Archive of Our Own

Work Text

https://www.tumblr.com/gaukeley2412/762773888379830272/lmao-get-loved-loser

(Credit to the lovely TheEscapedPig. I rarely get artwork, and this is marvelous. *_*)

Sasori was dying, and he should care, but death had a habit of putting life into perspective. In the sand dunes of Wind, Death walked hand-in-hand with Sasori, but never before in such a way that Death drew Sasori with her.
The desert was the most contradictory mistress that Sasori has ever known. Not that he had any real-life mistresses, given that any somewhat-functioning society discouraged the notion of twelve year old boys from taking a mistress, no matter how a Hidden Village encouraged young children to become ruthless killers. (They still had standards, after all, poor though they may be.)

It was more of a poetic comparison, really, as Uncle Ebizo liked to make them. And since Ebizo loved to read Sasori poetry as bedtime tales (as compared to the more bloodthirsty oral histories of the many ancient and current nomadic Wind Tribes his grandmother had regaled him with, giving him grandiose ideas of vengeance and glory for his eventual confrontation against his parents’ killer), Sasori had cultivated a soft spot for good poetry. Poetry was art, but with words. It created pictures in one’s mind, filling those pictures with colors and shapes, and the desert was very poetic.
The desert was harsh and cruel, blood boiling hot during the day, only to turn hair-curling cold once the sun set. Barren of visible forms of life ten months out of the year, but oh, life did flourish in subtle, invisible ways, as deceiving as the deceptive mirages that lured the unsuspecting travelers and tourists further and further into the arms of Lady Death. When the Monsoon Season would strike, that which was most precious in the desert – water – was deadly. Deep ravines flooded and poured through Wind’s sparse villages; water reservoirs overpoured their walls and underground aquifers abruptly opened sink holes; shifting sands turned into murky quagmires that trapped and smothered like quicksand deathtraps. And when the rains receded, the desert shed her cloak of lifeless thirst and proudly wore her multihued robes of green, decorated with the many different blooms of the desert succulents, shrubs, cacti, and short-lived grasses. Wildlife flourished, prey and predator alike feasting and fucking, determined to briefly thrive despite the fleeting inevitability of their own mortality.
And as spring turned into summer, the moisture retreated to the carefully guarded reservoirs, wells, and the precious oases, the plants shed their seeds to await future torrential downpours, the predators killed, the prey fled, and fields of green dried into husks of brown that shredded and blew away with the wind and the sand.
The desert, Sasori thought, though his thoughts were sluggish and tunneled, carelessly burrowing through the stuttering starts and stops of his dying mind, was both generous and stingy. She was Lady Death, courting always with life, luring it out before slaughtering ruthlessly. He had always thought he would die in a blaze of glory, fighting against Suna’s enemies the way his parents did, if he couldn’t manage to eventually escape the smothering isolation of Suna.

Instead, death masqueraded as life and stole upon him like a mirage that he had so often castigated others for falling for. And thus he lay dying, surrounded by the bloating corpses of his team and the deceased fauna. The flies still tormented him, but he had lost feeling a few hours ago as the arsenic wreaked havoc on his nervous system. It had been all that he could do to redirect the arsenic away from his cardiovascular system, but his kidneys were already starting to shut down, and he didn’t have the strength to finish himself off with the dignity he deserved. Instead, it was a waiting game of humility and pain.
Was this how Komushi felt as he lay, trapped, in Sasori’s workshop?
“This one is still alive, here. Won’t be for much longer, though.”
Death, Sasori realized with a painful blink of his eyes, loomed over him like a fat, anthropomorphic hedgehog, claw-tipped fingers pressing against his carotid artery.
“I’m not fat!”
He had just enough strength to lift a shaking hand, and poked the fat with fingers that lost any sense of feeling as the sun had risen higher in the sky. The fat poked back.
“Just how far out of it are you, kid? Sheesh, you’re nearly dead from dehydration alone.”
Death had a low growl to her voice and spoke with the accent of the northern areas of Fire. He had thought death would sound more lyrical, like the whistling wind that swept across the sand dunes, or the arching call of the desert wolf’s lonely howl.
A canteen pressed against his lips – delightful moisture, tepid from the leftover daytime heat, splashed his mouth. He knocked the canteen away with a strength he didn’t realize he still had, swearing as he tried to push himself away from the Fat Hedgehog of Death.
“Oh for—! I’m pregnant, not fat. You’re just rude! And the water is from the Land of River. It ain’t poisoned like the oasis.”
Another voice, this one without the growl but still with the same flat vowels of the Fat Hedgehog. “I noticed you aren’t denying the hedgehog bit, Tsume.”
“Eh, family’s been calling me hedgehog hair as long as I can remember, so it’s an old, tired insult. Come on, kiddo, let’s try this again. I promise it ain’t poisoned.”
In the end, Sasori decided it didn’t matter if the offered water was poisoned or not. He was already dying – ironically, from poison – so at least he could die with a moist mouth, instead of a swollen tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth, lips cracked and stinging. He choked with the water – oh, they’re trying to drown me, how many people get to say they drowned in a desert? – and a hand, glowing softly green, pressed against his throat and helped ease the water down his weakened, inflamed esophagus. Four sips, four washes of green, and he finally managed to loosen his tongue.
“Don’t give him too much, Tsume,” said a third voice. All the voices sound young, like women or adolescent teenaged boys who hadn’t yet gone through the changes of puberty yet. Well, one of the trio had to be a woman. He didn’t know of any pregnant adolescent teenaged boys. “His kidneys are likely shot.”
“Yeah, smells like it. But he’s managed to survive this long. He’ll make it.” Fat Hedgehog sounded so sure of herself.
“Rejecting me already?” Sasori asked, trying to see more of the Fat Hedgehog. When the darkened blob next to the Fat Hedgehog raised a glowing golden hand that lit up their surroundings, Sasori realized that he hadn’t lost his vision yet due to the poison, but because it was nightfall and simply too dark to see. He was propped up against the trunk of a palm tree, the surrounding fronds and reeds thick enough to have disguised him from most passersby. He saw three young women – Fat Hedgehog, one with red hair even more brilliantly crimson than his own, and the third whose hair was the deep purple of moon shadows on water, seated on the ground against a large hairy lump with her legs crassly splayed out.
And four – no, five very large very hairy wolves. Wearing harnesses and knapsacks. He hadn’t thought anyone had managed to domesticate the wild sand wolves.
“We,” said the smallest of the five giant wolves, “are ninken.”
Sasori wanted to grit his teeth in irritation with his own sluggish thoughts. Was this how life was like for the morons he was constantly surrounded by?
“You get used to it,” said Moonlight Shadows regally.
“We’re Konoha kunoichi,” said Glowing Fist of Crimson. “We were sent to deliver the medicinal provisions that Chiyo-sama requested. What happened here?” She looked at his dead companions, splayed out on the green oasis grass and reeds, stinking of feces and vomit, corpses bloated from dying almost twenty-four hours ago, unprotected from the harsh desert heat that even the shading palm trees couldn’t protect and the ravages of the necrotizing poison. Sasori hadn’t lost his sense of smell yet, and he had wished, halfway through the day, that it would just give up the ghost the way the sensation of touch had.
“Poison,” said the Fat Hedgehog. She tapped her nose. “Arsenic.”
Sasori didn’t have the saliva to blow a raspberry at her. “Moron. Arsenic is odorless.” But she wasn’t wrong about the poison’s identity. It was tasteless, odorless, deadly even in small doses, and had no antidote. His greedy, guzzling companions had consumed more water than Sasori. Despite forcing himself to throw up the half-canteen of water once he understood the sheer volume of dead birds and lizards, many hidden in the oasis greenery, his body had still managed to absorb enough arsenic – hastened by the stomach acid-induced burns in his esophagus, bloody tissues greedily absorbing the arsenic directly into his bloodstream – that his death was brutally slow. His teammates’ deaths had been brutal, but swift. He barely managed to internalize the arsenic away from his cardiovascular system, but it attacked his other body tissues relentlessly.
“Look, kid, I can smell the pink salt from your Salt Flats from here. Arsenic has an odor to someone with my olfaction.”
He focused on her face, instead of her ridiculous hair, because the Suna Salt Flats were over a thousand kilometers away in the opposite end of Wind. Crimson triangles, the calling card of the Inuzuka Alpha, were painted lopsided on her cheeks. “Don’t call me kid.”
“Well, I can’t call you Red, since that might get confusing with Kushina-chan here.”
“Please don’t,” said Glowing Fist of Crimson.
“I…” Sasori hesitated, mind speeding up slightly at the thought of being surrounded by Konoha nin. Suna had a (very reluctant) truce with Konoha, one that had been forced on them after their defeat during the Second Shinobi War. It was lopsided to favor Konoha and punish Suna, and therefore relationships were incredibly strained. Nonetheless, Grandmother Chiyo and the Kazekage had used the truce to strongarm Konoha in providing aid by way of badly-needed medicinal supplies (which could also be used to create poisons), and Sasori and his team had been sent three days ago to obtain the provisions. It had been Sasori’s intent to slay his teammates and the Konoha nin, and then disappear from Wind with the supplies in his pocket, finally turning his back on that horrible old woman and her web of suffocating lies, and his desolate, dying Village.
Sasori had thought the dead sand wolves and the dead vultures (poisoned from eating poisoned desert wolves, in retrospect) that he and his team had come across eight kilometers away from the oasis had been a sign from the Universe that he needed to go rogue now, instead of waiting another few years. Ironically, it had been the inevitable sign of his own impending doom. Ultimately, it didn’t matter if the Leaf-nin were going to kill him. He was just a dead man walking (sitting?). “I am Sasori.”
Fat Hedgehog brightened. “Just the guy we were looking for! How lucky!”
Moonlight Shadows snorted. “Just because we’ve met up with the team like we were supposed to doesn’t mean we’ve successfully completed our mission. We can’t leave the supplies with the kid. He’s about to drop dead, and the supplies are supposed to be delivered to Suna. Do you girls realize what a political powder keg this situation is? Team Sakumo at a sacred oasis, which was sabotaged in violation of a thousand years of tradition and international treaties, surrounded by Chiyo-sama’s about-to-be-dead grandson and his currently-very-dead teammates. This will blow up in our faces!”
His plans to kill everyone and go rogue had been borne when his grandmother told him which Konoha team was supposed to exchange the supplies. The idea of his lying grandmother forcing him to make nice with the apprentices of his parents’ murderer had simply been too much for Sasori to accept. Apparently, he wasn’t the only one bothered by the irregularity of the situation.
“I can… Well, I can help him a little,” said Glowing Fist of Crimson. “It won’t remove the poison, but I can fix some of the damage and get him out of the danger zone. Aunty Mito said to use it for my companions only in the direst of situations, and this is about as dire as it could probably get without one of you two being on death’s door.”
“Can you remove the poison from your body?” Moonlight Shadows asked Sasori. His thoughts felt too much like molasses. “Tsume, I bet he’s got a killer headache. See what you can do about that so he can muster up some working braincells.”
Fat Hedgehog clamped two glowing green hands around his head. Sasori didn’t realize how much his thinking had been affected by the vicelike grip of pressure and pain until such eased back like the rolling tide of a distant ocean. He smacked his dry lips, tasting iron and lead.
After she stopped working the healing chakra through his skull, she raised the canteen to his lips again. This time, he was able to swallow three sips of water without choking.
“Look, Sasori-kun,” Moonlight Shadows was at least polite, “you’re a poison expert. I know for a fact that a lot of your poisons piggyback off of arsenic, so you must have some sort of immunity to it, otherwise you’d be as dead as the rest of your companions. The oasis water must be loaded for you to accidentally ingest more than your natural immunity can tolerate, and that’s the only reason you’re still alive. But no poison master will make a poison that he could accidentally kill himself with – well, not an expert poison master. A lousy one probably would, but I doubt any child or grandchild of Chiyo the Poison Queen would live long enough under her tutelage to make that particular mistake.”
Moonlight Shadows had a good point. Which was why Sasori had plans to shed the frustrating vestiges of mortality after escaping the bondage of family and village so that no poison would ever be able to affect him, and therefore he wouldn’t need to worry about antidotes. But she didn’t need to know that.

His words felt sticky as he spoke. “Can you manually remove arsenic from the body?”
The three kunoichi exchanged looks, unspoken messages passing between the three of them in the way that only a long-familiar team, comfortable and trusting with each other in a way that Sasori had never experienced. “Not us, but I bet you can,” said Fat Hedgehog. She pointed at his legs. “I can smell how you shunted most of the arsenic there. If you can keep it there, we can cut off your legs, and then cauterize them.”
“You want…” He stared at the Fat Hedgehog like the moron she clearly was. “You want to cut off my legs.”
She hunched down defensively. “You’re a puppeteer. You need your hands, your fingers, more than your legs.”
“Just let me die, then!” It was both amazing and irritating how energizing anger could be. “I can’t be a shinobi without legs, you fat simpleton.”
The newly renamed Fat Simpleton hunched down even further, a petulant pout crossing her face. But instead of looking at Sasori, she turned her dark gray eyes to Moonlight Shadows, whose face was as still as a rock. When Sasori turned the full force of his scattered attention to her, Moonlight Shadows was seated unmoving on the ground, shoulders rounded forward as she leaned haphazardly against one of the crouching ninken. After a long moment of silence, body taut with tension, Moonlight Shadows belly-flopped onto the ground, and then dragged herself forward to his side. On her arms. Her legs trailed limp and useless behind.
“Oh, do tell me about it,” Moonlight Shadow’s voice was whispery quiet, very much like he had initially expected Death to sound like. She braced an arm around the trunk of the tree, and then used her upper body strength to pull herself upright so she could look down her nose at him. “Please, Sasori-kun. Kindly regale me with how useless a shinobi you’d be without functioning legs.”
Sasori’s mind immediately and oh-so-helpfully recalled the details of the Konoha team he was supposed to meet up with.
Team Sakumo; once known as Team Five, an unprecedented all-female genin team. Hatake Sakumo: the White Fang of Konoha responsible for almost singlehandedly wiping out the legendary Suna Puppeteer Brigade during the Second Shinobi War, and rumored instigator of the Third Shinobi War (slayer of Sasori’s parents, target of Sasori’s eventual revenge). Inuzuka Tsume: Inuzuka alpha and head of her clan, an extraordinary tracker whose skills were rivaled only by her supposed lack of fear and absent-minded stupidity. Uzumaki Kushina: the last scion to the once-legendary Uzumaki Clan and heir to Uzumaki Mito. Mitarashi Kokoro: a genin who was paralyzed from the waist below during the Second War who taught herself chakra strings and made chuunin on the back of one of Tsume’s ninken, like the ninja-version of a horse-mounted samurai.
“I don’t have ninken,” he told Kokoro, who loomed above him with a face as cold as the moon overhead. He didn’t have the strength or energy to shrink away from her, even if he wanted to.
“But you have puppets. You even make your own puppets! You would know how to make prosthetics to replace your legs. I will never have that option, but did I let that silly little detail stop me? I thought,” Kokoro’s voice warmed, but in the same manner that a boiling pot warmed on the unsuspecting frog trapped inside, “that the Suna nin were supposed to be tougher and more resourceful than us tree hugging ninja.” Ironic, given that she was hugging a tree as she spoke.
Sasori dropped his eyes back to his legs. Below his knees, the skin had already started to turn necrotic, splitting apart from the trapped fluids. His kidneys had started to shut down because he blocked the blood flow from his legs, trying to clumsily reroute the flow of untainted blood, but was ultimately unsuccessful. “Most of the arsenic is trapped in my legs.” He turned from the cold deadliness of Kokoro to the Fat Simpleton. Who wasn’t really fat – she was just very, very round in her middle. Which was also moving independently, visible beneath the baggy, thigh-length green tunic she wore. “I know you can keep me from bleeding out after removing my legs, but can you reverse kidney failure and the peripheral neuropathy in my hands?”
It was Kushina who answered. “I can. It won’t fix all the damages, but it will pull you out of the worst of the worst.”
“And then what?” To return in such a condition to Suna would still be his death. There was little left of their medical supplies, and all their best healers were out of the country, stationed with their forces. You can’t just remove someone’s limbs and automatically fit a prosthetic to the stump – he had learned that the hard way with Komushi. The lengthy recovery he would need, should he survive it, would be a set back to his plans of defection for close to a decade. And whoever survived the battle front to return to Suna would be killed if they drank the tainted oasis water, as this was the main stop-and-rest point in the desert after leaving the Lands of River and Rain.
“And then we fix the oasis,” Tsume declared, as if yanking out deadly amount of arsenic in a permanent oasis was as easy as fetching a ball, “and I haul you off to our hospital in Konoha, where they can fix you up and get you fitted with new legs, and you can put all kinds of deadly doo-dads in your fancy-pants legs. It’ll be great! You’re in no condition to get the supplies back to Suna on your own, and it’s pointless for all of us to take you to Konoha. Kokoro-chan and Kushina-chan can finish the journey to Suna, especially with my ninken to keep them on track since you paranoid suckers destroyed the usual landmarks.” After a pause, she added, “I’m under orders to return to Konoha once we met up at the oasis anyway, since I’m nine months pregnant.” And then, at the grimaces from her teammates, “Look, if Grandmother can haul ass across the continent with Madara and Hashirama when she was pregnant, I can do it with a lonely little Suna nin.”
Oh. So, she had a valid excuse for being fat.
“Hey!”
“Fine, I’ll do it.” He didn’t have much of a choice, but he also didn’t want to die. Sasori had things to do, places to be, Villages to abandon, and people to kill.
Kushina snorted. “He babbles as much as Tsume when she’s hurting bad.”
Kokoro released the tree trunk and sank down to the ground, leaning heavily against Sasori’s body. His shoulder and torso throbbed in agony from the pressure, even if his nerves didn’t recognize any actual sensation of touch. “Well, let’s get this done then, before he does die because we wasted too much time chit-chatting.” When Sasori opened his mouth to argue (or to demand more details), Kokoro stuffed a handkerchief in his mouth. He managed to shudder at the realization that the handkerchief was probably snot-stained, and then Kokoro wrestled both of his hands into her own, glimmering blue chakra threads knotting them together.
“Mmmhgh?”
“This is going to hurt like a bitch,” Kokoro said as Tsume released a gigantic axe from a storage scroll. It was three times larger than the meteorite battle axes Hoshi nin favored. Sasori tried to pull free as he huffed into the rag, too weak to scream.
Tsume also grabbed a torch from one of the ninken’s knapsacks, and lit it. She stuck it in the ground to replace the light that Kushina had been producing, but the fire was dim and flickering, throwing deep, eerie shadows that writhed all around them. Tsume handed the axe to Kushina, and then yanked Sasori’s legs apart. The skin burst beneath her claws, and foul blood, thick and as dark as molasses, leaked around her grip. She dry-heaved. “Holy crap, that’s rank!”
Kushina covered her nose with her sleeve as her eyes watered. “Sage’s saggy tits, I am so sorry, Tsume!”
“Throw up over there,” said Kokoro, less bothered by the horrendous odor as she pointed away from their little huddle. “You can’t contaminate open wounds with stomach acid.”
“Please don’t throw up, Tsume, because then I’ll throw up!” Kushina squeezed her eyes shut.
Why were they complaining and apologizing to each other? He was the one rotting on the inside, about to get his feet and lower legs lopped off. Chakra stuttered at his own fingertips as he weakly attempted to wiggle free of Kokoro’s grip.
“Hurry up!” Kokoro yelled, leaning more heavily against Sasori and blocking his gaze.
With another gag, Tsume repositioned her hands – one on his ankle, the other pressing against his kneecap – Kushina swiped her eyes, and then slung the axe overhead. Sasori saw the flash of its edge, and heard the solid THWAK. He screamed in his throat, more from surprise than anything else, and knew that he was in even worse shape than he had realized because there was no pain. Tsume kicked his limb away. Right into the oasis water.
“Oops, shouldn’t have done that!”
“Stop hesitating!” Kushina’s voice made his ears ring. “He’s bleeding out!”
“That’s the point! I’m trying to let more poison drain away!”
“You gotta stop the bleeding before he goes into hypovolemic shock!”
“All right! All right!” The stench of burnt flesh as Tsume cauterized the flesh (how?) added a whole new layer of foul horror to the stench.
Kushina hefted the axe overhead, again. “One more time, girls!”
THWAK.
After Tsume cauterized the other leg, she turned away and vomited in the reeds. Kushina dropped the axe and pulled Kokoro away from Sasori, fighting back her own gag reflex. He caught a glimpse of what was left of his legs – one was slightly longer than the other, because of course these morons couldn’t be expected to strike equally, the flesh of his stumps a burnt black and red with blackened purplish streaks twirling up his knees and disappearing into the fabric of his shorts like arching bolts of lightning – and then his vision was blocked by a forearm as the entire world swam and a hazy white fog veiled everything he could see.
“Bite into me. Draw blood.”
Sasori’s thoughts were trickling down through a long white tunnel. Death was coming for him. He knew that for certain, felt it deep within the remains of his legs. Should’ve kept his feet, at least he’d have his dignity…
“Bite down, come on!” The forearm pressed more urgently against his mouth. He didn’t even have the will to obey. His eyes fluttered shut. He just wanted to slip into the dark, quiet embrace of senseless nothing.
Chakra strings attached to his jaw and the muscles of his mouth. He felt it pried open, flesh pushed between his teeth, and then the strings forced him to chomp down with a strength he lacked.
Golden light filled him as the cloying copper of blood tickled his tastebuds, sweet and warm like fresh agave juice, warming his belly, bringing tingles to his fingertips, a sprightly lightness to his thoughts, and it washed away the pain and numbness, the burning, the stench, and the coldness of death looming over his soul. He felt rooted and free, bathed in the warmth of a gentle morning sun.
When the forearm was freed from his bloody teeth, Tsume was rinsing her mouth with loud gargles. Kushina immediately applied a patchwork bandage to her bleeding forearm. Kokoro released his hands. “Now, you need to extract the rest of the arsenic, or it’ll just damage your body all over again.”
Sasori felt oddly energized and alert. “That was…” That had been the legendary Uzumaki chakra, the one that gave their clan their infamous vigor, long lives, and golden chains. The same chakra that had, ultimately, doomed the clan after they were scattered with the fall of Uzushio, hunted to near extinction as other Hidden Villages and nomadic ninja clans descended on the refugees like rabid wolves upon a wounded desert gazelle.
Kushina raised her chin in bold challenge. “Better pull the rest of the arsenic out. That’s the only freebie you’re getting from me.”
“I need a sharp blade. A clean, sharp blade,” Sasori added, eyeing the gory axe that lay on the ground. Tsume immediately handed him a relatively clean kunai. Kokoro and Kushina eyed Tsume for her disregard of any danger in handing a reluctant, wounded ally a weapon. “Thank you.” He studied the burned stumps of his legs – Tsume had overapplied the healing chakra. It had effectively cauterized the open wounds, but the healing chakra from Kushina hadn’t been enough to reverse that particular damage. Or regrow his legs. Stingy.
“I need quiet to concentrate, and your obedience in succeeding.” Without waiting for them to confirm their understanding or ask questions to clarify confusion, Sasori carved deep x’s across both kneecaps. He ignored the sharp pain now that the peripheral neuropathy had been reversed. He dropped the kunai, and pulled his awareness back, forming a single hand seal (ox, his brain distantly supplied), and concentrated on threading his chakra internally. Thousands of microscopic threads slid through his body tissue, plucking arsenic molecules from nervous, muscle, nephrotic, pulmonary, lymphatic, and adipose tissues. Sweat dribbled down his forehead as he bundled the molecules tight and dragged these bundles through his cardiovascular system to the open bleeding lacerations on his knees. The blood spurted like a fountain from the lacerations, bright red at first, before darkening as perforated red blood cells, black and clustered tight with arsenic, was pushed out of his body. Kokoro swept it up with her snot-stained handkerchief to prevent contamination of the surrounding soil. When the blackened ichor glimmered blue from the internal chakra threads, he gasped for breath and dropped his hands.
Tsume dropped her own hands, one covering each kneecap, and was far more gentle when she applied what was apparently a bastardized version of the Mystic Palm.
Really bastardized, Sasori thought grumpily as the self-inflicted lacerations closed into thick knots of raised scar tissue. “You are horrible at this,” he told her.
She flushed red. “Oh come on, this isn’t my forte!”
“The only reason she can do what she can do,” said Kokoro, “is because she inherited a smidgeon of the Uzumaki chakra from her great-grandmother.”
“Why haven’t you procured actual training?” Sasori asked, delighted to focus on someone else’s flaws instead of his own. Even a smidgeon of talent should be milked for all its worth.
Tsume’s face was still flushed red as she dropped her chin, as if she was trying to crawl downwards and hide in her oversized tunic. There was something vulnerable and childish hidden within her body language. “Can’t memorize anatomy and physiology.”
Sasori had managed to memorize volumes of human and animal anatomy and physiology, cellular biology, and chemistry just fine before his eighth birthday. A person needed chakra control greater than the 80th percentile to successfully manifest chakra strings, which was the same level of chakra control a medic needed to successfully master the Mystic Palm. The same knowledge to build the skills of a poison master was the same for a good medic, except he never used his skills to save lives and therefore had never practiced the Mystic Palm. Theoretically, he could heal… and he would no doubt do a much better job at it than the Pregnant Simpleton. He turned his gaze to Kokoro, who had wordlessly borrowed Tsume’s canteen to rinse Sasori’s blackened ichor from her hands. “Your teammate is a moron, so what’s your excuse?” She could manifest chakra strings, and had even done so without the formal training that puppeteer apprentices received.
“I am not a moron! I just have an awful memory!”
“I prefer to take bodies apart,” Kokoro replied with a bone-chilling smile that twisted in the shadows, “not put them back together.”
He could respect that.
“So, you can do that,” Kokoro pointed at his kneecaps, “with that, right?” She pointed at the oasis. The surface was still and as clear as a mirror, reflecting the moonlight overhead and the color of their dwindling torch. Sasori felt his jaw tense as he clamped his teeth.
He wanted to say no. He wanted other Suna nin to die the same swift, horrific deaths that his comrades had experienced. He wanted to spit at the notion of helping other desert dwellers. His bitterness waged with the weight of a thousand years of tradition – water was life, water was sacred. The oases that dotted Wind were as much ancestorial open-air shrines of worship to the nomadic tribes of Wind as the colossal stone temples that existed within Fire, Earth, and Lightning Countries.
“Tomorrow,” he said, the frank outrage of how someone would sabotage the heart of Wind finally winning out over his bitterness and hatred towards his countrymen. “Tomorrow, when I can see, after I’ve rested.” His hands were sweaty, and that was a good sign – his sweat glands and hormone regulation had been restored by the Uzumaki chakra, but his personal levels of chakra were too low, especially after thoroughly raking his insides with microscopic chakra threads. He was pretty sure no other puppeteer could do that… except maybe his grandmother.
“Fine. We need to rest, too.”
Tsume shook her head. “The ninken and I will take care of the,” she eyed the rotten lower leg and foot that hadn’t been kicked into the oasis, “the rot. Kushina, can you set up camp? I packed extra ration bars and some of the Akamichi nutrient pills.”
“Sasori will need them,” Kushina said. She unloaded a knapsack from one of the ninken. Tsume cleaned the head of her axe and stored it away as Kokoro pushed herself away from Sasori. Sasori felt tired now, bereft of the galvanizing energy that had cured most of his ailments (he ignored the throb of his stumps), but still alert. There was also an infernal, persistent itch in his left big toe, which was utter bullshit, because he had no left big toe to scratch. He forced himself to focus on the Konoha kunoichi and ignored the itching sensation.
The women didn’t argue over how camp chores would be divvied up. They moved in sync with each other, three separate (eight? The ninken appeared to have their own chores) bodies with one unifying mind. Sasori carefully and slowly rehydrated himself with a canteen of stale water from the Land of River as he watched.

Aided by the special black storage scrolls that kept corpses in stasis, Tsume and two ninken gingerly rolled the bodies over to store away and deliver to Suna, before they decided they needed to gather the dead wildlife affected by the arsenic, to keep hungry predators from being affected. Another ninken assisted Kokoro in unpacking and setting up two tents. Kushina, her golden chakra coalescing into chains, fished Sasori’s leg out of the oasis and dropped it onto Tsume’s pile of corpses. A fourth ninken began digging a fire pit. The fifth ninken watched Sasori with a canine curiosity, tail slowly tiktoking against the flattened reeds.
“What do you want?” he asked the ninken.
“I can give you some cuddles if you need them.”
Sasori stared. Partly because he hadn’t expected a ninken to talk, and partly because no one, not even his grandmother, would’ve offered Sasori something as superfluous as a cuddle.
Tsume swiveled around, almost falling sideways from being so off-balanced from her exceptionally large abdomen. “Why does he get cuddles and I don’t?”
“Because you still have all your limbs and your teammates. Also, you’re eighteen. He’s still a pup. And you’re going to have your own pup to cuddle in just a few days.”
“This kid isn’t due until the 20th! I got ten days, and I’m never too old for cuddles!”
Sasori sneered. Damn the double-edged sword that was his baby face. It was an exploitable blessing when enemies underestimated him, but a curse when it came to peers treating him with respect and dignity his intelligence and experience deserved. “I don’t need cuddles.”
“Never mind cuddles.” Kokoro thrust a fistful of nutrient pills into Sasori’s face. He’d just stab her with the kunai he sliced his kneecaps open with … oh. The ninken offering cuddles had already retrieved it. “Eat these. And these, too.” She dropped two ration bars in his lap.
“If we’re just eating the ration bars, why do we need a firepit?” asked Kushina as she carelessly dropped Sasori’s rotting leg on the piles of human and animal corpses. Tsume’s hands flashed through seals, and then they all stored with a single chakra cloud into the scroll.
“How else am I going to make tea?” Tsume declared. “I need mint, or I’m going to start throwing up from the stench again. Also, we have to burn Sasori’s clothes.” She eyeballed Sasori as she and her two helping ninken gathered more dead birds, foxes, hares, rodents, and a variety of reptiles, piling them on another open black statis scroll. “I’ll help you with a bed bath. You stink.”
He was acutely aware of the feces, vomit, and blood his clothing was saturated with. “I can bathe myself, but there’s no point without clean clothes to change into.”
“I’m the closest fit,” said Kokoro as she dug through another knapsack. “I didn’t exactly bring a lot of extra changes, but this will work fine for you.” She produced a baby blue narrow-sleeved manfu jacket, its hem embroidered with clusters of purple grapes and deep green leaves and vines. It was followed by a tan-colored pair of ninja trousers, perfect for blending into the sand dunes without overheating.
Sasori’s fingers, weak but not numb, fumbled with the vomit-tacky zippers and buttons of his own uniform. He felt his face flush with embarrassment as Tsume approached and reached out. “Here. Let me help.”
“Stop!” A rock, no larger than a robin’s egg, bounced off Tsume’s head.
“Kokoro!” Tsume whined and rubbed her head. “What was that for?”
“Let him do it! He’s already lost his legs, let him keep what little dignity he’s got left.” Kokoro shielded Sasori with an arm. “Do you have any idea how humiliating it is for someone to help you get cleaned up when you’re like this?”
Tsume growled and raised her chin in defiance. “I do know. Intimately.”
“Yeah, well, you were six years old. That’s a big age difference between a small child recovering from a brain injury, and Sasori-kun, here and now.”
The growl deepened, shared with the talking ninken “I was also twelve, Kokoro. Someone had to help me get cleaned up night after night.” Something passed between them – an old resentment that simmered beneath the surface of their relationship. Sasori’s eyes flickered from one woman to another. Kokoro was half-hunched, fierce and intimately aware of her own disability; Tsume crouched, a tight coil of anger as her claws scratched at the moss-covered rocks. “Furthermore, I’m the only one with experience handling naked male bodies. Torturing prisoners or bathing Kakashi when he was little doesn’t count.” Another moment passed, broken finally when Kushina cleared her throat.
Tsume straightened, her hair as wild as her disposition as she pointed a stern finger at Sasori. “This isn’t weakness. This is a mission for you. A mission that will make or break you, and it’s up to you to decide if you’re strong enough to complete it. As far as I am concerned, I am nothing more than a tool you can use to complete your mission. Will you accept this?”
Sasori didn’t know why Tsume bothered dressing up his weakness with an undeserved ferocity. And contrary to what Kokoro said, he didn’t have any dignity left. He would much rather be clean with reluctant assistance than wallow in filthy pride, at this point. “I accept.”
With a snort, Kokoro threaded chakra strings across the oasis to another palm tree, outside the circle of dim light produced by the still-burning torch, and then dragged herself to the palm tree, hidden behind another wall of reeds and fronds. One ninken trotted after her. And then the chakra threads snaked back to Sasori, snatching up the ration bars and nutrient pills.
“You guys.” Shaking her head, Kushina released three more water canteens from a storage scroll, and handed them over to Tsume, along with a clean pair of socks. “It’s a good thing we loaded up the fluids when we were in River. I’m going to find some brush or wood or something to start a fire.” Two more ninken followed Kushina as she stomped off, clearly upset with her teammates’ squabble.
Sasori was silent as Tsume, brisk and impersonal, skipped over the zippers and buttons and instead swiped the kunai from the talking ninken and casually sliced his filthy clothes away from his body. Even if they weren’t beyond salvage, it would’ve been pointless to pack them along to wash later. He felt scrawny and inadequate as Tsume wet one of the socks with the canteen and held it out to him. Up close, he could see old, thick scars that traced her left arm from elbow to wrist. A different set of lacerated scars stretched from elbow to shoulder. “I’m not entirely helpless,” he said, reluctantly accepting the soaking wet sock.
“Never said you were.” Tsume paused long enough to stuff mint tea leaves up her nostrils, and then resumed cutting away his crusted pants and underwear. She piled them up next to the firepit as he scrubbed his face, then his arms.
She dumped half a canteen of water on his head, scrubbing the dried vomit out of his hair, and then scrubbed his back and neck with the other sock. “Why are you helping me?”
“Why not?”
“I wouldn’t do the same for you.” If Sasori had happened upon one surviving member of Team Sakumo, languishing from arsenic poisoning, he would’ve finished them off, supplies or treaty be damned.
“I figured as much. Don’t care.” She had to use another canteen of water to wash the feces from his buttocks and thighs, and then dragged him away from the puddle of filthy water before he could clean his pelvis. “Because Kuromaru is right, really. You’re still just a pup.”
The humidity and green belt surrounding the oasis kept the night temperatures from dropping as low as they would in the desert dunes, but he still shivered from being wet and naked. Hand trembling with exhaustion, he finished scrubbing himself raw, and Tsume rinsed him off with the third canteen, and then hauled his dripping carcass out of that puddle and onto some damp moss. “What did you mean by being twelve and cleaned up night after night?”
Tsume paused in working the tan-colored trousers over his stumps. She held his gaze for a moment, and then pointed at the scars that ran up and down the length of her left arm. “My great-grandmother, may her bitter soul languish forever in hellfire, shredded my arm, here.” She pointed at the upper arm. The scars were thick and raised, dotted with the hashmarks of stitches. “Ichi’s teeth did this, trying to protect me.” She pointed out the scars, not quite as thick or raised, that ribboned her forearm, and then indicated the largest of the ninken, the nonverbal canine warrior that trailed the verbal ninken. “Here, this hand, there are no scars.” She rotated her right arm and wrist. The skin was smooth and clear. “And that’s because broken bones don’t leave visible scars, just invisible aches when there’s a passing weather front. At the same time my left arm got shredded, my right hand was broken. All twenty-seven bones, I was told. Got stuck in the world’s clunkiest cast. Couldn’t do diddly-squat with it.
“Kushina had to help me clean up every time I went potty, and since I was so slow, Mooncalf had to haul my butt around. I hated every moment of it, but I didn’t resent what everyone did for me. They knew I needed the help, and even better – they didn’t make me feel bad for needing it.” Tsume was hardly gentle as she yanked the trousers up his legs, and then up and over his hips. His tailbone jarred with every twisting yank. She did allow Sasori to tuck himself away and zip up the fly without assistance. Although the way she forced the manfu jacket down around his head almost seemed like a half-hearted attempt at smothering him.
“Knock it off!” He snarled as he battered her hands away. “If you just wanted me dead, you could’ve let me keep my feet.”
She grinned, bright-eyed and sharp-toothed. “There you are, kid, I knew there was a fire in you.”
“If you sprout your damned Will of Fire at me, I will drown you in the oasis.”
Tsume waited until his arms were trapped, sliding into the sleeves, to pull him into a noogie. His scalp burned under her knuckles as he thrashed in her laughing grip, and then she yelped and released him after he sunk his teeth in her scarred forearm.
Inherited a smidgeon of that famed Uzumaki chakra, indeed. He didn’t manage to suck any chakra away from Tsume.
Still, it was oddly comforting to receive assistance from someone who was so rough around the edges. She manhandled him like he wasn’t a fine crystal vase that required a deft, gentle touch to prevent any damage. Too brisk to give him time to consider what was going on, she herded him through the undressing, scrubbing, and redressing without leaving any room for Sasori to dwell on his vulnerable weakness. And once her task was complete, Tsume snapped her fingers at the talking ninken. “Kuromaru, keep him warm while I help Kushina with the fire. Ichi, you keep watch just in case he decides to off us when our backs are turned.”
Tail wagging cheerfully, Kuromaru draped himself across Sasori’s lap.
Ichi remained seated upright, body tense and poised for a quick lunge.
“You may scratch my ears,” Kuromaru declared, as if he was presenting a rare gift to Sasori.
Hmmm. The ears were pretty soft.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

It was evident that Kushina, at least, had been waiting for Sasori to finish sponge-bathing and dressing before she returned, her arms laden with half-dry debris to start a fire. Her accompanying ninken dragged dead, dry palm fronds behind. Kokoro emerged with Kushina’s arrival, pulling herself closer to the firepit with chakra strings planting themselves into the dirt and lifting her body through the air, very much like she was her own puppet. Sasori was impressed. He hadn’t thought of the application of chakra strings to manipulate his surroundings for movement, having limited his creativity to objects in his environment. Then he felt miffed that a non-Suna nin would even come up with the idea.
Kokoro lit the fire with a gentle katon jutsu, strong enough to dry the debris and burn it at the same time. The dead fronds flared white-hot, and Tsume tossed the scraps of Sasori’s filthy clothes, one long piece at a time, onto the flames as she pinched her nostrils shut. Orange flames shifted blue and the odor of garlic permeated everything as his clothes were reduced to ashes.
“Okay, mint and garlic – not a great combination.” Tsume blew her nose into her sleeve. Sasori twitched. “Told you that arsenic has an odor,” she added snidely.
“If your nose is so great, then who poisoned the oasis?” Sasori asked.
“Oh, that’s easy. It was Kiri.”
Kushina blew a raspberry, face twisted with disdain. “Oh, of course they did. They have so much water they have absolutely no idea what a treasure it is. Uzushio had so very little potable water.” She made a fist and shook it. “They sabotaged our fresh water sources before they moved to take out my old home.”
“How many Kiri?” Kokoro asked.
“Eight of them,” Tsume replied, her gaze distant. “And it happened about a week ago. This isn’t the first oasis they hit. There’s another four, all tainted with arsenic, although this one had the largest amount – close to four kilograms.”
Kokoro swore. “They’re trying to take out more than just Suna.”
True. There were still enough nomadic tribes in Wind’s great sand desert that traveled from oasis to oasis, that Kiri could singlehandedly wipe out everything that made the Suna Autumn Bazaar such a lucrative seasonal festival for Wind and provided enough money to the Wind Daimyo’s coffers to keep the country from formally bankrupting. And the death toll wouldn’t just include humans – so many of the desert fauna relied upon the oases. Prey would die, and predators, lacking healthy prey to survive upon, would eat the poisoned corpses. As an inorganic compound, arsenic wouldn’t break down. It would contaminate the ground soil as corpses rotted, stunting root development and plant growth, and even contaminate underground aquafers that fed the year-round oases. The insect life that depended on the plant life would be equally devastated.
Sasori was surprised he hadn’t noticed more dead animals when they approached the oasis.
Kushina swore even more colorfully than Kokoro. “Damn fucking Kiri all to hell!”

Sasori had no love for Suna. And he was just as willing to leave the country of Wind as he was Suna.
But the devastation… even he felt disgust with the reckless endangerment of his home country, as little as he cared for it. Wind was home to rare plants and even more rare insects and reptiles, sources of his beautiful poisons and toxins. So much could be lost for generations if Kiri had its way.
“We have to fix this,” Tsume said. “We need to let the Hokage and Kazekage know what’s going on.”
“How?” Kokoro gestured to indicate everyone present. “What the hell can four chuunin and five ninken do?” She leveled a fierce glare at Sasori. “Can you remove arsenic from five different oases?”
He wasn’t sure he would be entirely successful in removing all the arsenic from their current oasis – seriously, four kilograms? Well, Kiri never did anything by half-measures – but he wasn’t going to admit this just yet. He could at least lower the arsenic to a level that, when consumed long-term, would certainly be unhealthy, but not deadly. “I’m a jounin,” he replied, for lack of anything better to say. Tsume squawked at that announcement.
“I got an idea.” Kushina chewed on a lock of crimson hair. “One of the last fuuinjutsu seals that Mito-san created before she sent me away was one that purified a water source. It was meant for enclosed spaces, but I bet I can finagle it to include an open water course, like the oasis. So long as the seal isn’t tampered, it will keep the oasis free of toxins, poisons, and impurities. It would preserve the integrity of the water.”
“I bet you can add a relay to it,” said Kokoro, “one that can alert someone if the seal is tampered. Link it to a map, and people will know exactly when and where, and can react accordingly.”
“Ooooh, a map for Suna and a map for Konoha!” Kokoro and Kushina immediately put their heads together, fuuinjutsu terms and ideas flying back and forth. Tsume was left out of their brainstorming, as much an outsider to it as Sasori, as she finished burning his clothes. The conversation was still growing strong as she mounted a rig over the fire and suspended a kettle filled with water over it. Neither of her companions seemed to care as Tsume then rifled through Kokoro’s pockets, retrieving the nutrient pills and ration bars. She approached Sasori with an armful of goods.
“I’ve got chamomile, mint, jasmine, and oolong,” Tsume told Sasori, glancing towards her teammates with a barely-disguised longing, before she dropped each bag individually on top of Kuromaru’s broad back. “Which one would you like?” She settled cross-legged next to him.
The discussion between Kokoro and Kushina took a heated turn as they argued about layers of security to the seals and national security in general when providing the knowledge of said seals to Suna, and how could they present it for Konoha’s betterment without Suna somehow using it against them?
Sasori made a show of sniffing each bag. “Can you do half-and-half with the mint and jasmine?” He wasn’t keen on using the same sort of tea that Tsume had jammed up her nostrils, but it smelled nice, but so did the jasmine. With the war going on, tea was a scarce resource to be found in Suna, and while coffee would certainly raise his energy levels, he wasn’t about to share his precious stash with the Konoha nin.
“Sure.” The tea and herbal leaves were whole, but she used a small pestle to crush them up in a clay mug. Apparently, Tsume packed along an entire set up with which to make fresh tea.
While Kokoro and Kushina finally settled on agreeing to compromise and provide the water purity seals with the caveat that only Konoha would be permitted to refresh them, Tsume added hot water and settled comfortably once more at his side with her own mug of mint and chamomile. “We only brought two tents. Want me to set yours up?”
“We didn’t bring any tents.” He sipped the tea. It was warm and delicious. Then he swiped at his blurry eyes, because the damn tea wasn’t good enough to cry over. It just wasn’t.
“Oh. Huh. Well, I normally bunk with four of the ninken, but I can boot two or three out and make some room for you.”
He watched as her tunic shifted rhythmically. It seemed safer to dwell on someone else’s physical condition than the nagging itch of his phantom left big toe or the watering of his eyes. “Why does your belly do that?”
“Girly’s got the hiccups.” Tsume massaged her belly. It was… Sasori tried to remember how large the last pregnant woman was that he saw. In the tradition of their nomadic ancestors, pregnant Suna women sequestered themselves in their last trimester. When his mother miscarried, it hadn’t been in her third trimester, and she had only had a small baby bump compared to Tsume’s. “And no, I’m not having twins. Apparently, my body just likes to produce an entire swimming pool’s worth of amniotic fluid.”
He felt distinctly uncomfortable with the possibility of two fetuses being stuffed inside Tsume’s uterus, much less one. “I’m not sure I feel comfortable sharing sleeping quarters with you.”
“Hey, like you said, if I wanted you dead, I’d’ve let you keep your feet. I’m not going to smother you with my pillows, and I promise my ninken won’t rip out your throat as long as you don’t try killing me. I still have to haul you to the hospital, after all. My cousin, Fuuko, has a prosthetic for her arm. She had to have a couple of surgeries so her stump could be fitted. You’ll need the same, too.”
Sasori recalled, once again, the prosthetic he had made for Komushi. And what a waste that effort had been, when that idiot went and died a few months afterwards… He immediately consoled himself, that Komushi was now so much greater than he had been when alive – he had immortalized his best (and only) friend. (So what if he carted around his friend’s corpse like an lacquered teddy bear, unwilling to part with even a shadow of the friendship they had once shared? It was no one’s business but his own.)
“Who’s keeping watch tonight?” It wasn’t technically sleeping in the tent with Tsume if she was outside, keeping watch.
By now, Kushina was drawing up a rough draft of her seal on a regular blank piece of paper, pointing out the working elements to Kokoro, who had a map of the Wind Country spread across her limp legs.
“No need.” Tsume held a handful of cream-white nutrient pills out to him. He reluctantly accepted them. “We’re the only living human beings in the surrounding sixty kilometers. Chew those, don’t swallow them whole.”
The pills were bitter and chalky, forming a gritty film on the roof of his mouth. He rinsed his mouth with some tea, and then swallowed the concoction down, suppressing a gag.
“Yeah, I told Akamichi Tobi that he could at least try adding some spices to improve the flavor, like ginger, but the lecture on how the secret ingredients can’t be compromised with ginger or vanilla wasn’t worth it.”
“Bored me to tears,” said Kuromaru.
“I still think that vanilla wouldn’t compromise the integrity of the nutrient balance, but what would I know?” Tsume pouted. “It’s not like I got the nose to balance flavor profiles.”
“If you can smell the lack of humans in a sixty-kilometer radius,” and the approximate amount of arsenic contaminating the oasis,
and the Suna Salt Flats on the other side of the damn country, “you probably could balance flavor profiles better than an Akamichi.” Then Sasori realized with a chill, Tsume had totally sniffed out every single one of his poisons, and didn’t just burn his clothes because of how soiled with various body fluids they had been. She destroyed the stash he had hidden on himself.
“See, that’s what I told Tobi! But you never challenge the Akamichi to a cooking contest. Never.” Tsume shook her head so fiercely that she nearly took out Sasori’s eye with a hooked knife hidden in her wild locks. “I found out the hard way that the art of cooking is more than just flavor – it’s texture and presentation, and I can’t figure out how to make my food look as tasty as it smells.”
“Where is my bag? Where are my puppets?” He couldn’t remember what he did with them in the spiraling confusion of the poisoning, his team’s deaths, and his own suffering.
“Shi put the puppets and all of the bags over there, under that palm tree.” Tsume pointed at a strand of palm trees, almost too dark to see, despite the additional light from the blue-and-orange flames of their fire. Tsume’s great-grandmother had, apparently, lacked in the department of imagination, and proved such by naming the four ninken that Tsume inherited upon the woman’s death, Ichi, Ni, San, and Shi. “We didn’t touch them, otherwise.” She made him another mug of tea.
At her casual dismissal of his weaponry, Sasori felt himself relax a fraction. He wasn’t completely helpless and vulnerable to these Konoha nin, then. Focusing on art – even something as fleeting and inane as food – was a much safer topic to dwell on than how he had been so easily divested of most of his poisons, although there was still a plethora of such hidden within his two puppets. Or maybe not so hidden, given the strength of the Inuzuka nose. Luckily, his complex locking mechanisms should keep her out, as long as she didn’t destroy them. “What’s the point of making food look artful when you’re just going to eat it?” He chewed two more nutrient pills, downing each with scalding sips of his tea.
“See, I said that, too! But then I had to listen to how the eyes are the window to the soul, and how art feeds the soul, yada yada yada.”
“Art does feed the soul.” This was a topic near and dear to Sasori’s heart, and one he was very comfortable in arguing and debating anyone with, even if that particular anyone was probably more of a reluctant enemy maintaining a shaky truce than an actual ally. “You can’t feed the soul with money or possessions. Art is necessary in elevating human existence. It’s what separates us from lower life forms. There is no higher purpose, no meaning to our lives without art.” But art was also frequently meant to be a means to its own end, not something to dress up food in a pretty show. Art should be immortal, like the human soul, not fleeting and at risk of becoming moldy and/or rotten.
Tsume stared at him, wide-eyed. For a breathless moment, it seemed like she understood the depth and importance of art, of why it must transcend time to embrace eternity when human existence was otherwise a meaningless, constantly changing, toil of pain and loss. And then she opened her mouth and stuck her foot right in. “You’re one of those philosophical nutjobs, aren’t you?”
The problem with debating with morons, Sasori thought bitterly, is that they often dragged you down and beat you up with experience. So he dumped his mug of hot tea over her ridiculous hair.oOoOoOoThe inside of their tent smelled like stale body odor, damp dog, lingering garlic, and a heady mix of jasmine and mint tea. “What kind of kunoichi brings seven pillows on a mission?”
Tsume, burrowed deep in her pile of ninken and pillows, snored in response.
“I know you’re awake, woman.”
“I don’t wanna be awake. I ran over a hundred kilometers today through the gods-forsaken River humidity and then the desert heat, sweating like a pig, and am so ready to give birth in the sand. Let me have my pillows.”

“Pigs can’t actually sweat.” Sasori efficiently stole a pillow with his chakra threads, and then another. Her feather pillows were infinitely more comfortable than the puppet he was propped up against. As much as he loved Komushi, his friend wasn’t soft, especially after being turned from a fleshy meat suit into a hardened puppet meant to survive harsh battles and exist for upcoming generations.
“Hey, that’s for my knees, you jerk!”
He ruthlessly shoved the pillow under his knees, elevating the stumps. It eased some of the painful throbbing. Blood wasn’t returning efficiently from his legs with how the blood vessels had been chopped and then cauterized; his knees were swollen and achy, even with the extra wraps he applied to decrease the swelling. Then he fluffed the other pillow and pulled it under his head. “How many pillows do you need for your knees and elbows?”
“I have reached the beached whale stage of my pregnancy! I can’t sleep on my back, can’t sleep on my belly, and just want to be comfortable, damn it. I need two pillows for my legs, one for my hips, one for my back, two more for my arms and elbows, and one for my head. My sleeping form is a work of art, and one I don’t expect you to understand.”
Pillows weren’t art. He refused to accept such a moronic point of view.

“Eternal Sands, woman, how did your roaming ancestors manage to crisscross multiple countries without pillows or clothes a hundred years ago?”
“By being bitchy and ruthless. I can channel my inner Shinzou and show you first-hand how my ancestors managed to survive. You do not want to meet my grandmother. Not in the dark, not in the light of day, not in life, and certainly not in the afterlife. Gimme my pillows back!” She reached over and yanked back the one under his legs. He retaliated with chakra strings to steal the one bracing her hips, and then another from her elbows. Tsume squawked indignantly while she tried to rescue her pillows. He pinned her back with the chakra threads and stole a fourth.
A rock thumped against the tent. “Don’t make me separate you squabbling kids!” Kushina yelled.
Tsume and Sasori glared at each other in the darkness. “Fine,” Tsume whispered. “You may have two pillows.”
One for his head, and one for his legs. He could compromise with the plebeian. He graciously handed back two of the stolen pillows. Tsume quietly bullied Ichi and Kuromaru into different positions to make up for the loss of her elbow rest and hip brace.oOoOoOo
Morning came all too soon, and with it, a symphony of aches. The nerves in his fingers burned, his eyes felt like someone had shoved handfuls of sand under his eyelids, his liver ached, his leg stumps throbbed in tempo with his knee joints, and his kidneys sent radiating waves of pain through his back and torso. His shoulders were killing him from dragging his carcass through thick greenery to independently empty his bladder last night before entering Tsume’s tent, refusing to be carried around like a fainting bride by the Konoha women.
Nonetheless, Tsume still managed to drag Sasori from his own nest – he had managed to sequester three more pillows in the night while she slept like a log – and into the brightening morning light. It wasn’t as bright as the noon sun high over sand dunes, but it still made the gremlin hiding in his skull stab-happy. Tsume carried him out of the tent – damn it, if he had his legs and feet, he’d be (slightly) taller than her, not included any added height she might gain from her ridiculous hair, and good grief, she had caltrops tangled in it? How on earth had she manage to sleep? – and plopped him next to the small fire on which Kokoro was cooking omelets.
He squinted at the cooking set up. “Did you seriously manage to pack along an entire kitchenette?” What kind of ninja squad – besides the Akamichi Clan – did that?
“Of course we did,” Kokoro replied as she used her own chakra strings to season, stir, and flip breakfast on the suspended cast-iron griddle as Kushina, her face set in concentration, completed her fuuinjutsu design. Which meant he didn’t have to try pulling all the arsenic out of the water. “We’re not natural desert dwellers, used to this kind of climate. It would be too easy for us to lose our strength and stamina without appropriate nutrition and hydration, especially with the pace now required to quickly cross an additional two hundred kilometers of desert and deliver the requested supplies to Sunagakure.”
“You keep the cooking supplies,” Tsume told her team. “Sasori and I only have to travel eighty kilometers to reach the area between Rain and River – we should be able to get there by nightfall. It’ll be easier for me to forage in the forests than for you in the desert. I’ll keep Ichi and Ni; that way, Kuromaru can translate for the other ninken with you.”
“I don’t support this idea,” said Kuromaru. He was soundly ignored by his two-legged companions.
Kokoro handed the map over. “I marked the oasis we’re at. Can you circle the other contaminated oases? Kushina and I will go directly to Suna and report to the Kazekage and Chiyo-sama, and maybe they can send separate teams to each of the other oases with Kushina’s seals.”
Tsume brightened, painfully and desperately eager to be included in her teammates’ schemes that she had been so obviously left out of during last night’s discussion. She studied the map and the sun overhead, twisting and turning until she was aligned with north, laying the map out flat to orient herself. “Hey, this map doesn’t have all the oases on it.”
“No, but the Kazekage will have a map with them, and he can cross-reference them against your circled areas.”
Kokoro handed Sasori a blank sheet of paper and a mechanical pen. “I figured your grandmother and the Kazekage would prefer to hear your version of the story and let them know you’re still alive. They’re probably not going to take our word for it, especially when we hand them your lower legs and feet.”
While Sasori was composing his letter, Kushina announced that she was done. “Tsume, I need a stone pillar about three meters high. I want it placed in the center of the oasis to anchor my seal to it.” Sasori paused, trying to consider a more polite way of addressing his grandmother than deceitful old bag, and watched with a chill as Tsume, without applying chakra, fumbled through a five hand-seal sequence.
“Ox,” corrected Kushina, touching Tsume’s wrist with the third hand seal, “not horse.”
Tsume fumbled through the sequence again, frowning in concentration.
It was a five hand seal sequence. It was simple enough for a toddler to remember!
Tsume practiced the sequence three more times before Kushina nodded in satisfaction. “Okay. Raise it in the center of the oasis.”
Tsume’s first attempt produced a lumpy, lopsided stone that leaned heavily to the side. Her second attempt was more cylindrical, but so heavy that it did fall sideways with a large splash, little waves rolling through the surrounding reeds. Tsume whined and hunched, looking like an unfortunate tortoise wearing a cactus for a hat. “Why can’t you do this?”
“One,” Kushina held up a finger, “you need to practice. Two, you have the earth nature, so it’s going to come more easily to you than me or Kokoro. Three, Sakumo would want you to become an expert with douton jutsu.”
Tsume’s third attempt wasn’t even in the center of the oasis, rising up near the far shoreline and still leaning heavily to the side, but at least it remained upright.
Having memorized the sequence, Sasori impatiently performed it and raised his own pillar, perfectly cylindrical, perfectly centered, perfectly straight, and proudly jutting four meters above the water line. Kushina glared at him while Tsume flushed with embarrassment. “We need to leave soon if we want to reach River before nightfall,” he said, refusing to feel bad about stealing Tsume’s lesson and jutsu (if she wanted to keep the technique secret, they shouldn’t have made Tsume practice it multiple times in front of him). “We’ll need to rest mid-day when the heat is at its worst.” Kushina’s chakra may have healed the damage of the arsenic, but it didn’t shield him from the repercussions of blood loss, severe dehydration, and the subsequent electrolyte imbalance from yesterday’s vomiting and diarrhea. He didn’t dare push through the height of the desert’s heat until he had fully recovered. The nutrient pills they were feeding him by the handful were nothing more than a band aid slapped over his current health problems.
Sasori resumed his letter/report as Kushina water-walked across the oasis and shimmied up his pillar, her brush, jar of chakra ink, and fuuinjutsu prototype clenched close to her chest. Once he finished, he ate his omelet (heavily salted) and the ninken ate theirs (also heavily salted, but devoid of garlic and onion seasoning), and watched as Kushina painstakingly applied the fuuinjutsu seal directly to the pillar, using her prototype as a guide. He drank an entire canteen of water (only lightly salted) as Tsume and Kokoro divvied up the cooking kit and impressively extensive stock of spices and seasonings. They also split the bags of tea, although Kokoro insisted that Tsume keep the tea kettle and pestle. “I can find a rock small enough to crush the leaves.”
By the time they finished, Kushina had completed her seal. She charged it with a burst of golden chakra, and then leapt from the pillar to her companions’ sides. He watched as the fuuinjutsu characters lit up, also golden, which transferred the golden light to the pillar like a beacon. The golden light radiated down the stone to the water surface, and swept across like rippling waves towards the shore. The soil and plants at the banks glowed briefly, the flow rising upward in the air like a mist, and then in a snap, the golden chakra rushed back to the pillar, a black haze dragged behind. The golden chakra flashed upward through the pillar as a ring of black swirled around it like a coil – whirlpool, Sasori realized – and when the chakra finally faded away, glittering black and silver rings marbled the pillar.
It was breathtakingly beautiful.
“The oasis had a fair amount of naturally occurring lead, too,” Kushina declared smugly. “Took care of that along with the arsenic.”oOoOoOo
Sasori wasn’t sure which was worse: piggybacking off of a very pregnant eighteen-year-old woman, or awkwardly riding a gigantic ninken that looked like it very much preferred to rip his throat out.
“Well,” said Tsume, hands on her wide hips as her tunic rippled and waved from the movement beneath, “it’s not like you can run all the way there.”
Sasori had half a mind to yank Komushi’s legs off and stick them to his stumps. And then he would probably repeatedly fall flat on his face, and that would be even more humiliating, because his stumps weren’t even, were still covered with cauterized burns and scars from the poison, and swollen.
“Look, Ichi promises not to attack you.” Ichi glared at Tsume. She glared back. “Right, Ichi?” A pause. “I know you don’t trust him. I don’t really trust him either. But for right now, he’s our companion, and Sakumo-sensei’s rule number one is we don’t abandon our companions, so we’re dragging his sorry hide with us back to Konoha whether either of you like it or not.”
Sasori’s mood darkened even further with the reminder of who Team Five’s sensei was, and the high regard Tsume clearly held for his parents’ murderer.
“Fine!” Tsume pointed at Sasori. “You have to promise Ichi that you aren’t going to harm any of us, either!”

Sasori didn’t want to get involved in an argument in which he could only discern one side. “I don’t make promises I can’t keep.”
She laughed, which wasn’t the reaction he had been going for. “Well, at least he’s honest,” she told Kushina and Kokoro as they eyed him suspiciously. “Sakumo-sensei always said you know exactly where you stand with Suna nin.”
“Yeah,” replied Kokoro slowly, not taking her gaze from Sasori, “far away from them and out of reach of their poisons, with your back facing the opposite direction.”
“Well, that too. He also said that the Suna nin were honest and reliable with their promises, especially with the ones about killing you in a miserable way. But no poison is truly odorless.” Tsume grinned boldly at Sasori as she tapped her nose. “I’ll know if you’re being sneaky. But hey, I can’t expect something for nothing, so how about a trade?”
“A what?”
“A trade!” Based on her teammates’ darkening expressions, Tsume was leading up to something they weren’t going to be happy about. “You give me your promise and your best behavior until you return to Suna, and I’ll give you your parents’ puppets.”
What.
Kushina and Kokoro clearly shared his surprise.
His voice was a flat whisper. “They were destroyed in the Second War.” That’s what the old bag told him after she finally, and reluctantly, admitted to the truth about his parents, when he had demanded that she give him their puppets.
“No. Sakumo claimed them and mailed them off to me and Kakashi.”
A red haze filled his vision.
“One is a scorpion, about the size of Ichi. It’s got a dull-grey body and pale yellow legs. Wicked red eyes, though.”
His father’s Deathstalker: Desunaito. He had helped his father sharpen the blade on Desunaito’s stinger.
“The other is this black spider, about half the size of the scorpion, with a red streak down its thorax-belly thingie.”
His mother’s Black Widow: Kuro Goke. He had assisted Mother with loading the hidden stores of poison inside of Kuro Goke’s fangs.
“I’ll give them back to you in exchange for your promise. I swear on my own mother’s grave that they’re mostly intact, still.”
Sasori hadn’t realized he was clenching his hands into fists until nails broke the skin and the coppery scent of blood filled the air.
“I’m not sure this is the best way to bargain for good behavior,” said Kushina.
“Look, it’s not like I can do anything with the puppets. I had to stash them away in a very, uh, hidden place to keep my clan children from playing with them after Kakashi took them to the Academy a few years ago for show-and-tell, and Kagami explained why it’s a bad thing to leave priceless, dangerous weapons carelessly lying around. I think it’s fair to give them back to who they belong to.” The amusement melted away from Tsume’s face as she crouched next to Sasori and rested a placating hand upon his scarred kneecap. She looked tired and older than her eighteen years, almost ancient, with grief. “Besides, Sakumo-sensei would’ve wanted them returned.”
Desunaito.
Kuro Goke.
His parents’ puppeteer art. The eternal expression of their hearts, their skills, their philosophy, their legacy. Sasori’s legacy and inheritance, denied to him for almost his entire life. He had been five years old when his parents were killed, and he had precious few memories of them and their lifework.
Lifework that existed in this simpleton’s possession.
And that wretched old hag had lied to him. He had always sensed the untruthfulness when she told him his parents’ puppets had been destroyed, that there weren’t even any pieces or parts that he could salvage and recycle into his own puppetry. But Chiyo had lied to him so much and for so long that he no longer trusted her even when she did tell the truth, like how the sky was blue, or the sun rose in the east, or that shinigami peppers were, in fact, hot enough to feel like they were burning a hole through your stomach if you ate even just one.
Sasori closed his eyes and forced himself to take deep, slow breaths to recenter the growing ball of rage and bitterness. He forced his hands to relax, though they still trembled. If this simpleton was so willing to hand him the legacy of his parents, their ultimate weapons, then who was he to deny such a boon? Inuzuka Tsume was a naïve simpleton, and it was so painfully obvious to her teammates what a mistake her good-faith offer was. “For this? I promise not to harm, hurt, or kill you and your companions and will be on my best behavior until I return to Suna.”
He had no intention of returning to Suna, to his lying, deceitful grandmother, and the wary Kazekage, who watched Sasori with poisonous eyes and a deadly silence. And being in Konoha gave him easy access to destroying everything that was so important to Sakumo Hatake.
At Tsume’s silence, he opened his eyes. The red haze was gone. Her expression was no longer laden with grief, but every bit as serious, thin lips pressed into a tight line. She tapped her nose with her left index finger, still resting the right hand on his kneecap. “I can smell lies as easily as I can smell poison.”
Well. It was in Sasori’s best interest then to be honest. “Then I will keep this promise until I leave Konoha.” What he did after he left Konoha? Well, that was open to interpretation and subject to change. Technically, he could return to enact his vengeance once he was a kilometer away, and it wouldn’t mean he was lying about being on his best behavior while at Konoha.
She nodded, expression still grim and serious. “All right. I can smell the honesty of that, and I can accept it.”
“Chop chop,” said Kokoro, clapping her hands. “It’s already past nine. Daylight’s burning and we’ve all got a lot of ground to cover.”
“You’ll ride Ichi until it’s too hot, and then I’ll trade off with him for you,” Tsume told Sasori as she picked him up and deposited him upon Ichi’s broad back. “Use chakra to keep your butt in place.” Kokoro, using her chakra strings, mounted San, who wore some sort of saddle with special straps that Kokoro secured her limp legs in to prevent dragging.
They were delayed further with another argument to not allow Sasori his puppets, with Kushina ultimately pointing out how unfairly he was loading his two- and four-legged beasts of burden with his own carcass, much less an added two more. Sasori, already extremely uncomfortable with how much he had to rely on others for his transportation, argued that it was equally unfair to leave him vulnerable and weaponless, and no, a dozen throwing stars and kunai wasn’t going to cut it (although he accepted them anyway), and what the hell was he going to do with Tsume’s grease-stained caltrops?
“They aren’t grease-stained! My hair is clean!”
They eventually reached a compromise that left no one satisfied, as he was permitted one puppet – Komushi.
“Well, it’s not like you got any poisons on them anyway,” Tsume said blithely as she sealed his second puppet in a scroll that was then secured inside Sasori’s dead teammate’s pack. She had commandeered it as her own backpack, holding their portion of the sealed camp supplies, and shouldered it herself to keep Ni unburdened.
Sasori froze. “What?”
“Yeah, I got rid of all the poisons while you were asleep. The hatch in the jaws were a little fiddly, but I managed not to break the hinge.”
Sasori grimly fantasized of the various ways he knew how to kill people without the use of poisons. The Kazekage had insisted on it, firmly telling Sasori that if people thought of you as just a two-trick pony (puppets and poison), it makes it easier to leave no witnesses after they underestimate your true skill level.oOoOoOo
The Shiruba Oasis was the first oasis between the Land of River, and Sunagakure. The geography between Wind and River was a gradual ascent upwards, and lacked a great deal of sand. The border between the two was an ancient mountain range, long worn down unevenly by the continental winds and torrential rains that frequently blew in from River and pushed westward across Wind. The water from Rain was often lost in the deep underground aquifers that lay beneath the mountains. The constant, relentless winds and heavy downpouring rain had extensively eroded the mountains’ softer sedimentary rocks and clay-rich soils, blowing the finer particles across the countryside towards the sand dunes.
Otherwise known as the Uneru Badlands, the countryside was scared with sharp, wide ravines, and carved gullies hundreds of meters deep where lush greenery flourished at the bottoms with or without marshes, many of which were hidden in the shadows of buttes and rising pillars of hoodoos. The broken surface wasn’t completely barren – the prairie grasses were stubbornly clinging, bent sideways from the wind, while stunted sagebrush, pine, thorny apples, and clusters of wild blossoming hazelnuts thrived against the odds of the relentless, drying wind, the harsh overhead sun, and constantly swings of extreme temperatures.
And the mosquitoes. The mosquitoes were even more relentless than the winds. Suna, due to its lack of standing water that allowed the breeding of bloodsucking flying menaces, was starting to look pretty good to Sasori.
On the plus side, Sasori’s itchy mosquito bites served as a good distraction from his nonexistent itchy left big toe.
On the downside, there would be far fewer mosquito bites to suffer through if Tsume didn’t insist on harvesting wild marsh geraniums and clay from the smelly, filthy marsh she waded barefoot through, trouser legs rolled up to her knees and a large carved wooden bowl in her arms. She also got distracted midway through her self-assigned mission to gather a number of young cattail roots, proclaiming them delicious when roasted. The ninken, with Sasori astride Ichi, stood off to the side, away from the algae scum that clung to the marsh’s banks. Sasori nearly lost his seating when Ichi abruptly sat and began scratching relentlessly at his thick neck.
“Hey, kiddo, can you scratch his left shoulder, under the harness?” Tsume called. “Ichi can’t quite reach it.”
Sasori reluctantly complied, and Ichi leaned heavily into his digging fingers. Riding a ninken, Sasori had realized, within minutes of mounting Ichi, was nothing at all like riding a horse or a camel. “What are we even doing here? It’s pointless to return to Konoha if we all get sick and die from yellow fever.”
“Nah, it’s too early in the season for yellow fever to have made its way over from Wave. I forgot to grab some mosquito repellant from Shi’s pack before we separated, so now I have to go with an old Nara clan remedy, instead. Shoot, forgot to crush the geranium before I added the clay.”
Mosquito repellant and the order in which she was supposed to make the old Nara clan remedy were clearly not the only things that Inuzuka Tsume kept forgetting. He eyed the leeches that attached themselves to Tsume’s calves as she high-stepped through the marsh to another patch of geraniums, pausing long enough to yank up yet another handful of cattail roots.
Ten minutes and three screeches of disgust later, Tsume returned to the bank, prying leeches from her legs. “Why didn’t you warn me, kid?”
He shrugged and slapped a mosquito trying to take advantage of his exposed collarbone. “You didn’t ask.” And the very obvious you should’ve water-walked, moron hung between them, unspoken.
Tsume grumbled and separated the clay from the bowl, picking geranium and cattail roots free. She swaddled the cattail roots in yesterday’s dirty tunic, and stuffed the bundle into the backpack. She sat awkwardly over the bowl, her protruding uterus very much in the way as she mashed the geraniums into a pulp and occasionally slapped a mosquito.
“What’s my name?”
She flinched minutely. “Why, did you forget?”
“No, but you did.”
“I do too remember!”
“Then what is it, woman?”
“If you’re not going to call me by my name, I’m not going to give you the same consideration.”
Her shoulders hunched as she mixed the gloopy clay, green with algae, with the pulped geranium. “Inuzuka Tsume, chuunin of Konohagakure, genin apprentice to the disgraced Hatake Sakumo, foster mother to Hatake Kakashi, head of the Inuzuka Clan, recognized kin to the head of the Nara Clan, and proclaimed heir to the legendary Hell Hound, Inuzuka Natsumi. I remember precisely who and what you are. What is my name, Tsume-san?”
She somehow managed to hunch even more. He was half-sure her uterus was trying to merge with the ground. “You forgot brain-damaged simpleton with a lackluster memory.” He saw enough of her ashamed expression, cheeks almost as red as her haphazard clan markings.

He scoffed. “You couldn’t be that badly brain-damaged if your teammates were willing to separate from you and your clan allows your leadership without protest.”
He didn’t pay too much attention to the intel on most Konoha chuunin, since they were hardly strong enough to be much of a challenge to his battle skills and poisons. But the apprentices of his parents’ murderer? Whom he had sworn to kill when Grandmother finally revealed, just last year, the truths of their death and the identity of their murderer? Yes, he had studied and memorized everything he could about them. He knew about Uzumaki Kushina’s mastery of her adamantine chains, the better for which to keep the Kyuubi locked within. He knew about Mitarashi Kokoro’s role and expertise in Torture and Interrogation, solidly ensconced with her four older brothers.
And he knew about Inuzuka Tsume’s simplicity and brain injury.
The fact that he had sworn to be on his best behavior until he left Konoha wasn’t going to prevent long term planning of vengeance. The thought of further delays burned in his gut, like a single shinigami pepper, but one he was willing to put up with if it meant he could kill those foolish kunoichi with Desunaito and Kuro Goke, and get fixed up for prosthetics with greater expertise than what Komushi had suffered through. The sweet irony would be worth the wait, to end the lives of the very same kunoichi who had been so instrumental in saving his own.
“I may be simple, but I’m not an idiot, Sashimi-kun.” Her hands, coated with the paste of clay and geranium, curled into tight fists. “I can smell your hate, your deceit, your willingness to abandon your Village, and the fact that you supplied the Kiri nin with the arsenic two weeks ago.”
Sasori didn’t know if he should be hot with outrage at what she thought his name was, or cold at the wary realization that her nose was good enough to know who had supplied the arsenic to the Kiri saboteurs after two weeks. (They were supposed to sabotage Fire’s water sources, not Wind’s!)
“My name is Sasori.”
“That’s what I said.”
“I am not a raw slab of fish!”
“You’re a backstabbing traitor is what you are!”
“THEN WHY THE HELL ARE YOU HELPING ME?”
A flock of sage grouse cautiously trying to quench their thirst with marsh water scattered from beneath the underbrush, squawking wildly as they startled from Sasori’s yell.
“BECAUSE YOU’RE A CHILD!”
They both glared at each other, both panting. Sasori’s breaths were deep and steady as a red haze filled his vision and he cursed his stupid baby face once more. Tsume’s breaths were rapid and shallow, diaphragm compressed by her uterus. Ichi, between Sasori’s knees, growled long and deep.
“I am only six years younger than you,” Sasori whispered, outraged and angry that she would treat him like a civilian preteen instead of a battle-hardened jounin with five years of experience. He had been promoted to jounin just after he converted Komushi into a puppet. His first human puppet. The Kazekage had been suitably impressed and his grandmother openly proud of him for the first time in his life. Too little, too late.
His shinobi career was just a year shorter than Tsume’s, but his reputation as a ruthless puppeteer was greater. She was a reckless simpleton. He was Akasuna no Sasori. He technically outranked this simpleton, even if the rank had been bestowed on him less than a month ago, and he wasn’t yet used to referring to himself as such.
Tsume stewed quietly as she returned to her paste, smearing heavy globs of it on her face, neck, legs, and arms. She looked like the unholy lovechild of a hedgehog and a golem. Then she paused, staring into her bowl as her belly, outlined by the sopping wet tunic, shifted and rolled. “Look, Sashimi-kun—”
“Sasori,” he hissed.
“—Sasori-kun, I know it’s weird and senseless, but the nose knows things, okay. You’re young – hell, your voice hasn’t even dropped, much less your balls – you smell lost, you smell lonely, you frankly stink of hatred and spite, but all I see is a desperate, cornered child. And I’m sorry if my maternal instincts are in overdrive right now, with the impending motherhood and hormones. I was supposed to be happily nesting in Konoha right now, cuddling with my new five-year-old adopted son, but the Hokage needed my ninken for their noses, and me to speak for the ninken, so here I am with you, instead of with my Yamato. I feel awful about leaving him, when he had been in such a horrible place before, but I had to set aside my emotions to obey my Hokage’s orders. But you can’t really set aside emotions. They’re still there, riding along like that gigantic chip on your shoulder.” Tsume gazed at Sasori with naked longing. He wanted to gouge out her eyes. “You just happen to be in the wrong place, the wrong time, and the wrong condition, and I just too exhausted to fight myself over this. Can we just… can we just try to get along, at least until you leave Konoha?”
He forced himself to slow his breaths, ignored the pounding heart and the rush of blood in his ears, and willed away the hazy red washing his vision. He said nothing, but willingly allowed Tsume to plaster the slimy concoction on his skin and hair. He wasn’t used to physical contact, despite how Wind’s culture was more tactile than others, but her hands were gentle and there was something soothing in the way she rubbed his skin. When she applied the concoction to her two ninken, he said, “You’ll make a marvelous puppet after I kill you. I bet you’d retain your olfaction.”
Tsume sighed. “That is seriously disturbing, Sasori-kun.”
“If you’re going to insist on smothering me with your nasty hormones and maternal instincts, then you can pay me back by serving in a more suitable fashion in the distant future.”
“No, seriously, it’s really disturbing. If you hate me that much, why would you turn my carcass into a puppet and keep it around?”
Because he liked hugging Komushi more in death than in life. “Because your carcass would come with a marvelous nose.” He could find a great use for that marvelous nose. He didn’t need the broken brain that came with it. Luckily, his single human-converted puppet didn’t have a functioning brain. He still needed to figure out if human-converted puppets kept their bloodline limit, but eh, he’d explore that with the Third Kazekage in a couple of years.

Tsume squinted at him. “I can’t tell if I’m being insulted or complimented.”
“I’ll have to do something about the hair, though. It’s deplorable.”
She shrugged as she swiped the bowl clean with the herm of her tunic. “Yeah, that’s Sakumo decided to weaponize it years ago.”

It honestly hadn’t occurred to Sasori that Tsume had weaponized her hair. He just thought she carelessly kept losing stuff in it when she’d forget where she put something.
He sneered. “It’s ugly.”
Tsume huffed, half-amused and half-outraged. “That’s just rude. Not all of us can have beautiful, sleek red hair like you and Kushina-chan.” She then handed him another handful of nutrient pills and two more ration bars. The mosquitoes still buzzed around, sensing his body heat, but were now avoiding him, Tsume, and the ninken.

“I’ll give you beautiful hair as a puppet.”
She brightened, like a child given a fistful of money and then given free reign at the candy store. “Really?” She self-consciously tugged at a wild lock of hair. “I’ve always wanted red hair! Long and sleek!”
He nodded, ignoring a glowing warmth in his chest as Tsume cheerfully welcomed the idea of being turned into a beautiful, eternal work of art. The warmth was probably just heartburn from too many nutrient pills. “Yes. You shall have long, sleek hair.” Red? Hell no. It wouldn’t match her complexion, and he wasn’t going to tell her that while she was being so amiable about being turned into a puppet. A soft silver-lilac with graceful curls would contrast better against her skin tone. “So… geranium?”
“Yeah. Its oils and compounds repel mosquitoes. The clay will keep the oils and compounds from evaporating, and also help us blend into the countryside. There’s a bunch of Ame, Jomae, Kusa, Isha, and Kiri nin between us and Fire. They keep stomping all over Ame, and Ame is up in arms with the constant invasions. Konoha hasn’t had anything to do with Ame since some kind of failed coup that Danzo tried to pull, so Hanzo’s understandably pissed at anything that remotely resembles the Hidden Leaf.”
Konoha needed to mind its own business instead of going around, instigating other Hidden Villages and dragging everyone headlong into wars.
Remembering, once again, that the Third War was partially her very own sensei’s fault, Sasori glared at Tsume as he pocketed the second ration bar for later.
She didn’t seem to notice as she chewed and swallowed her own ration bars.
“Why can’t we go directly through Rivers instead of skirting the edge so close to Rain?”
“It’s alligator nesting season. No one travels through the center of Rivers when the alligators are nesting, not if they want to keep all their body parts, and you’re missing enough as it is.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Tsume was lagging. Sasori knew that something was inherently wrong when she called for a second rest in less than thirty minutes. Her expression was twisted with concern as she alternated between rubbing her pregnant belly, and then her sway back, and then her hips, and then returned to her belly.
They were currently sneaking past a camped-out squad of Kusa nin, which was parked on top of the ravine, in a small hollow sheltered by a thick cluster of blooming hazelnuts. Sasori and his companions were half-way down the ravine’s depth, carefully wall-walking and tiptoeing on the ledges as they snuck past the camp. The winds sweeping over the countryside and funneling through the ravine were sustained at 80 kilometers an hour with gut-clenching gusts easily twice the sustained speeds. Dried sweat stung Sasori’s split lips and eyes as he exhausted himself with chakra strings to keep him and everyone else safely attached to the ravine walls, since Tsume and the ninken couldn’t independently hold themselves in place with their chakra against the wind force. The tips of his fingers were blue, with the wind constantly stealing any warmth he managed to hoard.
After a moment, he noticed Tsume glaring at her own whitened fingers as she fumbled through a sequence of hand seals. She had to change them twice before she finally remembered what she wanted to do, and then activated them with her third attempt. The low rumble of sound as her doutun jutsu cut a curving bubble-shaped pit into the side of the ravine was lost to the howls of the wind, and then she waved wildly at Sasori as she crawled into it. He and the ninken promptly followed.
“Not quite done,” she said, her voice muffled. She flashed through the sequence once again, and then the pits entrance shrunk until it was a quarter of its original size, sheltering them from the wind.
“That was risky,” Sasori complained, rubbing circulation back into his hands and refusing to be grateful. “If the Kusa nin had any sensors, you just threw a lit beacon at them.”
“I can still smell them. They’re no more alert or suspicious now than before I opened this up.”
Sasori pulled Komushi free from where he stored him in a sealing scroll, not willing to risk his friend being yanked away by the winds. His elbows dug hard into Tsume’s side as he wrestled the puppet into his lap. “Couldn’t you have made this pit a little bigger?”
“Look, the smaller it is, the more quickly it’ll heat up from our body heat.” After a worrying moment as the ninken shifted, with Ichi forcing his bulky body between Sasori and Tsume, and Ni sprawled across both their laps, she added, “I don’t have a watch.”
“So? It’s about four in the afternoon.”
Her breath hitched in surprise. “You can keep time in your head?”
“Of course.” The unspoken, and evidently you can’t, you moron, hung in the air.
“So, if I said start and stop, could you keep track of how many seconds and minutes pass?”
“Are you looking for a pattern in the Kusa nins’ movements?”
“Uh, sure, yeah.”
He didn’t need to have an Inuzuka nose to know he was being lied to. Especially when Tsume was so expressive in vocal tone and body language. “What are you really measuring?”
“I won’t know until we do this to see if there’s a pattern.”
That felt more honest, but still deceptive. “All right then. Let me know when to start.”
Twenty seconds later, she told him. After three cycles, he explained the pattern. “Thirty to forty seconds, followed by a seven to eight minute length. What are you measuring?”
A wiggle, and then a hiccup. “What do you want to hear first? The good news, the bad news, or the really bad news?”
“Don’t waste time stalling. Tell me directly what’s going on.”
“The good news is, the Kusa nin are hightailing it out of here. The bad news is, it’s because a team of Ame nin with Hanzo and two of his salamander summons are bearing down in this direction. Which is unusual, since he doesn’t like to stray far from Amegakure and this is about a hundred kilometers away. The really bad news is that what I thought were Braxton-Hicks are actual contractions.”
Sasori’s brain froze. And then lurched. “What?” She was supposed to be due in nine days. Not right now, not right here.
“We can’t stay here. Hanzo’s salamanders are sensors, and we’re trapped like sitting ducks in this hole. And the more I move, the faster my labor is going to progress.”
“How fast can you move in your beached whale stage?”
“If we can get to the other side of the ravine and scale the walls up to solid ground, a heck of a lot faster than sneaking along the walls. I can… I know how to create a diversion so we can put some distance between us and Hanzo, maybe even get him off our backs entirely.”
“The winds are too strong to leap to the other side.”
“I got Sarutobi ropes. You got chakra threads. If you can use your threads to secure the ropes on the other side, we can swing over and crawl up.”
Well, it was better than being a sitting duck in a hole that Hanzo could collapse or fill with poison. “Give me the ropes. How far out is he?”
“About twelve minutes and ten kilometers away. He’s not chasing after the Kiri nin – he’s headed directly here.”
Hanzo’s salamanders were extraordinary sensors, lethally toxic, and one of the reasons why Ame had ultimately never managed to fall to enemy forces, no matter how much their country was used as other nations’ stomping grounds for their wars and pissing matches. He accepted the ropes that Tsume unsealed from her backpack, and yanked it through his hands, ignoring the friction’s burn as he sought the end. “You’re the Hell Hound’s heir, don’t you have your own summons?”
“Well, yeah, that’s how I’m going to create a diversion. But believe me, with how badly you stink with fear, I’m going to have a hell of a time controlling and aiming my summons at Hanzo. The wider a space we have between us and Hanzo, the better.”
Sasori resealed Komushi and then found the end of the rope, winding multiple chakra threads around it as Tsume, fingers still stiff and shaking, activated the hand seals that opened their pit. Wind blasted them in the face, sucking away breath. The ninken secured themselves with chakra and claws, digging deep furrows in the stone.
“Make a pit near the top of the other side,” Sasori yelled, barely heard over the wind as he pointed. “I’m going to send the rope into it, and then you close it up tight to secure it!”
She nodded and obeyed without hesitation. The wind yanked at his rope and chakra threads as he forced them to snake across the forty meter distance, and then another thirty meters high, opposite of them. Two minutes had passed by the time he directed the coiled knot of the rope deep into the pit, and Tsume closed the pit tight around the knot. He pulled the chakra threads back as Tsume barked at her ninken. “Henge!”
Two gigantic ninken instantly became two slightly-hairy octopuses, one of which promptly wrapped itself around Sasori’s torso, and the other clung to Tsume’s right leg.

“This is going to take a lot of strength,” Tsume said, chomping on a soldier pill (he was pretty sure those were contraindicated with pregnancy). “Come on, hold on tight to my back.” She hauled him upright and used another Sarutobi rope, this one shorter, to secure him to her torso, the knot snug between her protruding uterus and beneath her full breasts. “Hands off the belly, and don’t choke me,” she added as he wrapped his arms just above the secured ropes, embarrassingly aware of the fact that he was clutching at her breasts. “Ow! Those are sore, too!” Apparently, she didn’t bother with wrapping them.
“I’m not killing you until after I get that new set of legs you promised me. And my parents’ puppets.”
“Fair… That spider is a hell of a lot intimidating than a beached whale puppet.” Tsume wrapped the Sarutobi rope around one wrist and grasped the length with her other hand, clamped tight just below her wrist. A chakra-powered half-leap, half-shunshin threw them over the gap, the wind carrying them sideways. Tsume twisted her body in midair and slammed into the cliff, cushioning the impact with Sasori’s body. He clutched at her breasts and wished it was her neck he was trying to squeeze between his hands. “Ow! Ow! I’m sorry!” They twisted and rolled sideways against the rocks, the winds nearly tearing the octopus-ninken free from Sasori’s torso, before Tsume managed to plant her feet solidly against the cliff side. Hand over hand with a white-knuckled grip on the rope, crumbling rock breaking free from her feet, she scrambled up and over the cliff side and undid the knotted Sarutobi rope binding them together, which meant they had six remaining minutes before Hanzo reached them to gain some distance. At least the wind favored them, pushing them over the edge and away from the ravine.
Sasori barely glimpsed the twenty-meter salamander leaping the entirety of the ravine’s forty meter gap (best tracker his grandmother’s shaking jowls, they were not six minutes away you moron!) before Ichi freed himself from Sasori’s torso, caught the back of Kokoro’s jacket in his giant maw at the same time he broke his henge, and tossed Sasori like a ragdoll onto his back backwards without losing any speed.
Tsume cleaved off the salamander summon’s front leg with a single powerful strike with her axe. He hadn’t even seen her release it from its storage scroll. The salamander shrieked and spit poison after their retreating bodies, its back feet scrambling not to fall backwards into the ravine. Hurricane-force winds sped the sickly-green haze towards them. Sasori was horrified to see plant life shriveling brown and crumbling into dust as the venomous haze swept over the countryside. Shunshinning ninken and kunoichi couldn’t outrun a 160 kilometer per hour wind gusts, billowing the poison all around.
Damn it – Tsume was supposed to be his kill.
He riffled through his pack. “I have antidotes!” Chiyo had been so smug about creating a viable antidote to Hanzo’s toxic salamanders that she had sent him a letter detailing her success, and Hanzo had been foaming at the mouth in rage ever since. Because Chiyo just had that special touch with people. He thrust two ampules into Tsume’s hands and she promptly fumbled and dropped one as he broke his under his nose and inhaled the antidote. He had to cling and spin, spine aching from the over extension, to face forward. Ignoring the ache, knees pressed tightly into Ichi’s heaving ribs, Sasori leaned down and reached far, praying that Ichi wouldn’t bite off his hand as he broke another ampule under Ichi’s nose. Then he handed a fifth ampule over to Tsume after she had broken the first under Ni’s nose. She crushed the glass ampule in a fist and desperately huffed as the poison finally swept over them.
The antidote was enough to keep them from dying, but it didn’t fully protect their exposed skin from the acids within the toxin, which erupted with cratered, open sores. Sasori chanced another look over his shoulder – Hanzo, astride an even larger salamander summon with four masked Ame nin clinging to its scaled skin like desperate barnacles, cleared the ravine. The first summon was rapidly regrowing its amputated limb.
“Now would be a good time for that distraction!” he yelled.
“I need blood, damn it!” Tsume’s cratered sores, three on her face and six more scattered on her hands and arms, wept clear interstitial fluid. She swiped the corrosive salamander blood from her axe head to the hem of her tunic, which promptly disintegrated, revealing a stretch of bare skin striped with livid pink stretch marks. “Ew!” She sliced the tip of her thumb bloody and pumped as much chakra as she could into her summons.
Sasori wasn’t sure what he expected to answer Tsume’s call, but the four-legged flaming shadows even larger than Ichi that emerged seamlessly from underfoot and kept pace with their reckless retreat wasn’t it. His heart dropped into the gullet of his stomach as one such shadow, eyes literally aflame, leapt at him, the vision of a maw filled with too-many acid-dripping razor teeth and the dizzy stench of brimstone and sulfur nearly punching him senseless.
“Down, down I said! Bad boy, bad! Sasori is with me!” Tsume yanked it off of Ichi’s flank, the smell of singed fur and burnt human flesh joining the unholy combination of brimstone and sulfur. Ichi stumbled, only slightly, from the pain of a glancing pawprint burning his haunch. Tsume gestured wildly behind her. “It’s them you’re supposed to eat, not us!”
The dozen flaming shadows danced around them, keeping pace with a liquid fluidity, and didn’t seem willing to obey Tsume’s orders.
“For crying out loud, fine! I’ll romp with you!” Tsume tripped and faceplanted on the ground when she tried to change course, her unarmed hand cradling her abdomen. Ichi whirled around and shielded Tsume, fur flaring as he snarled at the thundering salamanders. Sasori forcefully freed his white-knuckled grip from Ichi’s shoulder harness, because he didn’t have any fucking legs and didn’t have any choice in this fucking showdown. One of the flaming shadows snapped at Komushi almost curiously as Sasori released and positioned the puppet between them and Hanzo’s salamander, chakra threads holding Komushi aloft and in a battle stance. The salamander skidded to a stop, looming high over them and less than twenty meters away. The second salamander was a distant dot in the horizon.
“You!” Hanzo bellowed. “Boy! You…” And he frothed, incoherent through his mask, because yup, Sasori’s grandmother just had that special touch, and Sasori was close enough in blood and relation to be on the receiving end of Hanzo’s rage.
“Back off!” Tsume yelled at Hanzo, shoving past Komushi with her axe slung casually over her right shoulder. “This one,” she gestured at Sasori, “is mine, and you can’t have him!” Five flaming shadows stalked at her heels. He felt the blistering warmth from four more as they surrounded him and Ichi. Ni held her ground on the other side of Komushi, as the final three flaming shadows joined her like silent sentries.
What… what was Tsume doing? There was no way Hanzo would willingly let Sasori go, not when there were years of bad blood, resentment, wounded pride, and outrage between Chiyo and Hanzo.
Tsume looked like a fat, filthy hedgehog, half-unbalanced from her enormous axe and half-unbalanced from her gigantic belly. Her clay-stained clothes almost let her blend into the rocky, bland countryside dotted with budding green patches of prairie grass. Sasori could almost see the confusion on Hanzo’s face, even as well-hidden as it was beneath his mask. “You! The Inuzuka girl.” The confusion gave way to a cold rage that would’ve made the hair on the back of Sasori’s neck stand on end if the flaming shadows hadn’t already done so. “Danzo’s gardening partner.”
Danzo?
Sasori wondered if he should be alarmed that another person existed on the same level as Chiyo, gifted with that same special touch.
And then he was even more alarmed to realize that he had yet another thing common with Tsume, what with them sharing cruel grandmothers who left their wards stewing in bitterness.
“That’s right, me!” What a foolish idiot, boldly facing off Hanzo who was frothing and fuming all over again. It was true that angels often fear to tread where the foolish blindly ran in. “First rule of the International Dahlia League is that you don’t talk about the International Dahlia League!” She shook her blackened left fist stubbornly, clearly hiding any pain caused from burning her hand when she yanked the gouka inugami away from Sasori. “But why the hell do I have to answer for Danzo? That man is like thirty years older than me.”
Sputter, sputter. Cough to clear the froth. “He betrayed and tried to kill me!” Two of the flaming shadows stalked closer to Hanzo’s salamander. Nostrils flaring wide, it tossed its head back and edged away from the… the hellish spawn that Tsume casually regarded without fear or concern. Beneath the weightless paws of the flaming shadows, the solid ground burned bright red and melted.
“Please don’t take it personally, Hanzo-sama.” Tsume had to shout to be heard over the wind, but her tone was casual, conversational. She reached her left hand behind to scratch the back of her head. One blackened finger twirled. The skin split and wept red. “Danzo betrays and tries to kill everyone, even the Hokage. Twice, I think.” Two blackened fingers twirled. Blood stained her hair and dribbled down the collar of her half-burnt tunic. Four more flaming shadows approached the salamander. It tensed and went still, pupil dilating until the sickly-yellow sclera nearly disappeared. “We can do this the easy way, or the hard way. The easy way, you let us go. I’m just passing through with my buddy here. I had no intention whatsoever of crossing the paths of any Ame nin, and my companions and I will be on our merry way. As you can see, I am imminently due to give birth at any minute.” Literally, if her contractions were as regular as Sasori’s earlier count indicated.
Hanzo growled as a green fog leached from the salamander’s pores and mouth. The fog was heavy, billowing low over the ground. The surrounding flora was already dead, but it shriveled and disintegrated from the fog. It was only knee high, and it disintegrated Tsume’s shoes, socks, and the lower half of her loose maternity trousers. More open sores erupted on her bare legs. The fog also disintegrated the loose material of Sasori’s trousers, but at least the burnt tissue on the ends of his stumps were too thick to erupt in blisters. Ninken fur appeared to have some sort of natural shielding against the fog. “And the hard way?”
Two burnt, bleeding fingers were still twirling. “The hard way? Well, we get to see who wins: your toxic salamanders versus my hellspawned gouka inugami. Wanna place your bets now?”
“You…” Hanzo snarled, and then frothed some more. “You dare unleash hell hounds in my land? They’ll destroy and consume your soul as easily as my own!”
“Technically, we’re still in Wind. Your land is about twelve kilometers that way. Also, nah.” Tsume shrugged. A third blackened finger was half-raised, tense. Between his knees and beneath his buttocks, Sasori felt Ichi minutely shift his weight. Ni must’ve smelled some signal, since she also visibly shifted her weight. “See, what makes the gouka inugami so deadly is they feed off of fear. And souls. But mostly fear. The more scared you are, the hungrier they get.”

And the longer Tsume stalled, Sasori realized with dawning horror, the more horrific the gouka inugami became as the human brain slowly took in the incomprehensibility of their very being, the stenches of brimstone and sulfur clogging nostrils as eyes watching the dancing forms – too hazy to see clearly, like a distant deceitful mirage – and saw the pawprints of lava in the inugami’s wake. The more adrenaline that pumped through human veins with growing awareness, the more heightened became the target’s flight-or-fight response. And, therefore, the hungrier Tsume’s summons became. “I am the Inuzuka Alpha Queen Bitch. I’m too headstrong, stupid, and reckless to feel fear. My soul is safe.”
Her third blackened finger snapped straight, and that was the signal her worldly and hellish canine companions had been anticipating. Eleven flaming shadows surged forward at the salamander as it reared, screaming and thrashing with gusts of poison churning like angry thunderheads. Ni and Ichi flipped and spun in mid-air, shunshinning backwards – away from Hanzo. Sasori, nearly unseated by Ichi’s abrupt movements, broke his concentration and lost his chakra threads clinging to his beloved Komushi – out of reach, too far, too fast.
And then Tsume flashed to their sides, Komushi rattling over one shoulder and her axe slung over the other, the axe head knocking hard against his best friend with every leaping bound.
“You’re – you’re scratching my puppet!”
“Can’t breathe! Must run!” Ni slipped between Tsume’s legs, hefting her off the ground. “Okay, now I can breathe.”
The salamander roared deep and long as the ninken forged ahead, putting as much distance between them and Tsume’s charging hellspawn summons in as little time as possible. And while Tsume may be too much of a brain-damaged simpleton to feel fear, Sasori was all-to-aware that he was smart enough to know he was the most afraid he had ever been in his entire, regretfully brief, life.
Which was why the twelfth gouka inugami chased after them, instead of attacking Hanzo and his salamander like its kin.
“No! NO! Down boy, down!” Tsume swatted the gouka inugami away from Ichi and Sasori with the flat side of her battle axe. “He’s mine, you bozo! Mine! Bad boy, bad! Keep your teeth to yourself!” The fat hedgehog imbecile matched the inugami snarl for snarl. “I said he was mine! Oh fine, keep pace with us, but if you so much as try to nibble a single pretty red hair on his head, I will send you back into the pits of hell and ban you from any more picnics in the Forest of Death!” Then she lost her blackened grip on Komushi, bending over Ni’s back with a half cry, half sob.
Sasori managed to rescue Komushi from Tsume’s careless grip with four chakra threads, fingers shaking with fear and adrenaline. Exhaustion tugged at his eyelids, and sweat drenched his clothes. He smelled sour, barely noticeable beneath the prevalent stench of brimstone and sulfur.
“Stop, stop!” At Tsume’s screamed command, ninken skidded to a halt. The flaming shadows pranced around Tsume as she hunched over further, pressing her uninjured hand and the handle of the axe against her abdomen. Clear fluids streamed from between Tsume’s legs, saturating Ni’s heavy fur coat and dripping onto the scraggy prairie grass. The ninken panted heavily. The inugami wagged what could be reasonably inferred as a tail. “I… I can’t keep going.” Tsume’s breathing was ragged.
“But…” Sasori clutched Komushi tight. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt the press of his few short years bearing down on him. “I don’t know how to be a midwife!” New fear: unlocked.
The inugami immediately swiveled to face Sasori with a nerve-wracking interest.
It took Tsume three different attempts due to her ill-timed contraction to dismiss the gouka inugami as Ichi nimbly and breathlessly dodged the hungry hellspawn. “Oops. Accidentally sent all of them away.”
And they were less than five kilometers away from Hanzo. Who, if he managed to survive the wave of eleven hungry gouka inugami, was going to immediately come after them.
“No matter.” Tsume panted and raised her blackened, unsteady hand to her collar. In the horizon, a tornado of deadly green was approaching them. “I still got that douche ex machina that Mooncalf gave me a few months ago!” She fished a chain out from beneath her tunic, from which a teeny-tiny kunai charm hung. She moved stiff and slow as she snapped the chain, and slid the charm free, palming it as blood continued to drip from where the skin had split. With a puff of blood-laced chakra, a three-pronged kunai appeared in her hand.
The green tornado was now two kilometers away, bearing down with all the fury of a once-in-a-century sandstorm, the sort that buried Suna twenty meters deep in sand, stones, and heavy debris. Sasori’s short life flashed before his eyes – it was disappointingly bland.
Tsume couldn’t hold her axe and the three-pronged kunai and use hand seals at the same time, so she pinned the axe between her arm and torso, and stuck the pommel of the kunai between her teeth. With a fumbling set of hand-seals and a large poof of chakra, a blond shinobi wrapped in a blue cloak suddenly materialized in front of Tsume, an identical three-pronged kunai clutched tight in one of his hands. Sasori could only stare at the back of the shinobi.
“Hey, Moomcafff!” declared Tsume around the pommel of the kunai. She removed it and gave him a bright, easygoing smile, as if she wasn’t in active labor, wasn’t covered in dried clay and weeping plum-sized sores from Hanzo’s salamander summon, and wasn’t about to die a horrific death via the fast-incoming toxin storm. “You told me to call you when I was in a pickle, and boy, it’s a doozy this time—” Then she yelped, her three-ponged kunai falling free from her gasp when the shinobi silently snagged her and Ni, and disappeared.
Leaving Sasori and an outraged Ichi to face their impending doom.
There was nothing left of Sasori’s life to flash before his eyes.
Four seconds later, the blond shinobi rematerialized, scooped up the kunai, snatched Ichi and Sasori, and disappeared once more.oOoOoOoSasori had enough foresight to flop off of Ichi’s back to the damp ground, covered with a thick wet, slimy layer of last year’s yellow leaves before he violently expelled the contents of his stomach, his head swimming as nausea clawed at his throat and his head swam like he had malaria all over again. The owner of the pair of black ninja boots that his stomach acid splattered yelped and immediately retreated.
“Mooncaaaaaalf, your yellow flasher douche ex machina is the woooooorst!” Tsume whined, in between her own waves of dry heaves and emesis.
“First, Jiraiya-sensei is the one who called it a deux ex machina, not me, because he likes literary devices and tropes. Second, it’s actually the Hiraishin no jutsu, Tsume. Third, please don’t call me the yellow flasher. It makes me sound like a pervert wearing a trench coat lurking in some dark alleyway.”
Hands touched Sasori’s ears. He flailed and tried to run away, and then nearly passed out from the waves of agony shooting through his legs and up his spine because recently hacked-off stumps should never be run on. “I’m sorry!” a young voice called, hands pulling at his filthy jacket. “I didn’t mean to scare you, Shinobi-san. I was only going to ease your nausea. The fluid in your inner ears is churning violently from sensei’s technique.”
Almost catatonic from the dizziness, stomach desperately trying to claw its way free via his sinuses and eyeballs, and his arms filled with hard surfaces and pointy edges, Sasori curled into as small a ball as he could to minimize himself as a target. He managed to cover his kidneys with Komushi’s lacquered torso.
“Sashimi-kun, it’s just Rin.” Tsume’s voice barely filtered through the buzzing white of Sasori’s head. “She’s not going to hurt you, I promise. We’re safe. Uh, we are safe, right, Minato?”
“Right now, we’re as far away from any encroaching enemy as you’re going to get, and at least eight hundred kilometers away from Hanzo. How the hell did you manage to… actually, you know what? No. Give yourself a chance to catch a breath, Tsume, and please don’t tell me how you managed to piss Hanzo off even more than Danzo ever did. I’m not sure I want to know.”
A whimper. “Can’t talk. The contractions are getting stronger and closer together.”
“Well, I’m out of here, someone’s gotta patrol the area,” declared another young voice, and Sasori felt the chakra flare of shunshin.
“Bakashi, get back here! Minato-sensei just said no one’s around and you can’t abandon your aunt in her hour of need!”
A distant voice, almost blocked out as a small pair of cool, dry hands tentatively touched Sasori’s ears, called, “I’m patrolling, dumb ass!”

A cool wave of green, tasting oddly of mint-and-jasmine tea, soothed away the waves of nausea and settled the screaming nerves and jolts of pain that racked his body. When Sasori managed to uncurl himself from his protective little huddle with Komushi, he found himself surrounded by barely-leafing aspen trees in a high mountain plateau deep within… the Country of Waterfall? Tremendous mountain peaks rose high overhead, coated in thick layers of frigid winter snow and glaciers. The air was humid and freezing cold, and he felt goosebumps erupt beneath his jacket. It was either Waterfall or Lightning. He also instantly catalogued the others.
The blond shinobi was Namikaze Minato, elite S-rank jounin despite being barely five years older than Sasori, and his assigned Team Seven, which consisted of Inuzuka Tsume’s eight-year-old nephew and only offspring of Hatake Sakumo, and two genin.
One genin was a ten-year-old Uchiha (not the shiniest example of what should be expected from such an illustrious clan, Sasori distantly decided, as said Uchiha had turned his back on Sasori and was jumping up and down, screaming in the direction that Sakumo’s son had disappeared in), and the other was Nohara Rin, another ten-year-old genin who hailed from a small shinobi family that had emigrated from the Land of Tea almost twenty years ago. With an eye intent on learning all things related to Hatake Sakumo, Sasori had read every scrap of information he could find on Hatake Kakashi.
Dismissing the two genin as nonthreats, he focused instead on Namikaze, infinitely more dangerous, who was ignoring Sasori in favor of carefully lifting Tsume away from her puddle of vomit. Ni whimpered and licked a patch of intact skin on Tsume’s leg. “Damn it, Tsume, if you’re in labor, I have to take you to the hospital right now.”
Tsume’s response was to shriek and press her glowing green hands further into her abdomen. “NO! You tore the placenta, jerkbutt! I can’t – I can’t make another trip like that! I barely just healed the tear!”
Namikaze cringed and his voice broke, because he was still a teenager who hadn’t quite grown into his adult voice. “None of us have the knowledge or skills to assist with birth!”
“I can teach you. I’ve helped my clanswomen with dozens of births! I even delivered the Fire Daimyo’s godfather’s grandkid without any oversight when I was fourteen years old!”
Namikaze carefully settled Tsume on the ground, pressing her against Ni. Ichi hurried to Tsume’s side. “You also threatened to throttle Noboru-dono with the umbilical cord, Tsume, and despite the incredibly-detailed step-by-step way you delivered the granddaughter, your team’s reports were forever immortalized as required reading for how to not to cause a diplomatic disaster, and not as a how-to manual on assisting labor and delivery in the middle of a field mission.”
“Well, Grandmother told me if I couldn’t be a good example, I’d just have to exist as a horrible warning.”
It wasn’t a cheerful tone Tsume used. It was the familiar tone that echoed a child who constantly struggled to meet their loved one’s expectations, fully aware that no matter how hard they tried, they would always fall short because the goalpost kept moving further away.
Namikaze clearly needed no explanation for Tsume’s behaviors or choices. “I am not inspired with confidence. Look, at least let me go get Aunt Natsumi or Oyubi to help you if you feel like this is the only place you can deliver your baby.”
Tsume clamped a hand tight around Namikaze’s wrist, the green glow sputtering out. She had managed to heal the extensive burns caused from grabbing a gouka inugami by its scruff at the same time she had healed her torn placenta. “Don’t leave me!” She whimpered, and then gasped as another contraction hit. And then she shattered the bones in Namikaze’s wrist as her grip tightened. “Shit! Shit! It huuuurts!”
Namikaze’s face was pale as he plopped butt-first on the ground next to her. “Deep breaths, Tsume.”

The genin girl instantly abandoned Sasori, rushing to Tsume’s side. “Sensei, what can I do to help?” The Uchiha stopped bouncing and screaming like a demented squirrel, going silent as his dark eyes widened behind the garish orange goggles.
“But Rin-chan!” The Uchiha tripped and stumbled as he joined the group “You said you haven’t gone through the midwife course at the hospital yet.”
“I read the education modules ahead of time and Tsume’s mission report on Noboru-dono! Obito,” she shoved him, “we’re going to need hot water and clean rags. I know you packed extra underwear – we can use them in the place of rags. But first, fetch Kakashi’s tent. Since he hotfooted out of here, he’s not around to stop us from using his tent as a clean surface for Tsume-san’s labor.”
Namikaze attempted to extract his broken wrist from Tsume’s white-knuckled grip. She whined and clutched it harder, pressing it against her generously heaving bosom. “Tsume, please, I have to help my team get things set up.” A flash of cobalt blue then; narrowed, dangerous eyes briefly glared over his shoulder at Sasori. “And why are you carting him around?”
“Oh, that’s just Sashimi-kun.” Tsume pouted as Namikaze finally managed to pry her fingers free. Undeterred, she snagged his flak jacket. “He’s mine, now. Mine, mine, mine. He promised to turn me into a human puppet with beautiful hair.”
Obito squawked and floundered, half drowning beneath the tent he was trying to free from a pack. In a single blink, Namikaze crossed the clearing to crouch in front of Sasori with his blue cloak flaring around him, his flak jacket left behind and hanging loose in Tsume’s fist. A chill raced up and down Sasori’s spine as he tightened his grip on Komushi. “Sashimi, eh?”
Apparently, Sasori only deserved one life-flashing-before-his-eyes moment today. “Tsume-san keeps forgetting my name. I told her what it was.”
Namikaze’s face was as still and as cold as carved granite. “What kind of puppet?” His voice was gentle and deadly at the same time, like velvet-wrapped steel.
Sasori’s mouth was dry and his tongue tacky with the residue of stomach acid. “Not a beached whale puppet.” He didn’t dare think about his plans of vengeance against Hatake Sakumo and all his loved ones as the cobalt blue gaze pierced through his defensive layers, like a mind-reading Yamanaka. “And not one with dirty hair that keeps losing things.”
“It’s weaponized, you brat!” Tsume flailed like an upside-down tortoise. “I told you, it’s weaponized!”
Namikaze studied Sasori for another long moment. Sasori’s range of vision narrowed down into two cold, hard blue tunnels. The weight of killing pressure pressed down, suffocating. Blood roared in Sasori’s ears. “She… she promised me replacement legs,” he finally whimpered, distantly embarrassed with how young his voice sounded. “She’s the one who lopped them off in the first place.”
“No, I didn’t! That was Kushina.”
“You supplied the axe!” Sasori yelled, heart pounding.
“We saved your life!”
“I shunted the arsenic into my feet, that saved my life!”
“That’s it. I refuse to become a puppet for such an ingrate. I reject your offer!”
“Who cares? You’d make a horrible puppet anyway!”
An outraged gasp. “You take that back. I would make an awesome puppet! I’m fast, I’ve got great aerodynamic attacks, I’m strong, and I have the best nose in the entire world.”

Sasori snarled. “There is nothing aerodynamic about your atrocious hair, and you can’t tell the difference between seven kilometers and five hundred meters.”
“Well, excuuuuse me, Sashimi-kun. Let’s just see how good your nose can accurately track distances in hurricane-force winds.”
Namikaze squeezed his eyes shut, as if in pain, and pinched the bridge of his nose as the killing intent rolled backwards like a retreating tide.
“Minato-sensei?” Obito poked Namikaze in the arm. The camouflage tent fabric draped over his shoulders like a cape. “Are you alright?”
Namikaze’s shoulders shook before a hysterical giggle escaped his lips. “Alright, he asks? No, Obito, I am not alright. My wrist is broken, my childhood friend is about to give birth in the middle of nowhere in Waterfall, said childhood friend somehow adopted one of Suna’s bloodiest shinobi like he was some sort of abandoned puppy, who – by the way – happens to be a fricking child that my girlfriend lopped the feet off of, Hanzo is out for blood, and I have absolutely no idea what I’m supposed to do. I’m at a loss!” He threw his arms wide and laughed, bright and happy. “Behold, dear Obito-san, your sensei has fallen prey once more to Tsume’s shenanigans! Maybe we should ask Kakashi what we should do next, since he seems to be the only one with a solid head on his shoulders.”
Obito eyed Namikaze as if he was wondering how much more his sensei was going to crack. Sasori wanted to know how anyone could think that Tsume had adopted him like an abandoned puppy.
(A voice, very much like Komushi’s, wryly pointed out that Sasori was following Tsume home. Sasori mentally argued back that he had only agreed to be dragged along on the promise of receiving his parents’ puppets. And new feet. But mostly his parents’ puppets.)
“Bah,” said Tsume imperiously and with all the self-awareness of someone who recognized a sham when they saw it, “I always knew you were a mooncalf weenie.”
And then the scion of Sasori’s greatest foe was suddenly back from his self-imposed patrol. He was smaller than everyone else (the loss of height from Sasori’s missing lower legs and feet didn’t count), and despite his face being covered with a mask, there was still reddened color rising from his cheeks towards his temples, and his shoulders were hunched. The open display of vulnerability punched Sasori breathless. “I am so sorry,” he told Sasori with a slight sideways tilt of his head. “I’d say they’re not always this embarrassing, but,” he shrugged, “they kinda are.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Somehow, against any and all reason, it was Kakashi’s presence that managed to calm the surrounding chaos – at least momentarily. Kakashi helped Obito in removing large rocks and dead tree limbs so they could lay the tent fabric reasonably flat as Rin assisted Sasori in getting more comfortably propped up against the trunk of an aspen tree. She tucked a thick wool blanket around him and Komushi because even during the day and with a sun shining bright in clear skies, mid-April amidst the mountains of Waterfall was somehow colder than a Suna night. Sasori even graciously allowed Rin to heal the cratered sores caused by Hanzo’s salamander’s toxic breath. She wasn’t able to heal them entirely – only enough to close the sores to prevent infection. “You’re pretty skilled for being ten years old.” Sasori’s sparse compliment made Rin’s eyes glow and her face, decorated with perfectly symmetrical purple squares, flushed red with delight.
At the same time, Namikaze Minato allowed Tsume to heal his shattered wrist in between her contractions, yanking it out of her reach every two minutes when she endured another contraction. She sulked and intermittently hugged his empty flak jacket and her ninken, both of which groaned when she clamped tight for an average of eighty seconds. She didn’t bother healing the cratered sores weeping on her face and limbs, but did allow Rin to spread a lavender-scented ointment on them as she proudly explained how Sasori’s antidote kept them from dying outright from the summoned salamanders’ toxins.
When Obito lit a fire – and burnt off his eyebrows – for heating up a pot of water, Tsume clutched her abdomen once again. “Damn it! The baby is breech!”
“Uh, that’s bad, right?” Namikaze said.
“Oh sensei, it’s very bad!” Rin hastily cleaned the ointment off her hands. “The baby could get stuck in the birth canal, and a mountain pass isn’t a clean, safe site to do a cesarean section!”
Tsume stuck her hand down the front of her trousers, and then she pushed them off. “Ugh, the cord is protruding. I need someone to shove it in and lift the baby off so I can flip her around.”
And just like that, Kakashi disappeared once again. And the rest of the humans descended into chaos.
Rin eeped and Namikaze’s face lost all color. Obito flailed as he hurried close. “I’ll stick my hand up your vagina if you need it, Tsume-san!”
And then he flinched when Rin whacked the back of his head. “You keep your hands out of Tsume’s vagina!”
Namikaze eyed his large hands, visibly cringing.
With a roll of his eyes, Sasori sent five lightning-blue chakra threads sliding through the air and snaked them up and under Tsume’s tunic. Her legs twitched. “Those are cold, Sashimi-kun!”
“Sasori!” he snapped, feeling a squishy, bulging rope-like structure that dangled into a twisted hangman’s loop. With a sneer and a flick of his fingers, he shoved the structure back up until he met a more dense structure, the size of a watermelon, and then gently pushed it upwards. Tsume gasped.
“Oh nice, Sasori, she’s up and out of the pelvis. Rin, Rin, come here.” Rin knelt at Tsume’s side. “Here, feel this? Push your hands deeper, kiddo. There, feel the curve? Those are the butt cheeks. This,” Tsume pressed down on the upper end of her abdomen, “this is the head. I’m going to push to my left, you’re going to push to your left, and we’re going to spin this little sucker around. We gotta be careful, careful! There’s a chance of pinching the umbilical cord or ripping the placenta. This is tricky when the amniotic fluid level is so low. You got her lifted off the cord, Sasori?” Sasori nodded. “Okay, ease up now, Rin. There we go!” Tsume patted what was apparently the baby’s butt cheeks. “There you go, sweetie, you’re almost here!” Then she snapped at Rin. “Check the baby’s heart rate! Make sure it isn’t dropping while I brace her so she doesn’t flip around again! No, keep checking. Sasori – how dilated am I?”
He blinked at her. “What?”
“How dilated is my cervix?”
Suddenly conscious of where his chakra strings were, Sasori snatched them back with all the speed of a snapping rubber band as he felt his face burn bright red. He angled Komushi as if his bulk would hide Sasori from the world. “How the hell am I supposed to know?”
“Oh for – no, keep your hands there, Rin! Baby’s heart is dropping, you need to give her a boost of chakra. I don’t know if it’s the stress of being turned around, or if the cord got pinched or wrapped wrong. Obito, are your hands clean?”
Obito froze.
“No? Yes? Maybe?” He scrutinized his hands, as if he could manifest the Sharingan to find invisible germs.
“Wash them now, I need you to check how dilated the cervix is, because I need to push, but I shouldn’t push if I’m not fully dilated.”
Obito immediately ran and plunged his hands into the kettle of heating water. He scrubbed his hands and bit his lip bloody so he wouldn’t scream. At least the water hadn’t reached its boil point yet.
Namikaze crouched next to Tsume. “My hands are clean. I can check, instead.”
She shoved him back with a foot planted against his forehead. “Oh, hell no, Mooncalf! You have gigantic man-hands and sausage fingers, and what would Kushina-chan say? And don’t lie to my nose about them being clean!”
Namikaze gritted his teeth and slapped her foot away. “Kushina would say it’s better that I checked your cervix than a ten year old boy, you dolt!”
Tsume laughed, high and grating. “If Obito is old enough to shove a kunai into a grown man’s liver, he’s old enough to check my cervix. Besides, there are no boundaries in childbirth. It’s gross, it’s humiliating, and it’s weird.”

Namikaze sighed. “After your report on Noboru-dono’s behaviors, I can understand that.”
Obito raised his cherry-red hands overhead and managed not to trip or stumble as he returned to Tsume’s side. “Where’s your cervix?”
She parted her knees and tilted her pelvis. “Inside the vagina.” Then, tongue sticking out in concentration, Tsume shaped a rough circle with her hands. “It’s a structure at the far back of the vagina that is normally closed, but during birth, it dilates open. There’s a ring, and you need to stick your fingers inside that ring and see how wide it feels. The more constricted it is, the more of a lip it will have. This is about ten centimeters. Once you’re inside, spread your fingers to determine the current radius, and then you’re going to compare that to this radius.”
“Uuuuhhhhh…” To the Uchiha’s credit, he only hesitated a moment before he squeezed his eyes shut, dipped his hand, and blindly prodded around. “Um, okay, I think I found it – whoa, I felt the baby’s head! It’s got a lot of hair!” His face lit up like a display of fireworks.
“Oh, wonderful! I knew all that heartburn was going to be worth it. Now spread your fingers, yeah, at least they aren’t freezing cold. Ow, fingernails are long, though.”
“I promise to trim them short the next time I have to check someone’s cervix!”
Namikaze pinched the bridge of his nose again. “Please let that be on the far side of never.”
“Okay!” Obito yanked his hands free and held up his fingers, spaced wide apart. He compared them to the circle Tsume’s hands still made, and she grinned, making a triumphant fist-pump.
“Yes! I can start pushing now!” She made a come-hither gesture at Namikaze. “Help me get on my hands and knees, I need gravity to aid me.” She grunted and whined as he carried her over to the tent fabric, helping her settle on all fours. She faced Sasori with far more cleavage than he had ever been interested in, which he supposed was better than a bird’s eye view of the baby’s entrance into the world. “Go put a blanket by the fireside, Obito, and throw a kunai into the pot of water to sterilize. We’re going to need something warm to wrap the baby in. Minato, you’re going to strip my tunic off once the baby’s here, I want to do skin-to-skin with her. I read about it in one of Orochimaru’s research papers. It’s supposed to help form bonds between Mom and baby by stimulating oxytocin.”
Namikaze looked uncertain; Sasori was fairly sure it was related to a certain disbelief that Tsume had managed to read and understand Orochimaru’s scientific research papers. (He… he needed to get his hands on Orochimaru’s research...) “I don’t think bonding between you and a baby is something you need to worry about.”(The story about Orochimaru’s recent defection from Konoha, with a bulletin Bingo Book insert that was so new that the ink was still damp when it arrived via messenger hawk three weeks before Sasori left for the oasis, was even darker, briefly detailing treachery and illegal live human experimentation. As a fellow experimenter on humans – granted, Komushi was dead when Sasori experimented on him – and scientist, Sasori desperately needed to know more details.)
“Shut up, I’m in charge here.”
He saluted her with a wry smile. “Yes, Inuzuka Queen Alpha Bitch.”
“That is Bitch-sama to you, Mooncalf. I’m also going to need you to cut the umbilical cord with that kunai Obito is sterilizing. Rin, ready to catch a baby?”
“Yes, Bitch-sama!”
“Okay, I’m pushing with this next contraction.”
As Tsume screamed in pain, Sasori squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his face into the back of Komushi’s head, trying to somehow, magically, mystically, wish himself far, far away, or at least accidentally trigger Namikaze’s yellow flasher Hiraishin jutsu. Whether it was behind his grandmother or in front of Hanzo’s toxic storm, he really didn’t care where he wound up in this moment as long as it wasn’t here. He focused on the throbbing pain of his stumps, on the ache of his closed sores, on everything other than the messy chaos of life and birth taking place in front of him. He could deal with the stench of spilled body fluids when cutting down other humans, their insides rotting from his poisons and their blood drenching the sand dunes of Wind, but childbirth?
No, death was cleaner and more dignified.
After an eternity, in which Sasori’s desperate wish remained unfulfilled, Tsume’s screams trailed off, and was soon replaced by a high-pitched squalling. Sasori decided to risk peeking.
With the late afternoon sun shining down on her, casting a golden sheen on her clay-plastered skin, brightening red and gold highlights in her otherwise dark hair, Tsume had dropped into a naked turtle-crouch, a pink, squalling lump nestled in her folded arms. Obito bent over the lump.
“Sensei!” Obito cooed as he tangled his fingers in the bloody, matted dark curls covering the infant’s head. “I think I’ve found my life calling!”
“No more cervixes until you’re at least eighteen years old, Obito, or you’ve passed a completed midwife training course.” Namikaze tied the white umbilical cord off in two sections – were those bootlaces? – and then sliced the cord as Rin tenderly draped the wool blanket over Tsume’s body.
“There you are!” Tsume sang, her face relaxed and free from pain as her entire world shrank down to only include her little bundle of joy. “I am so happy to finally meet you, my darling little Hana. Do you have all your fingers and toes?”
Obito counted out loud, halting at five when Rin smacked the back of his head again.
“Not done quite yet,” Tsume said, using Obito’s clean underwear to clean the squalling infant’s face. She lifted her backside by straightening her knees beneath. “I still need to pass the placenta. Don’t yank on the umbilical cord, Rin. Gently, dear. Pull gently.”
Sasori pressed his face into Komushi’s head once again, not opening his eyes even when he heard Rin’s declaration of the placenta finally being free, and Tsume’s demand to inspect said placenta to make sure it had come out intact.

“Oh! Oh! Did you know you can cook this?” Tsume asked. “The placenta is very high in iron, protein, and vitamins.”
Her suggestion was met with a chorus of gags and Namikaze’s stern reminder that Konoha nin do not casually engage in cannibalism, no matter what the current propaganda from Ishagakure claimed. The ninken quickly dug a deep hole to bury the placenta before Tsume could talk anyone into trying it.
Sasori was wondering if it was safe to emerge from his safe space when he felt the whisper of breath across his scalp, and he froze, fingertips glimmering blue with chakra.
“Is it done?” the small voice asked behind him. “Is it over, yet?”
Sasori eyed the hunched child hiding behind him. “I think so.” Two small dark gray eyes, just like Tsume’s in shape and color, stared back, pleading. “I have never, in my entire life, witnessed anything so ludicrous.” The soul-deep second-hand embarrassment was also completely foreign to Sasori, so he wasn’t going to focus on that. “Is your entire family like this?”
The eyes shifted away, but not before Sasori caught a glimpse of embarrassed shame. The small chest heaved with a deep sigh. “Yeah… yeah, every one of them.”
“What are we going to do for diapers?” Namikaze asked.
Tsume, high off of oxytocin and a potent cocktail of other hormones, drew her little bundle of joy to a nipple. “Eh. I can rig something up with ninja wire and underwear. Obito packed extra, right?”
(“Why does everyone want to use my spare underwear? We all packed spare underwear!”)
“Oh good,” said Kakashi, seemingly eager to bond with Sasori as the only other normal human being present, “Aunt Tsume took the nipple rings out. I knew she wasn’t going to be able to breastfeed with them.”
Sasori was wrong. There were no normal humans present.oOoOoOo
Kakashi made himself useful during his so-called patrol. He had caught and gutted several salmon from one of Waterfall’s many rivers as they recently started migrating northward to their breeding grounds. With a roaring fire in place, he proceeded to dress them with bulbs of garlic and slices of lemon (where had he gotten those?), liberally seasoned them with dried rosemary and salt, and roasted them on a cast iron skillet that he laid on the flames, alongside the cleaned stack of cattail roots that Tsume had gathered earlier in the day, although it felt like a lifetime ago.
Apparently, Kakashi had taken a page out of Tsume’s book when it came to a well-stocked camp kit. Sasori wondered if the delicious smells from a cooking fire increased the odds of enemy nin finding their campsite and ambushing everyone, and then realized that he would happily love to see the entire cohort of Konoha nin slaughtered because of their insistence of eating delicious food while on a mission. (What mission? He had no idea. Team Minato was very careful in not revealing anything to Tsume, at least within Sasori’s auditory range, on why they were secretly camped out half-way in a country that had taken a page out of the Country of Iron’s book, and firmly opted to maintain its neutrality during the Third War, having no qualms in using their Seven-Tails jinchuuriki to maintain said neutrality.)
“Is it normal to bleed that much?” Namikaze asked as Tsume, only half-covered with the blanket that Rin had draped over her, shoved another one of his shirts between her legs with no regard to how uncomfortable everyone felt as they witnessed her movements.
“With a vaginal birth? Oh yeah. And I’ll probably keep bleeding for the next six weeks, although the bleeding eases up after the first week or so.”
“Huh. No wonder you practically salivated over the iron in your placenta.”
“Ichi can still dig it up–”
“No, Tsume.”
Namikaze offered to use the same Hiraishin jutsu to transport Sasori, Tsume, and little Hana to Konoha. Tsume adamantly refused, clutching Hana to her breasts. “She’s too little, Mooncalf! You’ll turn her stomach inside out worse than mine!”
He sighed. “Well, I certainly have no idea what the pressure passing through a space-time ninjutsu would do to a newly born infant, but we don’t have the supplies that you need. We don’t have pads, we don’t have baby clothes or diapers – Obito is going to run out of underwear here by tomorrow. Furthermore, you and your Suna foundling,” he raised the volume of his voice to drown out Obito’s protest about how Bakashi had also packed spare underwear, why can’t they use his instead of Obito’s? “don’t have clothes suitable to this climate. Neither of you even have a pair of shoes!”
“It’s not the first time I traipsed through Waterfall without shoes, and I got by just fine. And Sasori doesn’t have feet. I think you’d make him feel bad if you got him shoes.”
Namikaze pinched the bridge of his nose again.

“Tsume, I was there the first time you ‘traipsed’ through Waterfall. You wore seven pairs of socks, and rode me like a pack mule, using my hair to steer. Look, I can bring Sasori separately to Konoha, and fetch someone to keep you company. My team and I have our own mission – we can’t accompany you back to Konoha.”
Namikaze dodged another foot to his face, and then scuttled out of the reach of Tsume’s feet. “Oh no, you aren’t, buster. I promised Sasori I’d take him, and I’m going to do that. You’re not separating us.”
Sasori contemplated Minato’s offer. On one hand, he would be better served with receiving immediate care with the Konoha medical system. On the other hand, Tsume was the only one to give him his parents’ puppets. In the end, Sasori decided to keep his mouth shut and not contribute his opinion, one way or another.
(“Yeah, sensei. Tsume-san just told you about the importance of bonding with newborns. I think that includes adoptees, too.”
“Dumb ass.”
“What, Bakashi?”
“Sasori is clearly too old to be Yamato.”
“Wait – that’s not Yamato?”
“Yamato is five and not a Suna nin.”)
Eventually, Kakashi grew impatient with Tsume and Namikaze’s argument, which kept circling back to the same problem that Namikaze wanted to separate Tsume and Sasori, and Tsume adamant that she absolutely wouldn’t be separated from Sasori.
“Minato-sensei, if you can’t take Aunt Tsume and Hana-chan to Konoha, and Aunt Tsume won’t let you take Sasori, why don’t you just bring Konoha here?” At Namikaze’s blinking confusion, Kakashi added, “Why don’t you just go to Konoha, pack her a bag of what she needs, and bring that back with some Konoha company?”
Namikaze gave this suggestion considerable consideration. “I can bring back Aunt Natsumi to keep Tsume in line.”
Kakashi shook his head. “Aunt Natsumi’s presence would violate multiple international treaties.”
“I thought she wasn’t banned in Waterfall.”
“After she finagled the Seven-Tails jinchuuriki into signing up as her own personal summon, two years ago? She’s banned for life, and there’s a restraining order in place to prevent her from trying to utilize the Seven-Tails summon.”
What. (How?)
“Oh. I forgot about the Hokage’s restraining order. There just aren’t many nin left in Konoha who have the availability to help Tsume, though, especially for traveling cross country back to Konoha. Well, there’s Aunt Bashira.” Kakashi winced at the suggestion as Tsume blew a raspberry to express her dislike for that particular suggestion. “I might be able to find a retired ninja, as long as travel isn’t too fast.” A soft smile crossed Namikaze’s face as he traced a finger across Hana’s foot. “I can’t imagine how fast you would be able to travel with a newborn.”
Sasori silently marveled over how, or even why, anyone would talk an unpredictable, demonic construct of evil, as resentful as it was powerful, into being a personal summon. His own experience with the One-Tail was the one reason why Tsume’s gouka inugami ranked as the second most terrifying thing he had ever seen in his entire life.
And then, upon realizing that Inuzuka Natsumi and Inuzuka Tsume were probably the only living two summoners of gouka inugami in the entire world, Sasori marveled at how it was possible that those two morons managed to survive without two functioning braincells or any sense of self-preservation. Huh. Grandmother was right. The capricious, sadistic gods truly did have a soft spot for idiots. Either that, or the gods had so few sources of entertainment to occupy their amusement through eons of existence that they naturally blessed such sources with divine protection…
“Hey, the Inuzuka Clan has a half of millennium of experience under our belts, hauling infants and pregnant women across the continent.”
“What about…” Kakashi squirmed. “What about… dad?”
A shadow of sorrow darkened Namikaze’s face as Obito and Rin’s expressions fell.
Tsume shook her head. “Kakashi – no. That isn’t even worth considering. Involving Sakumo would be almost as bad as bringing Aunt Natsumi into Waterfall.”
Rumors of Hatake Sakumo’s disgrace were dark and varied, ranging from Sakumo being tossed into a locked mental facility after attempting suicide to being stowed away in a T & I containment cell. Sasori didn’t know what he wanted to believe, but he was pretty sure that if Sakumo had to accompany Tsume and Sasori, Sakumo would never reach Konoha alive. There was no way Sasori would be able to hold himself back from his vengeance in the long, lonely distance between here and Konoha.
“Minato, look.” Tsume rested her hand on Namikaze’s. “Sasori and I don’t need anyone. Hanzo is too far out of the way between here and Konoha, and with my nose, we’ll be able to evade enemies, no problem. We can ride Ichi and Ni. You don’t need to find us a babysitter.”
Speak for yourself, moron, Sasori thought as he ate his salmon. It really was delicious. The roasted cattail roots, however, were horrible in both flavor and texture. (He spit out his mouthful when none of the humans were looking in his direction, although Ni, who also hadn’t eaten a single roasted cattail root, looked at him like a judgmental sand cat who found much to be desired. “Shut up,” he whispered to her, covering up the cattail root flavor with another bite of salmon.)
“You might not need a babysitter, but I can’t have a random Suna nin turning you into a puppet.”
Tsume waved her hand, casually dismissing Namikaze’s well-founded concerns that Sasori had no compunction whatsoever against killing Tsume and transforming her worthless corpse into something truly priceless. “He said he’d give me beautiful red hair. It’s fine. He promised he wouldn’t do it until after he gets a new set of legs, anyway, and his promise smelled genuine.”
The look Namikaze sent Sasori very clearly indicated how little faith he had in any promise Sasori had given Tsume, whether or not he meant to keep at it at the time he voiced it.
“Why do you only have half your ninken?” Namikaze asked. “You’re never separated from Kuromaru. And you never did explain why Kushina had to lop off Sasori-kun’s legs.”
“Oh, I totally forgot to tell you all about what happened!”
“You were kinda busy,” Kakashi muttered.oOoOoOo
There were no words that could adequately explain how incredibly lacking Inuzuka Tsume’s ability was to concisely and coherently provide a meaningful oral report of any sort.
Sasori had lived and had been conscious and aware throughout their entire misadventure, and even he struggled to make heads or tails out of Tsume’s rambling, out-of-order tangents. She vacillated between not enough detail, and way too much detail, constantly interrupted herself with rabbit trails of opinions that meandered away from the main point, and then frequently backtracked to mention something she forgot to include earlier, which only led her down another rabbit trail. It was infuriating.
“How can you stand it?” he asked Kakashi, whose gaze had gone blank about twenty minutes ago when Tsume managed to somehow bungle up his parents’ puppets with Hanzo’s salamanders, and then raved at length about all the hidden compartments and stores of poison that she and Kakashi had discovered when they were eleven and one and a half years old, respectfully.
“Maa. Aunt Tsume? You get used to it.” Kakashi roused himself long enough to fetch some warm water and a spare shirt for Sasori to clean himself of the dried clay, as well as Rin’s tube of ointment for his half-healed sores.
No. Absolutely not. He refused to spend enough time with the blasted moron to get used to her thought process. Sasori wasn’t even sure Tsume could think. He should be appreciating the majesty of their picturesque surroundings, with white-capped mountains burning gold in the setting sun and the bright blue skies darkened into an ombre of burnt orange fading into a deep purple, and instead, he had no choice but to focus on Tsume’s mindless ramblings just so he could correct her once he could successfully butt in.
“Your parents’ puppets are cool,” Kakashi said during Tsume’s animated rave about what an amazing puppet she would make and how her poisons would be even more deadly than Hanzo’s, and how nifty would that be, Mooncalf? “The scorpion was my favorite. Your father’s work is incredibly detailed and proportionate.”
Sasori instantly squashed the warm, fuzzy feeling when Kakashi voiced acknowledgement for his parents’ legacy and said nothing as he wiped his arms clean. He couldn’t. The combined damp skin and cold air was more than enough to make him shiver so hard that his teeth rattled.oOoOoOo
“I,” Sasori told Namikaze once Tsume finally finished her tale, yawning while she waddled off to attend to some toiletries after handing a bundled-up Hana to Rin, “could’ve told you everything in fifteen minutes. Not two hours.” He was huddled close to the fire, desperately trying not to experience hypothermia for the first time in his life.
Namikaze was far too smug with Sasori’s visible ire. “Ah, but it wouldn’t have been half as entertaining, and thrice as dishonest.”
He wanted to choke Namikaze.
Namikaze turned away, a clear dismissal. “Kakashi, do you think you can keep Sasori from running off while I pop on over to Konoha and look for a volunteer brave enough to put up with him and Tsume?”
Kakashi looked pointedly at Sasori’s bandaged stumps. Sasori wanted to choke him, too. “I don’t think he’s going to be running any time soon, sensei. We’re supposed to be allied with Suna anyway, right?”
Namikaze huffed with laughter. “Ah, but we know exactly where we stand with Suna nin, allied or otherwise.”
“Far away from them and their poisons with our backs facing in the other direction.”
“Exactly.”
Grasping that strange and, frankly, impractical three-pronged kunai, Namikaze briefly said his goodbyes to Obito and Rin, and then disappeared. Sasori rubbed his aching stumps, which only made them burn like the exposed nerve endings had been doused with acid, and ignored Rin’s offer to look them over.
“Can I help with anything?” Obito asked Sasori.
Sasori studied Obito for a moment, and then shrugged. “All right. You can scratch my left big toe.”
“Weird, but sure.” And then Obito’s brain caught up to his mouth. “Wait… you don’t have a big left toe anymore.”
“And yet it’s itching something fierce.”
“But… but you don’t have a left big toe.” Obito floundered as Kakashi palmed his face in exasperation. “How can you feel it itch if it’s attached to a disembodied foot a thousand kilometers away from here?” He whirled around to Kakashi. “Shut up, Bakashi! I can hear your brain calling me a dumb ass, loud and clear!”oOoOoOoTsume was snoring loudly, comfortably wrapped around her sleeping infant and nested within her fort of seven pillows, three blankets – one of which she had commandeered from Namikaze’s pack, since he wasn’t present to deny her – two ninken, and a half-suffocated Obito (who, apparently, as an Uchiha, ran warmer than the average human being, and therefore was the perfect substitute for a hot water bottle), when Namikaze returned. He was alone, but held a large storage scroll with an empty backpack tucked under an arm.
“Do you have a two?” Sasori asked Rin. The combined brightness from the overhead full moon and the Milky Way spun out breathtaking sparkling ribbons overhead, reflecting off the surrounding snow-clad mountain peaks, and lit up their little clearing up almost as bright as an overcast day. The otherworldly light made it easy to play cards with only the addition of the low fire they sat next to.
Rin didn’t even look up from her hand of cards. “Go fish,” she told Sasori.
He pulled a card from the stack into his hand with the use of a chakra thread without having to move from the warm cocoon of Rin’s bedroll. The card he drew didn’t match any in his current hand.
“Got a two?” Kakashi asked Sasori, eyes gleaming in amusement.
Sasori felt his eyebrow twitch. With carefully applied chakra, he could turn his two of spades into a weapon that would disembowel Kakashi, but it probably wasn’t a good idea to showcase such skills with the return of their jounin sensei. And it was also impolite to get blood on Rin’s bedroll, since she had insisted that he take it when she noticed his desert-bred intolerance for the cold. Desert nights were cold, but it was a dry cold. The cold in Waterfall was a wet cold that somehow managed to bypass Sasori’s soft flesh to sink icicles through his bone marrow.
“Well, I’m glad to see none of you are playing poker or blackjack,” Namikaze said, evidently pleased to see that Sasori was still present and that the remaining Konoha nin were alive and intact. He set the storage scroll and backpack next to Tsume’s nest.
Obito weakly waved his hand. “Sensei, heeeeelp.”
Tsume snorted and cuddled closer, clutching Obito to her exposed bosom with Hana sandwiched between them. “Shhhh, my little hot water bottle.”
“Not right now, Obito. Tsume, Aunt Bashira sealed an entire wardrobe of warm clothes for you and Hana, enough diapers and wipes to keep the Konoha orphanage stocked for a decade, a nipple shield – and please don’t ask me what that is – a baby wrap, burp clothes, some extra harnesses for your ninken, your spare camp kit, additional food, kibble for Ichi and Ni, some clothes for Sasori, three fully-stocked first aid kits, dry firewood, a large tent, a squeeze bottle, some laxative suppositories, and plenty of pads for your bleeding.”
Tsume grinned. “Aunt Bashira has embraced modern living, but knows exactly what a traveling Inuzuka mother needs to be comfortable.”
“That she certainly does. I still don’t understand why you and Kakashi always complain about her being bitchy. She also knows it’s unreasonable for you and your ninken to carry a footless Suna nin back to Konoha, so I’m returning to Konoha in the morning to get your babysitters.”
Tsume squawked. “I don’t need a babysitter!”
“Oh, I’m sure you’ll enjoy the company of these volunteers. Anyway, why don’t you and Hana get dressed while Obito and I set up a tent for you? With the clear night sky, there’s going to be a hard frost tonight.”
Sasori was trying to figure out which of his opponents was hiding a matching queen (and secretly trying to figure out how he could safely steal Namikaze’s Hiraishin jutsu tonight when the man was asleep) when Tsume wandered off with the squeeze bottle filled with water, an armful of pads, clothes, and the laxative suppositories.
Obito volunteered to dress Hana, although he and Rin had to argue over which cute outfit Hana should wear first.
“I’ll share my tent with you,” Kakashi told Sasori, securing Rin’s cards so Sasori couldn’t sneak a peek with carefully placed chakra threads.
As an unclaimed Inuzuka son, Sasori suspected that Kakashi had a nose nearly as good as Tsume’s. “You know I have every intention of smothering you in your sleep.”
Kakashi shrugged. “You can try, but you’ll never actually be able to get away with it. Attempted murder will also earn you one of Aunt Tsume’s lectures, and you don’t want her lectures. They’re even worse than her reports.”
Sasori shuddered at the memory of Tsume’s reports, and decided he could wait to murder Sakumo’s offspring until after he had turned Tsume into a puppet.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

After a hearty breakfast and his belly warmed with mint-and-jasmine tea, Sasori dragged himself back to the tent he had spent a (mostly sleepless night) with Kakashi (it was hard to sleep with a rampant imagination fueled by dreams of revenge waring with the disgusting thoughts of Tsume’s lectures, to say nothing of how trapped he felt, surrounded by wary, untrusting Konoha nin) to privately struggle with getting dressed in the clean clothes that Tsume’s aunt had packed for him. No one offered to help (although Rin offered to look over his wounds, which he not-so-politely ignored), so there weren’t any witnesses to how badly he floundered and rolled on the ground, trying to pull on the brown woolen trousers that Tsume’s “bitchy aunt” had packed for him.
Unfortunately, Inuzuka Bashira hadn’t thought of packing him underwear, and Sasori refused to wear any underpants decorated with uchiwa, since Obito was the only one whose underwear would fit. (Kakashi was even smaller than Sasori, and no one suggested he use Rin’s panties. Because. No. Just, no. The Konoha nin were morons, but not that unintelligent.)
His abdominal muscles twitched and cramped in pain from yesterday’s hours of balancing on Ichi and Tsume’s backs as they had crossed Wind. He hadn’t felt this sore since he had been ten years old, accompanying a team of Suna chuunin acting as guards for a nomadic horse breeder who insisted that his entire entourage ride his prized steeds to the Autumn Bazaar for that year’s auction. It made sitting upright or even bending forward to slide his stumps through the trouser legs supremely uncomfortable. And since the trousers weren’t meant for amputees, the legs were too long.
Sasori contemplated chopping off the extra length, and then realized he had a snowball’s chance in the Suna sand dunes of Namikaze graciously loaning Sasori a kunai. In a foul mood, Sasori forced his swollen knees, the thick X of scar tissue stretching with an uncomfortable burn, to cross so he could reach and knot the trouser material closed. At least that would prevent a gap for cold air to sneak in. The dark green, long-sleeved cotton turtleneck was way too big, the sleeves hanging loose over his covered hand and his neckline gaping, and worse – it was a woman’s turtleneck with subtle tucks in the chest to emphasis breasts.

“This is ridiculous,” Sasori told Komushi, feeling like a small child playing dress up with his mother’s wardrobe. He didn’t mind loose garments – they provided much-needed ventilation in the desert – but there was an obvious difference in the drapes of a garment deliberately designed to be loose, and the drape of a garment meant for someone taller, wider, and bustier. And since he had no intention of dragging the lengthy hem of the included blue cloak through the half-frozen leaves littering the outside, he just layered with two more turtlenecks and an elk fur-lined poncho that smelled like dust, mothballs, and stale saliva. The mink-fur balaclava was sensationally soft and warm, and was the only part of his wardrobe that he adored. He spent two soothing minutes just stroking the mink fur in his hands, because nothing soft like this existed in Suna. The fur of desert hares and red foxes was coarse, stiff, and thin – like the elk-fur poncho. Aunt Bashira had packed two balaclavas, and Sasori decided that Komushi should match.
“You are beautiful,” Sasori whispered to his only friend.
Komushi, with the silent, unmoving exterior of a puppet, looked distant, but his poison dart frog-green eyes twinkled as if he wanted to share in Sasori’s appreciation of beauty.
Sasori gently rubbed his left stump through the thick trouser material, hoping it would alleviate the nagging phantom itch of his left big toe. It alleviated nothing, and only made his stump throb more in reminder of its traumatic condition. He should put fresh dressings his stumps…
Later. He’d do it later.
Securing Komushi to his back, Sasori emerged into the soft, early morning light.
Right into a heated argument between Tsume and Namikaze.
“I am eighteen years old! I don’t need a babysitter!”
Namikaze looked like he hadn’t slept a wink last night as he scrubbed one hand across his face. “Tsume, they’re not babysitters. They’re retired friends who volunteered to keep you company.”
“No! I’m a grown adult, and Sasori is a jounin. It’s insulting to think that we need a babysitter!”
They both fell quiet then, staring unblinking at each other. With a sigh, Namikaze shook his head. “Tsume, why don’t you go take a bath?”
She crossed her arms in front of her chest, yesterday’s dried clay flaking from her skin, clearly outraged. “Are you out of your blooming mind, Mooncalf? The rivers are running with snow melt this time of year, and the water will freeze my tits off. Aunt Bashira didn’t pack any formula or bottles to feed Hana if my nipples fall off.”
“I promise it will be a hot bath.”
“Hah, pull the other leg. We’re currently stuck in one of the few countries on this continent that doesn’t have any natural hot springs.”
Namikaze gently grasped Tsume’s shoulders. “Tsume, between Kakashi’s douton jutsu, my suiton jutsu, and Obito’s katon jutsu, we will build you a bathtub-sized basin fit for a Daimyo, and fill it with hot water.”
Tsume ran a hand through her hair, dislodging some frozen leaves, a few sticks, and a moss-covered rock the size of a robin’s egg. “Well, I do smell pretty bad. And so does Hana.”
“You sure do,” Kakashi muttered as he rubbed Ni’s belly.
“And my stomach muscles are sore.” Tsume wrestled with her misgivings. “I think I pulled something important when I was pushing, and, well, it would be wasteful to ignore those eucalyptus bath salts that Aunt Bashira included.”
Namikaze nodded sagely as he successfully led Tsume to the edge of their clearing, slipping Hana into the crook of his elbow. “After the last few days of running around that you’ve had, you deserve some pampering. But I think Hana is a little too young to soak in bath salts. We should clean her up, first.” Kakashi trailed after the adults, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. Obito hastily picked through Tsume’s supplies to select some clean clothes, mesh panties that were nothing more than over glorified gauze, a pad that looked more like an adult diaper, an actual diaper, a pink pajama onesie decorated with cartoonish yellow ducks wearing bright red galoshes, and then hurried after.
Sasori dragged himself over to Rin, who was cleaning up the breakfast dishes in a small wooden basin filled with warm water. Steam swirled from the surface, but more from the temperature difference between the dish water and the cold morning air.
“Ryo for your thoughts?” Rin asked as she handed him a drying towel and a fire-hardened clay plate.
“Konoha nin engage in far too much pampering on their missions.”
Rin grinned. “Oh, trust me, Sasori-kun, this isn’t the norm for Konoha nin. The Inuzuka clan just happens to have certain expectations on how to bring along all the comforts of home, left over from their nomadic days. They didn’t have any winter or summer settlements the way that the Uchiha, the Hyuuga, or the Senju clans did, so they had to carry their earthly possessions everywhere.”
“The desert nomads in Wind are still carrying all their earthly possessions everywhere, and they don’t have bath salts.”

