Interlude IV

Nobody knows what to expect when Hiashi Hyuuga finds his daughter.

Team Hebi is just glad they're alive: they give no thought to Hiashi and his deceased daughter. Shibi Aburame doesn't either. He's far too consumed in his own quiet sorrow, staring at his son's impaled body. Ino Yamanaka is too busy worrying, in the back of her mind, about why she can't remember Pain's exact location. Why the only thing that occurs to her when she stretches to remember is a pair of crimson eyes.

Kiba, who is currently being crushed by his mother, is sure the Hyuuga Patriarch is going to kill him a single blow. It's his fault his teammate is dead; it's his fault he let her come to Amegekure in the first place. He'd deserve it.

But Hiashi does not kill him.

Yamato, Kakashi, and Jiraiya, who are watching the affair with the distant dispassion of shinobi who've seen too many sons and daughters die in countries that aren't their own, believe that Hiashi will go cold. That he'll stand over the bloodied corpse of his oldest child, and that her body will burn itself into his mind, driving him forward. In the Elemental Nations, children die; heirs die. It is unfortunate, tragic, but not unexpected.

But Hiashi does not go cold.

Inoichi Yamanaka, who is hugging his daughter so fervently that her newly healed ribs squeak, is positive the man will leave. He'll leave to hunt down the man who did this to his daughter, and he'll never look back. It's what Inoichi would have done if his daughter were the one lying on the ground with a hole in her heart, and not gloriously alive and inexplicably healthy. Tsume Inuzuka thinks much the same, clutching her battered son to her chest.

But Hiashi does not flash away, his Byakugan pulsing.

Shizune thinks he'll move on, nearly unruffled. Hiashi had always struck her as a nearly heartless, even brutal, man. A staunch ninja of Konoha, yes, but not one she would ever be friends with. Sakura Haruno, still aching from closed wounds and reconnected bones, can only stare at Hinata's body.

She doesn't really see Hiashi. All she can see is his daughter in the moments before her death, standing up to Pain with a broken body and an empty chakra system. All she can hear is her empty promise.

'You're not dead yet.'

She almost wishes that Hiashi would scream at her. She has failed in every way possible. She wants him to rail at her, insult her, belittle her, express the same loathing in his actions and his words that she feels filling her own gut.

But Hiashi does not scream.

Instead, Hiashi just slowly sinks to his knees. His pale eyes run over Hinata's body, finding every imperfection, every spot of blood, every scrape and puncture and bruise. The cloak that the Kyuubi's Jinchuriki had been gifted by the toads of Mount Myoboku is draped over her body, wet with blood, but it can't hide what has been done to her. It is obvious to him that it had been keeping her warm.

He stays on his knees before his daughter's corpse, as still as a gravestone, for nearly thirty seconds.

Silently, Hiashi begins crying. His expression does not change; the same stony countenance remains, staring down at Hinata's body. But nevertheless, tears leak from his eyes, running down his sharp cheeks. Nobody there has ever seen Hiashi Hyuuga cry, and none of them will ever see it again.

He gathers up his daughter's body in his arms, lifting her as if she weighs nothing. Hinata's arms hang limply, her hair falling in a dark wave, and her father walks away with the stride of a dying man.

Hinata was supposed to be the one to bring change to the Clan. She was the one who was supposed to throw off the shackles of tradition that had plagued the Hyuuga since time immemorial, the shackles that Hiashi was too ground in to change. She and Neji were supposed to be the first of a new generation, crafting a new path.

Now the both of them are dead, and all Hiashi is left with is a body in his arms and tears on his cheeks.

And it's Naruto Uzumaki's fault.

Orochimaru and Kabuto escape from Amegakure with understated ease.

Carrying his limp master, Kabuto sprints across the great lake, the wounds Kisame has given him already healed. Far above, winging through the black sky atop a clay owl, Deidara keeps watch, his cracked-parchment skin crinkled in anger… and just a bit of sorrow.

