Chapter 13

Kaiza had given him until dusk to decide.

Naruto had returned late last night, and sleep had been a stranger to him. He'd tossed and turned and wrung his hands, and just as he'd finally dozed off, Satsuki knocked on his door and told him to prepare for the day's ordeal. So here he stood, shaking away the silken persuasions of slumber and coaxing himself awake by degrees. Coaxing himself awake, and trying his utmost to avoid thinking about the rebellion; for no matter how he sliced and diced it, there was a sense of fatalism attached to it. That fisherman held out a poisoned chalice— to drink from it was to die, or at the very least run the risk of death. It was a point of no return: it would bring to an end any pretensions of passivity. It would be the death of everything he had styled himself into, for the man extended an olive branch into a world of activity, but as a champion of justice this time, and not of atrocity.

Naruto was leaning towards it.

It set his heart afire. It gave him hope. It promised a return to what he had been before the truth about his father soured his optimism and set his spirit to slumber.

It meant fighting for a worthwhile cause— it meant standing with the weak and being their talisman.

His conscience was definitely nudging him in that direction.

"Comfort is the enemy of greatness."

More immediately, though, there was a session to get through while sleep deprived. So he cleared his mind and tried concentrating.

"And you're the enemy of my sleep."

The girl had no sympathy for him or the bags under his eyes. She seemed oblivious to his internal struggles.

She pointed to a spot in the distance.

"Thirty five paces."

They fell into a pattern. They went back and forth in silence. Streaks of lightning scabbed the terrain. But Naruto was sluggish, and it showed. His mind was elsewhere; his temperament was irate; his movements were limited; he could not concentrate, and so over and over the lightning flicked his nose, licked his hands, lapped at his forehead and his feet, till he was singéd, and till all at once he let out a howl of agony when stricken above the eye. It left behind a reddened welt. His vision blurred. The world dissolved, flickering in and out of white pockets before stabilizing and re-emerging autumnal, albeit not without flashes, and not without the sensation of a star having burst before his eyes.

"Son of a bitch," he bit out, massaging. His hand came away sticky. Half an inch lower, and that was his left eye.

"That was careless." Satsuki came over. She stood on her toes, so that she was eye level with him. Looked at his wound. Clucked her tongue and started to heal him.

"You ain't even looking while throwing," he accused.

"That was shoulder height. You ducked into it."

Naruto sighed. Played back the sequence in his mind.

So he had.

"Concentrate," she said. "This is life and death. Where is your mind?"

"Didn't sleep well."

Satsuki grazed the top of his eyelid with her thumb, then brought it away and looked at it. Stared into the cut again. Seemed satisfied she'd done no lasting damage.

"You won't sleep well most of the time." She rubbed her thumb against her hakama. "That goes hand in hand with this profession. Do not let it get to you. Do not let it affect your performance."

"Yeah, yeah. I know. Be a block of stone, be a stone cold killer." He made an impatient gesture, shooing her away, suggesting that they get on with it.

She stepped away, but maintained eye contact. Kept staring at him in silence, till he gave up and looked at her.

"Don't be scared of making mistakes here," she said.

"Huh?"

"If you're wrong out there," she gestured languidly into the distance, "then you're dead. But you don't have to be embarrassed here. It's okay. It's just me watching, and I'm your mentor. I'll always be there to refine your technique."

Embarrassed? How on earth had she jumped to that conclusion?

"I ain't embarrassed. Is that what ya think? It just stings like Hell."

"You've never reacted this way to pain before."

"There's always a first time."

"I see." Her expression relaxed. "Then remember that pain," she said, "and the next time I do this," she flicked her fingers, "I want you to avoid it."

They got back into position and went at it again, the lightning crackling, then springing forth. And Naruto tried— he honest to God tried this time to track her movements, and to anticipate her shifts in tempo. For some time he even succeeded. But as the day wore on, and as the weight of choice weighed him down, his mind once more meandered through mazes of thought and circled back to the rebellion.

"Footwork."

He gnashed his teeth, read her momentum, slipped right, juked left, and then when caught in the midst of a zigzag pattern clumsily cartwheeled backwards, his palms scraping stone, flickers of blue rustling at his jacket.

He came to rest in a crouch. Tried refocusing.

She cut the distance and gave him no breathing room; slashed downwards, so that the lightning forked around him, a spiral of barbed wire. Another twist, and the spiral contracted— the metal mouth of a bear trap. He leapt out of it at the last second, but not without being snared around the ankle.

