In The Grave of Fireflies

by Equinoxxy

Her name wasn’t always Hotarubi Uchiha. Her world didn’t always have ninja, and it certainly never included killers running amock about her. She’d been prepared for eternity after her death— perhaps even a sense of peace. She can only grieve that the universe punishes her for her past life like this. Uchiha!SI-OC. Slow updates, new readers skip to the note, please!

7. Ouroboros Arc: Snake

The Ourobouros Arc: Snake

Here's the thing about snakes;

You don't step on them, they don't got a reason to bite.

— FP Jones

My name is Santa Yamanaka, and it has been two years since the Uchiha Massacre.

Not much had changed in Konoha despite the incident, as one might believe. It was release in full-color print newspapers the day after that night, and it had spread like wildfire throughout the city, and I don't doubt that it reached other nations that very same day. It ended as most things concerning shinobi do; the villain, Hotarubi Uchiha (or the Traitor's spawn, some — most — still call her) was killed in a joint effort by Shisui and Itachi Uchiha. They're heroes, now, and popular with everyone in the know, which is literally everyone. So, the village is safe and everyone's happy. Kudos to us, right?

Well, not exactly.

Thoughts of the massacre breed a bitter taste in my tongue as I sip the creamy beige coffee in my mug. Sometimes, I can't help but wonder if the world would be better off if such a thing as 'shinobi' never existed. It's a foolish, worthless thought (that's what my father, an ex-shinobi himself minus one left leg told me) that I shouldn't dwell on. But one can dream, can they not?

With a sigh, I place the cup down and flip the next page in my newspaper, too engrossed in the very juicy piece of gossip in the head article to hear the jingle of bells as the store door opens.

"Oh my. Jiraiya-sama's written a new novel, huh? 'Fifty Shades of Ninja'... hm. Not doing as well as his Icha-Icha series, huh?" A voice startles me out of my reverie and I nearly jump out of my skin. "Oh! Uh, sorry! Hi! Yeah, hi! Umm... that was just- I mean, uhh..." The girl (a regular for the past year, I note) simply stares and giggles as I flush and make a fool of myself. "No worries. I'll have the usual bouquet today, please. No coffee today."

Nodding dumbly, I hurry away to fulfill her order. I grab the white, ruffle-petal edge chrysanthemums chilling in the fridge (pun intended) and twirl the shrink wrap on the counter around their stems.

The girl waits patiently at the counter, her smile lost and her eyes dim and lifeless as she stares at the newspaper. Taking a plastic cord and tying it to restrict the wrap, I glance up at her again. She doesn't seem to be looking at the newspaper anymore. She has that look my father had when he was still alive; that haunted, glassy-eyed look that tells me that she's somewhere far, far in the past.

I don't comment on it and leave her to sort herself through it, knowing that it's the best thing I can currently do for her. She's a regular around here and almost always has that distant Look about her at least once. The last flower is on the tip of my tongue as I swing around to the back, filing through the rows of potted flowers lined in alphabetical order. Let's see, I hum to myself, more to pass the time than for anything of necessity.

Snowflake, Solidago— ah, Spider Lily. I gently grasp the fine stem of the delicate crimson flower, careful not to disturb the very thin stamen that branch out of the ovary. I reach out my left hand into the pocket of my work apron, pulling out the clipper into view. With an effortless snip the flower separates from its pod. The Lycoris Spider Lily shakes gingerly with each step I take back through the door and to the counter, the fresh water droplets on it shimmering in the fluorescent light. The woman seems to have snapped out of her daze, her dark russet eyes gleaming again as she watches me stick the last addition into the mix of white.

"Thank you," She whispers, and I give her a grateful smile as I ring up the cash register. "That'll be sixteen thousand ryō." I tell her, and she nods when she digs into her pocket. I eye her curious mix of ebony and blonde locks, seeing the way the small strips of gold peeled out of the brown in beautiful, cascading waves. They're layered beautifully and the ones here in the front reach to the middle of her rather well endowed chest that I try to ignore as much as possible.

