Under These Scars

by Okami Rayne

Fate's changed the game but it's not over between the players. With Kusagakure's mission as the final round, Neji's agenda is finding his freedom. Shikamaru's agenda is forgetting his fear. But when an old and unfinished game threatens to pull Shikamaru back into the shadows of his past, Neji must make an impossible choice; his own destiny or Shikamaru's darkness. (Part 4 of BtB)

21. Chapter 21

Disclaimer: NARUTO and its characters were created and are owned by Masashi Kishimoto. Original characters and plot are the property of the author. No copyright infringement intended.

Title: UNDER THESE SCARS

Pairings: ShikaNeji/NejiShika, Kiba/Ino, Kakashi/Genma, Genma/OC

Rating: M / R (language, themes, violence etc.)

Genre: Drama/Angst/General

Summary: Fate's changed the game but it's not over between the players. With Kusagakure's mission as the final round, Neji's agenda is finding his freedom. Shikamaru's agenda is forgetting his fear. But when an old and unfinished game threatens to pull Shikamaru back into the shadows of his past, Neji must make an impossible choice; his own destiny or Shikamaru's darkness. NejiShika, ShikaNeji [SEQUEL to Break to Breathe]

Timeline: Shippuden. Neji and Shikamaru aged 17-18 (post-Hidan and Kakuzu arc and pre-Invasion of Pain arc) One week after the events in REQUIEM.

---

UNDER THESE SCARS

by Okami Rayne

Chapter Twenty One

"Hajime!"

Begin.

The clash of bokken filled the cold torch-lit dōjō, a vicious clack, click, clack of wooden blades accompanied by the base stamp of bare feet and the short sharp shouts of the fighters' kiai.

Steadfast and unswerving…

As his daughters sparred, Hiashi watched their shadows flow in smooth and sweeping unison across the polished woodblock floor. The bokken blurred in their hands, took on the likeness of great arching wings. This dance of theirs was a dialogue – and Hiashi understood its brutal language, its violent repertory.

"Even siblings must have the courage to sacrifice each other when needed. This must be. This is the fate of the head family. It's destiny."

Those words rattled coldly down the links of the time-worn chain fastened around Hiashi's soul. Tradition. Duty. A double helix as inexplicably twined as the genetic code. The muscles in his jaw flexed hard, the cords in his neck tightening.

Destiny…

A pernicious weed he'd watered all his life. Its roots reached deep into his hardened heart. But, just as the hardened earth must crack, the stone-cold loam of his beating heart carried cobweb cracks. He felt them now, the hairline fractures splintering ever-deeper. And buried in these fractures were the seeds of his greatest confliction.

Doubt about the old ways…

Desire for change…

Dangerous seeds scattered by a restless wind that would not rest within his soul. This weakness was not a weed, but a banyan strangler – and its thick choking vines were as suffocating to Hiashi as the hereditary chains of his forbearers. Were those chains destined to leave him just as hollow, just as rotten inside, as the dead trees that succumbed to the inexorable grip of their vines?

"Those born to the Hyūga clan bear the burden of ruling."

This he knew. He'd been inured to this fact as a child. Sniffing his disdain, Hiashi ground his teeth, spine taut as the bamboo cane in his hands. Duty took its cold polished blade to his throat, caused his chin to lift to the high stately angle all Hyūga Main House heirs learned to hold their heads at. This mould, this cast, this fashioning of outward posture and immaculate control – it'd never felt so stifling.

Enough of this.

Annoyance skimmed his flesh, raised the barest flush across the sculpted ridge of his marble neck, deepening at the hollow of his throat. He drew his shoulders back, took a slow breath through his flaring nostrils.

Kami, what was this discomposure?

This discomfort in his own skin?

Ever since Shikaku had darkened his doorstep a week ago, the still clear waters of Hiashi's mind had become muddied; his perception skewed, his world filled with disorder and disharmony. Meditation failed to bring clarity or calm. Music struck his nerves with discordance. And the martial arts, no matter how varied or how violent, failed to channel or exorcise the ghosts Shikaku had raised inside him. The Nara's words haunted the halls of his memories, an unwanted spectre in the shadows.

"You can pass back the blame as far as you want, as many generations as you want, to justify why you still feel chained to it, but it must end."

CLACK!

The sharp rap of the bokken brought Hiashi back to the moment.

Back to the fight.

His daughters were evenly matched in strength and skill, but as usual, Hanabi outweighed Hinata in fighting spirit. Hanabi hit harder and faster, always pushing her attacks in an ongoing war of attrition. Hiashi admired her focus, her unwavering power. She was driven to succeed. To inherit.

And yet…

And yet, Hinata seemed to have the upper hand.

Few of Hanabi's hits connected and the ones that did were turned aside with such fluidity the power of their impact seemed to dissolve into nothingness. Stunned, Hiashi's eyes narrowed on his eldest daughter, the stern ledge of his brow crinkling in confusion.

Her defensive style morphed before his eyes.

Rather than her usual nervous attempts at deflection, Hinata flowed like a smooth unbroken river around the rock of Hanabi's unwavering ferocity. Her footwork, always a weak area, contained such grace she seemed to glide across the gleaming floors.

Impossible.

Lifting his chin, Hiashi watched her skate across the dōjō, his outward expression sculpted to utter stillness. But inside, a tide turned. And with that tide, the muddy waters of doubt and disillusionment washed up against the shores of all his former judgements, turning stone castles to sand.

She has surpassed her sister.

Indeed, Hinata appeared to manipulate her sister's violence with the fluency of a master, redirecting the force of every attack with an unwavering seamlessness. She read the rhythm and intent of Hanabi's moves and diffused without opposing, without attacking…yielding to her sister's force and redirecting it with the bokken.

The giving up of the self…in order to follow another…

Hiashi's eyes widened in recognition of the style – instantaneous redirection – and it struck him with the force of a cane between his shoulderblades, his breath catching.

Hizashi…

Watching his daughters, his vision began to glaze, the lens of his mind shifting and refocusing on a vignette that overlaid the figures of his sparring children. It was no longer two sisters that he saw, but two brothers. Two spitting images.

Himself.

Hizashi.

And the fateful match that'd torn them forever asunder. Hiashi had thrown his heart into that fight…while Hizashi had been thrown by the fight inside his heart. They'd stood on different sides of the same destiny; Hiashi, driven to action by the threat of disownment, dishonour, disgrace. Hizashi, compelled to stillness by the conviction that the chain that bound them as twins was stronger than the chains designed to pull them apart.

"I won't fight you, brother."

Hiashi saw it replaying on the screen of his mind. Hizashi's refusal to engage. His obstinate desire to turn a blind white eye to the inevitability of their destiny…their divide. A child clinging to the illusion that their brotherhood could withstand the weight of the world they'd been forced to inherit. That as brothers bound by birth and breath and beating heart, they had something more than blood running in their veins.

Hiashi harboured no such illusions.

No such dreams.

No such hope.

"Blood is water in this clan."

And without hesitation, Hiashi had proved it. Even now, with the veil of years struggling to pull a curtain across the memory, he could still see his brother's broken expression; he could still see Hizashi's blood seeding the air in a delicate arc, red tears and broken trust flying from the smooth curved edge of the bokken.

The last defeat.

The beginning of their end as brothers…and the coldest winter of Hiashi's life. He recalled standing in the dōjō's doorway with the chill bite of the dark winter cypress wood beneath feet, his father's hands planted on his shoulders. He could still see Hizashi's blood, so bright and red against the frosted gravel path as their grandmother led her youngest grandson away.

To this day, Hiashi still saw the blood.

No amount of time could wash it away. It was the same gravel path Hizashi had walked the day he'd given up more than his freedom. The day he'd given up his life.

"I want to die protecting you…because you're my brother, Hiashi. Doing that is the first time I have the freedom to choose."

To this day, Hiashi could no more lay those words to rest in his heart than he could his brother's memory. They haunted the halls of a Hyūga house that stood divided. Always at opposite ends, neither party truly free.

"Don't you see big brother, I have become free. I have defied the fate of the Hyūga family."

With his blood. With his life. Was that what it would cost his son?

Neji…

Unbidden, Shikaku's voice assailed his mind once more.

"You're the closest thing that kid has to a father."

Father? Hiashi defined himself by many titles but 'father' was a designation he kept at arm's length – along with his children. A learned custom. A tradition upheld by all the elders that'd come before, bearing their children like burdens because loving them made losing them insufferable.

"You are destined to lose one of them, Hiashi," his father had warned him years ago. "Just as I lost Hizashi. Distance yourself now and it will be easier when the time comes."

Having already lost half his heart, Hiashi believed he'd had precious little left to lose. But watching his daughters re-enact step-for-step the dance of his own destiny he felt the chains and vines coil ever-tighter around what was left of his heart.

"Enough," Hiashi murmured, his voice carrying as deep and plangent as a prayer.

His daughters stopped, their sparring stilled to a mid-poise tableau. Hiashi gazed upon the scene and saw the history of every Hyūga written in the lines of his children's faces. His hardened heart stuttered out a pained and heaving thud.

Hinata, ever the more empathic of the two sisters, lowered her bokken, concern casting over her wide lavender eyes. "Father?"

In the torchlight, she looked like her mother…gentle, kind. As Hizashi had been before his branding, before his breaking.

Hiashi gazed at her for a long second, his ice-white gaze taking on the fire-struck opacity of an opal, emotion trapped like a suffocating flame. "Enough," he said again, forcing his tones to the same glacial stillness as his face. "Enough tonight."

Shock supplanted the concern on his daughters' faces. They'd expected the usual dusk to dawn duel. Normally they would fight until one of them fell. Hiashi never accepted draws, only defeat. He would push them past their limits to their breaking points – it never occurred to him that every time he did, he neared his own.

A momentary pause, then his daughters obeyed.

Both stepped back, bowed to each other.

Eyes hooded, Hiashi watched them move together towards the weapons rack and observed their proper handling of the wooden blades; as if they held katana. In his mind's eye, Hiashi could still see the passage of his own bokken and the glistening arc of Hizashi's blood, a scattering of rubies across the tatami.

Would that one day be his children's blood?

The faintest crunch of footsteps on gravel disturbed the stillness of the hall, drew Hiashi's darkening gaze to the dōjō's shadowed doorway. His eyes narrowed, Byakugan veins twitching at his temples.

He waited.

No further sound came.

But the sense of disturbance remained.

Hiashi approached the doorway, paused in its wide dark mouth and gazed out across the pale gravel path that cut through the gardens. The night was still, the air misting with his breath. The full moon hung like a polished silver talisman, its glow through the trees turning the air aqueous with ripples of silver light and deep blue shadow. Hiashi gazed deep into those shadows, listening out again.

Nothing.

Nothing but the long lonely hoot of an owl, the gentle splash and ripple of the koi fish swimming in their timeless figure-8 circles…then the gentle tread of his eldest daughter's feet followed by Hanabi's brisker pace. He knew their separate steps as precisely as he knew the different sound of their breathing. Hinata always held her breath when she passed him.

Again that pang in his heart.

Hiashi reached up to smooth his palm along the fold in his robe, the heel of his hand grazing over his chest. The gesture eased nothing inside of him. The outward movement caught Hinata's eye and Hiashi sensed her gaze on his hand, inquisitive and uncertain – so childlike – as if he might at any moment raise that hand against her.

"Goodnight father," Hanabi said, bowing the appropriate degree.

Hinata hastened to follow, her long midnight hair spilling over her shoulders as she bowed several degrees lower to make up for her delay. "Goodnight father," she blurted, the words falling in a nervous flurry to catch up with her sister.

In a painful heartbeat, she reminded Hiashi of himself.

Reminded him of his past struggle to always beat Hizashi in the race for their father's love and approval. Such was the nature of their rivalry. With his mother having passed, Hiashi had learned young that there simply was not enough love to go around.

"Not enough territory for twins."

"Which one is destined to be the father's son?"

Favour would fall on one side of the sibling fence and one side only. Hiashi had been determined to ensure the grass was always greener on his side…he hadn't even realised his growing animosity towards his twin until Nara Shikaku had used the same dividing tactics as the clan to drive a pointed wedge between them.

"I played you off against each other...when you were never designed to be in conflict."

In that cruel manipulative manner of the Nara, Shikaku had revealed to him the depth of the divide between himself and his brother. But by then, it was much too late to bridge that distance, to fix what was broken.

To cross that divide…

Gazing at his daughters, he couldn't help but wonder at the nature of the divide destined to open up between them. He knew that the harder he pushed them together in training, the further apart he pulled them in life. With every session, every spar, he believed more and more what his grandfather had told him the night he had defeated his brother.

"You Hiashi. You are your father's son."

And for the first time in 37 years, Hiashi felt no pride at the thought of it…at the gut-wrenching tragedy of it. It left him hollow. Left him heavy. Left him staring at his children's bowed heads with his fists balled against the urge to reach out and touch his palms to their faces.

Drawing his head back, Hiashi swallowed past the tension in his throat and curled his fingers tighter around the bokken in his hands. "Goodnight," he murmured.

Hinata must've detected something in his tone, her gaze darting up with that childlike furtiveness before she gave a soft meek smile and followed after her little sister, reaching out to stroke her hand over Hanabi's hair. Surprised, Hanabi swatted at Hinata's hand, then caught it, held it, fingers linked – as if no force could pry them apart.