“There isn’t enough water in Wind to enjoy bath salts. That’s why the desert nomads carry so many perfumes instead.”
Sasori reluctantly conceded that the geographical differences between Fire and Wind probably contributed to how cultural expectations defined pampering and comfort. “Why would you know about the differences?” Learning about Suna he could understand, as one of the Five Great Hidden Villages; nomadic tribes of Wind, however, was a different matter.
“Uchiha Fumiko-san, Obito’s cousin by marriage two or three times removed – I’m not sure where they stand together on the family tree, actually – is a historian. Before the start of this war, she had published a fascinating paper highlighting the differences between Earth, Fire, and Wind nomads. Few of the other countries had nearly as many nomadic shinobi tribes before the creation of Hidden Villages.”
Few of the Wind nomadic tribes, past or present, were true shinobi clans, although plenty of them boasted of fierce, experienced warriors who fought with chakra-enhanced skills similar to Iron’s samurai, but unhindered by the morally strict Samurai Bushido. Every year, about two dozen or so youths (mostly boys, but the occasional runaway girl who refused to be stifled by their tribes’ more traditional gender roles) from different nomadic tribes were welcomed into the Suna Academy. Sasori’s mother had been one such nomadic daughter.
Sasori was mechanical as he dried and stacked the clean dishes. He used chakra threads to lift the basin of water and empty it over the side of the mountain. After dishes were stored away (Konoha nin sure love their storage scrolls), Rin added some more fuel to the fire and Obito sat cross-legged next to the warmth with Hana, who was mewling and sucking on a chubby fist. She was swaddled tight on a grass-green blanket with the folds covering the thick mat of dark hair, except for her little hand. Sasori eyed the uncovered tuft on her forehead, wondering if it was going to turn into the wild mass of tangled hedgehog locks that Tsume sported. He hoped, for Hana’s sake, that it wouldn’t. Ichi joined them, a relaxed guardian that settled next to Obito and rested his gigantic head on Obito’s knee.
Rin covered her laughing smile with a hand. “Obito, you’re such a mother hen!”
Obito grinned, unabashed. “Have you ever seen an actual mother hen, Rin? They’re really sweet the way they cluck and coo over their chicks, calling when they find food. And when the chicks are cold or tired, Mama fluffs herself up like an angry cat and sits on them. I like watching my grandmother’s chickens. They’re so cute.”
Sasori personally thought that domesticated chickens were obnoxious idiots that were 99% poop and 1% eggs and meat.
“Listen, last year, my grandmother had two hens that went broody about the same time. One mama sat on a dozen eggs, and the other mama sat on two. Ten from the clutch of dozen hatched, but only one from the set of two hatched. That happens, you know.” Obito swayed with Hana, his nervous energy only slightly restrained. “That second mama, it didn’t matter to her that she only had her one chick; it was her entire world. And then one day, something must’ve happened to her baby, like a cat killed it, because I found it dead in the corner of the yard. But Second Mama’s instincts were so strong that she stayed two days next to her dead chick. She kept clucking at it, dropping food beside it, and even sat on it to keep it warm.”
Rin’s face fell. “Oh, Obito, that’s so sad,” she said, like she was a simpering civilian instead of a kunoichi being trained to kill people.
“I know, right? I felt really bad when I finally managed to bury the chick. Mama hen attacked me the first time I touched it. I thought she’d eventually figure out what happened if I left it there for two days, but no.”
Chickens, Sasori thought, recalling the differences between them and the green jungle fowl he had seen in the Land of Swamps – brightly colored, skittish, and downright mean – had lost all their functioning brain cells through generations of domesticated breeding.
“The day after I buried that little chick, Second Mama went and acquired herself two more babies from First Mama.”
“Really? And First Mama just let her?”
Obito shrugged. He shifted Hana to one arm so he could use his free hand to scratch Ichi’s shoulder. “With ten chicks? I don’t think she noticed the difference. I don’t know if chickens can count higher than, like, four.”
Sasori felt that the same could be said for an alarming number of human beings. He used his chakra threads to make another mug of tea with the water kettle, choosing to use Tsume’s oolong instead of Team Minato’s supply of pine needles, since it was the only tea bitter enough to match a weak coffee. And since it would’ve been rude to not include the genin, he made two more mugs for them.
“You are so cool, Sasori-kun!” Obito declared once Sasori had added the water to the crushed tea leaves to steep. “Those strings are amazing!”
As a prodigious child, Sasori had been quick in learning complicated skills and even quicker in applying said skills in the battlefield to defeat opponents twice his size and age. But such was expected of him. Chiyo demanded for more, pushed for more, lying through her yellow crooked teeth about the high expectations of his parents and how they wouldn’t be able to come home to him until he had mastered this skill, or that technique, or had flawlessly memorized and understood the Krebs Cycle and developed three different poisons that directly disrupted it.
His jounin sensei was equally unforgivable for flaws, and much less helpful when it came to learning. (Sasori begrudgingly admitted that Grandmother had taught him more than his sensei even knew.)
Only his parents, through their rare letters sent from whatever country they were stationed in, fighting and running missions on behalf of Suna’s safety and glory, praised and acknowledged his skills. His teammates, often older than Sasori, seethed with jealousy of how a child was often assigned team leadership because he outclassed them in skill and knowledge.
At the age of eleven, on the third-year anniversary of his chuunin promotion, Sasori had presented a thorough diagram of the skills Chiyo had demanded that he master and the information he had been told to memorize, and proof that he had flawlessly met and surpassed every expectation. He had asked can my parents come home now?

Chiyo finally told him the truth.
His parents would never return home. And that she had been the one writing the letters for the last six fucking years. And there was nothing of his parents she could give him, because Hatake Sakumo destroyed their puppets after he killed them.
Little more than one year later, seated on a high mountain plateau far from the deserts he had grown up in, Sasori still burned with angry bitterness. You robbed me, he sent the thought towards Hatake Sakumo and hoped that the man would shudder and feel haunted. You robbed me of anything that would’ve given me happiness and love. I will take the very same from you. I will destroy your world the same way you destroyed mine.
“Thanks,” he told Obito, carefully keeping his face blank and masking his emotions. “Makes it really easy to slip poison into other people’s food and drinks.”
Rin and Obito froze, stared with dawning horror at the mugs of tea they held, met each other’s eyes, and then both yelled, “Kakashi!”oOoOoOo“Your tea is not poisoned,” Kakashi said for the third time, now sounding like he was close to losing his temper. Sasori sipped his totally normal tea, reveling in the chaos, confusion, and fear the others held for him.
“But he’s a Suna nin!” Obito snapped for the third time. “Poison is their bread and butter!”
“Tsume destroyed all of his poisons already, even the ones he had stashed in his two puppets, dumb ass.”
Sasori would stab Tsume for that, later. When there weren’t any witnesses like Namikaze around.
Obito sputtered. “You – he could’ve picked up more anywhere! Like maybe he mixed some of those hemlock needles into the tea leaves when we weren’t looking. Even I know that hemlock is toxic! There’s a lot of poisons that are odor and flavor free.”
The glare Kakashi leveled at Obito warmed the cold, dark lump in Sasori’s chest. “First, there’s no such thing as a truly tasteless and odorless poison. Second, there’s no poison in your tea. And third, that hemlock is a member of the spruce family. We’ve been drinking tea for the last two days made from those needles because it’s a good source of vitamin C.”
Obito sputtered for a moment as his brain seized over the idea that he’d been having hemlock tea for the last two days without dying. “Poisons are so when you don’t have a sense of smell that’s like a bazillion times stronger than a bloodhound, Bakashi!”
“Sasori-kun,” Rin gave him a pleading look, and then reluctantly tasted her tea, “please don’t joke about poisons like that.”
Sasori took a languid sip. “I never joke about poisons.”
“See!” Obito gestured wildly at Sasori, his movements startling Hana, who immediately started wailing. “See! He’s not joking about poisoning our tea! Rin, no!” He then slapped the mug out of her hands, the tea splashing across her toes and the mug cracking when it struck the ground.
The movement and jostling of Hana made her cries pitch even higher. Somewhere, there was glass wanting to shatter like Sasori’s patience. Ichi nipped Obito’s leg. “Ow!”
“I’m leaving to do a patrol,” Kakashi growled, jamming his hands deep in his pocket.
“No!” Obito grabbed Kakashi, and found himself holding a large stick after Kakashi performed a kawarimi with a single, one-handed seal. “Gah! Stupid Bakashi!”
Damn. Not even Sasori could perform a single one-handed seal for the kawarimi.oOoOoOo
Tsume looked and smelled better when she (limping) and Namikaze (smooth and silent, like a stalking bobcat) joined Sasori at the fire, her hair dripping water onto the collar of a cream-colored hanten secured with an unusual four different corded ties. Sasori puzzled over the wardrobe, until Tsume wordlessly took the still-crying Hana from Obito, undid the top two corded ties, and pulled one side off her shoulder to expose a breast. Rin had busied herself with packing the tents and cleaning up their camp site, and Obito insisted on staying close to the fire to keep Hana warm, but had been unsuccessful in quieting the caterwauling. (Sasori may or may not have been contemplating how to end the caterwauling, but had wisely concluded that drowning Hana in his tea mug would’ve been a bad idea, especially for his own survival.)
Tsume positioned Hana, who immediately started nuzzling the breast. Tsume winced when Hana latched, and then adjusted. “Where’s that nipple shield, Minato?”
Sasori immediately redirected his gaze and studied the mountains. He stroked the smooth, lacquered length of Komushi’s arm, and focused on the distant play of colors, with the top layer of white over an ombre of brown and green the further down his eyes traveled, intertwined with cascading waterfalls and rivers of blue from the melting snow. The uppermost portions of the mountain ranges in Wind had snow in the winter, which fed the few year-round rivers flowing through the country, but he had never seen snow up close before. It sparkled in the sun like the Kazekage’s iron sand, like the Milky Way in the desert on clear nights when there wasn’t any wind to lift fine dust and sand into the air. Still, for all the display of colors and sparkles, it wasn’t enough to block out the conversation.
“What – how do I put this on, Minato?”
“I’m afraid that I am sorely lacking any meaningful experience in the use of nipple shields.”
“No, what do the directions say?”
“It doesn’t have directions. Just pictures, see?”
“These are terrible pictures! Does that… does that look like they inverted the nipple in step two?”
“I think it’s supposed to create a suction for the actual nipple to fit inside.”
“All right then, so…” A wail when Hana was pried free. “Huh... Hey! It works!” The wailing turned into a series of loud sucks. “Oh, that’s so much more comfortable. No pinching.”
As breathtaking as the natural wonder of his surroundings were, Sasori could ill-afford to be distracted when he was seated so close to such a dangerous man. He carefully shifted (ignore the painful muscle twinges, ignoooooore) so he was angled sideways to Namikaze, covering up the intents of his actions by making himself another mug of tea (hemlock needles, this time, curious to see how it tasted). He did so without the use of his chakra threads, except when it came to reaching for the kettle and pouring the water, since it was beyond his physical reach. He watched Namikaze as casually as he could.
“Obito, go join Kakashi on the patrol,” Namikaze said.
“Yes, sensei.”
Namikaze strung a three-pronged kunai, shrunken to the size of a decorative charm, on a chain. After he finished, he handed it to Tsume, and then strung another shrunken three-pronged kunai, this one with a much longer chain. He then removed a candle from a pocket, and held the end of it over the dying fireside flames.
“The blades are still sharp enough to cut Hana,” Namikaze explained to Tsume when she asked him what he was doing. “I’m going to coat it in wax for her.”
Tsume’s eyes watered. “That’s… that’s so thoughtful!” And then she bawled.
Namikaze didn’t look as uncomfortable as Sasori felt as he smiled gently and rubbed Tsume’s knees. “I told you, Tsume, I will always be there when you need me, by hook or by crook, and I’ll do the same for all of your children.”
How many children did this eighteen-year-old woman have? Sasori knew about Tsume’s newly-adopted boy, and her current baby, and technically speaking, probably Kakashi, but the way Namikaze phrased it, it sounded like she had a dozen urchins running around underfoot.
After the kunai-charm had been coated with enough wax to look like a round marble, Namikaze gentle flattened it into an oblong pendant, and then cooled it with a gentle fuuton breeze. He covered the wax with a coating of pink nail polish (“Hey, that’s the birthday present I gave Rin-chan last year!”), and then laid it balanced on a knee as he withdrew a small, closed flask of chakra ink and a paint brush with a fine tip – the sort Sasori has used to painstakingly used to paint freckles on Komushi’s face after he realized that the lacquer had obscured them.
(Hemlock needle tea, Sasori discovered, tasted refreshingly minty with a strong undertone of citrus. It would’ve been better with a dab of honey, he decided, but it wasn’t unobjectionable. Until he accidentally swallowed some of the needles and felt his esophagus scraped from each and every sharp point. Irritated, he used his chakra threads to pluck them out of his tea and discard them off to the side.)
Squinting, his nose nearly brushing against the wax pendant, Namikaze painted a fuuinjutsu seal with clean, graceful strokes, the lines so small it was unreadable from where Sasori was sitting.
“What’s that for?” Tsume asked, leaning forward to watch.
“You used your blood to trigger the alert I have on yours,” Namikaze said absently. “Hana doesn’t have a way of doing that. This will alert me if her chakra weakens or disappears. That should only happen in an emergency, since her chakra should grow as she ages.”
Tsume teared up at that, and then she scrubbed her leaking eyes and nose with her sleeve. “I’m sorry, Minato. I’m just an emotional, hormonal wreck right now.” After a pause, she said, “I guess I should accept those babysitters.”
Minato paused long enough to send Tsume a smile filled with the warmest affection that Sasori had ever seen in his remembered life.
(His parents had looked at him like that, right? He was sure they had, the last time he had seen them, after dinner and they had sent him to bed with promises of a hearty breakfast the next morning. A promise that they had never kept…)
“I’m glad, Tsume. And I promise that you’ll love the volunteers.”
“Who did you find?”
“Well, I only found one. The Hokage dug up the other two, and they insisted on bringing a fourth.”
Great. Sasori was going to be surrounded by Konoha scum – a hormonal new mother and her annoying crotch dropping, two massive ninken who were judgey and mistrusting, and four more Konoha ninja. Just what… just what value did a brain-damaged simpleton have to the Hokage that he would readily allow an entire squad of ninja accompany her?
It wasn’t like Tsume was head of the more important clans, like the Uchiha or Nara. And as much of a danger Sasori represented, as important as he was politically as the grandson to an esteemed Elder and Poison Queen of Suna, part-time apprentice to the Kazekage, and great-nephew-by-marriage to the Wind Daimyo, Sasori didn’t warrant being guarded by five Konoha nin… unless the Hokage had decided to capitalize on the opportunity to solidify the strained, tenuous Suna-Konoha/Wind-Fire relationship, since Konoha had so few allies after the Second Shinobi War.
Well, that made the most sense, Sasori figured, as he drained the dregs of his hemlock tea. A simpleton like Tsume may have only understood Sasori’s importance when Kokoro had explained the political powder keg they had stumbled into at the sabotaged oasis, but the Hokage knew how to seize an opportunity when it presented itself.
After completing the fuuinjutsu seal on the wax pendant, Namikaze put it on Hana, around her abdomen.
“I’m glad you didn’t try to put it around her neck. It would be a choking hazard,” Tsume said. She cradled Hana belly-down against the length of her arm and burped her as Namikaze closed and secured her hanten, and then swept Tsume’s now-dry hair away from her neck so he could place the other kunai-charm around her neck. Once the chain was secure, Namikaze clasped one large hand on the back of Tsume’s neck, and pressed his forehead against hers.
“Thank you,” Namikaze breathed. “Thank you for trusting me, for calling me when you did, for asking for my help instead of trying to do everything by yourself.”
Tsume grinned and kissed Namikaze’s forehead. “Oh Mooncalf. I know I don’t have to prove anything with you.”
Sasori felt oddly intrusive and out of place.
“And there’s nothing you need to prove to your escort. I promise. It’ll be like a fun little road trip.”
Sasori hardly saw how a squad of Konoha nin sneaking through enemy territory and skirting around skirmishes would qualify as a fun little road trip. Granted, he wasn’t familiar with the clan history of the Inuzuka, although even in Wind they had a reputation for being untamed and animalistic. Especially Tsume’s aunt, Inuzuka Natsumi. Maybe this was the Inuzuka ideal for fun little road trips?
“The road trip so far has seriously lacked fun, Minato.”
“Oh? But you always enjoy romping with the gouka inugami when you take them for picnics in the Forest of Death.”
Tsume carefully touched one of the sores on her cheek as her fingertips glowed green. The sore shrank under her touch, new skin blooming, pinker than the rest of the skin on her face. “Hanzo was totally the opposite of a picnic.”
Did it surprise Sasori that Tsume would cheerfully summon hellspawn for something as inane as a picnic? No. Because that was the sort of tomfoolery he expected from someone too stupid to realize how dangerous it was to play around with such a summon.
And with that particular insight, Sasori sourly realized that the Hokage wasn’t so much capitalizing on Sasori’s political worth as he was probably trying to keep Tsume from somehow thoughtlessly turning the neutral country of Waterfall into a hostile enemy of Konoha.
“Heal the rest of those, please, Tsume.” Namikaze stood, studied Sasori with a neutral expression for a wordless moment, and then walked away. “I have to go now. I’ll be back in just a few minutes. Rin, once I’ve brought Tsume’s company, we need to get going, too. Notify Kakashi and Obito.”
Rin acknowledged Namikaze with a single, clipped nod. Another three-pronged kunai twirled through Namikaze’s fingers for a moment (how many did he have?), and then he was gone.
With Hana asleep in the crook of Tsume’s arm, Tsume opted not to heal the other sores on her face, and instead one-handed sealed away the tea kettle and mugs – frowning, briefly, at the crack she found in one, then shrugged and said it wasn’t anything that couldn’t be fixed with some food-safe epoxy – and handed the sealed scroll to Rin. She then scrutinized a packaged cloth that identified itself, in floral script, as OKURUMI – PLUM STYLE
“Oooh, it’s linen,” Tsume muttered, fingering the material. It was a long, rectangular dove-grey woven fabric, decorated with elaborate branches of plum blossoms and leaves, wrens perched in various poses on the branches. She studied the pictures and instructions on the back of the package as she carefully cradled Hana in her lap and secured the front of her. “Carrier, carrier…. Huh.” She twisted and craned her neck, eyebrows twitching. “Well, can’t be that hard. It’s just like origami.”
Kakashi appeared at her side. “You’re terrible with origami, Aunt Tsume.”
“Am not! My cranes are glorious!”
“Your cranes look like defective muffins.”
Tsume whined as Kakashi tugged the material free from her hand. “And you can barely make heads or tails out of pictorial instructions.”

“You’re cruel, Kakashi. And I’ll remind you that I carried you in a sling!”
“This is more traditional than the one you and dad used for me,” Kakashi replied. “Dad’s arm was recovering from surgery when I was born, and I got too big and squirmy to stuff down your shirt.” He tossed the package into the fire, the smoke billowing black as it melted, and then laid the material on the ground. Patiently, like a parent teaching a small child a lesson, Kakashi explained and demonstrated where to fold and twist the material to swaddle and then wrap the ends to keep Hana secure while supporting her neck at the same time.
In all fairness, Sasori admittedly grudgingly, it seemed more complicated than an origami crane.Kakashi made Tsume practice the folding and tucking as Hana slept quietly in Tsume’s lap before Tsume carefully laid the infant on the material, and practiced swaddling her until Kakashi was satisfied. And then she had to practice securing Hana to the center of her chest, complaining when the folds around her neck and shoulders unevenly distributed the weight.
“That’s why you’re supposed to be able to tie it here,” Kakashi said, tugging the knotted ends lower on Tsume’s back. “It’s supposed to distribute the weight to your lower back.” Tsume still had lingering lordosis from her pregnancy, so the knot kept slipping upward. They eventually managed to solve the problem by tying the material in the front, just under Hana’s feet, though it was a struggle when there was barely enough material to make a secure knot.
“I can always go back to stuffing infants down my shirt,” Tsume muttered, trying to smooth a pinching wrinkle in the fabric beneath her armpit.
“And then you wouldn’t have both arms free if you have to fight for your life, Aunt Tsume,” Kakashi said, his voice both resigned and concerned, as he tugged the wrinkle out of the material.
Ah. Sasori wasn’t sure how close Kakashi was to Tsume, given his embarrassed absence during her labor and the distance he maintained afterwards, but the love and affection was now obvious, expressed through guarded actions instead of words.
Hatred and resentment burned deep in Sasori’s gut at the thought of Kakashi being raised by a loving father and aunt, and provided with everything that Sakumo had stolen from Sasori. (Suna had little information on Kakashi’s mother, other than she had been Tsume’s older sister who was killed during the Second War; Tsume fostered Kakashi after his father’s fall from grace three years ago, because no one could reasonably agree that Kakashi’s status as a five-year-old genin meant he should avail himself to the legal freedom of adulthood that was otherwise given to all Konoha shinobi.)

At the sudden burn of hatred and resentment, Kakashi, Ichi, and Tsume’s heads swiveled to face him, and Sasori suddenly remembered Tsume, smeared in a paste of crushed geranium and clay, explaining how he stank of hatred and spite. He hadn’t really considered the fact that she somehow managed to sniff out emotions, but it made sense, since emotions were nothing more than hormones and electrical signals in the brain. If she could sniff out arsenic in an oasis sixty kilometers away, then how difficult was it to smell brain chemistry?
Inuzuka Tsume truly would make a marvelous puppet, Sasori decided.
Luckily, Namikaze’s return immediately distracted Tsume, along with the new presence of two adults and a dark bay-colored horse with long black mane and tail. And a toddler astride said horse. The newcomers looked rather green from their trip through space – even the horse.
“Juubi!” Tsume shrieked (quietly, lest she disturb her sleeping baby) as she surged to her feet to greet the newcomers.
(That was… an ominous name.)
The new arrivals didn’t distract Kakashi, who took advantage of Tsume’s loud greetings to the horse to mask his whisper to Sasori, “If you harm her or Hana, I will hunt you to the ends of the world. You won’t even live to regret what you’d done.” And with his threat so solemnly delivered, Kakashi stuffed his hands into his pockets and sauntered over to his sensei.
Well, that would certainly make turning Tsume into a puppet rather difficult, since the process of converting a rotting human corpse into a viable puppet was a grueling four-week affair that required staying in one place. (Although Sasori was sure, having gone through the process once, that he would be more efficient and timely with his next human puppet.)
He’d just have to kill Kakashi before he turned Tsume into a puppet, but time it perfectly to avoid Tsume’s subsequent lecture. Or… or he could just kill both at the same time and turn them both into puppets? Sasori stroked Komushi’s hand and decided that having two puppets with two magnificent noses was a good idea.
He shifted his hips around to face his apparent guard/escort (seriously? A horse?), but was interrupted when the toddler leapt from the horse’s back, cleared the distance between the small group and Sasori in a single bound, and landed breathlessly in front of Sasori, bending his knees to absorb the impact of landing.
“Hi!” declared the toddler, which was a dark-eyed boy with a head full of soft, dark curls barely restrained by a blue headband centered across his forehead. “My name is Uchiha Shisui! What’s your name?”
… What? Why?

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

The Hokage had decided that Tsume and Sasori would be best served by a samurai war horse that Mifune-dono had gifted to Konoha after the Second War – although, according to Obito’s babbled explanation to Shisui when he realized that his young cousin was present, holding the hand that Juubi had nipped when Obito had attempted to pet said horse, it was more like the samurai horse had simply decided he wanted to stay at Konoha, and none of the samurai felt like arguing with him. Konoha reluctantly tolerated Juubi’s unfettered presence because Tsume had decided that this territorial, aggressive animal was her friend and was going to keep him regardless of what anyone else thought, something something sired by a horse summon to a regular horse dame? Was that even possible? Somewhere in Wind, there was a nomadic horse breeder probably having a minor heart attack, and no wonder Namikaze accused Tsume of adopting Sasori when she claimed he was hers when she habitually went around adopting vicious, battle-hardened creatures.
The horse came along with a retired husband-wife Uchiha couple who decided to bring along their grandchild (at least, that Sasori’s assumption when said toddler addressed them as Nana and Papa) that they were babysitting. As if these Uchiha weren’t going to be potentially get themselves all killed by inevitably running into enemy forces on their return trip to Konoha.
“Shinchuu and Hiroaki have been helping Yamato settle in during your absence,” the Uchiha husband was explaining to Tsume, his body well-controlled and still, his expression serene and friendly, “but Shisui’s energy was simply too overwhelming for your dear boy, so Fumiko and I decided to keep him with us until your return.” Then he wandered off to “discuss the current situation” with Namikaze, which Sasori immediately understood to be about him.
Well, Sasori thought darkly, the Uchiha were as legendary as the Senju when it came to throwing their young into war. (Sasori studiously ignored the memories of his own grandmother, when he was six years old, teaching him how to use chakra threads to wield corpses as impromptu puppets. In Chiyo’s defense, she had held Sasori back until the Isha nin had been killed, and it was far easier to learn how to manipulate dead bodies than living bodies. It was good survival practice for Sasori after he graduated the Suna Academy one year later… after he was bored and started rewriting lessons plans to flunk out the morons he would otherwise be stuck graduating with, and was so abruptly thrust into battle.)
The Uchiha husband wasn’t as old as Sasori’s grandmother, looking to be more in his mid-to-late fifties, wrinkles lining his forehead and creasing at the corners of his eyes and mouth. His thick dark hair, slightly less curly than Shisui’s and long enough to brush his shoulders, only had a few obvious streaks of silver. His dark wool clothes were plain, but tailored to fit well. Per his retirement status, he didn’t wear a Leaf forehead protector. He was slightly shorter than his wife, who was a tall, bony-thin woman with unusually dark skin more befitting an O’uzu Islander, her salt-and-pepper twisted into multiple beaded braids. Most of the beaded braids were gathered into a sloppy bun piled at the crown of her head, but a few freely dangled down past her shoulders. The Uchiha wife’s fingers were callused, but not in the way of one who was proficient with the use of kunai or taijutsu. Said fingers were currently working a dozen of Tsume’s caltrops through her hair as she sat behind a sprawling Tsume, while Tsume described her labor and delivery in lurid terms.
“But I only needed to push four times before Hana was born!” Tsume finished triumphantly. “I only have a few perineal tears, and they’re barely worth mentioning.”
“Oh my gosh, I tore clit to rectum when I had Mikoto,” the woman said. Both women were either oblivious or willfully ignoring Sasori’s visible discomfort at being bombarded with such intimate details.
“Wow!”
“The first poop I had after Mikoto was more painful than the actual delivery, and I swear it was just as big as her! That’s why I reminded Bashira-san to pack you those laxative suppositories. Tearing can be notoriously bad with precipitous labors, like yours.”
Okay, that was it. Sasori didn’t need to know anything about anyone’s bowel health, especially Konoha’s. Sasori planted his hands on the ground and scuttled backwards, away from them while ignoring the pained twinged of overused muscles.
“Where are you going, Sasori?” Tsume asked, her face stupid with confusion.
Since sharing was evidently the language of caring with these morons, Sasori snarled, “I have to pee.” It also ensured Sasori some space and privacy, which he successfully monopolized by hiding himself away in the glade of aspens after he clumsily used the dug-out latrine hole (emptying his bladder while seated took far more skill than standing). He then occupied himself with untangling Komushi’s dark brown hair. Kuroari’s hair was made from horse’s mane and wasn’t anywhere as soft, and was still currently sealed within Tsume’s possession.
Unfortunately, hiding away made it easy to be cornered by the Uchiha husband, once Namikaze had no doubt thoroughly educated him on who and what Sasori was.
“Feeling overwhelmed?” the man asked with sympathy as he sat down on the ground in front of Sasori.
Sasori studiously ignored him as he ran the comb through Komushi’s hair.
“How are you holding up?” the husband asked after two minutes.
Sasori glared. “I’m not here to make friends.”

The husband hummed as the corners of his mouth lifted slightly, studying Sasori with shadow-dark eyes. Not with amusement, but also without irritation or impatience. It was difficult to read the man’s emotions. He was like a deep, still pond, carefully controlled. The hairs on the back of Sasori’s neck rose on end as a chill zipped up and down his spine. “I am familiar with Tsume’s modus operandi. This is probably your first opportunity to catch your breath and try to make sense of her inevitable chaos since meeting her.”
“If you know that, why are you bothering me?” Sasori forced his hand to relax when the tightened grip on the comb made his muscles spasm.
“Because I figured this might also be my only opportunity to get to know you without the interference of chaos.”
“I’m a Suna nin.” Sasori tucked the comb away and covered Komushi’s head with the balaclava. “That’s everything you need to know about me.”
The man hummed again. “Ah yes. A Suna nin. Clever and creative, strong enough to survive and thrive in some of continent’s harshest living conditions, purveyor of rare herbs and even rarer insects and reptiles, remarkable stamina, highly independent. They say what they mean, and they mean what they say, so you always know where you stand with a Suna nin.”
That… Sasori never expected that.
“And yet,” the man continued, clearly aware of how he had stunned Sasori, “that set of qualities doesn’t tell me what I’d like to know about you, as an individual human being with your own unique talents, interests, and idiosyncrasies.”
Sasori gripped Komushi’s torso, drawing his friend near as if he could shield himself from the man’s piercing gaze. His heart pounded in his chest.
“For example, I hate Epoisses cheese.”
… what?
“And yet, my wife insisted on packing some along, knowing that I’m not going to eat it, that Shisui isn’t going to eat it, that Tsume and Shisui will both complain at length about its stench, and the ninken will roll around in it because they like to roll around in dead and smelly things. But I know my darling Fumiko brought it along anyway, because she finds it entertaining to hear me remind her there’s a reason why the Hokage legally banned its presence from the open-air market.”
This was…. Sasori had no idea what the point of any of this was. “Why?”
“I can honestly say that despite being married to her for more than thirty-five years, I haven’t the foggiest idea. Apparently, our marriage is built on a solid foundation of love, trust, and a smidgeon of sadism.”
“So, you want to know more about how I plan to torture you, too?” Sasori didn’t know if this was the world’s most unconventional interrogation, or the clumsiest.
The man laughed, bright and friendly. “No, I just thought it would be fair to warn you of the impending fiasco the stinky cheese will inevitably trigger, and how my wife didn’t bring it to be malicious. Just mischievous.”
“Ah, you’re trying to lull me into a false sense of safety.”
“I must imagine that would be your expectation, an outsider shinobi surrounded by Konoha nin. Wounded, footless, deprived of most of your weapons, unable to trust any of those surrounding you no matter how much they claim to be allies.” As direct the description of how Sasori felt, the man’s tone wasn’t unkind. It was a simple acknowledgement that ruthlessly dragged Sasori’s hidden vulnerability into full view. “Dragged away from everything you’re familiar with, to a high, mountainous region filled with so much water that much of it remains frozen in glaciers all-year round. You probably haven’t had a decent wink of sleep, constantly on edge with watching your back.”
Sasori’s lip curled back. “Don’t patronize me. I’m not some sort of wayward child surrounded by strangers that needs to be placated and soothed.”
The pointed look the man gave him said that he very much considered Sasori a wayward child in need of placation and soothing, but he raised his hands upward, fingers straight and palms flat, as if in surrender. “My apologies. I didn’t mean to be so condescending.”
“You failed miserably.”
“I did. Forgive me, I rarely work with Konoha allies or enemies. I have strictly dealt with internal affairs for decades.”
Sasori froze as the implications of the man’s words wormed through his brain. The chills raced up and down his spine faster. Then, in a whisper, “Who are you?”
“Ah?” The man looked confused as he tilted his head to the side, nearly brushing ear against shoulder. “I thought my darling Fumiko would’ve at least mentioned me by name.”
“She had no reason to mention who her husband is when discussing perineal tears and bowel movements.”
He grinned. “Oh my. No wonder you beat a hasty retreat.”
Sasori shook his head. “Who are you?” he asked again, refusing to be distracted or redirected.
“Akasuna no Sasori,” the man clasped his hands into the Seal of Recognition and bowed his head, “I am Uchiha Kagami. And whether you believe it or not, I am pleased to meet you.”
Uchiha Kagami.
The apprentice of the legendary Senju Tobirama who had successfully awoken his Sharingan during the First War, a jounin, a trusted teammate of the Hokage, who had never stepped out into the field after the end of the First War and instead buried himself in Konoha’s Internal Affairs, swiftly rising to head the entire department. Little else was known about the man – there wasn’t any existing intelligence within Suna regarding his current skills of taijutsu, ninjutsu, genjutsu, doujutsu, or weaponry. (Most of the time, Uchiha Kagami was rumored to be dead, because of the non-impact he made outside of Konoha’s walls.) What little intel Suna had was more than thirty years out of date.
As a part-time apprentice to the Kazekage and from his own knowledge of the internal workings of a Hidden Village, especially those matters hidden from even the locals, Sasori knew that no man could be Head of Internal Affairs without having the power to go toe-to-toe against the strongest Village shinobi, because someone had to keep the malcontent in line on behalf of the Kage when they misbehaved.
Which meant that Uchiha Kagami was a very dangerous, very powerful man.
“I’m sorry,” said Kagami, facial expression expertly conveying mild concern, “I have alarmed you.”
Sasori felt his heart picking up even more as a wave of adrenaline struck him. This was even worse than being on the receiving end of Namikaze’s attention. And rather than scrutinizing him in suspicion, Kagami instead studied Sasori like he was a particularly prickly, hard nut to crack. Namikaze had been wary, fully aware of Sasori’s danger and perfectly willing to resolve said danger before it was an issue. Uchiha Kagami dismissed Sasori’s danger because, to him, the danger wasn’t enough to be concerned with.
“Oh, I have failed miserably,” Kagami told himself with a knowing nod. He crossed his arms in thought. “Here I am, trying to make you feel more at ease, and instead I only caused you to feel more mistrust and alarm. I can’t blame you for that.”
Sasori’s mouth was dry and his tongue tacky. “What are you doing?”
Kagami shrugged casually. “Trying to build a rapport with you.” His voice and expression were wryly amused. “And failing spectacularly at it. My wife is going to be amazed with the failure of my silver tongue when she learns about it. Expect the ribbing to last at least twenty kilometers.”
It was the classic interrogation method of Kumo nin, who decided that prisoners responded better when they were smothered with kindness and concern. Sasori had once wondered how Kumo managed to figure out how to be successful with such a bizarre technique.*
After being on the receiving end of the unconventional interrogation techniques for less than a minute, Sasori could clearly see why: it was unsettling, forcing him to ride the edge of suspicion, wondering if the honeyed words disguised a treacherous poison while the mind was slowly twisted with confusion and the quiet, whispering lullaby of a desperate hope.
Luckily for him, and unluckily for Uchiha Kagami, Sasori despised the foibles of emotional comfort and rejected the human need for validation from their community and peers. It was probably the one good thing Chiyo and his Jounin sensei had inadvertently taught Sasori.
Kagami sighed. “This is going to be a long trip back to Konoha. Well, come along.” He stood and brushed his backside and thighs free of debris. “The commiseration of the pains of pregnancy and the horrors of childbirth should be over by now. Let me formally introduce you to my wife.”oOoOoOo
If Tsume irritated Sasori, if Namikaze Minato and Kagami alarmed him, if Obito amused him, and Kakashi… (he rejected the notion of exploring how he felt about Kakashi, as Hatake Sakumo’s son) then Uchiha Fumiko (who stressed that her name was actually Shimura-Uchiha Fumiko) flummoxed him.
First, she didn’t look anything like the Shimura clan who made an appearance in the Suna Bingo Book – Kensuke, Danzo, Kagome – because she was clearly descended from the natives of O’uzu Island, very few of whom had permanently left their island, no matter how friendly and welcoming they were to outsiders. The loose strands of hair that weren’t captured in the braids were tightly coiled like corkscrews. Her eyes were as dark as Kagami’s, but they sparkled with a rabid curiosity and a keen intelligence. She was also animated and eager, immediately withdrawing a recorder with a microphone from her pocket. She thrust the microphone towards his face, nearly bashing him in the nose with it right after Sasori had reseated himself next to the fire, which had been allowed to burn down into glowing coals and white ashes.
“I must interview you, Akasuna no Sasori! You are a veritable goldmine in the cultures of the nomadic Wind tribes! Please, tell me everything you know about the Saboten Tribe, and I am fascinated with how they haggle over everything at the Suna Autumn Bazaar! Say when, and I hit record!”
Kagami chuckled. “Do you think it might be better to introduce what you do, and why, instead of pouncing on Sasori-kun like a cat on a mouse?”
“Fumiko-san, I don’t think Sasori feels comfortable with that microphone so close to his face,” said Tsume in a rare flash of insightfulness.
The microphone was immediately withdrawn. “Oh, I am so sorry! I do have a terrible habit of jumping all over someone when I get excited.” She stuffed the recorder and microphone back into the pocket of her billowing, multipocketed dark gray pants. Steepling her hands together, she bowed deeply, exposing the back of her neck and holding the pose for five heartbeats. It was a traditional Wind greeting between two opposing tribes and/or Suna teams setting aside their differences to maintain a respectful truce when approaching an oasis. Sasori breathlessly wondered if she understood its significance. “I am a historian. It is my intention to find and record the history and cultures of this continent’s many different people. As we become more modern and connected as a society and as a civilization, especially with the founding and settlement of Hidden Villages, I have realized that we are losing touch with our roots and cultural identities. I aim to document and preserve this knowledge for future generations.” Fumiko spoke so quickly that her tongue was tripping over her words.
Sasori had to blink, slow down the memory of her statement, and even then… “But why?”
“Why what?”
“Why would you think something like that is so important?” It must be a front to gather Intel for Konoha. A clever front, but not clever enough to manipulate Suna intel out of Sasori.
Fumiko clicked her tongue and shook her head, as if disappointed with Sasori’s question, and was weary of justifying herself every time someone asked. “Oh dear. First, it’s because those who do not remember history are doomed to repeat it. And humankind has made countless errors throughout the eons. Second…” She tapped her chin in thought. “Ah, I know. Why do we drink tea?”

It was a silly question. “Because tea often contains important antioxidants and can be medicinal, depending on the ingredients. It also tastes good.”
“Yes, but why do we drink tea? Who randomly looked at some leaves that had fallen off of a bush and dried in the sun, and said, you know what? I’m going to stick those dried leaves in a pot of boiling water and see what happens.”
Despite his suspicion and the silliness of asking about tea, Sasori could respect where Fumiko was leading him. Being a Poison Master was both an art and science. There was something breathtaking and endearing about how a tiny substance could end a life, and how varied such ends could be – quick, slow, brutal, peaceful, visible, and invisible. Every poison was crafted for a specific purpose, often tailored to the target and the situation it would be used in. But science was necessary to explain how and why the poison was effective and appropriate. “I suppose I never thought about it.”
“Exactly! Now let’s take this a little further. To make tea, you must do what with the water?”
“Boil it.”
“Yes. And for how many years have we, as a civilization, been boiling water for tea?”
The words sounded condescending, but Fumiko’s tone was not. Each question was meant to draw Sasori’s awareness to the reasoning behind an action, forcing him to consider the why, instead of just the how. Like how his grandmother had led him through poison research and manufacturing, considering how which ingredients enhanced or decreased efficiency with each other, and the necessary steps to extract them, all of which depended on how the poison would be delivered. “I imagine for thousands of years.”
“Correct. And in those thousands of years, how long have we had systems for sewage, or the facilities for water purification?”
And like science, reasoning explained the action. Fumiko was brilliant. “We’ve been boiling water for thousands of years to destroy pathogens.”
Fumiko grinned. “But plain boiled water is hardly palatable, Sasori-kun. Somewhere, thousands of years ago, someone looked at the leaves of these different bushes and herbs and said, you know what? I wonder if this will make boiled water actually fun to drink. And somewhere along the line of those thousands of years, not only have we learned how those teas can be used medicinally, we forgot why tea is so foundational to our culture and, frankly, instrumental to our survival as a species. There’s a reason why cholera and diphtheria outbreaks were rare even before the invention and implementation of closed sewage systems. So, my second reason for being a historian is to record why we do what we do, so we can understand and appreciate our traditions and not allow these traditions to be lost in the annals of time and modernization.”
Even Tsume looked fascinated. “Wow. I had no idea.”
Sasori knew the journey back to Konoha was going to be an unpleasant exercise of survival and patience with the presence of Kagami, Tsume, and the hyperactive Shisui (who was currently engaged in a very loud game of tag with his cousin… he was a very swift toddler). But with Fumiko, with her intelligent curiosity of how and why, even if it was aimed at history and culture (and still very likely a front to covertly gather intel), Sasori knew that there would be a quiet little oasis of intellectual stimulation that Suna so rarely offered.
“I love listening to you explain things,” Tsume told Fumiko. “And with Sasori-kun here, I can see why you wanted to come. But what about you?” She turned to Kagami, placing an inquiring hand on his elbow. “You… are you okay to travel?”
Kagami’s smile held a strange melancholy as he draped his hand over Tsume’s, an unspoken appreciation for her quiet concern. “Ah, Tsume. You just had a baby. Regardless of what your ancestors did, you mustn’t push yourself after going through that ordeal. Which means that you’ll need to take frequent breaks, which my darling Fumiko absolutely will force you to take, which, in turn, will be what I need to successfully keep pace. Besides,” his voice was soft and tender, “this is probably the last time I’ll ever be able to travel anywhere with my darling Fumiko, or make such happy memories with her and Shisui.”

Tsume stared at Kagami like she was watching a dead man walking and knew there was nothing she could do to stop him. The naked vulnerability and desperation in her expression made something clench in Sasori’s chest.oOoOoOo
Team Seven and their sensei left before what Sasori dubbed to be the Team Chaos-with-a-Suna-Hostage. It wasn’t much quieter without Obito’s presence. Shisui seemed determined, with all the energy and precociousness of a three-year-old toddler, to never stop moving or talking. The talking was probably a good thing – it meant that the adults knew exactly where Shisui was and what he was doing, as Fumiko had declared that a quiet toddler meant that said toddler had found himself a bout of trouble to get into.

Fumiko had already had to pull Shisui away from the latrine, where he had been digging around in a quest to gather fly larva. Why? Because little boys had a strange fascination for bugs, according to Tsume. And Sasori couldn’t argue with that reasoning, given how many times he brought home different spiders, beetles, and scorpions to show his parents, Chiyo, and Ebizo.
It was decided unanimously that Sasori would have to ride Juubi. It was unanimous because Juubi and Sasori weren’t allowed to vote, because Team Chao was a benevolent dictatorship run by humans over the age of thirteen. Sasori and Juubi agreed that this was not acceptable, or at least that was the feeling that Sasori got from Juubi when the horse laid his ears back in warning and stamped one foot in aggression when Tsume attempted to load Sasori into the saddle. Juubi clearly preferred Shisui and Tsume. Tsume firmly explained to Juubi that she and Shisui had two working feet, as if Sasori had somehow managed to forget that they had been chopped off in the first place, and then bribed the monster with some sugar cubes and promises of a chakra massage.

It was with an ill grace that Juubi accepted Sasori’s weight. And then whacked Sasori with his caltrop-studded tail. (Luckily, the thick poncho he wore protected his skin. Tsume lectured Juubi on how rude this was, and Kakashi had been right… her lectures were terrible, since she had an awful habit of repeating herself again, and again, and again, because she forgot halfway through the lecture what she had already said. Juubi behaved better after that, but Sasori was convinced it was more due to how Tsume had effectively bored the horse into compliance.)
With the aid of a map that Kagami memorized with a flash of his Sharingan (cheater, Sasori thought; pot with your eidetic memory, meet kettle Komushi told Sasori), they commenced their leave, which was actually faster than Sasori would’ve estimated, given that Juubi could use chakra to work his way down the steep mountain slope that was reasonably difficult for horses, and Shisui…
Well, Sasori could honestly say he had never seen a three-year-old with such well-developed chakra control that he could scale steep mountain slopes like he was strolling across flat land.

And worse, the icing on Sasori’s cinnamon rolls of uncomfortable horror, Kagami was determined to continue plying his Kumo-based interrogation techniques through an endless stream of what he called, Dad Jokes.
“Why should you never go to a vampire wedding? Because they suck.”
“As I get older, I think about all the people I’ve lost in my life. I guess being a tour guide wasn’t the best career choice to make.”
“I used to be addicted to the hokey-pokey, but I managed to turn myself around.”
“Did you hear about the octopus that held up a bank? Authorities are calling it armed robbery.”
“I can’t believe I got fired from the calendar factory. All I did was take the day off.”
“They say that the surest way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, but I find going through the ribcage is easier.” (Sasori’s personal experience disagreed with this; it was far easier to go through the soft, fleshy abdomen to reach the heart than through the hard bones of the ribcage.)
“Remember that good health is simply dying as slowly as possible.”
“I’m sorry and I apologize mean the same thing, except at a funeral.”
“Why don’t cannibals eat clowns? Because they taste funny.”

“A limbo champion walks into a bar. He’s disqualified.”
“My wife is mad that I have no sense of direction, so I packed up my stuff and right.”

And worst of the worst, Tsume didn’t get half of Kagami’s Dad Jokes, and needed them explained.
“Kill me now,” Sasori muttered as Kagami explained the wordplay behind the spouse with a poor sense of direction.
“I’m afraid that would make the endeavor of replacing your feet rather pointless,” said Fumiko, who effortlessly disregarded the endless stream of jokes with the air of someone who thought the best way to handle such nonsense was to deprive it of any attention. She reached out and sympathetically (and gently) patted Sasori’s knee. “Don’t worry, he’ll run out of air, soon.”
Sasori thought that Fumiko meant Kagami would run out of Dad Jokes to tell.
Fumiko actually meant it literally.
Within an hour of embarking on their journey, Kagami was panting heavily with a pale, clammy face, and Tsume was limping like she had just pushed a watermelon out of her pelvis.
“Shisui, don’t get too far ahead,” Fumiko called. “Papa and Aunt Tsume need to take a quick rest.”
“Yes, Nana!”
“I gotta change my pad, too,” said Tsume, gingerly lowering herself on a jutting column of stone. Hana, bundled securely to Tsume’s chest, slept peacefully. They hadn’t quite made it down the mountain slope to the small valley below, which was covered in half-frozen ponds, small streams, growing grass, and clusters of evergreen shrubs, aspen, and pine.
“Not used to the altitude?” Sasori asked Kagami as he swiped at his clammy forehead with the hem of his sleeve. Sasori quietly assessed the white color around Kagami’s mouth and the gray-blue of his fingernail beds.
“The altitude certainly isn’t helping,” Kagami replied, and then thanked Fumiko when she wordlessly handed him a canteen. She stared at him like a hawk with her arms crossed in front of her as he took two small sips.
He squirmed sheepishly. “You’re going to make me follow my water restrictions, aren’t you?”
Fumiko loomed. “Dr Masashi said no more than 2500 milliliters a day, and don’t think I didn’t see you sneak that extra cup of tea, this morning.”
Kagami whined. “I think there should be an allowance for additional fluid loss through activity-induced sweating.”
“I’ll be sure to weigh your clothes tonight and calculate the weight difference.”
“That wouldn’t be very accurate, my dear. Sweat evaporates.”
Fumiko raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Should I strip you naked and weigh your clothes every hour?”
Kagami grinned and poked her in the side. “If you wanted me naked, you only need to ask. You don’t have to come up with silly scientific experiences as an excuse.”
Fumiko swatted him over the head, laughing.
“Shame on you! There are children present!”
“The sensibilities of children never stopped Natsumi and Tobirama-sensei, now did it?”
Were they flirting? Was this how geriatric adults flirted? Was it normal for married geriatric adults to flirt with each other?
Shisui cartwheeled up the side of the mountain slope. “Wheeeeeeee!”
oOoOoOoBetween their late start, the steep mountain slopes they navigated, the frequent need of breaks for catching air, changing diapers and pads, breastfeeding (although Fumiko assured Tsume that she would soon get the hang of running while breastfeeding like her ancestors of old), and an absurd amount of snacks for a rambunctious toddler, Sasori was dismayed to learn they had traveled less than thirty kilometers for the entire day when they decided to stop because of the waning light. (The breaks hadn’t included nap times for toddlers, since Shisui could apparently sleep anywhere, and in this case, anywhere happened to be belly-down over Ni’s back, drooling into her fur.)
Thirty kilometers was what had been expected of Sasori to cover in an hour, in a blistering forty-five degree heat. The plateau that Team Seven had previously camped was still visible – albeit barely. And somehow, even though it was less than thirty kilometers spent on the back of a war horse, every muscle in Sasori’s body screamed in agonizing protest.
He glared at Kagami, whose hand was unsteady as he sipped a cup of hibiscus tea with an added tincture of hawthorn extract and a dollop of honey. “I can see why you’re retired.”
“Well, semi-retired,” Kagami said absently, eyed flickering to Shisui. “I need to hold on long enough for this one to eventually take my place.”
“Your stamina is worse than a civilian-born genin.”
Kagami nodded in bland acceptance. “That’s probably very true.”
Sasori was silent for a moment longer, and then added, “The average loss of fluid is highly dependent on a variety of factors – heat, humidity, wind, personal weight, level of activity, level of personal physical fitness, et cetera, but in your case, I feel comfortable in calculating additional fluid loss through diaphoresis at approximately five hundred milliliters an hour.”
“Diaphor-what?”
“Sweating.”
“Ah.” Kagami thought for a moment. “And I was physically exerting myself for eight hours today.”
Well, when break times were excluded, it was probably closer to five hours.
“My darling Fumiko, did you hear that? I should be allowed at least an additional thousand milliliters of water.”
“Dehydration,” declared Shisui, because of course an Uchiha three-year-old would have perfect annunciation and a firm grip on both grammar and vocabulary, “is dangerous.”
“See? Even Shisui knows I should have more water.”
“I’m sure the doctor took that into account for your fluid restriction, my dear.”
Kagami whined more, but eventually succeeded in being allowed an extra four cups of tea daily (but no additional water from the canteens), because Fumiko reluctantly agreed that yes, his activity level in Konoha was very different from his current level of activity, and there was no way that Dr Masashi could’ve taken such into account when he originally prescribed Kagami’s fluid restriction.
Before he settled down for the night (because of course he had to share the tent with the hormonal, possessive mother who had decided that Sasori was hers, and though there was no defined parameters to what that meant, it apparently inferred that she had emotionally attached herself to him like the world’s most pathetic leech), Tsume asked him if he had changed the dressings on his stumps yet.
“I did.”
She snorted, and reached through the four layers of their shared blankets to pointedly poke Sasori. “Don’t lie.”
“I’ll do it in the morning.”
Another poke. “I said, don’t lie.”
Sasori fully intended to change his dressings, because he would surely be ready to do so tomorrow morning. It wasn’t a lie. Rather than defending himself, Sasori rolled over and chose to ignore Tsume.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

The next day of traveling wasn’t much faster. During their frequent breaks, Fumiko finally started peppering Sasori questions about the culture and history of Wind.

If Sasori had never lost his feet… if he had managed to defect successfully, he would’ve gladly answered every question, even delighting in how it would likely to be used to build more intel against Suna. However, he knew that plan was now on hold, indefinitely. To comfortably and successfully wear prosthetics, he was going to need multiple reconstructive surgeries to rebuild blood vessels, repair the muscles, regenerate severed nerves, stimulate osseointegration for permanent prosthetics, although permanent prosthetics weren’t a possibility until he finished growing, and there would be recovery time and physical therapy in between each and every surgery. Komushi had gone through all of it, and there had been complications – infection, necrosis, delayed healing. Sasori was vulnerable, and it was an alarming, unfamiliar feeling that he was doing his best to ignore. Grandmother was likely to drag him back to Suna at her first opportunity, and Sasori was going to have to fight with her tooth and nail to stay in Konoha, because their healthcare system was far more advanced than Suna’s.
(He was also mentally drawing up plans for the prosthetics he wanted, knowing that while Konoha had a clearly superior healthcare system, Suna’s prosthetics were second to none, especially when compared to Sasori’s creations. He would build his own.)

And Fumiko, for all her intelligence and passion for history, was the wife of the Head of Internal Affairs, however retired he may or may not be. Sasori hardly expected such a man intrenched in politics to a) ever be free of such, and b) be honest with Sasori, in the first place. No doubt Fumiko’s research was heavily scrutinized by Konoha’s intel. A reasonably intelligent ninja could read the information, connect it to the right tribes and ancestors of known shinobi, and infer far too many secrets that otherwise would be impossible to successfully unearth without dangerous spying. To know the migration patterns of certain nomadic tribes would make it easier to track them. To know the traditional foods and how they were cultivated, harvested, and prepared would reveal an exploitable weakness in Suna’s food supplies and dietary habits (always easier to tailor poisons and disguise them in foods when you understand the flavors, since some poisons can be rendered ineffectual or lessened with certain compounds found in many herbs and spices.)
To know more about the nomadic tribes would know more about the students that came from Wind’s tribes and joined Sun’s Academy, eventually to become shinobi and kunoichi loyal to the Kazekage.
After an hour of Sasori apologetically answering Fumiko’s questions with a variety of “I can’t answer that,” Kagami seemed to take pity on Sasori’s growing frustration and anxiety, and pulled her aside.
“My darling, you need to ask him questions that are safe.”
Fumiko looked confused. “I’ve been carefully avoiding anything that has to do with Sunagakure.”
“Ah, but we don’t know if the tribes you’re asking about are allied to Suna. They could be the spokes of the wheel that lead to Suna. Their Academy does accept nomadic children.”
Fumiko silently considered this and stopped asking Sasori questions for one break and the travel after, through which Tsume had made sure that Sasori received plenty of food, plenty of fluids, another handful of nutrient pills, and got into an argument that he needed to change the dressings on his stumps, let her help, no don’t touch me, I’ll do it myself, later later later. Fumiko approached him after he had taken the start of the second break time to escape Tsume’s motherhenning by answering the annoying call of nature (and thankfully interrupted the follow-up of Tsume’s well-meaning, but very embarrassing offer on providing Sasori one of her laxative suppositories). While Kagami made a snack for Shisui and Tsume switched breasts with Hana after putting away the refused suppositories, Fumiko bowed deeply and apologized to Sasori.
“I do wish I could tell you.” Some day I will, he decided. Once he had successfully defected from Suna and what was one more excuse to hunt him down.
“I’m going to go in a different direction, away from current traditions and culture. Tell me about myths, because what on earth can Konoha use against Suna with a run-of-the-mill myth?” At Sasori’s confused silence, she continued, almost babbling. “There is a universal theme for all cultures, in my research, of origin stories. Now, it varies, because different cultures worshipped different gods, but all cultures have an origin. If it would please you, I want to you the creation story from Whirlpool, as an example of what you could share with me.”
Sasori wasn’t a fan of myths. They were whimsical and senseless, and, he supposed, just as she had mentioned, highly unlikely to reveal anything that could be used against, or even for, Sunagakure. “All right.” He remembered the oratories given over campfires, during field missions and escorts, so he wouldn’t mind sharing them.
Kagami took that as a signal for lunch, so he set about making a thick stew with stored ingredients, and Tsume helped with the chopping and measuring of herbs. Sasori made himself comfortable on a rock while Juubi perused a patch of grass and tender fiddlehead ferns, tail flickering idly. Shisui played a strange game with Ichi and Ni that looked like the unholy lovechild of fetch, keep-away, and monkey-in-the-middle. The skies were clear, and while the air was cold, the overhead sun was warm and eased some of Sasori’s aching muscles and joints. Fumiko settled on a rock across from Sasori.
“All humans,” began Fumiko, “are descended from one pair of ancestors, Tengoku, father of the sky, and Chiki, mother of the earth, so say the elders of Whirlpool. In those days, Tengoku and Chiki clung together, and there was only darkness. They had six sons: Yamayama, the father of the mountains; Arashi, the father of winds and storms; Kujira, the father of oceans and fish and reptiles; Shinrin, the father of the forests; Hara, the father of the fields and plains, and finally, Yaban: the father of fierce human beings, the last and the youngest of all the sons. And these sons had many children, because they were fathers. Don’t ask me how they managed to reproduce without mothers; creation myths rarely include meaningless little details like that. Maybe the offspring leapt out of their father’s thighs, fully formed, like Zeus and Athena, from the Country of Lightning.
“Together, the first ancestors, their sons, and the descendants of their sons, lived in darkness, and they could only wonder and dream about light. I imagine it was dreary, not being able to see, so after a long time, the six sons decided that something must be done. Yaban urged his brothers to slay their parents, but Yamayama felt that their parents shouldn’t be killed, and argued that they should instead separate Tengoku and Chiki, who clung to each other still. Yamayama said that Tengoku would be the distant sky over their heads, and Chiki the earth close to their feet, for she was their mother. After much debate, all the brothers finally agreed that this was necessary, except for Arashi, who was distraught that their parents would be forcefully separated. Light didn’t matter to him, only his mother and his father.
“Nonetheless, the five other brothers wouldn’t be swayed. Hara rose and fought to separate their parents, but couldn’t succeed, for he was the second youngest. Next, Shinrin rose and fought to separate their parents, but couldn’t succeed, for he was too fragile. Next, Yaban rose and fought to separate his parents, but couldn’t succeed, for his parents were stronger together than he who was but one, and he wasn’t permitted to use lethal force. Next, Kujira rose and fought to separate their parents, but he couldn’t succeed, although he did manage to open a gap. Into this gap slipped Yamayama, who pushed and pushed. He put his feet against the earth and put his head against the sky, and pushed and pushed and pushed them apart.”
Tsume, as equally enchanted by the tale as Shisui, sat close by with Shisui snuggled in her lap with Hana. Sasori barely acknowledged them, mesmerized with how Fumiko painted with her words, bringing a nonsensical myth of creation that defied any scientific explanation to life with the colors of her voice and the shapes of her animated hands and bright-eyed expression. It was poetic. It was beautiful.
It was art. Art didn’t need to be explained. Art, in its many forms, should be enjoyed for the sake of its mere existence, as Komushi had always told Sasori, because Komushi had loved music and often fought like he danced to songs in his head.
“Tengoku cried out in anguish, asking why his sons would betray their parents, but Shinrin pushed and pushed, until the sky was far above, far away. As light spread across the earth, the multitude of offspring that Tengoku and Chiki’s sons had fathered were revealed. Tengoku cried and cried, and so rain dropped to the earth. Chiki cried and cried, shaking so badly that the earth split.
“Arashi was infuriated with the cruelty of his brothers for forcing their parents apart, for pushing their father so far away, and so he fled to the sky, and plotted his revenge. Soon, he sent down storms and squalls, mighty tornadoes and mightier hurricanes, to punish Shinrin, the father of the forests. The ferocious winds broke tall trees and left the forests in shambles. Likewise, the storms swept over the oceans of Kujira, the father of fish and reptiles, and violently threw the children around with great tsunamis and mighty whirlpools. Kujira, frightened from such ferocity, fled deep into the ocean to escape Arashi’s wrath, abandoning his children. The fish and reptiles were left, not knowing what to do. The fish chose to follow their father and hide within the ocean, far below the tsunamis and beyond the reach of the whirlpools, and the reptiles fled to the forests, the fields, and the plains. When the fish told Kujira where the reptiles went, he was angered by their desertion, angered at how Shinrin and Hara were so willing to receive and protect his children, as if mocking him for his cowardice. So, Kujira fought Shinrin and Hara, his waves attacking the shores of the forests and the fields and the plains, and washing away the land and the life it held.
“Arashi also attacked Yamayama and Hara, for exiling their father. But Chiki clung to her sons, the father of mountains and the father of plains and fields. She loved them, these sons so close in body and in spirit, and she shielded them from Arashi. She was also furious with Kujira for attacking his brothers, and she angrily spewed fire and lava at him, creating new land for Shinrin and Hara, the fathers of the forests and the fields and plains, and for their offspring to grow and thrive despite the constant onslaught of the seas.
“Only Yaban, father of the fierce human beings, withstood Arashi’s wrath as the winds and storms attacked. Yaban persevered, for he had been denied the deaths of his parents, and saw that he and his children had been abandoned by his brothers when they hid from Arashi’s wrath. When Arashi’s storms subsided in his retreat for thinking up new attacks, Yaban enacted his own revenge. First, he turned on Shinrin, because he knew that Shinrin’s offspring may eventually overwhelm his own children, the fierce humans. He cut down the trees, he burned the wood for fuel, he wove snares from the tree fibers and caught Shinrin’s offspring. Some he subdued, others he consumed – the wolves, the birds, the great cats, the deer, the cattle, the boars, and so many more.
“Second, he turned upon Kujira, the father of the oceans and fish and reptiles, and with the nets, he dragged Kujira’s offspring from the seas. Yaban taught his children how to float on the oceans with boats carved from Shinrin’s trees, to capture and to kill the fish. And with the reptiles – the toads, the salamanders – he created poisons to destroy those who opposed him, and it horrified Kujira’s children that they would be used in such a vile manner.
“Third, he turned upon Hara, the father of the plains and fields. Yaban taught his children, the fierce humans, how to subjugate the fields and the plains, to dig up the plants so they would die in the sun, to boil, cut, and roast them over fires so Hara would suffer as his own children suffered.
“Fourth, he turned upon Yamayama, the father of the mountains. But Yamayama was too great to subjugate, for Chiko clung to his feet, and Tengoku shielded his head, for although Tengoku couldn’t touch Chiko, he could touch Yamayama, and that was the closest he could be to his beloved wife.
Yamayama couldn’t fight Yaban, for Chiko and Tengoku held him tight and still between them. For his mother and his father, whom he didn’t want killed, Yamayama stood strong and still, but he couldn’t stop Yaban’s children from claiming him.
“To this day, Yaban’s children rule over the mountains, the forests, the fields and the plains. To this day, Yaban’s children consume the fish of the ocean and poison others. To this day, Kujira rages against the brothers who stole his children, the reptiles, and tears at them with his waves. To this day, Arashi, father of the winds and storms, is the only son who remains unconquered, angry still, and his storms continue to attack Yaban’s children on both land and sea in revenge for the rendering of Sky and Earth.”
Tsume clapped at the end of Fumiko’s tale. “Marvelous!”
Sasori dimly realized he had been holding his breath in awe.
“Thank you. Uzumaki Mito-sama herself told me about this myth, and many more. When Whirlpool fell and so many of its people scattered into hiding after the very thorough destruction of their home, I understood then how much knowledge and history had been wiped out so swiftly and suddenly, and I wondered how much history, culture, and legends have been lost in general. That’s when I realized the importance of creating and preserving thorough records.”
Sasori gathered his thoughts. He was still convinced that the gathering of traditions and history was a front… but a front that others no doubt hid behind. In Fumiko’s passion, there was no willing subterfuge. With his thoughts quietly gathered and his suspicions laid to rest, he said, “There is a saying, from the Atacama tribe – they’re nomadic horse breeders, in Wind, traveling from feeding plains to feeding plains. They say that a man dies two deaths: the first, when his life ends, and the second, when his name is no longer spoken.”
Fumiko immediately dug a notebook and a mechanical pen from her billowing pockets. “That’s beautiful! Any more sayings or proverbs?”
Well, this topic was certainly much safer than culture, heritage, and traditions. Sasori… Sasori wanted to show Fumiko the same art that she had shared with him, to see her face lit like the rare aurora borealis with the same appreciation and wonder that Komushi had so often shared. He and Komushi had sat, shoulder to shoulder that cold night two years prior, and watched the display of green, pink, and white colors and dancing lights all night long, breathless and grateful to be alive for such a rare display of the cosmos. “They’re not a nomadic tribe, since they permanently dwell in the green valleys of Sosai Bonchi, in the southern edge of Wind, but the Keikoku once told me…” He licked his lips, suddenly feeling dizzy. “They once told me that a child who isn’t embraced by his village will burn it down to feel its warmth.”
His body had been so warm in Suna, from the desert heat and sun. His heart had been so cold, when he remembered the letters from his parents. Grandmother used the letters, the hopes and fears of his parents, to push and correct and teach, and he had been so faithful in meeting and exceeding every expectation, every correction, every task, just so his parents would finally return home, to him.
Because… because he had wanted to make his parents proud, had worked himself into the ground to become exactly what they wanted and needed, to just be enough. Too long had Sasori dreamt of them holding him once more and telling him how much they loved him in the secure circle of their arms. Too long had he endured the wary jealousness shared by peers and adults alike, hardening his heart to the ever-growing isolation, because they were witless coconut crabs – long evolved to survive and thrive around freshwater oases far from the oceans – in the bucket that were trying to hold him back from his goal of reunification. He didn’t need the warmth of his village. He only needed his parents.
And then his cold heart shattered like a mirror struck with a rock when Grandmother finally admitted she had been writing the letters all along, because his parents had died years ago. That his parents had been ruthlessly struck down by the legendary chakra saber of Konoha’s White Fang, and their puppets – Sasori’s legacy – were destroyed.

It wasn’t Hatake Sakumo who tore away the roots of his hopes and dreams, though.
There never would’ve been hopes and dreams of his parents’ eventual return if Grandmother had simply been honest from the start and hadn’t nourished and coaxed those seedlings to life.
“That is remarkable!” Fumiko’s pen scribbled as she transcribed Sasori’s proverb, her eyes focused on the lettering. Tsume, and even Kagami, approaching them with bowls of steaming stew, studied Sasori in a way that made the palms of his hands sweat. “So simple, and yet so profound. I could write an entire paper alone parsing out this one proverb.”
“That reminds me,” said Kagami, handing the stew over to Sasori with a look that stripped him to his bones, “of a proverb Mifune-dono once told me during the Second War.”
“You never told me about any proverbs that Mifune-dono told you.” Fumiko poked Kagami with her pen. “How dare you hold out on me!”
Kagami ate while standing, feet planted wide apart. There was no paleness, no shaking, no panting, no hint of any weakness. “Well, I admit that the opportunity to remember it never came up, my darling. This was after my team and I had reached the wagon train of wounded that were returning to Konoha, at the end of the war, and you know how busy we were with reintegrating our shinobi back. Mifune and I were discussing the similarities and differences between shinobi and samurai, and our perspective differences in the nebulous philosophy of honor. It was late in the night, everyone else was asleep, including you,” he told Tsume with a nod. “Mifune said that within himself, within every samurai, there is a raging battle for attention, and the battle is fought by two very hungry wolves. The more attention you feed them, the stronger they become. The first wolf, the black wolf, represents mankind’s negative emotions. He is anger, envy, sorrow, regret, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, lies, and pride. The second wolf, the white wolf, represents mankind’s positive emotions. He is joy, peace, love, hope, mercy, humility, kindness, empathy, generosity, truth, and faith.
“I said, well, it seems to me that this is a battle within every human being, samurai or not, and Mifune agreed. He asked me which wolf would win. After thinking about that, about how we live our lives, I said, I imagine the wolf you feed the most will win.”
“That makes sense,” said Tsume. “If you feed the dark wolf, you’ll be filled with anger, hatred, and bitterness. And if you feed the white wolf, you’ll be filled with joy, love, and kindness.
It’s like the void Orochimaru once told me about. There’s a void, but nature abhors voids so it sucks things into it, and when you look into the void, the void look backs, so you need to fill the void with something you like looking back at you, like sunshine and puppies and dandelion fluff.”
Those were terrible things to fill a void with, Sasori thought. Especially dandelion fluff. He also immediately saw the flaws in exclusively feeding the white wolf – it made you weak and vulnerable, targeted by stronger forces that would manipulate and exploit the weaknesses, if not killing you outright. Exclusively feeding the black wolf would also be a problem, because shinobi who were constantly filled with hatred, pride, anger, and jealousy were shinobi who couldn’t be trusted by their Kage or their teammates. Or in general.
“It’s very similar, yes,” said Kagami. “But Mifune-dono said that if you feed both wolves right, they both win the battle.”
Tsume frowned. “What? Why would you feed anger, hatred, and bitterness?”
Kagami laughed. “See, that’s what I asked Mifune-dono. And he said, if you feed only the white wolf, the black wolf doesn’t starve to death. He doesn’t even grow weak in hunger. Instead, he’ll only hide in the dark, waiting patiently for you to falter, because life isn’t perfect. And when – not if – you falter, it will attack, because that black wolf will always be angry, always hungry for attention. You see, every emotion has its weakness and its strength. You must feed them and give them attention in order to control them. The black wolf, when properly fed and given appropriate attention, gives you the strengths of those negative emotions: tenacity, courage, willpower, the drive to improve, and resourcefulness. The white wolf, when given the same as the black wolf, gives you the strengths of the positive emotions: compassion, caring, honor, and kinship with others. Without the strength of the black wolf, with only the nature of the white wolf, you will be spineless, weak, desperate to please, and unable to stand up for yourself or others. Without the strength of the white wolf to temper the black wolf, you will be alone and untrusted, despised by your community, and lack the awareness to self-correct your flaws. When you feed them both, the battle ceases, and you become something greater through the sum of all the parts. Only then can you find peace within yourself.” Kagami’s face was serene as he turned his gaze upon Sasori. “A person who harbors a storm within his heart and soul has nothing, so how you choose to treat your internal opposing forces will ultimately determine how you live.”oOoOoOo
Sasori was unable to sleep two nights later, sequestered in the tent alongside Tsume and Hana as the bulk of one ninken slowly warmed the inside, on top of the glacial field they deemed safe enough to camp on. He was haunted by Kagami’s proverb of the two hungry wolves warring against each other, of the Keikoku child who burns down its village in a desperate bid to feel the warmth it has been long deprived. For the first time since the arsenic poisoning, surrounded by the quiet, feeling like there wasn’t a knife aimed at his back, Sasori allowed himself to think without the constant need to react, because thinking had been too dangerous, too personal to engage in. He allowed himself to feel, because feeling often brought painful doubts and uncomfortable self-reprimands that was so contrary to his veil of confidence.
He thought about Chiyo’s lies and letters, the web of deceit and distrust that she had woven through his childhood. Of the hopes and dreams she fed and fostered, only to slaughter them with the same ruthlessness that the White Fang had slaughtered his parents. He thought of how she had hugged him after Komushi’s death, showing Sasori a tenderness that she had always been so careful to hide from everyone, because emotions were an exploitable weakness, even for an adolescent grandchild that she had raised since he barely escaped his toddler years. The first weakness she had ever shown after seven years of being a stern, harsh guardian who demanded an endless stream of more more more, honing him to a razor-sharp point of deadly effervescence wrapped in toxins and lethal threads. Looking back, Grandmother’s tenderness with that hug had felt strangely genuine…
(And then he immediately rejected that and mentally moved on to other feelings and memories, because if Chiyo had truly cared for Sasori, she wouldn’t have strung him along like a mindless puppet for six years.)
He thought about the shinobi of Suna, who resented being led and ordered around by someone half their age and twice their talent and skill. He thought about how many others he pushed away, frustrated by their stupidity and resentfulness towards anyone who was better than them, but too lazy to work on improving their bland mediocrity. They were focused on their own shallow needs and petty wants, proudly ignorant of science and arrogantly dismissive of knowledge beyond what would make them successful on their assigned missions.
And he thought of Komushi, who had never been intimidated by Sasori’s intelligence, creativity, and bounding skills and talent. Sasori, six years old while Komushi was eight years old, was so deep in the loneliness of his parents’ absence that he eagerly welcomed Komushi’s friendship, desperate to fill the aching void in his heart that rare letters couldn’t touch, and Komushi happily slotted himself into that aching void. Komushi didn’t always comprehend what Sasori talked about when it came to hard science, but Komushi said that didn’t matter, because what mattered to Komushi was that Sasori understood, and he was satisfied to live vicariously through Sasori’s intelligence and eidetic memory. Komushi shared in Sasori’s appreciation and beauty of science, and had been the one to teach Sasori that not everything needed to be a means to an end, that the stretch of the Milky Way overhead was something to be appreciated for itself, adored and admired for the splendor of its existence, and not something that needed to be conquered in a driving need to know and understand.
Sasori remembered when they were in the Land of Swamps together, last summer, collecting poison dart frogs, when they both became horrendously sick from malaria. Komushi agreed that if Sasori figured out how to distill malaria into a poison, Sasori could rule the world through fear and fevers.

“I shall fly higher than an eagle!” Sasori had announced, ignoring the fact that he was on his hands and knees, throwing up all over his hands, so delirious with his fever that the thought of being King of the World was hilarious.
“And I shall be the wind beneath your wings,” Komushi declared, clutching his head through his raging headache.

(Komushi had loved his prosthetic arm, delighted to milk Sasori for any knowledge and skills to overcome his weakness and handicaps.)

He thought about the Kazekage, who both encouraged and inhibited Sasori’s growth, desiring Akasuna no Sasori that was a destructive weapon to be aimed at their enemies, and yet fearing Akasuna no Sasori’s ever-increasing skills with battle puppeteering and poisons, the sharp intellect and strategies that successfully kept their enemies at bay and led Sasori’s teams to victory despite the self-sabotage Sasori’s underlings would engage in. Kages, in Hidden Villages, were supposed to be the strongest ninja. Suna was different from other Hidden Villages, as the position of the Kazekage was a hereditary monarchy in the same spirit as their ancestors who had founded and settled in the Suna Valley, shielded with the towering walls and watered by the permanent underground aqueducts.

But in the same culture of the nomadic tribes, a culture that continued to thrive to this very day in Wind, monarchies can and were overthrown by someone with the strength and ambition to do so. If Sasori’s growth continued, uninhibited, he could effectively challenge Rasa when it came time for the Fourth Kazekage to ascend the position. Sasori was frustrated with the mediocracy of their Village, frustrated with being second-rate to their own Daimyo, and frustrated with how the Kazekage willingly submitted to this mediocracy, and hadn’t exactly been silent or covert with his frustrations. (Hence why, after he saw how his Village reacted to Komushi being turned into a puppet, Sasori decided that he would no longer allow his leadership to hold him back or drag him down to their level, and made plans to defect.)
And Sasori remembered his mission to meet up with the Konoha team for the requested supplies. He recalled how the Third Kazekage had clapped Sasori’s back and cheerfully insisted that his team leave early, so they could rest and relax at the oasis, and how it had felt strange and out of character.
The oasis that the Kiri nin wasn’t supposed to have targeted.
The Kiri nin to whom Sasori had provided the arsenic.
The arsenic that the Third Kazekage had directed Sasori to provide in the first place, three days after he presented Komushi.
Seething with the dawning realization that the Kazekage had never intended for Sasori to succeed his mission, Sasori then thought about Tsume, who said that Sasori smelled lost, lonely, and filled with hatred and spite. And despite all of that, knowing the depths of his rage and bitterness, and the lack of any lies in his scent, she cheerfully accepted her future fate of being turned into a puppet. And it wasn’t like she was simply humoring Sasori. She hadn’t separated him from Komushi (just Komushi’s hidden poisons, the bitch), and with a nose that could sniff out arsenic from over a hundred kilometers away, Sasori had no doubt that Tsume knew that Sasori was very good at turning human beings into puppets, that he carried the very proof with him wherever he went. Despite Sasori’s very real danger and intentions to eventually end her life, Tsume told Hanzo, hungry hellspawn, and even Namikaze, that Sasori was hers. Because Tsume filled her stupid void with sunshine and puppies and pointless dandelion fluff. As dangerous as Sasori was, even – perhaps, especially – wounded and cornered, snarling and snapping to keep threats at bay, Tsume approached him with that same dogged care that she showered on Shisui, Hana, her ninken, and the Uchiha elders, completely uncaring every time his metaphorical teeth sank into tender flesh and tore it free.
He thought about Namikaze, who gently and patiently held Tsume’s hand while she gave birth, and yet glared at Sasori with velvet covered steel. A powerful shinobi whose hands were bloody from countless deaths, and yet assisted Tsume in bringing forth new life into a war-ravaged world that was hellbent on self-destructing from human greed and pride. He thought about Namikaze’s tender interactions with his young team, a stark contrast against Namikaze’s growing reputation that would soon rival Sasori’s in ruthlessness and bloodshed. He thought about how his own Jounin sensei had been the complete opposite with Namikaze’s guiding and coaxing, apparently operating with the philosophy that whatever didn’t kill you made you stronger, and the best way to swim was to get thrown into the piranha-infested deep end with bleeding wounds. (Grandmother’s teaching was, Sasori reluctantly admitted, the only reason why he was the last surviving member of his genin team.)
He thought about Fumiko, who saw Sasori as a treasure trove of rare knowledge and not as a danger best kept far away with her back facing the other direction. He marveled at Fumiko’s passionate quest to preserve culture, tradition, and history, and to share it with others, regardless of creed or allegiance. In a world where change was absolute, Sasori saw beauty and meaning in eternity, appreciating their unchanging existence, just like Komushi had encouraged him to. Humans, by their very nature, were constantly changing, and so very mortal, so very deceitful, so very unreliable. (The stars will always be there, in the way his parents couldn’t.) Fumiko was determined to immortalize what she could, to prevent its loss and change, and Sasori saw the beauty in her passionate work, her quick intellect, her thirsty curiosity.
And last of all, Sasori thought about Uchiha Kagami.
Sasori had fought with, and against, other Uchiha clansmen for the last five years, and Kagami defied every expectation of Sasori’s experiences and knowledge of the Uchiha.
He thought about the dichotomy of Kagami’s strength of character, and the weakness of Kagami’s mortal body. He thought about the power of Kagami’s bizarre interrogation techniques, of using comfort and sympathy and kindness to disarm and confuse, instead of pain and torture and isolation. He thought about the vulnerability of Kagami’s body, its flagging strength and stamina, the pills he faithfully took from his prescription bottles every morning and night, patiently pacing himself through three times less water than what the others consumed, and massaging legs swollen twice their size by the end of the day, all without (well, too many) complaints.
Sasori thought about how Kagami successfully weaponized his body’s weakness as a means to prevent Tsume from pushing herself beyond her limits while allowing for her dignity, maintaining he needed additional rest to catch his breath while Tsume was insisting that she was just fine, that bleeding through her heavy pad within ten minutes of changing it wasn’t a sign of hemorrhaging, that she would continue forging ahead and not be the reason why Team Chaos had to hold themselves back. He thought about this afternoon, when Kagami claimed he was becoming too aware of how out-of-shape he had become in his lengthy sequester in Konoha, and piggybacked Sasori so Tsume, pale and shaking and bleeding far too much, could ride Juubi. Picking their way up and over more steep mountain slopes, over the unstable melting glacier, it hadn’t been safe – or even possible at times – to ride the ninken. Sasori had felt the man’s sluggish heartbeat beneath his fingertips, the clamminess of Kagami’s skin, and watched the growing paleness in Kagami’s face as the cyanosis worsened, worried that the man would pass out from oxygen deprivation before they finally succeeded in summitting the mountain (Kagami didn’t pass out, but did require an even longer rest than usual).
Sasori thought about so many things, his mind racing like a frightened desert hare trying to outrun the diving gray hawk. He thought about so many things, but he didn’t… couldn’t understand them, as two opposing forces within his soul battled each other for attention.
And then Tsume, awake because Hana had all the newborn expectations of being fed on demand, even in the middle of the night, interrupted Sasori’s train of thoughts by poking him. “If you don’t change your dressings yourself by tomorrow night, I’m going to sit on you and do it myself. You keep neglecting your stumps, and it’s going to end badly for you.”
Sasori decided that discretion was the better part of valor, and ignored her.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

With the lack of sleep from his mind racing all night and the persistent aches of his body and ever-intrusive itching big left toe that was thousands of kilometers away and yet right there, an invisible meter beyond his reach, Sasori was in a poor mood the next morning.
“It’s not that much different from your usual mood,” Tsume told Sasori when he bitterly complained.
Kagami took this as a sign that Sasori’s mood would be vastly improved with yet another round of awful Dad Jokes, which were relentless as they descended the glacier and down into a green valley.

“Why can’t dinosaurs clap their hands? Because they’re extinct.”
“I gave my handy-man a to-do list. He only did items one, three and five. I guess it’s because he only does odd jobs.”
“Where do rainbows go when they’ve committed crimes? To prism, so they can reflect on where they went wrong.”
“I went to a silent auction. I won two dog whistles and a mime.”
“Can a frog jump higher than a house? Of course, because a house can’t jump.”
“What’s the different between a piano, a tuna, and a pot of glue?” When Sasori refused to dignify that with a response, Kagami repeated the question to Shisui.
“I don’t know,” said Shisui.
“You can tune a piano, but you can’t piano a tuna.”
Shisui, being three years old, didn’t find any humor in the difference, and simply accepted the answer with a solemn air. “But what about the pot of glue?”
“Ah, I knew you’d get stuck on that!”
Tsume barked with laughter. “Hah! I got that one!”
And the Dad Jokes kept on coming.
“The other day I bought a thesaurus, but when I got home and opened it, all the pages were blank. I have no words to describe how angry I was.”
“I stayed up all night wondering where the sun went, and then it dawned on me.”
“How much does a chimney cost? Nothing, it's on the house.”
“What do you call a broken clock? A waste of time.”
“I'm concerned with the health of my calendar. Its days are numbered."
“I don’t trust trees. They’re kinda shady. And I don’t trust stairs either; they’re always up to something.”
“That cemetery is sure getting crowded. People must be dying to get in.”
“Shout out to all my fingers. I can always count on them.”
“If a toddler refuses to take a nap, are they guilting of resisting a rest?”
“It’s best not to trust atoms. They make up everything.”
(All right, that one wasn’t so bad, and Sasori stored it away in his brain for the unlikely chance he’d ever joke around with another scientist.)oOoOoOo
Seven hours later, when Tsume held up a hand and announced the presence of an unknown team less than twenty kilometers away, Sasori’s mood had steadily evolved from poor to outright homicidal. “Oh, thank the Eternal Sands,” he declared, feeling a bloodthirsty smile split his face in half as his fingertips glowed blue in anticipation of forming chakra threads.
Kagami studied Sasori’s face for a moment, as if he was seriously considering how to take advantage of the homicidal mood. “How many, how far away, and where from?” he asked Tsume.
“They’re definitely locals, four of them, all men between twenty and forty years of age,” Tsume said with a pointed sniff. “They seem to be camped out there. But there’s no odors of seal paper, kunai oil, leftover elementals from using different ninjutsu, or the usual ninja rations or soldier pills. There are metallic odors of weapons and blood, none of which is theirs, so I feel like it’s safe to say they’re either bandits, caravan guards between jobs, or regular travelers who are able to defend themselves.”
Tsume would truly make a magnificent puppet.
Kagami pulled his map out, showing Tsume where they were currently positioned, and had her determine where, approximately, the unknown people were located. (They were, per Kagami’s calculations and map, closer to thirty kilometers away. So Tsume’s brain wasn’t the most accurate when it came to actual math, but Sasori didn’t need her brain as a puppet. Just her nose.) It had taken five days, but Team Chaos-with-an-obnoxious-side-of-Dad-Jokes had finally passed over the mountain peaks, and the rest of their journey would take them through a series of ever-downward valleys and slopes before they finally reached the banks of the mighty Lake Kogen, which separated the border of Waterfall from Fire.

If Team Chaos-Dad Jokes continued their original direction, they would be crossing paths with the four unknown men.
“The odds of them being actual ninja are too low, based on your description,” Kagami concluded as he rolled up his map. “I say we continue as we are, and decide what to do based on how these people react to us. Sasori-kun, for now, no killing, and please tuck your forehead protector somewhere secure. Tsume, please do the same for Ichi and Ni. Since Waterfall is a neutral country and we’re not sanctioned to be here by the Ryusuikage*, I feel that it’s best to be incognito.”
Sasori wasn’t going to pout. He didn’t pout. He was an intelligent, mature jounin. “Why no killing?”
Damn it. That sounded pouty.
Kagami gave him a crooked smile. “Well, that can be Plan B. For now, we’ll engage Plan A.”
“And what’s Plan A?”
Tsume answered with a laugh. “We confuse the ever-loving daylights out of them.”
Wait… had these two been inflicting their Plan A on Sasori this entire time? (Was Plan B to be aimed at him if Plan A was a failure? A chill raced up and down Sasori’s spine at the realization.)oOoOoOo
They traveled a greater distance in less time and with fewer breaks since they trekked through the small valley, following along the banks of meandering stream which had risen only slightly with the early spring melt of the winter’s snowpack and countless glaciers, occasionally fetching Shisui whenever he got distracted with the task of collecting the perfect skipping stone. Without having to carefully balance and navigate steep mountain slopes and dangerous glacial fields, and because Tsume finally figured out how to remove her wrap, breastfeed Hana, change diapers, and rewrap her all while maintaining a brisk walk, they actually started to cover significant distances. The intensity of Tsume’s bleeding had diminished only slightly, and Kagami’s stamina hadn’t improved significantly.
With the air of anticipating potential danger, Kagami avoided any further Dad Jokes, and instead engaged Shisui on his favorite cartoon show, which was apparently about a quintuplet of crime-fighting magical schoolgirls whose rainbow and starlight powers were given by the planets. (Sasori had never seen a TV before, but he had heard about them. They apparently also existed in Wind’s Capital.)
“That sounds similar to chakra, but with far more sparkles,” Kagami told Shisui.
Shisui insisted that the magical schoolgirls were much cooler than ninjas, and yes, it was very sparkly. Also, they had a magical talking cat who was the coolest.
This led to an argument between Shisui and Tsume, with Tsume reminded Shisui that she had a talking dog, that dogs were in the very fabric of Shisui’s being by way of his Inuzuka mother, and therefore dogs are much cooler than cats. Shisui vehemently disagreed with her.
“Are not!”
“Are too!”
“Are not!”
“Are too!”
Tsume then cuddled Hana close and firmly told her five-day-old infant that she wasn’t allowed to think that cats are cooler than dogs, and that their Inuzuka ancestors were surely going to cross over from the Pure Lands to haunt Shisui like a bunch of rabid phantoms and ghosts.
And such was the first impression the four unknown men were given when they stepped out of a thick wall of willows as the sun was setting, and announced themselves by demanding that Team Chaos hand over all their money, food supplies, and valuables.

Between his knees, Sasori felt Juubi tense, and paw at the ground, head lowering in warning.
“Evildoers!” Shisui yelled, pointing at the men, who were armed with a hodgepodge of weapons – a sharpened scythe, a short sword with a chipped blade, a double-headed axe nowhere as impressive as Tsume’s, and a crossbow. “Let’s punish them in the name of the moon!”
Fumiko laughed and flapped her hands, before slapping one over Shisui’s mouth. “We’re not actually with Tsukigakure! He just a fan of crimefighting magical girl TV shows!”
“We have no money and no valuables,” Tsume told the bandits.
“We’re flat broke,” Kagami added, turning out his pockets to show how empty they were.
“Just a bunch of roaming, homeless bums.”
“We’re also very lazy, so capturing and selling us to human traffickers wouldn’t be profitable.”
“And diseased with chlamydia and syphilis,” a gesture to the exposed half-healed blisters on Tsume’s face and bared forearms, which she preferred to allow time to heal, “so prostitution is out.”
Kagami nodded solemnly. “And we’re contagious. Tuberculosis, you know.” He coughed weakly, to totally emphasis the tuberculosis he suffered.
“And leprosy.” Tsume pointed at Sasori. “That’s how Sashimi-kun here lost his legs. They just, you know, randomly rotted off, because that’s what leprosy does.”
Shisui successfully managed to wiggle free of Fumiko’s grip. “And chicken pox!” Shisui shouted, not wanting to be left out.
“And rabies,” added Tsume. “Well, the dogs, at least.” The ninken effectively conveyed how insulted they felt with that. “With lots of bubonic plague-infested fleas.”
“And mad horse disease,” said Kagami, indicating Juubi, who still impatiently pawed at the ground. “It’s like mad cow disease, but for horses.”
Scythe-man leaned towards Chipped Sword-man, and said, “Boss, I think they’re insane.” Which, in Sasori’s opinion, was the ungarnished truth of Team Chaos-Dad Jokes.
Chipped Sword-man glared at them. “They’re just trying to confuse us. Only someone who has something worth hiding would do that. Kill them all and search their bodies!”
Tsume sighed. “Time for Plan B?” she asked Kagami.
He nodded. “It would appear so.” He scooped Shisui up, and patted Sasori’s knee. “Have fun.”
oOoOoOo
As satisfying as it was for Sasori to take his poor mood out on the unsuspecting bandits, they were clumsy, inexperienced fighters who barely knew which end of their weapon was the correct end to hold, and it should’ve been so easy to destroy them in a matter of seconds. However, maintaining his concentration with the chakra threads to control Komushi while trying not to get tossed from the whirling tornado that was a bloodthirsty war horse eager to trample and kick the bandits to death, elevated the difficulty to unreasonable levels.
The running commentary from Team Chaos-Dad Jokes, casually lounging nearby on some boulders and loudly ranking the bandits’ counter-attacks, did nothing to improve the situation.
“Four!” Tsume called out. “Extra points for style to the guy with the scythe!”
“Negative two for the guy with the axe,” declared Fumiko, scathingly. “He tripped over a rock.”
“Seven for the guy with the sword,” said Kagami. “I’m impressed with how he managed to dodge Juubi.” And then he snatched a fired arrow from the air, and stared in surprise as the feathered end of it nearly poked him in the nose. “Wow. Ten to the guy with the crossbow, given that he fired this backwards.”
Fumiko wrinkled her nose. “Are you serious, my love? Minus five because he couldn’t even load the arrow correctly.”
“It was either dumb luck or sheer talent. I can’t decide. Either way, I feel it should be well-rewarded.”
“I know how arrows should be loaded correctly,” said Shisui smugly.

Fumiko affectionately tweaked Shisui’s nose. “We would sell you to the circus if you didn’t.”oOoOoOo“Worst. Bandits. Ever,” announced Tsume once they had finished rifling the pockets of the corpses and ransacked their campsite with the last lingering light of dusk. They had found a total of thirty-eight ryo, half-consumed bottles of cheap rot-gut booze, a large package of dried meat, and some tacky costume jewelry that left Shisui awestruck.
Tsume poured out the booze, pinching her nostrils shut and apologizing to the willows for possibly poisoning them. Kagami pocketed the ryo. Fumiko snagged the meat, declaring that it would make the perfect snack for tomorrow. The ninken whined and did their best impression of starving orphans, which was studiously ignored.
Shisui dressed himself in the gaudy, purple-beaded necklace with a mirror as a pendant, the fourteen bangles, and the rhinestone tiara. “I’m as pretty as the Moon Princess Serenity!” He strutted happily.
“Yes, you are,” Fumiko declared, straightening the tiara. “You are the prettiest Moon Princess that ever Princessed a Moon.”
With it being time to set up camp and rest for the night, Tsume buried the bodies deep with a douton jutsu (Kagami made her practice the hand seals three times before he permitted her to use it), and they used the bandits’ filthy tents, crusted with mysterious fluids (although Sasori would eat his own puppet if Tsume didn’t know what the fluids were) as fuel for a fire.
When Sasori was relaxing with a lovely mug of jasmine-and-chamomile tea, Shisui ambushed him by throwing himself into Sasori’s lap, barely escaping an unpleasant shower of hot tea. “Your doll is so cool!”
Sasori gritted his teeth. “Komushi isn’t a doll.”
“Your doll was like pow, and then it was like fwoosh, and then it was like twang when it chewed on that crossbow! Can I have one?”
“I think your grandparents might be concerned if I give you a crossbow.”
“No! A doll, just like you.” Shisui’s eyes watered up. “Pencil-dick said I was too old for dolls, because he’s an old fuddy-duddy. Why do you get to play with them and I don’t?”
(“Shisui! Don’t call Mikoto’s husband that! Tsume, stop calling Fugaku Pencil-Dick where Shisui can overhear you!”
“No, no, it’s all right, my dear. Shisui may call Fugaku anything he likes.”
“You may hate our son-in-law, Kagami, but it’s still not acceptable for Shisui to use that language. I will use a bar of soup on Shisui and Tsume the next time it happens.”
“Hate is such a harsh word. I don’t hate Fugaku. I just don’t think he’s worthy of our baby girl.”
“You don’t think anyone is worthing of our baby girl.”)
“Komushi isn’t a doll. He’s a puppet.” His friend. A friend who had never betrayed Sasori in life, and never would in death. “A weapon for long-range fighting that hides blades and poison.”
“Ooooooh.” Shisui, still in Sasori’s lap, reached over and poked Komushi in the chest. Then he poked a few more times. “Is he alive? He looks alive.”
“He used to be.”
“Did you know him?”
Sasori didn’t look at the adults, though he felt the weight of their attention after Tsume sheepishly agreed not to insult Uchiha Fugaku where Shisui could overhear it. “I did. He was my friend, but he died.”
“How did he die?”
How?
How indeed.
Sasori’s face felt wooden as a smile stretched across his face, thin and tight like it had been carved by a sharp blade. “I killed him.”oOoOoOo
Chiyo’s face was cold and distant when she told Sasori, over dinner and without any preamble, that Komushi had been killed.
“What?” Sasori had literally spoke to Komushi this morning, both enjoying a shared cup of coffee as Sasori had regaled Komushi with plans to add an additional chamber to his prosthetic to store a chakra-powered blowgun with poisoned darts. “When? How?” Komushi didn’t have any missions and wasn’t expected to be assigned anything until he could successfully master taijutsu with his new prosthetic.

“You don’t need to know that.” Chiyo raised her chin stubbornly, her eyes watery. “He’s dead, and there’s nothing that can be done for it.”
Sasori stared wordlessly at Chiyo, and then looked at Ebizo, who hid his guilty-looking face behind the scroll he was studying, and then back to Chiyo. Sasori slammed his hands against the table. The clay dinner dishes rattled from the force. “What did you do, you deceitful old bag?”
Chiyo sipped her coffee, eyes sliding away. “I didn’t do anything.”
Yeah, he’d believe that like he believed her telling him that the sky was blue and that Shinigami peppers would burn a hole through his stomach if he ate more than one. “You never liked him. You always said he was holding me back. You killed him, didn’t you?”
“I told you, I didn’t do anything. It was an accident, and no one’s fault but his own for being a reckless fool. And that’s all you need to know.”
“Of course it’s all I need to know.” Bitterness clawed at his throat. “Just like I didn’t need to know that my parents had been fucking dead for six years!”
Chiyo’s face colored in anger. “That’s enough out of you, you ungrateful brat. Get out of here.”
Sasori stood up with such force that the chair he was seated on toppled over backwards, hitting the floor with a loud crash. He smashed the chair with a single kick as he stormed to his workroom, slamming the door closed with enough force to make the distant kitchen windows rattle. He sat on his workshop bench, ignoring how the blowdart gun jabbed him in the hip, and yanked at his hair.
Lying, deceitful bitch!
He wanted to gouge out Chiyo’s eyes with a dull spoon and pour acid into her skull. He wanted to rip out her tongue and then force-feed it to her. He wanted to tear out her entrails through her anus and then throttle her with them.
He wanted…
He wanted…

He wanted the smile that lit up Komushi’s face, the brash laughter that vibrated Komushi’s throat and chest, the wonder in Komushi’s poison frog-green eyes when he listened to Sasori’s ideas and experiments, and the casual ease of Komushi’s arms across his shoulders whenever he eagerly leaned closer for a better look at whatever Sasori was working on.
Heart thundering in his chest, Sasori just wanted his friend, the one reason he returned to Suna, time and time again. Because someone had to protect Komushi. Someone had to… someone…
Restless, Sasori picked up the blowgun, and then dropped it. His fingers trailed over the carved, wooden prosthetic arm that he had already created in anticipation of Komushi outgrowing his current prosthesis. He touched the paint pots, so carefully blended so that the prosthetic would seamlessly blend with Komushi’s skin.
“I didn’t even get to say goodbye,” he told the paints, his voice echoing with the old pain of a five-year-old boy who had awoken in the morning to the news that his parents had left for war, having been called out in the middle of the night as last-minute additions to the Suna Puppeteer Fourth Brigade.
He didn’t get to say goodbye to his parents.
He didn’t get to say goodbye to his only friend. (Dead. Impossible! He had just seen Komushi six hours ago!)
Or… or could he?
Sasori stared at the wall without seeing it. Suna didn’t bury bodies – with prey being sparse amongst the desert dunes, predators dug up and feasted on corpses. In the tradition of their nomadic kin, bodies were burned at the first dawn after their passing – a holdover from ancient times where the belief that bodies burned with the lowering sun or at night trapped the souls on earth, where they roamed with growing anger and hatred that eventually turned into deadly sandstorms. Bodies had to be burnt at dawn, to release their souls to the rising sun that would catch and pull the souls heavenward. And since he had seen Komushi today, in late morning…
Sasori said nothing to his grandmother or his uncle as he exited the house, and headed for the north side of the village.
Suna’s underground aquifer was on the south side of the village, the entrance carefully camouflaged and guarded, and the aquifer itself hidden within a labyrinth to prevent external forces from sabotaging Suna’s water. Bodies that needed to be stored for the dawn burnings were kept in underground crypts on the opposite end of Suna, where cold air decelerated decomposition, wrapped tightly in oiled and perfumed funeral shrouds, too far away to possibly contaminate the aquifer.

With it being just after dusk, there was enough light for Sasori to see and avoid other people. The only portion of the crypts that were guarded was the deepest depths where Shukaku’s tea kettle was locked up tight, his corrosive, miasmatic rage still unceasing and far more vicious than prior to Bunpuku’s quiet passing two years ago. Sasori was unseen when he descended the steps deep underground, and then swung right, through the first doorway, to where bodies were stored. Even here, at the opposite end of the crypts, Sasori felt the burning miasma of corrosive demonic chakra. It did not help his mood.
Without a burning oil lamp to light the room, Sasori released five chakra threads from his left hand, and wove them into a gleaming circle. The light was faint, casting eerie shadows over the seven raised slabs of dark gray stone, and the single body that lay upon the center slab.
Sasori stood still as he studied it. The wrapped body wasn’t stretched out straight, but was instead unusually curled. Sasori rarely attended funeral burnings, but this didn’t seem right.
He took two steps forward, and then stopped.
No, he was certain that when bodies were wrapped in their funeral shrouds, the bodies were laid out straight.
Feeling a chill that had nothing to do with the cold temperature, Sasori forced himself to approach the shrouded corpse. It felt like someone else’s hand reached out and carefully loosened the folds of the shroud, peeling back oily layer after layer of undyed linen, before the face was finally revealed. Sasori’s hand dropped to his side, loose and distant.
He didn’t recognize the face.
The skin tone, never to be lost within Sasori’s eidetic memory, that he had painstakingly recreated with colors so difficult to procure in the middle of their isolated desert… that was the correct skin tone, but he had never seen it so lackluster and pale with such a sickly gray pallor.
The hair, which Komushi used to lament for being so plain and so boring when compared to the rich crimson of Sasori’s, the silky soft hair that Sasori had thought was the same soft shade of brown as the legs of the rare kaze oryx… that was the correct hair color, but it wasn’t supposed to be so loose, falling out when Sasori had pushed back the shroud’s layers.
The eyes, so green, the same vivid, bright green of the poison dart frogs that Sasori and Komushi had spent last spring collecting… those were the correct eyes.
But the pupils were constricted to pinholes, so bloodshot from countless petechiae that the white sclera wasn’t visible, and the eyelids frozen wide in agony. (Sasori’s brain chanted wrong wrong wrong.)
The mouth, which had laughed, praised, complimented, challenged, coaxed, and encouraged, was twisted and grim, lips bitten into bloodless slabs of raw meat and coated with a dried film of bloody froth.
Sasori’s legs collapsed beneath himself, and he dropped his head forward. His forehead rested against Komushi’s. His eyes stung. Beneath the heady scents of myrrh and cinnamon were the distinct odors of batrachotoxin and hanatoxin, layered faintly with atropa belladonna**.
Sasori choked. “What happened?” he whispered.

(“It was accidental, and no one’s fault but his own for being a reckless fool.”)

“What happened?” Sasori asked again, his voice echoing through the crypt.
Komushi’s mouth, open in a silent scream, gave no answer.
He seized Komushi’s shoulders and shook him, screaming. “What did you do?”
Wizened old hands, stronger than the wrinkles and liver spots suggested, pulled him away from his friend. Sasori slapped the hands away and lunged for Komushi, screaming. “What happened? WHY, KOMUSHI?”
Arms tightened around Sasori, pinning his own to his ribcage, and hefted him spinning away in the air. Sasori screamed and kicked the air fruitlessly.
“I’m sorry, Sasori. I’m so sorry.” Chiyo’s voice shook with grief. “It’s not your fault. It’s not.”
Sasori lashed out backwards, heel striking thigh. The arms remained as steady and secure as iron shackles. “IT WAS MY POISON!” He choked and went limp in her grip. “I killed him, Grandmother.”

“You did not kill him! It was an accident; just a stupid, clumsy accident, pricking himself when he was trying to sneak a look at that blowdart gun you were making him.” Chiyo lowered him to the floor and Sasori cried, choking. Snot clogged his sinuses and tears blurred his vision. “Oh, Sasori.” The tight vice of arms shifted into a hug, one arm slipping around his shoulders, the other arm pressing Sasori’s head into her bony shoulder. “I tried to save him,” Chiyo whispered. “I knew how much Komushi meant to you, how much you both cared for each other. I tried to save him, but the poison was too swift, too deadly, and my antidote was given too late.”
Sasori clutched at Chiyo and bawled.
He didn’t remember how Chiyo managed to get him home, too wrapped up on his grief to notice the passage of time or the travel, but by the time the tears stopped flowing, he found himself staring blandly at the clean surface of their lopsided kitchen table. That one table leg had always bothered him with its asymmetrical length. Eyes feeling swollen and gritty, Sasori numbly took stock of Chiyo, single-mindedly grinding coffee beans, and Ebizo, gently stroking the back of Sasori’s hand. Sasori watched Chiyo for a moment, and then turned his eyes to the puppets that she kept propped in the corner of the kitchen, artfully arranged in two seats to look like two real visitors.
His parents.
His mother and his father, whom he had missed so desperately in the years of their absence (dead, dead dead dead like Komushi). Chiyo had taught Sasori puppetry and explained that each Puppeteer Master was required to create at least one of their own to be considered a Master, to build them to withstand enemy attack and time itself, passed down from Puppeteer Master to Puppeteer Apprentice in passing generations. He had chosen to fashion two puppets in the images of his parents as a genin graduation gift to himself, all the while silently assuring himself that, though they were far away, his parents remained close in his heart and his hope.
But no matter how he well fought with his parent-puppets, no matter how skillful he manipulated their limbs, or how many enemies fell to the blades and poisons of his parents, blood saturating the desert sands red, Sasori was aware that it wasn’t enough. The painted glass eyes lacked the warmth of their love. They had no lungs to speak Sasori’s name. Hugging their wooden bodies felt nothing like hugging flesh and bone. Sasori was nine years old when he finally admitted to himself that his work was nothing more than pale imitations of the real things. Soon enough, shortly, eventually, his real parents would return home anyway, just like they kept promising in their letters.
(Chiyo kept the lie alive another two years. She had lied to Sasori about his parents’ eventual return longer than they had been alive and present in his life. Sasori wasn’t sure what hurt more – the realization of his parents’ death, or Grandmother’s lengthy deceit.)
He tried to find the will to stand, to get up and leave, but his legs felt distant, and his body was numb. He dropped his eyes to his hands, to Ebizo’s hands, and mechanically catalogued the differences. Color, length, width, the placement of veins, calluses, scars—
The quiet introspection was interrupted with a pounding on the front door.
“No one’s home!” Chiyo yelled.
BAM BAM BAM BAM
“Go away, we’re not taking company!”
BAM BAM BAM BAM
“Fine, fine, hold your horses.” Chiyo grumbled and muttered under her breath as she twisted the lock, and then turned the doorknob. The door flew open, slamming her between the wall and the door.
“Sasori.” Komushi’s mother was a pale shadow as she staggered into the house. “Sasori. Sasori.” He said nothing as Sakyuu stumbled to a stop at arm’s length. Her body swayed as if drunk and her eyes were glazed over, but there wasn’t any odor of alcohol on her breath or from her pores. “Sasori.” Sakyuu’s chin trembled. “Bring him back. Bring my boy back.”
“I… I didn’t take him anywhere.”
She snarled, “You did! You took him from me! You took my boy!” Ebizo caught Sakyuu’s fist before she could strike Sasori. “Bring him back! Bring Komushi back! Murderer!” She screamed as Ebizo threw her out of the house and locked the door. Sakyuu continued to scream and pound at the door, spitting acidic accusations that raked across Sasori’s aching heart, in between grief-stricken pleas to return my boy, Sasori, bring him home, bring him back. Chiyo ignored the screams and pleas and sobbing, silently brewed the coffee, until local guards finally hauled Sakyuu away for disturbing the peace and harassing the esteemed Suna Elders.
In the silence of Sakyuu’s forced departure, the echoes of her demands rang in Sasori’s ears. Bring him back. Bring him back.
With a sigh, Chiyo set down a cup of fresh coffee in front of Sasori, flavored with cinnamon and a splash of vanilla. “She’s wrong,” she said, before sitting down across from Sasori with her own cup, where a gigantic pad of butter floated on the surface, swiftly melting. “It’s not your fault, Sasori. It was Komushi’s fault, and he paid for the consequence with his life. It was his dying wish that you wouldn’t be blamed. Please.” She hesitated a moment, before briefly touching Sasori’s hand with her own. “Honor that dying wish, my boy.”
Bring him back. Bring him back.
Sasori stared into the coffee, just a little darker than Komushi’s hair. “I understand,” he whispered, although he didn’t know if his words were meant for his grandmother, or for the echo.
(“I will be the wind beneath your wings.”)
Later, after the moon had set and with just a few short hours before dawn, Sasori stole his friend’s body from the crypts, fled an untraceable path thirty kilometers to a hidden cave with a storage scroll stuffed with everything he needed to immortalize Komushi as a puppet, and doomed his best friend’s soul to remain on earth for all of eternity.
A little more than two months after that, the Kazekage sent Sasori, along with a team of other Suna nin, to a distant oasis to fetch desperately-needed medicinal supplies.oOoOoOo“I killed him.”
Shisui studied Sasori’s carved smile with a solemn air and somber eyes that even his ridiculously sparkly rhinestone tiara and gaudy purple necklace couldn’t diminish. Then he turned to Tsume. “Auntie? Is this what a lie smells like?”
Tsume didn’t even look up while she changed Hana. “Yup. Smells awful, doesn’t it?”
“Worse than Hana-chan’s poopy butt, and almost as bad as his legs.”
“Yup. Time for me to sit on him and take care of those stumps. Sasori-kun’s developing complications.”
“I’m already sitting on him.”
Sasori attempted to shove Shisui off his lap, but Shisui clung like the burr of an Isha thistle, unmoving even when Tsume unknotted the ends of Sasori’s trousers and shoved the material back, bunching it above his knees. Her touch was deft but gentle as she unwound the bandages covering his stumps.

She whistled. “This looks gnarly. Does it hurt?”
Sasori stared at the back of Shisui’s head and the stupid tiara that sparkled from the light of their campfire. He hadn’t allowed anyone, not even himself, to change the dressings. Partly because he had convinced himself that they were fine with Tsume’s chakra cauterization, but mostly because he didn’t want to know what they looked like (one was slightly longer than the other, because of course these morons couldn’t be expected to strike equally, the flesh of his stumps a burnt black and red with blackened purplish streaks twirling up his knees and disappearing into the fabric of his shorts like arching bolts of lightning, supplied his oh so helpful eidetic memory).
“It hasn’t stopped hurting.” The pain, actually, had gradually worsened with every passing day. And Sasori, long-experienced in pushing his limits no matter the pain or discomfort, had ignored it.
“Does it itch?”
“My toe does.”
Shisui leaned forward.
Sasori’s gaze followed the tiara. “I don’t see any toes.”
“It’s called a phantom itch,” Kagami explained as he handed Tsume two different first aid kits.
Shisui twisted in Sasori’s lap to stare at his face, dark eyes wide with concern. “You have ghost toes?”
“Itchy ghost toes,” Sasori said blandly. Then he gritted his teeth and fisted his hands as pain shot up through his legs, radiating through his buttocks and pelvis as Tsume ruthlessly ripped the cauterized scabs off his stumps.
“Yup, there’s the pus, all right. I regret not sitting on you two days ago to do this.” She clicked her tongue. “See, this is why Shikake and Tsunade said I’m not allowed to use the Mystic Palm willy-willy on others. I’m not good with burning off bacteria when healing wounds closed. Man, this is going to hurt.” She sighed, and truly sounded regretful as her voice cracked with unshed tears. “In retrospect, I should’ve made you drink that rotgut instead of pouring it out, and then waited until you were good and drunk before I started doing this.”
“Why?” Sasori asked, panting. “It’s not enough that you take my feet, you want to destroy my liver, too?” He squeezed his eyes shut, but still saw strobes of flashing color behind his eyelids as Tsume thoroughly drained and cleaned the tunneling abscesses, wiping away blood, pus, and interstitial fluids.
Sasori felt a small hand brush damp hair from his forehead. “You are very brave,” Shisui told him with the honest sincerity of a three-year-old who truly believed what he was saying. “Almost as brave as Papa.”
“That’s kind of you, Shisui,” said Kagami, “but I think that Sasori-kun is much braver than I am. I would’ve gladly killed my liver instead of enduring this while sober.”

The torture continued as Tsume mixed up a paste of antibiotic ointment and what she claimed was a 40% zinc oxide cream (“Shikake told me that zinc oxide is great for healing wounds, Sasori-kun! And I’m pretty sure he only told me twice, so lucky for you that I managed to remember it!”), and slathered the thick, white goop over the stumps, every exposed nerve ending screaming in agony. Then she covered the wounds with several layers of dressings, and wrapped the stumps tight with a roll of gauze. Finished, she rolled the pants down and knotted the excess length. “You’ll need to elevate those tonight. You may borrow four of my pillows,” she added, rather magnanimously.
Sasori’s body trembled, but he managed to keep himself upright. When he finally opened his eyes, Shisui was staring at him, once again solemn and serious. “Here.” Shisui lifted his tiara off his head, and held it out to Sasori. “You should have this.”
“Why?” Sasori asked.
“Because you are braver than Papa.” Shisui seemed to sense that Sasori felt too weak to accept the tiara, even if he wanted to – which he didn’t. So Shisui instead plopped the tiara on Sasori’s head. “There. I crowned you.”

“Do you have an allergy to penicillin?” Tsume asked.
“No.”
“Oh, good. I’m going to need you to roll over for me, but don’t worry, I can drop your pants for you.” And then she withdrew a small vial of penicillin and a needle that was more appropriate for vaccinating Juubi.
Sasori mustered enough energy to glare at her. “Penicillin is an intramuscular injection that can go just as easily into my arm.”
“You have scrawny arms, and this is a really long needle. What’s your weight?”
Sasori felt a muscle jumping in his jaw, visibly ticking beneath his skin. “How bad is the infection already that a topical antibiotic wouldn’t be adequate?”
Tsume handed Kagami the paper dosing instructions for the penicillin. “You already have some red streaks making their way up your knees, Sasori-kun. I don’t think you’d appreciate me chopping off more of your legs to keep you from going septic. I may be a simpleton, but even I know that below the knee amputations are a lot easier to fit prosthetics to than above the knee amputations.”
“I could tell you what I weighed before you removed my feet, but I’m afraid that number is no longer applicable.”
“No worries!” Fumiko declared with a flourish, handing Hana over to Kagami. “I am the uncontested queen for accurately guessing the piglet’s weights at the carnivals. I got this. Shisui, hop off for a second.” And after Shisui did just that, she slid her arms under Sasori’s armpits, and hefted him in the air. Fumiko frowned in concentration for a moment as Sasori dangled, and then gently set him down. “I’d estimate that Sasori-kun currently weighs forty-seven and a quarter kilograms.”
That was… well, before he lost his feet, Sasori had weighed fifty-five and a half kilos.
“Oooh! Oooh! What about Hana?”
“Three kilograms, on the dot.”
Forty-seven kilos and change for his current weight sounded reasonable. “Congrats. Here’s your prize.” Sasori held the tiara out to Fumiko. She accepted it with solemn grace and dignity, placing it on top of her bun of braids.
“According to this,” Kagami angled the paper instructions towards the firelight, “the penicillin G dose for juveniles is 250 mg per kilogram of weight, to be administered every eight hours for seven to ten days.”
Tsume squinted at the vial and needle barrel. “This says milliliters. How many milligrams are in a milliliter?”
Oh, for the love of Chiki and Tengoku and other mythological creation gods everywhere.
Chakra threads snatched the vial and needle out of Tsume’s hands. “Penicillin G is standardized internationally at one gram per milliliter. With a weight of forty-seven kilos, my dose, rounded up, is twelve milliliters. I will do this, myself.” And after he drew up the correct dose with the chakra threads, Sasori injected himself in his not-at-all-scrawny arm, because he had no intention of baring his buttocks to Team Chaos.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Tsume and Kagami were already awake and consulting the map when Sasori dragged his body out of his and Tsume’s shared tent with Komushi’s body strapped to his back. Shisui was also awake, and was seated on the ground, solemnly and gently holding Hana like she was the world’s most precious treasure, and he was duty-bound to protect her life. Hana cooed and made content little baby sounds, one chubby fist stuffed in her mouth.
“How are you feeling this morning?” Tsume asked as Sasori dragged himself by, heading for the bushes to privately attend to his toiletries.
“My legs don’t hurt as much. And I’ve already given myself a shot of penicillin,” he added. And, surprisingly, they did feel better. They still ached and throbbed, and that itchy big toe continued to haunt him, but the pain had certainly decreased from exposed nerves dipped in acid to absently gnawed on by piranhas. Taking a page out of Kokoro’s book, he snaked chakra threads into the branches overhead, and swung himself through the air, tree to tree, until he reached an area he deemed adequately private, although Ichi trailed behind, an ever-watchful sentry waiting for the first sign of treachery. After Sasori had fertilized a tree with fresh urea nitrogen and excessive vitamins from last night’s nutrient pills, Ichi sniffed the tree, and then added his own stream of urea nitrogen with a lot fewer excessive vitamins.
Sasori was sure that meant something in canine language, but he refused to dwell on it. He swung himself back to the campsite, lured by the promised call of breakfast and tea. Shisui’s eyes were shiny and filled with awe as he stared wordlessly as Sasori, Hana now completely forgotten.
“I don’t think Plan A will work,” Kagami was telling Tsume. “And if they’ve got one of the Swords, they are definitely outside of our league. Kiri Swordsmen are no pushovers. I think we should be able to avoid them if we cut through over the mountain, here.”
Sasori helped himself to a bowl of oatmeal, heavily seasoned with cinnamon and ginger as Shisui gently pressed Hana into Fumiko’s arms.
Tsume shook her head. “The slopes may be too steep. My chakra control is still shoddy with the postpartum hormones and bleeding. We’ll never make it over the top with the speed we need.”
“I checked with the Sharingan. This part of the mountain is scarred from an old avalanche, so the damage should give us an easier pathway to scale.”
“Ah, Plan C: run away. Discretion is the better form of valor and all that.”
Sasori took a bite, and instantly gagged when he realized that someone had snuck raisins into the oatmeal.
And then any further attempt to blatantly eavesdrop on Kagami and Tsume was interrupted with Shisui throwing himself into Sasori’s lap, bangles jangling and necklace skewed with the pendant dangling off a bony shoulder. “Those shiny blue strings are amazing! Teach me, teach me!”
“No.” Sasori deftly flicked the raisins away with his spoon.
“Eat those anyway,” Tsume told Sasori. “Raisins are a great source of iron.”
He glowered at her. She glowered back with the air of someone who was willing and able to pin him down and jam any discarded raisins down his throat. Petulantly, he put a gigantic spoonful of the disgusting concoction in his mouth and swallowed without chewing, forcing back his gag reflux.
After watching him like a hawk through two more swallows, as if trying to decide if he was at risk of choking with such eating habits, Tsume turned back to the map and Kagami with a dismissive sniff.
And Shisui persisted. “Teach me, teach me!”
“No.”
“But you use your strings for your puppet, and they’re so blue and shiny, and if I can do that, then I can have my very own doll, too!”
“No.”
The pestering and one-worded refusals continued until Sasori’s spoon scraped against his bowl. The infernal itch in his mouth and on his tongue that had developed after his fourth swallowed mouthful of oatmeal should’ve served as a distraction of his itchy left big toe, but no – it only seemed to contribute to Sasori’s growing sense of irritation.

Shisui crossed his arms and met Sasori’s glare with a narrow-eyed stare. “Then I’ll learn it myself.”
“I very much doubt that you’d have such a fine chakra control.” And even if Shisui possessed such, it would take him years to manifest and control the chakra threads.
Years in which Sasori intended to thoroughly disappear.
Shisui’s arms were still crossed. With the look of a small child who was used to manipulating his guardians into meeting unreasonable demands, like staying up late or skipping naps or only eating two bites of the yucky fiddlehead fern heads instead of his entire serving, he asked, “And when I do, will you give me a puppet?”

Sasori flicked the end of Shisui’s nose, making sure it stung with a glimmering lash of his chakra thread, “If you manage to manifest and control the chakra threads by the time we reach Konoha, then I will make you your very own puppet. Without poisons,” he added hastily as Kagami gave him a pointed look.
Delighted with this concession, Shisui tumbled off of Sasori’s lap and stared hard at his raised fingertips, the tip of his pink tongue jutting through his lips, and concentrated. He looked like he was struggling with constipation.
Kagami clicked his tongue. “Word of warning, Sasori-kun, it’s never wise to challenge an Uchiha.”
“Yeah,” muttered Tsume. “They’ve got way too much pride to turn down ramen tins brimming with the blood of shared enemies.”
“That only happened once, it was Madara, and your grandmother egged him to drink it the first place,” Kagami said quickly, as if to reassure Sasori that the Uchiha Clan didn’t habitually consume the blood of their enemies, no matter what the current propaganda that Ishigakure suggested.
Which, Sasori considered, between Tsume’s eager suggestion of consuming a recently birthed placenta and Uchiha Madara’s choice beverage poured into an oddly-specified ramen tin, probably meant that Ishi’s propaganda was well-rooted in truth.oOoOoOo
Shisui was so intent on trying to master his self-assigned task that he tripped and fell multiple times, unable to tear his gaze from his fingertips. With a patient sigh, Fumiko dropped him on Ni’s broad back, and handed Shisui ten new leaves that she plucked from a pussy willow. “Do you remember how you would stick these to your forehead?” she asked.
Shisui nodded, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Try sticking one to each fingertip, and concentrate on being able to make all ten stick at the same time.” Then she removed the tiara from her head, and placed it on Shisui’s. “You can do this, my darling little Moon Princess.”
Buoyed by his grandmother’s support, Shisui concentrated on her instructions.
“He’s got this,” Fumiko told Sasori with a challenging wink. “He mastered wall-walking last month.”
“Ah man, I was ten when I figured it out,” Tsume whined.
“And when I master this,” Shisui had already managed to get leaves to stick to his right thumb and index finger, “you’ll teach me to summon?”
“You’re not allowed to summon until you become a genin,” said Tsume. “You have to have your own personal guardian-summon before Aunt Natsumi will let you sign a few others.”
“Yay!”
They traveled swiftly, or as swiftly as Tsume’s still-bleeding, still-recovering pelvis and Kagami’s chronic health condition (cardiac, Sasori had long concluded, as a pulmonary disease would’ve marked him with distinct clubbed fingers) allowed for. In about forty minutes after packing up and leaving, they crossed ten kilometers and stopped in front of the site of an old avalanche that had carved a zigzagging path down the steep mountain slope.
Kagami tilted his head and stared. Tsume blew a raspberry and planted her hands on her hips.
Fumiko tapped her chin in thought. “Well,” she said, sounding more sure of herself than Sasori as he eyed the thick, tangled jungle of sumac that twisted around wrist-thick trunks and the thick patches of sprouting stinging nettle filling in the undergrowth, all taking advantage of the avalanche’s scar, and far too thick for the adults or Juubi to force their way through in a timely fashion, “I’ve got a great fuuton jutsu that will carve a tunnel through all of that for us.”
Kagami and Tsume exchanged looks. “How far away are the Kiri nin?”
“Fifteen kilometers, and getting closer.”
“Plan A is highly unlikely to effectively disarm them.”
Sasori wasn’t sure about that. It was proving to be unnervingly effective at disarming him.
“And Plan B is too risky, given our condition. Sasori struggled with a clumsy, inexperienced band of civilian bandits because he and Juubi haven’t figured out how to synchronize their attacks.”
It wasn’t Sasori’s fault that Juubi thought he was the superior fighter, although the battle had built a more easygoing rapport with the samurai war horse, as if the blasted stallion decided that anyone who would help him shed blood was someone worthy of his respect and time. (For the first time since he initially mounted Juubi, days and kilometers ago, high on a not-distant-enough mountain plateau, Juubi was readily accepting Sasori’s presence, instead of long-suffering through it as a favor to Tsume and to also avoid her awful lectures on behaving. He had even allowed Sasori to rub his flanks, instead of whacking Sasori with his caltrop-studded tail and nipping Sasori’s shoulder in warning.)
Kagami gestured at the tangled jungle in front of them. “Plan C is a bust.”
“What about…” Tsume glared at the jungle, as if it was personally responsible for Plan C being a failure, “what about Plan I?”
What? D, E, F, G, and H not only existed, but weren’t applicable?
Kagami grinned. “Tsume, do you know what my son-in-law said to your aunt the first time she presented Plan I?”
“No. What did Pencil-Dick have to say?” A pebble from Fumiko bounced pointedly off the back of Tsume’s head. “I’m sorry! I forgot, okay?”

After pausing to make sure that Fumiko wasn’t fetching a bar of soap, Kagami continued. “He said, ‘you and what army?’ and Aunt Natsumi was delighted to introduce him to said army.”
“Well, I don’t think we need an entire army. There’s only four Kiri nin. I think one for each will do the trick, although there’s plenty more if we need them.”
Sasori was starting to have a really bad feeling about Plan I. He felt his hands fist tight around Juubi’s reins.
“Very well. Call forth the fiends. That’ll give us time to adjust to their presence.”
Sasori distantly thought, as Tsume nipped the tip of her thumb bloody and summoned forth four flaming shadow-creatures from the depths a hell that his grandmother would comfortably feel right at home in, that he was unlikely to ever get used to the presence of the gouka inugami.
The four creatures that Tsume summoned were half the size of those that she had ruthlessly sicced on Hanzo, flames flaring with every step they took on dry debris, but not melting the ground with their very touch. Kagami watched with a strange mix of wary benevolence.
“Ah, who’s a good puppy?” Tsume crooned, scrubbing one such creature’s ears. Her skin didn’t burn black, but did turn slightly red. “You’re a good puppy! Yes, you are! Yes, you are!” She deftly dodged the creature’s attempt to lick her face. “Now, now, remember, your saliva can still melt the flesh off my face.” Then, with a glance at Sasori’s frozen body, “Take a breath, Sasori-kun. It’s a long way to the ground if you pass out on Juubi’s back. These,” she indicated the gouka inugami, “are just young puppies. The ones I sent after Hanzo were full-grown adults.”
One soul-eating hell-damned puppy, attracted to the scent of Sasori’s growing fear, trotted over to Juubi. Juubi dropped his head and snuffed the creature. The creature wagged its tail in greeting. Juubi whickered softly, and then nodded his mighty head up and down, as if telling this creature that he was willing to bear arms and fight side by side with it. Because of course a bloodthirsty warhorse named for the mythical demonic beast, well on its way to effectively destroying the world before the Sage of the Six Paths had split it into nine other tailed demons just to save the very existence of mankind, would happily get along with a soul-consuming hellspawn.
Having introduced itself to Juubi, the flaming shadow creature eyed Sasori, as if wondering if his soul would make an adequate snack.
“I’VE GOT A STICK!!” Shisui screeched in excitement, the pitch of his young voice reaching a level somewhere between glass-shattering and dog-whistle. Said stick was clenched in his fist, his leaves forgotten. Then he threw it with more force than what would be considered normal for a three-year-old shinobi-in-training.
All four of the soul-eating shadow-creatures eagerly gave chase, the flames of their body burning tunnels through the tangled jungle, Ichi and Ni following with similar eagerness.
“Did you know, Sasori-kun,” said Fumiko, patting his knee for attention, “that almost every one of the cultures I’ve studied on this continent have stories regarding the afterlife, and a hell for those souls that they consider unworthy to enter an afterlife paradise?” She studied after the gouka inugami with a clinical eye, as if she was trying to dissect them in her imagination and see how they ticked.
They were all insane, Sasori thought in a dizzy rush. Each and every one of them.oOoOoOo
When the four Kiri nin happened upon Team Self-preservation?-We-don’t-need-no-stinkin’-self-preservation, the gouka inugami were casually lounging in the shadows of the brush, Kagami was carefully putting out their accidental fires with water bullets and saving his strength, Shisui was back to concentrating on the whole attach-a-leaf-to-a-fingertip (he had worked his way up to three fingers on his right hand and two on his left, the insane little genius), Ichi and Ni were curled up close to the inugami and snoozing, Tsume was breastfeeding Hana, Fumiko was regaling Sasori about the Iron samurai’s concept of hell, which contained seven different circles with each circle containing different punishments for different sorts of sinners, and Sasori… well, Sasori had been silently working through the Five Stages of Grief for his sense of sanity and his slippery grip on reality, bouncing like a rabid rubber ball between Anger and Acceptance.
At the sight of the Kiri nin, he whiplashed into Bargaining. “Take me with you!” he yelled when the first Kiri nin, a giant man with unusually blue skin and an even larger wrapped sword secured to his back, opened his mouth with a possible greeting. Sasori didn’t even care that the man had gills. “Please! They’ve taken me hostage and the torture has been endless!” He didn’t care if Kiri had sabotaged the oases. He should, given that he lost his fucking legs in the hands of Tsume’s teammate because of Kiri. But at this point, he was willing to throw himself at the questionable mercy of whoever was incapable of summoning gouka inugami or rattle off endless Dad Jokes.
The Kiri nin’s eyebrows shot up in surprise as Tsume and Kagami twisted to look at Sasori, the former outraged and the latter greatly amused. “I’m, uh, sorry?”
“No, no, you don’t understand. They first took my feet,” Sasori swung his legs to indicate how very much he lacked feet, “and then, and then they, she dragged me across the country, and I’ve had to watch her give birth while she was telling a ten year old boy to shove his hands up her cervix to measure it, and then they gave me tea and horrible cattail roots, and they treated my wounds and threatened to destroy my liver, and the dad jokes. The dad jokes have sapped my will to live.” Sasori numbly realized he was hyperventilating as the Five Stages of Grief settled firmly on Depressed.
Kagami looked genuinely distressed by this while Tsume grumbled that the booze was a perfectly acceptable treatment for pain in a pinch.
“And, and it hasn’t stopped! The shadows! The shadows. My soul.” He had been stewing in a growing, all-to-real fear, the likes which had rarely gripped him in such a suffocating, crushing press. The Stage of Depressed gave way to a combination of Anger and Acceptance. “They’re going to consume my soul.” Sasori’s voice broke into hysterical cackles as he thought of the flaming shadows leaping upon him, salivating, chewing up his soul and swallowing it like one had with a poor, unsuspecting robin just half an hour ago, chomp chomp chomp. Prolonged exposure to the gouka inugami just casually nosing around had won first place on Sasori’s List of Most Terrifying Things Ever, effectively dethroning the One-Tailed Tanuki Demon, which was currently locked away in a sealed tea kettle over a thousand kilometers away.
One of the Kiri nin, an adolescent boy just barely younger than Sasori, with tan-colored hair and sakura-pink eyes, leaned close to the blue nin. “Sir, I think he’s touched in the head.”
It was a common belief among the islanders of the Country of Water that Kami blessed every soul before sending them to their earthly bodies to be born. The souls were supposed to be asleep, but for those who awoke during the blessing, such souls were so dazzled when beholding the burning light of the Kami that they were struck insane. Water, as backwards as they were as a nation and as a Hidden Village, was unusually liberal and accepting when it came to insanity. It also explained far too much of them, in general. (They must feel unusually blessed by the Kami, compared to other countries.)
“I’m not insane!” Sasori shrieked, just as Komushi’s voice told Sasori exactly how unhinged he sounded right now. “Shut up!” he yelled at his puppet, twisting to face it. Spittle misted Komushi’s face. Konushi remained blank and limp. “You’ve been there every step of the way! You’ve seen exactly what I’ve suffered through!” The gouka inugami and ninken, rousted by his hysteria, rose to standing, stretching languidly and casually mingling with Team What-Is-Self-Preservation. One sat and cocked its flaming, shadowy head to the side to consider Sasori’s soul like a tasty, unsuspecting robin. “I’m perfectly sane!” he pleaded desperately to the Kiri nin, the four of them gingerly backing away. “I’m the only sane one in the bunch! They’re insane! Them and their,” he waved his hand to indicate the entirety of Team What-Is-Self-Preservation, “their ten-tailed demon horse and puppy hellspawn and their need to eat their own placentas and drink the blood of their enemies!”
“Once, Kagami said sternly, holding up his index finger. “That happened once, Sasori-kun. And it’s not something we feel accurately reflects upon us as a clan.”
Tsume shrugged, looking rather sheepish. “It seemed like a good idea at the time. Hormones are a real bitch.”
“Is this Plan A?” Shisui asked Fumiko with a whisper that was loud enough to be a shout.
“Ooooh, I hadn’t thought of that,” Fumiko answered. “Sasori-kun is good!”
“A natural,” Kagami agreed, his voice as dry as the Suna Salt Flats.
The pink-eyed adolescent Kiri nin’s eyebrows crept closer to his hairline, especially at the sight of the gouka inugami. “Ah.” For those in the know of summon contracts, gouka inugami was a summon infamous for being uncontrollable and not worth the hassle of obtaining, given the fact that they had a bad habit of consuming the souls of their summoners. The number of summoners who managed to remain immune to fear were, as far as Sasori could tell, two. Which was two more than he had realized to exist prior to his unfortunate witness to such. “Konoha?”
Kagami smiled and spread his hands wide, his entire body language screaming, You caught us red-handed. “We’re noncombatants.”
The blue Kiri nin scoffed with a challenging grin that revealed every serrated point of his shark-like teeth. “A noncombatant Uchiha? No such thing.”
“On the contrary,” Kagami replied, his voice confident and clear, “there’s plenty of noncombatant Uchiha. My younger brother, for instance, has Down’s Syndrome, and the only weapon he yields with any efficiency is a street broom, with which he wages a never-ending war against windswept leaves and the occasional litter. As you can see, we’re currently only slightly above the level of someone with an extra chromosome.”
As one, the Kiri team eyed Sasori, who had somehow managed to get his babbling and hysterical cackles under control, hands spasming as they gripped Juubi’s reins. Sasori was distantly aware that there was a trail of drool dribbling out of the corner of his mouth. The blue nin answered for the team. “That’s likely true for at least your, uh, hostage. Which is an odd term to use if you truly are noncombatants.”
“Ignore him,” Tsume said with a casual wave of her hand. “He lost his feet by accident, so we’re bringing him along because I promised him a new set of feet. He’s just very stressed, right now.” Then she popped Hana off her breast and pointedly did not tuck her nipple out of sight as she braced Hana against her opposite shoulder and thumped her gently.

“I see. Well, we’re sanctioned to pass on through, so long as we don’t go around picking any fights until after we cross Earth’s border. And since you’re clearly not in the mood to pick a fight with us where we’d be forced to defend ourselves,” the blue Kiri nin didn’t even bother hiding his clear disappointment, “we’ll, uh, just pass on by.”
“Without your hostage,” stressed the adolescent nin, raising his staff as if it was a solid barrier to protect him from any possible contagious insanity. And also to conveniently block the view of Tsume’s uncovered breasts as his face burned bright-red with embarrassment. “You can keep him.”
“Always a rare pleasure to walk away from Kiri nin intact and unharmed,” Kagami said, his face serene as he tilted his head in acknowledgement.
“Safe travels,” Tsume said with a cheerful wave as Hana finally made a burp that sounded far too large for her little body.
“Wait,” Fumiko called, “I’m a historian, and I have been trying for years to do a research paper highlighting the differences between the creation mythologies of Water, Wave, and Whirlpool islanders!” Fumiko scribbled her address on a torn sheet of paper from her notebook. “I’m not allowed to travel to Water, with the War and all, and Whirlpool is in ruins right now – thanks a lot for that, you guys – but if you happen to have any sort of small children’s books on myths and history that you wouldn’t mind parting with, please send them my way!”
Another uncertain exchange of looks. “Uh, sure?” When the Kiri team shuffled past, evidently uncomfortable with this entire interaction, Fumiko rushed forward and jammed her address into the blue nin’s flak jacket pocket.
“Thank you so much!” Her voice darkened in warning. “And if I don’t see anything from you in the next six months, I will come get the books personally.”
Three of the Kiri nin paled at this, but the blue nin threw his head back and laughed, belly shaking in mirth. Then he smiled, highlighting his shark-like teeth. “Sure. My name is Hoshigaki Kisame, just so you know who to look up. Just as long as you leave that redhead behind, though. He’s a little too crazy even for us.”
Still chuckling under his breath, he followed his rapidly retreating comrades with a lot more casual ease. One of the gouka inugami briefly trailed after with a whine, which only served for three of the Kiri nin to immediately shunshin far away. Hoshigaki, with as much reckless disregard for his own self-preservation as any member of Team What-Is-Self-Preservation, paused to scratch the gouka inugami behind the ears, fingertips sizzling and blistering.
Sasori didn’t know if he should be laughing, crying, or feeling grateful that he might’ve actually dodged the fire from his current frying pan with the Kiri nins’ refusal to bring him along.oOoOoOo
Sasori felt wrung out, his mind empty, as Team Chaos continued their journey. Once the Kiri nin were a good distance away, Tsume dismissed the gouki inugami (with, Sasori flinched when he heard such, a promise to picnic and romp through the Forest of Death once they returned to Konoha). He was all too aware of Tsume’s concerned gaze, and how she opened her mouth more than once to say – or ask – something, but each time, Kagami laid his hand on her shoulder and shook his head, mute. Sasori’s mental break clearly distressed Tsume, given how frequently she wrung her hands and looked ready to cry. Fumiko’s forehead was furrowed in thought, and Kagami’s face remained placid and serene, his own thoughts the dark, hidden deep lying quietly beneath still surfaces.
Shisui was quiet, only half-heartedly practicing with his leaves. After twenty kilometers and two long breaks, he finally climbed on top of Juubi, squirming his way in between Sasori and Komushi, and tiny arms wormed their way around Sasori’s waist.
A hug.
Genuine human compassion, lacking any adult manipulation or deceit. A child who sensed someone’s distress and only wanted to show empathy.
Sasori buried his face in his hands and choked on his tears.oOoOoOo
As the sun were setting, sheltered in a glade of towering fir and larch trees that was interspersed with small patches of yew and (tragically non-toxic) hemlocks, having reached an end of the stream’s meandering journey that ended in a white cascade tumbling down a heart-plummeting length (that somehow salmon managed to jump upward, defying gravity and battling the violent eight-hundred meter vertical length of churning waterfall, mindlessly pursuing the call of every instinct to return to their spawning grounds), Kagami separated Sasori from everyone else. He led Juubi, with Sasori still mounted, out of hearing range.
He set a pail of oats down for Juubi to nose through, and tugged Sasori off of the broad back. Sasori was limp, too emotionally exhausted to put up any fight for his dignity (which was gone, it was dead like his sense of sanity), and said nothing as Kagami gently placed him on the ground with Komushi pinned between Sasori’s back and a thick fir tree, its trunk bare for its first ten meters of height before sprouting limbs and needles. Last year’s needles and conifer cone scales lay like a thick, crunchy mat of pointy faded brown and dim orange.
Then Kagami sat on the ground, cross-legged, silent and patient.
Sasori also remained silent, embarrassed with himself. He was a battle-hardened jounin. He was Akasuna no Sasori, the one who ruthlessly painted the desert sands red with the blood of his enemies. He was the youngest Suna nin to become a Puppet Master; the youngest Puppeteer Brigade Captain in the history of Suna. He was the first Puppeteer in known history to successfully turn a corpse into an actual puppet to be used long-term, instead of as a surprise maneuver on a battlefield.
He was…
He was…
He was wounded, footless, stranded over a thousand kilometers away from a home that hadn’t felt like home since his parents’ departure seven years ago. He was adrift in a world where nothing was in its place, and had no place to feel secure. What self-assurance and confidence he had cultivated against the continuous coconut crabs in a bucket was long gone, worn beneath an endless onslaught of people who had no concept of personal boundaries or even operated in the confines of sensible.
It had only been a week since his forced amputation and poisoning. It felt like a lifetime.
Sasori stared at Kagami. He looked at the so-called retired Head of Internal Affairs, at a grown Konoha adult, who represented everything that had gone wrong in Sasori’s life for that entire lifetime of a single week.
The sudden rush of hatred and bitterness flooded through Sasori’s arteries, seeping through tissue and oxygenating cells with venom. It was invigorating. He wanted to tear, rend, melt, burn, and bury himself deep within its toxic strength.
Kagami caught the thrown kunai before it could pierce his black eye, the blade carefully pinned between his index and middle finger. Without smiling, face still and no emotions displayed. There was no placid serenity, no sternness, no frustration, and no suspicion. Just a man who had patiently and relentlessly worked to split open a walnut and found that what lay beneath the spined, tough exterior was exactly what he had expected all along. “I didn’t expect you to crack so soon, or so spectacularly.” The hairs on back of Sasori’s neck rose on end.
Sasori snarled. “Dad jokes? You thought that would break me?” The Kazekage had taught Sasori how to throw kunai with a drilling twist, the more difficult to successfully deflect or block, almost too quick for a well-experienced jounin eye to follow.
Kagami’s wrist flickered, the second drilling kunai caught between his middle and ring fingers, his gold wedding band glinting in the dimming twilight. “I have found that true honesty is in the unguarded moments, when emotions are so high they strip away all shields. Honesty is in the emotional outburst of a toddler, too happy or too upset to think straight. Honesty is in an unbridled, unfiltered passion for history. Honesty is in the fierce protection of a young woman desperate to prove she is nothing like her vicious, abusive great-grandmother, who sees a vulnerable wounded child, and wants nothing more than to give him the safety that she had been denied when she was also twelve years old.

