Phew! Hey guys, I'm back! Back from where...not quite sure.
Anyway, Golden Week in Japan has us all in tears, the Fairy Tail chapter came out super-duper late (but it was epic, I can hear it) and last but not least, I'm writing this in study hall or while procrastinating at home! As a result, you get another long chapter. I actually cut it off - it was originally longer. (insert evil laughter here)
Today's schedule:
1) Angry Tobirama
2) Tsundere Tobirama
3) Sweet Tobirama
4) Lord Papaya-sama (BHGE)
5) Tobirama's point of view (I tried something a little different this time, writing from our good ole Tobi's point of view...for a while. Mmmm.)
6) FLASHBACK CENTRAL
7) Did I make a flashback in a flashback? (kind of, not really...nope.)
8) chapter 1 (you'll see)
Blast from the past!
Disclaimer: I don't own Naruto, because the double issue was a fail. 14 pages! Arghh. Guhhh. That, and Tobirama is tsundere, like, so tsundere.
I saw this amazing tumblr post of the founder era characters doing a L'Oreal shampoo commercial...
CHECK IT OUT HERE /post/49443620956/i-totally-warned-u-guys-this-was -gonna-be-my-next
insert that after . c/o/m
Take away slashes, of course. (just so that it appears in the fanfic window...)
Oh wait you want the story.
HERE ~
Chapter 15: Discovery
.x.X.x.
When the horse knows, he knows.
You cannot hide from a horse's nose.
A horse's nose is the finest of noses: A roman nose, a round nose, a small, petite, or dished nose.
His ears will flicker and turn and listen.
His eyes will swivel and see,
That even when you are not in sight,
The horse's nose knows where you may be.
He listens and stomps,
He pauses his romp,
His hooves clatter just so,
A pause and a throw,
For when he knows,
With his fine roman nose,
You cannot hide, wherever you go.
And it is up to him to decide whether or not
To let you in or shut you out
For his nose – roman, round, small, petite or dished,
Will track down the little guppie he has fished.
He feels your pulse and hears your breath,
He smells the human's penchant for death.
You can hide your quivering, shaking hands,
But the horse reads your heart like the terrain of the land.
When the horse knows, he knows.
You simply cannot hide from a horse's nose.
-Lemma the old maid: A children's poem.
.x.X.x.
Shiro munched on a hard loaf of bread, breaking off half and letting it simmer in the broth-like soup. He then, very quickly, slipped it under the canvas. Mariko gratefully accepted, wondering how much longer she'd have to remain cramped in the wagon. She'd slipped out whenever she could, and had a terrible, ominous feeling that half of their party knew she was there.
In fact, Mariko was sure that every single Hyuuga and Inuzuka knew she was there, and only the two bickering royals remained in the dark. Still, they said nothing, and continued traveling as planned.
To confirm her suspicions, the Hyuuga woman that used to train Arata's team caught her eye when she peered out from the canvas. At night, the woman came to the wagon and let her out, silently handing her a bowl of pale, bland noodles in a nearly tasteless soup. From then on, the kind Hyuuga continued to help her, supplying her with all her needs and planning times that she could escape from the confines of the wagon.
Distantly, the blunette recalled that this woman was pregnant; why was she on this mission? From observation alone, it seemed that she was not far in her term, with only a small bump as any indication. A first trimester baby, approximately eleven weeks in. Mariko thought that she would be a splendid mother, if the way she was caring for the princess was any indication.
Another day passed, and Mariko found herself bored to death hiding under the wagon's cover. Her only entertainment – if it could be called that – was probably Katsurou bickering away with Ren.
"You see, I'm always sad that Sumi didn't marry someone else," Katsurou once hissed caustically. Ren spat back,
"Well, at least she actually takes responsibility for her actions!"
Mariko was not sure what the circumstances were, but the fact that those two never stopped arguing was an almost friendly backdrop to her current, paralyzed state. Kuro the dog was nice company, but he often wiggled out the back and trotted alongside his preferred partner, Shiro. The Hyuuga woman occasionally dropped by and one time, even held a quiet conversation with her.
"Lady Princess," she began, softly. Mariko found her voice to be soothing and smooth, like the soft lull of a calm lake, or the glimmering surface of a pearl. It fit the woman, matching her soft, lavender eyes so characteristic of a Hyuuga. They were more like marbled pearls, replacement eyes that surreally shimmered and appeared without concentration. At the same time they were sharp and analyzing, briskly processing all that passed. "What brings you on our journey? Is it your brother?" she asked. Then, in a lower voice, "It is all right. I will not tell…for now."
"Thank you," mouthed Mariko. "And the answer is yes, to your second question."
Was it? Why was she here again?
Because I'm an idiot, she grumbled inwardly. She really was stumped with herself; why did she hop in the wagon? Stupid, vain little princess. Mocking herself, Mariko made a face and folded her arms, adjusting the best she could alongside a trunk full of supplies and ninja whatnot.
"Can I tell you something?"
"Anything." Curiously, Mariko crept towards the opened flap of the canvas, which Shiro monitored very closely. He'd scuttled away in alarm when the Hyuuga woman approached, but was trailing with his little black dog from a safe distance.
"Tobirama-sama is very, very angry," she murmured, inching closer so that Mariko could hear her. The princess's eyes widened, wondering what this could mean.
Oh Mariko, she sighed to herself, what are you doing?
.x.X.x.
Travel Log: Day – what day is it? Three?
My legs are cramping, and my back hurts from being curled up in this wagon. Kuro the dog is nice to see sometimes, but all he does is pant and sit there docilely. He's friendly, though. The Hyuuga woman – I still don't know her name – knows I'm here, and the rest of the ninjas probably do too. That leaves Katsurou and Ren, only further proving that they probably are not fit to be shinobi if they cannot even sense a tagalong princess in the wagon.
Okay, so that was a little harsh.
And what did the lady mean by Tobirama is angry?
.x.X.x.
Oh. So that's what she meant.
As dusk laid itself down, the sun lazily dropping to the horizon line, the two stubborn donkeys that pulled the cart balked and snorted in alarm. Their long, fuzzy ears flickered back and forth, their little tails whipping in circles as they clashed. Then, in a moment of complete confusion, the two strained in opposite directions. Surprisingly strong, they nearly broke the wagon's harnesses.
"Whoa, whoa!" called Katsurou, taking the bridle of one donkey. An Inuzuka attempted to shush the other, while everyone else remained on guard.
"Is it the enemy?" called Ren, elegantly unsheathing his blade. He looked like an overly dazzling knight, brandishing his sword and attempting to look valiant. He, as well as several monitoring Hyuuga, created a half-circle around the wagon. The Hyuuga woman sighed and sort of meandered towards Katsurou, who was petting the nose of the one donkey and glaring daggers at Ren's showiness.
"Maybe, maybe not," came the voice. Mariko cringed – that was fast, really fast.
Stalking up to the wagon, he pushed Ren aside – Ren scoffed and demanded to know what sort of ruthless, uncouth manners the Senju were teaching – threw back the canvas, and hollered:
"WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?!"
.x.X.x.
We have nearly reached the border of the Fire Country. If you're going to drag me back, then please, drag me back.
I don't even know why I'm here.
Ah! I've come up with an excuse: I'm traveling!
.x.X.x.
Everyone stared at Tobirama like he had gone completely insane. Well, Katsurou and Ren stared at him while all the shinobi awkwardly sidled away, minding their own business. Since there was no business to mind, most of them just tucked their kunai away and attempted to keep moving.
"What the—" Katsurou peered over the donkeys' backs to see his younger sister crouched among the supplies. There, slightly cowering but mostly cramped among a couple of cartons and other shinobi equipment, Mariko unfolded herself and risked a sheepish peep up at Tobirama.
The white-haired Senju snatched Mariko by the collar, roughly yanking her from the wagon. His hands, wrapped gruffly around her loose, men's shirt, were gripping her so hard that his knuckles had bled white. Mariko's own fingers flew up to touch his wrists and keep herself steady; she realized that he was trembling, just slightly. When she met his gaze, she was not sure what she saw.
He was angry – no, livid. His hands were ice cold and his eyes colder.
But the slight quiver in his typically solid gaze threw her off.
Tobirama let go, and she recoiled into her oversized clothes.
"Mariko!" exclaimed Katsurou, astonished. Mariko mostly ignored her brother, who was demanding an explanation. Ren seemed indifferent, folding his arms and scuffing the his expensive leather boots in the dust almost childishly. He had put away his sword, and was now impatiently milling about as Katsurou walked up to Mariko.
"What are you doing here?!" he practically shouted. The Second Prince was staring at her now, and it was horribly unnerving. His eyes, once a deep, forest green of the trees, were marbled and gray, moonlit like the path of a hunter in the night. There were specks of green here and there, forming a dim, crystalline ring around the pupil. She was watching his eyes so closely.
And then, he blinked and turned away. If Mariko completely erased this moment, she could clearly see Katsurou with green eyes again. But every time he turned, there they were – starkly silver, almost plain yet full of cold, desolate depth.
"I came…to travel," she supplied pitifully.
"To travel," he echoed, skeptical.
"Uh huh."
Toka, who had long since realized that Mariko was hidden in donkey-drawn cart, came over and rested a firm, decisive hand on the prince's shoulder. Unexpectedly, she tried quelling his sudden outrage (though she couldn't really change Tobirama's attitude at the moment).
"I think it's all right," she said. "We're here, after all."