Least of all their father…

Hiashi's brows tugged together softly.

He listened to their footsteps crunching on the path, falling in such perfect harmony there was no determining them by tread. It occurred to him then, how he and Hizashi had only known such harmony once – their very first steps. They'd walked at exactly the same time.

I always believed we would leave this world at exactly the same time too…

His heart heavy, his mind full, Hiashi stepped back into the lantern-lit dōjō. His shadow passed ghost-like across the fusuma panels as he traversed the gleaming floors, his smooth even strides carrying him towards a shoji doorway at the end of the hall, beyond the alcove and the dais. Through the delicate washi paper, a halo of candlelight pulsed like a heartbeat, swelling and shrinking.

Hiashi drew back the shoji screen, passed into the small tatami shrine room.

The warm smoky scent of hand-rolled incense burned in the tokonoma; sandalwood and rose petals. The rusted grain of the red pine bark burned gold in the candlelight. The shrine itself, inset into the alcove, was a wooden cabinet with latticed doors designed to enclose and protect a religious icon; typically a statue, painting or mandala scroll.

Hiashi had no such idols resting on his altar.

No paintings.

No scrolls.

Just a slim black memorial tablet engraved with his brother's name. The gold-leaf script, worn with time and touch, had flaked. Hiashi touched his fingers to the inscription, lit another joss stick and brought his palms together.

He prayed.

Prayed for a long while.

By the time he raised his head, the joss stick was ash and dust.

The candle had burned low.

Hiashi closed his eyes again, listening. The stillness was so profound, the absence of the world so complete, he felt the barest comprehension of the peace known only to the Buddhist masters of detachment or the spirits of the dead.

And yet…if there is peace in death, brother, then why do I still pray that you find rest?

A jarring creak tore Hiashi from his thoughts. His eyes flashed open on the sound, their white-fire glow roiling into the pale grey of storm clouds. Byakugan veins tightened at his temples and his vision flew beyond the shrine room, encompassed the entirety of the dōjō and singled out the woodblock section of flooring that creaked underfoot.

He identified the intruder, deactivated his dōjutsu.

Snuffing out the candle with a wave of his hand, he took up his bokken and turned to exit the room with the calm leonine power of a predator at total ease in his domain. Such was Hiashi's control that he masked his chakra and killing intent, his steps falling silent in the deep shadows of the dais.

The intruder stood in the centre of the hall.

A large burly figure, backlit by the silvery moonglow pouring in through the open doors. His masked face ticked towards the direction of the shrine room. From the shadows, Hiashi saw the red striations of the mask.

ANBU.

Irrelevant – or perhaps, incentive.

Hiashi moved.

Sensing the strike, the operative reached behind his shoulder for his blade – but he had no time to draw it. No time to even turn. Hiashi's bokken came to rest with deathlike stillness at the junction of the man's neck, the smooth polished wood pressed like a blunt fang against the pulsing jugular.

There was silence for a beat.

"Impressive," the operative observed, lowering his hand away from his blade. "I was told you were an iaijutsu master."

"And I was told ANBU operatives have a death wish," Hiashi said with icy calm, his deep and dulcet tones sinking like a bloodstain into the charged and trembling air. "As it happens, I'm in a granting mood. Persuade me otherwise."

A fleeting pause, then the operative turned his head a degree and angled a soulless glance over his shoulder, peering through the dark eyehole of the mask. "I am Kuma. And I'm not here for Hyūga Hizashi's son."

Hiashi's white eyes glinted, frost on steel. He pressed the bokken harder against the pounding vein in Kuma's throat, forcing the man to stiffen. "How fortunate for you," Hiashi breathed before sliding the bokken off the man's shoulder with a laziness that belied all lethal intent. "State your business."

Kuma turned, took a step back. "You have been summoned."

"For what purpose?"

"Nara Shikaku."

The air stilled between them, took on a sharp crystal quality that could've split skin. With deliberate calm, Hiashi tapped down the bokken and folded his hands around it like a cane. Externally, his face retained its marble stillness – but behind the frozen-over surface of his eyes, the muddied waters swirled anew.

Nara Shikaku.

He needn't have asked anything more.

---

Memories glittered in the back of Ino's mind, tiny starbursts in the darkness of forgetting. Shikamaru's memories had jolted her own, left pinpricks of emotion like bloodstains on her mind…on her heart.

Naoki…

Ino blinked hard, her eyes misting. Standing at the stern, Ino shrugged deeper into the rough patchwork blanket wrapped around her shoulders and stepped closer the bamboo guardrail, the night air nipping at her flushed cheeks. The evening was quiet but for the lazy snap of the sailcloth and the creek and groan of the old mast with its tired and deeply bowed battens.

Ino tried to focus on the sound, on the briny smell of the water.

No use.

Her mind kept wheeling back to those haunted violet eyes from her childhood. With Shikamaru safe and stable, she could finally allow her thoughts to drift beyond the immediate sphere of the incident…drift into territory that shock had cordoned off in her brain. Namely, a few key scenes, a few key players, she'd glimpsed inside Shikamaru's head.

Naoki…

It was impossible – wasn't it?

But I know what I saw…who I saw.

She remembered those violet eyes. That silver-gold hair. Sure, the man she'd seen in Shikamaru's mind was a far cry from the one she remembered as a child. Older, for one thing. Colder, for another. His body hewn harder, his voice deeper and hoarser – and those violet eyes that'd always fascinated her as a child, so empty of emotion. Even his name had changed – Tenka, wasn't it?

Because he was ANBU….but…is that how he died?

If he'd died at all. Her father had lied to her; lied to her for years. Told her Naoki had 'died doing his duty'. Unless of course, Inoichi had honestly believed that too? Ino grasped onto that explanation with both hands. It was the only way she should square it in her mind, in her heart.

But Shikamaru couldn't have been older than 15 in that memory…does that mean Naoki is still alive? Holed up somewhere in Kusagakure?

Shaking her head at the futility of asking such questions, she cocked her hip against the boat's gunwale, carved her fingers back through her trailing bangs and gazed out across the oily black waters at the vessel's frothy wake. It fanned out across the surface of the river behind them like an arrowhead, shiny as steel beneath the moonlight.

Steel.

Senbons.

Genma.

Breath catching, Ino's eyes widened, her head coming up a notch. Genma. Genma had called Naoki by name. Genma knew him. Or had known him. They'd seemed familiar with each other, hadn't they? Folding her arms against the cold, Ino's teeth chattered as she tried to recall the memory. It'd been such a mess inside Shikamaru's mind.

And there's no way I can ask him to allow me to peek inside again…

It terrified her enough, the mere thought of what he'd been through. Making herself a witness to his pain, his suffering, without having the power to change or alter the events would be cruel and unbearable. As desperately as she wanted answers, she would not exploit Shikamaru's past in order to get them.

Which leaves me with Genma as my only other source.

He'd been there. With Naoki. With Shikamaru. He was the last plausible source. The only person Ino knew for certain could offer the truth. She had no other leads. No other choice.

Genma is it then.

Proactive. It felt a lot better than helpless – which is probably what Naruto and Sakura were feeling right now. Ino winced, balling her fist in the blanket.

Kakashi-sensei…

It'd all happened so fast. She'd been so overwhelmed by Shikamaru's condition, so engrossed in keeping Neji stable that she hadn't stopped to realize Kakashi wasn't with them by the time Yako zapped them back to the surface.

"Ino?"

Heart jumping, she turned at the quiet call of her name, looping her hair back behind her ear as the wind stole across the stern deck. "Raidō-senpai?"

The Tokujō stood not three feet behind her, a steaming mug of coffee in one hand. "You should be resting."

Clearly. She hadn't even sensed him approach. An unsettling feeling, though it shouldn't have surprised her. When she'd trained under him in the Nijū Shōtai, his chakra-masking stealth had always astounded her. He was Goei Shōtai for good reason.

"My mind," Ino explained, twirling a finger near her temple. "Too many thoughts, you know?"

Raidō measured out a fractional smile, his dark eyes bleak. "Yeah. I know."

She believed it. He looked like the world was weighing on him; stress lines fanned out at the corners of his eyes and mouth, his expression taut, his body unnaturally stiff. Ino didn't have to stretch her imagination to guess the source of his distress.

"Kakashi-sensei," she said softly.

Another half-there smile and Raidō pressed his lips, nodding. He said nothing. Obviously didn't want to discuss what'd gone down. She'd heard him laying into Naruto earlier below deck after Yamato had shouted himself hoarse; something about choices and necessity. It hadn't calmed Naruto in the slightest. Desperate as she was to ask, Ino figured the last thing Raidō needed was anyone else piling questions and worry onto the load he was already carrying.

It'll be okay…it has to be. Tsunade-sama won't leave Kakashi there…

She believed that utterly. Had to, really. Because losing Kakashi so soon after Asuma? It was unthinkable. So unthinkable she terminated the train of thought before it could get any traction. In a bid to distract herself, she watched Raidō move over to the guardrail, focused on the strong smell of coffee and the soft slosh of water breaking against the hull.

Raidō sipped at his drink, his gaze hooded.

Ino watched him brood, sharing the silence companionably for a few moments before her thoughts began to turn towards her earlier fixation. It occurred to her suddenly, that she might just have a window of opportunity standing before her.

Attempting casual, Ino strolled over and rubbed at her arms, trying to look thoughtful rather than conniving. "Raidō-taichou, may I ask you something about Genma-senpai?"

Incredible, how fast Raidō's expression went from grim to guarded, his chin drawing up a fraction at the mention of his partner. "You can ask. Can't promise I'll answer."

Honest enough. She had nothing to lose. Watching his face closely, she lifted a shoulder to throw him off, hoping he wouldn't suspect what was coming next. "Was he ever in the ANBU?"

The question dropped like a stone into the silence, sent out ripples of tension. Raidō's gaze remained blank for a long unblinking second before it sharpened on her, suspicion drawing his brows together. "Why do you ask?"

Ino hesitated, but her gaze remained level. "Just wondering whether we had a friend in common…someone I used to know. Someone who might've worked with him."

Raidō blinked at her in surprise, his lips twitching with bemusement. "Even if Genma had served time in the ANBU, you'd have been a child at the time. Barely out of the cradle." He paused for a moment, head tilting. "Does this 'friend in common' have a name?"

Backfire. Ino bit her lip, her gaze skating away across the dark waters. "I'm sorry, senpai. But it's personal."

"Fair enough."

Quiet ticked between them for a moment as Ino regrouped her thoughts and approached from another angle. "Do you think…" she trailed off, tried again, "Do you think Genma would mind if I asked him directly?"

Raidō huffed a laugh against his mug, slid his free hand into the pocket of his slacks and tilted his gaze skyward, brows lifting in an expression of joint resignation and amusement. "Oh he'd mind alright. Genma doesn't do personal very well these days."

Ino winced, her expression crumbling a little. "Oh."

"But that doesn't mean you shouldn't ask him. In fact, I'd encourage you to."

Uncertain what to make of that, Ino searched Raidō's pensive expression, her gazing lingering briefly on the wheals of scar tissue marring his face. She wondered if anyone had ever had the courage to ask him how he'd gotten those scars. Curious as she was, she didn't want to cross any lines. She was probably toeing one already, asking about his partner.

"Thanks, senpai."

Raidō raised his mug in acknowledgement, dark eyes casting over the rising crags and elevated treeline as the boat drifted down a steep gorge. "Try and get some rest, Ino. You've earned it."

No argument there. Shame her mind couldn't telegraph that message past all the overactive static and white noise buzzing around in her brain. Ugh. How the heck did Shikamaru function like this on a day-to-day basis?

He knows how to tune out…

Yeah, only that'd been the problem, hadn't it? He'd been tuned out for too long. And there it was again, the coils of tension twisting in her chest and gut. Worry, guilt and a sense of culpability. Chōji hadn't been wrong down in those Nagu dungeons. They'd always expected Shikamaru's genius brain to operate at superhuman levels. Assumed he was wired in such a way that he'd never short-circuit, never break down.

We always worried about his heart…assuming it was a separate issue from his head.

Stupid, stupid, mistake. One Asuma had warned them about. As much as Shikamaru tried to divorce his head from his heart – they were inextricably linked. The mind is what Shikamaru used to self-medicate his heart. Little wonder that when his mind had broken, his heart had followed.

And it took us almost losing him to figure that out…

Pressing her eyes shut against the guilt welling up, Ino bid Raidō a quiet goodnight and meandered her way towards the quarterdeck, her sandaled feet treading light down the stairs of the companionway. Slipping into the lower levels of the boat, she toed her way along the narrow and dimly-lit corridors, stepping lightly over Kakashi's ninken. The dogs had spread themselves out at intervals along the walkway, each one guarding a room, their glossy eyes glinting with eyeshine in the lantern light.

I wonder how they feel about Kakashi…

Their collective mood was undoubtedly sombre. She guessed they'd been in on the plan to use Kakashi as a trading piece and were obediently carrying out whatever orders he'd tasked them with. Sighing, Ino bent to scratch one of the dogs behind the ear; a silver-coated hound that looked more wolf than dog. The ninken's eyes turned towards her briefly, tail swishing at the consoling touch.

"It'll be okay," Ino said.

The dog said nothing, set its muzzle on its paws and gazed ahead into the gloom. Smoothing her hand over the thick fur in a departing pat, Ino straightened up and continued on along the corridor, meaning to find her way back to the tiny spit of space she and Chōji had managed to clear between huge crates of exotic spices. When she'd left, he'd been sleeping, exhausted emotionally and physically.

