"Decided on a name yet?"
Hoshika hums absently, her hand on her barely-there baby bump. She's just started to show, about sixteen weeks into the pregnancy. Last week, Toshiro had determined that their firstborn was, in fact, a girl. They were going to have a daughter.
"Not yet," she replies, "We're still wondering if we want to go with a traditional Nara or Uchiha name—or just mix it up entirely."
He pauses at the entrance to the Exam Stadium, hands in his pockets. Today the final test will take place, a series of one-on-one battles with the remaining contenders. Significantly more foreign nin had made it to the final rounds than expected—perhaps only because so few Konoha genin were taking the exams this time around.
Gai's team made it. All three of them. Toshiro hasn't personally met them, but he does know that the Hyuuga—Neji—is Atsuzumi's cousin.
"Toshi-nii, Hoshi-nee!" Naruto calls, one arm waving frantically. He's halfway down the steps, easily catching their attention. "We're all seated 'n saved ya some spots!"
"Oh, good." He replies, following the spirited boy up into the stands with Hoshika beside him. All the kids were far too excited to sit around and wait for Toshiro and Hoshika's slow, meandering pace. They'd bolted ahead under the guise of saving seats.
The group is easy to spot, all the Teams and younger Hatake crowded by the front. Toshiro squints his eyes against the sun as he exits the stairway. Hundreds of voices create a wall of sound, conversations unidentifiable. It's loud and warm, most of the crowd buzzing with excitable energy. Sasuke, Gin and Ino sit grouped together, Sasuke in the middle so that Takehiko can sit beside Gin and Sai can sit beside Ino. Hinata huddles in on herself on the other side of Sai, a buffer between the Hatake and Kiba. Her lavender gaze keeps flicking bashfully behind her to an oblivious Naruto—and timidly ahead to a frowning Neji, who's across the stadium with his team, prepared for the upcoming matches. Team 5 and Team 7 sit in the row behind Team's 10 and 8, and then behind them sit Haruki and Asuhi, with three seats open. Two of them are for Toshiro and Hoshika, the other is for Touma—who's at the railing, practically heaving himself onto the field.
Touma's wild, curly hair bounces as he rocks back and forth on his heels, hands grasping the railing. His purple eyes are locked on the genin from Suna. Mouth agape, the ten year old points a finger at one of them, the youngest boy with hair like blood. "Who's that."
"According to the registry, Sabaku no Gaara." Sai answers, "The youngest child of the Kazekage."
"Oooh," Touma murmurs, eyes sparkling. "He looks cool!"
Toshiro tries not to let his expression shift to exasperation. Of course Touma would look at the one child with murderous vibes rolling off of him and think cool. Hoshika snorts softly beside him, slumping into one of the open seats beside Asuhi. It's too bad that Kakashi and Shisui are on bodyguard duty, forced to watch the matches from above—underneath the hot sun. Chiasa and her team are on a mission out of the Village, and Inoka is stuck on a shift in T&I. Fuyumi denied any interest in coming, so it's just Toshiro and Hoshika left to watch the gaggle of kids. All their senseis have jumped ship, choosing to sit with the other jounin rather than their ickle genin.
(Toshiro can't blame them. These kids have far too much energy.)
Asuhi, who's sitting directly behind Shino, is peering over his shoulder with a distinctly lacking concept of personal space, asking a million questions about the bugs crawling over his knuckles. The Aburame looks rather flustered at the attention, answering every question to the best of his ability and trying his hardest not to trip over his words. Sai and Ino are holding hands over the seat dividers, whispering the latest gossip to each other. The two of them are like sharks—and when Sasuke gets involved? Now that was a Mean Girls trio if Toshiro ever saw one.
Kojika, who is sitting directly behind Kiba, is rather taken by Akamaru, who's perched on Kiba's shoulder and lapping up all the attention he can from the lavender-haired Hatake. The Inuzuka is yapping away about something or the other, not realizing that Kojika is paying more attention to his ninken than his words. Gin and Sasuke are almost entirely turned around in their seats, having a four-way conversation with Naruto and Sakura, who sit just behind them. Shikamaru is on Naruto's other side, somehow dozing off against the blond's shoulder despite Naruto's loud voice and frequent hand movements. Sakura still blushes whenever Sasuke's attention is on her for a long period of time, but her voice no longer wavers and she isn't afraid to meet his eyes. She still occasionally sends him lovelorn looks that make him shift and—flush, which is new. But his ears also burn red whenever Gin's shoulder or hand bumps his own. Gin, meanwhile, is unflappable. Or oblivious to the tension.
