Disclaimer: I do not own Naruto or any Naruto characters portrayed in this fic.

A/N: Yes, hehe, it's been a while. And with no further excuses . . . The timeline of this story follows the time-skip, after Naruto develops the Rasen-shuriken technique, but after that deviates from canon. Reviews and feedback appreciated!

PART 2: Flight

Chapter 9: Enemy Lines

Day 7 since Team Kakashi's departure from Konoha

Arson. That word, in smudged, chipped, runny newsprint. All the recklessness, the greedy destruction of leaping flames, all the connotations of that single noun seemed to circulate with dizzying effect through his barely organised thoughts. After he had left the archives in the early hours of the morning, he had headed straight for home, the paper pad carrying that valuable nugget of knowledge wedged firmly within his weapons pouch between his wire and kunai. It was as if all the weight, worry and tension had somehow transferred itself from somewhere deep within his chest into that piece of paper, a silent, unacknowledged siphoning, from elusive to sudden concrete. At times, his hand strayed to it, patting it softly as if to confirm its presence. He hadn't realised how much this break in the case had meant to him until now, with the cool sting of the misty, vague Konoha morning fresh on his tired limbs.

At the Nara compound, he'd managed to drag himself into bed, only bothering to remove his sandals. The weapons pouch stayed near his pillow. A few hours later, roused by the familiar sounds of his mother clattering pots in the kitchen and his father's steady tramp to and fro along the passage outside as he came in for breakfast then went back to the study to fetch his newspaper, Shikamaru blinked blearily up at the ceiling of his room, now bathed in mid-morning light. Immediately, his hand shot out to the weapons pouch, scrambling around within until his fingers closed around the smooth writing pad. Withdrawing it, he let the dark, heavily underlined letters leap out at him, the names, the address, the details of the arson. And then the glaringly obvious struck him, something he had not even registered the night before, so caught up had he been in how the dots had finally connected.

The resident. No mention had been made in the newspaper article, or in any of the subsequent, small follow-up columns, about the identity of the person, or persons, whose home had been vandalized so brutally. Frowning, he sat up, absently reaching for his hair-tie as he stared down at the page before him. Maybe an unoccupied apartment? It was possible, but highly unlikely. In the wake of the Kyuubi attack, residences within Konoha were a valuable commodity, hard to come by, in much demand and small and shabby in the case of most shinobi. A whole apartment was almost guaranteed to have at least one occupant. Why this silence from the newspaper on that front, then? Determining not to waste any more time on idle speculation, he pushed aside the covers, showered hastily and donned a fresh uniform before heading to the kitchen. As if anticipating his movements, his mother had a lunch box laid out for him on the counter, chopsticks nearby wrapped in plastic on a paper napkin. He grinned and thanked her.

"I never heard you come in last night," she scolded, "You could at least let me know when you'll be late in future." The bossiness in her voice was tempered by the way she ruffled his hair fondly on the way out.

Once he reached the road branching past the forest housing the compound, he made his way towards central town, snatching bites of warm rice as he consulted a street map he had managed to sneak from the study. Despite Konoha's streets being second nature to most shinobi, they knew their way by landmarks and rooftops rather than physical addresses. According to his street map, the residence he was looking for was a few blocks away from Ichiraku Ramen, down a short side street. More than simple to find, he had passed this way every day on his way to the academy. He reached the ramen stand ten minutes later after a quick rooftop detour and dropped down to ground level, deciding to navigate the old-fashioned way from here on. Waving a greeting to Teuchi who waved a steaming ladle in return, he almost automatically searched for a flash of orange and yellow and the loud, brash voice that usually accompanied such a colour combination, only to find it conspicuously absent. Shrugging, he turned down the side street his map indicated.