I should probably leave him to sleep…

There's no way she'd be able to squeeze in without waking him. That left her wandering the thin stuffy corridors in an aimless drift until she almost tripped over Akamaru. The ninken lay stretched out across the threshold to one of the storerooms, snoring softly.

Kiba…

Ino paused, her gazing flitting from the dog to the door. She'd been meaning to check up on him but didn't trust herself not to give something away. Right now, with her emotions racing around like runaway trains inside her, she didn't trust herself not to do or say something stupid.

Kiba would only knock her off track.

Or maybe stop me altogether…

And maybe all those runaway trains could use a rest stop. Curling her tongue behind her teeth, she held her breath and raised her hand to the door, chipped violet nails skimming the whorls in the dark rotten wood.

Maybe…just for a little while…

Easing open the door, Ino winced at the low creak issuing from the hinges. Akamaru cracked a golden eye open, tail thumping lightly. Grimacing, Ino touched her finger to her lips. The ninken looked too exhausted to argue and simply rolled onto his back, forepaws drawn up to invite a belly rub. Ino indulged him, then slipped into the room, easing the door shut behind her.

It took a moment for her eyes to adjust.

An oil lantern hung from the low-roofed ceiling, along with lengths of rusted chain. Ino parted them like a bead curtain, heard the soft clank and jingle of the metal links. The sound of steady breathing drew her gaze across to a small cot set up close to the wall, supported by chests and sacks and surrounded by barrels spilling entrails of thick rigging rope.

Ino's gaze hit on the shadowy figure sprawled on the cot.

Kiba.

The Inuzuka lay with one leg hanging off the thin mattress, the other drawn up and tilted against the wall. He'd propped his head and shoulders on a rough hemp sack, head tipped back and arms folded across his naked chest. His lips were parted slightly, the air whistling out in soft breathy streams.

Ino stood there for a moment, uncertain.

He looked dog-tired – and while he'd recovered from the waxy paleness of blood-loss, bruises bloomed like purple hydrangeas along his torso and under his eyes. He looked gaunt and beat. God but he'd almost died on the battlefield. Like Neji. Like Shikamaru. So many close calls in such a short span. It was miracle they'd made it at all. The weight of that pressed down on her lungs, made it hard to breathe.

Swallowing, she made to turn towards the door, careful not to scuff her shoes.

And then Kiba sniff-snored, the air catching in his nose. He sneezed himself awake so violently his legs and arms jolted off the cot like a startled baby. Arms pinwheeling, he jerked his hips to keep him from toppling sideways off the cot, cursing a blue streak. His head came up in annoyance, eyes casting around groggily until his gaze hit on her and his expression stilled in surprise.

Ino froze on the spot, eyes wide.

Busted.

"Uh. Hi."

Kiba blinked at her, his lips tilting in a crooked smile. "Hey…" he breathed back, his voice sounding rough and sleep-hoarse...and way too sexy for someone who'd just got the crap beaten out of them.

Mouth dry, Ino curled her fingers against her palm and popped her thumbs nervously, not sure how to proceed. Her eyes ping-ponged around the tiny room before her gaze crash-landed straight back onto those warm gold-flecked orbs.

Kiba's smile curled a little deeper, his tongue sweeping over the split in his bottom lip. "Well shit, sweetheart, I'm starting to think you like watchin' me laid out and vulnerable."

The statement was so outrageously offensive – maybe because it might've been true – that Ino warbled a nervous little laugh, a few decibels higher than she thought she could go. She grasped at her throat, huffing. "You're unbelievable. You look like death warmed up, Kiba. That's not sexy."

Tonguing the gash in his lip, Kiba raised his brows in mock concession and shifted back on the cot lazily, trying to disguise the pain in his movements. "Yeah? I think I wear it kinda well."

"You would think that," Ino muttered, but her eyes softened on him, the humour draining away between them, leaving a tingling awareness behind.

Kiba gazed back at her, the lantern light turning his eyes a warm caramel brown beneath the dark sweep of his lashes. "You just gonna stand there?"

Ino's heart leapt a little, her skin prickling. Sniffing daintily, she lifted her chin to a stubborn angle and pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders, feeling exposed. "Don't get any ideas. I just came to check on—"

"Don't make me get up."

Stumped for a response, Ino hovered at the crossroads of want and wisdom. As much as she'd come here looking for comfort, she was better used to the tug-of-war play between them – didn't trust herself not to surrender too much if she actually gave up the game and let him catch her, or god forbid, hold her a little while.

To her horror, her eyes began to mist again.

Watching her from beneath gently furrowed brows, Kiba sighed a rough breath through his nose, shaking his head. He swung a leg down off the cot and made to get up. "Wounded freakin' party here. You're a real—"

Ino beat him to it.

He'd barely set his foot down before her arms were around his neck, the blanket slipping off her shoulders. Off-balance, Kiba dropped back to an awkward perch at the edge of the cot, one arm slipping around her waist, the other planted behind him for balance as she sank down between his legs.

He stiffened a little, taken aback. "Okay. Totally didn't see that comin'."

Honestly, neither had she. Knees digging into the hardwood floor, Ino kept her arms looped around his shoulders and tucked her face against his neck, letting out a soft watery breath against his collarbone. "Don't ask me why."

Kiba remained painfully still for another couple of heartbeats, then his hand smoothed down her spine to the small of her back in a rough stroke. "Gotta take what I can get, right?"

She knew he meant it lightly, but there was something heavy in his touch. Some odd gravity in the way his voice dropped to a soft throaty rumble. And that something sent a little shiver through her. She felt the pressure of his thighs at her hips, the warmth of his hand on her skin.

She leaned into him.

Kiba leaned back to accommodate, drawing her with him onto the cot. They had to turn sideways to fit and Ino ended up snuggled against his side and the wall, her head against his shoulder and her arm across his chest, right leg slung over his thighs.

"You can't be comfortable," Ino said, amazed that she herself was. Of all her imaginings, she'd never have pictured herself draped over Kiba this way. Scratch that. Over anyone this way. "You must be pretty sore."

"Yeah well, got rode hard and put away wet." Settling his right arm around her shoulders, Kiba touched her knee with his left hand, fingertips grazing her thigh in lazy circles. There was nothing overtly sexual in the touch, just a need for contact. "I ain't complaining though…means you can play nurse."

Ino scoffed, smoothing her fingers along his clavicle to the hollow of his throat. "Trust you to spoil the moment with a crass joke."

Kiba tilted his head and shot her a look too innocent to be true. "Oi. I got a high opinion of nurses."

"Oh I'll bet you do."

"Seriously. My first crush was a nurse."

"Uh huh. And I'm sure it was the lollipops she brought you when you were five years old and mourning your appendix," Ino snickered, her breath catching in surprise when Kiba's grin turned lopsided and a little sheepish. "Oh my god – lollipops? You're so easy."

"Would'a married her if she'd brought me beef jerky."

"You were five."

"She'd have waited for me."

Ino turned her face against his shoulder and giggled. "Aww. Is she the one that got away?"

Kiba gave a husky chuckle, tapping his thumb against Ino's skin in an offbeat rhythm. "Gimme a break. She was a nice lady." He stopped tapping, his gaze going a little distant. "Too nice for the like of me."

"Pfft. Because you were such a scoundrel at five years old."

Kiba pressed his lips together and hummed quietly. The sound struck Ino as particularly discordant, especially with that faraway look in his eyes. Gazing up at him, she stroked her fingertips from the hollow of his throat up to the slant of his jaw, following the firm edge to the knot of muscles bunched hard at the hinges. She wondered where he'd gone in his mind. Back to his childhood?

Not sure what to make of his expression, and wary of treading on dangerous territory, Ino tried for safe ground first, hedging with humour. "Wow. Are you brooding, Inuzuka?"

Kiba blinked slowly, his lip curving in a half-smile that didn't touch his eyes. His right arm tightened around her in a brief squeeze, fingertips grazing along her arm. "I ain't that deep, sweetheart."

Keep telling yourself that, Kiba.

Maybe he needed to. He'd carved out a nice little niche for himself among the Chūnin; Inuzuka Kiba with his pirate's grin gone wayward wild; all tricks and trouble and twice the treats; untamed and unrepentant, recklessly chewing on the fat of life with that brazen animal relish. A glutton for the tender meat, the raw good stuff. No time for chewing on bones.

Only I'll bet you do…and I'll bet you bury those bones really deep…

And she'd have bet anything that whenever someone pushed him to dig a little deeper, it risked unearthing some painful skeletons. Like a wolf protecting the kill site, he wasn't likely to let anyone go there…and as much as that saddened Ino, she suspected it was what allowed him to function the way he did.

Tenderness flowered in her chest, delicate and warm.

Careful not to get too soppy on him, she dug her elbow against the thin lumpy mattress and leaned up to brush a chaste kiss against the corner of his mouth, skimming her lips to his temple.

Blinking, Kiba tilted away a little, angling her with a puzzled smile.

Before he could make a bad joke, Ino touched her fingers to his lips and shook her head, asking with her eyes – she wasn't sure she had the words. Reading her face, Kiba's head cocked animal-like and the amusement in his gaze flickered into a different kind of flame.

Ino felt its heat lick across her skin, a blush dusting her cheeks.

She could see the promise in his eyes. Tiny flecks of gold, the beginning sparks of a wildfire. Unbidden, desire swirled its dark honeyed tendrils through her belly, turned whirlpools in her blood and sang the breathy siren song of touch me, touch me, deep in her core.

Oh god…

Ino swallowed, her heart thundering against her ribs. She hadn't come here for this feeling. It'd been hard enough to extricate herself from Kiba the first time around…and now? With her nerves rubbed raw and her emotions on edge? The stress of the mission had taken its toll – she felt like she might fly apart.

"I don't know what I'm doing here," she whispered miserably, embarrassment fanning red along her throat. "I don't know why I came."

Mouth curving in a slow rakish smile, Kiba hooked a knuckle beneath her chin and grazed the pad of his thumb across her lips. "If I weren't busted up, I'd give you a few good reasons to stay."

Ino narrowed her eyes at him playfully. "Is that a semi-sweet way of saying if you weren't busted up you'd be jumping my bones?"

"Yeah, pretty much."

Ino laughed and it dispelled some of the tension in her gut, taking her embarrassment with it, though she still had the grace to blush. "You're outrageous," she muttered, resting her palm on his chest, just to the side of a large purple bruise and neat line of stitches about the length of her hand. "My Mom warned me about guys like you."

"Don't doubt it," Kiba murmured, catching her gaze and holding it. "Don't doubt its part of the reason you're here either."

Caught off-guard, Ino gaped at him for a moment, genuinely stumped. She hadn't actually stopped to look at it that way. Sure, there was some 'forbidden fruit' appeal…and the added bonus of defying her mother's constant agenda for perfection. Kiba was the savage untamed jungle Yamanaka Sayuri would've taken a hacksaw to.

Too rough, too wild, too uncivilised.

Too much like her free-spirited muddy little girl with grass stains on her dress and wildflowers in her hair. Ino's breath caught hard, sadness and longing tumbling through her. Gazing at Kiba, she studied the red tattoo slashes on his cheeks, the rogue masculine angles of his face, the feral gleam in his eye, the boyish tumble of dark strands…and the wildness in him called to a long lost wildness in her. She'd heard that opposites attract. But maybe, deep down, there was something kindred between them. Small but significant…and certainly strong enough to set off whirlpools of fire in her civilised blood.

At her silence, Kiba raised a shoulder weakly, his pirate's grin falling a little crooked as he looped her hair back behind her ear, exposing her hidden eye. "Hey. Not complaining, remember? Take what I can get."

At a loss for words – or at least, not trusting herself with the words she wanted to say – Ino pressed her burning cheek to his chest and brought her arm across his waist, holding onto him with the same tentativeness that she embraced the feelings budding inside her.

Okay…this is new…

And scary.

But not scary enough to convince her to run.

She wondered what was going through Kiba's mind. He lay a little rigid beneath her, like a wild animal struggling to adapt to her tender and too-tame touches. Then she felt a tug at her scalp, wincing as Kiba pulled her hair-tie free – and a few strands with it. Before she could snap at him for ruining yet another perfect moment, he began dragging his fingers through her hair, combing out the long blonde strands in lazy strokes.

Heaven.

Shivering with pleasure, Ino closed her eyes and focused on his languid ministrations, letting the tension ease out of her. Sleep crept like black lace around the edges of her mind and from far, far away, she could've sworn she heard Kiba mumbling something about silky thread grass…and then she was lost to dreams…running barefoot beneath the buttery sunlight…grass stains on her dress…and flowers in her hair.

---

For the first time in a long time, it was quiet in his mind.

No voices.

No pain.

No sign of Kurayami or the Kid.

No ghosts haunting the darkened hallways in his head, carving out sins and crimes into the ruined walls. Both the sins he'd suffered and the crimes he'd committed in order to survive.

No more hiding.

He'd shone a light in the blackest corners, cast back all the shadows to reveal the horrors that'd crept and crawled in the darkness of his mind for the past two years. All that fear. All that hate. All that guilt. Emotional livestock that'd fed his protector turned predator, turning the strongest survivalist part of his psyche into a god damned psychopath.