“But you, Sasori-kun? You have been too guarded and too controlled, hiding deep behind the weaknesses you’ve reluctantly had no choice but to embrace.” Then Kagami caught the third kunai between his pinky and ring fingers and jerked his head to his opposite shoulder, the fourth kunai thrown with such force that it buried hilt deep into the wood next to his ear, the hilt quivering. A small trickle of blood dripped from the webbing between his ring finger and pinky, marking a crimson trail snaking around his wrist before disappearing under his sleeve. “And in all the years I’ve worked with and against countless other shinobi, you’ve been the most guarded and most well-controlled. Your strength is truly commendable.”
And then, as if to prove his deft sleight of hand and the dodging twist of his head had everything to do with a lifetime of skill, first fashioned beneath the hands of Senju Tobirama, and then sharpened through a lifetime of partnerships with the likes of Sarutobi Hiruzen, and had nothing to do with the cheat that was his Uchiha kekkai genkai, the Sharingan finally bloomed, glowing within the shadows cast by the overhead trees.
Uchiha Kagami reminded Sasori suddenly of the black jaguar he and Komushi had spotted in the Land of Swamps, lying in wait for them on an overhead branch that they hadn’t noticed for the gods knew how long. Its gaze was patient and hungry, but perfectly willing to wait as long as was necessary, because time and inevitability was on its side.
(Poison dart frog toxin worked really fast on jaguars. Sasori had been impressed.)
“It wasn’t your stupid dad jokes.” A red haze tinted his vision, although Sasori knew it had nothing to do with the red gaze pinning him like a moth to a board. He felt cornered and wounded… He was cornered and wounded. “It was a combination of everything. It was the, the utter nonsense, the reckless disregard, the inappropriate boundaries, the–”
“—the tenderness, so alien to you that it could only be a coercive, manipulative tactic deliberately designed to lure you into a sense of false security, instead of genuine compassion? It was the care, so long withheld from someone fashioned to be a heartless source of destruction, that it surely concealed a weapon that would strike you down when your back was turned? It was the kindness and the companionship, so rare for you that you actually took one of the few persons in your life who gave such unconditionally that you turned them into a puppet so they couldn’t betray you? And a little bit of the gouka inugami, I suppose, the final straw that broke the proverbial camel’s back, defying every expectation and notion of reality you had been so heavily relying upon to ground you amidst the unknown dangers of foreigners surrounding you.”
Sasori trembled. “That’s not…” Komushi had died. He was dead from a single finger prick, on something that Sasori had been excitedly fashioning into a gift. He would’ve killed his own grandmother or the Kazekage before he killed his only friend. (Grandmother had said that Komushi’s dying wish was that Sasori wouldn’t be blamed. Sasori was such a lousy friend that he would so soundly ignore his only friend’s last wish.)
“I know you didn’t kill him, elsewise Tsume and Shisui wouldn’t have said your claim stank of lies.”
“But I did!” He had killed Komushi’s mortal body with his poison, and then may as well have destroyed Komushi’s soul when he escaped with the body before the morning funeral pyre. “It was… it was my poison, however accidental that it happened. He… I… his mother told me to bring him back. Bring him back, she said, so I did.” Sakyuu had screamed, horrified from the desecration and sacrilege when Sasori proudly returned to Suna with Komushi in his arms. And then, come the very next dawn, had thrown herself off the eastern wall of the Suna valley. Sakyuu had plummeted a hundred meters to the unforgiving valley floor below, so she could immediately be burned without Sasori having a chance of stealing her body away like he had her son’s. After that far of a fall, there hadn’t been much left to burn…
Sasori knotted his hands through his hair, tugging until tears of pain came to his eyes, instead of tears of shame. “I would rather have my friend alive, than immortalized as a puppet.” Because Puppet-Komushi didn’t laugh. Puppet-Komushi didn’t hug him. Puppet-Komushi… Puppet-Komushi didn’t feel pain, fear, bitterness, jealousy, doubts, a creeping sense of mortality and growing awareness of the limitations of a body that could be crippled in a matter of moments. Puppet-Komushi wasn’t aware of the crushing press of expectations or demands for more, to be more, to always give more regardless of what it cost in the end, in complete disregard of the inevitable limitations that came with being human.
And Sasori hated Puppet-Komushi as much as he loved him, because Sasori now had to suffer through life by himself. He stared into the blood-red Sharingan eyes as the six tomoe spun lazily, like a leaf caught in a gentle stream current. The next word tore through his throat, almost as if it had been dragged from the depths of his soul. “Why?”
Rather than answering the question, Kagami parried it. “It’s disarming, isn’t it? Many shinobi ascribe to the philosophy that the best defense is a good offense. And they’re not wrong, but they’re used to fighting with weapons, not words and emotions. Few are equipped to fight with emotions, and so inevitably we become our own worst enemy. In Konoha – which is no secret, I’m sure, given that our shinobi rule handbook is so widespread that any spy could easily smug out a copy – we teach our shinobi that emotions are a weakness, and that like any weakness that can be exploited and weaponized against them, shinobi must never show their emotions. Senju Tobirama-sensei, had meant those rules for a shinobi to master their emotions as well as they master their skills or physical weapons.
“However, as my darling Fumiko has pointed out, the origin of a purpose is often lost in time and translation. Two generations later, our shinobi have learned and taught others that emotions are meant to be smothered and buried deep, instead of embraced, understood, and controlled. My weapons, as I’m sure you’ve already ascertained, Sasori-kun, is the mastery over emotions just as my sensei had intended, and the ability to use other’s emotions against them.”
Sasori sneered. “Funny, given how legendarily emotional the Uchiha Clan is, legendary even across internation borders.” Emotional trauma was, per Suna’s intel, how the Uchiha triggered their equally legendary eyes. Trauma wasn’t emotional if emotions didn’t affect the heart so deeply, especially love and loss.
(The remembrance of how painful Chiyo’s deceit had been echoed through his heart, scared deep by her lies.)
“You wouldn’t be the first to think so. But negative emotions are often too painful for most to deal with, shinobi and civilian alike, so most choose to ignore their emotions in the same manner as you ignored your legs despite the growing infection.” Sasori flinched. “It’s easy for one who has mastered his emotions to disarm and manipulate those who have little control over their own, and thus defeat any variety of opponents without exchanging any physical blows. I’ve had thirty years of honing the edges of my weapons and the skills in which I wield them. I can disarm as easily as I can manipulate.” There was still no genjutsu as Kagami stared at Sasori, but the glowing Sharingan picked Sasori apart, seeing more than what the normal human eye could discern. “I can break and remake anyone as easily as the most experienced T & I expert.”
That was… that wasn’t how Internal Affairs handled matters in Suna. They controlled through fear and brutality, the weapons for which the Kazekage kept his ninja in line should they grow too confident or too bitter.
Some part of Sasori wondered why Kagami was being so forthcoming. It was almost like the man was gloating. “So, you’ve been trying to break me this entire time.”
“Have you ever heard of kintsugi? It’s a form of art, where the artist takes broken pottery, painstakingly pieces it all back together, and seals these broken pieces together with gold – a precious metal of greater value than an unbroken pottery vessel. The gold doesn’t disguise the breaks, but instead highlights them. It’s about honoring the identity of that which was broken, and it demonstrates that we can only become resilient, beautiful, and more precious through adversity. So yes, in that manner, I have been trying to break you.”
Kagami languidly leaned back against the tree, casual and loose, unconcerned with the danger of cornering a wounded shinobi. “But there’s more to it than just breaking and remaking. In the hands of an inexperienced artist, you can destroy what you’re trying to repair, render it nothing more than worthless junk. And the human spirit is more fragile than a pottery vessel. As Head of Internal Affairs, I dealt with more than just misbehaving shinobi. I was, and still am, the council representative for a very specific, very powerless, rather vulnerable group who otherwise have no protection from political postering and maneuvering: the orphaned, the clanless, and the civilian-born ninja. You, Sasori-kun, are young. You’re currently quite vulnerable because of your injuries. And you’ve been orphaned more than half your life. All these elements mean you fall perfectly well within my realm of responsibility.”
Sasori snarled again, infuriated that someone would want to shatter him. “I’m a foreign adversary!” The fact that, technically, on paper, Sasori was an ally to Konoha was ignored by both of them, because paper meant little in reality and a generational culture of shared enmity

Kagami grinned, his teeth flashing like an excited predator.
“And that’s what makes you such a unique pottery vessel, the perfect blank canvass. And this is where Tsume comes into our conversation. It’s not a secret withheld from other Villages that she has a brain injury – anyone who has ever interacted with her can see that there are… deficits. She was six years old when someone attacked her in the Nara Forest, which left her comatose for almost two months afterwards. She had to relearn how to walk, how to talk, how to toilet herself, how to dress, all while burdened with the memories of already being independent in all those normal skills. And she never regained all of what she lost: a strong short-term memory, as you’ve no doubt concluded, and the sense of fear. She literally cannot feel fear. I’m not all that confident that she can truly feel rage, either. Hot anger, yes, but a cold, vengeful rage? I’ve never seen such.”
“Many shinobi would consider such a brain injury to be a boon, not a curse,” Sasori said, remembering how paralyzing the fear he felt with Shukaku had been, and how he had forced himself, for months, to face such. He never did conquer that fear, but at least he had taught himself how to push such aside to think and act clearly during battles. Fear, after all, was the number one killer for shinobi. (A loss of regulating or producing emotions was linked to the limbic system, but it couldn’t be entirely damaged, Sasori thought, given that Tsume’s affect wasn’t flat. She was responsive and capable of complex emotions. Within the limbic system was the amygdala – the fight-or-flight stress regulator. The seat of fear.)
“And they would be wrong, Sasori-kun.” Kagami’s expression was both considering and patient, just like Fumiko’s when she had led Sasori through the thought exercise of the purpose of tea. “When a person cannot feel fear, they have no sense of danger. Without a sense of danger, there is little understanding of consequences as they wander deeper and more aimlessly into the void. Furthermore, such an underestimation of their danger means that their chances of survival decrease dramatically. The risk of an early death is only increased exponentially in Tsume’s case, given her poor short-term memory.”
Sasori saw the truth of such. Grandmother always said that while fear was the most common killer in battle, underestimation closely followed in its casualties. That’s why she constantly pushed him to plan contingencies within contingencies. He supposed that a lack of fear meant underestimation constantly dogged at one’s heels. But why… why was Kagami explaining this to him? What hidden purpose lay within outlining a Konoha kunoichi’s flaws to someone who had outright stated he was a foreign adversary?
“Years ago, Tsume told a friend of mine that she wasn’t sure she could feel hate. My friend said that we often hate what we fear, and in someone who cannot feel fear, how can hatred exist? Without fear and hatred, Tsume doesn’t emotionally grasp the concept of enemy. Konoha has to point her at someone and say, that’s an enemy. We must fight them. Obedient and loyal, she does what she’s told, even if she often wonders why.”
The bland truth of Kagami’s words settled like a rock in the pit of Sasori’s belly, cold and hard. Logic and emotions went hand in hand. Even he knew no one couldn’t truly free themselves and live a life solely driven by logic. Emotion was what made human memory so powerful. It was what separated them as a species from animals. Instincts that animals relied upon for survival had evolved into emotions for humans.
“Tsume, thanks to her complete and utter lack of fear, has a rather frightening habit – pun not intended – of collecting misanthropic murder-vipers and adopting them like they’re kittens someone abandoned in a box and left out in the rain. Especially if there isn’t anyone around to stop her. It doesn’t matter if her abandoned kittens are an actual war horse that even the most experienced samurai struggled to control, or a shinobi who, by the time he was a mere ten years old, had developed such a reputation for being so efficient and ruthless, that he was given a moniker for the very sands saturated with the blood of his enemies. She is quite vulnerable because of her unique brain injury. Tsume is as much a danger to herself as others are to her, and so I have sworn to protect her from those dangers in that void she constantly throws herself into.”
Sasori laughed, bitterly, in understanding. Kagami was warning Sasori – Sasori was the danger that Kagami had sworn to protect Tsume from. Ironically, Sasori was just as desperate to claw himself free of Tsume with as much effort as she was throwing herself at him. “There’s nothing but sunshine and puppies and stupid dandelion fluff in her void.”
“On the contrary, Sasori-kun. There are dark things in her void that she doesn’t want anyone to see, deeply buried beneath the dandelion fluff and sunshine. All shinobi, and dare I say almost every human being, civilian or otherwise, bury things in their void that they can’t deal with or don’t want others to know about, even when they have a decent grasp on their emotions. That’s what it means to be human. She’ll never be that perfect, unbroken vessel. In between broken pieces of those dark things – jealousy, abuse, neglect, low self-esteem and even less self-worth – are precious veins of gold. Love, affection, comfort, and a ferocious sense of protection. Tsume… she can’t hate you, Sasori-kun. She can’t fear you. She’ll get angry and upset with you, but she will always come back, unguarded, baring her throat and her wrists to your deadly venom. No matter what you do to drive her away, no matter how far away you retreat, she will find you.
“So, what am I to do about the danger you impose upon her, hmm?”
It all made so much sense now. With his strange, twisted sense of honor and self-appointed role of the weak and vulnerable, Kagami had been patiently leading Sasori to the realization of why he needed to kill Sasori. Well, that was nice. Sasori didn’t think he ever had an opponent so considerate. He stubbornly raised his chin and bravely faced his end. (He ignored how his hands shook.)
“You’d never get away with killing me.” As far as last words went, they weren’t the cleverest or most inspired. Sasori had always expected that his death would either sneak upon him like a backstabbing subordinate or teammate that saw him as nothing more than an untrustworthy obstacle in their way, or in the heat of battle, bloodlust singing through the veins of the one who was finally clever, skilled, or lucky enough to successfully strike him down.
He never imagined that Death would patiently sit with him in the quiet dusk of a far-away mountain glade, serene and still.
And then the stillness broke. An amused smile spread across Kagami’s face, good-natured glee twisting the corners of his mouth. “My dear boy, I have no intention of killing you, even if it would assure Tsume’s safety. I break and I remake.” Then he laughed. It started low, and then burst out of him, light and boisterous like dandelion seeds flung into the air from beneath a camel’s hooves as it charges through a green pasture. Sasori stared in befuddlement. “Tsume’s involvement aside, in light of our treaties with Suna, you are Konoha’s responsibility.” The smile morphed – it was predatory and fierce. “And since you’re young, orphaned, and vulnerable, you are mine to remake!”
What.
Far from giving Sasori’s confusion any serious consideration, its existence only seemed to encourage more mirth and laughter. “Sasori-kun, you have the potential for greatness that I’ve seen in a rare few shinobi. You are easily one of the most intelligent and well-controlled warriors I have ever met – shinobi, samurai, monk – and your potential to become greater still, given your age, is astounding. At twelve years old, you have further to go before you reach your peak. But, as the First Hokage once said, you can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make that horse drink. How you tread through your void, how you walk your path, it will determine the sort of greatness you’ll eventually reach.” And then, in a damning whisper, Kagami added, “You must quell that battle raging in your soul, because if you never find peace within yourself, you cannot achieve peace with others.”

Jagged pieces tried to settle within Sasori’s psyche. The pieces were rough, grinding to fit, and poorly so at that, as he thought of Kagami’s tale of the Two Wolves that Mifune had shared. Kagami had shared it not to take part in the conversation with Fumiko and Sasori, but to plant the seeds of his breaking and remaking.
Kagami had apparently decided that the best course of action to keep Tsume safe from Sasori was to recruit Sasori into helping protect Tsume. Somehow. (Sasori couldn’t even keep himself safe.) “I have to feed both wolves.”

And the amused smile melted into something infinitely more tender, something… paternalistic. A warm, soft look that Sasori’s father must’ve given him, so many years ago. “Yes, Sasori-kun. To thrive, you must first make peace with yourself. You must master your emotions. I intend to give you the tools and the knowledge you need to feed those wolves properly. After all, you’ll be rehabilitating for quite some time in Konoha, and I do have plenty of time to spare in my semi-retirement. I wonder… I wonder what precious veins of gold I can fashion you with?”
And with those final words, the Sharingan faded, and Kagami left Sasori.
Sasori eventually dragged himself back to their campsite once he grew sick of sifting through his own doubts and memories of Komushi, Grandmother, and Suna, feeling stifled, raw, and smothered as the world closed in all around, and just pissed off with how many different metaphors Kagami could cram into the confrontation. (Did just one not suffice? There had been at least three mixed up together like the world’s worst casserole of philosophy and thrown right into Sasori’s face!) Not wanting the tent walls to close in all around him, he decided to sleep outside with his fur-lined poncho around his shoulders and Komushi clutched tight to his chest in an iron shackle-like circle of arms. The night promised to be cold, but he gladly welcomed the numbness that followed at the heels of the cold.
Tsume took one look (and probable sniff) at Sasori laying listlessly next to the fire, viciously jabbed him in his left buttock with his missed dose of penicillin, and then she and Shisui resumed their tree-walking of the towering conifers to gather long strings of what she called horsehair lichen – “the sort that isn’t yellow – no, not yellow, Shisui, smell how bitter the yellow stuff is? That’s the toxic compound that kills carnivorous mammals and insects. Yes, Shisui, I know that humans are technically omnivores. It will still kill us with a lot of diarrhea, a lot of vomiting, a lot of pain, and eventual suffocation. Although it does work in a pinch as an antibiotic, if you crush it into a wet paste and slap it on a wound. You know what? Let’s keep some of the yellow stuff, just in case we run out of antibiotic ointment for Sasori.”
(A small part of Sasori’s brain perked up with excitement over the source of a toxic plant material he had never heard of, but the rest of his brain felt like a wrung-out dish rag.)
After they had gathered an impressive armful of the lichen, Tsume stored away the yellow horsehair to serve as a backup for the antibiotic ointment, and then she showed Shisui how to braid it securely while picking debris from its strands. As she did so, she explained to a fascinated Fumiko, who studiously took notes and pressed to know why like she was researching the ancient habits of those who discovered tea, how horsehair lichen used to be an important winter staple for the Inuzuka clan whenever they roamed northward during the winter. “It makes the absorption of other carbohydrates more efficient, I guess? It’s a lot of work to prep, though. I don’t usually eat this stuff when I’m out in the field,” Tsume explained. “But foraging for edibles to stretch our supplies isn’t easy in early spring this far north, so I’ll be adding rice to it. Rice has lots of carbs.”
Sasori had noticed that when it came to food, Tsume was much more organized with expressing her thoughts. Maybe someone should convince her that giving reports and lectures should be framed like a recipe. (Ingredients: these events and these people who were involved. Directions: how these events and people were brought together. Result: simmer on low with occasional boil overs of battles. Scorching possible. Agitate all ingredients for best results. Taste may vary.)
Continuing to pick out the debris and braid the strands, Tsume went on to explain how it was traditionally prepared, which included being sealed in a fire pit and layers of other edible, wettened vegetation. “But that method takes a couple of days, so we’re going with the short cut tomorrow.”
After Tsume had braided the horsehair lichen, she left it in the stream’s running water, secured in place with a large, algae-free rock. “Just like how you want to leech tannins from acorns before eating them, you also want to leech the bitterness from the lichen. The more yellow it is, the more bitter, which means the more toxic. Always go with the least bitter.”
With the horsehair lichen safely secured, Tsume then fetched every single one of her blankets and pillows to build an open-air fortress of softness and care around Sasori, and then crawled into the center, sandwiching Hana between herself and Sasori. The ninken nestled deep with them, Ichi pressed against Tsume and Sasori’s heads, and Ni settled against Tsume’s back. Shisui, delighted with the idea of a pillow fortress sleepover, successfully talked his guardians into letting him join.
Sasori, having no energy to fight, resigned himself to the sleeping octopus nightmare that was Shisui.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Sasori was in fine fighting form the next morning, because he was Akanasu no Sasori, the one who had painted the desert sands red by the time he was ten years old. He was an adolescent threat to the Third Kazekage, a newly-minted jounin who survived the arsenic sabotage meant to end him. He would therefore would not be brought to heel by an inconsequential brain damaged chuunin.
“EAT THE DAMN RAISINS.” Tsume pinned him in place with her legs and forcefully mashed the aforementioned raisins between Sasori’s gnashing teeth and lips, her fingers bloody from Sasori already viciously biting them. They had rolled dangerously close to the cliff’s edge.
“Oh dear,” said Fumiko from the opposite side of the fire, her own bowl of raisin oatmeal forgotten in her lap. “I’m sure there’s an inspector from some health department somewhere, finding himself inexplicably annoyed with the thought of potential blood-borne pathogens and unsafe food practice.”
“Blood is an excellent source of iron,” Kagami said, his voice and face placid, as if he had long ago become used to such sights and accepted it all with a resigned practicality. “He’ll get the extra iron, one way or another, I imagine. And,” he added, a pointed gaze turning to Shisui, “you will suffer the same experience the next time you refuse to eat all of your dinner.”
Shisui hastily consumed his oatmeal, almost choking since he barely bothered chewing, as if this would make up for last night’s refusal to eat another round of sautéed fiddlehead ferns.oOoOoOo
Neither Tsume nor Sasori were in a much better mood after breakfast had been concluded (Sasori’s had actually darkened further with the worsening itch in his mouth and tongue, his gums feeling raw and a bit blistery), for whatever value the concluding of breakfast could be. Tsume roasted the horsehair lichen over this morning’s breakfast fire until it was dry and crumbly. Then, with a handful of ash from last night’s fire that she had to grab from this morning’s fire because she forgot to do so before lighting it earlier, stuffed it in the same (now clean) pot that had been used for oatmeal, and then topped it off with water. She asked Sasori to let her know when fifteen minutes had passed once the water reached its boiling point, quietly nursing Hana while she waited.
Since this bizarre concoction was intended to be a part of his dinner, and therefore he had personal skin in the game, Sasori was honest when the actual fifteen minutes passed. Tsume drained the water out of the pot, using a relatively clean stick to keep the horsehair lichen secure in the pot. Then she added more water to the pot, a bunch of fresh conifer needles (“For the vitamin C,” she told Fumiko) and placed it back on the fire.
Tsume gave Sasori stern orders to keep the fire lit and to not let the water boil off completely. With breakfast in their bellies and dinner well on its way to being edible, Tsume and her ninken, and Kagami with Fumiko, parted ways to explore the crumbling cliffs for a path to the valley below suitably large and sturdy enough for a massive war horse to traverse. Shisui was left with Sasori, which Shisui had begged his grandparents to grant.
Juubi was left to languidly explore their surroundings, cheerfully munching on budding grass, reeds, and leaves on the few deciduous trees that stubbornly insisted on thriving despite the acidic effect that the dropped conifer needles would have on the soil.
Sasori sat with his back pressed against another fir tree, no less short than the one he had sat beneath yesterday evening, carefully cleaning and dressing his stumps. Shisui was helpful, carefully picking through the first aid kit and handing Sasori exactly everything needed, from the saline wound wash to irrigate the tunneling pockets that the abscesses had created, to the zinc oxide cream (which was, Sasori realized sourly, diaper paste) and antibiotic ointment, to the gauze pads and wrappings. Shisui had even hugged Sasori’s arm and encouraged him to be brave, be braver than Papa, as Sasori wanted to cry when he had to rip away the bloody gauze, which stuck stubbornly to the raw, inflamed flesh of his stump wounds despite yesterday’s diaper cream-antibiotic ointment goop.
Sasori couldn’t honestly say if he liked or hated little children (he despised his fellow Academy students), having known so few in his lifetime, and had never before spent a significant amount of time with such young company. (Sasori remembered when his mother had been pregnant – he had been four years old. She lost the fetus somewhere in her second trimester, and had taken leave to recovery, with his father taking leave at the same time to assist. They had spent a glorious and solid three months together, and Sasori, with all the selfishness of a self-absorbed four-year-old, had been pleased for the loss of his would-be little sister. Sasori… Sasori could honestly say that it was probably best that he had ultimately been an only child.)
Once Sasori’s shaking and pain had subsided from the wound dressings – the itch in his mouth was worse, competed with his phantom big left toe, and he was pretty sure his gums were swelling – he administered his due dose of penicillin, and then patiently allowed Shisui to explore Komushi.
Were he anyone else, even if that someone else was his old self who had never been dragged kicking and screaming into the chaotic, brain-damaged whirlpool that was Inuzuka Tsume, he would’ve taken advantage of being alone with Shishui. He would’ve plied this guileless three-year-old with honeyed, deceitful words meant to coax forth secrets surely spilled by adults who always failed to realize that children, often seen but unheard, were sponges that soaked up valuable intel.
But after all that Sasori had suffered through, after all that Shisui had done with his pleading encouragement and his gentle hands, Sasori couldn’t find it within himself to expose Shisui to such an insidious toxin, the way his grandmother had exposed him through years of such with her fake letters.
Not with this child, whose grandmother’s mind was so insistent upon studying and documenting the invisible, intangible force of the human spirit – the one thing that had set mankind apart from all other lifeforms that successfully clawed their way out of the primordial soup, gazed upon an antagonistic world filled with hostile geography, indifferent pathogens, and creatures vying for their place at the top of the food chain, and said You know what? I can take it. With a scientist’s mind, Fumiko studied how the human spirit built languages, tradition, culture, history, science and music, and loved how they immersed their fleeting existence in the mystical and the mundane.

This child, whose grandfather peeled layers and layers back to delve deep into the human psyche to both attract and repel, who controlled and relinquished unpredictably, who ruthlessly broke perfectly fine pottery just to piece them back together with veins of gold.
This child, who, just last night, had independently stuck leaves to ten different fingertips; who was so surrounded by the unnatural and the unusual that he accepted it with the ease of one who felt it simply normal.
This child, who had never once approached Shisui with disguised guile or malice, was like a soothing balm to Sasori’s soul.
(It was too dangerous anyway, Sasori justified to himself, knowing that the Kazekage would demand to know why Sasori hadn’t pressed his advantage to manipulate and extract information. People like Fumiko and Kagami would instantly recognize what Sasori was attempting to do while their backs were turned.
Komushi, in turn, reminded Sasori that Shisui’s soul was like a fine piece of art, like the landscape of the painted deserts in the Suika Valley or the lyrical warble of a Swamp whippoorwill, something that should be appreciated for the value it held just for its rare beauty, and not something to be dissected and understood, parceling into pieces just to further Sasori’s skills and knowledge.)
Shisui was the gentle setting sun and rising moon that provided a badly-needed respite from the desert heat. He was the quench of fresh oasis water, the first fresh moisture after three days of travel across hostile sand dunes with lukewarm, stale water. He was the flood of energy at the end of a long, grueling training found in six cups of rich coffee. He was the bold multicolored striations of the painted deserts.
Shisui was… he was… he was utter bullshit, Sasori decided resentfully, as Shisui managed to somehow dismantle the lock in Komushi’s chest cavity on his first attempt, where poisonous darts and gas canisters were typically stored. Sasori had designed that lock to frustrate even his grandmother.
“Cool!” Shisui’s voice echoed as he stuck his head inside the cavity, blindly pawing around.
Sasori tried to tell himself that numbers were infinite, so the chance – however infinitesimally small the odds could be – that a toddler could successfully defeat Sasori’s locking mechanism, no doubt left tampered by his ham-fisted aunt, was entirely reasonable.
He… he found no comfort in such a thought.
What did make him feel better, though, was Shisui’s unfettered enthusiasm and delight with Komushi, untainted by an adult sense of morbidity or horror with the realization that this was an actual corpse. Shisui accepted Komushi’s existence with face value and the precious, fragile innocence of a small child who sincerely trusted his companions.
(Sasori had once been that guileless. His earliest memories, formed and cemented before he was even two years old, were veiled in innocence until his parents’ final and abrupt, middle-of-the-night, departure.)

“Chakra threads don’t just attach to the surface” Sasori explained with a flourishing demonstration after feeding the campfire and topping off the water in the simmering pot of horsehair lichen. Glowing strings imbedded in Komushi’s body lit up like blue streaks of lightning within the torso’s cavern. “You must thread them through the entire structure, just as your chakra spreads through your body’s pathways, to manipulate the puppet in its entirety.” And because of the chakra pathways Sasori had so carefully preserved in Komushi’s body, the fluidity in which he manipulated and fought with his friend was unparalleled and effortless compared to hand-made puppets, though there had been only a few opportunities to do so. Not for the first time, Sasori wondered why it was just fine to use fresh corpses on the battlefield as impromptu puppets, but the permanent making of such was an unspoken prohibition in Suna.
Sasori used the chakra threads on his other hand to fetch his sealed Kuroari from the ninken packs that Tsume had left behind in order to demonstrate the differences between a corpse-turned-puppet and an actual puppet, constructed from wood. While Komushi had been created with only destruction and death in mind, Kuroari had been created for capture and containment four years previously, a personal gift to himself for surviving his original genin team and jounin sensei. The insides of the rare ironwood had been carved with the same containment fuuinjutsu seals that Sasori had painstakingly copied from Shukaku’s tea kettle. And he did so with a steady hand while his head ached with the ear-bleeding roars, vision blurred in stubbornly unshed tears as the tea kettle vibrated and shook, sweat dripped down his brow, demonic chakra burned without somehow harming Sasori’s physical body, and his soul trembled from the deadly killing intent that even the glowing seals couldn’t hold back entirely.
In the midst of the raging storm, sat a single oasis of peace and contentment that couldn’t be worn down by that leaking corrosive chakra – an elderly priest who had introduced himself to eight-year-old Sasori as Bunpuku, whose lifeforce was inexplicably linked with the tea kettle, or Shukaku’s, or both. Sasori couldn’t quite understand the process when Bunpuku explained the fuuinjutsu seals.
(“Shukaku’s actually in a good mood,” Bunpuku insisted as he flattened the few, wispy stray white hairs that always seemed to float away from his skull, as if trying to journey forth to find their lost brethren. His lined face was bright with a friendly cheer. “We get so few visitors these days, and even then, none as polite as you.”
If this was what constituted as a good mood from what other villagers claimed to be was a corrupted spirit of a long-deceased priest whose body hadn’t been burned at dawn decades prior, and whom Bunpuku had casually explained one day to Sasori was actually the fucking one-tailed tanuki demon, Sasori was terrified of what would qualify as a bad mood.
But Shukaku’s good mood wasn’t enough to stop Sasori from making weekly trips whenever he was in Suna, forcing himself to face that gut-clenching terror, to inoculate his soul the same way Grandmother inoculated him through poisons and toxins frequently snuck into his food and drink. Knowing that fear was a common cause of death on the battlefield, Sasori brought along his rosewood sentan board, one set of player pieces carved from ebony wood, and the other set carved from the cream-colored endosperm of the ivory nut palm.
Sentan, unlike shogi, relied on a mix of luck and skill, and Grandmother had once told Sasori that luck didn’t always favor the bold when it came to surviving shinobi battles, because the gods were capricious, sadistic bastards who frequently favored morons.

Sasori regularly forced himself to visit Bunpuku and play an ancient game whose hieroglyphics was the last daily used fragments of Wind’s long-dead language, lost to the annals of time and the steady march of international progress. He forced himself to learn how to think and strategize through a choking, toxic cloud of demonic chakra and killing intent. And while they played, Bunpuku was delighted to tell Sasori about the nine different tailed demons, their origins in the destructive Juubi whose power had dwarfed each and every one of the other tailed beasts, and their father, the Sage of Six Paths. It was terrifying to realize that there were eight more chakra demons present in the world. After a while, Shukaku’s roaring settled down during Sasori’s visits, especially when appeased by the occasional sake that Bunpuku would cheerfully pour into the tea kettle.
The weekly visits ceased after Bunpuku, a quiet, genteel soul who had welcomed Sasori’s visits with much-anticipated eagerness, passed away when the light cough that stole upon him in autumn turned into desperate gasps for air and a deep, wet, gurgling cough by spring that boldly defied any treatments. After Bunpuku’s death, Sasori learned exactly what constituted as a bad mood for Shukaku, and he never returned to that guarded cell in the last two years.)
(The last time he played sentan had been with Komushi, his friend only permitted to use his prosthetic to maneuver the game pieces and to throw the four four-sided sticks. Komushi had been determined to master both game and prosthetic.)
(Grandmother’s distant observation on how the gods were capricious, sadistic bastards who frequently favored morons explained Inuzuka Tsume so much.)
Shisui’s exploration of Kuroari and Sasori’s meandering thoughts and memories was interrupted with Kagami and Fumiko’s return. Fumiko nodded absently in passing as she went directly to Juubi, hands held wide apart as she eyeballed Juubi’s width.
“Have a good time?” Kagami asked as he tiredly reclined next to Sasori. And then he froze, eyes wide, and stared.
Sasori looked over at Shisui, not seeing anything particularly alarming with how Shisui had climbed atop of Kuroari’s shoulders to explore the sharp horns, the three eyes, and the serrated teeth.
Okay, maybe the serrated teeth, but it couldn’t be any worse than Tsume handing Shisui a sharp kunai during yesterday’s portion of their journey and telling the toddler to go run and have fun, kiddo; just make sure you don’t trip.
When he turned back to Kagami, Sasori realized that it wasn’t Shisui that Kagami was staring at. He fought down the sudden flash of raging irritation. “Is there something on my face?” he bit.
Kagami nodded once, the movement of his head jerky. “Yes.” Sasori’s hands instantly flew to his face, exploring raised bumps and patches of skin. His face suddenly felt itchier than his left big toe or his mouth. “You have hives. Shisui, hand me the first aid kit. I saw a small pack of antihistamine pills in it the night before last. It’s white with dark pink lettering.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?” Sasori asked Shisui.
Shisui shrugged. “I thought you had chicken pox. But I’m okay, I had them last fall.”oOoOoOoWhile they waited to see if the 150mg of diphenhydramine would improve the itching in Sasori’s body and slow the spread of hives that started on his face and chest, Sasori silently reviewed everything he had been exposed to for the last twenty-four hours and mentally kicked himself for ignoring all the signals his body had sent him that something was abnormal (nothing had felt normal since he ingested a lethal dose of arsenic). Shisui excitedly described his exploration of Sasori’s puppets to Kagami, who didn’t look at all concerned with such exploration.
Sasori eventually concluded that he was most likely allergic to fucking raisings, of all things. Grapes never bothered him, and he avoided raisins because of how they triggered his gag reflex. The gag reflex was most likely his body’s way of preventing consumption of something it knew was lethally dangerous.
Kagami asked Sasori if he was sure it wasn’t the penicillin he was reacting to instead, given the timing of his hives and the injections recently being started.
“I didn’t have any reaction to the penicillin, but the itching gums started yesterday morning the first time I consumed raisins in the oatmeal. I don’t think it’s the penicillin.”
Kagami looked uncertain. “Raisins seems like a rather bizarre thing to be allergic to.”
Sasori shrugged. “I once knew someone with solar urticaria. She was literally allergic to the sun. She moved away from Suna to the Country of Rain just so she could wander outside during the day.” Raisins, for whatever reason, just felt trivially insulting in comparison to that civilian rugmaker who had stumped Chiyo’s medical expertise.
Shisui interrupted Sasori’s resentment towards Tsume when he declared, “I know what kind of puppet I want Sasori to make me!”
“If you can master the chakra threads by the time we get to Konoha,” Sasori quickly added, absolutely refusing to leave an opening for Shisui to exploit should he learn how to use the chakra strings during Sasori’s convalescence in Konoha.

Refusing to let the Sharp Needle of Reality pop his Bubble of Delusion, Shisui forged on. “I want a dragonfly!” he declared, arms flailing wide to showcase how large it was in his mind’s eye. Apparently, it was supposed to be the size of a horse. “And it’s going to breathe real fire like a real katon dragon!”

“Can puppets fly?” Kagami asked Sasori with genuine curiosity.
“Only has high as the length of user’s chakra threads,” Sasori replied, recalling how vicious Kondoru had been with Komushi’s deft control. Komushi lost his arm, sliced off by an Ishi nin during border patrol, and his puppet, which shattered into thousands of pieces when it blocked a doutun spear aimed at Sasori with a lethal precision.
“Well, then we all better hope Tsume finds an actual path down the cliffs,” Kagami said, leaning back and twisting to stretch his back, spine popping in a way that made Sasori’s own spine ache to hear such. “We won’t be able to reasonably create a pulley-and-lever system to assist Juubi across the gaps and steep interfaces in the area Fumiko and I checked, elsewise we’ll have to backtrack for two days, which will only add extra time to Shisui’s deadline.”
Even with an additional week of journeying added to their original trip to get around the ridge blocking them from the valley with Lake Kogen, Sasori felt confident that Shisui would fail. After all, Sasori had taken nearly three months to manifest and control his chakra threads at the age of six, and that had been aided by the patient, experienced tutelage of his Puppet Master grandmother. (His teeth itched the thought of further delays, in a way that was entirely unrelated to his allergic reaction. Patience was a personal flaw and failing that Sasori struggled with, although he had long learned how to hide it better after multiple letters from his parents – his grandmother – castigated him for his impatience of their undecided return.)
It was mid-morning by the time Tsume, Hana, and the ninken returned, pale and shaking and her tunic stained with leaking blood from her pad, since she forgot to bring along some clean changes. Sasori’s hives had stopped worsening, and the itch had improved, but only in his mouth; phantom toes apparently were unaffected by enough diphenhydramine to tranquilize a small camel.
Tsume stared at Sasori’s tired face in shock. “Good grief, what happened to you? It’s way too early in the season for poison ivy.”
“You happened to me. You and your stupid raisins.”
“Oh.” Tsume shrunk down into herself, with dawning horrified realization. Her voice was small and apologetic. “I had thought the odor had been from your adrenaline and mood and, you know, some hay fever from spring pollens. Not an allergic reaction. I’m so sorry, Sasori-kun.”
“Tsume, you’ll just have to find a different dietary source rich in iron,” said Kagami. “Since you recognize it for what it is now, does it smell like his histamine levels are lowering?”
Tsume nodded slowly. “Yes. Although I couldn’t tell you if it’s temporary from the medication or not.”
“I’m sure you’ll immediately alert Sasori should his histamine levels rise out of control, once again. Anyway, our way was a bust, so I hope you were more successful.”
“I think I found a way. There’s a trail over there,” she indicated the area she had descended to investigate, “that’s worn down from packs of mountain goats using it to scale the cliffs from the valley below. Some of the ledges are really thin, but I think with some practice… a lot of practice… I can use my douton jutsu to make connecting platforms to widen and strengthen the path so Juubi can fit.”
“How many places in the trail will you need to use it on? One? Two? Five?” Tsume’s face fell further with each number Kagami rattled off. The bold, outgoing, extroverted woman that had mindlessly caused so much chaos in Sasori’s life was shrinking. It was not only terribly fascinating to watch, but also viscerally satisfying to see Tsume, who was so proud and confident in her olfaction, knocked senseless when the proverbial rug was yanked out from beneath her feet. The jaundiced predator lurking inside of Sasori was eager to pounce on the first true weakness he had seen displayed.
A cutting glance from Kagami’s eyes – tinted a glimmering red, as if the Sharingan was halfway through activating – immediately brought to mind last night’s confrontation, and how willing Kagami was to defend Tsume from dangers and peril.
Sasori’s internal predator drew back in wariness.
Kagami spoke to Tsume as he hadn’t derailed Sasori with just a warning flick of his eyes, “Twenty?”
“Uh.” Tsume squirmed. “Well, I didn’t make it all the way to the bottom off the cliff, so probably more than twenty…?” Color burned in her cheeks as she tapped her index fingers together, now wrestling with her poor self-esteem when faced with the consequences of her judgement openly branded across Sasori’s face.

“And how much time and chakra will you need to make that many platforms?” Kagami asked patiently.
“Uuuhhhh… A lot?”
“What if we alternated?” Fumiko cut in. “We can both use douton jutsu, my love, so Tsume can teach it to us, and we can take turns so no one person is drained completely by the time we reach the bottom.”
“And in your estimate,” Kagami said to Tsume, “knowing the length of time and the multiple stops and starts we’ll have because of this process, how long do you think it’ll take us to reach the bottom?”
Tsume was half-melted into the ground by now. “More than a day,” she mumbled into her collar.
“I see. Well, here’s our choice, then. We’ll be adding a minimum of four days if we backtrack to a more passable area of this mountain ridge, or we can add an extra day to our original timeline by simply spending tomorrow focusing on building this path for Juubi, although it will leave three of us likely drained and our defenses less than ideal if we’re attacked.”
“I…” Sasori was half-surprised to hear his own voice interrupt. When the adults turned their eyes upon him, he continued as if he hadn’t paused. “I can help, if you’re willing to teach me the douton jutsu. I have a double chakra nature – earth and wind—” sparse though his repertoire for either was, with Grandmother and the Kazekage strongly discouraging him from any chakra-based skills that took away his Puppeteering mastery, since it was impossible to use ninjutsu at the same time as chakra strings, “—and my chakra is in a much healthier state than you,” he turned and faced Tsume, “with your postpartum recovery, or you,” he pointedly looked at Kagami, “with your congestive heart failure.”
Rather than being surprised at Sasori successfully deducing the cardiac condition that affected Kagami’s health, Kagami looked pleased. “Well, that’s certainly true. And while Juubi wouldn’t be able to turn around on the path once he starts forward, any of the ninken can, so your transportation wouldn’t be an issue. Still, we need to wait and make sure you weren’t tripping your way into anaphylaxis before you try it.”oOoOoOo
Sasori didn’t tripped his way into anaphylaxis.
At least, that’s what he assumed seven hours after, when the diphenhydramine wore off and he woke up from an unusually lengthy nap with his airway still patent, the hives receding, the infernal itch and swelling in his mouth gone, and his clothes soggy from a brief rainstorm that he had blissfully slept through. He felt unusually well-rested from his drug-induced slumber, and his stomach grumbled loudly as the odors of dinner permeated his senses.
Salmon, seasoned with dried rosemary and cardamom, were merrily roasting over the fire while Kagami patiently rotated the spit. The horsehair lichen had boiled down into a dark, gelatinous mush that looked almost as unappealing as raisins, to which Tsume added more water and a generous two handfuls of rice, and a sparing pinch of her precious salt. Throughout the day, the boiling horsehair lichen smelled faintly of citrus and mint, although Shisui had explained that was from the conifer needles, not the lichen itself. Tsume, Fumiko, and Kagami chatted about the progress they had made in strengthening and stabilizing the mountain goat trail while Sasori slept. Their progress had been briefly interrupted with the earlier rainstorm. Not wanting to risk slipping and falling, they only managed to successfully fortify the trail half-way down the mountain. It was just as well – Tsume and Kagami were both equally worn out, with only Fumiko having the energy to pace around, happily chatting with Shisui as he waterwalked across the stream, dodged the flapping salmon, and searched for the perfect skipping stones.
Dinner was soon ready, and served on the heavy clay plates. The gelatinous blob made a wet splooch as Tsume slapped a large spoonful on a plate, and it wobbled like a tempting square of the treasured lokum*. Which, well, Sasori wasn’t a fan of sweets, but he did allow himself the occasional treat of rosewater or bergamot lokum.
And, he considered, poking at the lump when Tsume handed him his plate, it surely couldn’t be the worst thing he ever ate – it was likely less painful than shinigami peppers and certainly smelled better than the spiny durian fruit from the Land of Swamps that Komushi had unsuccessfully dared him to eat. (Apparently, Sasori had all the wrong genetics required to find it the delectable fruit that the natives claimed it to be. To him, the durian fruit smelled too strongly of turpentine and rotten onions, garnished with stale, used socks that had been worn by an overly sweaty teenager six days straight through bogs and marshes… It had been a minor miracle that Komushi didn’t lose his feet to the most impressive case of swamp rot foot that their guide claimed he ever saw.)

Bracing himself, Sasori tried a small nibble of the gelatinous blob.
While the texture was much like mochi (not unpleasant, but also not his favorite), the flavor was remarkably palatable. Tasting faintly of citrus and mint, it was rich and earthy, savory with a hint of sweet. And despite how the long conifer needles kept jabbing his gums and getting stuck between his teeth, he still ate the entire helping.
“This is actually really good,” Fumiko told Tsume, and then documented such in her notebook.
Once dinner was finished and the dishes washed and stored away, Tsume carried Sasori (protesting and pinching her in retaliation) away from their campsite where she could teach him the douton jutsu to assist their team in completing the path tomorrow for Juubi’s passage.
This simpleton, with the logic of lazy geniuses (work smarter, not harder) everywhere, took a douton jutsu used to form flat, wide slabs of stone as protective barriers against attacks, and just turned it horizontal, because she argued that a vertical shield was nothing more than a horizontal bridge suspended over a gap.
Sasori wasn’t sure if he should be surprised at the rare glimpse of Tsume, who – wonder of wonders – inherited some level of that famed lazy brilliance of her Nara sire, or just peeved that she didn’t exercise her two functioning braincells more.oOoOoOo
With a night of rest that was aided by another round of diphenhydramine when the hives on his face and torso began to out-itch his phantom toe, and a good breakfast of leftover lichen-and-rice goop supplemented with fresh salmon caught from their stream and washed down with the last of Tsume’s dried mint tea, Tsume, Fumiko, and Sasori (mounted on Ichi) took turns fortifying the path. Kagami, Shisui, and Ni stayed behind, finding and gathering wild mint that grew in low clusters alongside the stream to dry next to the fire during the day, and smoking fillets of salmon to save for snacks and future quick lunches.
Having better stamina, chakra stores, and control than a post-partum chuunin or a Jounin who had retired thirty years previously to raise her children, Sasori did the bulk of the path work. The mountain goat trail zig-zagged and spiraled its way down the eight hundred meter tall mountainside escarpment – not a sheer cliff, but nonetheless a dangerously steep slope striped with ridges and five to twenty-meter deep drops. The escarpment fell into a deep, wide basin below, veiled by a fine mist that couldn’t effectively hide the lush green that flourished with the arrival of spring, while the alpine tundra of the mountain peaks overhead was still tightly gripped in the claws of winter. Theirs wasn’t the only stream that waterfalled over the edges that spawning salmon fought against. Rainbows arched across the valley and through the sky as golden rays from the morning sun struck the rising mist. Ribbons of blue tributaries fed by dozens of waterfalls laced westward across the valley before eventually converging into the largest freshwater lake on the Continent. Sasori saw distant dots of human settlements throughout the valley, although Tsume assured him that most of them were rural civilians who tended to orchards, fields of grain and produce, and herds of goats, pigs, cattle, and sheep.

“I think we should spring for an inn in the next few days,” Tsume briefly told Fumiko during a quick breastfeeding break. “We all need baths. We’re starting to get rank, and bathing in the stream is a sure-fire way to get hypothermia with how cold the glacier and snow melt is.”

Sasori worked on shoring up the trail, which followed a series of descending ridges sometimes as wide as three meters, and sometimes as narrow as six centimeters. Shoring up the narrow ridge width wasn’t what slowed them down – it was the heavy brush of young conifers and mountain ash, deeply tangled within bushes of what Tsume identified as mountain heather, bilberry, and huckleberry, clinging stubbornly to the ridges and far too thick for Juubi to brute-force himself through.
Sasori wasn’t unfamiliar with how unreasonably impassable a jungle could be, given the time he and Komushi had spent in the Land of Swamps, but alpine flora felt like a different beast altogether.
And least the Land of Swamps was relatively flat, and you could use chakra threads to swing overhead from tree to tree.
“Gosh, I love fresh huckleberries! I’ll have to come back in June,” Tsume declared, hungrily eying bushes heavy with small, green berries.
While Tsume and Fumiko alternated between chopping a path with Tsume’s axe and blasting their way through with carefully-controlled fuuton jutsu that shredded and tore apart the thickets, Sasori leaned sideways off of Ichi to peer over the edge of the drop. He was suddenly all too aware of the distance nearly four hundred meters looked like, far higher than even when he stood upon the cliff wall that sheltered Suna, the sheer drop deeper than any canyon or ravine he had ever stood at the edge of. He felt a sudden rush of vertigo, the valley floor rushing closer at him. Tsume shoved Ichi away from the edge and pressed him and Sasori tight against the cliff face, a secure balk that kept him safely away from the looming edge. Nothing was said as they waited for the tremors in Sasori’s hands to fade away.
Choosing to ignore his vertigo and potential birth of acrophobia, Sasori instead busied himself with widening the mountain goat path as Tsume and Fumiko cleared the way.
“You realize,” Sasori said with a twist of the hand seals and a flare of his chakra, “that this path is going to stand out like a beacon to any passing nin that some persistent douton jutsu users trailblazed through here.”
“True, but unless they’re skilled trackers, the passing nin aren’t going to know if we forged this path to ascend or descend the cliff. And the locals might appreciate it as an easier passage over this mountain ridge. I know the mountain goats will.”
They could’ve completed the path to the valley floor by dusk, but it was agreed that leaving the last hundred meters to complete tomorrow morning added an extra layer of precaution against an enterprising explorer from discovering the new path and following it up the ridge to where their campsite was located. (Sasori resolutely did not look down or over the side the higher they ascended.)
Kagami and Shisui had managed to amass and dry an impressive amount of wild mint and smoked salmon fillets by the time they returned. Kagami, beaming with pride, announced Shisui’s conquering heroics in a brief battle with a fierce predator. Shisui and Juubi had decided that they were quite capable of taking on a hungry mountain lion without any assistance from Ni or Kagami when they scented the mountain lion’s approach, and Kagami fully encouraged such and helped Shisui plot out his ambush. Juubi’s fetlocks and hooves were coated with dried blood from trampling the mountain lion to death after Shisui’s well-aimed kunai initially lamed it. Kagami, in tradition of shinobi everywhere who capitalized on unexpected boons, had also tried to prep the pre-tenderized meat for dinner, only to find it contaminated with parasites, so Ni had instead was sent to catch and kill a mountain goat kid for dinner.
Sasori found the family support for Shisui’s first kill both heart-warming and alarming. Heart-warming, because they nurtured and coaxed Shisui’s talents with the same tenderness and fierce pride that his parents had, and alarming because, well, Shisui was three years old. Sasori had only learned how to accurately throw kunai and blast tags by the time he was three. He hadn’t been encouraged to take on a predator four times his size, even if the equivalent in Suna’s deserts were the diamondback snakes and saw-scaled vipers.
“It felt like an occasion that should be celebrated with fresh red meat,” Kagami explained with a shrug when Tsume asked why they were eating mountain goat instead of salmon. “And while I know it’s traditional for Inuzuka children to eat the raw heart of their first kill in order to absorb the kill’s spirit and power, I didn’t think it should come with a heaping side of trichinella.”
(Given how the Inuzuka clan was safely ensconced within the walls of Konoha where they hadn’t been required to hunt their own food for survival for the last fifty or so years, most of their first kills would be other humans. Between this factoid and the bits about placentas being high in nutrition and Uchiha Madara willingly drinking from a ramen tin filled with the blood of his enemies, Sasori was beginning to suspect that the cannibalism propaganda from Ishi wasn’t so much carefully distributed misinformation to alienate Konoha from its few allies as it was a desperate warning screamed into the void.)
“Good job!” Tsume praised her ninken with scratches and cuddles. “The liver is perfect for Sasori.”
Sasori, who hated liver but knew he needed the iron, given how much blood he lost when his feet had been chopped off, presented a perfectly reasonable argument that Tsume also needed more iron for her ongoing postpartum bleeding. He was proud of himself for successfully dodging the unpleasant fate of having to consume an entire liver to himself, especially when Kagami pointed out that under such logic, Tsume required more iron than Sasori did. (He made himself eat the small portion of liver, since he didn’t want a repeat of having Tsume force food down his throat. At least he wasn’t allergic to liver…)
The only thing kept from the mountain lion corpse before it was deeply buried with a douton jutsu were its claws. Fumiko drilled holes through the base of the six largest claws with precise fuuton blasts so she could string them together into a trophy necklace for Shisui. It might’ve been a decent upgrade from the cheap costume jewelry necklace, except Shisui insisted that Fumiko reuse the gaudy purple beads as decoration for the mountain lion claws.
Shisui was giddy with delight as he lifted the claws hanging from his necklace and studied them. “I have the spirit of a mountain lion,” he whispered. And then, with a wicked glee, he looked at Tsume and loudly proclaimed, “Cats are so much cooler than dogs!”

Tsume’s argument with Shisui over the superiority of mountain lions versus wolves, with Kagami siding with both of them at various points just to keep the argument alive, continued until bedtime.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Although completing their forged path the next day took up most of their morning, Tsume assured Sasori that she anticipated crossing the valley would be much quicker than the actual time spent crossing the mountains. She, with Hana strapped to her chest, and Sasori, astride Ichi, hid in a thick glade of tangled heather and junipers near the base of their trail and rested while Fumiko returned to their campsite to fetch Kagami (who would’ve already packed away their supplies), Juubi, Shisui, and Ni.
Sasori was silently grateful to no longer be looking down into the valley from very tall heights.
The plan was to cut across the valley, avoiding most settlements and humans, until they could reach the shores of Lake Kogen, rightfully described as the largest freshwater lake on the entire continent, and rumored to be the deepest. With a span of over 600 kilometers at its longest (the distant shoreline lay beyond the range of human vision, even with the added advantage of overlooking it from 800 meters above the valley) and 120 kilometers at its narrowest, Lake Kogan was an impressive 72,000 square kilometers in size, and was dotted with a chain of islands.
Given that the Land of Waterfall was enclosed all around by the towering, glacial-covered mountain ranges that greatly limited travel because steep mountain slopes, ridges, and cliffs, there were really only two viable entrances into the country: North Akarui, the ocean port
for the North Sea that was frequented by visitors going to or coming from the Lands of Snow, Demons, Frost, and/or Earth, and on the opposite of the Land of Waterfall, Hiza-Ki, which sat at the mouth of the mighty Kogen River, and shared borders with the Land of Fire.
The mouth of Kogen River, in which Lake Kogen emptied, was nearly a kilometer wide during peak spring melt season, which flooded its wide delta sand banks. Between the mountain ranges and the overall mediocre resources of minerals and wood that helped support the rural population of the Land of Waterfall, other countries left the Daimyo of Waterfall to her decision to remain neutral through multiple Shinobi Wars.
It helped that the country was flanked by countries that were geographically a lot easier to invade (the Land of Fire), or equally adamant in their neutrality (the Land of Iron) or had more accessible resources (Earth). There were few reasons why foreign shinobi would want to enter Waterfall, except to sneak through the unguarded borders of Earth, or to reach the port of North Akarui.
Passing shinobi teams were required to petition sanctions to pass through the country, for whatever rare reason, and had to wait within the city of Hiza-Ki, which the denizens had stubbornly – and literally – carved out of the gigantic cliffs that rose above the mouth of the Kogen River.
Takigakure was on an island somewhere on Lake Kogen, hidden behind powerful genjutsu barriers of invisibility (and Sasori’s mind was agog at the thought of combing seventy thousand kilometers of water to find an invisible island, although Tsume assured him she knew where it was – the genjutsu may hide it from vision, but not from Inuzuka nostrils), although half of their active shinobi and the Seven-Tails jinchuuriki were assigned to patrolling the lake and river, and vetting all visitors.
Since Team Chaos had no official sanction to enter the country, what with Namikaze’s Hiraishin effectively bypassing the bureaucratic and geographic nature of such, Team Chaos was going to have to be careful with sneaking through to successfully cross the border into Fire Country.
“So, here’s our story,” Tsume said, as she and Sasori waited for the rest of Team Chaos. “I’m a widow who just gave birth to my daughter. I was widowed during my pregnancy, and my parents, who retired and emigrated to Fire a few years ago along with my older brother, traveled over to our high mountain sheepherding homestead to help me with the process, bringing along their adorable little grandson. That’s Shisui,” she added, as if Sasori might accidentally confuse Ichi or Ni for who Kagami and Fumiko’s adorable little grandson was supposed to be. “You’ll be my dead husband’s son from another marriage who has always resented the fact that I married your dad, which will explain why you’re not actually old enough to be my son, and also will explain why you keep glaring at us with open hostility, because it would otherwise make the guards suspicious.”
“I have not been hostile,” Sasori said, glaring at her.
“Then what do you call the expression on your face right now?”
“Irritation.”
“Sure. Hostile irritation.” Tsume patted his shoulder condescending. “We’ll go with that. Anyway, the reason we’re heading to Fire is because you were recently caught in an avalanche about, oh, we’ll say a month before I gave birth. You managed to survive it, but your legs were crushed, and the complications were so bad that our dumb village doctor had to amputate. My parents, having settled with my brother in the Capital, have convinced us that you’d receive far better care and prosthetics there, so that’s where we’re headed.”
“How are you going to explain your ninken and Juubi? They’re not common homesteading animals.”
“Are you kidding? Have you seen the sheepdogs they use around here to protect livestock from wolves and mountain lions?”
Having never before been in the Land of Waterfall, Sasori wordlessly stared at Tsume with every bit of hostile irritation he could muster.
“Huh. I guess not. Anyway, let’s just say that between the Tibetan mastiff they imported from Earth and the native Caucasian shepherd dogs, no one is going to look twice at my ninken.”
Sasori was determined to metaphorically shove Tsume’s face into every hole and flaw of their made-up identities. “No one can reasonably expect Juubi to resemble a farm horse.”
“No, that’s true. However, we’re close enough to the Land of Iron that we can say my husband was a samurai who retired from his injuries during the Second War, and settled down with his faithful steed to raise sheep and a family in Waterfall. Which, actually, isn’t such a bad background to have. Your chakra stores are clearly larger than mine and will draw the attention of any half-way decent sensor nin, so we can claim it’s because your father had been training you in samurai sword stuff, and we brought along Daddy’s steed because, well,” Tsume indicated Sasori’s missing feet, “he’s family, you don’t have feet, and we couldn’t exactly haul you up and down mountain slopes in a cart.”
“The Konoha accent is close enough to the northern Fire accent to reasonably match the Waterfall accent,” from what he could briefly remember the one time he had met Taki nin during their escort mission while he and Komushi had been doing border patrol, “but mine is clearly that of an outsider.”
“That’s okay. You stay silent and sullen and angst like a preteen who resents the existence of his stepmother, the passing of his father, the fact that he’s been so badly injured that he lost his legs, and is now getting dragged to a foreign country for treatment. So, yeah, just be your normal hostile, resentful self, but silently.”
“Fumiko looks like an O’uzu Islander, and bears no passing resemblance to you, whatsoever. And neither does Kagami. No one can reasonably believe that you’re their offspring.”
“Oh, uh, we’ll say I resemble my mother who died from famine or disease or another avalanche during the Second War, and that Fumiko is a scholar studying in the archives at the Capital’s libraries that my dad fell in love with and married after he and my brother emigrated there, having never expected to find love again, especially so late in his life.”
Since Tsume was determined to make these backgrounds work, and Sasori was determined to survive, they continued to argue while plotting the next step of their journey.
To get to Hiza-Ki, they had to get to the other side of Lake Kogen. It was impractically long and more likely to draw attraction from a larger number of people if they traveled by foot around the shoreline, so Sasori reluctantly agreed to Tsume’s plan to charter a passenger barge to float across. He didn’t like boats, he hated the thought of being surrounded by an endless sea of, well, water, that was too far away from the solid foundation of land, and he really hated seasickness. Sasori had learned how to swim despite growing up in a desert – thanks to his Jounin sensei, and Sasori had barely survived that lesson because of how his sensei had went about teaching such – but his poor skills hadn’t been a concern when he and Komushi had sailed across the ocean to the Land of Swamps. Who needs to swim when you can walk on water? But Sasori felt a distressing lack of feet to water-walk on if he were to fall off the barge.
“Don’t worry.” Tsume patted his shoulder. “Barges are really wide and really stable, unlike ships. And,” she added confidently, “it’s a lake. How big can waves get on a lake?”

Sasori pondered that – all things considering, their journey had been mostly uneventful. The bandits had been clutzes who had frankly been such a danger to themselves that removing them from the gene pool may have been an inadvertent favor to the greater good of mankind. The Kiri nin could’ve been very dangerous to all of them – Kiri nin were vicious and something like a sanction wouldn’t have been enough to hold them back if they really wanted to fight – but Sasori’s temporary loss of sanity had done more to mitigate peace than the presence of Tsume’s gouka inugami (he was never going to forgive her for that). While their road trip was infuriatingly slow, it wasn’t uncomfortable, and Tsume made sure he was well-fed in fresh food and not dying from sepsis (he was willing to forgive her of forcing treatment on him)… except for those fucking raisins…
Overall, Sasori knew that this was one of the most comfortable traveling experiences he’s ever had, loss of feet and subsequent pain and infection and allergic reaction notwithstanding. And a boat – barge, he reminded himself. Well, there weren’t a lot of people on a barge, and while the lake seemed to be as large as an ocean, it was still just a lake. So how much trouble could they feasibly get into?
With a chill, as their Uchiha companions with Kagami astride Juubi and Ni trailing behind, Sasori thought: the gods are bored, capricious, and sadistic, and no doubt highly entertained by the likes of Tsume.
Trouble was inevitable.OOoOoOo
If Sasori had ruthlessly stuck his fingers into the holes of Tsume’s background story and dug them around, like someone torturing their captive by rubbing salt into open wounds, Kagami instead took the rough outline, patched up the holes, colored in the blanks, and elevated it into a work of art.
It was fascinating to watch Kagami take the ball, and run with it.
Koyo-heika and the Ryusuikage worked so close together, both immersing themselves in shinobi and civilian matters alike, ruling the Land of Waterfall as a duo unlike any other Daimyo and Kage in any other country. Konoha intel had long suspected that they were lovers comfortable with sharing power with each other. (Sasori wasn’t sure how he felt about this reveal – he knew that Kagami wasn’t the sort to make such a casual, accidental observation, and he knew that Kagami knew he would’ve immediately noticed.)
Koyo-heika was sensitive to the needs of her people, and was kind, concerned, and used her power to ensure that her country, while not exactly prosperous, thrived in ways that other Daimyo did not. The resources the country had was enough to keep them mostly self-sufficient, with their international trade being mainly paper, shipments of raw wool to Lightning for their many textile factories, and export of salmon and roe, as the headwaters of Lake Kogan was the Continent’s most common salmon spawning territory from early April to late October.
As a small country that was geographically difficult to invade and with few overall resources to make such an attempt worthwhile, the Land of Waterfall didn’t have a civilian army. That was, ultimately, the purpose and function of the Hidden Village of Waterfall. Taki nin rarely took missions from outsiders, and instead devoted themselves to protecting their country and citizens. (Sasori still couldn’t understand how a minor village, barely a blip on the world stage of shinobi, managed to have a jinchuuriki.)
What missions Takigakure did accept from foreign nations was largely limited to guard duty and escorts when foreign nations required a neutral party’s involvement, very much like the Samurai from Iron Country.

This protection not only included vetting all visitors to the country and providing visitor sanctions to foreign shinobi only when they could prove they would bring no harm to the denizens of Waterfall, but also included interviewing all citizens who left the country, either to visit, vacation, explore, immigrate elsewhere, or pursuing higher education. Waterfall citizens enjoyed more freedom of movement than other countries and lands, but Koyo-heika and the Ryusuikage, a middle-aged man named Shun Fuhuhito, didn’t want their citizens unnecessarily harmed or endangered. Interviews were conducted to ensure that the departing citizens weren’t going into danger zones, and to record their planned destinations. The citizens were required to send check-ins, the frequency of which was determined based on their ultimate destination and the journey that would take them there. Citizens were generally faithful in following their check-ins, at the risk being hunted down by a team of competent Taki nin to be rescued by (should the check-in not take place because of some danger) or to read them the riot act (if they were delayed but otherwise unharmed, or simply forgot to do their check-in).
“They will push Sasori to speak during the interview,” Kagami explained. “We’ll need to explain that Tsume’s husband – let’s name him Gozen Yukimura, it’s a common name for Iron men, given how famous a general he was a hundred years ago – was killed in the same avalanche that severely damaged Sasori’s legs, and that the entire experience traumatized Sasori so badly that he’s been mute since the avalanche. I expect that the Taki nin won’t push too hard under such circumstances. Sasori will need a new name, as well as a new hair color, because he looks too much like his Bingo Book picture.”
“There’s a walnut grove a few kilometers from here,” Tsume said, pointing in the direction of said walnut grove. “I’ll grab some of last year’s walnuts to boil up a brown dye.”

“Good. And along that line, Sasori’s new name is Kurumi. We’ll start calling each other our assigned names, so you’ll be able to remember it by the time we’re around people. And since Kurumi would’ve been rendered mute a few months ago, we’ll have to create a rudimentary sign language so he can communicate with us. Not many, but enough to solidify the truth of our lies.” Kagami grinned as Tsume whined. “I’ll come up with something easy while you’re making dye. Also, I’ll need you to write a letter we would’ve received a few months ago, about how your husband was killed and your step-son crippled, and how you’re struggling to manage the homestead, being pregnant while also trying to nurse your step-son back to health, and how you’re scared and desperately need our assistance. We would’ve shown the border officers the letter to receive permission to enter the country.” He turned to Fumiko. “I know that during peace times, noncombatant visitors to Waterfall didn’t require sanction papers. Has that changed with the war?”
Fumiko nodded. “It has. All incomers to Waterfall would require them. It would be easy enough for me to forge official sanction papers, but sanctions require specialized shagbark hickory parchment.”
“We’ll steal some before we do the interview.”
“There’s a papermill storage warehouse for shagbark hickory parchment about sixty kilometers south of us,” Tsume said, again pointing. “It’s not far from the port we need to take to cross the lake, and currently not very well-guarded.”
“Excellent. It’s not too far out of our way, then. So, your lovely step-mother and I came, bringing along our equally lovely grandson. Fumiko and Shisui may keep their names, I shall be Rakkasei Tare—”
Sasori snorted. “Really, peanut sauce?”
“I’m getting hungry, and it’s the sort of name no undercover shinobi would assume with any dignity. My parents have a terrible sense of humor, which I inherited, and that is why Tsume’s maiden name was Rakkasei Soba, and her brother is Rakkasei Bata.”
“I’m getting hungry too,” Tsume cut in. “Gosh, miso peanut soba noodles covered in mustard sounds really good right now.”
“I would’ve thought your weird pregnancy cravings for all things condiments was gone with Hana’s birth,” Kagami said.

“My all-consuming need for dill pickles went away.”
“And Minato rejoices.”
“Oh, come on. I raided his pantry once, it was after-hours for the market, and with all the projectile and poisoned traps Kakashi and I had to dismantle to get to them, I earned them fair and square. Best darn pickles I ever had.”
“Back to our current topic,” Kagami’s voice was smooth, but there was a hint of rebuke in it, although Sasori didn’t know if it was because of Tsume’s constant interruptions or how she had willingly raided the panty of an S-rank shinobi who apparently guarded his food with extreme prejudice, “Fumiko and Shisui’s names are reasonable for them, nor do I feel it necessary – or reasonable – to convince Juubi and your ninken to be answer to something else. My wife and I brought our grandson along to give you a hand around your homestead and to help with newborn childcare right after. We would’ve hired a chuunin team from Konoha to provide a guided escort to the border, but parted ways with them since Waterfall is relatively safe for cross-country travel.
“During the time of our stay with you, Kurumi’s feet, having been so damaged – let’s say frostbite was involved, as his feet had been trapped and crushed within the avalanche – that the traveling doctor we found a few weeks ago for your delivery took one look at the condition of Kurumi’s feet, and felt that Kurumi was never going to heal, and would in fact die if they weren’t removed. If the doctor amputated them right after the avalanche, the stumps would be further along in the healing, so the amputation must be more recent, and for good reason.”
Watching and listening to Kagami weave details back and forth was, Sasori thought, like watching a master woodcarver who chipped, cut, carved, and sanded, turning a shapeless block of wood into something beautifully lifelike.
“Given the extensiveness of Kurumi’s injuries and the subsequent amputation and your own heart break with losing your dear Yukimura, it was easy for your step-mother and me to convince you to relocate your family – your step-son, your new daughter, your husband’s old samurai steed, and your two faithful sheepherding dogs who are practically family – to Fire with us, where you will have the support of your brother and his family to start all over, and your step-son will receive all the necessary medical care and rehab required for someone with his injuries. Your permanent relocation will ensure that the Taki nin won’t require frequent check-ins – just a single one to verify that we arrived safely in the Capital.
“Now, the likelihood that we’ll be searched is low, but not impossible. We need to go through all our supplies and remove or replace any items that would cast suspicion on our story. We can easily explain some of the items of Fire Country origins by the simple explanation that what else were Fumiko and I supposed to pack? However, our shinobi weapons and Kurumi’s puppets cannot be readily explained.”
Sasori instantly wanted to stab someone. “I’m not leaving my puppets behind.”
“I wouldn’t demand that of you. However, it is required that you relinquish them until we’ve safely reached Fire. Soba…. Soba?” Kagami touched Tsume’s shoulder to remind her of what her new name was.
“Oh, I thought you were making a suggestion for dinner.” Tsume blushed and shuffled her feet.
(You’re doomed, Komushi told Sasori. Sasori silently agreed with his friend.)
“From now on, we will be using the names of Tare, Soba, and Kurumi exclusively, so our identities hold a familiar ease.”
“I think we should go with different names.”
“This coming from a young woman named talon who named her daughter nose?”
“Hey, Shinzou kept up with the theme of body parts and flowers, not me. And Hana can be either one. I thought it was clever. I haven’t picked out a kanji for her, yet.”
“You can deal with being named after food. Hana may keep her name, but we’ll use the flower kanji in writing. So, Soba, we will be giving one of your summons – not the gouka ingami,” Kagami added hastily when he saw Sasori’s face morphing into horrified outrage.
Tsume also hastened to comfort Sasori. “I got some summons that aren’t going to set things on fire, Kurama.”
“Kurumi!” Sasori snapped, wanting to choke Tsume. (How did this moron manage to have multiple summons? That was just unfair!)
“Kurumi. I’ll use my bears. Ninjin or Kabu will gladly hold on to your puppets, and I promise nothing will happen to Komushi. Your friend will be safe.”
Fumiko grinned. “Carrot and turnip?” She turned her grin on Kagami. “I can see why you went with the food theme for names.”
“I may have drawn some inspiration from previous sources. Among other things, Soba, we need to do something about your hair, and you’ll have to trim your nails. And we must all accustom ourselves to referring to Ichi and Ni as dogs, avoiding the use of ninken at all costs and any reference to their ability to fight beyond the expected capacity of livestock guards and family protectors.”
Huh. Sasori eyed Tsume’s hands as she raised them to study. He hadn’t given any thought to how Tsume’s nails very much looked like sharpened animal claws and how that was something a civilian woman shouldn’t be expected to have. He had grown immune to her wild appearance, accepting the presence of her nails the same way he had become accustomed the presence of her ninken and how they seemed almost human at times with their response, or even anticipation, to directions.
“You’re good,” he told Kagami, letting admiration color his voice.
“I ought to be, after thirty-five years of helping the Hokage come up with identities and back stories. Now, Soba, you and Ichi are going to go fetch those walnuts while Fumiko, Kurumi, and I will be sorting through our supplies and figuring out what needs to be left with your bears.”oOoOoOoSasori hadn’t seen everything that Kagami had packed for their journey, but his stocked weapons included a beautiful chisa katana, with the hilt wrapped in ray skin dyed a midnight blue. Kagami’s smile was melancholic as he withdrew the katana from its saya, the wood cracked and dull with age, although the leather strap was well-oiled and supple. He rested the tang on one finger, the balance perfectly level. Sasori’s breath caught as light glimmered across the feathered Damascus pattern.
“It’s a beautiful blade,” Sasori said, admiring it for both its beauty and the razor-sharp edge. This blade, to him, was the best of both worlds – function and design. It was very much like his puppets, but certainly more exquisite. Long bladed weapons weren’t foreign even to Suna shinobi – those accepted into the Suna Academy from the nomadic clans brought their shamshir and khopesh, and the Academy had specialized classes to help them grow in the skills that their tribes would’ve required them to master if they hadn’t left. Sunagakure could ill-afford to slight the nomadic tribes willing to send their children to Suna, not as their internal numbers dwindled from a Village population that was slowly imploding. But tribal blades had a greater curve and width, and the metal was dull and plain in comparison. Sasori, like other Suna natives, had learned how to defend against long-bladed weapons with kunai and puppets, but not how to wield them. The use of long-bladed weapons was an unspoken, invisible line between native, and non-native Suna nin, as the tribal ninja rejected kunai in favor of their traditional weapons.
“Tobirama-sensei gave this to me when I became chuunin,” Kagami said, his voice distant. “He commissioned a pair from who was then the world’s premier katana smith, Masamune Ryuu, in the Land of Iron. I gave her sister to my daughter. This… it would have gone to my son, had he not passed away during the Second War.” A shadow of grief briefly passed over Kagami’s face before it lightened into hope. “Someday, it will be Shisui’s.” He slid the blade back into the saya, and then held it out to Sasori. “No samurai gives up his blade, even in retirement. Your father,” he added with a wink, “would’ve wanted you to have it.”
Sasori was in awe as he hesitantly accepted the chisa katana. He felt clumsy, unsure of where he was supposed to grip it, given he was seated and didn’t want to rest the aged saya on the ground. It was telling that the one weapon their group was permitted to have, outside of the Sharingan and their natural taijutsu skills, would be handed to Sasori, who was even more vulnerable than a three-year-old toddler. At least Shisui could run away in a fight. Sasori knew he didn’t dare use his chakra threads in defense.
Kagami tapped the temple of his forehead, next to his eye. “I’ve sparred with enough samurai with the Sharingan – and I may have used it on the sly to watch Mifune-dono’s drills on the wagon train – that I can teach you traditional samurai kenjutsu. It should be easier since we don’t have to worry about footwork, given we only have two or three days to do the training. You’ll still be clumsy, but outsiders can assume it’s because you’re a beginner who don’t know how to compensate without feet, and not because you’re unfamiliar. I believe it would be best if we conduct the training even with witnesses around.
It will give you something to focus on while we’re traveling through Waterfall and further solidify our background. Your father, my dear Soba’s dearly-departed husband, was a subordinate of mine in Iron. I have already passed my katana down to my son, which is why I didn’t bring it along when Fumiko and I travelled to Soba’s homestead. My relationship with your father means it wouldn’t be unexpected that I assume the responsibility of training you.”
Sasori didn’t assure Kagami that he was a fast learner. His reputation preceded him, after all. He licked his suddenly dry lips. “I’ll return it to you when you return my puppets.”
Kagami grinned. “I can’t tell if that’s acknowledgement, or a blackmailing attempt.”
“Take it as you will.” He withdrew a third of the blade from the saya to study the feathered Damascus pattern up close. He ignored the tickling, warm sensation in his chest as he told himself that it was rare to see Damascus steel, especially when previous experiences amounted to trying to dodge it, and not because Kagami was inexplicably extending Sasori trust with a beloved weapon intended to be given to Kagami’s grandson. “You realize that the reach on this makes it easy to stab you from Juubi’s back if you start up on those atrocious Dad Jokes, again.”
Kagami’s face fell as Fumiko burst out laughing.oOoOoOo
Black walnuts stained everything. To minimize and remove the tell-tale stains on her hands and on the skin of Sasori’s face when she applied the dye to his eyebrows, Tsume stole a jar of apple cider vinegar and a large brick of butter from the homestead she passed by in between the walnut grove and their campsite (which had been moved in her absence to a decent distance away from their tell-tale path down the mountain ridge).
“Why?” Sasori asked, eyeing the butter and apple cider vinegar. Fumiko was filling a pot with water and walnuts to boil.
“We’ll apply the butter as a protective layer to your skin before using the dye, use the acid in the vinegar to help remove whatever the butter doesn’t protect, scrub with a handful of sand, apply more butter and vinegar, and repeat with the sand, until it’s gone, Ku… Kuruma?”
“Kurumi.”
Kagami snorted as he removed the caltrops from Tsume’s hair. “This sounds like the beginning of a delicious recipe, Soba. Ow.” He stuck his bleeding fingertip in his mouth. “Is that a knife?” he demanded, staring into her hair.
“Butter makes everything better,” Tsume said knowingly. “And yes, it’s a knife. My spare.”
Supplies had to be limited to what the ninken, Juubi, and two backpacks (shouldered by Fumiko and Kagami) could carry. This meant that Tsume, with great reluctance and even greater whining, had to give up five of her seven pillows. They were all required to share one tent, and with that many warm bodies stuffed inside of it, they limited themselves to three blankets in total. They also had to pack away most of the food stores and camping kit. And because they had to sort through all the food stores and camping kit to determine what was the most reasonable to carry, Sasori was exposed to Fumiko’s Epoisses cheese.

Which turned out to be a stomach-turning experience, worse than someone’s guts spilled open under a hot desert sun, worse than even a durian fruit. Its stench was a unique combo of rotten eggs, squished worms, urine, and skunk. Tsume stumbled away, looking quite green to the face, to empty her stomach in the bushes. Shisui passed out, falling limp to the ground. The ninken buried their noses under their tails, as if the smell of their own anuses was more tolerable. Sasori’s eyes and sinuses watered in self-defense, and he couldn’t imagine how torturous this was to someone with an olfaction strong enough to detect arsenic from sixty kilometers away.
“Eternal Sands, woman,” he growled at Fumiko as she ignored her passed-out grandson to cheerfully slice a small piece free. Her face was rapturous with the flavor when she ate it. “You are sadistic.” And then, to Kagami, who looked every bit as green as Tsume had been, “Why haven’t you divorced her yet?”
“Because our marriage is built on a solid foundation of love, trust, and sadism.”
The Epoisses cheese was probably Fumiko’s counterattack against Kagami’s breaking and remaking her mind. They clearly deserved each other.
Fumiko blew a raspberry at them. “I have great plans for this cheese,” she declared, packing it away in its own sealing scroll, which she marked to indicate what it contained lest someone like Tsume accidentally release it. “You just wait and see. You’ll thank me for planning ahead.”
“I can see why the Hokage banned it from the open market,” Sasori told Kagami. He wanted to pinch his nose shut and breathe through his mouth, but he ate with his mouth. He didn’t want to contaminate his taste buds with that cheese’s odor molecules.

Kagami smiled weakly. “Well, I did warn you.”
The greatly reduced supplies would force them to rely mostly on a diet of spawning salmon, whatever early plants that could be scavenged, and limited meals that would be bought in passing villages and settlements. (“I have funds, Kagami assured Tsume, who only returned after Fumiko brushed her teeth and gargled extensively. Kagami steadfastly ignored Tsume’s insistence that she would repay him as soon as they reach Konoha.)
All but the current clothes on Tsume and Sasori’s backs had to be packed away as well (and even those would be sent away, once they found replacements) as Kagami explained the necessity of a different wardrobe. “Footwear: shoes, sandals, boots,” Kagami explained to Sasori, “are the biggest giveaway for any undercover shinobi.”
Tsume nodded, her face brightening with confidence. “That’s what Sakumo-sensei always told us. Different Hidden Villages have different styles of footwear, just like the different affiliation on their forehead protectors.”
It was decided that Tsume’s pads and Hana’s diapers should be prioritized in the packing, and Kagami insisted that they keep the three first aid kits, given that such were standardized internationally and well within reason for managing Sasori’s stumps.
Despite their best attempts, they were unsuccessful in trying to wrangle Tsume’s nightmare hair under control to reduce her tell-tale resemblance to the wild Inuzuka clan. Even Fumiko, whose hair was a “Brillo pad too wide to fit through most doorways when I don’t braid it” declared controlling Tsume’s hair to be a lost cause. Tsume resigned herself to Fumiko’s careful, but severe, haircut. The length wound up being slightly shorter than Shisui’s, and she looked even more like a deranged hedgehog than when Sasori had first seen her. Sasori wasn’t at all assured that it made her appear less than a wild Inuzuka. Tsume had a pictureless entry in her Bingo Book (only Kiri apparently wanted her, alive of all things, and the bounty was too low for any serious hunter to take the risk), but her entry did contain a physical description. Which, per his perfect recall, lacked any mention of the scars on her left arm.
The tannins from the walnut dye made Sasori’s sinuses sting. He caught a glimpse of Tsume’s forlorn expression and her ugly haircut reflected side-by-side with the sable-brown of Sasori’s hair as they sat next to a cold stream, using the near-freezing water to rinse as Tsume applied apple cider vinegar to where the tannins had also dyed his skin, scrubbed with handfuls of sandy mud, washed clean, moisturized with butter, applied more apple cider, and repeated. His skin was stinging and red by the time she was done, both were shivering violently, and neither were interested in dinner.
Sasori busied himself with cleaning and dressing his stumps, and ignored the feelings of keening loss as Tsume summoned two roly-poly bears, and then dismissed them with everything they couldn’t keep.
For the first time since Komushi’s death, Sasori’s mind was silent of his friend’s bright presence.oOoOoOo
Travel across the valley to the south end of the lake took two days. Team Chaos made sure to strictly keep to their roles, using their new names and backgrounds – something that Shisui, despite being three years old, took to aplomb, flawlessly remembering Kurumi and Auntie Soba, his titles of Papa and Nana unchanging as his relationship remained the same – but Sasori had growing misgivings with Tsume’s ability to act like she was a young widow deep in the throes of grief. Granted, personal displays of grief – as Kagami had reminded all of them – were varied and fluid, dependent on a variety of factors, including emotional resilience and cultural expectations. The problem with that was that Tsume not only wore her heart on her sleeve, but also her thoughts on her face.
When she had to stop and recall how Soba was supposed to behave, when explaining to a curious innkeeper why she also required lodging for her horse, or what happened to Kurumi when curiosity drove others to inquire after his health and comfort, her stuttering expressions waffled with uncertainty and nervousness. When a random merchant in the market stall from whom she bought some fresh eggs and snow peas asked if her husband had been pleased for a daughter or disappointed for not having a son, Tsume stared in surprise, as if it never occurred to her that there was a father. The grief she managed to summon while tearfully explaining how Hana’s father had died before she was born felt stiff and fake. The one time those blasted hormones that sometimes made her cry at the drop of a hat, when being able to bawl would’ve been realistic, somehow managed to fail Tsume.
(Later, it did occur to Sasori that Tsume had never mentioned a father for Hana, nor did the lack of any such mention seem to bother her. Which, well, the Inuzuka Clan was historically known for being so strictly matriarchal that there were no men officially claimed as members of the clan; only unclaimed sons. Sasori had no idea who would’ve taken one look at the walking human wreck that was Tsume and was willing to sleep with that).
It was obvious to Sasori, during their last night before they reached the lake, that Tsume didn’t have the brain capacity for subterfuge. Tsume – leaving a well-fed, napping Hana snuggled up against Ichi – and Fumiko slipped away from their campsite under the cover of darkness to steal the special shagbark hickory parchment that Fumiko needed to forge sanction papers. With Tsume’s absence, it was the perfect time to raise his concerns.
“She can’t act to save her own life,” Sasori flatly told Kagami, breaking his muteness for the first time in two days as he practiced the first through fifth kendo forms, which Shisui – armed with a tree branch – imitated. (Shisui also had to practice the footwork. Kagami told him that in all things, practice doesn’t make perfect – only perfect practice made perfect. Shisui, the prodigious little monster that he was, only needed to be corrected twice before managing to perform the kendo forms with a lithe grace that Sasori would’ve been hard-pressed to imitate even if he had his feet.)
“Nope,” agreed Shisui, despite Sasori’s lack of mentioning Tsume’s identity.
Kagami sighed as he wearily rubbed his forehead. “Short of requiring Soba to be mute – and that will never work so long as she has Hana – we’ll just have to deal for now. She won’t be interviewed until we reach Hiza-Ki, and that gives Soba time to get more comfortable with her role.”
“And if she doesn’t?”
Kagami shrugged. “That’s what the Sharingan is for. I’ll just hypnotize her into believing her emotions.”
Sasori glared in outrage. “Why didn’t you use that on Soba two days ago?”
Kagami studied Sasori for a moment with a calculating look in his eyes. They remained onyx, but the flames from their campfire reflected red in his irises. “Kurumi, what are the weaknesses of genjutsu?”
Sasori fought down his growing sense of desperation, of being cornered and wounded and lost in this strange country and forced to rely on brain-damaged teammates for the safety he could no longer provide for himself. He was still waiting to see what all of this offered kindness would require of him in the future. “It’s easy to disrupt if you’re aware… like sensor nin.” Which was most assuredly be present to watch for anyone trying to sneak across the border. The palms of his hands felt sweaty. He rested the katana across his knees as he swiped his hands dry against his rough woolen trousers, recently stolen off of someone’s clothesline as they were drying in the afternoon sun. “One pointed kai, or even an accidental bite from Hana during breastfeeding, would break the genjutsu.”
“For most genjutsu, that would be true. The Sharingan is...” Kagami clearly hesitated. “I’m afraid, no matter how closely allied Suna may be or much I’m willing to trust you, it would be a great disservice to my clan to share the Sharingan’s secrets or confirm the intel you may have on it.” He hesitated again, weighing the need for clan and Village secrecy against Sasori’s clear need for assurance. “Suffice to say, in addition to what you know regarding the Sharingan’s ability to make or break genjutsu, the Sharingan can cast true hypnosis. And while true hypnosis can make a person believe they can fly, the hypnosis itself will not make a person successfully defy the laws of gravity when they throw themselves off a building. Having established that, can you see the flaws of using hypnosis on Soba’s particular brain?”

With the mention of hypnosis, Sasori could. “Her short-term memory will still be shit.”
“You are not to repeat that particular word, Shisui.”
“Yes, Papa.”
“But, yes, Soba’s short-term memory will still be quite lacking.”
“And her amygdala will still be impaired.”
“Correct.”
Sasori ran his fingertips over the beautiful raindrop pattern of the steel blade. “Then why bother with using hypnosis as a last resort?”
Kagami looked old and tired, the shadows deepening the wrinkles in his face. “Because while she can’t feel fear, Soba still feels love, grief, concern, happiness. I can hypnotize her into feeling all the correct feelings for her role, which will convey an honesty that is evident despite her short-term memory impairment, but I will not force it on her. There is much that Soba tries to prove to herself, and she needs the opportunity to try. A toddler who first starts walking will bump into things, hurt themselves, fall. But they must be allowed to go through their clumsy attempts in order to improve. Soba will not learn and become more skilled in subterfuge if she isn’t given the chance to be clumsy. Our Hokage, for good reason, gives her very few opportunities in which to practice subterfuge, but since we have a chance for her to practice these skills here and now, I want her to take it.”
This hardly seemed like the time or place for Tsume to be practicing subterfuge. Not when their safety and lives were on the line.
Kagami seemed to sense the path of Sasori’s thoughts. “Teammates must trust each other to improve themselves, no matter how slow that improvement may feel, or futile at times.
If I forced the hypnosis on her from the start, it would clearly indicate how little I trust Soba’s efforts or her capacity to improve, and what little self-worth and self-esteem she has will only suffer more for it.” After a moment, Kagami added, “I can appreciate your misgivings, Kurumi. I can only imagine the harsh lessons you’ve learned in which trust must be earned before it can be given, or how easily lost that hard-won trust is. Suna’s shinobi are fiercely independent for a reason.”
Sasori refused to think about his grandmother, Jounin sensei, or the Kazekage. “I can ill-afford trust right now.” Or ever.
“Has Soba given any indication that she’s been deceitful or dishonest with you?”
Honesty was the foundation for trust. And Tsume had never stopped being uncomfortably honest with Sasori.
Sasori’s grip tightened on the katana’s hilt, the ray skin rough against his palm. He wished it was larger, bulkier, had green eyes and four limbs and a torso he could cling to. “I…” He licked his lips. “I trust her character.” It stung to admit this. It burned deep in Sasori’s gut that a brain-injured chuunin from a foreign village had proven to be more honest and genuinely affectionate to him than anyone still alive in Suna, that she held his best interests in heart. He was uncomfortable to consider what it likely meant about him, because Tsume clearly didn’t know Sasori as well as his peers, acquaintances, teammates, and family.
Then again… independence was often a by-product of learning you couldn’t rely on other people, and he wasn’t the only Suna nin who had learned that particular lesson the hard way. Trust begot trust; mistrust begot mistrust. “But I can’t trust her acting to save her own life.” Or mine. “Nor her ability to make safe choices, given how I could’ve died from anaphylaxis from fu— fudging raisins.” If word of his ridiculous allergy spread beyond their little group, Sasori would slaughter every single one of them and turn them into puppets. (Except Shisui. He’d kidnap Shisui and keep him. He would make a fine apprentice and Dresser of Wounds.)“Well, to be fair, I don’t trust Soba’s acting either at its current level or potential growth in the next week. But I trust Soba to try. We have time before the exit interviews. She has enough self-awareness to realize if this task is beyond her current capabilities. She will understand that should she need to be hypnotized, it’s because she needs it, and not because we don’t trust her. And the raisins were an honest mistake. If you’re always going to expect humans to never make mistakes, you’re always going to be disappointed.”
Trust.
What a strange, nebulous word, Sasori thought, gazing into the flickering flames of the firelight. It was strange to feel confidence in someone, in anyone, that they would sacrifice their own self-interest for your betterment, and expected that you would return their self-sacrifice with your own self-sacrifice.
He had trusted Komushi.
In a way, he had also trusted Bunpuku, who always promised that Shukaku would never hurt him, no matter how much he raged. He used to trust Chiyo and the Kazekage….
While it was apparent that Sasori could comfortably trust Tsume’s intentions for his betterment and her willingness to set aside her own self-interest for his health and well-being (as long as raisins weren’t involved), he couldn’t trust Tsume’s clearly-questionable judgement. And he couldn’t trust Kagami (although he desperately wanted to), who was a dangerous man that had openly admitted he had every intention of breaking and remaking Sasori.
At least Kagami wasn’t deceptive. Sasori knew where he stood with Kagami, and had been aware of such since they first met. And while Sasori knew that Kagami also wanted what was best for Sasori, it was clear that Kagami was also motivated by something above and beyond Sasori’s own well-being.

He couldn’t blame Kagami for that – to ultimately want what was best for Konoha was entrenched within Kagami’s very being, as Head of Internal Affairs. More than three decades spent pursuing the best for Konoha wasn’t something that could simply be ignored for a foreign shinobi, no matter how young, orphaned, and vulnerable Sasori was. And Fumiko… ultimately, her trust extended only as far as her loyalty, which was clearly first and foremost for her husband and Konoha.
At this point, betrayed by his own human body, unable to run away even if he had the opportunity, at the mercy of those who felt maternal or benevolent, Sasori couldn’t even trust himself.
Trust was a fragile little glass bauble that required a gentle touch. Once that bauble broke – no number of apologies or restitution could ever restore that fragile little bauble to its former glory. Sasori’s trust in others had been shattered by his grandmother’s deceitful letters.
Sasori’s trust in himself had been shattered with Komushi’s death.
He went to sleep as bitterness gnawed at his soul.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Fumiko forged sanction papers that permitted the supposed entrance of Rakkasei Tare, and his wife, Fumiko, and grandson, Shisui, dated with their arrive to the country seven weeks prior, and Tsume (with gentle coaching on the correct kanji) had written her letter to them for their help, with a date of eleven weeks prior. Both sanction papers and letter were completed an hour after dawn the next morning.
With her nose buried in the letter to force herself to memorize it, Tsume rode astride Ni. At least she had managed to successfully memorize the rudimentary seven hand signs that Kagami had created (stop, go, food, rest, toilet, space – which Kagami explained meant the context of leave me alone – and thing, when Sasori wanted something, with the expectation that he would point at the desired object as Tsume and the others then played a game of am I getting close). These, along with head shakes and nods, should cover the basics for a resentful, hurting preteen surrounded by well-meaning adults who were attentive to his needs. Sasori even figured out how to get the attention of the person he wanted to communicate with, by assigning Tsume two rapid and two slow claps; Kagami with snapping his fingers three times; Fumiko with two claps and two snaps; Shisui with a snap, a clap, and another snap; the ninken with two snaps and thumping come-hither taps on his thighs.
If all else failed, Fumiko said that the samurai prided themselves on their literacy, so Sasori was given her mechanical pen along with a blank notebook to communicate more in-depth.
To give his muteness legitimacy, Sasori tore out several blank pages (to Fumiki’s consternation at the waste of paper, as if she also didn’t have two more notebooks squirreled away in her numerous pockets and an country with multiple warehouses to steal from), and then filled three more pages with random questions and statements – How much longer do we have to go? Stop putting raisins in my oatmeal. Are you sure that an itchy big left toe is normal after amputation? Will you please tell Shisui to stop touching my father’s katana before I stab him with it? I think Juubi has a rock in his hoof. Tell me more about the Library you work at. How do I make the itchy big toe stop itching? Are my stumps getting infected?
(His phantom itch felt like it was getting worse, but Tsume assured him, after he showed her his last question, that it wasn’t a sign that his infection was returning. They had been vigilant with administering the penicillin injections every approximate eight hours.)
It was midmorning by the time they reached the port town of Shimizi, a modest village of two thousand people with twice that of incoming or outgoing travelers and merchants. Sasori, so long used to the clean mountain air, found himself covering his nose against the mixed odors of fish and rotting flotsam and jetsam washing gently ashore, and the unique merge of unwashed or poorly washed human bodies, livestock that supported the village or awaiting transfer and all the associated filth, cooking foods at the three little street vendors they passed, and a variety of other scents whose origins he couldn’t pinpoint.
Tsume grinned at him as he eyed a donkey, pulling a wagon loaded with early season cabbages, as it relieved its bladder on the road that was nothing more than hard-packed dirt.

“If you think you have it bad, think of how I feel?” she asked brightly, to which Kagami shook his head in warning. “What? I still have an overly sensitive nose from my pregnancy hormones. When will it go away?” she asked Fumiko.
“Unfortunately, mine never did,” Fumiko replied. Tsume whined wordlessly.
They went straight to the port, with Kagami asking a local who was standing thigh-deep in the lake, grabbing handfuls of crayfish, directions to possible hotel barges that would accept horses and dogs.
They were directed to a building with a set of terminals. Kagami had to briefly argue with one terminal officer that Juubi was a riding steed for his disabled step-grandson, that the dogs were as much pets and beloved members of their family as they were livestock guards, and no, securing separate passage for their four-legged companions on a livestock barge wasn’t acceptable.
It was rare for people in Waterfall to have dedicated mounts, as this was typically limited to the wealthy and politically affluent. Therefore, the only barge that would meet their needs was a luxury hotel barge due to leave within the next two hours. The terminal officer, eyeing the general filthy and travel-worn condition of their clothes and accurately deducing that their wealth was nonexistent, reluctantly sold Kagami second-class tickets for the only barge that met their needs. Frankly, Sasori thought the price that Kagami paid for their tickets was scandalously outrageous (along with an additional fee for each pet – Ichi and Ni, although Juubi was free, because apparently the luxury hotel barge prided itself on free room and board for riding horses, with a dedicated staff to attend their every need), but since he was supposed to be mute, he didn’t say a word.
Tsume, however, had no compunctions against voicing her outrage.
“My dear daughter,” Kagami said with paternal affection, sliding an arm around her shoulders, “there is no price I wouldn’t pay to ensure that we remain together. Look, they have pamphlets!” Since they had some time before boarding, Fumiko and Shisui separated from their group to explore a book vendor while Tsume went looking for “food I don’t have to prepare myself and isn’t fish”.
Kagami, Ichi, and Ni settled on a bench that overlooked the docks and the many barges, and studied the pamphlet. “Well, they’ll float all of us, but as a hotel barge, she’s not the quickest way to get to the other side of the lake.”
Sasori studied the barges floating on the lake – flat and wide, quickly wrote down his question. Would it be faster to go on foot then? He drew Kagami’s attention to his question with three snaps and a wave of the notebook.
Kagami read it. “According to the pamphlet, the Saiseiki luxury barges stop daily at different ports and islands on Lake Kogen, finally reaching the Capital a week from now. It likely would be the same amount of time for us to travel, given that we’d have to go around the lake, but this will give us the time to rest. Travel through Fire will be more dangerous with the war going on, and Soba honestly needs the chance to rest from her childbirth.” Rest that Tsume had ignored, because the longer Sasori went without actual medical treatment for his stumps, the greater his surgical risks and recovery would be. Tsume was doing her best, assisting Sasori with daily wound care, trying to help him build skin instead of scar tissue, but neither of them knew what they were doing.
Sasori chafed with impatience with their slow travel and how they had been impeded by geography and the health of his companions. (Sometimes, he regretted not forcing Tsume to allow Namikaze to bring him immediately to Konoha. Other times, when he found a strange comfort in her care, he was grateful, because the last ones who had ever given him such care had been his parents. He was then swift to smother the gratitude beneath remembered resentment that it was her sensei who was the reason he hadn’t had any gentle love or care since he was five years old, and how she had been gifted his parents’ puppets, instead of him.) He felt the weight of how beholden he was to these people, forced to trust their benevolence, however steadfast and reliable they had proven themselves in the last twelve days. As he turned his eyes back to the barges, taking in the different sizes, styles, and purposes (merchandise, livestock, wood, paper, huge bales of wool and flax, human passengers, short versus lengthier distance), and then raised his gaze to the endless horizon of blue, the lake water merging into the distant sky, he felt the world closing in, pressing down.
He was going to be trapped. Even without his feet, when they were in the mountains, Sasori knew he could keep moving, especially after Juubi decided Sasori was worthy to ride him. Although he was at the mercy of others, lost in an alien land filled with flowing water, glacial ice and snow, and more shades of green than anything he had ever seen outside of the Land of Swamps, he hadn’t been boxed in. But on a barge, where he couldn’t swim or walk, he would be restricted to a small space surrounded by strangers and no way to feasibly defend himself outside of a loaned katana.
Sasori hadn’t realized that his hands were shaking until Kagami pried Juubi’s reins out of his grip.
“Here. Here, sit down next to me.” Kagami transferred Sasori smoothly from horseback to bench, Ichi begrudgingly making space. He showed Sasori the pamphlet sample pictures of their second-class quarters, which appeared more cramped than Tsume’s tent. It was narrow, with bunk beds bolted to one wall, a small aisle, separating the opposite wall with a set of shelves for storage, with a sink and toilet in the center. The walls, Sasori’s lip curled back with a silent sneer, was painted the worst color. Was it purple? Brown? Gray? Three entirely different colors, and somehow, some color-blind moron chose a shade that was managed to be a conglomerate* of all of them, and yet none. It was undefinably ugly, and he indicated his disdain with a pointed sentence in his notebook.
“Ah.” Kagami shifted the pamphlet in his hand, as if angling it for different lighting would somehow improve the color. “That is a rather dreary paint choice.”
I would rather bunk in the horse stalls with Juubi than stare at those walls.
With a flip of the pamphlet to reveal the open, airy stalls, Kagami grinned. “It does look more spacious. However, you don’t have to stay cooped up in your room, Kurumi. See, there’s seating on the deck, right next to the shuffleboard courts.”
What is shuffleboard?
“I haven’t a clue.”
In addition to private quarters, stalls for their guests’ horses, and a deck designed for entertainment and relaxation, the luxury hotel offered live bands every night as well as complimentary dine-in brunch and dinner that didn’t differentiate between first, second, or third-class passengers. (Third-class passengers weren’t permitted on the open-air deck, and they had to share a wing that was just a bunch of bunk beds with privacy curtains and six closed bathrooms. First-class passengers had the option of dining with the commoners, or having meals brought to their private cabins, which were larger and tastefully decorated with white and blue colors and deep, rich, mahogany wood trim. There were twelve first-class cabins, twenty-five second-class cabins, and fifty-four third-class bunks.)The barge certainly felt luxurious, given that Sasori’s previous accommodations lopped off his feet, provided horrible Dad Jokes and the opportunity to lose his sanity to their chaos and hellspawn, and force-fed him something he was (possibly) deathly allergic to.
Thankfully, Tsume interrupted this train of thought with her return, triumphant to have found grilled dango and cookies.
“Gosh, we haven’t had anything remotely sweet since we started our journey!” She gave Sasori a paper cup with three sticks of grilled dango glazed with a sweet soy sauce, the same to Kagami, kept two more paper cups, also each with three sticks, for Fumiko and Shisui, and then hoarded the last three paper cups to herself. The cookies she decided to save for later, after assuring Sasori that the dark bits were chocolate, not raisins.
“How generous of you,” Kagami said, eyeing the difference in the quantity of dango that she chose to share versus keep for herself.
“Technically, I’m still eating for two,” Tsume said with her mouth full.

“How many did you eat on your way back to us?”
“Um. I think six?”
Dango wasn’t a traditional treat in Wind, so the opportunity to develop a fondness for it hadn’t really presented itself to Sasori. It wasn’t overly sweet, and therefore not objectionable, he decided. It tasted a little plain, and he felt it would’ve been better if glazed with honey, or flavored with lavender or cinnamon.
The memory of the spices and flavors of Wind – of home – made Sasori dizzy with unexpected homesickness for a moment as he stared at his last stick of dango. When Tsume offered to eat it if he wasn’t interested, he handed his paper cup to her.
oOoOoOo
Juubi balked at the idea of being led onto the luxury hotel barge.
To call it was barge, even if that’s what the locals and pamphlet described it, was a misnomer. It was clearly more like the ocean streamers that Sasori had seen in passing at the ports of O’uzu Island on his way to and from the Land of Swamps aboard a cramped ship. The Reichou was seventy meters long from stern to tail, and three stories tall over the water. The top floor was half-structure, half-open with its deck – with storage and stalls in the below-water portion of the barge/streamer where baggage, carriages, and horses were kept, along with the third-class passenger wing. Sasori, with Tsume’s assistance, had dismounted Juubi and pulled himself astride Ichi because it was clear he wouldn’t be able to continue riding Juubi aboard. Kagami’s katana was secured to his back with the leather strap crossing his chest. The weight of the katana across his back was foreign, grating in its difference from Komushi, and even the small comfort of having a sharp weapon did little to make Sasori feel better.
“I know it’s not ideal,” Tsume told Juubi, stroking his muzzle with one hand and gripping his halter with the other. “But it’s either you separate from us and run rampant around the lake–” Juubi perked up at this, “—or you stay with us. We need you, Juubi. What would we do without you?”
Juubi tossed his head, nearly yanking Tsume off her feet, and his tail lashed angrily. The sudden movement startled Hana, who protested and cried.
Juubi stilled, ears laying back in irritation as Tsume released his halter to stroke Hana’s head, her body swaying. Juubi’s tail continued to lash, much like an irritated cat’s.
“Have you tried beating him?” asked a man in his younger twenties, his platinum-blond hair slick with perfumed oils and his face cleanly shaven. He stood behind them with his own horse – a red roan gelding with cream-colored mane and tail. The gelding vibrated with barely suppressed energy, craning his head to look at Juubi, as if asking What’s the hold up?
It was unusual to see an impeccably-bred Segalwi horse outside of Wind. Juubi laid his ears back in clear aggression at the sight of the other horse, because of course he was a territorial stallion, even if he currently disliked the territory he occupied.
“Absolutely not!” Tsume was outraged with such a suggestion.
“Good.” The clipped word from the man, who dripped with wealth from the cut and material of his clothes to his own graceful steed, indicated that he was willing to confiscate Juubi if he felt they were abusing him. Civilian wealthy were arrogant and used to solving their problems with a judicious application of their money and titles, but also didn’t shy away from using violence to get their own way, in Sasori’s experience. “Such an elegant creature should be treated with the dignity he is due. But he’s never been brought aboard a floating structure before, has he?”
Tsume, confused and flatfooted but still rocking Hana, stared.
“Samurai horse,” the young man continued, eyeing Juubi like a rare piece of art being discovered in a filthy little smoke-filled tavern in the backside of Earth, “excellent breeding and trained for battle. They’re neither comfortable in enclosed spaces, nor do samurai expose them to ships or barges. They’ve always traveled on land,” he added, eyeing Sasori and the wrapped handle of the katana blade peeking over Sasori’s shoulder.
Kagami stepped forward, smoothly imposing himself between Tsume’s face (clear with desperation on how she was mentally scrambling to create a plausible excuse with her role’s barely-remembered background) and the wealthy young man. “It’s true,” he said, “but my daughter gave birth just before we left, so her need to recover must weigh against the discomfort of her late husband’s horse.” He stroked Juubi’s thick neck. Juubi nipped at Kagami’s sleeve.
“I see.” The young man sniffed in disdain, as if he felt a postpartum woman’s health was less important than a horse’s need. The Segalwi Tribe rarely sold their hoses outside of Wind, holding their horses in a higher esteem than their women. (Sasori had witnessed, on cold, windy nights, how often the horses were brought inside the tribal family tents, with lesser family members being booted outside to make room if necessary.)
They certainly wouldn’t have sold one of their priced horses to an outsider if they felt the horse wouldn’t have received the proper pampering and respect it was due. “Well, good luck with that,” the young man declared, sweeping past them with his own horse following at his heel, which cheerfully ignored Juubi.
Well, of course someone who bought a Segalwi horse would think that. Sasori felt a flash at ire with such – he hadn’t been bothered before by the hierarchy of importance in the Segalwi Tribe, but Tsume… Tsume always cared for others before herself, whether it was standing between him and summoned salamanders in her advanced pregnancy to draw Hanzo’s attention, or making sure that Shisui and Sasori and Kagami got first dibs to the food, or how she never let the lack of sleep, so often disturbed throughout the night by her newborn infant, slow her down during the day or shorten her patience, stopping to rest only because Kagami made her. Kagami was correct: Tsume needed the time to rest before they pushed through Fire, more heavily crisscrossed with dangerous foreign shinobi.
Once the young man, trailed by a gaggle of simpering servants, was out of sight, Kagami leaned close to Tsume. Sasori caught the faint whisper of, “Any nin around?”
With the assurance of her head shaking no, Sasori watched Kagami’s hand, sliding across Juubi’s neck to grasp his bridle, carefully twist into a single seal. The faintest whisper of a vision-based genjutsu chakra brushed against Sasori’s senses as Kagami used the grip on Juubi’s bridle to angle the war horse’s head so meet Kagami’s eyes – still dark. “Behave, and remain calm while aboard,” Kagami told Juubi pointedly.
Juubi, in that instance, immediately did just that.
Well, damn.
Sasori had no idea that the Sharingan-induced hypnosis worked on animals. Or that the Sharingan could be disguised with genjutsu. No wonder Kagami had been so reluctant in revealing further details of his clan’s doujutsu.oOoOoOoDay one on the Reichou was spent with Sasori mostly holed up in the second-class cabin that he shared with Tsume, Hana, and the ninken. Tsume spent most of the time catching up on the sleep her body desperately needed, while Sasori spent the time trying to ignore the seasickness (lakesickness?) from the constant rocking. Being wide and a little flatter compared to an actual ocean liner or ship, the Reichou didn’t rock as violently as the times Sasori had traveled to and from the Land of Swamps, but it was as unsettling to his stomach as his nerves. The side-to-side rocking was too different to the back-and-forth swaying of being astride the ninken or Juubi, and the loss of his legs to steady himself with a chakra-grip weighed heavily upon him as he gazed out the small port window over their shared sink and toilet at the endless expanse of blue. Only the use of pressure points in his hands and wrist kept his stomach where it belonged.
Their room wasn’t the same color as the sample in the pamphlet, but the mustard-yellow walls only reminded him of fresh bile, so it hardly helped calm his nerves or stomach. When Kagami offered to bring dinner, confident that he could squirrel away some food, Sasori took one look at the walls, and decided to adjoin with them to the dining room. Since pets weren’t allowed in the dining room, Sasori allowed himself to be piggy-back by Kagami. He listened to Shisui chatter about how much he had already explored the barge, having managed to visit Juubi, the deck, the dining hall in between meals, and already pestered the crewmates on how they “sailed” without sails.
This led Fumiko into the explanation of coal-fired steam engines and their invention in the wake of the First Shinobi War, that the coal had originally been supplied exclusively by Earth until Waterfall discovered and mined their own sources. However, the coal from Earth burned more cleanly, so passenger barges used it almost exclusively, despite the increased expense of such during the current Shinobi War.
Sasori had to admit that while he didn’t know the difference between dirty and clean burning coal, his sense of smell (and Tsume’s, no doubt) would appreciate it.
Seating in the dining room was communal, meaning that everyone who wanted to eat in the dining room had to share the bolted-down rectangular tables, with only the first-class passengers permitted the option of having their meals served privately. Since meals were served in a short window of time with a strict cut-off, strangers of different rank and social class were forced to set aside the discomfort of rubbing elbows with each other or being stuck inside each other’s personal space, unable to stagger or wait until the last minute.
Which was how Sasori and his companions wound up sharing the seated benches of their table with the arrogant wealthy man who had confronted them on Juubi.
Fumiko, completely disregarding the clear signature of the man’s wealth, instantly demanded to know how he had managed to get one of the famed Segalwi horses, a desert-bred animal, to the snowy regions of Waterfall.
The man stared wide-eyed for a moment, flat-footed with Fumiko’s blunt boldness. “Ah. My father bought Shugyoku four years ago from the Autumn Bazaar. He paid a handsome sum, for such a handsome creature. I’ve always loved horses, but my father assured me that these were the finest steeds in the world, more so than even the Samurai horses that I had first fallen in love with as a child.”
“The Segalwi rarely allow non-Wind to buy their horses,” Fumiko said, cutting Shisui’s pork cutlet for him. “I was told that outsiders must receive training in the handling before they allow such a purchase, to ensure that their horses are treated appropriately. The Segalwi cannot be bought, not when it comes to their horses.”
“That is true. I had to spend six months with the tribe learning proper care and handling before the purchase was finalized. Had I failed to meet their standards, my father’s purchase would’ve been forfeited.” He studied her, his watery-gray eyes suspicious. “Forgive me, but you have neither the mannerisms nor accent of an O’uzu Islander, despite the looks. I’ve never seen one beyond an ocean port. I am curious as to why you are so far from home.”
“I’m a native to Fire,” Fumiko replied with a flourish. “A bastard, actually. My mother cheated on her husband, and I’ve never known my biological father, but as you say, my appearance certainly indicates that I share blood with the O’uzu Islanders. Born and raised in Fire, yet clearly an outsider to it and O’uzu Island. I think that’s why I’m a scholar for history, because if I can immerse myself into everyone else’s history, I feel less of an outsider to my own.” Sasori wondered how much truth lay in her story, and felt more than he suspected. (It would, he mused, explain why she insisted on her name as Shimura-Uchiha during their introduction, to pointedly indicate that she belonged, regardless of her exotically foreign looks belying such.)
There was an awkward pause as the young man and Fumiko eyed each other.
Kagami smiled. “I believe we forgot to introduce ourselves before you pounced on this unsuspecting gentleman, my dear.”
Fumiko laughed sheepishly. “I did, didn’t I?” She bowed to the young man with the traditional Wind greeting between two nemeses meeting each other at an oasis, just as she had with Sasori. The young man’s eyes went wide at the sight of such. “Forgive my oversight. I am Rakkasei Fumiko; this is my husband, Tare; our grandson, Shisui; and my husband’s daughter, Gozun Soba, and her daughter and stepson, respectfully, Hana-chan and Kurumi. My darling Tare is a samurai, retired from wounds during the second War. He and his son emigrated to Miyako, the Capital in Fire and found me sequestered in the stacks of the Great Library. He was quite taken in my looks.”
Kagami took her hand and planted a kiss on her knuckles. “And ultimately captivated with your mind and spirit, my darling.”
The young man returned Fumiko’s traditional bow with his own, flawlessly. Sasori forced himself not to stare or freeze as he wondered if either of the two truly understood the significance. (Fumiko should. And after six months of the young man immersing himself in the Segalwi Tribe…) “I am Minamoto Katsu. My father is one of the advisors for Koyo-heika, and my mother is head of the Trade Guilds Association.”
A well-traveled man with powerful connections and a skilled upbringing for political and cultural diplomacy, then. Sasori tensed in the sense of danger zipped up and down his spine, much like Namikaze’s gaze, as watery gray eyes turned on him. Minamoto grew up not just in the lap of luxury, but in the oily shadows of political intrigue. Worst of all, with a six-month immersion and a background in knowing the importance of diplomacy, he would be intimately familiar with the cultural mannerisms of Wind natives. Sasori forced himself to take a bite of his food, trying and failing not to glare at his plate. (Tsume said nothing, too busy wolfing down the food in the manner of a breastfeeding woman desperate for more calories.)
Either because he was used to the care and concern of Koyo-heika for the welfare of her citizens due to his father’s position, or because he was emboldened by Fumiko bluntly ignoring the social cues imposed between strangers no matter the clear class markings, Minamoto asked, “Why would you travel with Kurumi-san’s condition the way it is, especially with his step-mother having clearly given birth very recently?” He wasn’t the only one clearly curious; Sasori felt the attention from those close to their table who had witnessed Kagami carrying him. (Tsume stole the bread bun from Kagami’s plate to sop up her soup broth.)
Fumiko sighed, looking both worried and concerned, clearly a more skilled actress than Tsume. “Thart’s why we’re here.” While Sasori saw danger in such a man’s notice of their group, Fumiko an opportunity for their group to practice their inevitable exit interviews.

(Sasori had expressed his misgivings after their first public foray, given how different their group was. In rural cultures, the way Team Chaos stood out would leave a memorable impression on others and gossip fodder for months to come, which was an antithesis to his shinobi upbringing. Even his undercover missions, few as they were, required him to blend into the background and to leave as few traces or memories of his passing as possible. Kagami had explained to Sasori that subterfuge wasn’t always about subtlety. It was about drawing the audience’s attention to the stage with actors following a script so flawless that the audience gave no thought to the unseen script and director behind the curtains. The problem with this particular stage was that the actors were winging it in front of an audience who was constantly suspicious of the existence of scripts and unseen directors, and Sasori had no choice but to follow the impromptu adlibbing.)“Dear Soba wrote to us almost three months ago, asking for our help. You see,” she glanced quickly at both Tsume and Sasori, sympathy and pity in her face, “Yukimura-san and Kurumi-san were in an avalanche. Kurumi-san’s legs severely damaged and his father was killed. We came as soon as we could to help Soba, to help nurse Kurumi-san back to health, but his injuries were more than we or the little mountain clinic could manage, no matter how much we tried. After the doctor delivered Soba’s baby girl, he determined that Kurumi-san would soon die from the damage, and he had to amputate his feet then and there. The doctor said that even the delay from such to take him to an actual hospital for the amputation would kill him.”
Tsume’s hormones finally came to her rescue as she attempted to hold back genuine tears and sniffles, instead of staring at her soup like she was hearing another creation myth. She probably thought of cute puppies and pointless dandelion fluff.
Minamoto’s lip curled back in disdain. “Barbaric to resort to amputations in a home. I would expect better even from a rural mountain clinic doctor.”
“I’m not sure, Minamoto-sama. The broken bones and frostbite from being trapped in the avalanche before Soba was able to find and dig him out…. The damage was extensive, the gangrene was worsening, and it was clear to us that Soba’s survival hinged on something drastic being done.”
“I have to go,” Tsume said, squeezing out of her seat on the bolted down bench, accidentally kicking Kagami. She rubbed her eyes with a napkin, grabbed a bread bun off the stranger’s plate who was seated next to her, and then retreated with Hana clutched tightly to her chest.
“This has all been very difficult for her,” Kagami explained, watching Tsume’s retreat with the eyes of a father who wished he could forever shelter his child from loss and suffering.
Minamoto shook his head. “Surely recovering a simple amputation was within the mountain clinic’s capacity. There was no need to travel, especially with a newborn.”

“Recovery, yes,” Kagami replied, his eyes and expression still so protective, “but prosthetics? No. Yukimaru was my subordinate in Iron, and was determined to see his son trained in Bushido, no matter that he himself had retired from his war injuries. The top surgeons in Miyako were trained in Konohagakure’s hospital under Senju Tsunade, and they offer excellent prosthetics. Kurumi agreed to the amputation only if he could get such, as he refuses to live in a world that would deny him both his father and his father’s traditions. He wrote us that if he cannot carry his father’s legacy, then it would die with him. The longer we wait on Kurumi-san’s recovery, the more difficult the prosthetic surgeries will be, and Soba herself insisted that we leave the day after Hana’s delivery, regardless of her own health. The thought of losing both her husband and her husband’s son in such a short period was intolerable.”
As nerve-wracking as it was to interact with someone so politically powerful that their house of cards could easily fall apart with the smallest breeze of suspicion, it was also fascinating to watch Fumiko and Kagami, their body language sincere with every revealing artistic stroke of their background. It was much more comforting than watching Tsume struggle and fumble.
Minamoto leaned back and considered Kagami’s words. “Well,” he said, after taking a delicate bite of his food, chewing and swallowing, “if you want prosthetics fine enough to continue Bushido, you won’t find any better than those created by Suna’s Puppeteer Brigade. Not sure if you’ll get those in Fire. I’ve been pushing my father to consider a trade agreement for such, but he’s been reluctant in consideration with our nation’s neutrality and trade agreements with Earth for their coal.” He then leaned forward and pinned Sasori with a harsh light in his eyes. “It is a travesty that our citizens must force a samurai horse on a barge and travel so soon after birth to a country at war with the rest of the continent, rather than being able to find everything they need here in their own country. When we reach Hiza-Ki, I will arrange an audience for you with my father and Koyo-heika. If they won’t hear it from me, then perhaps seeing it with their own eyes will convince them.”
Kagami and Fumiko said nothing as they looked at Sasori, waiting for his response, as they couldn’t gracefully back out of such an offer. The last thing they needed was to draw any sort of attention from the Waterfall Daimyo or her Kage lover.
Sasori glowered at his half-eaten plate of dinner, the food he had consumed sitting like a lump of lead that threatened to rise with a mix of nerves and seasickness. He forced his hands to remain steady as he withdrew his notebook, and wrote, No thanks, and soundlessly held it out to Minamoto.
“He’s been mute since his father’s death,” Fumiko whispered.
“You’re mute?” Minamoto asked, eyebrows rising to his hairline, eyes scanning backwards over other things that Sasori had written. He turned to Fumiko and Kagami and said, with the haughtiness of one used to people following his orders without question, “Then you must take the audience with my father and Koyo-heika.”

Sasori yanked his notebook back, not bothering to hide the shaking in his hands, and hoped that his fear would be mistaken as prideful anger. I am not an animal to be put on display so others can gawk at my tragedy.
Minamoto’s eyes went wide, and he glanced at the other occupants in the dining room. “Oh. Oh, I hadn’t considered…” He straightened himself, covering the sheepish surprise beneath a veil of high court manners, studying Sasori with empathetic eyes. “I imagine that this attention must be embarrassing for you.”
Sasori, with all his resentful preteen self-channeled through his pen, wrote, Leave me alone. Then he hunched over his plate, sullenly pushing the rest of his food around, and studiously ignored the gaze and attention of everyone around.oOoOoOo
Later that evening, chewing on a mouthful of dried mint to help ease his nausea as Tsume changed the dressings on his stumps, Sasori broke role with his mute character and asked Tsume if Fumiko really was a bastard from the Shimura clan. He trusted Tsume’s nose to notify them of being overhead.
“Yup.” They kept their voices low, not audible beyond their thin walls and door, unwilling to attract attention of curious passersby. “She’s actually Shimura Danzo’s younger half-sister. I guess it was quite the scandal back in the day, with Danzo’s mom cheating on his dad while he was away on a long-term mission. The pregnancy became obvious just after he was killed on that mission, so there was no way Danzo’s dad could’ve been the sire with the timing of his absence. Their mom couldn’t even pretend that Fumiko was legitimate after she was born. It was so obvious that Fumiko wasn’t a Fire native, even if her mother was. Danzo hated her then, and only mildly tolerates her now. I remember… during the Second War, the first time I met Kagami. Danzo and Kagami were teammates, you know, genin and more under the Second Hokage, back before he became the Second.
I guess they’ve always got along, Danzo and Kagami. Their third genin teammate was killed some time ago, can’t remember when, although I’m not sure anyone ever told me.”
Sasori rolled his eyes, impatient with her off-topic rambling, but grateful for it being a distraction. It gave him something other than pain and the condition of his stumps to focus on as she cleaned and dressed them. “You were telling me about the first time you met Tare.”
“Oh, right. Yeah. Anyway, Danzo was so happy to see, uh, Tare. Like, up until then, I didn’t know if Danzo knew what happiness looked like. He’s always been so sour and unpleasant, scares a bunch of people. And then Dad said something, and like a light switch flipping off, Danzo soured right into anger. I remember telling Dad that he sure pissed Danzo off and I didn’t even know how, and I usually knew why Danzo was pissed off.”
Likely because she was the one pissing Danzo off in the first place, Sasori thought impatiently. Especially every time Danzo was trying to get a straightforward explanation or report out of Tsume.
“Anyway, we commiserated and both agreed that Danzo could be a real idiot at times.”
The Bingo Book entry for Konoha’s War Hawk and the Suna intel on Danzo’s pissing match with Hanzo didn’t paint the picture of idiocy. Danzo was a sly, subtle ninja who worked in the shadows, leaving very few enemies alive. He was very much like a Suna assassin, but without the use of poisons. “What has this got to do with Fumiko?”
“The first time I met Kagami – Dad, Tare, he also told me about Fumiko, about the family scandal of being a bastard, and that Danzo resented Fumiko, because she represented his mother’s weakness and unfaithfulness. Fumiko grew up with that resentfulness and the distrust of the village because she’s so clearly different with her hair and her skin. Dad said it wasn’t her fault, because she couldn’t help who her sire was. Dad introduced me to her over dinner once we got back to Konoha, and I loved her the moment I saw her. Fumiko is one of my most favorite people in the entire world, Kurumi.
When I grow up, I want to be just like her.”
It was odd to hear Tsume think of herself as a child still in need of growing up, given her status of motherhood. Even odder, given how the qualities shining in Fumiko was impossible for Tsume, with her brain injury, to achieve. “You’ll never have her intellectual mind, no matter how old you grow.”
“Oh, I know that. But I didn’t mean being like her, intellectually. I meant like in her spirit. Fumiko grew up a, you know, a social parasite? No, that’s not the right word…”
“Pariah,” Sasori offered, his voice dry.
“Yeah! That’s it! A social pariah. She was resented by her own family and denied by the clan she bore the name of, and look how she turned out.” A look of vulnerable desperation flashed briefly across Tsume’s face – the hurt of a six-year-old child bleeding across her eighteen-year-old face, aware of her brain injury and how it changed her and impacted her relationships with other people, still self-conscious of what she used to be, however distant time and subsequent brain injury had faded the memories of those first six years of life. “She refused to let other people’s opinions define her. She rose above it. I will, too, some day.”
That… that would be nice, to rise above the toxic bitterness of his grandmother’s deceitful letters. To one day prove that they no longer had the power to keep hurting Sasori.oOoOoOoDay Two on the Reichou, Tsume – feeling much more rested and not at all suffering from any seasickness – decided that they needed fresh air. Sasori and Tsume had chosen to sleep through breakfast and instead snacked on some of the smoked salmon that were stored away in the ninken’s saddlebags. Since pets were allowed on the deck, where a patch of “artificial turf” was used for their toileting needs and was hosed down by staff over the siding after every use, Tsume successfully ignored Sasori’s silent protests and bullied him into riding Ichi up to the deck. She dragged a pair of heavy metal deck chairs, the legs screeching across the waxed wooden floor, close to the public toilet stalls, dumped Sasori into one deck chair, and told him and Ichi to “enjoy the view and stay out of trouble.” Then she sat down next to him and brazenly lifted the hem her stolen sweater to breastfeed Hana.
Said view consisted of a pair of wealthy women (a mother-daughter pair, according to Sasori’s assessment of the family resemblance and age difference) who eyed Tsume’s behaviors and dress with open disgust and whispered about what they witnessed behind their silken fans, and Minamoto and a manservant of his. Minamoto was stripped down to a pair of trousers and a sleeveless shirt who had been flexing his muscles for the younger of the wealthy women, practicing the traditional Waterfall fencing while armed with Wind shamshir. (A handsome young man displaying his prowess was clearly more acceptable to be half-naked hedgehog Tsume with her hanging rolls of stretch-marked skin and leaking boobs.)
“That’s a lot of water, Kurumi,” Tsume said, effortlessly ignoring the audience’s attention as she stared at the endless lake. She scowled at a crewmate who approached them to pointedly remind Tsume that she wasn’t permitted to move the deckchairs, and she needed to immediately put them back where she found them. “Why?” She pointed at their proximity to the toilets as Sasori contemplated ways of throwing himself overboard just to escape attention, and then realized that drowning would probably draw even more attention than Tsume’s lacking awareness of proper social mores and concept of quiet voice. “We need to be close by in case my step-son has to empty his bladder. I’m really not allowed to lift more than ten kilos, and my ni—dog can only help for distances too far for Kurumi to crawl.”
A ninken could effectively haul an adult cross-country without damage. An ordinary dog couldn’t. They had agreed to use Ichi only when Kagami was unavailable. And since she had forgotten to enlist Kagami’s assistance in her quest for fresh air until they reached the second floor, Tsume had decided they were committed now and would just keep going.
“Wait, do you guys have a wheelchair we could borrow?” Tsume asked, leaning forward in curiosity.
The crewmate did not have wheelchairs to loan out. Which made sense to Sasori, since wheelchairs couldn’t go up and down stairs.
Tsume glared. “Well, that’s an oversight on someone’s part,” she said, as if they currently weren’t in a situation caused by her own oversight with failing to ask Kagami for help. “What if you had a passenger who injured their ankle or knee onboard? How would they get around? What kind of hospitality are you guys offering to your passengers?” Then she dismissed the crewmate with a pointed sniff. “Luxury hotel barge my butt,” she mumbled, turning her attention on Hana. “I bet they do have wheelchairs, but it’s for their first-class passengers.”
“Ma’am, your pet needs a leash whenever you leave your cabin.”
Ichi growled.
“Be nice,” Tsume told Ichi. Then she snapped her fingers and pointed at the floor. “Lay down.” Ichi obeyed. “Good boy,” she told him. And then to the crewmate, “I’m sorry, I forgot a leash, but he’s very well trained, I promise. He won’t budge unless I tell him to, or unless you’re a bear or a mountain lion attacking our sheep.”

The crewmate glowered, but with Ichi obediently laying down with his massive head resting between his paws, he allowed them to remain where they were at, with a stern warning that the moment Ichi jumped or snapped at another passenger or crewmate, they would be immediately escorted back to their cabin. (“I told you, unless you let bears or mountain lions be passengers or crewmates, Ichi won’t cause any trouble.”)
Minamoto resumed his spar with his manservant, and the mother-daughter pair were soon distracted from their scandalized whispers.
Sasori studied Minamoto’s fencing – as familiar as the curved shamshir in his and the manservant’s hands were, the style was incongruent to the Academy’s teaching. Every year, before the annual break where the nomadic students would join their tribes prior to their travel to the annual Autumn Bazaar, it was tradition for Suna to showcase the growing swordsmanship of their nomadic kindred to their allied tribes. Since the student families were already present in Suna to fetch them for the Autumn Bazaar, which marked the start of Wind’s trading season when the worst of the summer heat finally abated enough for internation travel, they attended a tiered tournament held between students. Only the pride of a good showing was the prize for the tournament, and Sasori – as grandson to the esteemed Elders of Sunakagure – was required to attend every year as an honored representative for Suna. Even after he had graduated, even with a war going on, the Kazekage always made sure that border patrols and missions didn’t excuse Sasori’s absence.
Over the years, Sasori grew to at least appreciate the art of the swordsmanship, though he felt it paled in comparison to Puppeteering. In addition to the tournaments, there was the festival sword dancing of ardah, where teams and solos for nomadic male Academy students would display their talents with the rhythmic beating of war drums. While the nomadic tribes reluctantly permitted their daughters to join the Suna Academy and learn how to use the swords for fighting, they were adamant that their daughters not participate in ardah. (Sasori’s mother had been an Anizah tribe daughter who went to the Suna Academy. Chiyo still had Mother’s shamshir stored away. If Chiyo had simply been honest about his parents’ deaths when it had happened, Sasori might’ve insisted on taking up the shamshir and the swordsmanship classes. But she hadn’t, and he hadn’t, and so Mother’s blade gathered dust on a shelf in Grandmother’s bedroom.)
Sasori supposed that the raqs al-bateni, the fertility dance of the tribal daughters that always followed ardah, was a poor female equivalent, although he appreciated the symbolism – ardah showcased a young man’s virulency and ability to defend his family in battle, and raqs al-baten was supposed to be a response to the virulency and symbolized interest in a young man’s potential to defend future families. It also did not contain swords, only veils, which veered away from actual tribal raqs al-baten. The girls had decided that the veils would symbolize shields, as the Academy tribal daughters considered themselves warriors just like the tribal Academy sons, and therefore was only ever seen performed such in Suna. Sasori was offended on behalf of the Academy kunoichi-in-training and his absent mother, because ninja didn’t traditionally use shields, and Academy tribal daughters should be permitted the use of weapons in their dances.

Minamoto’s Waterfall fencing style seemed to consist mostly of staying still and gracefully deflecting parrying against strikes. It was completely impractical to Sasori, as his shinobi eye easily picked out every flaw, from the way they stood, each with one foot forward and the other back – so easy to unbalance – the non-sword hand folded behind their backs to increase the difficulty of maintaining balance. The style was completely worthless for dodging attacks, relying entirely on parrying and blocking. In fact, it looked like the entire point of this style was not to move their feet at all.
(Sasori bitterly eyed their unmoving feet, thinking, what a waste, as his phantom left big toe itched.)
And then, to his great chagrin, Sasori noticed that Tsume was ignoring the fencing to surreptitiously toss the seagulls (lake…gulls? They seemed to be the same species that flocked to ocean ports) pieces of last night’s bread bun. Sasori hastily wrote in his notebook, Stop it! You’re going to get us into trouble with the crewmates. Feeding seagulls is against the rules! and then shoved it into Tsume’s side.
Tsume pouted when she read it. “I’m bored, and you’re not a great conversationalist.”
Sasori didn’t trust Tsume’s conversations in public. She had a tendency to provide details, however she struggled to obscure or avoid the origins, that could easily be connected to Konoha.
Tell me about your birth mother.
“My… my birth mother? Uh. Well, she died when she gave birth to me. I came early. My grandmother….” Tsume cringed, unable to come up with a believable story, or just reminded of unpleasant childhood memories. “Maybe we shouldn’t talk about my mother.”
Do you know any games?
“Uh, none that you could probably play. I’d show you how to play go, but I didn’t bring a set. I’ll keep my eye out for one, though. I think you’d actually enjoy playing!”
Sasori had a feeling that a bored Tsume was a Tsume looking for trouble to get into, and most anything that would be sufficiently distracting skirted the edges of Konohagakure too closely and suspiciously. Even asking her about her favorite recipes would surely bring up ingredients not available in Waterfall.
Luckily, Hana chose just then to noisily fill her diaper. Tsume made a face at the odor. “I didn’t bring any diapers or wipes. Are you okay to just stay here while I’m off changing her, Kurumi?”
He wrote, come back with Fumiko and Shisui, because at least Fumiko could distract them with more mythology and history, having the perfect background as a scholar from Fire to get away with any of her stories.oOoOoOoOn Day Three aboard the Reichou, Tsume blew their cover wide open in front of Taki’s jinchuuriki. Because of course that would be Sasori’s luck. Of fucking course.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

On Day Three of the Reichou, they made port early in the morning at a large village on one of Lake Kogen’s 100 Isles (this particular island was Isle Go-juu-roku*, as apparently whoever named the islands got the idea of their naming skills from Inuzuka Shinzou). Since they would be at port for four hours for old passengers to disembark, new passengers to board and settle, and the crew to restock coal for the steam engines and other necessary supplies. Tsume decided that four hours was plenty of time to take Juubi and the ninken for a walk to “stretch their legs”, and Fumiko, given the village size, decided to disembark and hunt down some bookshops for research material of whatever she could greedily get her hands on. Kagami and Shisui, ever delighted to accompany Fumiko (and likely that Kagami would be needed for his Sharingan to get Juubi to agreeably return aboard the hotel barge), joined them. Sasori, being in no mood that would patiently tolerate strangers gawking at his legless state while astride either Kagami or Juubi, decided it was in his own best interest to remain on the barge.
The fresh air of the open deck yesterday had been relaxing, so with what little grace and dignity he could muster, Sasori allowed Kagami to piggyback him up two flights of stairs to the open deck before the rest of Team Chaos left. Sasori pointed at the open area they had reclined in yesterday, because it was a decent proximity to the bathrooms, and decided that sitting the deck floor was preferable to any more dragging of deck chairs and the embarrassment of the crewmates’ subsequent lectures. When Kagami asked Sasori how he was going to entertain himself without his family’s presence (companions’ supervision, Sasori’s brain corrected, because it was clear that Kagami was uncomfortable with not leaving Sasori safely barricaded in his cabin while the others were ashore), Sasori wrote in his notebook that he was going to practice his katana forms and draw waterscapes.
Reluctantly accepting this, Kagami nodded, and notified the single crewmate present that given Kurumi’s trauma-induced muteness, she should avail herself to checking every hour if Kurumi needed any refreshments. After Kagami left, the crewmate apparently decided that if she just supplied Sasori with unasked-for refreshments that she wouldn’t need to check on him every hour.
While the lemonade with fresh mint leaves artfully floating on the surface was welcome, the dish of mixed nuts and raisins was certainly not. Clapping his hands furiously at the crewmate until she approached him with a verbally polite inquiry of his needs that did little to disguise her body language that screamed irritation, Sasori held up his notebook and pointed: I’m allergic to raisins. Are you trying to kill your guests? (If he managed to die from exposure to raisins, he was going to haunt his assassin for the rest of their miserable life. Sasori intended to die gloriously in battle, taking down every opponent, after first outliving his grandmother’s span of years. Akanasu no Sasori would not be eliminated by a shriveled-up grape!)
She blanched, and immediately bowed and apologized several times before snatching up the dish and retreating.
She did not bring him any replacement snacks.
Which was just fine, Sasori thought, vexed, as he unsecured Kagami’s katana from his back and freed it from the saya. He focused on the forms Kagami had taught him, beginning with drills for each individual form until he was warm enough to sweat despite the prevailing morning chill of early spring blowing across a large body of near-freezing water. After shedding the fur-lined poncho, leaving his upper body clad only in the undyed homespun linen shirt that had been bought in a passing village before they reached the first port, Sasori then practiced switching randomly between forms, allowing new muscle memory of the motions to let his mind drift in a semi-meditative state. Kagami had explained there were more forms that Sasori needed to learn, but since they combined footwork, it was best to wait until he obtained his prosthetics.
Sasori distantly wondered if this meant that Kagami would continue to teach him how to use a katana during his recovery and rehab in Konoha. Which… one part of Sasori felt warm with the lingering offer, a very small part, while a very large part of Sasori rejected the notion because even genuine offers came with strings attached. Strings that looked far too much like tangled chains, meant to bind and subjugate. And a disingenuous offer… well, he had enough experiences with those to know no faith should be placed in such, given his track record of receiving so many from his fellow Suna nin.
(But Kagami wasn’t deceitful. He was always honest, even with his maulipulations. Surely no offer given would be disingenuous…)
Having been disarmed of his puppets and poisons, left with no choice to use his chakra threads while undercover, Sasori was aware of how quickly and how easily defenseless he’d been rendered. It was always good to have a backup in the future, in case his puppets were destroyed, his poisons were useless or had run out, and his chakra level were too low to effectively use his chakra threads to overpower enemies. Living bodies required substantially more chakra to control than corpses. A sword would give him a sharp, pointy reach that taijutsu ill-afforded him, and it would be nice not to let his mother’s shamshir rot away on a dusty shelf.

Sasori was a shinobi raised on Chiyo’s philosophy that there should always be a backup for his backups. In her case, she had meant the bodies – dead or otherwise – of his enemies should his puppets be rendered useless. With the wisdom and experience that the years had given him, Sasori could see the importance of not limiting himself to what Chiyo expected, especially now with the unpleasant experience of being cornered by way of no puppets, no poison, no feet, and no chakra threads.
After an hour of his practice, which attracted only passing attention from the few passengers who lingered on board while being studiously ignored by the single crewmate (who still hadn’t brought him snacks to replace the mix of nuts and raisins, leaving Sasori in a foul mood as his stomach gnawed in hunger), Sasori’s arms were trembling with exhaustion and a building soreness from using muscles he had never before used in such a manner. Sasori sheathed the katana in its saya and moved to secure it to his back. Then, eyeing the expanse of water with other passing barges and fishing vessels, Sasori decided he didn’t want to sketch waterscapes.
He withdrew the katana blade from the saya and rested it across his thighs. The blade practically sparkled under the sun, the light brightening the metallic gleam of the waterdrop Damascus pattern. Sasori’s fingertips itched as he traced the pattern with his eyes.
It was truly beautiful.
Sasori hadn’t brought a sketchpad – hadn’t had one ever since he had been sick with malaria and vomited all over the one he had brought to the Land of Swamp, since paper material was too difficult to obtain during the war and it was largely reserved for communication and production of blast tags – but Fumiko’s notebook would do just fine. The mechanical pen she gave him took some getting used to, compared to the graphite pencils he used previously, but the rough sketches of the hilt let him familiarize himself with the flow of ink and the lines the pen made. Bent over the notebook, he focused on replicating the raindrop pattern in the blade without limiting it to blade’s shape, working from one corner of the page to another, refusing to let himself be frustrated with his initial attempts. The sweat of his earlier exercise was slow to evaporate in the humidity, leaving him sticky and chilled.
Sasori briefly paused in his art to slip on his poncho, freeing his sable-brown hair from the collar pressing it against the back of his neck. He poured himself a cup of lemonade and gulped it down (huh, more sour than sweet with a minty undertone. Not bad. It wasn’t enough for Sasori to forgive the raisin blunder, but he was willing to allow the crew-wench to live another day). Noise filtered through his senses as people made their way about the port, commerce with returning fishing vessels becoming a wordless hum in the background. There were a few more people (civilians, he noted, with a suspicious glance at them) coming and going on the deck, milling around bored while waiting for the hotel barge to finish restocking. Nothing stood out in his senses as a potential danger, so he went back to his sketching.
Curve by curve, dark playing against light, the hustle and bustle of the outside world faded away as Sasori immersed himself in creation. Unnoticed minutes slipped away, as smooth as the ink flowing endlessly from his pen.
And then corrosion seeped through the cracks of his awareness, gliding like the toxic fog of summoned salamanders. The corrosion of demonic chakra ripped through Sasori’s senses, pen frozen with the tip pressed against paper. Sasori’s awareness was abruptly yanked away from his meditative sketching. He felt a cold sweat break out across his neck and back, and forced his eyes to rise from his sketch and covertly survey his surroundings.
There were four civilian passengers and one crewmate on the open-air deck, and none of his Konoha human companions anywhere nearby. Two pairs of footsteps thudded loudly on the steps leading to the deck, like the beats of war drums, as raised voices drew closer.
“…telling you, I sense the chakra of a shinobi!”
Sasori’s eyes flickered from the stairway to his notebook, and then to the samurai-made katana balanced across his knees. Kagami had assured him that any sensed chakra of Sasori’s could be easily explained by Bushido. He had the katana. He lacked feet. He had a viable background that could easily pass muster, and so he would shield and armor himself with it. And it made sense.
He had no voice in which to give the background story, as his accent would be a dead giveaway.
But to try hiding would be a fruitless endeavor against a sensor, and would only be suspicious.
Taking deep breaths to steady the shaking of his hand, Sasori forced himself to continue sketching the raindrop pattern; just a civilian with some Samurai Bushido training, that’s all that he was. He had no choice but to continue the farce, silently cursing his companions’ decision to take a fucking hotel barge instead of traveling around the lake on foot, more easily bypassing notice from Taki nin with Tsume’s marvelous nose. He was trapped, and he knew it.
The lines that Sasori drew were shaky, the fine motor control for smooth etching lost to his growing fear, as one pair of footsteps paused a distance away, and the other pair of footsteps continued closer. The pen came to a stop at the same time the pair of booted feet also stopped, directly in front of Sasori.
“I gotcha now, foreigner! Show me your sanction papers!”
Sasori reluctantly raised his eyes upward. The Taki nin standing in front of him was a tall man in the standard Taki jounin uniform of a long turtleneck covered with a sleeveless flak jacket, his clothes varying shades of gray to mid blue with his forehead protector hanging around his neck like a noose. The dark-haired man was broad in the shoulders and lean at the waist, one hand hanging casually at his side while the other pointed a kunai at Sasori, face clean-shaven and his crag-shaped brow jutting over bright blue eyes. Sasori said nothing as he turned back to his notebook, flipping the pages to his written conversations with others.
The Taki nin kicked the notebook out of Sasori’s hands, sending it and the pen skidding across the deck. “Don’t ignore me, you arrogant sonofabitch. Answer the fucking question!”
Without the notebook obscuring his view and with no way to communicate, Sasori stared at his leg stumps, hidden in the loose, knotted folds of his trousers. He glanced sideways at the crewmate, who knew that Sasori was mute, but she was a spineless coward who wouldn’t speak up on his behalf, too busy cringing and trying to edge towards the stairs. Somehwere beyond the limited field of his vision was the jinchuuriki, leaking the corrosive demonic killing intent. Sasori, aware that he didn’t dare reach for Kagami’s katana, slowly raised his shaking hands in the air, and then carefully brought one hand towards his throat. He moaned deeply, trying to indicate he couldn’t shape words.
“I wasn’t born yesterday. I know what I sense.” Hands, moving in a blur, snatched the katana away from Sasori’s lap and flung it wide. Out of the corner of Sasori’s eye, he saw the katana strike the wooden deck point first, blade quivering, next to the Taki nin’s partner. To Sasori’s mounting horror, the partner – Taki’s jinchuuriki – released a crushing spike within the killing intent, laden with demonic chakra, all too similar to Shukaku’s. It was enough to paralyze the four civilian passengers who had initially gawked in silence with the confrontation against Sasori, as well as the single present crewmate. (The crewmate actually fainted, falling with a distant thump.)
The first Taki grinned sadistically down at Sasori. “Cat got your tongue, boy?” Fingers ruthlessly shoved into Sasori’s mouth. He fought back his gag reflex and the vicious desire to bite as the Taki nin pinched Sasori’s tongue painfully tight and yanked it out. Sasori made no attempt to grab at the hand to push it away. The root of his tongue burned. “Hah! You’re perfectly capable of speech. You won’t show me your sanction papers and you won’t talk. You’re coming with me. On your feet, boy!”

Sasori remained frozen, his tongue painfully pinched in the Taki nin’s grip. A giddy, hysterical thought rose in Sasori’s brain, floating above the fear and horror, sounding too much like his missing Komushi: What feet? In the distance, he heard the clatter of horse hooves galloping across the wooden dock and people screaming at the reckless rider. No! His brain screamed, as if Tsume could read thoughts and not scents. Stay away, you brainless fool!
“I said, on your feet NOW!” The Taki nin viciously kicked Sasori’s legs, and struck the left stump at the amputation site with his reinforced steel-toed boot.
A scream of agony ripped free from Sasori’s throat as he threw himself backwards, tongue ripping free of the pinching grip, a spear of white-hot agony shooting through his entire body that made his vision waver.
“Wha—”
Tsume cleared the distance from Juubi’s back on the docks to the third-story deck of the luxury barge in a single chakra-powered leap, and slammed screaming into the Taki nin. “STAY AWAY FROM MY BOY!” The force of her collision sent the Taki nin head-over-heels across the deck, the wooden flooring cracking as he struck and bounced. Rather than following through with the attack, Tsume crouched protectively over Sasori’s body with her feet planted squarely on either side, one hand lightly resting on the deck floor, and the other safely pinning Hana to her chest while the folds of her untied wrap dangled loose. Sasori clutched desperately at one of Tsume’s leg and felt their house of cards fall apart around their ears. He blinked tears of pain as his vision briefly tunneled into white, the agony freezing the breath in his lungs.
No. No no no no!
Tsume’s own killing intent spiked all around them, like flares of a beacon. From his angle and with his vision, Sasori couldn’t see Tsume’s facial expression, He didn’t need to.
We’re dead.
“I fucking knew it!” The first Taki nin righted himself, now double-fisting two kunai. He was gleeful with bloodlust, gloating with satisfaction. “Enemies who snuck across our borders! Attacking us in our own country!” The jinchuuriki’ s killing intent was rising to overpower Tsume’s, though he remained still and unmoving.
“You kicked my boy, you bastard! You made the first move on an injured person who can’t even say a word in his own defense! Is this the famed honor of the brave Taki shinobi who have sworn to protect their countrymen, beating an injured child?” Sasori had never seen Tsume’s rage. She coiled like a wolf preparing to attack, tension tightening her muscles, but roared like a mother bear. “You’re nothing more than a bully!”
And then Sasori found his arms shoved full of a baby and wrap, both he and Hana stunned quiet from the clashing killing intents as Tsume shoved Hana against his chest. He raised his eyes and watched as Tsume took five deliberate steps forward and sideways, putting distance between her young charges and the Taki nin. Colored blotches from the nauseating waves of pain floated in Sasori’s vision.
“If you’re going to pick on someone,” her voice dropped into a deadly whisper as she straightened in clear challenge, barely audible in the rushing of blood through his eardrums, fingers flexing and tips glimmering as she used chakra to extend her nails into razor-claws, “then pick on someone your own size. I’m right here!”

Between the smothering, corrosive killing intent pressing down on everyone and the excruciating white-hot agony radiating through his entire body from his stump, Sasori mentally retreated from his body, felt oddly detached from everything he was witnessing. Thoughts and observations floated like whisps of distant clouds.
The Taki nin’s face burned bright red to behold Tsume. He stammered as bloodlust shriveled into embarrassment, and then pointed. “At least button up your blouse before I come at you!”
“Why? Is the thought of striking me in my adult naked boobs somehow worse than kicking a twelve-year-old in his amputated stumps? Your priorities are shit.”
“No!” Incensed now, the Taki nin threw his kunai. Tsume caught them both and flung them over the side of the barge. “How dare—”
“I’m not fighting you!” Tsume yelled. “I won’t raise my hand against Takigakure because we’re not here as enemies! But you will raise your hands against my kids over my dead body. So come at me if beating up someone weaker makes you feel so damn important!”
And dead bodies would come to just that, because their entire civilian background was unraveling into what it was – a clever attempt of undercover subterfuge in front of Taki’s damn jinchuuriki, forsworn to protect Waterfall with extreme prejudice. Because Tsume – his fearless, brain-damaged Tsume – moved with the grace and power of a trained kunoichi with no expected reaction to a jinchuuriki’s paralyzing killing intent. Only the most powerful shinobi and brain-damaged simpletons would seem unaffected, and they wouldn’t mistake Tsume as the latter.
“Where are your sanction papers if you’re not enemies, bitch?”
Tsume planted her hands on her hips. “I don’t have any.”

“Stop.” The jinchuuriki’s voice was quiet, the whisper carrying the weight of an army as his killing intent somehow worsened. “Both of you.”
“T-Takuma!” Even the Taki nin was starting to shake from the crushing force of the jinchuuriki’s killing intent, face growing pale and sweaty as he turned, wide-eyed, to his teammate. “You, you heard her – foreign shinobi without sanction papers! And she did attack me. Kn-knocked me clear over here! Ryusuikage has ordered you to execute every one of them immediately!”