Bangs on her right frame her face just so, and a few sections of her hair are braided and have a few iron nuts encircling them in places. Her skin is a smooth, earthenware color with little scars littered about her cheeks and what little of her neck I can see beyond her icy blue scarf. The shadowed eyes that worriedly scan the coins in her palm to assure herself that they are the correct value are a valiant layer of hickory laid atop mahogany and cedar, specks of umber and maple syrup indented into the deep, beautiful brown of her iris. When she looks up at me, my breath is taken away to a far, faraway place I don't even know the name of. The dark, mysterious woody and earthen hues melt away and give life to a shining bronze and barley tea, eyes like the distant planet of Mars that bursts in color with the borrowed light of the sun. Her nose is perfectly average with a hawkish nose and thin, downturned lips. They were the color of dusted ginger and had a light undertone of off-white pink, pale and beautiful with creased dimples when she smiles at me. Her eyelashes fluttered across her cheeks with the delicacy of butterfly wings and framed her almond-shaped eyes well. Her jawline is sculpted with a slight dip in her chin to complement her oval face, the valley of her neck and v in her collarbone well-defined. But, despite however closely I look at her, it is quite a shame that others do not take the time to admire her beautiful qualities. Why?

Because, simply, when one takes a step back, she is painfully average.

Such is so with flowers and stories, too. There's always a little more that no one likes to talk about. Whether from fear of being ironically called a 'pansy' for liking flowers (pun intended) quite so, or from fear of being the next one involved in the horror story they love to explore.

I can't help if I'm one of the latter.

"Thank you." I take the coins from her without a glance, knowing her to be a woman of honest money, and place them accordingly in their slots. Knowing the slight grimace in my smile, I hand the bouquet over to her and watch as her hair swishes from side to side as she walks towards the door.

"Wait!" I call out before I can stop myself, my heart beating erratically from nervousness. She turns around and gives me a questioning look, but my mouth moves faster than I can think. "Who are those for?" I blurt, regretting my actions as I try to reign my tongue from asking anything more. It was always the same bouquet, always funeral flowers, always white with a single Spider lily. Chrysanthemums are for purity, but Spider lilies... they mean I will see you again. It makes no sense. So why?

Her face changes slowly. Her smile dips into a frown and her eyebrows pinch together as she casts her eyes away from me, worriedly looking at the flowers. She's quiet for a moment, as though conversing with herself before she looks back at me with a face that stings my heart. It's a sad, sad smile. Her eyes shine with misery and sorrow and she screams regret.

"The graves of fireflies."

.:; TGoF;:.

Itachi Uchiha is tired.

Regardless, he gets up as usual. He shoves the sheets off of his shoulders and slides off of the bed, sleepily slicking his hair back as the warmth vanishes from his body, replaced by the cold autumn air that slips through the traditional tatami matting. He eyes Sasuke, laying on the adjacent bed dead asleep. Relief floods him at the calm state of his younger sibling. Ever since the massacre, he's had numerous sleepless nights haunted by the image of their father's face and the screams of their clan.

And, if he was to be honest, Itachi is shadowed by memories of her.

With a deep sigh, he bundles up his hair and totters to the bathroom. Flicking on the light, he bends down and opens up the cabinet below the sink and fumbles around for a hair tie in the darkness. Feeling the rough elastic loop, he grasps it and straightens to tie his hair back in the usual low ponytail. The cheap golden-orange lightbulb flickers as he runs the sink and splashes his face. The water is frigidly cold and sets his heart startled and running from its drowsy state.

With a groan, the blood rushes to his head and his chest constricts painfully. A cough wracks his form and he hunches over, clasping a hand to his mouth as a coppery taste spills over his tongue. He coughs dryly as he hurriedly runs the water, spitting out the ugly bronze-lit liquid as the water gushes in the sink. Cupping his hand under the water, he sips some and courses it through his mouth, spitting it out again. Sip, swash, spit, repeat.

Itachi rinses down the last bit of blood down the drain when he hears a dull thud from the other side of the room. Sasuke's awake.

Groggy and tired, Sasuke rubs his eyes as he toddles blindly to the bathroom. The corners of Itachi's lips quirk up in a smile, seeing his little brother bump into his hip. Sasuke grunts when he wobbles backwards a bit, hardly half of Itachi's waist as his elder brother's hand lands his back to steady him. "Why don't you wash up? I'll fix breakfast up quickly for you," Itachi suggests, to which he receives an almost unconscious nod from the half-asleep Sasuke. Ruffling his ototou's spiky hair, Itachi gingerly glides past him to go to the kitchen.

Grabbing his personal apron and tying his hair with a stray band on the counter, he sets to work. Bending down to inspect the oak cabinets below the gas stove burner, he opens the door with the copper handle and takes the largest pan. With a push, twist and hold he ignites the stove and places the pan upon it. Turning the knob down to low heat, he reaches and takes the jar and spoon on top of the black marble counter. Itachi spoons two globs of white coconut oil onto the pan, dodging a bit of the oil as it spits out at him.