Yeah…and maybe he's still inside me because I can't feel a thing…

That was shock. He was about ninety percent sure of it. Recognised the signs. Soon, the numb disembodied feeling would be followed by another bad case of the shakes – then who knew what. Something better. Something worse. Right now, he was just too exhausted to come any further apart than he already had.

I've seen my own darkness…guess I can't fall much further than that…

Rationality. He'd missed it. Welcomed the feel of surefooted sanity moving steady and stable through the corridors in his mind, picking its way through the mess, collecting all the fragments of memory that'd finally fallen through the blown out windows and kicked-in doors.

Amazing, how calm he felt.

Shock, logic reminded him, best anaesthetic there is.

Head tipped back against a rough burlap sack, Shikamaru lifted his cuffed hands over the pale rain-cloak Ino had draped over him, flinching a little at the metallic tinkle of the chain links.

Shit…

He'd need to get over that. Just the sound of feet scuffing or floorboards creaking was enough to set his nerves on edge. Shuttering his eyes, he loosened a slow stream of breath and gazed up at the shadowy netting strung overhead. The lantern light cast a diamond-mesh shadow, web-like and oddly comforting...which struck him as strange, considering how much the darkness should've been freaking him out.

Only it wasn't the darkness I was afraid of…

No. He'd been afraid of what was lurking in it. Now that he knew, the fear that'd gripped him for the past two years seemed to take on a different kind of nature to the one that'd almost destroyed him. It wasn't about the hate. It was about the hurt that lay beneath it…and right now, that scared him more than Kurayami…hell, judging from the total radio silence in his brain, he figured that the hurt scared Kurayami too.

"Yeah," he murmured softly into the void. "I remember your name. I hear you."

There came no answering voice from within; just empty rooms without their echoes, without their ghosts. Somewhere near his feet, a dog snored softly.

First sign of madness, right there.

Screw it. He was pretty sure he'd ticked all the boxes on the damaged goods list in the past 24 hours. Never mind the past 2 years. He had a lot of crazy to catch up on…and while he wasn't hot on the idea of revising any of it…he was hell-bent on recovery. He'd walk through his shadows for that. He owed it to his friends and family. He owed it to Asuma.

I owe it to Neji…

Funny, that no matter how terrifying and troublesome the road to recovery might be, it didn't terrify or trouble Shikamaru half as much as the thought of confronting Neji.

Recovery has a roadmap…

But he didn't even have a clue when it came to Neji – never had, really. No signposts, no breadcrumbs, no 'you are here' plaques to guide him one way or another. Their situation was pretty much a 'can't see the forest for the trees' kind of deal…and it sure didn't help that getting lost had always been one of the reasons Shikamaru kept running right back into it. Into him.

Because I lose myself when I'm with you…

And as much as he needed that…he wasn't so sure he had what was needed to find his way back again. That compass. That direction. That guiding hand on his shoulder. His darkness had shown him how easy it was to lose his way...and when he was with Neji, all roads led to the same place inside him.

And every time I go there with you…it gets harder to leave.

A low rusty creak jarred him from his thoughts, set his heart racing. The huge black dog resting by his feet jerked awake with a startled snort, embarrassed to be caught napping on the job.

"Some watchdog you are," Shikamaru groused shakily, needing to speak to keep his tongue from sticking to the roof of his mouth. "Chōji?"

The door eased open at his call and an ebon figure moved to fill the space, stepping sideways into the room. It wasn't Chōji.

Shikamaru's heartbeat tripped to a halt, his body drawing up. "Neji…?"

The Hyūga turned at the soft croak of his name and light from the low-burning lantern struck one side of his face, burnishing the high ridge of his cheekbone and the strong slant of his jaw; the rest of his profile was cast in deep shadow, all strong dark angles in the gloom. The hitai-ate gleamed like a beacon.

He didn't move.

Didn't speak.

For a long, long moment, he stood utterly still just inside the doorway, his gaze trained on Shikamaru, white eyes glowing cool and clear as selenite. Not a fleck of emotion, not a glint of intent. It was a chillingly blank look. And it cut Shikamaru to his aching bones. He'd seen this look before. Knew what it portended.

And I can't do this right now.

He'd have said so, if Neji hadn't broken the silence first, his head ticking towards the massive bulldog panting itself into hyperventilation at Shikamaru's feet. "I need a moment," the Hyūga said, his voice low and slightly hoarse. "Alone."

The dog said nothing, angled his huge crinkled head over a furry shoulder and gave Shikamaru a kind of upside-down head tilt which begged a question or two, those deep-set dog eyes all liquid and imploring beneath the dark overhanging brows.

This was his out.

A quick exit from whatever scene Neji came here looking to open – or more likely, to close. Shikamaru could stop it before it started. He had that power. That control. Too bad then, that power and control never really meant much to him. Even his knee-jerk urge to run collapsed on shaky legs beneath the need to know where the hell they stood with each other.

And if I'm gonna take another hit, I'd rather take it when I'm lying down…

Get it over and done with. He was already laid out on the goddamned floor by everything that'd happened – what was one more kick in the gut before he had to get back up again? He'd spent what felt like a lifetime running from the truth – and he was tired of cutting corners, knowing that he'd just end up coming full circle.

Loosening a breath, Shikamaru gave the dog a jerky nod. "We're good."

The bulldog's flat wrinkled muzzle twitched in what Shikamaru assumed was an agreeable snort before the ninken hauled his wide stocky bulk onto his short compact legs and waddled from the room in a weaving trot.

Neji reached out an arm without turning, closed the door.

Silence filled the room, sucked out all the air, left Shikamaru feeling empty and exhausted and at the edge of whatever emotional cliff his heart was hanging onto. He could feel Neji's gaze on him…but couldn't bring himself to meet the distance in those eyes.

Laid out on the floor or not...that was just too far to fall.

So he gazed resolutely at the spot the dog had vacated, his throat aching, his heart slipping so damn hard his voice rasped out hoarse as steel wool. "A moment, huh?"

"A moment," Neji echoed softly, the warmth in his voice drawing Shikamaru's wary glance. That glance sealed the moment. Their gazes touched and the ice in Neji's eyes shattered. "That's all it ever takes, Shikamaru."

On those words, Shikamaru's expression broke. He clenched his eyes shut, a single tear burning along his scraped cheek. Swallowing thickly, he swiped at his wet lashes and dragged his palm down to his twisting mouth, shaking his head.

Neji went to him.

Went to him as if he hadn't pulled away all those times before. And Shikamaru might've met him halfway if he wasn't hanging on an edge by his fingertips. Flinching, he leaned back and away, lifting his shackled palms in warning.

"Don't, Neji."

Raising his bandaged hands in peace, Neji compromised. No touching. But he put himself within reach. He crouched down a scant space away, the hard lines of his expression creasing into a look of such unguarded sadness and affection it stole Shikamaru's breath and damned near stalled his heart…a sensation that reminded him, abruptly, how Neji's heart had stopped beating altogether just a few short hours ago.

"You died," Shikamaru croaked out, his tear-glazed eyes staring at a point on Neji's chest, just above his heart. "You stopped breathing."

Neji simply gazed at him, one corner of his mouth twisting wryly. "I do that sometimes."

The humour, so unexpected, so forgiving, dealt a glancing blow to Shikamaru's 'hanging-on' heart and knocked his grip a little. He flexed his jaw against the tightness in his throat, teeth set on edge. "All those kids, Neji."

"Shikamaru, don't—"

"I can't…I can't even begin…" His throat closed around the words, closed around the air. Swallowing with difficulty, Shikamaru kept his hands raised between them, the chains rattling like his teeth before he bit down, eyes casting heavenward in a bid to stop the tears. They burned through him. "I'm sorry." The words were a ghost of sound, a shaking breath on his lips. "I'm sorry and it doesn't mean a damn thing…because I can't fix it. I can't fucking fix it."

Neji touched his hands.

That single touch was all it took.

Shikamaru folded forwards and Neji met him midway, grabbing his face with both hands as if to keep his head above water. Their brows tapped together, cold grey steel on burning skin; a point of contact and connection that kept the shadow-nin's battered heart from flat-lining.

"I can't fix it…"

"No one expects you to…" Neji murmured, his thumbs grazing the anguished corners of Shikamaru's eyes, sweeping out across the crease-lines. "The world we live in is broken, Shikamaru. There's no fixing that."

A ragged laugh and Shikamaru's breath frayed through his teeth, tattered streams against Neji's lips. "People are broken, Neji. The world doesn't give a damn. The world isn't sorry."

"But you are," Neji countered gently, one hand slipping around to Shikamaru's nape. "And that's how you know that you're not broken."

"Have you seen inside my head?"

"You're not broken."

"I broke three fucking ways, Neji. Left, right and centre."

"You're not broken."

Shikamaru drew back a little, gazed incredulously through a sheen of tears. "How the hell can you say that? The things I've done. The things I was going to do. There's no coming back from that."

"Yes there is. And you're not broken." Resolute. Unwavering. Spoken like a truth – but it had to be a lie.

Desperate, Shikamaru scanned the smooth contours of Neji's face, searching for the tic that'd give him away. "You seriously wanna bet on that?"

Neji raised his brows. "I already did, Shikamaru. I bet everything I had."

An eviscerating knife in the gut couldn't have cut cleaner than that truth. Shikamaru squeezed his eyes shut against his own screaming doubt, shaking his head. "Yeah…and I'm pretty sure that what you did for me makes you equally certifiable."

"I can live with that."

"I'm not sure I can."

"You'll have to…" Neji said, his voice falling softer as he added, "You'll have to live with a lot of things, Shikamaru. But you won't have to carry them alone."

Grief. It wafted through Shikamaru like cigarette smoke on the wind, carrying the echo of his sensei's promise…and the ghost of his presence.

"I hear you."

Reaching out blindly, Shikamaru gripped Neji's thighs and squeezed, the weight of his chains and a thousand unspoken words dragging between them. "Good talk," he whispered roughly, his voice crumbling around the humour. "I should lose my shit more often."

The act fell ten steps short of convincing. Neji didn't buy it. And Shikamaru had no strength left with which to sell it. A strange and vulnerable feeling. Avoidance was his trusty back-pocket. A wallet of bullshit stashed full of lies. Reaching into that pocket, he came up empty-handed, forced to face a silence that screamed for truth.

Until Neji's fingers squeezed his nape.

The truth talked with touch.

And suddenly, incredibly, the silence was too full for words.

---

The old kura storehouse stood squat and silent at the back of the dead-end alley, cordoned off by a chain-link fence gone red with rust. A slapdash sign hung askew, its splintered plaque swinging in the wind.

It read: NO TRESPASSING.

More for curious kids than opportunistic thieves. The storehouse itself didn't suggest anything of wealth and nothing of worth. Its thick earthen walls, once white-washed with plaster, had strips of yellowed topcoat hanging like peeled flesh. Nature covered the worst of its shame with a withered carpet of dour grey kudzu. The large perennial vines, shrunken and greyed by the cold, hung in thin matted strings like giant cobwebs stretching from the sloping rooftops to the heavy iron door.

A door Yamanaka Inoichi hadn't seen in over 21 years.

If only it'd stayed that way.

Gazing at the building through hooded eyes, Inoichi pulled the collar of his trench up around his clean-shaved cheeks and breathed a slow sigh into the crisp wintry air, vapour streaming from his nostrils. "Here we are again."

Beside him, Chōza hummed a low plangent note. "Here we are again."

And they weren't alone.

Moonlight strobed through the clouds, struck the chainlink fencing and cast a thin diamond-mesh shadow across the tall regal figure standing on the other side. The moonglow gleamed across the diamond-hard angles of the man's face, turning his pale white eyes incandescent. For a heartbeat, Inoichi was struck anew by the poignancy of this moment, this meeting.

Hizashi…

Gods, but it could've been.

It had been, all those years ago.

Recovering, Inoichi nodded stiffly. "Hiashi," he greeted, almost tripping over the name. "I wasn't sure you'd come. I appreciate that you did."

Hiashi's gaze held no warmth. No welcome. "Hizashi," was all he said. And honestly, that said it all. He wasn't doing this for Shikaku. He was doing it for his brother.

Family…it always comes back to that.

Inoichi understood. Shikaku was his brother in all but blood. His love for the Nara had brought him to this moment, this place, as surely as it had the first time around. Lips twitching in a rueful smile, his gaze went beyond Hiashi's gimlet-eyed stare to the storehouse beyond. "Let's hope the seals still work."

Chōza chuffed a quiet laugh, picked up a bucket of black paint sitting at his feet and turned towards the large rent in the fence. "Let's hope the door still works."

Not encouraging. And sure enough, they soon discovered that time had warped the frame, wedging the entrance shut. A momentary setback. After an awkward pause and some aggressive Akimichi persuasion the door groaned open on its hinges.

Inoichi entered first, threw the light switch.

Darkness flickered on and off before settling into a soupy sodium yellow, revealing a large spacious interior. It had a vaguely industrial air with its shuttered factory windows, mezzanine floor, overhead walkways and several hanging light fixtures buzzing weakly in the gloom. Dust filmed the air, settled heavy on the lungs. It was cool and dry…and the shadows were thick.

Not good.

But it couldn't be helped.

Inoichi's gaze went up towards the mezzanine floor, then higher, up to the huge stage-lights installed along the rafters. Once powerful spotlights, they'd white-washed the entire storehouse, obliterating the shadows.

