"

Hinata blinked, looking up at the older girl. "Y-Yes?"

". . . You're shaking."

"Oh," Hinata responded, jumping slightly as her obvious condition was revealed. She blushed, eyes falling away, knuckles whitening as her grip tightened. "It's just. . . I'm sorry. I get cold very easily when it rains. Perhaps I should have brought a towel with me. That was silly of me to forget. . ."

And then Temari understood. Understood so perfectly she was temporarily upset with herself for not having realized it earlier. Simply because her own life had been aligned so totally with his didn't mean that anyone else's had. The majority of Konoha's Genin were still living with the reality that they had witnessed at the Chuunin exam and the ensuing assault, so they hadn't experienced the contradictory transfigurations he had experienced thereafter. And it wasn't going to be so straightforward as to simply telling Hinata that things were different now and that Gaara had changed. She was going to have to see it for herself.

"You're scared," Temari eventually said. "Of him."

Hinata didn't respond, indicating the statement was true.

Temari crumpled the now empty bag up, tossing it to the other side of the counter. "If it counts for anything, I won't hurt you. Okay? We might have gotten off on the wrong foot, but that was simply. . . it was a silly thing. It was a bad situation and we'd apologize to your country formally if diplomats weren't so arrogant. So let me do it for them. We're sorry, Hinata-chan."

A moment passed, Hinata shaking her head. "It's. . . it's not that. It's not your fault. I'm sorry."

Temari rested her hand gently on Hinata's shoulder, lips bending in a little smile. "It's really okay, alright? We're in this together now, right? Since we're on the same team, I promise to. . ." She trailed off, blond hair shaking as she halted herself mid-sentence. She had just met this girl and it was far too soon to be promising her anything. Temari didn't like being bound to people, so she never made promises lightly. She redirected her point. "Hey, I saw you fight at the preliminaries, you know. You lost, yeah, but I was impressed. Really. You've got strength. Girls need to be powerful. We can't let people think they have the right to roll over us."

Once again Hinata looked away, wrenching her gaze to something inanimate and inorganic. Her voice cracked with frailty when she murmured. ". . . I saw. . . in the bushes. That day of the Chuunin exam. I saw. . . Gaara-san, and. . ."

Temari blinked, withdrawing her hand from Hinata's shoulder. "That was you hiding there?"

Hinata said nothing. Then, "The water is ready now."

Frothing bubbles began swirling through the super-heated water, a dull noise juxtaposing the rain pattering the window several feet away. Liquid symphonies streamed over the silence. Temari eyed Hinata with a variety of feelings, visceral chameleons shifting as thoughts touched on memories and the immediate moment. Without responding she allowed Hinata to change the subject, deciding that she'd rather not injure Hinata's pride further by forcing her to elaborate on the subject. Her hands fell to her hips as Hinata snapped the heat off the burner.

". . . Alright," Temari finally responded. She forced a friendly smile. "I'll let you handle it, okay? I'll supervise. I'm kind of pathetic at this sort of thing."

Hinata returned her smile, but it faded quickly. "It. . . just takes practice."

x x x x x

Konoha's Ambassador's Lounge was a lush and spacious room built for the purpose of serving the needs of Fire Country's special guests, visiting diplomats, and other persons of lordly caliber. It was an immaculate collision of the East and West: architecture and wall-furnishings of Eastern lineage, whereas the upright tables dressed with pristinely cleansed fabric and sturdy, padded chairs were clearly a Western influence. The marriage created a centralized fulcrum of heritages, allowing guests from all over the world feel as if they belonged there to some degree.

Kurama rubbed his eyes with his fingers, the remains of his dinner being hauled away by the kimono-adorned staff. He stifled a thick yawn before reaching over and lifting the goblet of red wine, emptying its contents down his throat in a single tilt, placing it back on the table as he stood. Kurama preferred grape-wine to rice-wine, in spite of his ancestry—all things Eastern reminded him of aspects he chose not to remember. Not that he was particularly fond of Western civilization either, but he supposed since he was a ranking official of a Western country he should at least act the part.

He began to weave his way tiredly out of the Lounge, genially returning waves and well-wishes from other ambassadors he was familiar with. More than anything, Kurama simply wanted to finally lapse into a deep sleep now that the process had some room to breathe. He still needed to monitor the various threads, but he could allow himself to slip away for one night.

As he arrived at the edge of the Lounge, he held the door open for a statesman and his wife from Grass Country, returning their gratitude with a practiced smile. Social affairs required tempered manners regardless of ones current mental state, something Kurama had learned years ago. He allowed himself to yawn quietly as he stepped into the hotel lobby, a flawless and sanguine chamber draped with lacquered wood and plush, red carpeting. He began to make his way over to the twisting stairs before the female desk clerk called out to him.

"Oh, Kurama-san!" She waved at him in a friendly manner, smiling politely. Her violet kimono seemed to both contrast and compliment her surroundings at the same time. "Have you just come from dinner?"

Kurama halted his advance, turning towards the desk. "Yes." He linked his hands together behind his back, a neurotic gesture he wasn't sure where it had begun. "If I may, please pass on my praise and gratitude to the cooking staff. The fish in particular was excellent."

"I certainly will. A notice arrived a short while ago addressed to you if you'd like to take it with you now."

The young woman began shuffling a series of letters on top of the marble counter before finding a small manila bound envelope.

Kurama nodded. "Ah. Thank you." He took the letter from her, looking down at its unmarred surface. There was no return address. "Do you know who delivered this?"