It seemed that she simply felt that it was necessary to play the mediator, even if it defied her own ideas. Clearly, by the exasperated glance she threw at Mariko, Toka thought it was unwise of her to accompany them. However, she knew better than to argue. If no harm was done, then they might as well continue. To herself, Toka had an inevitably heavy, weight in her chest; an apprehensive foreshadowing that this was the worst choice possible. Yet she defied her rational sense and did not say a word after that.
Katsurou faltered, in and that slip of time, Mariko jogged after Tobirama, who had turned a cold shoulder on her and was stalking at the head of the group. The other shinobi instinctively gave him space, his menacing, brooding aura radiating something fierce. Mariko, taking no heed of this personal bubble, stomped into it and wrapped her fingers around his sleeve.
He shook her off.
"Tobirama," she whispered, glancing sideways an Inuzuka who pretended not to be watching and listening. More insistently, "Tobirama."
She clasped his one hand in both of hers; it was startlingly cold, his calloused fingers like ice as she turned it over, her own thumb running across his palm.
"What?" he muttered snappily, jerking his hand out of her grip. The little blunette cautiously debated picking it up again, but decided on just leaving him be.
"What do you mean, what? I was going to ask you that," she responded in a low voice, still wary of the few nosy shinobi who oh-so-subtly masked their interest. Mariko regarded his closed face and set jaw anxiously, unsure of what to do or say next. She ignored her decision not to touch him and fumbled for his hand again. He was tense, turning to her and glaring the sharp, ferocious daggers that she still had trouble dodging, but he briefly glanced down at their now-intertwined fingers.
"What do you think, Shorty?" he asked, brows furrowing. He almost appeared hurt, but he would never fully show it. Tobirama wormed his way out of Mariko's grip and strode ahead to talk with the Hyuuga woman, who efficiently began relaying all their current mission information and statuses to him.
Mariko wasn't sure what to feel. A little broken, a little rejected, but stubborn nonetheless. She padded back to the wagon, where the startled donkeys had calmed from their spook and were now considering Tobirama something that was not quite friendly, but not quite a threat either.
Inuzuka Shiro, shyly nibbling on a cookie, offered one to her. She accepted and munched on it beside the boy, sitting on the edge of the wagon, a folded canvas to lean on behind them.
"You're usually talkative, aren't you?" asked Mariko.
"I guess so," replied Shiro. He had a messy head of brown, chocolate hair, tufts and spikes falling every which way. One floppy lock scrappily fell across his face, nearly obscuring his right eye but seemingly brushed out of the way at the last minute. His trademark Inuzuka tattoos lined his cheeks, dulled red from the dust and grime on his face, but clear all the same. He was not a skinny ten-year-old like Homura, nor was he tall and lean like Kagami. He was somewhat like Hiruzen, a figure built in the middle, but on a smaller scale. Shiro was rather short for his age, and he hid himself under a shiny blue blazer that was three sizes too large for him — "It's to hide Kuro in," he enthused excitedly when she asked — but he had a big, toothy grin that seemed to make up for it.
"What are your favorite places in Konoha?" At some time during this conversation, as the wagon rolled on creakily and Katsurou finished yet another argument with Ren (this time concerning Mariko and Tobirama), Mariko found that she still was not fully aware of her own home.
Home.
That was Konoha, wasn't it? It was still strange to call such a place home, here on the mainland, but at the same time, Mariko could not have told someone that she lived in Hurricane. Her room, vast and large with its fluffy, over-decorated bed, the full marble bath and a maze of a closet, and even the window seat overlooking the falls, everything — everything seemed distant.
"I like the one place that sells dango, but says they aren't a dango shop," Shiro told her. "The Hokage Tower is a place I like. I sometimes hang out on the roof." He paused, and thought. "My favorite is actually this little barber shop, but I don't get my hair cut, I just go to the roof and stare at the clouds for a while. Sometimes Torifu comes, and we share chips."
"That sounds nice," commented Mariko. "How about…your favorite restaurant?"
"My mom's kitchen," answered the young boy easily. "She makes the best desserts."
Mariko glanced over at the strong, toned Inuzuka woman that Shiro had called his mother. He was definitely similar to her — they had the same unruly brown hair, and the same sleekness to their noses and jaws, but while she had round, soft eyes, his were canine and sharp.
"My turn," Shiro suddenly said, turning to the blunette. "What is your favorite place so far?"
"Me?" Mariko was pleasantly surprised. "That's tricky. Probably the one big bridge that's just outside the market?"
"The Naka's real pretty," agreed Shiro. Mariko did, in fact, like this view, where the bridge extended gracefully over the gurgling stream and a copse of trees hid the busy market from view, but her favorite was elsewhere. It was that dreaded cliff that she couldn't bear to go near, simply for the memorable sunset that had dressed itself in radiant hues of orange, purple, and red, for a performance of mere minutes.
"Is food in Konoha different from where you're from?" asked Shiro.
Mariko smiled. She began to tell him about various foods that Hurricane was known for — the mention of a jelly dessert lit up the boy's face — and of the mainland products that islanders favored.
"We have a version of udon that's made with a flatter noodle and doesn't have soup," she informed him, smiling as she reminisced about the strange dish that came about years and years ago from an experiment in an Esmeralda restaurant's kitchen.
"That's not udon, then," pointed out Shiro.
"True," agreed Mariko, laughing. "We call it Udon de Crème, or something silly like that."
"Udon…de crème?"
"Yes. We have this cream sauce that goes with it, and it's kind of a fun name — we got it from somewhere in Kiri, I think — so it stuck. It's pretty good." Mariko grinned. "If I learn to cook better, maybe I'll make it for you guys." The blunette grimaced, and the boy giggled. "Though, I think I'm worse in the kitchen than Hiruzen…"
"I don't think you'd be able to burn a frying pan as well as Saru does," snorted Shiro, rolling his eyes and allowing his black Kuro to pop up in his lap, tail wagging. "So I think it's safe to say you cook decently."
"Well, thank you, Shiro." Mariko smiled, enjoying the company of someone other than a friendly, sleepy dog for once. As if on cue, Kuro barked, and Shiro petted the dog's pointy ears fondly. She didn't even realize that she'd drifted to sleep, a brief nap that ended when she realized that the cart had stopped rolling, and night had fallen with a dark curtain of stars.
"You missed supper, Lady Princess," said the Hyuuga woman. Her name was Natsuki, and she was by far one of the kindest people Mariko had met since her arrival in Konoha. "Even though it wasn't much."
It was a folded bread meal, which consisted basically of a thin wrap around a series of collected vegetables and the last of the preserved meats. Mariko finished up her sandwich of tasteless herbs and mushrooms, looking more to fill the uncomfortable rumbling in her stomach than to treat her taste buds. She asked Natsuki, "What time is it?"
"Approximately 11 o'clock at night, Lady Princess."
"Thank you. And Mariko would be fine," added the girl.
"You're welcome, Mariko-hime." Natsuki curtsied briefly, surprising Mariko. She had only seen high courts use curtsies, but never any traditional clans. She had expected Natsuki to gracefully nod or bow or even just smile; the curtsy was as distant as her lavender and pink themed room. It seemed that the Hyuuga were well-versed in all sorts of cultures, from the northern-mainland and eastern-islander traditions to the regular clan etiquettes of most shinobi families.
11 o'clock. It was awfully late, and the blinking stars did everything except lull her back to sleep. Shiro had curled up on the canvas, so Mariko took a loose fold and tucked him in with it. She took care to include Kuro, who was a fluffy extension of Shiro — his partner, ironically with the opposite name — and tucked him in as well.
The shinobi were working in shifts, and currently, there were two Inuzuka ninjas keeping watch. Katsurou and Ren were sound asleep, the sapphire-topped prince tucked into a sleeping back slathered in camouflage paints, and the future daimyo snuggled into an expensive but quick, travel-handy futon that he'd unraveled in moments.
Mariko quickly and silently tiptoed past the slumbering royals and the light-sleeping shinobi, finding her quarry sitting on a demolished stump without much vigor in the sloping line of his shoulders. He was a little ways away, ignoring the two guards and out of earshot. He visibly tensed when she came near, sensing her and hoping that she wouldn't come for him.
"Tobirama."
He sighed, and even though his face relaxed a bit, the stiffness in his shoulders remained. Maybe it was just his armor, deep blue and shimmering with the eerily clear moonlight. Or maybe it was the way he sat, elbows propped on his knees, head down and contemplating. Suddenly, there were so many details, head to toe and front to back. She noticed everything in the meager moonlight, glowing a soft, creamy white while the backdrop remained a thin black. There was the crook of his elbow, where the sleeves creased, unevenly hiking up to an armguard strapped at the bicep. His hands, folded within one another, strong and calloused. His face, slightly hidden behind the thick, fur collar that strapped to his duke blue armor, eyes slowly sliding to meet hers.
"Sit," he ordered simply, indicating the tree stump's nearly identically squat partner across from him.
Mariko meandered over and sat down, primly and neatly, hands folded in her lap. Interestingly enough, Tobirama slowly reached over and took both of her hands, sliding a thumb across her knuckles.
"Your hands are cold," he stated pointlessly.
"No, your hands are cold."
Tobirama glanced up, the heels of his palms resting on her knees as he turned her hands over.
"Why?"
"Why what?" She was dodging, and she knew that he was well aware of this fact.
"Mariko."
"I like to travel," she blurted. He made that face again, the painful one, the expression that made her feel guilty. But it disappeared within seconds, and she'd forgotten it by the time the next words fluttered from her mouth. "It was because I wanted to protect Katsurou," she told him. "He's not well."
"Not well?"