He hears the water running in the bathroom, supposedly Sasuke taking his morning shower, as he opens the obsidian refrigerator and pulls out a carton of eggs. Cracking them on the counter, he fries them with the coconut oil until the bottom solidifies. Taking the pink salt shaker to his left on a paper towel next to the oil jar, he grinds the salt onto the two eggs. Next comes the pepper and... he forgot the cheese.

Pouting slightly with a twitch in his brow, he takes one more trip to the fridge and grabs the Parmesan shredded cheese. He sprinkles it on top, now satisfied with his recreation, and waits patiently 'til the corners turn a crispy bacon-brown. The savory, delicious scent of the melting cheese and the sweet but light coconut oil make his mouth water in anticipation.

Light filters in through the half closed oak blinds of the kitchen and conjoined living room, illuminating the shin-height hickory table as he places the porcelain plate down. Dust particles float lazily as he stalks back and forth in the kitchen, preparing tomato onigiri with the lull of the shower rain filling in the background. The construct staple, the wood, glows warmly with the beams of light serrated by the blind slots as Itachi's feet soundlessly patter against the boards.

After the massacre, they'd bunked at a certain Genma-san's house. The mysterious senbon-chewing shop owner wouldn't give a hint as to why he'd shelter a pair of orphans other than 'A little firefly beat me in a game of Han-Cho' and a shake of his scowling head. He's quite sure that the man's never sober once he opens the refrigerator. Grisly not-so-old shinobi aside, the new house he and Sasuke had chosen was fashionably old and new.

It's a modest, modern home with traditional influences. It's a single-story medium-sized home with an attic and two guest rooms, one set aside for Sasuke when he grows older, and one the two share at present. The floors are a laminated oak flooring, light beige walls and a white ceiling to pair with it. Windows line the main conjoined living and kitchen rooms. The counters are of black-marble with a simple five-burner stove, overhead microwave, and a stylishly onyx oven. The refrigerator is black, too, much to his pleasure, and a simple palm-tree plant sits on the top counter. The table is a low, traditional one with two sitting purple pillows on each side, and one on each opposite length of the square.

The shower cuts off as he wraps the soft tomato onigiri and sour pickled cabbage into Sasuke's bento box. Sasuke casually meanders on in, a towel tossed over his head and his usual unisex khaki shorts and Uchiha crest shirt. Scowling at the sun for so rudely blinding him with the comparative brightness to the dull lamplight they use in the bed and bathroom, he plops down in front of the set plate and drops his wet towel. "Itadakimasu." He murmurs before picking up his chopsticks and cutting into the steaming sunny-side up eggs.

Itachi, clad in his frilly pink 'Kiss the Cook' apron, notes the silence and lack of chewing sounds as he cracks open the carton to make his own eggs. It's a peculiar sort of silence that steals the breath of the air in quiet and almost unassuming anticipating suspense. It's the kind he and his father would hang tacitly when in the airs of disagreements. Itachi decidedly doesn't like it.

"So, are you ready for school today?" Itachi cracks the eggs on the counter, dripping the yolk and white onto the pan-oil as it sizzles angrily. "Hn," Sasuke grunts. To-be read as; 'yes.' The clinking of Itachi rummaging through the plates in the upper cabinet make Sasuke's ears twitch as he stares down at his plate, contemplating and... very suspicious.

"Nii-san." Sasuke looks up from his plate, uncertainty dabbling on the tip of his tongue. Should he say this..? I deserve to know. Sasuke finalizes in his mind, boldness shooting through his mind as he sets his chopsticks down.

"Since when do you cook eggs like this?" It's a logical question. Up until a few weeks after that night, Itachi had always steamed the eggs when he cooked them. He never added cheese, nor pepper, and he despised the burned blemishes that now bruise the rim of the meal. He is a perfectionist to no end; why the change? At first, Sasuke had thought he was just trying something new, but he wasn't so sure when other things changed. He constantly brought flowers into the house; always the same kind. Baby's Breath, Sea Holly and Proteus blossoms. He made two cups of tea one time when Sasuke came back from the Academy; he hadn't touched his, and the other had long since grown cold. He'd simply stared out the window in a trance while it rained that day.

Sasuke knew the cup hadn't been for him.

Then there was the bird feeder out front and the peculiar way he'd sit at the table for hours in the dead of night when he thought Sasuke was asleep, staring at a phantom Sasuke couldn't see. There were also the nights when he'd sing himself a lullaby with words that are disgustingly familiar but vaguely distant.