No chance of that this time around.

Squinting past the dull buttery glow of the struggling bulbs, Inoichi noted the cracked glass, the shattered luminaires. The Limelight attack on the village months ago must've blown the fuses. He was surprised to find the smaller bulbs still in working order.

"Chōza."

The Akimichi nodded wordlessly and went to check the seals; painted onto the walls in various graffiti symbols and sigils, a few of them had flaked with the peeling plaster. Chōza set down the paint, took out the brush wedged into the thickly corded rope circling his belly and went to work.

Hiashi turned a slow circle at the centre of the storehouse, walking the perimeter of a huge seal carved and painted into the concrete, his Byakugan eyes scanning for faults.

Inoichi watched him for a long second, measuring the other man's mood. For all his years in the T&I department, for all his experience with open books and stone walls, the Hyūga were undoubtedly one of the most difficult to clans to read. Hiashi's face betrayed nothing of his thoughts, which left Inoichi to interpret his mood by dialogue alone.

"What Hizashi did for Shikaku," Inoichi began, "Can you replace it if it comes undone?"

Hiashi stopped circling, his gaze falling squarely on Inoichi. "Replace it. Reinforce it." He paused here, adding quietly, "Remove it."

Inoichi's eyes narrowed at the seeming threat and he wished – and not for the first time – that out of the Hyūga twins, Shikaku hadn't chosen this one as his golden puzzle piece all those years ago. He'd pissed Hiashi off from the get-go, challenging him in small but never-ending ways that only served to cement the Hyūga's icy stonewall rather than break it.

And here I am, trying to be civil.

It was like taking an ice-pick to an iceberg. No chance of breakthrough this late in the game. Sighing, Inoichi slid his hands into his pockets and turned casually in Hiashi's direction, his words pitched to polite enquiry, brows going up. "Is this going to be a problem for you, Hiashi?"

The Hyūga's arch expression ironed out to the same flatness as his voice. "The question you should be asking yourself, Inoichi, is whether you should be making this a problem at all."

A fair question. One Inoichi had asked himself a hundred times over since leaving the Hokage mansion. Was the truth worth risking 24 years of recovery? And another hundred times over his heart and his head and warred with the answer. His heart had brought him here, to this moment – but Hiashi's question froze him in his tracks. Indecision waylaid his mind, threatened to take the reins and steer him off course.

If I'm even on the right course…

Hiashi watched him struggle, white eyes orbiting the situation like two cold moons, effecting the gravity in Inoichi's mind. "If you do this, Yamanaka. You cannot undo it."

"You don't think I know that?" Inoichi snarled, passing a hand across his jaw to stifle the urge to tear into the Hyūga. "I don't need you to spot-check my perspective."

Hiashi arched a brow, his voice falling a degree below arctic. "No. You just need me to put down your attack-dog once you take it off its leash."

Anger slashed red across Inoichi's cheekbones. He took a slow step forward, sea-green eyes firing like burned copper. "You ignorant sonfa—"

"Inoichi," Chōza's voice intercepted their exchange a heartbeat before he came between them physically, his powerful frame set in the same stern cast as his face. His eyes fixed on Hiashi. "I understand your animosity towards Shikaku."

That knocked Hiashi's head back a fraction. His face tightened with defiance. "I doubt it."

"I do," Chōza insisted. "Believe you me, I know what Shikaku did. And he was wrong to come between you and your brother, no matter his intentions."

"Chōza!" Inoichi began, offended, outraged. "You don't have to justify—"

Chōza cut him off with a raised palm, his attention never straying from Hiashi's face. The Hyūga's expression had gone from gratified to guarded, his eyes narrowing like a wolf facing off against a bear. He didn't back down, but he didn't bare his teeth either. He simply watched, waiting.

Surprised, Inoichi fell back a step and worked to contain his annoyance.

Chōza took the opportunity to continue and spread his hands, his body language open, his expression earnest. Unlike his teammates, he wore no masks, affected no personas. He spoke from his heart, his words unedited by his head. "You see, Shikaku had a terrible habit of always wanting to fix what he perceived to be broken…in his youth, he lacked the wisdom to understand that not everything could be glued back together with logic and manipulative strategy."

"He learned too late, Akimichi," Hiashi bit back, the barest flash of teeth behind those thinly drawn lips. "Indeed, if he ever learned at all."

Chōza raised his palms again. "You're entitled to your anger, Hiashi. Shikaku was wrong to interfere with your clan. But would you be so blind, so blinkered by your anger towards him that you'd extend that same animosity towards his son?"

The question hung. Hung like the hundreds of tiny dust motes in the yellow light, suspended in the stillness, static with tension. Inoichi wasn't sure what he dreaded more — Hiashi's silence or his answer. While they hadn't told the Hyūga Lord everything, they'd indicated enough to suggest this situation was bigger than Shikaku. Chōza was treading on thin ice here. Appealing to a heart Inoichi wasn't sure Hiashi had.

The Hyūga's gaze went between them, slow and speculating. And then at length, he spoke. "No child should have to suffer for the sins of their father."

Whatever Inoichi had expected to hear – it wasn't that. He also didn't expect the words to hit so hard. He disguised his pain better than his shock, the barest arch in his expression giving away his surprise before he schooled his features and nodded.

Their children didn't deserve to suffer for their crimes.

That much, at least, they agreed on.

"Then let's do this."

A stubborn hesitation, then Hiashi inclined his head and moved towards the zigzagging staircase that led to the mezzanine floor. Relieved, Inoichi watched him go, his mind superimposing the past on the present; an old image of ANBU operatives climbing those stairs and lining the walkways above, looking on as Inoichi had prepared to seal away Shikaku's memories.

"We won't have the benefit of ANBU this time," he murmured aloud, drawing Chōza's gaze. "And I pray to god we won't need it."

The Akimichi clamped a hand on Inoichi's shoulder. "24 years, Inoichi. That's a long time for him to process."

"Subconsciously, Chōza."

"But that's the level that matters most, isn't it? The level at which you helped piece him back together. The level at which you found Kage."

Kage…

The memory of that personality rose up silent and dark as its namesake in Inoichi's mind. He pressed his eyes shut. "Who's to say Kage even exists anymore?"

"Trust him. Trust what he asked you to do for Shikaku."

Inoichi shook his head, emotion rising in his throat. "Kage asked me to do that because he believed Shuken was dead," he pointed out. "Kami, but we all believed it. I had to find out from my…" he choked off there, the pain still too raw. Blinking back the sting in his eyes he turned his gaze upon his lifelong friend. "Naoki…all those years…."

Chōza's gaze softened, sadness drawing his voice thin. "I know. And keeping Shikamaru's incident a secret from Shikaku would be the same as what the Council did to you with Naoki."

A knife through the heart of him. Inoichi looked away, scrubbed a hand over his mouth, short lashes beating down hard. "It's different…it's…"

"It's no different. Our children have suffered for these secrets. This cycle has to end. These lies have cost us so much more than the truth ever did, Inoichi."

Truer words were never spoken.

A weighed pause passed between them as Chōza gave those words their due, his grip on Inoichi's shoulder both tight and consoling. "I'm with you on this, Inoichi. And I will stand beside you through whatever comes next."

"Well you'd better," Inoichi joked weakly, his smile strained around the sadness. "Because I'm pretty sure our grudge-holding Hyūga wouldn't mind watching Shikaku bounce my head off the walls."

"I've got your back."

"Have my front. That's what Shikaku will go for." He hesitated, his expression twisting. "And if this mess hadn't torn my heart out already, I'd have offered it to him with my head on a platter. This my faul—"

In a nanosecond, Chōza's grip went from consoling to crushing. He whipped Inoichi around, grabbed him by the lapels of his trenchcoat and yanked him onto the balls of his feet, black eyes flaring. "You take that guilt trip, Inoichi and you'll be taking it alone. I'll support you if you choose to stand, but I won't pick you up off the floor for beating yourself up over something we didn't know and can't change."

Stunned – hurt – Inoichi spluttered for breath, his face reddening. "What the hell are you—!"

Chōza's fingers tightened in the cloth and he shook the Yamanaka roughly, leaning in. "You will not break down on me, Inoichi. Later, yes. But not now. Not here. We have no idea what this is going to do to Shikaku…and I can't hold him up and carry you at the same time. If you put that weight on me tonight, I'll be the one bouncing your head off the walls. You understand?"

Speechless, Inoichi gaped at his friend – amazed, as always, by the formidable strength of this gentle giant. The power he had to lift someone up by the scruff of their emotions and shake them back to sense. While Akimichi Chōza would sooner raise someone up than knock them down, he pulled no punches when it came to self-pity or self-deprecation. His heart was tough as it was tender and he'd boxed plenty of bullshit out of Inoichi and Shikaku over the years.

More so me, Inoichi realised, a little peeved at the fact that Shikaku had learned faster how to avoid flying Akimichi fists that beat with love. Love. Inoichi felt an outpouring of it for his old steadfast friend, despite the fact that he was almost being cross-choked.

"I understand," he spluttered out. "Put me down."

A hesitant beat and Chōza obliged, even smoothed out the creases in Inoichi's trenchcoat. Sniffing, he grasped the Yamanaka's shoulders and rocked him on the spot with a grounding nod. "Cool head, agile mind."

Shikaku's motto.

And gods above, Inoichi needed that now. Shifting gears in his mind, he gripped Chōza's thick forearms and took a slow breath through his nose, pushing down emotion as he'd done countless times in the past. He needed his head level, his thoughts clear. "Alright. I've got this."

"And I've got you," Chōza returned, a sparkle lighting in his eyes. "And I'd seal it with a kiss but Hyūga's watching."

Inoichi barked a laugh and shoved his friend back, rolling his shoulders awkwardly before moving to the centre of the storehouse and positioning himself at the centre of the seal. Another inward breath and he sat down cross-legged, closed his eyes and entered into a meditative state.

Cool head, agile mind.

Time to chart the mental waters. Plunging into the depths of his own swirling headspace, he found himself battered back and forth by the waves and knew there'd be no smooth sailing across the troubled sea until he calmed the waters.

Focus.

Sharpening his mind, it took Inoichi a solid five minutes to suck all the painful muddy emotion into the bedrock of his being, allowing his mind to clear and the waters of his consciousness to settle from rolling combers into gentle ripples.

Buoyed by those ripples, he sent them out to spread.

They moved beyond the circle, beyond the storehouse, beyond the surrounding streets – his thoughts controlled and guided by a signature link, a small chain of consciousness that anchored part of his mind to Shikaku's.

Now…where the hell is he?

Not at home. Odd. Frowning, Inoichi tilted his head, a subconscious movement that followed the curve of his mind as he moved his search beyond the Nara residence, scanning closely, seeking that familiar beacon, that glowing chakra signature he knew as well as his own.

Where are you, Shikaku?

Two minutes later, deep in the shadows of the Nara forest, Inoichi found him.

Shikaku?

A ping of alarm on the mental radar, like a spike through the brain as Shikaku startled. "We need a new system. One where you knock before you enter."

Chastened, Inoichi retreated little, perturbed by the edge in Shikaku's voice. Another nightmare, perhaps? He caught the faint trace of anxiety buzzing like static around that Nara brain.

Definitely a nightmare.

Thank God he hadn't caught Shikaku in the middle of it. Leading him back to consciousness both safely and sanely would've taken come creative engineering in that labyrinth mind. No time for that. Moving more cautiously, Inoichi probed gently around the Nara's head, hovering at the threshold of his mind.

You're right. I'm sorry, Shikaku. I didn't mean to startle you.

"You didn't startle me," Shikaku lied. "Truth to tell, it's a relief to hear from you. You've been distant."

I know. And I'm sorry for that.

"Whatever you need. Are you alright?"

Inoichi almost wavered here, but he held the communion stable; his heart was set and his head was steady. Strength came and so did the words.

We need to talk, Shikaku. But not like this. I need you to come here.

"Come where?"

Inoichi told him.

"I don't know where that is, Inoichi."

I know, old friend. But I'm going to remind you.

---

Remembrance framed the moment, emptied snapshots of the past across Neji's mind like photos scattered from a broken lockbox; Hanegakure, Shikamaru's birthday, the blurred images Neji had taken under the influence of the opiates.

I have a hundred stolen moments…

And here he sat, framing another in his mind, wondering – as he always did – whether this would be the last. Shikamaru slept in what Neji hoped was a deep and dreamless sleep, his body draped limply over the makeshift bed of sacks. He'd gone under fast. Put up no fight. Surrendered quietly, feeling safe enough to do so.

Neji hadn't left his side.

The Hyūga sat on one of the trunks drawn up to Shikamaru's pallet, elbows on his thighs, hands clasped loosely between his knees, head bowed as if in prayer, keeping quiet vigil. He needn't have stayed for security's sake. Shikamaru was at his weakest. His chakra reserves were drained, his tenketsu damaged and his hands and feet chained. Ninken were stationed along the hallways outside.

He wasn't going anywhere.

And neither am I.

Neji expected an instant protest; expected the ANBU wiring he'd spent months installing in his mind to trigger the automatic defence mechanisms. He waited for a wall to rise, a wheel to turn, the waves to break against that island he'd been living on for weeks…until he'd thrown himself off its edge.

Now there was nothing.

Not even a blip of conflict in the rhythm of his heartbeat.