Mariko shook her head. "I can't really explain it. Can we not?"
He dropped it, taking a few more minutes to contemplate her hands. Mariko didn't really see what was so great about her hands at the particular moment in time, but she was exactly the same. She reached over and caught his wrist, pulling him a little closer. Then, he wasn't really examining her fingers, but she was running them over his wrist.
She turned her own arm over and compared with his; he had pale skin, a pale forearm compared to hers. Mariko had once considered herself ghostlike, pale, exemplified and glorified by the white pastels that hid her expressions. As an islander, years and years spent in the sun eventually gained her a slightly tanned complexion, but she had always been lighter than the sun-toasted Katsurou and the perfectly tanned Sumiko.
Upon comparison with Tobirama, she realized that he was more like the moon — pale and clear, scarlet eyes gleaming and white hair jarringly bright in the darkness.
"Do you know how much trouble you caused me?" Was there really that much trouble? No. More like concern. She realized, with a sudden, butterfly-like warmth in her stomach, that he had worried. For her.
"No," she answered dully.
"You caused far more trouble than you should've," he snapped, letting go of her hands abruptly. Her gaze shot up to meet his, slightly bewildered and mostly hurt. "Don't ever do that again."
He held his glare for about a minute, before the silence softened him and he shrank back down into his dejected frame. Tobirama, slightly deflated, took her hands again. He lifted them to his face and for a moment, appeared to press his forehead to the backs of her hands.
"Don't do that again," he repeated, brow furrowing, as if battling a growing headache. He looked down, head hanging slightly so that all she saw was a head of silver. Then, softly, all but inaudible, "I was worried, Shorty."
Mariko stood, so suddenly that she tripped forward. Even so, she let the momentum carry her, because all she wanted was to throw her arms around him.
Tobirama stared straight ahead, his breath catching as she tucked his face into her body, embracing him. Mariko's blue hair, silvery hues of black and gray in the night, tickled his nose. Her fingers were firmly wrapped in his fur collar, and the cold, blue armor pressed into her, resistant and hard. Slowly, his own arms came up to wrap around her, easily encompassing her small body and bringing her closer.
"I'm sorry," she murmured, because there was nothing else to say.
Tobirama didn't reply, he only held her for a few more minutes. If anything, he almost timidly tucked his face into the crook of her neck, nuzzling behind her ear. Her blue hair was a mess, grimy and sweaty from just a few days of shinobi-style travel. Nevertheless, Tobirama ran a few fingers through the sapphire locks, catching a few tangles and gently working them out.
He seemed to realize she was still standing, so he leaned back so that he could bring her onto his lap. To be completely honest, Mariko didn't find his armor to be a very comfortable seat, and the chest plate was horrendously thick, but she sat down without protest. The white-haired Senju appeared to be fascinated with her hair – silvery blue in the moon's fading glow – and continued brushing it through meticulously.
"'I like to travel?" he finally said, softly. Even though his tone was quiet and tender, the mocking jab was evident. Mariko elbowed him, but found that trying to hit a man in armor would hurt her more than him. Consequently, she rubbed her elbow sorely, pursing her lips indignantly.
"Yes, I do," she replied, ignoring the fact that he had braided her hair. Actually, this rather amused her, seeing as Katsurou could hardly brush his own hair, let alone braid it. "Did you just braid my hair?"
"Mmhmm." He had nothing to tie the ends of her hair with, so he let it hang loose, the scrupulously woven braid shimmering apart in lustrous blue locks.
"How do you know how to braid?" Mariko turned to face him, and was pleased to find that his hands fell from her hair to her back, naturally. He was close, very close, and she couldn't help but fall to her usual habit of appreciating his scent. He was always a mixture of the wind and the trees, the light freshness of a spring shower, and if she got a little closer, something she called "clean laundry smell". It wasn't a bad smell, not at all. It was pleasant and light, like leaping into a pile of fluffy, clean pillows, if that was a valid description.
"Hashirama taught me when he was bored," explained the tall Senju. "Just like he taught me how to cook…when he was bored."
"So, do you braid his hair?" Mariko laughed at this notion – imagine, the Hokage with a series of painstakingly intricate braids?
"When I was younger, and Hashirama looked like a girl."
"He looked like a girl?"
"When he grew his hair out at first, yes. He was a very pretty girl, according to Toka."
Mariko snorted with laughter, before flushing and clapping her hands across her mouth.
"What was that, a pig imitation?" He took her wrists and gently removed her hands from her face, leaning a little closer.
"Would you like to kiss a pig?" she asked, a little too late because the last half of her sentence was promptly hushed as his lips met hers. Mariko, pleasantly surprised and maybe a bit too eager, began kissing back so vigorously that he nearly fell off the tree stump. Tobirama, with a smirk growing on his lips, slid one hand behind her head and pulled her closer.
"Tobirama-sa—" The Inuzuka guard's eyes widened, and he turned tail at an impossibly fast speed. Mariko heard him bustle through the underbrush, back towards his night shift partner. She ignored this because Tobirama had ignored it – had it been Hiruzen, perhaps Tobirama would turned and exasperatedly snapped something at the poor child – and tried to comprehend the tingling that ran down her spine every time his tongue brushed her lower lip and his free hand caressed her cheek.
"Tobirama-sama!" This time, the Inuzuka came back at a full sprint, completely disregarding the fact that the Senju was currently lip-locked with the blue-haired princess. "There's—"
Tobirama, hardly breaking from their kiss during the next split second, leaned over and whipped a kunai from his pocket, slinging it to the south. It hit a tree trunk, blood splattering across the bark. Moments later, the enemy shinobi appeared. It was an archer that had formerly escaped from the village attack, donned in all black and only a single, shining hitai-ate to give him away.
Tobirama pulled back and, with Mariko firmly in his grip, drew a few shuriken. The archer, staggered with his deep wound; the kunai had taken a good slice out of his arm. Even though he bled through his black outfit and was dripping crimson trails everywhere, he deftly drew an arrow to his bow within a second.
If the archer thought Tobirama was over by that tree stump, he was wrong.
The Senju was immediately behind him, shoving Mariko towards the Inuzuka guard and wielding a blade to the archer's throat.
"Go!" he shouted to the Inuzuka, whose two dogs leapt in, each one clamping their jaws around a leg. The enemy shinobi wailed in pain as two sets of canine teeth burrowed into his flesh.
The guard grabbed Mariko harshly by the arm and told her to run. Branches scratched her face, and she scrabbled to keep her footing as they rushed through the underbrush of the forest. Reemerging at the campsite, someone tall grabbed her and carried her away.
"Hey!" she exclaimed, as whoever it was hoisted her onto his shoulder and began to run.
"Quiet, sis," hissed Katsurou, trying to keep a firm grip on his sister as she wriggled. Hearing his voice and realizing that the head of hair beside her was a bright cerulean, Mariko calmed and let him take her to their new destination.
"Where are we going?!" she demanded, but receiving no answer.
The moon became obscured by a cloud, and someone shouted from up ahead.
Katsurou suddenly fell, throwing Mariko onto the hard, stony ground in front of him, and they both tumbled to a rocky stop. The Second Princess felt as if she'd been thrown from a horse, out in the field and hitting the stony pavement of the main road.
But this was not Hurricane, this was somewhere near the border of the Fire Country, and there was blood pooling beside her.
And it was not her own.
.x.X.x.
.x.X.x.
She was soft and supple, leaning into him without hesitation. Her lips were deliciously warm, and he wanted to press her closer but for once, his armor was doing him no good. It was a strange feeling, to want someone so badly. He'd always distanced himself from people, his social life the source of laughter for his older brother and sister-in-law. Too often, he either meandered the Konoha streets alone or idly lounged in the office, mind wandering and hand flying across documents efficiently. Women, of course, had never been of much interest to him; even though several had tried leading him on.
So he was duly surprised when he found himself fingering her hair, relishing in the silkiness of her long, blue locks. He wove them into a fine braid, oddly treasuring the feel of each strand slipping through his fingers, cool like flowing water. Incredulously, she turned and caught the tail end of the braid, which slid from his hands and swung long and smooth down her back.
"Did you just braid my hair?"
He murmured his confirmation, explaining that Hashirama had grown out his hair and taught him to weave hair. The Senju girls used to pull flowers and intricately knot them into pleasantly colorful coronets, and were always braiding hair. One year, one of their cousins – yet another victim of ceaseless war, passing away the following winter – had decided to take Hashirama's awkwardly grown out hair into her own hands, and wove it into a fancy updo. That had been the talk of the clan, the dinner joke, the daily reminder for Hashirama of his choice not to cut his hair. Then again, he'd abhorred that straight, mop-like haircut for years, upon realizing how clumsy and childish appeared, and had forbade Tobirama from cutting it soon after the confrontation with Madara and his family.
She snorted with laughter, and he could not help but smile. He carefully hid his expression, his evident joy at the sound of her voice, and bit his lower lip slightly. He leaned in, inhaling her scent – hints of green tea and mint shampoo, and then the comforting warm odor that really didn't have a name, hidden beneath a few days in a wagon. She smelled mostly like hay and grass, but he pressed his lips to hers and all he felt was a wave of passion, the lightness of flowers swaying in the breeze, a fine meadow smelling of spring.
Then he felt it. As he readjusted himself and tried to focus on her soft lips, melding with his as she sat up and pressed into him eagerly. He wanted, so much, just to undo the straps of his armor and take her, but his hand crept to his pouch rather than the armor's buckles. Never before had he felt an attraction to a woman, yet here she was. And, unfortunately, it seemed that his slowness to the starting gates doomed him to a forever-interrupted state, unable to progress.