Tsume smiled viciously at the jinchuuriki, raising her hands in bold defiance and planting her feet in a clear taijutsu stance. “I will rip your throats out with my bare teeth before you touch my kids.”
The jinchuuriki’s face was shrouded in shadows with his back against the rising morning sun, his face and head hidden beneath a kasa hat that was more curved than traditional, the tilted brim hiding all but his square jaw and lips. He was easily one of the tallest men Sasori had ever seen, broad and powerful. His lips were pressed tightly together with a barely-contained temper. Bijuu everywhere, regardless of their tail number – but especially the one in their very midst – immediately dethroned Tsume’s gouka inugami as the greatest fear Sasori had. Not even Shukaku in a bad mood had produced this brutal intensity of killing intent. “Namiko, you are a blundering fool to strike a defenseless child claimed by an Inuzuka clanswoman.”
“But–”
“Honorable shinobi.” Sasori would’ve flinched in surprise when he heard Kagami’s calm voice firmly slice through the chaos if he wasn’t already paralyzed from the jinchuuriki’s killing intent. “Please allow me the chance to explain.”
Sasori managed to turn his gaze, and saw Kagami, Sharingan glowing, as he balanced on the deck’s top rail with his hands tucked into the sleeves of his midnight blue jacket. Languid and lanky, like a predator unconcerned with the potential challenge his prey may bring, as unaffected by the killing intent as Tsume. If Sasori didn’t know how carefully Kagami controlled his emotions, he would’ve assumed that Kagami also had a damaged amygdala.
“As I live and breathe, Uchiha Kagami. I wasn’t aware you were still alive after all these years.” The jinchuuriki gave Kagami a sharp nod, coming to an immediate decision. “Very well. For you alone I shall permit the opportunity to explain.” Then, hand digging into the first Taki nin’s collar, he yanked his teammate off his feet and dangled him protesting into Kagami’s line of vision. “Please knock him out for me. He is annoying.” Kagami’s Sharingan instantly spun, and the first Taki nin immediately went limp in the jinchuuriki’s grasp.
“I assume you also don’t want him to remember this, so he won’t,” Kagami said.
The jinchuuriki gestured at the four civilians still present on the deck as his killing intent eased back. “Get out of here.” They stared wide-eyed at the jinchuuriki, then at Kagami, and then hurriedly retreated on shaking legs, at least one of them leaving behind a puddle of urine. They tripped over each other on the stairs in their haste to escape the deck, one body thumping as it rolled down the stairs. The jinchuuriki dropped his companion’s limp body into a heap on the deck, right next to the fainted crewmate. To the heap, he pointedly said, “I reserve the right to abstain from killing, no matter the Ryusuikage’s orders.” He removed his hat. His face was broad and aged in appearance, his dark hair thickly threaded with white, and his deep-set eyes the dark gray-blue of the underside of thunderheads. “I do not kill children, no matter their allegiance.”oOoOoOo
Tsume insisted, before any explanation took place, on evaluating the damage the Taki nin’s kick did to Sasori’s stump, ordering Kagami to fetch a first-aid kit just in case.
Still clutching Hana in shaking arms, who, without the smothering killing intent that had paralyzed her, was now wailing in terror, Sasori found himself carted over to a metal deck chair and deposited in it. Despite Tsume’s gentleness, every movement only added more shooting layers of pain radiating from his stump, even more intense than the jinchuuriki’s earlier killing intent. The agony was worse than the first time she treated the infection in his stumps, draining and irrigating abscesses. As Sasori forced one shaking hand to stroke Hana’s head in what he hoped would calm her caterwauling, Tsume undid the knot in the end of Sasori’s left trouser leg, which were already saturated with fresh blood. He felt his heart thudding in his chest, like a desperate caged bird flinging itself against its bars to escape.
“I should rip that man’s throat out,” Tsume growled, carefully folding the trouser length back. Then she carefully undid the bandages, breath hitching when she evaluated the damage. “Oh, Kurumi, I am so, so sorry. He shattered the end of your larger leg bone. I… I think I need to pick the shards out.” A wave of her Mystic Palm to evaluate the unseen damage of his tibia did nothing to alleviate the pain. “It’s fractured all the way up to the other end. I don’t know if there’s any possible way to splint this. I’m not allowed to even try healing someone else’s bones, considering the risk of bone cancer. But I think I can try numbing it a little.”
He couldn’t even nod as the staticky white and colored blots of his vision worsened.
The jinchuuriki helped himself to Sasori’s lemonade, the pitcher of such still upright and completely undisturbed from the brief confrontation, as Kagami – panting from the efforts of his speed – shunshinned to Tsume’s side with two first aid kits. Tsume’s stuttering Mystic Palm managed to decrease Sasori’s pain level from I am being actively mauled by a bear to raw nerves dipped in acid. It at least made it easier to breathe. Tsume pressed a fold of her linen wrap against the stump, trying to stem some of the bleeding. “Your comrade is a bully and a monster,” she snarled at the jinchuuriki.
“Tsume, I’ll press,” Kagami told Tsume, seating himself on the edge of the chair. “You need to tuck yourself away.”
“I was busy breastfeeding when Kurumi was ambushed!”
“Then either resume breastfeeding, or tuck yourself away, Tsume. Actually, you should breastfeed. It will calm you and Hana down.”
Between the Sharingan that was still on active and the jinchuuriki’s cold acknowledgement of Tsume’s clan identity, it seemed to be an unspoken decision between his Konoha comrades that only Sasori’s true identity should remain protected.
Tsume took Hana from Sasori and stuffed a nipple into Hana’s mouth, no longer needing the silicone shield now that Hana had the hang of appropriate mouth placement. Between her on-going ire with Sasori’s condition and her bloody hands, she looked like a feral wild woman who lived in caves and terrorized whatever stray innocent wanderer blundered into her territory.
“I’ve never seen you this angry before,” Kagami told Tsume, voice filled with awe, like Sasori’s voice had been when he called Komushi out of their tent to come see the aurora borealis.
“I am livid! How dare he attack my boy!”
With Sasori’s cup of lemonade, looking small within the jinchuuriki’s hand, the jinchuuriki strolled with loud footsteps across the deck, pulled Kagami’s katana free from where it was stuck, and then seated himself on a deck chair next to them with the katana resting, tip down, against the deck chair. He placed his hat on the deck next to the katana. “How long has it been?” he asked Kagami casually, as if they were distant acquaintances who randomly stumbled into each other at a market stall, after years of not seeing each other.
“Before Tobirama-sensei’s death in the First War,” Kagami replied, with the same tone of voice as someone telling their distant acquaintance, you’re right, tomatoes are out of stock. His Sharingan glowed like two bright embers. “Even before I married my darling Fumiko, so more than thirty-five years ago.”
“We were on opposite sides then, too, Kagami-san. You never used your Sharingan against Chomei, though it would’ve ensured your victory. I still respect you for that.”
Kagami’s answering smile was polite as his Sharingan faded to onyx-black. “And you never used your tails against me. My respect for you is mutual, Takuma-san.”
Sasori, too used to enemy nin refusing to hold back if he crossed paths with those who survived him and neither having respect for the other, forced himself to focus on them as a distraction from the pain.
As if sensing the confusion, Takuma the seven-tailed jinchuuriki, turned his attention upon Sasori. It was highly uncomfortable. “You see, young one,” he began, “you can tell a lot about a man’s character is the way he battles, with how he treats his opponent. This one, Uchiha Kagami, fought me without malice, and without fear of the one,” he briefly touched his chest with the lemonade-free hand, “sealed within. He respected me as a man, as a human being, and not as a weapon. It is a rare experience, even with allies. It is…” Something melancholic crossed Takuma’s face. “It is a cherished gift that Kagami-san gave me. Though we stood on opposing sides then and fought to a standstill, and may very well be on opposing sides now, I feel that whatever reason has brought him to my country is likely without malice.”
“And what about me?” Tsume asked. “What gave me away as an Inuzuka?”
Oh please, what didn’t scream Inuzuka in her stance, her immediately-formed claws, that ridiculous hair, and her rabid mother bear protection for her young?
Takuma sipped Sasori’s lemonade. “I have also faced Inuzuka women. Your defense for the young is very telling. Inuzuka Natsumi also fought me without malice, during the First War. But she is an odd one, even more so than the other Inuzuka.”
“That’s polite way to describe Natsumi,” Kagami said, switching his hand for one of Sasori’s to apply pressure to the wrap. Sasori’s confusion for this sudden change cleared away when Kagami shunshinned to the stirring crewmate, Sharingan already activated. He bent over her and grasped her chin, forcing her to look directly into the Sharingan.
After a moment, the Sharingan faded. “Oh.” The crewmate’s voice was weak. “I don’t know what happened.”
“You fainted. Dehydration and overwork,” said Kagami with a concern that could easily be mistaken as genuine. “I don’t think you struck your head, but you should seek rest immediately.”
“Y-you’re right.” Kagami assisted her to her feet. Her eyes were glazed over, unseeing the Taki nin’s body next to her, nor Sasori, Tsume, or the jinchuuriki. Kagami assisted her across the deck until they reached the stairs, and Kagami made sure the crewmate had a firm grasp on the railing before he released her.
With a chill, Sasori realized that a Sharingan hypnosis was so powerful that, combined with genjutsu, overwrote memories. To someone with an eidetic memory, whose reality was firmly rooted in what he assumed was accurate, the realization was almost as terrifying as Tsume’s gouka inugami or Takuma’s killing intent. (No wonder Kagami hadn’t been comfortable discussing the Sharingan’s abilities to Sasori, much less using the Sharingan hypnosis on Tsume… Had he ever used the hypnosis and memory rewriting on Sasori without him realizing it? The realization would’ve made Sasori’s hands shake, if they weren’t already so unsteady from the pain.)
When Kagami returned to them and took over applying pressure to Sasori’s stump, the jinchuuriki continued speaking, as if no interruption took place. “Inuzuka Natsumi is too arrogant in her self-assurance to be even modestly respectful of others, but at least she treated me the same as anyone else. It’s nice not to be ostracized. She fought for the joy of the battle – not in bloodlust – and occasionally in defense of others. She is the only one who ever sought me out afterwards. Not to instigate another fight for her personal enjoyment, no, but because she truly wanted to know more about me, and more about Chomei, the Nanabi.” Takuma touched his chest again, this time as something akin to wonder crossed his face. “Natsumi never had any intention to use the Nanabi as a weapon. She had met Chomei years before the First War, before the founding of the Hidden Villages, and had always wanted to know more.”
Evidently, Tsume had inherited more than just the gouka inugami from her aunt. They apparently shared an unhealthy fascination with dangerous beings.
Tsume shifted to make herself more comfortable, jamming her elbow into Sasori’s side as she seated herself more fully on the deck chair. “Is that why you signed up to be her personal summon?”
Takuma cleared his throat and looked sheepish for a moment. “Ah, no. I lost a bet to Natsumi-san.”
“Let me guess, poker.”
He cleared his throat again as his cheeks turned red. “I would rather not discuss that.”
“Ah hah! Strip poker!”
Kagami poked Tsume with his foot. “Boundaries, Tsume.”
“Oh. Yeah. Sorry about that.”
Takuma waved his meaty hand. “Water under the bridge, as they say. Although I miss our visits whenever she summoned me. She was always careful to do it in your Forest of Death, where I wouldn’t be able to spy on Konohagakure. Our visits were put to stop after your Hokage filed that restraining order, citing national security and Natsumi’s reckless stupidity.”
Yup. Sounds exactly like someone who was related to Tsume.
“The worst we did was exchange recipes and have picnics.” His sigh was heavy with regret. “I never did get that promised butterscotch cookie recipe. They were delicious.”
“Shunchuu’s butterscotch recipe?” Tsume perked. “I got that one memorized! I can give it to you.”
“I will gladly accept it. Now, what is your explanation for being in Waterfall without sanction papers, Kagami-san?”
Kagami hesitated for a moment. “Ah, that depends. Do you want the honest truth, in as much as I can share, or plausible deniability?”
Takuma’s answering laughter was booming, deep enough to rattle Sasori’s eardrums. “You see?” he told Sasori. “This is what I mean by a man who is respectful. He doesn’t immediately default to deception to tell me what he thinks I want to hear, or what will best serve his personal interests. Kagami-san gives me the choice.” Then, to Kagami, “The honest truth, first.”
“I will state, in all honesty and with all respect, that our presence in Waterfall was entirely accidental and therefore unsanctioned.”
“How did you manage to enter Waterfall, unsanctioned?”
Kagami hesitated once more. And then, “Ah, you aren’t the only human who signed a summon contract?”
Was that how the Hiraishin worked? (Sasori immediately thought of the fuuinjutsu seals that Namikaze painted on the wax-pendant that Hana still wore. Fuuinjutsu was ultimately how summon contracts work, he knew, but the Hiraishin didn’t quite fit. For one, Hana didn’t sign a contract with blood, and Namikaze didn’t use any of his own…)
Takuma stared. “Don’t tell me…”
“All right then, I won’t.” From Takuma’s expression, he hadn’t meant for Kagami to take his expression of surprise seriously. “Tsume, here, was outside of Fire, in the opposite direction of Waterfall, with Kurumi-san. Suffice to say, her supply run to Suna wasn’t meant to be more than a C-rank mission, given that Tsume was ten days from her daughter’s due date. However, catastrophic injury that shouldn’t have happened with a C-rank delivery befell Kurumi-san.” Kagami indicated Tsume’s newborn infant, who was happily suckling away. “Tsume’s water broke while she and Kurumi-san were in dire straits. I can’t tell you how, because you told me not to tell you, but Tsume managed to get herself and Kurumi a thousand kilometers away from their situation, and found themselves high in the mountains, north of here.”
Takuma scowled. “I’m going to assume that you somehow joined her in the same manner, rather than using this travel method to return Inuzuka-san and her companion straight to Konoha.”
Tsume matched him with her own scowl. “I wasn’t going to repeat that thing-we-won’t-talk-about to get back to Konoha. For one, I don’t have control of where I wind up when I use that damn thing. For another, the force of using it tore my placenta. My own mother bled to death when that happened to her, when she was pregnant with me. Luckily, I was able to heal the tearing, but I was literally stuck giving birth in yonder mountains. I…” Her scowl morphed into concern as she looked down at Hana. “I didn’t know what that kind of force would do to my little baby. I figured it was best to travel back to Konoha on foot.”
“Mmm. With her summon – a regular one, not human, although I cannot tell you what it is, Takuma-san–”
“Nah, it’s okay,” Tsume interrupted. “I have the bear summons”
Kagami glared sternly at her. She sheepishly hunched down.
“Tsume, you shouldn’t go around telling people what you’re able to summon. It’s called a trump card for a reason. Our enemies already expect Inuzuka Natsumi’s heir to summon, they just don’t know what. Anyway, Tsume was able to send word to Konoha about their current location and conditions. Her bear summon was then able to reverse-summon me and my wife to Tsume and Kurumi’s location, because we could tolerate the cost that she and Kurumi couldn’t, with their current conditions.”
Takuma was grim as he took another sip of Sasori’s lemonade. “I see.”
Sasori didn’t have any summons, although Uncle Ebizo held a contract with scorpions, which Sasori’s father had shared. Sasori had asked Uncle Ebizo why his father didn’t use a reverse-summon to escape the White Fang’s lethal attack, after Chiyo finally revealed the truth, and Uncle Ebizo had explained that reverse-summons were impractical. It felt like being thrown into a coffee grinder, ripped apart, and then poured over a raging bonfire, all at the personal cost of the human summoner’s own chakra. If you didn’t have enough chakra to piggyback off the reverse-summon, you were never seen again – and who knows if it was because you were trapped forever in the summon’s plane of existence, or somewhere in between dimensions. As a jinchuuriki, burdened with the gigantic construct of a seven-tailed chakra demon, the dangers of being a personal summon was likely nothing for Takuma, but he seemed to reluctantly accept that Tsume and Kurumi really had no choice but to remain in Waterfall.
Of all the Taki nin to explain their presence to, thank the Eternal Sands that it had to be the one person that Tsume’s bizarre aunt had managed to talk into being a personal summon. (How? Actual summon contracts were said to have all originated from the Sage of Six Paths and attempts to replicate them with other creatures was historically declared to be impossible. Clearly no one ever told Tsume’s crazy aunt that it was impossible. Either that, or the Inuzuka Bubble of Delusion was impervious to Sharp Needles of Reality. Evidently, the Bubble of Delusion was so powerful that Reality had no choice but to bow to its whim.) And thank Tengaku and Chiki that explaining their arrival as a misfired human summon to the one person who was a summon easily avoided any mention of the Hiraishin. Sasori had a feeling that spreading that kind of information around would be Very Bad, probably worse than the Sharingan’s abilities.

“We, all of us, are noncombatants. I retired from active shinobi duty because of my congestive heart failure, Takuma-san, just at the end of the Second War. Complications of rheumatic fever that scarred the valves.” Kagami shook his head. “I don’t have the stamina to fight as I once did, although I can use my Sharingan to diffuse a situation in a pinch. The Hokage felt, given Waterfall’s neutrality and how Tsume and Kurumi were unsanctioned visitors, that my wife and I were the best choices to assist them out of the country. Tsume and Kurumi, given their current conditions, are on medical leave from any fieldwork. We’ve remained true to our noncombatant status by discreetly using evasion and deception to avoid conflict.”
And indiscreetly summoning terrifying soul-eating hellspawn. Best not to mention those.
“Well, there is Juubi,” Tsume hedged, clearly aware that she was probably blundering, but also wanting to be honest.
“I figured he counted as retired since Mifune-dono gifted him to you. Juubi is a samurai war horse who hasn’t seen battle since the Second War,” he explained to Takuma, “but I brought him along to provide transport for Kurumi, given that we cannot physically carry Kurumi-san across two countries with our health.”
“We’re just refugees trying to make our way home,” Tsume added, voice soft and pleading.
“Getting sanction papers to pass through Waterfall is a little difficult when one unexpectedly lands themselves smack dab between the ocean port of North Akarui, and Hiza-Ki, the only two points of entry into your country where one can feasibly get sanction papers, but I assure you, Takuma-san, Konoha respects your neutrality, and we would’ve done this by the book had the situation permitted such.”
Takuma was silent for a long time as he pondered their explanation. “I am concerned with how I am not the only human Inuzuka Natsumi has signed onto a summon contract. And I suppose, given the power of such a thing and how it could easily turn the tides of the war in Konoha’s favor, you cannot offer me reasonable assurances that such a power isn’t a threat against us. Elsewise your Hokage would’ve notified the Ryusuikage of Tsume and Kurumi-san’s unplanned arrival and condition.”
Kagami shook his head. “One, this is a failed experiment of Natsumi’s. Through her non-jinchuuriki volunteers, a mere three Inuzuka clanswomen – one of whom is Tsume – we’ve learned that the personal cost of chakra when summoned is too great to be of any use to whomever they are summoned by. Turns out, only someone like a jinchuuriki can sustain such a cost. Not to mention the difficulty with accuracy if used to independently reverse-summon themselves, as Tsume has already pointed out.”
“I wouldn’t have done it for me and Kurumi if I hadn’t been so desperate,” Tsume added softly.
Sasori marveled at how honest Kagami sounded as he presented his deception, how flawlessly it explained their presence and yet downplayed the dangers of it to someone with the power to execute them on the spot, and how Tsume’s horrible acting never made an appearance. The deception was spontaneous, with no advanced planning or practice. (Or was it? Maybe Inuzuka Natsumi had tried signing her clanswomen into a summons contract that was ultimately a failed experiment, and Tsume and Kagami just simply decided to plop the truth of it in place of everything in which the Hiraishin played a role.)
“Two,” Kagami continued, “Tsume and Kurumi are very vulnerable. We must assume that any message the Hokage sends to a foreign leader is likely to be intercepted by our enemies. A message sent to the Ryusuikage cannot be guaranteed to arrive secure and untampered. I will not put a mother with a newborn or a severely injured and crippled twelve-year-old at an increased risk of ambushes as they make their way through Fire back to Konoha, no matter how important it would’ve been to notify the Ryusuikage.”
Takuma silently mulled over Tsume’s words as he drained the last of the lemonade. Then he turned his eyes upon Sasori. “You haven’t said a single word this entire time.”
There was something dangerous in Takuma’s thunderhead eyes, a quiet suspicion that for all of Kagami and Tsume sounding honest and sincere, they were still clearly hiding something. And yet, at the same time, Sasori glimpsed a shadow that reminded him to Bunpuku. The shadow of a man who was awed by the companionship a young boy freely offered, despite the terrifying presence of the tailed beast he was inexplicably linked to.
Takuma wanted to trust them, and wanted to show them that he was worthy to be trusted. “I’m Suna,” he replied, voice cracking from disuse. “I was the Suna nin Tsume was supposed to deliver the supplies to. She found me, when I was the only one on my team to survive an ambush by Kiri.”
Eh, close enough to the truth of the sabotaged oasis. “Tsume was trying to take me by foot to Konoha for medical treatment when Hanzo attacked us outside the borders of Rain. That’s when Tsume’s water broke.”
“Your accent is distinct; I understand now why you never spoke up in your defense when Namiko confronted you. Being attacked by Hanzo would explain the dire straits that forced Tsume to use a so-called failed experiment to drop into the heart of Waterfall. It also adds a layer of complications in communicating with the Ryusuikage, having to explain why Konoha is responsible for a Suna nin. The Ryusuikage wouldn’t have accepted sanctions request from the Hokage, which would mean involving your Kazekage. More messages to be intercepted by more enemies, especially if one such enemy was Hanzo himself. Oi oi oi. What a mess. It would be easier to plead for forgiveness than to ask for permission, eh?” Takuma leaned back, all doubts and suspicions clearly assuaged with Sasori’s contribution. His killing intent spiked briefly, scaring away whoever was ascending the deck stairs. “What is your plausible deniability?”
Kagami reached into his pockets and withdrew Tsume’s letter and Fumiko’s forged sanction papers. He briefly explained the backstory and identities they created, finally admitting that he had also brought along his three-year-old nephew (which surprised Sasori, wondering why none of his companions had bothered, in all this time, to correct his misconception that Shisui was a grandson), again without mentioning Sasori’s true identity.
Takuma stared. “Your three-year-old nephew can sustain the cost of a reverse-summon?”
Kagami shrugged, as if it was no big deal. “He’s Uchiha, with all the energy of a toddler. He was in better shape after it than I was.”
“Half-Uchiha,” Tsume said, almost offended that Shisui’s lineage would be underplayed. “His mother is Inuzuka. Kakashi was able to henge himself when he was just a week old.”
Takuma muttered something about how the Uchiha and Inuzuka both produced monster children under his breath as he studied the letter and forged sanction papers. Then he burst out laughing. Which wasn’t the reaction Sasori would’ve thought was reasonable when studying forged sanction papers. “Tell me that your Fumiko doesn’t do this often,” he said, the laughter dying into amused chuckles as he indicated the sanction. “This forgery is flawless!”
Kagami tilted his head in sincere apology. “I assure you, Takuma-san, that my darling Fumiko uses her talents only for good. Her skills are used for creating official replicas of ancient documents for museums and universities, not forgery. It was only out of necessity that she used her skills in such a deceptive manner.”
“I do feel assured to hear that. I appreciate how forthcoming you’ve been with your honesty.”
“Ah, is the honesty enough avoid execution?”
“I will not kill children.” Takuma carefully folded the sanction papers. “And I have no intention of facing Inuzuka Natsumi’s wrath should I leave little Hana orphaned due to executing Tsume. I feel it’s in the best interest of my country’s wellbeing to avoid the Hell Hound’s vengeance. Even the tailed beasts have souls, and have good reason to fear her gouka inugami, no matter how well-behaved they were during our picnics. That… that only highlighted how terrifyingly in control of such destruction Natsumi is,” he added with a shudder.
And just like that, the gouka inugami resumed their previous position as supreme ruler on Sasori’s personal list of The Most Terrifying Things Ever.
“Will you help or hinder our journey?” Kagami asked, cautious.
“Neither. I will unofficially side with your plausible deniability. It will be your responsibility to succeed, or fail, however your luck may hold. Although," Takuma chuckled, "Choumei wants to inform you that she feels like your group has an extraordinary level of good luck, so she has faith in your success. My partner and I were headed elsewhere, away from here. We only came aboard at his insistence that he could sense the chakra of a shinobi present.”
Sasori felt tension bleed away from his spine at that declaration.
“When Namiko awakes,” Takuma pointed at the unmoving lump of his fellow Taki nin, “what will he remember?”
“He should wake up by this evening, remembering he had far too much plum wine with dinner last night, and will be so miserably hungover that he will never drink to blackout again.”
“Ah. That takes care of that matter, then. I thank you, Uchiha Kagami, although you’ll need to do something with the witnesses I shooed off.”
“Already did, when they met my eyes after you told them to leave. They fled the deck, frightened to have seen the legendary Kogen Serpent**, but will be too scared to mention to others lest they be mocked.”
“What’s the legendary Kogen Serpent?” Tsume asked as she removed Hana from her nipple. Hana was in a blissful milk coma, and didn’t fuss as all as Tsume settled her in Sasori’s lap. She immediately buttoned her blouse closed.
“My darling Fumiko found a book earlier this morning, on the local folklore and lake legends of the Kogen Serpent. It is said to be a thirty-meter-long primitive beast, often likened to a dragon or a serpent, who dwells within the waters of Lake Kogen and is responsible for bringing the ferocious storms and water sprouts that has sank barges.”
Takuma grinned as he stood. And then, after lugging his limp comrade over his shoulder, he said, “The Kogen Serpent is as real as the Nanabi, and as destructive as they say. Her name is Nessie.” With that joyfully delivered ominous factoid, he added, “I look forward to that butterscotch cookie recipe,” and departed by jumping over the deck and landing on the docks below.
“Overall, I feel like that went well,” Kagami said brightly. And then, to Tsume, “Here, take over. After you jumped off of Juubi, I left him with Fumiko and Shisui. They’re going to need my help to charm Juubi back aboard, given the state you left him in. We’re due to leave the docks in the next thirty minutes or so.”
“All right. Thank you for your help, Kagami. I’m not sure I would’ve been able to get me and Kurumi out of that situation.”
“Situations like these is why I allowed the Hokage to briefly talk me out of retirement.” With a wink, he exited down the deck stairs.
With a tired sigh, Tsume rooted around one-handed in one of the first aid kits to remove a set of tweezers. She had Sasori swab them thoroughly with an alcohol swab, and gently peeled back the blood-soaked layers of her wrap. “I feel like something must be done about your bone. I think the way it splintered could release bone marrow clots. I remember my cousin Oyubi being Village-bound and on stroke watch for a long time after she broke her femur.”
“What does my tibia look like?”
Tsume pressed her lips together tightly. “You know how an overcooked chicken bone splinters into fragments when you crack it open? Yeah, looks like that.”
Sasori whimpered. The risk of bone necrosis was frightfully high with such a complex compound fracture damaging surrounding blood vessels. The added risk of a thrombosis caused by fat globules released from the tibia’s bone marrow was equally frightening. If Sasori didn’t have any strokes… if he lost the tibia, the effected leg would need to be amputated above the knee if he had any hope for a permanent prosthetic. With the loss of his knee joint, his viability as a successful shinobi would be greatly reduced, no matter what Kokoro would insist.
Sasori had thoroughly educated himself on prosthetics after Komushi lost his arm, barely retaining enough of a shoulder joint to implant the prosthetic after the necrosis had been treated with maggots.
“If you keep it numb, I can thread everything back into place.” Internal chakra threads to knit together a splintered chicken bone was surely easier than the thousands required to scrape his insides free of arsenic. However, he doubted he could successfully maintain the chakra threads for however long it took to make it to Konoha.
And a repaired bone meant nothing if there wasn’t a viable blood supply to keep it alive. “Do you think you could use your Mystic Palm to heal the splinters enough that the bone will hold, and repair some of the blood vessels that feed the bone?”
The self-deprecating smile Tsume gave him as she shook her head was that of someone who was well-aware that even her attempts to help too frequently turned into a horrible disaster, just like how her attempt to protect Sasori from a suspicious Taki nin had blown their cover wide open, or her attempt to improve his iron levels by force-feeding him raisins.
But given the choice between guaranteed bone necrosis and the distant possibility of bone cancer in the future, Sasori knew which one he trusted the odds of his future with. People’s behaviors and reactions reflected who they were, and not necessarily a reflection of the events they found themselves in or the companions they reacted against. Everything that Tsume had done for him reflected how she was a well-meaning but naïve fool with a lackluster memory for appropriate social cues, but she also never demanded anything from Sasori. Not because she didn’t trust him, but because whatever she gave in word and in action was given freely, with no expectations or demands to receive like for like. There was no hidden agenda, no manipulation, and no dishonest purpose. No matter what negative things she hid within her void, Tsume smothered them beneath so many puppies, sunshine, and ridiculous dandelion fluff that love just spilled out of her void. She was filled with so much love that she shared it through her desire to protect, to be kind, to make others happy.
(She… she faced down the seven-tailed jinchuuriki’s killing intent. For him and him alone. Only Komushi had ever faced down danger to protect Sasori.)
With a breathless clarity, Sasori realized that the white wolf within Tsume was ferocious. Feeding her white wolf didn’t weaken her; it strengthened her in unforeseen ways. Sasori never would’ve squared off against the Seven-Tails jinchuuriki for anyone who wasn’t Komushi. (And that white wolf would have to be ferocious – without fear, without anger that didn't involve endangered children, Tsume’s black wolf would never match her white wolf in strength.)He clasped her shoulder. “Tsume, do you trust me?”Without hesitation, she replied, “I do. It’s me I don’t trust.” Then, worried, she dropped her gaze back down to his leg.
Sasori’s trust had been fragile little glass baubles, shattered into smithereens, and the shards had shredded his heart. He had been cut too deeply by the shards, rendered so vulnerable, that he couldn’t let himself want to trust anyone – not others, and not himself.
But… but maybe Kagami was right. Trust didn’t have to be a fragile glass bauble. It could be more like a pottery vessel, ordinarily perfect the way it should be before its shattering, but that ordinarily perfect vessel only becomes valuable when knitted back together with veins of precious gold. Sasori had suffered through a lifetime of adversity crammed into a mere two weeks with Tsume, surviving only because of the gold veins that Team Chaos quietly and patiently knit through Sasori’s shattered trust.
Feeling breathless with this revelation, Sasori caught Tsume’s chin and angled her eyes to meet his. “Do you trust me when I say that I trust you?”
Tsume’s face was initially blank at Sasori’s question. And then, like the sun peeking through a thick morning mist, her eyes brightened and the muscles around her mouth tightened, and the bright, colorful dawn erupted across her face. “Yes. Yes! I will trust you to trust me!”
Close enough. “Numb the leg.” She obeyed without hesitation, laying glowing green hands over the stumps. Sasori closed his eyes and formed internal chakra threads. Bone shards ground against each other as he pulled them together, slotting each in place like puzzle pieces or broken pieces of pottery, dragging through torn, inflamed tissues that he felt the pressure of, but was thankfully free of any pain signals. (He also found and destroyed two fat globules before they could travel any closer to his heart and brain.) Once he had raked and knit all the bone shards together, wrapping them in woven chakra threads, he whispered, “Heal the bone enough for the shards to fuse together.”
Under the sensation of his chakra threads, he felt the gaps between the bone pieces shrink, and then finally fuse together. The bone shards weren’t healed completely, but the fusing would hold. Tsume redirected herself to the more difficult task of repairing shredded blood vessels. Sasori threaded chakra through the blood vessels he wanted healed, bridging across the space where they had been rendered apart. Her chakra seemed to chase after Sasori’s internal chakra threads. Like a child clumsily coloring between the lines, Tsume’s Mystic Palm followed the chakra threads. He imagined that they looked like veins of gold binding together broken shards of pottery; that, together, he and Tsume were repairing that broken vessel of trust.
Between the two of them, Sasori felt that the damage done today… it wouldn’t be permanent. It would heal.
And maybe, just maybe, some of the damages in the more distant past, in the life he knew before Tsume had crashed headlong into it, could also heal.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

On Day Four aboard the Reichou, Sasori realized that for every two steps forward he took to recenter himself, he found himself inexplicably stumbling backwards at least one step. The peace he had felt yesterday when he extended trust to Tsume had disappeared, though the memory clung like the impression of a comfortable hug. In the place of peace was now a crawling sensation under his skin, and he found himself scratching his arms, as if he could claw his way free of his own body. Not even enduring his wound care at Tsume’s hand (she forgot to numb them, and he forgot to ask) could successfully distract him from the two wolves warring in his soul.
He… he missed his Grandmother. He missed the moments with Chiyo when she taught him, because she had never been intimidated by his intelligence like so many other Suna nin had been. In fact, had she only coached and nourished his knowledge and intellect. He missed the quiet times they spent together, pouring over science, reviewing and researching toxins and poisons, debating different ingredients and the best ways to mix them. He missed how Chiyo would challenge him to come up with poisons that caused only certain effects in a certain amount of time. She never smiled or said anything in those increasingly frequent moments where he met her challenges and exceeded her expectations, but her eyes would shine with pride. (Lost. All of it gone forever after his eleventh birthday. Worst birthday present ever.)
He missed the Kazekage, and how the man had taken Sasori as an apprentice, an unspoken recognition of Sasori’s natural talents and the backbreaking hard work Sasori had suffered to hone those natural talents. He missed those moments when he had been admired by others because of his apprenticeship with the Kazekage – shallow as it probably was, there had been people in Suna who had admired Sasori without jealousy and without wanting to get close to further their own ends, and Sasori had liked that acknowledgement.

It felt validating to just be seen. It made him feel like the Milky Way, admired for his simple existence without having to justify or prove his purpose, or strive to meet the expectations of parents who had refused to come home until he could (parents who were never going to be returning home, parents who couldn’t have expectations because they were dead). He missed the Kazekage’s gentle guidance, the correction without rebuke, and the quiet reliance in the faith for his leader. (Gone. Subtly slain with something that held no odor or taste, no hint of the treachery brewing within that quiet reliance.)
An eidetic memory was both a blessing and a curse. In this case, it was a curse, because the memories of Chiyo and the Kazekage’s deceits were still as fresh as the day he had initially felt them, in stark contrast with the same fresh memories of how much he had loved and trusted them, and the positive experiences they had shared.

Sasori wanted to destroy them like they had destroyed his life; he wanted revenge against the Kazekage’s betrayal; he wanted to hurt Chiyo as much as she had hurt him. He hated them. He wanted the toxic energy that was fueled by revenge and bitterness.

He wanted to forgive them; wanted to love and trust Chiyo and his Kazekage as he remembered loving and trusting them.
Sasori also saw the glimmer of something beautiful between him and Tsume, and he greedily craved for its existence, but he also feared it – feared the pain he would feel if Tsume were to hurt him the way that Chiyo and the Kazekage had hurt him. And he could see the relentless shadow of Hatake Sakumo in everything that Tsume did – from the douton jutsu that others said that Sakumo had wanted Tsume to learn and master, to her nindo that those who abandon their mission are trash, but those who abandon their companions are worse than trash, and how tightly she clung to it by refusing to release Sasori from her maternal grip.
Sasori suspected that if Tsume was forced to choose between Sasori and Sakumo, she might not choose Sasori. (He hated being anything other than someone’s first choice.)
He also hated Sakumo. He hated how his parents and their puppets had been lost to him for so many years, but worse still – his grandmother never would’ve needed to resort to any deception if Sakumo had never killed Sasori’s parents. In a way, Sakumo had killed Chiyo and Sasori’s relationship the day he had killed Sasori’s parents. Sasori wanted to annihilate Sakumo, and destroy everything that man had ever touched or built.
But he couldn’t find it within himself to annihilate Tsume. He… he desired and despised that beautiful, precious, broken pottery vessel that he shared with her. Would such a beautiful thing even exist without Sakumo’s influence? His parents’ slayer had taken a brain-injured simpleton who had been degraded and devalued by her guardian, and he had nurtured and protected and guided Tsume into becoming the remarkably trusting, infuriatingly chaotic, ferociously protective young woman who was now front and center in Sasori’s life.
(He wished, desperately, that he could be a brain-injured simpleton, who was blessed to forget pain and betrayal.
…It suddenly occurred to Sasori that the same poor memory that struggled to remember the experiences of pain and betrayal would, by its very nature, also struggle to remember the experiences of success and friendship. That was… huh. Poor recall was just as much a double-edged sword as an eidetic memory. Sasori knew exactly what he was, because he remembered everything – provided there was no Sharingan-induced memory rewriting. Tsume was left constantly questioning herself because she couldn’t really remember. No wonder her self-esteem was so lousy.)
(“To thrive, you must first make peace with yourself.”
And Sasori wasn’t thriving. He was ripping his soul further into shreds. He scratched harder at his arms, wanting desperately to escape his own skin.)
Sasori declined Tsume’s offer of breakfast with a shake of his head and watched her leave with Hana in her arms while the bloodstained linen wrap soaked for a third time in their room’s sink, but not before she insisted on giving him a hug. It felt warm and safe, dangerously poised on a precipice that overlooked a lethal distance to the bottom.

Since the dining staff was adamant that pets weren’t permitted in the dining hall, the ninken made do with Tsume’s absence by immediately moving from their space on the floor to Tsume’s bottom bunk, ruthlessly commandeering her pillows and blankets.
Yesterday’s major blood vessel repair had only been targeted to feed and support Sasori’s tibia, and the bruising from other damaged blood vessels extended far above his wound dressing, half-way between his knee and pelvis. It was a deep, unbroken eggplant purple above his knee, before fading into splotches of purple and dark gray mid-way up high thigh. Sasori gritted his teeth in disgust as he wrangled himself into a clean pair of pants, careful not to jostle himself. He made sure his notebook and pen were tucked secure in his waistband (because of course Tsume would steal him a pair of pocketless trousers) and then secured Kagami’s beautiful raindrop Damascus katana across his back. Then he used his chakra threads to carefully lower himself off the top bunk onto Tsume’s bunk, firmly nestling between Ichi and Ni.
While scratching behind their ears and between their shoulder blades made the ninken feel better, it did nothing to ease the phantom itching in Sasori’s big left toe, nor the growing unease that demanded he claw himself free of his own skin. He finally pulled himself astride Ichi. “Take me to Juubi,” he whispered in Ichi’s ear.
Ichi held still for a moment, clearly signaling that he wasn’t obedient to Sasori, before he huffed as if tiredly agreeing to Sasori’s request, and jumped off of Tsume’s bed. Sasori used his chakra threads to open their cabin door, but his physical hand to close it behind. He didn’t bother locking it because 1) Tsume had forgotten their cabin key, sitting next to the faucet beside the soaking linen wrap (Sasori double-checked to make sure he had his key – yup), and 2) anyone dumb enough to steal from their cabin deserved Ni’s wrath.
Crewmates and fellow passengers ignored Sasori as he rode Ichi down the hall and descended the main stairwell that opened into the baggage/carriage/horse holding understory. The windows, square, unlike the round window in Sasori and Tsume’s cabin, were above water level, enough to let in daylight, but not enough to not necessitate the low-level lights for decent visibility.
There were six horse stalls in total, all wider than the cabin that Sasori had to share with one other human and two almost horse-sized ninken. All six stalls were closed with chest-high wooden gates, and all were occupied. One stall had a pair of horses – dainty little appaloosa mares, almost twins in appearance. Juubi was in the stall that shared the far wall of their barge. Sasori had a sneaking impression that the hoof-shaped holes in the wall was likely due to its present occupant. Juubi was haltered, with one end secured to his bridle and the other to a deeply-embedded metal loop.
When Sasori, with a careful casting of his senses to ensure no other humans were present on the lower level, used his chakra threads to open the gate, Juubi jerked his nose out of the hanging leather feed bag, and whickered softly at him. A mix of sawdust – ceder, per Sasori’s non-Inuzuka-nose – and hay was layered thickly on the floor, which was etched with deep grooves that angled into a drain hole that was centered within each stall. The ceder was pleasant to smell, and partially absorbed the odors of horse droppings and urine. Staff clearly hadn’t gotten around to cleaning up overnight deposits, so Sasori was careful to lower himself from Ichi’s back onto a patch of clean patch of sawdust-hay.
He laughed beneath his breath as Juubi huffed into his dyed hair and nuzzled him.
“I missed you, Juubi,” Sasori whispered, stroking the velvet nose. Juubi wasn’t a decent stand-in for Komushi, but he had been a solid part of Sasori’s daily routine since Hana’s birth. Necessity had thrown them together, and a bond of trust had been borne through a rather nonsensical fight with clumsy bandits. Animals, even higher forms like a demi-summon horse like Juubi, wouldn’t manipulate Sasori the way that humans could. Sasori found a quiet comfort with Juubi’s presence. “Thank you,” he whispered with another stroke against Juubi’s nose. Ichi, with a huff, turned around in place three times before flopping down, cradling his head in Sasori’s lap. He pointedly looked at Sasori’s hand.
“I came here with a purpose,” Sasori whispered, removing his notebook and pen from the pocket.
And then he distracted himself for the next few hours, sketching different forms of Juubi. He calmed the rage in his soul, and tried to feed both wolves beauty, since he didn’t know how else he could feed them. He was especially proud of himself for capturing Juubi’s movement and grace as he galloped across a plain dotted by cactus, and was showing it off to an unimpressed Juubi when Tsume and Shisui found them.
“Excellent job with the tracking, my dear nephew,” Tsume declared brightly. She ruffled Shisui’s hair. For once, she was baby-free. At the look of Sasori’s face – or even the odor of his confusion – she explained, “I’m still working on taking the bloodstains out of Hana’s wrap, so Fumiko snatched Hana up for some baby cuddles. I bought a game, yesterday!” She proudly held up a small travel-version of something called Go. “And even if you aren’t in the mood to learn, Shisui said he’d play with me.” As Sasori flipped to the front of his notebook where he could write his questions, Tsume added, “You can talk if you want. No one’s close enough to hear. I’ll let you know when someone’s approaching.”
Sasori set the notebook aside, the pen secured within the page spiral.
“And if I do want to learn?”
“I can watch,” said Shisui. “I have to practice my fingertip leaves anyway.” And since he didn’t have any leaves to practice with, Shisui decided that picking through the sawdust to find large enough shavings to be a viable replacement was good enough. (He had to be sternly warned not to touch any horse poop.)
As Tsume sat down next to Sasori and busied herself with unwrapping the go game, Sasori decided to ply her for more information.
“Shisui is your nephew. He’s also Kagami and Fumiko’s nephew. But he addresses them like grandparents, and no one corrected me on this assumption whenever I referred to them as such. Which is it?” Sasori then braced himself for a long, rambling explanation.
“Well, he’s not really my nephew, biologically-speaking,” Tsume said. “His mother, Shinchuu-chan, is a distant cousin. She has two children, and her first, Oyubi, is my second, and she’s like twenty years older than her little brother. See, Shinchuu-chan isn’t, well, she’s not…” She hesitated, eyes flashing over to Shisui, who was comparing the sizes of two different wood chips. “Shinchuu-chan has an extra chromosome. Down’s Syndrome, Orochimaru called it. But apparently, Down’s Syndrome doesn’t mean sterile, like a mule. Orochimaru actually presented some research on it a few years ago. I don’t remember much – I admit that I napped through most of the presentation. But because she’s a true simple… well, intellectually, she doesn’t meet capacity. Shinshuu-chan’s not legally competent. I’m the Clan Head, therefore I’m Shinchuu-chan’s legal guardian. I inherited the guardianship with Grandmother’s death. I was twelve!”
Tsume’s voice rose in outrage. Sasori had to shush her, lest Tsume’s volume attract attention. “Right, sorry. Anyway, it’s all kinda weird, but since I’m Shinchuu-chan’s guardian, like a parent over a child, I’m probably more like a grandmother to Shisui, and have all the legal rights to make decisions for him the way Shinchuu-chan can’t. Sooooo, we just go with me being Shisui’s aunt. Kakashi is my only biological nephew, until my brothers ever get around to having kids. I have two of them, although Nara Shikaku is my full brother, since we share the same sire.”
Evidently, the legendary Nara intelligence wasn’t a dominant trait that their offspring inherited. Either that, or Tsume genetically missed the boat.
“Shinchuu-chan isn’t the only one with Down’s, though. Shinchuu-chan’s sweetheart, Uchiha Hiroaki-kun, also has Down’s, and they fell in love. They became sweethearts when they were like fifteen years old. Hiroaki-kun is Kagami’s younger brother. You would not believe how furious my grandmother was that an Inuzuka clanswoman, especially a simple – someone with Down’s, like Shinchuu-chan, got impregnated by an Uchiha. Grandmother actually cauterized Shinchuu-chan’s tubes when Oyubi was born and forbade her from ever seeing her sweetheart again. Hiroaki-kun wrote love letters to Shinchuu-chan every day for ten years. Not that Shinchuu-chan can read. But man, every day for ten years. That’s, like, three thousand letters!
“Anyway, to make a long story short, because you probably don’t want to hear about my grandmother’s cruelty and our clan drama, Kagami’s parents held the guardianship for Hiroaku-kun instead of the Uchiha Clan Head, and Kagami inherited that when they died. Well, at some time in the twenty years after Oyubi was born, Shinchuu-chan’s fallopian tubes somehow healed, which was how she got pregnant with Shisui, here. Kurumi, I was fourteen years old when Kagami asked me permission for Shinchuu-chan and Hiroaki-kun to marry. Who asks a fourteen-year-old permission to marry when the people wanting to get married are nearly forty years old, even if they’re forty-year-old simpletons?”
Uchiha Kagami would ask, because for all his breaking and remaking of others, Kagami seemed to believe that a person’s dignity should be preserved. But Tsume was clearly asking a rhetorical question. (Sasori desperately hoped that Tsume had a copy of Orochimaru’s research presentation somewhere… Also, Tsume’s grandmother somehow was even worse than his own, and that said something. If he ever learned that Inuzuka Shinzou was also sneaking poisons into Tsume’s food, he was going to form a support group with Tsume.)

“Anyway, Shinchuu-chan is the only Inuzuka clanswoman in our entire known history to get officially hitched, even does that name combo-thingie like Fumiko, introducing herself as Inuzuka-Uchiha Shinchuu. Kagami is biologically Shisui’s uncle, what with being Hiroaki-kun’s older brother and all. But since he’s also got the legal responsibility for Shisui by holding Hiroaki-kun’s guardianship, and he’s got a daughter old enough to be Shisui’s mother, if, you know, she got pregnant at my age. Mikoto is pregnant, too!
Due in June and all that, Kurumi. We fought over dill pickles in the market, once.” Sasori cleared his throat, pointedly. “Oh, yeah. Anyway, Kagami feels more comfortable as a grandfather. Man, trying to figure out the legal-to-biological equivalent of what that makes me and Kagami is just really weird, so I don’t think about it.”
Not thinking was probably Tsume’s default, Sasori decided in a not-so-charitable manner, in a way to balance out his unexpected empathy with her for sharing heartless guardians with his irritation over her rambling.
By now, she had finished unwrapping the game board and the two packages of black and white stones, and handed Sasori the glossy accordion-folded set of play instructions and examples. “There’s only two rules in go. It has an easy enough gameplay even for me!”
“How often do you lose?” Sasori asked, unfolding the instruction and scanning them.
“All the time,” Shisui said brightly from where he had climbed on top of Juubi, large woodchips spinning at all ten fingertips.
Tsume glared at Shisui. “Nuh-uh. I beat you sometimes!”
Sasori eyed Tsume over the edge of the play instructions. “He’s three.”
“Yeah. And?” She pointed. “Look at him over there!” Shisui was making the spinning wood chips travel up and down the lengths of his fingers. Which, yeah, Sasori would admit that chakra control that fine at the age of three probably meant Shisui was a savant, and the possibility of manifesting chakra threads before they reach Konoha was a frightful possibility. Still…
“You’re eighteen.”
Tsume blew a raspberry. “I can count without using my fingers and toes. I’m not that much of an idiot.”
“If your standard of intelligence is how well you manage to defeat a toddler in a game of strategy, I have to question the validity of the statement you just gave.”
“Kakashi beat her when he was six,” Shisui added cheerfully, and a touch smug.
Tsume grumbled as Sasori fingered the go stones to familiarize himself with their smooth texture. “Kakashi was a chuunin when he was six years old. He doesn’t count.”
Ultimately, Tsume turned out to be a strange opponent who could hold her own, if only because Sasori had no idea how to predict the moves of someone who played based on immediate whims and absent-minded fancy, instead of actual strategy. He still managed to beat her three out of three games, but certainly not as quickly as he would’ve expected.
“That doesn’t count as a loss!” Tsume pointed at the scattered go stones as a crewmate entered the area, with an empty bucket and a shovel to remove droppings from the horse stalls. “No one wins by default. You won two out of three.”
Since Sasori had been ahead in points and was pretty sure that Juubi kicked the game board because of a hidden signal from Tsume, he simply replied to Tsume with a written You’re a sore loser.
She crossed her arms in a snit. “Whatever. I want to play against Shisui now.”
Squabbling with Tsume seemed to quiet the battle in Sasori’s soul. It was petty to poke at her flaws and intellectual inferiority, but he wasn’t actively harming her spirit any more than it had already been harmed in the hands of her grandmother/guardian, and Tsume seemed to accept his pettiness the same way she accepted him being a Suna nin. It seemed to be a good compromise between wanting to trust her, and needing to annihilate everything that Sakumo had built.
At least he no longer felt like he needed to desperately crawl out of his own skin.oOoOoOo
On Day Five aboard the Reichou, Minamoto butted into the game of go between Sasori and Tsume on the open-air deck. “I love this! How well do you play?” he asked them, already stripped half-naked in preparation for another round of Waterfall fencing with his manservant. Sasori shrugged wordlessly.
Tsume glowered at the board. “My skill level is just fine.”
Minamoto’s bow was deep and respectful. “Soba-san, Kurumi-kun, may I join? I’ll play the winner.”
Sasori immediately yanked the game board away from Tsume and twisted, planting it firmly between him and Minamoto.
“Look, I’ve only lost twice!” So far. In the last two hours. “Minnow-sama can wait his turn.”
Minamoto twitched in annoyance at Tsume’s fumbling of his name. Sasori wrote quickly in the notebook, and handed it over to Tsume for her to read.
“ ‘A toddler can play better than Soba’ – this is outrageous, you little punk! Shisui shouldn’t count!”Sasori flapped his hand at Tsume, as if shooing away a bothersome fly. She slammed the notebook down on the ground next to Sasori and stomped off, fuming.
Feeling immensely better for managing to drive Tsume away (and slightly guilty… it was an odd feeling that Sasori so rarely experienced), Sasori immediately sorted the go stones between black and white. He gestured with an open palm over the board, and then did the same to Minamoto.
“You wish for me to choose which color?” Sasori nodded. “Very well, Kurumi-kun. I chose white.” Sasori’s lip curled back in a sneer that Minamoto would graciously concede the opening move to Sasori. “Do you play with any handicaps?” Sasori raised a disdainful eyebrow at that, pointedly glancing at his stumps. Minamoto pinched the bridge of his nose. “No, in go. The playing field can be leveled out between experienced and inexperienced players by agreeing upon certain handicaps in the gameplay. Not your feet. Gods, this is terribly awkward,” Minamoto muttered. Neither the instructions nor Tsume had mentioned any handicaps. “If you’re unaware of handicaps, I’m assuming you’re a more inexperienced player. How long have you been playing, Kurumi-kun?”
Sasori held up two fingers.
“Two years? You should’ve been introduced to handicaps before then…” At Sasori’s shaking head, Minamoto frowned.
Sasori pointed downward. “Two months?” Headshake and downward point. “Weeks?” Headshake. “…days?” Nod. Minamoto’s eyes went wide. “Has Soba-san also been playing for only two days?” Sasori shook his head and pointed upward, remembering Tsume’s chatter on how her sire had taught her how to play go because it required a lot fewer rules to memorize than shogi. “So, two months?” Headshake. “Two… years?” Head shake. “Five years?” Sasori held up one finger, and then pointed down. “She’s been playing four years and you’re defeating her after only playing for two days?”
Sasori shrugged. Brain injury or not, Sasori figured that so much of Tsume’s brain was dedicated to her olfaction that something had to be sacrificed to make up for that increased brain mass. The human skull was an enclosed space after all. (Sasori decided that he was going to autopsy her brain whenever he got around to making Tsume into a puppet. He was also curious as to what her damaged amygdala would look like.)
Sasori reluctantly admitted that Tsume… she was only a little bit of a moron. She certainly did decent wound care, and her cooking skills were admirable as long as she didn’t include any raisins.
(But in deference to his newly forming friendship and reluctant respect for Tsume, he’d wait on turning her into a puppet until Hana became a chuunin. It only seemed right to let Hana have a mother and to let Tsume be a mother. Unless Hana became a chuunin when she was six or seven years old. In which case, Sasori would force himself to be patient and wait until she was at least thirteen years old or thereabouts. That seemed fair.)

“I’ve been playing for more than a decade. So, after one game, if I outclass you in skill, we’ll discuss handicaps then.”
Sasori studied Minamoto with narrowed eyes. He’d been cutting his teeth on logic and strategy since he was weaned from his mother’s breast. On one hand, Minamoto had grown up in the heart of politics, which was its own game of strategy. As Takuma had said, you can tell a lot about a man’s character from the way he battles. That judgement went both ways, so Minamoto was going to learn as much about Sasori as Sasori would about Minamoto.
But on the other hand, Sasori was bored. He wanted the intellectual stimulation that had been sorely missed since before the arsenic poisoning. Unlike sentan, go was won through a combination of strategy and skill, and didn’t rely on the nebulous factor of luck. And he was curious to play with someone who wasn’t a ninja or in training to become one. With a nod, he agreed to Minamoto’s offer.
When Sasori played with Tsume, her unpredictability had offered some challenge. She never repeated the same opening moves in any of the games they had played so far, and she jumped around the board in spurts to claim or capture territory. To be fair to her losing streak, Tsume struggled with keeping a mental tally of the accumulating points during play, and therefore failed to strategize what would net her the most point gain, the way that Sasori could.
Shisui, in the two games they played against each other, was more methodical with his openings, repeating the same opening moves with both games, but as the play progressed, was relentlessly vicious in capturing Sasori’s territories, choosing to imprison and reduce Sasori’s territories instead of trying to continue claiming his own territory.
(How Shisui managed to do that without breaking the rule of ko was fascinating to watch. Shisui loved to attack out of nowhere. The kid was going to be a monster when he became an official shinobi. Sasori couldn’t decide if he looked forward to watching Shisui’s reputation grow, or was better off looking for hideouts now while Shisui was still too young to realistically track Sasori down.)
In their first game, Minamoto’s opening moves were similar to Sasori’s, placing individual stones in different intersections on the board, laying the foundation for territory claims. Minamoto continued to methodically claim territory as Sasori varied between claiming and capturing. Midway through, Sasori realized that the territories that Minamoto had claimed were also transitions to more easily capturing Sasori’s stones.
Interesting.
Tsume and Shisui were certainly quicker to make their moves, while Minamoto was slow and deliberate, taking long pauses with his eyes closed and his hand half-raised, rolling his white go stone between his thumb and two fingers.
After the fourth time Minamoto did it, Sasori wrote his question in the notebook.
Why do you close your eyes?
“I’m thinking ahead,” Minamoto said. “They say that with shogi, a grandmaster can think up to fifteen moves ahead.” At Sasori’s confused look, he elaborated. “I’m trying to imagine the chain of choices and reactions you and I would make based off a single stone that I would play, and whether that single stone is the best choice to help me advance my points. Have you ever played shogi before?”
Shogi was a traditional game played by samurai, so it would be expected for Kurumi to say yes, but that also put him at risk of showcasing how very little he knew about it if Minamoto asked any follow-up questions. Shogi wasn’t a traditional game played in Suna or any of the nomadic tribes. It would be safer to admit he never learned. Sasori shook his head.
“Hmmm. I’m not surprised.” Still rolling the go stone between his fingers, Minamoto leaned forward and tilted his head slightly to the side. His eyes were sharp. “Shogi isn’t a popular game in Wind.”
A chill zipped up Sasori’s unmoving spine. Any reaction would give Minamoto too much information, so Sasori kept his body in its loose state, willing himself not to freeze or tense in alarm, and simply blinked his tell-tale amber eyes as if he was bored with the conversation.
Minamoto placed his stone. “Your skin and eyes mark you for someone with eastern or southern nomadic tribal heritage.”

In watching Kagami being honest – for the value that Kagami’s deliberate misleading on personal human summons could be – with Takuma, Sasori learned that deception was always easier when it was buried beneath truth. It was… probably not a lesson that Kagami necessarily wanted Sasori to learn. My birth-mother was from the Anizah tribe. She died seven years ago. She preferred sentan. Sasori used hiragana script for sentan, not knowing the kanji for it.
“I imagine that she wanted to share some of her Wind traditions with you while you learned your father’s bushido.”
Sasori nodded and set his notebook to the side. He completed a capture and removed Minamoto’s stone.
oOoOoOo
“I have enjoyed our games,” Minamoto said at the end of their second game, which finished just twenty minutes before dinner (which was just as well, because Sasori was starving). A storm was starting to brew in the distance, the clouds a heavy steel blue-gray. A steady wind was blowing, with the occasional gust that sent a wave crashing into the barge, but so far, none of the waves had reached the open-air deck. Minamoto, determined to finish their game, had refused both his manservant and the two crewmembers offer to move to a more sheltered area.
Tsume had been restlessly pacing the deck, staring off into the distance of the lake, especially concerned with the incoming rainstorm. Ichi sat next to the stairs and watched, wary.
It took longer to play against the nobleman than Shisui and Tsume, given how slow and deliberate he was. Minamoto had won the first game by a solid twenty points, and Sasori narrowly won with an eight point lead on the second game (without the handicaps that Minamoto offered for the second game, thank you very much). He shook his head in disbelief. “If I had reason to believe you lied, I would say that you playing for only two days was a fabrication.” He tapped the board as he helped Sasori separate the black and white stones, which were stored away in hinged compartments before the grid surface. “This is a beginner nine by nine grid. Should you ever return to Hiza-Ki after you get your prosthetics, I would be honored if Kurumi-kun would visit me to play on my nineteen by nineteen grid.”
Sasori considered it for a moment – and then nodded his head to agree, despite having no intention of returning to Waterfall as Kurumi. (He would return to Waterfall, but as Sasori, because there was a certain Taki nin who needed to be poisoned so he could never again kick defenseless mute amputees. Sasori had great plans on a new combination for ergot and strychnine*, and he needed to try it out on someone….)
“Soba-san.” Minamoto stood and tilted his head to Tsume. She froze in mid-step. “I know that you and your family are trying to get to Miyako for Kurumi-kun’s treatments as soon as possible. I wish to make you an offer.”
Tsume hunched, her eyes going wide as if she were a prey animal suddenly aware of a looming trap. Sasori tensed. “What do you want?”
“Exit interviews must be scheduled in advance, and with the war outside of our country, everyone who leaves, even foreign merchants who only came to sell or delivery supplies, must be interviewed. As you can imagine, it has become a bit of a bureaucratic nightmare that is bottlenecking travel. It may be some weeks before your interviews will be conducted.”
If they were going to be stuck in Waterfall for a few more weeks, Sasori was going to invent a new fuuton jutsu just to fly his way out of this country. He only knew three fuuton jutsu (one of which he picked up from Fumiko constantly displaying it when they forged their path into the Kogen Valley a week ago), but he was a genius in his own way. He would get something figured out.
“Weeks?!” Tsume’s prey animal look disappeared in her outrage as she bristled like a half-bald hedgehog. “We don’t have weeks! My father doesn’t have enough heart medicine and Kurumi’s building too much scar tissue!” And then she sniffled as her eyes welled up in tears. “W-we don’t have the funds to stay in an inn that long.”
“I want to help you,” Minamoto cut in smoothly. “Allow me to make arrangements for lodging, and I shall see if I can’t also get you an early review.”
“Oh, that would b-be wonderful!” Tsume tackled Minamoto in a grateful hug, almost knocking him off his feet, but mindful enough not to squish Hana in between them. As Tsume blubbered in gratitude, Sasori only felt a growing sense of unease. Offers were never made by the politically powerful without strings attached somewhere.
And once her blubbering was completed, Tsume went back to restlessly pacing the deck.
“Soba-san,” Minamoto didn’t touch Tsume, but stood well within her personal space, as if trying to physically block her pacing, “if the storm concerns you, please know that this pleasure barge has sailed safely through at least two spring storms in the last three years. I should know – I was aboard during those storms. If the storm would be severe enough to sink us, we would be changing course and heading to the nearest harbor. She will sail true.”
Tsume clasped her hands behind her back and a shadow crossed her face. “I’m not scared of the storm,” she said, and the hairs on the back of Sasori’s arm rose on end at Tsume’s expression – it was resigned and grim, like a kunoichi aware of the ambush she was heading into, but wouldn’t allow herself to be deterred by such. “I’ve actually been waiting for Minnow-sama to leave. It’s… Kurumi is embarrassed to be seen carried by others or riding my dogs.”
“Ah.” Minamoto studied Tsume for a moment, and then nodded, as if willing to accept her explanation for now. “Very well. I suppose I shall see you at dinner, then.”
Tsume stood still with her hands still behind her back and watched as Minamoto departed. And then she turned back to the lake, leaning against the railing.
Sasori snapped his fingers twice and thumped his thighs. Ichi was immediately at his side. Grasping his halter, Sasori pulled himself astride and whispered, “To Tsume, now.” Sasori scanned the horizon when they reached the railing. The wind rustled his dark hair. The blue waters had turned a dark gray with white capped waves. Tsume restlessly shifted her weight from one foot to the other as she raised her nose in the air. Sasori tugged at her elbow and mouthed, What’s the matter?
“I smell water, ice, wind, and a lot of chakra,” she replied, her voice almost too soft to hear over the waves and wind. “Nature chakra. And something kinda like, but not really, one of those umbrella lizards in Wind.”
Umbrella… The flaring fringe of a frillneck king came immediately to Sasori’s mind. It was a common lizard, often seen around Suna and its deserts. He tugged at Tsume’s elbow again, pulling her downward. “The frillneck king lizard is a land animal.”
“I know that.” Tsume’s lips pressed tight together as she went back to scanning the horizon. “But whatever she is, she’s over there.” She raised a hand and pointed towards direction of the storm clouds. “She has a lot of chakra, and she’s angry. She smells almost like the water itself, so I can’t tell you how big she is, but she’s about forty kilometers away. Hopefully she keeps her distance. Come on, let’s get food. I don’t like fighting on an empty stomach.”
That was… that was ominous.oOoOoOoThe barge was swaying too badly for the dining room to safely provide sit-down meals. Instead, they had set up a buffet-style table that had deep ridges to prevent the serving platters from sliding off, and dished out food on paper plates to bring to their rooms.
“This isn’t anything to be worried about,” one crewmate told Fumiko, who held a plate for herself and another for Shisui, who clung to Kagami’s leg. “Spring storms aren’t as severe as summer or autumn storms. There won’t be any hail or lightning to worry about this time of year. The captain is turning the stern away from the storm to the waves won’t be hitting the side, so it’ll ease up the rocking soon.”
Dinner was chicken yakitori with steamed snow peas and radishes. Against the white paper plate, Sasori had to admit that the artful play of colors with his food was rather pleasing to the eye. He had to hold his plate in two hands as Ichi swayed with the rocking barge. Rather than going to his and Tsume’s cabin with their plates of food, they all converged together in the Uchiha cabin. Tsume said nothing as she wolfed her food down, barely bothering to chew.
“You’re concerned,” Kagami observed.
“Lemme see your Nessie book,” Tsume told Fumiko, voice muffled with half-chewed yakitori.
Fumiko retrieved it from the shelf, but wouldn’t let Tsume thumb through it until she washed her hands. “You’re not getting sauce on the pages.” The rocking had decreased significantly with the captain turning the barge to steer with the storm, instead of against.
Tsume finished eating, choking on the last two bites and coughing to clear her throat while Fumiko thumped her back. “Does the book say what Nessie is?”
“Well, there are several theories the author proposes, but nothing really clear.”
After Tsume had washed her hands (twice, Fumiko declared Tsume’s first attempt “Unfit for proper hygiene, you weren’t raised in a barn, young lady!”), she flipped through the book, stopping and staring at the illustrations that were based off of descriptions given by eyewitnesses. The book was angled so Sasori couldn’t see the illustrations, so he studied the artwork on the cover – an underwater photo that someone had superimposed a large shadowy blob more akin to a whale than a lizard.
“Look here,” Tsume handed the book over to Kagami, who had been holding Hana while Tsume had been scarfing down dinner.
“This one looks like one of Aunt Natsumi’s dragon summons! Well, except they have wings, and Nessie doesn’t.”
“And what does your aunt’s dragon summon smell like?”
“They use raiton chakra, so they smell like ozone and electricity and a bit like those Komodo dragons in Earth.”
Kagami studied the illustration for a moment, and then handed the book over to Fumiko. Sasori peered over her elbow at the illustration – a head rising out of the water, tapered and narrow with a frill around the skull, the neck stretching more like a snake’s. The body was unseen below the surface of the water. The illustrator had taken great pains to detail the scales, which looked like ridged plates of armor. “With Nessie, you say you smell water and ice?”
“Yeah.”
Kagami handed Hana back to Tsume. “If I recall correctly – I welcome any correction from our residential historian – Aunt Natsumi’s dragon summon are the last known remaining raiton dragons native to Lightning, and the only reason they still exist is because they agreed to a summons contract a thousand years ago with the Sage of Six Paths, which immortalized them and put them in a dimension beyond the reach of those who destroyed all other dragons.”
Fumiko nodded. “That is correct. The Elemental Countries and the five major nations were so named for their dragon species. Douton dragon in Earth; raiton dragons in Lightning; fuuton dragons in Wind; katon dragons in Fire; suiton dragons in Water.”
(Why hadn’t Sasori ever heard of the existence of fuuton dragons before? Grandmother had clearly been slacking.)
“We have found skeletal remains and there are reliable historical accounts of their existence, aside from being common characters in many mythos. They were all hunted down and killed, often by ninja clans. They were declared extinct after the samurai lord, Uesugi Kenshin, led an army of samurai in a joint venture with the Kamizuru clan to destroy the last douton dragon in Earth, three hundred and some odd years ago.”
Kagami crossed his arms in thought. “Hmm. Well, if I was a dragon looking to not get killed, would I stay in my elemental country, or would I hide far away in the largest lake I could find that’s frozen over four months out of the year with a very low population of shinobi clans?”
“She’s not doing a good job hiding if she’s attacking and sinking ships with her storms,” Fumiko said. “Especially in a lake where a Hidden Village exists on an island.”
“If they leave her alone, she probably leaves them alone,” Kagami replied. “Takuma-san is aware of her existence. Tobirama-sensei used to say that boss summons and the elemental dragons were the only creatures who could hold their own against any of the bijuu. If ninja clans systematically hunted the dragon kin to extinction – except for Takikagure – I would conjecture that Nessie protects Lake Kogen from foreign shinobi, and Takigakure allows her to stay in the lake as long as she leaves them alone.”
“Oh no.” Tsume covered her face in her hands. “She’s angry. It’s us she’s after. She’s coming after our barge because she senses we’re on it the same way that big bully came after Sasori! She’s going to sink this whole thing and everyone is going to get killed because we’re on the barge, just like all those other barges in Fumiko’s book. Kagami, she’s less than fifteen kilometers away… If I can get away from the barge, if I face her in the storm, I can summon hell hounds to take her out. If they can take down a bijuu, they can take down a dragon, right?”
Fumiko gasped. “And kill what is probably the last dragon on this entire continent and incur the wrath of Takigakure? Have yet another Hidden Village declare war against Konoha? Tsume, be reasonable!”
“I won’t let her hurt any of you or the others!” Tsume wrapped her arms protectively around Hana.
Kagami’s onyx gaze turned upon Sasori. Sasori stared back, wondering if he was expected to contribute in any way to the conversation. Having nothing to say, aware of his stomach rocking with every wave and a growing sense of doom, Sasori shrugged wordlessly. Kagami smiled, warm but brittle. “I have it on good faith that the Mangekyo Sharingan can control the bijuu.”
Mangekyo what?
“No!” Tsume punched Kagami in the shoulder lightly. “Using the Mangekyo takes way too much chakra.
Trying to control a bijuu or a dragon could kill you!”
Kagami clicked his tongue, looking unconcerned. “Oyubi shared more Uchiha clan secrets with you, did she.”
“She figured she should practice with hers. I volunteered.”
“Of course you would.”
“Hold your horses, both you.” Fumiko stepped forward and planted one hand on Kagami’s chest, the other on Tsume’s chest, and gently separated them. “If the dragon is coming after the barge because of us, then we can just leave. We’re sixty kilometers from Hiza-Ki. We can leave the barge and make a run for the shoreline, which will keep the dragon from sinking the barge and killing everyone on board. Tsume, you can use the gouka inugami to hold her off – not kill her, Konoha can’t afford going to war against yet another Hidden Village – and buy the rest of us time to get to solid ground. There might even be an island closer than the shoreline.”
The boat was rocking more, harder. Sasori clenched his hands to minimize their shaking as he thought about how useful feet were, and balancing on the water in a storm.
And then Tsume filled his vision as she crouched down in front of him, leaning into his space. “Sasori. Sasori, listen to me. Juubi knows how to water-walk. We’re not leaving you high and dry. I will protect you.”
“I think I would very much prefer high and dry to racing on horseback across a lake that I can’t swim,” Sasori replied. Because of-fucking-course the damn horse could water-walk and Sasori couldn’t. In the last two weeks, he’d been subjected to arsenic poisoning (him! The Poison Queen’s grandson and heir to all her knowledge and techniques!), amputation, gouka inugami, Hanzo and his toxic salamanders, a space-time jutsu that transplanted him a thousand kilometers away from Suna, labor and delivery with ten-year-old midwives, the rending of his worldview with Kagami’s manipulations, even more gouka inugami, walnut hair dye, a chicken-bone shattered tibia, the seven-tailed jinchuuriki, and now a fucking dragon. What has my life become? Sasori thought desperately to whichever god was willing to listen.
And then there was no more time to think, as Tsume yelped, “She’s almost here!” shoved Hana and wrap into Fumiko’s arms, and then slammed through the closed cabin door, ripping one of the hinges free from the frame.
Kagami snagged Ni as she tried to follow after, dragging her back, and batted away her snarling muzzle. “Hold on, hold on. Ni, you know that Fumiko and I don’t have the stamina to cross a raging lake on foot. Tsume has a sea lions summon – she’ll return to us when she can.” Ni’s snarls ceased, but her fur still bristled on end. (Damn. Just how many summon contracts did Tsume hold and where could Sasori get his hands on one that would be useful? Something with wings would be very useful right now.)
“You take Juubi,” Fumiko told Kagami as she wrapped a wailing Hana. “You’re the heaviest, Juubi can carry you best. Shisui and I can ride Ichi, Sasori can take Ni.”
Kagami released Ni. “I’ll go saddle up Juubi now, then.”
“Here.” Fumiko snatched a blanket off one of the bunks and held it out to Sasori. “It’s going to be cold and wet out there, you’ll need extra protection.”
What Sasori needed was to travel back through time so he could assassinate the Kazekage before the man decided to send Sasori and his team to an oasis to meet up with Team Sakumo. (If he was going to use a time-traveling jutsu, he should just travel back to the day before Komushi died, so he could destroy the blowgun and darts. But if wishes were horses, then beggars would ride.)
Sasori accepted the blanket and wrapped it around himself, careful to cover Kagami’s katana. “Kagami should take Hana,” he said to Fumiko. “Juubi is taller and less likely to get splashed with the waves.”
“Oh, you’re right! Shisui, Ichi, follow me!”
Ichi followed, but Shisui remained seated on the high bunk. He looked down at Sasori with wide eyes, and said, “Water cancels out fire.”
Sasori stared back, and then swore. “Fuck! The gouka inugami are made of fire and brimstone!”
“I’m not allowed to repeat that word.”
Sasori used his chakra threads to pull himself astride of Ni. “Let’s get you to your grandpar—”
A gigantic weight slammed into the side of the barge, and everything tilted violently.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Sasori was dizzy from where his head had struck the shelving. Blood trickled down his scalp, scalding hot and itching, but he ignored it and gripped the harness with shaking hands as Ni freed Shisui from beneath the mattress that had been thrown free from the top bunk. The entire world was still violently swaying back and forth, and Sasori was fairly sure not all of it was in his head. He freed one hand from Ni’s harness to wrap Shisui in his chakra threads and drop him in front, right behind Ni’s shoulders. Sasori clamped his arms tight around Shisui. “Ni, let’s get out of here.”
Ichi and the Uchiha elders and Juubi could catch up with them. Sasori didn’t want to waste time descending further down into the stables to meet up with them. He knew (well, hoped) they would trust him enough to keep Shisui safe. Another strike like that against the barge could capsize the vessel, and Sasori didn’t know any jutsu that could drill a hole through the side of the barge to free them from an entrapped cabin.
Ni didn’t need any more encouragement than that – she took the stairs closest, which was opposite of the stables, and up two levels to the open-air deck. The driving rain was freezing cold and falling monsoon-heavy, a gray sheet that obscured their surroundings, saturated with a cloying, smothering chakra. A jinchuuriki’s corrosive, hot chakra flared blindingly red-yellow in Sasori’s senses, which were admittedly poor when it came to chakra sensing. This chakra was the opposite – soft as velvet, heavy as the press of a boulder against one’s chest, midnight-blue, and freezing cold. The lake was as dark as the skies, the white-capped waves three or more meters high as they crashed into the barge.
In the distance, he could see a looming darker shape, almond-curved eyes glowing like shards of aquamarine ice high in the air, like beacons or flares. He could hear Tsume screaming something, though the howling wind obscured any words.
Thick arcs of spinning water – so similar to the columns of the Chiindii that sometimes ripped through the desert – spun across the lake surface, the distant ends disappearing into the blackened skies. The air was smothering and heavy with chakra and rain.
Ni jumped the railing and summersaulted in the air to plant her paws against the barge’s steel siding. She ran down the side towards the water – it was a gut-wrenching distance. The water surface rushed at them and she leapt away from the barge, shooting through two gigantic waves before she spun in mid-air, skidding across the lake surface with chakra flaring at her paws. Shisui nearly slipped free from his seat, saved only by Sasori’s tight grip around his smaller body.
“Away from the dragon, Ni!” Sasori looped an entire hand’s worth of chakra threads around Shisui and himself, lashing Shisui securely to him as he channeled chakra through his buttocks and thighs to stick to Ni. A gigantic wave crashed around them – the lake water was just a few degrees above freezing, and Sasori’s stomach twisted in pain from the cold. He felt Shisui shivering against him, so small in such a large, brutal world.
But Ni wasn’t heading away from the dragon. She veered across the unstable lake surface like a moth drawn to the flame, mindlessly determined to assist her mistress at the cost of her life. And the lives of her passengers.
Sasori pressed forward, nearly folding Shisui in half to yank harshly at Ni’s ear. She twisted her head free. “NI! GET AWAY FROM THE DRAGON!”
A fifteen-meter wave swamped them, and an eddy sucked Ni beneath the surface. Sasori’s hands were clenched white-knuckled in the leather harness, his arms clamped around Shisui. In the depths of the lake, everything was still and quiet, and his chakra threads lit up their surroundings white-blue like bolts of lightning. It was just enough to see a rushing dark shape cutting through the water like a scythe.
Stars lit up Sasori’s vision as the shape struck his right side, pain wracking like an earthquake as they shot out of the water and spun high through the air. Ni was – she was gone – the world was dark blue and wet and his chakra threads were stuttering with loss of control as fire burned through his entire body. He couldn’t see the hotel barge or the dragon through the thick sheets of rain.
“AUNTIE!” Shisui screamed, hand reaching out blindly in Tsume’s direction, and then they were sucked into a spinning water cyclone. Water rushed into their faces as they spun higher, both of them struggling to breathe. Below them was the dark blot of Ni, also caught. Sasori had no idea how to break free, how far above the lake they were. He knew that Shisui could water-walk. His ribs and the bones in his right arm agonizingly screamed almost as much as his stumps did. The blanket that Fumiko had given him was ripped away in the water cyclone, spinning free. Sasori gripped the leather band for Kagami’s saya with his left hand.
Sasori released the chakra threads from Shisui.
“Wha—”
Ni was beyond the reach of his chakra threads. Sasori was too heavy for little Shisui, with his heart of a mountain lion and the tenacious spirit of an Inuzuka, to hold above the waves, and they thrashed against the cycle, trying to breathe. Sasori couldn’t swim. Mind flashing through multiple trajectories, Sasori brought his left leg up, twisting his body to knee Shisui away with every bit of chakra he dared to use without injuring Shisui. Shisui screamed as the force from Sasori’s kick hurtled him towards Ni. “NI – TAKE CARE OF SHISUI!” Shisui slammed into Ni, both of them breaking free from the water cyclone. Water flooded into Sasori’s nose, sinuses stinging. He felt like he was being choked and smothered at the same time.
Sasori spun higher and higher, struggling to breathe, twisting to secure his grip on Kagami’s saya strap before he finally flew out of the top of the cyclone. He hung, suspended in the air for a moment – darkness and rain surrounded him, obscuring his vision of how high he was, where was the ship, where was Ni and Shisui? – and then he free-falling downward, twisting and tumbling out of control.
Water felt as hard as the ground when striking its surface from a high fall.
The deep depth of the water was somehow darker than being higher in the air, Sasori thought as he sunk deep beneath the surface. What hurt the least were his stumps. He kicked them weakly.
It was dark and disorienting. Stars of pain still filled his vision, and his lungs screamed for air. His life didn’t flash before his eyes, but there were flashes of people– frail, liver-spotted arms pulling him into a hug as his heart broke; the bright, colorful dawn of hope brightening Tsume’s face when she was offered trust; the glowing red and black Sharingan above a warm paternalistic smile; a dark-haired child, grinning brightly as he held up his string of gaudy purple beads and mountain lion claws.
In the silence, he felt his heart pounding in his chest, fast and slow, fast and slow, slow and slow.
Whisps of green cautiously approached Sasori as he drifted downward into the dark, velvet wrapping around his sluggish senses and squeezing like a boa constrictor. Komushi! Sasori called when he saw the green color, reaching for it. Water rushed into his mouth and nostrils. Burning pain sizzled across the top of his head and in his chest like a drop of water in hot oil for a brief moment, and suddenly he felt calm and sleepy, wrapped in blankets. The pain – every bit of the pain was finally gone. And he was so warm. Finally, warm like he was wrapped in the desert sun beating down on unprotected skin.
Ba-dump. Ba-dump. Ba-dump.
Drowning, a sailor once told him and Komushi as they were sailing back to Wind from the Land of Swamps, was like going to sleep.
Ba-dump. Ba-dump.
Death was tranquil and quiet. And Komushi was there to greet him, because Komushi’s soul was condemned to the world, tied to Sasori’s. Komushi. His friend. Wrapped in velvet, so warm and so endearing. Komushi had never betrayed Sasori. Komushi would never abandon Sasori.
Ba-dump.
Sasori sleepily reached out to the whisps of green, spinning shuddering lightning blue chakra threads to greet his friend, and realized, just before the darkness enveloped him completely, that the green were ribbons that laced towards him, and weren’t poison dart frog green in color.
Ba….oOoOoOo
Odor was the first sense to return as Sasori’s mind emerged from velvet darkness. It was strong and musky like a cold snake pit, only slightly more pleasant than the also-present wet dog fur, layered with milk and blood – fresh and old.
The second sense to return was touch. He felt warm and dry, though not the warm dryness of the Wind deserts. Bare skin pressed against his back, a weight lightly draped over his aching ribs, the pain distant and dull like an old bruise. His hair stirred as breath puffed over his scalp. There was a fluffy pillow under his head. He was laying on his right side. His right hand was curled slightly, and his palm and fingers burned, but only slightly.
The third sense to return was hearing. There were four different sources of breathing – one light and quick, another almost too soft to hear with an occasion huff breaking the rhythm, the third snuffling into the top of his head, and the fourth rumbled, almost like a purr. He heard his own heartbeat thumping in his chest, a sleepy, steady rhythm of ba-dump ba-dump.
The fourth sense to return was vision, as he opened his eyes and blearily took in the details of his surroundings. For a moment, he thought he was staring into a dark sky, not recognizing the glowing lightning-blue stars – so similar in color to his chakra threads – or the constellations above, and wondered if he had been forcefully relocated another thousand kilometers. And then one of the stars wriggled, and his gaze sharpened as his eyes adjusted. He was in a cave lit up by blue bioluminescent… worms? Sasori felt his jaw grow slack at the wonder. In the dim light, he saw a furry lump two meters away – Ni, whose gray fur was lighter in color than Ichi’s. Using Ni as a gigantic pillow, wrapped in a blanket, almost too dark to make out in the dim light, was a small child, deep asleep and snuggled close to Kagami’s sheathed katana.
A desperate fondness flooded Sasori’s aching chest and his vision swam momentarily with tears of relief. He lifted his left hand to wipe the tears away, and stared at the friction burns across his palm and fingers. Oh, that’s right. He had been white-knuckling Ni’s leather harness when they were struck with so much force that the harness had ripped out of his hands. He flexed his fingers, and they glowed blue like the glow worms overhead. Satisfied that he still had his chakra threads (a quick, internal prod indicated nearly full stores), Sasori felt the blanket covering him – it was one of the camping wool blankets that Tsume had given to her bear summons for safe keeping, along with her absurd number of pillows and most of the camping kit. Then he lifted the corner of the blanket and peered downward.
He wasn’t wearing a shirt, and an equally bare arm, the old laceration scars barely visible under smeared dried blood glowing faintly under the bioluminescent light, was draped over his torso. From the feel of it, he wasn’t wearing any trousers. He dropped the blanket, and then nailed a sharp elbow into Tsume’s chest as he felt his face light on fire from embaressment. He bare breast cushioned the blow. She flinched awake, snorting into his hair.
“Good morning to you, too, sunshine.” Her voice was gravely, like her vocal cords were sore from screaming.
“You had better not be naked. Where are my clothes?” Eternal Sands, he wanted to crawl into a hole and die right now!
A deep yawn. Her atrocious morning breath wafting across his face was enough to make his gut clench with nausea. “Not enough ventilation in this cave for a fire, and you were freezing cold, Sasori, even after the whole chest compression thingy to get the water out of your lungs. I figured there wasn’t any point to bring you back if you were just going to die again from hypothermia. So, we’re sharing body warmth because after healing a whole bunch of injuries and summoning my bears for the supplies, I barely had enough energy left to circulate my chakra for warmth.”
He… he had died? He shuddered, and not because he was feeling cold from the chilly air seeping through the blanket. And pointedly decided to focus on something more immediate when his emotions verred sharply into disappointment that he hadn’t stayed dead. “You are naked!”
“Bah, if I was naked, I would be bleeding on the bedroll. We both got underwear on and I’m wearing a pad. The underwear is clean, too. For both of us.”
He felt his face heating up with even more embarrassment (please let him spontaneously combust, please! This was worse than being stripped naked and scrubbed clean!) as she shifted, which only served to press her chest further against his back. He bet she was leaking milk all over him. “This is so inappropriate!”
“Sasori,” Tsume’s voice sounded rougher with impatience, “I had to put my lips all over your mouth for CPR—” he immediately scrubbed his mouth with the back of his hand, nauseated that she forced her horrendous breath inside his lungs; it was so terrible that it probably brought him back from the dead, “—and you stuck your chakra strings up my vagina while I was giving birth. There are no more boundaries left for us to cross.” After a pause, “Well, I mean. I guess I haven’t tried breastfeeding you yet and they’re painfully full. How hungry are you?”
He had no idea that his levels of horror could reach this height. Sasori rolled away from her, dragging the blanket along with him and cocooning himself within the folds to shield himself from said breasts. “Where is—” His voice froze as two aquamarine eyes glowed at him from above. They were set in a very large head, and much brighter than the glowworms. He squeaked and froze.
“Oh, sorry Nessie. Didn’t mean to disturb you. Get back here.” Tsume rolled Sasori back next to her, releasing him from his cocoon and spooning against his back again, which had released him from the frozen prey state of being caught in the dragon’s glowing eyes. “Be nice, Sasori,” she warned, as if she would attempt breastfeeding him if he misbehaved.
How can anyone be nice to a dragon who killed you? Sasori wondered, half-frozen. He hadn’t even noticed how the velvet was the dragon’s chakra, as warm as Tsume had been instead of the suffocating cold he had constantly endured previous. It felt light and… sweet? “Why?” he asked. His brain apparently decided fear had a higher priority over horrified embarrassment. Before he had drowned, Tsume had been fighting the dragon, which had struck Sasori and Ni with the force of a human swatting a fly. And now they were just getting cozy together in a cave? “How?”
“Oh, Nessie is just lonely. She’s like you, in a way. So lonely that she’s angry.”
(Ouch.)
“I had to do a lot of shouting to convince her about Aunt Natsumi’s dragon summon. Raiton and suiton dragons aren’t quite the same, but I figured, hey, any light in the tunnel is better than none. I could have signed the dragon summon, and man, it would’ve been useful this one time. But I went with the gouka inugami instead, because, you know, they’re dogs, and require a lot less chakra to summon. Anyway, after telling her that Juubi’s sire was a summon and how she could probably have offspring with a dragon summon to replenish her kind, Nessie agreed to come with us!”
What.
“…come with us?”
“Yup.”
“You – you – what?” Sasori’s brain stuttered. Fear warred briefly with outrage, and then settled on a sandwich of compromise with embarrassment in the middle. “You adopted a dragon?” And was going to breed even more dragons?
“Look, it was either that, or let her eat me, and then you would’ve stayed drowned and Shisui and Ni would’ve been lost at sea. Well, it’s a lake, but it sure felt like the sea. It wasn’t hard to make the choice.”
Sasori whimpered.
“I don’t see why it’s such a big deal.”
Because of course the woman who took literal hell hounds for fucking picnics and kidnapped footless Suna murder-vipers couldn’t possibly see why adopting a dragon would be a big deal. “She’s a monster!”
A rumble then, as if Nessie was fully aware of their conversation. Which. Yeah. Nessie would have to understand human speech if Tsume was able to convince her that she could set Nessie up with a fucking boyfriend.

Tsume pinched Sasori. “You should apologize.”
Sasori clenched his teeth. “She killed me. I drowned because of her. She should apologize first.”
Another rumble, followed by a series of bird-like chirps and hissing clicks.
“I’m pretty sure that’s an apology, you bum. Now it’s your turn.”
Sasori elbowed Tsume again, unsure if he should be grateful with her blase attitude, or stick with his sandwich compromise of outrage-embarrassment-fear. There didn’t seem to be any room for gratitude. “I wasn’t aware you were fluent in dragon-tongue.”
“Nah, not really. She smells apologetic, though.” Tsume pinched Sasori again. “Come on. It’s your turn.”
Sasori glared at the glowworms, but felt himself softening when Shisui stirred, flopping over and jamming a sleeping foot into Ni’s haunch. Ni shifted slightly, but remained asleep. Komushi was the only person Sasori had ever apologized to in the last five years. And Komushi hadn’t actually killed Sasori… Sasori had killed him. And he had trapped Komushi’s soul to this existence – there would be no Komushi greeting him in the afterlife.

(Sasori didn’t want to be anywhere that Komushi wasn’t.)
The outrage eventually eased up and made room for gratitude. Embarrassment and fear were still very much present. “I didn’t mean to insult you. We’re all monsters here, Nessie,” Sasori said, attempting for diplomacy without an actual apology. “Ni is a monster of a dog who would rip out a grown man’s throat. Shisui is a monster because of how damn smart he is despite being three years old. I’m a monster who saturated the deserts red with blood. And Tsume is the worst of us all.”
“Me? What did I do?”
“You adopted a dragon. I don’t know what sort of motherly instincts is driving you, but they are monstrous.”
“Aaawwwww.” Tsume hugged Sasori. He cringed as he felt a warm liquid trail down his back.
“And worst of the worst – she’s not the first monster you’ve adopted!”
“That’s not a nice thing to call Kakashi.”
“I was talking about your horse, you moron!”
“Juubi isn’t that bad.”
Sasori attempted wiggling free of Tsume’s hug.
Her grip merely tightened. “He trampled four men and a mountain lion to death, and that was just in the last three weeks.”
Tsume yawned. “Overall, I think his kill record may still be less than yours.” Tsume patted Sasori’s head, as if she was trying to reassure one of her ninken. “Don’t worry, I still like you more than Nessie or Juubi.”
Sasori grumbled and tried to shift away from her leaking breast milk, briefly wishing that she had left him drowned. Whatever afterlife he had been destined for could not be nearly as bad as his current living reality. “You’re not supposed to have favorites with your children, Tsume.”
“Oh, it’s perfectly reasonable to love all of your children equally, but differently. Like, Kakashi will always be my favorite little nephew-turned-fostered son. Hana will always be my favorite little first-born daughter. Juubi is my favorite samurai war horse. And you.” Sasori’s attempt to not get leaked on anymore was foiled as she snuggled close, trapping him beneath an arm slung over his shoulder and a bare thigh draped over his hips. (Oh good, he was wearing underwear… wait, whose underwear? Bashira hadn’t packed him any!) “You are my favorite little puppeteering scorpion. Sasori, I’m sorry that we had to lop off your legs, but I’m also kinda glad we did, because that meant I had to bring you along with me. You and Hana are the best things that happened to me on this trip. And I would gladly go through it all over again, rather than just making it back to Konoha by myself and delivering Hana comfortably in my compound’s birthing room. Mmm. We gotta get back to Hana and Kagami and Fumiko in the morning. We need some more rest though.”
That was… Sasori found himself fighting back tears.
Sasori waited until Tsume had fallen sleep before he successfully shoved off her leg and arm. His right arm throbbed in protest as he turned and pushed himself upright. The blow from Nessie must have fractured several bones, but evidently Tsume had healed most of the damage while Sasori was out, trusting in his trust in her abilities. He looked at Nessie. She raised her giant head, as easily as large as Ni’s entire body, and stared down at him. In the eerie chakra-blue light of the glowworms and the glow from her eyes, he could see the ridges of her scales, alternating dark blue with light blue, and the fringe ring of loose skin around her neck. He felt both her gaze and her chakra burrowing through his soul. He couldn’t smell emotions like Tsume, but he felt the weight of Nessie’s through her chakra, and it was like a reflection of his own, with the loneliness and the grief and anger. And beneath the bitterness of it all was a sense of desperation and yearning for a place to truly belong.
Fear eased away.

“Welcome to Team Chaos,” he told her softly. “If you haven’t lost your sanity yet to loneliness, I guarantee they will finish the job with their shenanigans. But you’ll never be lonely with them, because they won’t give you that chance. They’ll smother you, care for you, and tell you awful Dad Jokes. And…” His voice cracked. “And they’ll take whatever is broken within you, they’ll take those pieces, and they’ll knit them back together with gold.” Tears pricked at his eyes. “And it will be beautiful.”oOoOoOo
Sasori drifted, not quite asleep, not fully awake, warm and comfortable despite the growing stickiness against his back and resigned to his ongoing embaressment, until Shisui woke up. Shisui rubbed his eyes, and upon noticing that Sasori was awake, squealed and pounced. Sasori barely sat upright before he found his arms filled with a squirming toddler. “You’re all better!” he cried, pressing his chubby cheek against Sasori’s. “I was s-so worried!” He burst into tears, hugging Sasori with enough force that Sasori’s aching ribs screamed in protest. “Why did you k-kick me away?”
Sasori closed Shisui into a tight hug. “Because I can’t swim and I don’t have feet to water-walk. I would’ve dragged you down with me. I wanted you safe, Shisui.”
“Y-you died, Sasori!” And in the dark of the cave, lit only by the dim blue bioluminescence, Shisui’s dark eyes spun into bright red rubies, each with a single tomeo. “You died and I was so worried! Auntie had to keep pushing and kissing and pushing before you threw up all the water, and then Nessie breathed on you to make you breathe, and then Auntie had to fix your broken arm and chest and she was bleeding through her nose and her ears and her eyes and she wouldn’t let me help you or her!”
Shisui wailed and buried his face into Sasori’s chest.
“Shshshsh. It’s all right, Shisui.” Sasori wrapped his arms around Shisui as his mind swirled with the thoughts of being dead, of Shisui being scared, and of Tsume bleeding… through her eyes, ears, and mouth, like she had been poisoned with a hemolytic toxin. “What could you have done, anyway?”
Shisui framed Sasori’s face in his hands, his desperation morphing into something stern. Sasori could see Kagami in Shisui’s eyes. “I pulled you out of the water. I pulled you out and I kept you above the water so Auntie could help you.” Shisui’s fingertips glowed green.
Where would a three year old have gotten the strength to hold up a twelve year old?
(Adrenaline, the scientist in Sasori whispered, much like Komushi did, but it wasn’t Komushi’s voice. It’s one hell of a drug.)
“Ah.” Sasori pulled Shisui’s hands away from his face, and watched as ten chakra threads, wispy and more fragile than his own, wove through the air. They were a glowing emerald green. Sasori had never seen such a color for anyone’s chakra threads.
It was almost like Shisui had observed how Tsume’s green Mystic Palm chakra appeared, directed the same to his fingertips the way he had seen Sasori direct his chakra threads, and then stretched them out like sticky bubblegum strings. Somehow, this child managed to take his observations of two different techniques and plastered them together into something that worked against any and all reason.
Shisui was Team Chaos bullshit, with his three-year-old Sharingan and his chakra threads. (And with his Inuzuka nose, Sasori would never successfully hide from this little monster. Also, note to self: damn it, do not challenge any Uchiha in the future.) Sasori fingered Shisui’s necklace, tracing one of the mountain lion claws. “We’ll work on that dragonfly puppet together after we arrive Konoha.”
“Yay!” Shisui’s answering hug knocked Sasori over, sending him sprawling across Tsume, which woke her up. Ni woofed in complaint at all the disturbances, and tucked herself into a tighter ball, draping her tail over her nose.
Since they were all awake, Tsume decided that meant it was breakfast time. But before they could eat breakfast, they had to get dressed. (Sasori noticed, when Tsume’s back was turned, that his underwear had little uchiwa fans. He hadn’t realized she snuck a pair or two of Obito’s underwear. Then he wondered if Obito was wondering what happened to them.)
Tsume grumbled and bullied Sasori into helping her wrap her breasts, complaining about them feeling uncomfortably full without being able to nurse Hana for the last ten hours. Body fluids glowed when exposed to bioluminescence, and Sasori’s gaze was drawn to the dried blood that clumped in Tsume’s ear canal and had made a trail onto her shoulder. Her face also glowed like a nightmarish youkai.
Because it was imperative that she hunt down her daughter for feeding, breakfast meant ration bars. They had smoked salmon, but Tsume fed half of their smoked salmon supplies to Nessie, as if fish wasn’t something she could just easily suck out of the lake or something. “Ni,” Tsume told her ninken sternly, crouching down and grasping Ni’s head between her hands. “You need to remember that when you have passengers, their safety comes first.
You can’t bring them into a battle just because you want to help me.”
NI whined and managed to look very contrite. Tsume laughed and hugged her. “You know I can’t stay mad at you! But remember, you need to be a good girl.”
“What happened to you,” Sasori asked.
Tsume looked confused as she gnawed on her ration bar. “What do you mean?”
“You have blood all over your face and arms. Was it….” Sasori didn’t have any poisons present. Tsume had destroyed his entire stash, but he used to have several that causes severe hemolysis that would’ve made her bleed from ruptured blood vessels in her mucous membranes, and would explain why she had clearly bled from her eyes, nose, mouth, and ears.
But Tsume had destroyed all his poisons – he had checked both of his puppets and his one bag three different times in the course of the first two weeks he had been stuck with Team Chaos, despite knowing the futility of any stash surviving a nose that could smell arsenic from sixty kilometers away. Sasori very deliberately didn’t look at Nessie and her teeth and claws, but thought of hidden venom sacs and acid breath and Hanzo’s salamanders, although there was still no fear. And we’re bringing her along?
“Oh.” Absent-mindedly, Tsume touched her ear canal, picking away a clump of dried blood and flicking it away. “This. Uh, it happens when I have to smell past my limits. Side effect of my old brain injury.” Then, looking extremely uncomfortable and nervous, she attacked her ration bar as if having her mouth stuffed would prevent her being able to talk more.
Sasori could take a hint. He turned to Shisui, who was chewing his ration bar and making faces at the bland flavor.

“Your grandparents are probably very worried about you.”
Shisui shrugged. “Auntie sent a bear to Nana and Papa last night.”
“And,” Tsume said with her mouth full, “they made it safely to another island, about twenty kilometers away from here.” With her mouth still full of food, Tsume went about packing up their bedding.
Sasori felt a pang of jealousy – summon contracts were rare, and subsequently hoarded. (Unless your name was Inuzuka Natsumi, who seemed to be the exception to far too many rules. See: being able to create the possible first new summon contract since the time of the Sage of Six Paths.) The Kazekage had been promising Sasori that some day he’d be permitted to sign the weasel summon contract their family held if Uncle Ebizo never shared his scorpion summon contact. (Yet another lie that Sasori had accepted, just like those letters from his parents.)
“All packed up now. Probably shouldn’t take this with us though, since it’s might to get wet and ruin the storage scrolls.” With a bloody thumb and a flash of hand seals, Tsume summoned a roly-poly black bear, who insisted on bumping noses with Nessie before he would accept the backpack. Sasori mounted Ni, wincing at the friction burns in his right hand as he gripped her harness, and Shisui clambered behind, snaking his arms around Sasori’s waist with a grip that bordered on desperate, wearing the katana that was as longer than Shisui was tall. After the bear summon was dismissed, Nessie shook herself, her neck fringe and ears slapping wetly. With a few bird-chirps and a glance of her glowing eyes at them, she crawled forward through the cave. Her girth and powerful legs and feet were so massive that Sasori was concerned that she would get stuck in a few of the passages, especially one with a tight turn, but she had the fluid flexibility of a snake. Their path gradually ascended, lit only by the bioluminescent glow worms in patches. Sasori used his chakra threads for increased visibility with Shisui eagerly copying him, as there were several deep holes that would’ve been unpleasant for his companions or ride to stumble into. Eventually, they saw daylight.
The cave opening that Nessie crawled out of was in a cliff and almost twenty meters above the lake surface. Despite the height from which she dived, she slipped so smoothly into the lake water that there wasn’t any splashing. Tsume stopped at the cave entrance, waiting for Ni to stand beside her. “Nessie!” she called downward. “Can we hitch a ride and save our strength?”
Sasori froze. Nessie raised her head to the cave entrance. He felt the brush of velvet chakra against his own, once again, but didn’t feel any emotions other than a distant curiosity. She chirped at them, and then turned her head, holding it close to the entrance.
“Pretty sure that’s a yes,” said Tsume brightly. She carefully climbed on top of Nessie’s head, and then slid down her long neck to her broad back below. Ni didn’t have the skill or the limbs to slide, so, aided with chakra, she gingerly walked down the spine. The ridged scales almost looked like stairs, Sasori thought, grip tightening in the harness. His fingers stung. One they reached Nessie’s broad back, where Tsume already sat-cross legged, Nessie pushed away from the island. Sasori watched her steer and guide her way through the water with her tail, which stretched out like a snake, but with three silvery fins fanning out at near the tip of the tail. Eddies formed with every curve of her tail, small at first, but they grew in size as Nessie picked up speed. Tsume didn’t call out any directions – Sasori supposed that if Nessie could find them on the hotel barge from more than forty kilometers away, it shouldn’t be difficult for her to find two ninja, a samurai horse, and a ninken from a distance of twenty kilometers.
The morning was cold, as all the spring mornings in Waterfall had been. The island they left behind was more of a giant, thick rock column that jutted almost fifty meters out of the water. At the top of the rock column was a small cluster of conifer trees. Sasori wondered how the trees got up there – did a random human being plant them? Did a bird defecate the seeds? Were the 100 Isles truly once part of a chain of mountains that some great cataclysm broke apart?
Then he studied Tsume, who was smeared with dried blood. Her eyes were red too, but not like the Sharingan – subconjunctival hemorrhages had turned the sclera of her eyes into a demonic red, which was a macabre contrast to the dark gray of her irises. “You should clean that off,” he said, pointing at her face. “You’ll worry Fumiko and Kagami.”
The air was moving in different directions – the force of Nessie’s speeding travel, the wind that lightly disturbed the surface, blowing in the opposite direction. As Tsume carefully chakra-walked her way down Nessie’s back to where her body met the water and splashed it onto her face and arms, scrubbing furiously, Sasori watched an osprey strike the water and then draw upward into the air with a flopping salmon caught between its talons.
Sasori gently pulled himself off Ni, and settled on Nessie’s back so he could feel her ridged scales. They plated against each other, flexible above a leathery skin. The scales across Nessie’s back were the largest on her body, each as large as one of Tsume’s clay dinner plates, and textured like chipped obsidian. The further up or down her back, especially towards her tail, the smaller they became. Each scale was an ombre of light gray to dark blue, and the color changed based the reflection of light and water, almost like a chameleon.
They felt smooth and warm beneath his hands. He wondered if she shed the scales individually, or if everything sloughed off in a solid piece. Then he wondered about any medicinal qualities of her blood and scales, if she was venomous or toxic. What made her eyes glow? Was she manipulating her own chakra, or was it nature chakra like boss summons were said to use?
Studying her scales and comparing it against other creatures in his known world occupied Sasori’s mind during their journey, and by the time they arrived at the isle where the larger half of Team Chaos was present (as evidenced by a very loud baby who was beyond the comfort of her temporary guardians, her screams echoing across the water), Sasori had composed an entire list of scientific questions.
Nessie was beautiful – she was symmetric and powerful, her array of colors pleasing to the eye. Komushi would tell Sasori to appreciate her for the rare beauty that she was, and Sasori did, having never seen anything like her before. (Nessie truly was remarkable, when he wasn’t concerned with his fleeting mortality when facing her wrath. He currently felt more at ease with her than the bijuu or the gouka inugami, at least.) But he hadn’t even heard about the extinct dragons before yesterday, and he couldn’t help but be fascinated with the mountain of knowledge waiting to be discovered and documented as it never had before.
Fumiko would appreciate his curiosity.
“Almost there,” Tsume called. Sasori twisted around to observe their destination. The upcoming island jutted like a vase out of the water. The base was rocky cliffs that curved upward into a flat top covered with various half-budding deciduous trees. Several robins erupted from the undergrowth with Nessie’s approach, and he saw the flash of a dark colored body moving through the treetops. Nessie didn’t slow down, and propelled herself out of the water. Sasori planted his hands on her scales and clung with a chakra-grip, staring down at her half-submerged body as she dug her claws into the side of the cliff and crawled up and over the edge.
Sasori estimated that, from the tip of her snout to the end of her long tail, Nessie was far closer to fifty meters than the thirty meters Kagami had mentioned before Takuma confirmed her existence.
“Where’s my baby?” Tsume demanded as she slid off Nessie’s back to the ground below. Ni, with Shisui still astride, closely followed behind. Ichi bound out of the undergrowth, tail wagging vigorously in greeting. Tsume hugged Ichi quickly, and then ignored him in favor of making greedy grabby hands at Fumiko before snatching her bawling daughter and cradling her to her overfull breasts. Shisui burst into tears as he threw himself into Kagami’s arms, who remained unblinking as he stared at them with glowing Sharingan eyes.
Sasori patted Nessie until she turned her great head around to peer at him. Even in the bright daylight with a sun rising in clear blue skies, her eyes still glowed. “Thank you,” he told her. She chirped and clicked at him. Her long, thin serrated teeth were ivory white with a half-eaten smoked salmon caught between two front teeth.
Sasori used his chakra strings to lower himself down.
Juubi walked purposely forward. He paused beside Sasori long enough to nose him in greeting (hey, chump), and then continued forward until he stood nose to nose with Nessie, rigid and tense. After a moment, Juubi swished his tail, nickered at her, and then walked away.
Sasori hoped that he, too, would one day have the bold confidence of a Samurai war horse who would go nose to nose to a dragon fifty times his size, evaluate her worthiness, and then dismiss her without concern.

Kagami’s body language conveyed more concern and caution as he allowed Shisui to tug him forward to meet Nessie as Fumiko helped Tsume unwrap her breasts. “She’s really nice, Papa! She breathed on Sasori and made him breathe when he was dead, and she didn’t eat us at all!” Even when facing a dragon, Kagami was well-versed in controlling any display of negative emotions. Sasori had never seen him angry, impatient, or frightened, but there wasn’t any serenity or placid calm on Kagami’s face as he looked at Nessie – just a tense wariness laced with wonder. Nessie swung her giant body around, her tail smashing mature trees like they were brittle kindling. She seemed as wary of Kagami and his Sharingan as Kagami was of her. “And she understands what you say to her, too! I told her all about how beautiful Konoha is, and she smiled at me!”
(“Madara’s left saggy tit, what happened to your eyes, Tsume?”
“Ah, I’m okay, Fumiko. Really, it’s nothing.”)
Kagami eyed Nessie with trepidation. “I see.”
Nessie smiled at them. At least, Sasori assumed it was a smile. It was rather intimidating to stare at a snout displaying every thin, serrated tooth. There were a lot of teeth. And they almost seemed too long to fit inside the cavern of her mouth.
“And she’s going to come with us, Papa!”
Kagami froze, and then his body went relaxed into a deadly stillness. “Is she.” He turned slowly to Tsume, and his face was that same strange stillness that lacked any expression when he had confronted Sasori under a larch tree. Overhead, a crow perched on a tree limb and cawed at them. “Tsume.” He took a deep breath, as if bracing himself for an inevitably uncomfortable explain. “Please explain to me why you invited a supposedly extinct, highly dangerous, species along on our road trip. And then explain to me why your eyes look like you went on the world’s worst bar crawl with Tsunade-hime.”
Tsume hunched down, nervously shifting her weight from foot to foot. It was evident that she was suddenly aware of how much trouble she was in, facing a man whose opinion meant the world to her. Or maybe she was just wary of the Sharingan? Could Tsume feel wariness with her brain injury? “Are you going to ask me if I was thinking?”
“Oh, no, I leave such questions to Danzo.” Kagami’s tone was short and clipped. “I know you were thinking. I just don’t know what, or why. We’re trying to sneak out of a country we’re not sanctioned to be in, and this lovely lady,” a flick of the wrist to indicate Nessie’s gigantic bulk, “is the complete opposite of incognito.”
Tsume hunched further, and her eyes shone wetly. “You’ll hear me out though, right?”
“Haven’t I always heard you out?”
“…yes.”
Tsume’s explanation would’ve been exactly like what she gave Namikaze, but Kagami actually guided and coaxed her through it, making it much less painful to listen to.
What had taken a three year old toddler to figure out almost immediately had taken Tsume a bit longer (which, okay, Shisui wasn’t a normal three year old toddler, so it probably wasn’t fair to hold Tsume to that particular standard; Sasori was willing to extend some charity towards Tsume’s cognitive abilities once he had realized the double-edged sword that was her shoddy short-term memory), in that gouka inugami really weren’t the best weapon to fend off a suiton dragon in the middle of the Continent’s largest freshwater lake in the midst of a rainstorm.
Tsume had realized how intelligent Nessie was upon smelling amusement when she dunked the gouka inugami, and figured that the beast was capable of reasoning. What Tsume had been unsure of was how much human speech Nessie understood, so Tsume decided to describe the emotions she was smelling – the anger, the hatred, the loneliness, and the subsequent irritation that developed from listening to Tsume’s descriptions, all while being battered around by Nessie’s tail and desperately dodging her teeth.
(“She was irritated with you?” Kagami’s dangerous stillness briefly gave way to amused sarcasm. “You? I cannot imagine why.”
“Oh, yuck it up, Kagami. I swear that if Nessie were male and human, she would be Danzo.”
“That… that is a disturbing amount of irritation.”)
Tsume figured that if Nessie was irritated from the questions, she likely understood human speech. Frankly, Sasori would’ve suspected the irritation was more due to how Tsume wouldn’t hold still well enough to be killed, and not because Nessie understood Tsume’s speech. But Tsume had decided that such confirmed her suspicions instead, so she then employed Plan K, which apparently meant sympathizing and reflecting on the motives behind the emotions. (Plan K, then, meant Kumo’s Stockholm Syndrome prisoner rehabilitation? Team Chaos hadn’t been employing Plan A against Sasori?)
So she told Nessie that she could understand why Nessie was upset with shinobi if all they did was hunt her and her kin down, that Tsume and her companions had no intention of hurting her, that Tsume was just a mother trying to sneak her newborn baby and companions out of the country to keep them safe the same way that Nessie was trying to keep herself safe. And then Tsume had started telling her all about Aunt Natsumi’s dragon summons and how cool she thought they were, and wouldn’t it be wonderful if Tsume could introduce them, which only caused Nessie to smell of surprise and longing, and that was when Ni came rocketing across the water to attack.
(“Ni was a bad girl,” Tsume said sternly, eyeing Ni as she spoke. Ni hung her head. “And then I was like, why are you all alone when you were supposed to have a passenger? I grabbed her by her scruff and sniffed her – with so much water and rain and Nessie’s nature chakra clogging everything, I had to…” She shifted in her seated position, looking like a small child who had been caught with their hand in the cookie jar after being told no dessert because they failed to eat all their dinner. “I tried at one hundred percent, but trying to smell anything through so much nature chakra is like trying to read a book covered by a blanket. I had to past my limits to catch the scents of Ni’s riders,” she mumbled.
Kagami’s face fell in sorrow. “Oh, Tsume. That explains the eyes. How are your kidneys feeling?”
Tsume raised her chin stubbornly. “I had to. I don’t regret it because Sasori and Shisui were out there in the storm, in the lake, by themselves! I had to get to them! And I told Nessie that they were my kids, so she needed to help me find them! Anyway, I’m all better now. I healed myself!” she added, looking immensely giddy with her success.
“You missed your eyes.”
“Well, I can’t feel my eyes or even look at them, okay?”
“You… you should probably leave them alone. Eyes are tricky to heal successfully, trust me on this, Tsume.”)
Nessie did lead Tsume to Shisui, who had been struggling to stand above the wild waves while clinging to a very limp Sasori, his Sharingan glowing bright through the rain.
(“Sh-sharingan?” Kagami looked shocked.
Shisui’s voice was small. “Sasori was dead, Papa. His scent was static. He’s my Pack and he died!” And while Sasori’s death may have been only temporary, the gut-clenching grief and soul-wrenching loss of Komushi meant that Sasori knew exactly how Shisui had felt at the time. The Uchiha were legendary for their emotions, after all.
And then they had a moment of bonding, in which Shisui’s own Sharingan eyes met Kagami’s.)
Tsume had been enraged that Sasori was dead, and screamed at Nessie that she didn’t chop off Sasori’s feet and drag him across multiple countries just for him to up and die. And so help her, if Sasori stayed dead, Tsume was going to make Aunt Natsumi bring Sasori back just so Nessie could apologize to him. Sasori had no idea how it was possible for anyone to bring back the dead, but this threat had evidently been enough for Nessie to bring them to the cave that he ultimately had woken up in. And then Sasori figured, hey, if Natsumi could create a summon contract against all evidence indicating it was impossible, why not be able to bring back the dead? That was just the sort of Delusion that clearly bent Reality to meet its demands.
Tsume had used CPR on Sasori, dragging him through the cave in between chest compressions and rescue breaths. Once she remembered she had the Mystic Palm, she had no idea how to make a nonfunctioning heart work again anyway. She brute-forced the water out of his lungs, and used the Mystic Palm to make his heart pump and his lungs draw air, but every time she stopped using the Mystic Palm, Sasori went back to being dead.
(“Of all the times to be a contrarian little jerk, that was not the time to do it!” Tsume told Sasori sternly, as if it was his fault for refusing to come back to life.)
Nessie’s breath was, per Tsume’s understanding, a focused blast of nature chakra “like Mooncalf sometimes uses” that replenished Sasori’s body with enough chakra that his heart and lungs were finally able to function independent of the Mystic Palm.
(“It was kinda like a blood transfusion, but with chakra instead of blood. I don’t know why it worked. Mooncalf said that nature chakra is so powerful when channeling it that one wrong move can turn you into stone, but I’m glad it did. I mean, I thought you didn’t have any chakra because you were dead. But maybe you were dead because you ran out of chakra?”
Sasori didn’t think he had done anything that demanded such a depletion of his storage. Maybe dying just wiped it out completely. And without chakra, he couldn’t come back…? Was that why CPR had a low success rate in general?
“How long do you think I was dead?” Sasori asked, feeling chilled. With the cessation of cardiac and respiratory function, he knew how quickly neurons die when deprived of oxygen. Yet he hadn’t noticed any change to any of his cognitive function or memory.
“Um. A while? Like twenty minutes? Took a while to get you through the cave while doing the CPR until Nessie finally breathed on you.”
“Do you think her nature chakra healed me?” That would explain why he didn’t suffer any side effects from the loss of oxygen. It was chilling that one wrong move on Nessie’s part could’ve turned him into a stone corpse. Sasori remembered Grandmother once telling him about how sages could draw upon nature chakra, and why there was so few in existence or in history, and why it was imperative that Sasori should rely solely on his chakra.
“I don’t think so. If it did, it sure didn’t do anything to fix your broken bones. No offense, Nessie, but that was a bit of a half-assed job if you ask me.”
Fumiko thumped Tsume for her language.)
Once Tsume was satisfied with Sasori being back alive, if not awake, she explained to Nessie that because Sasori was hypothermic, she needed to warm him up. That meant she required camping gear and dry clothes, and summoned one of her bears to get the supplies. Nessie had been surprised and interested in the summon, who was able to understand Nessie’s chirping-click speech, and therefore provided a translation for Tsume. Biito had assured Nessie that every one of Aunt Natsumi’s summons were treated with respect and dignity, and confirmed Tsume’s claim that the dragon summon existed.
Tsume then told Nessie that it was clear how lonely she was, how difficult it must be to be the last of her kind. Tsume couldn’t see why an immortal summon couldn’t chose her to be a mate and then they could have lots of dragon babies, as she knew for a fact that immortal summons could have offspring with mortal non-summons. Just look at Juubi, who was a fine specimen. Nessie was very interested in this. Unfortunately, Tsume didn’t have the dragon summon, she wasn’t sure if Aunt Natsumi would let her sign it even if she explained why she needed it, and Aunt Natsumi had a lifetime ban against entering the country. Per Biito, Nessie believed Tsume when Tsume promised to return as soon as she could to Waterfall, but Nessie had misgivings for Tsume being successful. Nessie had dealt with far too many humans who had proven to not keep sincerely-given promises.
(“It is a common failing of our species,” Fumiko told Nessie. “It’s a wonder that we have managed to thrive and flourish, given how inconsistent we can be.”
Nessie chirped, as if in agreement.)
Tsume truly didn’t want Nessie to languish on a hope that may never come to fruition, so it seemed logical that if she couldn’t bring the dragon summons in a timely manner to Nessie, then she should bring Nessie to the dragon summons. Nessie still had misgivings, given that there was a good reason she was eking out a miserable, lonely existence in the country of Waterfall instead of her native country of Water, and wanted Tsume’s sworn promise that “her humans” wouldn’t bring harm to Nessie. Unfortunately, Tsume wasn’t the spokesperson for the entire human race, so the best she could do was promise that her companions and, ultimately, Konoha, wouldn’t attack Nessie once they were aware of Tsume’s agreement.
(“I mean, shinobi are jumpy people,” Tsume told Nessie. “We do have a tendency to attack first, ask questions later if there’s time to ask, but in general, when shinobi see something as big and as intimidating as you, they’re either going to run away or attack if they don’t know what’s going on. I have to let my leader know about this agreement, so he can tell off the other Konoha nin. They aren’t going to listen to me.”
“I,” said Kagami pointedly, “can assure you, Nessie-sama, that once Konohagakure has learned that you are Tsume’s and Aunt Natsumi’s guest, they’ll resign themselves to your presence, and not attack.”
Tsume looked sheepish. “Yeah, uh, we do kinda have that sort of reputation, don’t we?”
And from the world-weary expression that Kagami gave Tsume, Sasori remembered what both Namikaze and Kagami had said about Tsume’s unfortunate habit of collecting misanthropic murder-vipers and adopting them like they were kittens. Especially is there wasn’t anyone around to stop her. And fuck all if Tsume not only went and did just that the moment she was separated from Kagami, she also somehow managed to adopt something even worse than Sasori. And now he was beginning to have an appreciation for why Namikaze and the Hokage had insisted that Tsume bring along other supervising adults. Not that they had been able to do much, but how much worse could it have been without Kagami and Fumiko being present for the most of their journey? Would Tsume have also collected the Kiri Swordsman and his companions? Somehow dragged along Takigakure’s jinchuuriki after making the argument that she didn’t have a restraining order?)
And so that was how Nessie agreed to accompany them back to Konoha. To show her willingness to trust Tsume, Nessie gave Tsume a boost of nature chakra, which replenished Tsume’s personal stores enough to heal Ni’s injuries, Sasori’s broken rib cage – which was partly broken from Nessie’s tail smashing him and Ni out of the water, and partly from the CPR – and his broken right arm.
(“Shattered to pieces! Man, I thought I had it bad when I broke every bone in my hand when I was twelve years old. And my Mystic Palm was incredible when I had that chakra boost! I was able to heal all of you, including that chicken-bone leg of yours, and all of me, like my kidneys! I haven’t peed any blood, and I don’t even have a twinge of a headache! I wish I had nature chakra more often whenever I need to use the Mystic Palm.”
Which, yeah, if peeing blood was a thing when Tsume went past her limits on olfaction, it would explain why Kagami was so concerned for her. What sort of old brain injury could cause hemolysis?
…and she had missed the friction burns on the palms of his hands. Sasori thought himself rather generous not to point out such.
Kagami hugged Tsume. “I will never fault you for looking for Shisui or Sasori, and I’m so glad that you were able to heal yourself. But please do not go past your limits, Tsume. They’re set for a reason.”)
Tsume then sent Biito to Kagami and Fumiko with camping supplies, as well as a statement that Shisui and Sasori were safe and relatively sound, and that was the end of her long, rambling report.
“You never mentioned Nessie-sama in your message,” Kagami said in clear reprimand.
“Well, the bears aren’t very good in relaying complex messages. They tend to get things a bit scrambled, and I didn’t want you to get the wrong idea about how Nessie was holding us hostage and you needed to storm the castle and rescue us.”
Team Chaos was mostly seated in a circle, having relaxed and made themselves comfortable during Tsume’s report. Hana was asleep, her belly full and her world made right in the secure arms of her mother. Nessie had curled around them, looking half-cat and half-lizard with her posture. Her gaze had remained sharp and focused throughout, calculating and intelligent, as if she fully understood everything that Tsume said. Only Fumiko hadn’t remained still, deciding that if they had time to sit and chat, they had time for a quick breakfast of oatmeal and tea. Shisui was more exhausted from yesterday’s events than anyone had realized, and was snuggled up against Sasori’s side, napping. Kagami’s Sharingan was still activated.
What was mindboggling to Sasori was how Tsume spoke. Through the entire report, she spoke casually and with ease, as if meeting an extinct dragon and talking it into joining them on their road trip was just common occurrence that many people experienced. Eternal Sands, no wonder Tsume ultimately needed to be protected from herself.
“I feel like we should send the Hokage a message,” Tsume said, sipping mint tea. “That way, he can let other Konoha teams know that we’re coming through, so Nessie doesn’t get attacked.”
Kagami was seated cross-legged with his arms folded in front of his chest. At Tsume’s statement, he tilted his head back, as if imploring a sky god for patience. “One,” he began, “any message that the Hokage disseminates to our shinobi is at risk for being intercepted by our enemies. If our enemies were to learn that you were bringing in a long-thought extinct dragon to Konoha, they will deliberately hunt us down and target her to prevent that from happening. Dragons were legendary creatures for their power, second only to the bijuu and boss summons. No one will be happy that Konoha got their hands on that amount of power.”
With the announcement of being hunted down, Nessie hissed in anger, her neck fringe flaring wide. The velvet chakra suddenly felt ice-cold and smothering, like frigid lake water flooding his lungs.
“Two,” Kagami lifted his hand, showing no fear to Nessie as he kept his Sharingan-bright gaze on Tsume, “the Hokage has never had been on a mission with you, Tsume. He seems to be under the impression that your team leaders, whether it was Sakumo, or Danzo, or myself right now, should be able to reel you in.”
Tsume’s face colored with embarrassment. The heavy weight of Nessie’s chakra disappeared from Sasori’s lungs. “You… you think I’m out of control?”
“I think you’re very brave, Tsume.” That… that wasn’t a denial that Kagami thought that Tsume was out of control.
She shook her head. “No. Bravery is being scared to do something and doing it anyway. I’m not scared. I’m never scared.” She slammed her tea mug down in frustration. “I’ll never be scared, so I’ll never be brave.”
“What is bravery but another word for courage?” Kagami’s body relaxed as he reached out and caught Tsume’s hands in his own, holding them tight.

“Courage, bravery, whatever we call it, it’s knowing that something is going to probably hurt, but doing it anyway. Even if there isn’t any fear when you decide to follow through. You knew it would probably hurt when you chose to take on a dragon in defense of every living person on that hotel barge. To me, that is courage. You were brave.”
Tsume’s eyed widened, and they shone with unshed tears. “I guess I was brave, then,” she said in a small voice, as if someone had corrected a misconception she had held on to for years. Which, well, was probably what just happened. She looked like a small child who didn’t know if they were being complimented or reprimanded, and didn’t know which of those two were worse. “Danzo would say I was being stupid.”
“Yes, he would. And that’s because, as Danzo would say, stupidity is also knowing that something is going to probably hurt, and then doing it anyway. Life is hard, like that.”

Such would explain why Sasori often thought people who did brave things were morons. He honestly couldn’t see the difference.
“But,” said Fumiko, reaching between them to clasp her own hands around Kagami and Tsume’s. “There is a line between courage and stupidity. That line is the measurement between success and survival. And I think it’s fair to say that you not only survived a dragon, you succeeded in winning her over. Tsume, you have done so many things in your life, knowing that it would hurt to do them, and you’ve survived them each and every time. Perhaps not always successfully, but you’ve survived. An idiot wouldn’t have survived.”
Sasori still suspected that Tsume’s life was blessed with divine intervention from the capricious, sadistic gods, but it was nice to now have a definite difference between stupidity and bravery. (He would argue that there were plenty of stupid people who engaged in stupid activities and survived them just fine, though.)
At Fumiko’s statement, Tsume’s childish vulnerability melted into a hope that was sunshine bright.
(“When I grow up, I want to be like her… She refused to let other people’s opinions define her. She rose above it. I will, too, some day.”)
Tsume actually did think she was a moron, no matter how she verbally denied and argued otherwise when Sasori would call her one. She had been called a simpleton for so long with people rubbing her face into her actions and mistakes as proof of such, like how reckless it was that she would befriend a bitter, angry Suna nin with promises of new feet and his parents’ puppets, and then insisting on being left alone with him as they traveled back to Konoha, before reluctantly accepting babysitters. It was naïve at its best, and moronic at its worst. But it was also courageous, because doing the right things often hurt, and she did them anyway.
Sasori supposed that’s the difference between courage and stupidity. Courage, ultimately, was about doing something the person thought was right.
Kagami released Tsume’s hands, twisting his wrist to catch Fumiko’s hand. He broke eye contact with Tsume for only a moment to send his wife a look of gratitude as he placed a kiss on her knuckles. “You see, Tsume, good judgement comes from wisdom. Wisdom comes from experience. And experience comes at the heels from bad choices.”
Kagami, Sasori realized, didn’t really break. What he did was simply point out the broken pieces of someone’s life or emotions, forcing them to acknowledge something that simply already existed, refusing to let the person continue to exist in a state of denial or ignorance. After all, how can you fix something broken when you didn’t know, or refused to believe that there was damage?
“Your experiences are so different from mine, the Hokage’s, and Danzo’s. You survive and you succeed; what looks like stupidity to outsiders is truly courage. And you learn from your very different experiences, and that gives you a wisdom that we haven’t understood or recognized. It is only because I’ve been on this marvelous journey together with you that I now truly understand.” Kagami smiled gently as he shook his head. “I’ve seen it, I’ve lived it, and I still can’t believe it.”
And only when the person finally recognized the damage, finally acknowledged and understood what was broken, did Kagami gather and assemble the pieces together, and remake what was broken with precious veins of gold.
“And I swear to you, Tsume,” Kagami took Tsume’s hands into his own, and pressed a kiss against her knuckles, much as he did with Fumiko’s. “I will ensure Nessie-sama’s protection, not you. I will protect her from all Konoha nin until we meet the Hokage, because if that’s what I must do to keep you safe, then so it shall be.”
And then a different smile spread across Kagami’s face, the likes of which Sasori hadn’t realized that Kagami was capable. The smile was gleefully sadistic, and rather demonic when lit with the Sharingan’s glow. “So, no, we are not warning the Hokage in the slightest that Tsume is bringing home a dragon. I want to see the look on his face when we introduce him to Nessie.”

(Sasori thought, translation: I have no idea how this entire sequence of illogical shenanigans happened, even though I should know, because I was stuck right in the middle and saw the entire thing. So, you know what? I’m passing the whole shebang up the chain of command, and I’m going to laugh hysterically when they demand to know what I could’ve done differently, and I’m going to tell them that if they want something done right, they need to do it themselves next time. And then I will laugh and laugh and laugh when they fail as spectacularly as I did.)
Fumiko laughed and patted Kagami’s shoulder. “Any idea on how we’re going to sneak a dragon out of the country, my dear? I don’t think she’ll pass an exit interview.”
The sadistic glee grew even more. “Why bother with an exit interview? We’re just going to charge right over the border. Go big, or go home, as they say. In this case, we’re going big and going home.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Sasori found beauty and comfort in subtlety. He loved how quiet poisons were, the way such a small dose could be so hidden, and yet so powerful with even just a trace amount. He loved his chakra threads, which allowed him to manipulate and control with the barest twitch of muscles. He generally didn’t use ninjutsu, which were typically loud and flashy, no matter his general curiosity of their variety and range. (Not that he knew too many ninjutsu, but that was aside from the point.) He preferred that the deaths he authored to be quick and quiet, often refusing to drag out battles even to showcase his skills. Efficiency was, in many ways, subtle. It meant getting the most done with the least amount of effort and the maximum of thoughtfulness. Blatancy frequently took more effort and much less thought.
And while charging through the harbor of Hiza-Ki on the back of a dragon, the force of Nessie’s passage like a battering ram that effortlessly knocked aside any barriers to their departure, which included fully-loaded barges, was hardly subtle even when veiled within a drenching downpour that stretched ten kilometers all around, Sasori did have to admire the efficiency.
It sure beat a two-week long wait list and exit interviews.
None of the Taki nin had been prepared for Nessie’s sudden appearance, and to her credit, she kept the property destruction to a minimum. When the locks, which constituted at the border between Waterfall and Fire and separated the river from the lake to control boating traffic, stood against her way, she simply leapt out of the water and sailed over, easily clearing it without touching. Juubi was just behind them, a dark smudge barely visible through the thick sheets of driving rain, galloping across the lake’s surface as gracefully as he would on solid ground. All the humans and ninken were confined to Nessie’s back, obscured by a genjutsu of invisibility that Kagami maintained with his Sharingan.
In the wake of her passage, giant waves swamped whatever barges she hadn’t rammed aside, and relatively small water cyclones flung away Taki nin that were jumping forward to investigate Nessie’s charge. Those who managed to avoid the waves were gently swatted away with her tail, sending bodies skidding across the water and over the docks like scattered pebbles and probably just a few broken bones.
I like this, Sasori decided, feeling smug and powerful from where he was seated, lashed to a slippery scale with secure chakra threads, facing the direction they retreated from so he could keep an eye on Juubi. So long, Waterfall. I hated almost every minute of it.
Sasori and Tsume had entered Waterfall like a whisper of hair brushing against the cheek, soft and quiet, with the use of a powerful, but silent, space-time jutsu.
They entered Fire eighteen days later with all the brute force and volume of a tsunami.
Sasori would be the first to declare that subtlety was clearly lost on Team Chaos as they forced their perspicuous and obnoxious blatancy on every unsuspecting person hapless enough to be stuck with them or in their path. However, Sasori was now willing to admit that there was a certain level of beauty to be found in how Team Chaos often brute-forced their way to victory. (As long as the brute force for solutions were to Sasori’s benefit. It was lovely that he wasn’t on the receiving end of it, for oince.)oOoOoOo
Nessie evaded any attempts to be followed with her speed and stamina, easily outpacing any pursuit. She slowed only when Juubi started to lag, exiting Kogen River to one river bifurcation and then another, traveling southeast through multiple distributaries that ultimately separated her further and further away from the Kogen River and successfully lost any pursuers. Kagami dropped the Sharingan and genjutsu once Tsume confirmed the lack of any human presence. He was weak and sweaty with exhaustion. Nessie sent the rainstorm off in a different direction, and only stopped completely when Fumiko decided it was time to rest.
Tsume decided that the forest clearing right next to the river they were in was the perfect place to set up camp, being that there wasn’t anyone around for twenty kilometers. (The closest team of humans – shinobi, she determined – were Isha, and since there wasn’t any alarm from their direction, she assumed that the team lacked sensors. The trees were thick and offered some shelter, but were only half-leafed out, given that it was still early spring. Tsume made a deep pit to better hide the glow of their campfire. Juubi grazed on some grasses, and then fell asleep standing upright, leaning against an ancient oak.
And Tsume… Tsume gave Sasori Komushi.
Sasori settled himself on the ground next to the firepit, and clung to Komushi, desperately grateful to have his friend returned after such a painfully long absence. In the back of his mind, he thought he heard Komushi humming a soft lullaby, just as he always did whenever he was doing maintenance on Kondoru.
Fumiko made dinner – rice, with spit-roasted fish that Nessie provided. Sasori watched in fascination as Nessie’s eyes glowed brighter. She used her chakra to create an eddy that captured fish in its current, then drew them up in a large, round mass of water that floated in the air like a bubble. The mass shrunk as rivulets of water poured out of the ball, until there was only a thin, solid wall of water kept the fish trapped within. Then Nessie drew the fish-bubble close to where she was reclining, and she dropped it. The remaining water splattered everywhere, leaving forty wiggling fishes on land. The glow in Nessie’s eyes dimmed.
“That was so cool!” Shisui declared, gathering the eight fish they needed for dinner, and leaving the rest for Nessie to consume. She even accepted the offal that Shisui offered after he and Fumiko guttered and cleaned the fish.
While dinner was cooking, Tsume estimated that they were only three hundred kilometers away from Konoha.
Three hundred kilometers still felt like a ridiculous distance away, but they had traveled two hundred kilometers today, though at least fifty of those kilometers had taken them further out of the way, with Nessie’s detour to evade any followers. For Team Chaos, it was a new record of distance covered in a single day. (And was probably why Juubi was so exhausted. Sasori knew that no Wind horses could sustain a gallop for two hundred kilometers without rest. Probably the only reason Juubi was able to do it was because he was a demi-summon… Nessie’s offspring were going to be monstrous. Sasori had some serious misgivings about Tsume giving her a chance to breed.)
At this point, Konoha felt so close that Sasori could practically taste it.
Kagami and Tsume spent some time reviewing their current position on the map, and discussed the most efficient, safest passage to Konoha. Unfortunately, there weren’t too many rivers between here and Konoha that would take them directly to their destination, but as Kagami tiredly pointed out, water was life no matter which country you were in. Far too many enemy and allied teams would camp out near rivers and streams for clean sources of water and food, so to continue riding Nessie and traveling through waterways would only increase their risk of drawing attention or getting caught. It was safer to travel by foot and on land.
The problem with traveling by foot and on land was that Nessie, by way of being approximately fifty meters long and who knew how many thousands of kilograms in weight, would make a gigantic trail. Being so close to the border of the Land of Rice Paddies meant more fields and less forests for now, but the forests would only become more thicker the further they penetrated Fire. The size of Nessie’s footprints and the impression of her tail dragging across the ground would be large and concerning enough that it would necessitate investigations, and Nessie would have to force her way through forests instead of taking well-traveled roads. The resulting damage to the trees would also attract attention and be easy to follow. It was imperative that Team Chaos employ stealth and speed to remain inconspicuous. It was a real shame that Nessie didn’t have wings like raiton and fuuton dragons.
“I got a solution for leaving less trace!” Tsume declared once she had finished eating. She turned to Nessie, and made some very familiar hand seals – dog, boar, ram. “This is henge no jutsu.”
What.
“This is how the chakra feels.” With a poof of chakra, she became a miniature Nessie, about the size of Ichi. Then she dispelled it. “It can be used to change your appearance, which comes with a change in size.” At Sasori’s expression, she added, “my ninken can use henge, and they don’t use hand seals.”
Oh, that’s right. Ichi and Ni had henged into octopuses when Tsume and Sasori were trying to escape Hanzo. He… he hadn’t given any thought to ninken using henge without hand seals, given that he had been so focused on just trying to survive at the time, and then there had been Tsume’s almost-immediate labor and delivery. “How?”
“They get a feel of how the chakra is twisted and directed to create the henge, and then they manipulate their chakra to replicate those twists and directions.”
(Sasori immediately wondered if Komushi could use henge. Komushi still had his chakra pathway and tenketsu. If Sasori could thread the chakra through Komushi and twisted it or used Komushi’s hands to manipulate the chakra, then maybe it could work? It would be the first step to figuring out if human puppets could use their kekkai genkai. He still had a dish of vengeance to serve to the Kazekage, after all…)
“If Nessie-sama can henge herself,” Kagami said slowly, “we would be more successful with stealth.”
Nessie chirp-clicked at them, lowering her great head. When nobody moved, she chirped-clicked at them again.
Ichi stood from where he had been lounging with Shisui and Ni, and shook himself. With a wag of his tail and a pointed bark, he henged into Tsume. It was an uncanny resemblance, even capturing the damp slog of her clothes. After a moment, he dispelled the henge, and then repeated it.
“I think Nessie wanted a repeat demonstration and that’s what Ichi is doing,” Tsume said.
Nessie chirp-clicked again. Ichi cycled through several more henges – twice as Kagami, once as Shisui, once as an octopus, and twice into two different birds, fluttering and even flying from the ground to Nessie’s head.
“Henging wings would be useful,” said Kagami. “Then we could simply fly too far above to be seen from below.”
“Juubi can’t ride Nessie,” said Tsume, half-concerned and half-outraged. They had tried letting Juubi ride on Nessie before their reckless escape out of Waterfall. Juubi couldn’t stay balanced on Nessie’s back, which was why he had to keep pace on foot for two hundred kilometers. “I’m not leaving him behind. We’re not abandoning our companions and becoming worse than trash.”
Juubi, Sasori thought, was probably the one who would be most successful in making it to Konoha if he had to go solo, but he was still Tsume’s companion, and she would leave no one behind. (Sakumo’s shadow loomed even larger between him and Tsume.)
“True. And the downside to wings is that Nessie-sama doesn’t know how to use them. Any attempt to familiarize herself with flying would likely come with failed attempts, which will surely cause minor earthquakes from her size, and noticeable damage at the inevitable crash sites. For our own safety, we wouldn’t be able to ride until she could learn how to fly. No, it would be best if Nessie-sama could henge herself into something smaller.”
An Ichi-sized Nessie would be suitable, Sasori thought.
Nessie stood, shook herself just like Ichi had done, and then her eyes glowed brilliantly bright. She didn’t change with a poof of chakra, though. The glow spread from her eyes and across all her scales, lighting the forest clearing like a supernova, blindingly bright. Sasori squeezed his eyes closed and covered his face as his eyes stung – he could still see the massive aquamarine glow through his fingers and behind his eyelids. Velvet chakra pressed against him, crushing and massive – no wonder it took a joint army of samurai and ninja to slay the last known dragon.
Then the pressure eased back as the glow faded. Vision blurry with tears, Sasori carefully opened his eyes and peered through his fingers, and then let his hand drop away.
Where Nessie had once stood in her dragon form was…. She had evidently decided that her henge should resemble her human companions, for whatever value resemble could offer. She was human-shaped, but clearly not human. Nessie stood a very lean, very tall three meters high, and stood ethereal in the combined campfire and moonlight. Her silver-blue skin, translucent like the moon, shimmered like she was coated in glitter – scales, Sasori realized, rubbing his eyes in a desperate bid to clear them. She was naked, but there wasn’t any discernment of genitalia; her pelvis was smooth with solid scale-skin between her thighs, and her breasts lacked nipples. What covered her head wasn’t hair, but instead were ruffled fins like those at the end of her tail. Which she retained in her henged form the end of which flickered lazily like a relaxed cat’s. Her eyes were too large to fit her humanoid face, being almost three times larger, and they still glowed the same aquamarine, though softly, much like the Sharingan. Her elbows, knees, and ankles were jointed in the wrong direction, and her fingers seemed impossibly long, each one tipped with a massive curving claw. She was as nightmarish as she was eerily beautiful, and looking at her, trying to comprehend her humanoid henge, was like trying to comprehend the nightmares that were Tsume’s gouka inugami.
Juubi woke up long enough to snort, as if he wasn’t impressed with Nessie’s change, dropped himself to the ground like a dog, and then went back to sleep.
(Sasori’s scientific curiosity wondered if a dragon’s genitourinary system was like a lizard’s cloaca, and if that was why Nessie’s form lacked nipples and a vulva. He resigned himself to enduring the persistent itch of unsatisfied curiosity much like he endured the persistent itch of his phantom left big toe, since there was no sociably acceptable way to ask Nessie to bend over and expose herself to satisfy his curiosity. At least, not with present company…)
“Oh, my goodness!” Tsume gasped. “You’re beautiful!”
“Wow!” declared Shisui, equally enchanted.
(Was Sasori all that surprised that the Inuzuka and an Inuzuka son found nothing nightmarish about Nessie’s form? Of course not.)
Fumiko was silent as she scribbled furiously in her notebook, eyes flickering from the pages to Nessie and back as she documented every detail.
The smile Nessie gave in reply revealed that her teeth were still razor-sharp, and still almost too large in size and quantity to fit within her mouth. The smile was stiff and robotic, as if she were mimicking the humans. And Sasori suspected that was the case. What use did animals have for facial expressions – even an animal as advanced as a dragon? Then she responded to Tsume and Shisui’s remarks with the same chirp-clicks as her dragon form. Humanish-shaped didn’t come with human-speech.
“Well,” hedged Kagami, “not quite inconspicuous, but the size is certainly more manageable.”
The smile slipped away from Nessie’s face, and she took one step forward. She immediately lost her balance and toppled over onto her face, because trying to walk on just two legs despite retaining a tail for balance probably took some getting used to.
In an attempt to make Nessie slightly more inconspicuous, a very animated discussion of clothes had to take place between Tsume and Fumiko. And then a review of the clothes in the possession of Team Chaos. Sasori could’ve saved them time and effort by explaining that this was going to be a foolish endeavor, given Nessie’s overall physiology, but Fumiko and Tsume were so excited that he didn’t have the heart to interrupt their brainstorming.
Sasori sipped his mug of mint and jasmine tea, stroked Komushi’s lacquered hand, and entertained himself with watching his companions. Fumiko and Tsume had Nessie try on several tops (all of them too short, or hung from her thin shoulders, gaping all the way down to the nipple-less breasts), and even made one attempt to cut a hole in the seat of a pair of Tsume’s trousers for Nessie’s tail. The trousers immediately fell off Nessie’s hips and pooled around her ankles. Tsume mourned the loss of her favorite pair of stolen trousers, given that there was now a large hole in the backside. Kagami reclined against a resting Ichi and silently watched, his expression one of quiet contemplation, as he gently rocked a sleeping Hana in his arms. Shisui was eagerly trying to help, handing Tsume and Fumiko random clothing articles to try.
Once Sasori had finished his tea, he snagged Tsume’s and his tent with his chakra threads, and pulled it towards him. Only Kagami and Nessie noticed. Kagami raised a single eyebrow in question, and Nessie’s face remained blank, because dragons didn’t convey their thoughts or emotions across their face.
Using nine chakra threads, Sasori suspended the camouflage-printed tent material in the air, and twisted and folded it about until he achieved a shape he was satisfied with. Aided with a kunai that was deftly controlled with a tenth chakra string, and gifted with the well-practiced eye of an artist, Sasori cut strategic holes in the material for her head and arms. Then he floated his creation overhead to where Nessie stood, and dropped it.
“This is marvelous!” Fumiko declared when she saw was it was, tugging the tent material down so it fit around Nessie’s body. Tsume had to reach through the arm holes to pull Nessie’s arms through, and then attempted likewise for her tail, before realizing there was no hole for a tail.
“Isn’t this our tent?” Tsume asked, fingering the material.
Sasori shrugged. “We got by sharing one tent together before we boarded the hotel barge. We can do it again.”
With Nessie’s bizarre nudity and dimly glowing skin now mostly covered, Tsume felt it was time for discuss taking night watches. Now that they were outside of Waterfall and in Fire where the Third Shinobi War was currently taking place in scattered skirmishes, they needed to secure their campsite and set up night watches.
Unfortunately, they didn’t have the supplies to build traps around their campsite.
Fortunately, they did have a dragon. “If anyone tries to attack us in the middle of the night and they’re not Konoha or Suna, will you eat them for us?” Tsume asked Nessie. Nessie was seated on the ground, plucking at the tent-dress as if curious about the feeling of being covered. Nessie agreed, flashing her serrated teeth in another smile, then answered with three rapid clicks.
Sasori hoped that Nessie would take off her tent-dress before releasing her henge. They didn’t have any spares to replace the tent-dress with if her changing mass destroyed her makeshift clothes.
When it came to deciding who was going to do the night watched, it was decided unanimously (because Team Chaos was still a benevolent dictatorship run by humans over the age of thirteen) that no, Shisui cannot help, no matter that he could smell anyone who were approaching their campsite.
“Growing boys need their sleep,” Fumiko told Shisui as she threaded her fingers through his curls. He had pillowed his head in her Fumiko’s lap. “It’s an important part of your development. Also, you get very crabby when you don’t get enough sleep.”
“I do not! I’m an angel.” Shisui yawned wide enough to make his jaw audibly crack. “That’s what you and Papa tell me all the time.”
“And a devil is nothing more than a fallen angel. You will sleep.”
“But I got the Sharingan now.”
“And you will sleep, regardless.”
Tsume insisted that she take part in the night watches. “Look, Ichi and Ni can team up with you or Fumiko,” she told Kagami. “They’re trained to alert Team Sakumo whenever someone is two kilometers away if they’re approaching our direction slow, five kilometers if the approach is quick. You and Fumiko are lousy long-distance sensors, so it’s best to pair you up with one of my ninken. With my nose, I don’t need a ninken.”
“Oh, Tsume.” Fumiko shook her head. “Your sleep is already disturbed so often with the breastfeeding. You need to get every bit of shut-eye that you can get, and being awake two and a half solid hours for a watch shift is too much when your sleep is already so broken up.”
Tsume glared. “No offense, but you guys are old. I refuse to let you get by on less than four hours of sleep a day. That’s not healthy for you either! I’m already going to be up and awake with the breastfeeding, so I may as well do a shift.”
Sasori cleared his throat. “I can do night watch, too. Then we could all get at least six hours of sleep.” He held Komushi’s hand as three sets of eyes turned towards him and considered the offer. As the silence lengthened, he gripped Komushi’s hand as he braced himself for rejection.
Kagami finally smiled. It… it was warm and trusting. “I think you’re recovered enough from the trauma of your amputations that you could reasonably handle a night watch.”
(They do trust you! Komushi told Sasori with delight. Komushi’s puppet body didn’t move, but it was easy to pretend that the increased warmth in Sasori’s grip was Komushi’s soul giving him a reassuring squeeze.)

The watch schedule was decided as Sasori first, then Kagami, then Fumiko, with Tsume’s shift slipping in for Kagami or Fumiko were she already awake and breastfeeding at the end of their shift, or after Fumiko if she was asleep during any of the other shift changes.
Sasori liked the idea of not having to try falling asleep right away, not when he felt wound up with tension – he was close to Konoha, so close from finally not having Tsume smothering him with her affection and poor boundaries and driving need to adopt misanthropic murder-vipers. He was so close to finally being able to do something about replacing his missing feet. He was so close to freedom.
So close… but also that much closer to Hatake Sakumo. Of all the changes in his soul that Sasori had to suffer through, one of the few things that had remained unchanged was his bitter hatred and resentment to Hatake Sakumo. He had spent over a year imagining all the ways he would get his vengeance, whether it was through a slow, insidious toxin that could never be linked back to Sasori, or a direct confrontation so he could look that man in the eye and demand to know if Sakumo had realized what monster he would inadvertently create.
But after a lifetime of nineteen days in the company of Tsume and Kagami, Sasori had no idea how he would find himself reacting. The uncertainty in the remaking of his shattered soul scared Sasori.oOoOoOo
Sasori’s night watch was peaceful. It wasn’t as cold as nights in Waterfall, and Tsume had left him with a blanket in case he got chilled. The fire was banked so its light and smoke wouldn’t attract attention, and allowed his eyes to adjust to the dark. Sasori couldn’t check the perimeters physically, and he was a lousy sensor, but he could thin his chakra threads to microscopic filaments that were invisible to the (non-kekkai genkai) human eye, and spread them around the perimeter like the gossamer strands of a spider’s web. Tsume felt comfortable waking up at the approach of suspicious odors, seeing as she had become such a light sleeper with her newborn, which gave Ichi and Ni the opportunity to also catch some sleep.
Despite the loss of light from the campfire, Nessie still glowed faintly. If Sasori didn’t know who or what she was, if he hadn’t seen her henge, he would immediately think she was a ghost or a youkai. She had such a massive amount of chakra that she felt like a supernova as she tripped and stumbled through Sasori’s chakra web, pacing the forest clearing to stubbornly master walking on two legs.

Aside from Nessie, only a few creatures trespassed through Sasori’s chakra webbings during his shift – one fox, eager to get to the river for fish, an owl flying overhead, two raccoons looking for a place to sleep in the trees, and a small herd of deer. In the quiet of the night, Sasori used the light from Nessie’s glow to treat and redress his stumps. His infections had cleared with the thrice daily seven-day round of penicillin injections, and he hadn’t needed any for the last few days. Tsume threatened Sasori with more needles to the butt cheek if he didn’t continue with daily dressings though.
It hadn’t been done this morning, with Tsume’s need to return to Hana to feed her, and then Kagami’s decision to storm the border before anyone could “wise up and decide on a more sensible course of action.” (At this point and time, Sasori considered only himself to be the single most reasonable member of Team Chaos, and his impatience was starting to outweigh his reasonableness.)