That stern voice of control that'd ordered him to walk away all those times before no longer harried his mind. The stillness, the silence, was absolute. No broken compasses spinning in opposite directions. No game boards. No rule books. No damning voice screaming a play-by-play of all his moves, recounting past and present events and how they were destined to ruin him. No sense of being torn down the centre and pulled apart by two separate needs.

He felt…still.

At sudden rest.

As if all those broken pieces were suspended – or perhaps slotted into some indeterminable arrangement inside him. Some strange new design that not only changed the patterning he held within his mind but also the bigger picture. It'd changed, as if someone had caused all the colours to bleed. He couldn't see the details of the new canvas. Blinded by uncertainty, he wasn't sure how to frame it or where to hang it inside him.

So he kept his gaze on Shikamaru instead. Traced his eyes over the features of a face he'd sketched in his mind again and again. He knew how to frame this image…and knew where to hang it. Knew he must've created an altar somewhere inside himself for the shadow-nin, given the sacrifice he'd made.

Only it didn't feel like a sacrifice…

No. It felt dangerously close to that weightless surrender he'd always found in Shikamaru's company. A feeling he'd once considered his greatest weakness, his fatal flaw, a chain as strong as any cage and yet…

And yet…

A low creak yanked him back to the moment.

Turning his head, Neji stiffened suddenly, white eyes narrowing on the doorway. The room held a sudden weight, a sudden presence. It raised shorthairs, caused a slow crawl along the spine and skin. The darkness clinging to the corners of the room thickened, hugged the walls, hung low along the ceiling and didn't shy from the lantern light.

Chakra…

Neji recognised its signature. He glanced at Shikamaru. There was no way the Nara was emitting this energy.

Which could only mean…

"Shirataka," a low voice greeted.

Loosening a breath, Neji shifted to his feet, putting himself between Shikamaru and the dark figure standing in the thicket of shadows crowding the doorway. "Tsuno-senpai," he greeted.

The tall sinewy figure stepped forward and the shadows slipped off him like oil, revealing the stag-faced mask and the sharp wiry outlines of a body caked in dried blood. When he spoke again, his voice was pitched low so as not to disturb Shikamaru.

"We'll make landfall in three hours," Tsuno said. "By order of the Hokage, an ANBU unit will take Shikamaru into protective custody. You will deliver him to them."

Stunned, it took Neji a moment to respond. Ordinarily, he'd have nodded and obeyed without question, but the chains that'd once held him in check seemed loose around his throat, allowing for the words to fall free, "After everything that's happened...you're entrusting me with this?"

The ceramic stag-face ticked sideways, a signal Neji could no more read than the soulless eyeholes of the mask. Was Tsuno shocked by the question? Neji deemed it fair, considering his loose interpretation of his orders up until this moment.

"I am entrusting you with this because of what didn't happen," Tsuno said, his voice gaining a subtle edge. "And this is the last time I will ever explain myself to you. Acknowledge, Shirataka."

That short clipped command shone a burning hot spotlight on the stage of Neji's mind. Like a vital scene in a play. Only Neji couldn't seem to remember his lines. He scoured his brain for the costume he'd donned, the character he'd played…the mask he'd worn…

He could still feel the weight of it in his hands.

He had a role to play here.

A role he'd fought for.

A role he'd kill for.

And yet…

For a long speechless moment, Neji gazed at his handler…at the cold white face that stood in place of the human behind it, empty of expression, empty of emotion. He searched for life in the pale lacquered surface with its smooth dark lines stained red as blood…and saw only death.

You'd kill for this…but would you die for it?

To keep from answering that question, Neji reached for his remembered line, his voice falling deep and empty into the silence. "I acknowledge."

---

Kioku Meiro Fūin.

The Labyrinth Seal of Memories.

A forbidden jutsu masterpiece; conceived and created by the most gifted Yamanaka shinobi; handed down generations by mental imprint. It was the very kinjutsu Inoichi had used 24 years ago, turning Shikaku's genius mind into a multicursal maze, compartmentalising his memories, his Alters, and banishing them to the deepest recesses of his subconscious. Those fractured pieces were destined to forever circle the ever-shifting pathways; disjointed, disassociated, drifting like ghosts and doomed to hunt demons. Always searching for the centre of the maze they had no hope of ever finding.

Unless they united.

Unless they integrated into a whole.

For all his hope at the time, as the years went on, Inoichi lost faith in the chance of that integration ever happening. Shikaku was too damaged, too destroyed. The pieces of his fractured psyche too fine and too many to ever fit back together the same way.

And here Inoichi was, looking for the one stable part he could spill the truth to.

Get to the centre of the Labyrinth first…

From there, he could monitor all the Alters.

From there, he could locate Kage.

As the creator, as the groundskeeper, Inoichi knew the shortcuts and the secrets, knew the block-maze configurations that required strategic orderings of memory and time to unlock doorways and fit together disjointed corridors of memory. Even so, the intricacies of its design were so insanely convoluted that Inoichi found himself doubling back a few times.

Damn it.

And he wasn't alone on his travels.

Ghosts and demons haunted the hallways in Shikaku's head – and Inoichi met them at every turn; chimaera-human hybrids, their bodies and minds mutilated by the Twins' science; members of the Shinjū staff who'd worked in the facility, their blood and entrails painting the walls; failed experiments strewn about in pale bloated pieces, the ligature marks of the kage nui burned purple-blue into swollen throats and wrists.

Worst of all, were the hungry ghosts.

Innocent victims of Shikaku's violence, stumbling about in zombie-like reanimation – men, women and children. An entire town's worth of people reduced to aimlessly wandering corpses in the death-choked corridors of Shikaku's mind. Grey-faced ghoulish creatures stinking of rotten meat, ripe sweat, copper and blood and…guilt.

These tragic reminders of Shikaku's madness.

Of Shikaku's monster.

And then there was Kali.

Inoichi heard her mad laughter ringing throughout the maze. He caught glimpses of her presence in the shadows; a flash of dark eyes, wide and glassy, feverish and insane; a swirl of dark hair threaded with red; milk-white skin freckled with blood.

In Shikaku's mind, she was a hydra.

Inoichi had designed it that way. Shikaku could kill her a thousand times but she'd spring another head in his subconscious, always waiting, always watching, always distracting him from that dangerous question Inoichi heard echoing down the long dark corridors.

"Where is Shuken?"

Inoichi turned, watched the shadows thicken with sentience, shivering and crawling across the floors. Shikaku had caught up. Question was, which Alter was it? Shikaku had split so many ways during his torture and madness Inoichi had barely scratched the surface of the Nara's fractured psyche before he'd sealed it all away.

There was only one personality Inoichi had ever been able to reason with.

One Alter he could trust.

He spoke its name into the thickening gloom. "Kage?"

Yellow eyes flashed open. "Where is Shuken?"

Everything inside Inoichi went cold and still. Not Kage. This voice was younger, shakier, the hoarse tones riddled with a hint of madness. And those eyes. For a moment, Inoichi had to battle back his own memories, his own horror.

This personality, he'd hoped never to see again.

Backing up a step, Inoichi felt sweat break from his pores. He was solid in Shikaku's subconscious, as real to the Nara as any other ghosts or demons haunting his mind…which probably explained why suddenly, but briefly, Inoichi's body was 18-years-old again.

Shit.

He glanced down at his red-stained hands and saw the fingers quiver, as they had all those years ago. He was splattered in blood, in gore, in death.

In memory. This is only a memory.

A memory made manifest, because the second Inoichi raised his head Shikaku's 18-year-old-self stepped from the veil of darkness, the shadows peeling off him like a second skin. The scars on his face were torn open, bleeding freely. Those sulphurous yellow eyes were threaded with red lines, the sclera so darkly bloodshot they burned black.

"Where is Shuken?"

Inoichi swallowed hard, willing his mind to stillness. No matter how many times he popped into this place to rearrange Shikaku's Labyrinth, he always managed to steer clear of the Alters. Working like the hand of god from above to rearrange hell without meeting the demons…

Or the devils.

Shikaku's lips curled darkly, teeth stained red. "Devil?"

Inoichi blinked hard and worked to keep from projecting his thoughts. He took control of his own physical projection, began morphing back to his own adult form, backing up slowly. Shikaku watched him with predatory amusement, his soulless eyes glinting.

"Where's Shuken?"

The darkness rippled with hunger, with hate. Inoichi had no lies to feed it. Not now and not even then. When constructing the Labyrinth, he'd been assured Shuken was dead. But he'd never known how ROOT had handled it. He'd assumed Danzō and the Sandaime had ordered the facility to be blown sky high, ensuring its destruction and Shuken's annihilation. The ANBU ROOT reports had never confirmed much. Such vagueness hadn't allowed Inoichi to construct a solid enough truth to stick. So he'd left it a mystery, which suited the purposes of the maze insofar as keeping Shikaku focused on penance rather than punishment.

Or so I thought…

Apparently, this Alter still needed answers. But Inoichi didn't have time to give them to him. He sure as hell wasn't stable enough to handle the truth about Shikamaru. Inoichi grit his teeth, strategising. He needed to get to the centre of the Labyrinth, needed to find Kage, needed to—

"Shikaku…" Kali. Her soft, breathy, sickly-sweet voice floated through the darkness toward them, louder each time she called Shikaku's name, drawing the syllables out into a lewd, perverse song. "Shikaku darling, come and play."

Shikaku stiffened, his eyes and nostrils flaring. The shadows glistened and sharpened into thick obsidian spikes, bristling around him like raised hackles. He seemed to forget Inoichi and turned dangerously slow towards the blackness behind, yellow-black eyes narrowing, his voice a strained hiss between his teeth. "Bitch."

Kali laughed, dreamy and crazed.

And then she stepped into view. "Shiiiikaaakuuuu."

Shikaku screamed, a raw-throated howl. He threw out his hand and sent the shadows blasting like giant black senbons. They struck her in the gut. Impaled her. Exploded from her back in a wet spray of blood and spinal fluid. Kali staggered back and her pale blood-flecked face warped into a rictus of agony.

No, not agony.

Amusement.

She began to laugh, laugh, mocking him.

Shikaku screamed again, advancing on her, the shadows snapping like vipers, punching holes through her chest and neck. His violence was an entity and it consumed him utterly. Dripping blood, Kali whirled and staggered along the corridor as Shikaku stalked after her in long driven strides, his expression twisted with fury and washed in blood.

He was lost to his madness.

Lost to the monster they'd made of him.

Frozen to the spot, Inoichi watched with tears in his eyes until they were so far down the corridor that he could no longer separate silhouette from shadow.

Move. Go now, while he's distracted.

Turning his back, Inoichi ran the other way.

Orienting himself, he began to unlock the passageways that'd lead to the very heart of the Labyrinth, finding doors where Shikaku would only find walls. It required climbing stairs, crawling through vents and combing through several floors filled with the walking dead corpses that fed off Shikaku's conscience and guilt. Inoichi passed through them, going against the grain of their endless march. They had no interest in him, they were hungry for something he could not give and Shikaku could not return.

Their lives…

By the time Inoichi reached one of the mirror-maze rooms, the reflections in the glass were too horrific to handle. He ended up smashing straight through them. Not smart, but he couldn't risk getting trapped down here. The shattering of glass sent a shockwave through Shikaku's subconscious, alerting him to a glitch in the system, a shift in the infrastructure.

I've got about ten seconds.

And Inoichi was fifty feet from the centre of the maze. Forty feet when he felt it, a sudden shivering in the darkness somewhere behind. And then, Shikaku's voice, purring out low and dark and deadly calm, "Where's Shuken?"

Cursing, Inoichi upped his pace, went from jogging into a dead run. He wasn't fast enough. The shadows shot ahead of him, outstripping his sprint. He turned the next corner and Shikaku was already there, not twenty feet away, covered in blood…

Standing between Inoichi and the last doorway.

Fuck.

Yellow eyes blinked in confusion, rolled like glass marbles in the Nara's skull, taking in this strange new section of the Labyrinth he was never meant to find. Its walls weren't washed in red, just seals and symbols. No ghosts or demons howled along this hallway. It was empty of pain, of suffering, of anything that stalked or screamed in the bowels of the maze his 18-year-old self had come to know, to live, to understand.

He scowled, a flicker of uncertainty skimming beneath the darkness in his eyes. "Where am I?"

Inoichi tried to bolt past him.

Mistake.

A shadow-hand caught him around the throat, paralysed his body and slammed him up against a concrete wall. Shikaku leaned in, his gaunt skeletal face carved into edges so unnatural it turned a knife in Inoichi's heart. It was like looking at sculpted demon. Shikaku's features were warped from the senjutsu, drawn into an unnatural rock-like sharpness, cheekbones ridged with skin as hard as horn. His hair fell in a spiked mane down to his waist and the teeth he bared had fangs.

"Where the fuck am I?" Shikaku growled.

"Nowhere you should be," Inoichi wheezed in response, recoiling inwardly when Shikaku reached up a hand to touch the Yamanaka's face, clawed fingertips following the aged lines of Inoichi's features with fascination, then suspicion.

Shikaku's brows drew together darkly, yellow eyes flickering. "What are you?"

What. Not who. Inoichi knew in that instant he was a non-entity to this part of Shikaku's psyche. Nothing but a slab of enemy meat ready to be carved up by the black shadow spikes hanging from the ceiling and rising from the floor like fangs in the mouth of a monster, dripping Kali's blood.

"Shikaku," Inoichi choked out. "You know me."

