The pressure approach was working. It had been working for some time, now, but before it hadn't been obvious to the public—it was obvious on paper; it was obvious with the lack of significant morale drops; it was obvious in the sheer number of medics on the frontlines, healing people who leapt back into combat almost before their wounds fully closed—

But it hadn't seemed 'successful' because the attacks kept coming.

Now, though, now as Konoha felt the first nudges of spring—as Minato was finally visibly training again, working his way up to battle-readiness as fast as possible—the first signs of exhaustion were beginning to emerge from Iwa and Kumo.

They'd pressed forward, yes; but when they'd finally gotten to Fire's border in late winter they'd been met with Samurai, been met with forces sent by order of the Capital (to defend Fire, for all that they wouldn't also defend Fire's neighbors), and all their forward momentum ceased.

They'd caused damage, yes, burns and cuts and bruises and slashes and—

But the problem was that whoever was injured disappeared, came back as little as an hour or two later.

Healthy.

Fighting.

Konoha's strength had always been its medical advancements, but it had never been more obvious.

For all that the not-war-war (the 'opposition', the 'conflict', the 'defense testing') was finally beginning to turn in Konoha's favor, however, there was always bad news alongside the good.

.

Ibiki grinned as he pushed open the cell door, laughing as Deidara leapt off the bed.

"I passed!"

"I knew you would!"

Ibiki knew no such thing.

He'd acted like it, sure, he'd had his fireflies spy on Deidara and everything so he was as sure as possible—but he hadn't known, not until he'd walked in ten minutes ago and Head Inoichi had slapped the approval paper into his chest on the way out the door, laughing as he left.

He'd wanted to be sure, really, but he'd paid attention in training; everyone could be manipulated.

Him included.

Now, though, Deidara passed. It would still probably be around two to three weeks before he was actually let out—processing, backstory creation (because 'hey this guy tried to blow us all up after Minato defeated the byoki' wasn't exactly likely to win him friends), and a far more friendly skill assessment to appropriately slot him into general forces were all necessary before he could start integrating into Konoha—but this was the first, and most important, step.

Deidara had been Ibiki's very first project. Ibiki wasn't the sole intelligence on his case—wasn't even in charge—but their similarity in age (Deidara was only three years younger) meant Ibiki was immediately chosen to try to wean the boy to their side.

(It wasn't something they did every time. Taicho stressed that a lot, especially at first. But Deidara was young, was a member of the explosive corps, hadn't displayed many obvious signs of loyalty…

(Perhaps most importantly, the Iwa-nin had made a rookie mistake. They'd kept Deidara up at night telling him stories of how Konoha would treat him if he got caught, what they'd do to him—

(And then they'd been spotted, died in their escape attempt. And Deidara—younger, slower, not as instinctual—was captured.

(And time had passed, and Deidara's fingernails weren't removed, and Deidara's body parts weren't cut off, and there was no waterboarding, or anal torture, or suffocation.

(It hadn't been smooth sailing; they'd still wanted information from him… but it also hadn't been what he'd feared, and so it had been so, so easy to convince Deidara that there was something more to life than Iwa.)

"I didn't know you were coming to see me today," Deidara accused.

Ibiki grinned. "I hadn't been, but then the birds started singing and I knew you had to have finished the exam." Actually, one of his Yamanaka cousins had mentioned that his soon-to-be uncle had come in that morning, mentioned that he was going to do something for Ibiki as a favor to Ibiki's guardian, and there was really only one thing that could mean. "I do have to go soon—work, you know?—but I wanted to congratulate you in person."

Deidara smiled, turning to his bed and picking up the clay sculpture he'd been making. "I'm making a tree! To celebrate!"

Ibiki grinned back. The boy was a genius with explosives, loved them—but he was an artist first and foremost, and had been more than happy to hear that Konoha supported the arts. Not enough to give up his more dangerous passion, of course, but Konoha would've been fine even if that were the case; Konoha was getting an explosives expert's insight either way—not only that, but they were also getting the psychological and more concrete advantages that came with successfully turning the first explosives expert they'd ever been able to capture alive.

Iwa was going to be regretting being so cavalier with their assets soon, Ibiki was sure of it.