The hem of his track pants sizzled and turned ashen; he stumbled backwards, and left on the terrain blotches of red which resembled the residue from a wine glass smashed.

Motherfucker.

"Fluidity," Satsuki hummed, cutting the distance again, the lightning retracting, then spilling forward, a whip this time. "Relax. Breathe. You're too rigid. You're moving as if you're swimming through concrete."

He lumbered on, noticeably slower, for there was a numbness around his shinbone and it was spreading up his leg. The lightning nicked his shoulder next dodge.

And it was at this moment that Naruto decided he was done with her farce.

So he stayed planted, and when the spool of lightning circled back his way, he concentrated wind chakra around his palm and bisected the attack in half. The resultant sound was a gale given voice— sparks flew; the plane around them was flecked with a shower of blue.

Satsuki raised an eyebrow in response.

"I told you to dodge."

"What's wrong with blocking?"

The pain was a serrated blade being twisted around the core of his achilles. Dear God, he needed some respite.

Keep her talking.

Buy time.

Try not to die.

"I'm drilling basics." Satsuki threw her arms out, as if to demonstrate. Her sleeves, which were a size too large, slid back, and gave him a glimpse of thin wrists with a tracery of faded scars grooved into them.

"When you block," she said, "you've wasted time on a defensive technique. You are planted. You are reactive. On the other hand, if you evade, you can hit back immediately."

She clapped her palms together to make her point.

"Evasion is speed based," Naruto pointed out. "Speed's a young guy's thing."

"My apologies." Her expression turned sympathetic. "I forgot you were a hundred years old. Stay put. I'll go get a wheelchair, grandpa."

"Ageing." Naruto grinned. "Ya might've heard of it. Everyone gets old. Then they ain't as fast."

"Old Shinobi," she returned, unruffled, "are quicker than you think."

"But not as quick as they once were."

"No," she conceded, "but quick enough that evasion is a feasible approach for them too."

"Ya mean to tell me," Naruto's face reflected his disbelief, "that old man Sarutobi will dodge this shit?"

"Yes. At thirty five paces, yes. Maybe even at twenty five."

"You're such a liar, goddammit. That old man needs a mobility scooter to get around. Dodge? He'd pull his back— he'd tear a ligament."

"Nonsense."

"Bet?" He hopped from foot to foot, welcoming the way the numbness faded, welcoming the cessation in pain. "Bet, bet, bet? I got a brick at home. I'll hide it in my jacket and throw it full speed the next time we're in his office. If his head goes splat— it's on you."

"Even if his speed is gone," Satsuki sighed, "he is still the Hokage, Naruto. He can afford to block. Are you a Hokage?"

"I can be," Naruto confided, "after I complete my bloody coup d'etat with that brick. Then Imma be your boss, lady." He puffed out his chest and poked it with his thumb. "Worship me."

"Yes, Hokage-sama."

"My first order, Jonin," he mimicked the Hokage's bent back, his sombre manner, his stuffy way of speech, his tendency to steeple his hands together; "is that ya go drown yourself in a lake."

"The lake of your tears from our sparring session?" The lightning at her fingertips hummed.

"…my second is that ya lighten up a 'lil. Tis good for the heart."

"We've already established that I have none."

"We'll find ya one," he promised. "Take the Hokage's. His head's gone— he won't need it."

"Indeed." Satsuki nodded. "If you are done discussing treason, then may we return to our lessons?"

"... you're such a spoilsport."

"Back to your position," she said, her eyes shining. "No blocking this time."

And so it went. On and on it went, his performance erratic— peaking, plateauing, peaking again, then tanking altogether; the cycle repeated; and so it went, till the sun shone overhead and sweat trenched its way through his tracksuit, turning it damp. Noon was on them. Progress had been made, though it was hard won, and though it came at the cost of minor disfigurements and moderately inconvenient scorch marks.

Eventually Satsuki signalled a halt to the day's proceedings. Fetched an encouraging smile from whatever locker her emotions were stowed away in, and produced it before him with a beatific flourish.

It was like being given a cup of water in the middle of a desert— albeit the desert here was of her own making.

"Horrible session." She continued smiling, and offered him a thumbs up. "As inconsistent as can be. But you soldiered right through it. I don't say this often . . . but I'm impressed."

"Always had that." Naruto drew deep breaths. Felt woozy from blood loss. Took measure of his body, to ensure there wasn't lasting damage. Tried getting his heart rate to stabilize. She'd run him ragged . . . and she still did not look particularly worn out. "Say whatever ya want 'bout me," he gasped, "but always been able to take a beating and a half."