Toshiro has no idea what's going on between the three of them. It's hard to say when hormones get involved, and he's quite content to let them figure it out for themselves. He's not touching that with a ten foot pole. No thanks.
"A hundred ryo says Gin-kun is the last to realize he's in a love triangle." Hoshika mutters under her breath, her gaze even more observant than Toshiro's.
"That's a fool's bet," he replies, just as quietly. "How much are you willing to bet that Shikamaru confesses to Naruto?"
She snorts in a rather unladylike manner, "That's a matter of when, not if. Shikaku's already drafting another Clan-merging marriage contract."
Toshiro presses a hand to his lips to stifle a sharp burst of laughter. "The world isn't ready for Uzumaki-Nara."
"Tough," Hoshika says, one dark brow raised, "It's definitely happening."
"You think it'll last that long?" They're just kids, he doesn't say. Somewhere between twelve and thirteen, barely at the start of puberty.
Hoshika grins, a sly, shadowy thing, "A Nara always gets what they want. We're patient like that."
Terrifying, more like.
His Nara friend grins wider, like she read his thoughts.
(He's not so sure she didn't.)
The first fight is Sabaku no Kankuro versus Tenten. It's an interesting match-up, as both contestants are reliant on long-range attacks. He really doesn't know much about Gai's team, but Tenten is clearly well trained. Enough to wipe the floor with the Suna boy, whose puppets are incredibly well built and versatile, but not enough when senbon jam the joints up. It's a quick match, but a good one. It gets the crowd heated for the next one, the cheers almost deafening to shinobi ears. He can't even imagine how the kids feel. Not great, if the winces say anything.
Neji is next, against a Kusa nin that's at least a foot taller and a handful of years older. When he steps out into the field, Hinata tenses up and clasps her hands to her chest. Toshiro isn't sure if she's worried he'll lose—or that he won't. At her sides, Kiba and Sai press in for comfort, perhaps unknowingly. The sight makes Toshiro smile, and Hoshika rolls her eyes and elbows him with a smirk of her own.
The Hyuuga boy is incredibly skilled. He moves with the kind of grace that shinobi spend years trying to achieve, dark hair whipping behind him like a war banner. Usually, long hair is worn only by seasoned or experienced shinobi, as it can be used too easily against you if an enemy manages to grab hold of it. Somehow, Toshiro is quite certain that no one gets close to Neji unless the boy allows it. Like he's dancing, Neji shifts through different kata seamlessly, limbs snake-like and fluid as they twist through the air to land lightning fast jabs. The Kusa shinobi doesn't stand a chance. Neji barely breaks a sweat under the raging summer sun before it's over, head held high and expression stern. He looks like a younger, more severe version of Atsuzumi.
Toshiro can't bring himself to think that the comparison is a good thing.
In her seat, Hinata sighs quietly and sags, lavender eyes wavering as she looks upon the form of the boy who may as well be her older brother.
The next match is the girl from the Suna squad—Sabaku no Temari—and a genin from Oto with bandages wrapped around a majority of their face. Still not in his seat, Touma jumps up and down by the railing, pointing and making sounds of amazement.
"Look at her fan! It's huuuuge! Do you think she had to carry it all the way across the desert? Does her back hurt? What's it made out of? You'd think it would tear easily in combat—"
"Touma." Sai says, "Please go to your seat and stop making a ruckus."
The purple-eyed boy frowns, but obeys his older brother with only a few grumbles. He sits himself beside Haruki and crosses his arms grumpily. Within moments, all his annoyance will be forgotten—that's just the kind of kid Touma is. He's come far, far out of his shell, no longer the nervous boy who'd gripped Kakashi and Toshiro's hands on the way out of the Yamanaka Compound.
Temari wins her fight as well, vicious and grinning by the end of it, even with blood streaming down her ears.
"Whoa," Gin murmurs, gray eyes narrowed in consideration. He watches her leave the field with interest. "She's strong."
"Sakura could beat her!" Sasuke blurts out, immediate regret seeping into his eyes the second the words finish leaving his mouth.
The pink-haired genin looks surprised, her cheeks flushing deep red. "I-I don't know…"
"Believe in yourself, Sakura!" Naruto interjects without much tact, fist waving in her face. "I'm sure you could do it!"
