What I Wouldn't Do

Uchiha Sarada was usually of the opinion that the further she could associate herself from Uzumaki Boruto the better off she’d be. He was a slacker and egotistical and grated on her nerves in a way few others could attest. Worse, he was always there, right in her face, like sun glare off a kunai. Everything he did threw her off, from his shouting to his bragging to his condescension. She couldn’t stand any of it.

So it was with not a small amount of relief that Sarada walked into class that day to find his desk empty. No doubt he was off pulling a prank or meandering about the roof playing some stupid game with his friends. He’d probably come running in at the last minute like always, a dopey grin on his face and laziness in his gait. One day that boy was going to get himself killed and all Sarada would be able to say was that he had it coming.

“Morning, Sarada-chan,” Chōchō sang around a mouthful of potato chips.

Sarada grinned and raised her own hand in greeting. She pulled out the seat beside her friend, plopping down quickly and tugged out last night’s homework from her bag. It was neatly filled out, as always, with neither wrinkle nor tear. Chōchō’s had grease stains in the corners.

“You know you’re gonna get points docked for that, right?”

Chōchō shrugged, unperturbed. “Not my fault sensei gives out homework when there are so many other important things to be doing.”

Sarada grinned, her brow quirking. “Like what? Eating?”

“And cooking. Mama made okonomiyaki last night and you won’t believe what I had to do to fix that mess. She never gets the sauce right. I pretty much saved the whole clan.”

“You should be deified,” Sarada joked.

“I should, shouldn’t I? Singlehandedly kept my family from starving. It’s a full-time job, Sarada-chan. Shino-sensei should be happy I did the work at all.”

Sarada snorted good-naturedly. “I’m sure he’ll be honored.”

“What about you? Done to perfection?”

“Of course,” she replied, waving the work about for a moment.

“Not even a smudge,” Chōchō marveled. “Hey, what did you get for number twelve?”

They passed the time before class comparing notes and chatting about Chōchō’s latest crush (a cute new genin who’d helped her father out one day at one of their family’s restaurants) as the rest of their classmates bustled around them. The prattle quieted only when Shino-sensei strode in, but didn’t fully stop until he’d finished putting up the day’s agenda and began roll call.

“Akimichi Chōchō,” he began, pen poised over the attendance sheet.

“Here!”

“Goetsu Dōshu.”

“Here!”

Shino continued down the list. Sarada stayed poised in her chair, attention steady on the teacher as was expected. A few classmates whispered to each other, but were quickly silenced by one of Shino’s pointed stares.

“Uchiha Sarada.”

“Here!” She raised her hand in the air and watched as Aburame-sensei ticked her name off, continuing her perfect attendance for another day.

“Uzumaki Boruto.”

 Silence.

Instinctually, Sarada’s eyes flickered to Boruto’s usual seat. Empty air was the only thing between Shikadai and Denki. Her face twisted in annoyance. Did he have no respect? He was going to hold up the whole class with his nonsense.

“Uzumaki Boruto,” Shino called again, though he had obviously noticed the hole where the boy was supposed to be.

There were a few grumblings and murmurs from around the room. Chōchō snorted and stuffed a handful of chips into her mouth. Sarada scowled. Shino-sensei held up his hand for silence as he stepped forward and hedged towards Shikadai.

“Nara-kun, do you know of Uzumaki-kun’s whereabouts?”

Like what foolishness he’s decided to do now that would make him this late, Sarada grumbled, propping her chin up with her palm. If anyone was going to know it would be Shikadai and even he wasn’t a good enough liar to hide from Shino-sensei’s kikaichū. They’d figured that out when they were five.

But something was off. Sarada pulled herself up a little straighter and narrowed her eyes. Shikadai was too tense. He was worrying his lip and his head shook slowly. “No, sensei. He stopped at the bakery, but he should have been here by now.”

“Is that so? And he wouldn’t happened to have a prank planned for today, would he?”

Again, Sarada took note of Shikadai’s furrowed brow. He was surprisingly pale. “Not that I know of.” And everyone knew that Boruto couldn’t keep his pranks a secret from his best friend. He just wasn’t capable of it.

A faint buzzing filled the room, so quiet Sarada thought she had imagined it. But no, her teacher’s sleeves were billowing too much for that to be the case. Slowly, her frustration ebbed replaced by a strange tunneling sensation as she straightened and craned her neck to the door. Surprising even herself was the hope that her childhood nuisance would come barreling through, apologies and excuses spewing from his lips.

This isn’t funny, idiot.

Boruto wasn’t the type to skip class, not completely, and not without informing Shikadai. It was the one thing in his favor Sarada begrudgingly admitted. He was a good student, despite his many flaws, and it stood as one of the greatest sources of Sarada’s frustration. Everything came so easily to him that if he just put a little more effort into training Sarada might have actually been able to admire him.

But even though Sarada knew how little he cared for the Academy, she was also very aware of how much he treasured his mother’s expectations. If Aunt Hinata told him to go to school, he would do it without even thinking to question otherwise. Boruto was the type of delinquent who at least waited until after class to pull his shenanigans.

Shino carefully lowered the call sheet. Despite not being able to see his eyes, it was apparent that he was surveying the room. Kikaichū flittered out from under his coat and the class watched, mesmerized, as the small swarm filtered into the air ducts. Stifling silence pressed down on their shoulders, and the students began muttering to each other just to fill the void.

Sarada’s gut twisted painfully.

“Someone’s gonna be in trou~ble,” Chōchō whispered beside her. The girl’s hand was buried in another bag of crisps and, at the outset, appeared unfazed, but Sarada was keen to notice she had yet to pull out another chip.

Snorting to bury the unwanted apprehension in her belly, Sarada grumbled, “Probably already in trouble,” but there was less ire in her voice than she’d intended and Chōchō immediately picked up on it.

She grinned, her lips pulling upwards impishly, as her fingers curled inside the bag. “Right.”

Across the room, Inojin’s brow was furrowed in confusion, but even so he didn’t look too worried. If anything he was exasperated, which, considering this was Boruto, was entirely warranted. Most likely the other blond had been distracted by some game or another and forgotten all about the time. It wouldn’t surprise her, and Inojin spent more time with him anyway. He would know if something was going on. But no, her mind supplied, dark eyes trailing to the front row, he wouldn’t know more than Shikadai.

Shikadai, who looked ready to be sick all over the floor.

Sarada leaned towards Chōchō. “You don’t think–” but she was cut off by the sound of their teacher’s insects rushing back into the classroom. A few hovered about his head and it was fascinating to see how quickly the man went from dorky Academy teacher to experienced shinobi. Sarada could just make out the whites of his knuckles. Whatever the insects were saying, Shino-sensei wasn’t happy with it.

Silence stretched throughout the room until it grew uncomfortable. A second passed, one in which Sarada tried to swallow past the lump in her throat, and then their teacher slowly, deliberately, placed the attendance sheet back onto his desk. The whistling of displaced air might as well have been a gong. Sixteen sets of eyes stayed riveted on the jounin as he made quick, steady strides towards the exit. Another Shino appeared near the front of the class as soon as their real instructor was gone.

For a moment, everything was still. Sarada squirmed uncomfortably in her seat. The clone, whether in an effort to fill the quiet or to confirm a theory, didn’t waste time picking the call sheet back up.

“I am going to read everyone’s names aloud once more. Please speak when your name is called and remain quiet while I confirm attendance,” Shino-sensei said, pining them all with a weighty stare.

“Akimichi Chōchō.”

“Here!”

And so the roll call continued. Adrenaline flooded Sarada’s veins, to the point where she was almost convinced it had replaced her blood entirely. Her heart was running a mile a minute and she had to cover her hands to keep them from shaking. There was an undercurrent of excitement in the room. Whatever was going on was much more interesting than the usual monotony of Shinobi History. Of course they would be excited. Sarada, for her part, couldn’t find it in herself to join them. Shino-sensei had exited too abruptly for her to be anything but cautious.

Sarada hazarded a glance at her best friend.

Whatever apathy Chōchō felt had evaporated the minute Shino-sensei left the room. She too was from an old shinobi clan, raised on stories of war and paranoia. The bag of chips sat forgotten on her desk, its remaining contents spilling onto the wooden surface with nary a care. Her face was scrunched up in an expression of growing apprehension and the way she mirrored Sarada suggested even Chōchō realized this wasn’t normal.

The girl leaned towards her. “You sure you don’t know where he is?”

Sarada shook her head. “No, but if he doesn’t get here soon Hinata-ba-chan’s gonna kill him,” and even if he did, she’d probably still ground him into adulthood. Sarada knew very well how close Boruto’s family was to Shino. He’d be in for a world of trouble just for worrying them all like this.

“Hmm.” Chōchō’s cheeks puffed a bit, contemplative. A second went by and then a decisive nod. Quickly, before Sarada could stop her, Chōchō leaned back and hissed, “Inojin. Psst, Inojin.”

The blond boy readily ignored her, his head bowing closer to his desk as if it would get him out of her line of fire. Sarada resisted the urge to shake her head. He should know better.

“Yo, pasty!”

“What?” The boy exclaimed, only to be instantly silenced by the sound of Shino-sensei clearing his throat.

“Akimichi-kun, Yamanaka-kun, is there a problem?”

“No, sensei.”

“Sorry, sensei.”

Even with half his face obscured, it was apparent Shino-sensei didn’t believe them, but he let them go anyway in favor of continuing the roll call. Chōchō and Inojin exchanged glares.

A few moments passed of Chōchō muttering insults under her breath before Sarada took notice of a small black beetle scurrying across her desk. She would have screamed if Shino-sensei hadn’t desensitized her to insects years ago, but couldn’t hold back a violent shudder as it neared her paper.

“Hmm?” Chōchō raised a brow, having taken notice of Sarada’s reaction, and the girls watched, mystified, as the beetle slowly melted away onto the paper to reveal words.

What do you want, fatso?

Chōchō scowled. “Rude,” she muttered under her breath, before hastily scribbling out her question under the ink. Much to their fascination, Inojin’s ink congealed around the message and reformed into a beetle. It hurried back along the wood, across the floor, and back towards Inojin.

The beetle disappeared onto the boy’s scroll and his forehead creased. He twirled his brush around in his fingers nervously and flashed them an indiscernible look. Seconds later, another beetle dissolved on Chōchō’s paper.

Don’t know. He never said anything to me. I thought he was here.

Boys: so unhelpful. Chōchō scoffed and balled the paper up in her hands. In a largely telegraphed move, she shifted around to make sure Shino-sensei wasn’t looking and swiftly lobbed it at Shikadai’s head. The boy’s fingers were tapping incessantly along his desk and he seemed poised to run should anyone so much as breathe wrong. Sarada held her breath as the ball made contact.

His reaction was instantaneous. Swiveling in his seat, a scowl blossomed across Shikadai’s face as his hand rubbed the back of his head. Chōchō rolled her eyes, but motioned with her head towards Boruto’s empty seat.

'You know where he is?’ She asked with her eyes, and Sarada tried to ignore the way her chest twisted at his reaction. It wasn’t just his fingers shaking; it was his whole body.