Once his wound care was complete, Sasori propped Komushi next to the tent, since there wasn’t any room for his puppet with it currently being quite crowded with three adults, one child, and two ninken. Tsume was asleep, so Shisui awoke Kagami with a poke to the shoulder.
“All’s quiet,” he whispered to Kagami. Kagami nodded silently, and exited the tent after awaking Ichi to follow after. With the presence of so many bodies, the inside of the tent was comfortably warm compared to the cold spring night. His mind finally as tired as his body, Sasori slipped into Kagami’s still-warm spot, sandwiched between Shisui and Fumiko, stole one of Tsume’s pillows to elevate his stumps, and let himself relax, knowing that his companions could be trusted to keep him safe.oOoOoOo
Nessie had practiced walking all night long, through every night watch shift, and was now practicing running around in circles without losing her balance as the campfire was restarted for a quick breakfast of oatmeal with honey and dried raspberries. (“I swear, those are not raisins!” Tsume promised when Sasori glared at the dark lumps in his bowl.)
Nessie didn’t appear tired despite her lack of sleep. And while she seemed to get a hang of running without falling over, stopping was proving to be a more difficult skill to master. It was as if she seemed unaware of how to manipulate the momentum of her moving mass.
Remembering how she had obtained fish for them last night, Sasori wondered how much of Nessie’s movement through water was done by manipulating the water with her chakra. Moving on land without aiding herself with chakra and water must feel absolutely foreign… like trying to get around without feet. Sasori catalogued her water manipulation on his growing list of scientific inquiries. (It was already quite long.)
He knew he wasn’t the only one who had questions, as Fumiko would frequently pause in whatever she was doing to write something down in her notebook, with narrow-eyed glances sent in Nessie’s direction.
Tsume called everyone to attention after breakfast, even Juubi, who was nibbling on grass growing next to the riverbank. “Okay, so here’s what’s up. Konoha has increased patrols through Fire, and all Konoha nin and noncombatant and guests are required to identify ourselves, either when we pass a patrol, or when we pass a waystation. Kagami and I will vouch for Nessie as our guest, but we’re not going to explain what Nessie is, since the retired Head of Internal Affairs has judged her identity to be a matter of national security that must be given directly to the Hokage. If anyone on the patrol or in a waystation pushes any of you for more information, tell them that Uchiha Kagami hasn’t given you any permission to disclose what you know.”
Fumiko rocked Hana, and Nessie, still for the first time since she had begun pacing around last night, sat next to her. Careful with her claws, Nessie stroked Hana’s hair and staring at the baby with a fierce longing. (At least Sasori assumed it was fierce longing and not hungry-hunger, given that she had declined breakfast when it was offered to her. Predators had a frequent habit of targeting a herd’s young for food…)
(Tsume didn’t seem concerned with Nessie’s attention directed at her baby, but Tsume was an abysmal judge of danger.)
Tsume stalked over to Sasori, and crouched down in front of him. Her expression was fierce and stubborn. “There is a very real possibility that Konoha patrols and waystation guards will decide to do an interview or field interrogation before they let us pass, given that Nessie looks so, uh, different.” Sasori’s eyes flickered towards Nessie at that, mentally acknowledging that he couldn’t blame the Konoha Patrol’s caution and decision to do a field interrogation. He certainly would, as Suna’s border patrol. “They won’t be able to understand Nessie. Kagami can pull rank on them, because he answers only to the Hokage. With the benefit of being his wife and his ward, Fumiko and Shisui are untouchable. Me? I’m Konoha and I’m just a chuunin, so they’ll try to push me, but I can default to Kagami being my team leader and I’m following his orders. But you? You’re Suna, and the only reason you’re allowed to come to Konoha is because of the promised medical treatment. You’re safe for them to push and prod and threaten. You’re more like external affairs, and the patrol can use that to separate you from me, and claim that Kagami can’t pull rank for you, and they’ll do what they reasonably can against an allied foreigner to get more information.”
“I won’t say a word.”
“Oh, I know that. I just wanted to warn you that they’ll probably separate you from the rest of us, but since you’re under Konoha’s protection and Suna is one of our few allies, any threats they try to use are just empty. They can say all they want that you won’t get treatments if you don’t tell them anything. I know…” Tsume’s fingers brushed against Sasori’s stumps. “I want you to know that they’ll make you feel cornered and vulnerable, they’ll try to capitalize on your injuries, but I won’t let them hurt you. I will keep you safe.” Then uncertainty crossed her face. “I guess I probably shouldn’t make promises like that, not when I haven’t been very good at keeping you safe.” she mumbled into the collar of her sweater.
The cynical realist in Sasori, given that he had died despite Tsume’s promise to keep him safe, agreed with that statement. Promises were futile and worthless when they couldn’t be kept. Such was why he gave so few of them. “You’re right, Tsume. You should never make promises you can’t keep.” She wilted further into her sweater.
But the gold-laced part of Sasori also knew that despite her failures with keeping the promise, Tsume would never stop trying. Promises were like trust, like pottery, that were so easily broken, whether willingly or not. But like pottery and like trust, broken promises could be pieced back together and made even more valuable because of adversity. Sasori touched Tsume’s ridiculous hedgehog hair – it was stiff and greasy, much like his own. “But if you instead promise that you’ll never stop trying? I know you’ll keep that one.”
He found that he liked her sunshine faith and delight lighting up her face.oOoOoOo

In deference to their new companion still figuring out how to improve the control of her stop and go (running was even worse than walking when it came to Nessie’s spectacularly clumsy faceplants into the ground), travel back to Konoha wasn’t as quick as Sasori would’ve liked through the fields and plains. It felt like they were dragging their feet. Even Shisui was feeling bored and impatient, whining about wanting to see his mother and father.
Sasori decided he didn’t like to hear Shisui whining. He also didn’t want to see what trouble an Inuzuka son would get into if he was bored, so he pulled Shisui up on Juubi’s saddle, seating him facing Sasori, and demanded that Shisui demonstrate his chakra threads.
Shisui was instantly distracted, face brightening in pride as he raised his hands and formed the chakra threads. They were still wispy and thin, like steam rising off a boiling pot, bright emerald green. Sasori formed his own chakra threads, lightning blue. “See the difference in size?” he asked Shisui.
Shisui scrunched his face as he studied them. And then the little monster’s Sharingan bloomed. “Wow! I can see the chakra! Coooool.” Between Shisui’s cheating eyes and Sasori’s own chakra threads, which he braided into Shisui’s so he could feel the difference that he saw, Shisui’s improvement was nothing less than astonishing when they stopped for the night, having only traveled a measly forty kilometers and avoided three different squads of ninja (none of which had been Konoha).
“How does a three-year-old have such fine chakra control?” Sasori asked Tsume and Kagami plaintively over a dinner of roasted rabbit and a salad made from tender oat shoots and clover leaves. (The salad was like eating grass, but Tsume insisted that the oatmeal hadn’t been enough fiber to meet the needs of everyone’s daily bowel movements. Which, frankly, was far too much information even for Sasori’s scientific curiosity.)
Tsume tapped her nose. “Because of this. Inuzuka are trained from birth to channel chakra through our noses to enhance or, uh, de-enhance?... our olfaction. There’s our baseline, which is more-or-less the same as a ninken’s, and then there’s our enhanced levels, which is, uh, way more.”
“But you were ten before you could tree- or wall-walk.”
Tsume shrugged. “Well, yeah, but I also had to relearn how to walk in general when I was six. I had to relearn chakra control, too, and I wasn’t allowed to do so for a few years until after my original brain injury. Tsunade-hime said that channeling chakra through my healing brain tissue would make my blood pressure skyrocket, and that triggers a liver cascade of clotting enzymes, and she got sick and tired of healing the strokes. Told me to knock it off. It took a while, but now it only happens when I go past my top enhanced level for olfaction.”
Disseminated intravascular coagulation, Sasori thought with a shiver, remembering how some of Grandmother’s poisons activated a systemic coagulation of blood. They were her preferred method for assassinations. For those few people who survived Grandmother’s assassination attempt, they were little more than breathing vegetables from the numerous brain-damaging strokes. DIC also explained the bleeding from Tsume’s orifices the evening she fought Nessie. The systemic blood coagulation meant that with the clotting factors all tied up elsewhere, there was nothing to stop unclotted blood from leaking through vessels broken through Nessie’s battering, like her eyeballs.
And just like adopting a damn dragon, Tsume simply accepted her fate for what it was, and moved on.
She was, Sasori thought, with a stabbing feeling, an absolute moron. Not for the first time did Sasori realize why Tsume needed to be protected from herself, but he also suddenly understood Kagami’s all-true-real fear that Tsume’s exponentially high risk of an early death, and felt a gut-clenching sense of horror at the sudden vision of Tsume floating down in the darkness of Lake Kogen, limp and dead. Sasori briefly looked at Hana – and desperately hoped that she would grow up with her loving, extraordinarily fierce mother at her side.

(Where would Sasori be right now, if his beloved mother had never been forcefully removed from the world of living? Most likely nowhere near Tsume and her chaos.)
With Shisui’s improved control of his chakra threads, Sasori graciously allowed Shisui to try controlling Komushi. While Shisui could attach his emerald-green chakra threads to items for control and movement, he struggled to thread them through a different chakra pathway and tenkotsu.
“Komushi’s left arm feels different,” Shisui said, after three minutes of trying, and failing. Sasori had started out with fresh corpses and puppets, so he decided to let Shisui try with Komushi when they stopped for the night, since Komushi was the best of both worlds.
“That’s because it’s a prosthetic. See?” He demonstrated the differences between Komushi’s human arm, and the prosthetic. Kagami and Tsume drew close to study them both.

“This is remarkable,” Kagami breathed, stroking the elbow and wrist joints, his Sharingan activated as Sasori manipulated Komushi’s prosthetic with his chakra threads to demonstrate the complexity of the joints.
“Fuuko’s prosthetic arm isn’t anything like this!” Tsume declared, reaching around Kagami to poke Komushi’s arm. “This is amazing! It even feels real!”
Kagami pinned Sasori with his Sharingan-bright gaze. “Did you make this?”
Sasori nodded, pleased with their amazement, and oddly humbled by such, as well. “I did. He lost his arm four months before he died, and he destroyed his puppet by saving my life. Komushi deserved the best.” And Sasori was the best, constructing the prosthetic with bones of iron, porcelain joints, and muscles and skin fashioned out of silica, with hidden compartments to store weapons and poisons. He had braided silk threads that mirrored the chakra pathways in Komushi’s human arm to create paths through which Komushi could thread his chakra and control the arm as well as any surgically reattached nerves could.
Sasori had spent multiple sleepless nights for over three weeks to carefully match, manipulate, create, and paint the materials to be stronger than a wooden puppet with the look and feel of human flesh. After he saw the horrendously ugly and clunky wooden apparatus that Komushi had been initially stuck with (seriously? That was the best that Suna could come up with, home of the penultimate Puppet creators? Sasori had been appalled), he knew that his best friend didn’t deserve to be saddled with that. If an enemy didn’t know that Komushi’s arm was a prosthetic, they wouldn’t target it for the increased weakness it represented.
(And Komushi had always admired Sasori’s art. Sasori had felt so proud that Komushi would wear what he had then considered his greatest achievement. And now Komushi was Sasori’s greatest work, greater than even the prosthetic Sasori had created. And he had damned Komushi’s soul this plane of existence, never to find peace. If Sasori had stayed drowned and dead… Komushi would have no one. Except maybe Tsume, who would probably plop Komushi in whatever secure hidey-hole she had stored his parents’ puppets.)
(Sasori was truly a selfish friend.)
Kagami traced the silica skin, wonder and admiration filling his face. “This is beyond remarkable.” Then he drew his hand back, and turned away as his brow knit with thoughtful consideration.oOoOoOo
Later that night, after Sasori awoke Kagami to trade off watch shifts, he asked Kagami for a quick moment to discuss something he didn’t want to share with the others. He would’ve discussed it with Tsume, but it seemed better to talk to Kagami, because… Because, like it or not, Kagami was the closest thing to a father figure he had, after the Kazekage had tried to end Sasori, and he felt he was better off discussing this topic with someone he looked up to, someone who cared enough to follow through.
Nessie had finally succumbed to sleep, and was curled up against a snoozing Juubi, her uncovered head and her uncovered tail, the end of which twitched occasionally, glowing like the half-full moon overhead. Kagami’s Sharingan eyes briefly observed Sasori’s webbing of chakra threads, and then he sat down, yawning, to give Sasori all the time in the world.
Sasori smothered down the warmth that burned in his chest, and instead summoned the realized chill that he had died, and tried to remind himself that looking into the Sharingan was a rookie mistake. (He didn’t care. He only found comfort with Kagami’s Sharingan.) “In Wind, we have a tradition of burning the bodies. Do you know why?”
“Mmm. I’m not sure that Fumiko has ever brought such to my attention, so I’m afraid not.”
Sasori licked his dry lips, and cradled Komushi close. “It’s sacrilegious to bury our dead, so we burn them. It’s actually pointless to bury them, given the number of hungry scavengers and predators in the desert, but as Fumiko once mentioned, mythological beliefs are often used to justify some traditions. In nomadic tribal tradition, if the bodies aren’t burned, they believe that the souls aren’t released, and are instead trapped within the rotting flesh. You can’t burn the bodies at just any time, though. If they’re burnt when the sun is lowering in the sky, or at night, the souls are released from their bodies, but remain trapped on earth. A trapped soul roams and grows angry, bitter, full of hatred. It’s believed that these angry souls eventually become our deadly sandstorms and sand cyclones. Which,” he added quickly, “is just nonsense, since it completely ignores the science of weather stratifications and how wind is generated.”

Still, for all his firm belief in science to explain the world he lived in, it had never been able to explain the human soul’s existence. Sasori could understand many unseen things – how happiness and sorrow are simply brain chemicals interacting with neurons, that fear was the limbic system being triggered, or the interaction and play of hormones on brain chemicals and neurons, like adrenaline.
But Sasori had never discovered why only certain brain chemistry and neurons were activated, as something that could make someone happy could also terrify a different person (Komushi had ran screaming from the room when they were eight and six years old and Sasori had eagerly showed Komushi his pet viper after he had removed it from its terrarium), or what, precisely, was resilience and tenacity, even when the body was swamped with fear. In the Land of Swamps, Komushi told Sasori that such was probably the human spirit, or soul, or whatever anyone wanted to call it.
(When Sasori had expressed frustration with trying to understand the nebulous existence of a soul to Komushi, and how in the Eternal Sands can you autopsy such a thing and stick it under a microscope for closer observation, Komushi had just given him that same small smile he always did when they debated art, and said, “Sasori. The human soul is something both beautiful and eternal. It’s not ours to understand, but only to appreciate for its splendor.” Komushi’s smile felt like he had been peering into the depths of Sasori’s soul, and while he didn’t understand it, didn’t understand Sasori, he had been dazzled by whatever he beheld.)
Sasori tightened his grip on Komushi as the remembered smile and gentle reprimand echoed through his thoughts. “I died in Lake Kogen,” he whispered. “I don’t remember the death part of it. But there was nothing between the time in the water, and when I awoke. It was just darkness. I didn’t see any loved ones.” Maybe it meant that his parents didn’t want to be reunited with Sasori. Or maybe it confirmed that Sasori’s soul had been trapped on earth, bound to his human flesh.
Just like Komushi’s soul was trapped.
Kagami watched him, quietly serene, patiently allowing Sasori time to gather his thoughts before voicing them. He was… he was very much like Komushi had been.
“Bodies must be burned at dawn, traditionally the first dawn after their death.” (Sasori had wondered if his parents had been burned the first dawn after their deaths, as it was rare to do so because Suna’s fallen could only be retrieved when safe to do so. Grandmother and Uncle Ebizo never said… It was tradition for funeral pyres to take place with the first dawn because of how rapidly bodies decomposed from the desert heat, so Sasori wasn’t concerned with the timing. Well, too concerned.) “The rising sun is said to catch the released souls, and pulls them free from the earth, towards the heavens. If they’re burned any time after noon, when the sun is lowering in the sky, the souls aren’t caught and sent heavenward. I have given thought to how I would die, some day. Really, I have.” He looked at Kagami, and something in Sasori’s expression must’ve encouraged Kagami to respond.
“Not uncommon for any in our profession,” he said, tranquil even when discussing the inevitability of death. It was common for shinobi to think about death, especially their own, given their profession, but rarely did shinobi consider death in a peaceful manner.
“But I never gave thought of what would happen to me after I died. Before Komushi died, it never mattered to me. Why would I care? I would be dead.” Sasori’s thoughts swirled with his recent death, and the deaths of his parents and Komushi, unable to detangle them. He was disturbed that he had died, and then lived to tell about it. He had known a few sailors in passing who could say the same, and an elderly woman in Suna who had been revived from a natural heart attack after CPR brought her back, but Sasori never imagined he would die a death in which he could recover.
(Why me, Komushi? Why not you, too?)
“How long ago did Komushi die?”
Sasori slid his hand into Komushi’s right hand – the human hand. “Four months, eleven days ago.”
And twelve hours, give or take, because Grandmother never did tell Sasori when, exactly, Komushi had been killed from his poison.
Kagami’s eyes briefly fluttered shut, the Sharingan glow briefly doused behind his eyelids.
“I couldn’t… he was my only friend. I couldn’t let him go.” (Bring him back. Bring him back.) “A few hours before the sun rose, I stole him away, and I made him into a puppet. I trapped his soul with me.”
(“I will be the wind beneath your wings.”)
And what would happen to Komushi, if there were no more wings to lift?
Kagami tilted his head in consideration then, his smile warm and his Sharingan soft. “I suspect your friend doesn’t feel like he’s trapped with you.”
The quiet acknowledgement of the presence of Komushi’s soul made Sasori’s eyes sting and his throat hurt. Sasori pressed his face into Komushi’s hair and choked down a sob. “Thank you” he whispered. Warmth pressed against his hand, which clutched at Komushi’s. He heard Komushi’s quiet laughter, drifting lightly on the gentle night breeze. He knew that if he looked into the poison dart frog-green eyes, they would be twinkling at him. He cleared his throat. “Thank you. But that’s not what why I’m sharing all of this.”
Kagami remained silent; patient as Sasori knit together the broken shards of all the remembered hopes and dreams and memories he had shared with Komushi.
(“I will be the wind beneath your wings.”)
“If I die before you,” Sasori said, not looking at Kagami, knowing that the man’s days had been shortened from the rheumatic fever that had damaged his heart, “would you make sure that Komushi is burned at dawn? I don’t matter, but Komushi… I don’t want him stuck here, alone, trapped in his puppet body.”
Sasori heard the faint rustling of Kagami’s clothing, and was surprised when Kagami drew him and Komushi into a tight hug, pressing Sasori and Komushi’s heads to his chest, as if he wanted to enclose both of them in his heart. “Ah, but you do matter, Sasori. I dare say that Komushi would be upset if I didn’t move heaven and earth to free your soul, as well.”
And for the first time since that dark crypt, when he beheld his friend, Sasori cried.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

They were not lucky to evade a patrol of Kuma nin the next day. Tsume alerted them in the middle of a small forest that the Kuma nin were following their exact trail, and closing in, when they were apparently less than twenty kilometers away. Kagami and Sasori immediately looked at Nessie, who had figured out how to maintain her balance in running (and with an impressive amount of speed, taking advantage of her naturally long legs to keep up with the chakra-enhanced running of her two- and four-legged companions) and stopping without falling over but hadn’t yet managed to master the whole jumping over tree roots and other tripping obstacles.
Fumiko was hardly concerned. “Yes! It’s now my time to shine!” She immediately began riffling through one of Ni’s packs. “Switch over to Ichi,” she told Sasori as she removed two storage scrolls. Tsume blanched when she saw the special marking on the first storage scroll. “I’m taking Juubi.”
Kagami paled. “What are you going to do?”
Fumiko snorted. “Did you think I brought along the Epoisses cheese just because of thirty-five years of a marriage built on love, trust, and sadism? As much as I love it, I didn’t bring it along as just a snack. I would never do that to Shisui or Tsume! I told you, I have great plans for this.” Tsume and Shisui immediately covered their noses with their sleeves as she released the storage scroll, with the offensive cheese, and the second scroll, which contained a crossbow and quarrels, and multiple blast tags that had individual threads dangling from one end.
Nessie made a hrrk noise, like a cat coughing up a hairball, and retreated backwards without somehow losing her balance. Then she hissed as her eyes glowed brighter. Hana screamed herself awake, unconsolable. The ninken buried their noses under paws and tails. Only Juubi was unbothered by the stench.
Fumiko hummed under her breath as she cut the cheese in half, and resealed one half away to be tucked back into Ni’s pack.
His eyes and sinuses stinging once again, the odor so prevalent given the fresh air they had been enjoying before Fumiko had unsealed the cheese Sasori used his chakra threads to transfer from Juubi’s back to Ichi’s. “What are you doing?” he asked, over Hana’s wailing.
Fumiko cackled as she spread the soft cheese onto the ends of the blast tags, careful not to touch the seals. “The Hokage said we couldn’t use lethal attacks to defend ourselves in Waterfall if we were unsuccessful with evasion and distraction, so I decided to arm myself with this instead.” She then began tying the cheese-smeared blast tags to individual quarrels.
“Nonlethal doesn’t mean that Takigakure wouldn’t have declared this an open act of war,” Kagami said darkly.
“Why do we have the other half?” Tsume whined, rocking Hana. “Can’t you take it all with you?”
Fumiko mounted Juubi with the crossbow slung over her shoulder and her twenty stink bomb arrows secured to her waistband. “And waste all my lovely cheese on enemies? Do you know how hard it is to obtain with the Land of Whirlpool having been overrun with Kiri during this war? No, the rest of that is for my personal enjoyment later. Now, you all are going to rush as far upwind as fast as you can manage, and I’m going to stay here and give those Kumo nin reasons to regret every life choice they made that brought them to our land.”
Kagami shook his head, swaying as if on the verge of passing out. “I will stay with you, my love,” in a clear act of someone who loved his wife more than his sense of smell.
(That, right there, Sasori decided, was probably the most selfless, romantic gesture he had ever seen between a couple.)
“And who,” Fumiko said pointedly as she gathered Juubi’s reins to turn his head towards the Kumo nins’ incoming direction, “is going to make sure Tsume doesn’t trip and fall into another extinct species that she then recruits and brings along? Shisui?”

Kagami looked torn between his devotion to his wife, and his need to protect Tsume from herself. Then he glanced at Nessie, and made his choice. “Stay safe, my love.”
Fumiko cackled again. “Oh, I’m going to enjoy this, and then I’ll celebrate when I rejoin you!” She blew Kagami a parting kiss, her dark eyes shining with mirth and affection.
Somehow, the idea of being in olfactory range of Fumiko’s cheese was the motivation that Nessie needed to master jumping over tripping obstacles. After five kilometers, despite Kagami’s panting plea to be left behind and to focus on saving themselves, Tsume ordered Sasori to switch to the smaller Ni so Kagami could ride Ichi. Shisui jumped from Kagami’s shoulders, and shimmied up Nessie. Hana’s wailing had died down into whimpers. Kagami smoothly swung himself aboard Ichi a heartbeat after Sasori used his chakra threads to switch over to Ni.
“I can see everything from here!” Shisui declared from on top of Nessie’s shoulders. “But not Nana,” he added after a moment.
“You don’t need eyes when you have your nose,” Tsume told him as she unwrapped herself and lifted her tunic to expose a breast.
“Aunt Tsume, I really hate my nose right now.”
“Yeah.” Hana latched onto Tsume, and they resumed their headlong dash through the stretching forest. She kept one arm pressed securely to Hana, and the other over her nose, the linen wrap flying out behind her like a cloak. “Inuzuka olfaction isn’t all what it’s cracked up to be, sometimes.”
(Sasori briefly wondered what Tsume would think of a durian fruit, then decided he wouldn’t make her suffer through that.)
Five kilometers after that, they were halted by one of Konoha’s posted waystations. “Do not move until you’ve identified yourself!” yelled a single Konoha shinobi, arms crossed in front of himself stubbornly as he stood at the base of a large oak tree.
Tsume’s eyes watered as she clenched her nostrils shut suddenly. At the same time, Shisui slumped, slack, on Nessie’s back. “Oh gosh. Fumiko just used those blast tags, and we are not upwind enough for me to deal with it. Hi, Eggplant-san. We need to get by really quick.”
“Egg—oh come on, Inuzuka-san, we’ve met before! If you remember enough of my name to get Eggplant out of it, you very well remember the protocol.”
“Gah! No! I… wow.” Tsume stumbled two steps to the side, and then passed out. Nessie caught her before she could squish Hana, still clutched tight to Tsume’s chest in her unconscious state.
“Uh, are you okay?” the waystation guard asked, looking very concerned. And then a distant sonic boom punched them, along with a stomach-churning stench of skunk, urine, mashed up worms, and rotten eggs that was amplified beyond reason.
To someone who could smell arsenic – an odorless inorganic element – from an unthinkable distance, no wonder Tsume and Shisui had passed out. The stench probably clobbered them so hard that their brains simply blacked out as a biological safety switch.
Kagami forced a whining Ichi forward with his Sharingan activated and took a whimpering Hana from Nessie, who then slung Tsume’s limp body over her shoulder, side-by-side Shisui’s body. “Naganasu-san, I will take full responsibility for ordering you to skip protocol, so that our team – Tsume – and guests can get as far away from this reek as possible.”
Naganasu (no wonder Tsume had called him Eggplant-san, what an unfortunate name), who had clapped a hand over his mouth as he gagged, shook his head. “You could be a cl-clever disguised enemy. And I don’t know her.” He gestured towards Nessie, and then went a sickly combination of green-grey as her eyes flashed bright and she hissed at him, neck fringe flaring wide like he was a block of Epoisses cheese. Her tail lashed violently against the ground, thumping.
A kunoichi jumped down from the overhead branches, landing beside Naganasu. She also had her nostrils pinched shut, and held the collar of her shirt over her nose and hand. “Let them pass. Seriously, Naganasu. Just let them go. If the Head of Internal Affairs is going to assume full responsibility, take the offer.”
He protested weakly. “N-no, Akanasu-chan! Th-that creature! Protocol…” Then he vomited in his hands.
(Seriously? Two Konoha nin with names for eggplants?)
Akanasu twitched and indicated with her head that Team Chaos was to pass by. “I’ll alert a patrol to meet up with them. You’ll never be able to interview any Inuzuka in this stench. She’ll be too busy trying to stuff acid up her nostrils or something when she finally comes to.”
“Thank you,” Kagami wheezed out as they sped past them. “My wife isn’t too far behind, since the reek is from her stink bombs that she’s unleashing on the Kumo nin.”
“Gods, those poor Kumo nin at ground zero. Even the Uchiha wives are monsters.”
They continue to run, uninterrupted, for another fifteen kilometers, out of the forest and into a grazing pasture that was half spring grass, and half last year’s dead grass, clustered with unguarded sheep and their spring lambs. They were running through a herd of sheep when Hana’s whimpers trailed off into silence, and Team Chaos went from the frying pan into the fire.
Namikaze’s killing intent, sudden and sharp like a knife through the ribs, was the first sign of his presence as he silently entered their midst, snatching Hana from Kagami’s arms before even Kagami could react. Nessie skidded to a stop, still and deadly as she matched the intensity of Namikaze’s killing intent, her own unleashed chakra like a crushing force that bore down on Namikaze’s like a towering tsunami and made the entire scattered herd of sheep freeze from the pressure. With a single cutting glance with hardened cobalt-blue eyes, Namikaze saw the entirety of their group, and then disappeared.
“Well, shit,” Kagami groaned as he dismounted Ichi and threw himself in front of Nessie, almost tripping over a standing sheep that was still frozen from Nessie’s crushing killing intent. He snapped his fingers at Nessie and spoke with a calm that Sasori knew immediately was forced, “Control yourself.” His Sharingan was activated as he scanned their surroundings, tense.
Twelve long seconds later, Namikaze returned without Hana, one hand raised above his head with a swirling ball of wind hovering just over his palm, his other tightly gripping his triple-bladed kunai. His killing intent slammed into Nessie’s, and he blurred as he shunshinned across the small distance separating them. He collided with the unfortunate sheep that Kagami hurled at him.
The sheep died as it exploded from Namikaze’s swirling ball of wind. Namikaze skidded to a halt like a puppet that abruptly lost its threads, drenched in blown-up bits of sheep as he was immediately captured in Kagami’s Sharingan. Blood, wool, bone particles, offal, and flesh splattered and rained down upon them. Namikaze dropped to his knees, eyes blank and body loose, within an arm’s reach of where Kagami stood. His killing intent sputtered away like cinders beneath a poured bucket of water.
Sasori lifted a shaking hand to remove a strip of intestines from his hair, and flicked it away after a brief moment of inspection. (That wasn’t the first time he had worn someone’s sigmoid colon… it was usually human, though). “Is he going to snap out of the genjutsu, swinging?” he asked Kagami as Nessie plucked a chunk of bloody wool out of Kagami’s hair and stuck it in her mouth. She made a face as she chewed, pulling back her own killing intent. With crushing pressure now gone the remaining sheep awoke from their panicked stupor, bleating in terror. The herd nearly trampled Team Chaos in their two brain-celled haste to retreat from the danger.
“I sure hope not,” Kagami said, equally shaky as his Sharingan faded away. “What I’m showing him is every moment I remember between Tsume’s announcement of incoming Kumo nin and Fumiko arming herself with the cheese, to now. I believe that he will have a clear understanding of what happened to us and to Hana, and that the only danger to Hana is Fumiko’s harebrained schemes.” He patted Nessie’s elbow as she chewed on another chunk of bloody wool, her face twisted as if trying to decide if she liked it or not. Which, well, the likelihood of eating sheep when you live in a square seventy-thousand kilometer lake was probably nonexistent, unless you randomly sunk a livestock barge. “Why don’t we lay Tsume and Shisui over there, out of this bloodbath?”
It was a warm spring day, and a gentle breeze gratefully blew from the south as Sasori picked off bits and pieces of the exploded sheep from Komushi and himself, and then fed them to the-still curious Nessie. Tsume lay on the ground beside Kagami with Ni half-covering her unconscious body, Kagami sat beside Sasori, drowsy from his physical exhaustion, head propped against a raised fist with his elbow braced on his crossed knee, worry etching his brow. Sasori sat beside Nessie, who towered above him even while sitting with a still-unconscious Shisui curled up in her lap. Ichi rested in Nessie’s shadow, the only one in Team Chaos making an actual attempt to clean the blood off himself. The only time Ni moved was to whine or huff every once in a while, nudging Tsume’s still body with impatience.
The glow of Nessie’s skin wasn’t obvious beneath the sun though it dazzled her splatter-free scales. The blood and intestinal fluid that liberally splattered them was drying into a sticky stink (not that Sasori was complaining; it was practically a breath of perfume in comparison to the still-existing stench of Fumiko’s cheese. Just how powerful had those blast tags been?), and Nessie looked no less like a gruesome youkai, her mouth and serrated teeth stained in sheep blood. An eyeball hung from one of her head fins, dangling unnoticed from the severed retina nerve. (Or maybe she was just saving it for later? Who can tell with dragons.) It was then that Kagami’s Sharingan-induced genjutsu/memory transfer finished running its course.
“All right then,” Sasori heard Namikaze mutter, visibly bracing himself before rising from his stiff knees, and cautiously approached Team Chaos. He stood for a moment, looking sheepish and young with his bright blond hair plastered flat with a dead sheep’s body fluids, and then squared back his shoulders and planted his hands on his hips. Ni lifted her head to growl at Namikaze. Ichi lifted his leg to lick genitals that Sasori was certain were blood-free. “In my defense,” Namikaze told Kagami, eyeing Nessie as she nibbled on a chunk of kidney and ignored him. “I came because I sensed Hana’s lifeforce diminish to what I felt was an unreasonable level. I felt I had to rescue her before she reached a point where she couldn’t recover from whatever was diminishing it.”
“I figured,” Kagami said, a little too bland to be placid as he lifted his tired head. “What you happened upon was certainly a poor first impression for you to experience, especially with Hana’s lifeforce so impacted. But I have sworn to Nessie-sama that no Konoha nin would attack her, and I will keep her safe until she’s able to meet the Hokage, face-to-face. I apologize for the use of the Sharingan on you when you were merely trying to keep Hana safe, but you weren’t exactly in a mood that I could reason with.”
Namikaze waved his hand. “Understandable, Kagami-san. My team and I are currently doing security patrols in the country, so…” He shrugged. “Since we’re technically the first patrolling Konoha team to meet you after you bombed past the waystation, protocol demands that we interview you to verify all identities and assess threat level.”
Kagami’s answer was wry. “Ah? Was my Sharingan-genjutsu and memories not enough?”
“For your identity, and Tsume’s, Shisui’s, and Sasori-kun’s? Yes. For your…guest? For a face-to-face meeting with the Hokage? I’m afraid not.”
“Boy, I have known and been a teammate alongside Sarutobi Hiruzen for almost half a century. I think I’m a better judge of danger that our guest represents for the Hokage than you.”
Nessie fished up a small chunk of mandible with three molars still imbedded from Shisui’s curls. It crunched loudly between her teeth as she chewed with her mouth open.
For a moment, the only notable sounds in their pasture were the distant bleating of nervous sheep, the wind rustling over the grass, and the crunch crunch crunch of Nessie’s blood-smeared serrated teeth breaking the molars into particles before she audibly swallowed.
“Your misgivings are understandable,” Kagami told Namikaze with a dry voice.
Namikaze sighed, and rubbed his forehead, smearing the tacky blood. “I need to check on my team first, see how they’re doing. Hana…” He hesitated. “She had a seizure from the Hiraishin, and Rin was still working on stabilizing her when I returned here.”
“It would be prudent to leave Hana with your team,” said Kagami, not revealing any emotions he felt with Namikaze’s admission.
“I know. I get now why Tsume had such misgivings about using the Hiraishin to bring her and Hana back to Konoha, and I swear I wouldn’t have used it if I didn’t feel that Hana’s life was in jeopardy.” Namikaze’s voice was soft and apologetic.
“It was a choice made with the best intentions. You swore to keep Hana safe, and Tsume was aware that could only be done with the Hiraishin. Tsume will understand. Leave Hana with your team; the rest of us will travel to where they’re at. How far away are they?”
“About thirty kilometers south-east of here. But,” Namikaze shook his head, setting his jaw stubbornly, “I need to do interviews and a threat assessment. You may feel that Hokage might be able to take care of himself even with a severe threat level, but my team isn’t the Hokage. I’ll be back. I’m going to apply a scent-reducing seal some of Kakashi’s masks before I bring them over. Even I can smell that cheese all the way over here, and I’m pretty sure it’s not because you somehow managed to replicate odor in your genjutsu.”
“That would be wise; the masks for the wellbeing of Shisui and Tsume… and your return, for Tsume, when she awakens without her daughter anywhere near-by.”
Namikaze blanched in the sudden realization of separating a passed-out Inuzuka mother from her daughter, who was not going to be happy when awaking to her daughter’s absence while the rest of her companions were covered with dried blood and shredded bits of animal flesh and bone. Somehow, that frightened him more than the idea of Nessie meeting the Hokage. “I’ll hurry… don’t wander off.”
“I have no feet, and I must walk away,*” Sasori muttered, frustrated.
Despite Namikaze’s statement of bringing Hana back first, he was still gone by the time Tsume abruptly came to, twenty minutes later, her breath sucking in with a gasp. Kagami pressed one hand to her chest as she immediately pawed around, tears brimming, for her baby. “Easy, Tsume. Easy. Minato thought that Hana was in danger. He immediately squirreled her away to Kakashi and the others before I could explain what had happened. We deemed it prudent to keep her with his team, given how Hana had difficulty enduring the Hiraishin’s effects when he removed her from the situation.”
Tsume sat upright when Kagami removed his hand. “What situation? WHAT DIFFICULTIES?” Then she screeched and pointed at the group, which probably looked like they had barely escaped some dark cult that messily sacrificed living creatures to their bloodthirsty gods**. “WHAT HAPPENED?”
Kagami shrugged. “I blocked Minato’s rasengan with a sheep.”
“Ooooh. Wow.” Tsume plucked the poor creature’s other eyeball out of Kagami’s collar, and flicked it away. “May that poor sheep rest in pieces, I guess. But what difficulty with the Hiraishin?”
“Ah, she had a seizure.”
Tsume went white and whimpered.
Kagami rubbed her back. “Rin is taking care of her.”
“Okay. That’s good. Rin is good. But why would Mooncalf attack us with the rasengan?”
“The stink of the Epoisses cheese was so severe and so stressful for Hana, it was diminishing her lifeforce, and thus triggered her seal. Minato had assumed the cause was Nessie-sama though, because first impressions can be rather powerful. He went back to see how Hana was faring, but he’ll return shortly. As the first patrol to cross paths with us after the waystation, Minato invoked protocol to verify of our identities and to assess Nessie’s threat level.”
Tsume’s eyes widened with concern. “Oh. I don’t think I can get away with bullying Minato into leaving us alone.”
Kagami rested a hand on her shoulder. “How is Fumiko?” he asked, his voice tense.
“Irritated,” Tsume replied, shuddering from the odor she no doubt could still detect, her eyes watering either from the lack of Hana’s presence, or from the stink. “The other other Eggplant is talking to her, and she has Juubi, and they’re at the waystation.”
Kagami sagged, loose with relief. “Ah. Must be Mizunasu-san.”
“But!” A smile of relief lit Tsume’s face. “Hana is all right! She’s asleep and content in Kakashi’s arms!”
(…wait, three different sets of parents named their children after eggplants in Konoha? And the Hokage stuck them all on the same team? Sasori now kinda felt bad about being so dismissive over Inuzuka Shinzou’s bland creativity in naming her ninken One, Two, Three, Four, and how Waterfall named their isles.)
At that moment, Namikaze appeared, one moment not there, and then the next – Sasori didn’t even blink – he was present, with two dark-gray masks dangling from the fingertips in one hand, his triple bladed kunai fisted white-knuckled in the other. His cobalt-blue eyes were hard as chips of ice as he immediately looked at Nessie.
Tsume flailed upright. Ni tumbled off her lap and Tsume threw her arms around her friend. “Mooncalf! Thank you for saving my baby even though she didn’t need to be saved! Wow. Your yellow flasher douche ex machina is the best.”
Namikaze’s head abruptly dropped to Tsume’s shoulder as Sasori witnessed a real-life example of someone’s soul being forcefully ejected from their body.
Kagami snorted in amusement. “Yellow flasher? Douche?” He clicked his tongue with an insincere scold. “Tsume.”
“It’s deux ex machina,” Namikaze muttered into Tsume’s cloth-covered shoulder. “I don’t call the Hiraishin that.” He slipped the triple-bladed kunai into his pocket.
“No doubt Jiraiya coined it,” Kagami said.
“Yeah.” Namikaze straightened with a mischievous glint in his ice-chip eyes. “Well, then.” He stepped around Tsume, spinning the two masks from their ear-loops around a raised finger.
“Guess you don’t want these for you and Shisui, Tsume.”
“Aren’t those Kakashi’s masks?”
“Sealed to block out really bad odors, like Fumiko’s cheese.” Namikaze yanked them out of Tsume’s greedy reach and danced away, grinning ear to ear. “Nah ah.”
Tsume stared at him, half-frozen with her hand reaching out, and then snarled and slammed her foot down to the side – right on the inside of Minato’s shadow. He froze. “Sasori! Chakra threads. Fetch!”
Kagami snorted in amusement, once again. “I had forgotten that your sire had recently begun teaching you how to use the Nara clan’s shadow-binding jutsu.”
“To be honest, me too,” Tsume declared, smug as Namikaze pouted at her. “Shikake will be so pleased that I could use it to pin Mooncalf, even if I haven’t figured out how to move my shadow yet!”
Delighted to see Namikaze ensnared and feeling vindicated after he himself been trapped (although not as literally) by Tsume, Sasori snagged the masks hanging loose with his chakra threads, dropped one in Tsume’s waiting hand, and then twisted to secure the other over Shisui’s face. Once the mask was secure on Tsume’s face, she took a deep breath and sighed with relief.
“Oh, this is soooooo nice. I’ll never give Kakashi a hard time again for wearing this.”
From the shape of Tsume’s eyes down to the tip of her clothed chin, Sasori was gratified to see the resemblance to Kakashi. It felt better to see a gap between the White Fang’s picture in the Bingo Book, and the White Fang’s son, who was so precious to Tsume.
“Let’s get these interviews done so I can reunite you with Hana.”
“Ah, wait.” Kagami rose to his feet. “Where’s Juubi and Fumiko right now?” he asked Tsume. She briefly tugged down her mask for a quick sniff, made a face, and then pulled it back up.
“She’s still at the waystation, taking a shower while the first Eggplant is washing Juubi down with lots of soap and water.”
“Ah, good. Then we have time for interviews.”
Namikaze turned his eyes towards Nessie – the look in them was even more deadly than any he had directed at Sasori. (A chill raced up and down his spine – looking young and having no feet and covered with open sores from Hanzo’s salamander toxins had probably minimized Sasori’s personal threat level in Namikaze’s judgement, regardless of his infamous reputation.)
Tsume immediately punched Namikaze in the shoulder, but not hard enough to knock him over. “Nessie is fine!” she snapped.
“She won’t hurt any of us.”
Nessie moved. She carefully lifted Shisui from her lap, and handed him to Sasori. Shisui stirred in Sasori’s arms, his dark eyes blinking awake above his mask. Then Nessie stood with only a slight hitch to her balance, and stretched her arms overhead, yawning with her entire crowded mouthful of serrated teeth visible. She loomed high above them, her claws easily five meters away from the ground. Visible below the hem of her tent dress, her tail swept side-to-side in the grass.
Namikaze made a choking noise deep in his throat. “Fine? What is she?”
“A guest,” Tsume declared imperiously.
Nessie ignored Namikaze’s presence as she wandered away from the group, towards a browsing quad of sheep. All eyes were drawn to watching her.
Kagami’s voice, stern and hard, cut across the meadow. “Intel is on a need-to-know between me and the Hokage, and until he knows, you do not.”
“I,” said Namikaze, matching the steel in Kagami’s voice with a cold rage as his hands hung loose dangerously at his sides, “have grave concerns about that monster.”
“How dare you call her a monster! Nessie has been helping us,” Tsume told Namikaze, crossing her arms and matching his cold rage with her hot indignation, as if she and Sasori hadn’t suffered multiple broken bones when Nessie battered them around a few days ago. Or drowned.
Namikaze pointed at Nessie. “That is why I wanted you to have a babysitter!” he snapped at her.
Nessie ignored them all as she snatched an adult sheep up by its neck. It bleated as she sunk her claws like razor blades through the unshorn winter wool and into meaty flesh. Then she inexplicably unhinged her jaw like a snake, her mouth stretching grotesquely down to her knees. The bleating turned into pained screams as Nessie stuffed the struggling sheep inside her mouth before she closed her teeth with a sickening wet crunch, her neck bulging wide as wide as the sheep itself for a brief moment as she swallowed.
All without disturbing her henged form. Sasori was fascinated, enchanted, and horrified. But mostly fascinated. (Could she unhinge her jaw in her dragon form? Did dragons have a partial snake physiology and biology? He had to know more.)
Tsume slammed her foot down on Namikaze’s shadow again, which abruptly aborted his attacking shunshin. Sasori immediately followed through by sinking his chakra threads into Namikaze and burrowing deep for control.
Namikaze, frozen and pale, trembled as his killing intent wildly whipped around them, a raging typhoon laced with fury that took away breath instead of crushing it beneath an otherworldly force.
Sheep scattered, screaming. Sasori’s hands burned as he felt Namikaze trying to overpower the control Sasori bent through his chakra threads. He had never attempted to control any unwilling, unweakened human body before. Intense agony lanced through every one of Sasori’s chakra pathways and burned in his hands and arms. With his chakra threads digging into Namikaze’s nervous system and chakra pathways, Namikaze’s chakra felt like a deadly tempest armed with spears of ice and razor-sharp chunks of glass, the likes of which would render anything in its path.

(Namikaze had just brute-forced himself to the top of Sasori’s Most Terrifying Things List.)
Kagami sighed as he stood, dusting debris off the seat of his trousers. “Nessie, you’re making it very difficult to keep you safe.”
Nessie, wide around the middle and waddling like a nine-month pregnant Tsume, ignored Namikaze’s rage and killing intent as she passed hip-to-shoulder with Kagami, who stalked towards Namikaze and Tsume. Nessie plopped herself on the ground beside Sasori and laid down, cradling her head on Ichi’s body. Both the ninken remained where they were, unconcerned with their environment.

Shisui clutched at Sasori’s torso, burying his face into Sasori’s chest. “I’m scared!”
With Kagami’s approach, the lines of his body changed. Lithe grace replaced fatigue and worry, footsteps becoming fluid, light, and silent as he crossed the pasture, careful not to brush against Sasori’s chakra threads. He came to a stop facing Namikaze, his sideways profile visible to Sasori.

Kagami’s face held still with no expression – no placid serenity, no stress, no frustration, no suspicion, no anger. He was a man who saw precisely what he had anticipated, and felt no satisfaction, concern, or confusion in what he saw. There was no killing intent radiating from Kagami – no pressure, no storm, not even a whisper. But as he gazed upward at Minato, who stood half a head taller and whose body was taut with a twice-restrained violence, Sasori saw the white wolf of kind and tranquil benevolence slip away. What rose in place, what slipped eerily smooth and without any hesitation into Kagami’s skin as his onyx eyes morphed into the Sharigan, was a ravenous black wolf of glacial fury and peril. A cold sweat broke out all over Sasori’s body as his hindbrain screamed Dangerdangerdanger.
The three tomoe in the one glowing red Sharingan eye visible to Sasori spun lazily, and then morphed again.
Namikaze’s killing intent collapsed at the sight of three interlocked laced black circles that converged into a black triangle at the center of the interlocking circles, a black five-pointed star – three in total – suspended in the red just above the angle where a circle crossed the other.
(Sasori had always known Konoha’s Head of Internal Affairs was dangerous, no matter how deeply Kagami concealed that lethal predator beneath genuine layers of benevolent tranquility. Deep down, Sasori had always known.
Aaaaaand now there was a Supreme Ruler of Terror on his List of Most Terrifying Things.)
“Rest assured, Namikaze Minato.” Kagami’s whisper could freeze a rampaging mob into silence. “However monstrous you may find our companion, there is one amongst us who is much worse.”
Sasori remembered the Seven-Tailed jinchuuriki’s words, crystalized into understanding beneath the chant of dangerdangerdanger that throbbed through his terrified brain.

(“You never used your Sharingan against Chomei, though it would’ve ensured your victory. I still respect you for that.”)

“Furthermore,” Kagami continued, a smile carving across his face that was incongruent with the calm in his voice, “I have sworn that I will protect Nessie-sama. Please do not force my hand. It will not end well.”
The moment between Kagami and Namikaze hung, balanced on the tip of a needle. Though his killing intent was gone, Namikaze’s flashing eyes were calculating and weighing his odds and the trust in the man standing before him, with Tsume at his back and clearly not willing to choose sides against anyone who wasn’t Nessie.
Sasori called out, proud of how steady and self-assured his voice sounded in his ears through the thunderous roar of rushing blood. “Namikaze-san, I have it on good faith that it’s never wise to challenge an Uchiha. Kagami might try to share a ramen tin of blood or placenta for a peace pact with you.”
“Once,” Kagami said over his shoulder at Sasori as Tsume squawked indignantly.
He didn’t stop looking at Namikaze with his Mangekyou Sharingan. “And Uchiha Madara is not someone whose example I care to follow.”
“That placenta is buried and gone,” Tsume grumbled.
After a moment that seemed to last forever, Namikaze’s response was quiet. “Very well, Uchiha-sama. I will follow your lead, despite officially questioning your judgement.”
Kagami held Namikaze’s gaze for a heartbeat longer before his bizarre Sharingan faded back into onyx. “I’m grateful for your willingness to do precisely what I told you in the first place.” Sasori’s chakra threads snapped free as pain exploded in his pelvis. Shisui used Sasori’s groin to springboard across the meadow, sobbing. Kagami caught him in the air.
“Paaaaapaaaaa!” Shisui wailed. “You scared me!”
Sasori clutched at himself, wheezing, and limply fell sideways against Ni. She huffed and licked his hair.
Kagami folded Shisui into a tight embrace, rubbing small circles into Shisui’s back. “Shisui, of all the examples of your lovely aunt you shouldn’t aspire to, ball-busting is near the top of the list.”oOoOoOo
Namikaze was visibly wary of both Kagami and Nessie as Tsume threaded her arm around his, and tugged him over to their seated group. Sasori curled up into a ball, pressed tight against Ni, clung to Komushi, and felt very sorry for himself. It didn’t quite hurt as much as his tibia being splintered apart like an overcooked chicken bone, but certainly hurt more than Tsume ripping off scabs and irrigating abscesses. Tsume forced Namikaze to take a seat with the rest of them, between Kagami and Shisui, whose sobs had trailed into hiccups, and Sasori. Nessie remained asleep in some sort of food coma. Sasori wondered how long it would take her to digest the sheep, which had ceased struggling within her stomach.
Namikaze pinched the bridge of his nose. “I really should interview all of you, but now I just want to curl up in bed and let this be someone else’s problem.”

“You needn’t worry,” Kagami said cheerfully, shedding the vestiges of the black wolf as easily as a deciduous tree shed its leaves in autumn. “It is someone else’s problem. It is all entirely the Hokage’s problem.” He cloaked himself in the white wolf with the same graceful effort of a tree budding new growth, layered in loving kindness, gentle patience, and grandfatherly benevolence.
(Sasori felt a new-found appreciation for why the semi-retired Head of Internal Affairs pushed the concept of feeding both wolves on Sasori. He fed them both, and called upon their strength like a ninja wielding both ninjutsu and taijutsu in equal measures. It was both fascinating, and frightening, just like Nessie herself.)
“So,” began Namikaze, looking awkward and young as gaze slid from face to face, and then settled on Sasori, who was apparently the safest person to focus on. (Sasori wanted to exhale toxins into Namikaze’s face.) “I’m going to assume that… Nessie, you call it?”
Tsume nodded vigorously, and gave him a stern glare. “Her. Nessie’s a her, not an it.”
“I’m going to assume Nessie is Tsume’s fault.”
Tsume squawked indignantly. “Why do you assume I’m always the one at fault?”
Namikaze’s eyes had a jaundiced look in them as he briefly glanced at Tsume. “Is Nessie a threat to Konoha?” he asked Sasori, tilting his head slightly.
Sasori glowered at him through Komushi’s hair. “Why are you asking me? I don’t care about what happens to Konoha.”
“Exactly, Sasori-kun. Uchiha Kagami-san outranks me, even despite his retirement, but he’s clearly compromised.” Bold of Namikaze to say that with Kagami sitting right next to him. Bold, or stupid. “Shisui is three years old, and is entirely inappropriate providing me the information I need to make an accurate threat assessment, especially given how much he likes Juubi and you. Tsume wouldn’t know what a threat was even if it stabbed her in the gut.”
(“I would too! You are no longer my fourth best friend in the whole world, you jerkbutt!”)
“You, however,” Namikaze’s cobalt-blue eyes looked tired. “You’ve been honest about the danger you represent since the very beginning, when you promised to turn Tsume into a puppet.”
(“Oh, I forgot about that. I will make a lovely puppet with beautiful hair!”
“Can I be a puppet, too?”
“Shisui.” Kagami’s voice was half-stern, half-amused. “There’s a difference between using a puppet, and being a puppet. You can’t have both.”)
Feeling like his genitals were no longer trying to crawl their way up to his liver to escape the pain, Sasori forced himself to sit upright, making it harder for Namikaze to intimidatingly loom overhead. (It didn’t make a difference.) “All right.” Sasori gently shifted Komushi to the side so there wasn’t any barriers between him and Namikaze. “I’ll be completely honest with you.”
“Without manipulation,” Namikaze added darkly as he crouched down to eye-level with Sasori, balancing on the balls of his feet.
“I have every intention of giving it straight to you.” Sasori relaxed his hands, letting them rest on his thighs. “It has been twenty-one days since I was poisoned at a sacred oasis that was sabotaged by Kiri nin, and your girlfriend lopped off my feet to save my life. In these past twenty-one days, I have been physically attacked by Hanzo,” Sasori lifted one finger, “participated in a live birth where I had to shove chakra threads up Tsume’s vagina,” he lifted a second finger, “harassed by Dad Jokes from Kagami,” third finger, “forced through unmedicated wound treatment after I developed abscesses of infection on my stumps,” fourth finger, “driven so insane with fear by Tsume’s gouka inugami that I was willing to join the Kiri Swordsman that she summoned the hellspawn to protect us from,” thumb, “nearly assassinated with raisins,” sixth finger on his second hand, “had my tibia shattered by a Taki nin,” seventh finger, “crushed breathless under the killing intent of the Seven-Tails jinchuuriki,” eighth finger, “literally died from drowning in the freezing cold waters of Lake Kogan,” ninth finger, “came back from the dead to find myself in a naked embrace with Tsume—”
(“Tsume!”
“It was for hypothermia, Kagami! Don’t glare at me like that! I was nursing him back to health!”
“You breastfed him too?!”
“NO!”)
“—and assaulted with that gods-cursed cheese of Fumiko’s.” Thumb. Sasori’s hands were steady as he splayed all ten fingers in the air. Namikaze’s eyebrows had crept higher and higher with every raised finger, and had disappeared into his blood-plastered hairline.Namikaze didn’t seem so much surprised at all the shenanigans Tsume and her team had put Sasori through, just the variety. (Of course he wouldn’t. He was childhood friends with Tsume. Namikaze knew exactly what sort of shenanigans Tsume was going to drag everyone into, which was why he would safely assume that the acquisition of Nessie was probably Tsume’s fault. Namikaze had probably been hoping that Sasori would die during one of Tsume’s shenanigans. Well, the joke’s on Namikaze – Sasori did die. And it didn’t stick.)

“Of everything I’ve been through, does Nessie come up anywhere in that list?” Having made his point, Sasori rested his hands on his thighs.
“Uh.” Namikaze rubbed the back of his head. “I’m fairly sure that Nessie is worse than Dad Jokes.”
A muscle jumped in Sasori’s jaw as he grit his teeth in remembrance, every agonizing moment forever entombed within his eidetic memory. “Seven hours of Dad Jokes, Namikaze. Seven hours across two days, with Kagami having to explain 43% of them to Tsume. Do you have any idea how torturous that was?”
(“It wasn’t that bad.”
“Don’t listen to Sasori, Kagami. I liked them, even if I didn’t get them forty-uh, some percent of the time.”)
“One moment of Nessie swallowing an adult sheep whole is nothing compared to seven hours of Dad Jokes, Namikaze.”
Namikaze twitched. “I asked you about Nessie’s threat potential, not how horrible she is compared to everything you’ve endured since you lost your feet.”
Sasori telegraphed his movement slowly, raising his hands to grip Namikaze’s shoulders (the better for which to shake some sense into the man, if nothing else). He made the effort to sound perfectly sane, and perfectly reasonable, and not at all anything like Orochimaru might’ve sounded like. “I have so many scientific questions. A hundred and thirty-seven, to be exact, although I only expect the number to continue growing. Every one of them is about Nessie, in her anatomy, physiology, biology, chakra, history, age. She is beautiful, she is grotesque, and I could spend a lifetime studying her. If Konoha doesn’t want her, I’m taking her back to Suna with me.”
After all, in Namikaze’s eyes, why on earth would Sasori bring something dangerous enough to destroy Konoha to his own Hidden Village? (Sasori, frankly, didn’t care if Suna was destroyed. But Namikaze didn’t need to know about that.)

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

It wasn’t long before Fumiko and Juubi, one freshly showered wearing borrowed clothes slightly too short in the sleeves and trouser lengths, and the other scrubbed thoroughly, joined Team Chaos (plus Namikaze). Fumiko had undone all the braids in her hair, and her damp hair was a salt-and-pepper cloud that defied gravity and did look like she would have difficulty squeezing her head through doorways.
“Sorry about the delay,” Fumiko told them as she dismounted Juubi, grabbing Shisui as he threw himself into her arms. “I figured we shouldn’t show up with bits of cheese stuck to us. I honestly didn’t expect Kushina-chan’s explosive tags to be that destructive. Looks like you all need a shower as much as I did. What happened?” Kagami said nothing as he and Shisui folded her into a tight hug. Even Tsume jumped into the hug pile, laughing and berating Fumiko for her weaponized stink bomb.
“You’re different,” Namikaze told Sasori softly, squatting on his heels as if ready to jump out of Sasori’s reach. His eyes were softer, velvet without the cold steel, as if he were reconsidering his initial judgement on Sasori.
Sasori glowered. He was Akasuna no Sasori. Even without his feet or his poisons, he was still a threat to be reckoned with. “Tsume dyed my hair from boiled walnut shells to make me look less like my Bingo Book picture.”
“I’m not talking about the hair color, Sasori-kun. The first time we met, you were clearly an angry honey badger with a bad attitude.”
That was oddly specific. “Run into a lot of honey badgers with bad attitudes, have you?”
“Just one, and that was more than enough.” Namikaze studied Sasori for a moment longer, and then his eyes drifted towards Tsume as he spoke. “Some years ago, Tsume and her team were tasked to rescue some hostages from some kidnappers or human traffickers – not sure which, but it doesn’t matter. In an attempt to minimize casualties, Team Sakumo threw a honey badger into the hideout. Then they thought – what if the honey badger wasn’t enough? So, they also tossed in an entire paper nest of black wasps, which found an excellent outlet for their outrage on everyone. Including the honey badger.”
“Tsume and her team flung a nest of wasps at a honey badger?” Which… yeah, that tracked. This was the same woman who thought most of her problems could be solved with an overhanded application of soul-eating hellspawn.
“The hostages, by the way, felt they were better off with their kidnappers. Tsume felt so bad about hurting the honey badger that she carried that creature, biting and scratching, for thirty kilometers from the hideout, apologizing and insisting the entire time that they would be great friends. She named him Mister Honey. She decided to rehome him in the Nara Forest. After Mister Honey was settled, Tsume realized that she should probably ask permission, to which the Hokage gave her a very firm no. My team and I were then responsible for relocating this very angry honey badger with a very bad attitude to some place outside of Konoha.”
Sasori reviewed his memory of Namikaze Minato, from the time he was rescued while standing in front of Hanzo’s toxic storm and thought he was going to die, to when they finally parted ways on that far-away mountain plateau. Then he thought – I declared myself a hostage and tried to join with the very same shinobi who had poisoned the oasis with arsenic in the first place, just to get away from Tsume. “Is this why you told Obito that you weren’t all right, because your childhood friend somehow adopted one of Suna’s bloodiest shinobi like I was some sort of abandoned puppy? Because I reminded you of that angry honey badger Tsume tried adopting years ago?”

Namikaze’s answering smile was breathlessly bright. Sasori could swear he saw blotches in his vision like he had stared into the sun. “See the resemblance now, Sasori-kun? I still feel like you’re a honey badger, just not an angry one with a bad attitude.”

Eternal Sands. Sasori was an angry honey badger, biting and scratching, that Tsume had carted across the country with every intention of keeping. Quick, damage control! “I am not willing to be rehomed anywhere in Konoha.”
Namikaze hummed in his throat for a moment, still considering Sasori. And then, “How on earth did Akasuna no Sasori almost get assassinated with raisins? Did Tsume jam them down your throat because you didn’t want to eat them?”
Sasori briefly contemplated how many different poisons he could create just from his immediate surroundings… two. Six, if it were summer and the plant growth was more extensive. Alas, the available ingredients needed time to prep and distill to be effective. “She stuck them in the oatmeal. Turns out I’m severely allergic to them.” He glared at Namikaze, daring him to laugh or even smile.
“…raisins.”
If Namikaze showed the slightest bit of amusement, Sasori was going to wrap chakra threads around the man’s throat and choke him. He could get away with it. Kagami had sworn to keep Nessie safe, not Namikaze.

“Of all the things to be allergic to, raisins seem rather obscure.” And then Namikaze winced in sympathy.
“And then you died… by drowning? Did Tsume say you stink and throw you into the lake for a bath, completely forgetting that you didn’t have any feet to swim?”
“Not everything is Tsume’s fault,” Sasori snapped defensively… like an angry honey badger that decided it wanted to stay with Tsume.

(Well, fuck.)
Namikaze gave him that blindingly bright smile again. “No, but in the eight years that I’ve been friends with her, I have learned that Tsume has a particular magnetism that trouble is just naturally drawn towards.”
“I was dead. Clinically dead. I had no cardiac or respiratory function for over twenty minutes. Tsume’s CPR and Nessie’s breath brought me back.”
Namikaze’s brow knit in contemplation again. Then he looked long and hard at Nessie, whose gigantic belly from consuming an entire adult sheep was slowly shrinking down. “Her…breath?” He seemed genuinely confused.
“Tsume said that Nessie’s breath was a blast of nature chakra.” There was no way anyone could tie that directly into suiton dragons, right?
Namikaze’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline again. “Nessie transferred nature chakra to you? And you didn’t turn to stone?”
“Maybe I did. How am I supposed to know? I was a little busy being dead at the time.”
Namikaze rocked back on his heels, looking stunned. “Is she a boss summon?” Then his eyes narrowed in realization. “Tsume fell face-first into a new summon and is bringing it back to meet Aunt Natsumi, didn’t she?”
Tsume fell face-first into what was likely the last living dragon on the entire Continent after all the others were hunted to extinction over three centuries ago, and talked it into spearheading a pilot program on reestablishing an extinct species. In Konoha. Because of course she would.
Sasori shrugged. “That’s between them,” he pointed at Team Chaos, who had finished their group hugs and extensive rounds of apologies and updating Fumiko as to why Hana was absent and everyone else was covered with dried blood and bits of exploded sheep, and were now approaching him and Namikaze, “and your Hokage. I’m just an angry honey badger being dragged along for the ride. Once I’m done rehabilitating, please release me to the wilds of Wind without a tag in my ear.”
Namikaze snorted. “Are you sure? You’d fit right in with Juubi.”oOoOoOo
Tsume and Shisui, both lacking any real fear because one lacked the working function in her brain and was an Inuzuka while the other was a toddler who was half-Inuzuka, awoke Nessie from her food coma so they could make their way to Team Minato. At least Shisui had the foresight to poke Nessie with a stick, whereas Tsume just shook Nessie awake.
Nessie yawned, stretched again, and then wobbled and fell over a few times, because her equilibrium was impacted from still digesting an adult sheep that she had swallowed whole. Still, off they went, following Namikaze, who seemed to understand how to get from their current point to his team’s point, because Tsume refused to take off her mask to sniff them out.
Astride Juubi, Sasori scratched the flaking dried blood that coated his arm, and glared enviously at Fumiko. “This is all your fault.” He didn’t forgive her for the use of the Epoisses cheese. Also, it wasn’t fair that she got to be clean.
“Cheese is fascinating,” Fumiko replied, keeping pace with Juubi. “I can always tell where the cheese is from, because the molds and fungi unique to that particular cheese’s origin is what gives each cheese its different flavor and odor.”
“And which circle of the seven hells did your cheese come from?”
“It comes from a small village in the Land of Whirlpools, which thankfully survived the Second War, although most of the survivors went into hiding with the rest of the Uzu refugees.” Fumiko spent the next thirty kilometers, both during travel and during breaks, explaining the history of cheese (cheesemaking, apparently, existed long before written records did), the differences between cow, goat, buffalo (from Earth), sheep, and camel milks, and how even a cheese made in the same region with the same process from different animal milks would still have a different flavor and texture. Sasori also learned about how to make cheese in the comfort of his own home, should he wish to endeavor such.
(Sasori knew of camel cheese, but had never tried it, since camels were only milked when their young had died, and frankly, he still wondered why anyone would want to try milking a creature that would spit in your face if it was feeling moody. And it was always feeling moody, at least whenever Sasori had been around them.)
By the time they reached Team Minato, which had set up camp right next to a creek, it was after the sun had set. Sasori had learned far more about cheese than he had ever desired, from soft to semi-hard to hard, and how different regions with their different humidity affected this; the aging process; artisanal versus homemade versus bulk commercial; international trade agreements and intellectual laws that protected well-loved regional favorites; and illegal contraband and knockoffs.
Cheese has a black market? Sasori thought, unsure of whether he should be amused or irritated. He tried to imagine being a shinobi team hired by Big Cheese to take down illegal counterfeits. It sounded ridiculous. And yet, after a lifetime of shenanigans with Team Chaos, also sounded perfectly reasonable.
“Has Konoha ever done any ninja missions regarding contraband cheese?” he asked Kagami as he carefully dismounted from Juubi.
Tsume, midway into accepting Hana from Rin, burst out laughing.
Namikaze hunched suddenly, his ears burning bright red. “I’mgoingtodoaquickpatrol.” And then he disappeared.
Obito whined. “Sensei swore he’d take the secrets to his grave!”
“Apologies, Sasori. I,” said Kagami brightly, “cannot, in good faith, discuss any Konoha missions that may or may not have taken place in the recent or distant history with a foreign shinobi. Even,” he snickered, “anything regarding illicit cheese smuggling.”
Kakashi slugged Obito’s shoulder. “Dumb ass. Sensei isn’t allowed to withhold information in his reports.”
Rin coughed. “What mission report? There’s no reports for any missions that took place.”
Obito twisted his hands and looked at Sasori with open embarrassment. “Did you know that Team Seven is cursed?” Kakashi leapt on Obito’s back to cover his mouth. They scuffled, almost falling into the fireplace as Tsume doubled over, still laughing. Obito bit Kakashi’s fingers when they covered his mouth, and Kakashi kicked him away. “It’s true!” Obito cried, his face red. “Every single first C rank mission for Team Seven historically turns into an S rank disaster!” Nothing more was said as Kakashi successfully throttled Obito. Rin yelled at Kakashi that choking out teammates violated Rule Fourteen in the shinobi handbook. Fumiko successfully separated the boys and had them sitting on opposite ends of the campsite in a time-out.
Since Team Minato had already eaten dinner before Team Chaos arrived, Tsume handed out ration bars, yawning, as Rin and Fumiko set up their single tent. But every time Sasori tried to press Tsume for more information, she burst out laughing, wiping away tears of mirth.
“Do I need to break into wherever Konoha stores their mission reports just to find out?” Sasori was sour when he asked Kagami.
Kagami grinned and patted Sasori’s shoulder. “Personally, I think that Team Jiraiya’s incident regarding a stubborn pizza delivery boy is far more amusing, but each to his own.”
Then he leaned close and whispered in Sasori’s ear, “Minato’s old teammate will have no problem telling you all about that. I’ll make arrangements for you to have dinner with Aburame Hotaru when we’re in Konoha.”
Obito, Rin, and Kakashi were certainly wary of Nessie, with only Obito (nervously) volunteering to help Tsume when it came to bathing Nessie, once Fumiko declared that their time-out was finished. He seemed as captivated by her eerie glow and the sparkles of her scales as he was nervous with her claws and teeth, but seeing his young clan kin so comfortable with Nessie seemed to give him a dash of bravery that Kakashi and Rin weren’t willing to muster.
(The Hatake brain genes must be a little stronger than the Inuzuka animal instincts, Sasori decided, watching the way that Kakashi carefully kept his distance, yet hovered close enough to yank Obito out of danger should any arise. Which made sense, if Kakashi was able to become a genin when he was five years old, and a chuunin by the time he was six.)
Sasori took advantage of everyone’s distractions to change his own clothes, wash his hair the best he could in the cold creek water (still a few degrees warmer than Lake Kogan), and sponge-bath Komushi. He would’ve changed Komushi’s clothes, but nothing that Sasori had would fit him. By the time Nessie and her tent dress had been thoroughly sponged clean, the cloud cover that had been hiding the moon blew away, and Nessie glowed like a distant star. As long as she kept her claws out of sight and her mouth closed, she was truly beautiful, like the distant Milky Way or a dark cave lit by bioluminescent glowworms. When Namikaze finally returned from his patrol, he stopped upright, breath frozen, as Nessie craned her neck and studied him with glowing eyes, her head fins fluttering in the slight breeze like the wings of an emerald moth.
Tsume grinned as she shoved past Namikaze to empty her basin of dirty water. “Beautiful, isn’t she?”
Namikaze swallowed and snagged Tsume’s arm, making her stumble backwards and splashing them both with bloody water. “Uh, yeah. But so is fire. Doesn’t mean it’s wise to play with.”
“Sensei!” Obito beamed at Namikaze “I love playing with fire!”
“You would,” Kakashi muttered. “And yet you keep getting burned. You remember the definition of insanity, right?”
Namikaze ignored Obito jumping on Kakashi and the resulting tussle on the ground. With a tired sigh, Fumiko separated the boys again. Sasori half-wondered about how any Konoha team was professional enough to get anything done or to have the upstanding reputation that they managed to have. “Look, Tsume.” Namikaze’s eyes flickered briefly to Kagami, who had gone dangerously still, onyx eyes reflecting the red of the campfire. “I can feel Nessie’s chakra. Even when I used the Hiraishin and was fifty kilometers away, once I realized what it was. She’s a supernova that’s going to draw far too much enemy attention, like a jinchuuriki’s killing intent. Are you sure it’s wise to bring her to Konoha?”
Sasori stared at Kagami, who remained still, but said nothing.
Kagami was patient and willing to let Tsume try.
Tsume simply smiled and patted Namikaze’s hand where he gripped her arm. “Did you know you can tell a lot about the person you fight? She and I already fought. We set aside our differences. And the next time she fights, it will be for us, not against us. So, yeah, Mooncalf. I’m very sure.”
Namikaze studied Tsume a moment longer, and then nodded in acceptance as tension relaxed from his shoulders. Then he gave her that blindingly bright smile that he had given Sasori. “Thank you, Tsume. I… that truly gives me assurance.”
Sasori’s breath caught in his throat as he looked at the entirety of the campsite – Fumiko and Kagami, seated side by side with their arms wrapped around each other, watching with the aged patience of elders who watched the growing skills and wisdom of their young charges with pride and hope. Obito and Kakashi tussling, only paying half attention to their surroundings as they trusted their remaining companions to alert them to any incoming dangers they might be distracted from. Rin, calling out correction of forms to both Kakashi and Obito to better grapple each other, not wanting to choose sides, but clearly supportive of both. Shisui, seated in Nessie’s lap as he watched and laughed, occasionally sneaking an emerald-green chakra thread to tug or pull Kakashi and Obito. Nessie, who touched Shisui’s hair with a longing that spoke of long-held desire of her own young.
And Namikaze Minato and Tsume, friends and companions who were aware of each other’s weaknesses and strengths, both easily extending forgiveness for mistakes and trust to the other, and both letting each try, in their own ways, to grow and learn.
If you always expected humans to never make mistakes, you’ll always be disappointed. If you expect people to make mistakes, you wouldn’t be disappointed.
But you would be pleasantly surprised and even delighted when – not if – when they succeeded. (Isn’t it better to live a life with pleasant surprises and delight? Komushi asked Sasori.)
Sasori tightened his grip on Komushi, and hungered.

oOoOoOo
Night watch was decided with a mix of Inuzuka, ninken, and Team Minato, as Namikaze decided that Nessie’s presence increased the risk of enemy attention. Rin was paired with Ichi, Obito with Ni, Namikaze with Tsume, and Sasori volunteered to help keep the final watch with Kakashi. Namikaze accepted this solemnly, and Kakashi didn’t argue, merely looking off into the night. Regardless of which shift was with who, Namikaze said he was to be immediately awoken and notified of anything, and he would redirect the team (if allied) or eliminate the enemy.
Since they were going to share the same watch, and they had already shared a tent together, it seemed prudent for Sasori to share Kakashi’s tent once again, with Kakashi directing Sasori to his tent with a wordless point of his head. It was only a small one-man tent, but it was still roomier than the entirety of Team Chaos (minus Juubi and the ninken) being crammed into Tsume’s two-man tent.
(Sasori snagged three of Tsume’s pillows, and while she squawked in protest and retaliated with a gentle noogie, she didn’t try taking them back.)
(Sasori slept well before his watch shift, feeling unusually comfortable with Kakashi’s presence. Eh, probably because Kakashi was an Inuzuka son and Sasori had become used to the presence of an Inuzuka while asleep. Obito with a yawn, was polite in waking up Sasori for the shift change. He poked Kakashi with a long stick, which Kakashi snatched and poked Obito back with.)
During their watch, Kakashi watched wide-eyed as Sasori spun his chakra threads out like a web, covering their entire camp within a hundred meters. “That’s impressive,” he whispered, reaching out to touch one glimmering thread. It sparked with a note of white chakra (not quite lightning – it was cold, like ice, but also electrical, like the sort that comes from shuffling one’s feet against a wool rug and then zapping an unsuspecting friend, and tasted of ozone) that lit up in Sasori’s senses like a fleeting meteorite burning through the atmosphere.
Kakashi turned his back to Sasori and tugged down his mask, leaving it slack around his throat to better detect odors.
Sasori wondered how similar Kakashi was to his father, besides that famed white chakra and silver hair. How alike were they in mannerisms? Was Sakumo also serious and quiet, withdrawn enough from his companions that he stood on the fringe of their group, but close enough to still be considered a part of the whole? Was he also longsuffering with the idiocy of his teammates, while showing his care for them in guarded actions?
And then Sasori remembered Sakumo’s fall from grace three years ago… Kakashi would’ve been five years old.
The same age as Sasori had been when his parents were killed.
What must’ve it been like for Kakashi, to see how far the mighty could fall, to live in the shadow of a man who had once been great, and was now a disgrace? Sasori wondered how his own worldview towards to the untouchable monuments that were his parents would’ve shifted if Chiyo had told him the truth, when he was five years old.
He felt a sudden, strange kinship with Kakashi, and wanted to share it, but… but he had never initiated kinship with anyone before. The companionship between him and Komushi existed only because Komushi had reached out. For all the familiar comradery of Team Minato, Sasori could see the same fragile distance in which Kakashi held himself that had existed, and ultimately only widened, between Sasori and his genin team and jounin sensei.
He had been feeding that black wolf for far too long. Sasori was too weighed down with anger, envy, sorrow, regret, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, lies, and pride. It had been a struggle to even try feeding the white wolf, to feel joy, peace, love, hope, mercy, humility, kindness, empathy, generosity, truth, and faith. Having seen Kagami slip so effortlessly between his black and white wolves, Sasori knew that he needed to feed both, to gain the strength of both, if he wanted to thrive, instead of being constantly weakened with the hatred and bitterness.
The hatred and bitterness chained him to the past, and as long as the chains bound and trapped him, Sasori was never going to be able to trust himself. And if he couldn’t trust himself, he wouldn’t be able to trust others.
He would put himself back together with precious veins of gold, and find peace within himself.
(All you have to do, Komushi told Sasori, is reach out, like I reached out to you.)
It wouldn’t really hurt to try, just as Komushi had tried. (Komushi had initiated with a simple statement of what they had in common – your parents left to fight the war, so did mine. You like puppets. Me too! Let’s be friends!) So, that’s what Sasori should do. Point out common bonds. Sasori’s three week road trip with Kakashi’s aunt was too obvious though. Should go for something obscure, but also something both were aware about.
Tightening his hand on Kumishi, Sasori made sure he sounded friendly and nonconfrontational. “I was just thinking.” Then he paused. Kakashi tilted his head, one ear dipping to his shoulder in acknowledgement. Sasori kept his voice the same, refusing to let himself feel any bitterness or hatred, thinking of how Komushi had reached out to him. “I was five years old when my parents were killed, and you were five years old when your father fell from grace.”
(Nailed it!)
Kakashi’s voice was soft and contemplative, with a current of misery. “Sometimes, I wonder if it would’ve been better if my father had died, instead.”
(… didn’t nail it?)
“Death isn’t always permanent,” Sasori said, because he wanted to keep the conversation going, but also didn’t want to drive Kakashi away with discomfort, which Sasori often found himself doing in the past by abruptly shutting down conversations to escape such.
Kakashi sighed as he tugged his mask back into place and turned to face Sasori. “Yeah. I can see Aunt Tsume getting Aunt Natsumi to bring my dad back from the dead just to lecture him at length on why he wasn’t allowed to die, just yet.”
After telling Nessie that Tsume would make Natsumi bring Sasori back just to be apologized to, and now an entirely different person implying that Natsumi could also bring back the dead, Sasori was beginning to suspect that Inuzuka Natsumi, with her summoned hellspawn, was more a necromancer Queen of the Dead instead of the Queen of Summons… She probably ate people too, which only fed Isha’s propaganda machine. “The more I hear about Inuzuka Natsumi, the more concerned I become. Should I avoid her when I’m at Konoha?”
The muscles around Kakashi’s eyes crinkled, as if he were smiling at Sasori beneath his mask. “Aunt Natsumi isn’t that bad. Aunt Tsume probably has grand plans to invite you to dinner and probably give you a bed to stay, if there’s nothing else set up for in Konoha. As long as you remember that Aunt Natsumi doesn’t believe that there’s such a thing as limits, I think you two will get along fine… Also, never disturb her before ten in the morning. She’s really old, you know. Almost ninety years old.”
…seriously? How on earth did someone manage to live to be nearly a century old without two functioning brain cells or a sense of self-preservation?
Maybe there was hope for Tsume, yet, to survive the odds of a relatively short life.
“Would Aunt Natsumi be upset if I turn Tsume into a puppet?” Then, because Kakashi had already threatened Sasori if he were to harm Tsume and Hana, Sasori quickly added, “I am going to wait a few years before turning Tsume into a puppet. She deserves to spend time with Hana, to raise her.”
“That’s quite magnanimous of you.”
Sasori couldn’t tell if that was sarcasm or not. “I don’t want Hana to grow up without a mother.”
Kakashi stood, lank and loose, but still looked so small and young. “That’s good. I’m going on patrol.” And then he was gone with a shunshin, beyond the range of Sasori’s webbing.
Well, that could’ve been worse. It could’ve gone better, but Sasori felt it wasn’t bad for Akasuna no Sasori’s first attempt with initiating kinship.oOoOoOo
If Sasori had initiated kinship with Kakashi in a tentative, awkward manner, then Uchiha Obito bulldozed right over personal boundaries and decided that if you weren’t actively attacking, then you were potential friendship material.
Which, yeah. After three weeks dealing with Uchiha Kagami’s psychological warfare and Uchiha Shisui just being, well, Shisui (there was no way to easily summarize what a little monster Shisui was, in all of his kind, bright, horribly talented, ways), Sasori was reevaluating the entirety of the Uchiha Clan. His previous interactions with the Uchiha Clan had been limited to border patrols that ran into Konoha teams with Uchiha teammates that wandered too close to Wind’s borders (and then attempts to work out whether this was a genuine accident, or deliberate subterfuge), and two separate occasions where Sasori was supposed to eliminate the person that the Konoha team was supposed to be guarding and escorting (subtle, time-released poisons allowed for Sasori to complete his mission without triggering any suspicion of his involvement).
Sasori felt comfortable in assuming that the three Uchiha he was now spending time with was a good sample for evaluating the Uchiha Clan. Kagami was old, Shisui was a toddler, and Obito… well, he was an adolescent genin. A fourth Uchiha, a young adult, would round out Sasori’s evaluation with the variety of development and experience, from the very young to the old. But he was used to working with limited resources, so his sample of three would just have to do.
Obito attempted to ply Sasori with a variety of breakfast goods, after Tsume finished Sasori’s wound care. (Sasori’s right stump was certainly in better condition and further along in healing than his left stump, after the Taki nin had damaged it with his kick. The wound on the right stump was nearly healed closed, although Tsume fussed over the mix of scar tissue and new skin, but was more concerned with the larger build-up of scar tissue on his left stump.)
Obito insisted that Sasori needed good sources of collagen, protein, vitamin C, iron, and a plethora of other macro- and micronutrients to help his legs heal, although Obito was unsure of what would be good for nerve regeneration, except jellyfish, and they were a little far for any fresh jellyfish from the ocean. When Kakashi asked why Obito thought that jellyfish would be a good nutrient for nerve regeneration, Obito loudly claimed it’s because jellyfish are made up of nerves. Kakashi then reminded Obito that jellyfish don’t have brains.
Obito blinked at that, face screwing up in confusion. “Wait – if jellyfish didn’t have brains, then how do they learn?”
“Maa. Probably the same way you do, dumb ass.”
The resulting squabble was broken up by Tsume, who declared that if they had time to fight, they had time to pack. “Come on, you guys. We have 180 kilometers to travel before we get home. It’s so close, I can practically taste it!” Then she swiped the drool away from her chin. “Shinchuu-chan is making butterscotch cookies right now. I want them sooooo badly.”
Shisui decided to seat himself on Juubi, along with Sasori and Komushi, to talk about his plans for his dragonfly puppet.
“Why would you give Shisui a puppet?” Obito asked them after three kilometers of running.

“That was the deal,” Sasori replied. “If Shisui could manifest and control his own chakra threads by the time we reached Konoha, I would make him a puppet.”
Obito nearly tripped in his surprise. “He can use chakra threads?”
Shisui was delighted to show off. “I used them last night. See?” Shisui’s emerald green chakra threads were solid and gossamer thin, but their thickness and strength would only grow as he did. He used one such thread to snag Obito’s goggles and yanked them off of Obito’s face. Obito was in awe. They spent the entirety of the morning and two breaks (for Kagami and Tsume) discussing puppets. Sasori refused to take on an apprentice who didn’t know anything about puppets, so he gave an edited version of puppeteering to his Uchiha audience (Fumiko couldn’t write when on the move, so out came the recorder that Sasori hadn’t seen since their introduction on that faraway mountain plateau) that carefully avoided all mention of using corpses as puppets. They weren’t unknown details about Suna Puppeteers, but he didn’t want Konoha to have a better understanding of how the Brigade operated.

(He… he probably shouldn’t have a Konoha apprentice, even if said apprentice was only going to be temporary, but a promise was a promise. Sasori gave them rarely, and the only reason he had promised Shisui was because he honestly never expected Shisui to be successful. He certainly hadn’t expected Shisui to use his chakra threads to pull Sasori out of Lake Kogan. Even if Sasori was the type to break promises, he wouldn’t in this instance, for that single reason alone. Sasori kept his promises because they were like precious, rare coins, that became worthless in value when frivolously spent without expectation of being cashed in.
His parents had promised to see him that next morning when they sent him off to bed. They broke that promise.)
(Whether he kept his promise to destroy Sakumo Hatake would remain to be seen.)
Traveling across Fire, skirting fields, farmsteads, forests, and other patrols, was still quicker by way of being on relatively flat land, than it had been in Waterfall, though there was a larger number of enemies to avoid, and the occasional stop to dismantle and clean up traps that evading enemies had left. That seemed to the main priority for Team Minato, as Kakashi was able to sniff out the location of the deadly blast zones and various traps that were set up to injure incoming Konoha nin and their sparse allies from Sunagakure, Kusagakure, Yumegakure, and Nadeshiko (who, as far Sasori could tell, based on his limited experience with them on border patrols and occasional battles, mainly participated in the war as an excuse for husband-hunting. Between him and Komushi, they had seven potential fiancés waiting for them to grow up. He should probably write their village a letter to let them know that Komushi was permanently unavailable.)

Tsume was far enough along in her postpartum recovery, aided by the minimal activity she had taken advantage of for five days aboard the hotel barge, that her breaks didn’t need to be as long, and it was clear that their need for rest was largely because of Kagami. Even despite the lower altitude, Kagami and his failing heart was struggling to keep up with the pace.

Namikaze and his team would split away from their group to handle patrolling enemies, guided by Kakashi’s nose. Team Chaos usually kept moving to increase distance between them and the patrolling enemies, stopping to rest for Kagami when Team Minato returned, smelling of ozone, ash, and blood when they returned. While Obito was loud and clumsy as a genin, there was something about being called to arms that seemed to bring out a little more grace and a little more professionalism. Whatever personality clashes and differences he had with Kakashi, he seemed to set them easily aside in order to work fluidly with his team.
(It was something Sasori had never experienced with any other team he had held. He pushed down the sudden flash of envy. Trust – he couldn’t expect any of his Suna companions to trust him well enough to set aside their differences if he didn’t first extend the same. He and Komushi had worked marvelously together, often functioning as a duo even in a squad of four. It was… perhaps the reason others had refused to get along with Sasori was because, in Sasori’s eyes, it was clear that no one deserved to stand side by side with Komushi.)
Just before evening, they were caught between two separate enemy patrols – Iwa and Kiri.
“We can take Iwa,” Tsume told Namikaze, hands firmly on her hips. “Without cheese,” she added pointedly, eying Fumiko.
“I learned my lesson,” Fumiko said, raising her hands in surrender while sounding not at all sheepish with the lesson that she had learned. She armed herself with her crossbow and another quiver of quarrels, all blissfully free of blast tags and cheese.
“There’s four Iwa nin, and six Kiri nin. Iwa in on our way, and Kiri is following us,” Tsume continued.
“I can use my chakra threads!” Shisui declared.
Sasori ruffled Shisui’s hair. “I will use my chakra threads. You can watch and study.” With a flourish of his chakra threads, he released Komushi from his back, and set him lightly on the ground. Komushi’s poison dart frog-green eyes sparkled as he stood languidly next to Obito.
Obito traced Komushi’s arm, and then jumped when Komushi imitated Obito, tracing his own lacquered fingers over Obito’s arm. “Wow, he looks so real, like he’s actually alive!”
Sasori carefully didn’t mention that Komushi had once been alive. Kakashi and Team Chaos already knew that. He’d let Obito remain blissfully naïve a little longer.
Namikaze glanced at Sasori. “How well can you fight without poisons?”
With several clicks, all too faint to hear unless one had hearing as strong as the Inuzuka olfaction, multiple blades emerged from Komushi’s limbs – his elbows, his hands, his wrists. “People die from bleeding, too, Namikaze,” Sasori replied with a lazy voice.
“That’s certainly true,” Namikaze replied. Then he shrugged. “Well, if all else fails, Nessie can eat them.”
Nessie blinked her glowing eyes at Namikaze, and then smiled, revealing all of her serrated teeth. Which, fair, she hadn’t eaten anything since that sheep, so she probably was working up an appetite with all her running.
(Nessie did eat an Iwa nin, after Team Chaos soundly defeated them, but at least she followed Kagami’s instructions, and waited to do so until after Sasori and Shisui had ridden out of sight of it happening.)oOoOoOo
Team Chaos and Team Namikaze had fallen into an almost instantaneous smooth accord from the start of their three day joint journey together. Sasori found himself drawn into that smooth accord, feeling more at home with them than with any other team he had ever worked with, except Komushi or his grandmother whenever they were sent out on missions together. (Sasori slammed that door shut on his thoughts and memories. As long as he didn’t trust Chiyo, he would never have that smooth accord with her. And he still wasn’t yet sure if he was willing to extend her any forgiveness. She hadn’t been an easy woman to love even when before she revealed her deception, and one random hug after Komushi’s death hadn’t changed his perception of how Chiyo’s interior was every bit as prickly and harsh as her exterior.)
Namikaze had been keeping other patrolling Konoha teams apprised of how he and his team had been temporarily reassigned from border patrol to accompanying Team Chaos back to Konoha, but he called a halt twenty kilometers away from Konoha, deep in a glade of young maples and oak trees and old tree trunks; it was a former logged clearing that nature was slowly reclaiming.
“I reiterate, once again, Uchiha-san,” he told Kagami, his face set stubbornly but his voice respectful, “I cannot allow Nessie to enter Konoha and have a face-to-face meeting with the Hokage.”
“Nor do I require you to do anything else,” Kagami replied, every bit as respectful with his face relaxed. He sat on a half-rotted tree stump, chewing on the end of a long wild oat stalk. “I was hoping, with the use of your Hiraishin, that you could bring the Hokage here to meet Nessie. I feel it’s prudent that Nessie does not reveal herself within Konoha. The Hokage will need to decide where she should be, ah, hosted, within Konoha’s walls.”
Namikaze kept his eyes, cobalt blue and velvet wrapped steel in their hardness, trained on Kagami. “Should I take my team with me and leave them in Konoha?”
Kagami shook his head. “You’ve allowed them to travel with us for the last three days, trusting in mine and Tsume’s judgement for their safety. They deserve to know what they’ve been traveling with.” Then he grinned, a flash of amusement, as the oat stalk worked from one corner of his mouth to the other. “To know is to appreciate Nessie in all her glory, for that she truly is, just like it was to know Natsumi was appreciate her in all of her glory.”
Namikaze was starting to look less battle-sure and more nervous as he shifted his weight from foot to foot. “Is Nessie going to wind up naked? I’ve heard stories of Aunt Natsumi’s casual nudity in in her youth.”
“Ah. Youth nothing. The woman didn’t actually start making any effort in wearing proper clothes until she was about my current age. I’m afraid she’s spent more than half her life mostly unclothed. Be grateful that Nessie doesn’t have any nipple rings.”
“Or other rings,” Fumiko muttered darkly.
Namikaze huffed. “Well, I guess my team seeing Nessie naked can’t be any worse than seeing Tsume naked while she was giving birth,” he muttered.
“I think I can reasonably promise that no one will be touching any one’s cervixes,” Kagami replied. Then he looked as if he wondered if Nessie even had a cervix to touch. (Sasori wondered the same – would Nessie lay a clutch of eggs, or would she birth live young, like viviparous reptiles?) “At any rate, nothing will change until the Hokage gets here. We’ll hold off meeting with Aunt Natsumi until afterwards.”
Nessie chirp-clicked at them. This was the first time she had spoken up since they had joined Team Minato, and it made Rin and Obito jump, and Kakashi stare.
“Hokage first, Nessie-sama,” Kagami told Nessie. “Aunt Natsumi has no sense of direction, and requires an escort whenever she leaves the Village. You will need a lot of space to meet her, without risk of interruption from anyone else. Outside of the village, we are still at risk of drawing attention from enemy patrols. I would find it difficult to keep my vow of protection if we attempt short cuts and introduce you to Aunt Natsumi before finding a place where you will be safe.”
Nessie nodded, having picked up the meaning of that particular human gesture in the last week in the company of humans.
“Uchiha-san.” Namikaze pulled a tri-pronged blade from one of his three kunai pouches and flung it lightly, burying it hilt-deep in the ground by Kagami’s feet. “While the Hokage is aware that I’ve been accompanying your team and guests to Konoha, I haven’t given him any details, other than she’s very powerful and dangerous, and that you have insisted that she’s your guest and have sworn her protection. I didn’t tell him that I feel uneasy about bringing Nessie into Konoha, in deference to your,” he hesitated a moment, “trust.” (That wasn’t exactly the word that Sasori would use to describe how Kagami had more-or-less intimidated Namikaze into following directions.) “The Hokage typically doesn’t leave Konoha unless the Fire Daimyo calls him away; without unduly setting the Hokage on edge, what should I say that would make him willing to come? It’s expected that he’ll be accompanied by an ANBU platoon, and they’ll react more immediately to Nessie than I did.”
Kagami clasped his hands behind his back and gave this serious consideration. “Ah, yes. Requiring him to leave Konoha Nessie would be cause for alarm, and we certainly shouldn’t involve any Hokage guards at the moment. It would be disingenuous to downplay Nessie, but we both agree it’s better that Hiruzen come to us before we reach Konoha. Tell him…” A wicked smile crossed Kagami’s face. “Tell him to bring Danzo, and that there’s a good possibility that he might get another vacation out of this.”
Namikaze’s eyes sharpened. “That would be even more alarming, sir.”
Kagami didn’t even look at Sasori. “I’m aware of the assassination attempt. I’m still Head of Internal Affairs, even in my semi-retirement.”
(…what? The Kazekage would never allow someone, friend or otherwise, to continue surviving if they attempted an assassination against him.)
“Then you understand why I have almost as many misgivings about bringing Danzo along with the Hokage as Nessie entering Konoha.”
“Do so, anyway. Tell both of them that I am finally cashing in on all those times Hiruzen stole Danzo and my blankets whenever Team Tobirama was camping. They’ll both come, and without hesitation.”

After another moment of hesitation, as if trying to read any significance into blanket theft, Minato used the Hiraishin to disappear.
Fumiko laughed. “Blanket theft? You still haven’t let that go after all these years, my love?”
“From the Hokage?” Obito asked, his eyes wide with curiosity.
Kagami’s expression was fierce without anger or hatred. “Hiruzen had a notorious habit of stealing the blankets from whoever he bunked down with, because he kept forgetting his bedroll whenever Tobirama-sensei dragged us along on yet another soul-search. For whatever reason, Danzo and I kept losing the paper rock scissors when it came to who was stuck with him. Tobirama-sensei always said it was important to learn how to work with someone who annoyed you, which was why our genin team had to share with Hiruzen, but after waking up freezing cold far too many times, I admit that Danzo and I plotted murder together when we were thirteen years old.” He sighed. “As much as I try to say that Uchiha Madara is not an example the clan should follow, unfortunately, we do have a terrible tendency to hold onto grudges for years.” To Shisui and Obito, he added, “Do your best not to keep grudges.” Both boys nodded in solemn understanding.
It was strangely comforting to know that Kagami had also struggled with flaws of impatience and anger in his youth.
“Okay, Nessie!” Tsume pointed at Ichi. “Just as a reminder, here’s how it feels to break your henge. Ichi, demonstrate!”
“Don’t release your own henge until I tell you to,” Kagami added. “And before you do, someone will have to help you remove your tent-dress.”
Team Minato’ eyed Nessie with a silent, dawning horror that Nessie’s grotesque beauty was a disguise.
Obito shuffled over to Sasori as Ichi henged and dispelled multiple times, cycling through different members of Team Chaos, including a miniature version of Juubi. “How bad is this going to be?” Obito whispered to Shisui, who was still seated with Sasori.
Shisui, with the same sadistic glee as his grandfather/uncle, grinned. “This is going to be great!”
Sasori adored Shisui.
The first person that Namikaze returned with was a man of the same age but shorter than Kagami, who wore an eyepatch over his right eye and his chin was scarred with a faded X. Sasori instantly recognized him from his Bingo Book picture. Danzo leaned against a maple tree and took deep breaths to steady himself from the space-time travel as Namikaze immediately disappeared. Sasori wondered, not for the first time, how Namikaze managed to seem so unbothered the side effects of using the Hiraishin. Maybe the side effects were only felt by passengers?

In the brief moment between Danzo’s appearance and Tsume’s sneak attack, Sasori assessed the man’s condition – multiple circular and plum-sized patches of fresh skin on his bare arms and face, still scabbed-over lizard talon lacerations that had shredded skin and muscle on the left arm, and a gaunt, jaundiced appearance of someone who had recently recovered from a lengthy illness. Grandmother’s antidote was strong enough to survive Hanzo’s salamander breath, but even she said it didn’t necessarily mean that who ever were scratched by the salamander’s venomous claws were guaranteed survival. (Liver failure, Sasori concluded; acute, but recovering, he added, catching a glimpse of Danzo’s white sclera.)
Danzo’s attempt to kill Hanzo must have been only shortly before Tsume and Sasori’s ill-fated meeting. No wonder Hanzo had been spitting mad to see Danzo’s gardening partner. (Maybe Danzo was the sort who tried killing everyone who crossed his paths? If that was the case, maybe the Hokage felt an attempted assassination was nothing personal, and just a quirk in Danzo’s personality. Sasori had to admit it was just bizarre enough to fit in with his overall experience with Konoha nin.)
Tsume’s ambush was much like the eagerness of a clumsy puppy delighted to see their best human friend. If she had a tail, her entire backside would be swinging back and forth with excitement. “DANZO! LOOK LOOK LOOK!” She shoved Hana into the man’s arms. “Isn’t she a beauty?”
Danzo straightened and held Hana like he expected her to be a particularly unstable blast tag. “Very nice,” he muttered without a single bit of sincerity, and also because he looked like he was still trying not to throw up. Hana was awake and alert, quietly taking the new person who held her.
“She has all ten fingers and toes, I already know she has amazing olfaction – Fumiko’s cheese was so smelly, even from twenty-five kilometers away, that she nearly died from the stench.”
“How unfortunate.” Danzo looked around, clearly trying to find a distraction to redirect Tsume’s energy and attention. He stared for a brief moment, startled by Tsume’s bloodshot sclera. Then the look that crossed his face when he saw Fumiko was similar to something Sasori might’ve given to the bottom of his shoe if he stepped in something foul. (If that expression was from someone who mildly tolerated Fumiko now, Sasori could easily imagine the antagonism that must’ve existed in their youth back when Danzo hated Fumiko… he had a sudden, urgent need to wrap his chakra threads around Danzo’s neck and throttle him.)
“She even has your eyes!”
What.
Danzo didn’t seem particularly surprised by Tsume’s announcement. “And, the gods willing, my brains,” he replied, with a cutting glance towards Tsume’s sclera.
What?
Konoha’s War Hawk was the human being who had willingly laid with the human wreck that was Inuzuka Tsume?
(Did gardening partner implied that he had… plowed Tsume? Wasn’t Danzo old enough to be her father? From the look of Sasori’s other companions, none of them seem particularly surprised at who Hana’s sire had been. Which, he supposed, given Kakashi’s Inuzuka olfaction and Kagami’s relationships with his old genin teammate and Tsume, probably meant their relationship wasn’t a well-kept secret. Especially if Hanzo somehow knew about it… Tsume’s taste was truly appalling.
… She clearly deserved someone much better than Danzo.)
“We helped Tsume-san with her labor and delivery!” Obito announced cheerfully. “I got to feel a woman’s cervix for the first time!” Rin slapped Obito up the side of the head. He whined and rubbed his scalp. “I know, I know. I’m not allowed to do that again until I’m eighteen years old or passed the midwife course. Oh! Training for the next course starts in eleven days! Sensei promised I can go, and I’ve already read the course materials twice!”
Danzo eyed Obito with the same feces-stuck-to-his-shoe disregard he had given Fumiko. “How old are you again?”
“I’m ten years old, Danzo-sensei!”
He then eyed Tsume with the same disregard. (Either that, or the man’s face was just stuck that way. Sasori considered the possibility of such, and decided this must be the truth, remembering Danzo’s Bingo Book picture, which had been taken back when he had two eyes.) “You let an inexperienced ten-year-old feel up your cervix?”
“His hands were the smallest.” Tsume wasn’t willing to let herself be distracted away from sharing her baby with the sire, with the same level of expected acceptance that she seemed to share for the unclaimed Inuzuka sons present. “Her hair texture is more like yours, but that can change. You know, babies go through a lot of hormonal changes themselves after they’re born, so a lot of times they don’t have the same hair they’re born with. She has a cute little birthmark on her butt cheek, just like yours—” Danzo immediately silenced her with a large hand clamped tightly over her mouth. He then shoved Hana back into her arms. “I’m here for a reason, and it has nothing to do with your child.”
“Our child,” Tsume snapped, cradling Hana.
“I reluctantly agreed to minimal contact, instead of the no contact I would’ve preferred.” He gestured at the space between him and Hana as he stepped back. “This is minimal.” Danzo turned his back to Tsume as her face fell, eyes glimmering with unshed tears.
“It’s certainly for the best,” Fumiko said, crossing her arms in front of herself and giving her half-brother the same look he had given her. “Danzo is hardly what I’d call decent father material. Dead-beat, yes. Decent, no.”
Kagami drew Fumiko back. “Be nice, the both of you. Danzo is right, Tsume, he’s here for other reasons.”
Danzo didn’t even look at Sasori as he strode past everyone, gliding through the glade of trees until he reached where Nessie sat on a stump, flanked on either side by Tsume’s ninken. Danzo’s stance was wide as he stopped and wordlessly studied Nessie. She sat still and unmoving, the glow in her eyes growing slightly in intensity. “Of all the guests I expected Kagami to bring, I imagined something more… human.” Danzo turned his head slightly, as if glancing towards Kagami, except he turned his sightless eye towards Kagami, clearly too experienced a shinobi to expose his blind side to something like Nessie.
“I never implied our guest was human. Seems rather pointless, don’t you think?” The end of Nessie’s flickering tail was obvious, as was the up-close glittering of her scale-skin and the aquamarine glow of her too-large eyes.
“Does she understand human speech?”
Nessie click-chipped and nodded her head, answering Danzo’s question to Kagami. His shoulders stiffened in wariness when he saw her teeth. “Minato-san is right – her chakra is insane. Is she a boss summon?”
And then Namikaze returned with the Hokage, an older man with thinning, gray-brown hair with a week’s worth of facial growth on his chin. “Ugh.” The Hokage, like Danzo, leaned against a tree to recover his equilibrium, his white Kage robes dampening from sweat. “Gods. Forty years, you two. Forty years since the blanket theft occurred. It’s time to let that go.”
Kagami and Danzo spoke as one. “Never.”
“The grudge was,” Kagami told the Hokage with a thin smile, “the only thing that kept us warm most of those nights, all because you kept forgetting to pack your own damn blankets. Nessie-sama!” His voice rose, and with the increased volume, Nessie stood. Danzo took two sudden steps backward as she loomed over them. “Break the henge!”
Sasori barely managed to yank the tent-dress off Nessie’s body with his chakra strings, briefly revealing her alien form before the glowing flow of her body enveloped everything, and then an eyeblinding flash of aquamarine chakra lit up their glade like a supernova bomb.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“You… you tell me that this Nessie-sama is your guest, Kagami, but somehow, I feel like she’s here because of Tsume.”
“Ah, well, you wouldn’t be wrong about that, Hiruzen.”
Sasori could honestly say that of all the people he’d never thought he would feel any sympathy for, it was Konoha’s Hokage. But seeing one of the Five Great Village leaders, in his Kage robes, flanked by Namikaze and Danzo, and wearing the world-weary expression of one who was so used to Tsume’s shenanigans that every time he thought he had seen it all, Tsume would somehow up the ante, Sasori felt a keen stab of sympathy. He had lived through three weeks of Tsume’s shenanigans; the Hokage had been dealing with them for the last six years since she became a genin.
After everyone had recovered their vision to find Nessie standing before them, her gigantic body crushing the trees that had been in the way of her mass, jaws were reluctantly picked up off the forest floor, Obito was rousted from his faint, and Tsume had to coax Kakashi and Rin out of the tree they had fled into. Only Team Chaos kept their composure, with Kagami nibbling on the end of his stalk of wild oats and looking pleased and calm, like a cat who had caught the bird that had been bothering it for some time.
Nessie loomed over Tsume and stared at the Hokage with a particularly hungry look. (Sasori supposed she had finished digesting that Kiri nin from yesterday. It must take a lot of food to satisfy a creature with her bulk.) And loomed she did, seated on her haunches while her remaining body remained upright, much like a half-seated dog or cat. Her neck stretched high with her head visible far above the surrounding trees.

And then the Hokage, with a whimper and not taking his eyes from Nessie, leaned toward Kagami. “You were supposed to keep Tsume out of trouble, Kagami.”
Sasori watched in fascination as the pleased calm dropped from Kagami’s face, revealing a stunning amount of irritation. He spat out the end of the oat stalk. “‘Kagami,’ you said to me, ‘she just gave birth.’” Sasori needed to take notes on how to convey so much sarcasm in one’s voice. “‘She can’t possibly move all that fast. You’ll have no trouble keeping up with her.’ ‘You know how Tsume cares for children, Kagami. She’s going to avoid any situation that would bring harm to her baby.’ ‘Kagami, the Suna nin she insists on keeping gives us a rare opportunity to strengthen bonds between our villages.’”
The Hokage finally turned from Nessie to glare outright at Kagami. “That is a level of pettiness I’ve come to expect from Danzo, not from you.”
(“Why am I being dragged into this fight? For the first time in forty years, I didn’t even do anything.”)
“And to top it all off!” Kagami laughed. It was high and hysterical. “To top it all off, you said, ‘What’s the worst that can happen? It’s not like Tsume is going to wrestle a dragon’.” Kagami’s smile was viciously petty as the Hokage’s face paled. “You thought my grudge over the damn blankets was bad? Oh, my dear friend, the blanket theft is nothing compared to what I’ve been feeling with the memory such words echoing through my brain since Tsume realized that a suiton dragon was attacking our hotel barge on Lake Kogen, and then went off to wrestle the damn thing. I’ve been carrying this grudge with me for the last four hundred kilometers.”
Wow. And Sasori hadn’t sensed a thing. Kagami was good.
The Hokage pointed at Nessie, who hissed long and low at his sudden movement, her neck frill flaring wide in warning. “But – how was anyone supposed to guess that Tsume was going to find the only still living creature of a species that was supposed to be hunted to extinction centuries ago?”
“You should have word with the intel department and their lack of information regarding the legendary Kogen serpent in Waterfall. Aso, remind me to remind you later about the apology letter we’ll have to write Ryusuikage. And did I mention that the reason Nessie joined us is because Tsume promised to let her meet Aunt Natsumi’s dragon species in an effort to reverse the inevitable extinction of Nessie’s species?”
The Hokage sat down on the ground as his legs gave out on him. “Reverse…?!” He cleared his throat and dropped his voice an octave. “Yes. Yes, you did fail to mention those details.” Danzo merely stared with an odd mix of indifferent glee, truly pleased that whatever mess Tsume had gotten into, for once, had nothing to do with him. “You are enjoying this, aren’t you, Kagami?”
Kagami looked half-demented with his smile. “Immensely, Hokage-sama.”

The Hokage whimpered. “Where are we even going to put her?”
With all the petty delight of someone who knew it wasn’t his responsibility, Kagami’s face relaxed into something both smug and tired. “Eight hundred kilometers I have traveled in the last three weeks, Hiruzen, despite a failing heart, to follow my directives of befriending a Suna nin – no easy task, mind you, but one I took with full confidence,” he assured Sasori, who shrugged in reply, knowing exactly how difficult that particular task had been, “—and keeping Tsume in one piece. I could deal with the gouka inugami – it wasn’t my first road trip with them, after all – and between the Kiri Swordsman and the Seven-Tailed Jinchuuriki, I feel like I’ve certainly had my fair share of excitement for the next ten years.”
The Hokage’s nervous sweating only increased with every detail Kagami provided, as Danzo’s eyebrows crept higher in the realization that, while the dragon had certainly been the worst, Nessie hadn’t been the only unfortunate highlight of the road trip.
(There were nine bijuu. That was at least eight more powerful beings in existence than a dragon, so really, in Sasori’s reasoning, the odds were bound to happen that they would run into one jinchuuriki. Fucking dragons, on the other hand…)
“And while it was physically and emotionally exhausting to successfully meet my mission directives, the dragon took it to a whole new level. So, in short: not my monkey, not my circus. You’re the Hokage. I’m retired. Sucks to be you. It’s your turn,” Kagami added a dark glee.

The Hokage slowly stood up, dusted himself off, and removed his red hat to dab at his forehead and scalp with a billowing white sleeve. Then he abruptly shoved the hat into Danzo. “Here you go.”
Danzo shoved the hat back. “Oh hell no! You do not get to pawn the Hokageship onto me every time Tsume trips and falls into trouble like a toddler into puddles! This is even worse than the time she seduced you-know-who!” They scuffled over the hat the same way Kakashi and Obito scuffled, before Danzo successfully managed to jam it down around the Hokage’s ears. These two grown men then glared at each other, and then both eyed Namikaze, who hadn’t stopped studying Nessie with a particular look of awed fascination since she had released her henge. Sasori had to admit, Nessie as a dragon seemed far less alien than her henged form had been. Her current form also matched that beacon of chakra that even a blind man could sense.
“You’re quiet,” the Hokage told Namikaze.

“I remember The Second Hokage writing about the suiton and raiton dragons,” Namikaze said, absent-mindedly. “About the tales of their power and how many died taking them down. They had a tendency to eat people and livestock, so the first dragons were initially killed out of defense of human and animal lives. And then somewhere along the line, it became a mark of pride for shinobi clans to say that they defeated the dragons. Some of the most legendary armor of our history was made from dragon scales, and the weapons from their bones and teeth.”
Nessie hissed at Namikaze, her neck fringe flaring in warning once again.
Namikaze raised his hands. “Peace, Nessie-sama. It’s important to consider what risks we need to protect you from, especially now that I understand why it was so important that Uchiha-san didn’t share any details with anyone until the Hokage was present.” He bowed to Nessie, giving her the Seal of Recognition. “It would be our great honor to protect you, and I’m sure you would much rather fight at our side if needed, rather than against us.”
Her neck fringe settled and she chirp-clicked in reply.
“You’re taking this rather well,” the Hokage grumbled.
Namikaze shrugged. “With all due respect, Hokage-sama, when you’re fighting against a riptide, it only wears you out and drags you further out to sea. With Tsume’s riptides, you must learn how to work alongside them.”
The Hokage nodded solemnly, as if he had been presented with a rare pearl of wisdom. “You have an insight beyond your years, Minato.” After a moment, the Hokage shoved the red hat around Namikaze’s ears. “Congratulations. I had planned on waiting a little longer before announcing you as my official choice, but,” he clapped a solid hand against Namikaze’s back, nearly knocking him over, “needs must, my boy, needs must.” He spun about on his heel as all the color drained from Namikaze’s face. “Come, Danzo. Let us make our way to Earth in due haste. There is a war to win.”
“Good luck,” Danzo told Namikaze, sliding to the side as if he were going to dodge Namikaze’s attempt to decline the hat.
“Hokage-sama!” Namikaze rushed after the former Hokage, who covered his ears with his hands and chanted lalalalalala under his breath. “Sir! If you don’t take back the hat, I’m going to give it to Tsume!”
The Hokage froze too quickly to prevent Danzo from colliding with him. Both caught their footing before falling onto the ground. The Hokage’s expression was pinched as he slowly turned. “I thought you loved Konoha. Why would you condemn our Village like that?”
(“Hey! I would make a great Hokage!”
“You can barely manage your clan, Tsume. You wouldn’t be able to handle Konoha. I say this with all kindness, but you’d make a lousy Hokage.”
“Yeah. Fair. You’re probably right, Kagami.”)
Namikaze’s face was red as he removed the hat from his head and held it out like a flag of truce. “You were one of the Second’s apprentices. You were already familiar with the internal bureaucracy when the Second passed the Hokageship onto you. I’ll take the hat, but I’d like to receive at least three years of apprenticeship before that happens.”
With a sigh, the Hokage reluctantly accepted the hat back. “You’re right. It wouldn’t be appropriate to throw you into the deep end, Minato. Very well.” And then he clasped Namikaze’s shoulder. “The first assignment you have, as my new apprentice, is to find a place to host our new guest, somewhere within Konoha where she wouldn’t alarm any of our other citizens. Preferably not the Nara Forest. The Nara Clan is already a bit miffed with having to host Juubi. If they wouldn’t take an angry honey badger, they’re not going to take a suiton dragon.”
Sasori wasn’t sure how his Kazegake would react if Sasori brought a dragon home to Suna, but was fairly sure it would be with more grace and dignity than this. Sasori looked at Kagami. “How on earth did Konoha ever manage to win the first and second wars? Why haven’t you been defeated yet?”
Kagami shrugged. “Honestly? Anyone who did manage to defeat us would probably hand the Village back after a month and run for the hills.”
… Yeah, after a month being trapped with just four citizens of Konoha, Sasori could empathize with the desperation of someone stuck trying to manage an entire village of said citizens.
“Shall I take you back to Konoha now, sir?”
The Hokage grimaced and sidestepped away from Namikaze, one hand carefully wrapping around his stomach. “Ah, no. I think it would be good to stretch my legs. I’ll, uh,” he glanced over his shoulder at Nessie, “I’m going to need a little bit of time to come up with a reasonable explanation why Konoha is now home to a dragon. I’ll alert the guards to expect you, and spread the word that all of you – powerful, otherworldly guests included – are not to be attacked or stopped, although it’s best that she remains unseen. And then I’ll find Aunt Natsumi and bring her to meet up with you. Take the north entrance – it’s less traveled.”
Nessie chirp-clicked at the Hokage, as if giving her approval.
Then the Hokage clapped Danzo on the back. “Congrats on the fatherhood again. You stay with the group. I don’t want to have to share my fights with you.”
Danzo looked like he had eaten a lemon the Hokage shunshinned away, and Tsume cheerfully shoved Hana back into his arms.
“On that note,” Kakashi said, “we have an incoming team of Nadeshiko kunoichi, about twelve kilometers away.”
Minato instantly henged himself into a woman – just as tall, just as blond and blue-eyed, and slightly busty with a clean-shaven face and no Adam’s apple. “Well, let’s go distract and redirect them,” Minato said tiredly in an alto voice, clearly wary of an ever-growing unreasonable number of fiancés.
“You should henge back to your previous state,” Kagami told Nessie.
“Wait!” Fumiko jumped to her feet. After a poisonous glance briefly sent towards Danzo, her face was much more kind as she planted a kiss against Kagami’s cheek. “I’ll go with you,” she told Team Minato, after making sure she had some additional quivers. Being allies with Konoha didn’t stop Nadeshiko kunoichi from issuing challenges in their ongoing quest for husbands to bring back to their village. It was best to fend them off with kunoichi.
“Wait until they return to henge, Nessie-sama,” Kagami told the dragon. “When you change, your chakra is like a forest fire, visible for kilometers around.” And then, to Danzo, “Would it kill you to be decent to your own sister for the short period of time you’re stuck with us, Danzo?”
“My sister,” the words spilled out of Danzo’s mouth like he had taken a mouthful of Fumiko’s cheese, “and I get along best when there’s distance between us. Her time in Waterfall was pleasant.”
Nessie folded her front legs beneath herself, tail flickering lazily to await the return of their companions. With Hana still held gingerly in his arms, Danzo approached Nessie for a closer study. Tsume trailed behind him, happily explaining (for whatever worth explaining could be valued) how they had first heard of Nessie as the Kogen serpent, her lengthy mythology (“Two hundred years of purported sightings, that’s what Fumiko’s book said.”), and how Nessie had sensed them from over forty kilometers away. Knowing that they were foreign shinobi, she had approached to destroy them, and what Tsume had done to successfully talk Nessie out of attacking.
Danzo, in the midst of wordlessly studying and poking at Nessie’s claws, pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath. “You decided the best course of action against a mythological beast was to play matchmaker.”
“It was either that, or die, and then everyone else would die, too.”
“How you manage to get into, and out of, these situations is truly mind-boggling at times.”
It was almost as if Tsume was well-blessed by the gods.
Kagami had reseated himself on the half-rotted tree stump to show Shisui how to braid wild oat stalks into wrist bracelets, one of which Shisui instantly gave Sasori. Sasori, with great dignity, accepted the oat-bracelet and slid it onto his left wrist. Juubi browsed the grass and the ninken settled in pockets of sunshine for a quick nap.
Whatever Danzo had been searching for in his study with Nessie, he clearly hadn’t found it when he turned away from Nessie, his shoulders tense and his expression stormy. Unfortunately, this meant that his attention was now focused upon Sasori, his single eye narrowing dangerously as he crossed the glade. Hana had fallen asleep in the crook of Danzo’s arms.
Juubi lifted his head from his browsing and nickered softly at Danzo, nearly knocking him sideways with a headbutt into Danzo’s shoulder.
“Knock it off, worthless cow.” Danzo swatted Juubi’s nose, and then sighed and patted the thick neck as Juubi lipped at his hair, leaving behind a trail of half-chewed grass and saliva. Up close, Sasori picked out Danzo’s physical features – the shape of his face, chin, and cheeks matched the shape of Fumiko’s face, and his hair was equally salt-and-pepper in shade as Fumiko’s. They shared the same dark irises and line of eyebrow, but from there, the family resemblance stopped. Where Fumiko was tall and bony, almost the same height as Minato, Danzo was short and stalky, favoring strength over speed. His hair was smooth and medium-textured and his skin was certainly more light, with cool undertones. His fair skin showed more advanced aging, much like Kagami’s, in comparison to Fumiko, who looked – in Sasori’s eyes – to be in her mid-twenties, instead of her early-fifties.
Danzo eyeballed Sasori and Komushi. Sasori raised his chin and felt gratified to be able to look down his nose at the man who clearly held no appreciation for Fumiko’s quick intelligence and kind consideration.
“Akasuna no Sasori,” Danzo began, absently patting Juubi’s neck once again. Tsume hovered behind Danzo, her hands twisting with anxiety as her gaze flickered from Danzo to Sasori and back. “Chuunin, Puppet Master, captain of the Suna Puppeteer Brigade Third Division, apprentice to the Kazekage, grandson to Suna’s Poison Queen and her presumed heir.” His lip curled back with disdain.
“How has the hospitality of Konoha been, so far?”

Namikaze had first looked at Sasori with Danzo’s same suspicious wariness – the sort that said he was waiting for Sasori to make the first move, and he would parry with extreme prejudice. Unlike Namikaze, there was no velvet-wrapped steel. Danzo was all sharpened edges and maliciousness looking to happen to someone.
Evidently, the knowledge of Sasori’s promotion to jounin was not well-known.
With poisons and puppetry, it was all about redirection. “This is Hana’s father?” Sasori asked Tsume, pointing. “The man that both you and Kagami declared was a real idiot?”
Tsume’s face flushed red as Danzo glared at her, and Kagami burst into laughter. “We’re not wrong,” Kagami called.
“Well, emotionally,” Tsume muttered into her collar. Then she returned Danzo’s glare with one of her own. “You are emotionally constipated! I got some leftover laxative suppositories that can help with that.”
Shisui loudly asked Kagami what a laxative suppository was.
“And yet,” Danzo’s voice was low and cut through Kagami’s amusement, “for all of my emotional constipation, I never got into as much trouble with Tsume as you have.”
Kagami raised a single eyebrow at that. “I have two words for you, Danzo: circus ringleader.”
Those two words clearly carried the weight of too many adventures. Danzo’s lips pressed into tight, pale lines. He attempted to give Hana back to Tsume, but she dodged him, flipping up and over Juubi to the other side. Sasori didn’t think it was fair that he was now planted between Tsume and Danzo. He’d rather take his chances with an angry dragon.
This placement also meant that Danzo returned his attention to Sasori. “So, between Hanzo’s salamanders and Nessie the dragon, which would you say is worse?”
The words felt like a conversation; it held all the tone of an interrogation. “Can’t say for certain,” Sasori replied, keeping his tone flat to veil any weakness his emotions would give away. “Hanzo’s salamanders came with a side of a dozen adult gouka inugami.” The memory was crystal clear to him: the fear of seeing Tsume’s gouka inugami for the first time, trying to comprehend their forms of ground-melting brimstone and sulfur. The lethal toxicity of the salamanders and Hanzo’s foaming rage, a single day after he had nearly died from arsenic poisoning and lost his feet. How defenseless and vulnerable he felt, completely reliant on someone he couldn’t trust and, frankly, hated as an extension of Hatake Sakumo. “Then again, it was Nessie who killed me,” Sasori added with a languid shrug. Yeah, I died. I came back. No big deal. “Drowning was a much more peaceful death than I ever thought I’d have.” He didn’t have the time to panic in those moments that ended with his drowning. He had been focused on keeping Shisui safe, of removing the toddler from danger and not dragging him down with Sasori’s weight.

He had… huh. Sasori had put Shisui’s needs ahead of his own, and hadn’t even realized such until this moment.

(Trust, Sasori realized breathlessly.
It was a strange thing – the more you gave away, the more you received. Tsume trusted him, he trusted her, Shisui trusted both.)
Danzo stood on his tip-toes to glare at Tsume over Juubi’s back. “You drowned our Suna ally?”
Tsume glared. “Me? I wasn’t anywhere nearby! That was all Nessie. And I brought him back. Me and Nessie, both! And,” she added haughtily, “I couldn’t have done any of it without Shisui.”
And all it cost Tsume was the possibility of losing whatever functioning brain she still had left.
A surge of warmth for Team Chaos filled Sasori, making him feel light and bubbly. It was important to acknowledge good efforts; it was team-building, Sasori reasoned. He leaned down and rubbed Tsume’s short hair. “Of all the times I’ve come close to death in the last four weeks, you’ve always been the one to bring me back.”
The spread of her smile, like the distant aurora borealis spreading across the night sky, the glimmer in her eyes. It was almost as nice as the pride lightening his grandmother’s eyes. (Aaaaand that door was slammed shut once more, because Tsume didn’t spend six years keeping useless hope alive with lies and deceit.)oOoOoOoTeam Minato wasn’t long in returning.
Tsume grinned at Obito, who was shuffling in embarrassment, because of course she was going to know precisely what had happened from only ten or so kilometers away. “So, was she cute?” she asked with a wag of her eyebrows.
Danzo pinched the bridge of his nose. “Please tell me that you somehow didn’t manage to pick a fight with the Nadeshiko kunoichi when you were only supposed to send them off in a different direction.”
Namikaze made a face as he released his feminine henge. “Apparently, all you have to do to defeat them is to trip and fall and knock them over.”
Yeah, the Nadeshiko kunoichi could be a little desperate like that.
Kakashi eyed his teammate with undisguised disdain. “Yelling that he wasn’t allowed to touch someone’s cervix until he had completed his midwife course didn’t help.”
Danzo startled, wide-eyed. “Why?”
“Shut up, Bakashi! She said she would wait until I was o-old enough to father children before coming after me, and I know how babies are born! And Minato-sensei said no touching cervixes until I was eighteen years old or have passed the midwife course.”
Danzo glared at Namikaze. “You’re sending a ten year old boy into the midwife course without a sex education?”
“Oh, believe me, we’ve already covered the sex education,” Namikaze replied, scratching the back of his head. “Tsume put on a sex workshop for them when I asked her to, about six months ago.”

Danzo glared at Tsume.

“What?” she asked defensively. “So, I explained how hitting the cervix during sex could be uncomfortable. Obito’s smart enough to put two and two together. And,” she told Obito as his face only burned more red, “you shouldn’t touch cervixes outside of midwifery until you’re at least fifteen. I thought I made that part clear in my workshop.”
“They’re a little young for your sex workshop,” Danzo said, his expression thunderous.
Rather than looking rebuked or nervous, Tsume raised her chin as a fierce protectiveness came over her. “And so was I when I got introduced to sex the hard way in the Second War, Danzo. Minato and I want them to be better prepared for what sometimes happens in battles, because you can’t always protect the young!”
And Danzo flinched.
It was barely discernable to the human eye, but Sasori watched as the minute tremble of muscles, from his scalp to his toes, rippled through Danzo’s body.
(Inuzuka Tsume was twelve when she became a genin, Sasori thought. His current age, but far from his current level of skill... When Hatake Sakumo became her jounin sensei.
Sasori’s hatred for Sakumo suddenly took on a whole new dimension for not appropriately keeping his brain-damaged genin safe during the Second War.)
“Well, enough of this,” said Kagami, sidestepping into everyone’s conversations and attention. He nodded to Nessie. “Time to henge, and time to get going. We need to take advantage of Hiruzen clearing our path to Konoha. We should be able to reach by tonight.”oOoOoOo
The forests grew thicker and thicker the closer they approached Konoha. With the forest growth only becoming too thick, between the massive trees – taller and thicker than any that Sasori had even seen, even in the jungles of the Land of Swamps or the towering larches in Waterfall – and the thick undergrowth for foot traffic, Juubi and Nessie had to travel on a road that was typically used rarely (they wouldn’t tell Sasori for what, but he suspected it was only for clandestine Konoha teams, given the seven waystations that they passed hidden in the trees that Namikaze would signal with a code of flashing chakra flares and dips).
Sasori assumed, based on the Hokage coming ahead, that he had already told them that this group was to continue undeterred and without interference. Sasori switched over to Ichi so Kagami could ride and concentrate on keeping Nessie cloaked within a Sharingan genjutsu that somehow obfuscated both her appearance and supernova chakra, but through the veil of branches and leaves from high above, Sasori could see the thick sheen of sweat that plastered Kagami’s hair and drenched his coat from the effort.
Sasori was white-knuckling Ichi’s harness. Danzo had wanted him blindfolded for this part of the trip, but Sasori had stared down at the unreasonably distant forest floor, and sternly told Danzo that if he was going to fall to his death, he was going to do so with his eyes wide open, the same as he had stared at every other close incident or actual death he’s experienced so far.
He had never traveled via trees before, since there weren’t enough of such in Wind to serve as a “highway in the sky” that his Konoha comrades dubbed. He had occasionally used his chakra threads to swing through the jungles in Swamp when he needed to go over swamps, marshes, and other sources of water, but had preferred to stay close to the ground where he could collect poison dart frogs and other various toxic fauna and flora for his poisons.
It was unfortunately clear to Sasori that he had been struggling with heights ever since looking over the edge of the mountain escarpment that Team Chaos had secured passage through for Juubi.
Ichi had no problem, even with a passenger and puppet on his back, leaping gracefully from one massive tree branch to another, following Tsume and Fumiko. Danzo brought up the back, ready to address anyone who might be more curious than obedient to the Hokage’s orders to not interrupt their journey.
When they were only five kilometers away from Konoha, the distant towering walls visible from the higher reaches of the oak tree whose upper branch Ichi was perched on (Sasori thought it creaked ominously from their combined weight), Tsume insisted on a break.
Leaving Juubi secured to a tree slightly off the road, Kagami gratefully joined them for water and a snack. Nessie slipped into the brush, out of sight from the road as the greenery engulfed her, and Danzo hovered in the tree branches above. Sasori felt the pulse of chakra that Danzo sent through their surroundings, with two fingers pressed into the tree.
Sasori was glad to sit shoulder to shoulder with Kagami with Komushi in his lap, even though Kagami’s clammy sweat leaked through Sasori’s shirt. “It’s frustrating,” Sasori said, trying to extend empathy to Kagami the same way he had received it, “being constantly reminded of our limitations.”
Kagami’s single laugh was melancholic. “I used to be able to use my Sharingan for up to a week, non-stop. How far does the mighty fall.”
“Your heart was damaged from scarlet fever. It probably also damaged the tenketsu it’s linked to, and that’s why using your Sharingan is such a strain to your system.” It also explained why Tsume felt for certain that using the Mangekyou Sharingan to subdue Nessie would’ve killed Kagami. To counter her supernova chakra would’ve been too immense a strain on Kagami’s heart. Sasori found himself grateful that he had been the one to die with the initial encounter with Nessie, and not Kagami.
“Ah. You know, that makes sense. I always thought it was because my stamina was shot from a damaged heart, which impacted my yang chakra. You know, Sasori,” Kagami gently patted Sasori’s knee, “you should consider medic training. You’ve got the chakra control, a frankly indecent amount of biological information crammed into that brilliant brain of yours, and you’re darn good with whatever you set your mind to. I bet you could come up with just as many cures for diseases and conditions as you can poisons. Consider it, won’t you?”
And… and he did. Sasori considered it for the remaining five kilometers it took to reach Konoha, with Team Chaos briefly pausing to put on their forehead protectors, including the ninken. (Even Juubi had a forehead protector. Sasori eyed him and wondered if Juubi, like the ninken, had his own unique shinobi ID number.) Sasori’s forehead protector that Tsume handed him for the first time since they prepped their backgrounds before reaching Lake Kogen felt heavy in his hands, and weighed even more against his brow. It was… it was uncomfortable and unfamiliar after being without for so long. Less than four weeks ago, he had been planning to scratch a line through the hourglass, ready to turn his back on Suna entirely.
Now… now he wasn’t sure. There were many things that he hated and despised about Suna, especially the occupants of it, but he also missed the warmth of the daytime sun (Eternal Sands, when was the last time he had actually felt warm, besides every time Tsume snuggled up with him under layers of blankets or when he was drowning in frigid water?), the spices of street foods with the pleasant burn and tingle on his tongue and in his sinuses, the constant wind that sang across the horizon, the sand that was always changing and always eternal, how dead the desert would appear to outsiders, but flourished with layers of hidden life.

He missed the drums and the ardah; he missed the raqs al-baten that his mother would’ve done as an Academy student. He missed his workshop, with the beakers, the poisons, the tools, and the scent of fresh wood shavings. He missed the coffee that his grandmother would make, flavored with cinnamon and a splash of vanilla. He missed the Kazekage’s office, with the thick scents of paper and ink, the iron dust that got everywhere, and the view of the Suna cliffs through the windows.
Sasori missed the quiet, the peace, the contentment, and the assured security in knowing who he was and what he could do.
The Hokage was waiting for them next to the gates, which were five meters tall and set within a wall ten meters and heavily fortified with security seals that managed to successfully overpower Sasori’s eidetic memory.
Fuuinjutsu, Sasori decided glumly as he tried to remember the exact details and position of the door that they had passed through, but the memory kept sliding away like tadpoles through his fingers, is bullshit. Even the close proximity to this gate was affecting his brain, disallowing him to concentrate on nearby landmarks. It made his head twinge with a distant headache.
“So, my new apprentice,” the Hokage told Namikaze with four masked ANBU standing directly behind him, all tensing as they looked at Nessie, “where should we sequester our new guest?”
“The Naka Reservoir in Training Ground Fifty-seven,” Namikaze replied immediately. “It’s rarely used for training, is far enough away from the Village center that few would make the trip to bother Nessie, has plenty of fish to feed her, and is a large enough body of water that she can feel comfortable in.”
The Hokage nodded, as if he had also decided that this was to be the best place to sequester Nessie. “Very well, your team, Danzo, and I shall accompany Nessie-sama to her new location. The rest of you,” he turned to Team Chaos, “medical checks at least for Tsume and Kagami. It’s been a long, hard journey for you. Sasori-kun, you may–”
Namikaze interrupted. “He needs a medical check, as well, Hokage-sama.”
There was a level of intensity like Danzo’s in the Hokage’s assessing gaze as he raked Sasori from head to (missing) toes. “Have there been complications to the healing, Sasori-kun? My assistant has already made you an appointment with a surgeon for review and assessment tomorrow morning, eleven AM sharp.”
“He died.” Namikaze’s voice was steel. Sasori hadn’t expected Namikaze, of all people, to indicate any concern for Sasori’s well-being. “How many days ago, Sasori-kun, were you clinically dead from drowning?”

Sasori double-checked his internal clock. “Seven days, twenty hours ago.”
“And how long did he not have any working heart or lung function?” Namikaze asked Tsume.
“Uh, well, I’m not sure how long Shisui held him above the water before I got there,” both the Hokage and Kagami winced, “but he was dead was for a while before I was in a place where I could work on him. I had to wait until Nessie got us to the island, and then it was twenty minutes or so in the caves that I did the CPR?”
Danzo sighed. “If it was twenty minutes to you, it was probably closer to forty minutes in reality.”
Wait – how long had Sasori been dead, in total?
A shiver of dread zapped up and down Sasori’s spine. “But I haven’t noticed any change to my cognitive function.” Unless… he looked towards where he thought the entrance through Konoha’s walls were, and his brain immediately slid away from comprehending what he stared at.
“My mother,” said Kagami, “had a stroke. It affected, in part, the area of her brain that allowed her to comprehend that she had a stroke*. She denied ever having that stroke and all the impact it made in her life until the day she died, and I’m half-certain that if the dead could speak, I’d still be hearing her denials even now.”
Tsume was aware of her brain damage, but was some brain damage like being dead? You didn’t realize you were dead because of the nature of not being alive at the time?
And that was how Sasori, courtesy of a concerned Tsume, found himself shunshinned immediately to the Konoha Hospital and gently, but firmly, handed over to medical staff that Tsume had no problem bullying into moving him up the triage for overnight tests and brain scans.oOoOoOo
“Sasori-kun, the last I checked, you were a patient to the hospital, not a hired medic.”
Sasori didn’t bother looking up from his roommate’s medical chart. As far as roommates went, the comatose Kusa nin was pleasantly quiet, by way of being comatose, although the attention he required every time he had a grand mal seizure was neither pleasant, nor quiet. Still, Sasori knew he probably shouldn’t aim his resentment for the frequent chaos of high-strung orderlies and nervous nurses at his roommate – he wasn’t deliberately having seizures to be a bother to Sasori, after all. None of the orderlies or nurses would tell Sasori what was wrong, citing patient privacy, but Sasori could tell that the man’s deteriorating condition concerned them.
So, after an orderly drew the fucking twenty-seventh blood sample from Sasori’s IV port without telling Sasori anything about his own condition, he stole his roommate’s medical chart and perused it, picking apart the lab values, the presence of ongoing kidney stones and rapidly worsening kidney failure, and the list of symptoms he had initially presented with before his condition rapidly deteriorated in the last two days despite ongoing efforts to solve and reverse the problems. (He didn’t bother learning his roommate’s name. That wasn’t important.)
Sasori handed the medical chart back to the man who spoke to him, whose graying dark hair would’ve been a riot of hedgehog spikes if it wasn’t pulled back into a tight ponytail at the crown of his head. “Why isn’t he being treated for oxalate toxicity?” he asked.
The man raised a single, sharp eyebrow at him. “Because there’s no way to test for serum oxalate levels.”
“He needs to be on an IV calcium solution, not the isotonic IV solution. His serum calcium levels are dangerously low, which is consistent with acute oxalate toxicity. I bet if you did an endoscope, you’d find chemical burns on his esophagus.”
The man flipped through the roommate’s medical chart. His fingers were long, thin, and tapered; any puppeteer would be envious. “An IV calcium solution was rejected by his attending hospitalist, pending biopsy of the kidney stones.”
Sasori shrugged. “Well, if you want him to die from cardiac arrest or a grand mal seizure in order to prevent the kidney stones from getting worse, by all means.” He used his chakra threads to fluff the pillow that was propped up against his back. “Like you said, I’m the patient, not a hired medic. After all,” he added, a touch snide and a touch sleepy, “it’s not like I’m some sort of poison expert who’s familiar with the ins and outs of oxalate toxicity whenever I’ve needed something rapid-acting, but not immediate, and can’t be detected because there’s no tests currently existing for serum oxalate levels. Nor would I know that the ABCs of triage mean airway, breathing, and circulation. I mean, kidneys are part of the circulatory system, right?”
“Fuck. This place has gone to the dogs since Tsunade skipped out on us.” With a sigh, the man stuck his head through the room’s exit to yell at a nurse to set up a liter of 10% calcium IV solution, to be administered as a continuous solution at 250ml an hour, and to start treating the man’s case as oxalate toxicity, and not as kidney failure secondary to suspected genetic disorder of Fabry Disease.
When he returned, he closed the privacy screen around Sasori’s bed, and flopped Sasori’s medical file on the rolling table that held a vomit basin, a box of tissues, and Sasori’s Sunagakure forehead protector. The name on his white coat read Nara Shikake as he sat in the covered commode perpendicular to Sasori’s bed (Sasori might’ve terrified the nursing staff when they approached him yesterday with a Foley catheter, effectively shredding it with his chakra threads to drive home the point that he needed no medical assistance to toilet himself). Without saying a word, he opened Sasori’s medical file, and slowly perused it in front of Sasori.
(Sasori wondered how much trouble he’d be in with Tsume if he attempted to smother her sire with his pillow.)
Nara remained silent as he thumbed through the photos of full-body CT and MRI scans, and the neuropsych test data that had kept Sasori awake from midnight until four in the morning.
The lack of sleep from the constant disturbances of hospital staff for both himself and his roommate’s seizures, his missing Komushi – Tsume had promised to let him sit with his parents’ puppets in her home, once she and Hana had finished their required postpartum/postdelivery exams – and the fact that Sasori had been declared NPO** since his hospital admission had drastically shortened the already limited tethers of his patience.
“Just how bad am I if the hospital’s medical director is going to review the results?” Sasori asked, finally interrupting the uncomfortable silence.
Nara glanced at him with dark brown eyes – different from Tsume’s, though their hairline was as similar as their wild hair, although Nara appeared to prefer keeping it tightly pulled back into a ponytail at the top of his head instead of free-floating and weaponized. Tsume, Sasori decided, was at least practical with her stupid hedgehog hair. Nara then flipped through Sasori’s stack of paperwork – a surprising amount that had been generated in the last fifteen hours – until he reached Sasori’s medical history in the last four weeks, from the time of his arsenic poisoning, to his arrival in Konoha.
Sasori had to admit that, between the arsenic poisoning, the amputation, the infection in his stumps, the unexpected raisin allergy, the splintering of his tibia bone, drowning and CPR, and all the times that Tsume had used her Mystic Palm, the medical history he had accumulated was three or four pages longer than the rest of his life, combined. (Chiyo’s toxin and poison inoculation and immunity, while extensive, hadn’t been severe enough to require any follow-up medical treatment from Suna medics… most of the time.)
Given the extent of everything he had suffered and had been exposed to, staff drew so much blood for so many tests that Sasori was pretty sure he was back to being anemic again.
“Have you ever had your IQ tested before?” Nara asked, his fingers laying still.
“No.” IQ testing wasn’t typically done in Suna.
“The neurologist hasn’t correlated the data yet, but judging from what I’m seeing here, I’d have to give an educated guess that your IQ is over 160. High gifted,” he added, at Sasori’s blank expression.
Sasori shrugged. He didn’t need anyone to tell him he was a genius. The results spoke for themselves. “Clearly, my intellect wasn’t impacted from drowning.”
Nara pursed his lips as he leaned back into the chair, looking every bit like a sloppy, lanky cat who found the perfect spot of sunshine to nap in. “Hmm. I suppose you’re also knowledgeable about CPR.”
“I know that CPR has low success rates and why, and that the longer the brain is deprived of oxygen, the more extensive the neurological damage.”
Nara’s dark eyes were hooded. “And did you know that when CPR is initiated on hypothermic victims, it isn’t stopped until the body reaches room temperature?”
Sasori hadn’t known that. “Hypothermia isn’t usually a cause for death in the desert.”
“I imagine that it’s one of the rarer causes of death, in Suna. When a person enters a hypothermic state, the need for oxygen can drop by up to 70%, and hypothermia can occur within, oh, twenty minutes in waters as cold as Lake Kogan. That time doesn’t include factors such as a child’s lower body mass,” he indicated Sasori’s entirety, “or inhalation of that cold water. In your case, the hypothermia would’ve set in much faster than twenty minutes.”
Sasori remembered that flash of warmth when he had been in the waters, seconds before finally dying.

From within Sasori’s medical chart, Nara removed several printed articles. “I took the liberty of pulling these for you, in case you were curious. They’re case studies of hypothermic drowning victims who were revived and had little to no brain damage in their recovery. One of the victims,” he tapped the stack of articles, “was a young girl who had fallen through a frozen pond and was submerged for over sixty minutes before being rescued, and that doesn’t include the amount of time it took to successfully resuscitate her.”
Sasori stared at Nara. “So, in short, it appears that I have… no brain damage?”
“In short, yes.”
“So, I didn’t need all of these tests?” Sasori didn’t know if he should feel relieved or miffed.
“All of these tests,” Nara spread the prints of Sasori’s full body MRI, CT and radioactive PET scans, “served more than just to check for brain damage from your short clinical death, Sasori-kun. Tsume used her untrained Mystic Palm on multiple bones in your body. Do you know why we don’t let people use the Mystic Palm without training?”
“Tsume mentioned something about cancer.”
“Correct. Cancerous tumors are, at its simplest, a damaged cell that has continued to replicate itself over and over, uncontrolled by its own telomeres or the body’s natural immunity. The Mystic Palm, by its very nature, encourages and hastens replication of cells to repair damaged tissues. If you don’t know what you’re doing, you wind up replicating damaged cells and cause cancer. Luckily, there’s nothing in all of these tests that indicates you have cancer, yet.”
Sasori glanced through his scans. “I’ve read reports of dogs can smell cancer,” he said. “If Tsume, from sixty kilometers away, can smell arsenic, wouldn’t she be able to inherently smell a cancer cell, and subconsciously destroy it with her Mystic Palm?”
There was no surprise in Nara’s features, but the stillness that came over him at Sasori’s statement clearly indicated that that this particular notion had never occurred to him. “Fuck.” He twirled the ends of his ponytail around his finger in thought.
“How is Tsume doing?”
The answer was immediate and flat. “She’s fine.” Sasori didn’t know enough of the man’s body language to detect deceit or evasion.
“Really?”
Nara sighed and gathered Sasori’s chart, leaving aside the case studies on hypothermic drowning victims. “I can’t give you any more details than that. As little as it may mean to you, Konoha Medical prides itself on patient privacy.”
“I see. I am glad she’s fine.” After the man had tucked everything into place and stood to exit the room, Sasori spoke again, making sure to keep his voice casual. “It provides me great relief to know that Tsume has suffered no ill effects from her recent experience with disseminated intervascular coagulation.”
Nara immediately sat back down again. His eyes were sharp and cutting. “Something rather common with your grandmother’s assassination poisons.”
Sasori returned the cutting glare with a lazy smile. “I understand that it’s also something common with Tsume’s particular brain injury, when she exceeds her limits.” He felt the smile slide off his face. “Because of the same circumstance in which I drowned, Tsume admitted to exceeding her limits to find me. She looked ghastly when I finally came to, covered in dried blood, and claimed that she had healed herself.” Would Tsume, with her already poor memory, notice any difference if she had worsened her brain injury? After what Kagami had said about his mother’s stroke, Sasori had his doubts. “She even told Kagami that she didn’t pee any blood this time around.” After a moment of deadly stillness, Sasori added, “Surely Tsume mentioned it during her exam. Wouldn’t her record indicate observations of the extensive subconjunctival hemorrhages?” And then, suspiciously, “Have you even seen Tsume since she returned to Konoha?”
Nara flipped Sasori’s chart open and immediately found Sasori’s medical history, finger sliding through the impeccable timeline that Sasori had provided the orderly. “Nine days ago,” he muttered. Then he snapped the folder shut and stood. “Excuse me, Sasori-kun,” he bit out impatiently, “I have a wayward child to hunt down and shake up.”

“Could I at least get some breakfast?” Sasori called to his parting back.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

The reply to breakfast was either no, or Nara was simply in too much of a hurry to hunt down Tsume. Which, given her track record of finding and getting into trouble, Sasori figured that haste was warranted.
The nice thing about chakra threads, Sasori decided, was the ability to fetch things. Including a breakfast tray meant for someone in the room across from him, which he snagged when the kitchen staff’s back was turned. Whoever the tray had been meant for, it was clearly for someone on a cardiac diet, considering how bland the food was with the lack of sodium and fat. Still, the oatmeal made his stomach feel like it no longer needed to gnaw on his esophagus in protest, and the unsweetened green tea was pleasantly warm.
And, Sasori was pleased to note, his roommate’s seizures had improved in decreasing frequency and intensity. (The attending hospitalist, however, was much less pleased when he saw the calcium solution that being administered, and had raised holy hell with the nursing staff until someone timidly admitted that the hospital director himself had ordered it. No one mentioned Sasori’s name, because the hospital staff rightly suspected that Sasori would unleash his ire on them the same way he had unleashed his ire on the
Foley catheter.)
Sasori was just about to sneak his breakfast tray out of his room when Kagami arrived, pushing Komushi in a wheelchair. A navy-blue blanket with a large red and white uchiwa sprinted across had been carefully tucked around Komushi’s lacquered lower body. For a brief moment, as the overhead lighting reflected in Komushi’s eyes, Sasori half-expected his friend to smile in cheerful greeting, just like he had the first time Sasori saw him after his own hospitalization.
“Good morning. I do hope the staff has been treating you well,” Kagami said in greeting. Unlike Nara, he chose to sit in the chair on the other side of Sasori’s commode.
Thinking of the state-of-the-art CT and MRI machines that Sasori had endured all night long, he shrugged. “The hospital certainly offers more amenities.” He studied Kagami, who looked impeccable. Clean-shaven with his hair carefully styled. Kagami wore a well-tailored formal black uniform with glossy black buttons that closed his jacket from the pit of his throat to below his trim waist, which was wrapped with a crimson sash with the fringed material dangling loose near his knees.
“That’s good. I thought we could do a brief tour of prosthetics department before your eleven o’clock consult.”
Curious to see what Konoha Medical had to offer, in light of the advanced diagnostic machines and the ventilated airway support system his roommate was hooked up to, Sasori agreed. He unhooked his saline fluid IV and muted the machine as Kagami removed Komushi from the wheelchair. Komushi sat on Sasori’s hospital bed as he independently transferred himself to the wheelchair with judicious application of chakra threads. In deference to his modesty (hospital gowns, it seemed, remained embarrassingly the same no matter how advanced the diagnostic and support equipment), Kagami covered Sasori’s lap with the blanket he brought, and then handed Komushi over. Sasori gratefully arranged Komushi so he could hold his friend close without obstructing his view.
Once Sasori was comfortable and ready, Kagami pushed him out of the room. “We’ll be back,” he told an inquiring nurse. “Sasori-kun has a consult, and he does so hate to be late.”
They had twenty minutes before Sasori’s appointment, which wasn’t enough to explore the prosthetics department with all of their props and samples, but it was enough to make Sasori cringe with what he saw.
“Is this the best you can do?” he asked the orderly who had displayed rough and lopsided wooden samples upon Kagami’s request, with simple two-way hinged joints and rubber suction cups and leather straps to secure the prosthetic to stumps. And those were just the external prosthetics. Eternal Sands help him if they attempted to display primitive endoskeleton prosthetics.