Shikamaru grumbles, tugging Naruto's sleeve, "Don't get involved in their mating dance."
Both Sasuke and Sakura gape at the Nara's audacity, while Gin glances between them all with no small measure of confusion.
"Anyway," the Hatake boy says, "Watching makes me wish I could try my hand at it. I'm excited to participate next time."
"That's if Kurenai-sensei lets us." Sasuke grumbles, taking the opportunity to save face.
"You think she won't?" Ino exclaims, popping her head over Sasuke's shoulder. "We're amazing, there's no way she won't recommend us!"
Toshiro leans his cheek against his palm, elbow propped on the armrest. He's a little jealous of their excitement—of their sparkling eyes and hopeful voices. He never got to take the Chunin Exams. No, it was on a battlefield among corpses and dead-eyed shinobi who still drew breath that he was thrown a vest and told 'good job.' It had been too big for his small body; more hindrance than help, so he'd never taken to wearing it back then. Sometimes he wonders what it would have been like, had his team made it through the war. The first team—his genin team. He can't even remember their faces—had only had them for a handful of months before he stood over their corpses. Then it was on to the next team. Then the next. He'd unfortunately been just skilled enough to continue getting shuffled around on teams and sent right back out to die. He never did.
Like a cockroach, he just kept coming back with body scrolls and more blood on his hands.
(He's sure he still has his genin team photo somewhere. It'll be faded with age by now, perhaps yellowed at the corners. Or maybe not, as it's gone without sun exposure for so long. He remembers shoving it into a box years and years ago, unable to look at the smiling faces of dead eight year olds.)
All of them, every genin team he'd been a part of, their names were carved into the KIA stone. He's never gone there on his own time, only to collect Kakashi. Looking at the stone makes him ill. It's a visceral, thunderous feeling. It shakes his teeth and makes his throat clench and tighten. He doesn't know how Kakashi can stand there for hours, lost in his PTSD-addled thoughts as the time passes, sun rising and setting without his notice.
So many of those names belong to children. The youngest being somewhere around five. Hundreds of graves just for those who never reached eighteen. Konoha, the village founded on the dream of creating a world where children didn't fight and die needlessly in war, had forsaken itself. Shodaime-sama's vision had crumpled like a wet sheet, poisoned and polluted by his own brother, and then that very brother's student. Toshiro continues to hold some measure of respect for the first, second and third Hokages, but he is not clouded by mindless devotion and loyalty to the Military State they've built. Children were once again sent out to fight younger and younger, the cycle beginning again.
It's as if everything Konoha had been intended for was forgotten. Within only decades. The shinobi world that Senju Hashirama created never once saw the peace he prided himself on. The peace Konoha prided itself on. Toshiro knew very well that the propaganda was all lies and brainwashing when he'd been eight and watched his teammate get split in half, her tiny, thin child arms too weak to block the full strength of an adult with a blade.
(He'd gotten his revenge; jammed a broken shuriken into the man's femoral artery again and again and again, because it was the only place he could reach.)
But that hopeless dream is no longer hopeless. Toshiro has faith that Itachi will bring about the Konoha the forefathers intended. Perhaps even a better version of that initial aspiration. How funny, that it's an Uchiha who will bring about the best of a Village saturated in Senju remnants and pride.
Lee is the next to step into the field, his voice carrying with ease. He's loud, green and boisterous, just like his sensei. From the stands, Toshiro can see Lee's megawatt grin and gleaming bowlcut. He's almost convinced that the kid is actually Gai's son.
"Ah!" Touma exclaims, wiggling in his seat. "It's Gaara-san!"
Sure enough, the Suna boy emerges on the field in a cloud of swirling sand, the grains glimmering gold in the sun. It's beautiful, actually. Dangerous, too. Gaara's expression remains placid, tinged with the barest hint of bloodthirst. There's something unsettling about how still he holds himself, unwavering like a statue. There isn't much of a breeze, so the world goes hot and still and silent for a moment, the crowd holding their breaths in anticipation.
The fight starts.
Toshiro leans forward in his seat, amazed at the speed of Gai's kid. Lee is a blur of green, barely a movement wasted. He's clearly well on his way to following in Gai's footsteps. Sand lashes out with every kick and punch Lee lands on the protective dome Gaara has created. They seem to be at a stalemate, however, as Gaara's impeccable defense still manages to catch almost all of Lee's attacks.