The buildings rose, tall, suddenly imposing on either side of him, their long shadows cooling the air in the small walk space. A few paces in he paused, frowning and looking down. He had noticed a change in the sound of his footsteps, confirmed when he observed the smaller, rougher cobbling underfoot, different from the smooth, well-worn ground synonymous with Konoha's main thoroughfares. Still frowning slightly, he proceeded, noting the overhanging awnings from the back-doors of adjacent shops and houses, all faded but fairly neat. There were a few unmarked doors, postboxes either absent or rusting badly enough to warrant no further use. He had to count these doors to find the correct number of the address he wanted, finally pausing before a narrow wooden door with a single iron strut remaining from an awning that had once been present. He couldn't determine the precise colour, the door being much cracked and peeling, blackened by old soot, probably an after-effect of the fire. He felt a strange hesitancy, then.

Reaching out, he pushed on the door. Unsurprisingly, it did not give. He raised a hand to knock, then lowered it, a sensation of unbalance, of deep memory, of déjà-vu, assailing him with surprising strength. It had started at the entrance of the street. The furrow in his brow deepened and his hand almost automatically crept to his weapons pouch, so great was this feeling of discomfort. Snapping back to the present, he gave himself a swift mental shake, raising his hand to knock once again. The door opened just as his knuckles connected with it and a young, adolescent face, insolent squint intact, looked out at him.

"You need something?" Almost immediately, the boy noticed his attire and the posturing faded away, replaced with a look of excitement. "You're a chuunin! Cool! Are you from the academy? I'm going there next month, got my application accepted and everything. Are you a teacher? Do I have to call you sensei?"

Shikamaru did not reply. The bottom had just dropped out of his stomach with an unsteady, jolting lurch. As the boy chattered on, oblivious, he turned slightly to mask the effect that the sudden apparition in the doorway had had on him.

I know this place. I've been here before.

He raised a hand to stem the flow of information. "Uh, yeah, sorry. Got the wrong house."

The boy looked disappointed. "Huh? You sure? Kaa-chan saw you hanging about and that's why she sent me down."

Already backing away, Shikamaru gave a half-grimace, half-smile. "I'm pretty sure. You go on up. Good luck at the academy." Saluting absentmindedly over his shoulder, he made his way slowly and methodically back up the small street, sharp eyes drinking in every detail. The cobblestones. The awnings. The brass bell over that door. Chouji was with me. He was eating shrimp-flavoured crisps. He had another packet in his back-pack. He wanted to share . . . Turning, Shikamaru looked back at the cracked, peeling paint on that rickety door. It was a green door. Mint green. The awning was yellow. Faded, not bright like his hair.

And Shikamaru remembered. Remembered how it had been the year before they were sent to the academy. How they had been playing and then he'd come along and asked to join. How the others had said no, and Shikamaru had been too lazy and Chouji too timid, to interfere. How the gratingly loud voice had proclaimed that he didn't need to play their stupid game anyway. Remembered a deep, deep sadness, a desperate longing, quickly, deftly, stowed away behind blazing blue determination. Afterwards, he had looked at Chouji and Chouji had looked at him. Chouji said he had some extra snacks in his bag. Shikamaru, knowing that his kind-hearted friend saw food as the best way of offering comfort, had sighed and simply drifted off after the sunburst yellow head of hair. It had led them, Chouji shuffling along beside him, down this street. Along these uneven cobbles, past these awnings, past that brass bell, right up to the green door. He had knocked. The door had opened with alarming speed, showing a scowling young face with belligerently protruding lower lip. And, like today, that expression had morphed at the sight of him into unexpected surprise, then delight.

Shikamaru and Chouji had been invited into the apartment of Uzumaki Naruto and had shared a bag of shrimp-flavoured crisps with him. The year before the fire, the apartment behind the mint green door had belonged to him.


Day 7 since Team Kakashi's departure from Konoha

The grinding of the Hokage's teeth was almost audible as she stared the Earth Ambassador down across her desk once more.

"What do you mean by 'the situation is being treated as it is seen'?"

Composed, but grave, he answered her evenly. "That until adequate proof is presented that they were framed as such, Uzumaki and Hatake will be treated as a fifth degree infiltration, pursued and detained by our ANBU squads. Uzumaki will be restrained using the necessary measures, considering the fact that he is a Jinchuuriki. I cannot vouch for the detainment of Hatake, however. If he offers excessive resistance, I doubt his life will be given first priority over our own men."