When he stepped out of the Administrative Building some time later he had to squint—the sun was now high in the sky, and it took his eyes a moment to adjust.

And then he saw Nara Makoto. "Makoto!" Ibiki shouted, jogging to catch up to the boy who must have been on his way to the Nara compound. And then—

Ibiki hesitated.

It had taken Makoto a minute to focus on him, to recognize him. They'd grown up together, played shogi together, messed around in class together—

They weren't as close as him and Ibiki, or as Makoto, Haruto, and Honoka, but they knew each other.

They got along.

"Makoto? Is everything alright?" Ibiki wanted to take the words back before they'd even left his mouth. Makoto's team was a combat team, was a team that—last Ibiki heard—were about to be rotated into the frontline against Iwa. "What happened?"

Makoto's face was gaunt.

He'd come to a stop, but he hadn't turned towards Ibiki. Just kept staring ahead. "They're dead."

And Ibiki's stomach clenched. "Your—your team?"

"Honoka's head—gone. And then Haruto—"

Akimichi Honoka would bring in cookies for everybody's birthdays, was the type of girl who would hand over half of her lunch if you looked even a little hungry.

She was also the kind of girl that laid Ibiki flat every time they'd gone up against each other in spars.

"Haruto?" Ibiki asked, because maybe—

"They couldn't stop the bleeding," Makoto said. "And Haruto didn't… he didn't… he didn't even try."

.

Hiruzen smirked, putting another go piece down.

Across from him Asuma's lips remained pressed. His son had realized two moves ago that he'd fallen for a trap, but he hadn't yet thought of a way out.

"And how is your genjutsu study going? I hadn't known you were interested in the art of illusions." It relieved him, that he could see his son's expression of embarrassment, no matter how much the young boy tried to cover it up.

It relieved him, that he knew his son enough to recognize the expression.

"I mean, I'm stuck in bed," Asuma said, glancing at his propped leg. "Might as well."

The leg would take almost a full two weeks to heal, and Asuma had only been brought back from the frontline against Iwa four days ago. There was a slapdash way to fix the leg sooner, get him back into battle sooner, but Minato had ordered that every shinobi should be in the best condition possible, so the longer but more effective treatment was prescribed.

Hiruzen was grateful for that.

Grateful he wasn't in charge.

"So your interest has nothing to do with your genin teammate?" Hiruzen pressed. He'd have to stop soon, if he knew his son, but he could at least tease him a little longer for the obvious crush.

Not, of course, that Hiruzen could speak—his brothers had dragged him kicking and screaming to Biwako's door to ask her to dinner, and he still didn't know if he would have worked up the courage otherwise.

(They'd died, his brothers. While he'd been in that tent, while he'd been getting the hat—they'd been laying down their lives to keep the tent safe for long enough to complete the change of power.

(He wondered, sometimes, how much repressing those memories had affected him.

(Had made him susceptible.)

"Kurenai's busy fighting in the north!" Asuma contested. It really wasn't the defense the new teenager thought it was. "I'm just—keeping busy."

"Mm-hm," Hiruzen said, and didn't press any further because he knew his son's limits.

After a moment, Asuma cleared his throat. "Mom said… that you'd be going north too."

"Yes, in one month. To relieve the current general for his paternity leave."

"Stay safe, okay?" Asuma said, looking up, and it was like looking in a mirror, and it ached, and it soothed, and Hiruzen wished he'd spent more time with the boy as he'd grown, as he'd become the man he was today.

But at least he could know him now, know all his children, all his family now.

He'd been given a second chance, and Hiruzen wasn't about to waste it.

"I'll be careful," Hiruzen assured, and he meant it.

.

Takumi was still rubbing sleep out of his eyes when Sakuteru, the other teen that worked for uncle Teuchi, barreled into him. "Takumi! Takumi! Come on! Hurry up!"

"Who's minding the stall?" Takumi asked, picking up his pace despite himself and then going even faster to ease Sakuteru's pull on his arm.

"Teuchi has to be the one to tell you!"