Then there is that disturbingly domestic apron.

If Itachi froze or flinched, he did a good job of hiding it. He sets his plate down and wields the spatula, plopping the eggs onto his plate. "... Just a change in pace," He responds blandly, dropping by the toaster to pick up two pieces of perfectly toasted toast.

Sasuke frowns. Itachi lies a lot, he's learned as he's grown older, and he's made much better lies than before. "Oh, yeah?" Sasuke growls as Itachi joins him at the table, lips pressed slightly and invisibly thin. "Yes," He states. "Now, eat. You're going to be late." Sasuke doesn't put up a fight after that, quietly scooping his suddenly bitter eggs and toast into his mouth. If Itachi doesn't wanna tell now, he'll find a way to get him to spill the beans.

Sasuke's gonna be the best ninja ever, after all.

And...

Sasuke's fists clench tighter on his chopsticks. I'll avenge my father. He eats a little faster, determination glowing in his eyes.

'Cause I know that she isn't weak enough to die that easily.

.:; TGoF;:.

Shisui hisses in pain, clenching his stomach as he jumps further.

I don't have enough time! He thinks as the pain intensifies, ripping his skull open with a headache. He stumbles a little from fatigue, groaning as his stomach clenches again. He needs to get to Itachi's house, he knows, but with the growing agony of the empty flesh of his stomach pulsating and groaning, he can only hope he'll get there soon enough.

He needs help. Badly. He won't make it if he doesn't hurry. He dodges a stray pipe as he lands on the ground, lurching forward in a mad dash to get to the little house by the tree line. He slams the door open and staggers inside, breathing in the scent of toast and eggs as his abdomen twists and writhes.

A whistling shuriken whirls at his face and he dodges by a hair, hearing the deep thud as it embeds itself into the wood. "Itachi!" Shisui gasps, seeing a very irritated Itachi, clad in his warrior's outfit of a pink, frilly ribbon tossing eggs in the kitchen.

"Thank heaven!" Shisui cries, "I'm starving!"

As if on cue, his stomach roars from hunger.

Itachi sighs like a man with a dog that believes it's a cat, perching on everything and going so far to rebel against nature so as to have learnt how to meow instead of bark. A very exasperated man he is, indeed. Very much a cat-dog he has to deal with.

A very peculiar creature, indeed.

"Come. Sasuke's gone. I'll make you lunch." Itachi beckons him in, preparing himself for more eggs and a large possibility of obtaining a headache. Shisui kicks off his Anbu boots into the corner of the entrance, shrugging off his winter coat as his cheeks glow a warm and bright pink from the cold.

Waltzing his way to Sasuke's room, Shisui disappears behind the door and re-emerges with a bean bag in his hand. Tossing it beside the table, he leaps onto it with a childish glee.

He hums an old tune in his throat (where is it from, again?) as the background paraphernalia shines in his eyes. The soft clinks and occasional huff of the stove fire are comforting when paired with the scent of cooking breakfast.

It's a comforting thought, he feels.

To have someone at home, cooking. It's not something he's used to, or course, and it's not quite the same homely feel with someone like Itachi cooking, but he'll take whatever he can get. Kagami, his father, died when he was young and when Shisui was younger still. He's an older, dying generation in a lightning fast world of cannon fodder and rising shinobi. If he doesn't want to fade into mediocrity for the history books he'd better become someone important, according to a certain Kakashi Hatake, a lead on the Massacre case and a good friend of Itachi. Nowadays with the business of the outside world and his own upkeep of social charisma, he finds himself alone, often.

Cold, tired, and alone.

Now are times of peace. No more war, no more children starving on the street or child-soldiers marching to their deaths. No more orphans killed for other's sins or dead-eyed veterans without a future. There's a whole new other kind of war for he and his lonely kind.

He's got nothing. Nothing to look forward to when he gets home, nothing but cobwebs and dust to greet him when he gets home. It's a war of distraction— a war to be distracted. Distracted from the wailing ghosts and the haunting, frigid loneliness. He hasn't had anyone to welcome him home since...

Since that night.

It's a sour and different tale; one that leaves a bitter taste on his tongue at the thought. There were unanswered questions; things that needed to be solved about that night and have since run cold along with the weather. It was a vile happening, but Shisui can't help but feel as if it wasn't so... timed.

