Standard disclaimers apply. Reviews/flames welcome. Sorry for the late update; just enjoy.

Hyuuga Hinata finds herself, again, soon as the day cracks like the dryness of the leaves – reeling her head – confusing the potentially adulterated mind as her eyes quickly open, and the chirps of birds perched at the rooftop welcome her; the coolness of the wind marks her realization she is in some shrine, with no gods, and sunbeams pass through the panes. There's a gap between reality and their respective paradigms, she muses, for the farthest distance her memory can reach was the certain temporality of her defeat against the shinobi who donned an odd gear, and with reflexes so familiar it was hard to decipher everything. She touches her shoulder, feeling the bandages that covered the wounds against any more injury – even the slightest one at that; her sweater served as blanket, and her medic pack was open. She stands up, and but every step was cautious, with whispering thumps and tries to camouflage herself in silence as she approaches the doors that served as monstrous barricades against the elements of nature, as well as elements of human endeavors toward some destructive ends. She then stares outside, unknowing of what to do and ignorant of the physical causalities of this certain phenomenon; and in the stillness of her reeling mind, in the ode of her heartbeat, she listens – and stretching out her fingers – her byakugan activates. Larks and sparrows and waxwings, two flying up the sky, four perching at the rooftop – some insects by the shrubs, her sweater, her medical kit, farther – steaming water, rooftops, two men walking, a bucket of fish, smooth boulders, antiquated trees, an old woman and three more people walking towards somewhere.

"Wha–"

She halts. Her view entailed more perplexed thoughts but the gist of the story of her defeat was clear, and her enthusiasm revives; gathering her things she leaves the shrine, proceeding to the nearest town of Stone, ignorant of the physical causes of this certain phenomenon but now aware, she's now aware of the seventh bird welcoming her presence. That hiding scarecrow.

Psychedelic Soul

From Foxes to Scarecrows

Kage bunshin Hatake Kakashi observes as the adversaries seek its existence, its fake existence that seems to show an emotion almost perceivable at the eyes of any human being; the presupposition of its humanness is second to none but from the way it stares, with eyebrow raised, there is a glint in its unmasked eye that purported a certain degree of what its originator can do, of what reality can do; the furtherance of such line between reality and representation of reality is the bunshin's ability to let thought meander within its supposed mind: to obey, to sacrifice itself to accomplish an end, to act on some necessitated thing in order to justify its existence. This resolve is quite impeccable on its part now as it springs from the roots that became trunks of the old tree; it manages to seize another shinobi by its thighs, shifting them in counter-clockwise direction as the other snaps, walking randomly with a broken neck as the white-haired scarecrow lets go, gyrating its body in the air as it lands on the earth. Stone chuunins prepare next, throwing kunais and shooting stars as more copies of the copy-nin himself emerge from the other trees – and pandemonium visits them merrily, aware of the violence that will ensue, aware of the bodies that will be nourishment for this doomed forest.

The earth shakes and the grasses lose their hold of the soil as the chuunin molds water with filth, and emitting his raw energy forms a seal; Kakashi dodges the other kunais with precise projection but two vanish in smokes. Kakashi runs, following the chunins, throwing at them bunshin kunais; the river is the Stone shinobi's apprentice as it mingles with it the chakra-filled mud and creates a doton attack, the mud like oceanic waves as more Kakashis disappear, clearing the woods of any more obstacles that will hinder them to survival, so they can declare to the world the assassination of a fellow jounin-leader, to proclaim to the world the brutish Konohagakure, to finally make wars against the village of leaves official. At successive strikes kage bunshin Kakashis release smoke to mark their failures as more splashes of mud overwhelm them, with shrubs and flowers following their so-called deaths, the birds flying up to dodge the waters, the trees enduring the force and trying to resist the temptation of joining the sate of nearby plants.