If this was one of Boruto’s pranks, Sarada was going to kill him. He had to know this crossed a line.

By this point, the rest of their classmates had caught on to the exchange. Denki, who before had been able to write off the abnormality as Boruto being Boruto, now seemed ready to follow Shikadai’s lead and fret. Metaru was practically vibrating in his seat, nervous feet tapping against the floor as his eyes flashed between the door and Boruto’s chair. Even Iwabee had straightened out of his usual slump.

Beside them, Sumire oozed nervousness. She whipped her head around, violet braids almost whacking Chōchō in the face, and asked, “D-do you think Boruto-kun’s alright?”

Sarada tensed, but somehow managed to curl a smile. “Yeah. I’m sure he’s fine,” but it did nothing to convince Sumire and even Chōchō was unimpressed at her attempt.

“Uchiha Sarada.”

The call startled her and Sarada twitched at the unexpectedness of it. She looked around to see all eyes on her and her face bloomed with heat.

“S-sorry, sensei.”

But rather than get scolded like she’d expected, Shino tilted his head and said, “Sorry? There’s no need for sorry, Uchiha-kun. Why? Because I am still taking roll call.”

Normally, this would have elicited a smattering of giggles from her classmates, but today no such jeering came. It was a negligible consolation and Sarada awkwardly cleared her throat. “Oh, right. Here.”

Satisfied, Shino-sensei nodded and he checked off her name. “Yamanaka Inojin.”

The class stilled.

“Um, h-here,” he stuttered. The omission of Boruto’s name was glaring.

The classroom door reopened just as the clone was putting the call sheet back into the drawer, but it wasn’t Shino-sensei who walked through the door. Rather, the principal, Iruka-sensei, had taken his place. They exchanged a nod and before Iruka even reached the podium Shino’s clone had dissolved back into bugs and escaped through the doorway. Whispers broke out amongst the students; Sarada paid them no mind, too focused on their principal’s hand as it shook behind his back.

“Oi, Sarada-chan. What do you–”

“Open your history books to page 215,” Iruka-sensei interjected, throwing Chōchō and the rest of the class into silence. “We’ll be focusing on the mid-Warring Clans period today. Now who can tell me–”

“Iruka-sensei?” Denki’s hand waved about in time with his cry. “W-where’s Shino-sensei?”

The rest of the class murmured in agreement, pinning Iruka under sixteen curious gazes. Sarada was instantly thrown by the way his expression melted into something resembling impassive, so used to the warmth he usually exuded. “Hokage-sama has called Shino-sensei away. I have agreed to take his place. Now, turn your attention back your books. Paragraph three, everyone.”

A bewildered sort of stillness settled over the room as the lesson continued. Iruka-sensei’s voice wasn’t quite as droll as Shino’s, but not even he could make the Inuzuka-Mikeneko split interesting. In response, most of the students found their attentions wandering. More than a few eyes lingered towards Boruto’s empty seat and Sarada was ashamed to admit she only managed to take a handful of notes before she too was drawn to the vacancy.

What are you doing, dum-dum? If you made Shino-sensei track you down because you thought it’d be funny, you’ve got another thing coming. Not that there would be much left of him once Hinata got a hold of him, but Sarada planned on chewing him out so badly he’d be deaf for a year.

Something sharp swatted her forearm. Her attention instantly shifted to the little piece of folded paper that now sat by her elbow and she flashed her eyes to Chōchō. The umber-toned girl prodded with her chin toward the paper, making it look like she was just stretching her neck. Sarada surreptitiously unfolded the note between her fingers.

Shikadai looks like he’s about to puke.

Indeed Shikadai did look like he was about to puke. His pencil trembled violently in his grasp, tapping against the paper in such a way that would have been annoying had anyone actually been paying attention. His face, what she could see of it, was paler even than Inojin and his roots had darkened with gathering sweat. If it had been allowed, Sarada would have no doubt he would have chosen to switch seats with Renga just so he could spend the rest of class gazing out the window for his missing friend.

Sarada reached over with her pencil and jotted down a quick, Yeah, unsure of what else she could say. Chōchō snorted softly beside her. A second of queasy silence passed between them before Chōchō’s hand was obscuring her meager notes and taking control over the top margin of her notebook.

Wonder what he knows.

Nothing, Sarada thought. Shikadai knew absolutely nothing, which was no doubt why he was so freaked out, but she wasn’t sure how to convey that with such little space. Instead, under Chōchō’s message she wrote, No idea. Maybe he’s just sick.

Chōchō hummed quietly and it was obvious to Sarada that she didn’t buy it in the least. Her friend may have a bit of a reputation as a featherhead, but that didn’t make it true. Besides which, she’d grown up with Shikadai much the same way Sarada had grown up with Boruto.

Maybe,Chōchō wrote back. Think Inojin would tell us if we asked? And she used her pencil to point towards the tiny ink beetle scurrying down the steps towards Shikadai. Inojin’s nose was screwed up in concentration, seafoam gaze flinted with concern.

No, he’d probably–

It’s funny how certain details stick with you in the seconds leading up to chaos. Sarada would forever be able to look back on this moment and remember the exact pallor of Shikadai’s skin and the warm tickle of Chōchō’s breath on her neck. She’d recall how the paper under her hand made her skin crawl in that same goose pimple sensation that came from licking envelopes, and how the rumbling in her stomach felt less like hunger and more like the uncomfortable gurgling of spoiled milk. Inojin would never again be anything other than seven in her mind even after he’d surpassed her in height, and, despite the fact that she’d completely tuned the lesson out, Sarada would always be able to pick out just the right moment in her history text when Iruka-sensei was interrupted.

Boom!

The classroom shook. Students screamed as posters clattered to the floor and windowpanes rattled. Deafening bangs and crashes echoed above and beside the room as other classes joined the commotion. Some children burst into fits of hysterics – afraid the building might collapse – and more than a few tumbled right out of their seats into messy flailing piles. Sarada just managed to save herself with a firm grip to the edge of her desk, but Chōchō and Inojin were not so lucky. They found themselves quickly kissing the floor, blood beading along Inojin’s chin as it struck the stairs. Pitiful moans and cries filled the room, and it was in that final moment of bedlam that Shikadai lost the battle with his stomach.

The putrid stench of bile permeated throughout the class. It broke through the groans, silencing a couple as students used shaking hands to cup their noses. Sarada almost found herself following Shikadai’s example, managing to hold it back only through a combined effort of willpower and Chōchō’s vice-like hold on her wrist. Her vision blurred, glasses somewhere scattered along the floor, as dust floated up in front of her face. The blobby outline of Iruka-sensei – ostensibly the only one to maintain any semblance of composure – knelt by Shikadai’s side, maneuvering the Nara boy away from his mess and shushing his post-emetic cries.

“Students! Everyone! Form an orderly line out the door,” Iruka-sensei called. “Quickly, now! Quickly!”

There was a stampede as students hurried to carry out the order. A teeth-rattling screech sounded next to her and Sarada jolted, terrified another explosion was underway, only to find Chōchō hauling herself back to her feet. The other girl’s hair was in disarray with a bruise blossoming beautifully against her temple, and Sarada’s glasses stowed protectively in her hold. Sarada smiled gratefully as the lenses were pressed back into her hand, but was too shaken to make any sort of coherent thanks. A lump had formed in her throat (the glottis has swollen, her mother’s voice said. It’s a natural bodily response to stress made uncomfortable by the need for swallowing), and any attempt at speaking only came out as a damaged sort of squeak. She instead focused all her remaining energy on putting one foot in front of the other, forming small steps towards the door.

The swell of students wouldn’t have been what Iruka-sensei considered orderly, but the principal either didn’t notice or didn’t care as he ushered the group out into the hallway to join the gathering throng. Unfamiliar teachers and students huddled in groups, only aware of where to go from all those beginning-of-year drills. The older students lead at the front, a defensive barrier in the event of an attack, while the younger ones – those Sarada’s age – crowded about in the middle. Teachers followed along the sides as the children trooped down into the basement. From there, a series of trapdoors set in the floor divided the throng into more manageable numbers, an equal amount of older and younger students entering each one.

Sarada’s class followed behind another first-year class as they descended a narrow staircase into a series of concrete tunnels. On either side she could make out students from other classes climbing down through the neighboring doors, but they all veered off in different directions following their own assigned paths. A few hushed whispers echoed through the labyrinth, but most were too rattled to do more than shuffle along quietly after each other. Sarada knew exactly how they felt. Even with Chōchō at her back, she didn’t think she would have been able to utter a peep. Every few feet they passed through a checkpoint, only noticeable by the faint glow the seal gave off. Sarada wondered, briefly, what would happen if someone untoward were to pass through before deciding she didn’t want to know.

The narrow corridor branched out into various different openings. Intellectually, Sarada knew the entire maze was interconnected both to confuse an enemy and to offer viable exits in the event of a cave in, but whereas the drills made them seem exciting, now they only served to instill a sense of fear and suffocation. What if she turned down the wrong one? What if she got lost? Would she be stuck here forever? Would anyone know to come looking for her?

(Yes, yes they would. The teachers were bound to take another roll call and would surely come searching.)

But the fear persisted as she trailed after Sumire towards their assigned bunker. It took all her effort to keep her eyes on the graffiti lining the walls. The paint was made to look as if years of rebellious students had lent their art to the stone, but the reality was that each picture gave specific instructions depending on who was reading it. Sarada, and thus her classmates, were only concerned with the orange smiley-face that cropped up at every possible intersection. It directed them to their assigned safe-room.

After a few near-misses and far more twists and turns than she remembered, Sarada found herself scurrying through a narrow doorway into a dully-lit cavern filled with a mixed range of students from various years. They were all arranged into easy to recognize rows with the older students on the outside and the younger on the inside. Sarada hurried to her spot somewhere in the middle with the rest of her classmates, Chōchō trailing close behind. Pre-Academy, had they been in session today, would have been mixed in between them, but the empty spaces now only served to make the younger students feel even more isolated.

Sarada shivered violently. It was due less to the chill than the stillness hanging like a pendulum trap over the bunker. Even Chōchō kept her head down. Inojin stood to her left, an extra wide gap between them that Boruto should have filled, and they shared a look meant for a phantom. A sniffle ahead pulled Sarada’s attention towards Shikadai where they young Nara stood in the unseen shadow of his missing friend. The acrid scent of vomit still wafted off his form, made only more intolerable by the enclosed space. Sarada bit her lip in concern. Shikadai always had such control over himself. Was he that worried for Boruto or was he really just sick?

She couldn’t stop herself; she had to know.

“Shikadai,” she hissed through clenched teeth. “Psst. Shikadai.”

But before the boy could speak, another teacher – one she didn’t recognized – passed through and silenced her.

“No talking,” he said. “This is not a drill and we cannot afford distractions. Understand?”

“Yes, sensei,” and she shut her mouth tightly despite the fact that she did not, in fact, understand.

Time dragged by. Teachers milled about, taking attendance and speaking in low tones, and every so often one would disappear through the doorway only to reappear minutes later with another adult or scroll for the principal. Iruka’s face pinched each time, and more often than not he would send them back in whichever direction they came from.

