The mere presence of the samurai had a nearly overwhelming effect on morale on both sides of the battlefield, but it was nothing like what was felt a mere two weeks later when the first food delivery arrived, courtesy of the Daimyo.

The samurai of Fire had been moved almost totally to the frontlines, and those that weren't had been spread about the whole of the Land of Fire's territory, to better protect future deliveries from the saboteurs already within. Having that additional protection, that additional assurance, even just the additional bodies…

But the food.

It is… difficult, to explain how little one can notice the effect of going hungry until suddenly they are full. Sakura was easily twice as alert as she had been before, had an extra hour a day that she no longer needed to reserve to sleep; she smiled more, laughed more, actually talked to her family members and peers.

Uzumaki Mito had died, and she and her fellow shinobi were certainly grieving, but it almost felt as if they weren't giving her their due—they were too full, too revitalized, too hopeful.

It came as somewhat of a relief, then, that the samurai, along with all the good, brought along a little bad.

Samurai and shinobi did not get along.

It wasn't so much that they saw themselves as enemies—when defending the same territory, like they were now, they could fight side by side without issue.

It was just…

The culture.

Most of Fire (and most of the rest of the world, too) followed the same very strict behavioral code, which mandated specific tea services, honorifics, bow depths, opening and exiting remarks…

Sakura had had to learn it all as part of her training before the Spring Session at the Daimyo's Court. She—and Juro and Shin—had spent hours every day practicing, and practicing, and practicing.

Because while most of Fire may have been raised knowing what tea service worked best for which event, Konoha…

Didn't.

The whole reason shinobi existed—as opposed to samurai, whose chakra-enhanced archery and sword fighting and equestrian skills made them truly terrifying opponents, particularly en masse—was because of bloodlines. Which were unique. And required specific fighting styles. And promoted different skill sets. And were—well, different. Very, very different.

Long before Hidden Villages began to form, the shinobi profession had already shrugged off most of the etiquette of their neighbors. They still had to know about it, of course—infiltration missions in particular relied on such—but, within their clan (and later within their village), no one expected the levels of custom and propriety that were common amongst most other population centers in Fire.

For samurai, on the other hand, it was the opposite.

The average Fire citizen might, while understanding perfectly well how to act with their families, neighbors, and feudal lords, not understand much protocol beyond that.

For samurai, etiquette took up just as much of their education as practice for the battlefield did—they were trained to be equally warriors and administrators, after all, good in both times of strife and peace.

For them, then, every just-too-shallow bow, every dropped honorific, every interruption and feigned apathy and little quirk that those who lived and worked for the Leaf—for them it amounted to being spat in the face.

Repeatedly.

Despite the constant pressure to keep on good terms with their new—and oh-so-very-helpful—neighbors, though, life could almost not be going better.

(You know, so long as you ignore the still at war bit.)

Of it all, and besides the food, Sakura's favorite change was the newer, more frequent communication: she'd been allowed to send her research proposals for batteries and the radio.

She hadn't expected to hear back soon, though; her last proposal had taken months to be returned to her, and it had only been that quick because she had (temporarily) saved her Commander's life.

It came as quite a surprise, then, when a mere two-and-a-half weeks later she'd gotten…

Well…

"Yamanaka, Douri!" The voice under her shouted. It was time for mail call, which was still for safety reasons held directly outside the Headquarters.

Sakura kept up her sweep of the surrounding area.

Douri raised his hand, and a bundle of tied-together scrolls was tossed into it.

"We're getting personal letters again?" He asked.

"Yep. First shipment—everyone else's should be arriving next week."

Douri grinned, and Sakura glanced down speculatively. The Yamanaka'd be meeting at his tent tonight, so she'd have to wait until then to see if she got any, but she really hoped she did—it would be amazing to hear from any of her friends or family; she still didn't know what Sachiko had decided to name little baby Morino (due in November, and therefore already over a quarter-year-old)—Sachiko had wanted to see them first.

Another sweep, but there was nothing.

She could see Hyuuga Haru, Sasaki Nao's replacement, in the distance. He'd just finished his shift, and she'd just started hers, but he hated spending time indoors, so he was lying flat on his back with his eyes closed just outside their tent—everyone who resided inside was already used to stepping over him, but the samurai glared every time they passed.

"Yamanaka Kimi!"

Douri, who had already turned to leave, completed a 360-degree rotation. "I'll take that too." Douri said. "Does she get her own mail, now?"

"Packages aren't sorted with letters," the caller grunted. He ducked into the mail cart—pulled by two horses and manned by a very surly teenage samurai—and came back with a box. "I think it's medical supplies, so I can't chuck it." Douri grabbed the box.