The technique stops. The ninjas frown at the acknowledgement of their mediocrity, with no sign at all to show their victory against the jounin; the grounds are dark waters, oblique and uncomfortable against their gears, and there was slight destruction to the health and beauty of the woods, and the river has filth as its comrade while they flow towards the waterfall. Hardly breathing and they began their strides; longing for home, longing for security.

"Let us take that course. There's a quick route there,"

"That waterfall? That's dangerous,"

"We can take west then northeast, there's a medic camp there,"

"That... that jounin is legendary... we can't easily beat him..."

"That's why we change routes. Tsuchikage needs to be informed of this."

The most able Stone Country chuunin stops.

"Wait..."

"Wha– what?"

"Someone's coming..."

"He's coming!"

They take out their kunais, able but frightened – it's the mark of vulnerability.

The supposed harsh environment, with all the stories of geographical nuisance – rocks that obstruct the growth of plants, boulders as prevalent elements of existence of the village, winds that equate Sunagakure's sandstorms, and worthless minerals surrounding the whole of Iwagakure – the supposedly unfair condition of the Stone was certainly an unwarranted assumption, at least to the byakugan lass' perception; the breeze is almost cool, most probably because of the lush undergrowth that surrounded the town whereof fuchsia, creambush and buckthorn dominate and the white petals of cherry (which ironically cannot be found in Leaf) are creating trails for her to follow. And she chases them in silence, walking together with merchants who sell Iwagakure figurines purely made of fine minerals; she makes a genjutsu out of her forehead protector, still with the mindset that amidst the beauty in all these, her mission was the causality of this certain experience. At her right was a traditional town-tower, though not as tall, with limestone barricades hindering any damage and several of Stone Country's marks can be seen – at her left was the old woman, sighing as if from exhaustion, and she stares at the young kunoichi; Hinata smiles, affirming her existence, and other smiles, too. She walks yet again, following the route the falling weeping cherry leaves were making, and she listens even more at the sounds of children playing shinobi, the unmistakable game of scrutinizing who is mightier, and she sighs; not because of any other intuitive matters that'd make her lines of absolute sight visible, but from the angst that has been her ghost for the past fifteen years.

Several other men walks, passing her pensive self by.

The unnerving fact that her abilities aren't nearing their perfection makes its revenge on her as she nods her head down and relate only to herself the profound morality that took her family, the code of tradition that took Uzumaki Naruto away from her; the addiction to the furtherance of strength has made Hinata draw a line between herself and other beings who have overflowing pride to themselves and to entities that interlock their subsistence, entities that make up for their humanity. This line of isolation proved to be effective towards weakness, and in years the actualization of her potentials was empty space – a gap of utter mediocrity – and she affirms that regret is always not at the onset of it all. Children are shouting jutsus. She takes a step.

The key to the resuscitation of herself was anxiety, the recognition of the idea that something within the corollaries of her actions is a barricade to the authentication of the meaning of being a true Hyuuga heiress, a true kunoichi who embraces the idea of heightening one's abilities, a true being who struggles against typecasting; and she trained hard, she refuses to execute stereotypical kekkei genkai techniques, she endeavors to learn.

"Miss!"

She looks up in astonishment.

"Pretty thoughtful today, ne?"

Uh, uhm... Can I–"

"What d'ya say about these fine Iwagakure masks? We crafted 'em through our bare hands!"

"Wha... How much–"

"Your eyes are quite different..."

"I'm... I'm from... I hail from Mist,"

"Mist y'say? Hmm... you're a shinobi?"

"Uh, yes sir,"

"Anyway, so how 'bout it? These'd be great gifts when you get back home. Wait... are you trying out our springs?"

"Springs? You have..." she smiles, "you have springs here, mister?"

The bald man grinned. "We sure do miss! And people in Mist usually check out our springs... they say to try something other than theirs,"

"I... I haven't been here before,"

"Well what d'ya know, I have a tourist here! Say, try the spring out there," the certain merchant says, pointing to northeast. Several houses are glued to each other and more shidarezakuras are laying themselves beside each house, ands steam is visible, enticing her.