"Lee! You can do it!" Gai's voice is heard clearly, even across the stadium. "I'm allowing it—release your weights!"
"Weights?" Naruto repeats. "What's that gonna do?"
Lee throws his sensei a vibrant thumbs up, twirling through the air with the grace of a dancer. He takes a moment to remove the weights tucked under his leg warmers, tossing them to the side without thought. They hit the dirt with an explosive sound, dust and chunks of rock flying in every direction. When the air clears, the weights sit innocently in a crater, the very earth cracked below them.
The stunned silence is quickly swallowed by exhilarated cheers. Toshiro sees Gaara's two teammates across the stadium, their mouths agape.
Most of the Konoha genin leap to their feet, caught up in the buzz. Shikamaru smacks his head on the seat when Naruto jumps up, and Shino is vigorously shaken by Asuhi, who's grabbed the poor boy's shoulders in her excitement. From there, the fight takes a turn. Lee gets impossibly faster, zooming through the air like a shiny green dart.
Gaara's sand is unable to keep up, and the boy looks awkward at having to attempt physical defense. Far too reliant on that sand of his. Within moments, the sand is blasted to the side and doesn't recover fast enough for the next hit. Lee smashes his foot across Gaara's face, and the smaller boy is thrown back into his own sand.
Immediately, the air grows sharp and heavy, the scent of iron rising like a cloud. Before him, Toshiro can see the Hatake kids and Kiba tense, and Naruto has fixed his gaze on Gaara's writhing, screaming form.
"You made me bleed!" Gaara howls, voice cracked and dry. "My blood! Mother, it's my blood!"
The hair on the back of Toshiro's neck rises. A sense of wrongness consumes him, trickles down his spine and prickles his skin with goosebumps. He turns to Hoshika and opens his mouth to speak. There's something wrong here—
Many things happen at once. Sand explodes from Gaara's form, and feathers fall from the sky. Civilians begin to slump in their seats as killing intent cuts through the air like it's something tangible. Toshiro pulses his chakra and dispels the attempted genjutsu. The feathers disappear, and several of the kids jerk awake.
Groups of ninja decked out in the same gray garbs and hitai-ate with the Oto symbol appear around the stadium, infiltrating the crowd and attacking the closest shinobi. They're joined by Suna and Kusa nin, their targets indiscriminate.
Toshiro leaps to his feet, anxiety jolting through him. Hoshika is at his side, a hand on her stomach and her face pinched. Battles break out on all sides. He lets a kunai fly into the eye socket of a Kusa nin attempting to slit the throats of unconscious civilians. "We need to leave."
"No shit." Hoshika hisses through clenched teeth.
"Kids!" He barks, "Group up. Defend. Asuhi, Takehiko, Touma and Haruki, stick close to me and Hoshika."
The genin surge into action, separating by teams. As reluctant as he is to send twelve year olds into battle against adult shinobi, they have no other option. Right now, it's do or die. Below, in the dust, stands a half-transformed Gaara and a grinning Shisui, his sharingan spinning. The red-haired boy is frozen, yellow-tinged eyes glazed with the look of someone under a deep genjutsu.
Toshiro flings chakra strands out from his fingertips, ninja wire spinning into the air. An Oto shinobi dashes into view, his eyes dark and intent and all that is seen of his face—Toshiro hears Asuhi gasp in terror behind him.
"Close your eyes." He says, and surges forward, arms weaving through the air in a series of fluid movements. The chakra strings and ninja wire lash out, manipulated by his careful chakra control and almost invisible to naked eye. The Oto nin is quick, but he's no Hatake Kakashi. The very same Hatake Kakashi who's been running Toshiro into the ground with his ANBU level training. Toshiro doesn't pretend to think he's even close to reaching the man's level, but he's far better than he would be on his own.
Good enough to take down a jounin.
The Oto nin falls apart like building blocks, blood spraying in wide arcs. He hears screaming start up as civilians wake, and the bleachers become a mess of panic and blood and the clashing of steel. He deflects a series of kunai and engages in a brief taijutsu battle, his invisible cloud hovering menacingly, waiting for an opening. He manages to get Hoshika and the younger kids to the top of the staircase, gouging deep furrows into enemy combatants and drawing blood with single-minded tenacity.
"Out, out, out." He chants, guiding the kids to the stairs, fruitlessly attempting to keep them all together in the rush of the terrified crowd.
"No, I don't think you're all getting out." A voice drawls, clinical and matter-of-fact.