She shook her head. "Sorry. It came along with the other international packaging via postal just earlier this afternoon. It only arrived on the desk about a half hour ago."

"Ah," he replied simply with a curt nod. "Well, thank you anyways. Good evening."

"Have a good night, Kurama-san."

After a slight bow Kurama turned and began making his way up the stairs towards his room. He turned the letter over in an attempt to find any markings that might identify its point of origin, but finding it to be a naked slate devoid of any distinguishing characteristics. The Foreign Minister Himself was prone to sending such unmarked notices to Kurama, so he rather suspected he knew whom the letter was from in spite of its anonymity. As he crested the stairs the hallways darkened—free from the overhanging prism-luminance of the lobby chandelier, instead lit by small kerosene lanterns. Kurama's footfalls made muffled creaks as he walked across the thick carpet.

He stopped at the door to his room, his eyes still on the letter. With a sigh he removed the key from his breast pocket, the precisely cut and sculpted silver inserting into the shining gold of the door-handle. Thick crunches resonated through the sturdy door as the deadbolts swung aside and Kurama pushed the door open, stepping into the room within. As he did, he paused, suppressing a sudden surge of irritation. His fingers tensed on the doorknob, gripping it tightly as he stood statuesque. Then the feeling alleviated and he closed the door.

Kurama tossed the letter facedown onto the desk near the door, eyeing the far corner of the room. Without saying anything he walked over to the window, its view a smoky ocean of rain and smeared clouds. He drew the deep-green curtains across the window with obvious agitation before turning back towards the desk. He took a few breaths to steady his nerves, slowly unbuttoning his vest and then draping it across the bed before pulling a chair away from a table tucked to the side of the room and placing it in front of the desk.

He spoke as he sat down. "I'm under constant surveillance given the suspicions both Wind and Fire have of my activities, so. . ." His fingers loosened his tie, before twisting the metal knob of a small lantern, spilling fractured light into the room. "I think it's rather brazen of you to attempt meeting with me like this."

There was a soft masculine chuckle. "You fret too much, Nagare-kun. I won't make any obvious movements to endanger the secrecy of our relationship. So have a little faith in me, huh?"

Kurama took a short breath. "Fine. I'm sorry." He shook his head, annoyed with himself. He should have expected this. "I'm. . . just a little on edge ever since this second attack."

Feet connected to the ceiling, a man stood upside down from the far corner of the room. He wore a well-tailored light green business suit, tie dropping down past his face due to gravity. His arms were crossed, loose blond hair falling several inches towards the floor. A forehead protector was draped across his eyes, the Stone Country crest chiseled through with a perfect line. Given that his eyes were concealed by the protector due to his sockets being empty cavities, his expression was difficult to read. Kurama didn't bother to look at him.

"Yeah, that was just really bad timing." The man shrugged, his tie moving with a weak undulation. "Not your fault. I don't even know how those two caught wind of your idea."

Kurama turned the letter face up, smoothing it across the desk. "It was a message. Plain and simple. It was obviously his handiwork. The problem is I can't really figure out who the message was intended for. Me, the Minister, his brother, or someone else entirely. . . I really wish they hadn't gotten involved."

"Hmm." The man paused, feet shifting slightly along the ceiling. "Well, on that note. . . I've taken a look into the High Chamberlain's recent expenditures and everything seems legitimate. So you were right. She's authentic. Her interest in the treaty is straight up."

A frown creased Kurama's brow. "I was hoping to hear otherwise. That makes things. . . difficult."

"Don't have second doubts now, Nagare-kun. I know how you feel, but you're just. . . stuck. Okay? You did what you had to. Just. . . you know." He paused, seeming to ponder over something, before he spoke again, the volume of his voice diminished. "Think of Hitomi."

". . . I do. Every day. That's the only reason why I haven't killed myself."

The man on the ceiling sighed. "Don't say that. Look. I'm sorry for dropping in on you like this. I thought you wanted to know right away whether or not—"

"It's fine," Kurama interceded. He reached for a letter opener, turning the brittle silver blade on the edge of the envelope. "I appreciate it. Thank you."

Thunder crashed overhead, plowing its way over sound, causing the window to vibrate erratically with a noise similar to a bee trapped in a thin glass cube. A wasteland of empty sounds actualized in the wake of the fracas. "A tool is just that," the man stated in the aftermath. "A tool. Don't mull over it too much. The moment a human realizes they're going to be killed by another person they stop existing as a human being. They just become objects of control. If you're not willing to hurt anyone, then you can't save anyone."

Kurama wasn't listening. He had unfolded the crinkled letter, reading over its terse instructions written in an elegantly free-style message. Frustration began to warp into legitimate anger as he read over the smears of black ink, unknown to Kurama until he realized his teeth were sinking painfully into his lip. He resisted the urge to shred the letter in his hands. "Damn him. . ."

"Everything alright?"

". . . Yes." Instead of sundering the letter into millions of pieces, or jamming it into the kerosene lamp to watch it exhume into smoke, Kurama folded it back into its original form and placed it back into the opened envelope. He still didn't turn to look at the man. "Thank you for the information. I think I'm going to retire for the night. Please leave quietly."

"Alright. Take care. I'll see you in three days."

Air surroundings imploded as flesh receded. And then the man was gone.

Kurama sat in the dim quiet for a long time. Eventually he lowered his head into his hands, staring at the carpeted ground between his feet.

"I'm. . . sorry I got blood on your dress."