"Uh, mister,"

The presence of the masks was hurling her abstracted thoughts as she stares at them, those several instruments of disguise, those glistening tools of espionage; and they sparkle even more as sunlight approaches them like truth, the happenstance of one's journey to discover everything else that demand going back to the true nature of the essence of what things really are. She stretches her arm, reaching for those masks but never touching them. At certain gyration of her cognitive self and she halts.

"They're grains of various agates, made into thin layers and absolutely hand-made young lady,"

"Where... where do you make these mister?"

"Can't tell you that, young lady! Buy one! It'll help a good 'ole merchant's income..."

Her fingers graze at a particular stone-carved face, whitish and radiant against sunlight and but traces of yellow and green are quite apparent to her sight. It was smooth despite the unusual grains that faintly glow, and she smiles at the bald man. "How much is this mister?"

She swivels her head suddenly, staring at the gray-hued bathhouse and felt the sunbeams getting warmer; the birds are chirping and the old man was preparing to leave; the children are still playing and the afterthought of the reminiscence of her desolate life was subsiding like the wounds on her shoulders. Her eyebrow raises from an unknown shot of eagerness. The winds seem to call her, her addiction to the aesthetics of nature; and her body was dictating upon her psychological images of a sound mind, body and soul. In this town that gives picturesque view of the beauty of existence, with thousands of more realizations – schmaltzy but merry – she is more than an audience to the dullness and customariness this place seem to emanate; and down by this road, or somewhere, she can take time to look at the meaning of being situated in a certain time and space, so when her favorite stubborn fox return from training and ultimately talks to her... and awkwardness will be gone. She head to the spring. She quite knew – she quite knew and thought that never in her life could and would someone give her that picturesque emotionality.

They're violent beauties of expediency.

The crudity of it all was just beginning to manifest, that in-itself essentiality of the savage mind and predatory flexes of their bodies as the nin-dogs come into the chuunins' sight via kuchiyose tsuiga no jutsu, and the soil and dirt separate in discordant sharpness, revealing them, and mouths open to make apparent those bodily-attached wedges, and in sync with the shinobis' apprehensive heartbeats those minute entities of pain puncture through their ankles and everybody else snaps; two of them found themselves barely escaping those unmistakable summons of the white-haired scarecrow as they leap from the ground, trying hard to avoid even a scrape from the dogs' lunges, landing on the trees that survived the landslide. In easy angles kunais launch themselves downward, and a ninja starts to form a seal; the bloodhounds shift themselves out of the murky grounds, maneuvering their postures, springing from the ground and occluded their teeth, trapping the kunais with their fangs. It then becomes a human dogfight: two ostensibly different Stone chuunins with their own respective adversaries as they strike each other out in the tranquility of the air, a somersault of attacks, and biting through the arm that held an explosive tag a chuunin alights his face on the mud, lathering him of his own attack, right shoulder broken as the obese nin-dog pins him down, his claws starting to pierc through the other's back, and legs; flash seconds more and it fastens its mouth shut, and the sudden cracking sounds are accompanied by the concoction of blood and filth, and man loses his right arm.

Hardly evading a ninja's standard arsenal the nin-dog received a wound to its neck and the chuunin thwarts, pivoting himself and throws the kunai at the wolf-looking carnivore who seemed the make the shinobi interpret it was nourishing itself from his teammate's flesh; the dog dodges, now hyena-looking to manifest a certain sadism, the kunai ultimately stabbing the other ninja to death, eyes suddenly open, his throat clawed and red. The earth shakes and filth concentrates. One man's demise and the scarecrow's pets withhold their intention for killing as they evade spurts of mud, breaking the branches with sufficed vigor, creating craters in the trunks, even grounds – and but the summons are too clever for a C-class doton, now running, and randomly spinning in the air to land on the sturdy branch, others on boulders and they glare at the survivors who are soon-to-be reikons joining their ancestors somewhere out of this physical world.

In the distance, Pakkun observes his comrades. 'Kakashi must be desperate to leave us like this,' it muses. 'The things you do for passion.'