He's no fool; despite the council of Uchiha never having invited him to their meetings, he knew that there was something brewing. It was in the way the Uchiha stared and whispered, the tactit agreement that lingered in the wind and smelled foul as that vile air. It was like a mold growing in the wood of the planks in the floors, slowly and definitely festering and boiling like a century-old curse. He knew the Uchiha were planning something. Something wrong.

And then there was her. An anomaly, a pariah, the elephant in the room that was as invisible as a mouse. She held knowing eyes, and that accursed gift of her beautiful face told him everything despite how well her lips were sealed. He loved that beautiful face. He loved her wolfish, cold, sooty eyes and her small smiles that never bore teeth, the way she would scowl when displeased and flush red without her knowledge. He loves the moments when her beautiful, tanned and rosy lips would pout when she concentrated, the redness that would overtake her face like that one time he'd been pressed too close to her when spying on Itachi, the way her eyes would light up at the sight of the stars in the sky, and so, so much more.

Moreover, he loved the way she lied.

Because she could make up a story on the spot; he'd seen her weave a web of lies and leave the victim stranded without any arguments to her acclaim in a manner of seconds. He knows how every little giveaway is hushed by a flick of her wrist and a clever lie. He's never seen her get caught for so much as a simple theft if she didn't want to be caught.

The thing is; it was far too easy to know when she's lying when you know her.

She never put out the perfect alibi; she left breadcrumb drops for the Hansel and Gretel cops to believe she wasn't the wicked witch, and she knew how to play it to a perfection.

But Shisui, as her watchful witch's raven, has seen her innermost colors for far too long to be fooled.

When she lies, she gives nothing away. She could fool the whole world and get away with it. But when she lied to him; she was like the tell-tale heart. She'd freeze and gulp ever so lightly, he could see her cold fingers warm in nervousness and her voice lowers slightly with a stiffness in her spine. She could never lie to him. That's why, as cruelly and clever as any come, she hid her lies so well. Gone were her tell-tale signs that night; not a uttering that could tell him whatever she was saying was intended or hollow.

But she could never change her eyes.

"How's the investigation going?" He asks, gratefully taking the tea Itachi hands out to him. Rooibos tea- her favorite. "Cold," Itachi grunts, a displeased frown marring his face at his force's latest failure; or, rather, lack of progress than any loss of success. Breathing in the scent of barn wheat, dust and almost horse-like smell, the signature aroma of Rooibos, Shisui hums in sympathy to him. After the death of Fugaku, Shisui had managed to convince Itachi to take over the police force in place of his father. It's a good- well, better,- and honest(ish) working, and much less bloody than field work for his pacifistic friend. It took a lot of convincing, trial and error, but after poking and prodding at the council for a hefty year on the matter, they retired Itachi to the position. As compensation, half surviving members (which weren't that many to being with) were brought back to take missions from the board to even out the power balance between the in and outside of the wall. Now, with the little resources he has, he's moved on to taking charge of the massacre case. Aided by yours truly, of course.

The case is as cold as they come. No leads for nine months, and nothing but vague psyche evaluations on the question of 'what the hell screwed Hotarubi Uchiha up' that provide vague answers. But, with the way Itachi's house is, to the way he cooks, Shisui wonders if it's they, themselves, who need a psyche eval.

"We got screwed up real bad, 'Tachi-kun." Itachi doesn't need to ask what he means. He's very well aware of what he means. The moment she died at his hand, and his accursed eyes awoke, it seems as if nothing isn't related to her. Every rainy day, every time they looked out the window, smelled the scent of Rooibos or felt a cold mug of Green tea, heard the caw of the jackdaw and every saturated sunrise that pooled in and warmed their chilled bones reminded them of her. She is within the summer grass as it illuminates with firefly lights, she is within the cold winter nights when the stars shine brightest in the dark. She is everywhere.

She is in the air when it strokes through the strands of their hair like her smooth, cold fingers, she is the spray of cold water when they run the tap, she is within every crack and crevice and corner of Konoha. She is within the lullabies Itachi sang to Sasuke in troubled times, she is within every breath they take; because as long as they live, her memory lives within them. Gone, lost, but not forgotten.

Shisui sighs and combs a hand back through his mussed hair, his palm brushing the metal plate on his hitai-ate. A wonderful distraction, and a much better turn on topics. "Sasuke's graduation exam should be in three years, right?" Itachi nods at Shisui's inquiry. "Yes," He smiles at the thought of his little brother as he places their breakfast on the table. "He will pass. I don't doubt him," Itachi remarks, a prideful tilt in his stoic voice, and a grin that doesn't seem to be vanishing any time soon. Good, Shisui hums in his head. It's been a while since he's smiled this often.