The chakra signature at the edge of the clearing shivered, a clear convulsing of chakra flow as a jutsu was activated. The shinobi was hiding himself, but for Tobirama, he had not hidden well enough.
"Tobirama-sama!"
The Inuzuka burst into the field, but the kunai was already in his fingers. He wrapped his left arm strongly around Mariko, fingers digging into her skin just to gain a good grip on her as he leapt to his feet. The Flying Thunder God placed him directly behind the archer, allowing him to draw his blade in an instant and lodge the edge against his throat. He pushed Mariko away, a flash of blue in the corner of his eye.
"Go!" he exclaimed, shoving her in the direction of the Inuzuka as two dogs clamped onto his prey.
The man laughed, overly loudly. He was obnoxious, sneering and refusing to acknowledge the fact that Tobirama was about to kill him.
"That was unwise, Senju," he clipped snidely, nose wrinkling into a wry, silent bout of laughter.
Tobirama drew his blade across the man's throat without delay, flicking the blood from his sword off precisely. Diving into the forest, the two ninja hounds galumphing after him eagerly, Tobirama looked for the group. A mass of chakras and presences, humans and animals. Disregarding the two sets of paws padding beside him, Tobirama sensed each of the Inuzuka's dogs and their owners. The Hyuuga made a wide circle, followed by the two rather distinct auras of Katsurou and Ren. Mariko, small but vibrant, clinging close to her brother.
"Mariko!" exclaimed Katsurou, as Tobirama burst out of the forest and onto the road. He saw, in a split second, an arrow lodge itself into Katsurou's turned back, and Mariko falling hard onto the pavement.
A second arrow flew, and Tobirama intercepted it with a few kunai, the knives deflecting the tip of the arrowhead. A third was let loose, but Katsurou threw himself in front of Mariko; the arrow pierced his side, dangerously close to his old wound. He fell.
.x.X.x.
.x.X.x.
She was completely and utterly terrified, her palm sticky with the oozing liquid. She looked up and there was a man standing over her, masked and dark, nearly blending with the night sky. He stared at her with wide eyes, unmoving. When he didn't even blink for the very long time that she watched him, frozen in shock, Mariko realized that there was a sword run through his chest, and that he was dead.
Tobirama withdrew his blade and pushed the corpse aside, letting it skid in the gravel. He was kneeling beside her in an instant, immediately drawing her into his arms when she reached for him. He stayed for only a few seconds, releasing her and hurrying to Katsurou's side.
"Don't pull that out," Tobirama said a moment too late. Katsurou had plucked the arrow from his side, where it had lodged between two of his lower ribs. Luckily, it had not penetrated far; the arrow had sliced his sideways before sticking itself into his body rather than plunging deep into the vulnerable abdomen.
Tobirama clicked his tongue, flicking the arrow away and examining the wound. To Mariko's surprise, his fingers began to glow a faint green.
"You're a medic?" she asked incredulously.
He scoffed at this. "Hardly. I learned what I could, when I could."
Like you learned braiding and cooking? Mariko said inwardly. It wasn't the right time for jokes, but she felt the nervous flutter of worry in her gut settle just a bit. She couldn't look at Katsurou's wound, even though a mess of shredded clothing obscured the incision itself. Instead, she knelt by his head, a firm hand on his shoulder. The prince was gritting his teeth, eyes shut tight as he tried to ignore Tobirama fishing out splinters of wood from the arrows splitting shaft.
Tobirama was true to his word, proving to have mastered only the basics of medical ninjutsu. He stopped most of the bleeding, but the wound gaped, wide and open, ready to fester. Katsurou swore under his breath before opening his eyes and turning to the Senju.
"Hyuuga Natsuki has a first aid kit," he managed, before reaching over to grip Mariko's hand. She squeezed back, disregarding the fact that his hands were crushing her smaller ones.
"She'll be back, soon," Tobirama offered. He reached over to the dead man's body, ripped off a black strip of cloth, and stuffed the wound with it to stifle the final trickles of blood. The sound of several on foot indicated the return of their group, which had scattered into a defensive outreaching radius to encompass the enemy.
"Why do you all keep getting hurt?" cried Mariko, sniffling slightly as she tightened her hand around her brother's. "You both act like you don't care."
"Mari," Katsurou said through half a grunt, "Do you think I don't care that I just got shot?"
"That's not what I meant." They treated it like it wasn't a big deal. Well, it was a big deal to her.
"I know, I know." Katsurou winced, and when Hyuuga Natsuki pulled away the cloth, she clicked her tongue.
"Tobirama-sama," she began.
"Poorly done, I know," he muttered, shuffling away. "Have all the enemies been taken?"
"There were a total of seven, sir," replied an Inuzuka, one of five, including Shiro and his mother. For all of them, there were seven dogs — this man and Shiro's mother both had two, while everyone else brought along their single companions. Another four Hyuuga accompanied them, and of them, the two with the most precise chakra control, even for a Hyuuga, were medics.
Hyuuga Natsuki set to healing Katsurou, and the group pretty much calmed down. When Katsurou fell asleep from the soft buzz of green chakra soothing his wound — Mariko did not like to think that he went unconscious from the pain, because he gave no indication that he was unable to bear it — his little sister stood and ambled over to the wagon, where Shiro held his dog in his lap. The fluffy Shiba Inu barked happily when she came over, wagging his tail. He thumped his one paw on Shiro's knee, and the boy let the pup galumph over to Mariko. She petted his ears.
"Mariko." Tobirama walked over, and instinctively, the dog scampered away, closely followed by his human counterpart. "Get some rest; the night is not over."
"I can't sleep," she returned. "That's why I came to you in the first place."
He seemed upset. Perhaps it was something about the enemy's ineffectiveness that seemed suspicious, because Mariko felt it too. There was something waiting for them, and she didn't know what.
"Where are we in the Fire Country?"
"We're nearly at the border of the River Country," replied the Senju. "We approximately twenty minutes away."
"And after that, where are we going?"
He laughed, a wry, low chuckle. Reaching down, the Senju ruffled her hair.
"Don't do that," she protested, ducking away from his prying hands and jumping off of the wagon end. Soon enough, a few Inuzuka helped lay Katsurou down on a cleared area of the wagon, cushioned (albeit poorly) by the folded canvas.
"Natsuki-san," said a short, pretty girl quietly. She was pale like the moon and her Kekkei Genkai eyes glimmered a light amethyst purple in the waning moonlight. "You should rest as well."
She gestured to the wagon, and Natsuki shook her head.
"No, I'm fine walking."
"You'll be closer to the Lord Prince," the other girl insisted, "where you can monitor his wound."
"I'm fine," Natsuki replied.
"I know, but…" the girl faltered.
"Natsuki-san."
The Hyuuga woman turned to the authoritative voice of the tall, white-haired Senju.
"Yes, Tobirama-sama?"
"I believe that your unborn child may benefit from a break. You may not be tired, but your child feeds off of your energy and your chakra, so it would be best if you listened to your family." He nodded pointedly at the wagon, and Natsuki sighed.
"I suppose there are none as doting as the Senju," mused the woman, finally agreeing to climb onto the wagon and take a rest. She looked exhausted, spent of her chakra from healing Katsurou's wound nearly completely, and rather battle-weary. "You would be a splendid father, Tobirama-sama."
At this, Tobirama did not answer, only turned away. Mariko continued walking, a small tension buzzing through the uncomfortable silence. She meekly slid her fingers into his, and he allowed her to.
"Are you tired?"
"No. You haven't answered my question, either." She sidled up closer to him, and he watched her lean her head against his arm. The protective plate strapped to his arm wasn't the best pillow, but Mariko thought that it would suffice. "Where to after the River Country?"
"The Wind Country."
"And what's in the Wind Country?"
"The Sand Village."
"And what's there?"
"Sand. Lots of it."
Mariko frowned and turned. She contemplated poking him, just for entertainment — to be honest, her stomach was queasy and she couldn't help but stare over at Katsurou, despite knowing he was far from danger this time around — and distraction. The problematic blue armor stood in her way, and so she decided to poke his hip where the armor didn't cover. While Hashirama's battle armor sported plates one either side of his body, Tobirama's variation had linked armor in front and back. Mariko found this supremely amusing, for when she poked his hip, he nearly jumped in surprise.
"What are you doing?" he hissed under his breath, eye narrowing.
"I don't like your jokes," she stated blandly, grabbing the buckle the ran along his belt. She tugged, and he frowned.
"I don't like your jokes," he retorted. Tobirama's arm snaked around her waist and securely pinned her to his side.
"What do you mean — and stop that! Let go." Mariko grabbed his hand; it was hard enough walking in her current position. She didn't need Tobirama's hand sliding down her side to make it any more difficult. Crushed against his side, she tugged at his armor, and was rewarded with a slight jingle of metal.
"Are you trying to undress me?" he deadpanned, when she accidentally unclipped part of his outfit. She hastily dragged the strap back up, redoing the buckle. In the process, Mariko discovered that his armor was actually very heavy, and that if anything, he must've been carrying thirty extra pounds on him.
Mariko flushed when Tobirama grabbed her hand and stared at her impassively.
"What?" she attempted.
He shook his head. "Not here," he murmured, causing her to turn a slightly more flustered shade of pink.
"What do you mean, not here?!" she whispered back at him, flustered.
"You know what I mean." He arched a brow, and she fought to urge to make a half-squeal half-squeak of outrage. Tobirama straightened. "Oh look, the border."