Students began to quiver in their rows, more now from cold than any residual fear. The anxiety that had permeated the cavern on the way down fizzled away to boredom once it became apparent nothing else was going to happen. Underclassmen began whispering back and forth, all quickly silenced though it was never enough to quell the flow completely, while the older students fidgeted – too disciplined by now to know how to behave, but still innocent enough to feel safe in letting their attentions wander. Sarada did not participate. She’d already been yelled at and was not so curious as to incur further reprimand. Her class too remained quiet, ignorant of the murmurs and lacking the necessary enthusiasm to participate.

Shino-sensei had not returned and Boruto was nowhere to be found.

“Attention!” Iruka-sensei’s voice echoed after an hour. The afterimage of an ANBU disappeared behind him, and all whispers immediately ceased as students and teachers alike directed their focus to the front. “All students are to return to their classrooms and collect their belongings. Parents have been notified and will be coming to collect you. You will not be allowed off the grounds unless accompanied by a parent or guardian. Classes will resume normal time Monday as authorized under the directive of the Hokage. Dismissed!”

Mumbles and murmurings echoed out from the crowd, but they were few and quickly dispersed under the disquiet of their contemporaries. Teachers rounded up their classes and lead them back into the tunnels one-by-one, while Iruka-sensei directed from the foreground. Sarada distantly wondered what that would mean for her class, but needn’t have worried. All the younger classes were marched out last, and so were guarded by Iruka-sensei at the rear.

Emerging back into the basement was a much calmer affair than before. Though tension still hung in the air, it lacked the panic of earlier. There didn’t appear to be any further damage to the building itself, but it was hard to tell when the hallways were so full of students shuffling back to their rooms. The only thing Sarada noticed were the shattered windows. Thick black smoke wafted in through the cracks and a group of Inuzuka upperclassmen hurried past, faces scrunched and pallid with the onset of nausea. Sarada could only guess at what they smelled on the wind, each one more ghastly than the last, but not for a second did she find herself really wanting to know. There was a strange tang to the air that was enough to curb her curiosity.

More students joined the crowd and they jostled and bumped each other out of their regimented lines, packed liked sardines in the confined space. Both upper and lower classmen clung arm-in-arm with their friends as if doing so made them impervious to harm. It was an absurd assumption, but one Sarada found herself falling prey to. They grouped together – her, Chōchō and Inojin – as they marched towards the upper floors. Their class had converged into a strange sort of blob and it wasn’t until she was literally tripping over Shikadai that she realized how close they’d moved.

The boy looked awful. Acid chapped lips, pale and wrinkled like an elderly man’s, stood out prominently against his face, and his skin stretched across his bones like a stocking along wire frames. A dark stain trailed down his shirt, faint sour whiffs making their way up Sarada’s nose and stinging her eyes. He was shaking, even in the manufactured warmth of the Academy.

Enough was enough. Sarada reached out and grasped hold of his shoulder, pulling him back towards the group so that he’d have nowhere to escape and yet still feel safe amongst friends. The boy startled, glassy teal eyes round in his head. He looked like a child – younger than Himawari – and Sarada was forced to quell the unease of guilt that blossomed in the pit of her stomach.

“Shikadai,” she murmured, softer than intended. “What happened?” To you? To Boruto? The village? Perhaps it was silly of her to think he’d know, but he was too smart – and too frightened – not to have an idea.

The boy’s mouth formed a small ‘o’. “I shouldn’t have left,” was all he said, much to the confusion of his friends.

“What?”

“I shouldn’t have left,” he repeated. “I should have waited.”

“Waited?” Sarada exchanged bemused looks with the others. “Waited for what?”

“Boruto,” hissed Shikadai, expression awash with self-flagellation. “I should have waited for him.”

Oh. Goosepimples prickled her flesh, and Sarada stamped down the growing dread.

“He’s not your responsibility, Shika,” Inojin cast to Shikadai’s disagreement.

“Yes he is. Hinata-ba-chan asked–”

“To take care of him, we know,” Sarada finished. They all knew how much Boruto’s mom worried about him, but Shikadai seemed to have taken her request and twisted it into some sort of self-appointed mission. “But you’re not his bodyguard, Shikadai. He’s a big boy. He can take of himself.” Except it was becoming increasingly apparent that wasn’t the case.

He’s only seven. We’re only seven. We can’t even hit all the targets with our kunai, yet.

“He’s probably just goofing off,” Chōchō reasoned, fingers grasping for chips that weren’t there. “So whatever trouble he’s in isn’t your problem.”

“The explosion–”

She waved him off. “Do you see all that smoke? It’s way off in the forest. No way could Boruto have made it that far.”

On his own, Sarada wanted to say, but swallowed it back, not wanting to think about it. “Chōchō’s right. Shino-sensei probably found him and brought him to Hokage-sama. The explosion was just a bad coincidence.” Even though shinobi were taught to never believe in coincidences.

Shikadai was not reassured. He shook his head, eyes downcast. “He got a pastry. He always gets one and I always wait. I didn’t wait today. If something happened to him, it’s on me.”

If something had happened to Boruto – and Sarada wasn’t saying it had – then it most assuredly was not on Shikadai, but the boy, of the belief the conversation was over, had already wandered away, back to the front of the throng where they were just beginning to pile into their classroom.

It was suspicious; she’d give him that. Boruto probably got huffy and ran off, her inner voice said. Or he’s taking advantage of not having a minder. But Boruto wouldn’t do that. To her maybe, but not Shikadai. They were best friends.

The classroom was still in disarray as they entered, but the mess wasn’t nearly as bad as she’d thought it’d been. Either someone had cleaned up, or fear had colored her perception. A few scrolls sat strewn on the floor along with a couple wall hangings, but aside from a small smattering of debris, nothing else was out of place.

To think, they’d thought the Academy was collapsing.

Her classmates were mute as they set about collecting their belongings. Maybe they were too afraid to ask or maybe Iruka-sensei’s reluctance was really that apparent, Sarada didn’t know, but for the longest time the only sounds in the room were the shuffling of books and the zing of zippers. Iruka-sensei wrote the homework on the board (read chapters five and six in the history text and do math questions twelve through thirty), though it was debatable how many of them actually noticed enough to jot it down.

Sarada didn’t think Shino-sensei would care anyway.

Iruka-sensei placed the chalk down with a resounding clack. All eyes zeroed in on him, but he did not turn around. He stood, his back to them, as he breathed.

A chill went down Sarada’s spine, as if she were walking through the old Uchiha compound under the stares of the dead. Beside her, Chōchō was about ready to start hyperventilating. The room was suffocating.

“I am going to take roll call,” the man finally said. A few students flinched at the sudden noise, deafening as it was amongst the silence. “Please announce yourself once I call your name.”

Slowly – so slowly it was painful – Iruka-sensei drew out the attendance sheet for the third time that morning and called out a name.

“Akimichi Chōchō.”

“Here.”

Names filed past. The clock ticked by. Chōchō fiddled with the chip bag still left on her desk, but didn’t make a move to eat, and Sumire fiddled with the end of one of her braids as she trembled in her seat. Inojin twirled his brush around his fingers – spinning it between them and then over the back of his hand and between them again – while Metaru performed some sort of strange active meditation in his seat. He looked about five seconds away from balancing on his head. Someone – Sarada thought it might have been Denki – had, at one point, gone and cleaned up Shikadai’s vomit, though it wouldn’t do much good if Shikadai got sick again. The smell still remained.

More time passed. Iruka-sensei continued the roll call.

“Uchiha Sarada.”

“Here.” It came out as half a breath, but no one seemed to notice.

The second between her name and Inojin’s might have been the longest they ever experienced.

It didn’t matter. Nothing changed. Everyone was there. Everyone except Boruto.

Iruka-sensei put the attendance sheet away, and remained standing. He ignored the teacher’s seat entirely, more comfortable, it seemed, with staying at attention. For what, Sarada couldn’t fathom. No one dared to ask. Black smoke brushed against the windows.

There was a knock at the door – heavy and authoritative – that rattled the wood and sent heads swiveling. They watched, a captive audience to this theatre of military protocol as Iruka-sensei ran a blood-threaded finger across the door handle. It flashed green – an almost unnoticeable measure that the students never would have caught had they not been so riveted – and Iruka-sensei’s shoulders relaxed. He pulled the door open just wide enough for his arm to stick through but not enough for the children to see who was there, and handed a paper out to the visitor. Whatever it was, it was enough for the principal to admit the person into the room. He locked the door immediately after.

Chōchō jolted in her seat, eyes wide and chip bag clenched so tightly it crackled. Her father, Chōji, stood large and unusually imposing in the doorway. Sarada had never seen the man as anything other than jovial, but here he was looking ready to kill. Sarada swallowed back bile.

Her friend hesitantly pulled herself from her chair, all too aware of the scrutiny of their classmates. “Bye, Sarada,” she murmured half-heartedly, her attention focused more on her dad than the Uchiha.

“Bye, Chōchō,” Sarada mumbled. She too couldn’t keep her eyes off Chōji.

Chōchō hurriedly made her way down the steps, the center of attention. Under normal circumstances, the girl would have reveled in it, but today it was enough to make her shrink.

Chōji took his daughter’s hand in his own – something Sarada knew Chōchō hadn’t allowed since she’d started the Academy and deemed herself ‘too old’. He exchanged a few terse words with Iruka, too low for them to hear. Whatever it was, Iruka-sensei hadn’t liked it. His already pasty complexion paled further and Sarada swore his gaze flashed to Boruto’s seat, but it was too fast for her to be sure. If it did, it didn’t linger. Chōji and Chōchō left quickly after that.

Nara Temari showed up five minutes later. It was weird to see her with a battle fan on her back, but not as weird as the way Shikadai went so completely still. His green eyes shimmered and if Sarada didn’t know better she’d say he was either about to burst into tears or pass out. Perhaps he still would; Shikadai had been strange all day.

Temari surveyed the room, searching for some threat only she was aware of. The air grew heavy around her, a pressure Sarada got the impression she was just barely suppressing, and the little girl found she didn’t like the way Temari and Iruka exchanged glances. Everyone seemed to be doing a lot of that today.

“Shikadai, we’re going home. Now.” Her jade gaze, flinty and unyielding, switched to Inojin. “Inojin, you too.”

“Nara-sama, I can’t–” Iruka started, but was cut off by the scroll Temari sent sailing towards his face.

“Inojin too.”

Whatever was written on that scroll must have been important because Iruka blanched and hastily ushered Inojin forward. Sarada couldn’t blame the boy for the sudden trepidation that made itself at home on his face. If she recalled correctly, Nara-sama was Inojin’s emergency contact, to use only when his parents could not be reached. Either they were both out on missions – which Sarada knew they weren’t because her mother was supposed to have lunch with Ino today – or whatever happened required both the Jounin Commander and the Head of Torture and Interrogation. Or an extra medic. Inojin, who had held himself together so well, finally began to shake.

“Mom,” Shikadai trembled. “What–”

“Now.”

