(we might as well be strangers)
(we might as well be strangers)
Tenten looks at herself in the mirror, rather impressed. Henge seems like it should be the end-all jutsu in regards to infiltration, but as a matter of fact its illusory status – no use Henge-ing into a child if your head still keeps bumping on low ceilings – and the increasing number of ways to detect Henge-usage makes it a risk on high-class missions. So people have been turning back to older, more basic ways of disguise, to actual physical alteration.
Tenten thinks the Konoha “beauticians” (the informal nickname that none of the four really protest against, despite their status as high-level infiltration-specialists) have really outdone themselves this time. Her dark hair has been dyed to an entirely natural-looking strawberry-blond – complete with sunstreaks of lighter color, to go with the artificial suntan they’ve given her already bronzed skin – and curled and styled so that even though they haven’t trimmed off more than an inch off the ends, it looks much shorter than it really is. Her eyes are now startlingly blue – rather like Uzumaki Naruto’s, she thinks, examining them in the mirror – and the makeup they applied somehow makes her cheekbones look higher, her nose thinner, and they’ve stuck in a mouthpiece that alters the shape of her jaw. They’ve padded her dress subtly, for curves rather than the wiry leanness of a taijutsu-oriented kunoichi.
She looks nothing like herself.
She turns at the sound of footsteps on the wooden floor, sees Neji standing at the doorway. He looks different too; silver eyes hidden behind dark shades, skin given an artificial suntan, like hers though lighter; and his hair had had to be cut. Now it’s short and flares out at the nape of his neck, and if it weren’t chestnut-colored instead of raven, she would be struck at his sudden resemblance to Uchiha Sasuke.
She smiles gently at him, trying to distract him from sulking over his entirely unwanted but necessary hair-cut. “Wow, we look different, don’t we, Neji?” Her voice is slightly slurred – more like a foreign accent than a remnant of intoxication – over the mouthpiece.
She turns back to the mirror, watching him come up behind her. She admires the cut of his western-style suit – and how it hangs off him - for a moment, using the novelty of it as an excuse to feast her eyes.
“We might as well be strangers.”
She jumps as he rests his chin on her shoulder, shivers as he presses a kiss against the side of her throat.
“No,” he mumbles, and she feels the vibrations of his voice on her skin.
“We’d always know who we are.”