Tobi had been the one member of Akatsuki that Deidara hadn't constantly felt like blowing up. Now, returned from the land of the dead and shackled in an immortal body, Deidara has nothing but time to contemplate that an Uchiha, a man with those damned Sharingan eyes, had been deceiving him the whole time. The notion inspires images of Amegakure consumed in fire, every aspect of the village utterly atomized. But restrained by Orochimaru's geass, Deidara can do nothing but grit his teeth and promise to himself a reckoning.

The Sound Five and Sasuke Uchiha's parents have already been dispelled, their duty fulfilled. As the first pitiful hints of rain return to Amegakure, the Snake Sannin and his apprentice depart, with much gained and little lost.

Kakashi and Sakura come to the same conclusion at the same moment, helped along by some of Kiba's pained rambling.

Naruto and Sasuke aren't among the dead. Therefore, they must be pursuing Pain.

Pakkun appears in a puff of smoke, his drooping jowls looking more sorrowful than ever. They silently set off, with Jiraiya in pursuit. The rest of the retrieval team coalesces, and in the chaos and disbelief, somehow come to a conclusion.

The bodies of Konoha's sons and daughters deserve better than this dismal village.

They set out in the opposite direction of Kakashi, Sakura, and Jiraiya, carrying the mangled bodies of Team Gai, Hinata, and Shino. Yamato leads as the vanguard, his roots angrily whirling up from beneath Amegakure's concrete, carving a path for the procession. Hiashi follows in the back, still cradling his daughter's body, his eyes scanning in every direction for threats.

They are under no illusions. Kakashi and Jiraiya are the best among them. If they cannot secure Pain's death, then none of them will matter anyway.

Seven orphans are preparing to decide the fate of one.

Two wait at the peak of Amegakure, bathing in anticipation. The floor of their lair is covered in two or so inches of water, and it murmurs as it subtly sloshes from wall to wall.

One stands, bits of herself flitting off as agitated butterflies before returning to the whole. She is hovering just above the water, the tips of her toes sending out the occasional ripple as the tide swells up and nips at her. The other is cradled within a spider-like armature, a brooding construction of light-devouring metal: cruel spikes pierce his back, making the man's throne a painful prison. His arms are buried within rubbery sockets, and his whole body trembles, sweat making his pale flesh gleam in the low light. He wheezes, bubbling blood trickling from between his lips, and the other orphan glances at him, concern flashing across her amber eyes.

Two more lurk in the shadows, beyond the others' sight. Their faces are eerie mirrors, though one is hidden behind a spiral mask: sheer, utterly focused, and more akin to statues than men. They ponder each other, one with a single red-and-black eye and the other with two: unable to see their prey, and yet aware of their location. They are waiting for the rest of the impromptu tribune to arrive, for the detente to break, and painfully aware that whichever of them makes the first move will likely be making their last.

Another pair is coming as quickly as they are able. The first of the pair is possessed by a dreadful cold. There are three voices in his head. One voice is recent and warm, and it says he should eliminate any threats to Konoha. The idea is sharp and appealing, comfortable in its starkness. But the other voice is insistent and unsatisfying. Someday, it says, someone will have to take a stand about all the hatred in this world.

Will that one be you?

The last voice is the softest. It is also the loudest, filling his head like a metronome, setting his jaw trembling and his teeth grinding. It's slowly replacing his blood with crimson steel. With each repetition, he shakes, just a little.

I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'M SORRY

The other orphan is filled with a morbid curiosity, and a lingering regret. He's watching his companion and darkly wondering how it ever came to this, that their positions could be so reversed.

The sword he clutches in his uninjured hand still carries some of his own coagulated blood, a muted red-brown against the steel of the blade. His companion isn't armed, but they both carry defiance like assassins gripping knives, ready for anything. Their bodies are beaten and bleeding, but their resolve is sharp, and sufficient.

They cut through the frozen air like bullets.

The last of the orphans is completely beyond the sight of the rest. It lurks in a darkness beyond black, watching the proceedings of the rest with flat, keen eyes. It is smiling, a stretched and toothless smirk more akin to moldy fruit tearing apart than a grin.

If things go as planned, it won't be an orphan much longer.

Seven orphans are meeting to decide the fate of the world. Three to preserve it, three to burn it, and one to devour it.

Winner take all.

AN: Well, that was a long wait.

Let's finish this.