Time heals all wounds, after all.

Even if it can't forget them.

"So, how is Hatake-san?"

Shisui groans. Oh yes, the one topic he didn't want to talk about was picked on.

"What about that stick in the mud?" Shisui growls, shoving a whole sunny-side up egg into his mouth and gulping it down in a fury. Itachi glowers in disgust. "He's as cranky and antisocial as ever; even more so, since he received the news that he's being readmitted into a Jounin Squad."

Well that's new.

Itachi blinks in surprise. "He's being discharged from Anbu?" He questions, bewildered at the thought that they would allow such a valuable asset to be demoted. He, himself, certainly had enough trouble doing so and it had been the talk of the town at the time; to have Hatake step down so quickly is almost unheard of. "Not demoted; reassigned," Shisui corrects him, slurping down the last bit of tea and yolk straying from his lips. "He's getting a new team; apparently, one of them's a hotshot from some random small-time village out somewhere. Land of Iron, I think."

Even more peculiar.

"Isn't the Land of Iron a samurai region?" Itachi asks, baffled by such an extensive exchange. Shisui nods, standing up and shoving his shoes back on his feet. "Yep. They said it was some relationship-building thing for them to give us one of their shinobi."

Shisui hurries to make it out of the door, determined to get to team training on time, but not without leaving a statement.

"Tch. Politics."

.:; TGoF;:.

Hatake Kakashi can imagine a million better things to do with his time than to deal with this.

Thank the stars that there is, at least, one person on this team that isn't an idiot.

And even then, he and Yamato are outnumbered two to three.

"Oh, come on! You know I'm the sexiest kunoichi in the village- admit it!" Anko hisses as she grapples Tenz- Yamato and proceeds to choke him. Genma sighs, looking up from his personal copy of Icha Icha Paradise (Kakashi blanches at the sight. The Third had given him that exact copy for, quote, 'therapy' reasons. What a load of bull-) with his senbon hanging meticulously out of the corner of his mouth. "He can't admit anything if he's dead." Either Anko doesn't care, has a way to somehow miraculously animate people from beyond the grave, or is determined to prove that dead men tell no tales is wrong, or she could just be having fun seeing him writhe in pain, but she continues choking him with her ankle lock as he runs around with her on his shoulders like a chicken without a head. Well, guess it's just me now, Kakashi concludes, mourning the loss of the last sane person on his new team. He shall be missed.

Now, in a disturbingly time not too long ago, in a land uncomfortably close, Kakashi might have believed that there is a small possibility that the team's 'transferred shinobi' might actually be a normal, sensible human being with some shred of dignity. But, of course, he's proved wrong. How?

They're two hours late.

Shinobi die when they're too late. Too late to arrive, too late to block a blow, too late to move aside so that they don't get hit by the rock—

They're very late.

Tardiness is not acceptable as a shinobi.

Aggravated but determined, Kakashi huffs and extends his chakra, letting it creep through the air like ghostwind as it scours the landscape of Training ground 86 in search for a sign of misplaced life. He finds it right behind him.

"Hello!" Is chirped before Kakashi spins around and grapples their thinner wrist (much to his chagrin, he can't punch them ever since the Third told him that doing so is considered rude) and sweeps low with his leg. The anomaly does something reminiscent of a hopscotch jump as they leap above his striking leg none too high, mindful of the hand gripping their wrist. Deciding the now is a good time to test their skill (no hostile intent: not an enemy) and perhaps humiliate them a little, (he's still rather unappreciative of their little scheme) he raises his dodged knee to aim a crippling bruise to their ribs. The anonymity— a woman, he notes; or close enough in age to almost be— grins and uses her free right hand to slam her palm into his patella, twisting and seizes his own wrist, using the driving force of his arc and her single-limbed strength to toss herself over and behind him. Feeling the muscles of her triceps twitch and a peculiar chakra stretch over his body, he immediately shoves her arm away from his and spins around in a crouch to keep from being tossed over her shoulder. She follows up with the kinetic energy in their little pirouette and slams her shin to his head, the grating sound of iron meeting iron screeching in their ears as his blocking armguards meet her shin guard. Kakashi has the initiative and strikes forward, grasping the thigh area just above her knee as she gasps and rips her towards himself, other hand shooting out as she's dragged towards him and clasps the front of her shirt (have to refrain from throttling the neck) and rams into her with his own weight. His hand shoots out again from her leg in record time, slamming down her wrists above her head as he straddles her waist.