"And you're better for it." She pointed to his feet. "Productive footwork. Better range of motion. Better distance management. And I like that you mostly kept your temper in check towards the end, even when I dialed it up a notch."

. . . By God, that had been awful. He'd been cramping up, and suddenly the lightning had grown vicious, a veritable viper's tooth: it sprang forward, sank through skin and bone, and inflicted upon him an agony so acute and intense, that it was akin to being engrafted into the sun's surface.

He'd grit his teeth and suffered through it.

Aye, he had taken it thrice; and then in a moment of defiant madness he spat into the ground, pointed at her, and held up his middle finger, all while grinning like a loon.

Bring it on, ya bitch. I can take everything you throw at me.

She'd surprised him with laughter. There was joy in her eyes, and pride and approval. He braced himself for a bristling riposte, but she eased off instead. The lightning thawed— it lost its whip and snap, and eventually lost shape and sheen too, so that by the time she rolled back her wrist and snuffed it out, he was left with the certainty of having gone up in her estimation.

And with that came a feeling of personal triumph.

But now the high of the moment had run dry, and the sense of having no more than a few hours to decide the fate of this land dawned on him. With it returned disquiet. He gave into it, and was so lost in thought, that when Satsuki asked him something, he did not hear her the first time.

She repeated her question.

"Your investigation," she said. "Made any progress yet?"

"Yeah." Naruto nodded. "Ran into your man last night, actually."

"And?"

She tapped her foot and stood there, waiting. He felt compelled to confess, impelled to ask for her aid; the words were at the tip of his tongue; but something held him back, gave him pause. He watched her, and was struck by the sense that the land around them had turned into a husk for her sake; flowers wilted, foliage waned, the soil lost its nutriment, the scenery its lustre, all for her sake; and, as he watched, it seemed to him that she sapped into herself all scent and hue, so that even as the land degraded, she, enfolded in all she stole from it, matured, a musk rose in bloom.

Thus she fed on the rill of their tears, he thought; thus she cast wide her dragnet, which, when reeled back in, brought with it their palpitating doom. Inseparable from the enchantment of her beauty were the fetters of her loyalties, which chained not just her to duty, but him to her and this land to its destitution. She was their gaoler; she was a parasite that scrimmaged through their decrepit innards— from her he would receive no help.

So he lied.

"It's . . . coming along," Naruto promised. "He's kinda obstinate. But I think I can talk sense into him."

"We haven't got all year."

"A couple of weeks. That's all I ask."

"Take three."

"Your generosity knows no bounds," he gushed. "Hand on heart, you're the nicest, kindest sensei any man could ask for, propaganda and blood thirst aside."

". . . you called me a sadist ten minutes ago."

"That was ten minutes ago." Naruto gave a dismissive wave. "I was a younger man, not yet wise to the world and its ways. The times— oh how they change! And we mature with 'em."

"Right." She rolled her eyes.

Satsuki turned and went to fetch her canteen. Naruto breathed a sigh of relief. It was a complicated dance, this— he truly regretted that their camaraderie had so swiftly devolved into a game of shadows, a sequence of smoke and mirrors. A part of him wished for nothing more than to subserve to her and place in her the entirety of his trust; but there yet remained a more obdurate part which recognized he had a conscience to cater to.

"How are you holding up?"

She'd returned with her canteen. She threw him a bottle too.

"I'll live. Don't like the rate at which you're punching holes into me," he held out his arm, which was bleeding, "but I'll live."

"Not that." She gave his arm a cursory glance. "The other thing."

"Huh?"

Satsuki gestured to a tree in their vicinity. Walked over and sat down in the shade. Signalled that he join her. Patted the ground next to her.

"Sit," she ordered.

He went over.

Sat.

"You killed a man the day before yesterday."

Oh.

"Yeah, what about it?"

He must've looked abrasive, what with his chin up and his shoulders squared, because Satsuki's response was to raise her hands, palms pointing outwards. A placatory gesture. A signal that she meant no harm. This isn't a cross examination, she indicated.

"Do you regret it?" She asked.

Did he?

He hadn't given it much thought. There was no guilt . . . but if tossed into that situation again, only this time with a better sense of self restraint, would he still do the same?

Did he want to be a murderer?

"He deserved to die," Naruto said softly.

Satsuki offered him a dainty half shrug.