Proverbially biting her tongue, Tsunade considered her options carefully. "We have already provided you with the fuuinjutsu taken from the scene of their abduction. Haruno Sakura, their team mate, is fully willing to provide testimony to your council. What further proof do you require?"

"Hokage-sama, respectfully speaking, both you and I know that such forms of evidence can be easily fabricated." He raised his hands placatingly as her mouth shot open in fury. "I am merely stating the arguments that the council may bring up should you present them with this case. Correct me if I'm wrong, but the transcription of the fuuinjutsu was carried out by the same member of the team, Haruno Sakura, was it not? So, we come to the first issue. Both pieces of evidence, fuuinjutsu and testimony, come from the same source. If there were two independent sources, a testimony from one shinobi and a fuuinjutsu transcription from another, and each were completely separate from the other, that would be a more reliable gathering of evidence. Secondly, the fuuinjutsu is a transcription. No representative of earth country was present during collection of evidence, thus rendering it invalid. Third, the testimony would be provided by a loyal Konoha shinobi. She would not be acting as a neutral source. Such are the problems you would be faced with should you go ahead with this plan."

Tsunade heaved a massive sigh. "As much as I deplore the technicalities, you do have a point. So tell me, since the council has stated their terms, what kind of evidence would they accept in order to clear my shinobi of all charges?"

"This could come in more than a few forms, Hokage-sama. All is not lost, although the gathering of this evidence might require considerable effort on your part."

"Time and effort is not an issue. For my most loyal and courageous shinobi, I will spare every resource and all the manpower I'm able to."

Suzuki gave her a long look, his gaze sharp and calculating. He nodded slowly. "I respect the dedication and loyalty shown to your own shinobi. It is a rare thing, I think. And no doubt, they display great loyalty to yourself, and this village. To protect that bond, you will need resolve and great willpower. And also, the ability to make a sacrifice if completely necessary. No, I don't presume to tell you how to perform your function of Hokage for this village, but I would like to remind you of the possibility that Uzumaki and Hatake might not return to this village."

The honey-brown eyes that met his across the desk had never faltered once, even as he said this. Instead, they grew brighter, fiercer and, if he didn't know better, almost maternal in their strength and pride. "I have faith in my shinobi, Suzuki-dono. I believe they will return to Konoha, cleared of all charges and suspicion."

Shizune came in immediately after the ambassador had left. Looking up sharply, the older woman nodded. "Report."

"Yes, Tsunade-sama. The ANBU at the archives reported no irregularities or disturbances in the scroll vault section. A routine cataloguing and cleaning had been performed three weeks prior, under strict supervision and direction of the archive personnel. Outside of that, no contact has been made with the scrolls within the vault."

Crossing her fingers beneath her chin, Tsunade frowned. "If that's the case, there must have been another source of information. There are copies of the scroll, one with Jiraiya, the other with intelligence services. Head out to Inoichi-san and repeat your queries."


Day 7 since Team Kakashi's departure from Konoha

There was a period, during his sojourn in ANBU, when Kakashi had realised that he measured time in heartbeats. Time, for him and his fellow ANBU, meant many things. Every action, every breath, every thought and perception was momentary, a result of the quick relay of electrical impulse along well-traveled synapses. It was economical and efficient, maximum damage with minimal energy expended. And yet, those experiences were never fleeting. In comparison with the times he spent with those few people he dared to consider friends and loved ones, his mission experiences were always the clearest in his mind, sharp edged and brittle, cutting painfully into his psyche when he wasn't careful. When he was alone, when night came and, ignoring the voice that cried out his treachery and guilt, he allowed himself to sink, to drown, to feel, he would run through the list in his mind to bring him back from the edge.