Though thoroughly pinned and defeated, she smiles up brightly at him. Kakashi blanks out at that; used to the usual scowling defeat or the bitter laugh that usually comes after when he beats someone despite their advantage. She didn't have the look of a winning woman; not with the dark, purplish-blue crescents of insomnia set under her eyes or the glasses, mirrors of her eyes. But, there was something in that smile that was proud. Brave; victorious, even despite the slow, loud clapping of Genma's large hands and Anko's hoots and hollers— plus the distinct lack of choking. He couldn't observe her in this admittedly compromising position (created doubly uncomfortable with Anko's wolf whistling) until something on the back of his neck stings and shudders down his spine like a hissing cockroach, that bad feeling he always gets as he stills, feeling the cold iron of a kunai on the back of his neck. "I win, taichou~" the childish, airy voice coos in his ear, pressing the knife further and further into his skin— and he disappears in a cloud of smoke.

"Not quite," Kakashi hums, stepping out of the tree line. The kunoichi rolls onto her stomach and smiles, her lips curling into a coy smile. "A draw, then." He lazily eyes her from head to toe, using standard Anbu observation procedure. She stands and pats off her navy blue turtleneck sweater and grey form fitting leggings; slightly reminiscent to Anbu sweatpants, he realizes. Body type: Mesomorph, Hair Color: Brown with blonde streaks, Eye Color: Medium beige to low tan, Skin Tone: Dry Clay. Possible Kumo descent?

"A draw," Kakashi agrees with the inclination of his head. Genma whistles, low and steady as he puts away his book. Oh great, Kakashi muses. Here comes the smoulder.

"Where have you been all my life, darling?" He purrs, smirking as he saunters over to the new shinobi. The woman (girl?) smiles back flirtatiously, accepting his wooing demeanor. "Just looking for you, darling." She coos back, and Kakashi retains the urge to jump off the Hokage Monument and never get up. One Genma is bad enough. He does not need another. Still, he lets them continue without interruption. It could become a team-building thing for them. Just as long as they leave me out of it.

"Oh, but darling..." She leans in close to Genma, startling both Genma and everyone else. Observation update: possible ex-seductress. Her arms are draped over his shoulders, her chest pressed against his as her lips ghost the shell of his ear. Genma's cheeks burn lightly, but he's too busy enjoying the warm, gentle breaths ghosting over his skin and the distinct feel of a woman. "I'm too young for your tastes."

She pulls away, her lips devilishly grinning to her ears as Genma sputters in partial shock and voluntary disbelief. Anko roars in laughter, her hands prepped on her hips as she tosses her head back. "I like this kiddo! We're keeping it!" She crows and Kakashi groans. This isn't exactly what he was expecting when the Hokage told him he'd be getting a new team. He expected sane, normal people. Instead, he got a flirt, a tease, a maniac, and a man with the social capabilities of a literal tree. Great.

Being the ever more responsible, Kakashi sighs and begins introductions. "Well, since some of us don't know each other well, let's go ahead and introduce ourselves. Names should be enough." He grumbles, wishing he could have just stayed home and patted Pakkun for the whole day. Anko, as always, takes initiative. "I'm Anko Mitarashi. I like dango, snakes, and the sun. I hate Yamato-" She glares at him from her spot while Yamato not-so-subtly hides behind Kakashi. "- and a certain criminal. My hobby is terrorizing people and annoying Ibiki, and my dream for the future is to kill a certain man." She chirps, her bright purple hair bobbing as she nods her head in self satisfaction. Yamato, on the other hand, suddenly looks much paler after her last statement. Slightly annoyed by Anko for blathering further than needed (he hates wasting time,) Kakashi gestures for Genma to follow up. "Right," Genma concludes, eyeing her with a newfound fear. No one in Konoha hasn't heard of Anko's... mania, and she's certainly living up to it so far. "Yamato." Is all Yamato says in way of greeting, clearly avoiding Anko and distrustful of the new recruit. Kakashi doesn't blame him; the female isn't too terribly short like most preteens and even most teens, and her chest is very well developed for a young age, even if her curves appear to be limited to a slight curve at her waste. Her face has little baby fat that tends to stick up until age sixteen or seventeen, and her voice is still that of a younger female. Kakashi guesses age twelve. That makes her a prodigy of sorts, especially since she could keep up with him. They're only six years apart, in that case, which is rather impressive. Still, he's not going to slap a prestigious title on her quite yet. He's only seen her taijutsu (a unique one, it seems) so far. "You all can call me Tatarako." Newly dubbed, Tatarako gives a light bow to the general direction of everyone. "And I'm Kakashi. Welcome to Recon Squad Eight, everyone," He says with an eye smile. He receives varying nods and a few smiles.