Mariko, still stiffly following along and failing to keep his hand from sliding into a firm position at her waist, clung to his unyielding blue armor. If anything, she awkwardly stuck to his side like a burr, looking much like a disconcerted blue flower taped to the Senju's armor.
Oh look, the border, she repeated, scoffing inwardly. Say something else to me.
Mariko was surprised to find that she wanted to talk with the terse, typically taciturn man. Senju Tobirama, aloof and, if she dared to say it, very snarky.
"What's the River Country like?" she blurted, suddenly. "And don't say that it's full of rivers."
"Well," he replied, smirking, "It's got a watery history of—"
She poked his leg.
.x.X.x.
"Okay, Katsurou, I'm doing a personality survey, and I need you to answer a few questions."
"Sure, baby sis. But…why?"
"I dunno, it's for my studies."
"I never did that."
"Well, I am."
"Okay. Then shoot, Mari."
"Favorite color?"
"Easy. Green."
"Favorite food?"
"Probably gyoza."
"Least favorite food?"
"That weird seaweed stuff that comes on the side…the squishy stuff, you know? Eughh. I don't even like thinking about it."
"Favorite activity?"
"Archery. Mari, do you even need to ask me?"
"Yes. Now, favorite drink?"
"Strawberry lemonade. I bet you didn't see that coming."
"Uh huh, sure. Favorite fruit?"
"Papaya."
"Favorite vegetable?"
"Arden lettuce."
"Wow, you have almost the same answers as Sumi. The food ones, anyway."
"What can I say? We have the same taste."
.x.X.x.
She awoke to the sound of retching from Sumiko's room. The palace was quiet, the same eerie silence that graced its halls every night permeating into the rooms like airy specters. Mariko, warm and cozy under her blankets, continued to listen. A stifled cough came through the walls, distinctly Sumiko. The Second Princess reluctantly crawled from her place under the covers, padding over to the door. She crept out into the dark hall, naturally finding her way to the wall and feeling her way until she reached a turn and found Sumiko's bath quarters.
Here she was, the First Princess, straight blue hair falling haggardly across her face and shoulders. She spit bitterly into the bath tub, looking miserable and sick.
"Sumi?"
"It's nothing, Mari," said her older sister quickly. Mariko assessed the floor, where a myriad of Sumiko's things had fallen in a mess. She ignored the old kitchen knife that peered out from a travel sack, its short length corresponding with the scars of old slashes running along one upper thigh. They were faded, these scars, but still there.
"What happened?" Mariko paused, waiting as Sumiko bent herself over the lip of the tub and vomited again.
"Nothing."
Mariko glanced at her sister's clenched fist, closed tightly around a small sack. Surprisingly, Sumiko relinquished it readily when Mariko attempted to pry her fingers open.
Medicinal pills.
"Why are you eating these? Are you sick?"
"No."
"There are two different kinds in here." One of the pills had a slight, oval shape to its capsule, and was a rocky shade of rough black. The other type of pill, while similar in texture, had a dark bluish hue, and was a small, circular piece. Easily distinguishable upon close examination, but hard to tell at a glance. Mariko, however, immediately recognized the circular blue capsules in an instant. They were made of condensed pregnancy preventing herbs, the bitter little plant that served as a potent birth control. The other tablet, however, she did not know the purpose of.
"I know," moaned Sumiko. "Well, now I do."
"You're taking these," Mariko stated. It wasn't a question. Sumiko nodded. "And then? Are you, you know…?"
"No, I'm not pregnant." Sumiko glanced warily at the packet of pills. "I accidentally refilled it with another medicine — I think maybe it's an antacid or laxative for poor digestion or food poisoning — and accidentally ate one."
Mariko sighed. Now if Sumiko had taken the herbs meant to aid pregnancy, perhaps the effects would have been different. She was relieved that instead of a complication such as that, Sumiko had taken a rather harmless stomachache medicine instead.
"Or," Sumiko mused, "I picked up the stomach flu from Lemma."
"Is that what she had?"
"Yeah." Sumiko nodded.
"Where's Ren? Do you want me to get him?"
Sumiko shook her head vehemently. "He doesn't need to know," she said in a low voice. "He'll worry too much."
"He's a worrywart," snorted Mariko, eliciting a fond smile from her sister.
"He is," she agreed. "Sometimes I don't know what to do with him."
"But you love him."
"I do." Sumiko had a dreamy expression cross her face momentarily, before drawing her focus back to Mariko. "He cares for me, so I think that's important." She wrinkled her nose in a soft giggle. "Even if he is overprotective and gets jealous too easily."
"And he's a snob," Mariko added pointedly.
"Okay fine," laughed Sumiko, accepting the packet of herbs when Mariko returned them. "He is a snob. But he's a cute snob, and I'm a snob to him, so I guess we match."
"You snobs," mocked Mariko lightly, bursting into giggles with her sister.
"Mariko," Sumiko said, suddenly quieting. "Have you used these, yet?"
She wiggled the little pouch of herbal pills in her hand. Mariko shook her head.
"You know I don't get out much," Mariko replied.
"I think that was a joke," Sumiko said, a small smile touching the corners of her lips. She stood then, declaring that she felt a million times better, thanking Mariko for checking on her and proceeding to clean up her mess. "Mari. Don't forget though," warned Sumiko. "I'm serious."
"I think I can handle it."
"I know," Sumiko said.
Unexpectedly, Ren popped his head in the door at that moment. He had crept up on them silently, and the moment he called Sumiko's name, she leapt up about three feet in the air and nearly slipped on the master bath tile.
"Sorry," he murmured sheepishly, slipping into the room, hands folded behind his back. "Lady Princess," he greeted, nodding briefly. "Sumi, you okay?"
"I'm fine. Just a little queasy. Must be something I ate." Sumiko smoothly tucked the packet of condensed herbs into the larger pouch that she stuffed everything else into. The kitchen knife disappeared, along with a hair brush and other useful feminine items, half of which involved makeup that Mariko would never be able to tell apart.
"Sure?"
"I'm sure, Ren." Sumiko accepted the hand he offered when she hopped to her feet, and simultaneously, Mariko bid them a good night and disappeared out the door.
In the hall, deadly silent except for the lonely cricket that called out in the still night, Mariko took a detour. She rounded everyone's sleeping quarters — Katsurou and Yuuna were silent in their rooms, and she passed the last of Sumi's wing — and found one door open by a crack, light spilling over into the dark hall.
She knocked.
"Ryou?"
"Come in." He was perched on his bed, for once managing to have enough time to change into a set of comfortable slacks and a casual tee, accompanied by warm socks in need of a good darning. Often enough, the Crown Prince spent nights in his office, or brought the office back to his room and never ceased working. Countless times, Mariko had caught him wearing the same outfit three days in a row simply because he'd forgotten to change. He would take the briefest of showers before throwing on the same shirt and pants and scurrying back to his office.
Twenty-four years old, with the weight of an entire nation already resting on his shoulders, Ryouichi was the picture of exhaustion. King Hiroto, who expected highly of his first son, ladled issue after issue upon Ryouichi. The Crown Prince had become so involved in Hurricane's governing – starting at the young age of twelve, filing documents regarding the nobles' agricultural enclosure movement to the south – that it seemed he could inherit the thrown at any time. King Hiroto, ever since his beloved queen's death, had almost seemed fearful of his end. Even so, he prepared his heir like no other, and Ryouichi had developed into a faithful, impressively skilled young prince.
Mariko sometimes wondered what would have happened if she had been Crown Princess. Would she be able to bear such a stressful title? Then again, the circumstances that she had grown up in had probably molded her current personality, even if she didn't quite like some of her features.
Shy, quiet, maybe a little stubborn. Curious, like a kitten and just as soft, people would say, but just as much of a worrywart as Ren. Katsurou and Sumiko, older and more mature, appeared to be adequate secondary heirs to the throne, while the fourth child remained a thorn in the crown's side, a lame horse that slowed down the team.
"Couldn't sleep?" asked Ryouichi, scribbling something in his notepad.
"No," replied Mariko. It was half true, wasn't it?
"Is Sumi okay?" His perceptiveness caught her off guard, and she eyed him warily. Nowadays, his head was constantly bent over some document or the other, forever chained to his office desk. It was either in his office, or running the most complex negotiations that Mariko could not even begin to comprehend the reasons for.
"How did you know?"
"I heard her, same as you." Ryouichi, the all-knowing. He tucked his pen into the pocket of his folder and closed it, looking up now. "What's up?"
"That was my question," answered Mariko, ambling over and sitting next to him. It hit her abruptly, like running into a wall she couldn't see; it pained her to realize that in the span of only a three years, since the time their mother died, her oldest brother had become someone else almost entirely. Simply three years, and she felt like she didn't know him at all. There was a wall, vague and hazy, but there all the same. This was the Crown Prince of Hurricane – still her brother, but not quite.
Three years of working, growing, changing. Here he was, in all his royal glory, and she hardly recognized him. If it were not for his familiar face and flop of blue hair, she would have believed herself to be living in someone else's palace, in someone else's life.
"Well," Ryouichi said, scooping up a leather saddlebag, "I've got some documents in here from the local post office. Will you sort them out with me?"
He spoke as if she would decline. He knew, in a way, that she wanted almost nothing to do with the royal work, even though she was destined to. She didn't want to be married off, but the time was close. Mariko shut the thought away adamantly, returning to her brother.
"Sure, why not?" She plucked a few papers out, and glanced them over dubiously. "What is this?"
"That's the national holiday list."