He had thought that Suna’s prosthetics were pathetic. (They were. But not compared to what had just been shown to him.)
The orderly huffed, straightening her broad shoulders and glaring. “These are the finest prosthetics in all of Fire!”
Sasori sneered.
“Sure, if you were a pirate looking for a wooden peg or a caveman whose smartest attack was clobbering his enemy over the head with a rock. Evidently, your budget has been going to the CT and MRI machines.”
“Aaaaand I think we should go to your appointment now,” Kagami cut in smoothly, immediately steering Sasori away before he could continue insulting and denigrating what he had just seen.
Sasori clutched at Komushi. “If that’s the finest in Fire, I can see why Minamoto thought Suna was the best on the Continent.”
“Ah, well, most nin usually retire after enduring the injuries that lead to amputations, so the field rarely sees improvement.”
“What choice would they have, otherwise?” Sasori asked, feeling bitter and angry on behalf of everyone who ever had to endure amputations to save their life, only to find it would, ultimately, end their livelihood. Sasori didn’t work so long and so hard just to retire before he had even gone through puberty.
Kagami said nothing as he knocked on a closed door with a name plate that read Dr Kusari, Head of Orthopedics.
“If you’re my eleven o’clock, you may enter.”
Sasori opened the door with his chakra threads before Kagami could reach the doorknob.
The office they entered was tastefully done with dark wooden furniture that contrasted nicely against the white floors and cream-colored walls, meant to subtly display the wealth of their department. The bookshelves behind the desk were organized and filled with various texts and a variety of plaster models of different bones, some of them cross-sectional, joint models to display replacement options, and the same set of example primitive prosthetics. The man seated behind the desk was small and wiry, his light green hair thin and disheveled, and he was staring at Sasori’s medical file through wireframed glasses with a pinched expression. His low level of chakra indicated a civilian status.
“Ah.”
Dr Kusari closed the file. “Akasuna no Sasori. No family name?”
Kagami pushed Sasori directly up to the desk, and then seated himself a little behind and off to the side, with every intention of being present. Sasori welcomed Kagami’s steadfast presence.
“Suna is descended from nomadic tribes, which have always identified by the tribe,” Sasori replied. “We rejected our tribal identities for the Village identity upon its founding, and so there are no last names.” It did make it a little confusing if you had similar first names, given that there were at least three other Suna shinobi of various ages named Sasori running around. Before he was Akasuna no Sasori, he had been Dokuso no Sasori in deference to his grandmother’s reputation, which was certainly far more flattering than Abura* no Sasori, who was a man whose hair and skin had an unfortunate propensity to overproduce oil.
“Do you prefer to be called Akasuna-san, or Sasori-san?”
“Sasori-san is acceptable.”
Dr Kusari glowered at Kagami. “And you are?”
Kagami stood and bowed – not deep enough to indicate that he was lower in the social hierarchy, but only in polite acknowledgement. “I am Uchiha Kagami.”
“You are not listed as next to kin. It says here,” Dr Kusari indicated his file, “that Sasori-san is a jounin” Sasori had made sure his designated rank had been properly updated when he filled out his demographics, “and under both international and Konoha law, he is a legal adult.”“That may be so, but I am here in official capacity as council representative to the orphaned, the clanless, and the young. Sasori has been assigned under my care, and so here I shall stay.”
Dr Kusari sneered. “Even for a Suna nin?”
“Especially for a Suna nin. They are our allies, and I must ensure that any held hatred for them as previous enemies do not negatively affect Sasori-kun’s cares.”
Sasori wondered if Kagami was wearing his council representative uniform.
“And what of you?” The doctor turned back to Sasori. “Do you want him here?”
Sasori had spent a lifetime in the last four weeks, struggling to accept help from strangers because it only highlighted his vulnerability and had rarely been given any opportunity to show that he was more than just his injuries. The hospital, with all its medicines and anesthesia, only placed him into a new level of vulnerability, especially in a foreign hospital, in a Village that had generations of enmity to overcome in light of a peace treaty that was just a few months older than Sasori’s ninja career. For all that Kagami’s true interests lay in the betterment of Konoha, he had also invested himself in Sasori’s safety and well-being, and frankly, Sasori trusted that better than this unknown doctor and his pathetic prostheses. “Of course. I also want to add Uchiha Kagami as my emergency contact with full access and discloser of my private medical information.”
With a downward, pinched pull of Dr Kusari’s mouth, he penned a note for such in Sasori’s medical record. “Do you wish to remove Inuzuka Tsume from your emergency contacts?”
Considering the likelihood of Tsume storming the hospital if she smelled Sasori in any sort of trouble, he declined.
“Very well. We’ll continue now with your consult. Your feet and lower legs were amputated in the field with the use of an axe, after suffering arsenic poisoning. Your X-rays indicate that the cuts were clean, single strikes, although it’s not known if such force would’ve caused stress fractures, given how often the Mystic Palm was applied to your bones.” Dr Kusari tsked in disapproval with the very notion. “All the labs and medical testing indicates you have suffered no long-term effects from the arsenic. Nowhere in your medical file does it explain why. Mystic palm is good, but not that good.”
Sasori traced Komushi’s right hand; he had carefully avoided any mention of Kushina’s famed Uzumaki kekkai genkai, in deference to her statement that she had been instructed to it only in the direst of circumstances, and so he had assumed it was something that wasn’t known, for her own safety. And while Sasori didn’t feel particularly charitable to the person who lopped off his feet unevenly, he did care for the fact that Uzumaki Kushina was Tsume’s friend and teammate. To endanger Kushina was to endanger Tsume by her proximity. “Is it necessary to know?”
“I feel it is.”
It was Kagami who answered. “That is not within your security clearance to know, Kusari-sensei.”
The doctor’s cheeks colored. “Even at the cost of other Konoha shinobi lives when they’re murdered from arsenic poisoning?”
Kagami’s voice was calm, but his body held that strange, quiet stillness that had reminded Sasori of Death, patiently seated beneath a larch tree. “Akasuna no Sasori is a puppet master and skilled apprentice to Suna’s Poison Queen. I very much doubt that it’s in Suna’s best interests to reveal their trade secrets.” Bold of Kagami to place the weight of Uzumaki Kushina’s secret squarely in Sasori’s lap, and done in such a way that allowed Sasori to maintain plausibility.
The doctor snapped Sasori’s medical file shut. “Then perhaps it’s not in Konoha’s best interests to provide medical treatment to the skilled apprentice of Suna’s Poison Queen.”
“Aah. What a shame.” Kagami stood, lank and loose. “I’m sure the medical director will be glad to know the importance of replacing the head of the orthopedic department after he has expressed concerns with giving Konoha’s foreign allies medical treatment that showcases our willingness to maintain our truce, especially during war when Konoha has so very few allies who are willing to answer our call for help.”
Dr Kusari went pale. “That’s not – I didn’t mean it that way.” He reopened Sasori’s medical file. After a moment, Kagami gracefully reseated himself. “What I meant.” Dr Kusari took a deep breath to recenter himself. “What I meant is that I don’t know what risks general anesthesia would mean for Sasori-kun’s condition without knowing if whatever reversed the arsenic damage would interfere.”
Yeah, Sasori would believe that as much as any apology from Chiyo’s lying mouth for harm she caused by writing deceitful letters for six years. If Sasori hadn’t confronted her when he did, he was sure he would still be receiving those damned things. “I can assure you that what cured the damages won’t interfere.”
After a moment, the doctor gracelessly accepted Sasori’s statement, and moved on. He began to outline the reconstructive surgery that Sasori would need for blood vessel repair, scar tissue removal, adipose transplant, and skin grafts to improve his stump condition for external prosthetics. On one hand, it was gratifying to Sasori’s poor patience to know that he only needed one surgery, instead of the four that Komushi had endured.
On the other hand… “No external prosthetics,” Sasori said as the doctor started outlining the types of external transtibial prosthetics that he would be fitted for. “I require bilateral transtibial endoskeleton prosthetics with osteointegration limb replacements.”
Dr Kusari looked torn between surprise at Sasori’s requirement, and outraged that Sasori would demand something that he clearly had no intention of offering.
“Forgive me.” Kagami learned forward, his still deadliness giving way to open curiosity. “For those of us without a medical background, Sasori, could you kindly explain the differences between external and endoskeleton prosthetics?”Sasori fetched a cross-section model of a tibia as well as a socket prosthetic foot with his chakra threads. Dr Kusari yelped and ducked further in his chair as the lightning blue threads snaked overhead. Sasori set them lightly on the desk. “This,” he showed the prosthetic sample to Kagami, indicating the socket with lip-curling disdain, “is an external prosthetic. My stump would slide and fit into the socket, like wearing a shoe.” He lifted and shook it vigorously. The socket clanked loosely. “As a jounin whose career is thrice as long as my entire life who has just spent the last month in the field, can you guess the immediate flaws with an external device?”
“It’s the first weakness the enemy will target. It would be very easy to remove and disable you.”
“And that is just an immediate problem in battle. The risk of skin breakdown and sores are also high, and sand, in the desert, has a terrible habit of getting everywhere. And that’s if I can recover my proprioception well enough to fight with these primitive devices.” Sasori set the appliance down and picked up the cross sectional tibia. He turned it so Kagami could see the bone marrow. “With an endoskeleton, a hollow metal rod is surgically implanted directly inside the bone. That rod can be securely connected to the prosthetic device, and is effective in recovering proprioception.” Kagami immediately looked from the cross sectional tibia to Komushi.
Sasori suddenly knew that Kagami was well-aware of the types of prosthetics that would’ve been offered to him. Kagami hadn’t just brought Komushi along because he knew how much Sasori cared for his friend. Sasori set the model on Dr Kusari’s desk, and shifted Komushi in his lap. “This,” he freed Komushi’s prosthetic arm with clicking twist, “is an example of a transhumerus endoskeleton prosthetic.” He indicated the steel rod that jutted out of Komushi’s stump, and then angled the prosthetic arm to show Kagami the socket. “The rod is inserted and secured in place. It provides greater improvement of balance and shock absorbency, just as like a bone, reduces nerve damage from redistributing my body’s weight from fleshy stumps, improves control and security of the prosthetic itself, and reduces the risk of pressure sores.”

Dr Kusari shoved his glasses up, his dark brown eyes wide in wonder. “I’ve never seen a Suna prosthetic as lifelike as that!”
With a mix of reluctance and pride, Sasori handed over Komushi’s prosthetic for further inspection. “I made this,” he said. “And I will also be making my own prosthetic legs.” Obtaining the materials from Konoha wouldn’t be difficult – commandeering a workshop and all the required tools would be the hard part. Sasori would probably have to send for all of his tools in Suna if he couldn’t procure such in Konoha.
Dr Kusari’s eyes gleamed as he inspected the elbow, wrist, and finger joints, stroking the silicone skin. “This is remarkable.” The gleam twisted from wonder to greed as he leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. “Well, since you’re obviously aware of the process of osteointegration and the required surgeries, I’ll skip that to discuss the cost.”
Sasori felt himself grow physically cold.
Haggling.
He despised haggling, which was practically the national sport of Wind.
“Medical treatments for Konoha shinobi are free, but you are allied, and,” the doctor glared briefly at Kagami, as if daring him to contradict his statement, “and thus treatment isn’t provided free of cost. Surgery and rehabilitation will be quite expensive.” He opened one of his drawers to remove a cost-analysis, and looked positively gleeful at Kagami’s silence as he smacked the page down in front of Sasori. “This is the average cost of the surgeries and rehabilitation you would be charged for being prepped and fitted to external prostheses. As you can imagine, being fitted for endoskeleton prostheses would be more expensive, even if you provided the prosthetics yourself.”
Sasori kept his face still as he studied the number. It was slightly more than the entirety of Suna’s monthly war budget. Sasori had never earned this much money in his six years as a shinobi, and knew that there was no way the Kazekage would be willing to pony up the cost. He would simply require Sasori to return to Suna for medical treatments, and Sasori knew that to return to Suna in his current condition would spell a death sentence.
After all, the Kazekage had never intended Sasori to return from the oasis, alive.
Dr Kusari shifted impatiently in his seat, clearly not pleased with Sasori’s lack of reaction to the price.
Sasori slid the paper back. “But?” Because he recognized the gleam of greed in the man’s eyes.
Eagerly, Dr Kusari leaned forward. “Now, clearly, as a Suna puppeteer, I’m sure that your prosthetics are proprietary, and protected by international trade law. But, if this is your creation,” he tapped Komushi’s prosthetic, “then you are well in your rights to, say, work out an agreement of exchanging information on your prosthetic engineering in exchange for free medical treatments and rehabilitation.”
Sasori glanced at Kagami, whose expression Sasori was familiar with – the unemotional expectation of a man who saw exactly what he had expected to see. Kagami had taken everything he knew about Suna’s financial situation, Sasori’s pride and vulnerability, and Komushi, and brought it all together in a single successful swoop. The only thing he didn’t know about was Sasori’s awareness that his Kazekage wanted Sasori dead, and frankly, Sasori wouldn’t be surprised if Kagami suspected that the oasis had been sabotaged indirectly by the Kazekage. He turned back to Dr Kusari. “That seems like a fair exchange. I expect that between skin graft recovery and the osteointegration, it will be as minimum of six weeks to recover before being fitted with prosthetics, which is all the time I need to create them, provided I have the materials and tools. I will gladly put on workshops to showcase the engineering and creation of such that your prosthetics department can attend, make notes, and expand from there, in that recovery time.”
“And I suppose you expect me to provide the materials and tools to you.” Another gleam of greed appeared in Dr Kusari’s eyes.
“It would hardly be useful to show your department how to create something with tools and materials difficult to procure for your workers.”
“I see. I see. Yes, I think we can work out a negotiation that suits all of us.”
And with a predatory gleam of his own, Kagami immediately took over the negotiations with all the glee of someone who uses their Sharingan to memorize patent law and contractual agreements as a side hobby. Sasori felt comfortably secure in ceding control to Kagami.
Dr Kusari looked a lot less greedy and a little more sour by the end of Sasori’s appointment, after Kagami had successfully secured a written and signed contract (the blanks of which he had withdrawn from his pocket, because of course Kagami planned for this very matter) that gave Sasori 10% of the gross profits for sales of new and improved prosthetics using his proprietary engineering for the next ten years, as well as Suna receiving another gross 10% of the profits for the next twenty years. With copies of the contract secured in Kagami’s pocket – one for Sasori’s personal keeping, another to be filed with the Hokage, the third to be sent to the Kazekage – Sasori’s mood was certainly better as Kagami pushed Sasori’s wheelchair back to his room.
With a glance at his roommate, whose color had improved, Kagami parked the wheelchair next to Sasori’s bed. “Your work?” he asked, nodding towards the roommate.
Sasori snagged the roommate’s medical chart to review the latest updates. “It would appear that they are finally treating him for the oxalate toxicity they didn’t know he was so clearly suffering.”
“You know,” Kagami leaned against the wheelchair handles and grinned, just as Nara Shikake stepped into the room, “you really should sign up for the medic-nin program in Konoha Medical. It’ll give you more to do than just teaching others how to make decent prosthetics during your rehabilitation.”
Nara seated himself on the hospital bed this time, instead of the bedside commode. He managed to look like a large, lank cat that wanted to sprawl all over the bed. “I can’t tell if that’s one of your more brilliant ideas, or scariest yet, Uchiha.”
“Sasori-kun,” Kagami replied, his voice light and expression cheerful, “already has extensive knowledge on the workings of human anatomy, physiology, and biology. With the same chakra control for his chakra threads, he could easily reach Tsunade-hime’s level in a short period of time.”
Nara nodded. “That settles it. Scariest idea yet.” Then he glared at Kagami. “By the way, why did I have to hear from our Suna nin about Tsume exceeding her limits and the repercussions of such, instead of you mentioning it yesterday during your exam?”
“Ah.” Kagami looked sheepish. “Has Tsume explained why she exceeded her limits?”
“Only that it’s the only way she can successfully track in an area saturated with nature chakra. The subconjunctival hemorrhages are ghastly and concerning. She’s currently getting brain scans, with sedation, because she protested too much to hold still for such.”
“She didn’t explain the source of the nature chakra?” As Nara shook his head, Kagami clucked his tongue. “You are correct – I was remiss from mentioning such. To be perfectly frank, I had forgotten all about her mentioning it.” Doubtful, Sasori suspected, when Kagami’s Sharingan had been active during Tsume’s entire explanation on Nessie. And even if Kagami somehow had managed to forget, five days of staring into Tsume’s solid blood-red sclera was hardly forgetful. Perhaps Kagami had been giving Tsume the opportunity to mention something. “Well, in my defense,” Kagami patted Nara’s shoulder in a great show of empathy, “it’s hard to consider all of that when you’re facing the fifty-meter dragon that your daughter thought was lonely and decided to bring home.”
Nara froze. “What.”
“Good luck!” Kagami added with a cheerful wave, and then immediately disappeared with a well-timed shunshin before Nara’s stretching shadow could pin him down to demand further explanation. It was nice of him to leave Komushi behind.
When Nara turned his attention to Sasori, he simply shrugged. “Sorry,” he said, feeling absolutely not sorry in the least, “you’re not cleared for me to provide mission details any more than I’m cleared for Tsume’s patient privacy.”
Nara immediately yanked Sasori’s privacy curtains in place with his stretching shadows, which moved like inkblots up the wall to the curtain railing. “You,” he said pointedly, “are clearly not beholden to patient privacy, since you aren’t a medical nin who provided any treatment to Tsume. Tell me, why you think she had DIC?”
“She was smeared with dried blood that came from every orifice,” Sasori replied. “Eyes, ears, mouth, nose.” After a pause, he added, “Well, facial orifice. I didn’t inspect or inquire after other orifices.” He had vowed to stay far away from Tsume’s cervix ever since he had to use his chakra threads to shove up an umbilical cord.
“Did she complain about, or did you witness any dizziness, headaches, loss of conscious, numbness or weakness?” Sasori shook his head to every word. “Anything that made you suspect any loss or change to her vision?” More headshakes. “Loss of consciousness or control of bowel and bladder?”
“No. Nor was there any change to her balance, or presence of seizures, either focal, absent, generalized, or any other types.”
Nara closed his eyes and sighed. “Then she probably did successfully heal or prevent any further permanent damage from happening.” And then he added, with his eyes still closed, “Please tell me that Uchiha-san was kidding when he said that Tsume decided to bring home an actual dragon.”
Sasori considered how much trouble he’d be in if the Hokage decided that Sasori wasn’t supposed to reveal any information on Nessie. Then he decided that if he was going to get into trouble, he’d claim plausible deniability with Kagami making the initial reveal. Besides, it was high time someone else got to share in Sasori’s misery from Tsume’s shenanigans. Misery, after all, loved company. “Tsume has great plans to help the dragon repopulate its species.”

He had to admit that the Nara intelligence certainly lent itself to creative swearing.oOoOoOo
That afternoon, a dermatologist reviewed Sasori’s stumps and discussed the best course of skin grafts and a timeline for his surgery, after which Sasori endured a quick, in-room procedure with local anesthetic for the subdermal insertion of bladders, placed just above his quadriceps muscles. Daily, for the next week, the bladders would be filled with saline, and the Mystic Palm would be used to hasten new skin growth for the required tissue expansion for a successful skin graft. The excess skin would be meshed to his stump sites during the same surgery as his severed blood vessels were rerouted, and reduce potential scars that would rub against the prosthetic socket walls.
Sasori didn’t need to be hospitalized prior to the surgery, as his labs and tests indicated he was stable. He could receive outpatient wound care at the same time as the bladders were filled with saline solution and his hospital bed could be better utilized for incoming wounded shinobi. Thus, he was summarily and promptly discharged.
(The discharging hospitalist felt he was rather generous to allow Sasori to keep the hospital’s wheelchair for mobility, given Sasori’s lack of legs. Sasori thought that the man was a vindictive asshole, having kicked him out to the street before dinner was due to be served. The stolen oatmeal was no longer tidying him over, and the hospitalist never got around to rescinding Sasori’s NPO order.)
Sasori found himself still wearing his hospital gown with Komushi lashed securely to the back of his wheelchair, and a bag of the clothes he had been wearing upon his arrival in his lap (too stiff and dirty to wear), which rested just above the subdermal bladder sites, on the front of the hospital’s entrance. Sasori tried to decide which was better: imposing himself on the hospitality of Inuzuka Tsume or Uchiha Kagami, or camping out under some bridge somewhere. Sasori dared not use housing for foreign nin, lest the Kazekage utilize visiting Suna nin to finish the job that Kiri nin failed to do via a sabotaged oasis.
Also, he had no money to stay in an inn anywhere.
After realizing that he didn’t want the public spectacle of Tsume loudly hunting Sasori down and dragging him out from beneath a bridge, and that he didn’t want to prolong any more unnecessary separation from his parents’ puppets, Sasori decided that Tsume was hardly going to complain about Sasori’s imposition. He flagged a passing uniformed Uchiha policeman (delicate in features and the shared physical appearance to Kagami, indicating a strong leaning to interclan breeding – someone should talk to them about genetic diversity) for directions to Inuzuka Tsume’s home.
“That would be at her clan compound,” the Inuzuka policeman replied, twitching when he saw the uchiwa blanket tucked around Sasori’s lap, and pointed towards the direction of the Inuzuka clan compound. “Can’t miss it. It smells and sounds like a pack of wild wolves. Are you fit to escape the hospital?” the policeman added suspiciously, as if he was used to shinobi frequently escaping the hospital while still wearing their gowns and was thus prepared to use necessary force to escort them back.
Sasori fished the discharge orders out of his bag. “They decided I was in well enough condition to give my bed to someone else.”
The policeman inspected Sasori’s discharge papers like he was suspected they were cleverly forged. “Do you have a place to stay?” he asked, eyeing Komushi knowingly.
“Inuzuka Tsume has agreed to host me.”
Another twitch. “She would, wouldn’t she.” He shrugged. “Well, her funeral, not mine.”
Sasori took back his discharge orders and tucked them back into the bag with his dirty clothes. As he directed his wheelchair with chakra strings, he said, “Not like I can sneak any poisons back her nose anyway.” The Uchiha policeman’s only response was to laugh in agreement.
It was a warm spring day even as the sun was setting. The hard packed soil of the street and the wooden buildings released the warmth they had gathered during the day. The streets were busy with vendors and shoppers alike, some rushing to complete their desired purchases in order to rush home, and others chose to linger and browse. There were street vendors and storefronts, and far more people present than Sasori was used to. Electric street lamps and paper lantern alike were beginning to light as he casually rolled his way through the streets towards Tsume’s compound, which was apparently not far from the main gates when he compared landmarks to Suna’s internal maps of Konoha. Which, he supposed, if you wanted to add a layer of security to the main entrance, what better way to do it than to stick a clan of people perfectly capable of smelling people’s intentions as they were entering the Hidden Village?

Between his hospital gown, the wheelchair, Komushi, and the uchiwa blanket, Sasori collected more than a passing curiosity from other passersby, but most of the civilians (he assumed they were civilians, given their stance, their low levels of chakra, their overall situational awareness, and their clothing) were polite about putting their curiosity aside. Or at least familiar enough to know, by way of living in a Hidden Village, that shinobi would kill to prevent curiosity from uncovering vulnerabilities and secrets. Passing shinobi, on the other hand, were not only less polite in their staring, but also more likely to indicate wariness or anger, especially once they realized that Komushi was a puppet.
After one such shinobi spat at Sasori’s wheelchair and muttered “Serves you right, ya footless bastard,” Sasori decided that there was a passing chance that he could wind up quietly assassinated and his corpse tossed into a dumpster if someone felt bold enough for a long-time grudge. (That was what Sasori would do if he saw Hatake Sakumo, in a wheelchair, trundling through Suna.)
He spun out a web of spider silk-fine chakra threads, invisible in the lowering light, in a halo ten meters around him. It would be enough to alert him to any projectile attacks or to sense the chakra of someone flaring with directed ill-intent.
It was an uncomfortable bombardment of sensory overload with the number of increasing passersby, and after ten minutes of enduring it, Sasori had to mentally curse whoever had decided to park the Inuzuka compound so far from the hospital. With a sour mood made worse with his gnawing hunger, he decided to decrease the radius of his halo, and parked his wheelchair off to the side of the sidewalk, mid-way between an alley it stood next to, and the entrance to an apartment building. There were fewer passersby on his side than across the street, where a restaurant and a bar were located. Another Uchiha policeman stopped and asked Sasori if he needed help, or if he was yet another escapee from the hospital.
Sasori squinted irritably. At least this policeman, with his dark gray hair and dark blue eyes, looked like his parents weren’t siblings. “This is the second time I’ve been asked if I was escaping the hospital. I came to Konoha to get better healthcare than what I would’ve received in Suna. Should I be concerned with the quality of care provided to shinobi if escaping your hospital is a common occurrence?”
The policeman shuffled his feet, looking sheepish. “Ah, no. It’s just that shinobi aren’t comfortable being vulnerable and weaponless, which is generally what happens when they’re hospitalized with injuries. I thought that was a universal thing for shinobi, including Suna.”
Sasori tapped his fingers against his wheelchair’s armrest. “Believe me,” he said darkly, “anyone desperate enough to willingly seek medical treatment for their injuries from Suna’s hospital is too desperate to try escaping.”
“Aah. That’s, uh, not an inspiring thing to say about your hospital.”
And with that perspective, Sasori decided that when he returned to Konoha’s General tomorrow for daily outpatient tissue expansion, he would indeed look into the mednin program. At the very least, he never wanted to be in a state where he had to rely on others to treat his injuries and wounds. Not after what he had endured the last four weeks.
Assured that Sasori was roaming the streets with the blessings of his doctor, the policeman hurried over to the bar to break up a brawl that spilled into the street.
Knowing that Tsume would certainly feed him (and that the food would probably taste far better than the average hospital serving, so long as it wasn’t cattail roots), Sasori spun his halo of chakra threads and prepared to resume his trip –
Something flared cold and electric within his halo. From the alley. Sasori immediately pulled his chakra threads back, and then realized that while it was similar, it wasn’t actually Kakashi’s chakra that he had sensed. His hands clamped tight to the rims of his wheels, Sasori felt himself torn between fleeing from the area, and investigating further.
There was a clattering noise and three sneezes from the alley.
Should he stay, or should he run?
(His parents hadn’t run. They had stayed. They had died for it. But they hadn’t run.) Sasori turned his wheelchair and headed to the sounds, to the chakra that he now felt even without the use of his chakra threads. It was spinning, irregularly pulsing like a lightning storm before dimming down like a distant thundering echo.
In the darkening of twilight with no streets or lit lanterns in the alley, the shadows were deep, but the objects were visible enough for Sasori to recognize what he stared at. There was discarded furniture – a stained couch with ripped cushions; two broken kitchen chairs; a cracked porcelain sink – several half-torn cardboard boxes; and a large dumpster with one lid lying open. Sasori scanned the alley, but saw no movement. He wrinkled his nose at the odor emanating from the dumpster, then he looked upward, scanning the high walls, to see if his target was above the ground.
There was rustling in the dumpster.
And then another sneeze, also from the dumpster.
That was…
Well, it was certainly not a bad hiding place, perfect for preparing an ambush if you didn’t let yourself sneeze.
With another sneeze, the upper body popped upright, into view.
Just like staring at Tsume’s gouka inugami, the more Sasori looked, the more difficult it was for his brain to comprehend what he was seeing. The man was gaunt, almost skeletal with malnourishment, his face so thin it looked like a cadaver skull covered with a thick layer of wax. Eyes were sunk low, cheeks and brow ridge painfully prominent. His unshaven face was patchy, like a dog with mange. What part of his skin that wasn’t covered in grimy filth was so pale it was nearly translucent. He wore mismatched clothing in such poor disrepair that Sasori half expected the rags to unravel with another sneeze.
And when the man smiled at Sasori, Sasori counted at least three teeth that were broken and rotted.
That… that had to be some other Hatake with the legendary white chakra. That could not be Hatake Sakumo.
But there was no denying the grace in which the man leapt out of the garbage dumpster and his silent landing in front of Sasori’s wheelchair, close enough for the man’s rotten breath to destroy whatever appetite Sasori had worked up.
Beneath the grime, the man’s hair was a tell-tale silver, and his eyes – they were the dark, rich mahogany that Sasori had stared at when he threw kunai at the Bingo Book picture of his parents’ slayer. Sasori had seen madness in another’s eyes before – madness of someone who had lost their mind in the battle to grief, panic, or bloodlust. He saw none of that in the muddled gaze in front of him.
There was something in the man’s gaze, but Sasori couldn’t parse it out, not when he also tried to make sense of his own self at the same time.
When he had imagined all the ways he would confront Hatake Sakumo, Sasori had imagined the depths of hatred and rage he would feel.
He… he hadn’t expected to see such a pitiful, pathetic scarecrow-lookalike, and he had no idea if it was even appropriate to feel some sort of satisfaction. Satisfaction was supposed to feel nice. Not… not this odd sense of defeat.
Sakumo smiled again, his eyes brightening. He dropped a half-rotten cabbage roll in Sasori’s lap and then patted his knee, like a cat proudly presenting a dead mouse to its owners. The hand that patted Sasori’s knee was mangled, bones long-ago fractured and poorly healed with overlapping knots of raised, thick scars from multiple lacerations, as if someone had stabbed the hand through-and-through, multiple times. His right index finger had been severed from the palm some time ago.
(Ebizo had told Sasori, the night after Chiyo’s reluctant admission, that Hatake Sakumo had sent – of all things – an apology letter for killing her son and daughter-in-law. Ebizo also shared that when Suna recovered the bodies of the Fifth Division Puppeteer Brigade, someone had respectfully placed their bodies, side by side, in the shade of a sand dune, covered for protection from the harsh sun. At the time, Sasori thought that both the body placements and the letter had been nothing more than a psychological insult meant to apply acid to existing soul-deep wounds. Now… now he wasn’t sure if that original assumption was even remotely accurate.)

Sasori used a chakra thread to remove the half-rotten cabbage roll from his lap and deposited it in the dumpster. “No, thank you,” he said politely, since that seemed to be the safest response.
Sakumo’s smile disappeared, and he tilted his head, side to side, lips shaping unspoken words as he studied Sasori’s face, as if he saw something familiar and was trying to place it. Then, his face once again brightening with a cheerful realization, Sakumo immediately rifled through his rags, before he finally found and dropped something else in Sasori’s lap.
It was a filthy, naked doll with frizzy red hair from which some destructive child had ripped the legs off, the white stuffing poking through the torn fabric.
“How generous of you,” Sasori said, his voice flat and his phantom left big toe itching furiously.
Sakumo preened, clearly delighted with Sasori’s acceptance, with all the blatant obliviousness of Inuzuka Tsume ignoring social cues. Then Sakumo froze, and the delight melted away into a wrenching grief as Sasori felt the sudden intrusion of another cold, electric chakra. With barely a whisper of his own chakra, Sakumo shunshinned away with a speed Sasori rarely witnessed. When Sasori turned his wheelchair to face Kakashi, he was met with a combination of bitterness and embarrassment that screamed in Kakashi’s eyes, hunched shoulders, and fisted hands shoved deep in his pockets.

(“Sometimes, I wonder if it would’ve been better if my father had died, instead.”)

Sasori glanced at the broken doll in his lap, and decided to let it stay. He looked back at Kakashi, who seemed like he was milliseconds away from fleeing. “I don’t suppose you can help me get to the Inuzuka compound?”
“Why?” Kakashi snarled, angling slightly away from Sasori, his weight shifting minutely to his back foot. “Did you escape the hospital?”
“For the third time, no, I didn’t escape. I was discharged without any direction on where I was supposed to go, so I decided that since I’m starving, I’m heading to your aunt’s place and demanding dinner. You said she’d feed me.”
Kakashi remained tense, shifting his weight from front foot, to back, and then front again, as if he also wanted to escape in the same manner that his father had. Finally, he removed his hands from his pocket, forcefully opening his fists and flexing his fingers. “She’s already got a bed prepared for you.” After a moment, his voice softer, “Would you like me to push you over there?”
Sasori accepted immediately, figuring that having a solid body behind his back who wasn’t Komushi was a welcome extra layer of protection against potential projectile attacks. He was also fairly certain that Kakashi would defend Sasori against any frontal or pincher attacks.oOoOoOo
The Inuzuka compound was loud and busy despite nightfall. There was a ridiculous number of small children running around, shrieking at each other, and even more dogs of various ages from clumsy puppy to sleek adult also busily stampeding like a herd of camels, all visible beneath the multiple lit paper lanterns.
Kakashi said nothing as he pushed Sasori across the barren yard – the grass must’ve decided that it was pointless to try existing under so many feet and paws, although it hadn’t stopped some stubborn dandelions in thriving against all odds. The houses were different in structure and architecture from the rest of Konoha, lopsided and a bit ramshackle. Loud around the edges, parked in Konoha, and determined to belong no matter what anyone else thought.
Somehow, the Inuzuka compound matched Sasori’s impression of the Inuzuka clan.
The majority of the present Inuzuka clan – mostly female, with only a few small toddling boys – ignored Kakashi and Sasori, although a few adults acknowledged them silently with watching, wary eyes. Sasori watched back, but Kakashi said nothing. There was a raised porch and steps in front of the largest of the houses that Sasori assumed was the home to the Clan Head. Sasori used his chakra threads to lift his wheelchair over the steps, but graciously allowed Kakashi to steer and push him through the open front door.
“Sasori!” Tsume instantly pounced Sasori and attempted to smother him with her breasts in a facsimile of a hug. The subconjunctival hemorrhages had improved in appearance, undoubtedly thanks to some intervention from Nara, with only a few blotches of red in her sclera. “You made it! I already served dinner, but I saved you leftovers. Hope you like shepherd’s pie. I was craving lamb after Kagami and Minato exploded that sheep all over you guys.”
Sasori willingly allowed himself to be drawn into her mindless chatter as she herded him into her butter-yellow kitchen, explaining that this was a dish from Earth that she had liked since the first time she tried it. Like his home in Suna, she had a kitchen table instead of a more traditional zataku, with high chairs. She moved one of the chairs to make room for his wheelchair, shooing away a cluster of knee-high puppies that whined and begged as they followed her to the kitchen counter where a covered casserole dish sat. The tabletop was the same height as Sasori’s armpits. Kakashi was small enough that even seated in a higher chair that the tabletop was also at the same height of his armpits. Kakashi declined the stack of books that Tsume offered to let him sit on.
Unfamiliar with shepherd’s pie, Sasori poked the browned mashed potatoes decorated with dollops of red bean paste (“Okay, that part isn’t traditional, but who doesn’t like red bean paste?”) with his chopsticks. It smelled of garlic, thyme, and onions, and was certainly an improvement over the half-rotten cabbage roll that Sakumo had offered him. Still babbling about the shepherd’s pie, Tsume dished up another serving to Kakashi, and then served both of them chilled glasses of milk.
Kakashi stared mulishly at his milk.
“You need the calcium for your bones,” Tsume told him as she breezed past into another room, which was separated by a baby gate that she climbed over instead of opening.
Sasori flinched when one of the begging puppies pawed at his stump.
“Bad dog,” Kakashi told the puppy sternly, pointing a finger at the floor. “Sit down, be quiet. All of you.” The puppies obeyed, whining too much to be considered quiet.
“Knock it off, pups,” said Kuromaru from the room that Tsume had entered. He stood tall enough to lean over the baby gate and glare at the puppies. “Obey your kindred.” Then, apologetically to Sasori, he added, “Forgive the young. They’re still learning.”
The red bean paste, in Sasori’s opinion, wasn’t a bad addition. Its sweet, nutty flavor contrasted nicely with the savory meat, mixed carrots and peas, and ground lamb. With a bit of heat from some spicy peppers, the lamb would have the flavors of home. (Sasori almost choked on his mouthful of food as his vision blurred wet for a moment –he must’ve swallowed it wrong. He washed it down with a mouthful of rich cow’s milk, which wasn’t a beverage commonly served in Wind, given how little cold storage they had, much less foraging grounds for herds of cattle.)
In the quiet of their meal, Kakashi wasn’t much of a conversationalist. Sasori squinted at him – Kakashi pushed his food around whenever Sasori looked at him, but the amount of food on Kakashi’s plate was slowly decreasing whenever Sasori looked away.
“You don’t let anyone see under your mask, do you?” Sasori asked, feeling peeved as he stabbed his chopsticks at the food.
Kakashi shrugged and drank his milk through his mask. When he lowered the glass, there was a wet patch where his mouth was, but no white milk fat.
“Has anyone ever seen under the mask?” Sasori briefly imagined Kakashi being born wearing it, naked except for the facial mask.
“Aunt Tsume has.”
“I’m pretty sure she changed your diaper, too.”
Kakashi’s eyes curved into a smile. “Admittedly, more people have seen my naked butt than my face.”
“I’m not sure that’s something to be bragged about.”
Sasori could hear Tsume’s soft mutters, rhythmic and gentle, but couldn’t make out actual words. “What is she doing?”
“Reading bedtime stories to Yamato,” Kakashi replied, in between a politely covered burp. “Actual bedtime stories. She decided a few years ago that reading the Bingo Book for bedtime stories wasn’t such a hot idea after she learned of Pakkun and my plans to take on the Kiri Swordsmen after I turned six years old.”
Sasori sighed and scraped his plate clean, because Kakashi was still half-Inuzuka, and clearly had little self-awareness of his own limitations like his aunts, Tsume and Natsumi. (Then again, Sasori mused, draining his milk, if you can henge at a week old, did you really have any limitations?)
He assisted Kakashi in cleaning up the few dirty dishes they made, drying and stacking them after Kakashi, standing on a two-step footstool to reach the kitchen sink, washed them. By this time, Tsume had finished her bedtime readings and had ascended the stairs with her adopted son to tuck him into bed.
“Stay here,” Kakashi told Sasori as he parked him in front of a fireplace that had no fire. “Aunt Tsume is really excited to show you the guest space.” Then he also ascended the stairs, hands jammed deep in his pockets.
In the soft lantern light and from his lap, Sasori lifted the broken doll that Kakashi’s father had given him and studied it. Was it some sort of acknowledgement for who Sasori was, to give a puppet master a doll? Was there hidden symbolism in giving a Suna nin missing his feet a doll that was missing its legs? Was Sakumo just that detached from reality, or was it a twisted attempt to engage in sly communication?
Sasori’s confusion was momentarily diverted with Tsume skipping down the steps, humming cheerfully under her breath. And then she stopped short when she saw the filthy, torn doll in Sasori’s hand. Multiple emotions spasmed across her face – grief, confusion, resignment. Her footsteps dragged as she approached closer, and then she squatted down next to Sasori, her eyes drawn to the doll.
“What happened?” Sasori asked, his voice a distant whisper.
What had happened to that famed, skilled genius who had almost singlehandedly fought two full Suna Puppeteer Brigades and had walked away with nary a scratch or effect from their toxins, whose hand had been so horribly damaged? What happened to the man who had ruthlessly slaughtered multiple men and women, and then respectfully lined them up in the shadows of a sand dune, covered to protect the bodies from the desert sun? What sort of madness led a man to scrounge through a garbage dumpster, living in such an embarrassing condition that his own son felt he was better off dead?
Tsume fingered the doll’s frizzy red hair. “That’s…” She swiped her eyes and nose, on the verge of bawling. “I’m s-sorry, Sasori. I’ll have t-to share that story another time, wh-when my hormones aren’t so out-of-control.”
Sasori suspected that Tsume didn’t need the excuse of her postpartum hormones to bawl when considering the sorry state of her sensei and (unofficial?) brother-in-law.
Sasori thought of telling Tsume about how much he hated Sakumo Hatake, how much he resented the loss of his parents, and how he had planned for over a year to enact a satisfying vengeance to completely annihilate the man. Only now… only now, all he felt when he thought of Sakumo was a resigned pity. And Sasori couldn’t share this emotional turmoil as his brain ran in circles to comprehend everything, because it would only break Tsume’s heart even more.
Because of course Sakumo would destroy himself, his reputation, and his relationships with other people even more thoroughly than any plot that Sasori could ever successfully orchestrate.
The gods were, he thought bitterly as he dropped the doll in his lap, truly capricious, sadistic bastards.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Tsume’s mood improved as she eagerly pushed Sasori into the guest bedroom, babbling about how it wasn’t actually a guest bedroom, but she didn’t think Sasori would like to travel up and down the stairs, and how she and Kakashi had transformed a small first-floor storage room into a guestroom for Sasori – once she smelled he was coming over in a wheelchair, she and Kakashi had scrounged up even more pallets so he could slide on and off the bed. The room was, she was delighted to point out, right next to the bathroom, although she still needed to get a plastic lawn chair so he could sit in the shower stall to clean himself.
It distantly occurred to Sasori, as she pushed the door open, that he and Tsume hadn’t actually discussed him staying with her, but that they just normally gravitated towards each other. It reminded Sasori of Komushi, and how they had silently worked together, anticipating the other’s expectations.
He missed that.
He liked this.
The room was too dark to see when Tsume pushed him through, but the light switch that she smacked on revealed cramped quarters dominated by a raised bed made from a stack of pallets and a futon mattress with quilted bedding, and on the center of the bed…
All other thoughts faded away as he stared at the Ichi-sized scorpion, its wooden body painted a dusty gray with six pale yellow legs. The curling tail overhead was the same dusty gray as the body, but the ceramic fangs, pedipalp pinchers, and stinger were the same shade of red as his hair, and sharper than any kunai. Beside Desunaito was Kuroari, and on the other side of his puppet, was his mother’s black widow – only have the size of Desunaito, but three times deadlier, with glass mandibles with imbedded needles that injected her deadly poisons. Each of the articulated legs held hidden switch blades, and the midnight black thorax hid multiple chambers to store gas and acid.
They were intact, bearing the scratches from bladed weapons and scorch marks from explosive tags, just as he remembered them, clean of any dust or cobwebs they may have gathered if left ignored somewhere.
“You kept your promise,” Sasori softly told Tsume as she rifled through an open trunk. She withdrew a set of clean clothes – clothes that she had stolen for him while they were in Waterfall. “You really meant it.”
“Why wouldn’t I?” Tsume looked genuinely confused with the concept that she might’ve lied just to force cooperation when they first met. She set her armful of freshly laundered clothes on the bed.
Sasori ignored her offer as he raised a shaking hand to trace the cool pedipalp pinchers of his father’s puppet. He sniffed as his sinuses clogged, but it was enough to catch the lemon-scented wood soup that Tsume had used to clean the puppets.
Tsume enveloped him in her arms. Tears dripped off Sasori’s chin onto her shoulder as she pressed his head against the crook of her neck. “I never thought… I thought that they’d been destroyed. That I had nothing left of my mother or father.” Until this moment, he hadn’t realized how little he had trusted Tsume to keep her promise. That he had simply taken her promise as yet another deception to manipulate him into good behavior, and hadn’t actually expected her to just give the puppets to him, and then later – well, she could promise to try, and would keep trying, but he hadn’t expected her to succeed. But how could he have known otherwise? Everyone else had given and broken promises so freely…
“Shshshsh. It’s all right, Sasori. You can stay here with them and me while you’re getting better, and when it’s time for you to go home, they’ll go with you.” Tsume pulled away from Sasori and gave him that smile that lit her face like the dawning sun. “It’s high time they returned home anyway.”oOoOoOo
Sasori heard Tsume bumbling around in the kitchen as she was making breakfast, singing off-tune with the radio, when he awoke the next morning. He kept his eyes closed and stretched his senses out, trying to determine what had awakened him. He was encased in a nest of soft blankets and very large, hard puppets. His parents’ puppets weren’t as yielding in their wooden frames as Komushi was, which was why his head was pillowed in Komushi’s lap. His father’s Desunaito was pressed against his back with the segmented tail draped over him, and his mother’s Kuro Goke standing guard over his stumps, closer to the foot of his pallet-bed. Sasori had stationed Kuroari near the window, where he could immediately latch his chakra threads to for defense if someone tried to sneak into his room from the outside.
Slowly, he spun a gossamer halo of chakra threads around himself, and finally – there.
What had disturbed Sasori from his slumber was a small child who had been tentatively touching Kuro Goke.
Sasori could feel a person’s chakra nature whenever he touched them with his threads, whether to sense them out or to control. What he felt this time was…
It was like feeling a puppet, if that puppet had once been human, like Komushi. Sasori was fairly sure that a chakra nature of wood wasn’t normal.
“Good morning,” he said softly. He felt the startlement through the chakra thread, and a sharp gasp. Still keeping the chakra thread attached, Sasori pushed himself to a seated position and opened his eyes. The room was dim, since the rising sunlight didn’t directly reach the small window on the west wall, but it was enough for him to inspect the intruder.
It was a small boy, just a few years older than Shisui, with dark brown hair and dark eyes framed with the longest eyelashes Sasori had ever seen on anyone. The boy hunched down from Sasori’s attention, one hand resting forgotten on the tarsus of Kuro Goke’s second leg. The boy tried to retreat backwards, but Sasori overrode that with his chakra thread, instantly taking control. The boy trembled.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” Sasori said softly.
It was the wrong thing to say.
The boy screamed and Kuro Goke sprouted with spiked branches that shot in every direction. Sasori broke the chakra thread and threw himself off the bed, taking Desunaito along as a shield, as the branches chased after him. One arm clung to Desunaito and the other desperately clawed himself forward, trying to outpace the branches.
“YAMATO! STOP!” In a dizzy flash, Sasori found himself on the kitchen floor on front of the oven stove with the radio blasting next to his ear, having been abruptly displaced with Tsume’s kawarimi. Blood pounding in his ears, Sasori stared past Desunaito’s tail at Kuromaru, who was half-seated on the floor, his head equal to the height of the tall kitchen table.
“You all right there, kiddo?” Kuromaru asked him. Sasori’s stumps and quads stung, but that was more from the impact of throwing himself off the bed onto the floor than any new injury. Kuromaru was an experienced ninken and looked relaxed and unalarmed.
“What just happened?”
With a tsk, the ninken gave Sasori a very human-like shake of his giant head. “Poor kid; doesn’t take much to trigger him into feeling cornered.”

The song from the radio was annoying and didn’t constitute as actual music, in Sasori’s opinion. He flicked the knob off with a chakra thread. “Is it a kekkai genkai?” That would explain why the boy’s chakra felt wooden. The Kazekage’s chakra always felt like electrified iron shavings, as did the iron sand that somehow wound up spilling everywhere the Kazekage went, shedding them like Tsume’s unreasonably hairy ninken shed their fur. Sasori had also felt lightning chakra before, and it was different from the Hatake white chakra – similar, but different enough to be more than just lightning chakra. Sasori didn’t know if his grandmother could also sense someone’s kekkai genkai through her chakra threads, because he never asked.
“Sure, let’s go with that.”
Sasori didn’t have a chance to carefully probe for more information when Tsume entered the kitchen, her arms dripping blood from multiple lacerations, along with a long, thin branch impaled through her upper left arm. She carried the small boy in her arms, who looked more dazed than startled or frightened.
“Genjutsu again?” Kuromaru asked Tsume knowingly.
“Hey, if it works great for calming unruly puppies, it’ll do for a frightened kid.” Tsume seemed entirely unconcerned as she settled the child on the floor in a corner of the kitchen, opposite from Sasori. “You’re fine, Yamato.” She was soft and tender as she ruffled his unruly hair. “Sasori was just saying good morning; he’s not going to hurt you. Sasori is my guest, remember? He’s staying here until he gets better, and he doesn’t mind if you touch his puppets.”
Sasori minded. He minded very much, especially if the branches had damaged his mother’s battle puppet in any way. He just got it back!
“Oh, stop glaring,” Tsume told Sasori as she shoved him aside with her foot so she could stir the eggs before they burned. “Yamato has been charmed with your puppets since he’s first seen them.”
Don’t glare at the child, Sasori told himself, feeling put out as the blood dripped off of Tsume’s elbow on his head. Don’t trigger him.
He settled on glaring at Tsume instead. “Are the branches permanent?”
With the eggs no longer in danger of being scorched, Tsume removed the branch from her upper arm. Blood dripped from her onto Sasori’s legs, and he hoped she didn’t bleed into breakfast, no matter how much more iron Sasori needed after all the blood samples that the hospital had required of him yesterday. “Eh, well, I wouldn’t know. We usually just cut them away when this happens. But,” she added brightly as she healed the lacerations and puncture site, “I do know that the branches are superficial, so you should be able to trim them right off of your spider puppet, no problem.”
Sasori snagged the branch that Tsume had removed from her arm with his chakra thread and drew it close to study. The wood was flexible, light brown in color, with three glossy leaves sprouting from the end. The cambium was green when he scratched the bark with a fingernail. The end that had pierced Tsume was a sharpened point also covered with bark, with no appearance of having been broken or removed from a tree. It still felt alive when he threaded his chakra through the branch, following the traces of Yamato’s chakra. How long would it remain alive? Could he root it? Was it a new, undiscovered species, or something native?
(Knowledge was power. Power was control. If he understood Yamato better, he would feel more comfortable with having a trigger-happy child under the same roof as him.)
“This is fascinating,” Sasori told Tsume as she transferred the eggs from the pan to bowls of steaming rice.
She squatted in front of Sasori and studied him for a moment. “So,” she began, “what I’m about to tell you is a S rank secret in Konoha that you absolutely can’t share with anyone else, not even your Kazekage.”
Sasori narrowed his eyes. “If it’s so important that I cannot reveal it to the Kazekage, why are you sharing it?” (Because, you moron, Komushi told Sasori from their guestroom, she trusts you.)
Tsume flapped her hand. “Because I am Yamato’s mother, and you are my guest. When you want people to get along, you share things with them. And I want my boys to get along. So, I adopted Yamato about, uh…” She scrunched her face up in thought, trying to make sense of timelines.
“You told me, the day after we met, that you had a newly-adopted five year old son.”
“Yeah, that’s right. Kuromaru, how long has it been since Orochimaru escaped Konoha?”
“It happened two months before we left for Suna’s supply delivery.”
“Okay, yeah, now I remember. I was just about to enter my third trimester and couldn’t fit through tight spaces anymore.” Tsume turned back to Sasori. “Orochimaru was experimenting on children. He was plucking up orphans from who knows where, and he was doing genetic experiments with them, but only the gods know for how long before we finally caught wind of it. You would not believe how many odor-distorting seals he had plastered all over his hideout.” Her voice was calm, but her face tightened with anger. “Yamato was the only one still alive, out of more than fifty.” Tsume sniffled as her eyes welled up with tears, but the anger remained. “Danzo and I found him caged with two dead. We were looking for survivors in Orochimaru’s labs.”
And just like a lonely, angry, injured, bitter Suna twelve-year-old boy, Tsume immediately imprinted on this vulnerable child like the world’s worst combination of mother hen, mother bear, and leech.
“This.” Tsume tapped the branch still in Sasori’s hands. “This happens a lot. When Danzo opened the cage and reached to pull Yamato free, Yamato panicked and impaled him. Just a little,” she added hurriedly, as if trying to ensure Sasori that impalement wasn’t that bad. Her arm certainly seemed no worse for wear. “Yamato uses this when he’s scared and feels cornered. It’s a defense mechanism that reacts to his negative emotions. Unfortunately,” she shrugged, “after who knows how long of being a scientific experiment for Orochimaru, he’s got a lot of trauma to work through before he can feel safe. You’re a stranger to him, Sasori. You said something while you looked at him, and that was enough to make him feel cornered and unsafe.”
Who, other than fearless Tsume who could smell someone’s emotions, would be willing to take on a traumatized scientific experiment with a hair-trigger kekkai genkai? (Who would want to try removing such a vulnerable child from Tsume’s grasp the moment she saw him in a cage with two corpses? After witnessing the meeting with Nessie, Sasori was pretty sure that the Hokage knew he didn’t dare tell Tsume no, you can’t have him. Apparently, the only unsafe creatures Tsume wasn’t allowed to keep were angry honey badgers.)
“Anyway, I’m telling you all of this because you’re both here, with me, and you’re both going to be seeing each other.” Tsume relaxed her face, looking tender as she smiled at Sasori. “This is Yamato’s home. I want him to feel safe and secure, that he can explore his home without fear of punishment or whatever the hell Orochimaru did when things got out of hand, and I want you to know what’s going on, and why, because I also want you to be safe and secure here. I know that’s kind of hard to do when your little brother has a bad habit of impaling his perceived sources of danger, so that’s why I’m telling you this S rank secret. I want you to be aware of what’s going on, and how to avoid problems. That, and you’re always watching, always curious, and I think that open curiosity might be one of those triggers for Yamato, because that’s how Orochimaru was.”
Tsume may be a socially inept moron on how she approached people, but she was incapable of feeding into Yamato’s fear by way of having none of her own, and had such a monstrous motherly instinct that she would openly adore him and smother with him affection no matter how many times she was accidentally impaled. Someone else (okay, Sasori) would immediately realize that Yamato was either too dangerous to live with his unstable kekkai genkai, or could be shaped into a magnificent weapon. But Tsume didn’t see people (or dragons) as weapons or too dangerous to allow living. She saw the person with all their emotions on open display with her nose, saw someone that she could help, and so that’s what she did in her overbearing, ham-fisted, big-hearted way.
It was courageous. It was stupid. It was quintessentially Tsume.
“You can’t tell anyone else,” Tsume added desperately, grasping Sasori’s hand in her own. “Please. If our enemies learned that Konoha somehow had someone with the First Hokage’s wood release, or if Orochimaru realizes that he has a living, successful experiment, Yamato could be targeted. Someone would come after him.”
Tsume would fight at all costs to defend this child, the same way she had been willing to take on Hanzo, the Nanabi jinchuuriki, and even a damn dragon.
Sasori raised his chin. “I promise I won’t tell anyone, not even my Kazekage.”
And she trusted in his sincerity, honestly given at that moment.
She assisted him from the floor to a kitchen chair. The legs scraped loudly against the tile floor as she pushed him into the table. She set breakfast and another glass of cold milk in front of him, before grabbing Yamato from the corner, and also seated him at the table with his own food.
Whatever genjutsu she had used to calm Yamato seemed to be wearing off, as he blinked at his surroundings with a growing alertness. His eyes were level with the tabletop. Tsume lifted him long enough to stick a few thick books under him to more easily reach his plate. Sasori chose to focus on his breakfast of rice, eggs, and umezuke, which was plated separately.
All moisture fled from Sasori’s mouth when he stuck a piece of umezuke into his mouth.
Tsume laughed at his expression as she seated herself. “I-is that the first time you’ve ever had pickled plums?”
Sasori drank half of his milk, and then glowered. “They’re not normally that strong.” Nor had he ever eaten them straight, since they were usually added in small amounts to other dishes or set aside separately as a palate cleanser.
“This brand is definitely pickled a little greener than some of the others, and it’s not sweetened, but it’s the only one I had on hand.” Tsume added her dish of umezuke to the rice and eggs, mixing them thoroughly. “I didn’t expect you to eat it straight, like that. What are your plans for today?”
“Skin stretching. They’re going to do a full skin graft on my stumps with my surgery, but they need to stretch my skin enough to cover the stumps before the surgery. My appointment is at noon.”
Tsume nodded. “Oh good, that gives you plenty of time for this morning. I’ll be around the compound today, catching up with my clan. Do you want me to walk with you to the hospital?”
Remembering the looks he had received from civilian and shinobi passersby yesterday, Sasori was amiable to Tsume accompanying him. “But, Tsume.” He set his chopsticks to the side. “You haven’t told me about yourself.”
Tsume had turned to Yamato with rice and eggs clumped on her chopstick, trying to coax him to take a bite. “What about me?”
“How are you feeling? Your eyes look better. I know you had to get an MRI yesterday.” And he needed to get his hands on that MRI to see how much olfaction cortex made up her brain mass, so he wouldn’t have to wait to autopsy her brain to satisfy that curiosity.
Tsume pouted. “Oh, me? I’m fine, but apparently, Shikake has decided that I can’t be trusted not to use the Mystic Palm anymore until I actually go through and pass the classes, no matter how many times I have to repeat them. Please don’t tell him I had to heal myself already so I wouldn’t bleed all over breakfast.”
She poked at Yamato’s food, grumbling. “I’m going to be stuck in the classroom for the next thirty years.”
Sasori nodded. “I’m going to take the classes too. We’ll take them together.” Komushi had once told Sasori that when Sasori actually exercised patience when explaining complicated subjects, other people learned a lot from him. (Only Komushi had wanted to learn; others didn’t appreciate Sasori sharing his knowledge, with his Jounin sensei complaining that Sasori was condescending and belittling. Which, yeah, when you’re stuck explaining things to morons who refused to listen, that was easy to default to.) Tsume would benefit from a study partner, and since there was little that Sasori would need to memorize in medical science, he could practice patience (ugh) and help her.
In a way, it would prove to Tsume that Sasori wasn’t a helpless cripple who needed to be lifted off the floor or have his wheelchair pushed or needed someone else to manage his wound care, that he had strengths that weren’t impacted by the loss of his feet.
He… he probably didn’t need to prove himself to her, but he wanted to, because that was as ingrained in him as his poisons and puppets.
Tsume’s next announcement derailed Sasori’s thoughts. “Perfect timing! Hokage-sama is here to interview you now, so Hana, Yamato and I will take our leave. Don’t worry about the dishes, I’ll do them later.”
Interview?
What interview?oOoOoOo
Tsume’s kitchen no longer felt so homey with the lurking presence of an ANBU platoon of guards, and the Hokage himself. While the ANBU guards stationed themselves in different parts of the kitchen – effectively blocking Sasori from any escape, whether it was through the front door, the living room in front of the baby gate, or the windows – the Hokage seated himself at the kitchen table across from Sasori, and proceeded to pack a pipe after Tsume had left with Yamato and Kuromaru on tow.
“I get the feeling that if you smoke in Tsume’s kitchen, she will throw a fit,” Sasori told the Hokage.
“Mmm. Yes. She does have a tendency to try dousing me with a suiton jutsu, forgetting that she has to mop up the mess afterwards. I try to time my visits for those times when the kitchen needs mopping.” The Hokage eyed the smears of dried blood on the kitchen floor that Tsume had forgotten to wipe up in her need to serve breakfast before the Hokage’s arrival.
Sasori waited for more, but the Hokage seemed content to smoke his sweet-scented tobacco and silently study Sasori with hooded eyes. He should probably rince the blood out of his hair, Sasori thought distantly. After twenty-four seconds of silence, Sasori decided that if this interview was meant to bore him, the Hokage had already succeeded. But Sasori wasn’t going to be pushed to push back.
“I’m going to fetch something,” he said, more as a warning than anything else, and then sent his chakra threads over the head of the ANBU standing in the entrance separating the kitchen from the living room and his guest room. The ANBU tensed, and then ducked as Kuro Goke came sailing overhead, leafed branches sprouting everywhere like an unfortunate lovechild between a spider and a hedgehog. The branches scraped the paint off Tsume’s walls, but since they were already scratched from various puppy claws, Sasori wasn’t concerned with the damage. Once his mother’s puppet had settled on the kitchen table, Sasori inspected the branches and compared it to the one that had impaled Tsume’s arm. The branches sprouting from Kuro Goke looked like fresh ironwood, the same wood as Kuro Goke’s body; the longest branches were on Kuro Goke’s back, the length almost reaching the ceiling, while the shorter ones were about as long as Sasori’s arms. The wood that had impaled Tsume was a different species, based off of the color and feel of the bark, as well as the shape and color of the leaves.
Further inspection (sixty-four seconds having passed since the Hokage went silent) revealed that the sprouted branches on the puppet were surface level and hadn’t impacted any underlying mechanisms or compartments.
Sasori studied the silent Hokage for four seconds, and said, “If I got a knife to saw off the branches, how twitchy would that make your guards?”
The Hokage immediately withdrew a kunai from his holster and laid it flat on the kitchen table, with the handle oriented towards Sasori. The ANBU standing in front of the baby gate – the only one in the direct range of Sasori’s vision – twitched.
Sasori raised a single eyebrow at the kunai. “Is this a trust exercise?”
“Sasori-kun, what do you think your road trip with Tsume has been this entire time?”
“A disaster,” Sasori replied immediately. (The ANBU twitched again, but this time likely in sympathy.)
The Hokage sighed. “No one expected the damn dragon,” he muttered resentfully, blowing a smoke ring as he casually reclined back in his chair, drawing one leg over the other.
A flat blade would barely do anything for cutting ironwood, even when the wood was still green, so Sasori used his chakra threads to peruse Tsume’s kitchen knives until he found something with a sharp, serrated blade. “It’s not that I’m declining your weapon, Hokage-sama, but ironwood needs to be sawed, not sliced.”
“I admit that I’m unfamiliar with the intricacies of woodworking.”
Sasori wasn’t feeling particularly inclined to explain, either. Tsume, like any decent shinobi, kept her knife edges in impeccable condition, and the serrated blade did a decent job for sawing the branches. He removed the branches as close to the surface of the puppet as possible, but with the rounded angles of the spider’s thorax, he couldn’t saw close enough without damaging the puppet itself. He made a mental note to obtain a rasp and some sandpaper to smooth down the stumps. And lacquer and matching paint.
The Hokage waited until after two sawed branches to speak again. “Do you know the difference between strength and power, Sasori-kun?”
Sasori didn’t look up from his work. “Do you require a dictionary definition, or a philosophical explanation?”
The Hokage chuckled, amused. “Minato-san is correct; you do have the qualities of an angry honey badger.”
Aside from sharing a passing resemblance to the last angry honey badger that Tsume had dragged home? Sasori refused to dignify that statement with any response. (Sasori was willing to bet that after Namikaze’s team had dislodged the angry honey badger from the Nara Forest, Tsume probably hunted it down and hid it in a box under her bed.)
“In the world of shinobi, few differentiate between strength and power, and consider that they are merely two sides of the same coin. In this matter, I will define strength as that quality that allows one to withstand a great force, attack, or pressure. From what Kagami, Tsume, and Minato have shared with me, it would seem you have struggled greatly in withstanding great forces, attacks, and pressures.”
Do not stab the Hokage. Stabbing is bad. Tsume wouldn’t appreciate the additional blood on her kitchen floor or table. Also, it would alarm the twitchy ANBU.
“And power…” The Hokage’s voice trailed off for a moment, his eyes amused as he watched how Sasori’s grip tightened on the knife hilt or the increased force that Sasori applied in his sawing. “The reason shinobi rarely differentiate between strength and power is that power is considered the force in which attacks or pressure is applied. So, two different sides of the same coin. But for me, power is the awareness in which to direct strength. In other words, knowledge is power. And while your strength may not have been to the level one would expect from your reputation during your journey – for an understandable reason, of course – you have become even more powerful with an ever-increasing knowledge of your allies and their strengths, weaknesses, and habits. Allies with a rather shaky treaty, all things considering.”
Sasori did not like the direction in which this interview was taking. He set aside the third branch he sawed off, making sure his pile was stacking neatly. “You knew that risk existed from the start.” Do not blame me for taking advantage of those risks.
“Yes, I was fully aware of that. But why would I willingly take that risk, being fully aware that everything you learned about Konoha would be disseminated to Suna and studied in-depth?”
Sasori focused on a fourth branch. “Because you didn’t expect that damn dragon.”
The Hokage sighed. “As they say, hindsight is twenty-twenty. I am so not looking forward to explaining to the Kazekage that you died.”
“Why not? It’s not like the Kazekage was any more successful in trying to kill me.”
A tense, heavy silence met Sasori’s statement. With an impatient sigh, Sasori aside set his knife. “If she hadn’t forgotten, I’m sure that Tsume must’ve reported that I gave the arsenic to the Kiri nin that they used to sabotage the oasis.”
A smoke ring emerged and floated in the air for a moment, before dissipating. “She hadn’t forgotten.”
“The Kazekage ordered me to supply Kiri the arsenic, and I did just that, two weeks prior to the mission to obtain your team’s supplies. The poisoned oasis was my leader’s attempt to finish me off.” All the targeted oases were those that were the most likely for the Konoha supply team to meet up with the Suna supply team. Kiri never would’ve known to explicitly target those oases without guidance.
The Hokage’s eyes sharpened. “Interesting.”
“Is it, though?” Sasori leaned back in his wheelchair and gave the Hokage the same sharp regard. He thought of his promotion, and how pleased the Kazekage had looked when Sasori had returned with Komushi. At the time, Sasori had thought that it was because of how the Kazekage had been delighted to see the growth and skills in his part-time apprentice. Sasori now understood that the Kazekage, like Kagami, had successfully cracked Sasori open and confirmed that he had found what he had suspected all along: Sasori had become too dangerous to keep around, to live. (His grandmother’s pride? She was probably just glad to see Sasori looking and acting rather sane, after he had disappeared a month earlier with Komushi’s corpse. Hindsight truly was twenty-twenty.)

The Hokage tilted his head to the side and spoke around the stem of his pipe. “Do you plan on returning to Suna, to a leader who had attempted to finish you off?”
“Tell me, Hokage-sama, as the military leader of a Hidden Village, would you suffer the presence of a shinobi returning when you can instead send them off to battle in a subtle attempt to get rid of them? What would you do if you had a wildcard that you could no longer afford to keep around?”
The Hokage grinned. “If I had a wildcard I could no longer afford to keep around, I’d just sic Kagami on them.”
After being on the receiving end of Kagami’s attention for nearly a month, Sasori could respect that. “You’d break and remake that wildcard?”
“Not so much break and remake, but redirect. Sasori-kun, if an enemy flings a kunai at you, you redirect that kunai, even acquire and use it to your advantage. But humans are not weapons, to be used and discarded when they are no longer of use. If you know a person is no longer suitable for one thing, you find a different purpose for him.”
Sasori waited a heartbeat before he deflected the Hokage’s point and flung it right back at him with lethal accuracy. “Do you really think it would’ve made a difference to sic Kagami on Orochimaru?”
The Hokage winced when Sasori’s attack struck true. “Orochimaru is different.”
“I’m sure my Kazekage wouldn’t see any difference between he and I.”
“The difference,” the Hokage leaned forward, propping his elbow on the table, his pipe no longer in his mouth but wreaths of smoke wrapping his face, “is that Orochimaru reached a point of no return when he spent months, even years, kidnapping and experimenting on children that wouldn’t be missed much in society. You, on the other hand, didn’t turn your friend into a puppet until after he died an accidental death. The difference between you two is that you most likely haven’t yet reached that exponential point on the slippery slope of decayed morals.”
Sasori was fairly certain his Kazekage wouldn’t see it the same way. “And how would you know?”
“Knowledge is power, Sasori-kun, and as a leader of a hidden village, I am fully aware that intel flows both ways, no matter how well you control the stream. Here.” He removed a scroll from his billowing sleeve and laid it on the table, next to the kunai.
Sasori unrolled it, as the seal had been cracked open. He stared at the Kazekage’s handwriting.
Hokage-sama, what would you have done if you could see the destination that your apprentice’s path was taking him?
Do with Sasori as you will should he survive. ~ Third Kazekage
The date of it was three days prior to the Kazekage giving Sasori and his team the supply run mission.
The white parchment bled red in the haze that flooded Sasori’s vision. Because of fucking course his leader would wash his hands of Sasori if Sasori managed to survive the arsenic.
The Hokage handed Sasori another scroll. “And then there’s this.” He nudged it into Sasori’s hands when they remained still, clutching the Kazekage’s message, the parchment crinkling under his grip. “Imagine my surprise to see a scorpion summon sitting on my desk. It did not take kindly to being swatted by Danzo’s rolled up report.”
Sasori noticed, distantly, that his hands were not steady as he opened the next scroll.
Hiruzen, I have resented Konoha and your ill-gotten peace treaty with Suna since your shinobi stole my son away from me and this world. If you do not bring back my grandson, I will unleash a storm of toxins upon Konoha that makes Hanzo look like a frolic through a field of clover.

Return my boy to me, alive and whole.

The Poison Queen

It was dated the day after Sasori had lost his legs.
“Oh, look at that,” Sasori said, half hysterical as he giggled, his entire worldview and assumptions ripped asunder. “Does being clinically dead and missing my feet mean you’ve failed on returning me alive and whole? Was Tsume in on this the entire time?” Had Sasori simply been a mission that the Hokage had assigned her? If a relationship started out deceptive, could trust be firmly built on a foundation made of sand?
The Hokage sighed. “I’m going with plausible deniability over the feet, given the date of your grandmother’s note. As for Tsume, as you’re already aware, that girl cannot act to save her own life. However, I felt comfortable pairing the two of you together, because if there’s one thing I can trust despite Tsume’s disability, it’s that she would’ve taken you under her mantel regardless of any danger you might impose upon her, and eventually those maternal and alpha instincts to herd and protect was bound to make a lasting impression on you.” He squinted at Sasori as he took another puff from his pipe. “However, as they say, initial plans never survive the first brush with the enemy. In this case, that first brush was Hanzo and Tsume invoking Minato-kun’s Hiraishin to remove both of you to safety.”

The red haze in Sasori’s vision finally faded. “And you took advantage of the distance and time it would take to return to Konoha to sic Uchiha Kagami on me.”
“Yes, I did, knowing full well that should you make it back to Konoha, you would have intimate information on Konoha’s weaknesses that could be used against us, and would prove whether or not you had reached that point of no return.”
Knowledge is power. Sasori had always lived his life with that particular philosophy. This was yet another battle for Sasori, but one fought with ideas, words, persuasions. It was like go, where one had to concede or conquer to gain enough points to win. But real life was never as clean as a strategy game.
“Would you have still done it if you knew that a dragon would get involved?”
The Hokage muttered something under his breath that sounded like fucking dragon I still can’t believe it. “In some ways, that’s to Konoha’s benefits. Would you feel comfortable attacking Konoha now that we have a dragon at our beck and call?”
Frankly, after becoming intimately familiar with both Namikaze Minato and Uchiha Kagami’s strength and power the way he had, it wasn’t Nessie whose protection for Konoha that Sasori was wary of. Sasori eyed the Hokage. “With all due respect,” which, in regards to that last question, was none, “Nessie isn’t at anyone’s beck and call except Tsume’s, and that fact alone means I am more concerned with Konoha’s survival than my own if I ever felt fighting Konoha.”
The Hokage’s long-suffering sigh could put a martyr to shame. “Well, Konoha is still standing despite Inuzuka Natsumi’s existence within its boundaries for the last sixty years. This, too, is yet another storm we’ll simply weather, as we have with many other storms. The Will of Fire will persevere, burning stronger with every adversity.”
Sasori had barely weathered the storm that was Tsume for four weeks. “I never had any intention of telling the Kazekage anything about the gouka inugami or Nessie.”
The Hokage tapped the Kazekage’s letter with the stem of his pipe. Sasori didn’t even care about the smear of saliva the tapping left behind. “Are you not a loyal shinobi to Suna?”
Sasori considered the Hokage while keeping his face relaxed and gaze lazy. If he didn’t claim any loyalty to Suna, especially after the Kazekage had given the Hokage full custody to do whatever he wanted with Sasori, it could go one of two ways – the Hokage would either claim Sasori as one of his own (damn it, he would be rehomed in Konoha, just like an angry honey badger with a bad attitude), or the Hokage would eliminate Sasori as a potential threat the way he should’ve eliminated Orochimaru.
If Sasori did claim loyalty to Suna, surely the Hokage knew ways to limit the intel that Sasori now had on Konoha. Probably through Kagami’s memory-rewriting Sharingan. Sasori flicked the Kazekage’s letter parchment with the tip of his finger. What am I? Some kind of rabid dog to be put down? “A loyal shinobi to Suna, but the Kazekage? That remains to be seen.” After all, the Kazekage had already proven that he didn’t return loyalty with loyalty. (Sasori ignored Komushi reminding him that before the Kazekage decided to try putting Sasori down, Sasori had already made plans to successfully defect. Shut up. This is my pity party, Komushi.)
The Hokage said nothing for a moment as he doused his pipe, carefully placing it in a silken bag after he knocked the ashes free into a separate container. An ANBU guard (either the one at the kitchen window behind his back or the one stationed at the kitchen door) sealed the container and slipped it into a pocket, and then opened a window to air out the kitchen. “Do you love Suna?” he asked Sasori, standing.
“I…” Sasori looked up. The Hokage was relaxed, and it struck Sasori in that moment the resemblance he had with Kagami – the resemblance as a teacher, as a guide, one who led others with gentle prods and a light hand. A man who knew that others wouldn’t give him trust if he didn’t first show vulnerability by extending the same, but was strong and powerful enough to defend that vulnerability. He chose to show the Hokage honesty. “I love Suna. I also hate Suna.” The curse of his eidetic memory, to remember both emotions equally, and to be torn between both.
“Do you hate Suna enough to change her, but love her enough to think she’s worth changing? Or would you abandon her to whatever fate she deserves as she dies a slow death of stagnation and its own internal toxin while you pursue greener pastures? Think about it, Sasori-kun, but don’t force yourself to make a choice before you’re ready. When you decide what the answer truly is, you’ll know where you should direct your path. It will only be then that your fate is truly sealed.”
The Hokage and his platoon left, leaving Sasori behind with Tsume’s serrated kitchen knife, the kunai, and two damning letters.oOoOoOo
Tsume, true to her word, pushed Sasori to the hospital while Komushi sat on Sasori’s lap, gently positioned to avoid the tissue stretching bladders. A lot more people glared at them, but Sasori felt, given who their general glares were aimed at, that Tsume was the source of their ire. Whether it from her willingness to mother Sasori so fiercely in public (she plied Sasori with a number of different snacks from different vendors, insisting that he try that Konoha treat, or this Konoha snack, or that food, or that dish… so far, Sasori’s favorite had been the fried eel and miso-butter yaki-onigiri with an umekake filling. (The pickled plums didn’t make Sasori’s taste buds pucker up and retreat in self-defense, balancing more nicely with the other flavors.)
Sasori was comfortably on his way to a food coma by the time they reached the hospital for his appointment, and thus took a nap during the skin stretching and healing. When he woke up in the waiting room, it was after the time Tsume had promised to return from her errand at the Hokage Tower. After bullying one of the secretaries into giving him two applications for the mednin program, he wheeled out of the hospital. Tsume would be more successful in tracking him down than he would, he decided to check if she was stuck in her errand at the Tower, and then return to the compound if she wasn’t there.
After securing the mednin applications in Komushi’s chest cavity, he attached his chakra threads to Komushi so his friend could push his wheelchair. By his friend’s very nature, he was too lifelike to be initially mistaken as a puppet. And it made it easier to defend himself if Komushi was poised, should someone try attacking.
Sasori steadfastly ignored any thought of his grandmother or the Kazekage as he observed Konoha’s hustle and bustle on his way to the Hokage Tower. He couldn’t stop the parade of comparison between what lay all around to what he had come from, couldn’t halt the intrusion of Suna itself into his thoughts. The hospital was strategically close to the Hokage Tower, just as it was close to the Kazekage Tower in Suna – the easier for wounded shinobi to be sent to the hospital, or for their leaders to follow up on mission reports from hospitalized shinobi, or to protect in case of an invasion or attack.
Sasori paused next to the Shinobi Academy, watching young students that was engaged in a supervised game of tag that employed rapid trap setting that used glitter as a nonlethal attack. It seemed rather pointless – how would students appreciate the lethality of a trap against enemies if they didn’t lose a finger or an eye?
Glitter, Sasori decided after six minutes, was worse than the Kazekage’s Magnetic Release (damn it – he wasn’t supposed to think of the Kazekage) in getting everywhere and being too stubborn to remove, and made it easier to determine the actual winners of tag, since apparently only someone who was glitter-free could be considered a winner. (Sasori ran a hand through his hair, and found his hand was sparkly. Fuck. His hair was going to look like that one time he and Komushi had chased a missing Suna nin through a drag bar in the Land of Hot Springs that ended in an all-out brawl in the naked oil wrestling pit. That particularly embarrassing fiasco was why the Kazekage agreed to let them take a minor vacation at the Land of Swamps to gather more poisons.) The academy teacher decided the high scatter of glitter meant that the students all needed to do a better job with their traps to ensure better control over the explosions, and that the rest of the afternoon would be spent looking at the physics of explosions and how to better control blast radius and direction.
Okay, that particular lesson wasn’t so bad, and ultimately had been messier than the blood spurting from lost fingers and eyeballs. Sasori could see the wisdom in using glitter instead of actual lethal explosions and sharp edges.
As Sasori and Komushi approached the Hokage Tower, Sasori finally spotted Tsume – she was seated, hunched on a bench while cradling Hana, bawling out her eyes as Namikaze sat next to her, rubbing her back.
“What did you do?” Sasori asked Namikaze when he reached them.
Namikaze barely paid Sasori any attention, eyeballing Komushi with a suspicious glance, before turning back to Tsume. “Take a deep breath, Tsume. You’re attracting a lot of attention.”
“I don’t caaaaaare! Kakashi hates me and hates his dad and Sakumo stinks because I’m the only one who’s trying to make things a little better and no one tried to help while I was gone! Sakumo deserves better!”
“It’s just a D-rank mission. Kakashi doesn’t have to help.” With a sigh Namikaze extended his arm in front of Tsume. She wiped her nose and tears in his sleeve.
“I w-was hoping that Kakashi c-could use his nose to help find Sakumo.”
“We can borrow Kuromaru instead. No young child, like Kakashi, should have to bathe his father, especially when they’re as unwilling as Sakumo. You know Sakumo will put up even more of a fight than usual just to save Kakashi from that embarrassment. I’ll talk to Kakashi before dinner, and then Rin, Obito, and I will be by your compound tomorrow morning to borrow Kuromaru and the bathing supplies.”
“You’ll have to g-get the d-dewormer and louse powder too.”

Sasori did the math, putting two and two together. Filthy and unkept as Sakumo was, Tsume made it her business to protect and care for Sakumo like she protected and cared for lost, lonely children. Being post-partum, she likely couldn’t engage with a S rank shinobi like a parent engages with an unruly toddler refusing to bathe. And since she wasn’t able to complete the matter, she hired it out as a D rank mission. Namikaze, being childhood friends with Tsume and the jounin sensei to Hatake Kakashi, had most likely accepted the mission just to contain the overall social shame of a former brilliant S rank nin needing to be bathed like an unruly toddler.
“What happened to Hatake Sakumo?” Sasori asked Tsume, ignoring the stabbing glare from Namikaze.
Light a light switch, Tsume flipped from sorrow to rage. “Orochimaru happened!” she snarled, the hair on the back of Sakumo’s arms rising on end at the flash of her killing intent. “Him and his stupid seals!”
Namikaze immediately slapped a hand over Tsume’s mouth. “That’s enough.”
Tsume forced Namikaze’s hand away. “His human experiments didn’t start with children, Sasori! It started with seals and m—”
Namikaze shunshinned Tsume and Hana out of hearing range before Tsume could reveal more.
But it was enough, Sasori realized.
It was enough to explain the Hokage’s statement. (“The difference between you two is that you most likely haven’t yet reached that exponential point on the slippery slope of decayed morals.”) The Kazekage could see Sasori standing on the precipice with his friend’s body. If Sasori was willing to condemn his best friend’s soul after Komushi’s accidental death, how much longer would it take for Sasori to turn his attention to those companions in Suna who weren’t his friends and manufacture their deaths for his own furtherment?
Well, this was an uncomfortable realization.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

While Tsume was making dinner (chicken curry with a side of spiced edamame) and Yamato watched with his liquid-brown eyes as he bounced a ball for an unruly pack of puppies that got distracted half the time in chasing the ball to chew on a variety of things, including Tsume’s bedroom slippers and Kakashi’s spare chuunin vest, Sasori reviewed the rules and regulations of the mednin training program. When Tsume finally noticed the puppies’ chew toys and was lecturing them (Tsume’s lectures remained awful; the puppies fell asleep so the only non-deaf ears Tsume’s lectures fell upon were Sasori’s and Yamato’s), Sasori filled out the mednin program applications for himself and Tsume.
“We begin in three days,” Sasori told Tsume, mentally arranging his schedule for the prosthetic workshop around the mednin course calendar. It was a full year, and he had no intention of staying for a full year, but he could easily test out of the required anatomy and physiology, biology, and chemistry courses, and just review the class materials with Tsume in the meantime. He was initially appalled with the newly-introduced ethics course (what place did ethics have for shinobi? What good did it do to teach field medics Do no harm when there are enemies trying to kill you?), thought about Orochimaru, and then reluctantly conceded it was probably warranted in certain situations. The only thing Sasori truly needed to learn was how to form and apply the Mystic Palm without causing cancer or chakra burns.
Tsume was serving dinner, with two extra plates, when Namikaze and a very sullen Kakashi arrived and seated themselves without greeting.
“Feeling better?” Sasori asked Kakashi.
Kakashi slouched further into his chair and glared so hard at his plate as Tsume spooned the curry onto it that Sasori was half-surprised that it didn’t burst into flames. (The curry turned out to be spicy enough that Sasori half-expected that it would eventually spontaneously erupt. He had no idea how Tsume managed to achieve this level of heat without Shinigami peppers.)
Tsume asked Sasori questions about the mednin program (whining too much about the required memorization) throughout dinner. Every time Sasori looked at Tsume as they conversed or to tell her that she whined worse than Shisui whenever he had been fed fiddlehead ferns, some bites of food would disappear from Kakashi’s place, but Kakashi’s mask remained in place. If it weren’t for the movement of his jaw as he chewed, Sasori would suspect that Kakashi was sneaking his food to the puppies that sprawled under the kitchen table, doing their best not to beg, but failing spectacularly.
After dinner was finished, Yamato carefully moved the dirty dishes from the kitchen table to the counter, Tsume washed, and Kakashi – once again standing on the two-step stool – dried and put away. Namikaze lingered, which was perfect for Sasori.
“I have an appointment tomorrow at the hospital at eleven,” Sasori told Namikaze. “If your mission doesn’t interfere with it, I want to help with Sakumo.”
Namikaze’s expression and gaze were hard as he studied Sasori. “Why would you want to help us with the man who killed your parents?” he asked, sipping his second cup of milk as his sinuses still dripped from dinner’s lingering heat. “Are you looking for weaknesses to exploit?”
“Might be a favor,” Kakashi muttered, which earned him a hard slap of disapproval up the back of his head from Tsume. She left a trail of soap bubbles on Kakashi’s hair and collar, which Kakashi studiously ignored.
Sasori considered his oolong tea (he didn’t need milk to counter the delightful burn of spice and heat), and took a sip, wistfully thinking how much he missed coffee. “The White Fang killed many people in his career,” he said, “and my parents did the same. No one’s come for me out of revenge for what my parents did,” although one could argue that Hanzo had attacked because of his grandmother, so that had been a decidedly uncomfortable situation. If someone was going to attack Sasori, it should be for something that he did, not because of a relative. And, he supposed, it would be the height of hypocrisy to hold that standard against other people if he wasn’t going to maintain it for himself. “I think it’s fair to say nothing I could come up with for revenge would be worse than what’s already happened to him.”
Namikaze raised an eyebrow, almost in shock. “So Akasuna no Sasori will be the bigger man?”
Akasuna no Sasori was better than just about anyone else once he set his mind to mastering a skill. (Except humility, Komushi added, laughing.) “How are you going to pin down Sakumo-san once you have him cornered?” Sasori asked. “I met Sakumo-san, after I was discharged from the hospital. He’s incredibly fast.”
“And he runs even faster when emotions are ramped up high,” Tsume added, turning away from the sink. She leaned back against it. “That’s why I can’t do it. I’d just bawl the moment I see him because of these damn hormones. It was… it was really hard when I was pregnant, but I swear that post-partum hormones are even worse. I think that Sasori would be very helpful,” she told Namikaze firmly. “Sasori’s got a strong handle on his emotions, and he can keep Sakumo from running with his chakra threads.”
“Really?” Namikaze tapped his fingers against the tabletop. “The kid who yelled that you would make an awful puppet has a strong handle on his emotions?”
Tsume threw the dish sponge at Namikaze. He ducked it. “No fair, Mooncalf! We went from being chased down by Hanzo and his salamanders to getting dumped in another country with your douche ex machina jutsu with both of us barfing our guts up. How many people are going to have a good handle on their emotions after all of that?”
“Hiraishin.”
“…Hiruzen?”
“That’s the Hokage. Hira. Ishin.”
Sasori patted Namikaze’s hand. “If I had to deal with Tsume calling me a slab of raw fish for a few days, you can deal with this.” Then he fetched Kuro Goke and Tsume’s serrated knife to do some more trimming. When he saw Yamato shyly glancing towards his puppets, he sent Komushi to turn on the radio and do some dancing, pulling Tsume away from the sink and spinning her around. Tsume danced the same way she fought – her lack of grace was more than overcompensated with strength and agility to match Komushi’s gliding footwork. The two of them eventually pulled Yamato into a squirming mass of rhythmically-stomping limbs. The befuddled expression on Namikaze’s face as Tsume laughed and the almost-smile that was trying to creep across Yamato’s face was worth the silliness of using his battle puppet for something as inane as entertainment.oOoOoOo
Sasori slumped in his wheelchair; based on the reflection from the glass window he sat next to, his red roots almost as dark as his walnut dyed hair from the sweat and water. His hands trembled from fatigue.
“Well, that was rough,” he muttered darkly. He leaned forward to ring the water out of his knotted trouser legs, no longer wanting to see his reflection. Next to him, Kuromaru stood and shook himself off, spraying water that stunk of damp dog everywhere.
Obito didn’t look up from the bundle of towels pressed against his bloody nose. He was just as drenched as Sasori. “This was so not a D rank mission,” he complained tiredly, barely having the energy to raise a shaking fist.
“It was B rank at the very least! It was worse than the Mighty Green Cheese Squad on our first C rank mission!”
“The first rule of the Mighty Green Cheese Squad,” Rin said, “is that we don’t talk about the Mighty Green Cheese Squad.” Rin rubbed her bruised jaw with a hand glowing green as Sasori once again contemplated the ramifications of sneaking into whatever secure archives that hosted Konoha’s mission reports just to find out more about this cheese mission. “I think it was the louse powder that really set Sakumo-sensei off.”
“Congrats, team,” Namikaze said, flopping down on the bathhouse steps next to his genin, with a BANNED FOR LIFE notice in his hands. He was careful to keep his feet above the second and last steps. The street was still flooded from the suiton jutsu’s tidal wave that Sakumo had unleashed that washed nearly everyone away, including other staff and guests. The man had wordlessly unleashed a B rank suiton jutsu without hand seals.
Volunteers gave Team Minato and its Temporary Squad Member ugly glares as they waded through the knee-deep standing water in the streets. “At least he’s clean, shaved, nails and hair trimmed, deloused, and dewormed,” Namikaze told them. “He’s good for the next month. That gives Tsume plenty of time to find a different bath house for his next spit-and-shine.”
Sasori couldn’t decide if he should pity Hatake Sakumo for suffering through such a humiliating experience because his mentality was too crippled to engage in self-care for personal hygiene, or at awe with how much of a fight he had given Team Minato and Akasuna no Sasori, all without any lethal force or attacks. The man, even despite his long fall from grace, was still an S rank ninja in skill, who had been skillful yet strangely gentle while fending off Obito and Rin and Sasori. The quickly blossoming bruises on Namikaze’s face and arms from where Sakumo had grappled him indicated that he was more heavy-handed with his strength against the only adult – well, sort of; Namikaze was an older teenager, but that made him the default adult of their team.
(Sasori decided, for his own mental and emotional well-being, that at least the person who killed his parents was damn good. There was no shame in being defeated by an opponent who was ultimately more skilled than you.)
“Here, sensei, let me get that for you.” Rin stretched her glowing hand out to Namikaze’s bare forearms, which were raked bloody from Sakumo’s jagged fingernails while Namikaze and Sasori had pinned him down to be stripped and scrubbed by Obito, and Rin had jabbed him in an exposed buttock with an injection of ivermectin. Ivermectin wasn’t usually given IM to humans, and Sasori had questioned its place amongst the bathing supplies, but Tsume explained that Sakumo wasn’t going to take any oral doses without biting someone’s hands, and Tsume had developed a nasty infection the first time she had tried. Nara Shikaku had formulated an injectable form just for Sakumo. He didn’t normally look deathly skeletal unless he had worms, so this had been a necessary treatment diagnosed by Tsume’s nose.
“Are you going to be late for your appointment?” Namikaze asked Sasori, who had yanked his shirt off to wring out the water.
Sasori eyed the standing water in the street, comparing the depths to his wheelchair wheels. “I will be if I have to wait for the water depths to go down. I despise being late.”
“Hear me out, Sasori-kun. The effects from the Hiraishin are worse the longer the distance you cover, but tolerable at much shorter distances.” Sasori chose not to voice his misgivings, remembering how Danzo and the Hokage had reacted when crossing twenty kilometers. “I can take you directly to the hospital and you’ll barely feel it.” Two kilometers was only 10% of that distance.
In deference to not knowing how this D rank mission would go, Sasori had left Komushi behind with Tsume and Yamato, and he wasn’t thrilled with leaving his back open while crossing Konoha. Sasori plucked at his soaking wet trousers. “Only if you also get a spare set of clothes from Tsume’s. I need to have dry clothes.” His sopping wet dressings would be changed at his appointment.
“I can do that. This would’ve been much more difficult without the use of your chakra threads. Thank you.” Namikaze turned his face upward to the sun, his eyes drifting shut, as if he was trying to soak up the warmth despite the slight breeze that chilled Sasori in his drenched clothes. “I remember the man Hatake Sakumo used to be. He has so little dignity left, Sasori-kun. Thank you for not snapping or making belittling comments. I hear too many of those on the streets in passing, these days.”
“The first thing Tsume did for me after your girlfriend lopped off my feet was strip me naked and scrub me clean with a pair of socks,” Sasori replied softly. Obito stared at him over his bloody handful of towels, and Rin twitched as she concentrated on healing Namikaze’s scratches. “Believe me. I know what it’s like, the humility of needing help when you want to do it yourself, but you can’t. The difference between us is my injuries are external, where the entire world could see and understand why I needed help. Hatake Sakumo’s injuries are internal, hidden and misunderstood.” Sasori had also heard the comments given by the bathhouse staff and guests, just before Sakumo unleashed the tidal wave. Sasori wasn’t sure if it was in response to Obito’s overapplication of the lousing powder at the end of the care, or the comments, deliberately loud and sneering.
“You’ve come far from when we first met,” Obito said cheerfully. “You’re so nice!”
As pathetic as he looked in his wheelchair, Sasori had a reputation to maintain and stress. “Obito, I am still ruthless and deadly. I was painting the desert sands red at your age with the blood of my fallen enemies, and then I raised up their corpses as puppets to kill even more enemies. I will still poison your tea.”
Having patched up her sensei, Rin turned to Obito’s nose. “You’d never be able to get away with sneaking a poison into Obito’s tea with Tsume-san’s nose around. Just admit it – you do have a heart, Sasori-kun.”
Sasori tilted his head to the side and let himself relax as a smile chiseled its way across his face. “As for an odorless toxin – well, I’ve always loved a good challenge with my poisons.”
Obito cringed as he removed his wad of bloody towels, which turned into a wince as Rin reset it. “Well,” Rin said brightly, “we know he has to have some sort of a heart. It did stop functioning long enough for him to die.”
“Yeah, you’re right, Rin. Sasori’s just being all prickly the same way Bakashi gets when things get too mushy for him.”
Sasori didn’t wait for Rin to finish healing Obito’s nose before he used his chakra threads to shove Obito off the steps into the street’s standing water. Head-first. “We’re going to be late for my appointment,” he told Namikaze, who pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation.oOoOoOo
The Hiraishin wasn’t as unpleasant as two kilometers versus several hundred kilometers, but Sasori was still grateful that the hospital had vomit basins. A small price to pay not to be late for his appointment.oOoOoOo
Sasori met the other prosthetic engineers (almost all of them civilians, he determined within a single look) selected to participate in his workshop course after his appointment. They had assembled in a small workshop within the prosthetics department that the director had filled with a variety of tools and materials to work with. Sasori went through each tool, one by one. The pile of rejected tools was larger than the pile of acceptable tools, although none of the rejected piles contained any of the electric metal and woodworking saws, drills, shears, and lathes. Suna had none of those and he was curious about what the machines could do. He also sneered at most of the provided materials, with the fragile metal and brittle woods that were offered. “Is this the best you have?” he asked the senior prosthetic engineer, not bothering to remember the man’s name, which said something given his eidetic memory.
The engineer shuffled his feet as he flushed. “It’s standard material.”
Sasori would have to do his own shopping tomorrow with local artisans and their shops before his appointment. He’d send the bills to the hospital.
With an impatient sigh, Sasori had the engineers demonstrate their skills*.
It was… really bad, except for the one non-civilian, an Inuzuka clanswoman named Fuuko, whose right arm was essentially a clumsy metal and pully contraption with a four-pronged claw instead of a hand. Even with her clumsy prosthetic, she was deft and graceful in demonstrating the use of the metal lathe to create a smooth ball for a joint insert. Her ninken, a sleek, smaller hound with gray and black fur, remained quietly folded up under a desk. Sasori hadn’t even been aware of the ninken’s presence until it growled at him when he nearly ran over its tail with his wheelchair.

Fuuko admitted that she had snuck into the workshop after Tsume told her about it, because while she also created prosthetics and often worked with the prosthetic department, her creations were for nin-animals that the Inuzuka Veterinary Clinic provided care for, and she wanted the best for the Inuzuka ninen who lost limbs.
“I do hope you don’t mind,” Fuuko told Sasori with a flash of her teeth and a gleam in her eyes that indicated that the only way she wasn’t going to join the workshop was if Sasori had her forcefully evicted. And even then, she’d probably steal notes or browbeat another engineer to explain what they’ve been taught.
Given his experience with a grand total of four Inuzuka people – even if Shisui and Kakashi weren’t official clan members – Sasori was curious about Fuuko’s intelligence and how she was going to apply the prosthetic mechanics to animals.
“You realize that this is propriety technology,” he said.
“I know. I heard about the contract that Kagami-san worked out. I’ll talk to him tomorrow about working up one for the Inuzuka Veterinary Clinic.”
Kagami finally removed Sasori from the workshop, leaving behind a room full of broken egos and tears. “The more you change,” Kagami said, with a shake of his head, “the more you stay the same.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” Sasori’s mood was poor with indignation that his proprietary engineering and inventions would be left in those hands, since the only one he had been remotely impressed by was Fuuko. It was an insult to his skills and to anything his name would bear. Sasori may have lost his dignity, his feet, his sanity, and his life (albeit temporarily), and his patience (far, far too many times), but he still had his pride!
Kagami merely patted his shoulder. “All I’m saying is that you may want to consider a different approach to this. How did your Jounin sensei teach you?”
Sasori’s lip curled back into an even more vicious sneer. “My sensei believed that students learned to swim best when thrown off into the deep end of piranha-infested waters. With open, bleeding wounds.”
“Ah. Well, I hope you don’t mean that literally.”
Sasori allowed his silence to speak volumes.
“Well, that would explain your teaching methods. What about your grandmother? How did she teach you about poisons?”
“By experiencing their effects first-hand.”
“Huh.” It was clear that Kagami had Opinions regarded the teaching methods that Sasori had been subjected to over the years, but was going to keep the more strongly-worded Opinions to himself. “Well, Tobirama-sensei taught by providing examples first, and then coaxing his students into understanding and correcting their errors. Since five out of six of us survived forty years later, I find that his method is quite effective no matter what Danzo’s opinion might be.” After a pause, as they exited the hospital and Kagami stood on the back of Sasori’s wheelchair to coast down the ramp with a soft wheeeee, he added, “Besides, if you’re planning on helping Tsume with her mednin courses, think of this engineering workshop as practice for teaching her. You know that you’ll hinder her learning more if that’s how you’re going to be a teacher.”
“I should just pretend these engineers are brain-injured simpletons?” That could work, Sasori realized. It would force him to be patient and to dumb things down to their level, all while controlling his caustic tongue and vocabulary.
“Be nice,” Kagami warned, his voice low as he patted Sasori’s shoulder in warning. “You’re having dinner with my family tonight, and that includes Shisui’s parents.”oOoOoOo
Kagami brought Sasori to an apartment building just a few blocks past the Uchiha Police Department. He bypassed the main entrance to push him down a sharp, grassy incline (“There’s no elevator to take, and this is preferable the stairs.”) to a basement apartment that had its own entrance. Just outside the curtained sliding doors was a cement patio that was covered in a riot of herbal scents. Sasori noted the different herbs growing in the planters – shanso, oregano, rosemary, shiso, various mints – and a small thatch next to the patio that someone had turned into a garden of chrysanthemum, radishes, ginger, parsley, and mustard greens.

The patio entrance doors slid open before Kagami reached them, and a small figure darted through the curtains, throwing himself into Sasori lap. Sasori caught Shisui with his chakra threads before he could inadvertently land on the skin-stretching bladders – or his pelvis, where a twinge of memory reminded him of the last time Shisui had been on his lap.
“You’re here!” Shisui squirmed in the strings and in the air, unconcerned with being suspended. “It’s been forever, Sasori!”
A woman followed after him, her face twisted with concern. She was just a few years younger than Kagami, but her hair bore no silver amid the burnished copper. Her dark brown eyes were set wide apart and her ears low, and her face was decorated with the Inuzuka triangles, except hers were amber-brown, slightly darker in color than his eyes. Sasori wondered about the significance of the different colors the Inuzuka chose when painting on their clan markings. Fuuko had the same color for her markings.
“Is this yours?” Sasori asked, gently extending Shisui to her. Her face scrunched up as she accepted Shisui, as if unsure of what to do with her own child.
“Shisui,” Kagami pushed Sasori past them and through the curtains, “you need to stay off of Sasori’s lap. He’s going through a procedure right now.”
Shisui’s face fell. “Are you okay?” he asked.
“I will be,” Sasori replied.
The odors of freshly baked cookies (cooling on a cookie rack next to the oven) paired well with the simmering soba noodles and pork broth. The furniture in the apartment was more traditional than Tsume’s home, with the tatami mats and the zataku table, which was decorated with a vase stuffed with half-wilted tulips,
drooping lilies of the valley, and perky daffodils.
“I picked these for you, but Papa wouldn’t let me see you in the hospital!” Shisui used his emerald-green chakra threads to snatch the vase of the table and sent it almost hurtling into Sasori’s chest. Sasori caught it, the water from the vase splashing slightly onto his lap. “Oops. I’m sorry.”
The woman tapped Shisui on his head. “No strings in the house,” she told Shisui. Her voice was a low alto, and her words slightly slurred, as if she struggled to shape them.
“Sorry, Mama!”
“I’m not sure the neighbors have quite forgiven Shisui for filching their flowers,” Kagami said. “Hello, Shinchuu.” Kagami folded Shinshuu into a hug. “You look lovelier every time I see you.” Kagami was not a tall man, and his sister-in-law was even shorter; Shinshuu only came to the top of his shoulder. She smiled and slapped his shoulder playfully, a blush turning her entire face ruddy with delight. “This is Akasuna no Sasori, the young man that Shisui came along with Fumiko and me to help.”
Shinchuu pulled away from Kagami to bow deeply to Sasori. “Thank you, Akasuna-san,” she said. “You’ve been kind to my son.”
“Did he tell you about the mountain lion he killed?” Sasori asked, wondering what this woman thought of her three-year-old taking on such a predator.
“I did! See?” Shisui held up his necklace of mountain lion claws and gaudy purple beads. “I have the heart of a mountain lion,” he smugly added.
“My boy is a warrior,” Shinchuu replied, pulling Shisui briefly into her arms so she could plant a kiss on his forehead. When Kagami offered to assist Shinchuu with dinner, she snorted and whacked him on the arm with her wooden spoon and a firm “No. Sit down.”
People with Down’s Syndrome, Sasori knew, rarely existed in Wind. None in Suna, as far as he was aware, but there had been a few in the Keikoku People; the people who dwelled in Sosai Bonchi that bordered between Wind and the Land of Hot Water were pacifists who relied heavily on allied nomadic tribes and on Suna to keep them protected. The Keikoku valued life – they even followed strict vegan diets, which had left Komushi complaining about the lack of red meat and slyly roasting captured lizards while on border patrols – and nurtured their children with a bizarre gentleness. Sasori could remember one adult teaching her child how to react when angry, by having the child throw pebbles at her, and the mother responding, with a bland voice, “Ow, that hurts.”** They never raised their voices or scolded their children, which certainly contributed to a pacifistic culture, but contradicted everything that Suna stood for, where there was no room for pacifism or gentleness.
Looking back on every interaction with Kagami, it was clear that Kagami had unknowingly modeled his life after the Keikoku People. He approached all situations with a deft gentleness that herded and shaped, reacted without anger, and taught through example. In remaining calm and (usually) tranquil, it settled other people’s nerves and deflated the frenetic energy of their fear or anger.
Shisui ran away from the kitchen for a brief moment as Kagami took Sasori’s vase of flowers and placed it on the counter, out of the way of everything. He got his hand smacked with the wooden spoon when he attempted to reach for the cookies, leaving a splattered mark of pork broth.
“Dinner first,” Shinchuu told Kagami firmly with the shake of her spoon, though her face crinkled with good cheer.
Shisui quickly returned with a wooden pencil box and a stack of loose-leaf paper. “Here! Here!” He thrust one such paper into Sasori’s hands. He squinted at the green crayon drawing of… well, it was a blob with circles and lines.
“What am I looking at?”
Shisui scowled at him. “My dragonfly puppet.”
Sasori had expected better art skills than this, but, well… Shisui was only three years old, and bound not to be perfect in something, he supposed, trying and failing to find the dragonfly shape.
Shisui’s scowl deepened. “You promised.”
“I did, indeed. A puppet master is expected to create his own puppet during his apprenticeship, which is where he learns how to manipulate them. Different puppets, with their mechanisms and proportions, require different manipulations, and so you learn your preferences during the apprenticeship, and then incorporate them into your puppet.” Shisui sat cross-legged at the table and sat straight up, like an attentive student.
Sasori didn’t have the heart to tell Shisui that he may not prefer the dragonfly, but helping him build and put it together would at least give him the practical experience of puppet crafting.
“Okay.”
“We’ll start small, first with using your threads to move objects. When you’re able to use five different threads independently to move five different objects with one hand, then you’ll start practicing with a puppet.”
He would either have to craft a small, simple puppet for Shisui to work with, or… or he’d have to leave one of his own behind.
Temporarily…
No, he couldn’t. Not even for Shisui could Sasori leave any of his puppets behind.
(He would definitely find the time to build and leave behind a small puppet. He could use the prosthetic workshop as an excuse to build one, using each portion of the puppet as an example of prosthetics for different limbs, from hands, to lower arms, upper arms, shoulders, feet, and legs. Yes; that would suit Shisui’s purpose just fine.)
“I want Shisui to attend the prosthetics workshop,” he told Kagami. “I plan to build up a puppet with different prosthetics, using each limb as examples, and then Shisui may have the puppet, but he needs to know how to craft them.”
“Will he be working with different tools?” Kagami asked, looking somewhat concerned, as if he and Tsume didn’t already hand the three year old sharp instruments and tell him to go play (or kill mountain lions). And then, “I will require him to wear safety goggles at all times.”
Ah, it was the concern to Shisui’s eyes. And remembering the metal shavings that Fuuko had created, sharp and twisting, Sasori could appreciate that concern. “Everyone will be required to follow appropriate safety measures.” And if the three year old did better than most adults when it came to crafting? Well, it would only incentivize the actual adults to improve themselves. (Sasori ignored how often adults treated him when he had proven, repeatedly, how much more skilled he was even as a child compared to them. He would remain close to Shisui to squash any jealousy with extreme prejudice, and knew that Fuuko would also likely not tolerate any retaliation against her young kinsman.) That, and the fact that Sasori would need to curb his impatience and his tongue with Shisui present, because he knew that Shisui would likely be disappointed with Sasori’s behaviors.
And… it was both a little odd and a little humbling to realize that Sasori actually valued a three year old toddler’s opinion. (He needed to think about this, but at a later time.)
“Let’s work on this dragonfly together,” he told Shisui. He transferred from his wheelchair to the floor without his chakra threads, ignoring the stiff pain in his spine and pelvis from being seated for so long. Sitting in a wheelchair for extended periods of time was ultimately more uncomfortable than riding Juubi or Ichi for extended periods of time, since he had to constantly work minute shifts of his bones and muscles to maintain a balance and rhythm with the movements of the animals. There was none of that in a wheelchair, and he briefly imagined himself riding Juubi through the hospital in lieu of the wheelchair.
He… probably wouldn’t get away with it.
Upon further consideration, remembering that Juubi lived in the Nara Forest and that Nara Shikaku, in addition to being the hospital’s medical director, was the Clan Head of the Nara, Sasori definitely wouldn’t get away with it. Nara would probably have Tsume lecture Sasori as a punishment.
While Sasori drew out a rough draft of a dragonfly frame, penciling in measurements and angles with long-practiced ease that didn’t require any double-checking for accuracy, he explained to Shisui the importance of measuring twice, cutting once, and the different materials he could use, the pros and cons of both. Lighter materials would increase speed and velocity, but were less durable and would require more repairs. The heavier the object, the more chakra and precise control would be needed, which could be more draining in battle. Kagami watched and listened in silence, sipping a cup of ginger and chamomile tea, and Shinchuu bustled around the small kitchen, a confident queen in her domain.
Mid-way through debating waxed silk versus leather for the wing structure, the rest of Kagami’s family arrived.
“…and what was the deal with that, I ask you?” Fumiko’s voice was heard as she and two others entered through the main entrance. There was a clatter of footwear as street shoes were exchanged for house slippers.
Sasori couldn’t make out the answering response as Shisui darted from the kitchen table to the living room. “Daddy! Oyubi-chan! Nana! Mama made butterscotch cookies for dessert!”
“And they smell wonderful,” Fumiko replied. “As they always do.” Shisui led Fumiko to the kitchen; she was half-bent over with three fingers firmly grasped in Shisui’s hand. She glared at Kagami. “You are supposed to resume your original fluid restrictions. That better be only your third cup of tea for the day.”
Kagami looked shifty. “I was more physically active today. Thrice my usual walking.”
Fumiko scoffed. “You’re supposed to decrease your sodium as well.” She turned to Shinchuu. “Please remember that he can’t have any of the pork broth or noodles; too high in salt, dear.”
Kagami whined about how miserable life was without salt, and what was the point in following dietary and fluid restrictions to live longer if food was just going to taste worse?
Shinchuu kissed Kagami’s temple. “I make good food without salt,” she assured him. Then she whacked him again with the wooden spoon when he attempted to wheedle some cookies out of her before dinner was served. “No means no.”
Uchiha Hiroaki looked more like his wife in the shape of his face and body than he did Kagami, although his hair and eye coloring were almost carbon copies, with less silver in his hair and far fewer wrinkles. He wore the Uchiha police uniform without any insignia, other than the silver embroidered kanji across his back that read sanitation patrol.
“Hiroaki, you’ve been promoted!” Kagami grinned at his brother, rising to his feet to get another hug.
Hiroaki didn’t smile as he tugged down the hemline of his jacket, but raised his chin in pride. “Fugaku-san said I can now write tickets for littering.” He pointedly patted his pocket where a small block of paper could be seen. A pen was pinned to the pocket.
“Remember, my dear brother, we must not abuse our power, but rather, use it for good.”
Hiroaki’s pride melted into a pout.
“I know, I know.” Kagami rubbed his brother’s shoulder. “There’s a lot of people out there deserving of their tickets, but fines and tickets should be used as a teaching tool, not as a means for revenge for all the times they deliberately overloaded their garbage cans just to see you have to clean them up after the garbage spilled when you were emptying the cans.”
“Father has worked hard to memorize all the rules and regulations,” Inuzuka Oyubi said as she seated herself at the table, next to Shisui. Her physical features heavily favored the Uchiha clan, Sasori thought, studying her chin-length fine black hair, eyes so dark brown that they were almost black, her fair skin, and her fine-oned features. She was clearly older than Tsume by nearly a decade, and she moved with a quiet grace. Her Uchiha policeman uniform fit her like a glove that also somehow managed to deemphasize a rather large chest. Her Inuzuka clan markings were plum-purple. She studied Sasori with a quiet wariness, as if unsure of what whether he posed any danger to her family despite assurances otherwise from Kagami. She also didn’t a ninken companion, which… didn’t seem right. Had Oyubi left her ninken behind because maybe the apartment building didn’t tolerate pets?
Oyubi was pulled out of her study of Sasori when Shisui called her attention to the dragonfly puppet schematics. “See, see, Oyubi-chan? I am going to get my very own puppet! Sasori said I had to build it, but he’d helping me draft it.”
Oyubi scanned the page. “How big is it going to be?” Her eyebrows lifted high when she saw the measurements.
“This big!” Shisui spun his arms out, indicating that he felt it would be the size of a horse.

Oyubi ruffled Shisui’s hair. “Are you still planning on flying this into battle?”
Well, fuck. Sasori hadn’t considered that.
He mentally reworked some of the math and portions to maintain flight while bearing adult weight as Kagami formally introduced Sasori to his brother and his niece. Flying on one’s puppet wasn’t considered possible, but Shisui would absolutely no doubt bend the impossible to his passing whim the same way he had with his chakra threads. Sasori needed to anticipate the reality of such happening.
Dinner with the Uchiha-Inuzuka family wasn’t a particularly loud affair – Oyubi and Shinchuu were quiet and tame in their manners, compared to the rest of the Inuzuka Clan that Sasori had witnessed whenever he passed through the compound – and even Shisui’s volume and exited energy was well-controlled. The food was delicious; soba noodles that had been cooked in pork broth, with thin slices of pork chashu, crispy daikon radishes, and poached eggs, garnished with parsley and sesame seeds. Kagami was served a colorful salad hefty with shavings of carrots, radishes, and tomatoes that was topped with slices of pork chasu, and diced hardboiled eggs in light of his low-sodium dietary requirements.
“I will walk Sasori home,” Oyubi told Kagami once dinner was completed and the butterscotch cookies were served.
The butterscotch cookies were too sweet for Sasori’s preferences, but he obligingly ate two (they were nice and crisp, so he approved of the texture), and wrapped the remaining four into a paper napkin to give Tsume and Yamato when he returned to the compound.
Oyubi was quiet as she pushed Sasori through the streets of Konoha, lit up with electric lights and fire-lit paper lanterns. Sasori was briefly content with people-watching his surroundings and comparing the quiet clusters of life and chaos to Suna. People were people everywhere he went, but there was something soothing in his quiet anonymity on the streets of Konoha. Still, for all pleasantness of Konoha, he found himself making comparisons to Suna, and finding that the more he considered their differences, the more he preferred Suna.
He missed Suna.
He wasn’t sure that he wanted to leave his hidden village anymore, but he also didn’t want to return when certain people were present, and the Third Kazekage was unlikely to leave Suna anytime soon.
He did not like the path his thoughts were taking him.
“Why the color differences?” he asked Oyubi, searching for anything that could distract him from his thoughts.
“What color differences?”
“In the markings.” Sasori traced his own bare cheek, not looking over his shoulder at his Inuzuka companion. “Tsume’s are red, Shinchuu’s are amber, and yours are purple. What is the significance of the colors?”
Oyubi didn’t reply immediately, as if considering how much she should share on the inner-clan workings.
“Is it a Clan secret?”
“Not particularly. I’ve just never really thought of how to explain it. The colors are important designations. I know some outsiders to the clan would say they’re caste markings, but caste has nothing to do with it.”
Thinking of the differences between Fuuko and Shinchuu, he said, “Surely not rank, either.”
“No. It’s more like a personality, if you would, although human personalities cannot be distilled into single definitions.”
Sasori willingly conceded that humans, except those whom he knew to be shallow morons, tended to be complex and layered.
“Different personalities lend to different ideas and personal levels of territory, I guess you could say, and because we’re so closely linked to our ninken, my ancestors figured they should just designate who had stronger senses of territory than others in our clan, so we could figure out how to cooperate and get along without tearing each other up over who got to claim dominion.”
“Crimson for clan leader then.” Tsume was the Head of her clan, and her sense of territory was so strong that she apparently decided that if a lonely dragon barreled into her personal bubble of space, she was going to lay claim over it. That actually made a startling amount of sense and clarified so much confusion that lingered still on why Tsume insisted that Sasori and Nessie were hers, and why no one really argued her sense of ownership. And here he had thought it was because you couldn’t argue with stubborn idiocy and hope to win, especially when paired with such a fierce maternal instinct.
“Yes, but not just the Clan Head. Crimson for alphas. Alphas are the most territorial and most protective. If Tsume doesn’t have any offspring who are alphas, then the Headship will pass on to the next alpha; there are currently three other alphas, but most of them are still young children. The betas are followers who prefer to relinquish to someone stronger than them, although they’re just as protective of their personal claims of ownership. They’re designated with the amber.”

“And the purple?”
“Gammas. It used to be a theory in the clan that gammas were defective alphas, because their personal idea of territory is small – it doesn’t encompass the entire clan, the way that alphas do – but they do not relinquish or concede their claims to alphas without putting up a fight. Our submission to our Clan Head is necessary in deference to clan tradition. A clan divided and weakened by infighting cannot stand tall and strong against those who would conquer us. The alpha respects us and works with us and our territorial claim, and we respect the alpha.”
Sasori was silent a few minutes longer as they crossed the streets and bypassed groups of people as he absorbed this information and applied it to what he had seen and what Tsume had told him. “Tsume told me that you’re her Second,” he said. “Why would you be Second in the Clan if your territory doesn’t include the entire clan?”
Oyubi’s answering laugh was soft, silky, and made the hair on the back of Sasori’s neck stand on end. “Because,” she whispered in his ear, a cold, sharp warning that indicated where she had aimed her ferocious sense of territory and what she would do to protect it, “Tsume is mine.”oOoOoOo
In the days leading up to his surgery, Sasori was busy with hitting up multiple craft shops – he had them send the bills for tools and materials to the hospital, once he had bullied Dr Kusari into signing off on written permission giving Sasori an unlimited (“but reasonable, Sasori-san”) budget for tools and supplies – and crafting different blueprints for different prosthetics, since he would need at least a week off from his osteointegration surgery and reconstruction, but wanted to make sure everything was in place to immediately get started after that week.
Because the titanium rods would need to be drilled into his tibia’s bone marrow, it required time to heal securely and without complications before he could even try walking on the prosthetics. It would be at least a month before that could happen, but realistically closer to six weeks as his medical team wouldn’t be using the Mystic Palm to promote healing on the internal rods. Sasori wanted to make sure his prosthetics were completed to his exacting perfection before then. He also managed to coax Yamato into growing the iron wood trimmings from his mother’s puppet into thicker, longer limbs that he could use as a frame to construct the frame of Shisui’s initial dragonfly puppet, as well as for the bones of his own prosthetics. Time being of essence, Sasori decided that there was nothing stopping him from showing Shisui the basics of puppet crafting while he improved his skill and control. (Blasted little savant had successfully managed to independently move three objects, although it required five chakra threads to keep them steady.)
The morning of his surgery, in the preoperative room, Tsume and Hana sat with Sasori. “I’ll be here for you,” Tsume assured Sasori. “No matter what happens, no matter how long it takes, I’ll be right there beside you when you wake up.”
“Do not storm the operating room,” Sasori sternly warned her, just as the orderlies wheeled him away. “That’s a sterile field!”oOoOoOo

Sasori was dimly aware of his grandmother’s presence as the anesthesia wore off, the chakra signature that was so intimate to his own that he could find her in a crowded festival without the use of his chakra threads. (When… when did she arrive in Konoha? While he was in his surgery, or sometime before? Did she only now make an appearance because he was too weak to fight her?) But the IV morphine to manage the pain from his reconstructive surgery for his stumps was doing a marvelous job at making him blissfully free of discomfort, so he felt floaty, light, relaxed, and only a flash of irritation at her presence, instead of the usual burning hatred and resentment.
“Hello, grandson.” He felt her withered hand trace his own.
It was easy to ignore her, and drift away once more, into the awaiting arms of darkness.
The next time he came to, more aware of his surroundings as well as the persistent burning, stinging, blue-white heat of pain in his stumps and his thighs, he found the deceitful old hag, seated to his left, having a silent stare-down with a breastfeeding hedgehog, seated to his right, squished into a chair that she was sharing with Komushi.
Sasori was initially distracted by the get-well blooming bouquet of pale pink oleander, deep purple foxglove, white water hemlock, and baby blue hydrangea, all interspersed with the deep green leaves and bright red berries of bitter nightshade, that sat center on the rolling table that someone had pushed over his bed. On one side of the bouquet was a vomit basin, and on the other side, a complimentary box of Kleenex that was already open, one tissue jutting upward in the air.
He figured the bouquet had to be Tsume’s work. His grandmother never would’ve added gigantic peppermint sticks – not because she wouldn’t mix food and poisons together (she would; she had, in fact, and claimed it was to help him build “a natural immunity”), but because she never let Sasori have candy.
The bouquet was delightfully toxic and artfully arranged – truly a magnificent work of art, fleeting as the plants’ existence would be, as they would soon wither and rot away. (He immediately concocted plans to harvest and extract the deadly toxins and compounds, waste not want not and all that. Tsume was very thoughtful to slip him the building blocks he needed for his puppets’ poisons. Also, a good teaching lesson for Shisui.)
He ignored Chiyo as he turned to Tsume. “You’re probably on a list somewhere after getting that from a local flower shop.”
She pouted. “You might say I would’ve been blacklisted from the Yamanaka customer base on ‘the general account of being a dangerous menace to society,’” she added quotation marks with her fingers, “if I hadn’t explained that the bouquet was for you. I think the only reason Inoichi put them together is that he’s hoping I would’ve slipped everything into a salad for your lunch.”

Sasori had enough immunity from Chiyo over the years that nothing in the bouquet would’ve truly done anything.
Chiyo cleared her throat. “I traveled four hundred kilometers to get here, and I have something to say before I take my rest. I don’t need an audience for my grandson.”
Sasori secured Tsume in place in her chair with a stuttering set of chakra threads (damn anesthesia), and sneered at Chiyo. “Anything you have to say, you’re going to say right here and now. I don’t trust you.” He wanted to think that he couldn’t trust Tsume any further than he could throw her, but a) he could toss people pretty far with his chakra threads, and b) Tsume had proven that she said what she meant, and she meant what she said, especially when she had solemnly told him that she only wanted what was best for him – not Suna, not Konoha, not her. Just him. And the truth was… he did trust Tsume. He trusted her further than he could throw her, even in those moments when he was annoyed and just wanted her to leave him alone, and was therefore motivated to toss her as far away as possible. (He didn’t, because Tsume would just come barreling back into his personal space.)
Chiyo was silent for a moment, eyeing Tsume, and then agreed with a jerky nod of her head. “Very well.” She kicked her feet, which dangled in the air from the height of her seated chair, and tucked her hands into her sleeves. She looked aged and wrinkled, like a dried-up raisin. Ironic, given how raisins had proven to be a hidden toxin that Sasori’s immune system reacted violently against. (Maybe that’s why he was allergic to raisins…) “I know that you probably think that whatever I tell you in private would be different from what I’d tell you in front of an audience, but I promise you – for all the little you may value any promises from me – that it’s not. I’ve had more than four months, boy, ever since you grave-robbed Komushi’s body, to forcefully look at my feelings and actions, and crystalize them into words, and four hundred kilometers to compose them in my brain.”
And despite four months and four hundred kilometers, Chiyo visibly hesitated. With a sigh, she reached out and rubbed a glossy oleander leaf between her fingertips. Her hand was steady. “Poison. Venom. Toxin. They all weaken and destroy the human body. But like anything else, the dose is what makes the poison. In large doses, any and all of these plants kill you outright. In small, careful, controlled doses, they build immunity and strength. Some of these plants may even treat certain diseases and conditions, like the nightshade and the foxglove. Lies are just another source of poison, venom, toxin. Whatever you want to call lies or how you feel about them, it matters not.
“But unlike the body, what lies weaken and destroy is something immortal and indelible – the soul. I thought I was building immunity and strength with the lies I fed you. I thought they would strengthen you. All that time, I thought I was treating the diseased loneliness and pain caused by your parents’ absence. But the dose makes the poison, and the more lies I fed you, the more deceptive letters I wrote, the more I weakened your soul, until I think I very nearly destroyed it.”
Fat tears rolled down his grandmother’s leathery face and hung, suspended for a moment from a drooping jowl, and then fell to splash onto her dark tunic. She forged onward without wiping them away. Grandmother was an ugly crier. And so was Tsume who, still a victim of her hormones, started sniffing and half-choking to keep her sobs quiet. “And even if I didn’t destroy your soul, I poisoned something that is so fragile, that once broken, you can’t sweep up the jagged pieces and glue them back together. I destroyed your trust. And I am so very sorry, my boy.
“Four months and four hundred kilometers, and I still haven’t found the words to adequately convey how absolutely sorry I am to have done that to you, because words are meaningless and useless when it comes to broken trust. And whether you choose to believe me – as unlikely as I know that is – this is the truth, the same truth I would’ve told you without an audience. I won’t ask you for your forgiveness. I don’t expect it. That would be pointless, because my betrayal was too deep, too long. But I needed to say it, and you needed to hear it. Regardless of anything else. Thank you for giving this old woman the chance to say my piece.” She blew her nose with a loud honk into a tissue. “I’ll… I’ll take my leave now.”
Chiyo did not leave Sasori and Tsume in silence. Tsume was a little too loud and a little too energetic, even with her crying, but at least Tsume didn’t say anything.
After too much time spent organizing his thoughts and considering Chiyo’s words in light of the lingering anesthesia that was clogged his brain, Sasori tapped the vase of his get-well bouquet pointedly. “Her apology is like your bouquet,” he told Tsume. “Sweetened and artfully arranged, and every bit as deadly.”
Tsume managed to choke back her sobs. “Stop it, Sasori. I put that together because I think you’re beautiful even with all your toxic moods, and I added the candy because you’re also sweet and deserve to have nice things that won’t kill you.”
Well, that was… surprisingly nuanced of Tsume. Straightforward with half-decent symbolism, but the message once conveyed couldn’t be misconstrued for anything else.
Except for one problem. “When have I ever been sweet to you?”
Tsume scrubbed at her nose. “Y-you never made fun of me for the raisins.”
That was largely because he had half-expected Kagami to use his Sharingan if Sasori did that. “I’ve always thought of you as a moron.”
“You think everyone is a moron, except for Shisui, and you treated me the same as everyone else, regardless of whether or not they are actual morons who belong in my category. It was nice to be lumped in with normal people, you know?”
“I… I’m still going to turn you into a puppet.”
Tsume petted her short hedgehog hair as a dreamy look crossed her face. “With beautiful red hair.”

Sasori floundered. “But what about when I called you a monster?”
“When did you do that?”
“When you collected an extinct species.” He barely refrained from calling her a moron.
“Oh, that.” Tsume beamed through her tears. “That was the sweetest of all, calling me a monster of a mother! I always wanted to be known as a mother who would stop at nothing at protecting her young.”
This was getting far too uncomfortable, to realize that Tsume had been casting Sasori’s vicious pettiness in such a positive light. His moronic, naïve, simpleton Tsume who thought he was beautiful and sweet and also a bit toxic, who had simply decided that she was going to love him for who he was, and not what he could offer her (which, at the time, was nothing more than a miserable fate with her soul trapped inside a puppet).
Aaaaaand if he continued thinking about that, he was probably going to start crying with her. He changed the subject. “I would’ve thought the old bag would come up with something better. She had four months and four hundred kilometers, after all.”
“Do you know what the last thing my grandmother said to me?” Tsume wiped her eyes and nose with one of the complimentary Kleenexes from Sasori’s box. “I was twelve years old in Earth, doing some recon with her, when Grandmother and I got ambushed by a bunch of Iwa nin. She abandoned me like a useless piece of furniture, and the Iwa nin, well… The Inuzuka olfaction isn’t a bloodline limit. It is a dominant trait, one that’s inherited by our children. And the Inuzuka are prized for our tracking skills because of our olfaction, and what better breeding bitch can you find than a twelve-year-old girl, just at the beginnings of her fertility years? Four months I endured, thinking that this was all I had to look forward to, even when I was… it was horrible.
“Night after night. It was brutal, it was painful, because there’s a sizeable difference between grown men and a half-sized preteen runt. I didn’t have shoes, I barely had any clothes. But I endured. I clung to the memories of people I knew who wouldn’t have abandoned me – Sakumo, Kushina-chan and Kokoro-chan, Kakashi, Oyubi and Aunt Natsumi, my own sister, and all I could do was hope that they would remember me. When Danzo stumbled across me, up in Earth doing his own recon, he yanked me out of that situation faster than Mooncalf’s Hiraishin. And then he proceeded to drag me barefoot across four countries in the middle of winter with my broken hand. But that’s a different story.” She hesitated a moment, her face twisting into a thoughtful frown. “And I think you don’t have the clearance, so forget I said anything about that being a different story. Actually, forget about me being abandoned in Earth. I think that’s outside your clearance level, too.”
Fat chance with his eidetic memory. (This personal history explained her comment to Kokoro and Kushina when she decided to sponge bath Sasori after his feet were lopped off about someone needing to clean her up night after night when she was twelve years old. And Danzo’s full-body flinch when Tsume reminded him that she had learned about sex the hard way. With every layer he saw beneath Tsume’s loud and boisterous exterior, the more he realized she was a complex human being.)
“And in those four months while I was gone, my sister was killed and my grandmother was gravely wounded, because that’s the Second War for you. Grandmother was just about dead when Danzo and I finally made it back. I barely got to say goodbye to her, and the only reason I did that, after her abandonment and after going through four months of so much pain, was because other people insisted that I do it while I still had the chance. I didn’t have four months to think about the things I wanted to tell her, just the two weeks of travel with Danzo – that I wasn’t a worthless meat shield, that I was strong enough to survive, and I had been useful, and I had helped save people. And you know what she told me after I told her that? Do you know what one of the last things she ever said to me before she died, just minutes after I showed up?”
Tsume paused a moment and actually gave Sasori a chance to respond. He didn’t, staring instead at the oleander and foxglove blossoms and those ridiculous peppermint sticks. “She said…” Tsume choked for a moment, her throat clogged with a pain that was every bit as raw and as fresh as the day it branded across her soul, scoured so deep that even her poor memory could never forget, “She said, why does the wrong granddaughter live? I used to matter to my grandmother, but I stopped mattering the day I was no longer any use to her, the day my brain got shredded into mush and important functions went all wonky or just died outright. I became an embarrassment, a useless meat shield, a waste of space, a simpleton. She resented me. She hated me. Her opinion didn’t change even a single bit upon her deathbed. It still hurts even years after her ashes were scattered to the wind. This was the last thing she did to me!” Tsume yanked back her short sleeve to reveal the thick scars on her upper left arm. “My other hand was already broken! Every bone! And she did this to me with the last bits of her strength, trying to take me down with her!
“And you.” Tsume took a ragged breath. “You have a chance to turn that all around, to purge yourself of the toxins. You’re worth it, Sasori. You’re worth being loved and cared for, to let yourself heal from all that hurt and poison, to have the relationship that you miss so badly. My grandmother made me think that I wasn’t worth it, and no matter what everyone else says to me, no matter how hard they try to prove it, her voice is still there in the background, telling me that I’m not worth it.” She sniffled again. “I would give anything to have had that old relationship back, from before my brain injury.”

(And this was what Kagami had meant that the human spirit was far more fragile than a pottery vessel, that sometimes it was broken beyond any remake and repair. Those bits of Tsume that had been shattered under her guardian’s bitter disregard would never be reknit with veins of gold. It was… it was heartbreaking, Sasori decided, feeling like he should give Tsume a hug.)
(His arms remained slack in his lap.)
Tsume took a deep breath and forged onward. “The only way you’re going to value yourself well enough to think you’re worth healing is to see it proven by the one who hurt you so badly in the first place, I think. Maybe I’m wrong about that. I don’t know.” She glared through her tears. “But if you squander this opportunity, I will dog you for the rest of your life and smother you with love and care, until you have no choice but to accept it.” And then, dabbing at her nose and eyes, she made her departure without giving Sasori a chance to respond. She left Komushi behind.
The air felt stifling. He sent ribbons of chakra threads across the room to open the window. A cool spring wind made the soft aqua-blue curtains sway.

As much as he had found common ground with Tsume in discovering that they had both been raised by deceitful guardians, Sasori had to admit there was a difference – a very large, wide distance – in motives. They had both been twelve years old, stranded in countries far away from their homes, left to stew in loneliness, resentment, and questions, rendered vulnerable by their injuries, and both left without footwear. But Sasori had been protected from the very start of his journey – he hadn’t been abandoned, as Tsume had come after him time and time again, rescuing him from foreign nin, attacking dragons, and even himself when he had neglected his stumps.
And while Sasori had buried himself in bitterness after deceit and betrayal, choosing to hurt others before they could hurt him first, Tsume instead chose to embrace and care for others so they would never have to endure what she suffered.
That, Sasori realized, was the difference between feeding the white wolf versus the black wolf.
He very much doubted that his grandmother would abandon him at the first sight of trouble and then leave him vulnerable in the hands of brutal, amoral men.
(The first step to trust is honesty, Komushi whispered in Sasori’s mind. You need to be honest with yourself, if you ever hope to trust yourself again.)
Okay, then. Chiyo hadn’t abandoned Sasori, not even once. She had found him in the crypts screaming his grief at Komushi and had tried to pull him away from the precipice, and she had sent that letter to the Hokage without any prompting. She had traveled four hundred kilometers through active war zones to be there for him even though she would’ve served Suna better to remain, even though she knew how much Sasori resented her.
His grandmother was very different from Tsume’s grandmother.
Sasori traced the same oleander leaf that Grandmother had rubbed through her fingers. “You already smothered me,” he told the bouquet. “And I think… I know I already accepted your love and care, Tsume.” But it would be up to his grandmother to continue gathering together the broken pieces of trust and applying the veins of gold.
Sasori was willing to let her try.
He could… he could meet her halfway.
In his mind’s eye, Komushi smiled at him.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

His grandmother’s presence clawed at his nerves, and the glucosteriods he had to take after the osteointegration only decreased his already limited threshold for nonsense. (Sasori had already apologized twice to Tsume for snapping at her. She merely sniffed and told him that she wasn’t going to take anything he said personally when he was under the influence of hormones, especially steroids.) Chiyo never said anything when she showed up at his hospital room, and Sasori never made any attempts to address or acknowledge her. Chiyo always showed up between three and four PM, and would stay precisely two hours before taking her silent leave. She had brought her knitting*, and spent the daily two hour visit in silence, working on a pair of green tube socks – odd ones, Sasori decided, eyeballing the fabric on her needles discreetly as the physical therapist worked with him on legs lifts and gentle stretches that wouldn’t pull on his skin grafts or the glued incisions on his thighs where the skin grafts and adipose tissue had been removed. Grandmother usually worked on the toes and shaped the ankle, knitting socks from the bottom-up, but she appeared to be working this time from the top-down.

To prevent any jarring or dislodging of the endoskeletal rods while they were healing securely in place, a hollow cap was fitted over his stumps and rods that were removed thrice daily for checking his skin grafts. The Mystic Palm ensured that the surgically repaired tissues and adipose transplant healed without complications a little faster than normal. None of the treatments or the surgery itself made any difference to his itchy big left toe.
“I dunno,” said Tsume on his fifth day in the hospital, sneaking in contraband food that actually tasted like heaven compared to the hospital food (Sasori was positive that Nara had lied to him when he said that the food was standard and served to everyone not on any dietary restrictions; surely someone in the kitchen was looking to torture him with bland mush out of vengeance for a family member dying during the Second War in the hands of a Suna nin). “Have you tried scratching your left thumb** and seeing if that helps the itchy big left toe?”
Sasori stared at her like she had lost her mind, and Chiyo huffed a sigh, as if considering ways to impale Tsume with her knitting needles. (Sasori knew for a fact that the knitting needles were hollow to store poison, and he really didn’t want Chiyo to stab Tsume.) “How is scratching my left thumb going to help my phantom toe?”
“Well, it’s like when I scratch Kuromaru’s belly just right, and his leg jumps like he’s trying to scratch himself, but those nerves on his belly aren’t by his legs. At least, I don’t think they are. I only went by the human anatomy chart, but I’m assuming as a mammal it’s kinda the same for canines. Anyway, I think you should try hijacking the sensation. Thumbs match up to big toes, right? So, if you scratch your thumb, maybe it’ll match with your itchy toe?”
Sasori flung his food at Tsume – the bland hospital crap, not the good stuff that she brought. She deftly caught the bowl of soup one-handed without it spilling everywhere, and sniffed it. “Isn’t this supposed to be miso? Man, someone was sure skimpy on the bonito flakes and dashi. No amount of extra green onions is going to make up for that.”
Tsume drank the soup and breastfed at the same time, complaining about the flavor and what she would’ve done differently, and Sasori enjoyed every bite of the seafood ramen she brought. Then Tsume ate his hospital gyodon and complained about the beef being so overcooked that she nearly mistook it for shoe leather. “Needs more soy sauce,” she declared around a finger, trying to dislodge a sliver of overcooked meat caught between her molars.
Once the food had been consumed, Tsume stored her dishes away in her sealing scroll, which was then tucked into Hana’s diaper bag, just before an orderly came into Sasori’s room with another round of glucosteriods.
“Ah, good to see your appetite is improving!” the orderly told Sasori in such a perky voice that Sasori wanted to rip out her larynx. After she had cleared away the dishes, Tsume snuck Sasori some dango and left. They were also delicious despite being almost cloyingly sweet, but Sasori, having thoroughly read everything on the side effects of his medication, knew that the steroids had turned him into a breastfeeding woman desperate to eat anything that wasn’t tasteless mush.oOoOoOo
Tsume had promised that she would be escorting him back to the Inuzuka Clan Compound the day he was discharged (still wearing the stump caps), but Kakashi greeted him instead with a large umbrella under his arm and said he was here to take Tsume’s place.
“You’re late,” Sasori said, impatient, glaring over his deadly bouquet that was nestled safely in his lap. (He had already eaten the peppermint sticks that Tsume had included, and he enjoyed the flavor.)
“Aunt Tsume has to hunt down some emergency sheep,” Kakashi replied with a sideways glance at Chiyo, who sat in the waiting room’s chair next to Sasori. She glowered at Kakashi, immediately recognizing who he was by way of his sire, grip tightening white-knuckled momentarily on her knitting needles before she forced herself to relax.
“Sheep are important.” Sasori was graciously willing to allow that feeding a hungry Nessie took precedence over escorting him in a timely manner back to the clan compound. He would’ve gone ahead without waiting around for Tsume to eventually show up, but it was raining outside. He was glad that Kakashi thought of bringing the umbrella, which he accepted.
Grandmother packed up her knitting supplies and followed along.
Standing outside with the umbrella open above Sasori and angled backwards to cover Wheelchair Minion in addition to himself, Sasori glared at Chiyo and addressed her for the first time since his surgery. “What are you doing?”
“I’m coming with you,” Chiyo replied. “The Hokage gave me permission to go anywhere that you’re at.”
Sasori glared at her, and then looked at Kakashi. “If she isn’t invited, doesn’t that fly in the face of clan sovereignty?” Is it wise for Grandmother to know about Yamato?
Kakashi looked from Chiyo to Sasori and back again. “I’m not sure how comfortable I feel getting stuck between you two in an argument and a powerplay. You know where I sleep, and she has weaponized knitting needles.” That is Tsume’s responsibility; I’m keeping out of this one.
Well, Kakashi’s nose just confirmed that Suna’s Poison Queen had filled her needles with her favored poisons.
“Besides,” Kakashi added as he resumed pushing Sasori, “you’ll be staying with Aunt Natsumi until Tsume is done with her sheep run. Aunt Natsumi will keep Chiyo in line.” Chiyo didn’t bother squeezing under the umbrella.
“Are you sure about that?” Sasori muttered resentfully. It was apropos that the gloomy skies and drizzling rain matched his mood, made worse by drugs and his itchy left big toe. On a whim, he scratched his left thumb where Chiyo couldn’t see.
Huh. It actually worked.
The rain had started yesterday, and while it was much gentler than Wind’s monsoons, the steady drizzle had turned the dirt streets into slippery mud that coated his wheels, and the footwear of his companions. The Inuzuka compound was even worse, in consideration to how rain couldn’t stop a bunch of hyperactive children and their ninken puppies from turning the ground into churned mud pits and dung.
Kakashi pushed Sasori across the compound to a relatively small house near the far side of the compound. He eyed the wheelchair’s mud-packed wheels as they parked under the porch’s roofline where it was dry.
“Aunt Natsumi will have a fit if we tread mud in her home,” he said. “I can go find San or Shi. I know they’re around.”
Sasori shook his head, and used his chakra threads to attach to the sturdy roof and lifted himself up. “No need.”
Kakashi shrugged. “All right.” He knocked on the front door, and then entered without receiving any confirmation of anyone being home or welcoming to visitors. “Aunt Natsumi, we’re here.” He slipped out of his footwear as Sasori swung past him and into a comfortably squishy recliner in front of an unlit fireplace. The main entrance opened directly into a room that was half sitting room and half kitchen. Like Tsume, Inuzuka Natsumi’s kitchen furniture was higher off the ground, but her recliner and sofa were torn from careless claws and covered with a thick layer of shed fur. Sasori sneezed at the same time there was a clatter behind the closed door in the living room.
“I’m coming, I’m coming.” There was another clatter as Kakashi dragged a kitchen chair over to Sasori’s recliner, and nodded to Chiyo to indicate she could sit there. The kitchen chair was taller than the couch, and Chiyo’s legs hung, swinging, as she seated herself. Grandmother had always been ridiculously short, proud of how she was precisely “a meter and a half, not a centimeter less”, even as declining age shrunk her spine and, therefore, reduced her height to less than a meter and a half.
Kakashi retrieved another kitchen chair and set it in front of Sasori. With another clatter and some rustling of paper, the closed door swung open, and Sasori set his eyes on Inuzuka Natsumi for the first time.
She was… he wasn’t sure what he expected, but this wasn’t it. He knew that she was almost ninety years old, and had expected an ancient crone half-bent over with every joint knobby and swollen from arthritis, covered in wrinkles and liver spots just like his grandmother. What he saw was the tallest woman (not including Nessie) he had ever seen, straight with no bend in her spine and her joints smooth. She only had a few wrinkles at the corner of her eyes and around her mouth, and while her skin sagged at her jawline and her forehead was heavily scarred from what was likely a catastrophic head injury, the only true marks of her age were her waist-length tangled locks of silver hair half-covered with a scarlet scarf and the pair of wireframe glasses perched on her nose. She wore a sky-blue yukata that was too short for her, secured in place with an obi the same color as her scarf. She was also draped in three different crocheted shawls of different patterns and colors.
“You’re late,” she grumbled around her armful of scrolls.
“That’s his fault,” Sasori replied, pointing at Kakashi.
Natsumi’s face was free of any Inuzuka clan markings. She glared at Kakashi. “Why are you here and not Tsume?” Her voice was firm and youthful. And loud. Maybe her hearing went with her vision?
“Emergency sheep run.”
“Why, the three pigs and two cows weren’t enough?”
Kakashi deliberately pointed at Chiyo. “You know how Aunt Tsume is. If you’re not full enough to move, you haven’t had enough food. She’s planning on a feast tonight.”
“Well, that’s fine then, I suppose.”
Kakashi sat on the couch, picking loose bits of stuffing from one of the tears while Natsumi sat in front of Sasori. “So.” She shoved her glasses further up her nose and leaned forward to study Sasori. “You are Tsume’s latest human acquisition.”
“Akasuna no Sasori.” He steepled his fingers in front of himself, and bowed deeply, displaying the back of his neck.
Chiyo’s breath sucked in sharply, like she wanted to thump him for his audacity. Natsumi squinted suspiciously, knowing that there was significance in Sasori’s greeting, but unsure of what it meant. She briefly looked at Chiyo, whose face was burning red with indignation, and grinned sharply. “Didn’t like that, did you?” she asked. “And you would be?”
Chiyo’s hands fisted at her sides, her bag of knitting unopened while it sat on her lap, although a knitting needle’s knobbed end poked through, well within her quick reach. “I am Chiyo, Poison Queen.”
Evidently, the name and title meant very little to Natsumi, as she attempted to remember where she had heard the name before, and failed. “Huh.” Natsumi splayed a hand flat over her chest as her grin grew, flashing teeth like a predator delighted to play with prey. “Inuzuka Natsumi, Queen of Summons.”
They stared at each other, one who was outraged with her grandson, and the other clearly enjoying her outrage.
Kakashi coughed. “Is this the female version of a dick-measuring contest?”
Natsumi slipped off a house shoe and threw it at Kakashi. He twitched his head, dodging her projectile with minimal effort. “You brat. Two alphas, regardless of sex, need time to measure each other. This,” she added with a sneer at Chiyo, “is my territory. You try any of your fancy-pants poisons on me, and I will squash you with a whale.”
Sasori could believe that.
“You may find my poisons faster than your summons,” Chiyo replied, her voice steady, but gravely with age despite being thirty years younger.
Natsumi raised her hand, held it still for a moment, and then summoned golden chakra. The same golden chakra as Uzumaki Kushina. “Oh, you’ll find that poisons aren’t so effective on me.”
Chiyo grunted. “Challenge accepted.”
Rather than taking it as a threat, Natsumi barked with laughter. “Oh, a Poison Queen would do that. Yes,” she wagged her finger, “you and I will get along just fine.”

Chiyo grinned in response, the tense lines in her body easing.
Fuck me, Sasori thought, horrified with the idea of his grandmother and Tsume’s crazy, delusional aunt getting along like a house in fire. (One look at Kakashi indicated that Kakashi also shared in Sasori’s horror. With a single, wordless, shared glance, they vowed together to keep the two women as far apart from each other as possible.)
Natsumi turned back to Sasori. “So, summons. Tsume told me that you’ve seen two of her own. I can feel that you’re unbonded, but given your current condition,” Natsumi didn’t even look at Sasori’s stumps, keeping her gaze pinned on his face, “you’re in no condition to obtain your own guardian, and Tsume wants you to have something to protect yourself with. What are the chances of you being gifted a summon in your future?”
Sasori didn’t even look at Chiyo. “My uncle has the scorpion summon. That’s a possibility.” A very low possibility. His father had signed the scorpion summon when he became jounin, and Sasori had expected the same. Unfortunately, with the timing of his return with Komushi, his newly appointed jounin title and the supply mission to a sabotaged oasis, it had never worked out. Sasori had no idea if Uncle Ebizo had been waiting for a special sort of ceremony, or if he had also been concerned with Sasori the same way that the Kazekage had been concerned.
He knew now that the weasel summon wasn’t realistic, and probably never had been.
“Mmm. Contrary to most common beliefs, you can hold more than one summon. So long as you sign them different ways – never in the same way, boy, never in the same way. Each summons demands a unique relationship with you, and for some reason, they determine that with how you sign the scroll. You can sign one with your left hand, the other with your right hand, upside down on your head, hopping around in a circle on one foot, whatever. So long as it’s never signed the same way.”
Sasori refused to entertain the notion of trying to sign a summon scroll while hopping around on one prosthetic foot.
Natsumi rubbed her chin as a greedy gleam appeared in her bright blue eyes. “I don’t have a scorpion summon. Would you be willing to accept an exchange?”
“No!” Chiyo yelled.
Natsumi flapped her hand at Chiyo, as if she was an annoying fly she was trying to shoo away. “You’re unbonded, too. You don’t get to dictate something you don’t own.”
Sasori knew that Chiyo hadn’t signed the scorpion scroll, because, in Ebizo’s words, she was female. Sasori wasn’t sure if that was a cultural thing in Suna, or if that was a choice of the scorpion summon.
“Now,” Natsumi spread her armful of scrolls on her lap. “Per Tsume’s order, as she’s my heir and my clan head and my alpha, I’ve been directed to allow you to sign a summon. However, I am willing to give you two summon contracts, in exchange for allowing me to sign the scorpion summon if you ever get the opportunity.”
Ebizo had stood by, complacent, while Chiyo wrote the deceitful letters. Ebizo may have disapproved of the letters (Sasori didn’t know; Ebizo never said), but he was always too passive to Chiyo’s whims and choices. Sasori wasn’t even comfortable assuming that he would eventually be allowed to sign the scorpion scroll.
“I cannot promise you something I don’t have,” he said, knowing that to even imply that he would if he could, may mean that Chiyo would make Ebizo swear to never allow Sasori to sign the scorpion scroll if she was feeling petty. (And she would; Sasori had inherited Chiyo’s pettiness. Also, he still didn’t know if being female was something that would offend the scorpions… not that such would prove to be a barrier for someone like Natsumi, with her reputation of single-mindedly mowing down any obstacle she felt was in her way.)
Natsumi shrugged. “Fair enough. But should you ever get it, you know where to find me. Here’s what I feel is most appropriate for you, but if there’s some sort of creature you’re interested in and I have such, let me know, I do have quite the collection.” It would be pointless to call herself the Queen of Summons if she only had a small collection. One by one, Natsumi plucked the scrolls out of her lap, and handed them over to Sasori. “Rats: the big ones are vicious, little ones are great for sneaking around. Did you know what wherever humans are, rats are? Perfect for ninja subterfuge. Vicious bite that will go through concrete and steel like butter. Ox: always a crowd pleaser, or maybe not, if you’re the actual crowd they might have to barrel through. Got a beef with a china shop? The ox has got you covered; great strength and stamina. Stubborn as a boar, though. Speaking of which, boar: also stubborn. Will eat anything, and I do mean anything, so if you want to dispose of a corpse, they will love you forever.”