"Perhaps," she said. "Who lives, who dies . . . these things are beyond me. I don't decide on them, not personally anyway. If it's an order, then it must be enforced— there's no room for sentiment there. But this wasn't."

"Would ya have killed him?"

It was an impulsive question.

"I just said it's not for me to—"

"Yeah, yeah. I heard ya the first time. But say—" he made a chopping motion towards the town square with his hand; "say you were out there. Say you saw this man hurt people. Kick 'em around, you know? Bully 'em. Take joy in their terror. You really gonna sit there and tell me it wouldn't make your blood boil?"

She smiled thinly, as though privy to some inside joke.

"It wouldn't," she said. "It isn't for me to judge him. This might shock you, Naruto, but if compassion is your metric for measuring humanity, then I am objectively a terrible person."

He thought of Shiho— thought of the smile Satsuki had worn while healing her. Was reminded of her tenderness in that moment, the sense of joy that had thrummed through her frame.

"That's bullshit," he retorted.

Her eyebrows went up.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I said it's bullshit. I refuse to believe that you're this . . . this stone cold killer who'll only do shit if ordered. I refuse to believe you ain't got no conscience. No heart. There's not one person anywhere in this world who's so lacking in humanity that they won't rage in the heat of an unjust moment. Everyone's got grudges. Pressure points. A conscience. No one's professional— not to that level."

Something shifted behind Satsuki's eyes, something dangerous. Her face relaxed into impassivity.

"When I was seven," she said measuredly, "my brother massacred my clan."

". . ."

"I was the only survivor." There was a definite edge to her voice, though she herself seemed unaware. "I stumbled through my clan district. The bodies of my relatives squelched underfoot. I saw my brother stand over my parents— I saw them dead. In the space of a night I lost everything I lived for. That was eight years ago. And to this day, that man still roams free."

She took a deep breath. Closed her eyes, as if to calm herself.

"And I let him." She opened her eyes. "I have the power to stamp Itachi out like the worthless little insect he is. But I don't. You know why?"

She leaned in. Stopped half an inch from his face. Stared into his eyes.

"Because I'm a professional," Satsuki whispered. "And because revenge is the basest of emotions. A Shinobi swayed by emotion is worthless— that's what I was taught. My life belongs to the village . . . and when they demanded that I forsake my vengeance I gladly did so. If someday they ask me to hunt down Itachi, then he will die by my hand. But till that day arrives, he is irrelevant to me. So do tell me, Naruto, about how I would overstep directives and act on my conscience. Conscience. That's a word without meaning— it's the last refuge of the weak."

Her voice, unbeknownst to her, had steadily risen. Her cheeks were stippled with crimson. Her face, as he watched, twisted, and took on an expression that was in equal parts incensed and tormented.

She looked trapped in a margin between two worlds, and seemed unaware of it.

Naruto said nothing.

But in that moment the last flicker of hope he'd had about asking her for aid was extinguished. He now knew with certainty he could never breathe a word about Kaiza to her.

"But enough about me." Satsuki recovered her composure. Leant away. Looked into the distance. Suggested through her tone and demeanour that she wanted no sympathy, nothing conciliatory. Her clan, as far as she was concerned, was off limits, mentioned impulsively, and now once more banished to the interstices of memory. "This is about you. It was a simple question: do you or do you not regret what you did?"

Naruto hesitated. Tried reorienting himself. Replayed his actions. Visualized them vividly. Waited for some squeamishness to set in, some daub of discomfort. It did not come. He felt nothing. It had been two days, yet he still felt . . . nothing.

She was watching him through hooded eyes, and he had a sudden epiphany— she did not have the words for it, but in her own odd way she was concerned about him. Despite her rant about professionalism, despite her various biases and one eyed takes, she still inquired into his well being, still seemed intent on ensuring he was all right— and this despite not having to do so.

She could've kept silent.

He would be none the worse for it.

But she felt obliged to ask.

And once more Naruto found himself unable to reconcile these contradictions.

But her concern obliged him to be honest, at least in this regard.

"I held him up," Naruto said slowly. "I looked him in the eye. I revelled in his helplessness, his terror. And then I killed him."

He could not bring himself to say: I'd do it again if I had to— I'm not you, I'm no Shinobi, I'll never be a professional, not in the way you are . . . but I feel no regret over it. Maybe that makes me a monster; maybe I am the Kyuubi; but put me there a hundred times, and every single time I'd do it. I'd gut him without hesitation, because some people deserve death. And that comes down to the same conscience you just shat on.