"That's random," she commented, noticing that the mid-summer festival coincided with the Eagle's Day this year. Eight days after her seventeenth birthday. She sighed and handed the paper to Ryouichi, who instructed her to differentiate between "nobility/capital", "town", and "miscellaneous".
And then she pulled out a series of documents, each paled filled with lists and lists of sons of nobles. They were all the oldest of their families, targeted from a range of 16 years of age to 26. There was a small note scrawled at the top, hastily:
Suitors. July 22nd.
"Ryo…" Mariko looked up, and she dreaded his next response. "What's this?"
"A list," he replied flatly, taking it gently from her hands. His glasses slid down his nose, and he pushed them back up. The prince let his hair slide across his face, obscuring his eyes. "A list of suitors."
"Suitors?" she echoed.
"Yes." Ryouichi was never a forceful older brother. He was patient, kind, and understanding. If Mariko hoped for anything to stay the same, for anything to have been kept during those three years that they'd drifted apart, she hoped that this would remain the same.
"For me?"
"Yes."
He held the paper, shoulders sagging.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, folding the list in two and sliding it back into the saddlebag. I was told to, he seemed to say.
Mariko didn't want to think that her brother was making excuses. In fact, she simply didn't want to think anything at all.
"I understand," she forced out, her voice thick. Mariko brushed a strand of blue hair behind her ear, continuing to sort files.
He didn't reply, only observed her for a few moments. He reached over and touched her hand, startling her. Mariko forced her wistfulness down; his hand, once soft and smooth, was calloused and stained with ink. It was a hand that had always held hers, a hand that cared for the baby sister simply because she was dear to him.
And she still was.
"Ryo," she began, lightly touching a splash of ink across his knuckles. "Do you remember that one summer festival, the one where Katsurou fell into the big Koi pond?"
"I do," chuckled her older brother. "How many years ago was that?"
A lifetime ago, she mentally answered.
"Four years ago," she said. "Before Momma died."
His face then stirred an old, suppressed flutter inside her, a hidden grief that she thought she had put away.
Ryouichi smiled longingly, and she was shatteringly sad.
.x.X.x.
Who was it that told me there was a watery history of…a watery history of what?
.x.X.x.
Two days in the River Country, one day ambling across the border, and the second at an incredibly fast speed. Mariko knew, as she always had, that she would definitely not be a shinobi. Not at all. No way.
"I didn't know that donkeys could move so fast," muttered Katsurou, sitting up in his makeshift throne of canvas and boxes, one of which jabbed a corner into his back. He ignored it, just as he ignored the scowl of distaste that Ren threw his way. The wagon churned along, skidding up dirt and stones as the two donkeys at the front trotted away tirelessly.
Mariko, who had tired her spoiled princess feet by walking for four hours straight, was now curled up next to her brother, poking fun at him in an attempt to stop worrying, instead. Tobirama occasionally stopped by, telling them that they were "so-and-so close to Ame, and about so-and-so hours away from the Wind Country".
"He's touching you," stated Katsurou blandly.
"What?" Mariko made a face at his wording, and he rolled his eyes.
"No, I meant that whenever he comes around, he plays with your hair."
Well, Mariko supposed that this was true. Tobirama had developed a tendency to slide a casual hand around her shoulders, or simply run his fingers nonchalantly through her hair whenever he could.
"Why didn't we cut through the Rain Country?" inquired Mariko, trying to disrupt Katsurou's train of thought.
"Because we don't have solid negotiations with them," Tobirama cut in, appearing seemingly out of nowhere. "Besides that, don't change the subject. I know you were talking about me."
Almost on cue, he came alongside the wagon's side and lightly touched her elbow. Katsurou made a face, rolling his eyes pointedly at Mariko.
"You know, if you keep doing that, your eyes will get stuck in weird places," Mariko accused.
"Sure they will," Katsurou complied, laughing. Ren sauntered over at that point, curious as to what was going on.
"I'm sure Yuuna would find that so attractive," he deadpanned, playing with the cuff of his fancily embroidered Hurricane-style sleeve.
"She would," agreed Katsurou. Then, "And where did you get that shirt?"
"Obviously from Iwagakure," snorted Ren sardonically. "Your sister, of course."
"She gives you too many gifts," retorted Katsurou, shaking his head.
"No, you're just not good enough to receive any."
Ouch, Mariko thought, cringing. Ren could spit out fiery insults without even thinking twice. He was both stupid and brave, prone to exaggeration, and hot-tempered, all at once. The red hues of his copper hair glinted in the afternoon sun, as if to emphasize his currently burning glare.
"You know," Mariko said dryly, "if you frown too much, your eyebrows might stay that way forever. I'm sure Sumi would find that attractive, too."
Ren's scowl briefly morphed into surprise, before he returned to glaring at her. Tobirama chuckled, dropping his hand as if to hold hers, before drawing back at the last minute. Mariko didn't let this go unnoticed; she turned sharply to him, just as he looked away.
"You just like making fun of people's faces, don't you?" Katsurou laughed, pausing only to clutch his wounded side.
"Don't push yourself," Ren scolded, and for a surprising moment, his face softened. Mariko, interested in this side of him, waited to see if it would last.
It didn't.
"Of course," drawled Katsurou, wrinkling his nose. Ren scoffed and turned away, an arm casually resting on the hilt of his blade and eyeing the horizon. Katsurou watched him go, silently. He exchanged glances with Mariko, who patted his arm gently.
"We're almost to the Wind," Tobirama commented, breaking the passive silence.
A border guard at his station shifted upon seeing the travelers, something interesting spurring curiosity into his dull day.
"Welcome to the desert," Katsurou said dryly, eyeing the road, which began to meld into lengths and lengths of sand.
The day was nearly over, the sun setting into a backdrop of sloping dunes.
Mariko readjusted her position, stretching her aching, numb legs that had been folded beneath her for hours. Katsurou leaned back on the folded canvas — some supplies had been either used or removed to allow for his makeshift bed — and closed his eyes. Mariko attempted (and failed) to find a comfortable position among the prodding, poking box corners. Tobirama glanced over and promptly shed his jacket, the familiar navy blue one with the ample fur collar that he'd exchanged for his heavy, hastily thrown on armor. He tucked it beneath her, pulling the fur hood out to make a fluffy pillow. Mariko mouthed a sleepy thanks, sighing into the fabric.
Tobirama lightly touched her cheek with the back of his knuckles. Light and wispy, like a feather, he gently traced her face, before withdrawing.
"Get some rest, Shorty," he murmured, walking away from the wagon. "Good night."
"G'night," mumbled Mariko, absently touching her cheek, lips curling into a dreamy smile.
.x.X.x.
Dear Momma,
Is it strange that I find his hands lovely? Is it strange that whenever he holds my hand — and he does, only reluctantly — I want to stay there for a long time, just to memorize the curves of his fingers and the permanent calluses on the fingertips?
Is it strange that I want, if I had the chance, to stroke his hair? It is white and soft, like snowfall on a quiet New Year's Eve, when the palace is silent and everyone watches the snowflakes stick to the big windows, just for a moment.
.x.X.x.
Mariko, currently in the midst of a staring competition against a new palette of face pastels, debated why in the world she was even getting prepared. Lemma, the kindly old maid, was a buzzing busybody, clucking over the girl insistently.
"Lemma, I don't want to wear—"
"Child, you are going to wear this." Lemma held up a gown, incredibly elaborate and fearsomely thick, with up to five layers. "Oh, don't make that face, your mother's had twelve."
Mariko suddenly wished that the one caring for her was Aunt Tari and not Lemma, but then again, Aunt Tari would've probably whipped out that twelve-layered dress with the high collar and tight bodice and accepted no protest whatsoever. The Second Princess wisely kept her mouth shut and nodded tightly. She supposed she was lucky that Aunt Tari, a member of Hurricane's royal court via the late queen, was an indispensible informant to the crown. If she didn't pass the town whispers to Ryouichi, she was relaying important activities and documents to King Hiroto, making her a very busy woman.
The dress was pretty, she had to admit. It had a distinct Hurricane style, but the sleeves were more flowing and lightweight, the bodice wrapped in silk ribbons and the actual skirt overlapped in frilly, sleek, western-style layers. It had a particular taste to it — mainland-style — that echoed an old design Mariko had once spied Sumiko sketching. If Sumiko was not at fault for the new trends in Hurricane, then there must've been some other Hurricane fashionista adopting continental styles to the traditional islander garb.
Purple hues, with a rosy flare in the hidden layers of the dress, accompanied by a silver sash. This, Mariko got into easily, but Lemma grandly threw a towel across her shoulders and wielded the palette of white face paints.
"Don't make faces," Lemma scolded.
"It's easier if I put it on myself," complained Mariko, wriggling away and squeezing her eyes shut as the maid patted on some powder and paste. If she had to say anything, Mariko would say that the pastels were a nuisance, but at the same time, she would feel uncomfortable without them. A child that had grown up with them, Mariko was not one to suddenly change her traditions due to a bold whim.
"Don't move!" snapped the gray-haired woman, snapping a towel dangerously close to Mariko's face. She finished applying the pastels' base, and then promptly added a dark purple eye shadow. Personally, Mariko found it too heavy for her preference, but did not argue. At least her hair had not been pulled back into a horrid, tight bun that exposed her face too much. It's because I have chubby cheeks, she claimed. Not quite true, but Mariko was always self-conscious. She was so self-conscious that she stopped minding the pale, ghostliness of the face paints and instead thought of them as a way to cover up her true face.
Her hair was allowed to stay in a loose updo, several wavy strands framing her face. Lemma pinned it with a flower-shaped barrette, and then patted her on the shoulders.