Shikadai shut up. He and Inojin hastily gathered their things and clamored down the stairs. With a protective hand on each of the boys’ shoulders, Temari swept them from the room, barely a nod given to Iruka.

Parents arrived in waves after that. Denki’s father picked him up personally, and two of the orphanage’s caretakers arrived for Sumire. Sarada almost didn’t believe it when Rock Lee came for Metaru without uttering a single “youth,” and Iwabee’s mother – a former Iwa kunoichi – showed up in full battle gear.

The class continued to empty and within minutes Sarada was the only one left. She expected her mother to have shown up by now, but the queasy inkling in her stomach – the one that’d been there since realizing Aunt Ino wasn’t home – told her differently. It was far more likely that Aunt Hinata would show up for her; she always did when Mama wasn’t available. But Hinata did not appear, and Iruka-sensei was already packing up his bag.

Wait, he’s not going to leave me here, is he? No, that wouldn’t make sense. Not if every student had to be escorted by their parents off the grounds.

“Sarada-chan,” Iruka-sensei finally said, once his bag was packed. He still looked unimaginably tired, but his face had gentled into something attempting a smile. It didn’t feel very real, but the effort was nice. He waved Nara-sama’s scroll in his hand. “I’m going to escort you to Aburame-sensei. He’ll be watching you until your mother is free.”

What? Sarada blanched. Shino-sensei was going to watch her? That wasn’t…huh?

Her confusion must have shown on her face because Iruka-sensei was quick to say, “Hokage-sama has decided it was for the best. He has your mother working on something important, and he and his wife are unavailable, so it was decided it was best you stay with Shino-sensei.”

Okay, ignoring the fact that that made literally no sense, Sarada knew for a fact that she was supposed to stay with Iruka-sensei and Kakashi-sama if ever the event arose that neither her mother nor the Uzumaki were available. If anything she should be going home with him.

But Iruka-sensei’s eyes were crinkled just a little too tightly and Sarada decided now was not the time to push her luck. If Nara-sama’s scroll told her to go with Shino-sensei then that’s what she would do. It was no doubt Hokage-sama’s direct orders. So, with only slight hesitation, Sarada gathered her belongings and ambled down the steps towards Iruka. He took her hand in his, an action that on any other day would have embarrassed Sarada to no end, and, with his scar still stretched by a smile, led her out of the Academy.

If there was one thing Sarada noticed about their trip it was how tense the village was. There were an inordinate number of shinobi about. They flickered across the rooftops in teams of three or more, eyes hawk-like as they searched about for some unseen threat. Civilians traveled in groups, making purchases quickly where they might have otherwise stopped to chat, and they all walked with their heads half-turned as if waiting for something to appear over their shoulders.

Once, just once, Sarada felt courageous enough to ask, “Iruka-sensei, what happened?”

“Not here, Sarada-chan,” the teacher warned, eyes alert to the road ahead. “Wait until you get home.” Sarada wanted to fight him, ask him why he wouldn’t answer her when it was so obvious something was wrong, but she didn’t. Instinct told her to wait for her mama.

Instead, Sarada pulled herself closer to the principal in an attempt at imagined safety. She didn’t know what was going on, but the air smelled of soot and burnt copper, and the longer they stayed outside the more her senses burned. She wanted to go home.

It took twenty minutes to reach the Aburame compound from the Academy, but by time they arrived it was a wonder Iruka could still feel his hand Sarada had been clutching it so hard. The compound was beautiful, awash with flowers even this late into the year, with high-domed rooftops and greenhouses filled to the brim with fluttering insects. There were few members out and about, none of who were younger than fifteen, but it wasn’t until Iruka-sensei was knocking on the door of the largest building that Sarada caught a glimpse of their shadows.

ANBU. There were ANBU on the rooftops, watching Shino-sensei’s house. Her breath caught in her throat.

Of all the places in the village, why were there ANBU here?

“Sara-nee-chan!”

Himawari. Sarada took in a deep, shuddering breath and braced herself as the little girl plowed into her side. Her arms automatically wrapped around the five-year-old, but her mind was a mile away.

Himawari was here. Himawari was here with the ANBU. The ANBU were here for Himawari.

“Hokage-sama decided it was for the best.”

Sarada’s dark eyes rounded behind her glasses. No. The ANBU were here for her and Himawari.

Before the idea had time to take root, Himawari had already dislodged herself from Sarada and launched into Iruka-sensei’s arms with a loud cry of, “Ruka-jiji!”

Iruka let out a loud guffaw as he pulled the girl up into his arms and spun her around, much to Himawari’s delight. She let out a loud shriek, her arms locked around his neck. It reminded Sarada of her own time under Iruka’s care before she entered the Academy, though even then he’d never been so unrestrained.

Idly, she wondered if he was like that with Boruto once, too.

“Iruka-san!” A bright, cheery voice that didn’t match any Aburame Sarada knew called from the foyer. “I see you’ve brought Sarada-chan.”

“Aburame-san,” Iruka greeted.

“Bah! How many times do I have to tell you to call me Sanko?”

Iruka-sensei laughed. “My apologies, Sanko-san.”

“Your apologies, huh? I guess I’ll believe you; right up until next time I have to remind you, at least.” She flashed him a smile full of teasing pearly whites before reaching out her arm for the girls. “Welcome to the Aburame Hive, Sarada-chan. Don’t worry, we don’t bite until after lunch, so you’re safe until then, right Himawari-chan?”

“Right!”

“That’s my girl. Now, I’ve prepared some snacks so how ‘bout we let Iruka-sensei get back to his work, hm? We all know how bereft he gets when he’s away from the Academy for too long.”

“I do not, Sanko-san.”

“That’s not what my husband tells me.”

“I doubt that.”

“Oh really?” She tossed her head back towards the interior. “Shino! What happens when Iruka-sensei spends too long outside the Academy?”

A faint buzzing was the only reply she got, but it was enough to send the teal-haired woman into hysterics. Sarada stared, perplexed. It took a minute to sink in that this strangely upbeat woman was Shino-sensei’s wife, but with that came a whole slew of questions that were enough to completely overshadow all the other oddness of the day. Shino-sensei was married? Like, actually married? To a person? How could she not have known this? Did everyone else know? Was she honestly the last to find out? Did Chōchō know, or was she finally the first one in on a piece of gossip?

Himawari tugged at the hem of the woman’s apron. “Sanko-oba-chan?”

“Hm? Yes, Hima-chan?”

“I know what happens when Ruka-jiji stays away too long. Boru-nii told me.”

Something indescribable flashed across the woman’s face at the mention of Boruto, but she covered it quickly with a wild smile. “Oh? And what did your brother tell you?”

“He im’lodes!”

“Hah! Did you hear that, Iruka-sensei? Too long outside the Academy and you’ll implode.”

Iruka was decidedly unimpressed. “Yes, I think I did hear something like that.”

“From Kakashi?” Sanko asked, eyes a twinkle.

“He certainly didn’t deny it.”

“Well, of course he didn’t; it’s true! But at the risk of cleaning Iruka-sensei soup off the front porch, it’s probably best to let you go. Can’t have you imploding on our watch; Rokudaime-sama would pout.” She winked a bright orange eye in the girls’ direction and ushered them inside. “Say goodbye, girls! Iruka-sensei’s got a lot to do today.”

“Bye, ‘Ruka-jiji!”

“Goodbye, Iruka-sensei.”

Iruka’s eyes crinkled. “Goodbye, Hima-chan, Sarada-chan. Be good for Aburame-san.”

“Kay!”

“We will, Iruka-sensei.”

“Oi, what did I say about my name, Iruka-san?” But the teacher had already vanished before Sanko could continue and she heaved a sigh. “That man. I swear he does it on purpose.” She shook her head, but her smile had softened and she waved in the direction of the back door. “Now, fun as I am, I know you girls don’t want to spend all your time with boring old me. If I’m not mistaken, Shiro should still in the greenhouse, if you’d like to join him.”

Shiro?

Shiro, as it turned out, was Shino-sensei’s son. He was around Himawari’s age – perhaps a little younger – with his mother’s disposition and his father’s looks. He’d just been given his first hive and had a difficult time in reining the kikaichū in. It became readily apparent that Shino-sensei suffered under his wife and son’s boisterousness, and no matter how much he tried to temper his son’s tendencies it wasn’t going to work. Everyone was just going to have to live with the little boy’s bugs buzzing around until he was old enough to get a better grasp on his emotions, something that, with his energy levels, was bound to take years.

The teacher stuck close to the children as they puttered about the adjacent greenhouse. Kikaichū of all types buzzed about the room, so many that Shiro’s lack of control was negligible and Sarada kept a running tally of all the flowers and fruit trees she encountered. The Aburame greenhouses were abundant enough to rival the Yamanaka gardens, and a part of her wondered if the Yamanaka had some sort of deal with the bug clan before deciding they must. There simply wasn’t any other way for the Yamanaka to have enough supplies otherwise.

Sanko joined them sporadically. She came in every so often with a tray full of sweets and enough funny stories about Shino that Sarada was quite sure she’d never be able to look her teacher in the eye ever again. Aunt Hinata was too polite to ever tell stories other than the ones that put her old teammates in a heroic light, and Sarada didn’t know Kiba well enough to get any good ones out of him. It was unlikely she’d ever see this side of Shino-sensei again and Sarada was determined to soak up every word. But despite the teasing, it was obvious that the two were head-over-heels for each other. They were always touching, small little grazes against arms and knuckles and fingers, and Sarada could have made a game out of the number of times Sanko snuck up on her husband only to lay a quick kiss on his cheek.

Somewhere, in the depths of her subconscious, she wondered if her parents were ever like that.

Hours passed. The brilliance of Shino’s home was almost enough to quell Sarada’s trepidation and fears, but every so often she would catch a glimpse of one of the ANBU. It would instantly bring everything back – up to and including the nausea – and it would take Shino-sensei’s hand on her shoulder and a new distraction to fully calm her again. The younger children were lucky in that regard. Himawari and Shiro rushed about with all the abandon of childhood naivety, though once or twice Sarada caught Himawari’s blue eyes gazing distantly out the window, as if sheer force of will could make her family reappear. Sarada knew the feeling well and was quick to channel the girl’s attention back towards the flowers or the fruit or whatever it was she’d been so engrossed it prior.

By the end of the day, Sarada had managed to settle her fear down into a small flare under her ribcage. The danger felt distant now, as if the morning hadn’t actually happened, and the longer Sarada stayed within the warm bubble of the Aburame compound the deeper she fell into the illusion. It was nice, to not feel the unsettling terror that permeated the world outside. For a short time, Sarada’s mind wasn’t plagued with fear or questions, and it probably would have continued like that if not for Himawari.

Whatever had happened while Sarada was at school haunted the little girl. As the day grew darker, Himawari became more and more morose. Her eyes flittered back and forth to the door as if she could will her parents into being, and she refused to part with her stuffed panda bear even after Sarada said it might get damaged by their kunai training. Shiro’s accidents stopped making her giggle and, once the sun went down, even Sanko’s stories weren’t enough to raise a smile.