And somehow she understood.

He had a feeling Satsuki saw right through him, saw the conflict within. And though her first kill and the memory of it had in all likelihood faded; though her reasons for it must've been professional, not moral; though she could not possibly understand why he so hallowed the idea of humanity — he, after all, had been a beast to the world his entire life— and so spited professionalism, Naruto had a sense of being scrutinized and fully embraced for who he was, separate from the thing in him. It was in her half smile: her countenance mellowed, her eyes lit up with a glimmer of sympathy.

"I've done worse," she admitted.

"You just said you don't—"

"I did." She nodded. "Never for myself, and never out of a conscience. Nonetheless, I have done worse."

"I don't wanna be like you."

He hadn't intended for it to sound so rude.

Her response was laughter. She reached out and patted his cheek— there was fondness in what she next said, so that the words, when they emerged, sounded teasing.

"Cheer up. You won't be like me."

"You don't know that."

"I do."

The levity was gone. There was an ironclad certainty in how she said it. With those two words she placed in him a level of faith he'd never had in himself.

"Seriously, though. You don't know me well enough to say that."

"What's there to know? You're not me. As you once said to me— you'll never be me. And that's all right. I like you the way you are. It's not everyday that one runs into a soft hearted pacifist with a will of iron and a dreadful sense of humour."

"Yet you smile at my jokes."

"Yet I smile at your jokes," she agreed.

There was warmth in his heart.

"At times," he confided, and it tumbled out in a rush, "at times I'm kinda scared that what I got inside might be affecting me. I feel at times like . . . like I'm the kyuubi, you know what I mean?"

She did laugh this time.

"Who would mistake you for the Kyuubi? You're about as threatening as a stuffed toy."

"Hey! I killed a man."

"And, as you just said to me," there was a hint of humour in her voice, "perhaps he deserved to die."

There was a forest adjoining Wave. A forest with a lake at its centre. He sat glumly by that lake. It was mid noon. The sun set the leaves afire— they were tinctured red. The scent of pinewood and moss was all around him. He sat in the shade of a covert; sat beside a multiplicity of flowers, for the forest had bloomed. The petals were like lid lashes fresh with tears— they were wet with dew, and this despite the heat.

Naruto sat there and stared at the lake. His hopes and dreams were a vessel gliding through that water body. He played around— his mind's eye reimagined the lake into a sea. He added detail . . . the sea turned tempestuous. The ship of his dreams was battered by tides, was tossed about and sucked into the centre of a vortex. The mast crashed through the cabins; the sails came undone; the prow was chewed into chips of wood. Ropes and planks were rendered adrift. Men vaulted over the whittled edges in terror, and were swallowed up. Their rafts flipped over: their belongings, with their being, spilled into the bottomless deep, there to tangle with seaweed. The remains of that once noble hulk sank— rank, reduced to wreckage.

He chuckled softly, put a lid on his envisionings, and looked away.

Returned to thought.

The permutations of Wave so befuddled him and so took up all his concentration that he started when he felt a tap on his shoulder. He almost swung his fist on instinct— then half turned, and realized it was only Satsuki.

"Where did you come from?"

"I get around." She sat down next to him and handed him a box. "You missed lunch."

"Ya a dietician now, too?"

"A sensei. A good one."

"That's for me to judge."

"Hm." There was genuine curiosity in her eyes. "Judge me, then. Tell me your assessment."

"Your teaching's like your tea. Bitter as Hell. Hazardous to my health."

"Then you'll be happy to hear I did not make that." She gestured towards the box. "Eat."

He took a bite.

"Not the worst lunch I've had. Waraji?"

She nodded.

"My threats work wonders."

"He'll poison us one of these days."

"I'm immune to most poisons."

"Not me. Not that I know of, anyway. So let's not test my resistance, eh?"

"We can fix that. I have a snake summoning contract lying around somewhere."

"Won't sign. Don't like snakes."

"They're beautiful."

"They're disgusting." Naruto shuddered theatrically. "They're creepy crawlies. They show up at godforsaken places and bite ya for no reason. Had one get into my bathtub when I was a kid. I ain't touchin' em."

Her face lit up. She'd had an epiphany.

"You're scared of them."

"Ain't."

"Are, too."

". . . where did ya nick a snake summoning contract from, anyway?" Naruto cleared his throat. Changed the subject.

There was still the shadow of a knowing smirk on her face, but she allowed him the topic switch.

"My sensei gave it to me," she said.

"You have a sensei?"