"Know you?" Shikaku spat the words, cold and mocking until the amusement cut out behind his eyes entirely. They went flat and dead as his voice. "I know every face within this hell. Yours isn't one of them. Unless you're the bastard who trapped me in here."

Spoken like a death sentence.

Next was execution.

The shadows curled up behind Shikaku like a giant scorpion tail, their thick bloody mass tapering into a needle point. Inoichi willed his mind to break free from the illusion of a shadow-possession, but it was so damned strong it took everything just to blink the sweat from his eyes.

Shikaku's lips pulled back in a sneer. "One chance. Who are you and why are you here?"

Inoichi swallowed hard, his eyes boring into Shikaku's, searching – as he had searched 24 years ago – for a fleck of humanity in those hellfire flames. There was only one thing Inoichi thought might reach him. "I'm here…to tell you…about your son…"

Shikaku's expression was utterly still. "I don't have a son."

The shadow spike shot forward.

But it never struck home.

It froze a hairsbreadth from Inoichi's forehead, a twitch away from skewering his skull. And past the pounding of shock and panic Inoichi could've sworn he heard another voice speak.

It said, "Release him, Naraku."

Shikaku's eyes blazed in outrage, yellow-black orbs swivelling in a slow murderous glance towards a figure at the far end of the corridor. His breath seethed out, black as poison. "You."

The voice repeated the warning. "Release him."

Inoichi knew that voice. He glanced across, eyes breaking open wide.

Kage.

As if summoned, the entity known as Kage stepped forward from the shadows of the doorway, his features and body untouched by the corruption of senjutsu. He looked like Shikaku in present life, only older, harder…etched with deeper lines and deeper scars.

He was the intellectualising adult.

A dominant personality.

The inner helper.

Kage was fully capable of carrying all Shikaku's parts and integrating them. He was, in effect, Shikaku at-one with himself. He was what they had worked for years to create in Shikaku's subconscious – the singular entity Inoichi had hoped would prove strong enough pull all the pieces back together.

"The pieces are together, old friend. There's just one piece left," Kage murmured, his voice deeper and hoarser than the 18-year-old Alter currently glaring at him. "The protector turned punisher. My darkest shadow. Naraku."

The yellow-eyed Alter whirled at those words, arm outstretched to silence, to kill. His shadows struck out, shot across the distance. Kage streaked past the attack, taking the shadows with him, moving with such speed he vanished into a blur at the edge of Inoichi's vision.

A primal roar of fury.

Then darkness.

It spilled in a thick dark flood along the hallway, so tangible Inoichi felt himself go under as if in black waters. For a timeless moment, he floundered, sucked into a vortex of swirling shadow. A whirlpool that dragged him deeper and deeper until the black waters coughed him out again – rolled him through combers of churning oily darkness before spilling him out in a shadowy wave across a washed-out concrete floor.

Recovering fast, Inoichi rocked onto the balls of his feet, heaving a breath.

His head came up, his eyes widened.

Shock gripped him like a paralysis jutsu and he froze in the middle of the chamber he'd been struggling to reach. The heart of the Labyrinth. The centre of the maze. A stark concrete room, circular and without corners, lit from above by a dull pulsation of blue-grey light. Its emptiness belied the unseen power that hummed within its walls.

A hub of energy, of chakra, of memory.

It crackled as if with electricity, the air so thick it weighed on the lungs. Of course, it was all in the mind, but such was its fabrication, its flawlessness, that it felt real. As real as anything the mind chose to believe as concrete.

How did I end up here without using the door?

It wasn't possible for Kage to have delivered him here. This area was cordoned off. Unreachable.

Unless…

For a long second Inoichi's mouth worked uselessly, the words lodging in a scoff of disbelief before he finally spat out a shaky incredulous laugh. "Impossible."

"It was. For a long time."

Inoichi spun at the voice, his wild-eyed gaze hitting on the lounging figure at the opposite end of the chamber. He watched as dark narrow eyes cast about the high walls in a slow scan before that razor-sharp gaze travelled back to Inoichi.

And god, but Inoichi knew those eyes.

"Shikaku…"

The shadow-nin's lips curved in a sad, tired smile. "For a long, long time, the worst of me thought this was a prison. A punishment. But when Kage taught me to see it as a purgatory, things changed. It became a place where I could work through my sins…live out my pain and my rage at a level that wouldn't harm my loved ones or hurt the innocent…" He paused for a painful second and his eyes deepened with emotion too strong for words. "I owe you, Inoichi."

The Yamanaka shook his head, at a loss. "But how is it that you...?"

"Picked up all the pieces?" Shikaku's brows went up in that dry familiar way. "One piece at a time, old friend. Something I'd never have been able to do at a conscious level. The past four years have been the hardest." He sighed, his gaze skating across the room. "The last piece is always the most troublesome."

It took Inoichi a moment to process that, his brows tugging together in confusion before realisation dawned.

"The pieces are together, old friend. There's just one piece left. The protector turned punisher. My darkest shadow."

Of course. The yellow-eyed Alter. That horrific part of Shikaku's psyche that he and Kage called—

"Naraku," Shikaku finished, reading Inoichi's thoughts.

There was no firm demarcation of minds in the centre of the Labyrinth. It was a Communion wholly unlike any other Inoichi had attempted. It required him to be on constant guard. He'd need to be careful with his thoughts as well as his words.

"Naraku…" Inoichi echoed, his eyes pinching with pain as he translated the name, "Hell."

Jaw tightening, Shikaku looked off to the side for a long silent moment. When he turned his gaze back to Inoichi, there was a world of regret and enduring pain in his dark, dark eyes. "What better name for the monster I became. You remember what I did. The lives I took…the hell I raised. You remember."

"I remember," Inoichi husked, wishing he could forget. "But that wasn't you, Shikaku."

A faint, sad smile and Shikaku tipped his head as if Inoichi were in breach of a law. "No lies here, Inoichi. Naraku is a part of me. A part Kage and I have been struggling to accept for years. We've tried to integrate him…but we can't."

"Because you can't accept him?"

"No. Because I hear what he needs and I see no solution."

Inoichi hesitated at that, measuring his thoughts carefully. "What do you mean, you hear what he needs? What does he want?"

Shikaku looked at him as if it were obvious. "What any monster wants. To punish his creators. Nothing less, nothing more."

"Nothing more? What about protecting you?" Inoichi reasoned, trying to get a baseline for this Naraku personality. As worried as he was about Shikaku's reaction, he needed to know how the darker part of him was likely to react to the news Inoichi had yet to deliver. "Kage said Naraku was a protector, Shikaku."

"Was," Shikaku said. "After killing Kali, it became less about my recovery and more about his revenge…and now I understand why…" And here, he stepped away from the wall and paced a short distance, his fingers tracing the scars on his face. "Over the past twenty years, Kage has helped me to collect and integrate every piece of myself I ever shattered into, Inoichi…and do you know what's interesting?" He pulled his hand away from his face, stared at his fingers as if expecting to find blood. "Not one of those pieces hold the memory of Shuken's death. Not even Kage knows…and I can't understand why."

And there it was.

Inoichi took a slow breath and felt as if his lungs were holding onto several pounds of concrete. He could not swallow past the rock in his throat. Shikaku slanted him a sidelong glance, trying to read him in that way the Nara always did, looking for the tics and tells Inoichi had spent a lifetime learning to hide.

That lifelong practice served him well.

His expression remained blank, his mind held in a state of icy stillness.

Frowning, Shikaku resumed his gentle pacing, shoulders stiffening against the chill in the air. "I've searched my memories a thousand times for Shuken's corpse. And a thousand times over Naraku continues to ask me where it is. It is that one question that keeps me divided…that keeps me from closure…because I have no answer."

"I know," Inoichi whispered. "But I do."

Shikaku stopped pacing. His body went rigid, a block of frozen flesh and bone. Seconds ticked by. His eyes remained glued ahead, his mouth drawn to a tight static line before he turned his head a fraction, his voice falling on an odd note. Deeper, rougher. Older. "Is that why you came?"

Inoichi swallowed thickly, the cords of his throat straining so hard his voice came out reedy and hoarse. "One of the reasons."

Shikaku turned a quarter-inch, a movement so slight, so sudden, he seemed to fall back into abrupt stillness as if he hadn't moved at all. He didn't seem to be breathing. And something had changed in his eyes, in his face…in his voice. "And is the other reason, Shikaku's son?"

The dissociative 'switch' was so sudden, so abrupt, it took Inoichi a baffled moment to register the shift from Shikaku to Kage. And then he remembered, realised. This 'switch' was Kage protecting the parts Shikaku had so painstakingly pieced back together again. Kage would take the blow, the devastation, so that Shikaku didn't have to. If Naraku was Shikaku's demon, then Kage was undoubtedly his guardian angel.

"There's nothing angelic about me," Kage murmured, picking up on Inoichi's thoughts again. "I am the humanity that survived."

Not only survived, but survived and fought for two decades to preserve Shikaku's sanity. Inoichi gazed deep into those eyes; saw scars and shadows and striations of suffering carved deep into the rock of indomitable strength.

And despite the reassurance of that strength, Inoichi still hesitated. "You're right. You survived. But I don't know if the rest of Shikaku will once he hears what I've come here to say."

"And that is why you're saying it to me."

Saying it…confessing it. Because that's what it felt like when it finally fell from his mouth. A confession. And word by word, breath by breath, Inoichi confessed. Confessed it all. Confessed about Shuken, Shikamaru and the Shinjū Project…confessed the truth as he'd been told it and as he'd witnessed it in Naoki's mind…confessed until his eyes burned and his throat swelled, making breathing hard and talking harder…but he kept on...speaking in the hushed penitent tones of a sinner…unable to stop even as the world seemed to slow to a molasses crawl around them.

And when Inoichi was done…

When he was finished…

The world seemed to stop altogether.

For a timeless moment neither man spoke and neither mind moved. The stillness held like a breath and the truth hung thick and black between them, igneous, incendiary, as if a single word, a single thought, risked igniting it.

And then Kage spoke, freezing the air. "Do you trust me, Inoichi?"

The question was so calmly spoken, so steadily pitched and so shockingly far from anything Inoichi had expected to hear that it took him several seconds to respond. Turning his eyes towards Kage, he blinked in shock, shaking his head. "W-what? Did you hear what I just told you?"

Kage's eyes were still as frost, cut sharp and clear as volcanic glass. Yet they weren't cold. Just eerily calm. "I heard you. Now hear me. I asked if you trust me."

There was no easy answer to that question and Inoichi struggled to frame a response. "Trust you with what?"

"That's not an answer."

"I don't have an answer, Kage."

Kage absorbed that silently, the edge in his eyes cutting sharper. "You built this Labyrinth, performed that kinjutsu on Shikaku because I asked you to. You trusted me when I surfaced all those years ago. Why?"

"Why?" Inoichi choked out, his eyes bursting open in genuine surprise. "You know why. I trusted you because you were the only hope in hell we had to go on!" Inoichi barked, his voice seeming to rise of its own volition, boiling up from the pit of his soul. "Because when faced with a homicidal eighteen-year-old kid, sixteen other fucked-up Alters and you, I was willing to hedge my bets on the only part of Shikaku that didn't want to watch the world burn after what happened to him!"

The abrupt quiet that followed that outburst was hot and telling, raw with emotion. In stark contrast, Kage faced that emotionalism with the calm rational detachment that'd allowed him to dissociate from Shikaku's damaged mind all those years ago and develop into such a stable and dominant personality.

Even now, he remained utterly calm in light of everything Inoichi had just confessed.

About Shuken…about Shikamaru…

And for a fraction of a second, Inoichi had to wonder if Kage felt anything at all. And a fraction of a second was all it took for that thought to wobble between them. Kage's eyes flickered, his expression tightening…and in that instant, Inoichi knew his thoughts had been read.

Too late to take it back.

He wasn't sure he even wanted to. He had no idea how to process this kind of reaction. Kage's level-headedness had shocked him years ago and it shocked him now. And while this Alter's surefooted sanity was far preferable to Shikaku's mental breakdown, it still left Inoichi facing that dangerous question.

"Do you trust me?"

Studying those eyes that were so like Shikaku's, just a shade darker and a few lines sharper around the edges, Inoichi's indecision was brief this time. "I trust you." And he meant it.

Time stalled for a second. And then Kage nodded once, a brief acknowledgement before he spoke the words that would've called the Yamanaka's bluff had Inoichi been lying. "Prove it."

"I already did. I trusted you with Shikaku's sanity…and it looks like you've preserved it."

Kage cocked his head, as if he found the statement strange. "Alters exist, at their most fundamental level, for the purpose of the host's self-preservation," he said. Rational as ever, but like his eyes, the words weren't cold. Just honest. "Bringing Shikaku back together is my purpose…and now, I need you to help Naraku fulfil his purpose."

Inoichi blinked at him, taken aback. "What? Are you insane?"

Kage almost smiled at that.

Inoichi grimaced. Granted, insane was a piss-poor word choice, but he knew no better term. The thought of catering to the needs of a homicidal – if not psychopathic – part of Nara Shikaku's mind smacked of madness.

"Madness?" Kage echoed, angling his head warningly. "Naraku has wandered the hallways of this Labyrinth for 24 years, slaughtering Shinjū staff and Kali every night, asking the same question to the same pointless end. Where is Shuken? Now that I know, you expect me to withhold that information from him so that he can continue his endless cycle and keep Shikaku divided? Tell me that isn't madness."