They were already in sight of the stand, and Takumi couldn't see a single odd thing about it, a single thing that would explain why Sakuteru would be willing to make Uncle Teuchi cook and serve customers when they were as busy as they were.

…And they did seem to be unusually busy.

"Teuchi! Takumi's here!" Sakuteru shouted, leaping over the counter and grabbing the offered coins out of one of their regular's hands.

"Hello, hello, hello!" Uncle Teuchi said. He was whipping up just about every ramen they had on the menu at once, and he was smiling as insanely as Sakuteru.

"Well, what happened then?" Takumi asked, putting on his apron with one hand while he grabbed a rag to clean the counter with the other.

Teuchi laughed. "First Akimichi customer! Said I made good food!"

And Takumi—

Oh.

Wow.

Everyone knew the Akimichi. People who didn't know about any shinobi clans knew the Akimichi, knew that nobles would pay exorbitant amounts of money just to have an Akimichi team come and cook one meal for them.

Takumi had only managed to go to an Akimichi restaurant once since he moved to Konoha—he'd stood in line for five hours, and been one of ten civilians who was let in; all the other seats were taken by reservations booked months in advance, and that was at a barbecue that wasn't even that much more expensive than uncle Teuchi's stand!

(It was worth it, though. It was hard to explain how it was better; it just was. It was the sort of food that you would never, ever forget.)

"Are they going to let you join the Akimichi Table?" Takumi asked, because everybody in Konoha knew about the Akimichi Table too, the award given to non-Akimichi restaurants that were so good that the Akimichi endorsed eating there, even helped the restaurants purchase raw foods.

To Takumi's surprise, however, Uncle Teuchi's face dropped slightly, hesitating. Takumi let his uncle think for a minute, plowing through orders and clearing a few seats to let new customers sit down. Then he inched near his uncle, and his uncle cleared his throat. "I just—if you're a part of the Table, they approve your menu. Your plating. Even your seating arrangement. I don't know if… if I want that. But it's the Table, so I suppose I'll have to."

"Will the Akimichi punish you for saying no?"

"No, no! Or, at least, not that I've heard of. It's just too great an opportunity to say no to, isn't it?"

And then it was time for the next rush, and Takumi tried to find words for why his uncle's stance made him so uncomfortable. It wasn't until the stand closed, however, and everything was packed away, that Takumi sidled up to his uncle again.

"I believe in you, Uncle Teuchi," Takumi said. "If you want to join the Table, then great, but I believe you can succeed even without it."

His uncle stood from where he'd been crouched, writing out the new ingredients they'd need to order to cope with the increased demand, and hugged Takumi.

It was a very, very tight hug.

"Thank you, Takumi," Uncle Teuchi said. "Thank you."

.

Minato really, really wished his job was more pleasant.

It wasn't so much the physical stuff—that was his favorite part, actually, except for sealing—it was more…

He didn't even have to do anything, for this one; a chuunin idiot tried to get a job at the Academy, didn't realize that the position included a quick five-minute check with a Yamanaka (intentional, that he didn't know. It hurt Minato, that it was necessary, but it worked) and was immediately caught as a pedophile trying to gain access to children.

The only reason it had made it to his desk at all was the note in the bottom-right corner: the chuunin idiot was a part of the Uchiha clan, and Fugaku had reacted to learning that one of his clan had attempted—well, he'd demanded the right to kill him. Which was illegal.

There wasn't a single request on the page. He didn't have to do anything. In practice, though, he'd need to carve out some time within the next two or three days to smooth things over with Fugaku, figure out how to appease the man without actually giving him the chuunin's beating heart to eviscerate.

(And then there was the single, incredibly vague hint Fugaku had given that the Uchiha were unhappy, were feeling increasingly disconnected from Konoha. Minato knew how much Fugaku had risked even giving him as little as he had, but that didn't mean he had a solution. It wasn't as if the Uchiha were treated badly, but the byoki had been a hit; the increasingly blended society had been a hit. It hadn't surprised Minato that there were some unhappy Uchiha.

(It had, however, surprised him that the situation was so bad that Fugaku—a man loyal to the Uchiha before all—came to him.

(More accurately, it terrified him.)

.

Hizashi trembled.