"Everyone has a sensei. Why would I be different?"

"Dunno. Ya sound like the kinda girl who gives people lectures instead of listenin' to em."

"I listen to you."

"I'm special."

"Specially abled, for sure."

Naruto looked up. Noted the dark clouds moving into position. It would rain come nightfall.

So," he whistled, "which jonin turned ya into the humourless husk you are, again?"

She tucked an errant lock behind her ear.

"Mitarashi Anko."

"Never heard of her."

"I'll introduce you. You'll like her. She's a buffoon, like you. But she's also very good at what she does . . . unlike you."

"Someday I'll kick the bucket." Naruto's expression was solemn. "And that will be that. Then you'll regret these jibes. You'll think of me and cry. But it'll be too late to say sorry."

"I'll die broken-hearted, I'm sure." Her tone was dry.

"Worse. You'll crave forgiveness, and never find it."

"Mm-hm. Were you always this melodramatic?"

"It's a talent." Naruto grinned.

She patted his hand.

"Good." She looked and sounded as if she were holding out her half eaten meal to a street urchin. "At least we've found something you're talented at."

"You're the one that keeps selling me on my talents as a Shinobi."

Satsuki inclined her head.

"So I am."

A silence settled over them. It brought placidity with it. They sat there by the pier and stared into the lake. She inched forward on impulse, and dropped her foot till it touched the water. She swirled her foot about, then startled him with the softest of laughs.

"This lake brings back memories," she said.

"Been here before?"

"Not here, no." She had a wistful look."It's just . . . I remember standing by a lakeside like this in Konoha, back when my parents were alive. It was raining— it was a bad day. I was annoyed, because my brother was in the limelight again, and I felt . . . inadequate. So I wheedled a fire scroll out of my mother, albeit with a lot of begging, and set out to practice. I wanted to prove . . . I had talent too."

Satsuki laughed again. It was delightful in lilt— the warble of a freshet— a sound brief but bright and floating upwards. The breeze coddled it and carried it into the tree leaves, which shook in response, caressed out of their repose.

"It sounds silly in retrospect," she admitted.

"Not to me." Naruto shrugged. "I know what that's like, having a chip on your shoulder."

"Chip on my shoulder? I suppose that's one way of putting it." She stared ahead. Reached out and fetched a pebble. Sent it skipping through the lake's face. It was impulsive— it was the action of a child.

She laughed a third time.

"It's my proudest memory." It sounded like a confession. "That day by that lakeside, with that fire technique. It was hard. I was so miserable. I failed more times that day than I have ever since. And at the end I was no closer to mastering it than I was at the beginning."

Her foot made another splash.

"But I went back," she said. "Day after day I dragged myself to that lakeside, and day after day my lungs were on fire and my breath was soot and ash. And so it went, until one day I produced a deluge of flame so mesmeric and monstrous, that it far surpassed my wildest expectations."

She sighed, and was silent for a while.

"It was our rite of passage." There was a hint of sadness in her voice. "Spew those flames, and you are no longer a child. And I so, so badly wanted to be more than a child. I wanted to be treated as . . . something more than an afterthought."

"Swap lives with me, then." Naruto threw up his arms and stretched. Yawned. "I'd give an arm and a leg to be an afterthought."

"My point in recollecting this to you," she said, sounding amused, "is to bring up that feeling. Pride. Pride in oneself. It's the best feeling in the world. Despite the vast majority of my formative memories being swept away by the march of time, that one sensation, that outpouring of joy over accomplishment, is still fresh. It might've happened yesterday— it might've happened this morning. All I know is that it will stay with me forever."

Satsuki had a knowing look.

"That's my proudest memory," she said. "What's yours?"

He swam through the shoals of his past and rummaged for happy memories, which were rare events— they were a sprinkling of oyster shells which held within their clammy surfaces the pearl of joy. He reached back, rummaged . . . and came up for breath, empty handed.

"I . . . I don't know." Naruto rubbed the back of his head in embarrassment. Every event which had felt remarkable in the moment was tainted by circumstance. The rasengan was his greatest accomplishment . . . the rasengan was indelible proof of the father who had forsaken him, placing the village over him. Learning it in innocence linked him to the man, reminded him of his idolatry, which had turned into hate. The headband was a weight he could not be rid of. He was friendless, her aside. And the corridors of his childhood were lonely— the years had tumbled into the void, half of them spent seeking validation, the other half spent in resentment of everyone, himself included.