The orange-hued sky was marking the genesis of night time, and the town – it was growing noisier, at least to Hyuuga Hinata's earshot; the springs are calling her and she gets herself once again – donning the garments as he leaves the room. Every step reverberated in the wooden hallway that is actually old, but something in the place's antiquity made it look, for the Hyuuga heiress, beautiful. And she walks, albeit cautious, looking for someone. She heads north and passes two other customers by, and taking longer paces and old lady was waiting for her, holding the bamboo-woven basket everyone in the spring ought to have when bathing. The old lady smiles, and the lines on her face, as well as her gray locks, seem to fade to Hinata's absolute perception. And the byakugan lass then halts, reciprocating the old manager's smile with a nod; she takes the vat then.

"You're good timing miss,"

Hinata listened even more at the sounds outside. "Uh... good timing?"

"Yes," the old lady says as she walks Hinata to the springs, "...it's our weeping cherry festival. Y'hear those noises? Everybody's busy, yes,"

"Yes, they seem to be,"

"We're the only town with such cherry, young lady, even Leaf doesn't have our cherry."

"Uh... I see, but... how did you have such festivity?"

The old lady smiles. "Our town resides in the borders of Stone and Leaf, and y'know they got this cold war going on,"

"I'm from Mist–"

"And, the shidarezakura trees are the only ones we can call our own, y'know, we celebrate our ownership of this town. It symbolizes purity, but as they fall down during autumn, they seem to be tears, a crying sky... y'know miss, it's us, and we've been doing this for quite some time."

"That's... good to know," she whispers, wondering the feeling of doing something you really can call your own. She then smiles. "Is it an annual event, grandmother?"

"Oh no, our festival is marked only when in night time only the moon and the polaris are visible in the sky. I dunno how it happens, and sometimes it happens every year, sometimes not,"

"Oh I see,"

"You should be by our central park, yes, we're going to burn some cherry and with music,"

"Burn?"

"They're more fragrant when they're burning." The old lady smiles yet again as she opens the wooden door. Steam was all over and it was an ambience for Hinata, lukewarm and but soothing, and looking through it all, she forgot what is it like to be a byakugan ninja. "Here's the spring, young lady,"

Outside, as the copy-nin makes his way towards the central park, as his shoulder tighten at the rush of pain, as his energy-coils disrupt; he looks through the town, piercing it as he looks for somebody for some sharingan shinobi. And he sighs as he sees the peculiar sky, and holding out himself he sips his tea, staring at the huge fireplace as more people gather around. Their faces seem empty as he looks for her, not only because he wants to. The place is aromatic, he then realizes.

She tries to perceive them like they were a touch away from her – those moonbeams – and more ripples appear as her dainty fingers travel smoothly against the warm water; basking her body glorified she heaves a breath, savoring such a time of gratification and the night becomes more impeccable for her. She touches her bare shoulders, and her nape, thinking about not thinking. She can hear percussions playing in the distance, and looking up she sees the ashen smoke that testified to the burning of shidarezakuras, and they were redolent, even here in the springs. She thinks of Konoha, how it smelled power, how it tasted geniuses and jounins and byakugan.

And so the vicious circle begins. The opposition between her and the rest of analysts of strength. She thinks of what she will inherit only because of possessing a kekkei genkai, and bowing her head down she becomes numb from the warmth of the waters. There's something in her that makes her fall from the look of the others. Was it because she was thrown in such a condition where the aspects of one's existence are determined by a win-lose dichotomy? It was a false dilemma and she knows it; she has for herself infinite possibilities. She can do what she wants, she can project for many things in life and fundamentally ignore everything else, for they are hindrance. Her techniques, for instance, aren't confined to the traditions of her clan; and with certain herbs she can poison everybody. So to a large extent, she ought to possess peculiarity in order to exhibit herself as an essential individual towards Konohagakure's advantage; and her problem rests on the idea that she is not such an essential individual, and her peculiarity is weakness. The drawing line between strength and weakness in the world of shinobis is marked by how the dichotomy works; and it does for Hinata. In these thoughts – she is a contradiction.