Alarm bells ring in Toshiro's ears. The voice sounds masculine, and familiar. But he can't place it. The figure it belongs to is clad in a long cloak and an ANBU mask, though they're clearly not ANBU. They stand in the middle of a group of Oto nin, for one.
Toshiro positions himself between the new enemies and the five under his protection. He senses more than sees Hoshika get into position just behind him, ready to activate her clan's signature jutsu when the opportunity arises. That won't do. She's pregnant, and the four kids behind them are still just Academy students. The stands are filled with them—shinobi hopefuls and young children, ages six and up. Itachi thought it would be helpful for them to witness true combat scenarios without the threat of death.
It isn't exactly going according to plan.
The leader dashes forward with alarming speed. Toshiro meets him head on, wires slashing through the air. They cut into the cloak and draw blood from the man's arms, crimson splattering against the dusty stone. It doesn't slow the fake ANBU down at all. In fact, green lights up around his hands, and he heals his forearms within seconds, all while kicking out.
Toshiro drops down to avoid the kick and spins, sending out a kick of his own while low to the ground. The fake ANBU jumps back to avoid it, so Toshiro follows through by pushing off with his other foot. He turns the first kick into a knee to the face, then has to dodge the swipe of a chakra coated hand. It hums through the air dangerously.
Chakra scalpel.
So it's healer versus healer. Toshiro smiles grimly. This is bad. He doesn't have time to waste with this guy, not when there's a whole group surging towards Hoshika and the youngest Hatakes.
"Don't lose focus," The man says, almost sounding reprimanding. "You're dealing with me."
Toshiro meets the man in a clash of steel, sparks dancing through the air. He attaches chakra strings to the man's limbs, only for most of them to get cut off immediately by chakra-heavy hands. Before the last of them can be cut, he clenches his hand and jerks—twisting Fake-ANBU's arm to alarming levels until it cracks.
The man doesn't even flinch. He snaps his arm back into place with an admirable kind of ease. Toshiro grits his teeth and surges forward again. It's impossible to distinguish what's happening around him with so much of his focus on the Fake-ANBU. He can't tell if the sounds of close fighting are just another group, or Hoshika and the kids holding their own against those Oto nin.
(He knows exactly which it is, he just doesn't want to think about it.)
The day is hot, even in the shade of the stadium awning, it's only worsened by the fighting and stress. Sweat beads, ticklish and distracting, on his scalp; sliding from his hairline down to his jaw, down the back of his neck, down every knob of his spine. His teeth rattle with the force of every collision, the power behind the Fake-ANBU's strikes heavy and precise. Methodical. Toshiro is not a big man. He's below average in height, and muscle sits lean on his bones. He's always been rather delicate in frame, taking after his mother in that department—speed and stealth are his best friends. He survived the war by playing dirty, slitting throats from behind or attacking blind spots. There was no playing fair when your life was on the line; when you were all of eight years old and made of toothpicks and glass.
Toshiro learned a lot from war. From doing the worst of the worst just to breathe another iron-heavy breath, just to taste the rot and decay of death on his tongue. Blood doesn't come out easily. It stains the skin, seeps into every crevice and wrinkle in the flesh, imbeds itself into your nail beds and remains there for days. He remembers being nine and so out of his mind with grief and terror that he stabbed and stabbed and stabbed until his clothes were sopping with the crimson ichor of his enemy, snot streaming down his chin as he screamed and mutilated a fresh corpse. I'm alive, I'm alive, I'm alive.
He headbutts the Fake-ANBU and knees him in the balls. I survived. I survived. I survived. A chakra scalpel brushes his shoulder and severs his deltoid. Pain blossoms almost immediately, blood pooling under the skin. He grits his teeth through the pain and with a downward swing of his elbow he shatters the other man's wrist, with the other arm he lashes out with ninja wire and gouges into the vulnerable flesh that all ninja leave wide open. The toes.
Finally, the Fake-ANBU makes a sound—whether it be of annoyance or pain, Toshiro can't tell. His big toe is separated, blood pooling around his sandal and compromising his movement. The man's fist cracks against Toshiro's hip, sending him back a few feet. Sharp pain flares from the area, and Toshiro feels wetness trail down his thigh.
Palm lighting up green, Toshiro presses a hand to the injury. His other arm is starting to feel numb. He eyes the Fake-ANBU carefully. Both of them have racked up a few good hits, and the fight has probably lasted only a few minutes. It feels like forever.