"You should be ready, my dear."
"Thank you, Lemma."
"Now go and be yourself, child." Lemma smiled fondly, giving the princess one last onceover. "You are beautiful."
Mariko almost replied that she was not beautiful at all, but she wasn't in the mood for another of Lemma's lectures that she was simply insulting herself, and all the other girls out there.
"Go stun them," added the old woman, clasping her hands together. "Shoo!" She waved Mariko off, and the girl gathered her five layered skirts and hobbled off in her boring, old ballet flats. Shoes had been one of the things she purposely failed to remind Lemma of, for the sake of comfort and ease.
She padded down the hall, the familiar scuff of her worn slippers on the tile providing an echoing background. At the moment, the steady shh-pa, shh-pa, shh-pa rhythm of her dragging toes and wary steps were the only things keeping her grounded. Mariko had dreaded this day — the lovely 22nd of July — for ages. Just down the hall, down the stairs, through the courtyard, into the central wing, up the main foyer, down another hall, and into the dining hall, there were twenty suitors, awaiting her arrival. It was a larger number than she expected. Ten would have been a large groups, but twice that?
Twenty suitors.
"Twenty suitors. Suitors." The word tasted sour in her mouth, a frothy dryness brought to her throat that sent a bundle of nerves quivering in her stomach. She paused midstep, a hand flying to the wall to steady herself. Then, almost comically, she laughed. "Suitors."
"Are you talking to yourself, baby sister?" came Ryouichi's voice from behind. She whirled around, and there he was, dressed just as fancily as she was. The Crown Prince had abandoned the less formal daily court wear, and rather than the crisp white dress shirt and occasional tie, he favored a Hurricane-style eastern collar, dark navy with golden embroidered cuffs.
"Are you going out riding?" retorted Mariko, eyeing his dusty hunting boots. He looked downward incredulously. They both began to laugh, for he'd only changed half his outfit in a rush.
"Perhaps," he chuckled, scuffing a muddy heel on the tile. When a streak of dirt came off, his eyebrows shot up and Mariko giggled. "Mari, go to the dining room. I'll be right there."
He hastened away, taking care not to leave any more dusty tracks on the spotless tile. Mariko wished he'd stayed; now she had to walk in alone. Katsurou and Sumiko were not around, having returned to their respective nations after visiting for the Eagle's Day and mid-summer festival on the 15th.
The dinner party began relatively quiet, and when she entered, her father immediately took her arm and led her to the front of the dining hall. A few of the bolder, more talkative potential spouses came up to her in the first ten minutes, initiating conversation with far too much zest.
"Lady Princess," one of them said – he was an older man, probably near the higher end of the age limit that Ryouichi had set after much internal debate – dipping into a graceful bow and lightly kissing the back of her hand. "It is a pleasure to meet you."
"The pleasure is mine," replied Mariko. She was hardly trying; court behavior had begun to come instinctively, robotically. She smiled and dipped into her quick curtsies, dishing out compliments and accepting them with the finest eloquence and properness she could muster. It was like an exercise – the more she practiced, the better she became, and the more easily she performed. If she had anything, Mariko had an endurance for court sessions like these. She once abhorred them as much as Sumiko, but she found that she could get away with only paying attention in halves, sometimes drifting off but always keeping an ear open. It was much easier to distract oneself, she thought. Sumiko, who had never been able to quietly sit in a corner, had protested each and ever time. The life of the party.
Several were handsome, and several were ugly, but most of them were just in between and regular.
As if I'm one to judge, Mariko mocked at herself, disgusted. I can't just pick the prettiest boy out there. He could turn out to be the worst one of them all.
At this, Mariko inwardly grimaced, because she hated this kind of internal debate. Wherever she tried to go, whatever argument she tried to fix, she just ended up becoming more critical.
"Sister." Ryouichi had taken a post next to the Fourth Princess, temporarily warding off any suitors simply with his presence. The moment the heir to the throne came around, almost protectively, every single man in the room vying for the young princess's attention would automatically give him a wide berth. "Have you talked to all of your guests, tonight?"
"I believe so. I talked to most of them during dinner." Mariko neatly folded her hands in front of her, enjoying the loose, airy sleeves that draped down lightly. The bodice, expectedly, was still as tight as she remembered – this was not something she imagined Sumiko would change, for sake of appearance – but the result was flattering on her rather slim, uninteresting figure. Mariko had never quite envied her sister's voluptuous form until she grew older. She clearly recalled being fourteen and looking like she was ten.
"The few siblings from the north, and their cousins, five total," Ryouichi was saying, "were quite interested. Some of these young lords are rather shy, quite like you. Others, I must say, jump at you like there are no boundaries."
"Which is why you are here," Mariko finished, smiling briefly. She heard him chuckle dryly, but did not look up at him.
"Lemma is mad you're not wearing the shoes that Aunt Tari sent," he murmured, casting an amused glance at her.
"I'd rather greet my suitors properly instead of tripping over them upon their entrance," Mariko returned snidely, smirking.
"Mariko," he chastised lightly. She wiped the crooked smile of her face and asked him what he thought. Ryouichi hesitated, before answer, "Lord Tetsuya from Garnet is a good man. He's about Sumi's age, and he shows much prospect in regards to—"
"So you're concerned about politics?"
"No, I'm concerned about how well he'll take care of you." He folded his arms, pointedly taking on a stance that made him appear just as tall and strong as Katsurou. Even if Ryouichi did not make a move, he had an air of authority that came with his title, and he certainly earned it.
"Lord Tetsuya," Mariko said, testing it in her mouth. Her lips were chapped and her mouth was dry, out of nervousness, and she had a tendency to stumble over her words, thus prompting her to rehearse every single line. "And which one is he?"
Ryouichi pointed out a fair-looking gentleman conversing with a few other men, neatly dressed in a white dress shirt and formal slacks. He noticed them looking, and he nodded respectfully to both prince and princess.
"And you think it would be good to marry him?"
"If I had a choice for you, yes."
His voice threw her off. Ryouichi surveyed the crowd, and Mariko studied his face. His tone had been casual, the same way he'd carried on the entire conversation. However, the moment he mentioned making a choice for her, he had forced it out. It was subtle, a little lilt and nuance that only someone close to him would have noticed.
He was worried, and considerably so. For what, Mariko had no idea, but she completely trusted her oldest brother.
Even if seemed like she had to meet him again after three years.
.x.X.x.
Number four, the fourth child. Why make such a fuss over me?
.x.X.x.
Because Ryouichi picked him, out of this crowd of twenty, Mariko gravitated to the young Lord Tetsuya of Garnet. He had, as befitting his hometown, a beautifully set, asscher cut garnet ring on his left hand. It was a brilliant red, shining and sometimes distracting. Mariko found herself glancing at it time and time again, until he noticed.
"I see you've taken a fancy to my ring, Lady Princess?" Lord Tetsuya said, smiling.
"I was admiring its lovely cut," Mariko said, trying not to flush from embarrassment. She wasn't sure she liked being caught distracted by a pretty, shiny gem.
"It is cut by Hurricane's finest jeweler," he said proudly, and when she looked surprised, he added, "At least, I think him to be the finest."
She laughed, a polite, proper princess's giggle. (Sumiko told her that her princess giggle was either the most annoying or the most cute thing one could hear.)
"Lady Princess," the lord said, lowering his voice. "Forgive me if I'm at all intrusive, but is there an issue of some sort preoccupying the Crown Prince?"
Worried about the Crown Prince. Mariko deflated a little bit, but she supposed it was natural for all the people of Hurricane to worry about their future king.
"I'd be lying if I said he wasn't," she answered, glancing over at Ryouichi. He was conversing with Aunt Tari, who had a foreign representative stationed next to her silently. She didn't recognize the diplomat, for he did not wear any significant clan or nation emblems. Mariko herself, being of the royal family, always had a jewel-shaped crest on her back, the symbol of an emerald. She actually found their clan crest amusing, as if it was a joke. It was an emblem in the shape of a diamond, but yet they were the royal family of emeralds.
"He seemed…distracted?" Lord Tetsuya asked, peering over at the conversing group.
"I agree." Mariko pulled her attention away from her older brother, who was now rubbing his temples in pain. "Would it be vain to say he was worried about me?"
Lord Tetsuya smiled. He was a pleasant young man, one who tried to stand tall and fill out his father's title, but still a boy nonetheless. He had a decent, caring face, and was lean and strong. He shared common interests as well as other things she admired of him – he was a horseman, as were many, and he enjoyed passing his time by helping out his father's stable hands – and Mariko would not have minded meeting him again. "Lady Princess," he said, shyly leaning closer, "I do not think that would be vain at all."
She smiled back at him, a little tightly, for she had just seen Ryouichi snatch a folder from Aunt Tari and storm out of the room. When her aunt glanced over, Mariko immediately pretended to be in deep conversation with her accompanying lord. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her aunt sigh and clasp her hands together, before turning to the diplomat and nodding. Vaguely, Mariko picked up a mainland accent and strained to see any sort of identification.
Fire Country.
A small plate on his traveler's bag, the mainland representative carried the symbol for fire on the shoulder strap.
"Is seems the Crown Prince is dealing with the Fire Country," commented Lord Tetsuya quietly. "Perhaps there are stressful negotiations going on."
"Yes," murmured Mariko, not quite listening to him. "It would be beneficial to be on good terms with them, wouldn't it?"
"It certainly would, Lady Princess. May I have the pleasure of getting you a drink?"