The music gets louder, and this time her body gets colder.

It's an over-rationalization and she knows it. Uzumaki Naruto, however, taught her to ignore logical justifications and affirmed only himself as a ninja. He taught her how to go against being genius, how to become better by being reckless, and stubborn. In these, her smile starts to show, although shy at that, wondering of the things to say when they're alone in some place, in some time. The lass of absolute sight never would be someone who can partake in such scrutiny of might, and she can train infinitely and still be scrutinized by her inability to be mightier. She knew quite well the anomaly that nature has given her, and that she must deal with it. She must transcend. And she knew, never did anyone give her that kind of humanness, such emotionality – that stubborn fox! As the festival smokes get bigger in her sight, she remembers those bunshin narutos as they fight her cousin; how he smiles at her, how he's too naïve, how he eats his ramen. How he trains with his teammates, how he argues with his teacher... who happens to be here in this town, too.

Her eyes twitch at the sudden gush, oceanic to her body as she descends underneath the waters. There was a growing curiosity out of her, on the basis of her innocence against naiveté. Yes, she is naïve, on a social basis; she is, however, adulterated like everybody else in the world. Everybody's got to have somebody for someone. But why her? Is she not assuming too much? Consigning herself to pensive silence she gets up, fixing herself and walks out the misty place. Some more minutes and she was donning her clothes, the usual gray pants and meshes shirt covered by her coat. Her hair is still wet but she didn't mind, thinking about her mission, metamorphosing herself again into a kunoichi. Opening the door she takes firmer treads, and sighing from an unknown shot of vigor she takes herself out of the homely place.

"Hinata."

The youngster cannot deny the familiarity. "Ka-Kakashi-sensei," she says suddenly, nodding, remembering the kind of tone Kakashi had when he spoke.

"You're here,"

"Uhm – yeah, a mission, Kakashi-sensei... wha-what're you doing here?"

"I was training outside Konoha when I got lost, and decided to come here because it's near."

"Oh."

The jounin sighs. "No. I've got my mission." There was a glint in his unmasked eye as he spoke, and Hinata stares.

"I see."

"I didn't know their festival,"

"It's their shidarezakura celebration,"

"Where're you headed?"

"Uhm – somewhere with ramen, Kakashi-sensei,"

He purses his lips. "Then we've got a date."

Both of them could not tell the difference between an actual human and a representation of the individual as their sight travels along those lines the grains of limestone are making, those masks that prevent the disclosure of the performers' faces as they glide against the winds, moving at successive moments, flexing their arms in slow motion, and the zephyr dances with the feathered threads as more people become witnesses to the crying sky. As more people pass their existence by, as the scent of burning shidarezakuras swells like the pallid clouds over summer – the Konoha shinobis walks almost ill at ease, minding their own perception, beginning to doubt the comfort they ought to expect from each other's company. In the distance, the music now plays with a voice, although with undecipherable lyrics; a parade of costumes was blocking the pavement, filling the space with a multitude of hues and more people come to see such representations of the town's reality, and culture. They enter a stall, warm from the conversations of others, and the odorous spices have influenced them to stay.

"So how's team eight?"

Hinata attempts to look calm, and the immediate apprehension mystified her. "Uhm, Shino-kun is on a mission, and he's teaching in the academy, Kiba-kun's training for... the exams,"

Kakashi smiles. "I see."

"Uhm... how-how is... team seven, Kakashi-sensei?"

He takes his Icha-icha, "I dunno."

"Oh."

He sighs, closing the book. "I don't have team anymore, they got the legendary three as their new teachers,"

"Sannin?" Hinata stares at the orange bowl of steamy ramen, and but decides to sip her tea. Kakashi was motionless.

"How are you?"