“Are you okay, Hima-chan?” Sarada asked once they had a moment to themselves. Shiro was in the next room helping his mother with dinner and the girls were washing up in the bathroom.

Himawari didn’t answer at first, biting her little lip nervously. Sarada waited patiently as she fumbled for something to say. When the child finally spoke, it was barely a whisper. “Mama was crying.”

Sarada’s eyes widened. “What?”

“Mama was crying,” Hima rasped, blue eyes wet and quivering. “She was crying and daddy was angry. He was really, really angry. No one will tell me anything and–and I can’t find Boru-nii,” she broke off with a wail.

Sarada immediately fell to the floor and pulled the girl into a hug. She stroked Himawari’s hair, doing her best to sooth away the tears. The stuffed bear made it a little awkward, but it was all Sarada could offer when her own throat was so clogged she couldn’t even find her voice.

You idiot, what did you do?

The explosion. It had to be the explosion. This was so much more than one missed class. This was…she didn’t even know what this was.

“If something happened to him, it’s on me.”

Shikadai’s ominous condemnation echoed in her mind. He’d been so pale, so terrified, so ready to think the worst. But it wasn’t possible! Not in Konoha. They were safe. They were safe, they were safe, they were safe!

Shikadai’s a genius.

He doesn’t know everything.

He knows more than you. He knew Boruto was stopping at the bakery. He knew Boruto was supposed to be right behind him. He knew Boruto would never skip class.

He’s not omniscient.

He uses his head. There are ANBU outside these walls, and they’re not just for Himawari.

But we’re safe.

Are we?

The familiar taste of bile tingled her tongue, burning her throat as every possible scenario rushed though her head. Was she safe? Were her friends? Was Boruto really hurt? How badly? Was he in that explosion? There was no way he could have gotten so far out into the forest without help, but Boruto was just the special type of troublemaker to manage it.

Please don’t be mixed up in this, dum-dum.

But there was no denying he was. They’d done roll call three times. Inojin had gone home with the Nara. There were ANBU guarding Himawari, ANBU that weren’t even making an attempt at subtlety. Shino-sensei was watching her – not her mother, and not the Uzumaki. Whatever situation Boruto had gotten himself mixed up in was enough to require the Head Medic, the Head of Torture and Interrogation, the Jounin Commander, and the Hokage.

Please be okay, idiot. Please be okay.

She pulled Himawari closer.

Boruto was her best friend. Not in the same way he was with Shikadai or she was with Chōchō, but that didn’t make it any less true. They’d grown up together, even shared a crib at one point in their lives. He knew everything about her. As much as he annoyed her, she still loved him and the thought of something happening to him didn’t even bear thinking about.

Shino rushed in through the doorway, alerted by Himawari’s cries. The child didn’t notice, but Sarada squinted up at her teacher with a mixture of panic and relief. Shino-sensei would know what to do. He always knew what to do.

“Sarada-chan,” Shino began, shuffling further into the washroom. “What happened?”

“She, um…” She idly adjusted her glasses. What was she supposed to say?

Himawari solved the problem with her next sob. “I want Boru-nii!”

Shino tensed, sending Sarada’s heart plummeting into her stomach. Shino-sensei was an Aburame; demonstrative was not a word generally associated with them. It didn’t last long, thank the gods, as the man was quick to hide whatever tension he felt, but the fact that it happened at all was enough. Something happened to Boruto. Something very bad, and Sarada was about one second away from vomiting. She forced herself to focus on her teacher in an effort to stave off the nausea, but was afraid it just made everything worse.

Shino-sensei crouched down on the floor next to the girls and sat there as calmly as his clan was famous for. His head bowed forward in an effort to attract Himawari’s attention.

“Himawari-chan, Boruto-kun is not here right now.”

“I want Boru-nii!” She wailed again like he hadn’t even spoken.

“Boruto-kun is with your parents. They will come get you as soon as they can.”

Himawari sniffled and removed her face from Sarada’s shoulder. The cloth was cold and wet against the older girl’s skin, a sensation she dully ignored in favor of keeping Himawari calm. The little girl peered up at her uncle with red-rimmed eyes. “I wanna go home now. I want mama and daddy and Boru-nii.”

Shino sighed in resignation, and reached out his arms to take the girl into his own. Sarada eased the transfer, standing Himawari somewhere between them with Shino’s hands clasped under her armpits. “I know you desire to go home, Himawari-chan, however that option is not available. Boruto-kun and your parents are not there. It is a difficult situation.”

“But I want them!” She stomped her little foot on the ground. “I want them right now!” And she was crying again, swinging her arms and legs this way and that, a few even striking true. Her poor bear was going to loose all its stuffing at this rate.

The Aburame didn’t fight her. Sarada stared as he rode out the frenzy, lifting the flailing girl into his arms. His whole body was relaxed and gentle as he slowly began to rock her back and forth. Sarada had never seen her teacher so nurturing.

She hoped it helped Himawari because it did absolutely nothing for her. He wouldn’t even explain where Boruto was. Shino-sensei always expounded on his explanations. It’s what made him such a great teacher. Sarada twiddled anxiously with her glasses and forced herself to ignore the caustic scent building in the back of her nose.

“Shino-sensei?” She chanced.

The man didn’t speak. He just lifted one finger behind Himawari’s back in the universal sign for patience. Sarada could only nod and held in her question, though she never got the chance to ask it. Not a minute after Shino took Himawari into his arms, the doorbell rang.

Shino’s kikaichū surged out from under his sleeves in a great rush that forced Sarada back onto her butt in surprise.

“Sh-Shino-sensei!”

It was violent, so much so that she became paralyzed by the swarm. A small collection of insects flew out the bathroom door while the rest remained, flocking around the trio in a defensive bubble. Shino sat still, clutching Himawari just a tad closer, while Sarada lay frozen on the floor waiting for him to tell her it was safe to move.

Thankfully, the bugs returned quickly, humming all the while, and Shino relaxed. Whoever was at the door wasn’t a threat.

He roved covered eyes to her. “Sarada-chan, your mother has arrived to take you home.”

“But Himawari–”

“Is perfectly safe. Your mother has had a long day and I am sure she wishes to see you.”

Sarada barely had the presence of mind to agree, her eyes flickering to glimpse at Himawari’s still trembling form and then up again at Shino – protective, terrifying Shino. It suddenly wasn’t so hard to imagine him during the war. Gods, why had he settled on being an Academy teacher? He could have easily joined ANBU.

“Sarada. You shouldn’t keep your mother waiting.”

Her mother? What–? Sarada’s dark eyes rounded. Oh gods, mama! “R-right!”

She scurried up from the floor, all other thoughts pushed to the back of her mind as it finally registered that her mama was here. Really, truly here. In her haste, Sarada abandoned all her lessons on proper decorum and rushed pell-mell towards the front entrance. She just barely missed crashing into Sanko, but was too focused on reaching her mother to care.

Sakura stood in the doorway obviously tired and careworn. Her clothes were rumpled, her hair sweaty and mused, and her skin pale from exhaustion. The expression on her face was subdued, but she still managed to smile the instant Sarada came into her line of sight. Sarada smiled back happily, jumping into her mother’s arms and embracing her with all the strength she could muster. Sakura held her just as fiercely.

In that instant, Sarada was quite sure there was nothing better than her mother’s hugs.

“I missed you,” Sakura murmured into her ear, tilting her head and kissing her daughter’s hair.

“I missed you too, mama,” she replied. Her eyes squeezed shut and she reveled in the sensation of her mother against her. She was so warm.

Sarada pulled back after a minute, not because she wanted to, but because she could feel the way her mother’s tired limbs flagged against her back. The young girl’s mouth twisted in concern, and she moved her hands up to cup her mother’s cheeks. Her eyebrows knitted together and her glasses slipped. “Mama?”

Sakura smiled. “I’m okay, honey.” But she didn’t sound okay. In fact, she sounded distinctly haggard. Sarada would have voiced her concern right there if Sanko hadn’t chosen that moment to clear her throat.

Sarada didn’t know why, but she swore her mother flinched, if just for a second.

“Sanko-san,” her mother said, eyes weary. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to–”

The teal-haired woman waved the apology away. “No, no. I get it. I just thought you’d want this. It’s been a long night and you shouldn’t have to worry about cooking.” She held a carefully wrapped container up to them, the packaging not enough to stop the delicious scent from wafting through. Belatedly, Sarada realized it was the very dinner she and Shiro had been so busy preparing. Strange, the wrapping looked familiar.

“Oh, no. We can’t take your dinner from you,” her mother argued, even though she had to know it was moot. One day of knowing the woman and Sarada could already tell her mama wasn’t going to win this argument. The Taki kunoichi was the closest thing to a mother bear since Chōchō’s grandmother.

As expected, Sanko waved the argument away. “Nonsense! It’s late, you’re tired, and I have enough food to feed Konoha. If you don’t take it, it’ll just go to waste.”

Her mother heaved an exasperated sigh. “Sanko…”

“Sakura.”

“You’re not going to let this go are you?”

“What do you think?”

“No.”

“Then why bother arguing when you already know the outcome, hm?”

Slowly, her mother’s lips twitched, a shallow hinting of a smile, and she graciously took the package into her free hand. “I had to try.”

“Course you did.”

“You’re not forcing food on them again, are you?” Shino questioned, gaining their attention. Himawari had calmed down and now appeared to be teetering on the edge of sleep, her head nestled into the crook of her uncle’s neck and bear tucked securely into her side. Little Shiro poked his head out curiously from behind Shino’s leg.

His wife barked. “Ha! Forcing? Nothing forceful about it. Better it fill someone’s stomach than our garbage, after all.”

For some reason, Sarada got the distinct impression her teacher was rolling his eyes. An old argument then, and one her mother was accustomed too. She narrowed her eyes. How…?

Oh!

That’s why the packaging looked so familiar. Her mother often came home late with similar bento teeming with food for them both. She always said they were from one of her colleagues.

“Are you a doctor?” The seven-year-old asked before she could stop herself.

Luckily, Sanko took the inquiry with good humor. Either she realized where Sarada’s mind had gone, or she was just that accustomed to random questions. “A doctor? Nah. I’m a nurse, honey. But I’ve been working with your mother ever since the war ended. She’d probably have starved without me.”

“I would not,” but Sakura wouldn’t look at them.

Sanko just winked. “She’s lying. She totally would’ve.” But then a look of contemplation stretched across her face and she tapped her chin. “Which does remind me, I should probably wrap up some leftovers for Ino and Hinata. Hokage-sama and Nara-sama, too. Oh and…” she continued to tally off names under her breath. Without even bothering to say goodbye, she plucked Himawari out of Shino’s arms and commandeered Shiro for her crusade to feed the top brass of Konoha. It would have been funny if Sarada weren’t so bewildered.

“We need to eat too,” Shino called back to her, deadpanned, but she was already out of view and it seemed to be out of habit anyway.

Her mother chuckled. “You might want to hurry or she’ll really give everything away.”

Shino shrugged. “There’s always take-out.”

“Well thank her for me, would you? She really didn’t have to.”