Raikiri. His flesh inside the others', fingers closing over that small, pulsing, fighting muscle, grit from shattered bone, the stretchy layers of muscle that wrapped around his fingers then split away from the crackling electricity in his fist. A sudden lurch, a flurry of struggling heartbeats, disappearing with a last single thump. His quickest kill. Move on. Slit throat, a gradual fading out, count ten heartbeats to finish. Move on. Broken neck, faster fading out, count two heartbeats to cessation. Move on. Body slash, slow death, count fifty seven heartbeats to death in case of civilian or use another quick kill technique in case of shinobi. Move on. Body puncture, thirty two beats to death if at fatal point, repeat if at non-fatal point. Move on. And so it would go, again and again, until he remembered to count his own heartbeats, slow his breathing, think of Naruto's determined eyes and loud voice, Sakura's kind smile and ready strength, Obito's young voice, saying those words which changed his life, his actions and thoughts forever after, and he would count. Twenty heartbeats back to normality.

It had happened less frequently after he had taken on students. And now he found himself counting for a different reason. The pace of his heart was far beyond normal, even after strenuous exertion. His chakra was low again, slowly edging towards a dangerous level after that battle. Without the temporary respite he had had before entering the outpost, he would have been out for the count and totally reliant on Naruto by now. Kakashi, however badly berated by Sakura and Tsunade for pushing himself too far, was fully aware of the limits of his own body, just a lot more regardless of them in favour of the safety of his companions. His internal warning system had registered the shinobi on his tail as a threat, both during their battle and after. The man was a war veteran, combining field intelligence with experience, demonstrated by the way he had fought. However, he was also the most dangerous type of veteran; the one that falls prey to vengeance. He had been so caught up in making Kakashi answer for his taunts and actions that he had failed to ensure the safety of his two subordinates. Granted, without any self-praise intended, Kakashi knew that he made a formidable opponent, but the Iwa-nin had transparently fallen into the trap of forfeiting the welfare of his comrades to earn the satisfaction of capturing a notorious enemy.

This train of thought was brought to an end by the faint 'crunch' of sandal on tree branch. The Iwa-nin was gaining on him, and at a rapid pace. Deciding on an appropriate point of confrontation, Kakashi dropped down to ground level, positioning his back to the tree. A few moments later, a light tap on one of the branches above him gave away the opponent's position.

"Not so cocky now, eh?"

He shot a glare in the older man's direction, remaining silent, allowing the kunai in his hand to indicate his intent. There was a heavy pause as each sized up the other. Then the Iwa-nin moved, unexpectedly, but not surprisingly, showing a double element affinity.

"Suiton: Dark missile!"

The ground beneath Kakashi's feet and all around the tree began to crack and groan in protest. Eyes wide, Kakashi sprang out of the path of the collapsing tree, one foot catching on the trunk to propel himself further away. Bringing his arm up, there was a resounding clash as his kunai struck the weapon of the Iwa-nin. As he sprang away, rebounding off another tree that tilted alarmingly, he caught sight of the short tanto in the other's grasp. His eyes narrowed as the Iwa-nin shot him a malicious grin. It was a poorly-made, rather chipped blade, almost an exact replica of the White Fang's tanto, the blade which had become legendary during his father's rise to exaltation in the shinobi world. The message was clear. Chip off the old block, are you? Yet another failure . . . The old man had obviously anticipated this confrontation if he had gone through all the trouble of obtaining such a blade once he had been informed that Kakashi and his student would make an appearance in Earth Country.

The momentary loss of concentration was dearly bought. Kakashi had only registered the look of satisfaction in the Iwa-nin's face when a lancing pain shot through his left side and a similar sensation erupted along his forearm. Swearing, he twisted, making use of every ounce of agility and flexibility he possessed to dodge the rocketing pellets of water that were bursting through the crumbled earth beneath them.

Dark missile . . . he's using groundwater to create this jutsu!

There was no room to land; the water missiles were coming from every direction, and worse, he had lost sight of the enemy. Shaking damp hair out of his eyes, Kakashi wavered slightly, his awkward landing causing the bark of the tree he had collided with to splinter under the force of unbalanced chakra. Behind him, the Iwa-nin materialised, using a branch as leverage as he swung silently towards the tense form of the grey-haired shinobi. Another blade, longer and far superior to the bogus tanto, shot out, spearing directly towards the red-swirled centre of the green flak-jacket.