Natsumi considered for a moment, her gaze going distant. “Well, the person you’re trying to dispose doesn’t even need to be a corpse. Their olfaction is also as good as a dog’s, but do yourself a favor and never go truffle hunting with them. Tiger: fierce, proud, apex predator, very soft and squishy, rather pointy when you try to scratch their bellies, though. Rabbit: now, don’t assume that being a soft herbivore prey animal means that this would be a useless summon. They are fast and they kick like a bitch, and cover a faster distance than a horse. Snake: a bit temperamental, excellent source of various venoms, but they do tend to require far too many negotiations, even the little ones, so while they might be the most theoretically fitting for a Suna nin, they’re not very suitable for beginners. Also, I don’t recommend them in general because I finagled this sucker from Orochimaru.”
Natsumi was clearly providing Sasori a theme of Zodiac animals, and had reluctantly included the snakes just to fit with the theme. Her next scroll proved it.
“Dragons: well, raiton dragons, to be precise. The downside to them is they require massive amounts of chakra to successfully summon, and you…” Natsumi reached over and poked Sasori in the stomach. “Well, without a tailed beast or decent Uzumaki levels, this is best used by a chakra juggernaut, and while you’ll have decent levels once you reach your stride, I suspect it will never be a viable possibility for you if you’re in a real pinch with low chakra levels.”
Which would ultimately explain why Tsume had gone for the gouka inugami, if chakra levels were a deciding factor.
“Horse: swift, speedy, strong, intelligent. They may be herbivores, but they’re hardly prey animals. Well, you were stuck with Juubi for almost a month, and he’s just a demi-summon. I expect you don’t need me to describe horses. Goats: also stubborn, but extremely maternal. Every time I summon a goat, they try to fatten me up with various cheeses. And if knitting is as much your thing as your grandmother’s, they have the finest wool, bar none. Except maybe the rabbits. Monkey—”
Natsumi’s explanation was cut off by Kakashi’s verbal surprise. “How did you finally get the Hokage to let you sign that?”
Natsumi’s smile was both smug and sly. “Do you think that a measly paper restraint would stop me from inviting the Seven-Tails over for picnics? Nah. I told Hiruzen that if he was going to take away my plaything, he’d have to give me a new toy, or I’d just keep inviting Takumi over.”
That was… huh.
“Anyway, monkeys: clever, clever, clever. Sometimes too clever for their own good. But they’re also one of the few summons I have with opposable thumbs, which is its own blessing. They can fight with weapons as easily as any human, and are just as versatile with ninjutsu. Chickens: the young ones have about two functioning braincells and tend to run at the sight of danger, but they’re supportive in other ways. The older ones are vicious little raptors – ever been chased by a vicious rooster? Vindictive little bastards. And last of all, the dogs: loyal to the end, they are great for tracking, cuddling, defending, and attacking. A great all-rounder.”
“And babysitting,” Kakashi added. “I summoned mine when I was two years old.”
Of course Kakashi would. At the grand old age of two years. (And Sasori had thought Shisui was bullshit. What on earth did Konoha slip into their drinking water to develop such early menaces? Was that part of Orochimaru’s illicit human experimentation?)
Sasori plucked through the different scrolls – most were small and compact, but the dragon and snake scrolls were four times larger and thicker. He wondered if the size of the scroll indicated the power of the summon. He thought of the pros and cons of different summons in different environments, and who would thrive in the deserts around Suna. Rats and monkeys would be the most practical, although horses may adapt best and fit in best due to the nomadic clans. He immediately rejected the notion of rabbits (likely too timid for his personality) and chickens (blasted things were still 99% poop and 1% eggs, and he wasn’t going to change his mind on that, no matter his memories of the jungle fowl in the Land of Swamps). He wanted… he wanted a partnership with his summons, the way his father’s had been, the way Tsume’s were, so snakes – while the best fit, given his poison mastery – were also rejected. Partnerships, like what he had with Komushi, shouldn’t require constant negotiations. If he was going to use his summons in a pinch, he needed a summon that would work with him in the moment. Goats… he was unsure about that, and after Fumiko’s Cheese Fiasco, actually felt his stomach swim at the idea of being presented endless amounts of different cheese.
After weeks of being stuck with Tsume’s ninken, and now surrounded by such as her clan compound, the idea of having dogs could grow on him.
“None of them feel right though,” he muttered. He felt a flash of irritation at being presented so many different options, and being limited to just one (two, if he could sign Ebizo’s scorpion scroll).
“Ah. See, that’s why I’m not a fan of just giving a scroll to sign,” Natsumi said, leaning back into her chair. “It’s tradition, in our clan, to attempt summoning without a scroll. Whatever you manage to summon is considered your guardian – whatever is most fitting of your personality is the one whose plane you are pulled into, and there you go through a series of tests to prove your worthiness to the summon. Given your current condition, you can see why Tsume feels that’s not appropriate for you to attempt a blind summon. Something about how you’re on a tight schedule with your classes, workshop, physical therapy, blah blah blah. I’ll grant you that the missing feet would put a damper on getting through those tests of worthiness.”

Sasori squinted. “So, it is actually possible to summon without a scroll. Why doesn’t everyone try?”
Chiyo made a sound like a tea kettle hitting its boiling point.
Natsumi’s answering smile was vicious. “The problem with blindly reaching out into other dimensions and planes of existence is that you never quite know what reaches back, and that’s assuming you do it right and apply enough chakra to be successful. I was just a small child, way back in prehistoric times before dirt was invented, that sort of thing, when my Aunt Tsume attempted her blind summon. She was a little older than normal, a little more cautious than her sisters. She used enough chakra though, and was successful. Normally, you get reverse-summoned when you make a blind attempt. However, she summoned instead, and it was the Two Tails.” She sighed in fond memory as Sasori shuddered. “That was a very messy affair. We never did find all of Aunt Tsume, and I’m not sure if it’s because so much of her was disintegrated when the Two Tails spit a bijuu ball at her, or if the Two Tails was just hungry.
“So, between that, and there’s no guarantee that you’ll actually successfully summon without a scroll, there are good reasons most don’t encourage blind summons. If that door slams shut on you, all other summons – even physical contracts – will reject you.”
Sasori could understand and appreciate the dangers of attempting to summon without a contract in place. He wondered if accidentally summoning a tailed beast had been a common occurrence before the First Hokage sealed them all into jinchuuriki, and such was why blind summoning had been discouraged and suppressed.
He made a mental note to ask the local historian – Fumiko was likely to know better than anyone else.
“So, Sasori-kun,” Natsumi leaned forward, “what sort of creature do you think would be a decent representation for who you are?”
“Can you give me an example? What was your guardian?”
She grinned and flipped her tangled silver hair over her shoulder. “Whales. Because I am larger than life.” Kakashi snorted at that. “Tsume’s guardians are bears.”
Which, yeah, that was fitting.
Sasori turned his attention inward, and looked at his personal qualities – both good and bad. He was ambitious, determined, and tenacious. He remembered what Namikaze had said. Then he sighed. “Do you have a honey badger summon?”
Natsumi studied him, her eyes narrow. “Hmmm. Interesting choice. Small, stubborn, vicious, persistent, willing to take big risks for big rewards, hostile to outsiders, but also persevere against great odds, highly independent, and thrive with challenges. If that doesn’t describe the Suna nin that Tsume dragged home, I’m not sure what would.” She tapped her chin in thought. “No, I don’t have a honey badger, but I have something that will suit you just fine. Kakashi,” she snapped her fingers at him, “Second set of bookshelves to the left, fourth shelf, third cubby. And take these with you. Just put them on my desk, I’ll sort them out later.” She handed Kakashi the armful of scrolls. Kakashi toddled off, too short to peer over the stack of scrolls in his arms. One fell free, but he caught it with his foot and smoothly kicked it upward to the top of the stack.
He returned with a small scroll tied with a crimson ribbon.
“You’re a sweetheart,” Natsumi said, ruffling his hair affectionately as she accepted the scroll. “Remind me later to tell Sasori all about the time Tsume dressed you up in the most adorable dresses and rib— oh.” Kakashi disappeared with a shunshin before Natsumi could finish talking. “I did that on purpose,” she told Sasori with a wink as she tossed the scroll onto Sasori’s lap. “If you want him to know what you’re gifted with, you can tell him later. Go on, open it.”
There was nothing on the outside of the scroll to indicate what it contracted with. Sasori carefully untied the ribbon, and rolled it out. The scroll felt and moved more like linen, and less like actual parchment. The first thing he saw was the bottom, with signatures of past and present summoners – Tsume’s signature, sloppy in blood that looked fresh, was present, right below Inuzuka Natsumi. At the top, he saw the name of the creature, in the same blood-red color – wolverine. “Really?” he asked, his voice dry.
Natsumi’s face beamed with pride. “You said a honey badger, and the wolverine is just a slightly larger, certainly more aggressive version of that. But don’t take my word for it – they’ll tell you that they’re the superior beast.”
“Aren’t they even more territorial?”
“Yes. Are you saying you aren’t?”
Well, he certainly didn’t like sharing what was his, whether it was his parents with his unborn sister, or Komushi with other people, or his time with the Kazekage, which Rasa all-too-frequently interrupted.
Sasori rubbed Tsume’s signature, and smugly thought Neener neener! at the Kazekage and his weasel summon. It didn’t flake beneath his finger. “How do I sign this?”
“With blood. Blood is the most potent source of chakra. The summon is a contract, in which two parties enter a mutual agreement. They link themselves to each other through the most potent of body fluids – blood, in this case – and chakra, which is inherently in blood. Theoretically, you could use other body fluids, but probably not urine – it doesn’t symbolize life, and it isn’t a viable source of chakra the way that blood is. I’m not the right sort to produce semen, so I’ve never explored that.
You know, now that’s she’s breastfeeding, I should see if Tsume can successfully sign a contract with breast milk.”
That was both fascinating and disturbing. But mostly fascinating. Sasori had never heard anyone so succinctly explain summon contracts the way that Natsumi did. Would semen work? It was both intimate and often mutual… “If a signed contract rejects your signature, can you successfully sign another?”
Natsumi grinned. “Sure.”
“Use your blood,” Chiyo told Sasori sternly, “no semen.” Because she knew Sasori’s scientific inquiries the best out of anyone alive.
(Discussing anything sex-related with Chiyo had given Sasori immunity to embarrassment, as most of the education she had provided over the years was purely biological in nature, dry and clinical… except for that one lecture with corresponding pictures from various medical texts and porno magazines when he and Komushi were ten and twelve, and had both accidentally acquired betrothals with Nadeshiko kunoichi. Komushi, having just entered the hormonal start of puberty and was already expressing interest in similarly-aged girls, had wanted to crawl into a hole somewhere and die during the lecture. He had even attempted such, right in the middle of Chiyo’s kitchen, and Ebizo had to rescue Komushi from his self-inflicted douton funeral.

Sasori hadn’t yet reached that age or those hormonal levels to be embarrassed with the abstract idea of being with girls. Until Chiyo assured him that it was fine if he preferred guys instead, as she wanted to cover all bases with him, she had merely started with the heterosexual education because the Nadeshiko kunoichi were female. Chiyo had the homosexual equivalent already prepared. While same-sex exploration was expected – although not necessarily encouraged – during adolescence, their culture demanded that such exploration be set aside come adulthood with men taking on childbearing wives. Men who refused were frequently shunned and ostracized. Women could publicly have relationships with other women without a loss of their admittedly lesser social standing, so long as there was some sort of man in the background to get them children. In the end, it was always about having offspring, and not allowing relationships to interfere with such duties.

Chiyo assured Sasori that she wouldn’t mind at all if he preferred the male sex anyway and never bothered setting aside exploration. Although great-grandchildren would be nice, so if he could find it in himself to beget or adopt one offspring, that would be just lovely. However, Chiyo would always love and support Sasori for who he was, and not who he wanted to sleep with… Just so long as a potential future boyfriend wasn’t Komushi, because she expected Sasori to have better taste than that. And Chiyo had made Komushi stay for the same-sex education, so that if Sasori determined he was attracted to the same sex, Komushi knew how to support your best friend, you miscreant, this is still not permission for the both of you to experiment with each other.
Komushi and Sasori avoided each other for a whole week after that, too embarrassed and eyeballs seared with far too many erections, ears still ringing with Chiyo’s reminder that if they had to explore with each other, it was still better than the sheep, but only slightly.*** In the end, Komushi was grateful to know that the inexplicable urge to lick the back of a girl’s neck was normal adolescent hormones and not because he was turning into a weird vampire. Sasori had been on a wary lookout ever since for inexplicable urges to lick anyone’s neck, male or female. So far, no neck-licking urges had emerged.)
“You made your own summon contract, with a living person,” Sasori said. “So, essentially, you entered a mutual agreement linked with a body fluid – blood – rich in chakra. What if you slept with a willing person instead of signing the contract? Would that mutual exchange of body fluids bypass the need for a contract signature if you already have the contract in place?” And then another thought entered his mind. “I read a study once that during pregnancy, the fetus DNA via their blood cells enters the mother’s body, and remains there for life.
That’s a powerful blood exchange.”
Natsumi gave Sasori’s questions serious consideration. “That may be possible. I’d have to find someone willing to sleep with me and then try summoning them.”
Per Chiyo’s sex education, Sasori knew that there was always someone ready and willing, somewhere, even if only due to the involvement of alcohol.
“And the theory of being able to summon one’s mother is sound.” Natsumi rubbed her chin. “Mine is long dead, so that wouldn’t work for me.”
“Sounds awkward to me,” said Chiyo, and then made a grand gesture with her hands. “Behold, a personal army of people made from those you’ve fucked. Oh, and then there’s your mom.****”
Natsumi grinned. “Well, put like that, it does sound the premise of a really crude joke.”
Sasori felt like his entire life in the last month and some weeks had been a really crude joke, and decided that would be the end of his scientific inquiry into creating summon contracts – unless Chiyo was nowhere around. “I need a knife,” he said, tapping contract with his index finger.
“Right hand or left?” Natsumi asked. He held up his left hand. Natsumi simply reached over, grasped his hand, and slit the index finger open with the tip of one of her claws, which – ow. They were even more viciously sharp than Tsume’s. Sasori was careful not to drip on the contract as he signed Akasuna no Sasori beneath Inuzuka Tsume. The signature flared lightning blue, just like his chakra threads. He wrapped his bleeding finger in the crimson headscarf that Natsumi offered him, and touched his signature with his other hand. It was dry to the touch.
“There, now you’re bonded. These are the hand seals for a summon. Don’t apply chakra yet.” Natsumi demonstrated the five hand seals – boar, dog, bird, monkey, ram. “Since your hand is already bleeding, you can apply chakra to the seals if you want to meet your summon, or you can wait until later when you don’t have an audience.”
Knowing that Chiyo most likely wanted to see Sasori summon, he opted to wait until he didn’t have an audience.oOoOoOo
The fourth prosthetic workshop class that Sasori taught started out well, now that he had browbeat most of his class into willingly accepting education from a twelve-year-old boy. The first two classes had been strictly theoretical, as he had gone over his plans, explaining the durable materials he preferred to use, educated the attendees on other acceptable materials, why some materials would never be acceptable (too brittle and fragile for conducting chakra or withstanding taijutsu force), the importance of maintaining chakra pathways for shinobi in the prosthetic structure and how,
and then had the engineers draft of their own plans using the preferred or acceptable materials. At the end of his first class, to the engineers who complained that they were going to have to relearn everything they already knew just fine, he used his chakra threads to walk Komushi around, smoothly juggle carving knives, do hand stands and cartwheels around the classroom, and perform a flawless set of range of motion exercises with his left arm and hand. Then he removed Komushi’s prosthetic, and explained its form and function, and reluctantly allowed others to poke, prod, and explore it.
(He ignored the stab in his chest as Shisui patted Fuuko’s arm as she traced Komushi’s prosthetic with her left human fingers, face twisted with a mix of wonder and envy.)
The third class had been reserved for Sasori to bring every single drafted plan to the front of the class for an extensive critique, with only Shisui – by way of his nonexistent art skills – being exempt from creating one. (Sasori was proud of himself for not overtly implying how terrible some of the drafts had been. Only two people had presented anything that was decent, one of whom was Fuuko, who had drafted her plan for a ninken. He couldn’t fault her for such, since that was the ultimate reason she had invited herself.)
The fourth class was spent exploring the different tools that Sasori had selected, why he had chosen them over other tools, and how to use them. The creep of iron sand across the blade of the whittling knife he was demonstrating the hold and angle of alerted Sasori to the oncoming presence of someone he never expected to see outside of Suna.
He brushed the iron sand off, feeling irritated that once again his workshop was going to get contaminated with the fine particles. He handed back the whittling knife and three different thick branches of wood – hawthorn, birch, and ironwood, all procured with the use of Yamato’s kekkai genkai (Tsume was absolutely delighted with Sasori for doing such, happily gushing that showing Yamato that he had a gift instead of a curse was such a sweet thing for Sasori to do. She was so naïve to happily veil Sasori’s selfish manipulation in a generous, benign light). “Do it the way I showed you,” he told the engineer sternly with a pointed look at his other students. “Or not. If you slice off your finger, at least we’re close enough to the emergency room that we wouldn’t have to the toss the finger on ice before a medic reattaches it.”
With a gulp, the engineer repositioned his grips to minimize accidental dismemberment. Sasori wheeled his way up and down the rows of his students, steadfastly ignoring the Third Kazekage standing quietly and at ease next to the closed door, dressed in his usual blue jounin uniform covered with the white Kazekage cloak of office. Sasori corrected and constantly demonstrated the correct holds on their whittling knives. He was having them carve “bones” out of wood, getting the feel of different materials and tools, as shinobi with water and earth chakra natures could channel their chakra through wood more easily than metal. Shinobi with fire and lightning natures could channel better through metal, and wind nature seemed to interact best with silk, but it made for lousy bone structure and thus needed to be threaded through and wrapped around wood. Sasori knew that none of this was known – he had discovered it the hard way with Komushi, and had explored chakra channeling with other Suna nin to verify his findings while working on Komushi’s prosthetic.
Fuuko, by nature of her dominant hand being her prosthetic, struggled the most. He considered her claw for a moment, and then stopped her with his hand on her wooden elbow hinge. “What nature is your chakra?” he asked.
“Wind.”
Without asking permission, Sasori yanked her sleeve up to see where the external prosthetic device attached to her upper arm. Komushi’s endoskeleton prosthetic was for his left arm and thus wasn’t interchangeable. With a sigh, Fuuko held the sleeve back. “It’s a transhumeral external prosthetic powered by muscles.”
Sasori leaned forward and pulled on the neckline of her shirt to peer down at the scapula strap and cable system that secured and controlled the prosthetic. He released her. “Woodcarving is difficult without fine motor control.”
“I’ll overcome, no worries, Sasori-sensei.”
Sasori still didn’t know if he liked being referred to as sensei. “Would you be offended if I made you something a little more capable?”
She went very still, turning her face away from him. He watched the muscles in her neck shift as she swallowed.
He ignored Shisui looking up from his own carving project (given the size of Shisui’s hands, he was using the smaller tools that Sasori had procured specifically for Shisui, with Kagami paying for them). “I would rather feel honored, if it’s only half as good as Komushi’s arm.”

Sasori would never create anything so sloppily; it would be as good as Komushi’s arm, or he wouldn’t make it at all. “Swing by Tsume’s after dinner. I’ll evaluate you there, unless you want to be my human model to demonstrate to these morons how to measure and fit individual prosthetics.” The problem with making individual prosthetics fitted perfectly to the person who would use them was that they couldn’t be mass-produced, which meant that they couldn’t be sold willy-nilly to other countries, which ultimately cut into the hospital’s overall profits. It had been one of the complaints the engineers had lobbed at Sasori during their first introduction, when Sasori had reviewed the first tools and materials he had been expected to work with. Sasori simply told them that while mass-produced prosthetics may be doable for the average civilian, such was unacceptable for shinobi and craftsmen who relied upon their hands or other limbs. (Sasori didn’t think it should be acceptable to leave a fellow craftsperson bereft of their skills or livelihood.)
“Well, you’re already the human model for transtibial and below endoskeleton prosthetics, so I’m willing to be the human model for transhumeral and below external prosthetics.”
“All right then.” Sasori loudly clapped his hands twice. “Pause on the shaping for now. Everyone, gather round.” He used his chakra threads to fetch blank draft paper, a charcoal pencil, and a measuring tape from his supplies at the front of the classroom. Then he brushed the iron sand off his draft paper, refusing to even send a glare at the Kazekage, though he felt the weight of the man’s amber-eyed gaze. He reminded the engineers of the importance of measuring twice before cutting once as he laid Fuuko’s left arm and hand palmar on the table, and even settled Shisui in his lap for a better view. He sketched a smooth outline of her arm, from shoulder to fingertips, on the draft paper, but mirrored to look like what her right arm and hand would.
“When building a prosthetic, you want it to match the original. Unfortunately, we don’t have the original to measure, so we’re going off of what she already has. But it must be mirrored – a right elbow and right wrist will turn in opposite directions than her left elbow and wrist. Don’t be a mindless surgeon who forgets that the right knee they’re supposed to be operating on doesn’t mean the same as the surgeon’s right knee.”
Sasori demonstrated how to measure anatomical structures, writing the measurements in corresponding locations on the draft paper, making sure to double and triple check with repeated measurements to make sure the numbers remained the same as what he had written down. “The elbow is one of the most complex joints in the human body, with three irregular bones with three separate articulations. This allows for flexion, extension, inward, and outward rotation. As you can see with her current prosthetic, Fuuko-san’s elbow is a two-way hinge that can only do flection and extension. The wrist isn’t as complex given its structure with the distal ends of the radial and ulnar bones lining up with eight different metacarpals, but you will need to individually build every bone to achieve the same function in your prosthetic as you would in a real hand. However, unlike the elbow, the bones in the hand can be more uniform in shape without interfering with the wrist function.”
Within the drawn outline of Fuuko’s arm, Sasori added the individual bones, demonstrated how and where they would fit together, just as he had at the end of the second class, where he had shown them his draft plans for his transtibial prosthetics. The prosthetics he had been shown and that he had lambasted the staff over just before his and Kagami’s meeting with his surgeon were solid pieces with simple hinged joints, none of them adequate for fine motor control and function. Sasori was essentially showing them how to create the fine-jointed limbs of puppets… and at that thought, combined with the fact that the Kazekage stood silently in the back and watched and heard everything, hair on the back of Sasori’s neck briefly stood on end in alarm.
Oh well. If the Kazekage hadn’t wanted Sasori sharing the details on how Suna Puppeteers created humanoid puppets, then maybe he shouldn’t have handed Sasori over to Konoha’s Kage with the order of do with him as you will.
Having completed the draft on Fuuko’s arm, he told her to go get and bring him an x-ray of both arms, so he could determine the final measurements of her prosthetic bones, and told the remaining students to continue working on their tibial and ankle/foot bone carvings. He wheeled himself back to the front of the classroom, and resumed work on his own prosthetics, having decided to create the skeletal structure out of the ironwood that Yamato had sprouted from his mother’s puppet. (He liked the artistic symbolism of that, how the wood from his mother’s puppet was being used to rebuild the very same body that she had grown within her womb.)
The three-hour workshop ended with Fuuko’s bones in her obtained x-rays being measured and penciled into the draft, fitted to match her amputated length.
As the other students filtered out, sending nervous looks at the Kazekage (the civilian engineers would have no idea about his identity, but Fuuko recognized him, or at least the cloak of office), Shisui and Fuuko lingered.
“Do you want us to stay with you until Tsume arrives?” Fuuko asked, sending such a pointed look at the Kazekage, who remained as still as a statue, that her hound, Tankou, actually lifted his head to growl in warning at the Kazekage.
Sasori studied the Kazekage for a moment, unsure if the man had been patiently waiting for a private meeting with Sasori, or if he had simply come to watch and deliberately let his presence irritate Sasori. Or maybe it was both. No one could ever accuse the Kazekage of not multitasking, after all. “No. If I’m not here, Tsume knows she can track me down.”
Fuuko was bold as she lifted her chin in bold defiance to the Kazekage, and said loudly, “And should anything happen to you in the meantime?”
Sasori didn’t care for the boldness – there were very few ways to tactfully answer that question without digging himself a deeper hole with questionable loyalties. “Why in the Eternal Sands would anything happen to me?” He carefully kept his gaze on Fuuko and Shisui. “After all, anything I’ve done so far has been per the Kazekage’s explicit permission to the Hokage to do with me as the Hokage wills.”
With that statement, the Kazekage huffed a wordless sigh. It was not one of irritation or relief.
Fuuko, with one last glance, reluctantly herded Tankou and Shisui out of the room. She did pause long enough to raise two fingers to her eyes, turn the fingers at the Kazekage, and nod firmly. The Kazekage’s only response to such a bold challenge was to raise a disdainful eyebrow. When the door clicked shut, the Kazekage locked it, and then sealed it secure with a thin layer of his iron sand stretching across the entire frame – effectively trapping Sasori within the room. Sasori folded his hands in his lap, refusing to give in to the temptation to grab one of the carving knives in reach. He forced his hands to remain steady.
“That letter was meant for the Hokage’s eyes only,” the Kazekage said as he slowly made his way over to Sasori, pausing to peruse the different tools, materials, and draft plans spread out on the tables. His voice was silky smooth, something that always stood in direct contrast to the rough, but fine, particles of his iron sand.
“Was the Hokage aware that it was for his eyes only?”
With another sigh, this one long-suffering, the Kazekage grabbed a chair near the front and set it in front of Sasori. He glided his long fingers over the wooden frame of the chair before seating himself, mirroring Sasori’s pose with his hands folded in his lap.
“I don’t leave Suna for just anyone,” said the Kazekage, clearly impatient with Sasori’s impudence.
Sasori felt his lips peel back in a sneer. “No, just for an ethically declining apprentice on the slippery slope of decayed morals who refused to be quietly assassinated with arsenic.”
One dark eyebrow raised at that. “No, not even for that. I actually accompanied Uzumaki-san and Mitarashi-san and Inuzuka ninken back to Konoha two weeks ago, as a show of gratitude to Konoha, once the contaminated oases were resolved. I did, however,” he added, with just a small amount of wry amusement, “stay in Konoha for an ethically declining apprentice after the Hokage assured me that his retired Head of Internal Affairs would be working his magic on you.”

Sasori pressed his lips tightly together.
“Besides, if I’m going to get rid of a Suna nin, I’m certainly not going to outsource such to Kiri.”
“Then why would you tell the Hokage to do with me what he will should I survive? That sounded to me like you expected me to die.”
“Because your three teammates were expected to assassinate you, not the Kiri nin and the arsenic.”
“You know there was no way my teammates could’ve successfully killed me. You sent them off to die. Why would you do that to your own shinobi?”
The Kazekage’s eyes narrowed, as if he hadn’t expected Sasori’s defense of his teammates to ever be voiced. Which, fair; past-Sasori certainly would’ve sneered and said that anyone stupid enough to agree to attacking him, even in obedience to their Kazekage, deserved to die. “Those three had committed battle-field rapes, and were due for a death sentence anyway, had they been unsuccessful. I felt that the mission was simply an expedient way to handle all four of you – arsenic was never expected to play a role.”

Sasori willed away the red haze that tinted his vision. He willed away the chakra threads that glimmered at his fingertips. “I suppose that means you’re either here to finish the job or to inform me that I’m now Konoha’s permanent responsibility.”
The Kazekage shrugged languidly. “That will depend on where you truly stand on that slippery slope of decayed morals. Sarutobi-sama has assured me that he feels you haven’t yet reached the bottom of the slope as his own apprentice had, but I do have concerns. It all starts,” he leaned forward, resting his forearms on Sasori’s table, “with a lack of restrains with scientific inquiry. Oh, I’ll admit that I played a large part in your formation, Sasori. I certainly encouraged your brilliance, encouraged you to push the boundaries in ways that, in hindsight, emboldened you to comfortably make choices that you shouldn’t have made. I helped create the monster you were rapidly becoming.”
Sasori refused to look at the whittling knives in front of him. He wouldn’t get away with stabbing the Kazekage – the other man was too quick, too powerful for Sasori to take on head-to-head and expect to survive. “You thought the best thing was to end that monster.”
The Kazekage tilted his head and looked down his nose. “How do you cure the rabies that your favorite pet dog is suffering?”
I was right, Sasori thought, bitterness clawing at his throat. Then, “If you didn’t think there was a cure for my rabies, why did you outsource the problem to Konoha?”
The Kazekage leaned back in his chair, dropping his hands back to his lap. There was a soft stirring of his iron sand, the particles running along the surface of Sasori’s table and across the floor, but none of it was snaking towards Sasori, yet. The iron sand was simply a reflection of the Kazekage’s internal restlessness. “Historically, Konoha has the lowest rate of missing nin, even lower than Kumo – amazing, really. It’s certainly easier to escape Konoha any time of the year, versus just the summers in Kumo. The day after you disappeared with Komushi’s corpse was the day I reached out to the Hokage, which was rather fortuitous, considering the timing with Orochimaru’s successful defection just a short time after. I figured that Suna should get something useful out of our forced treaty. I wanted to give you the benefit of the doubt when you left with Komushi – that your psyche had fractured and that you were mad with grief when you left, that it wasn’t a deliberate defection. I wanted to assume that when you finally came to your senses, you would return. Only, instead, your return highlighted that it wasn’t just the depths of madness that you had sunk into.”
Sasori dropped his gaze from the Kazekage’s amber eyes – so much like Sasori’s, like his mother’s – to the tools on the table. “Where do we go from here?” he asked, not wanting to have anything more to do with the man he had once trusted. “What have you determined?”
(Hey, said Komushi, at least the Kazekage is being honest.)
“I have yet to decide, Sasori. Any expectations I had for any potential changes certainly didn’t include your lengthy detour or loss of limb. Or life. Or a damned dragon.”
Sasori raised his head in surprise. “The Hokage told you about Nessie?”
The corners of the Kazekage’s mouth pulled downward. “It was quite the introduction, yesterday, to see Inuzuka Tsume tossing Nessie-sama some sheep. Evidently, if she could charm a dragon, she could charm you.” He eyed Sasori, as if puzzled on where Sasori’s personality could rank against a dragon. Sasori didn’t know if he should feel flattered or appalled, because Tsume’s idea of charm was to cheerfully bludgeon her personality over someone’s head until they just gave in to her shenanigans for their own personal sense of sanity… and he was sure that the Kazekage had no idea. “The Hokage also said something most peculiar… what’s this about Suna taking a suiton dragon if Konoha doesn’t want her?”
“Only for scientific inquiries,” Sasori put in quickly, so the Kazekage wouldn’t suspect Sasori of attempting to destroy Suna. Then he winced when the weight of his words caught up to him, and rubbed his forehead. “But not because my scientific curiosity is in an ethical decline,” he added weakly as another single eyebrow rose elegantly across the man’s forehead. “I wouldn’t even dissect Nessie. Just take some samples, ask some questions, that kind of thing.” He wondered if this floundering embarrassment was how Tsume felt whenever she realized that she had stuck her foot in her mouth. It was a distinctly unique feeling, and decidedly unpleasant. “She is unique, fascinating, terrifying, and beautiful.”
“Just for the record,” the Kazekage’s voice was dry, “we don’t have a handy-dandy lake to hide a suiton dragon in. I’m pretty sure our aqueduct is too small.”
(Or enough sheep, Komushi added.) “Or enough sheep to feed her,” Sasori said, because it was a good observation.
“We’d have to supplement with camels.”
“I don’t think Nessie would take too kindly to her food spitting at her.” Sasori never did.
There was a brief pause, and then, “Sasori, if you could do things differently, would you still turn Komushi into a puppet?”
Sasori looked at Komushi, and saw his friend as he was now, and what he had once been. All he had left were memories and echoes of Komushi’s voice.
He loved Komushi.
He hated Puppet-Komushi.
He couldn’t let either go.
Sasori swallowed thickly. “If I could do things differently, I wouldn’t have made Komushi a blowdart gun. But if wishes were horses, then beggars would ride.”
“Will you let Komushi go?”
A muscle in Sasori’s jaw jumped as he grit his teeth and glowered. “No. He is my responsibility.” His hands tightened into fists at the thought of being deprived of his best friend’s bright presence in the back of his mind. “He is my responsibility, my burden to bear, my consequence to consider in all things.”

The Kazekage considered him for a long moment, and then the iron sand retreated from the workshop’s room and door, snaking across the floor. Some flowed and twisted around his arms to form armguards, the rest poured itself into the gourd that hung from his belt. “I think, Sasori-kun, that the Hokage is correct in his assessment that you haven’t reached that point of no return on that slippery slope. You have always had a better grasp on self-awareness than most. Your pursuit for perfection is a double-edged sword, in that way. We shall continue our discussion later.” He stood, smooth and silent, and turned his back on Sasori.
Just in time for Tsume to throw the door open and bustle in. She paused when she saw the Kazekage. “Oh, uh, am I interrupting anything important?”
“I was just finished.”
“Oh, then perfect timing! Would you like to come to dinner tonight? My Aunt Natsumi has questions for you on the Ichibi.”
“No, and absolutely not.” The Kazekage swept past Tsume.
“Rude!” she yelled after him.
The Kazekage froze in the open doorway. And then he turned and looked at her with irritation twisting his mouth. “How in the Eternal Sands did you manage to charm a legendary creature?” Before Tsume could think of a comeback, he left.
Since Tsume was present and he needed a good distraction from meeting the Kazekage, Sasori had no problem talking Tsume into requesting copies of her MRI and CAT scans so he could take a long, hard look at what was wrong with her brain.oOoOoOo
There was… there a lot wrong with Tsume’s brain, and what wasn’t wrong was simply not normal.
While Sasori had never actually seen MRI and CAT scans of the human brain, he had thoroughly memorized different diagrams and charts of illustrative models, and Komushi’s brain had been similar enough to the models that he could identify what he dissected.
But as Sasori stared at the array of glossy pictures on Tsume’s kitchen table as she taught Yamato how to make fried rice, he boggled.
Grandmother picked up one such picture and scrutinized it. “Does her olfactory bulb and olfactory cortex really make up forty percent of her frontal lobe?” she asked in surprise. The olfactory cortex didn’t just make up an unreasonable size of her frontal lobe, but based on the colors of her CAT scan, it branched out into other portions of her brain, like spinning spider threads*****, if threads would be so thick. If the radiologist hadn’t indicated that this was a typical genetic anomaly with the Inuzuka Clan, Sasori would’ve thought he was staring at a brain tumor growing fingers and infiltrating the surrounding tissue.
“She can smell arsenic from sixty kilometers away,” Sasori replied, his voice sounding far away in his ears. “She can smell emotions. She can….” Well, Tsume couldn’t tell much difference between five hundred meters and seven kilometers in hurricane force winds, but he supposed with that much brain mass dedicated to scenting things and interpreting the data, the difference in such magnified senses was practically negligible. Her temporal and frontal lobe were cheesed, with pockets of shrunken and blackened areas, indicating dead brain tissue. Tsume’s short-term and long-term memory-making capacity was complete shit.
“What sort of brain injury did you have?” Chiyo demanded. She was rocking Hana’s cradle with her foot. Upon noticing that she had increased the rocking to a brisk pace because of her own agitation, she slowed down.
Tsume shrugged, not looking up from her task. “I was told my brain got shredded inside out. Now, we’re going to add the rice to the scrambled eggs, sweety. Yes, just like that.”
“Did you have a personality change?”
Tsume’s shoulders curled inward briefly, as if trying to shield herself. “Yeah, I was told that I used to be quiet and watchful, that my personality used to be more like Grandmother Shinzou’s.”
Sasori flipped through the different pictures until he found the amygdala. It was only half the size it should be, shrunken with a splotch of darkness just like other deadened or damaged parts. “How did you survive?” Tsume should’ve been nothing more than a breathing husk, a vegetable that never should’ve recovered, much less survived.
“Tsunade-hime. She worked on me loads and loads. And a smidgeon of my great-grandmother’s Uzumaki heritage? Don’t know. But I’m here now, and this is precisely where I want to be! Now, add a squirt of the oil while I’m stirring, Yamato. A little bigger squirt. Maybe a liiiiiitle bit bigger. Yeah, there you go!”
But here she was, indeed. Sasori now felt guilty for holding Tsume in such low esteem for too long, especially now that he realized the extent of her brain injury. Her short-term memory was completely shot, and probably the only reason she could probably remember so much as her own name was because memory processing was also linked with the olfactory cortex, which typically only made up 5-10% of a human’s frontal lobe, but hers – with rough calculations that took in the mass of her olfactory cortex branching into other areas of the brain – made up sixty percent of her functioning brain.
It also seemed to explain why, when she pushed her limits, the cascade of brain chemicals would trigger DIC. The way her olfactory cortex invaded every still-functioning part of her brain would interfere and overwhelm everything with too much chakra.

To have come as far in Tsume’s life as she had despite such an extensive brain injury was, frankly, nothing short of miraculous.
That did it. Sasori firmly believed now that Tsume was truly favored by the gods.
(Would the gods be offended if he started leaving little trinkets of devotion to Tsume like she was some sort of prophetic Chosen One?)
How… how powerful was Tsume’s olfaction? If she could smell brain chemistry, she could probably smell DNA, which meant that she could probably tell him what Uncle Ebizo was doing, four hundred kilometers away, able to track him without having ever met him just because he would smell like he was related to Chiyo and Sasori.
(Tsume had casually told him she could smell the Suna Salt Flats. From the opposite side of the fucking country.)
Sasori snatched up everything on the table, bundled it together, and decided to burn it. Anyone who knew anything about brain anatomy and function would realize how powerful Tsume’s olfaction was – this was too dangerous of information for Konoha’s enemies to get their hands on. And his naïve little trusting fool had simply handed over her precious brain scans to two of Suna’s elite assassins without realizing how much information they had just extracted from their curious perusal.

(Why would Tsume be concerned anyway? It wasn’t like she would remember the brain’s anatomy, even if she studied it. This was why the Hokage decided Tsume needed a team of Konoha nin – if such was what you could call a war horse and a three year old toddler – to accompany her back to Konoha. Even without Sasori being present at the time, Tsume still would’ve needed to be accompanied, even if it was just to keep her and her newborn from falling into the hands of Konoha’s enemies. Iwa had no idea what they had their hands on when Danzo snatched a twelve-year-old Tsume from them.)
We cannot tell anyone this information, he signed to Chiyo while Tsume’s back was turned.
She nodded, her own face shuttered.
No one. Not Kazekage. This secret dies with us.
Chiyo looked offended at that.
Sasori dropped his hands to his wheelchair arms, white-knuckled for a moment, as he glanced at Tsume. She was now showing Yamato how to cook thin slices of beef without turning them into touch pieces of shoe leather, not looking at Sasori despite his no-doubt obvious scent of desperation and fear. He signed again to Chiyo.
She was twelve when she was kidnapped in Earth. She said Iwa kept her for four months, to breed her offspring. This secret dies with us.
Chiyo shuddered, horror filling her face. Rape was a death sentence in Suna, often by stoning from the woman and her female family members, because it violated a woman’s sanctuary – her womb; they were, perhaps, the only Hidden Village that respected the kunoichi who specialized in seduction, for they recognized the sacrifice that the kunoichi was willing to make, to embrace the vulnerability of their sex. It was one of the few things they held in high esteem regarding women in Wind, so a woman’s virtue – whether or not she was already married – was fiercely protected. Chiyo’s face set in determination, and she signed back: to the grave.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Sasori knew that another confrontation with his Kage was inevitable, one in which his continued existence was poised on the head of a pin. With the benefit of an increased self-awareness of what he had been prior to losing his feet, of what others had thought of him, and the changes that Tsume and the rest of Team Chaos had wrought upon his mind and soul, Sasori understood (but didn’t appreciate) other people’s point of view on who and what Akasuna no Sasori was.
The more he thought of where his path had been taking him – of his grandmother’s deceit, the ever-increasing isolation in Suna, the culture clash between Suna and Team Chaos that he had endured – the more he thought of that Keikoku proverb, how a child who wasn’t embraced by his village would burn it down to feel its warmth. He thought of his parents, his grandmother, Komushi, his jounin sensei, and his genin teammates. He thought of the two wolves warring in his soul, and of knit veins of gold.
What bothered him the most was the Kazekage. Why… would he attempt to get rid of Sasori at the same time as he reached out to a foreign leader for help? Why would he do both?
Sasori thought until his mind spun in circles for two days straight, until he found himself unable to even be distracted with repairing his mother’s puppet or working on his leg prosthetics or Fuuko’s arm prosthetic.
“I’m going out,” he told Tsume as Komushi pushed the wheelchair past where she and Yamato sat at the kitchen table, with Tsume bent over anatomy charts, sweating from the effort of trying to memorize anatomical landmarks and individual names of muscles and bones, and Yamato was coloring. Hana was asleep in a small wooden crib beside Tsume that Kuromaru was rocking with his paw. “If I’m not back by dark, you can come looking for me.”
Tsume barely looked up from the charts. “Yeah, you smell like you need to clear your head.”
Sasori’s thoughts continued to hound him as he and Komushi wandered random streets of Konoha. His frequent backs-and-forth to the hospital for physical therapy and his prosthetic workshop had familiarized his presence enough with others that they usually ignored him by now.
At the heart of Sasori’s thoughts were two questions: What do I want? What do I need?

He eventually found himself at the Academy training ground, watching classes of students in play or in exercise.
What he needed was a purpose. Ever since his parents’ departure, he had been driven with the purpose of bringing them back, honing every skill and scrapping together every bit of knowledge, all so he could have them back. Ever since he was told of their actual deaths, he had been equally driven to plot vengeance against their slayer. Ever since Komushi’s death, he had been driven leave Suna – the place that had shaped him, that had tried to deny him Komushi, his parents, everything that seemed to matter to Sasori. Ever since the loss of his feet, he had been driven to simply survive. Since his arrival in Konoha, it had been a sidestep away from surviving to improving his condition, and ultimately improving the condition of other amputees. Whether that drive was a matter of pride or empathy, Sasori still wasn’t sure.
But he knew that once he had his prosthetics finished and placed on himself, he wouldn’t have a higher purpose driving him as he once had.
What he wanted… What Sasori wanted was to stop constantly reacting to everything and everyone. The one time he had taken initiation since his parents left was when he made off with Komushi’s corpse, and that path was not one he knew he could continue walking. Even then, that initiation was triggered by a reaction – the simple fact that he couldn’t accept the loss of someone who had meant the world to him, that he would willingly damn his best friend’s soul to never feel that gaping emptiness that his parents had left him with.
He was a creator as both a craftsman and an artist. It was part and parcel to Sasori’s soul to create something that transcended time, that reflected the human soul, and he liked to think of it as art with a scientific bent. If he were feeling philosophical, he would say that his art, his creations, were a reflection of what his soul was going through – the puppets that resembled his parents because he was so desperate to have people who loved him for what he was and not for what he could be or offer others, the poisons he crafted for malicious purpose as the venom and bitterness clawed at his heart, the prosthetic for Komushi to guard and protect his friend, the puppet he had made out of his dead friend so he wouldn’t be abandoned again, the prosthetics he was making for himself to mitigate his gut-clenching vulnerability…

But art did more than reflect the human soul. It also whispered possibility; it offered the opportunity to be more, to do more. Art said that no matter how unattainable the possibility felt, the facsimile was at least within reach.
Sasori had enough self-awareness to know that he would always be driven, always searching for a higher purpose, to push the limits, to reach for the unattainable, because it shouldn’t have to be unattainable. All things should be possible.
But if he followed such to its natural conclusion, Sasori knew how ugly the human spirit could be when it was allowed to run amok without limitations, especially when the black wolf gorged itself, and the white wolf starved. All things were possible, but not all things were worth the price they required to obtain.
Sasori wanted to thrive.
How do you feed two wolves who were equally hungry? How do you feed the negative and the positive at the same time?
Sasori wheeled away from the Academy when classes were dismissed and parents arrived to fetch their children.
He roamed Konoha some more until he reached a quiet park, the grass bright and uniform, spring flowers and bushes of maroon and green leaves artfully arranged beside meandering paths, intersected with bubbling fountains and benches for resting. A scurry of half-tame squirrels was everywhere, some chasing each other, some chasing a flock of pigeons, and others were rooting through the bushes or a half-full garbage can. Many of the squirrels saw Sasori, but he was dismissed as a potential threat, like the few other stray people leisurely strolling through the park.
Sasori made his way over to a dark lump that was asleep, face-down, on one such bench, and poked at it. The squirrel perched on the back of the bench was nibbling someone’s discarded apple core.
“Hey, I want to talk to you.”
With a snort, the dark lump sat upright, and Hatake Sakumo blinked in surprise. The squirrel jumped into his tangled hair, sniffed around for a moment, and then scampered away.
“I need someone with no skin in the game,” Sasori told Sakumo, who had recently gained enough weight to look a little less like a skeleton and a little more like a long-term prisoner of war. He smelled sour and looked dirty, but not to the extent of when Sasori had first met him. At least Sasori’s sinuses didn’t sting from the stench of rot and garbage, now that Tsume was sneakily placing regular, high-calorie meals near Sakumo, so he didn’t need to rely entirely on dumpster-diving for food. “Someone whose opinion doesn’t matter to me, someone who doesn’t know who I am, and someone who doesn’t know the situation.”
Sakumo looked around, and then pointed at himself, as if double-checking that Sasori was referring to him.
“Yes, you.” Sasori boldly reached out and poked Sakumo in the knee. “You owe me that much, at least.”
Mahogany-brown eyes blinked in confusion. “Why?”
It was the first clear word he had heard from Sakumo, since the man had only babbled incoherently during his spit-and-shine D-rank fiasco. “Because you killed my parents and sent Tsume their puppets, and that was the start of the mess that’s my life. Therefore, I don’t care about your opinion, but you really don’t know me or the situation. People whose opinion I do value still hold you in high regard, and you keep a moral code, even now,” even if the only known extent of that moral code was not to use his full strength against two genin and one amputee in a wheelchair when they were forcing the indignity of hygiene on him, “and frankly,” Sasori shrugged, “I don’t have anyone else to talk to about this.”
Sakumo’s gaze sharpened for a brief moment – the haze cleared and Sasori caught the glimpse of that brilliant young shinobi who had made a name of himself during the Second War. And then the sharpness faded, as if that was all his broken mind could tolerate. With a slumped sigh, Sakumo folded his legs crisscross in front of himself, and clasped his shaking hands together. “I’m not m-much use anymore,” he whispered.
“The only use I have for right now is a living body I can voice my thoughts to. I used to do it with Komushi, but it’s not the same.” In many ways, it only hurt Sasori more, to know how Komushi would physically respond to Sasori’s thoughts, but no longer could. All he got were fleeting thoughts and feelings. With a glimmer of Sasori’s chakra threads, Komushi left the wheelchair and sat on the bench next to Sakumo, slumping with gravity to plop against Sakumo’s shoulder. “Before I start, I need to know if you’re going to remain the entire time. I don’t want to waste my time if you’re only going to disappear mid-way through.”
Sakumo’s eyes darted around, but with it being near dusk and most people concerned with dinner, no one else was lingering in the park. “All right then. I… I r-remember your parents,” he said softly, brow creasing in remembrance. “They had nice hearts, very kind. Do you hate me for what I’ve done?” he asked suddenly.
If Sasori was going to be honest with himself in order to figure out where his circling thoughts kept trying to take him, he would need to be honest in all ways, including to the broken man seated and hunched in front of him. “I used to,” he said, not even bothering to keep the irritation out of his voice. “I hated you enough at one time that all I wanted to do was destroy you and everything you’ve ever touched. But in the end, I can’t hate someone who is held so closely to Tsume’s heart.”
The smile that Sakumo gave him was both bright and bittersweet. “You h-have a nice heart too,” Sakumo said, reaching out to pat Sasori’s wrist awkwardly. “It’s soft and qu-quiet. I’ll stay.”
Well, Sasori was committed now to see this though, no matter how bizarre Sakumo seemed. “I’ve always been selfish,” he began, thinking about his toddlerhood and childhood. “That never improved the older I got.”
Sakumo shook his head. “It’s n-normal to be self-absorbed as a y-young child.”
Sasori flicked a finger at Sakumo’s knee. “Shut up, you’re supposed to be a living body for me to express my thoughts to. Talking out loud forces me to organize them, and a living body to talk to means I won’t look like a raving madman while I’m doing it.”
Oops. Probably shouldn’t have said that to someone like Sakumo.
Sakumo shrugged, just as uncaring for Sasori’s opinion of him as, well, Sasori’s opinion of him. “If you don’t want a response, you c-can always talk to your friend h-here, instead.” He shrugged his shoulder, making Komushi’s head flop momentarily before it went back to slumping against him. A brief frown crossed his face. “He seems qu-quiet.”
“Fine, but it’s not like I value your input anyway.”
Sakumo grinned. “A common opinion.”
“Yes, yes.” Sasori flapped his hand impatiently. “One you’re quite used to at this point.”
“At least with y-you, it’s not m-mostly personal.”
“Shut up, you’re interrupting my train of thought. Anyway, I’ve always been self-absorbed. That sounds a little nicer than being selfish, so we’ll go with that. I used to tell myself that other people’s opinions didn’t matter, because they didn’t matter. And that was true, for the most part. Except for a few select people, most others didn’t matter.” He paused as he considered various companions and acquaintances. “And they still don’t.”
“Those who mind d-don’t matter, and th-those who matter d-don’t mind.”
Sasori turned that expression around in his brain for a moment. “Well, that’s certainly true. There’s been a lot of people in Suna who minded and ultimately didn’t matter.” Like his jounin sensei. “Over the years, the circle of those who mattered to me shrunk. The more that circle shrunk, the angrier I became.”
(“I helped create the monster you were becoming.”)
“And the angrier I became, the less I cared about other people’s opinions, and the less I cared, the worse I ultimately became, ethically-speaking. I thought that human expectations were shackles that only limited my progress and improvement.”
Sakumo plucked at a stray string on his raggedy clothing, fiddling with his sleeve as he did it, worsening the half-attached hem. “D-does he a-always ramble l-like this?” he asked Komushi, as if Komushi was a living, breathing human capable of responding and wasn’t a puppet-corpse. Which was probably not unexpected, Sasori supposed, given that Sakumo only had a few scraps of sanity clinging to him like his ragged clothes.
“All this time, it turns out, I was starving the white wolf while the black wolf gorged itself. But unlike that ravenous black wolf that never loses its strength and instead lies in wait for the right time to attack, that white wolf grew weaker.” And finally, Sasori’s constant circle of thoughts clarified itself. “Kagami had said that the black wolf would never lose its strength when you starve it, but he never said the same for the white wolf.” Was that why he struggled to accept himself, to initially accept the overtures of Tsume’s ham-fisted affection, to accept that… that maybe the Kazekage cared enough for Sasori that he would swallow his pride and reach out to a foreign ally to help? Because the white wolf, weak from such prolonged starvation, didn’t have the strength to accept?
Sakumo turned from Komushi and looked at him with glazed-over eyes. “What do y-you want?”
Sasori scoffed. “That’s the problem. I’ve been doing what I’ve wanted for years, with the blessings of those who matter encouraging me without placing any limits or restrictions, and when I reached the point they weren’t comfortable with, that was it. That’s when my Kazekage decided trying to kill me, except a bunch of Kiri nin and your apprentices got to me first. And after four weeks of being stuck with Team Chaos, I have nothing but questions about what I want, because the white wolf and the black wolf are at war with each other. I used to know myself, and it turns out I was so broken that I couldn’t recognize myself, and now I’m being put back into something that is not me. You know,” he leaned against one armrest to shift his body’s weight off his stiff spine and aching pelvis, “I think it boils down to my personal identity. If I no longer recognize myself, I guess I’m a different person now, and I’m not sure if that a good or a bad thing.” If he didn’t have the confident assurance of knowing who he was, what did he have left?
Sasori was left with uncertainty, which his mind had constantly been spinning with since his face-to-face meeting with the Kazekage.
“I think y-you’re taking the two w-wolves too literally,” Sakumo said softly, after Sasori had lapsed into thought.
“No, it’s an allegory, about balancing the negative and the positive, the inherent good and bad qualities, human strengths and weaknesses that are part and parcel to the human experience and soul,” Sasori replied impatiently.
“It’s a m-muscle.” While Sakumo’s voice was still soft, it became firm. He pointed at his leg. “When the quads are stronger than the hamstring, you risk injuring the kn-knee. When the hamstring is stronger than the quads, you also risk injuring the knee. It’s only when they match each other in s-strength do you reduce the r-risk of injuries. You have to s-strengthen both sides, never one more than the other.” The glaze in his eyes briefly cleared. His stare into Sasori’s soul was almost as intense as white chakra, however brief it would last. “When you injure one muscle or the other, you guard it, expecting the other muscle to make up the difference. The more you guard because of the injury, the weaker the injured muscle becomes, and increased weakness only means more risk for injury to the knee. You can’t immediately use an injured muscle – you need to give it time to recover, focus on gentle stretches and paced rebuilding before it resumes its original strength. Emotions, the heart, it’s a muscle.”
Sasori stared, because the more he had been emotionally hurt – his parents’ departure, the truth of his grandmother’s letters, Komushi’s death, the Kazekage’s betrayal – the more guarded he became, because every betrayal had injured him more. “Look, I’m already dealing with far too many allegories and metaphors for the mess that is my life, right now. I’ve already had the void, two hungry wolves, and kintsugi thrown at me. Now you’re adding in how my emotions, my heart is a muscle? Which, that is true, literally and metaphorically, I suppose.” Actually, the heart was an organ, but semantics. It wasn’t really something worth quibbling over. Sasori tapped his fingers against his wheelchair arm. “You know, you make good sense for someone who’s mind is broken.”
“N-not my mind.” Sakumo shook his head. “M-my heart.” He touched his chest, fingers skimming over the material. “Other hearts are t-too loud. They flash too many colors.” He rocked and ground the heels of his hands into his eyes. “T-too much.”
Sasori could see Sakumo’s tension, the spiral of emotional discomfort that would soon reach a high pitch of agony. His eidetic memory immediately pulled up the scene of Tsume bawling on the bench outside of the Hokage Tower while Namikaze offered his sleeve for her sopping nose and eyes, and then her later admission in the kitchen on how Sakumo always ran when emotions ran high. Since Sasori’s emotions hadn’t changed from a fever-pitched irritation and confusion with himself and everyone in his life since he wheeled away from Tsume’s house, he knew that Sakumo’s spiral wasn’t Sasori’s fault. And he wasn’t going to let his human thought wall run away. Lightning-blue chakra glimmered at his fingertips. “Then stop talking about yourself. We’re talking about me, remember? I didn’t lie when I said I’m a self-absorbed child. If you’re going to have another breakdown, do it on your own time, not mine.”
Sakumo’s answering laugh was high-pitched and brittle, but his rocking slowed, and then stilled. He dropped his hands back into his lap, twisting his shaking fingers. “S-sorry. Your h-heart is quiet.”
If Sakumo was some sort of sponge who soaked up other people’s emotions the same way Tsume used her olfaction to smell them out, it made a lot of sense why the man would fall so hard and fast three years ago, the same way Shisui and Tsume had passed out from Fumiko’s cheese. Sasori considered the depths of emotions surrounding Sakumo after his failed mission was used as an excuse to drag the rest of the world into another war so closely at the heels of the last one. How the man could be some sort of emotional sponge or amplifier remained to be understood, if ever, but… well, after dealing with the impossible via Team Chaos, Sasori decided it was just in his best interest to just accept the reality without understanding its existence and move on. “If it was quiet, I wouldn’t be here talking to you. I’d already know what’s going on.”
“Y-your heart is quiet. It’s y-your mind that’s loud.”
Sasori glared at him. For once, he wanted to throttle Sakumo in a way that had nothing at all to do with his parents’ slaying. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
Sakumo shrugged. “Your h-heart already knows what it w-wants. Your m-mind isn’t listening.”

It surely couldn’t be that simple.
“And can you tell me what my heart has decided?”
Sakumo grinned, mirth lighting his face. “I thought m-my opinion didn’t m-matter.”

“Your experience? I’m willing to consider such. Your opinion? Absolutely not.”
Sakumo poked Komushi. The lacquered body thumped softly. “Bull-headed. N-needs it straight. Right.” He turned to Sasori. “Your heart h-has decided it wants home, and it wants to fix what’s b-broken at home.”
Sasori’s fingers froze. And everything coalesced into one image: Suna, with the scents of the dry dessert and sand, the coffee, his workshop and Grandmother’s spices when she’s cooking, the quiet of the night, and the people. Fierce and independent, but completely lacking in trust for each other.
A house divided against itself will fall.
He was a craftsman who reshapes and rebuilds flawed, imperfect creations. He was a scientist with an insatiable curiosity and a hunger to know more, to understand why. He was an artist who loved and appreciated beauty, and was slowly coming to appreciate the many shapes and shades of colors human souls came in, whether it in the brokenness of Tsume that was still filled with so much love and refused to hold on to anger, whether it was the persistence of Kagami that was frustrated with the growing limitations of his failing heart, whether it was the naïve trust of Shisui who didn’t have the adult conceptualization of limits and reality, or whether it was the insatiably curiosity of Fumiko that studied cheese and determined how to weaponize it. Sasori’s personal identity had never really changed – it had only been redirected, and he had been feeling lost because he didn’t know where he was at.
Suna was beautiful. It was home. He knew and understood it, but also wanted to know more. It was also flawed and imperfect, because it was filled with humans who were flawed and imperfect. Sasori had learned, through his own lived experiences with Team Chaos and his prosthetic workshop, that the most efficient way to lead was to guide and coax, instead of bludgeoning the morons over the head with their errors and shortcomings. Because humans were defensive over their flaws, and confrontation about such was the sort of thing that made humans feel cornered and desperate, unwilling to fix their shortcomings.
He had been redirected home with new eyes, and just hadn’t recognized what he was looking at.
“You’re right,” Sasori murmured, turning over the thought of gathering the broken shards of Suna and knitting them together with beautiful veins of gold. “But to fix what’s broken, I have to be in the right place and the right time… like Kagami was for me.” He shifted restlessly in his wheelchair, thinking of puppets and puppeteers, and how humans didn’t like it when you controlled them with threads and strings, whether literally or metaphorically. “And I’ll have to do it all on my own. Even if the Kazekage allows that, I won’t have the support of others.”
Sakumo nodded firmly. “Your m-mind is quiet now. Like your heart.” And then he patted Komushi’s hand. “Your friend w-will be there to h-help. His mind and heart is also qu-quiet.”
“I imagine so.” Sasori’s voice was dry. “He’s dead.”
“Dead?” Sakumo looked at Komushi, face scrunching up like he was personally offended. “You didn’t s-say you’re dead!”
Sasori’s heart jumped in his chest like a startled rabbit, and Sakumo flinched. And then he disappeared with a silent shunshin. Komushi fell over sideways on the bench with a thud, limp like a tossed doll.
The footsteps that quietly approached Sasori from behind were deliberate – a shinobi who wanted to be heard and noticed. The man who slid onto the bench in front of Sasori, gently but pointedly shoving Komushi upright and letting him slump over the back of the bench, was probably the last man that Sasori expected.
“Sakumo generally doesn’t sit still to have a conversation,” Danzo said, sliding one leg over the other and crossing his arms. His shoulders were tight, and his face was tense and wary, but there wasn’t any anger or suspicion.
“What happened to the White Fang?” Sasori asked.
“Ran away.” The very obvious what does it look like, you numbskull? was unspoken, but still loud and clear.
Sasori very much didn’t appreciate being on the side he normally directed his own impatient ire at. “No. I meant what happened to make him the way he is now?”
Danzo rubbed his brow. “Why? Are you scouting out any weaknesses with plans to use such against Sakumo in a childish fit of vengeance?”
“I’m past vengeance,” Sasori replied. He let himself relax in his wheelchair and visibly display his emotional and physical tiredness. “It… it seems rather pointless.” He waved in the general direction that he assumed Sakumo had disappeared in. “Kakashi seems to think that if I did kill his father out of vengeance, it would be more of a blessing than anything else.”
“And what do you think?”
Sasori wasn’t going to admit that Kakashi was probably right. What kind of life, decent or otherwise, was Sakumo living in his current condition – digging around in garbage dumpsters for food, requiring an entire team of shinobi to force him to shave and clean up, sleeping on park benches, needing to avoid most people because their hearts were too loud? “I think Tsume would be very disappointed in me,” he said, choosing to remain neutral.
Danzo eyed him. He had hard, flat eyes, like a lizard – completely different from the warmth and sparkle that lit Fumiko’s eyes. “You seem to value Tsume’s opinion. I was under the impression that you don’t care about anyone’s opinions – not your grandmother’s, and certainly not your Kazekage’s.”
“To value a person’s opinion implies that I trust their judgement or taste. My grandmother lied to me for six years about my parents being alive – she even supported these lies by forging letters from them. My Kazekage flat-out told me that I’m a rabid dog who needs to be put down. Tsume, on the other hand, has only shown that she really has my best interests at heart, and despite my many failings and flaws, loves me for who I am.”
“And it would be in her own personal best interest to keep Sakumo around, even in his current condition?”
Tsume had a habit of rescuing, adopting, and rehabilitating impossible cases; why would it be any different for her sensei? “What brought about his current condition? What happened to the S rank shinobi who wiped out two Suna Puppeteer Brigades?”
“What do you think what happened?”
Sasori narrowed his eyes. “I think you’re not very willing or good at answering questions. Tsume said that Orochimaru and his stupid seals happened to Sakumo. But what sort of seals drives someone mad like that?”
Danzo considered Sasori for a long, uncomfortable moment that stretched like a chakra thread, seeking for weakness. “What do you know of fuuinjutsu seals?”
“I know a little about containment seals. I know fuuinjutsu can be used to bend space and time. That’s how storage seals work, after all – they manipulate space and suspend time. Suna isn’t known for our fuuinjutsu though.”
“Few places are, after Uzushio’s fall,” Danzo murmured, his gaze becoming distant. “Orochimaru, much like you, has a wide, varied interest in many different subjects and science. To him, fuuinjutsu is a science – it’s really more of an art, though. Talk to any true fuuinjutsu master, and they will tell you that Orochimaru’s work is really a rigid, bastardized version of fuuinjutsu; it works best when it’s fluid and flexible. There are consequences to rigid seals. Sakumo’s shattered mind is one such consequence of a rigid seal.” Danzo held up a finger. “Say I had a wedding ring.” He tapped his ring finger, which was bare. “A rigid, unbending band. It would slide over the knuckles easily enough, so my finger isn’t trapped. But if I were to accidentally crush this finger, would wearing a ring protect it, or make the injury worse?”
“Worse. The ring would trap the swelling from the injury, and the swelling would prevent manual removal of the ring. You’d have to cut it off.” Sasori had done a brief safety review with his workshop on the dangers of degloving and crushing injuries. A few of the engineers had excused themselves when they turned green upon seeing the images he had procured from Nara Shikake for examples on degloved fingers and hands.
“And if it’s not cut off in time, the swelling will ultimately cause tissue necrosis, requiring an amputation.”
“And that is what happened to Sakumo. The seal Orochimaru placed on him was rigid, and when Sakumo was injured, no one knew about the ring and could successfully cut it off in time.”
Remembering the condition of Sakumo’s right hand, with the severed index finger and knots of lacerated through-and-though scar tissue, Sasori said, “Sakumo tried cutting it off by himself. The seal was on his finger.”
“And it blew up everything, because you can’t just remove a seal that deeply imbedded in your chakra without further repercussions.”
Okay, Sasori was developing an appreciation of so many people being concerned with him inadvertently following the footsteps of Orochimaru. What would he do, without limitations, to powerful Suna nin? (Well, he had already been plotting to assassinate the Kazekage and turn his body into a puppet. So, yeah. Sasori felt like he owed some people a few apologies.)
Danzo’s body language changed, seamlessly shifting from wary to dangerous. He moved the leg draped over his knee to plant both feet flat on the ground, tension tightening his shoulders as he leaned forward, and his hands dangled down, easy to hide between his knees. “You had Tsume sign over copies of her medical records to you.” Sasori had thought Danzo’s eye was flat before – he was wrong. A trickle of killer intent leaked out, restless and roiling with the same snapping fluidity of Namekaze’s.
Sasori felt he was balancing on the edge of a knife, with a deep, dark void far below his feet. He swallowed and dared not look at Komushi or call any chakra threads to his fingers. “Just copies of her MRI and CAT scans.”
“Why?” The whisper rasped across Sasori’s goosebumping skin like sandpaper over stone.
Oh, for crying out loud. Sasori was getting sick and tired of being on the receiving end of a S rank danger’s attention. He’d been dealing with such far too many times since he lost his feet that he was just done and had no patience left with anyone’s killing intent. Sasori raised his chin, refusing to back down. “Because I wanted to know what I was working with when I’m helping her memorize things in her mednin courses.”
“Unusual, her brain, isn’t it?”
“Her memory processing is shit.”
“And yet she still manages to eventually remember things. Most likely because of her…” Danzo paused for a pointed moment; the next word he breathed made Sasori’s gut clench. “…extraordinary olfaction.”
Sasori was distantly aware of how out in the open they were – and how utterly devoid of surrounding life. No birds, squirrels, or even humans were any close nearby, and it was starting to get dark. He could feel the void beneath his wheelchair, like a sinkhole he was barely hovering over – the cold loom of nothingness. (Killing intent? he wondered. Most killing intent gave you visions of death, it felt like rage and terror and fury, envisioning brutal agony while rending you into bloody scraps. This particular killing intent gave him visions of a grave and felt like ruthless frigidity. It promised complete and total annihilation down to the molecular level.)
(I don’t want to die and be buried. What would happen to Komushi?)
“What extraordinary olfaction?” Sasori wasn’t surprised that his voice was still steady – his mind ran in circles because this – this he was intimately aware of, playing words and strategies with Bunpuku while corrosive demonic killing intent leeched through every pore. Danzo was no One-Tailed chakra demon. Tsume had already proven she would push every limit to find Sasori, no matter the personal cost, and he knew that Danzo knew that.
This was only an intimidation tactic.
(A dick-measuring contest, Komushi added cheerfully.
Shut up. No one asked you.
An indignant huff. Of course not. They all expect me to be a lifeless puppet.)
It… it was a damn good intimidation tactic.
“Plausible deniability won’t save your hide, boy.”
“I know the weight of secrets and the importance of keeping them, and even why.” Sasori measured Danzo with all his memories, and any mention of Danzo, even if he wasn’t physically present in the memory. The best defense, after all, was a strong offence. “Tsume told me about how she was captured when twelve years old and how Iwa was trying to breed offspring from her.”
And there it was. That same full-body flinch – noticeable to Sasori only because he, like other Master Puppeteers, could control puppets with the barest twitch of finger muscles, and therefore was trained to watch for such when sparing with another Master – just like when Tsume reminded Danzo of her youth when she learned about sex the hard way during the Second War. Sasori wondered how much guilt plagued the man still, after half a dozen years, to be reminded of Tsume’s condition after stumbling upon Tsume after four months of her sexual captivity. Sasori pressed into that sudden flash of vulnerable guilt.
“I know that Tsume is desperate to prove to herself that she’s nothing like her guardian was, who abandoned a vulnerable twelve-year-old to the brutal whims of ambitious, undoubtedly powerful, men. As far as I’m concerned, Tsume has proven that she’s a far better guardian than her own after she latched onto me like the world’s worst maternal leech. Over and over, Tsume has proven herself. I knew her olfaction was extraordinary, because she can smell arsenic from sixty kilometers away.” Hell, she could smell Sasori and Shisui through fifteen meter waves, a monsoon-like rain, and an area saturated with a supernova of nature chakra, though it could’ve been at the price of her own life. “I know that her offspring has inherited that extraordinary sense of smell. Kagami said that Tsume sometimes needs to be protected from herself. I agree wholeheartedly with that. And while I’ll never be able to protect Tsume from herself, I’m certainly not going to add to more dangers by spreading around what I know.”
Danzo leaned back against the bench and regarded Sasori with cold calculation. “Did she ever tell you what her range is?”
Sasori shook his head. “I’m not interested in knowing her exact strength.” He was, but Sasori wasn’t sure he could ever safely measure Tsume’s olfaction without accidentally triggering another round of DIC. “I’ll simply accept it for what it is, and keep that knowledge to myself.”
He sneered. “Good. Although she never should’ve mentioned anything about what happened in Earth.”
Sasori shrugged. “She did say that I didn’t have clearance for it, but you know what? I’m glad she did. Trying to understand her motivations and why her companions treat her the way they do – that cleared up a great deal of my bafflement. It made it easier for me to willingly accept her guardianship of me.” And then, given that the sun had already set, “You know she’s going to be here now to track me down. I told her to come find me if I wasn’t back by dark.”
“Then you had better get going.” Danzo stood and walked off in the opposite direction, clearly having no intention of accompanying Sasori back to the Inuzuka Compound. Which Sasori was glad for – he knew that Danzo was a dangerous man and he had no intention of baring his back to Danzo anytime soon.
Upon exiting the park, Tsume found him – slightly out of breath, as if she had shunshinned her way across town, holding a breastfeeding Hana beneath a poncho to keep her warm as the evening chill settled around them. She looked more confused than worried, and kept her concerns to herself while she fell into step with Sasori as Komushi pushed the wheelchair.
“What’s for dinner?” he asked.
“Oh, uh, negamaki and left-over fried rice.”
Sasori waited for a moment longer, feeling her fidget at her side. “If you have questions, you’re free to ask them.”
Tsume nibbled on her bottom lip for a moment. “But will you answer?”
“For you?” Sasori reached out and gently gripped Tsume’s elbow, barely peeking out from beneath the poncho. “For you, I will always do my best, or at least explain why I can’t.” Tsume had cheerfully bludgeoned Sasori with her personality, and he was going to accept her for exactly who she was – flaws and all, just the way she accepted him.
“Okay.” Tsume took a deep breath, as if bracing herself. “Oh, gosh. Why didn’t Sakumo run away from you? He’s always running away from people, but he sat still and spoke to you.”
Sasori heard the strain of resigned jealousy beneath the confusion. “He said my heart was quiet. My mind was loud, but my heart was quiet.”
That answer was clearly not what Tsume expected. “Oh. Your heart…” She squinted at him. “Well, you’re certainly feeling the most content I’ve ever smelled. Like your square peg has finally settled in the correct slot, instead of trying to force yourself into a round hole or something. What about Danzo?”
“He wanted to impress upon me the importance of not sharing what I know regarding your olfaction, especially after I saw your brain scans. You probably shouldn’t hand those out like candy.”
Tsume squawked in outrage. “I don’t hand those out like candy! You asked me to get copies!” And then, despite it being a few days after the fact, “Wait – why did you ask me to get you copies?”
“Call it scientific curiosity.” Sasori flashed a grin at Tsume as they meandered through a shopping district that held only a few passing shoppers. “I can wait a few years on turning you into a puppet now that I don’t feel the driving need to autopsy your magnificent brain.”
She looked stunned. “I… I have a magnificent brain?”
“It’s also given me an idea of how to help you memorize the required information for your mednin class. If it works as I estimate it to, it won’t take you thirty years to pass.”
Tsume’s face lit up like dawn. “Really?”
“Yes. It should only take you five years instead.”
She pinched him, lightly. “Really, you jerkbutt?”oOoOoOo
Sasori awoke early, and spent two hours working on Shisui’s dragonfly puppet, using his chakra strings to bend and secure the green ironwood that would make the wings. He was stretching and pinning the leather over the frames when Tsume wandered in with a plate of food – oatmeal with dried raspberries, cinnamon, and butter.
“I usually take mine with brown sugar, but I’ve noticed that you don’t care for super-sweet things, so I didn’t add any,” she said, placing the bowl on the bench in his guestroom that he had commandeered from her barn for his work.
“Thank you. Do you think your friend, Kushina, has any fuuinjutsu seals she can apply to the leather to reduce any tearing from attacks?”
Tsume scraped one of the leather pieces he had trimmed off when shaping it to the wings with a claw, and frowned as she managed to puncture it. “I bet she does. I’ll ask her today – I’m meeting up with her and Kokoro for lunch.”
“Thank you. Do you know where the Kazekage is, right now?”

Tsume didn’t even have to sniff.
“At the Hokage Tower.”
“Does it seem like he’s going to be there for a while?”

“When he’s not with the Hokage, he’s holed up in an empty office. Spends a lot of time sending and receiving weasel summons that go all over Wind. Which makes sense, you know,” Tsume babbled, as if she hadn’t casually used her amazing olfaction to figure out exactly what a foreign leader was doing, “he’s got to keep tabs on his Suna forces while he’s here.” (Sasori was half-surprised that the Hokage didn’t just park Tsume in the Tower to tell him everything about everyone throughout Fire.)
“But why is he still here and not going back to Suna?”
Tsume blinked, surprised at Sasori’s question. “Because of you, silly. He’s waiting for something from you – has been since he met with you in the prosthetics workshop. I’m not sure what it’s about, but it basically smells like he’ll be leaving once he gets whatever he’s waiting on from you.”
Sasori knew what the man was waiting for. He also knew that the Kazekage moved at his own pace and time, always so slow and deliberate. It was this slow pace that constantly chafed at Sasori. It felt like the pace of a dying man who was trying to prolong the inevitable, and Sasori had always hated it. It was the same dying pace that Suna was lurching with. Sasori realized that one of the reasons he had wanted to leave Suna behind was because of that lurching, dying pace.
(“Do you hate Suna enough to change her, but love her enough to think she’s worth changing?”)
And the answer to what was simply yes. Sasori hated what Suna was, but loved her enough to shape her into what she deserved to be. Sasori was a craftsman and an artist. The unattainable wasn’t out of his reach. It would be a battle against internal forces, but Sasori was also shinobi – he did his best work unseen, within the shadows. The best way to combat toxin was with an antidote, and Sasori could make an antidote to any poison – his or someone else’s – if he so desired.
“I have a meeting with the Kazekage.”
“Does he know?”
Sasori felt his smile carve into his face, like a knife slashing across wood. “Not yet. But the best battles are won when you choose the battle site.”
Tsume sighed. “You really do worry me, sometimes.”oOoOoOo
The best battle site to take on an enemy was where you could ambush them without notice.
Not that Sasori was ambushing the Kazekage.
Not that Sasori could probably successfully sneak up on his Kazekage, at least with his current level of skill and disability.
Whether the man was Sasori’s enemy or not… well, that was still debatable.
Still, one of the reasons that Sasori was so stubbornly pursuant in science was simply because he was too impatient for the answers to be discovered or explained by someone else, so he did it himself. The Kazekage said they would discuss matters further, and Sasori – having reached a decision – wasn’t going to wait around for the Kazekage to eventually come to him. Mistakes were often made with impatience, and the more Sasori would have to wait, the more impatient he would become, and the more mistakes he would make.
With his workshop set to start in two hours, Sasori had a viable deadline to end the meeting with the Kazekage, should the man decide not to ignore Sasori. And after an eternity with Tsume and Team Chaos, Sasori had learned the most intrusive ways of not being ignored.
When the Suna nin, who was acting as both the Kazekage’s secretory and sentry outside of his closed door, told Sasori that the Kazekage had a busy day and “would fit you into his schedule where he sees fit,” Sasori simply nodded.
“I’ll be good,” he promised her.
She glared suspiciously over the wire-frame of her reading glasses. “You can’t get through me with any intimidation, threats, violence, or poison.”
“I will be perfectly behaved. I promise that there will be no attempts, successful or otherwise, of intimidation, threats, violence, or poisons.”
She glared at him suspiciously, because Sasori was a shinobi, but he had also given a very rare promise. She barely knew Sasori and thus didn’t appreciate the value of such, but she would learn.
He set up Tsume’s radio (admittedly borrowed without her permission, but, eh, it’s not like her nose wouldn’t tell her where it wound up) to the most blatantly obnoxious music station he could find (a poorly-connected station somewhere in Isha playing country music that was all twangy banjo, screeching guitars, and someone loving someone, cheating on someone, leaving someone, or having their dog run over by stampeding Konoha nin). Then, with two twitches of his fingers, he sent Komushi cavorting around, dancing not in time to the music with overly exaggerated sways of his hips in a poor facsimile of flirting with the Kazekage’s secretary.

Sasori then parked his wheelchair in front of the secretary and proceeded to speak loud enough to be heard over the blasting music.“Do you know why you can’t see elephants hiding in trees? Because they’re really good at it.”
“My friend claims he glued himself to his autobiography. I don’t believe him, but that’s his story and he’s sticking to it.”
“Why do sweaters always hang out together? Because they’re close-knit.”
“There’s only two things I don’t eat for breakfast: lunch and dinner.”
“I adopted a dog from a blacksmith. As soon as I brought him home, he made a bolt for the door.”
With each delivered Dad Joke, the secretory sunk lower in her chair, her horror growing at the same rate as her shrinkage. Because not only was Sasori keeping his promise, but he was also showcasing just how terrible it was to endure something incredibly obnoxious, and not be able to do anything to stop it.
“I told a bad chemistry joke once. I got no reaction.”
“Did you hear about the cat that ate a lemon? Now it’s a sour puss.”
“What did one wall say to the other? I’ll meet you at the corner.”
“How many apples can you grow on a tree? All of them.”
“Did you hear about the guy who afraid of hurdles? He got over it.”
“I wanted to take a bath, but decided to leave it where it is.”
The door slammed open and the Kazekage glared down at Sasori. “Get in here before my secretary decides to finish what the arsenic couldn’t.”
Sasori flicked the obnoxious radio off (“I wouldn’t take her to the dog fight, even if she had a chance to win~”) with a chakra thread and brought Komushi along, lest the secretary took her irritation out on his friend.
Restless iron sand danced like waves of desert sand across the floor as the Kazekage strode across the room, his robes flaring behind him from the swift movement, and seated himself at the desk that was covered with a variety of missives, scrolls, and a single mug of half-consumed coffee next to a battered tin coffee pot with steam drifting from the sprout. “There are easier ways to make an appointment without stooping to the level of an abhorrent toddler. Do not ever do that again. Ever.” He topped off his coffee cup.
Sasori ignored the pang of how much he missed coffee, and feigned a look of innocence instead. “You mean you don’t want me to solve a problem without using intimidation, threats, violence, or poisons?”
The Kazekage froze. He stared. Then he blinked. “What.”
“I used cheerful music—”
“Not taking your wife anywhere because she’s too ugly to win a dog fight* is not cheerful music!”
“I used Komushi for dancing, not fighting.”
“And his rhythm has not improved even on your puppet strings.”
“And I told jokes. I didn’t threaten a single thing. No violence, no poisons, no threats, no intimidation. I didn’t infer anything in regards to your secretary’s intelligence, and I never insulted her. I thought you wanted me to change.” The Kazekage glared at Sasori over the rim of his coffee cup as he swallowed it down, wincing at the searing heat. “Kasekage-sama,” Sasori made sure he sounded disappointed, “I’m getting mixed messages from you.”
The Kazekage choked on his coffee, splashing the liquid on his white robes. “You…! You were torturing Kannin-san!”
“I was keeping her entertained. I didn’t want her bored while she sat and watched me.” No wonder Kagami behaved like this. It was entertaining to watch people flounder in the face of reason and how people couldn’t counter such without sinking to the level of pettiness that had just been inflicted on them.
“She – you!” The Kazekage gently set his coffee cup down, movement deliberate but clearly irate as his iron sand whipped further along the floor. It stung as it lashed against Sasori’s hands, hanging low against his wheelchair tires. The Kazekage took a deep breath; the iron sand settled into lazy waves. “You wanted an audience with me; you have it now. What was so important that you felt it necessary to interrupt my day and inflict such obnoxiousness on poor Kannin-san?”
“All I did was treat her the same way Konoha’s Head of Internal Affairs treated me for four weeks.”
The Kazekage’s face spasmed – disbelief, a morbid curiosity, and suspicion waged war in his expression before suspicion finally won out. “Surely, you jest.”
“I haven’t changed enough to gain that much of a sense of humor. I get the feeling that everyone in the know seems to think that being drowned by a dragon was the worst thing that happened to me during my journey back to Konoha. That, at least, was over and done with very quickly – I barely had time to suffer from the broken bones and the fear before dying. I also had to endure seven hours of Dad Jokes. Hundreds of them, back to back. That was torture. You and Kannin-san weren’t even exposed to a dozen Dad Jokes.”
The Kazekage looked like he was unsure if Sasori was being serious or not, and whether the truth was worse than a lie.
“It wasn’t just Tsume who drew me off the path of moral decline – it was Uchiha Kagami, Shimura-Uchiha Fumiko, and Uchiha Shisui. It was all of them, being themselves and wanting the best for me, that drew me off that path. It… the path I was on, it would’ve ended badly for all of us without their influence.”
“And this new path that you’re on now? It’s insufferable.”

“I just thought I’d try something different.” This was where Sasori had to tread carefully. Any implication that presented him as a threat to the Kazekage line would be dealt with extreme prejudice. There was a reason that Sasori had only been a part-time apprentice to the Kazekage, and it wasn’t because he was also his Grandmother’s apprentice – it was to keep Sasori at an arm’s length to not threaten Raza’s eventual rise to power. “I love Suna,” he said. “I also hate Suna. I love what she used to be, what she’s meant to be, but I hate what she is now.”
The Kazekage folded his hands and watched Sasori as the iron sand stilled.
Sasori forged onward. “Suna is my home, but home is more than just a place – Suna is more than fresh coffee with cinnamon and vanilla, just the way Grandmother makes it. It’s more than just the daytime heat and the nighttime chill, the snakes and lizards, the cactus, the singing of the sands with the whispers and shouts of a never-ending wind. It’s more than my workshop with all my supplies, set up exactly the way I like, or the spices, or the sunsets and sunrises, the Milky Way on a clear night.
“It’s the people. It’s the children, the adults, the shinobi and civilians. It’s the nomadic tribes who visit, the merchants who come and go. It’s the history and the culture. It’s our strength and independence of a people who scratched together an existence in a hostile land where life must battle it out for survival.” Sasori studied the Kazekage’s hands, which remained still and loose without a single muscle twitch. He could see the pulse, slow and steady, in the inside of his thumb. He raised his gaze from the Kazekage’s hands to his face.
Sasori knew what the man’s name used to be – and how he had abdicated his name when he became the Kazekage, how his acceptance speech was how his identity was Suna itself.
Though the Third Kazekage had ascended before Sasori was even born, Sasori had read everything he could on the man who had chosen him to be his part-time apprentice.
“I,” Sasori braced himself, “the way I used to be, on the path I was on, was just the visible rot at the surface of what has been slowly poisoning Suna itself.”
The Kazekage’s face was still, but his amber eyes glowed. Sasori wasn’t sure if they glowed with pride or with warning. “And you think that you could be the antidote.”
“Antivenoms are built from the venom itself. But the antivenom does nothing if it just sits there. It’s on my leader to apply the cure. I hate Suna. I hate her enough to change her, but I also love her enough to think she’s worth changing.”
The Kazekage shifted, lifted one hand to cradle his chin. “Where do you think the antivenom should be applied for maximum effect?”
“From the inside.” Sasori raised his chin. “I want to join Internal Affairs.”
“You wouldn’t be satisfied with just Internal Affairs.”
“I intend to run it as the Head, someday, but I know I need to start from the bottom and work my way up from there.”
The Kazekage’s voice dropped into a deadly whisper. “And after you’ve become Head of Internal Affairs? Where will you go from there?”
Sasori thought of Uchiha Kagami, a man who stood with one foot in the past – keeping alive the teachings of his sensei, the long-dead Second Hokage – and one foot in the future, guiding and coaxing a three-year-old protégée monster. How Kagami stood in the center, the present, knitting together all of Sasori’s broken pieces into something that held value and beauty. “It’s true that I most likely wouldn’t stay Head of Internal Affairs forever, but I want to build a lasting legacy, which means shaping someone to eventually take my place and keep that legacy alive. Where would I go after that? I suppose wherever the wind will take me. I wouldn’t be opposed against becoming a Jounin sensei, to mold students in the future I want Suna to have.”
“You realize that, as eventual Head of Internal Affairs, your ideals will clash with those of the Kazekage, whether such would be me or my son.”
“It would be pointless to pretend otherwise. But I think there’s room for compromise and understanding as long as the heart of our ideals remain the same – Suna must do more than survive; she must thrive.”
“Hmmm.” The Kazekage dropped his hand and leaned back in his chair. A satisfied smile played across his lips. “I think I like the new path that you’ve found, as long as it remains free of your earlier obnoxiousness. I’ll be quite interested to see where it takes you. After you get a new pair of feet and learn to walk and fight again. You’ll need it, if you’re going to fight for Suna on the inside.”
The tension Sasori had been holding tight in his spine melted away. “Yes. Yes, that would be necessary.”
“Six months, Sasori. I’ll extend your medical leave from active duty an additional six months from today. That should be more than enough time to get your health in order, complete your projects here, settle your personal affairs, and return to Suna. It will also take approximately six months for me to take stock of the current state of Internal Affairs for Suna, especially in light of the war we’re engaged in. I can’t promise a full-time position initially – but I do promise that you will be involved with Internal Affairs, and not because you’re in trouble.”
Sasori nodded in acceptance, and made a mental note to later ask Tsume if she could pick up any odor of deceit.
When Sasori wheeled himself out of the Kazekage’s office, he paused (both he and Kannin flinched as the Kazekage slammed the door shut) to collect Tsume’s radio. “Oh, by the way,” Sasori made sure he gave the secretary a nice smile, “if you told anyone about how I managed to get an appointment with the Kazekage today, no one will believe you.”
She slammed the door shut behind Sasori with even more force than the Kazekage had used.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

In early April, Sasori left Suna with no intention of returning. He was a twelve-year-old newly-minted Jounin with ambitions the size of the country he grew up in, armed with a puppet fashioned out of the corpse of his best friend, and had decided to burn all bridges behind him because there was nothing worth returning to. He was broken, but was too stressed and hadn’t had room to breathe and consider that maybe he was defeated by the time he reached Konoha, nearly four weeks to the day that he had lost his feet, and nearly his life, to arsenic. By the time he did manage to mentally regroup and catch his breath, he decided he was undefeated despite the brokenness, and that being broken wasn’t all that bad when he was patched back together with veins of gold – support, love, friendship, honesty, new ambitions, and new purpose in life.
In many ways, Sasori’s new feet were a little better – for one, he was able to hide stores of bladed weapons and for another, canisters of toxins. Also, being made of iron wood meant that they were stronger than actual bones. Plus, he could pack along extra prosthetics to switch out in case someone did manage to damage one in a fight, and he would never have to endure healing anymore chicken bone-splintered tibia bones.
In other ways, they were worse – that itchy big left toe could only sometimes be alleviated when he scratched his left thumb, and shoe-shopping was more of a hassle with fake feet than with real feet, because it was hard to find something wide enough to fit. And while he could minimize sores on his stumps, the risk was always present from prolonged continuous wear (as he discovered the first week).
Sasori managed to successfully brow-beat his prosthetic workshop into a successful venture, and even left Konoha Medical with a manual and a competent teacher (Fuuko), and a steady income for Suna’s coffers that would make up for any loss that came from his extended medical leave. He made a magnificent dragonfly puppet for Shisui to branch out in, once he mastered his own puppetry skills. Shisui built a miniature version of a dragonfly puppet in the prosthetics lab, and was well on his way to being the youngest puppet master ever (Sasori was still on the fence as to whether he should be proud of his pupil, or terrified of Shisui’s unlimited talents – seriously, what on earth did Konoha do to produce kids like Kakashi and Shisui?). He reluctantly recruited Kokoro, as the only other Konoha nin capable of using chakra threads, to continue tutelage for Shisui in his absence.
“He is still my apprentice,” he told Kokoro sternly, ignoring the half-crazed glee that one of her older brothers watched him with, and the stink-eye his daughter (a sour-faced genin named Anko about the same age as Obito and Rin) was giving Sasori.
“How did you manage to have an intervillage apprenticeship with the Kazekage’s permission?” Kokoro asked.
“He said it was fine, as long as I brought along all the materials for Konoha’s mednin classes to help revamp our hospital.” What would have required multiple surgeries for his stumps and permanent prosthetics in Suna took a single surgery in Konoha, thanks to the application of the Mystic Palm, and the Kazekage was eager to capitalize on every bit of information that Sasori could sus out in his prolonged medical leave in an allied Village.oOoOoOo
Sasori and Fumiko also learned, together, more about dragons than what had ever been documented before.
“Shame we can’t share this documentation with the rest of the world,” Fumiko told Sasori as they watched the courtship of three raiton dragons and the world’s last known suiton dragon. There had been four raiton dragon suitors, but Nessie immediately rejected the one stupid enough to display his lightning prowess while Nessie had been in the reservoir water. Sasori had no idea that water could explode like that.*
“Yeah, but at least we have each other to compare notes, bounce ideas off of, and commiserate with,” Sasori replied.
From what they had determined, the courtship of dragons was a complex matter of the male dragon was ultimately chosen for his virility, his strength, and his hunting skills. So far, the hunting skill was being determined on how many enemy shinobi they could capture live to feed Nessie (which Tsume had carefully trained the raiton dragons to do with a variety of forehead protectors and odors that indicated which countries the forehead protectors belonged to. She sternly corrected any hunting mishaps by whacking the raiton dragons over the nose with a rolled-up newspaper whenever they accidentally brought allied nin; Konoha nin were sworn to secrecy, and non-Konoha nin had their memories proficiently wiped with Kagami’s Sharingan). Since a dragon was, ultimately, too large to hide whenever they went hunting, Nessie had taught her suitors how to henge in order to reduce their size – and the henged humanoid versions of raiton dragons were no less haunting than Nessie’s version.
“You know,” Fumiko said, “I’m not really sure it is a henge. I think it’s more of a metamorphosis, the way a caterpillar changes into a butterfly.”
Sasori considered that. “We’ll need more data. Who else do we know uses nature chakra?”
(Namikaze was a plebian jerkbutt who declined to attempt any henge while channeling nature chakra, refusing to take the risk of accidentally turning himself to stone to satisfy Fumiko and Sasori’s insatiable curiosity.)
Sasori’s first introduction to his new summon was simply because he needed Nessie to explain the act of copulation and whether or not she would produce live young or sit on a thatch of eggs.
His wolverine summon looked at Sasori, looked up and up and up at Nessie, and said, “Yeah, I can take her.”
After much shouting, fur flying, a couple of bruises (his), a few broken bones (the wolverine’s, because Nessie lightly swatted her), one slightly damaged prosthetic foot (again, his), a belligerent wolverine summon that felt she would’ve won fair and square if Sasori hadn’t sat on her, and far too much amusement from the ANBU who came to investigate the ruckus, Sasori eventually learned that Nessie would produce live young, but the length of internally incubating the eggs before they hatch was approximately three years. Sasori’s fantasy of bringing home a pet hybrid raiton-suiton demisummon dragon when he returned to Suna was momentarily put on hold as he mentally updated his timeline.
(Takigakure was already demanding that Konoha return their legendary Kogan serpent, after Tsume sent them a very thoughtful apology letter, along with the promised butterscotch cookie recipe. Nessie declared that she was her own dragon and would decide where she wanted to be, and that was with her beau, in Konoha. The Hokage momentarily lifted Natsumi’s restraining order so she could summon Taki’s jinchuuriki to explain things to Takigakure. After his face-to-face introduction with Nessie, Takuma determined that a) if Konoha was somehow powerful enough to kidnap a suiton dragon and successfully drag it four hundred kilometers across Fire to Konoha, then that was a power not even the Seven Tails felt comfortable taking on; and b) Nessie was a big girl wearing big girl panties and could do whatever the flying fuck she wanted. And since fucking was exactly what she wanted to do, well, go for it, girl. You go ahead and get laid for the first time in probably four centuries, that was indeed an unreasonably long, dry spell, and Takuma was going to tell his Ryusuikage just that.
Takigakure eventually agreed to two replacement offspring sometime in the next century or so.)
The worst thing Fumiko and Sasori initially struggled with was determining Nessie’s age. Nessie herself had no vocabulary to describe years, only saying that she didn’t count the passing of seasons; hiding in a gigantic lake certainly meant she was unconcerned with any portion of human history that could give Fumiko some timeline comparisons. Nessie said she had been a young dragon when she left Water, and had chosen to hide in Lake Kogan because, at that time, it was completely frozen over, never melting and never exposing the hidden water to the rest of the world. It had remained thus for a very long period of time, and Nessie described that time period as a single season.
Fumiko reached out to a historian at Fire University, who reached out to a historian in Waterfall’s University, who reached out to the scientific department, and eventually they determined, based on the melting glaciers in Waterfall and history and geology, that Lake Kogan was last frozen over year-round approximately four hundred and fifty years ago.
Well, it was probably the best they were going to determine. It continued to bother Sasori that in all of his travels through Wind and all the oral history he had been exposed to in different nomadic tribes, he had never once heard of fuuton dragons. Did this mean they had hidden themselves away? Did fuuton dragons exist somewhere in the great span of untraveled sands where no one dared travel due to the distance between known water sources? What happened to them that no trace of history was left?
A week before Sasori left for Suna, Nessie chose her mate, and Sasori learned that she could choose whether to be ovoviviparous or not, and because she wanted to keep her young as safe as possible, had decided to keep her eggs incubated internally until they would hatch. If she had chosen to lay eggs instead, she could produce more young, but she had opted over increased survival over increased number of young. It would take twenty months of incubation before they would be birthed.oOoOoOo
Kagami was very supportive of Sasori’s ambitions to rise through the ranks of Suna’s Internal Affairs and the changes (which Sasori didn’t provide any details about, and Kagami didn’t push to learn more about) Sasori wanted to make within Suna. He presented Sasori multiple books with titles like How to Manage Problem Employees; Change the Workplace, Change the World; The Challenge in Change in Organizations: Helping Employees Thrive in the New Frontier; Managing Employees without Fear; and The Essential Guide to Workplace Investigations. He also provided Sasori with several different pamphlets on work-life balance, benefits, sexual harassment, and even included some books on successfully training dogs with a reward system, and child psychology.
“Why child psychology?” Sasori asked as he looked at The Whole-Brain Child and The Psychology of the Child.
Kagami’s answering smile was wry. “Because, in my experience in Internal Affairs, while some people may grow old, very few actually grow up.”
Fair enough.oOoOoOo
Sasori managed to successfully weaponize Tsume’s memory and olfaction. Once he successfully (metaphorically speaking) beat it through her cheese-holed brain that she could smell the anatomy, it was suddenly much easier for Tsume to remember what she was supposed to be memorizing. She lit up like a supernova of nature chakra once she realized that she already knew everything, but now she could put the name on whatever she was sniffing out. (Sasori was pleased to calculate that it was only going to take her three years of repeating the mednin courses to successfully learn and pass, instead of the thirty that Tsume had originally complained about.)
Sasori remained with the mednin classes, even after he tested out of most of the materials, skipping out only when he had conflicts in his schedule, like his PT or prosthetic workshops. He wanted to know what materials were being taught in the class in order to review and explain them to Tsume’s benefit.
(Aaaaand if he also absconded with the materials and rewrote the lessons to improve the mednin course in Suna… Well, that was no one’s business but his own and the Kazekage’s and Kokoro’s. After all, Internal Affairs would have their fingers in many pies, and Sasori wanted Suna to improve and flourish in all areas. It wouldn’t do if the shinobi he was trying to change all died on him from treatable injuries that Suna’s mednin hamfisted and flubbed.)
(Komushi was proud of Sasori for thinking of other people, and Sasori was proud of himself for slowly figuring out how to feed his white wolf.)oOoOoOo
Tsume scrounged up her copy of the research paper on DNA, genetics, and chromosomes that Orochimaru had worked on after the Second War, since Shinchuu – with her chromosomal disorder – had been a research participant. “I really don’t understand most of it,” Tsume admitted as she gave it to Sasori after he promised to give it back. “There was a lot of kekkai genkai theft going on during the Second War, because it was common opinion that bloodline limits made you a stronger ninja. But Orochimaru, Jiraiya, Tsunade, the Third Hokage – none of them have kekkai genkai, and Orochimaru initially started out to prove that you didn’t need a kekkai genkai to be stronger. I mean, you don’t have one.”
“How do you know?” Sasori asked absentmindedly as he admired the beautiful symmetry of Orochimaru’s data graphs and statistical tables. “Maybe that’s why poisons generally have less effect on me than other people.”
“Eh, I would say you more likely have a genetic predisposition for an increased tolerance of different poisons through generations of exposure to different substances that increased certain levels of liver enzymes, and also an in-utero transfer of antibodies from your mother.”
Sasori slowly looked up from Orochimaru’s paper to stare at Tsume, who was squinting at the general vicinity of Sasori’s liver. “Your nose?” he asked.
She brightened. “Yeah, it’s really great to put a name to all the different chemical processes that I can smell! Anyway, the Hokage was hoping that spreading this research of Orochimaru’s would decrease people’s interests in stealing kekkai genkai. Turns out, all it did was kickstart Orochimaru’s obsession in kekkai genkai to the point where he was trying to resurrect dead or dying bloodline limits for his own purpose. So, yeah. Big whoopsie-daisy.” And then, as if suddenly remembering who she had just handed the study to, she added, somewhat alarmed, “You’re not going to make me regret handing that to you, are you?”
Sasori patted Tsume’s hand in assurance and told her, with every bit of sincerity, “Outside of my poisons, the only scientific curiosity that I’m currently pursuing is Nessie.”
Tsume sighed in relief. “Oh, good. I doubt she’d allow you try vivisecting her or her young.”
Nessie would probably eat Sasori. And while it would be an interesting way to discover how her digestive system worked, Sasori didn’t want to experience it first-hand. “I have far too much self-preservation to even think about doing that.”oOoOoOo
In the midst of accidentally growing bonds with other people (mainly Team Minato, since he was allowed to run a few missions with them to get a feel of his new feet while in the field – and what a delight that was, when it turned out that Kakashi’s summoned ninken were lower on the pecking order than Sasori’s summoned wolverines), puberty struck Sasori.
Sitting in Tsume’s kitchen, a month before his thirteenth birthday, during a Friday night dinner with the Uchiha family unit that Sasori had grown so close to, as Kagami dipped his head to Yamato’s drawing to get a closer look, Sasori was struck with the inexplicable need to lick the exposed skin that Kagami’s curls revealed.
Reject! His brain screamed at him. Think of Kagami being happily married to his wife!
Which only made Sasori imagine the long, elegant column of Fumiko’s neck, and how much he would like to lick her dark skin, too.
Sasori barely made it through the rest of dinner without meeting either of the elders’ eyes, and holed himself in his bedroom for the entire weekend, fantasizing ways to painlessly turn himself into a eunuch. “This,” he told Komushi, “would be a lot easier if I made myself into a puppet.” He could do it, theoretically, while remaining alive afterwards. It would be like achieving immortality. Would he need sleep? If he didn’t need to sleep, there was so much more that Sasori could do!
(Eh, being a puppet still has its downsides, Komushi replied.)
Tsume grew impatient with Sasori’s adolescent crisis and dragged him out of his safe space Monday morning and into the kitchen, where Danzo sat with a cup of what Sasori was pretty sure was nothing more than cream flavored with a splash of tea and was reluctantly having some “minimum” bonding time with Hana seated in his lap. While fending her away from his tea-flavored cream.
“Okay, enough is enough,” Tsume told Sasori sternly. “Now, I gotta get Yamato to preschool. I want you to know that crushes are perfectly normal–” (Sasori sunk down in the kitchen chair that Tsume had tied him to) “—healthy things that adolescents like yourself go through, no matter how far above you may think you are from us mere humans. Danzo, also, suffers from delusions of superiority.”
Danzo eyed Tsume resentfully over the rim of his cup.
“I feel like Kagami would be a better choice to discuss puberty with,” Tsume continued blithely, “but since you’ve finally noticed the massive crushes you have on him and Fumiko—” (Danzo twitched, color burning in his cheeks) “—I figure that will only make things even more awkward for you. Instead, I decided that Danzo might be the better choice to discuss normal bisexual urges with. Oh please,” she told Danzo as he looked like he was contemplating all the ways he could successfully drown in his cup of tea-cream (Sasori could think of three), her hands planted on her hips, “I know for a fact that you enjoy men as much as you enjoy me.”
“Having sex with you,” Danzo’s voice could simultaneously melt flesh from bones and freeze his drink, “is a matter of survival, not enjoyment. You are the one who puts on the sex ed workshops quarterly, not me. You’re better suited to discuss such matters with Sasori-kun.”
“You forget that I can smell lies. Besides, I’m not the only woman you’ve ever nailed. My sex ed is strictly informational, and isn’t about placating identity crises. Now, you two have a nice conversation,” her voice pitched high and sweet as she bent over to press a kiss against Hana’s forehead, “and Mama will see you later, sweety, yes.”
Tsume then sashayed out the door, as Yamato had been sitting outside with the ninken and his backpack of school supplies. And then she hurried back in briefly to snatch Yamato’s lunch bento from the fridge before hurrying back outside.
“We don’t need to have this conversation,” Sasori told Danzo with a confidence he didn’t feel, because he was all too ready to die from embarrassment. You’d think he’d have become used to it after all this time with repeated exposure to Tsume, but no.
Danzo’s single lizard eye glared at him. “Tsume is going to know that we didn’t.”
“Then we’ll keep it brief.” Sasori’s voice cracked and briefly dropped an octave. It was doing that more often. “I have recently realized that I am having the urge to lick people’s necks.”
“Puberty is such a bitch,” Danzo said, his voice completely devoid of any sympathy.
“I apparently have a crush on one of your best friends, and on your half-sister, and I’m not sure which of the two crushes offends you more.”
“Both, in equal measures.” Danzo sipped his tea-cream. “Why can’t you be normal, for once, and have a crush on someone a little closer to your own age?”
“Everyone else my age are just a bunch of hacks and morons.” Sasori attempted to twist his torso to loosen the ropes he was trapped in. It didn’t work. “I suspect that I’m attracted to intelligence.”
“Unfortunate high standards indeed, given the dearth of such in the human population.” Yeah, Sasori couldn’t argue that.
Sasori sent chakra threads to the knots keeping him in place, but while they could attach, he couldn’t manipulate the knots. Damn Sarutobi ropes and their fucking fuuinjutsu seals woven into the rope material. “If it makes you feel any better, I also know that pursuing a sexual relationship at my age is inappropriate and that the most I should do is just some kissing and petting with someone in the same age bracket. I know it would be highly inappropriate and unhealthy to have a sexual relationship with someone significantly older than me.”
“Oh, thank the gods. Maybe you are as smart as you think you are.”
“I already suffered through opposite-sex and same-sex education that my own grandmother put on, complete with graphic images she cut out of medical texts and porno magazines. Grandmother has already assured me that she will support and love me no matter who I’m attracted to, as long as it wasn’t Komushi or sheep.”
Danzo, who had been half-way through a sip of his tea, choked and grimaced as his drink came out his nostrils. “Sh-sheep?” And then, “The rumors are true?”
“What rumors?” Sasori blinked sleepy-eyed at Danzo. “There are no rumors of sheep.”
Hana babbled and fingerpainted with the splatters of Danzo’s spit-take. He impatiently set his tea mug down, balanced her on one hip, and grabbed a towel to clean his face and the mess on the table. Once that was completed, he grabbed a set of measuring spoons from a drawer, handed them to Hana, and set her on the floor. Hana had just recently learned how to sit upright, and did just that. Hana cheerfully banged the measuring spoons on the floor like she was trying to beat the tile into submission. Then she discovered a loose clump of mud and decided to taste-test it.
Danzo eyed the baby that he still treated like an unstable exploding tag. “Are they supposed to do that?” he asked Sasori, since Sasori actually lived with Hana and therefore knew more about babies than Danzo did.
Sasori shrugged. “Although research on the intestinal microbiome could still be considered in its infancy, it’s been determined so far that exposure to a wide range of benevolent microbes** helps build a robust immune system.”
“So Tsume isn’t going to lecture us if her daughter eats dirt.”
“If she was concerned, she would’ve swept the floor before she left. Also, I am morally obliged to remind you that Hana is also your daughter.”
Danzo snorted. “Morals and obligations don’t really coexist with you, Sasori-kun.” At least Danzo didn’t protest the idea of Hana being his daughter.
“You know, Tsume once told me that you’re an exemplary shinobi, a man who embodies the very ideal.”
Danzo was silent as he studied Sasori.
“I’m not sure why you keep holding Hana at such a distance. If you took even one-tenth of that drive to become an exemplary shinobi to be a half-way decent father to her, I bet you would be even scarier than Tsume, with all of her fierce maternal instincts.”
Danzo’s whisper made the hair on the back of Sasori’s neck stand on end. “I don’t want to.”
But Sasori was determined to ply his initial attempts on kintsugi with someone before he left for Suna. At least here and now, in the safety of Tsume’s kitchen, he was at least likely to survive. “But being an exemplary shinobi, Danzo-kun, is all about doing what you don’t want, in order to succeed.”
“If you’re going to change the subject, it seems we are almost done with the embarrassing conversation that Tsume wanted us to have.”
“It would appear so.”

“Any urge to lick my neck?”
Sasori shuddered. “Unlike Tsume, I have taste.”
Danzo glanced down at Hana, who was now trying to see how many measuring spoons she could cram into her mouth at once. “Yeah, I can’t argue that.” The look he then gave Sasori would’ve made him duck for cover if he wasn’t already tied in place. “Any urge to lick Tsume’s neck?”
Sasori glared. “Ew.”
“None, whatsoever?”
“Again, ew. She’s like a mother, or an older sister, or an aunt. I do not have an incest fetish. I already told you I am attracted to intelligence.” Sasori thought of how to phrase Tsume’s particular brain power, in light of her brain injury, in the nicest way possible. “She’s a little too harebrained for me.”
“Good to know.”
“Can you untie me now?”
Danzo grinned, like a snake opening its maw before striking. “I’ll think about it.”
Sasori kicked his stumps and wondered how far he would push Danzo before finding himself in a shallow grave. “Does Tsume know that you’re into bondage?”
On one hand, it was hazardous to Sasori’s general health to push Danzo like that. On the other hand, it was effective in getting untied from the kitchen chair with undue haste and he survived, so Sasori considered that a double win.oOoOoOo
Sasori quickly got over his discomfort of licking people’s necks, telling himself it was the same sort of biological drive that included hunger, thirst, and general irritation with the world at large. He had been telling himself the entire time with Team Chaos that he was perfectly normal, and this was proof of such. And proof of his impeccable taste, especially when compared to Tsume’s.
The time of his departure from Konoha was drawing very near, and he owed Fumiko, anyway. He sent a message to Fumiko with the use of his wolverine summon (damn, this was fun), that simply read, I promised one day I would tell you more about Wind. That day is now. Fumiko immediately invited him to dinner, with written instructions to their address and directions from Tsume’s compound.
Sasori walked there on his new prosthetics, his stumps well-cushioned with the angora socks that Chiyo made. (She had somehow managed to talk Inuzuka Natsumi into letting her sign the goat summon, with a sworn promise to make Natsumi a beautiful shawl from the goat wool. And Natsumi had been right – the goats showered Chiyo with cheese every time they showed up. Sasori was both amazed and disgusted with the ever-increasing frequency of Tsume using goat cheese in nearly every meal, and how many different uses she could come up. She ultimately determined that goat cheesecake should never, ever, be a thing that existed.)

Kagami and Fumiko lived in a modest little house surrounded by a traditional garden, with carefully manicured bushes and bonsai trees; the borders of their property was screened with a wall of living bamboo that towered twelve meters high. The house had siding paper screens – paper, being a luxury in Suna, and much too fragile to withstand sand storms or even rampaging dogs in the Inuzuka Compound, was something Sasori didn’t see often in his life – and a nightingale floor that was especially loud beneath Sasori’s prosthetics. After dinner, they moved to the covered pavilion in the back yard where it overlooked a koi pond with a flowing fountain in the center, and a carefully curated nature with late-blooming flowers, decorative grasses nearly as tall as Sasori, plush moss and thyme growing between artfully placed stones, and even more bonsai.
“It’s very green and peaceful back here,” Sasori said as he accepted the cup of fragrant jasmine tea. He and Kagami were seated on cushions at the covered kotatsu table – Sasori hadn’t yet reached the point of familiarity and comfort to kneel, and kneeling only worsened the swelling in Kagami’s legs. Only Fumiko knelt.
“Do you mind?” she asked as she set her hand recorder on the kotatsu table. “I’d like to watch you, instead of my notebook, as you talk.”
“Not at all,” Sasori said. He also wanted to watch Fumiko’s face and her sparkling eyes as he spoke. He waited until she hit the red recording button. “I looked through the Academy history books of Tsume’s, and they all say the same thing – that Konoha was the first Hidden Village, that the First Hokage gifted the bijuu to other Hidden Villages after their founding as a show of peace, and I want to tell you that such is wrong regarding Sunagakure. Shukaku, the One-Tailed Tanuki Demon, has been with Suna since its founding, almost five hundred years ago.”
Fumiko gasped. Kagami raised his eyebrows in surprise. Neither said anything.
And Sasori talked through two pots of tea, pacing himself through sips to keep his throat moist and his voice from growing hoarse. He told them that because of their underground water source (he provided no further details on Suna’s aquifer), Suna had been a permanent settlement for a mix of three allied tribes, and it had been an important trading and traveling post for many nomadic tribes. It had always considered itself a neutral ground for all who came, and the leaders of Suna – an unbroken line of parent to child that persisted to this day through the Kazekage line – maintained protection over Suna against anyone who had attempted to overpower them.
All thanks to Shukaku. Although who, exactly, had first captured and tied Shukaku to his tea kettle had been lost to time. When invasion looked like it could usurp Suna’s leadership, the past ruling leaders would release Shukaku from his tea kettle to wipe out the invaders. Of course, this meant that Suna itself had been rebuilt many times over, because an unleashed bijuu was a destructive force. It was only after Konohagakure was founded that Suna decided it would be Wind’s Hidden Village, and the Wind Daimyo readily agreed, given that Suna threatened to use Shukaku to wipe out any competition.
Kagami clicked his tongue. “A gigantic force like that, kept tied up in a tea kettle whenever he’s not needed. He must be very lonely.”
Sasori thought of Shukaku in a good mood, and how that had turned bad after Bunpuku’s death. The death of a man who had been tied to Shukaku, similarly to other jinchuuriki, a vessel to carry Shukaku whenever he had to leave his tea kettle, who had kept Shukaku constant company. He thought of how no one else had been tied to the tea kettle after Bunpuku’s death, and how no one, except the Kazekage perhaps, visited Shukaku anymore. Sasori thought of Komushi, forever trapped in his puppet body, but at least Sasori kept Komushi close and shared his life and experiences with his friend.
“This reminds me of something Mito once told, years before she left for Uzushio,” Fumiko said. “She said that the key to taming the bijuu is love, and how it’s so difficult to love something so fearful and powerful.”
Sasori thought of how Tsume had plied him with love and care from when they had first met. “You should ask Kushina how that’s working out,” Sasori said blandly.

Kagami choked on his tea. “Suna knows?” Kagami demanded as his Sharingan bloomed.
“I don’t know about the entirety of Suna,” Sasori replied. “I only know because the Kazekage told me after I first started plotting revenge against Sakumo when Grandmother finally told me he had killed my parents, and why I would never successfully succeed killing Kushina, whether directly or with poison.” After a moment, Kagami’s Sharingan faded away, and Sasori relaxed his grip on his teacup.
“Do you suppose that Shukaku would know anything about fuuton dragons?” Fumiko asked. “If he’s been tied up in Suna for the last five hundred years, he must be a wealth of knowledge and history.”
“I’ll ask him,” Sasori said.oOoOoOo
Seven and a half months since he lost his feet and almost his life to arsenic poisoning, with the cold chill of mid-November settling all around them, Sasori accompanied Team Sakumo (and little Hana) to Suna. He was thirteen-year-old Jounin who returned home with new feet, a puppet fashioned out of the corpse of his best friend, a new attitude, skills in the Mystic Palm, and with no change at all to his level of ambition.
It took nearly a week to get to Suna, instead of three days, because Sasori’s stamina for cross-country travel was shot, and he had lost some of his tolerance for Wind’s heat, even though mid-November was relatively mild in comparison to the middle of summer.
“Man, you are out of shape,” Tsume told him as they trudged through Suna’s dusty streets, completely ignoring the fact that her own stamina wasn’t much better, since she had barely done anything during her maternity leave, except for watching her children and the many other children in the Inuzuka clan compound, and the occasional patrol around Konoha to unearth traps that enemies had successfully set nearby.
“I’ll work on it,” Sasori replied as all four of his puppets – including his parents’ puppets – trailed behind like a parade. He showed Team Sakumo around Suna for a few days while they rested, introduced Tsume to Shinigami peppers (okay, that was a little vindictive on his part, but he owed her for the embarrassment for the attempted sex talk with Danzo), and watched as his grandmother and great-uncle cooed over Hana, who had mastered crawling and babbling.
(“Someday,” Chiyo said with a wistful sigh, and then eyed Sasori, as if expecting him to soon bring home viable girlfriends. Then she eyed Komushi, and grunted unhappily, as if Komushi was going to cockblock any plans for Sasori to bring home a viable girlfriend like he was some sort of lacquered sex doll.)
After Team Sakumo (and little Hana) departed for Konoha, Sasori presented the Kazekage with his mednin class materials, and the Kazekage in return handed Sasori his first assignment for Internal Affairs – auditing everything from the last twenty years.
Sasori glowered at the office crammed with overflowing filing cabinets. “Go big or go home?” he asked the Kazekage as he waded through stacks of paper.
The Kazekage’s face was still, but his eyes gleamed with a sadistic amusement. “What better way to learn more about our Internal Affairs and what changes must be done to make improvements than to comb through everything? You do like your research, Sasori. Once you’ve completed your audit and interviews and have discussed potential changes and improvements with me, then you will be perfectly positioned for me to slip right into Internal Affairs the way you so desire.”
“Is any of this even in chronological order?”
The Kazekage slapped a comradely hand on Sasori’s shoulder as his iron sand upturned a stack of files. “Nope. And you’ll have to do this in between overhauling our mednin program. Oh, and the head of prosthetics engineering and the Puppeteer General want to have a meeting with you as soon as possible.”
Well, it certainly looked like any space for breathing and relaxation that Sasori had picked up in Konoha was going to be gone for a long time.oOoOoOo
It took Sasori four months to thoroughly read through the files of everything in Internal Affairs the last twenty years, in between working with the prosthetics department, rewriting Suna’s mednin program, and sparring with the Puppeteer Brigade to recover the skills and stamina lost to him from his lengthy medical leave. And then, just because he could, he audited the Academy by sitting in a week’s worth of lessons at each level, considering how he had graduated in one year instead of the normal five to six years. As he suspected, the problems that were first established and encouraged in the Academy grew to become the dumpster fires that landed squarely in the lap of Internal Affairs.
He spent two days going over his notes for both the dumpster fires and the Academy, perused the different books that Kagami had gifted him, gathered his thoughts, and then walked into the Kazekage’s office.
The Kazekage’s secretary, the same woman Sasori had exposed to Team Chaos shenanigans, glared him suspiciously over her calendar and a set of papers. “You don’t have an appointment.”
Since there was no available seating, Sasori instead leaned against the wall across from Kannan. “That’s fine; I can wait.”
And then he smiled at her as he casually crossed his arms in front of himself. “I promise to be good.” A rare promise that he fully intended to keep, showing how much he had improved, ethically-speaking.
The secretary very quickly rearranged the Kazekage’s schedule to make room for Sasori, going so far as to interrupt the Kazekage’s meeting with Rasa, and forcefully removing Rasa on the grounds of, “Akasuna no Sasori promised to be good, and I’m not going through that again!”
The Kazekage stared at Sasori from behind his desk, looking deeply disappointed. “Why?” he asked.
Sasori shrugged. “All I said was that I promised to be good. I said absolutely nothing after that, and just smiled to show my sincerity. I swear there wasn’t even a single Dad Joke. Do you think she’s high strung? She seems high strung to me.”
“What do you want?”
“I wanted to go over my audit findings with you.”
With a sigh, the Kazekage reclined backwards in his chair. It was a stiff-backed wooden chair without cushioning. The chair that Sasori sat in across from him was also stiff-backed and wooden without cushioning. Sasori supposed it prevented people from getting so comfortable that they would be tempted to linger and monopolize a busy man’s limited time. “Very well, proceed.”
“Why doesn’t Suna have a code of conduct?”
The Kazekage blinked, his face carefully masking any surprise. “You think Suna – a Hidden Village of shinobi – should have a code of…” He hesitated, as if he barely understood the word, “…conduct?”
Sasori set a single piece of paper down on the Kazekage’s desk. “Even shinobi would benefit from clearly-communicated guidelines and boundaries.” Kagami had been correct – those child psychology books had been very helpful. “80% of the dumpster fires that require an investigation from Internal Affairs is because there hasn’t been clear guidelines of what our shinobi should, or shouldn’t do. Too many civilians have been hurt in the pursuit of completing our missions. Too much property damage. These things make us less appealing for hire. That’s just the external problem. Internally, while Suna shinobi excel as individuals, the teamwork is appalling. Half the time, teammates get in each other’s ways, vying for credit when the mission is successful, sabotaging or using each other as meat shields. The infighting interferes with mission success and minimizing civilian casualties and property damage.”
The Kazekage folded his hands together, fingers of one hand flexing over his knuckles as he listened to Sasori. His iron sand twirled along the floor. He and Rasa alike had control over their kekkai genkai, but often choose not to reign it in the environment of Suna – the better of which to remind whoever they were around of how they could easily loose the restrains on their power. Because that, ultimately, was Suna’s code of the conduct. You respected power, or you were crushed. Only the strongest survived, and the weakest were ruthlessly culled. And if that attitude had been so prevalent in Konoha, there would be no magnificent Tsume to deeply influence the likes of Sasori. “You’ve spent so much time in Konoha that the concept of teamwork has rubbed off on you.”
Sasori didn’t know if that should be seen as an insult or a compliment. “Is it just Konoha, though? I’ve also spent a lot of time with nomadic tribes. The entire tribe functions together smoothly in order to survive. Packing up, camping, traveling, working their trades and crafts – they must work together to maximize what they have. Suna has ultimately lost roots with our Wind culture; we push and encourage individuality to the detriment of our shared identity.”
“Perhaps. But that is not something that can be changed overnight.”
“Of course not. But it can be changed. The Academy can push more about teamwork – on working together, to increase our own survival rate and mission success. We – you can create a code of conduct that emphasizes consideration of civilians and their property, and disseminate such through the ranks. Konoha shinobi are considered the nice Hidden Village to the rest of the Continent because they minimize casualties and property damage. Their restraint is what makes them appealing for mission hires. Civilians and outsiders feel safer with them. Both Suna and Konoha believe that their teams are only as strong as their weakest link, but address it in completely different ways – Suna destroys their weakest links, and Konoha strengthens them instead. Why can’t we do that, too?”
The Kazekage’s answering smile was wry. “You’re hardly nice or safe yourself, Sasori.”
Sasori held the Kazekage’s gaze. “I am a product of Suna. But if I can change, so can Suna.” Too long had Sunagakure been feeding the black wolf. It was time Sunagakure learned how to feed the white wolf. And if Sasori was going to have to forcefully jam things down the white wolf’s throat? Then so be it.oOoOoOo
Sasori was fourteen years old, and saw Tsume and Konoha regularly. The Kazekage allowed Sasori to make a trip every two months to Konoha, stating that he certainly didn’t trust Konoha’s new prosthetic department not to mess up. After all, it was Suna’s name (and, by extension, Akasuna no Sasori) tied to the reputation of the prosthetics, and who better to trust oversight than Sasori himself? Sasori often traveled with the prosthetic engineers he was training in Suna, allowing for a better flow of education and quality consistency.
(There had been a brief squabble with Dr Kurasi claiming that Suna was trying to horn in on Konoha’s reputation and territory for selling Suna prosthetics more openly on the Continent, but Sasori squashed that squabble very easily by dropping pointed hints with his contract lawyer Uchiha Kagami, who showed up with even more contract legalize books memorized with his Sharingan and a copy of their original contract, in which nowhere did it state that Akasuna no Sasori had agreed to only permit Konoha use of his proprietary prosthetic engineering.)

Shisui’s tutelage on chakra threads under Kokoro’s instructions were… well, they weren’t bad, but it was clear to Sasori that Kokoro was largely self-taught through trials and errors. If Sasori happened to decide that he simply couldn’t leave his apprentice’s tutor to struggle with teaching and sought to correct her mistakes and improve her use of the chakra threads, well, that was Sasori’s business. After all, a student was a reflection of their teacher (aaaaand the door to the memories of his Jounin sensei slammed shut, hard), and he simply couldn’t have Shisui’s skills reflect poorly upon Sasori.
(The fact that Tsume had cried and made him food with Shinigami peppers that she managed to sneak out of Suna and talk Yamanaka Inoichi into growing in a greenhouse so she could learn how to cook with them had nothing to do with Sasori taking Kokoro under his wing. He told her that too, over an amazing spicy chicken and peanut stir-fry with plum sauce over a bed of noodles. Tsume simply hugged Sasori, repeatedly wiped at her nose that hadn’t stopped running with the first bite, and said, “You silly! Friends share with people they love! I love Kokoro, and I love you, and you’re sharing with each other! This isn’t bribery, this is a celebration!”)
Kokoro had a niece that Sasori met in passing, but Kokoro was always very careful never to leave Anko alone with Sasori. When he asked Tsume if it was because Kokoro didn’t trust him, Tsume simply laughed and said it was because Anko had a special interest in poisons and snakes, and Kokoro didn’t want Sasori to feed into it. (Challenge accepted, Sasori thought, and then he proceeded to feed into Anko’s special interest, mainly by directing Anko’s attention to how there was an entire world of poisons and toxins out there, not just snakes, and brought her a terrarium with a couple of deadly scorpions on his fourth visit to Konoha. Well, he originally presented them for Shisui, but Kagami – with a knowing shake of his head – reminded Shisui that pets weren’t permitted in his parents’ apartment building, yes, even six-legged pets, and Shisui just happened to know someone who would love to host the scorpions for him, and wouldn’t you know it? That very same person was Kokoro’s niece. Odd, that.)
Every visit to Konoha only served to highlight how much he loved and hated Suna. Suna was home, and part of what made it home was the people who lived there. Sasori’s initial attempts to reach out to other Suna denizens and establish kinship certainly had its ups and downs, especially with the continuing presence of his best friend, which seemed to serve as a subconscious reminder to others of what happened to those who befriend Sasori.
It wasn’t easy – Sasori was still petty, still vindictive, and still impatient – but he was learning how to feed that white wolf. (And if nothing else, Baki finally told Sasori that he figured it was in his own best interests and continuing self-preservation to give in to Sasori’s persistent demands to spend time and do activities together, because it was probably safer overall to stand side-by-side with Sasori, rather than constantly turning his back on Sasori to run away. Sasori considered this a work in progress. But like with all art, it would get better with skill, practice, time, and attention. After all, bludgeoning people over the head with her personality worked just fine for Tsume when it came to building relationships, so why couldn’t Sasori do the same?)

Sekka started out as a student who took Sasori’s remedial classes for mednin (updated from everything absconded from Konoha), but he openly admired Sasori’s skills, and the way he asked questions to know more, to understand why, struck a chord in Sasori that he felt every time he glanced at Komushi. This was a friendship that came more easily than Baki’s, especially when Sasori tried hard to control his temper and tongue, and not drive Sekka away. Even in those times Sasori did lose control, Sekka would simply sigh, roll his eyes, pat Sasori’s shoulder, and said, “You’re in one of your moods again, eh? No problem. We’ll just sleep on it and come back together the next day with a clearer head.” Sasori learned more about healthy boundaries in relationships and what was acceptable to tolerate in the name of friendship from Sekka than he did anyone else.
Sasori found that the more he added friends – few and far between as the number was – into his very small social circle, the less his constant need to cart around Komushi. Because Komushi wanted Sasori to love more people than just himself, and Komushi was content to bask in the fondness Sasori was cautiously cultivating with other people.
Sasori wanted to have more than a friendship with Yashamaru***, but Rasa tended to hover like an overprotective brother-in-law with no sense of boundaries. Still, the potential was there, and half the fun was sneaking out with Yashamaru for some private making out. Chiyo caught them once, and that would’ve been just fine if she hadn’t spoiled it all by loudly praying Thank all the gods that it’s not Komushi!, and then giving Yashamaru the same sex talk, with the poster boards she had saved, that she had given Sasori and Komushi.
Afterwards, in a hidden cave in the Suna cliffs, Sasori stiffly apologized to Yashamaru for his grandmother’s behavior.
Yashamaru’s face was blank for a moment. “You know the problem with your grandmother’s education?” Before Sasori could answer, a devious grin crossed Yashamaru’s face. “I had no idea some of that stuff was even possible! Wanna try some of it out?”oOoOoOo
It took almost a year, but Sasori eventually worked up his courage (buoyed with an unhealthy level of curiosity to know about fuuton dragons) to create a plan on approaching Shukaku. He made a small, simple set of curtains, brightly colored in shades of peach, pink, ombre blue, and purple like the setting sun over their golden desert dunes, saved some butterscotch cookies from Tsume’s latest care package (she had recently began making them sweetened with honey instead of so much sugar, and Sasori appreciated her delicious thoughtfulness), and approached Shukaku’s teakettle with the Kazekage trailing behind with open curiosity.
The wave of demonic chakra, corrosive and searing with its heat and hatred, nearly sent Sasori running. “BOARD BOY. It’s been too long, you fucking asshole.”
“I know, I’m sorry,” Sasori replied, breaking out in a cold sweat. He focused on keeping his hands steady. He reminded himself that only the Kazekage or the jinchuuriki (of which there was currently none) could release Shukaku from his tea kettle. “I brought you some cookies.” He wasn’t sure if demonic chakra constructs could physically eat food, but he remembered Bunpuku occasionally pouring sake into the tea kettle.
Sasori’s apology didn’t appease Shukaku’s rage and killing intent. “What do you fucking want?”
“Nothing, really.”
“EVERYONE FUCKING WANTS SOMETHING. Kill that army, slaughter that enemy. Puny flesh bags, unable to take care of their own damn shit. Mud monkeys clawing for everything, taking and taking and taking, but never fucking give anything back.”
Just like how Sasori had used sentan to learn how to compartmentalize and strategize when fear clogged his throat, made his brow drip with sweat, and his hands tremble, he could use this interaction with Shukaku to show how he planned to deescalate dangerous shinobi without violence, to prove to the Kazekage that his suggested changes for managing conflict in Internal Affairs would benefit Suna. “You’re right. Humans are greedy and like to think about ourselves, never mind anyone else.” It was hard to remain calm though when you were constantly bombarded with visions of being dismembered and the bloody, shredded pieces of your carcass strewn around the cavern as the killing intent crushed down and the corrosive demonic chakra physically burned like an odorless nerve agent. “That’s why I brought cookies. To give you something instead of demanding and taking.”
Sasori’s casual acknowledgement and bland, even voice (admittedly, Sasori had deliberately smoothed his tone to match Bunpuku’s) certainly didn’t deflate Shukaku’s rage. It only seemed to fuel such, swamping the cramped room with even more demonic chakra, the sand granules on the floor shaking as hard as the tea kettle, the lid rattling hard enough to shatter normal clay.
Sasori took advantage of the gaps in the rattling lid to thrust a butterscotch cookie inside with a chakra thread.
The rattling and sand granules suddenly stilled; the demonic chakra and killing intent boiled and rolled before easing back. After a moment, “GIMME ANOTHER.”
“I have five more,” Sasori said.
“FUCKING GIVE ME THE COOKIES. That asshole,” a whip of sand snaked out from beneath the lid to form a paw that pointed directly at the Kazekage, “never gives me anything nice. Not even the good shit Bunpuku would pour me.”
Sasori gave Shukaku four cookies, one at a time, with his chakra threads. The whip of sand impatiently swatted Sasori into a wall to snatch the fifth from his hand. The Kazekage made no move to cushion or protect Sasori. As Sasori was picking himself off the ground, the whip of sand rifled through Sasori’s pockets. “That’s all I brought,” Sasori said, resigned to being causally mugged.
The whip of sand withdrew the colorful curtains from where Sasori had tucked them down his shirt. “What the fuck is this?” It sucked the curtains inside the tea kettle. After a moment, it thrust them out from beneath the lid. “THIS ISN’T COOKIES.” The corner of one curtain had been bitten off by something with very large teeth.
“They’re curtains,” Sasori snapped, finally losing the last shreds of his patience. “They’re not food! I told you that I brought six cookies, and you just wolfed all six of them down!” He barely restrained himself from adding a thousand years old and you haven’t learned how to count yet?
“…the fuck? Why are you giving me curtains?”
“For sprucing up your tea kettle. I’m sure it’s feeling bland and dismal for you. It’ll add some color and make it a little more homey.”
There was a short pause. And then, as the material was drawn into the tea kettle, “How come the fucking Kazekage never thought to get me curtains?”
“My apologies,” the Kazekage replied, his voice dry. “I suppose it never occurred to me that you would like window curtains for a tea kettle that lacks windows.”
“Shut up! I decide what the fuck I want!”oOoOoOo
When Sasori was fifteen years old, Rasa attempted to seduce him, for whatever a blatant come-on and attempt to wrangle a blowjob out of Sasori could be called a seduction.
First, it was a blatant abuse of power and complete disregard of the professional boundaries that Sasori was trying to build through Internal Affairs as he was finally given a part-time job on the inside, since it had taken the Kazekage nearly a year to “clean shop” of the corruption that Sasori’s extensive audit uncovered. Second, Rasa was ten years older than Sasori, had a pregnant young wife who was the older sister to Yashamaru (although being married didn’t stop Rasa from having two additional lovers on the side) and was a father to a fifteen-month-old daughter. Third, Rasa had attempted to wrangle a blowjob out of Sasori without appropriate protection, complaining that the use of condoms reduced sensitivity.
Sasori solved all those problems by ruthlessly dragging Rasa to Grandmother, who gleefully pulled out her old poster boards, and gave Rasa the same lecture she had subjected Sasori, Komushi, and Yashamaru. Part of the lessons included sexually transmitted diseases, which were accompanied by the graphic images of effected genitalia Chiyo had cut out of medical texts and pasted to the poster boards.
(And if Sasori also happened to add orders for STD testing into Kurara’s next OB appointment, well, that was his prerogative as a legitimate mednin, even though his OB experience was still limited to assisting a Konoha kunoichi give birth in the distant mountains of Waterfall.)
Not only did Sasori wind up tightening the sexual harassment policies for shinobi and civilians in Suna (special exemptions had to be made for actual sanctioned seduction training and missions), but he also revamped the Academy’s sex education. Given that Rasa hadn’t graduated early like Sasori, there was really no excuse for such a gap in the man’s education.oOoOoOo
Sasori was also fifteen years old when he did a joint mission with Team Chouza. Kiri had developed a new poison that was rapid and lethal, and also disintegrated so fast after the victim’s death that Konoha had been unsuccessful in isolating what the poison was with blood samples, and successfully creating antidotes.
Gai was… an experience, and proof that something in Konoha continued to undermine the concept of Reality and Sanity.
“Really?” Sasori asked Gai dryly as he isolated the poison’s effects with the Mystic Palm to Gai’s legs after Gai insisted on being The World’s Greatest Guinea Pig, YOSH!!!, and Chiyo studied the effects to narrow down the potential ingredients.
Gai gave his Suna teammates a shaky thumb’s up and an eye-blinding bright smile despite the blood dribbling out of his nose and the corner of his mouth. “If you cannot find the cause and cure this time, then I shall allow the enemy to poison me ten more times!”
Sasori and Chiyo exchanged looks while Genma groaned in the background and Akamichi Chouza reminded Gai that it was probably better just to ambush the Kiri teams and steal the poison for analysis, and not be a walking lab rat, no matter how skilled the Suna Poison Masters were at creating antidotes
“Do you think Orochimaru slipped something into Konoha’s drinking water?” Sasori asked Chiyo. “Could we run an analysis when we get back to Konoha?”
It was probably a good thing that Gai got himself poisoned, considering that the poison itself was innocuous until it was introduced to an anaerobic environment rich in iron that formed lethally active metabolites that unraveled striated muscle tissue. When these metabolites were exposed to nitrogen, such as when blood was drawn for lab work, they disintegrated. It was truly clever work, and Sasori admired its beauty and efficacy; it was also the easiest antidote that Sasori had ever created.
But Sasori swore, on the pain of losing more limbs, to never reveal how helpful Gai had been, because he didn’t want to encourage that harebrained moron even further, especially when Gai (in rehab for two months for frequent applications of Sasori’s Mystic Palm and physical therapy, working to rebuild the muscles in his legs to their former glory) challenged Sasori to wheelchair races across Konoha. Kakashi, the troll, egged both of them on, and Sasori felt it was his responsibility to partake because someone had to showcase Suna’s own talents, and clearly how much more superior they were, even when in a wheelchair. (When Sasori left, he and Gai were 64-62 in terms of wins and losses, with Sasori barely squeaking ahead thanks to a judicious use of his chakra threads. Sasori regretted nothing.)
Also, Chiyo and Sasori were unable to discover anything unusual in Konoha’s water system. They decided to try analyzing the Hashirama trees growing in Konoha, as they theorized maybe the trees were leaking enough nature chakra that it just simply changed people, but that jerk Hokage banned them from this. Sasori half-suspected that the Hokage had recruited Kakashi and Gai to keep Sasori too busy to sneak away to analyze the Hashirama trees on the sly.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

When Sasori was sixteen years old, he ascended to the rank of Assistant Head of Internal Affairs. Within two months, he finally completed the reworking of the entire Academy education and structure of the Genin/Jounin teams, and presented them to the Third Kazekage and Rasa, along with the statistics of Suna’s percentages of missing nin – 18% — versus Kuma and Konoha, which were 6% and 2%, respectfully.

While the new code of conduct had slightly improved their overall relationship with Wind and the Wind Daimyo, memories were long and grudges persisted for generations. Lasting change would only happen with their younger generations replacing previous memories and experiences.
It all boiled down to group think versus individualism. Tribal heritage and generations of rivalry and enmity between the different Wind Tribes simply meant that when you were part of Suna, you rejected the origins of your group. It ultimately led to a fierce individualism that inherently rejected partnership. Sasori knew that this was something that couldn’t be changed overnight – pride was too deeply entrenched in their national identity as Wind, as Suna – change needed to be a slow, cancerous growth that eventually invaded every organ. Ultimately, it could only hold through future generations that were still malleable, like damp clay that hadn’t been fire-hardened through experience, betrayal, and bias.
Once students graduated from the Academy and were assigned genin teams, those teams and their jounin sensei would live together in the same home, building their lives around each other, learning to slot each other together like individual puzzle pieces that created a whole image. It required trust, and trust had to be built through honesty, and it was hard to maintain deception and lies when bleeding, fighting, and caring for each other the same way that Sasori had endured in the company of Team Chaos.

Jounin sensei were required to submit teaching plans every quarter for review to make sure that every genin received appropriate apprenticing, and monthly reviews on the progression of goals and team-building. It certainly made it easier to address the weak link in the team and to build their strengths. It was definitely an improvement over throwing a genin team into piranha-infested waters with bleeding wounds to learn how to swim as fast as possible or die trying. (Honestly, as the smallest and youngest genin on his old team, Sasori had been expected to die. Fortunately, chakra threads worked remarkably well on piranhas….) Sasori also pushed for the same local D rank missions to support their community the way that Konoha did, although the pay scale would be much lower. It would also teach the genin teams to respect property and minimize destruction when doing field missions.
The more bonds with their community that the Suna nin ultimately built, the lower the rate of missing nin. That was, Sasori determined, the ultimate success behind Konoha and Kumo thriving – that a house divided would fall, but a house united could withstand any number of tremendous forces.
It was science, really. A single horse can only pull with the strength that a single horse could generate. But two horses working in unison had the strength of three individual horses with less fatigue resulting from working together. How much power could Suna have if three or four individual shinobi worked in tandem? (Sasori and Komushi, together as a unified team, had been a force to be reckoned with, and that wasn’t including Sasori’s manipulation of puppet-Komushi.)
Sasori shared all of this with the Third Kazekage, with the man who dropped his name when he assumed the mantle of Kage, for he was Suna, and with Rasa, who would eventually take his father’s place. Rasa accused Sasori of wanting to be the puppet master behind the Kage, to be a shadow leader – to be a Hokage.
The Third Kazekage said nothing at Rasa’s accusation, and merely watched Sasori with patient eyes. The Kazekage understood what Sasori was trying to achieve, but ultimately, it was Rasa that Sasori needed to prove himself. Rasa was, as much as the Academy, the future of Suna.
Sasori considered them both; to mention Kagami’s kintsugi would imply that Suna was broken, and that would also imply Sasori assuming responsibility of the leadership. He finally fetched the wooden statue – thrumming with the same chakra that the Hashirama trees thrummed with, bright and alive and feeling like sun-warmed tree bark through his chakra threads – from the Third’s bookshelf. It had been a gift, grown and carved by Senju Hashirama himself, to the first Kazekage. Suna had never been gifted bijuu like the other Hidden Villages – Shukaku had been tied to his tea kettle for hundreds of years before the official founding of Sunagakure, bound by the tribe leaders from which the Third Kazekage and Rasa were directly descended. The wooden statue, which had been carved in the likeliness of the One-Tailed Tanuki Demon had been a poorly-received consolation prize, but one that was kept around as a reminder of how the Third’s grandfather had felt he had been belittled and insulted by the First Hokage. Then he fetched the large block of ironwood that the Third was going to give to a newly-appointed Puppeteer apprentice.
“This is Suna,” Sasori told his two leaders as he set the block of wood with a loud thump on the Third’s desk, right next to the statue. “Suna belongs to you, to the Kazekage and his heir, and to no one else – not the Wind Daimyo, not Internal Affairs, but to you.” He pulled a kunai out of his pouch and rested it on top of the block of wood. “I am not a leader. I will take responsibility for my duties, I will succeed in the missions my leaders give me, but I do not lead this Village. I craft. When you direct my grandmother to craft a poison for an assassination mission, you are delegating the work you know that needs to be done to the appropriate craftsman. You don’t tell her how to do her job, because since you’re not Poison Masters, you’re yielding to her expertise. When you slit a man’s throat, you do so with the sharp edge of your kunai – you don’t use your fingernails to do the job. You choose the tool, and allow the tool to do its job.
“I am the artist with the eye, the talent, and the skill who shapes this block of wood.” Sasori traced the rough grains of the block of wood with his fingertips. “I slice, I shave, I chip, I carve, and I sand away until the dream,” Sasori lifted his hand from the ironwood and traced the graceful curve of Shukaku’s wooden tail, “until Suna, becomes the work of beauty that it’s always meant to be.”
Rasa’s gold dust swirled in warning. “You would shape Suna into your own desire?”
“No,” Sasori replied curtly. “The Third Kazekage has commissioned me to shape Suna into something that can thrive,” to be the antivenom that negates the venom; the antidote that provides the cure. “My leader decides what the final look will be.” He leaned forward in his chair and stared Rasa down. “However, I will not create something I cannot be proud of.”
The Third Kazekage rested his hand lightly on Rasa’s elbow to calm the rising waves of gold dust. His own iron dust snaked lazily across the floor and up the walls, mixing and mingling with his son’s. “And if the commissioner of your work of art demands a different shape from what you envision?” the Third Kazekage asked.
Sasori leaned back. “Explain it to me,” he said. “Let me know and understand what you’re trying to envision, and I will let you know how I can work it into the design to maintain the artistic integrity. Requiring me to put another tail on the product where the head should go isn’t going to work in the ultimate design, and I’ll explain why. Maybe I misunderstand your vision, and you want a second tail to fit in alongside the first and to match, that you hadn’t meant to replace the head with a tail. Suna isn’t mine the way it is yours. It’s still my home, still my people, and I want the best for them, but I am not their leader.”
Rasa grit his teeth. “We’re always going to clash, one way or another, aren’t we, Sasori?”
“Like wind and fire,” Sasori replied. “And we can either try to overpower each other, the wind snuffing out the fire before it can gather strength, or we can create a magnificent firestorm together.”
A month after Sasori and Rasa came into their uneasy truce, but willing to work in tandem, the Third Kazekage dropped dead within half an hour of complaining of the worst headache he had ever had in his life.
Chiyo’s autopsy (for some reason, no one trusted Sasori with the autopsy, as if he had plans to steal away the Kazekage’s corpse and turn it into a puppet… which, fair, he still toyed with the idea, but he hadn’t exactly shared it with anyone) determined that the cause of death had been a naturally ruptured brain aneurysm. It was simply a ticking time bomb that would’ve gone off at any point in the Third’s life. In his own way, Sasori mourned the man who had been a mentor and, later in life, a friend.
Rasa was twenty-six years old when he became the Fourth Kazekage, and the Third Shinobi War finally came to an end, all following at the heels of each other. With the end of the war came a whole new host of international treaties and a new list of agreed-upon human rights.
“Really?” Sasori asked, reviewing the treaties and human rights with his new Kazekage. “No illicit human experimentation?” Did this mean that poisons were out? It… it probably did mean that Sasori wasn’t allowed to turn another human into a puppet, even if he had proof that the human agreed to it. That would probably fall under the subsection that included violating human dignity through coercion. “And just who is going to enforce this?”
Rasa grinned viciously. “I imagine that it would be the responsibility of Internal Affairs. Unless we can create some sort of agreement in the future.”
Was this what other people meant when someone is hoisted by their own petard? Sasori felt like he was being hoisted by his own petard.
“You aren’t going to try seducing me now that you’re the Kazekage, are you?” Sasori asked suspiciously.
Rasa rolled his eyes. “Honestly, Sasori, if you hadn’t turned me down, as anyone with the moral integrity required to eventually head Internal Affairs should, I would’ve had my father replace you in a heartbeat. I had my doubts about how swiftly you had changed with the loss of your feet, and for good reason. No, I have no intention of seducing you. I’m not worried about you anymore – well, at least in regards to your new moral code regarding Internal Affairs and your intentions for Suna itself. As long as we’re being honest with each other about our mutual disregard and suspicion, I still have my doubts about you as a person as much as you clearly have your doubts about me as a person. Frankly, neither of us trust each other. It might be for the best, though. As long as we’re at odds with each other, we both feel comfortable enough to question each other’s judgement on how we should proceed with the betterment of Suna.”
Sasori stared. I cannot throttle the new Kazekage to death, especially when the old one’s ashes are still floating in the wind, he told himself. And then, “Even if it was just to see if I could be morally compromised, it was incredibly inappropriate of you, especially given that I was fifteen years old. You ever try that again with any of the other Suna ninja, even the petty excuse of checking for compromise won’t stop me from stringing you up by your testicles, in public.”
Rather than being offended or feeling threatened, Rasa’s answering smile was vicious. “There, see? That’s what I’m talking about. You don’t trust me, I don’t trust you, and yet you’re still willing to threaten your Kazekage for Suna’s betterment.”
“You know I will string you up.”
“Oh, I certainly believe you, Sasori.”
“This isn’t the start of a beautiful relationship, Rasa. This is ugly and vicious.”