Shino bowed his head. “I will, though for your health and mine I will leave out your second statement. Why? Because she would not listen anyway.”

“Of course she wouldn’t. She never does. But,” and she hoisted the bento up an inch, “I am grateful. It would have been take-out otherwise.”

“Never the better option,” Shino agreed.

“No.” Her face gentled. “But thank you, Shino. For today. I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t–”

Shino halted her with a raised hand. “It was my pleasure, Sakura-san. Sarada-chan was very helpful. Why? Because she was able to help me care for Himawari-chan.”

“Really?” Sakura peered down at her daughter with a prideful gleam that rosy-ed Sarada’s cheeks. “I’m glad she was of help. Now if only she was so good at home.”

“Mama!”

Sakura laughed; a light, tinkling sound that made the girl flush. “I’m just teasing, honey.” She shifted, her arm wrapping around the little girl. “But we should probably let you go. Wait too long and Sanko will give away your whole dinner.”

“It would not be the first time,” Shino admitted blithely. “As it were, I’d be much more concerned of yours going cold. Have a good night, Sakura-san, Sarada-chan.”

“Goodnight, Shino-san. Thank you again!”

“Thank you, Shino-sensei,” Sarada echoed. “Will you tell Shiro and Himawari I said goodbye?”

“Of course.”

Sarada flashed him a grin and quickly moved to grab her coat and schoolbag. Once her jacket fit snuggly, Sarada and her mother left Shino to his family and made their way out of the Aburame compound.

There was no leisurely night walk as they might have usually done. No, tonight her mother leapt up over rooftops in an unusual hurry, carrying Sarada to their house in silence. It was strange to see the village so still and empty, the only people visible being active duty shinobi. They were stopped just once, and the guard quickly let them go once mama confirmed her identity. Sarada found it downright bizarre.

They arrived home not long after and Sakura made a show of checking the house before she even thought of putting Sarada down. Once satisfied they were alone, Sakura locked all the doors and windows, and even went so far as to activate the perimeter seals. Considering the fact that doing so wouldn’t deter any determined assailant, Sarada concluded it was only to give her mother some peace of mind.

The two didn’t talk much the next few hours. They ate Sanko’s dish in silence, and watched a movie neither was particularly interested in but which filled the house with enough noise so as to not be awkward. Sarada desperately wanted to ask her mother about Boruto, but every time she tried the words got stuck in her throat. So she kept quiet, eyes flickering every once in a while to catch her mother’s far-off gaze.

What are you seeing, mama? But she wasn’t sure she wanted the answer.

It wasn’t until her mother was tucking her into bed that Sarada finally gathered the courage to ask her question. There were many ways she could have phrased it:

What happened?

Why are you so tired?

What exploded?

Why is everyone so scared?

But the one that actually made it out was, “Mama, where’s Boruto?”

Sakura froze, her fingers stilling along the sheets. Her forehead wrinkled in such a way that the diamond was almost completely obscured and her hands trembled against the bed. Guilt instantly welled up in Sarada’s stomach and she looked away.

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have-”

“Sarada,” her mother interrupted. The girl whirled her head back instinctually. Sakura lowered herself onto the edge of the bed and searched her daughter’s face. Whatever she found, it made her sigh. “I should have expected you’d ask. We weren’t very good at hiding it, were we?”

The girl shook her head vigorously. “No, no! It’s just that, well, Himawari was crying and he wasn’t in school today and there was an explosion and Iruka-sensei made us leave and we weren’t allowed to watch TV and everyone’s acting really weird and-”

“Sarada, Sarada!” Sakura shushed her, her face relaxing into an understanding smile. “Breathe, honey. I get it. I guess it was pretty obvious. You’re not babies anymore, after all. It’s a bit more difficult to hide things.”

“You shouldn’t have to hide things.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry,” Sakura replied. She reached down and stroked her daughter’s hair. “It just takes a bit of adjustment when I’m so used to you being a little girl in need of my protection.”

“Well, I’m not that little anymore.”

“I know, and I know you want to know what happened, but there are some things I can’t tell you just yet. Some things you don’t need to know. Okay?” Her hand paused on her daughter’s head.

Sarada nodded. “Okay.”

“Good,” she kissed the girl’s forehead. “But seeing as you’re old enough to ask, I suppose it means you’re old enough to understand what I can tell you.” Sakura took a deep breath – to brace herself, Sarada realized – and for a moment said nothing. Then, placing her hand on the back of Sarada’s head, she said, “Sometimes, when you come from a prominent family, you have to be on the lookout for those who want to hurt you because of it.”

 “I know that, mama. You told me that when I was, like, four.” She’d lost count of the number of times she’d been forced to sit through the whole spiel.

‘You’re an Uchiha, Sarada.’

‘Your papa has many enemies, Sarada.’

Her mama had made her very aware that there might be people out there who wanted to hurt her for her bloodline, but what did that have to do with Boruto? There were plenty of Hyūga out there and it wasn’t like he had the Byakugan. At least, she didn’t think he did, and even if that were the case surely there were easier targets than–

The Hokage’s son.

Sarada couldn’t breathe.

Sakura only smiled, strained, as if she knew exactly where Sarada's thoughts had led her and was trying to soften the blow. “I know you know, honey. What I’m trying to say is that, as Hokage-sama’s son, Boruto is a prime target for some of these people. There are a lot of criminals out there who think Boruto is a good way to get money, and they will do whatever they think they have to to get him.”

“S-so, wait.” Breathe. “S-someone tried to–they tried to–” Sarada couldn’t finish. Her words came out in stopgap stutters as she tried to wrap her brain around the fact that Boruto had been…had been…

Her mother nodded, jade eyes solemn. “Yes. We managed to catch them in time and Boruto is going to be fine, but someone did try to kidnap him.”

The room spun. Sarada wasn’t even aware of her mother anymore as a cold sweat broke across her skin. There was a pressure behind her eyes that she fervently tried to ignore and the bed seemed to fall away beneath her.

She’d been in class. She’d been joking with Chōchō and laughing about stupid little crushes while Boruto was locked under the arms of a stranger probably terrified out of his mind. How had she even thought to – what? Laugh? There was no reason for the bottomless well of guilt pooling inside her. How could she have known? How could anyone have known?

Shikadai knew. He knew something was wrong.

Oh gods, Shikadai. He was going to go ballistic, and Himawari…

You have to be okay, dummy. You just…you have to be okay.

A sudden thought occurred to her, one that sent her mind grinding to a halt. “Mama,” she whispered, “W-when did you find out?” Because Shikadai had come in long before Shino-sensei, and combined with the roll call…that was a long time for no one to be searching for him. “He went to the bakery. That’s not far from the Academy. Y-you had to know then, right? You knew right away.” She begged her mother to tell her that Boruto had already been saved before Shino-sensei noticed his absence in class, that he wasn’t part of that awful explosion, but her mother only stared unseeing at the sheets. “Mama?”

“No, Sarada. Nobody knew.”

“So, when Shino-sensei left…”

“He went to let Hokage-sama know Boruto was missing,” Sakura finished for her. “It’s a very good thing he did, too. Shino-sensei probably saved Boruto’s life.”

“Saved his life?” Sarada swallowed harshly. “But you said he was fine. You said he was gonna be fine.”

Something – something dark – flickered behind her mother’s eyes, like the shutter of a camera closing on an unpleasant picture.

“Mama?”

“Yes, Sarada,” Sakura said, haggard and still and smiling so tightly it obscured her eyes. “He’s going to be fine.”

Liar.

Sarada reached for the trash bin just in time for her stomach to fully rebel. Gurgling burps pushed the puke forward and her tongue burned at the caustic taste. She could smell the pungent odor in her nose as it clogged with snot, the pressure of cotton in her ears, and the unpleasant flush of icy heat that coated her body and made even her mother’s touch an unwelcomed one.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Sakura soothed, rubbing circles along her back. Her mother had been kind enough to remove her glasses before they fell into the pile of vomit, but she could do nothing for the deluge of tears that streamed down Sarada’s face.

She babbled, lips coated in chunks of half-digested dinner. Not a word of it made sense, choked by tears as they were, but in her head she cycled them all on repeat. Idiot. You’re such an idiot, Boru. You’re such an idiot. Please be okay. Please be okay. Idiot. You’re such an idiot.

Eventually, the vomiting stopped, leaving her with a hollow sensation deep in her gut and a burned throat. Her mother wiped away the remaining bile from her lips and pressed a cold glass of water to her mouth that she drank greedily. It tasted rancid with the after bite of acid, but she was too parched to care and too tired to argue.

She just wanted this day to end. She just wanted to pretend this never happened.

Her mother’s arms wound around her and Sarada happily sank into the warm embrace. Tears dripped down her cheeks, quieter now that the nausea was gone. She sniffled, her nose still stuffy and her body sticky with sweat. Any minute now her mama would run a chakra-wrapped hand over her head to sooth the oncoming headache, as was the custom whenever Sarada got sick. She waited for it with each stroke through her hair, but it never came.

Sarada’s eyes flew open. Her mother wasn’t using any medical jutsu. Why–?

She pushed aside her own discomfort for a moment and concentrated on her mother’s embrace. It was warm, certainly, and held with it all the promises of safety, but every so often her arms would tremble or her body dip in the telltale signs of exhaustion.

She can’t, Sarada realized with a start. Her mother was too drained to heal her. But what could have possibly pushed the Uchiha Sakura to such a point?

Boruto.

She stiffened and her mother peered down at her in confusion. “Sarada?”

Sarada did not respond. She was too busy trying to push aside the mounting horror pulsating throughout her body.

“He’s going to be fine.”

Liar.

Fine did not leave her mother so drained she couldn’t heal a fish. Fine did not take all day. Fine did not have Sakura lying through her damn teeth.

“Sarada, what’s wrong?”

Everything. This morning her life had been normal. She’d done her homework, gone to school, and expected to finish her day as she had every other. Learning one of her friends was in the hospital, possibly dying, was not how she’d ever thought this day would go.

But how to explain that to her mother, who wouldn’t even own up to the fact that not everything was hunky-dory? She sniffled again, trying to gain some modicum of control back over her voice, but failed miserably.

“Mama?” She choked on another round of sobs. Gods, why was this so difficult? “You’re gonna make Boruto better, right? You won’t let him get hurt anymore?”

Her mother tensed, arms constricting around her before slowly relaxing. Did she get that Sarada knew she was lying? Maybe, maybe not. Sakura squeezed her once. “I’ll do my best, my love. I’ll do my best.”

That, at least, Sarada could accept. Her mama was the best medic in the village. If she said she would do her best, then Boruto would be just fine. He’d be fine and he’d come back to school and everything would go back to normal.

She snuggled further into her mother’s arms and tried to convince herself it was true.     

“…missing something."

“…Tenten found…”

“…can’t understand...breaks too many laws of…”

The choppy voices reverberating out into the dimly lit hallways of Torture and Interrogation were almost enough to make Shikamaru turn around and head back the way he came. From the outside, he could just make out the anxious lilt of Ino’s tone and the urgent one in Sai’s. Neither spelled good news, and the only reason he didn’t turn away right then and there was the threat of prospective trouble should he do so.