"Find one, then," she urged. "Create one, if necessary. It keeps you going through some very difficult times."

"What would you know about that, huh? You've never failed. Ain't that one of the first things you said to me?"

"I've come close a few times."

She kicked out at the water again, albeit this time less gently.

"I was in the ANBU. We're skilled, but not omnipotent. Hatake-senpai and I were once trapped behind enemy lines. It was in Iwa. It was years ago. He had fainted. I'd given up. There was just too much terrain to navigate, and my reserves were running low. I could reverse summon . . . but the mission was incomplete. And to leave in failure was to leave disgraced. I preferred death over that."

She pushed at the inside of her cheek with her tongue.

"So I bunkered down," she said. "They'd brought out the big guns . . . there was a search party converging on us— two Jinchuuriki, Kitsuchi, four entire platoons."

She shook her head, lost in thought. Nibbled her lip.

"We were destined to die, Naruto. I felt it in my bones. There's a cold that comes over you when you realize it . . . and it was all over me. My body was cold, my blood was frozen. I was . . . frightened. That one childhood memory of mine, however . . . it got us out. That reminisce of my proudest moment."

He must've looked skeptical, because she elaborated immediately.

"When I lay in those trenches, spent," Satsuki said, "awaiting the inevitable, I was reminded of that lakeside. I remembered how I'd taken up the gauntlet my brother threw down. I'd surpassed him. I'd broken my back to get into the ANBU. I'd earned the right to be behind enemy lines. I'd earned the right to live. And I wasn't going to die there."

She shrugged and offered him a half smile.

"Sometimes," she said, "it's just that simple. I decided I was not going to die . . . and I did not. Which is why I took great pride in your defiance this morning. You fought when you were finished. You stood and fought, no matter how far I pushed you. You spat into the ground and taunted me, uncaring of the consequences. You risked insubordination. A sin, to be sure— but the greater sin would've been to give up and let me walk all over you."

Satsuki stood. Took the lunch box from him. Suggested through her tone and demeanour that their conversation had run its course.

"Keep that attitude, Naruto," she gave him a wink, "and someday the world will be at your feet."

There was a familiarity come evening in how silence swallowed up sound. Naruto walked through the town square, and was struck by a sense of a deja vu; he almost laughed aloud at the stares that greeted him.

It was like being back in Konoha. He was a celebrity now, he supposed. A murderer. A monster. Those stares were sabres through styrofoam: they hacked away at his psyche, and there was nowhere to hide.

So he strolled through their silence and endured, threw about his arms and whistled; pretended their judgement did not matter, though it did, though it always had. He ignored the part of him which wilted and scanned the crowd for a sliver of acceptance. Tried quashing the wallflower in him; but it was a many headed thing, this hollow hope of validation, this bone deep desire to be humanized.

Life, unfortunately, wasn't a judgement free zone, he thought; destiny was a prophecy set in stone, and this was his lot: he'd never be free, no matter what the place and who the people; he was tethered to a wheel of suffering at birth, and he'd whirl with it till time enacted its erosion or war its erasure.

What a shit way to live. What a shittier way to die.

It was in the midst of such musings that he heard Shiho's cry.

He knew without turning that it was directed at him.

Naruto closed his eyes. Considered taking to the rooftops. The last thing he needed at the moment was to be judged by that little girl as well. He'd done so much for her, and would still do more if need be; he'd do it with a smile; but in the end, all it took to curdle their goodwill was one misstep. If she too looked at him as if he were scum on earth, if there were fear in her eyes instead of the usual cheer, then that would hurt, that would render the illusion of helping someone somewhere null and void.

"Nii-san, wait!"

Huh.

That did not exactly sound like someone cowering in terror at the prospect of confronting their fears.

He turned, reluctantly, ever so reluctantly, and witnessed the sight of the daughter dragging her mother along. They came to a halt before him, and then before he could say a word the girl threw herself at him— hugged him. There were tears in her eyes.

"Nii-san, thank you so much," Shiho said.

The mother hovered in the background. She had a package in her hand. She looked uncomfortable. Her head was bowed; but there was something different about her demeanour— it was in the way she carried herself. When she finally met his gaze, her eyes too were glistening, and the haunted look had vanished. She looked as if she had slept peacefully for the first time in a year. She waited for her daughter to step back, then moved forward and stood before him awkwardly. All at once she dropped to her knees, and touched her head to the ground, so that the soil kissed her matted mane. The sun rays were harp strings that shimmered through her hair, and the ditty they produced was one of thanks.