There was a muffled thump and a soft curse. The grizzled veteran found himself staring directly into the rotating tomae of the legendary sharingan, black swimming against hypnotizing blood red. His limbs would not obey him, frozen in position. Even the direction of his gaze had fixed under this awful paralytic, his eyes clearly showing him where the point of his blade was buried and held firmly in a gloved grasp. His grip loosened, the sensation of falling encompassing him. All around him, around the man with the mismatched gaze above, water was raining down in a freezing downpour, the remnants from his aborted jutsu soaking through clothes. And yet . . . as the ground loomed closer, feeling began to return to his limbs in a tingling rush. Managing a desperate jerk, he realigned himself so he was able to bend his legs a little. He rolled once he hit the ground, stumbling upright, barely able to stand, with the paralysing jutsu weakening every second. Looking up, the blood left his face when he realised he could no longer see his opponent. Slipping on the ground churned and made muddy by his jutsu, he whipped out a kunai, swaying in place.

When the hand wrapped around his ankle, there was nothing he could do to stop his descent. With a sickening lurch in the stomach region, he found himself buried up to the chin in closely clinging mud. The ground before him exploded into grey, green and blue, a pair of legs landing in a crouch before straightening up. He waited, teeth clenched in fury, but was greeted by silence.

"Well?" he snapped, angling his head to see the other's face. Beneath the torn mask, Sharingan Kakashi's face was impassive. Not the lackadaisical, almost lazy demeanour he had seen from the man at first, in the outpost. Every inch of the lean form was alert, wary, barely reigning in a strength and killing intent that he could sense, that he was being allowed to sense, rippling beneath the calm surface. The sharp features were set in a harder cast, the gaze slightly melancholy, distant, detached, deadly serene. This was all pure ANBU. He spat mud at the Konoha nin's feet.

"So . . . what are you waiting for?"

He was already running threads of chakra through the ground, and he knew the jounin could sense his attempt to break the stifling hold of the earth. Kakashi spoke, his deep voice calm, almost as if offering a form of reassurance.

"I cannot let you chase me, or lend aid to the ANBU that come after. Understand that."

The constriction on his lungs was almost unbearable and he let out a hoarse, harsh chuckle. "Don't patronise me, you fucking little shit." He met the grey and red gaze, letting the other feel his own killing intent. "If I get free, I will hunt you down. And before you die, you will see your precious student suffer all the pain I can inflict on him."

Kakashi closed his eyes momentarily, face still immobile beneath the mask. "I see."

In a moment, he had dropped into a crouch, leg striking out in a fluid arc. A loud crack echoed through the forest and Kakashi stood swiftly within the same movement, glancing down at the Iwa-nin whose neck was now bent at an impossible angle. To let him survive would be to risk danger to Naruto if the ANBU squad arrived soon. The last threat of the old shinobi ran through his mind once again. He knew, that in spite of having precious students of his own, the Iwa-nin would not hesitate to kill both him and Naruto, and, if it so happened, their deaths would be honoured in the old man's mind as one of true sensei and student. It was the sacrifice all dedicated shinobi make, that of their emotions. Kakashi had no difficulty in recognising a stalwart shinobi with bravery and pride, and he'd given him a death befitting of one.

Crouching again, ignoring his wounds for the moment, his heightened hearing allowed him to distinguish the slowing, muffled thumps in the other's chest dragging out into a death whisper. He waited for the final pause, counting, as he always had.

One.

Two.


A/N: I hope I've portrayed Kakashi well here and given a little insight into his psyche, he really is my favourite character of the series. Also, the necessity of the Iwa-nin's death, as unfortunate as it is. Unlike Naruto, Kakashi is an experienced and hardened shinobi who has been through war and been a part of ANBU for many years, something we should not forget. Close to his limit and knowing Naruto's life might be at risk, I believe this is the decision he would make. Let's not sugar-coat the reality of shinobi-hood!