Hinata was taken aback. She has presuppositions about civil discourse when it comes to certain relations, like from emotional detachment and familiarity. It was odd, she muses, seeing the unmasked eye of the legendary copy-nin, it was odd to be with him, and it was odd of her to think of all these. "Training hard, Kakashi-sensei," she says with a nod, and her tresses slowly graze against her coat.

"You're doing fine Hinata,"

"I hope so."

"Will you join the next exam?"

There was silence of heartbeats and thoughts as the girl of byakugan reaches yet again for her beverage. Kakashi stares, long enough to cool his ramen soup. As they dispatch themselves to such quietness, there arises, paradoxically, a communication between them; of course both of them knew the answer. They can engage in a dialectical conversation and they would be automatons in answering the most clichéd questions. More people are coming in, but less are going out of the restaurant. Was their table the only serene of them all?

"Kurenai-sensei has constant tasks to accomplish,"

"I know."

"Shizune-sensei is growing busy in the office,"

"Yes, she is."

"My father is not much help,"

"I'll train you then."

For the first time, there was an almost-eternal glimpse of each other's minds. Everything seemed to slowly move across the horizon of time, positively agonistic on their part as the liaison between them gets established on a seemingly innocent basis, overlooking assumptions and doubts and exposing them on new sets of presuppositions, on new kinds of imagination. On the other hand, as their company begins to maneuver towards comfort, as both of them realize the signification of each other's presence – people are making their way out of the place with immediate fear and instinctive drive to survive as an explosive tag dashes, firm like shuriken. A blast portends the restaurant razed to the ground, ruining the festival, and the people are winds jazzing like a storm as they run like madmen. The Thunder chuunins search for their adversaries, and jounin leader standing resilient and unmoved by the two Konoha shinobis looking stationary some meters away from him. He smiles, knowing too well the situation, projecting for a bloody shidarezakura festival. The copy-nin takes out his kunai, and Hinata can only raise an eyebrow, her tresses fluttering against the breeze. "He... he was the merchant I met Kakashi-sensei–the bald man, he was selling some–"

"You cannot deny your eyes young heiress," the bald jounin speaks, throwing the kunai towards them; the chuunins appear suddenly beside him.

Hinata activates the byakugan, nullifying the projectile. "Hinata I–I cannot form any seal," the other whispers.

"I... I know... I've disrupted your coils,"

Kakashi winces. "You... you knew?"

"I'm not genius Kakashi-sensei, but I'm–I'm... I'm not–"

Both shinobis leap from the ground as the chuunins run towards them, throwing their own shurikens and making people scamper out of the central park, a ghost town with the burning tower of weeping cherry as their light, as the only neutral entity in all these. "You've killed our Stone accomplices and we won't forgive that!"

"Hmm... so you're the group in the bingo book. Class C – missing-nins from your own country for not granting your request to re-open the case of the Hyuugas. And now you have accomplices. Too bad though they're dead," the copy-nin was calm as ever, playing with his arsenal by his fingers.

"The... a case... concerning us?"

"Enough talk! We're not the same as the Stone idiots! Prepare to die!"

Kakashi recoils. "They fail your group and you call them stupid. Good liaison, ne?"

The jounin forms his seal. The chuunins are readying their kunais. The clouds are amassing atop of the Konoha shinobis, and the sky is a roaring animal, boisterous and loud. It was an enigma for Hyuuga Hinata in such situations that arise in abrupt instances – just because she is the heiress of one of the most powerful clans in Leaf. The presence of the copy-nin is a mytery to boot. There is something in such happenstance that makes her self-conscious, thinking of the win-lose dichotomy, how it will take effect on her again. There are so many things that the white-haired scarecrow needs to explain – and as the kunais slither towards them; she thought, she quite thought of the kind of humanness the scarecrow is giving her. Never could the fox give her an emotionality of selkf-transcendence, and the scarecrow, he was teaching her to go beyond her way of the ninja. And her eyes are wide open, stetching her arms, and her fingers are moving in rapid reflexes. 'Shugo Hakke Rokujuuyonshou!'

tbc.