"You're better than I thought, sensei." The man says, humor lacing his tone. He drawls the honorific like it's a joke. "I guess bending over for Hatake has its merits."
Rage curdles in Toshiro's chest. He lets none of it show on his face, keeping his eyes on the man's hands. It's true that he's yet to hear someone speak so shamelessly about his relationship with Kakashi to his face—but he's no stranger to homophobic or rude comments being slung at him. Not after the last world he'd lived in.
"Not interested in small talk? Should have known. You're always so levelheaded and crafty." The man continues. "I really admire that about you, actually."
The words make something in Toshiro twist in discomfort—different from just a moment ago. It's as if...no. But the thought is only gaining steam, refusing to be ignored. Could it be...I know this person? Or have they been watching me? The idea of a traitor isn't impossible or even surprising, not after the Danzo fiasco. But it's unsettling.
"I'm afraid our time is up. I can't play with you anymore, sensei. It was a pleasure—I do hope we meet again."
Toshiro lunges, chakra strings lurching through the air. But the man only dances away, shunshining far out of reach. Gotta follow him, gotta follow him—
"NII-SAN!"
He freezes at the scream, ice flooding his veins. In an instant, he forgets all about following the Fake-ANBU. Back by the top of the stairs—and how'd he get drawn so far away?—a glimmering barrier is erected, golden chains reinforcing the corners. Asuhi sobs from within, blood sliding down her cheek. At her feet, Haruki is limp and facedown.
Touma, Takehiko and Hoshika are nowhere to be seen.
The sounds of fighting have halted, but he pays no attention to whatever hollow victory Konoha has achieved. White noise fills Toshiro's ears. He hovers a palm over the chakra chain barrier. "Asuhi. Let it down."
She gulps in air, clearly disoriented and scared. But at his voice, her murky green eyes move to his face and her relief is palpable. The barrier fades as the chains sink back into her body. Toshiro moves forward immediately. Asuhi sags into his arms, and he has to maneuver one around her to press a hand to Haruki's still form.
Blood pools beneath the boy's body, tacky and dark red. Toshiro feels his stomach swoop and has to—turn his brain off. His hand lights up with the diagnostic jutsu. Haruki's golden hair is darkened with sweat, but not blood, thankfully. It's all coming from a deep gouge across his chest. The poor boy—he's already got a deep scar across his face and half an ear missing, now there's going to be another added to his collection and he's still a few months shy of twelve.
But.
He'll live.
Haruki's black shirt is soaked with his own blood and torn across the front, so Toshiro sees the tanned skin close up under his careful healing. Asuhi cries softly against his shoulder, burying her face in his neck so she doesn't see her older brother's flesh repair itself. Her tears dampen the collar of his shirt and mix with his own sweat and blood.
Feet thump beside him. "Oh, Sage."
It's only because he recognizes the voice that he doesn't immediately swing his hand around and take out the new person's kneecaps.
Shisui presses a hand to his shoulder, then releases it immediately when Toshiro makes a sound of pain. It's his torn one—he hadn't been able to heal the damage from the chakra scalpel. "Oh, Haru." Shisui whispers quietly, leaning down and brushing his hand through the eleven year old's sweaty bangs. His spinning gaze shifts to Toshiro. "...Where's Hoshika?"
Toshiro doesn't reply. Can't. His head is still buzzing.
"Toshiro?"
Asuhi sobs anew, her hands holding him tighter and aggravating his wounds. He doesn't wince, doesn't move until all of Haruki's wound seals up.
"They took her!" Asuhi warbles, pulling her tear-streaked face from Toshiro's neck. "They took her and Touma and Takehiko! M-My barrier wasn't fast enough—" Her voice breaks, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry—"
Shisui exhales.
(Toshiro has never been afraid of his best friend.)
"Asuhi-chan," The Uchiha says, "I'm going to ask you a favor."
Toshiro cuts his gaze over to Shisui, feeling slowly coming back into his body. He still feels odd. Emotions detached—in med-nin mode. (You save the masses. As many as you can. You forget lost causes. There's only so much chakra in a healer's body. Use it wisely.)
"I need you to summon Akaya. I know you're not a shinobi, but you're a Hatake. And what do Hatake do best?"
Asuhi sniffs and meets Shisui's scarlet gaze. She wipes snot and blood from her nose and scrunches her face to stop crying. Her murky eyes gleam with determination and familiar Uzumaki fire, "We track."