Sakura could smell something very, very good cookin—it was coming from one of the combat barracks; she wondered if she could beg some of whatever it was when her shift was over. It was unlikely, but then it never hurt to ask.

"Yamanaka—"

"Oh, come on!" Douri'd actually made it a few steps that time—Sakura grinned.

"If it makes you feel better, you can't take this one: it's labeled direct transfer."

"Who's it for, then? It's still my job to yank them out of bed."

The caller squinted at his list. "Sakura. Damn, that's a common name. I hope you only have one—"

"Sakura!" Douri shouted.

"Hi!" Sakura said.

The caller jumped.

"Okay, I guess you only have one," he looked up at her. "Can you come down?"

"Not without an order from the Commander, sorry."

The caller glared at her; he was genin corps, and she guessed wall climbing wasn't yet a skill he'd had the time to learn.

"Can I just grab it and take it to her?" Douri said.

"It says direct transfer," the caller said. "Which means direct transfer." He ducked into the cart, then came out with… a seal? "Alright." He jumped off the cart. The samurai glared at him. He didn't notice, but that was probably because the samurai had already been glaring at him—Sakura guessed they'd been spending a lot of time together. "Am I allowed to stab the walls?" He lifted his kunai.

"Nope."

"Is there a ladder?"

"Nope."

"It'll really take five seconds for me—" Douri interjected.

"Direct Transfer." The caller said.

Another one of the waiters—the Uchiha leader, who had been completely ignoring the situation in favor of talking to the Aburame leader until that point—spoke up. "How about you do ours first, at least?"

"No, already found her package," the caller said. "I'm doing this."

The Uchiha rolled his eyes.

"How about… can you reach down?"

"I can't change my eye level that much."

"Of course not." The caller muttered.

"How about Douri puts you on his shoulders?" The Akimichi lead called.

"How about he goes on your shoulders instead?" Douri snapped back.

"I'm not Yamanaka!"

"I should hope not—none of us are that ugly!"

"Can I?" The caller said.

"Will I be allowed to leave after?"

"I have nothing else labeled Yamanaka."

"Fine."

The caller stood on Douri's shoulders. Sakura accepted the package. The rest of the mail was meted out.

And, nearly eight hours later, Sakura opened the storage seal.

"Shit!"

"…I understand how you might be confused," Hyuga Haru (who had only just started snoring, and was now most certainly not asleep) said, "but actually I like to be awakened with the fresh scent of tea, the birds chirping, and a good morning kiss from my wife. Not, you know, by being smacked in the face by paper."

"Seconded." The younger Inuzuka sensor—who slept in the cot under Haru's—muttered.

"You weren't slapped in the face by anything!"

"Still."

"That was, in case you missed it, an invitation to tell me why in the hell I was slapped in the face with what felt like an entire Hashirama tree's worth of paper."

"Sorry, it was some Research reports I'd requested."

Haru opened one eye, and looked down at the mass of white sheets on their floor. "I'd say I hope you got whatever information you were asking for, but given the quantity I don't think the alternative is even possible."

"Sorry."

"Yeah, yeah. Just… no explosions, okay?"

Sakura's lips quirked—there would most certainly be explosions. "How about none inside?"

"Close enough."

.

While the Research Department had not sent an actual mountain of paper, they had decided to give her so much that using a sealing tag, something which only a couple dozen people in Konoha could make and only like six actually spent any regular time churning out, was worth it.

They'd sent her everything.

Sakura already knew that her 'typewriter' idea had been… less than popular. That wasn't to say it had been actively discouraged—if she actually got a working model that used even one alphabet and worked well, then they would definitely manufacture at least a few—but it also… didn't really address an issue they felt they had.

Her radio idea did.

Her battery idea did.

The two of them together?

Not only had she gotten copies of each and every possibly relevant past invention or failed invention—never mind that she was on the frontline, where it was by its very nature less safe than Konohagakure—she'd also been promised materials to be delivered within two weeks of her request and permission to directly write to the Communication and Detection Deputy Head whenever she needed.

She was also told her initial ideas were 'promising.'

'Promising.'

She'd read the report that Orochimaru—the Deputy Head of Human Research and Engineering—had gotten from the Head after he'd figured out how to improve range of motion in prosthetics by nearly 400% and requested permission to begin live testing.

They'd called that work—which had worked, which was credited with literally giving careers back to more than a few former shinobi who were missing one or several limbs—'a concept with some potential.'

And that had been considered high praise.

Promising was—promising was—promising was—

And now she had to live up to that.

She hoped she would get her personal letters soon; she could use the break