"I lost my husband. My daughter was dying," she mumbled. "You saved his honour, and you've saved her life. That man you killed . . . he was a monster. You're our saviour. Please accept this gift. I can't ever repay you . . . but this is a small token of my thanks."

She held out the package from her prone position.

Naruto unwrapped it, speechless, his head still struggling to process her words.

It was a bento box.

The rice was grainy and of poor quality, the veggies were wilted. The scent was unremarkable and the substance glutinous, reminiscent of latex oozing from a rubber tree. But despite its drawbacks that bento box brought tears to his eyes, for it was the first gift he had received. In each of its flavours was a mother's love; in each little grain was the sweetness of gratitude; and so to him it tasted like nectar, like sugarcane pulped, like the sweetest of delights stolen from joy's casket. He bit into it with relish, ate it without shame; ate it regardless of the people watching; and as he looked about, he saw that there was no hate in their eyes either, but love, love and worship, and a reverence that he had spent his entire life looking for but never found, not until now.

An old man approached him. He was a husk. His skin was weatherbeaten cardboard and his limbs were weak from toil. The sun had turned him brown, shrunken him like a raisin dried. Hunger had despoiled him. But there was ardour in his eyes, and his voice, when it emerged, redounded with regard despite its sandpaper roughness.

"Your name, son?"

"Naruto. Uzumaki Naruto."

I'm Uzumaki Naruto, he thought to himself, truly believing it for the first time. I'm the man who helped these people. I am not the Kyuubi.

I'll never be the Kyuubi.

"Our sincerest thanks, Naruto." The old man smiled. "From now on, you are one of us."

What's your proudest moment?

Her question rattled around in his mind— and right then, right there, his heart fluttering, his eyes watering, his mind basking in the well wishes of these people, Naruto had his answer.

At that moment, he made up his mind.

It was dusk when he set out.

He left the crowd and made his way to the bridge. Looked at the note in his hand, on which an address was scribbled. Saw the moon emerge; saw it reflected in the clear stream, which was a crystalline cup overbrimming.

Turned right.

Made his way past a sequence of flower pot hued shanties.

The house he sought was a small one, well hidden in a side alley. A bulb burnt bright on the porch. The porch itself was clean, but the bulb was caked in dust. There were chairs strewn about— these were hewn from oakwood. Despite the dust on them they gave out a glossy sheen.

He stepped onto the porch and stood there for a second, uncertain.

The entrance to the house was open. From within there emerged the sound of celebratory laughter. It was a small home, a happy home, and it held all Naruto ever wanted from his own life. It was a little oasis of love in the sands of suffering. It was utterly unremarkable; and in being so it became all the more remarkable to him, because within was a way of life he'd never had the privilege of experiencing— a life that he never could or would experience.

Just a fisherman. A fisherman and his family. A fisherman who had become a figurehead, but a fisherman at the end of the day.

How some of us wish for the little things in life.

Naruto knocked.

A slipperless child emerged. Saw him and ran off, then returned and stood before him shyly. A happy child. A happy, happy child.

Naruto grinned.

"I wanna talk to your dad for a second, kid. Call him for me, would ya?"

The child nodded and ran off. A few moments later there came the cumbersome sounds of a walking stick. A man's shadow decorated the doorway.

There was no surprise on his face.

Just satisfaction.

"Come to kill me, Uzumaki-san?" Kaiza asked.

"I'll help you," Naruto said. "I'll help these people. What do you want me to do?"

A/N: You'll have noticed a mellowing down in Satsuki's tone post the Shiho scene in chapter 10 (her getting pissed off on the professionalism thing aside). This is intentional. She, in a manner parallel to Naruto, has two shifts in this arc, the first of which has already happened (also a parallel with him, albeit her reasons are more personal). However, unlike him, neither shift transitions her character. These alterations in tone develop her as a character and define the idea of Satsuki as an individual versus Satsuki as a Shinobi (a personal- professional dichotomy that is intentional— it forms one half of this arc and is the first building block of her character). But neither transitions what was established in the first arc.

Thanks for reading! Have a great week!

Quick edit: take anything Satsuki claims about her own abilities with a massive pinch of salt. She's on par with MS Sasuke. Her mission record is flawless because she's not run into some of the strongest characters in that verse. When she claims she can absolutely obliterate Itachi, this says more about her as a person than her abilities. Your immediate question should be: why does she so desperately wish to believe that, when even an ill Itachi would almost certainly edge out MS Sauce?