He was tired, overwhelmingly so, and he would later blame this exhaustion and the desire to go home that had him barging into Ino’s office without so much as a cleared throat. “Please tell me this isn’t as bad at sounds from out there.”

“Shikamaru!” Ino whirled around, blonde ponytail whacking her husband on the shoulder. “Learn to knock, why don’t you!”

“Sorry,” he said, lacking an ounce of actual apology. “It’s been a long day. Have you found something?”

Ino scoffed, stepping back from Sai to perch along the edge of her desk. “If by ‘something’ you mean unintelligible gibberish, then yes. Tell me if you can understand this.” She motioned to Sai who immediately handed over a packet of meticulously drawn sealing matrices for him to peruse. Some of them looked to have been placed atop sketches of various weaponry while others lay along human outlines. “Tenten found them everywhere.”

“Seals?” He wasn’t as familiar with the art as Sai, Tenten or Naruto, but he’d seen enough over the years to pick out the inconsistencies.

“Yep,” Ino said. “On clothes, weapons, bandages, bags – you name it, it’s there. And get this, the medical reports all came back conclusive for full body fūinjutsu.”

“What?” The only full-body fūinjutsu he knew of were Naruto’s Kyuubi cloak and Orochimaru’s cursed seals. Which, if Orochimaru was behind this, made a sick sort of sense. “All of them?”

“Mmhm, but the ones we’re most concerned about are these four.” She gathered four manila folders from the desk and slid them over for Shikamaru to peruse. He flickered through them, but could see nothing at the offset that would indicate anything unsettling. If anything, they were all startlingly average.

“Why them?”

“They’re related. It’s still unclear as to the exact connection, but the equipment we confiscated off them was…strange.”

“Strange how? Are we thinking kekkei genkai?”

“Nothing showed up in their blood work, but their weapons are different and the sealing matrices are almost a complete inverse of the others’.”

“Do we know what they do?”

“No, and that’s the problem,” Sai interjected. His face was a blank mask; a warning sign if ever there was one. “There’s no record of seals like these. What’s more, they’re breaking a fundamental law of fūinjutsu.”

Shikamaru’s brow furrowed. “How so?”

Sai waffled, but where any other shinobi might have fidgeted, he remained at attention. It would have been impressive if it weren’t so sad. “I don’t know how to explain it.”

“Try.”

There was a pause, slight, as Sai tried to come up with some way of explaining it to the uninitiated. “Fūinjutsu works similar to a circuit,” he eventually said. “Open the gate or break the connection and the seal won’t work. These seals appear to work opposite that law, as if the chakra current can ‘jump’ the gap.”

“Do we know how?”

“No,” Sai shook his head, “and we haven’t been able to figure it out. Channeling our chakra into the matrix did nothing, as would be expected from a broken seal.”

“And the prisoners didn’t even react when we bound their chakra,” his wife continued. They made for quite a ghostly pair amongst the shadows of the room. “We were afraid the overlay would cause some sort of averse reaction, but nothing happened."

“So if the seals are useless, what’s the problem?”

Sai and Ino exchanged furtive glances. With a nudge of her head, Ino motioned to her husband; of the three, he was the most versed in fūinjutsu. The man let out a quiet sigh, but pointed to a seal located around the hand region on one of the body diagrams. “This. The seal just stops as if cut in half. That’s not possible under every known law of fūinjutsu. You’d be lucky to get blown up. They shouldn’t even be stable enough to be inert.”

Shikamaru’s eyebrows rose to the hairline. “Have you told the Hokage?” Doubtful, otherwise Shikamaru probably would have heard of it already, but it was the smartest course of action. Naruto had worked his ass off ever since the war to become a master in the art.

“It’s in our reports,” Ino said. “Not that we were able to write anything about them other than ‘this is fucking weird.’”

Sai nodded. “The good news it that there appears to be enough of a commonality between them that once we figure out the matrix on one item, it should be easy enough to do the same with the rest.”

“Yeah, well I’m going to take a wild guess and say it’s not going to be as easy as you’re making it sound.” If anything Sai had just jinxed them.

“Probably not, no.”

“Troublesome.” Why couldn’t it just be a random gang out to make some quick cash? Shikamaru rubbed a tired hand along the bridge of his nose. “I’ll update Naruto in the morning. In the meantime, keep trying to see if you can get the matrices to work. And keep a close eye on the prisoners. If the containment seals do start reacting, I want to know immediately.” They couldn’t afford another explosion right now.

“Of course. I’ll let Tenten know.” He turned to his wife, eyes softening a fraction. “See you at home?”

“Yeah,” Ino smiled, pulling herself to her feet and planting a quick kiss to his cheek. “Anko should be in to relieve me soon. I’ll pick up Inojin and meet you there.”

“Sounds good. Have a good night, Shikamaru-san.” Sai tossed him a small wave as he turned away and headed out the door.

“Night,” Shikamaru called after him.

The door closed with a soft click, leaving the teammates alone in the darkened office. There were no windows this far below ground, and Ino was just the right sort of dramatic to keep it dim for the sake of ambiance. What little light she did keep bounced off the mahogany furniture in such a way as to make the room appear like it was bleeding. A part of him wondered if this was standard issue for T&I or if it was simply Ino’s own macabre sense of humor shining through.

He raised an eyebrow at her. “You do know you have blood on your collar, right?”

“Hm?” The blonde woman craned her neck and glanced down, flicking a thumb across the stain. “Oh, you’re right. Thanks, Shika.”

The man rolled his eyes. “Alright, aside from some seals you can’t make heads or tails of, have you got anything else to show for that ruined shirt?”

“Ruined? I’ve had worse on this shirt than a drop of blood. You know that.” She flicked a blonde bang out of her face. “But if you’ve come here to ask me if I’ve broken anyone yet, you’re out of luck. The furthest I’ve got are those charts,” and she pointed towards the diagrams still held in his hands.

“That’s it?”

She shrugged a delicate shoulder. “Unless you want to know their dinner habits, too. Interrogation takes time, Shikamaru. I barely had time to review those, never mind dig into their heads.”

Shikamaru scowled. “You have a whole department.”

“Yes, and most of them are part-time. Hell, even I’m considered part-time. We have seven prisoners, Shikamaru. That’s seven medical examinations, seven seal inspections, and twenty-one interrogators if we want to keep to the speed you’re asking for. These people are locked tighter than Danzo’s bank account. We have to break down restraints, make them malleable, tear through mental shields, all while making sure we don’t accidentally activate whatever sealing they’ve bathed themselves in, before we can even hope to find anything useful. I’m not going to get them all in a day. You want results so badly go bug Forehead and Tsunade-sama; autopsy’s got to be through at least some of the bodies.”

“Autopsy’s barely started.”

Ino’s mouth fell. “What? How is that possible?”

“Naruto restricted the access to A-rank clearance and above. Aside from you, Tsunade, Sakura and Shizune, the number of people available is disturbingly thin. Shizune’s not here, you’re doing this, and Sakura and Tsunade are so drained they couldn’t heal a fish if they tried.”

“They’re still drained?”

Shikamaru slumped, his shoulders falling as the sound of grating teeth filled the office. Rage radiated off him, Ino’s desk lamp casting shadows along his frame. All it would take was a little bit of concentration and those shadows would easily coil their way around each and every prisoner, suffocating and toying with them until they talked. “Boruto just came out of surgery, Ino.”

“Just?” That was impossible. It was almost nine at night. Her fingers brushed along the dark red desk as she caught herself against it. “It’s been twelve hours.”

“Yeah,” the man nodded with barely restrained composure. “And he was in surgery for nine of them.”

“Nine?” Nine hours of surgery. Under Tsunade and Sakura. Ino’s butt hit the desk with a thump. She tried to imagine Inojin under those circumstances and couldn’t get past the thought of a paper cut.

“Nine,” Shikamaru confirmed. “He’s not doing well, Ino.”

Her breath caught in her throat. She didn’t say anything for a minute, too busy processing and filing away everything he wasn’t saying. Her eyes closed in an attempt to shut out the image, but all it did was make it worse. “Do they need an extra pair of hands?” She would drop everything if needed; all he had to do was say the word.

Shikamaru shook his head. His posture returned to normal, but there was a darkness flickering behind his eyes, one that seemed to feed off the shadows caressing her office. “Not now. Just figured you ought to know the full situation before you headed back downstairs.”

Oh, you manipulative bastard. Ino tossed him a baleful look and crossed her long legs into a more comfortable position. “You’re a real dick, you know that, Shikamaru?”

He chuffed. “So you’ve told me.” He fished a cigarette out of his pouch and lit it, bringing the stick up to his mouth and inhaling deeply. A plume of smoke burst from his nostrils a second later, as if he were one of the trains in Yuki no Kuni. He slouched in contentment.

“I thought you quit,” Ino remarked, eyeing the cigarette in distaste.

“Tch, special circumstances.”

Good point. “Just don’t make it a habit. I don’t want to have to come over and scrape out your lungs again. Once was enough.” Shikamaru’s lips twisted, but the woman threw it off with efficiency born from years of practice. Her expression fell. “How are Naruto and Hinata?”

“How do you think?” The man spat. He let out a weighty sigh, one mixed with grey smoke, and mentally forced himself to calm down, grinding his unfinished cigarette into the lacquered flooring as he did so. Ino wrinkled her nose. “They’re as well as can be expected. Tsunade-sama gave me the update. They had to put him in a coma. Kid can’t breathe on his own. Can’t eat either. Blast lung. Cranial swelling. The list goes on.”

Ino closed her eyes and turned away. “Gods.” She shook her head. “Himawari?”

“Safe with Shino. If anyone's going to make an attempt on her, the last place they'll suspect is the Hive.”

“That’s something, I guess,” she admitted, kicking her feet about in the air. She distracted herself by fumbling with one of Inojin’s old art projects. It was a personal favorite – a clay figurine of one of his father’s lions. “How are the boys?"

The desire to light another cigarette was almost overwhelming, but Shikamaru refrained. Temari wouldn’t be happy if he came home smelling like a chimney. “They want to know what happened. Temari’s been trying to distract them, but they’re not five anymore. She says we need to tell Shikadai – he’s made himself sick with worry twice since he got home – but she wanted your permission to talk to Inojin."

Ino picked up the colorful little lion, long manicured nails trailing its grinning face, and ran a tired hand through her ponytail. She was going to have grey hair by the end of all this. “He’s not going to take this well.”

“We don’t have to tell him. If you want we can leave it up to you.”

Ino shook her head. She placed the figurine back on the desk. “No, no; better he have a friend there with him. Just…basics only.”

Shikamaru snorted. “It’s not like we’re allowed to tell them anything else. As far as Naruto’s concerned, everything is under control.”

“It’s not.” If it were she wouldn’t be neck deep in a field she had no knowledge of.

“It is to the rest of the village.”

“And Boruto?”

“Is fine and recovering in the hospital.”