Satisfied with his findings (for now), he claps his hand together and smiles under the mask. Summoning his happiest voice and trying to feel even remotely close to upbeat, he prepares to play the beloved Taichou role. Fun. "Okay! That was a good spar. Before we continue, let's go over tactical strategies we'll be using." Pulling out the mission scroll from his sleeve, Kakashi crouches down and lays out the scroll onto the ground. They gather around, Anko grinning and Yamato sending him a questioning look. "Ah, right," Kakashi laments, scratching the back of his neck. "I'd forgotten to tell you." No, he hadn't. Taking a quick glance around the training ground, Kakashi decides it best that this remained only for their ears, despite not sensing anyone around. Lifting his hands in the Ram symbol, he sends his chakra out to activate the silence seals scattered throughout the grounds. After making doubly certain that no one else is in the area, he continues. "Recon squad eight is only our cover and part time job. Our real operation is assasination and inter-alliance sabotage." It's a sneaky but necessary move on the Hokage's part.

An interalliance sabotage operation is a risky game, if not beneficial. Headhunter Squadron will be in charge of taking covert missions involving villages allied or under a treaty with Konoha. Places like the Sand, the Fire Country Daimyo's house, and the Lands of Water, River, and Tea would be their targets, all being an alliance (in Sunagakure's case) or being a top contractor or being under Konohagakure's protection like the Land of Tea and River country. Wave country is currently a controversial topic, being claimed by both Konoha officials and Kumo shipping magnates. Still, taking out the right people in Wave for unofficial ownership of Nami no Kuni is what will be a key factor in taking control of the region. Meanwhile in Suna, assasinations aren't on the list of things to do simply because they can be traced back to Konoha far too easily, so the matter at hand involves dressing and acting as foreign non-Konoha shinobi and taking out convoy and escort missions by and for any anti-alliance benefactors to impede their movements. It's similar for the River and Tea countries as well, seeing as how they have a distinct lack of a hidden village and their importance as trade routes and routers.

But that's for next time. For now, he'll settle with spars and a little bit of knowledge.

"Any questions?" He asks, gauging just how well they understand his statement. Yamato, being ex-Root, understands exactly what that means, so that rules him out of any questions. Anko works mainly at the TI department, so she's no stranger to underhanded operations, and though Genma's done his fair share of clean (Anbu slang for not-exactly-illegal) assasinations, the word 'interalliance' is enough for him to get the punchline without anything else being risked to be heard by unfriendly ears. It's the newbie he's unsure of.

Unfortunately for him, he has no clue how secretive his new comrade is. She knows as much, and doesn't expect him to be suspecting anything further for the time being. She placed everything perfectly together to get to this point, after all. A seal to change the body, a little dabbling in ventriloquism to change the voice, a heap ton of scent exposure to change her scent, and complete silence for two years. She knew even that wasn't enough to pop in and fool her old teammate, so she created a town where she existed. She fooled the world with some great help of the Third; and who dares suspect a Kage they have already knowingly betrayed once? She knows everything superficial and a little bit more to know about the enigma of Kakashi Hatake from his exploits with Root to his expertise in cooking fish. It's not everything, no, but she feels it's enough. It has to be. He can't know who she is; and neither can the currently oblivious Yamato that will one day take form into the character she knew. But they can't know her; not if she can help it.

After all, Hotarubi Uchiha is a dead woman walking.

.:; TGoF;:.

Happy New Years everyone! Sorry this chapter is so late; I hit a writer's block, but you all can thank thanzintae.2000 for this arc in specific! I didn't originally plan on making it, but their comment got me thinking, so now this book will be longer by one extra arc!!

OKAY, now this is VERY IMPORTANT.

When I first made this book, I planned on the end being a tragedy. However, it seems a great deal of my viewers on this book are avid shippers, and I'm beginning to consider adding Romace (Yep, all you shippers heard right) and perhaps, an extra side-story happy ending. SO, if you want or don't want Hotarubi to romance someone, go on my profile page and get to the poll that will be set up tomorrow to vote for the title of Firefly Lover or Firefly Friendzone! Or just comment with the name of the man you feel should be the lucky one!

As always, please post a comment— even a 'nice book' comment helps tremendously. Thanks and have a happy New Years!