Solid point. And it wedged itself between them in a stone cold silence. Logically, Inoichi couldn't argue. But agreeing meant far more than acknowledging everything Kage had just said. It would mean taking action…and he needed to ensure Shikaku could afford to do that without losing his head.

"He won't," Kage said, cutting into the Yamanaka's thoughts again. "I won't allow it."

"I want to talk to Shikaku," Inoichi said.

"Shikaku is indisposed."

Panic drove through Inoichi's belly like an iron spike. "What do you mean?"

Kage gave him a hard level look. "His son."

Incredible how two words had the power to turn the iron spike of panic into a serrated blade. It twisted violently within Inoichi's gut. He glared at Kage, wide-eyed. "You weren't supposed to relay that to him!"

Anger gleamed across Kage's sharp obsidian eyes. "Co-consciousness, Inoichi. It's part of integration. Don't tell me how to do my job. Irrespective of your surface operation, I don't run this system based on lies."

Low blow. And it hit hard. Inoichi backed up a pace as if physically struck. "That's real high-handed of you, considering you just lied to me."

"I didn't lie to you."

"You said if I spoke the truth I'd be speaking it to you."

"And you are. Believe me, if I stepped back and let Shikaku take the floor, you'd be dealing with an entirely different scenario than the one you have now. You don't want that. And Shikaku, in his right mind, wouldn't want that."

"And what, you're stepping in as his right mind?"

"Someone has to. And I'm all that's left. Unless you'd rather deal with Naraku?"

Fuck.

Kage's smile was bleak. "I didn't think so."

Inoichi sighed, scrubbing his hands over his face. Perspective. He needed to keep it. Painful and complicated as this exchange was, it confirmed what Inoichi had always hoped but never dared to believe; that Shikaku was just a couple of fragments away from complete fusion and total integration of parts. As much as he trusted Kage to keep things together, it didn't erase over twenty years' worth of fear. Fear that a few dangerous triggers would cause all those precious pieces to come undone again.

"I'll say it again. They won't," Kage insisted. "Shikaku is as stable as you've ever known him to be since that incident."

"I want to believe that."

"Then scour the Labyrinth and see for yourself," Kage invited, spreading his hands. "There's only me and Naraku left, Inoichi. And I have to be the last to integrate. I need Naraku to come willingly…and he won't do that unless he believes his purpose has been fulfilled. His justice meted out."

"Revenge," Inoichi said, paring it down to the bare bones. "That's what he wants."

Kage blinked slowly. "He can't rest…and now neither will Shikaku until we finish what was started all those years ago." At Inoichi's drawn-out silence, Kage's brow flicked up. "Don't tell me you haven't already considered this, Inoichi...because if that was the case then you wouldn't be here. You'd be helping the Council cover up what happened to Shikaku's son, constantly scrambling to maintain their System of Lies."

Pressing his eyes shut, Inoichi shook his head. "I can't do that anymore."

"I know. And as much as you're doing this for Shikaku and his child, I believe you have your own score to settle…don't you?"

True. True to the wretched broken heart of him and they both knew it. Inoichi's jaw flexed, the muscles scrunching hard. They both knew the why. It was the how that troubled Inoichi and he had no qualms admitting it, his voice falling low in the quiet of the room. "I don't know where to start."

"I know. But I do."

Inoichi huffed a ragged laugh, his eyes flickering open again. "And is this the part where you expect me to trust you?"

"No, Inoichi. This is the part where you prove that you do."

---

Tenchi Bridge.

It loomed high overhead, a strip of darkness against the starlit sky.

Time to walk the plank…

Feet planted on the ship's creaking deck, Shikamaru leaned back against the centre mast and tipped his head back. Gazing beyond the taut sail cloths, he narrowed his focus onto the towering sides of the ravine, moonlit to the likeness of limestone. Pathways had been cut into the rock-face, winding up to the top of the bridge. One path in particular led down to a small quay fastened onto the left side of the crags, allowing ships to dock. Constructed on stilts, it extended a short way into the river and was lit by a series of small lanterns glowing like will-o'-the-wisps in the darkness.

"Shikamaru."

At the call of his name, Shikamaru straightened away from the mast with a rattle of chains and turned his head towards the stairway leading up to the foredeck. A figure detached itself from the shadows cloaking the steps, having been seated there in silence. He stepped down to Shikamaru's level and the moonlight slanted a cold streak across his masked face.

Memory strobed through Shikamaru's mind.

Painful and red.

He knew that mask. "Tsuno," he croaked, guilt carving through him.

"You remember. That's good."

Staring blankly, Shikamaru shook his head, too hoarse to laugh at the absurdity of that statement. There was a surreal quality to this exchange. A few short hours ago, he'd tried to kill this man. A few short hours ago, he'd almost killed his teammates, his superiors and an entire division of the Nagu Butai.

He still couldn't quite square that in his head.

Shock, his brain reminded.

A necessary failsafe. Shock was the only thing cordoning off the mess inside his head. He had no other defence, seeing as the walls that'd once divided his headspace into three very different areas were now rubble and dust. The rooms he'd compartmentalised his past in had been turned inside out, the cabinets of memories gutted open on the floor, the truth strewn about like entrails.

Yeah, it was a hot steaming mess in there.

And yet, Neji's voice kept casting over the ruin like a calm breeze.

"You're not broken."

He replayed those words to keep from focusing on Tsuno. He could feel the man's gaze on him, tracking his expression. Shikamaru made no effort to disguise the regret etching itself deep at the corners of his eyes, but he also made no effort to meet Tsuno's gaze. He had no desire to engage with this man any more than he needed to. He'd woken up feeling comfortably numb…and intended to stay that way until he was somewhere safe and private.

Yeah, like a padded cell.

Brisk, light footsteps drew his focus up towards the foredeck and his heartbeat staggered a little, getting way ahead of itself.

It's not Neji…

Score to brain.

It wasn't Neji, it was Yamato.

Shikamaru's heart picked itself up again and stumbled on. He'd woken up alone – well, Kakashi's ninken notwithstanding.

Huh. Where the hell IS Kakashi, anyway?

Yamato's presence distracted him from that thought. Swivelling in his chains, Shikamaru watched as the ex-ANBU operative hurried down the stairwell and had to do a double take. Yamato looked rough, his brows drawn low over his diamond-shaped eyes, rings of shadow accentuating his haggard expression.

Tsuno inclined his head. "Kinoe."

Shikamaru quirked a brow.

Kinoe?

For the barest fraction of a second, Yamato's features tightened sharply before his face wiped clean of all expression. He nodded stiffly to Tsuno, his attention bouncing onto Shikamaru, lips turning upwards in a faint encouraging smile. "How you holding up?"

Shikamaru blinked at him. "I haven't killed anyone in my sleep."

Yamato laughed a little, a frayed, tired sound. He looked washed-out and drawn – like he hadn't caught half a second's worth of shut-eye since being assigned. "Always a good sign."

Watching the older man warily, Shikamaru managed a half-smile, trying to arrange his expression accordingly. No easy feat, considering he had no clue what kind of reaction he was supposed to be giving. There weren't any generic responses for this kind of situation.

How the hell am I even here?

And not rotting in a Nagu prison? Shit, but it hurt to think. Literally hurt. Like his brain had spent the better part of his sleep banging itself against the walls of his skull. Flinching, he squeezed his eyes shut and blinked them wide, trying to ignore the pressure at his temples.

Yamato's hand touched his shoulder. "You okay, kid?"

For one sad and haunting second, Asuma's presence ghosted through Shikamaru's mind, supplanting Yamato's touch and voice. It took a lot not to close his eyes and pretend. Sighing, he pulled his shoulder out of Yamato's grasp and nodded, searching for something to say, something to distract. He could feel Tsuno's eyes on him again, monitoring everything.

Say something…anything…

"Yamato-sensei," he began, his gaze darting towards the companionway leading down to the lower decks. "Chōji and Ino are probably gonna make trouble for you over this."

Sighing, Yamato gave him a resigned look. "Yeah, well. I'll cross that bridge once we get to it."

"We're at the bridge," a voice said from somewhere above.

Craning his neck back, Shikamaru blinked in surprise. Sai was perched in the rigging like a bird, his pale face a glowing oval in the moonlight. Freeing a hand from the netting, he pointed towards Tenchi Bridge.

Yamato's eyebrow twitched. He glanced at Tsuno sideways, looking embarrassed on behalf of his student. "Metaphors. Not his forte."

Tsuno grunted, unamused. "ROOT," was all he said, layering that one word with enough venom to corrode chainmail. Turning away, he moved across the deck towards the gunwale as the boat nosed its way through the waters towards the quay.

Shikamaru watched him go, wondering at his problem before deciding he really didn't give a damn. Neither did Yamato, apparently. The Jōnin simply shrugged, letting it slide.

Shikamaru didn't buy it. "Why'd he call you Kinoe?"

Yamato startled a little, then donned that wooden expression as effective as any lacquered mask. He ignored the question. "Getting you off this boat quietly and safely is my main priority right now," he said before signalling to Sai. "Raidō and Gai are on standby in case anyone wakes up. But I'm confident this'll all go smoothly."

Funny how that sounded like a jinx in the making. Also funny how Yamato hadn't mentioned Kakashi. Maybe the copy-nin was out cold and recharging, considering he'd amped-out his reserves bringing Neji back from death's doorstep. And damn. And there it was again. That stagger in his chest as his heart tripped up on that massive rock of guilt nestled in his sternum.

Sighing, Shikamaru glanced down at the chains hanging between his wrists, brows knit. "So…how does this work?"

A beat of silence, accompanied by a long considering look. "Well," Yamato began, his voice soft, hesitant. "ANBU will take you into protective custody. There are certain procedures, certain protocols. Medical exams. Psychological evaluations."

Fear sprung up and Shikamaru laughed on reflex, a husky jitter in his throat. "Right. Do I get the full straitjacket treatment?"

Yamato frowned softly. "Shikamaru…" He didn't get to finish. Movement at the far corner of the deck snagged his attention and he turned, putting himself between Shikamaru in a protective gesture the shadow-nin had seen Asuma take time and again.

Before his mind could resurrect any more ghosts, Shikamaru tilted his head and followed Yamato's gaze. The boat had coasted to a stop at the quay. A couple of crewmen assumed positions at the gunwale, angling the gangplank into place, bridging the short distance from the boat to the wharf so passengers could disembark. Shikamaru spotted a few dark figures standing on the jetty, their masked faces floating like disembodied heads in the lantern glow.

His ANBU entourage.

Swallowing roughly, Shikamaru shuffled forwards a step, his movements inhibited by the cuffs clamped around his ankles. Before he could attempt an awkward shimmy, a masked figure clad in ANBU attire dropped down in front of Yamato, landing with the smooth leonine grace of a predator, thighs locked, the lean powerful muscles of his forearms drawn taut.

Shikamaru frowned, an odd resonance ringing through him.

I know you.

Crazy thought. Only it wasn't really a thought. It was a feeling. Familiar, strong…a resonance that bypassed his brain and went shivering straight through his body, straight through his blood. Confused by his reaction, he worked to hide it – and he almost managed the task until the ANBU operative straightened up and the moonglow streaked across his mask.

A bird.

Shikamaru's narrowed eyes rounded a little, his breath thinning in his throat.

He had no voice to speak.

Yamato nodded to the operative and stepped aside, granting access. At that signal, the operative moved – not in the sharp mechanical way of the ANBU, but with a strange and telling hesitance, his motions achingly gentle as he bent to unshackle Shikamaru's feet.

Shikamaru watched him, stunned.

As if in slow time, the Nara's gaze drifted from the thick mocha ponytail fastened at the man's nape, to the bandages wrapped around his long elegant hands. The tingle in Shikamaru's blood turned to ice. A second later his gut plummeted, a cold sinking feeling taking hold. He fell back a step, out of the cuffs and away from the lingering caress of those fingers against his skin, the chains rattling loudly.

Yamato looked at him in confusion, then concern. "Shikamaru. It's alright."

Crouched at his feet, the ANBU operative did not move. And neither did Shikamaru's heart. It seemed to have thudded to a terminal halt in his throat. Yamato made to step forward, but Tsuno's voice broke into the moment.

"Shirataka," he called, spoken like a directive.

Shirataka's shoulders tightened, a ripple that seemed to ride the length of his spine before he straightened up stiffly, the ANBU mask glinting cold and emotionless as the voice that echoed behind it. "Nara Shikamaru. By order of the Godaime Hokage, you will cooperate with this procedure…or I will be forced to make you."

---

TBC.

Endnotes:

Kioku Meiro Fūin-no-jutsu – Memory Labyrinth (Maze) Seal

Naraku – means Hell/Hades/

A/N: Another chapter bites the dust! And we come full circle with our two geniuses, my dear readers and faithful reviewers. Thank you for the support for the last chapter! I hope this one has whetted your appetite for the resolutions still to come. As always, it means the world and moon and blazing sun to hear from you guys. Thank you for taking that time out. My appreciation in spades– and a longer chapter to chew on! Catch you at the next one, my dear little sadists!

A/N (2): Will return over this tomorrow to hunt down and eliminate typos! Gave this a quick edit but wanted to get it up before the weekend. Forgive any mistakes that slipped my notice. I'll attempt to catch them the second time around!