His wife, his beautiful Hitomi, woke immediately, shifting to cup his shoulder, cup his cheek, shush him softly.

It still took him time to calm down, even now, but at least it had been a month since the last time he'd assumed Hitomi was an enemy, jabbed at her chakra network too fast for her to even begin to dodge.

He'd done so only twice.

It had taken him weeks to even willingly touch her after.

But his beautiful, wonderful Hitomi—she refused to let him cut himself from her. Sat in front of whatever door he'd used as a barricade, kept herself busy with weaving or reading or painting.

Talked to him.

Always, always talked to him.

And Hizashi knew that she meant it when she swore she forgave him, didn't even blame him.

He certainly didn't blame Hiashi.

And yet he and his twin always were one, and just as Hiashi held the blame for the elders' acts tight to his chest so too did Hizashi.

The difference was Hizashi's acts were his own.

(Hitomi didn't accept that. Flatly rejected it, actually. It made him so exasperated he almost couldn't help but start talking to her again, just to explain to her why she was wrong.

(She laughed, when he caved. She'd laughed when they were children, too, and she'd had a crush on him, and he'd tried to explain to her why she should prefer his brother.)

Hizashi didn't know how long it took for his breath to steady, but eventually he could smell Hitomi's new floral shampoo, could feel her hand rubbing his chest.

He smiled, and he didn't know the last time he'd smiled after a nightmare, when he woke up and the whole of the world felt so foreign.

He smiled, and he turned to her, and he activated his byakugan just to see her better. "I love you, Hitomi. I love you with all my heart."

Hitomi smiled, settling more firmly against him. "I love you too."

.

Juro didn't stop, exactly, but he did slow, when he saw Shin sitting with an acne-pocked young samurai at the training grounds.

They met biweekly, now. Juro knew how much Shin had worked to give them that luxury, but he also knew how much it benefited his Nara-brother to see him, to get that sense of family, of comfort.

They met biweekly, now, but this was the first time it was anyone but them in the training ground.

It didn't take long to identify the samurai as the firstborn son of one of the northern nobles, one of the ones whose land was currently beset by Kumo.

Shin had done a lot of work, there, and had told Juro about an heir of a borderland noble, about how he'd been hopelessly lost and visibly a target despite his high birth. A few very circumspect conversations and suddenly Shin had a new tutee, and Konoha had some of the noble's land to set up camp on, to operate out of.

When Shin had told Juro about that, though, he hadn't expected his Nara-brother to actually bring the boy.

"Ah, Juro-san!" Shin said, pretending to catch sight of him as he came within comfortable speaking distance. "This is Date-san, the young man I was instructing on shinobi-relations. He was hoping to pick your mind about the lessons you were teaching at the university."

Date stood, then sat, then stood again, then bowed. "Um, hello! I am—" He stopped, blinked.

Juro blinked back at him. He understood why the boy's father was so worried—he did not have nearly the charisma to do well in the current political climate.

"Alright, we'll… delay you talking to strangers for another day," Shin said. He looked… well, he looked like someone tasked with an impossible mission. "Juro, he was interested in learning about how you convinced the university to come around to the use of chakra in medicine." Behind Date's head Shin flew through a series of one-handed signs—Minato had ordered that they start actively promoting Konoha's medical skills to other nobles, apparently, and Shin thought this might be a good place to start.

Juro couldn't imagine why.

Still, he trusted Shin. (mostly.) So he gestured toward the direction of the university. "How about we walk and talk?"

.

Orochimaru cackled. His throat was dry, the rest of his body was too, and it had been—well, he couldn't remember the last time he'd slept.

He still couldn't get the stupid eyes to work, still couldn't use the sharingan for himself as Danzo had, but—

Well, the Uchiha didn't have the only bloodline, did they?

His ears were ringing, and he heard the way they sounded his magnificence. This would only be the start—soon, soon he'd have hundreds of bloodlines at his disposal, soon he'd learn how to harvest even basic genetics.

Soon, oh so soon, he'd be truly on his way to immortality.

He cackled, and the only people who heard him were long past the point of cognizance.

…he had rather forgotten about followers, hadn't he? Well, he had the time now.