Author's Note: Yoink. I've been completely unmotivated, and indulging in reading other people's fics! Violet Ice Phoenix's review got me back on the right track, though. Here's chapter three after an extended wait. (It's 2am… this should be fun)

Chapter Three: Everybody's Fool

Perfect by nature

Icons of self indulgence

Just what we all need

More lies about a world that

Never was and never will be

Have you no shame don't you see me

You know you've got everybody fooled

Misao slid open the door to the Aoiya, steeled and ready. If he wanted to treat her so coldly, she could easily reciprocate. It wouldn't be that difficult. Just think like a rock, conjured Misao. Emotionless and stupid.

"Good morning, Misao-chan." Omasu quipped, wiping down the counter.

Misao simply nodded, an uncharacteristic effort on her part. Was she doing it right? It can't be that hard. He does it every day.

She kept her gaze straight ahead, focused intensely upon the wall as she made her way to the stairs. Omasu hadn't actually seen her yet, and if she played her cards right, the woman never would. Misao relied on her fellow ninja's uncanny ability to miss the simplest things, striding casually by, the perfect sense of poise and pride. No one had to know her face and clothes were caked in mud.

"Misao-chan…" Misao considered bolting as she reached the bottom of the stairs, yet she remained calm and focused, as if nothing were wrong. "Where's Aoshi-sama's tray?"

For a moment, all she heard was his name and her heart shuddered inside her chest. No. I'm through crying. "He's not done with it." It was a lie; she had left the tray in the mud where it had flown from her hands, but she wasn't prepared to deal with retrieving it just yet.

"Oh, --"

But Misao didn't wait for any more questions. Soon even Omasu would catch on and focus her attention. Against her better judgment she bolted up the stairs, curbing the corner to her room. With one fine swish the shoji slid open, revealing the welcoming interior.

Leaning her back against the frame, Misao let out a long breath, untying the obi from her kimono. As the silk slid gracefully through her hands, she stared abrasively. Her nails dug into the soft fabric and she flung it down in frustration, tearing the kimono from her shoulders in a frantic motion to purge herself of all she had done exclusively for him.

She changed into the onmitsu uniform, switching out her normal pair of shorts for a far more conservative pair of pants; she didn't need Jiya's lecherous comments. Glaring at the kimono that lay in a lifeless pile at her feet, she picked it up and used it to wipe the mud from her face, a satisfied smirk passing over her features.

A shimmering pitcher, hand-painted by a mother she had never known so many years ago, sat proudly upon the polished wood furniture and Misao gazed into it, surveying her reflection. She closed her eyes and attempted to push all emotion away, using her training to surround herself in a cold aura. When she opened her eyes, a desolate image stared back at her, void of feeling. The blue-green eyes of the stranger in the pitcher were hazed in a gray overtone, her face set hard and tense. She stared straight ahead, yet seemed to be lacking a focus point. Being Aoshi-sama was empowering, she thought. It was dangerous. It was defiant. It was… painful. Misao's jaw and cheek muscles soon became tired attempting to hold the neutral line of her lips. She let them slump into a frown, turning away from the reflection.

"This isn't working…"

She needed to find some way to gather a stoic demeanor, and soon. Aoshi-sama would eventually come back to the Aoiya for the evening, and she needed to blatantly show him that she could play his game; she could be as perfectly frigid as he. Pulling her hands into her training gloves she picked up her kunai and tucked them securely in their place. Training would have to do.

The trip to the newly renovated training grounds was uneventful. Okina was nowhere to be seen, and neither Omasu nor Okon said more than a hello to her in passing. The Aoiya was closed for the day, but they were still busy cleaning. Misao smirked at having, interestingly enough, weaseled her way out of that one. She stepped out into the drizzle with little awareness of the weather, raindrops weeping from the sky to kiss her brow. The training grounds would be soggy by now, but that didn't matter.

As she neared the clearing, she immediately dug her footing into the mud, reaching deep to plant into the dry soil, and hurled her kunai overhand toward the target. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. It was a satisfying sound, one that would normally send Misao into exalted excitement, but that was the old Misao. The new Misao used the success as a motive for composing herself, striding purposefully toward the target to retrieve the sunken blades.

She continued for several hours, and under her stoic exterior, Misao never missed. Inside, however, was another story. Inside she heard every thunk and swore it was the hitting of Aoshi-sama's icy words against the walls of her heart. How could he be so temperate? Thunk. Didn't he care at all? Thunk. Didn't he realize her feelings? Thunk. Didn't he know what he meant to her? Thunk. She would always care, on the inside. And there wasn't any Thunk thing Thunk he could do Thunk about it.

"Except maybe care…" Her outer façade broke, allowing her emotions to murmur their discontent.

Her eyes stung, beseeching an onslaught of tears, but she never allowed them to fall. Biting her lip hard enough to make it bleed, Misao turned her back on her rejection and threw the kunai at the target once more, hell-bent on driving them in to release her frustration.

She never sensed the presence, nor did she catch the faint shadow watching her from afar. She was unable to feel the pain in Aoshi-sama's heart as harsh reality set in; unable to see his features fall further into desolation as he observed her composed, withdrawn self. And she was unable to see him leaving, seething for turning her into another cold, brooding picture of himself.

~*~*~* If you like this story and like my writing style, please visit my Deviant Art page for original stories and artwork. If you -really- like my writing, I'll be sending around an alms box later this week. No, just kidding. If you really like it, send me an email at tekaos@jademoon.org and we can talk about it. Same goes for folks wanting in depth critiques on their original work. ~*~*~*