“Fine, right. You know this little white lie of yours has the potential to backfire magnificently, don’t you, Shikamaru?” She stressed into the silence. Shikamaru didn’t respond. He just leveled her with a shadowed stare that bespoke just how aware he was of the dangerous tightrope they were walking. Ino sighed in resignation. “Of course you do. Alright. We’ll do it your way. But if Inojin comes waltzing up to me, asking me why he hasn’t seen his friend in over a week, I’m pointing him towards you.”

“I have a feeling you won’t be the only one.” Not with his own son making himself so sick over the whole thing.

“No, I have a feeling I won’t.” Ino crumpled forward, hands braced against the hard edge of her desk as she stared into the burgundy carpet. Funny, how her mind could turn a rug into a pool of blood. Absently, she reached to fiddle with the keys along her belt. There were thirty of them, each one setting off a chime to deafen the ears. T&I was designed to echo. “I should be able to get through one more prisoner before Anko gets here,” she said eventually. “Mind watching Inojin till then?”

Shikamaru shook his head. “Course. Anything you want me to tell him while I play messenger?”

Ino’s lips twisted. “Yes. Tell him mommy knows about the ink stains on the carpet he tried to cover up this morning by moving the furniture and that if he thinks he’s going to get out of cleaning it up he’s got another thing coming.”

Shikamaru grunted. “Anything else?” he asked.

“No, that’s about it.”

He rolled his eyes. “Right. Bring your last report to me when you come by. Tsunade-sama and I are handling them tonight.”

She nodded, seafoam eyes downcast. Any other situation and the paperwork would have gone straight to Naruto. “Of course, and let me know if they need me for anything.”

His lips pursed around the edges and he inclined his head to the hallway. “Just do your job.”

“Yes, sir,” she muttered, low in her chest. “Oh, and Shikamaru?” She waited for him to turn around. “Tell Inojin I love him.”

“Tch. Tell him yourself,” but his tone lacked ire. It was all the reassurance Ino needed.

The door closed behind him gently and Ino let out a strained sigh, falling against the wood as she attempted to fight off her growing headache. This was a nightmare. All she wanted to do was run home, pick up her son, and hold on to him forever. Instead, she was reduced to an evening spent in the company of kidnappers who had already proven their lack of compunctions towards hurting children. Reaching out a hand, she plucked one of the files off her desk and glanced at the name. Her teal-eyes flinted, flashing a hunter’s green in the darkness. She scowled.

“He’s not doing well, Ino.”

You bastard, Shikamaru.

Her hand clenched around the document, wrinkling the paper, and she had to consciously unfurl her fingers so they didn’t end up tearing it to shreds. There was a photograph clipped to the manila folder, depicting a bland, forgettable face, which she ended up tossing back onto her desk. It was inconsequential. Work this job long enough and everyone began to look the same.

With deft finger she unzipped the top of her shirt just enough to allow for a small amount of cleavage to peak through. Some kunoichi may have reservations about the technical use of their bodies, but Ino was not one of them. Sex appeal drove miles in this line of work. A deep breath followed, one that allowed her to push aside the overwhelming rage boiling inside her, before she hopped off the desk and waltzed out the door into the corridor. Her grey interrogator’s coat lapped at her ankles, swishing dramatically behind her as she made her way to the cells.

The hallways were unusually busy, to the point where it was easy to imagine how the department must have looked in her father’s day. Subordinates hurried about, saluting as she passed, but none stopped to chat, all of them far too busy to speak of anything not pertaining to work. They scurried in groups – one or two dragging a semi-conscious prisoner by the elbows – all of them indulging off the screams filtering from the rooms below.

The upper floors were mostly administrative, but it was the basement where the staff thrived. Ino’s high heels click clack-ed across the polished floor, echoing throughout the corridors in such a way as to send some of the older prisoners into paroxysms. As for the newer ones, Ino had long since found that anticipation did more for her guests than pain ever could.

She sliced her thumb over the blood seal marking the entrance to the ward and entered without hassle. Sensory deprivation rooms allowed for the prisoners to neither see, nor feel, nor smell anyone approach. All they could do was wait and hear the amplified clack-ing of her heels against stone. Was she coming for them? They could only guess.

Ino rounded the corner, listing off numbers in her head: C-129, C-131, C-133. She reached the next cell and placed her hand on the seal beside the door that read C-135. The seal bloomed purple for a second and her hand prickled in the familiar sensation of drawn chakra. It lasted only a second before the ink returned to normal and the door barreled open.

She stepped inside, one deliberate step after another so as to enhance the sharp sound of her heels. The door swished shut behind her and lights suddenly blared to life. The prisoner, a perfectly average man in an unremarkable shinobi uniform, jolted with pain at the unexpected change. Ino smirked.

With slow, languid steps forward, she assessed the man. The medical report put him in his mid-thirties, with dark brown hair and a smattering of freckles on his cheeks. Aside from the seals, his examination indicated a mid-level affinity for fire techniques. Considering how he jumped when the lights came on, Ino surmised he couldn’t have been any more advanced than your run-of-the-mill chuunin. Albeit, he was doing a fair job of feigning bravado and his mental shields were nothing to scoff at. She doubted there was much he knew, but even the smallest detail might prove important and Ino was a very thorough kunoichi.

She crouched down in front of the defiant man, her cleavage sitting just below his eye-line. His body twitched, but otherwise remained unresponsive. Impressive. He would be fun to break. Ino allowed herself a smile; teeth gleaming like newly carved gravestones under painted lips. It was every bit as enticing and beatific as designed, and she used the image of Boruto’s body lying bloody on the grass to sharpen its edges.

Taking the man’s cheek in her hand, she allowed herself a measure of satisfaction in the way her nails raked across his skin. “I hope you’re comfortable, sir. We have a long night ahead of us.”

“He’s not doing well, Ino.”

Inojin superimposed Boruto in her mind – her little boy awash with blood and dirt. It could have been him. It could have so easily been him. Her face hardened, unforgiving. Polished nails dug into the man’s face, ruby drops beading along the flesh as she forced him to look into her narrowed eyes. “To think, this could have been avoided so easily. Oh well.

“Shintenshin no Jutsu.”

Yugakure was no different than the vast majority of other places Sasuke had visited over years. There were trees, onsens (pretty impressive, he would admit, but they were still just a bunch of hot springs), rocks and craters – lots and lots and lots of craters. Such large craters that half the time Sasuke was convinced he could spend the entire day walking and remain in the exact same one.

Not that that was their fault. The Fourth Shinobi War took a lot of the blame for that one, but it was still a pain in the ass and an obstacle he could have done without.

Still, for all its faults and monotony, Yugakure wasn’t that bad. The people were friendly, if a bit standoffish, and there was enough unsettled land that he could spend his time languishing under the sun without having to worry about the locals. He liked the silence the forests brought him; they were calm and he didn’t have to spend all his time under the constant thrum of impending danger. It was nice to enjoy the simple things every so often; gave him time to think – to focus on the good things he had missed over the years and all the reasons to preserve the peace they had now.

He took a sip of water from his canteen. One thing Sasuke would admit: Yugakure certainly had some of the freshest water he had ever tasted. His camp was situated beside a clear little lake – which may or may not have been a crater at one point – and lacked any notable settlements for miles around. He was perched up against an aging oak, the fire casting shadows across his face and his cloak drying by the flames. Storm clouds had passed over the area not long prior, but the day had since ended and with it so had the rain. Only soft grass and petrichor remained.

It was quiet, without even the hum of insects. Sasuke fiddled with an object in his pocket.

Like always, he didn’t remove the item. It remained in his pocket, fingers caressing the worn plastic. He knew every scrape, every tear, every feature and he could draw its subjects with his eyes closed, but Sasuke much preferred feeling it to looking at it. Feeling was comfort; looking was longing. If he looked at the picture, he would want to go back, and he just couldn’t go back yet. His mission wasn’t over.

The Uchiha leaned his head against the wood and closed his eyes, inhaling the scent of rain and smoke. Off in the distance echoed the sound of waves crashing against the shore. There was a slight chill in the air and he urged the fire higher. Warmth tickled his cheeks, feather-light and echoing a woman’s touch. He brushed the object again. For the moment, Sasuke was content.

“Uchiha-san.” There was a popping sound and the man opened his eyes languidly, unconcerned by the sudden appearance of one of Naruto’s toads. The Hokage had a tendency to send Sasuke random notes; some of them were important, but most were just to keep in contact. He seemed to gain some sort of perverse pleasure out of writing long messages just to get one or two word replies.

Sasuke might have enjoyed it too.

“Hmm?” He intoned, raising an eyebrow and gazing at the red and orange toad with disinterest. Gamadoro was one of Naruto’s more common messengers. The toad was fast and always had a good instinct for where to find him.

“Naruto-sama has an urgent message for you. Will you accept?” The toad asked.

Sasuke didn’t verbally reply; he just reached out his hand for the note and Gamadoro extended his tongue to deposit a scroll with Naruto’s personal seal on it. Now that was intriguing. The Hokage’s seal was only used for official matters.

He raised his other eyebrow and gazed at the toad. Gamadoro stared back steadily, not even flinching under his mismatched eyes. Sasuke chuffed and turned his attention back to the letter, examining it closer. At first glance he saw nothing significant beside the official emblem, but a second turn over and a flicker of the fire illuminated something else under his friend’s insignia. His visible eye widened.

Sasuke’s head jerked, his stare intense and piercing. “This is a blood seal.”

Gamadoro nodded indifferently. “It is.”

“What happened?”

“Naruto-sama has stated everything in his letter.”

“And I’m asking you.”

“I’m not at liberty to say,” the toad fired back. “You are not my summoner, Uchiha-san.”

Sasuke snorted, but focused again on the note. He had to hand it to Gamadoro – the toad had guts. Choosing not to argue, Sasuke bit his thumb and smeared his blood over the seal. It glowed blue for a second before disintegrating, the parchment unfolding before him.

The note was short, only a few sentences long, and Sasuke was quick to skim the message. He read it through once, only mildly interested, before stopping and hurriedly moving back to the beginning. The deep blood red of his Sharingan burned through the darkness as he subconsciously channeled chakra to his eyes and committed the words to memory. His fingers clench over the paper and an inferno ignited in his stomach. It raged through his body, flooding his veins and seeping into the air. Gamadoro twitched, but otherwise made no comment on the sudden change in atmosphere

Naruto’s note caught fire and quickly disintegrated into ashes.

Sasuke turned flashing eyes to the toad, his Mangekyō an unsettling dichotomy to the Rinnegan. Gamadoro actually backed up a step. He didn’t fear the man, but he would be foolish to not be wary in his presence.

Dumping the ashes into the mud beside him, Sasuke stood and grabbed his cloak. It was still damp, but he didn’t care. Extinguishing the fire, he stared back down at the toad and said, “They better not be late.”

A rustle of displaced air and he was off, bounding into the trees at a speed he hadn’t had need for in quite a while. He missed Gamadoro’s exit, the smoke mixing in with that of the dead fire, as he kept his gaze focused in front of him. Sasuke clutched the picture in his pocket tightly, the faces of his family staring back at him from his mind’s eye.

Naruto’s final sentence echoed in his head.

They tried to kill my son.

Sasuke ran faster.