"Certainly, thank you."
As soon as he left, a few other suitors took the chance to crowd in on her. Mariko's mind followed Ryouichi, but her body was slung into various natural poses by the hand of some puppeteer that she was immensely thankful for.
Aunt Tari and the Fire Country emissary left the room, leaving her unanswered questions to linger in the air.
.x.X.x.
Dear Momma,
Sometimes I wonder if Ryouichi's glasses are fake. There are times when he takes them off, but his eyes see more clearly than if he was wearing them.
It's strange, isn't it?
.x.X.x.
The night ended with a friendly farewell to her group of twenty potential husbands, each candidate spending one last minute in privacy with the princess before heading out the doors. Lord Tetsuya kneeled and gracefully dipped his head, taking her hand. He wished her a good night, told her to send the busy Crown Prince his regards, and followed the man before him out the door. He blended into the night without much difficulty, dull, dark hair and plain brown eyes melding into the shadows. The only things that kept him visible were his crisp white shirt and the slight glint of his garnet ring.
When they were all gone, Mariko climbed to her rooms, peeled off the dress — at some point, it had become a snug belt, somewhat comfortable and supportive — and laid back on her bed. She waited for a full five minutes, pondering the night, before poking around for her nightclothes. She couldn't find her usual nightgown, so instead she pulled out an old T-shirt and loose slacks, borrowed from Katsurou's old room.
Then, as she had planned ever since he walked out the door, Mariko went in search of Ryouichi.
Surprisingly enough, he was actually in his room. She had expected him to be up in his office, working away, but there he was, tossing paper after paper aside. Mariko knocked, rapping her knuckles crisply on the door, even though it was slightly ajar.
His head snapped up, eyes widening. Hastily, Ryouichi gathered all his papers and rapidly stuffed them into his bag before she could see them.
"Come in, Mari."
Mariko stepped inside, closing the door behind her. She noticed that as soon as she came in, Ryouichi grabbed his glasses and put them on.
"What are you doing?" she inquired, curious.
"It was nothing."
"Can I see?"
"No." He firmly held onto his bag.
"Can you give me a hint?"
"I'm helping you out," he offered, buckling the flap of the bag shut and shoving it behind him. Ryouichi tucked it under his bed and stood. "If you want me to help you, then don't interfere."
"I'm not, I'm just curious," replied Mariko defensively, pursing her lips. Her older brother sighed, running a hand through his mop of sapphire hair. "You should get your hair cut."
He chuckled under his breath, shaking his head.
"You'll give me a bowl cut," he retorted dryly, smirking. She smirked back, hands on her hips.
"Oh really? You shouldn't think so lowly of my hairdressing skills."
"Since when could you cut hair?"
"Well, I did Katrina's mane and tail—"
"That's not the same," he laughed, reaching over and pinching her cheek. Mariko squealed and pushed him away in protest, but a smile stretched across her lips. His face softened, and he regarded her carefully. "You presented yourself nicely today, baby sister. Go get some rest."
He was shooing her, and she supposed that obeying would be easier on the fatigued, stressed prince.
"Okay," agreed the little blunette, casting a small good night over her shoulder before exiting his room.
Trying to help you.
She heard him grab his bag and take out the papers again, the loud shuffling of papers evident from the hallway. Mariko ignored this, hoping that this suitor thing would be over soon. Then again, she didn't really want to get married.
"Then don't do it!" Sumiko had told her. Great example she turned out to be; falling in love with her Prince Charming and having a blast on the mainland.
So much for not marrying.
Would it be with Lord Tetsuya? Mariko, an avid reader of impossibly cheesy love stories and fated romances, had looked forward to a flutter in her chest, with little butterflies swirling in her stomach. Disappointingly, nothing came — it was a cold, hard pit in her stomach, with no emotions and no reactions. She honestly wouldn't mind becoming the future governor of Garnet's wife.
But, she wouldn't mind even more if she just didn't get married.
.x.X.x.
The sand is warm beneath her toes, and she momentarily enjoys the warmth beneath her feet before the group gets a little too far away, and Tobirama turns around to look for her.
.x.X.x.
Naturally, on a hot, sunny day, she found one of the cooler rooms. Out of the way, secluded in its own little corner of the palace, a roomy recital stage with a polished, white grand piano at its center. Mariko's fingers glided along a scale, neatly ending on middle C. The last note rang out into the silent performance hall, empty of people, her only audience a few rays of dazzling sunlight through the floor to ceiling windows.
The rustle of trees just outside, leaves fluttering and fragmenting the light, was comforting. If she stopped and just listened for a brief moment, she liked listening for the bird trills and whistles that sometimes permeated the glass windows.
Her favorite part of the room was the view — a simple, clear outlook over the northeastern fields, where the paddocks that Katrina usually roamed stretched over into the back courtyard. Early as it was, it seemed that the dappled gray mare was not out yet, probably munching some sweet stalks of grass over on the other end of the fields, but Mariko appreciated the scenery nonetheless. The sunlight was cheery and the air crisp, but Mariko's fingers lapsed into a sad tune. She imagined that her fingers were horses, slowly trotting across a dusty, dry road of gravel and packed dirt. The tune was tinny and melancholic, descending into a minor tune.
Hurricane's Lament. At least, a variation of it. It wouldn't be right to play the actual song, since it a song of death and funerals. Instead, she improvised a slightly different song. Still sad, but not exactly the same.
"Mariko."
A gentle voice, as gentle as the gliding notes of the piano. A voice that obviously belonged to Ryouichi, because the tenseness in his soft, familiar voice gave it away. But his tone was not one of admiration, the way he spoke when they played duets together, Mariko with a brandishing chord on the piano, and Ryouichi with a light trill on his violin. His voice was heavy, almost pained, and all at once, she knew.
"What's up, Ryo?" she asked lightly, pretending that all was well. He glanced down, soft wisps of blue falling into his face. His always-slipping glasses inevitably slipped down his nose, and he habitually pushed them back up. Dark bags encircled his eyes, and his shoulders sagged from weary nights up. He wondered, Would she know how hard I fought for her this time?
"It's been decided," he replied flatly.
No.
No.
"Didn't I just have like, ten suitors yesterday?! How can it be decided?!" Mariko yelled, slamming her hands down on the piano's top. The instrument vibrated, and her books full of pieces clattered down with horrid clangs against the keys. Her outburst was quite frightening, but Ryouichi showed little reaction besides another heavy sigh. She waited, waited for him to correct her, to say in his usual, optimistic voice, "Oh baby sis, have you forgotten already? You had twenty suitors, not ten."
It never came, and he merely looked at his feet.
"I tried, Mariko," he told her weakly. His voice nearly broke, and Mariko went quiet. "I'm sorry, baby sister."
He stumbled back to the door and leaned against the doorframe, looking as if he would collapse.
"I really did," he insisted.
Tears sprang to Mariko's eyes, for she had never been grateful for her brother's work. She had never realized that the burden he'd taken on would steal so much from him. The little blunette strode forward and embraced her older brother, his lanky arms falling tiredly around her.
"I know, Ryo. Thank you."
.x.X.x.
He had given her a gift upon her departure, as had many.
"I truly enjoyed spending a few precious hours with you, Lady Princess," he told her, smiling gently. Briefly, gentlemanly, he pressed a quick kiss to her hand out of formality, bowing as he did so. A small box was produced, and he pressed it into her hands. "A gift, from my beloved town of Garnet."
She opened it a crack, and saw a dainty necklace, red with rubies and garnets and a few shining diamonds.
"This is lovely," Mariko told him graciously. "Thank you."
"I wish you the greatest happiness," he replied, "all of us do."
And she glanced back at Aunt Tari, who held Katrina by the reins and had soldiers stationed at her side. The party that would see of their Second Princess.
"I've only had the pleasure of knowing you for a few mere hours, Lady Princess," he went on, "but I think I've formed a well enough picture to assure you that your fiancé is a lucky man, truly."
She couldn't help but feel distracted, and it saddened her that she hardly paid any attention to this kind young lord directly in front of her. Ryouichi, standing at the castle gates, slipping back inside. She supposed that if she did not get a chance to speak with her older brother — who should have seen her off, she thought bitterly — then she should at least thank those who did.
"Thank you, Lord Tetsuya." Mariko smiled at the young man, hardly a few years older than herself. "Your kindness warms my heart."
"And your happiness warms mine," he replied, smiling widely. He bid her farewell before mounting his horse and turning away, joining the crowd that had gathered to see off their last princess. Mariko swallowed, seeing her cousins bustling about and Lemma taking the reins of her horse.
"Hime-sama," the old maid said softly. "It is time to go."
Mariko cast one last look over her shoulder, straining to see even when she was ushered up onto her horse. Tucked away in an inconspicuous corner, a hooded prince who dared to slip into the crowd of citizens, hardly noticeable in his guise. He lifted a hand in farewell, and silently turned away.
Goodbye, she mouthed, holding up a hand.
The mounted group turned around a corner, and set foot onto the main road, leading straight out of the capital city.
1) Ah, see, Takeshi gets it from SOMEWHERE, you know. Apparently, it's his mother's side of the family.
Don't know Takeshi? That's a shame... Blue Hair and Green Eyes, people! (or just my deviantART...there's an entire Hurricane folder)
2) I fear that I've turned Ryouichi into Ginoza from Psycho-Pass, lol.
3) Which is ironic because Ginoza said three times fast sounds like diNozzo, and diNozzo is pretty much Katsurou...
4) Okay, I'll stop it with the references you don't get...
5) KISSUUUU.
6) Meow.