Rasa shrugged, entirely unrepentant. “Firestorms generally are. They’re only magnificent on the outside. When you’re in the center, fueling it on, of course it’s ugly and vicious. By their very nature, firestorms are destructive.”
oOoOoOo
A few months later, Rasa, Sasori, and an entire entourage of Suna nin went to Konoha for the combined end-of-war celebration and ascension of Namikaze Minato as the Fourth Hokage. Sasori also gifted Tsume a new tea set that he had fashioned from clay, glazed the same red as her alpha markings, fired, broken into pieces, and knit back together with veins of gold to congratulate her on her new promotion as tokubetso jounin because she had finally and successfully passed her mednin courses. Tsume would probably never rise any higher than that, but Sasori knew how much she had struggled to succeed with her memorization, and had even succeeded within the three years he had estimated. Sasori felt that Tsume deserved to be recognized and commemorated even more than Namikaze Minato successfully ascending to the Kageship.
Tsume adored the tea set, made a pot of tea (jasmine and mint), and told Sasori as they drank that Kakashi was breaking himself into little pieces because of what had happened to Obito and Rin, and that Sasori needed to do something.
“Me? Why me? Kagami is more skilled at putting together broken people than I am, Tsume.”
Tsume smiled – it was a mix of bright and dark, of sunshine and shadows. “Because, Sasori, you’re still hauling around the puppet carcass of your best friend who accidentally killed himself with your poison. You, of all people, know better than any of us what it feels like to be guilty of unwittingly providing the means of death to your friend. Coming from most other people, trying to talk to him would feel like empty platitudes. Besides, if it comes from anyone else – like Minato or me – we’ll probably just muck it all up and tell him that things will get better, because Minato and I believe that they should, and therefore they will. Kakashi doesn’t think like Minato or me. You’re ruthless enough to acknowledge the cold hard reality that Kakashi operates in.”
Sasori found Kakashi skulking in the shadows of the Memorial Stone, far away from the celebrations, looking even more dead than Sasori imagined for himself when Tsume had performed CPR on him four years ago.
“I’m sorry,” Sasori told Kakashi without any preamble. “Rin and Obito were good people, good friends.”
Kakashi’s voice cracked and squeaked, like a rusty crypt door slowly creaking open. “Are you sure you want to be seen with Friend-Killer Kakashi? You just might be my next victim.”
Sasori had certainly overheard plenty of gossip as he made his way through the crowds of celebrators, including loud comments about “that madman’s son is the last of our new Hokage’s old team. You know, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Don’t get too close to either Hatake, for your own safety.” But Sasori hadn’t expected to be so openly (and awkwardly) lumped in with Obito and Rin.
(Finally, nailed it!)
With a nose as good as Kakashi’s, Sasori couldn’t approach him with the skills of manipulation and slick words that came with being in Internal Affairs – the deception would easily be scented. He still hadn’t managed to successfully replicate Kagami’s kintsugi skills in mending together broken human spirits, although he was trying. But Sasori also knew exactly what he had been like at the age of twelve, as a newly minted jounin, disabled (Kakashi had to risk having a massive blind spot, or dangerously low chakra levels with his double-edged gift from Obito), and plagued with the agonizing combo of guilt and responsibility for the death of one’s friend(s).
Sasori was intimately familiar with what it felt like to be absolutely alone through self-imposed social isolation, and feeling like no one could possibly understand what you’re going through. And Tsume was right; whatever Sasori told Kakashi, whatever he did to fix what was broken, it would be ruthless.
Because the only one who could fix Kakashi was Kakashi, and Kakashi had to first acknowledge the broken shards before he could see that the shards could be knit together with veins of gold.
(This, Sasori thought distantly, was why Kagami had thrown an entire casserole of philosophies at Sasori, far away and long ago in Waterfall. Because feeding two wolves didn’t really address brokenness and repairs. One also couldn’t deny the darkness in their life, nor ignore it; hence, the void.)
Sasori sighed and sat on a conveniently placed upright log. It took the weight off his stumps, which were already breaking out in sores from sand getting trapped between his stumps and prosthetics during the three-day hard travel from Suna. He hadn’t wanted to distract Tsume from her concerns with Kakashi, which was why he ignored his stumps while they were sipping tea. “First, Kakashi, I already died once, and it had nothing at all do with you. Second, you’re talking to the man who did kill his best friend. Third, if you have any intention of digging up your friends’ corpses and turning them into security blankets the way I did with Komushi, don’t. We already have far too much in common.” Ta-dah! Look, Kakashi, we were both twelve years old when we were instrumental in the death of our friend! We really do have so much in common.
Kakashi didn’t look away from the Memorial. “I thought Komushi’s death was accidental.”
Sasori twisted the prosthetic off to inspect the sores on his left stump. “Did you blow up the rocks that crushed Obito?”
Kakashi’s shoulders curled in. He was still painfully thin and short. Sasori was instantly reminded of that small, vulnerable child who witnessed Sasori meeting his crazed father for the first time. “I drove a lightning-wrapped fist through her chest.”
“And I had deliberately created my poisons to be as agonizing as they were lethal.” He used chakra threads to remove all the dirt and sand from his prosthetic socket and his sores. And gold dust. (That bastard!) “Whether the deaths of our friends are deliberate or accidental, these are the burdens we must live with, Kakashi. We have to take responsibility for these burdens.” He killed off the bacteria in the open sores and healed them shut with the Mystic Palm. He would have to borrow a wheelchair during the Suna congression’s stay in Konoha, to give the newly healed skin time to strengthen without building scar tissue. The skin graft from his thighs was fragile and honestly a little too thin to be placed over a site that saw constant friction and rubbing, but it was still better than scar tissue.
Kakashi’s shoulders trembled. “Does the pain ever get better?”
No, Sasori replied in his mind. No, the pain lingers, forever there, forever nagging, like an itchy big left toe. And every time you think you’ve moved on, that the grief is finally gone, you turn around and catch sight of something that reminds you of who you love and how they aren’t there to share in your enjoyment, and that pain punches you in the chest all over again.
Because the curse of an eidetic memory is that memories never fade. Because Rin had thrown herself chest-first into a lightning-wrapped fist when Obito’s Sharingan eye had been uncovered and wide open, and now Kakashi was cursed with the burden of a Sharingan-induced eidetic memory.
Instead, Sasori said, “There’s a saying in Wind, of how a man dies two deaths. The first is when his life ends, and the second is when his name is no longer spoken. It’s not enough to immortalize Obito and Rin’s names on the Memorial Stone. You have to carry their memories, their names, alive in your heart. They’ll always be with you, Kakashi. Even now, Komushi whispers in my mind.” He had never shared this with anyone before, not even with Kagami when Sasori asked him the favor of releasing Komushi’s soul when Sasori would die. “When I carry Komushi’s memory in a heart filled with grief, it hurts him to see me hurting. When I carry his memory in a heart filled with joy, it makes him happy to share in that joy. You will be a friend killer if you forget Obito and Rin, if you refuse to say their names. It’s not enough for you to carry on – you also have to acknowledge them and move forward, so you’re not dragging their spirits down with you.
“You’re not just grieving the person you lost, but the future you would’ve shared with them in person, but you will be sharing your life with them in spirit. I know it’s not the same to carry their names in your heart, because it hurts so damn much when life highlights their physical absence, but it’s all you’ve got, Kakashi.” After a moment, when he put on the left prosthetic and secured it with a loud click, Sasori added, “You once told me it might’ve been a blessing if your father had died, instead of what he is now. Do you still feel like that?”
“I… I don’t know.”
Of course Kakashi wouldn’t. At the time he had told Sasori such, he was eight years old and hadn’t really known the sudden, abrupt loss of a loved one. Sasori wasn’t sure how many memories Kakashi had of his mother before she was killed in the Second War, but Sasori knew that Kakashi’s mother had often been absent from Kakashi’s life because the Inuzuka Clan didn’t claim their sons before Tsume became the Clan Head. Before Obito and Rin’s deaths, killing had been impersonal for Kakashi – it was just something that had to be done, like tying one’s shoes or watering one’s plants. Kakashi hadn’t understood that one moment your friend is alive, exchanging ideas over coffee, and then just hours later was a curled-up corpse on a cold slab of rock.
To young children, their parents are untouchable, immortal mountains – not frail human creatures prone to errors and flaws and mistakes. Kakashi still struggled with the memory of what his father used to be – a frightfully competent man who stood taller than a mountain – and the reality of what he had become – the fragile, broken soul with a shattered heart who couldn’t care for himself. But until now, Kakashi hadn’t emotionally recognized there’s a difference between a shattered loved one living and drifting like a lost ghost in the background, and a loved one who is just gone because they had died.
“Would it have been better if Obito, crushed and paralyzed on one side of his body from the fallen rocks, have survived with such catastrophic injuries? Would Rin, had she survived your blow, also been better off alive with a damaged heart and lung and a destroyed ribcage?”
Kakashi shook, his voice wet with tears. “No. No, neither would’ve wanted that.”
“It’s not the fact that they died you want to prevent. You want, more than anything else, to reverse what led to their deaths. If I could go back in time, I wouldn’t have made that poison that killed Komushi.”
Kakashi sobbed quietly as he covered his face with his hands.
“Sometimes, it’s all you can think of – the what-ifs and I-should’ve-done-this-insteads.” Sasori gently reeled in Kakashi with his chakra threads (he silently marveled, not for the first time, at the white ozone pop and crackle of Kakashi’s chakra), and folded the boy into his arms. It wasn’t to pin Kakashi down if he tried to run away, but to enclose Kakashi in warm comfort and press against a beating, living heart. “The last thing Komushi told my grandmother, while he was dying of my poison, was that I shouldn’t blame myself. It’s been four years, Kakashi, and I’m such a lousy friend that I still disregard Komushi’s final wish.” He breathed softly into Kakashi’s wild hair. “I know exactly what you’re going through.” Kakashi clutched at Sasori like he was trying desperately to keep his head above the water, floundering like a drowning man. “I won’t lie to you. My grief has never lessened. Not with Komushi or my parents. Don’t pin your hopes on well-meaning platitudes of how time improves all hurts, because it doesn’t. I have no idea if the pain will ever get better. Every step forward without Komushi or my parents claws at me still.”
This… this probably wasn’t what Tsume meant when she told Sasori to fix her son.
“How d-did you forgive my f-father?” Kakashi asked, pressing his face against the crook of Sasori’s neck and shoulder. “How do you f-forgive yourself?”
“Forgiveness: the intentional effort to let go of the anger and resentment towards whoever you feel has harmed you. There was nothing in your father for me to be angry and resentful with when I finally met him. It’s easier to forgive others than yourself, though. Every day I strive to stop hating and resenting myself for what I’ve done, but I haven’t succeeded. But, every day, I feel like I’m getting a little closer by being the person that Komushi would’ve wanted to remain friends with. And that’s okay, Kakashi. It has to be okay, because that’s all we’ve got.”
Sasori wove his fingers through Kakashi’s hair (wished desperately that the silver hair was instead the brown of a kaze oryx’s legs, but knew that wishes simply didn’t come true in this world), and said nothing else as Kakashi shattered in his embrace and soaked his shirt with tears.
This wasn’t fixing Kakashi, no; but it was a ruthless acknowledgement of reality, and a sincere validation. It would be on Kakashi to fix himself, but Kakashi couldn’t fix that which was broken if he didn’t first recognize and acknowledge the brokenness.
Time may not heal grief and hurts the way so many people desperately wanted to believe, because mourning is something personal and unique to each individual, but time was necessary to mend broken things. In time, perhaps, Kakashi could mend himself back together, and wouldn’t need to shove things into the void the way Tsume had.oOoOoOo
Sasori didn’t visit Shukaku as often as he had when Bunpuku was alive, but he made it a point of always doing so within the first twenty-four hours of his return to Suna after his visits to Konoha. It wasn’t love, like Uzumaki Mito had once told Fumiko, but it still something valuable – companionship. With no one in the last two generations that attempted to attack or invade Suna, with no jinchuuriki, Shukaku was left in isolation. Sasori couldn’t ascribe human emotions to a giant construct of chakra, but chakra was, ultimately, the source of life, and therefore Shukaku was alive as any human being or dragon. Shukaku was certainly capable of feeling rage, irritation, and pride, so it stood to reason that Shukaku was capable of feeling friendship and fondness, if not love.
Rasa was very distrusting of this, bluntly telling Sasori that it seemed like he was trying to lure Shukaku to Sasori’s side with cookies, and why does the demon get something special and the Kazekage doesn’t? Sasori, in response, gave Rasa some cookies, after promising that he hadn’t poisoned them. (Rasa made Yashamaru taste-test each of the cookies, and then finally ate them himself when Yashamaru didn’t drop dead from poison. Which, okay, nice to know you’re willing to throw your brother-in-law to the wolves like that, Rasa.)
Overall, everything that Sasori endured was a small price to pay to cozy up to an unpredictable source of chaos that enjoyed terrifying Sasori on the side, just so Sasori could lure Shukaku into mindless chatter. If there was something that Shukaku liked more than cookies or terrifying Sasori, it was the sound of his own voice.
One day, while Shukaku was crowing about his power and how he had singlehandedly wiped entire armies (and a fair number of ‘allies’ because dontcha fucking know how pretty spilled blood looked, like scattered liquid rubies?), Sasori, who was carving a new puppet, just shrugged and said, “Yeah, but I bet you’ve never taken on a dragon.”
“Pah! I have destroyed fucking dragons, too!”
“I’m sure every tailed beast would say that,” Sasori said, carefully hollowing out the head of his latest creation, which he was going layer with bronze and fill with kerosene to create a fire-breathing puppet. His knife had a curve blade for making rounded cuts in the block of mahogany. That, combined with Sasori’s fuuton jutsu, would make for one of his deadliest puppets yet.
“Nasty creatures, fuuton dragons,” Shukaku continued. “Huge, simple-minded beasts that controlled sand with their fucking winds. Pah! Those nomadic morons thought that they could defeat me, the Mighty One-Tails, master and god of sand, with filthy, mindless creatures. I will grant you that they were much better foes than humans, though.”
“What were they thinking?” Sasori asked in a bland voice. He briefly wondered what would happen if he introduced Shukaku’s arrogance with Maito Gai’s exclamation of being the Mighty Green Beast of Konoha, and decided that for the sake of his own sanity, he would keep the two as far apart as possible, both in reality and in imagination.
“They weren’t. Oh, they thought I, the Magnificent Shukaku, would fall so fucking easily to a belly-dragging sand wyrm with wings? I am not decaying flesh or purulent blood to be spilled upon the sands. I am mighty! I am fucking magnificent!”
“Was this before or after the whole tea kettle debacle?” Sasori asked, blowing his wood shavings and chips out of the hollow.
“Before. And after I completely smeared the last one across the rocks, the fucking fuuton dragons were no more! I eliminated them entirely from this land!” Shukaku’s cackles of bloodthirsty delight bordered on insanity. Well, having wiped out an entire species more than five hundred years ago, that would explain why there was no information on fuuton dragons that Sasori could find. The information was likely only written in Wind’s lost language, with only a few surviving scraps still in existence and entirely untranslatable.
“You sure showed them.”
“Damn right, I did! And I’ll do the same to the rest of you once I’m free!” To showcase his might and power, the entire room quaked as a wave of sand slapped Sasori. The carving knife slipped and bit into the fleshy pad of his thumb.
Sasori healed the lacerated thumb, and was extremely grateful that Shukaku was stuck in his tea kettle and not in some poor human being.oOoOoOo
When Sasori was seventeen years and five months old, he became Head of Internal Affairs and Head of Prosthetic Engineering. The latter because he built the department from the ground up and no one was willing to fight Sasori over the well-deserved title, and the former was an unfortunate poisoning because Sasori decided that any man vindictive enough to constantly be stealing Sasori’s labeled lunch bento despite being plastered with gigantic warnings of THIS IS POISONED AS I’M BUILDING A TOLERANCE FOR CYANIDE – DO NOT EAT – THIS MEANS YOU, TEICHI deserved to die.
(And if Sasori had been labeling his lunch like that for two weeks straight without cyanide, before adding a lethal dose after Teichi had become accustomed to not experiencing anything resembling cyanide poisoning? Well, that was Sasori’s business and no one else’s. One should always think twice about stealing lunch from one of Suna’s premier assassins.)
“Really?” Rasa asked Sasori after he read the labels on Sasori’s lunch box. Chiyo quietly examined the corpse in the office kitchen of Human Resources and Internal Affairs.
Sasori shrugged. “I don’t know how much more clear I could’ve made the point to everyone to not eat my food.”
Chiyo stood and dusted off her hands. “The death is certainly consistent with cyanide poisoning. He reeks of almond.” She turned to the cluster of other admin workers. “Are there any witnesses who can confirm they saw Teichi, by his own will and not because Sasori was controlling him with chakra threads, eat something clearly labeled as poisonous?”
Everyone’s hands shot up in the air.
“Put down suicide as cause of death on the death certificate,” Rasa told Chiyo, rather snidely.
“Am I going to finally get my own fridge?” Sasori asked.
“No. Limit your poison tolerance to meals served in your own damn home and not the office. I think the presence of poisoned food qualifies as workplace bullying.”oOoOoOo
When Sasori was seventeen years old and nine months, he and Yashamaru broke up. It was an amiable breakup, per what Sasori had witnessed other couples experienced when they broke up. Both had sensed each other drifting apart as their individual duties caused them to clash – with Sasori as Head of Internal Affairs and Head of Prosthetics, and Yashamaru as assistant and brother-in-law to the Kazekage – and while they valued their friendship and they both felt such could eventually weather the storms of time and frequent clashes, they didn’t have the passion of people in love who could stand together when Yashamaru felt like he was caught in the middle between Sasori and Rasa. Yashamaru ultimately felt it was best if they just gave each other space.

A lot of space.
It was strange and out of place, Sasori thought, to let someone go because they wanted to go, and not because they died or lived in an entirely different part of the Continent. It felt bittersweet to see the shadows of what they once had, to stand so close and yet feel so far away. He had spent the last five years trying to build relationships, and had no idea what to do with a relationship that died, even when the person was still alive. He shared his conundrum with a letter sent to Tsume, because he really had no one else to share this with.
Love, Tsume wrote back, comes in many different colors. Sakumo-sensei once said he knew a person’s heart and their love, because of the colors. I think he’s right. He never did tell me what different colors he saw, or what they meant, but I like to think that the love I have for Kushina and Kokoro is blue – the blue of endless skies, endless adventures, a horizon that can be filled with storms of misunderstanding and anger and jealousy, but given time and understanding, those skies and those misunderstandings will clear. The love Fumiko and Kagami have is red – it’s passionate, it’s fiery, it keeps them warm and gives each other strength, and burns others if they try to get in the way of that love. The love I have for Hana and you and Kakashi is purple – it’s the blue of the skies and weathering the ups and downs, and the red of passion, the color of blood that I would spill to keep you all safe, even if that blood is mine. The love I have for Sakumo and Mooncalf is dandelion yellow, because dandelions grow in all kinds of conditions, and no matter how you trample them or try to yank them up, those pesky little weeds persist and keeps on coming back. I think yellow love is the sweetest sort of love, because it simply wants to exist, and it’s always there, waiting for you, growing despite all the odds. I think that’s the love I also have for Danzo.

Someday, I would love to have the sort of love that Fumiko and Kagami have, but you can’t force love.

I think people can have more than one color of love for the same person, and I think you’d probably be able to come up with better metaphors for love than I could, because you’re so much more clever with your art than I am.

But I do know one thing, and that is you can’t keep people caged and tied down, especially when they’re not ready to commit, or because they want to go. The true heart of love is wanting the best for the person you love, to give them your all. You want them to grow, to thrive, to be happy. And if they need to travel their own path to do that, then you let them go, because that’s what you do when you truly love someone. It’s also your choice if you want to wait for them, or also move on and travel your own path.

It was unusually serious for Tsume, since it lacked her usual smiley and frowny faces.
Tsume was still a simpleton, Sasori thought fondly, turning her letter over in his hand as he considered the many different shapes, colors, and types of love that existed. The love between him and Tsume, him and Komushi, him and the Third Kazekage, him and his grandmother, him and his friends. The nice thing about simpletons was that they took something complex, like the human heart, and distilled it down to just a few simple sentences. They didn’t need to understand something complex; they didn’t have to overthink and break it down to the molecular level.
People like Sasori missed the forest for the trees; people like Tsume saw the forest. She didn’t need to know the many different types and the conditions in which they grew. She didn’t need to understand the different types of woods and which worked best for what projects. They were trees, they gave nice shade, nice food, and made good firewood.
Sasori finally understood that love is like the human soul – it wasn’t meant to be dissected, taken apart, scrutinized under microscope and measured out in beakers. It was simply something precious to be accepted, shared, protected, nourished, and appreciated for what it is while it’s present in your life.oOoOoOo
Sasori was seventeen years and eleven months old, when an unleashed Kyuubi decimated Konoha, killing over half of the Inuzuka clan and far too many of those that Sasori had grown close to during his medical stay five years ago and frequent visits thereafter. When Sasori and three squads of Suna mednin arrived in Konoha a week after the October Attack (they would’ve arrived sooner but that asshole Rasa protested for two days before Sasori finally lost his temper and said Rasa could do this willingly to honor Konoha’s treaty, or Sasori would just kill Rasa, stick his corpse in a body stasis scroll, and turn him into a puppet after he returned from Konoha. Rasa reminded Sasori that illicit experimentation qualified as a violation of human rights. Sasori pointed at Komushi and said experimentation nothing, he already knew what to do!), ANBU refused them entrance.

On an intellectual level, Sasori understood why – they were foreign shinobi, even despite being allied, and any intel gathered on the true extent of Konohagakure’s devastation could easily be weaponized when they were so vulnerable. Even outside the mighty gates that surrounded Konoha, Sasori could still feel the oppressive, corrosive demonic chakra, heavy and acidic, lingering still despite a week after its release. He could feel the fear of his teammates, wanting Sasori to be turned away, to gladly let more people die so they could retreat far and fast from the suffocating miasma.
(The Kyuubi had been in a really bad mood.)
Sekka grabbed one of the mednin who was trying to edge away, as if she was about to make a break for it. “Stay,” he told her, and the others, sternly. “We will follow Sasori’s leadership, wherever he goes.”
On an emotional level, Sasori did not threaten his Kazekage, nearly violate international human rights, travel four hundred kilometers, and open up a new set of sores on his stumps just to be turned away.
“You,” he told the ANBU guard, keeping his voice too low for the other Suna nin to hear, “will let the Hokage immediately know that I have brought a dozen mednin that I personally trained myself to assist with the wounded in honor of our treaty and friendship, or I will send my wolverine summon to Nessie, and let Nessie tell the Hokage that we’re here.”
The ANBU stiffened. “What would you know about Nessie?”
Sasori stared, blandly. “You must be new. I am Akasuna no Sasori, the footless Suna nin who accompanied Nessie and Inuzuka Tsume from Waterfall. Nessie owes me after she drowned me in Lake Kogen.”
Sasori was never told if it was the threat of having a suiton dragon pop up in the middle of Konoha’s wreckage on behalf of a scorned Sasori, or the gratitude for additional medical assistance, that allowed them entrance ten minutes later. The ANBU who had tried to bar Sasori at the gate led the mednin to the hospital while Sasori, after explaining he would join them after seeing Tsume, split off from the main group.
Sasori felt gutted as he stared at the quiet Inuzuka compound.

Tsume looked ghastly, and not just because of her recent hysterectomy and sepsis recovery that had forced her on medical leave before the Kyuubi attack happened. She stood listlessly with a single ninken – Kuromaru, who stared at Sasori with a single eye and his front leg in a cast –in an empty compound, devoid of the rambunctious life that Sasori had become so accustomed to in the six months he had lived in her house. The air was heavy with the stench of ash and death, the cloying sweetness of burnt flesh, and the stink of rotten bodies that still needed to be recovered from the rubble.
Sasori didn’t ask Tsume if she was going to be okay as he wordlessly folded her in a hug. It was a stupid question, and Sasori didn’t ask stupid questions. He bent slightly to press his forehead against her own*, their breath mingling.
“They’re dead.” Tsume was listless and didn’t even hug Sasori back. She stuttered and hiccupped like she was bawling, but didn’t cry, because she was probably wrung dry of tears at this point. “K-Kagami and Shisui found Shinchuu-chan and H-Hiroaki. They were crushed. My clanswomen were slaughtered. My puppies are gone. My friends are dead. I smell them, but they’re all dead.”
“Where is Hana?” Sasori asked, rubbing circles on her back.
“She’s with Aunt N-Natsumi. All the children are w-with Nessie. She p-protected them, lost an eye l-like Kuromaru, and a leg. H-Hana and Yamato and Kiba. No. Not Kiba. Kiba is the hospital. He’s little. He’s still too little to leave.” A keening wail ripped through Tsume’s throat, a shriek of grief that pierced through Sasori’s heart. “Obito tried to crush Kiba inside of me! He attacked Kushina and her baby! I don’t even know where K-Kushina’s baby is! I smell that damn fox demon everywhere!”
That was… okay, Sasori had no idea why a thirteen-year-old who had been crushed to death a year and a half ago would strike a pregnant Tsume three months ago, and then do the same to a pregnant Kushina just a week ago. He ordinarily wouldn’t question her nose, but… “Did it smell like Obito?”
“N-not quite, but it was him. Danzo doesn’t believe me because he said Obito is dead, but he’s not. Obito’s not dead! You believe me, don’t you?” Tsume pulled back and stared at Sasori. He was only a scant centimeter taller than her horrible hedgehog hair. “You b-believe me?”
The less charitable side of Sasori thought that Obito was so painfully bad at a lot of things that of course he would somehow screw up his own death. Sasori also couldn’t imagine that Obito, that ten-year-old child who was so eager to help that he willingly plunged his hands into near-boiling water so they could be clean when he checked Tsume’s cervix, would hurt Tsume when she was pregnant with Kiba.
But Sasori also knew that people had great capacity for change – for better (as he had), and for worse (as Orochimaru had). He pressed his forehead against Tsume’s. “Well, I was once dead too, and yet I live to talk about it. So, whatever happens, whatever will be, I trust you. I believe you.”
Tsume wiped her nose on Sasori’s shoulder. He didn’t even grimace. “Why are you here, Sasori?”
“Why shouldn’t I be? You were there for me when I was dying from arsenic. You were there for me when Hanzo attacked with his salamanders. You were there for me when my stumps got so infected that I was developing lymphangitis. You were there for me when a Taki nin shattered my tibia like an overcooked chicken bone. You were there for me when a dragon drowned me. You were there for me when I awoke from my prosthetics surgery. You were there for me when I was at my most vulnerable, and so I’ll be here for you. Because that’s what friends do, Tsume. They’re there to help pick each other up when we fall, to give us strong bodies to lean on, a shoulder to cry, and a pair of feet to carry us.”
Tsume had been there in all the ways that counted for Sasori; he’d never be able to pay her back, but true friendship was reciprocal, not transactional.
Tsume half-laughed, half-sobbed. “You ass. Half those things only happened because of me, and you forgot to mention the damn raisins nearly killing you, too.”
“I haven’t forgotten. Let’s be honest, if it was any of my Suna companions when I discovered my raisin allergy back then, they would’ve stuffed even more raisins down my throat until I successfully died from anaphylaxis.” And half of them still would, given how many people he made unhappy with his relentless changes through Internal Affairs and the Academy. Rasa would probably make it a law that all dishes served in Suna would require raisins.
“You’re so sweet.” Tsume cradled Sasori’s face with her hands and smiled through her tears. “Look at you. My boy, all grown up, so mature and so understanding. You’ve come a long way from that prickly, lonely kid so full of hatred and spite that you just wanted to turn me into a puppet with beautiful red hair. You’re such a bright spot of color in such a dim world.”
“The most venomous creatures in the animal kingdom are bright spots of color. I’m still going to turn you into a puppet with beautiful hair.” He reached up and fingered Tsume’s atrocious, hedgehog hair. He still wasn’t going to give her puppet red hair, but Sasori wasn’t going to admit that to Tsume, not when she was already dealing with plenty of pain. It would be pointless anyway, after Sasori decided to wait until Tsume got to meet her grandchildren. He was willing to be patient for a few extra decades. (It would not be a violation of human rights. There were plenty of witnesses Sasori could get written statements from who would verify that Tsume had agreed to be made into a puppet after she died. He should remind her to add it to her will though… call it a donation to science.) “I seem to recall someone comparing me to a bouquet that was sweetened and artfully arranged, and quite deadly.”
“Oh, stop it. You’re beautiful and sweet and deserve nice things, even when you’re trying to be a sociopathic little murder-gremlin.”
“I’m a ninja. I’m supposed to be a murder-gremlin.”
Tsume hugged him. “And you’ll always be my favorite murder-gremlin.”
Sasori tsked in mock disappointment as he rubbed her back. “You’re not supposed to have favorites with your children. What would Nessie, Juubi, Kakashi, or Yamato say?”
“Well, you’re my favorite footless murder-gremlin. Come on. Let’s go to the hospital, and you can meet my favorite youngest murder-gremlin son.”oOoOoOo
Sasori was eighteen years and one month old when the Kazekage sent him to Iwagakure to set up a prosthetics trade agreement, capitalizing off of Suna’s growing reputation as the best, and Iwa’s adamant refusal to have anything to do with Konoha after the Third War. It was too lucrative of a trade agreement to trust to any of Sasori’s prosthetic engineers to handle on Suna’s behalf – the Tsuchikage had well-earned reputation for being sleazy and manipulative. Sasori would oversee everything, in person, and was given complete authority by Rasa to negotiate without any input from the Kazekage. Frankly, Sasori was the most skilled with negotiating outsiders, for the simple fact that he planted himself like a rock and didn’t budge. He despised haggling. At least with Suna nin, when they finally reached agreements with outsiders, they could be trusted to follow those agreements. The Tsuchikage, like so many other Iwa nin, tended to change the terms of agreements on the sly.
Rasa may mistrust Sasori on a lot of things (especially after the impatient ultimatum Sasori gave Rasa in October), but Rasa knew that Sasori disliked the Tsuchikage even more than Rasa, and valued Suna enough to block and parry the Tsuchikage’s attempts to undermine or undercut any agreements.
With the Wind Daimyo cutting Suna’s budget once again (someone really should tell that man that a poorly-funded military had a tendency to attempt coups – maybe Sasori should have Fumiko send him a strongly-worded history lesson), Sasori and Komushi made the ten day solo trip without protest, albeit grumpy from Rasa’s order to reveal his and Komushi’s prosthetics in order to prove to the Tsuchikage that Suna’s prosthetics were superior enough to demand the price that Sasori and Raza fully expected the man to try undercutting.

Somehow, in Sasori’s two month stay while building some permanent prosthetics and performing surgeries on the three guinea pigs that the Tsuchikage had chosen (because Sasori’s own prosthetics weren’t good enough evidence to convince a moron whose stupidity could only be outpaced by his own stubbornness), Sasori wound up with an orphaned pyromaniac tagalong. Sasori reluctantly admitted that such was probably his fault – he saw the toddler staring through the bakery window when he was inside to obtain some lunch while taking a short break from his work at the hospital, and gave the urchin a meat bun and cookie, because there were far too many orphans and widows struggling to save their children after the Third War, and the kid looked scrawny enough that he probably needed the calories.
Sasori should’ve known – abandoned strays have a terrible tendency to follow you home when you feed them.
“Where are your parents?” Sasori asked the Urchin when he tried to hide another half-deteriorated explosive tag on Komushi. The Urchin somehow managed to break into Sasori’s bed-and-breakfast suite while Sasori had been working. This was either the world’s clumsiest assassination attempt, or just, well… what was normal toddler behavior? Sasori didn’t exactly have a good standard to measure against, given that his only real experiences with toddlers were Shisui and Hana. Sasori did know toddlers were supposed to have some sort of natural stranger-danger stage (that was in the child psychology books that Kagami had given him, and so far, the Urchin defied the child psychology books – as did Shisui and Hana, which Sasori blamed entirely on their Inuzuka genetics and their Konoha environment). Was this too young or too old for that stage?
“Dead.”
And, apparently, painfully neglected if the lack of any adult guardians keeping explosives out of the kid’s reach was any indication, let alone giving the filthy urchin a bath or brush the long, tangled blond hair. Sasori held the Urchin’s hands in his own, ignored how the Urchin kept trying to pull himself free, and inspected the multiple scars that lined the child’s hands. He traced one rough scar that jutted above the trapezoid one on the boy’s left hand, feeling the lump beneath. He burrowed a chakra thread into the scar, and it attached to a metal shard.
“You have shrapnel in your hands,” Sasori muttered as the Urchin yanked his hands free. The child glared at him, rubbing the rough scar. “Do you have any family?”
The Urchin looked away and shrugged. He kicked at the floor with shoes too large and filled with too many holes to be of much use in the winter weather. “Not anymore,” he muttered into the collar of his shin-length shapeless woolen shirts. At least he was wearing two of them, instead of nearly dying from hypothermia again.
Sasori used his chakra threads to hand the Urchin a bread bun. The kid immediately stuffed half of it into his mouth and chewed loudly. “Where do you live?”
It took some imagination to understand the words spoken through a mouth jammed with saliva-soggy bread, but Sasori translated the answer: here and there, yeah.
Here and there turned out to be under a bridge, an abandoned, delipidated home (replete with a pack rat, some raccoons, and far too many unstable, disintegrating blast tags. Sasori left the pack rat and the raccoons alone, but removed and destroyed the blast tags to minimize further destruction in the Urchin’s unrepentant hands – funny how they weren’t nearly as destructive for Sasori when he exploded them in the steppes outside of Iwa than when the Urchin did it, because of course the brat would follow after Sasori and coo in delight over the destruction and swipe a few blast tags to demonstrate how much better he was), someone’s garden shed, and, apparently, Sasori’s bed-and-breakfast room.
“Whatcha drawing, eh?” The Urchin squirmed under Sasori’s arm to look at the latest prosthetic draft. He made a face. “This is stupid.”
Sasori shoved the Urchin off his lap. “Beat it, kid. I don’t get paid to babysit you. Don’t you have an orphanage you haven’t run away from yet?
The Urchin was supremely proud of himself. “Blew up the last one, yeah.”
As a last resort, Sasori deposited the Urchin on the Tsuchikage and said that nowhere in the trade agreement they were working on did he agree to any babysitting.
In response to that, the Tsuchikage actually sent money to the Kazekage to hire Sasori for an expensive D rank babysitting mission. Rasa, the sadistic bastard that he was (because regardless of what the Third Kazekage claimed, Sasori had seen the paperwork and knew that Rasa’s parents hadn’t actually been married at the time he was born), gleefully accepted the money and mission on Sasori’s behalf.
“Who the hell is Deidara?” Sasori demanded, waving his updated orders from Rasa in the air as he confronted the leader of Iwa in the public bathing house.
Oonoki pointed at the Urchin who had taken to clumsily stalking and ambushing Sasori, no matter how many times Sasori threatened to slip poison in the food that he kept feeding the starving brat. The man evidently didn’t care that he was lounging naked in the hot pool or that Deidara had clumsily shrouded himself in three bath towels. “That’s Deidara.”
“Why?”
“He likes you, and when he’s busy with you, he ain’t getting into trouble. There’s a reason all the other orphanages kicked him out. Or something like that. Can’t really remember actually what happened to him when he blew up the last one.”
(You can’t openly kill the Tsuchikage, Komushi reminded Sasori. That might kick-start the Fourth Shinobi War.)
“How old is he?”
“Dunno.” Oonoki loudly slurped his sake. “You’ll have to check the records with the orphanage.”
“Any family or clan name?”
“Far as I know, he’s just another orphaned bastard. If he had a clan, do you think he’d be living in an orphanage? Check the records.”
There were no records to check, for the simple fact that what part of the orphanage that didn’t get blown up by Deidara had burnt to the ground from the explosion.
“We’ll say four years old,” Sasori told Deidara after he checked the kid’s teeth, using his chakra threads to avoid being bitten. Deidara hadn’t lost any of his milk teeth yet, but clearly had a few cavities. Then he secured the Urchin with his chakra threads to haul him to the nearest barber to do something about those atrocious tangles. Through his chakra threads, Deidara’s own chakra felt like miniature fireworks, constantly popping and bursting and flaring. The closest thing Sasori had felt the same was the Hatake white chakra, which was inherent to the only two he knew, and not just because of their lightning chakra nature.

(Since Komushi reminded Sasori that it would’ve been suspicious to assassinate the Tsuchikage, Sasori settled for sneaking a rather harsh emetic into Oonoki’s booze that was easily mistaken for poor food hygiene. And to make sure that no one could link it back to Sasori, there was an unfortunate number of people who fell ill.)
Sasori decided that if he was going to be on babysitting detail, this meant he had authority to force medical care on the kid. The needles for vaccinations and deworming exploded in Sasori’s hands until he slipped a sleeping tonic in Deidara’s hot chocolate. He decided to wait later on the dental.
At the end of his two month stay in Iwa, with the well-negotiated trade agreement that was as lucrative as Sasori had been hoping for firmly in place and three happy guinea pigs delighted to showcase their new limbs to other Iwa nin eager to replace damaged or lost limbs from the war, Sasori’s attempt to return to Suna was delayed twice, because he had to keep returning a stray four-year-old dead-set on following him out of the country.
On Sasori’s third return to Iwa with the screaming, protesting Urchin tucked firmly under his arm, Oonoki simply said, “Keep him.”
“This is a child!” Sasori insisted, (lightly) shaking Deidara at Oonoki. “This is not a misbehaving dog to be rehomed!” No matter how much of a wild animal the child might resemble at times.
Deidara twisted and clung to Sasori’s arms. “I wanna stay with you, Sasori-nii!” Evidently, Sasori hadn’t stressed how personally dangerous he was as Puppet and Poison Master (Extraordinaire) to this toddler, or life in Iwakagure looked positively atrocious in comparison. Sasori wasn’t sure which was which. (Okay; he hadn’t exactly made himself as unpleasant as he could with the orphaned toddler, who apparently had an appalling sense of self-preservation, between the hypothermia that Sasori had reversed when he found the Urchin sleeping in just his underwear under a bush, the disintegrating blast tags the kid played with, and the ongoing malnutrition.)
“Deidara either goes with you and you keep him safe, or he escapes here again and dies somewhere between Iwa and Suna.” Oonoki shrugged and took another swig of his beer, as if he didn’t care which ultimately happened. Then he waved his arms to indicate the entirety of Iwa. “Look around. I have orphans up the wazoo thanks to the Yellow Flash killing a thousand of their parents in one fell swoop.” He burped, loudly. “It’s one less bastard to feed. Here, I’ll even sign you a bill of sale so the border patrol doesn’t accuse you of kidnapping.”
Sasori successfully pried Deidara free of his arm. “A bill of sale? What is this – human trafficking? If you’re going authorize handing this child over to me, give me a set of adoption papers.”
Oonoki was sober enough to appreciate the difference between legal adoption and a bill of sale for an orphan. “Yeah, that’s probably an important legal distinction.”
(At least Sasori managed to get paid for the adoption, instead of forking over the usual adoption fees, citing increased travel costs now that he had to feed and clothe Deidara. Oonoki decided it was certainly cheaper than building another orphanage for Deidara to blow up. Sasori also made sure the adoption agreement was ironclad to prevent the Tsuchikage from trying to reclaim Deidara in the future. “I am not going through all this effort to adopt your street urchin only for you to try taking him back once he’s housebroken.”)

Sasori left Iwa with further future plots for a more extensive poisoning of its leader, and an actual great-grandson for Chiyo to dote upon. She had stated years ago that she didn’t care if Sasori adopted, so, yeah. Here’s your early birthday present, Grandmother; I didn’t even wait until you had both feet in the funeral pyre. The only person outside of Iwa that he notified was Tsume (via a letter sent by their shared wolverine summon), because friends shared good news with each other, and Tsume could use some cheering up, especially after the October Attack. And he didn’t want to give Rasa any time to order Sasori to return Deidara.
Forty kilometers outside of Iwa, while Sasori and Deidara were harvesting mushrooms for dinner, Sasori said, “The Tsuchikage has no idea that you have a kekkai genkai, does he?”
“Nope. He’s a big jerk.” And then Deidara ate some of the mushrooms with all the boldness of someone used to surviving off whatever could be scavenged out of dumpsters. Fortunately for Deidara, the mushrooms were only mildly hallucinogenic before heat denatured the active chemicals.
And that would’ve been just fine if they didn’t also run into Orochimaru two hours later when Sasori was scouting for a defensible camp site.
“Fuck,” Sasori said. And then, to Deidara, “Don’t repeat that word until you’re at least ten years old.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“Wow. That’s a big snake. Like a really, really, really, really, big snake.” Deidara made a face as he leaned against Sasori with one tiny arm looping around his thigh, pressing right into the old skin graft incision that remained sensitive to pressure, because of course a Deidara high off of a mild hallucinogenic was going to be as clingy as a drunk octopus. “Is this another weird vision like the purple toads and that dancing rock?”
“Nope; that is truly a really big snake,” Sasori assured Deidara with an expressed calm he most certainly wasn’t feeling as he stared up at the snake summon that was approximately half the size of Nessie. Perched on top of the snake’s head was Orochimaru, clad in a black coat decorated with red clouds and his head covered with a kasa hat with the stiff brim pushed back to openly reveal his amused expression. It seemed like a rather loud fashion statement for someone who was a missing nin trying not to attract attention. Komushi stood ready beside Sasori, fully controlled with a single chakra thread and ready to attack with a minute muscle twitch. Damn it. Sasori refused to consider the possibility that he was going to have to explain to Tsume that he got his brand-new child accidentally killed in such a confrontation so shortly after notifying her of the adoption.
“Ah, Akasuna no Sasori,” Orochimaru touched the brim of his kasa hat in greeting, “a pleasure to meet another fine scientist.”
Well, Sasori always had wanted to ask the man a very important request, and he wasn’t sure when he’d have this opportunity in the future. Besides, it allowed him to better control the situation if he caught the missing nin flatfooted. “Can I have your autograph?”
Orochimaru blinked. Twice. “That’s… that’s not the usual response I get when someone sees me.”
Good – no killing intent or tensing of body indicating potential attack, although the snake was certainly coiled for an easy strike. “Admittedly, it’s not something I can probably brag about if you were to give me one, but I read your published research on DNA, genetics, and chromosomes. It was fascinating. Loved what you did with the statistic tables and diagrams – the symmetry was perfect.” The fact that much of Orochimaru’s research subjects hadn’t survived and their data wasn’t subsequently included in the actual publishing was left unsaid.
Orochimaru’s expression twisted into something sinisterly cheerful. “I can offer you something better than an autograph. My employer sent me with a job offer.”
“Really?” Sasori asked, his voice dry. “My Kazekage wants to hire me out to a missing nin as notorious as you?” Sasori considered if Rasa would, in fact, do something like this, and decided that the bastard most certainly would. “Why not? He hired me out to the Tsuchikage for babysitting duty, after all.” It was a very rare opportunity to work with a fellow intellectual, instead of the imbecile he had just left behind in Iwa who didn’t independently notice the difference between a bill of sale and adoption papers.
Orochimaru’s laugh was low and made the hair on the back of Sasori’s neck stand on end. “I’m afraid you have misunderstood. My employer wants you to leave Suna and join us.”
As much as Rasa would love to be free of the boil on his ass that he no doubt felt Sasori resembled, Sasori was too much of a cash cow with his inventions to be assassinated or to permanently foist off to someone else. Also, according to the child psychology books, children thrived in stable environments, and the life of a missing nin was not conducive to such.
Still, Sasori’s greatest weakness was his own damn curiosity and drive to know more. “What kind of benefits does your employer offer?”

“A well-stocked lab, no limits on your art or scientific endeavors, a generous monthly stipend so long as you fulfill certain mission obligations, and the opportunity to achieve world peace.”

World peace was fine and all, but there were more immediate priorities in Sasori’s life. “Does your employer offer dental?”
Orochimaru’s smile slipped into confusion. “…Dental?”
Sasori took that as a no. “What is your employer’s sexual harassment policy?” He didn’t want a repeat of his boss attempting to wrangle a blow job out of Sasori, even if it just a poor excuse to evaluate whether or not Sasori could be compromised.
The confusion grew, and Deidara started giggling at another dancing rock that only he could see. “We don’t have… Do we?” Orochimaru thought for a moment. “I believe the policy is that if you try to sexually harass Konan, you will suffer a slow, agonizing death with extreme prejudice.”
“Severe, but reasonable.” Except that would require Sasori to know why only Konan was allowed not to be sexually harassed, and just who was Konan? “What about paternity leave? I just acquired an orphan, and bonding with new children is very important. You wrote the paper on the importance of skin-to-skin bonding, after all. Again, excellent work, by the way.”
“Thank you. I must admit I’ve never had the honor of meeting a fan, before.” Orochimaru traced one long finger (was the man seriously wearing black nail polish? It was hardly a flattering color to go with his skin tone) along his lips. “Although your newly-acquired child appears to be a little old to engage in skin-to-skin bonding. Did you obtain him legally, or is he meant for, shall we say, some scientific endeavors you wish to explore? As I mentioned, my employer offers no limits to scientific exploration. You will have our full support to obtain a variety of live subjects.” He indicated Komushi. “You could do so much more than just that, especially with your improved skills and education.”
(Rude, declared Komushi.)
The snake interrupted the very creepy conversation. “When do I get to eat the big humanssss?”
“You don’t want me,” Sasori assured the snake, feeling his heart hammering in his chest as he thought of over fifty dead orphans in cages, with two trapped with a traumatized Yamato. Tsume would be pissed at Sasori if she could smell any unethical child experiments on Sasori and especially Deidara, and he knew that she would. (Whether she would be pissed at him for experimenting on adults… well, that was unlikely. She certainly hadn’t said anything against his poisons.) “My blood is fifty percent various toxins.” Well, more like 10%, but Sasori’s scientific curiosity wasn’t strong enough to experience a giant summon’s digestive tract first-hand.
“And the little humanssss?”
“Drugged. You’ll hallucinate dancing rocks and purple toads.”
The snake hissed in anger as its giant body coiled tightly. “I hatessss the toadssss.”
Orochimaru’s eyes gleamed with triumph. “Ah, you did acquire the child for scientific endeavors! How delightful. I can assure you that my employer would be amicable to allow the child’s accompaniment. It would be such a waste to leave him behind.”
Every one of Sasori’s instincts was screaming to deploy any and all methods to escape. “Actually, the drugging is more of a family tradition. You are aware of who my grandmother is, correct?” Orochimaru merely shrugged at that, as if Chiyo wasn’t important enough for Orochimaru to concern himself with. “So, this job offer from your employer – is it something I may take the time to consider, or do I have to give an immediate answer?”
“Mmm.” Orochimaru leaped from the snake’s head and landed softly in front of Sasori, just an arm’s length away. He straightened to his full height – the jerk was almost half a meter taller than Sasori. (Sasori hated it when people loomed over him, as if they were lording their superior height. He would add more length to his prosthetic legs if it didn’t make him look so anatomically incorrect and asymmetrical.)
“Ordinarily, offer of employment with Akatsuki is a one-time deal that, if refused, results in death.” The smile that spread across Orochimaru’s face was reptilian and cold. “However, my superiors are aware that you are a careful, intelligent man who needs time to consider all angles, and to realize how stifling and unhappy you remain, still. After all, how much longer will it be before the Fourth Kazekage attempts to assassinate you? Like father, like son, after all.”
Very few people were aware that the Third Kazekage had meant for Sasori to die when he was twelve years old. And most of those people were either in Konoha, or dead. Sasori was positive that not even Rasa or Chiyo had been aware of the Third Kazekage’s intention. He hadn’t left any paperwork behind, after all – Sasori would know. He had the highest clearance. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“Hurry home, young ones.” Orochimaru turned his back on Sasori, his laughter soft. “Hurry home, and see if it’s worth staying in Suna. We’ll be in touch in due time, my friend.”
“You will follow up on that dental, right?”
The missing nin dismissed both the snake, and himself, at the same time, without providing an answer.
“Wooooowwwww.” Deidara almost swooned with stars in his eyes. “They went visibizable! Just like the purple toads!”

Sasori ran towards Suna as far and as fast as he could in the next hour, even after it turned dark. When it became apparent that he was at risk of tumbling head-first into one of the many gullies that marked the steppes of Earth, he settled in a hollow for the rest of the night and summoned two large wolverines to keep guard. Their eyesight and hearing weren’t all that great, but they had an uncanny sense of smell, were naturally nocturnal, and vindictively delighted with the idea of taking on potential snakes, regardless of being legendary summons or not.oOoOoOo
Sasori could only hurry so fast with a toddler, even if said toddler piggybacked off of Komushi. The ten days it would normally take stretched into two long weeks, interspersed with wolverine summons and letters.
Look jerkbutt, you can’t just tell me you adopted a child from Iwa and include nothing else! >:O How did this happen? What is the child’s name? How old is he/she? Why are you adopting someone from Iwa? Draw me a picture, I want to know what your child looks like! I’ve always wanted to be someone’s godmother!!! :D

Lots of love, Tsume.

Tsume was the only person Sasori knew to add smiley and frowny faces to her casual letters.
Sasori’s basic sketch of Deidara, along with age, name, background, and how they met was sent back to Tsume; he didn’t bother correcting her automatic assumption of being the boy’s godmother because, frankly, there wasn’t anyone in Suna Sasori would trust with Deidara long-term (even his own grandmother was questionable, given how she would want to build Deidara’s tolerance and immunity for a variety of poisons – she still had a lifetime and generations of expectations of Suna culture and traditions to overcome), so if Tsume wanted to be godmother, Tsume could damn well be godmother. It was two days later before he received a reply.
Oh gosh, that is so adorable! :O It’s like you found your own puppy and decided to keep him! :D I can’t wait to meet Deidara-chan! I remember being in Earth around this time of year, lots of years ago, and just how cold it was. Maybe it would’ve been less cold if I had, you know, some shoes to wear. And winter gear. Anyway, I know that you packed things to keep Deidara warm, but honestly, Sasori, you can’t pack supplies like an Inuzuka can, so I’m sending you a care package benefiting my brand-new godson. :)

Kiba is finally out of the neonatal unit and home with me. All that smoke and fire and ash from the October Attack damaged his poor little lungs and it took longer for him to be weaned off the oxygen. :( But he is now with me all the time, and Hana and Yamato and Kakashi and Shisui and I are smothering him in love! I wish I could draw as nicely as you could so you can see how big he’s gotten. The Hokage is still being a big old mean poopie head who won’t tell me where Kushina-chan’s child is. >:( Sometimes, I wonder if the baby didn’t die in the October Attack, and the Hokage just doesn’t want to tell me. I can’t smell Kushina’s baby anywhere, but Hokage-sama doesn’t smell like a lie when he said the baby isn’t dead. I don’t know what to think!!!!

Shisui nearly gave Kagami and Fumiko a heart attack when he took his first flight off the Hokage Monument with his Dragonfly yesterday. Shisui told me he’s been practicing with Nessie’s kids. I’ve tried to talk the kids into visiting Suna, but they seem rather put off with the sand and lack of water. I’ll keep working on them for you, though!

Konoha’s rebuilding efforts are going well, for physical structures. I’m still trying to figure out ways to replenish my ninken pack. I’m trying to talk to the Hokage into letting me do some traveling to trap and bring home wolves. I’ve been trying to research timber wolves on the Island of Claw, gray wolves in the Land of Iron, arctic wolves in the Land of Frost, and sand wolves in Wind, but there isn’t a lot of information available because of the library’s destruction. :( What do you know about sand wolves? I thought of going to Waterfall and getting some Tibetan mastiffs and Caucasian shepherd dogs, but they won’t let me into the country unless I bring some of Nessie’s offspring. Rude!

Everyone is on pins and needles because the Itty-Bitty Orchid Committee is hosting this year’s international Annual Orchid Convention in Konoha again. The Hokage only agreed to it after what happened last time because he said we could use the money.
Oyubi told him that if we uncover yet another black market smuggling scheme that causes another civil war between Hither and Yon, she’s going rogue and dragging me along. I think the Hokage is going to send her to the Land of Frost to get me some arctic wolves while the convention is going on. :) Yay!

Love you and Deidara-chan lots, Tsume.

P. S. If it’s super-cold, like if you have to run through a blizzard, if you smear melted rabbit fat on the exposed skin, it adds extra insulation and helps protect against frostbite. Don’t ask me how I know. I think Danzo would say it’s outside of your clearance level.

Tsume’s care package – secured within the sealing scroll that the letter was attached to – included a hairbrush, a toothbrush, strawberry-flavored toothpaste (which Sasori had to keep out of Deidara’s reach when he noticed the Urchin snacking on it, no matter how badly Deidara probably needed fluoride in his diet – he’d get plenty of that from Suna’s aquifer, since their water was high with naturally occurring fluoride), a few extra sets of clothes that were slightly too big, a miniature fur-lined leather poncho, a mink-fur balaclava, three children picture books, a set of crayons and a coloring book, a child’s set of practice kunai, a stuffed dog, a retractable leash and harness for wayward toddlers, a large bag of butterscotch cookies (the regular type; not the ones made with honey), and written instructions for the Inuzuka Clan’s calming genjutsu for unruly puppies and children.
Which, yeah, that last was probably safer to use than drugs or poisons.
With the awe of someone used to scrounging around in the garbage, empty homes, or fighting off other children for whatever was donated to the orphanage, Deidara greedily accepted the stuffed puppy, the picture books, and most especially the brand-new unbroken crayons that he didn’t have to share. And while coloring while on the run wasn’t feasible, it gave Deidara something to do while Sasori was setting up or breaking down camp. He also kept sneaking cookies when he thought Sasori wasn’t looking. Sasori didn’t know if all that sugar was any healthier than eating toothpaste, especially when Deidara already had cavities.
Maybe if he let Deidara eat the toothpaste, it would cancel out the cookies?
Sasori sent Tsume a lengthy description of everything he knew about sand wolves – their habits, their diet, their territory, their physical attributes, family units, etc. – and a colored picture from Deidara, which he knew was going to wind up proudly displayed on Tsume fridge with a gigantic magnet.oOoOoOo
“Can you tell me about you, Sasori-nii?” Deidara asked one evening over a dinner of turnips sniped from a farm they had passed through and fish that Sasori had caught with his chakra strings from the near-by stream they were camped next to.
They had crossed over the border of Earth and entered the Land of Woods. Although Hanzo was dead and gone, Sasori made it a habit of steering clear of the Land of Rain; his curving journey to and from Iwa added an extra two days of travel on both trips.
“What do you want to know?” Sasori asked as exhaustion plagued him. He only summoned one wolverine to help stand guard for the night – a quiet, scarred male missing half an ear named Inago – who was pressed against Sasori’s hip as Sasori sat close to the fire and longed desperately for the warmth of Suna.
Deidara’s fingers curled, almost self-consciously, as he hugged his coloring book to his chest. His face, for the first time Sasori had known him, showed a desperate vulnerability that tugged at Sasori’s guarded heart. Deidara glanced at Komushi, the firelight briefly turning Deidara’s sky-blue eyes orange with the reflected flames. “You’re my new dad, right? What’s a dad even like?”
Sasori considered his new son, and thought, I know how I wound up in this situation, but also, I really don’t know how I wound up in this situation. It was oddly reminiscent of his memories of Team Chaos. Sure, he knew how they wound up situations like facing a team of Kiri nin or a dragon or Fumiko’s cheese, but it was their response leading to the situation that seemed so far out of the norm that he had no idea how Team Chaos achieved success. He found himself rather fond of Deidara’s gumption and his eagerness to please and his, frankly astonishing, nonexistent sense of fear (Sasori remembered Shisui’s lack of fear at three years of age, and figured that Deidara simply trusted in Sasori’s capacity, as an adult, to handle situations without endangering Deidara). But for all intents and purposes, he and Deidara were simply two strangers who gravitated towards each other, all because Sasori showed a smidgeon of kindness and care to a child who had known so little of it in his young life, and that child decided he was going to grab ahold of that kindness and never let go.
Sasori very much doubted, without the influence of Tsume and Team Chaos, that this situation would’ve happened.
“My father,” Sasori said, allowing himself to speak of the man who had been front and center to Sasori’s life before being gone forever, “would say that being a dad is about being a role model, a protector, a provider, and a teacher all rolled up in one. Someone who is there for you, no matter what, to help shape you into being a successful adult.” And his father had, unfortunately but by no fault of his own other than simply being not as good as the White Fang, had failed to meet those expectations. Not to mention how the Third Shinobi War had often meant that his father was often gone for long periods of time. It hadn’t been a role that Ebizo or even the Third Kazekage had assumed in his father’s absence.
Sasori wasn’t entirely sure he could reasonably say what a dad was like.
“I honestly don’t know much about being a father,” Sasori said softly, “my own died when I was just a little older than you now. But that’s not going to stop me from being the best father I can be for you, although it’s something we’re both going to have to learn as we go.” Sasori had only briefly entertained the notion of being a father, but certainly when he was older and not as busy in his life as he currently was. “But I do know if it’s like to be a mother.” He was, after all, unofficially adopted by a mother bear with the world’s most monstrous maternal instincts.
Deidara’s arms relaxed slightly. “Do I have a mother?”
“Tsume,” Sasori replied immediately. “She’s your godmother. I don’t have a wife or a girlfriend; I have a grandmother – your great-grandmother, now – who raised me, but she’s hardly mother material the same way Tsume is.”
Deidara traced the glossy cover of his coloring book.
“What’s a mother like? How are they different from fathers?”
Sasori thought of Kagami, who was a role model, a protector, and a teacher all rolled up in one, and thought, I do have a good example I can model myself after. “Fathers and mothers really aren’t all that different in their roles as parents, I suppose,” he said. “Someone might say that mothers have more of a gentle, nurturing role – to care for someone’s physical, emotional, and mental needs, to be gentle and kind, to encourage growth and improvement. Fathers are, typically, more stern and authoritative, but they also care, and they’re just as capable of gentleness and kindness, encouraging growth and improvement. I suppose it boils down to how the parent conducts themselves as a role model, a protector, a provider, and a teacher.
“As for your godmother…” Sasori smiled. “She’s a rampaging bear who will throw herself at anything she deems a threat, while smothering you with delicious food, puppies, and dandelion fluff.” And Sasori told Deidara about how he had first met Tsume when he was on death’s door, and how she had fought Hanzo with an army of hellspawn and a gigantic axe.
“You’re kind of a big jerk too, aren’t you?” Deidara concluded, based on how Sasori had behaved in his story.
“Still am,” Sasori replied lightly as he stroked Inago’s head. “Ultimately, I will be more harsh, more stern than Tsume, because that’s who I am and she has a tendency to be overprotective and smothering in her affection. I won’t protect you from everything in the world, Deidara, even if I wanted to. What I do promise is to prepare you to protect yourself when no one is there to fight alongside you.”oOoOoOo
Sasori was feeling tired and frazzled when he finally limped up to the closed front gates of Suna, dragging Deidara face-first through the sand with the retractable leash and harness. His chakra levels were too low to heal the sores on his stumps or to control Komushi, who was currently tucked safely in a sealing scroll.
“Sooooo hot,” Deidara whined through his mouthful of sand, unwilling to even put in the effort to cling to Sasori, since all of his energy was going into whining about the sun, the heat, the sand, the sunburn, the recent scorpion sting (it was only mildly venomous – Sasori felt there was no acceptable reason to whine about the pain or swelling), the wind, the cactus that bit him when he accidentally sat down on it, and the lack of cookies to eat.
“Don’t ask,” Sasori snarled at the guards. He retracted the leash to its original meter-long length, and swung Deidara up and over his shoulder like a knapsack, letting a limp, whining toddler gently bump against his backside.
On the other side of the entrance, Sasori stared, frozen, at the level of destroyed buildings and piles of sand that some terrified genin were shoveling into wheelbarrows for removal. He turned back to the guards and pointed. “What happened?”
The guards cringed. “Don’t ask.”
“I am the fucking Head of Internal Affairs! It’s my job to ask!” And then, “Don’t repeat that word until you’re ten years old, Deidara.”
“Fucking yeah, Sasori-nii,” Deidara muttered from where he hung, failing to spit out the sand in his mouth because of how dry his mucous membranes were from the heat.
The guard on the left shuffled his feet, looking nervous. “Uh, the Kazekage said he’d had reports waiting for you on your desk.”
Of course there would be reports waiting on his desk. At least Sasori found his home in one piece, and Chiyo was home. “Switching into my wheelchair,” he told Chiyo as he heartlessly dropped Deidara on the floor at her feet.
Chiyo nudged the listless toddler. “I think kidnapping and child trafficking violates the international human rights accord, Sasori.”
Sasori shoved the adoption documents into her chest. She caught them. “Grandmother, this is my son, Deidara. Deidara, this is your great-grandmother. Be nice to each other, no hidden poisons, no explosions, please do not burn down the house,” it was made of stone, but Sasori wasn’t going to underestimate the ingenuity of a bored toddler with an explosive kekkai genkai, “the both of you stay out of trouble, make nice, bond without skin-to-skin contact because Deidara is too old at this point, feed and hydrate the Urchin, please don’t spoil him rotten, blah blah blah.”
The sockets of his prosthetics were full of blood as he removed his prosthetics. He was too exhausted from pushing himself past his regular limits, using constant summons, and watching over his shoulder for Orochimaru’s inevitable return. He cleaned and dressed his stumps, and covered them with the green cashmere socks that Grandmother had knit him during his stay in Konoha (with holes in the bottoms for the rods to poke through), Sasori then covered the stumps and endoskeleton rods with the hinged caps, tightening the straps across his thighs so they would remain secure. He didn’t bother cleaning the sand out of Komushi or unpacking as he wheeled out of his bedroom (he did triple-check the locks on his workshop door, to make sure a curious four year old wouldn’t enter and accidentally poison himself), and into the kitchen, where Chiyo was gently rehydrating Deidara and applying aloe vera to the child’s sunburns.
Sasori made a rough gesture to indicate the multiple disaster zones of wreckage and ruin and sand dunes he had limped through. “What the hell happened, Grandmother?”
Chiyo cringed. “You’re going to be so mad at me.”
Sasori impatiently raked his fingers through his hair, irritated that it was getting long enough to get into his eyes. “As long as you don’t lie to me, and also have a little more tact than saying, oh, I don’t know, ‘your best friend is dead and that’s all you need to know,’ I will do my best not to get mad. It’s obvious that Shukaku was involved, somehow.”
Chiyo’s face scrunched up as tears brimmed in her eyes. Sasori had to give credit where credit was due – his grandmother had been making an honest and consistent attempt to be a little less prickly, a little more honest, and a smidgeon more tactful in the years following his surgery and her apology. “I didn’t want to do it, but the Kazekage ordered it. I… I think you should read the reports.”
“Or maybe I should wheel right on over and talk to Rasa directly.”
“Don’t. You’re going to be very angry, Sasori. It’ll be best if you read the reports in the quiet of the office. You’re going to need the time and space to clear your head.”
(“Hurry home, young ones… Hurry home, and see if it’s worth staying in Suna. We’ll be in touch in due time, my friend.”)

Sasori wheeled out of the house, too tired to even guide his wheelchair with chakra strings, because of course Rasa would do something incredibly stupid and destructive that Sasori was going to immediately need to work on before he even had a chance to rest after traveling over a thousand kilometers with nerves strung taut with the idea of Orochimaru trailing after him.
The sand spread throughout Suna wasn’t in uniform layers, like a destructive sandstorm had hit Suna, but more like huge waves and piles. There was also over a dozen blood splatters – too much blood loss for the source of those splatters to have survived – between Sasori’s home and the Office of Internal Affairs and Human Resources. But not enough blood splatters to indicate invading forces that required Shukaku’s release from his tea kettle. There were multiple crumbled buildings in various stages of repair.
Sasori’s assistant secretary, a frightfully competent, middle-aged Chuunin named Menpu, immediately leapt to her feet with Sasori’s entrance. “I have everything in the conference room, Sasori-danna.” She immediately took over pushing Sasori’s wheelchair, and he gratefully rested his arms in his lap. “The stacks aren’t very neat, but I have them in chronological order from the newest at the top and the oldest at the bottom. Would you like a cold or a hot beverage?”
“Coffee; hot is fine, as long as it’s strong.” Sasori had a feeling he was going to need it.
“Sake-laced or extra caffeine?”
Sasori stared at the haphazard stack of files on the center conference table. A few of the reports were blood splattered.
“Ah.” Menpu patted his shoulder knowingly. “Both?”
“It would appear so.”oOoOoOo
It was almost sunset by the time Sasori had finally managed to make his way through all of the reports, and was strongly in favor of defecting from Suna the next time Orochimaru showed, when Rasa slinked into the conference room.
“Oh good.” Sasori snapped the remaining file closed. “You managed to survive your latest folly.” He folded his arms across the table top and waited for Rasa to take a seat. “What do we have to say for ourselves?” The wave of rage that had steadily grown with every report actually made his vision white. It was all he could do not to murder his Kazekage by crushing the man’s larynx with his chakra threads.
Rasa slumped in his chair petulantly. The resemblance between himself and his three-year-old daughter was strikingly similar, although that had more to do with their shared attitudes than their physical appearance. “I should consult with my Head of Internal Affairs before deciding any missions that involves anyone below the age of twelve who isn’t on a genin team.”
Any attempt to kill Rasa would only end with Sasori likely smothered with lungs full of gold, so he defaulted to his usual interview habits.
“And what did we learn from this?”

Rasa huffed a tired sigh. “Do not seal the Ichibi in fetuses.”
“Do you think this qualifies as a deliberate violation of international human rights under illegal human experimentation?”
Rasa eyed Sasori. “…Yeeeees?”
“You seem unsure.”
Rasa straightened and flashed his teeth in a grimace. “It is Suna’s sovereign right to have a jinchuuriki. We’ve been without one for more than a decade, and other powers think they can just fuck us over for it. Look at all the other damn Hidden Villages – we have been bending over and spreading our ass to Konoha even before you lost your damn feet, Sasori. Look at how that slob, Oonoki kept trying to downplay our prosthetics and the value of them! Look at how our own Daimyo continues to treat us! It’s time to remind the rest of the world that Suna is not a weak, helpless, desperate pushover!”
Sasori slowly and deliberately reached out to double-tap the stack of reports indicating how many lives had recently been lost. “What part of sticking the Ichibi in a fetus where you can’t even safely apply appropriate seals does not make Suna look weak and desperate?”
Rasa leaned forward as a small swirl of gold dust rippled around him. “Be very careful of what you say next, Sasori. I lost my wife for this. I sacrificed my own son for this. Being deprived of my Head of Internal Affairs will matter very little to me in the grand scheme of everything else I’ve given up to make this succeed.”
It may matter very little to Rasa, but it would be a tremendous blow to Sunagakure itself, Sasori realized with a chill. He had been gone for almost three months, and their self-absorbed, shortsighted Kazekage had fucked them over completely.
(Well, that certainly decided whether or not Sasori would agree to join Orochimaru. There was no way he was going to leave his Suna in Rasa’s incompetent hands.)
(Damn. He really was as territorial as a wolverine.)

“The point,” Sasori stressed, willing the rage away, “of reviewing mistakes with Internal Affairs is to realize what went wrong, learn from our mistakes, and figure out how to fix errors, if they can be fixed. The reason even the Kazekage must submit to a review with Internal Affairs is because the more power you have, the more detrimental the error. Even your own father would sit across from me to review his mistakes.” Few as they were, but they did occur. “I don’t want your position or power, Rasa.” A true Puppet Master, after all, never revealed their strings and manipulation. “I know that you’ve always felt threatened by me, but I do not want to become Kazekage. I have never wanted to become Kazekage.”
Sasori very much preferred to be the hidden director behind the stage, and not the actor the audience watched. Unfortunately, there was no one else in Suna who could viably take Rasa’s place, so Sasori was stuck with the moron, at least for another fifteen years until Temari could take over.
She was young enough for Sasori to mold into a practical leader. “The decision to have a jinchuuriki was yours to make, it was yours to decide who would be the best fit, and so you made it.” Damn convenient how Rasa enacted the decision when Sasori was too far away to talk some sense into the moron. “It is neither my place nor my responsibility to countermand any of that.” It would’ve been Sasori’s place to point out the many, many problems with turning a fetus into a jinchuuriki.
Rasa leaned back, but the gold dust continued to swirl restlessly. “Good save.”
“Nor am I going to discuss with you should’ve-beens or what-if’s. The decision has been made, the action has been performed, and frankly – at the moment – we’re all out of wishes and horses, and the beggars looking to ride are dead.”
“Even better.”
“What needs to be discussed is where to go from here.”
Rasa rubbed his forehead. “The jinchuuriki will become more stable the older he gets. We just have to wait it out. He’ll be a strong weapon for Suna. And if he can’t get it under control…” A look of steel-hardened resolve crossed Rasa’s face as he rolled his shoulders back. “Well, for now, at least, I can overpower the Ichibi.”
Sasori very deliberately didn’t look at the stack of files as the hair on the back of his neck rose on end.
He thought of all the other jinchuuriki he had met in his life – Bunpuku, Takuma, Uzumaki Kushina – and how they hadn’t lost control (as far as he knew – Sasori still had no idea what happened in October that led to the Kyuubi getting free and Kushina dying). A report from Sekka, his handwriting shaky with dried blood smeared across the paper, described how an undersized and born-too-early newborn had transformed into a roaring beast of sand and rage that had crushed Sekka’s arm when he had attempted to administer a vaccine. There was another report of how staff had to keep pinching the newborn to keep him awake, because the moment he fell asleep, the Ichibi would manifest.
Sasori thought of a frightened, traumatized five-year-old who sprouted wood in a desperate, unconscious bid to impale anyone who made him feel trapped and cornered. He thought of a mother who didn’t see a weapon or an unstable weapon, but rather a child who was hurting and confused, and thus required lots of love, understanding, and a safe home to work through his trauma. He thought of Uzumaki Mito, Bunpuku, and Takuma. He thought, last and most of all, of Shukaku.
He leaned back in his wheelchair. “What are your childcare plans for Gaara?” He carefully didn’t stress the name that Rasa had been avoiding this entire time.
“Working on it. Right now, only Yashamaru and I are able to feed and change him without triggering a change. No mednin is willing or able to do any checks, and the jinchuuriki’s skin is looking rather yellow. I think his bilirubin levels are high. I tried to place his bassinet in a sunny window to help with that, but the light was so bright it triggered a change. Every damn thing triggers a change.”
“I will assume all medical care for Gaara.” Sasori raised his eyebrows at the look Rasa gave him. “What? I passed my pediatric modules in the program. I taught them to the mednins currently practicing at the hospital.” Or had been killed or crippled in the line of duty for the last four weeks, as it were.
Before Rasa could reply, there was a pounding at the closed conference door. “Kazekage-sama! Kazekage-sama!”
Rasa rose to his feet with a snarl as Sasori felt an incoming flare of corrosive demonic chakra. “Fucking not again.” His gold dust swirled around him like a chiindii as he crossed the room and slammed the door open. The shinobi pounding at the door swayed from a bloody head wound before collapsing. Rasa dodged the falling body and disappeared with a shunshin. Sasori heard a roar that was swiftly coming closer.
(“There are consequences to rigid seals.”)
Sasori knew very little about fuuinjutsu, but he knew just enough that seals had to be directly transferred to whatever they were supposed to affect, whether it was parchment for blast tags or storage scrolls, puppets like when he copied the seals off of Shukaku’s tea kettle, kunai or whatever the hell Namikaze did for his Hiraishin, or people, whether it was a jinchuuriki or Sakumo. Nowhere in Kurara’s medical file (which was included in the list of those killed by the Ichibi) did it say that she had undergone an in-utero surgery so the seals could be applied directly to Gaara. He needed to talk to Chiyo to know what had been done.
Rasa would kill Sasori if he brought in an outside seal master. Sasori might have to find someone he could trust, who would trust him in return, to learn fuuinjutsu from. Because Sasori clearly had so much free time on his hands, and Suna clearly would be just fine for however many years it took for Sasori to effectively master fuuinjutsu.
The building shook as something struck it.
Sasori wheeled himself out as the glass windows shattered and lashing streams of sand arched through. Screams filled the air. He snapped at the white-faced Menpu to get the downed Suna nin to the hospital.
Shukaku was in a good mood. Having been exposed to the Ichibi’s good mood multiple times and his bad mood only once (and a Kyuubi’s bad mood a week after the fact), Sasori could feel a distinct difference.
Awful lot of destruction and death for a good mood, though.
He paused at the exit, and then bit his wrist bloody. Fuck Rasa. Fuck Shukaku. Fuck being exhausted and bound to his wheelchair right now. When you wanted something done right, you had to do it yourself; and if you couldn’t do it yourself, you delegated to someone who could. Sasori knew of only one person he trusted enough to delegate this to.
Sasori summoned his favorite wolverine, a young female named Goukan-chan, who was a little more calm and a little more patient than any of his other wolverine summons, and nearly swayed from the chakra exhaustion.
“What’s up?” Goukan-chan stood upright, staring at the shattered window and the sandy, roaring bulk that briefly blotted out the sunset’s dimming light. “Yeah, I can take him,” she decided. Sasori immediately snagged her scruff, because that was the very same thing she said before pouncing on Nessie. Just because Goukan-chan was a little more calm and a little more patient than his other wolverines didn’t mean she was ready or willing to fight anything in her immediate vicinity to establish her territorial claim, which was whatever space she occupied.
“I need Tsume, right now.”
“I am just as fearless as Tsume-san, if that’s what you’re needing.”
Sasori flashed his teeth, half in challenge and half in amusement. “Of that, I don’t doubt.” Wolverines had so much attitude that there was no room for fear in them. “What I need is someone with a maternal instinct so strong that she’s willing to adopt a dragon.”
“Oh. Yeah. That I don’t have. Be right back.” Goukan-chan dismissed herself, and Sasori wheeled himself out of the building, into a smothering blanket of corrosive demonic chakra that made his stumps burn and his hands shake even more. In the dim light of dusk, Sasori watched as the one-tailed tanuki demon swatted another shinobi away with his tail, whipping cords and branches of sand swirling around him like demented chiindii. He could see the electrical charge in the chiindii. In the center of Shukaku’s forehead was a barely-visible limp infant, half-sucked into the sand. Ducking and dodging the sand columns was Rasa, who was mixing his gold dust into the sand to effectively control and deflect the sand.
Sasori rested his elbows on his armrests and steepled his fingers in front of his face, mind working rapidly.
Twenty-seven seconds later, Tsume and Goukan-chan appeared. Tsume leaned heavily against Sasori’s chair to recover from the effects from the reverse-summon. She was barefooted and barefaced, only wearing a bathrobe with her hair damp from a recent shower.
“Sasori, what’s going…on…” Tsume’s voice trailed off as she stared, flabbergasted. She clutched a comic book that she had probably been reading to Hana when Goukan-chan arrived, since it was bedtime.
“Tsume, meet the Ichibi, Shukaku, and his jinchuuriki host, Gaara. Right there, in the center of his forehead. Shukaku has briefly broken free.”
Tsume’s voice was flat. “What.”
“As you can see, we’re in a bit of a pickle here, in need of a motherly touch, and—”
“That’s a baby.”
The last – well, only – time Sasori had ever heard that undercurrent of cold fury in Tsume’s voice was when she had told an attacking Taki nin that she would rip out his throat with her bare teeth before he could touch her kids. Sasori knew exactly what anyone with two functioning brain cells would do if they stood between Tsume and a threatened child.
And that was simply not to stand between Tsume and said child. Sasori immediately rolled his wheelchair out of her path. “Yup. That is, indeed, a baby.”
“We can take him, Tsume-san,” Goukan-chan said confidently.
Tsume raised one steady hand and pointed, her claw sharp and deadly. “That’s a baby who’s getting shaken around.”
“His name is Gaara,” Sasori added, feeling vindictively delighted with successfully weaponizing and aiming Tsume’s monstrous maternal instincts and voracious drive to protect the vulnerable.
Tsume instantly threw herself forward and Sasori caught Goukan-chan with his chakra threads. Fatigue made his chakra threads shaky. “WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING TO THAT BABY?”
Rasa, startled and distracted from Tsume’s sudden appearance, was slammed into the side of the administration building and pinned in place with a column of sand.
Shukaku lunged at Tsume, teeth snapping.
Tsume leapt and smacked him over the nose with her rolled-up comic book. “SHAME ON YOU, YOU BRUTE.”

Shukaku froze, shocked at such audacity, and Tsume took advantage to swat him again. “You cannot just shake a baby around like that,” Tsume yelled. “You could hurt or kill him! They don’t have the strength to hold their neck! Do you have any idea the brain damage that an infant can suffer from shaken baby syndrome?”
Shukaku snarled. “HOW DARE YOU, PUNY MUD MONKEY—”
“Shut up, Trash Panda!” Tsume beat off a small pillar of sand with the rolled-up comic book. “Give me the baby!”
Shukaku’s lips twisted into a sneer, revealing teeth that weren’t nearly as frightening as Nessie’s. Killing intent, mixed in with the crushing pressure of demonic chakra, flared as he lowered his head to be eyelevel with Tsume. He leveled his half-crazed eyes with her. “Tremble in fear, you filthy flesh bag.” His breath stirred Tsume’s hair and bathrobe. “I will fucking destroy you.”
“I am Inuzuka Queen Alpha Bitch! I tremble in fear to no one!” And then, just to prove how very incapable of fear she was, Tsume swatted Shukaku over the nose again. “Bend a little lower, Trash Panda. I can’t grab the baby from here.”
“I will rip the flesh off your fucking bones and then snap your bones between my teeth!”
“Baby first, ripping flesh and snapping bones later. Come on, a little bit more lower.” Tsume pointed at the ground with her rolled-up comic.
Shukaku was beginning to look as confused as Rasa, to be confronted by someone immune to his killing intent. Or maybe his nose was starting to sting – Tsume liked to enhance her blows with chakra. Who could say with demonic chakra constructs? Sasori did know that Shukaku had liked conversing with Bunpuku and even himself, so maybe having a human slap him on the nose and boss him around was a pleasant change from the running, screaming, and killing. The pressure from the Ichibi’s killing intent decreased slightly. Sasori took that as a sign to finally approach closer, carefully releasing Goukan-chan from his chakra threads so he could use them for moving his wheelchair through the piles of sand. “What,” Shukaku huffed, “is fucking wrong with you?”
Tsume squawked. “Me? What is wrong with you? I’m not the one flinging a baby around willy-nilly! It’s cold and he’s not even wearing any clothes! Does he even have a diaper?”
“His… his butt hurts. It hurt worse when the diaper was removed.” Shukaku snarled as the killing intent briefly flared. “It fucking hurts us,” he snarled.

Tsume swatted the bijuu again. “A baby screaming because his butt hurts is one thing, but you’re a freaking thousand year old demon! You’re old enough not to throw a tantrum. You can’t just go around slaughtering people and shaking a baby just because your butt hurts. I’ll put some diaper cream on it, and you can just get used to it.”
Sasori wheeled up. “Hi, Shukaku. You’re out of your tea kettle.”
Shukaku reared upright and roared at Sasori. “BOARD BOY.” His tail lashed angrily, smashing a near-by building into rubble. Sasori caught the flying shrapnel with his chakra threads before any of it could strike him or Tsume. The pain in his stumps only worsened from being so close to the source of the corrosive demonic chakra. “YOU LEFT ME. WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED TO YOUR FEET?”
“I was gone for less than three months on a mission outside of this country, and just returned in this afternoon. I took my feet off to rest my legs.”
“Feet are fucking removable on humans? Is that normal?” Shukaku glared at Sasori and Tsume and Goukan-chan. And then he swung his giant head to glower as Rasa, who had managed to finally pry himself free of Shukaku’s sand with the driving force of his gold dust. “I hate this. I fucking hate each and every one of you. Puny mud monkeys”
Tsume responded first. “You’re not exactly a ray of sunshine yourself, bub. Give me the baby.”
After a long, uncomfortable moment, Shukaku shrunk, drawing back an unreasonable amount of demonic chakra and sand into an infant that, even despite being only a month old, was still smaller than Hana had been when she was a newborn. Once everything was pulled tightly inside the fleshy vessel, the naked infant burst out crying, face purple. The skin did look rather jaundiced, even under the rapidly receding sunset.
Tsume cooed as she gathered the infant in her arms, brushing sand away. And then she parted her bathrobe and stuck a nipple in Gaara’s mouth. The wailing stopped as little arms flailed, and then dropped heavily against her breast, small fists kneading. Sasori patted Tsume’s elbow, fully aware of Rasa’s simmering rage. “Go to my house,” he told her softly, not bothering to provide directions to the world’s greatest tracker. “We’ll talk in a little bit.”
“Oh, we will, indeed,” Tsume said darkly, before stalking off with her nose in the air.
Sasori kept Goukan-chan close by as he turned to the swirling gold dust and Kazekage who was so far past rage that he appeared calm and collected as he approached Gaara, his hands dangerously hidden behind his back. “This,” Sasori told Rasa, waving a hand in Tsume’s direction, “is not a permanent solution.”
“You reverse-summoned a Konoha kunoichi here?”
Sasori leaned back into his wheelchair, forcing himself to remain relaxed and tranquil, to avoid feeding into Rasa’s impending wrath. The path he needed to tread with Rasa was fragile, and any good will built between them could crumble like an ancient parchment being unrolled for the first time in hundreds of years. Theirs was a relationship too fraught with antagonism and mistrust. “I reverse-summoned a young mother incapable of fearing an unstable jinchuuriki and wouldn’t back down from any danger imposed on your son, Rasa.”
Rasa paced back and forth in the street, his white Kazekage robe flaring. His forearms had been scraped raw and bloody from the sand, and droplets of blood cascaded off his fingertips onto the sand drifts. Sasori and Goukan-chan watched with the same wariness of those waiting for a rabid animal to snap. “You…You.” Rasa was too angry and embarrassed to even voice the words he wanted to rip apart Sasori with. Gold dust began to swirl and build around Sasori’s wheelchair. Goukan-chan growled in low warning, so Sasori dropped his shaking hand to her head and scratched her ears.
“It’s humiliating to require help from someone you don’t trust. Believe me, I know.”
The gold dust struck Sasori’s legs. Luckily, his trousers protected his skin. “You forget your own damn place, Sasori!”
Okay, clearly a different approach was necessary. Damn it, Sasori was going to have to give something to Rasa… information. “I’ve seen Tsume stand up to the Nanabi jinchuuriki, and she did it for me. I knew she would stand up against the Ichibi for the sake of your son.” Rasa stilled, but the gold dust didn’t. “Who else was going to face an angry bijuu alongside you to protect the people of Suna from its wrath?” Sasori yanked the length of his trousers up to emphasize his disability. “I couldn’t, Rasa. Anyone else here who could – they didn’t show. I’m sure that eventually you could’ve gotten the Ichibi under control, but how much longer can this be sustained? So, I did what I thought was best for Suna – I called on my resources and Suna’s ally.”

“How dare… you trust a fucking outsider with Suna’s matters? You’ve made us beholden to Konoha once again!”
“And you don’t trust her.” That was the crux of the matter. Rasa was Suna – and Suna was so isolated in the midst of a desert, so used to scraping by without outside assistance, too proud to ask for help, so proud that he was outraged to receive such even when he needed it, that the thought of someone stumbling directly into the middle of his private vulnerability was simply unthinkable.
Suna – Rasa – had no reason to trust Tsume, the way that Sasori did, and Rasa simply didn’t trust Sasori as a person; Rasa only trusted Sasori’s competence when he understood what Sasori’s goals were.
The Third Kazekage had never told Rasa why it had taken Sasori four weeks to travel from a sabotaged oasis to Konoha, and Sasori always successfully wrangled his way out explaining such whenever Rasa tried to corner Sasori. The official report that Sasori submitted to the Third Kazekage had simply read, I lost my feet, my dignity, my sanity, my will to live, and finally arrived in Konoha, safe, unsound, and not in one entire piece. I will never do this again. Rasa’s curiosity and demands to know more had never lessened over the years.
Being out in the open like this was hardly the place to reveal what happened, but everyone had cleared the area for their own safety once Tsume had attracted Shukaku’s attention. If Sasori had any hopes to maintain bridges with Rasa, then he needed to make the bullheaded bastard understand that no one in Suna currently had the required tools to handle an unstable jinchuuriki without accidentally destroying Sunakagure in the process – even Rasa couldn’t sustain this. And if Rasa had to choke to death on his own spit for Suna’s survival – well, that would just have to be what happened. Might be for the best, anyway, if Sasori managed to raise Rasa’s blood pressure to a point where he burst his own aneurism.
It would just be Sasori’s luck that Rasa didn’t have any aneurisms….
“Rasa, I was recovering from amputations that were necessary to save my own life after nearly dying from arsenic. Think about it – I, an injured, disabled, vulnerable twelve-year-old, heir to the Poison Queen herself, brought low by poison. I was forced to rely on the apprentice of the man who had killed my own parents for my own survival, my own well-being. Believe me, I know precisely how humiliating it is to need help from an outsider, let alone be seen as a helpless cripple. I know the bitterness that claws in the back of your throat and the pit of your belly when you’re forced to come to terms with your own desperation. I know a man whose pride is wounded is more dangerous than a man whose body is injured. I did not make this choice lightly, but I did it because Suna’s survival means more to me than your pride.”
“You.” Rasa hissed and drew up short. “You will tell me everything. Explain to me why you trust that simpleton to help us more than we can help ourselves.”
Sasori’s mind ran through different scenarios and redirections, but ultimately found that he had inevitably backed himself into a corner the moment he had brought Tsume into the picture. “Very well. I’ll tell you about the four week journey of how a pregnant Tsume dragged me, footless, across nearly a thousand kilometers on the world’s worst detour and road trip. But not here.”
Sasori had no intention of explaining how close he had been to defecting from Suna, the gouka inugami, Tsume’s wonderful olfaction, Kagami’s psychological warfare against Sasori, how amazingly talented Shisui was, or dragons…
Which was a very large portion of what Sasori had endured. “Come on. I’m pretty sure the administration building is still standing, and most likely sound. The conference room will be private enough.”
Goukan-chan stayed with Sasori, and despite his shaking and growing fatigue, Sasori made himself use his chakra threads to push the wheelchair through the deep layers of sand. Rasa didn’t offer to help, and was probably sadistically enjoying Sasori’s misery. At least the longer it took to arrive at the administration building meant Sasori had more time to mentally compose the redacted cliff notes of his journey.
Feeling equally vindictive and petty, Sasori forced Rasa to wait on hearing what he had been dying to know for years as Sasori brewed a fresh cup of coffee with hand-ground beans, slowly measuring out cinnamon, vanilla, and a splash of sake. When he offered to make a cup of coffee for Rasa, the bastard simply stole Sasori’s bottle of sake.
“Start talking,” Rasa told Sasori in the conference room as he pulled up two chairs – one to sit in, and the other to prop his feet up.
Sasori blew on his coffee until Rasa took a swig out of the sake bottle. “It was Konoha’s jinchuuriki who chopped off my feet,” he said. Rasa snorted sake through his nose. “Albeit with Tsume’s axe and her blessing, and it was done for good reason, not maliciously. I had redirected most of the arsenic to my feet, as far away from my organs as I could, and the removal of my feet meant removing the arsenic.”
Rasa made a face at his burning sinuses as he swiped his nose with his sleeve. His forearms were still bleeding slightly, but he ignored them. “I had always wondered… Still can’t believe that you managed to almost die from poisoning. Wait – was the jinchuuriki the redhead or the paralyzed one?”
“The redhead, Uzumaki Kushina. She was killed during the October Attack. Tsume was nine months pregnant when she and her team arrived at the oasis. I was so out of it, I honestly thought she was Lady Death arriving to fetch my soul. After they removed my feet, it was determined that the genin apprentices of Hatake Sakumo stumbling upon me, in my current condition, at a sabotaged oasis, was a political powder keg too dangerous to not do anything about. Tsume, being imminently due to give birth, had been ordered to return to Konoha as soon as the medical supplies were exchanged. Everyone decided that it was better for her to bring me along because Konoha had better medical care at the time.” Eh, close enough to the truth. “She was also the only one capable of continuing to heal me while we made our way back.”
“I know about that part. Why the hell did it take you four weeks to get from the oasis to Konoha when it should’ve only taken three days at the max, and where the fuck does Waterfall’s jinchuuriki come into play?”
An eidetic memory was both a blessing and a curse. “We had the misfortune of accidentally running into Hanzo while Tsume was in labor, and required a wide detour.”
Rasa stared, his mouth hanging open. “A detour from Rain to Waterfall? How?”
“I can’t explain how because I simply have no idea, but Tsume somehow managed to summon Namikaze Minato—”
“The Yellow Flash?”
“—it would’ve been about the time he had developed his famous technique, yes. Again, I simply can’t explain how. I wasn’t exactly with it in my current condition to make heads or tails of what was going on.” It was nice to blame on the effects of arsenic poisoning to carefully avoid any mention of Kushina’s golden chakra or Namikaze’s Hiraishin. “Namikaze transported us from Hanzo to where he was originally in Waterfall. The side effects from being transported were horrendous. The force actually tore Tsume’s placenta. She wound up giving birth in Waterfall, and we were left with no choice but to make our way back to Konoha from there. Participating in her labor and delivery with a pair of ten-year-old midwives and the Yellow Flash ranks as the most second-hand embarrassing thing I’ve ever been stuck in, and stuck I was.”
“Why didn’t Namikaze just use the same technique to bring you back to Konoha when you were injured from the arsenic and recent amputations?”
“Hmmm. I was also harmed further from effects of Hanzo’s toxins. Tsume and I were both covered with weeping open sores, even after Grandmother’s antidote.”
Goukan-chan clambered into Sasori’s lap. “More ear scratches,” she told him imperiously. Sasori obeyed. Her fur was silky soft, although her weight was hefty and it made his old incision scars throb.
“Tsume wouldn’t let Namikaze, fearing what would happen to her newborn daughter to experience the same force that tore her placenta. I already told you that I was injured, disabled, and vulnerable. I was twelve years old but you know I looked younger because of my damn baby face.”
“I like your baby face,” Rasa said with a salute from his bottle.
Sasori ignored the man’s clumsy attempt at flirting. Rasa, he had learned, casually flirted with just about everything, even if he never took it further than that. Rasa would flirt with a curtain if he thought he could get something out of it. “If I could’ve gone to Konoha in a heartbeat, I would’ve just dealt with those horrible side effects from Namikaze’s jutsu. I wanted nothing at all to do with someone so directly connected to Hatake Sakumo. I didn’t want to be beholden, in my state, to that Konoha kunoichi. But in Tsume’s eyes, she saw a vulnerable child in desperate need of care and protection. She was a territorial Inuzuka alpha under the influence of pregnancy, and then postpartum, hormones. She attached to me like a leech and wouldn’t let me go. No matter how miserable, petty, or vindictive I was, she simply saw me as a child who felt cornered, terrified, and alone, and had decided that she needed to take care of me. You know what a miserable, petty, vindictive bastard I was back then.”
“Still are, Sasori,” Rasa replied, taking another swig of sake.
“Rasa.” Sasori propped his elbow on Goukan’s head and cradled his jaw in the palm of his hand. He openly displayed his exhaustion. “If you came across a political powder keg at a sabotaged oasis, would you rescue an injured, vulnerable Konoha kunoichi who hated your guts and resented you as an extension of what your father did? Would you have stood between her and Hanzo’s toxic storm? Would you have nursed her back to health? Would you have traveled nearly a thousand kilometers, dragging along that ungrateful, snide, vicious little kunoichi while you were bleeding between the legs after forcing a watermelon out of your genitals? Would you have threatened an angry jinchuuriki just to redirect the anger away from that kunoichi?”

Rasa’s response was immediate. “Fuck no.”
“And neither would I, back then. I resented Tsume’s existence. I resented her for having a teammate who lopped off my feet, no matter how much it saved me. I resented the healing she forced on me, especially when my stumps developed bad infections. I resented the fact that I had to rely on her for everything I was once able to do myself without any assistance from anyone. I resented that I could see the shadow of my parents’ slayer in her actions and philosophy. I knew I wouldn’t do the same for Tsume, that I would’ve simply killed her. I spent so much time not only feeling resentful, but waiting for her to eventually realize that I was more trouble than I was worth. I kept expecting myself to die, whether through her abandoning me or killing me, a thousand kilometers from home. We always expect that there’s a price for what’s given us, even when there isn’t. But no matter what I did, she helped me, and she protected me, and she demanded nothing in return.”
“Protected you even from Waterfall’s jinchuuriki.”

“Yes.” Sasori paused for a mouthful of coffee, remembering how much he had missed it during his travel with Team Chaos.
“Father once told me that Uchiha Kagami accompanied you, that you didn’t make the detour in just the company of Inuzuka Tsume.”
Sasori grinned. “Not because of me. Namikaze insisted that Tsume needed babysitting. Namikaze didn’t trust me, especially after he learned that I had promised to turn Tsume into a puppet. Using that same jutsu that transplanted me and Tsume in Waterfall, Namikaze fetched Kagami and his wife, and their grandson, Shisui. And a horse. I required transportation, after all. Kagami and Fumiko figured that if they were on babysitting duty for Tsume, they may as well bring along their other babysitting charge. Nice kid. I was bored. Shisui decided to teach himself chakra threads when he saw me using mine. But I digress – by the nature of Namikaze’s jutsu, we were in Waterfall, unsanctioned. We had to be careful while sneaking through the country, and it would’ve worked too, if not for what happened two and a half weeks after arriving in Waterfall. While crossing Lake Kogen on a hotel barge, a Taki sensor nin who accompanied the Nanabi jinchuuriki – Takuma-san – discovered me.”
“Bad luck for you.”
“Tsume and the others were ashore at the time, and I was alone on the open deck of the barge. We were undercover, and I was supposed to be mute from the trauma of losing my legs as a way to hide my Wind accent. The Taki sensor cornered me. He questioned me, demanded that I stand up. What could I do, Rasa? I had no feet to stand on, didn’t have my puppets, couldn’t use my chakra threads without revealing I was a Suna nin. Tsume had already destroyed all my poisons. I had no weapons.” There was no viable way he could’ve used Kagami’s beautiful katana, even in defense. “I couldn’t even try talking my way out of it because my accent was a dead giveaway.” Sasori remembered the desperation of being cornered, his notebook kicked away, the way fingers had dug into his mouth to yank out his tongue. “All while Takuma-san’s killing intent was pressing down. I just silently sat there.”
Rasa winced, the memory of Shukaku’s killing intent far too recent. “You were cornered like a rat, and couldn’t even fight like a rat. I would’ve been terrified.”
“Oh, I was terrified, Rasa. When I didn’t stand – because, you know, the lack of feet makes that rather difficult – the Taki nin kicked my left stump with such force that he shattered the tibia, and words cannot describe the depths of that agony.”
“Worse than even having your feet chopped off?”
“The arsenic had destroyed my nerves by the time my feet were amputated. I didn’t feel the axe blows. In the course of two and a half weeks, Tsume had managed to heal my nerves before the Taki nin attacked. That shattered tibia was the worst pain I’ve ever felt in my entire life.” Sasori could still feel such if he chose to concentrate on the memory’s sensation of the pain. His left stump throbbed with an echo that would never be distant. “And right after that blow, Tsume barreled in like a rampaging mother bear and knocked that Taki nin away.” Sasori’s chest warmed at the memory. “She stood over me, and told him and Takuma-san that if they touched me or Hana, she would rip their throats out with her bare teeth. She didn’t flinch and she didn’t cringe. She was ferocious.” Tsume was the white wolf and the black wolf, merged as one, in that moment. “Tsume should’ve abandoned me at that time – she and the other Konoha companions were far enough away that they could’ve used the opportunity to slip away, unnoticed. Instead, Tsume blew our cover wide open and endangered her own life, by standing over me in protection against the jinchuuriki and his ruthless teammate.”
“And what did the jinchuuriki do?”
Sasori held Rasa’s gaze for a long, uncomfortable moment, and simply summarized the entirety of the confrontation and conversation with Takuma and Kagami in a sleepy whisper. “Takuma-san said only a blundering fool would get between an Inuzuka mother and her defenseless children, and that he wouldn’t dare.”
Rasa’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “The jinchuuriki did nothing about any of you?”
Sasori sipped his coffee and considered how to explain the situation without mentioning anything about how Takuma-san was a living summon for Tsume’s crazy aunt. “Takuma-san held a certain honor. After Tsume shoved Hana into my arms and planted herself between me and them, she admitted she didn’t have sanction papers. The sensor nin told Takuma-san that this was proof we were unsanctioned shinobi, and that Takuma-san was thus required to kill them. Instead, Takuma knocked out his own teammate and told us that he didn’t kill children. As far as Takuma-san’s sense of honor was concerned, Hana and I were off-limits. But to kill Tsume would leave Hana and I stranded and even more vulnerable in Waterfall – it would’ve been a death sentence.” Sasori took a sip of his coffee to wet his parched throat. The coffee was already starting to get cold.
“And so the jinchuuriki tasked to protect the Country of Waterfall against foreign shinobi with extreme prejudice… he let you go. Just like that.”
“Yup. Told us good luck and to avoid the mythological Kogan Serpent, hauled off his companion after Uchiha Kagami used his Sharingan to erase the nin’s memory of our encounter, and didn’t report us to the Ryusuikage.”
“And you successfully snuck out of Waterfall.”
Sasori waited until Rasa took another swig of sake. “Yes, but only after I drowned and died in Lake Kogan.”
Rasa snorted the sake again. “Stop doing that!” he snarled, swiping at his nose again as his gold dust swirled dangerously.
“Turns out,” Sasori continued blithely, “that the mythological Kogan Serpent wasn’t just a local myth. Two days after the encounter with Takuma-san and his companion, the Kogen Serpent struck the barge in the middle of a rainstorm that makes our monsoons look like pathetic little puddles from a dripping faucet, and I drowned in those frigid lake waters.”
“What the flying fuck is the Kogen Serpent?”
Sasori shrugged. “Hell if I know. I was dead at the time. Hard to swim when the Serpent’s blow crushes your arm, and you have no feet. And even if I had feet, I wouldn’t have been able to water-walk with fifteen-meter waves crashing down. All I know is that Tsume also fought off the Kogan Serpent – wouldn’t surprise me if it was a snake summon who was bored and hungry.”
Waterfall was eventually going to get back two of Nessie’s offspring, so Sasori felt comfortable revealing this part of his journey to Rasa. And, if Orochimaru made an appearance in Suna, it at least gave Sasori an excuse by saying he probably attracted the man’s attention by somehow surviving a serpent summon. “She brought me back with CPR, and then did naked cuddles with my comatose body to reverse the hypothermia. She literally saved my life, Rasa. After everything that I had said and done, even despite being an inconvenience that attracted dangers, she saved my life.”
Rasa’s imagination seemed to stutter over the idea of a naked Tsume cuddling a footless twelve-year-old Sasori, and it wasn’t a pleasant image.
“And after I recovered from that, we successfully crossed Waterfall’s borders and made it to Konoha.”
Rasa hesitated, the bottle of sake barely touching his lips. “Without further incident?”
“Namikaze might’ve accidentally exploded a sheep all over us that Kagami threw at him.”
Rasa twitched. “A sheep.”
“Not the first time I wore a sigmoid colon in my hair, but it was certainly the first time it wasn’t human.”
“A sheep.” Rasa firmly set the sake bottle down on the table as Sasori chugged the last of his laced coffee. Sasori’s legs were starting to go numb under Goukan-chan’s weight. “Why would Uchiha Kagami throw a sheep at the future Fourth Hokage?”
“They had a rather violent disagreement over the stinky cheese that Fumiko had weaponized against attacking enemy nin. It was the Third Shinobi War, at the time.
Rasa buried his face in his hands. “Are you actually being honest with me?”
“Between the exploding tags, the chaos, Namikaze making the worst assumptions for what was happening, and it all taking place in the middle of a meadow with browsing sheep – I’m not jesting in the least.” Sasori was just withholding certain details. “Believe me, there were multiple shenanigans in the likes of exploding sheep and naked hypothermic cuddles that I’m not going over. I lost my feet, my dignity, my sanity, my life, and my will to live on that journey. It changed me, Rasa. I understand now that you couldn’t figure out why my moral code had changed so drastically in such a short time, but the person I was when I left Suna for an unknown sabotaged oasis is not the same person who eventually returned. More than just my feet had changed in my absence from Suna. I never wanted to share any of this with you, because it was a humiliating journey, and the person I am now very much dislikes the person I had been previously. I try to avoid remembering that person.”
Rasa silently mulled over Sasori’s carefully edited tale of his road trip, carefully weighing this background against his assumptions of Sasori’s character. Sasori decided to press his advantage forward.
“I know about the spies you have in Konoha, Rasa. I’ve never told Konoha about them. Again, that’s your prerogative as Kazekage, and my loyalty to Suna is unquestionable.” Well, it was now, regardless of what Orochimaru might think. “Tsume is a kind, loving person with monstrous motherly instincts that will probably be the death of her someday.” Or her brain injury. It was a bit of a toss-up. “The scope and depth of her shenanigans across her lifetime… I can’t even comprehend them, and I lived – and died – through many of them in just four weeks. But none of your spies have ever relayed a single world about my drowning or that exploding sheep. You knew nothing about those shenanigans.” Sasori was probably going to be in big trouble if Rasa’s spooks ever connected Sasori to Nessie. Thankfully, traveling merchants had no reason to know anything about her. “And that’s because Tsume is very good at keeping confidence. I guarantee you that everything she just witnessed here tonight can remain equally confidential, if we play our cards correctly.”
Mainly because Tsume forgot a lot of what she was told or what happened to her, but eh. Rasa didn’t need to know the extent of her cheese-holed memory Still, he had to part with some secrets so Rasa wouldn’t assume that Sasori was holding back why he would hold Tsume in such esteem, and why he continued to maintain his friendship with her despite their geographical and cultural differences. “During that four week trip, I learned a lot more about her brain injury, Rasa, although not what caused such. Her amygdala is so badly damaged that she cannot feel fear. She can feel a lot of things, but fear is not one of them. And by nature of her lack of fear, Kagami suspects she can’t feel hatred. Everything that I endured through her hamfisted caring was just that – she cares.
“Konoha has to be careful with how they direct Tsume, because she doesn’t see enemies. She doesn’t see a situation than can be manipulated for Konoha’s best interests – that’s why Uchiha Kagami was selected to accompany us. Ultimately, she needed an adult to keep her out of trouble, and Konoha capitalized on the fact that I was me.” Rasa wasn’t aware of the strings that the Third Kazekage had pulled with the Hokage, and Sasori was going to ensure he never did. “The only reason Konoha hasn’t shackled her as the emotional wildcard that she is, is because Tsume’s loyalty to them is absolute, and she would never knowingly bring Konoha harm. I trust her because she never saw me as just a Suna nin – she saw me for what I am. She accepts me for who I am – in the past, in the present, and likely in the future. She doesn’t want to change me – she just wants me to thrive, and who can say that about their enemies? I, in return, cannot damage that trust, Rasa. There is no haggling with someone who gives so generously.”
“Who would you pick first then, Sasori?” Rasa’s voice was cold and brittle as the gold dust gently whirled around them. “Suna, or Tsume?”
“Suna,” Sasori replied immediately. “Because Tsume knows my loyalty is to Suna, first and foremost. She cares enough about me that she would never ask me to betray Suna for her, and I, in return, care enough about Tsume that I will never ask her to betray Konoha.”
Rasa snorted in disbelief, uncrossing and then recrossing his ankles. “Then why did you threaten to kill me and turn me into a puppet when I refused to let you take teams of mednin to Konoha after their October Attack?”
Sasori’s hand, holding his coffee cup, was jostled as Goukan-chan suddenly laid her head into the crook of his elbow. He stopped scratching her head to transfer the empty cup to the table. “Politically speaking,” he didn’t add you blockhead, much as he desired to, “how often does the opportunity to offer relief to Konoha come up? One of the first opportunities we’ve had to give, instead of receive, to make Konoha beholden to us, and you wanted to turn it down.”
Per the mulish look that twisted Rasa’s face, Sasori knew that the unspoken meaning was sinking through his thick skull. You’re constantly upset about receiving aid and assistance from others with little to exchange, but when the first opportunity rises where you can prove that Suna has something to offer, you almost blew it.
“I’m glad I went, Rasa, even if it meant threatening your life. Trust is a two-way street – you can’t keep expecting someone to trust you when you offer nothing in return, and that offer of goodwill cost us very little, in the long run. Instead, the October visit made it that much more likely that Tsume would come tonight, without hesitation. From the moment she saw Gaara and Shukaku – I guarantee you that Tsume doesn’t see Suna as vulnerable and injured from some missteps that can easily be manipulated against us. She sees an endangered infant in need of protection. Because of the friendship I’ve built with Tsume, the Hokage trusts her and me, together.
“Bizarre, I know,” Sasori added at the look Rasa gave him. “I doubt neither of us will even get into trouble for my reverse-summon of Tsume, tonight. The Hokage trusts Tsume not to betray Konoha. He will understand that I needed to borrow her to help us with Ichibi’s jinchuuriki baby. After all, Tsume already has a history of standing between me, at my most vulnerable,” Sasori made a gesture to indicate his current wheelchair-bound status, “and dangers, like an angry jinchuuriki or a mythological thirty-meter serpent who may or may not be a boss summon.”
“I always did wonder what it was about that moron you were able to tolerate, Sasori, given your track record and impatience with idiocy and incompetence.”
Rasa’s expression went sour for a brief moment. When it looked like Sasori had finished speaking, Rasa lifted the sake bottle to his lips with a sigh. He hesitated, eyed Sasori, and almost choked as he hastily gulped down another swig so Sasori wouldn’t say something to make him snort more alcohol. The bottle banged as he slammed it down. He wiped his chin. “So where do we go from here?”
“Back to my home,” Sasori replied, shoving Goukan-chan off his lap. “Where we are going to pick Tsume’s brain for everything she knows about the care and feeding of unstable monsters, and how to tame wild beasts. One moment.” He raised the palm of his hand as Rasa stood. “Let me be very clear about this, before we leave, Rasa. When she looks at children, that is exactly what Tsume sees. Do not say that you sacrificed your own son to her face. She already knows Gaara is your son – she’s a good enough tracker that she can smell the family resemblance. He is your son, and you will address him as such, you will love him as such, and you will raise him as such. Gaara must be more than just a jinchuuriki weaponized against the world on behalf of rebuilding Suna’s strength and standing. If you make any comments – stray or otherwise – indicating how you see your infant son as a weapon, Inuzuka Tsume will tear you a new one.”
Rasa’s expression was thunderous as his gold dust whipped around. Goukan-chan growled in warning. “And you would let her?”
“I’m a genius,” Sasori replied lightly. “My IQ tests in my Konoha medical record would prove that. But it doesn’t take a genius to know just what a dumb idea it would be to stand between an Inuzuka mother and the defenseless child she’s decided to protect. If a seven-tailed jinchuuriki can see that, you should too.”

“Anything else you feel is important to share?” Rasa spat as he strode to the closed conference room door.
Sasori turned his wheelchair around.
“Yes. As a matter of fact, I do. You love Suna, don’t you?”
Rasa’s fingers tightened on the door handle. “You know that I do.”
“And you would sacrifice your own life to protect Suna, wouldn’t you?”
Rasa raised his chin and didn’t lie. “Absolutely.”
Sasori wheeled closer. “Would you sacrifice your pride to protect Suna?”
Suna had been lucky so far that Shukaku had been in a good mood. It terrified Sasori to understand that if Shukaku’s mood ever went bad, as free as he was in such a young jinchuuriki with such poor fuuinjutsu seals binding him… nothing would be left standing. As powerful as he and Rasa were, Suna lacked the numbers that Konoha had when the Kyuubi was in a very bad mood.
“Of course! I’m doing that just now to go forth and get childcare tips from your friend instead of murdering her for what she just witnessed, aren’t I?”
Sasori’s smile was predatory. “Good. Because that is precisely what will be required of you when you ask Tsume for her recommendation on the best fuuinjutsu expert she knows.” Before Rasa’s wave of gold dust could smother Sasori, he added, “A rigid, poorly-applied fuuinjutsu was what irrevocably destroyed Hatake Sakumo’s sanity. Suna will not survive the effects of the seals you have placed on Gaara, and your son deserves the best damn fuuinjutsu seals in existence.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Tsume was still breastfeeding the small infant, who had a lot of crimson-red hair (fuck– no one had better accuse Sasori of having an affair with the Kazekage’s wife and siring their third child), when Sasori rolled into his house with Rasa (reluctantly) pushing Sasori’s wheelchair and Goukan-chan stalking behind. Tsume was seated at the kitchen table with her crumpled-up comic book spread across the table as Deidara leaned over it, looking at the images but not able to read any of the kanji.
“Good evening, Kazekaga-sama,” Tsume said brightly, as if this was her kitchen that she was relaxing in. She gently rocked, side to side, as she fed Gaara. Or, well. Gaara was actually in a milk-coma, sleepily tonguing the nipple and not actually feeding. The ties on her bathrobe had loosened, and Gaara was wrapped in a kitchen towel.
“For whatever value good holds,” Sasori muttered, rolling up to the kitchen table. Rasa, his hands clasped into fists behind his back, planted his feet wide in front of Tsume as he loomed over her.
Tsume’s vapid smile gave no indication of whatever emotions she was smelling. “You have a lovely son. His bilirubin levels are high, but that’s mostly because he’s a little dehydrated and hasn’t been fed often enough to help break all that down.”
Rasa said nothing.
“Chiyo is getting me diapers and butt cream, and some extra clothes for Deidara. I can’t stay for too long, you know.”
Rasa turned his head slightly. “Sasori, take…” He eyed Deidara. “…take this child out.”
Deidara clung to the comic book and shrieked in protest as Sasori attempted to pry it out of his grasp.
“It’s okay, Sasori, I already gave the comic book to Deidara-chan,” Tsume told Sasori. “It’s easy enough for me to get another copy when I return to Konoha.” Deidara stuffed the comic book down his shirt and glared in challenge, as if daring Sasori to take it off of Deidara.
Sasori tapped his fingers and decided that establishing his superiority over a four year old was probably best done when toddler’s self-appointed god-mother wasn’t there to try undermining his authority. “Have you thanked Aunt Tsume for her lovely gift? She’s the same one who sent you the crayons and coloring book.”
“Your coloring job on the pumpkins was marvelous!” Tsume added, ruffling Deidara’s hair. Marvelous nothing; Deidara’s scribbled coloring had simply covered the entire page, as he had no interest in remaining in the lines and had decided that he should simply fill the entire page with every color he could conceivably cram into a single picture.
Deidara wrapped his arms around his torso, protecting his new treasure. After a long moment, he glanced at Tsume and in a small voice said, “Thank you, Aunt Tsume.”
“Welcome to the family, kiddo.”
Deidara’s answering smile was sunshine-bright. Sasori had never received that smile, even after he had fed the ungrateful Urchin the first time. Brat. Deidara slid backwards off the kitchen table, feet kicking aimlessly in the air, before he finally hit the floor.
“My room in the second door to the left down the hall,” Sasori said. “Your other left, Deidara – no, not that one – stay out of that one unless you want to die a painful, miserable death. The second door. I’ll be in after I’m done here. Wear a shirt from my top drawer for pajamas.”
After Sasori’s bedroom clicked shut, Tsume looked at him knowingly. “You and Chiyo have a loooooot of poisons to lock up out of his reach.”
Sasori deliberately didn’t think of Komushi. “I know. I was going to do that once we got here, but,” he waved at Gaara, “I was unfortunately distracted. The locked door will have to suffice for now.”
The vapid cheer on Tsume’s face melted away, and the fierce mother bear emerged as she stilled and glared up at Rasa. “There’s been a lot of people in my life who have called me a moron, Kazekage-sama, and there’s been a good reason for most of those times. So, with all due respect, believe me when I say I know exactly what a moron looks like, and that one is standing right in front of me.”
Rasa leaned forward until his face was close enough for his breath to mingle with Tsume’s.
His voice was a whispered growl. “Mind your tongue, woman.”
Tsume’s upper lip peeled back into a half-snarl. “This is your son. What were you thinking?”
Sasori’s voice cut through them. “Enough, Tsume. This is a Suna matter between the Kazekage and the Head of Internal Affairs, and we’ve already discussed it.” Rasa straightened.
Tsume glared at Sasori. “And what are you two going to do to fix this?”
“Who’s the best fuuinjutsu master that you know?”
Her face immediately fell as tears welled up in her eyes. “K-Kushina-chan.”
“Alive,” Sasori clarified, pinching the bridge of his nose. All he wanted to do right now was crawl into his bed and sleep. The caffeine was doing nothing to reduce his exhaustion.
“Jiraiya-sensei, but he’s…” She hesitated, glancing quickly at Rasa as he seated himself in Chiyo’s chair. It was higher than the other chairs because of Grandmother’s diminutive stature, and Sasori was pretty sure the asshole selected it only to emphasize his superior rank. “Well, last I heard, he was in the Land of Bear.” More like the last she smelled, probably.
“Alive and available in Konoha.”
“Danzo.”
“As you might’ve guessed, we’re in need of a fuuinjutsu master.”
She glared at him and Rasa again. Sasori deliberately looked at Rasa, who took a deep breath.
“What would it take to bring Danzo to Suna to look at my son’s seals?”
“I don’t know.” Tsume gently repositioned Gaara so she could rest him against her uncovered chest. She was doing skin-on-skin with Gaara without even realizing it, Sasori suspected, because she was so used to doing it with her own babies. Tsume patted Gaara’s back and resumed her side-to-side rocking. “After the Kyuubi attack, Danzo is in no condition to travel from Konoha to here.”
“Can he be reverse-summoned the same way you were?”
She hesitated, and her voice was soft as she answered. “I don’t know, but I can talk to him. How much intel do you want me to share?”
Rasa studied Tsume for a moment, and then rubbed both hands over his face as his shoulders slumped. Sasori realized that Rasa was just as physically drained as Sasori was. Given the number of times that Rasa had to redirect an unstable jinchuuriki and occasionally released Ichibi, the man had probably had far less sleep than Sasori in the last two weeks. And then, amazed, Sasori watched as his Kazekage sacrificed his pride for Suna and his own son. “We made a mistake in sealing the One-Tails in a fetus, and require an expert to help stabilize him. You may tell Danzo that. You may tell him that the jinchuuriki is my son. You may tell him what you witnessed tonight to emphasize how unstable the seals are. Suna doesn’t have a lot of resources or funds to reimburse Danzo, so any price he – and your Hokage – require will have to be negotiated.”
Tsume nodded. And then, “Mind writing that down? I’m not going to remember all of that and will just scramble what I can remember.”
“Her brain is like cheese,” Sasori told Rasa. “It’s full of holes.”
“And delicious recipes,” Tsume added, hardly feeling insulted by Sasori’s observation. Gaara burped. Then he snuffed against her chest.
“What,” Rasa dropped his hands, “do we need to do to keep Gaara calm and quiet?”
“Oh, Shukaku and I have an understanding now,” Tsume said with a flippant wave of her hand. “I told him to put on his big boy underwear and just deal with the crying, the sore butt, the nipples, the hunger, the discomfort of needing to burp, and the ugly curtains in his bedroom, because that’s what it means to be housed in a body made of flesh instead of chakra or, uh, whatever his tea kettle is made out of.”
Rasa’s eyebrows shot upward. “Curtains?”
“He thinks the curtains with the frolicking foxes in the nursery are insulting and that the Kyuubi is an arrogant fathead. Can’t say that he’s wrong about that last one though.”
Rasa cleared his throat, “I can change the curtains.”
Tsume pointed sternly. “Never negotiate with terrorists. Or toddlers.”
Rasa’s voice was dry and his eyes piercing. “Duly noted.”
“I already told Shukaku that he’s not always going to get his own way, and giving in and letting him have his own way every time he kills someone or destroys a building only encourages more tantrums. It’s very manipulative.”

“Should I swat him with a rolled-up comic book every time he has a temper tantrum?”
“You know, I think I only got away with it this time because it shocked him more than anything else. Shukaku said something about board games and entertainment?”
“Does he like Dad Jokes?” Sasori asked.
The voice that rumbled from Gaara’s tiny body was meant for something larger. “Fuck no.”
Well, so much for that idea.
“Will Shukaku let Gaara sleep without breaking free?” Rasa asked. “We haven’t allowed Gaara to sleep…” His voice trailed off at the fury that crossed Tsume’s face, and shrank away as she rose to her feet.
“You haven’t allowed an infant to sleep? How?”

“They keep pinching him,” Sasori replied. He raised a single eyebrow at Tsume as she leveled her fury on him. “Don’t look at me like that, Tsume. I was gone for almost three months and just got back. I didn’t have any involvement with any of this.”
Tsume turned her fury on Rasa, who managed to rally his own fury as he stood. “Newborns sleep eighteen hours a day, you blockhead!”
“Do you speak to your Hokage with the same insolence?”
“Yes,” Tsume snapped, at the same time as Sasori said, “Unfortunately so.”
Tsume lifted the infant up to eye level. Yellow eyes surrounded by black sclera stared at back at her as a maniacal grin twisted and threads of sand started wrapping around her wrists. “Knock it off, Trash Panda.”
“No. I will be free!”
“Do you, now.”
Sasori knew that look on Tsume’s face. He immediately wheeled backwards and braced himself as she shoved Shukaku/Gaara into Rasa’s arms, opened a laceration in the palm of her hand with a sharp claw, and summoned an adult gouka inugami in the middle of Grandmother’s kitchen table. The table instantly caught on fire and both Rasa and Shukaku yelped. Rasa stumbled backwards with Shukaku held at arm’s length while threads of sand wrapped around Rasa’s bleeding forearms, tightening like hungry pythons.
“Shukaku, meet my inugami. Odei, meet the One-Tails. Does his soul look tasty?” Tsume placed her hands on her hips in bold challenge, not noticing or caring that the front of her belt had finally loosened entirely and that her bathrobe had parted open with her entire naked front on display. Rasa was too shocked with everything else going on to care, and Sasori… well, not only had he seen it all before, but he had even felt the inside of her cervix with his chakra threads before he hit puberty. So, yeah.
The burning table collapsed under the gouka inugami. Embers floated in the air. “tHe cHiLd hAs tWo sOuLs.”
Fuck, gouka inugami can actually speak? (The stone floor beneath the gouka inugami’s paws began to glow red. Sweat was starting to dribble down Sasori’s forehead and dampen his shirt. His fingers spasmed in their grip on the wheelchair’s spokes, like an earthquake had settled inside of his body.)
“Can you eat the big soul and not the little soul?”
Strings of acidic drool dribbled out of the hellspawn’s jaw, sizzling and melting when the drool struck the glowing ground. It turned its head to peer with ember-eyes as Sasori. “yEs. CaN i AlSo EaT tHe OtHeRs?”
“No eating anyone’s souls unless I say it’s okay, Odei. Do you know what happens to babies that don’t sleep?” Tsume asked Shukaku. “They die. In people who go for days without sleep, they start to hallucinate, they get paranoid, they may as well be drunk as a skunk for all their coordination and thinking capacity! Sleep deprivation in children can affect their moods and personalities.* Makes them antisocial, harder to get along with others, harder to remember things! If you’re feeling suicidal because you’re stuck in a human, fine!” She pointed at the gouka inugami. “If it’s death you want, it’s death I can give you! You do not get to drag that innocent baby down to your depths of self-destruction!”
This was spiraling beyond even Sasori’s capacity to control the situation. “Shukaku,” he said softly, forcing his voice to remain reasonable, “Bunpuku would be so disappointed in you.”
“Bunpuku isn’t fucking here.” It was deeply disturbing to hear that deep, bone-rattling voice spilling out of such a small, fragile body.
“I know,” Sasori replied. “And neither is your tea kettle. You hated being trapped inside that cave, hated how boring it was. I remember you being in a good mood,” for whatever value good mood had, when it came to Shukaku's rage and, well, temper tantrums, “because I brought a game that neither you or Bunpuku had played before, and how quiet you became when you listened to our games. You even seemed to like it when I’ve visited you these last few years, At least this way, you will be able to move and explore and see more than just the inside of your tea kettle.”
After sixteen rapid heartbeats, as the kitchen floor the gouka inugami stood upon melted into a pool of lava and the heat level was almost as suffocating as the tension, Shukaku spoke once more. “I’m claustrophobic.”
Rasa tilted his head back. “Are you kidding me?” he asked the ceiling, or perhaps even implored the possibly-mythological god of the sky, Tengoku. “So, being stuck in a baby is claustrophobic for you?”
“Ungrateful flesh bag! I am Shukaku, the Mighty One-Tails! I am the size of the tallest mountains! I have the depths of the deepest oceans! How would you like to be sealed inside of an ant trapped in a jar?”
“He may have a point,” Sasori muttered, wishing for the cool night air.
“Maybe they can let you out for a walk?” Tsume asked, completely forgetting about how she had just told Rasa not to negotiate with toddlers and terrorists. “I like to take my gouka inugami for walks and picnics in the Forest of Death.”
“Yes! Once an hour, every hour, for fifty-nine minutes.”
“i lIkE tO gO fOr WaLkS,” the gouka inugami said, trying, and failing desperately, not to sound hungry.
“Once a month,” Rasa said, firmly in his element of haggling. “For one hour.”
“Once a day for six hours or I will make you all fucking miserable!”
“Twice a month, for one hour, you destructive monstrosity.”
“Twice a week, you worthless mud monkey.” Shukaku was a true native son of Wind. “For two hours.”
“Are you trying to drive everyone screaming and crying out of Suna and turn us into a ghost town? Once a week for two hours.”“Once a week for two hours, with the option to slap people with my sand when they irritate the fuck out of me.”
“Done,” Rasa said. “You can go for a walk outside of the village once a week, for two hours, as long as I or Sasori don’t have any other duties to attend to. No killing, no mindless destruction, no maiming. Just a nice, pleasant walk. And you only get to slap people with your sand so long as there’s no blood, no broken bones, no pulled muscles or joints, no killing, no maiming, no more property destruction – unless it’s in self-defense for Suna or under my orders. And you’ll let Gaara sleep without breaking free.”
“Get rid of those fucking curtains with the arrogant fathead plastered all over them, and I’ll do it.”
“I will agree to your terms.”
The cackling glee that erupted from the yellow-eyed, sand-wrapped baby indicated that he could do plenty of damage with his sand without blood, broken bones, or damages muscles and joints. Sasori had a sneaking suspicion that lots of people were going to get smothered to blackouts or have their eyes scraped blind. “I can be an amiable creature, ungrateful flesh bag. Very well. See you next week.”
“Thank you, Odei, that will be all.” Tsume dismissed the gouka inugami with a snap of her fingers and flare of chakra. She crossed her arms in front of herself and stared at Shukaku as the sand retreated inward. “I can always make sure that me and my gouka inugami are available to go for walks with you.”
Shukaku said nothing as the black-sclera, yellow-eyed gaze blinked into green color. Gaara’s body went limp and Rasa fumbled for a moment to support the infant’s head and body.
Then he snarled at Tsume to close her bathrobe.
And that was when the front door swung open and Chiyo, her arms full of several packages, bundles, and bags, entered. She stopped upright, nearly bumping into Sasori’s wheelchair as she pointedly sniffed the air (heavy with the scents of fear, sulfur, brimstone, and sweat), eyed the burning remains of her kitchen table and the pool of bubbling lava, the paleness in Rasa’s face, the minute tremors shaking Sasori’s arms and hands, and then turned to Tsume, who was securing her bathrobe closed. “What did you do, girl?” she demanded. She left the front door wide open, and Sasori sighed in relief with the wave of fresh air.
Tsume simply finished tying the belt of the bathrobe, then clapped her hands and gave Chiyo a bright smile. “I’ve been waiting on those diapers! I think Gaara already peed on me at least once.”
Chiyo turned sideways to glare at Sasori. “Why does it look like someone tried to turn my kitchen floor into a sunken volcano?”
Exhaustion hit Sasori as the last of his adrenaline burned away. “I’m going to bed.” His voice slurred as he slumped in his wheelchair. “ ‘M so tired.”
“Oh, Sasori.” Tsume gingerly stepped around the pool of lava to kneel in front of Sasori. She pushed his sweat-drenched hair out of his eyes. “We should finish this up tomorrow. I think everyone will be able to sleep well, tonight. I can… I can stay, if you need me to.”
Sasori didn’t even look towards Rasa. “No, you have your own baby to take care of. Grandmother…” Sasori hid his yawn behind a hand. His jaw ached and popped. “Grandmother can help Rasa with the diaper and bottle.”
“Wait.” Rasa rifled one-handed through Chiyo’s kitchen drawers. “That message, I want to send it with you. Woman, where do you keep your pencils and paper?”
With a huff, Chiyo deposited her packages next to Sasori and helped Rasa find paper and writing utensils. Sasori was nearly asleep by the time Rasa had finished his letter and tucked it into the pocket of Tsume’s bathrobe. She leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss against Sasori’s forehead. “Good night, sleep tight,” she told him before Goukan-chan reversed the reverse-summon with Tsume.
His jerk of a grandmother and asshole of a Kazekage just threw a blanket over Sasori and left him to sleep in his wheelchair, warm in the kitchen from the cooling pool of lava.oOoOoOo
A finger jabbed Sasori in his thigh. And then it jabbed again. “…don’t think he’s dead,” a small voice muttered. And then a hamfisted toddler pried Sasori’s eyelid open. “Oh good, you’re still alive, yeah,” Deidara declared cheerfully.
Sasori tiredly swatted the hand away. “Do you mind?”
“Nope!” And then Deidara clambered onto his lap, the stuffed puppy (affectionately named Mitsu-nee) in one hand, and the rolled-up comic book in another. “I like my new home! It’s kinda hot, kinda sandy, yeah, don’t like the scorpions, but I got my own bed!”
Actually, that was Sasori’s bed. He made a mental note to go shopping for more furniture later today.

“Please don’t blow it up,” Sasori said as he adjusted the blanket around his shoulders. They’d have to clear out the storage room to make it into Deidara’s bedroom.
Chiyo, who was making breakfast, eyed the cooled obsidian patch in the middle of her kitchen. She had cleaned up the charred remains of the kitchen table while Sasori was asleep. “Got enough property destruction going on around here,” she grumbled.
Breakfast wasn’t necessarily loud, but it certainly wasn’t a quiet affair as Ebizo joined them, carefully skirting the obsidian patch. Sasori didn’t even know where his great-uncle had been last night, and didn’t bother asking. They ate breakfast in the sitting room, briefly reviewing the agenda for the day – Chizo said she had things to do at the hospital, Uncle Ebizo was going to take the day off, and Sasori… Sasori had no idea where to even begin, aside from the fact that he now had a young son whose needs had to be prioritized. The small wardrobe that Tsume had gifted Deidara and that he was now dressed in would work for a few days, but they were going to need to clear a room, sign Deidara up for school to learn how to read and write, and introduce Deidara formally to Suna. Then there was everything that Sasori needed to address as Head of Internal Affairs, follow up with the Prosthetics Department with the new trade agreement between Iwa and Suna, everything to do with Gaara, his own stumps…
“Grandmother, before you go, I need to speak to you about the seals. Privately,” he added, without looking at Deidara.
Bless his uncle, Ebizo was always better at unspoken direction than Chiyo or Rasa. “Oh good. I wish to take this opportunity to steal away my brand-new great-great-nephew, and take him for a grand tour of Suna.”
“Fuck no!” Deidara declared, his mouth full of half-masticated omelet. “It’s hot out there, yeah!”
“Which is why now is the perfect time to do it,” Ebizo replied, unphased by either Deidara’s reluctance or his language. “It’s still cool out there from the nighttime drop in temperatures.”
Deidara still fussed, but the lure of exploring his new home with new family proved to be too strong for him to ignore. He added a floppy kasa hat to protect his fair skin from the harsh sun, toed on some sandals, and followed after Ebizo with a backward wave at Sasori and Chiyo.
“You will tell me how you wound up adopted an Iwa orphan with the Explosion Release kekkai genkai. I wouldn’t think that the Tsuchikage would’ve let one of their rare bloodlines to leave without protest.”
Sasori shrugged. “As far as Oonoki is aware, Deidara is a bastard orphan and probably has no idea which clan he’s the bastard of. Deidara seems pretty sure that the Tsuchikage has no idea he has a kekkai genkai. I made sure that the adoption agreement was ironclad so the man isn’t invading us to get Deidara back.”
Chiyo snorted in disdain. “Wouldn’t stop him. He’s the most underhanded, untrustworthy Kage out there.”
“Oh, believe me. I’m well-aware of how he’s nothing more than slime growing under a rock. How did you transfer the seals onto Gaara, Grandmother? I’m going to need a written copy of the sealing array, with everything.”
She hugged her cup of coffee close to herself, even though there was nothing left to drink. Her face twisted with an expression of uncertainty and sorrow. “You know I didn’t have much of a choice when Rasa ordered me.”
Sasori still felt tired and drained from yesterday as he rubbed his forehead, and brushed his hair out of his eyes, again. “At this point, Grandmother, I’m not interested in what should have been done instead. I barely have any energy, and I’d rather use it on moving forward. I’m not sure how much longer Suna can last with an unstable jinchuuriki. The moment word gets out to other Villages – and you know it will – they’ll take advantage of our weakness.”
“Even Konoha?”
“Konoha is the only one who wouldn’t.”
“Because of Tsume?”
He sneered at that, because as much as he trusted Tsume, he didn’t trust the political machinations of her leaders, especially Danzo. There was an underlying cold ruthlessness to the man that still made the hair on the back of Sasori’s neck stand on end. The fact that Danzo was the only one Tsume thought could do anything about Gaara’s fuuinjutsu seals secretly alarmed him. “Because I know of Nessie, Grandmother. You and I are the only ones in Suna who know about their dragon. Konoha has very careful to keep her existence and the breeding program a secret. If Konoha tries to take advantage of our weakness, they’ll be too busy fending off the rest of the world trying to wipe out Nessie and her young before they can mature into potential weapons for Konoha.”
“Ah.” Grandmother sighed, turning the coffee cup around in her hands restlessly. “I put the seals on Karura’s abdomen.”
Sasori winced. “You can’t just place containment seals two layers outside of what the container is.”
“I told Rasa that, and he wanted to do it in-utero with a surgery, but Kurara refused, stating that an abdominal surgery that cut through the uterus and placenta would risk Gaara’s life. Rasa insisted that the sealing be done before Gaara was born though, and Kurara agreed – she thought this was the best way to keep Gaara safe. Maybe she was hoping the Ichibi would accidentally get sealed inside of her instead of any of her children. Who knows. Rasa never let me speak to Karura privately.”
This was the one thing Karura’s medical record didn’t clarify. “How did Karura die?”
“Not sure, not really,” Chiyo replied, mumbling into the collar of her dress. “The first two weeks after the seals and transfer of Shukaku, she seemed to be fine. Had more energy and everything. But then she started to get worse, like Shukaku was leeching her chakra away, consuming her from the inside out. It clear to all of us that she was dying, so Rasa had labor artificially induced, early.”
Remembering Shukaku, in both his tea kettle and last night, with the leaking, corrosive demonic chakra, Sasori shook his head. He thought of all the jinchuuriki he had ever met – including Uzumaki Kushina. If it weren’t for intel Suna had gathered during the fall of Uzushiokagure via the use of the Third Kazekage’s weasels, he doubted any of them would’ve known what Uzumaki Kushina was. He thought about the timing of Kushina’s pregnancy, and the release of the Kyuubi. “Shukaku likely wasn’t leeching off of Karura – he was leaking his own chakra. The demonic chakra poisoned her.”
“Well, that would explain the internal burns in her chakra pathways that I found during her autopsy,” Chiyo replied in a guilty whisper.
“Something you never mentioned in the autopsy report.”
Chiyo sighed. “Rasa started blaming his own son for Karura’s deterioration even before she died. It was fast, but brutal for her when it started – deliberate, I would say, on Shukaku’s part. If there was any indication that this had been deliberate, rather than an accidental side effect of being pregnant with a jinchuuriki, Rasa would’ve just had more to blame on the baby. Regardless of how you felt towards their relationship, Rasa truly cared for Karura.”
Sasori personally felt that Rasa took advantage of a young woman’s infatuation with him to have a socially acceptable relationship in Suna. Rasa’s (questionable, in Sasori’s opinion) leadership as Kazekage would tolerate him the luxury of quietly having male lovers so long as he had a very visible wife who very visibly bore him children.
“No, I’m serious, Sasori.” Chiyo reached across to touch Sasori’s knee. “Karura and Rasa truly loved each other. Kurara had a low sex drive but wanted Rasa to be happy, and she told him as long as he didn’t take another woman, as long as he didn’t have a relationship that interfered with his duties to his wife and children, he had her blessing to dally outside their marriage bed. Karura called it, uh, an ‘open’ marriage.”
Kurara had probably meant for Rasa to keep a spare sheep on the side.
Chiyo continued, as if sensing Sasori’s uncharitable thought. “Rasa always gave Karura the love and affection she wanted as a wife, and he has been a good father – when he’s not, you know, turning his unborn son into a jinchuuriki. He cared for Karura. He hasn’t had anything to do with his other lovers since her condition started deteriorating. But Rasa has always struggled to accept responsibility for his flaws – a rather common issue amongst Suna nin, believe me—” Sasori looked sharply at her for that, knowing the pointed jab was meant her grandson, “—and Rasa could either blame himself for his desperation and shortsightedness, or he can blame the Ichibi. You can see which one is easier for him to do.”
“I get the feeling that Rasa struggles to separate the Ichibi from its container, that he sees them as one and the same.”
Chiyo shrugged. “They all do, except, perhaps, Yashamaru.”
“And you, Grandmother? Do you separate the Ichibi from the container?”
She hopped off her chair and said nothing for a moment as she took the coffee cup to the kitchen. When she returned to the living room, it was with a pencil. She obtained a sheet of drafting paper from Sasori’s locked workshop. “Sasori,” she said, just before sitting, “an egg yolk and the egg white are separate, even when sealed together within the shell.” She laid the drafting paper flat on the floor, and recreated what she had transferred onto Karura’s abdomen. Halfway through the sealing array, a fat tear rolled down her jowl and dropped onto the paper. “When you break the shell and beat the white and yolk together, and then cook them, there’s no separation anymore.”
That… that did not bode well for Gaara.oOoOoOo
By the time Sasori had completed healing the open sores on his stumps (damn, this was the worst he had seen since he started wearing his prosthetics), Chiyo had finished the array. Sasori wordlessly accepted the draft paper, and she wordlessly left for the hospital. Sasori went to his workshop, locking the door behind to prevent any interruptions. He channeled chakra threads into Kuroari, watching the containment seals light up within its wooden body. He compared the containment seals against the sealing arrays. He noted the differences – the addition or subtraction of subseals, the different arrangement, and had no idea what any of it meant. He pulled up another blank piece of drafting paper, and sketched the same array of containment seals that he had carved into Kuroari a lifetime ago, his hand steady and his heart beat slow in his chest.
Then he made copies of both Grandmother’s draft paper, and his own, sealing the original set within the hollow of his right prosthetic ankle that doubled as a secret storage, much like a sealing scroll. He laid the copies out of his work bench, steepled his fingers together, and thought: dare he ask for permission, now that Rasa had time to sleep and no doubt pick apart the flaws and mistakes of what had happened last night, or dare he seek forgiveness, knowing that the longer Rasa delayed to make a decision to contact Danzo, the likelier it would become that Rasa simply wouldn’t.
On one hand, Rasa needed to be allowed to try, Sasori thought, the way that Kagami had said Tsume should be allowed to try her acting and subterfuge.
On the other hand, they were in their current pickle because Rasa did try, and it might be time to step up and start being proactive, rather than reactive.
On the other other hand, if Sasori stepped over Rasa after the man had already spoken to Tsume the way he had last night, that would undermine Rasa’s attempts to reverse some of the damage he had done.
And this, Sasori thought, sour, was why it was so damn hard to be reasonable and to offer trust – you had to give people room to make mistakes, to break those perfectly fine, perfectly intact pottery vessels, so they could be knitted back together into something more precious. Sasori struggled to find that balance between breaking and remaking… and giving someone enough rope to effectively hang themselves.
Well, that settled it, Sasori decided. He would just have to hand that rope to Rasa, and see if the man was going to use it to pull himself up and out of the mess he made, or would hang himself.oOoOoOo
Sasori had many urgent tasks to follow up on, and that included a meeting with his Prosthetics Department (which was a joint venture with the Puppet Brigade – the better the Puppeteers got with building prosthetics, the more skilled they became with crafting their puppets) to review the trade agreement with the Tsuchikage and select the team of engineers that they would need to send to Iwa to customize orders. That would be the easiest task to delegate, and the sooner he got it done, the more time and attention he could spend on other matters.
After the meeting at the hospital, as everyone else was leaving, Sasori told Sekka to take a seat. “Let me look at your arm.”
Sekka did seat himself, but was already shaking his head. “It’s bad, Sasori. To save the arm, I’m going to need multiple surgeries with far too many pins and plates, and we just haven’t had the hospital resources to dedicate to that kind of extensive surgery when we’re almost overrunning from those in even worse condition from the jinchuuriki’s attacks.” Sekka’s voice was panting.
“I want to try something,” Sasori said, his voice level. (He didn’t have the time, patience, or emotional capacity to start working with others on mentally and emotionally separating Gaara from Shukaku. He added that to his ever-growing list of urgent tasks.)
Sekka sighed, and gingerly removed his arm from his sling, carefully leaning forward and twisting slightly to drape it in Sasori’s lap. Sasori pressed on the fingernails, and frowned at how sluggish the capillary refill was. It was the same even with the unbroken arm. He traced the swollen fingers and extensive bruising with the Mystic Palm lighting his fingers, then he sent a wave of it up and through the arm. “Pretty bad, isn’t it,” Sekka asked with a twisted, self-deprecating smile. “Nightmarish, really.”
“Like an overcooked chicken bone that someone splintered,” Sasori replied. “And then twisted apart.”
Wry laughter burst out of Sekka, and he braced himself, wincing, between laughs. “Yeah, yeah, that’s exactly what the x-rays look like. I’ve already had to cast my arm twice because of the compartment syndrome. At this point, I think I’m going to become a customer of the Prosthetics Department.”
Sasori hummed. “You could. But I’d like to try something, first.” And then he caught and held Sekka’s arm with his chakra strings as Sekka tried to draw away.
“No, you’re good, my friend – better than me with the Mystic Palm – but Sasori, even I know that some things are beyond the Mystic Palm, and this is one of those things. You can regrow the bone, but you have to surgically remove all the floating and detached fragments.”
“I’m going to try something,” Sasori said, not looking at Sekka’s face as he unwound the wrap on the cast. “If it fails – well, you’re no better or worse for it.” He looked up, his gaze boring into Sekka’s dark brown eyes. “Will you trust me?”
“I already do,” Sekka replied immediately.
Sasori gave him a smile for that, and numbed Sekka’s arm with his right hand glowing from the Mystic Palm. Once it was numb, he deliberately targeted the swelling around the bone splinters, reducing the edema and internal hematomas. With his left hand, lightning-blue chakra threads sunk into Sekka’s flesh, and split apart into microscopic filaments that attached to bone shards.
Sekka’s face twisted. “Wow. That feels weird. What are you doing?”

Sasori said nothing as he concentrated, remembering precisely what he had done when his tibia had been shattered. He gathered the bone shards and fragments and pieced them together like a puzzle with chakra threads in one hand, and using the Mystic Palm with the other to keep the swelling down and to knit blood vessels and damaged muscle fibers and tendons back together. Once all the shards were in place, he fused them until the bone was stable, although not healed. Sasori couldn’t afford to use all of his chakra.
“Sasori… what did you do?” And for the first time in Sasori’s life, the question was asked in amazement, and not with horror. Sekka’s face was pale and his jaw hung slack in shock. “Did you just invent a new technique willy-nilly, you monstrous little genius?”
Ah, Sasori thought as he leaned back in his wheelchair, exhausted from the chakra usage. He had barely recovered enough from last night’s sleep. That’s probably the look on my face when Shisui showed me his chakra threads. “I didn’t invent it just now,” he replied. “This is what I did to repair my tibia after it splintered from a heavy blow three weeks after my amputation.”
“What?” Sekka drew back in shock. “You were twelve.”
Sasori shrugged. “I couldn’t afford bone necrosis from such an injury. I pulled my bone back together, and someone else healed the pieces in place. You know what they say – necessity is the mother of invention. Now, hold that thought,” he added before Sekka could say anything. Sasori placed both hands flat on Sekka’s chest, and sent more microscopic filaments threading through Sekka’s body. “I need to make sure you don’t have any marrow globules that could cause strokes.” Sasori found and destroyed six of them, two of which had been lodged in the alveoli of Sekka’s lungs.
“Wow. Breathing doesn’t hurt as much anymore.” Sekka’s face was filled with awe as Sasori pulled the chakra threads back, and dropped his hands. “I think you invented a whole new technique for the medical field.”
“One that I’m afraid will be out of reach for almost all existing mednin,” Sasori replied. “Not even most puppeteers have that level of control over their chakra threads.”
“Sasori.” Sekka wrapped him in a hug and grinned. “Have I told you lately how glad I am that we’re friends?”
“No. You failed to mention such in the last three months. I am deeply disappointed.”
Sekka punched him in the shoulder. “You dick – being absent from Suna for three months doesn’t count!”oOoOoOo
Since his happy little guinea pig of a friend was delighted with the results, Sasori agreed to let other Puppet Masters try to knit together shattered bones – it was, unfortunately, a common injury from Shukaku’s crushing sand. Sekka got another x-ray of his arm, along with a copy of what it had looked like previously, and set forth like a man on a mission to gather at least the five most skilled Puppet Masters to meet up with Sasori in the hospital that afternoon. The only other mednin who could also use chakra threads was Chiyo, so Sasori told Sekka to make sure that she was also present. A mednin could heal the bones the way that Sasori did, if the puppeteers could knit the bones back together, but Sasori would need to demonstrate how he did it. Luckily, most people in the hospital were willing (or too sedated to protest) guinea pigs for Sasori’s latest project.
With one project solved (the trade agreement) and another project just dumped in his lap, Sasori decided to follow up with Rasa and Gaara.
Unfortunately, they were busy – Rasa, with the manifestation of the Ichibi, and Gaara, with channeling the Ichibi.
“Oh for the love of Tengoku and Chiki,” Sasori snapped when he saw Rasa wrestling with an Ichi-sized tanuki made of sand. “Now what happened?”
“Poison!” Shukaku snarled, before sinking his teeth into Rasa’s arm. Luckily, the shield of gold dust prevented Shukaku from ripping the flesh away from Rasa’s arm. “How dare you, you filthy flesh bag!”
“It wasn’t me!” Rasa yelled, finally getting Shukaku into a headlock. Sasori snagged Temari and reeled her into his lap from where she had been hiding in an open kitchen cabinet with his chakra threads, just before a tidal wave of sand exploded out of Shukaku. Temari screamed and tried to run free of Sasori’s grip, kicking him solidly in the liver.
“Can we please talk about this?” Sasori asked over the frightened screams, pinning the toddler’s legs before she could kick him in the testicles. “Here, let’s trade. I’ll talk to Shukaku – stop it with the sand, you little asshole!”
Shukaku cackled, and Rasa kept him pinned in place, but only because Shukaku was reasonably-sized compared to yesterday.
When Temari’s screech next to Sasori’s ear nearly blew out his eardrum, Sasori decided that no one would fault him for using Tsume’s genjutsu for unruly puppies and children. When Temari went limp in Sasori’s lap, he decided he rather liked this particular genjutsu. Unfortunately, it didn’t work on Shukaku, who simply snarled and slapped Sasori’s arm with a whip of sand. “Do I need to swat you with a rolled-up comic book, or should I just get Tsume again to do it?” Sasori demanded, his arm stinging from the blow.
Shukaku’s cackles trailed off into a grumpy, resentful silence. Rasa panted from the exertion of wrestling a One-Tailed chakra demon.
“Where’s the poison, Rasa?” Sasori asked as he rubbed his forehead.
“The only thing I did was make a damn bottle.” Rasa carefully released, and backed away from Shukaku, who remained on the ground, glowering resentfully at everyone. Rasa dug through the shin-deep sand before he finally extracted a bottle of formula, and tossed it to Sasori.
Sasori unscrewed the nipple, and sniffed. “Don’t smell anything.”
“THERE FUCKING IS POISON!”
“Many of which are odorless, Shukaku,” Sasori replied impatiently. “I’m not calling you a liar, I’m simply trying to narrow down what you were given, which will then help me figure out how it was given.”
Rasa looked at the container of formula powder, sitting on the kitchen counter. “Could someone have slipped it into the formula?”
“If it were me,” Sasori said, dipping his finger into the bottle for a moment, then raised his finger and waited see if there was a localized reaction, “I would’ve painted the poison on the inside of the nipple. What were the symptoms for poison, Shukaku?”
The sand tanuki sat upright and growled. “It burned.” And when he gave no more information than that, Sasori figured that a construct of demonic chakra was unfamiliar in expressing changes to body function and sensation. Which might explain why Shukaku would be so cranky over a sore butt, of all things.
On the other hand, or, well, finger, Sasori’s finger was blistering and turning black from the almost-instant exposure. He healed it away with the Mystic Palm. “A rather high dose of theta toxin. Rasa, could you please reconstitute some formula in a cup – not a bottle – I want to confirm if the poison was applied to the bottle, or to the formula.”
Rasa did as Sasori requested, his face reddening with rage at the realization that someone had attempted to assassinate his jinchuuriki-son. “Your grandmother bought the formula,” he snapped, shoving the cup into Sasori’s waiting hand with such force that it nearly spilled.
“Theta toxin isn’t my grandmother’s style,” Sasori replied. He channeled chakra threads through the cup and the bottle at the same time, comparing microscopic densities of different particulates. “Also, the formula is contaminated, but,” he held up a hand to cut off Rasa’s accusation, “Chiyo would’ve painted the poison onto the inside every nipple, just like I would have, in case you exercised extreme caution and opened up a new can of formula every time you fed Gaara.”
Rasa righted a knocked-over kitchen chair and slumped tiredly in it. “I would use a wet nurse if a certain someone didn’t kill the only one who agreed to it.” He had enough energy to glare pointedly at Shukaku.
Shukaku looked entirely unrepentant.
“Are you going to let Gaara come back?” Rasa asked.
“Busy burning off the poison,” Shukaku snapped.
“When you’re done, you’re cleaning up this mess.” Rasa pointed at the sand everywhere in the kitchen.
“You don’t get to fucking tell me what to do.”
Sasori briefly daydreamed of leashing Shukaku to Nessie. He was pretty sure that Nessie would either teach Shukaku to behave better, or… or they would simply team up to eat everyone. Yeah, that daydream quickly turned into a nightmare. “Rasa, do you know who would feel foolhardy enough to brazenly enter your personal residence and sabotage baby formula?”
“You got all day for me to provide you a list?” Rasa asked bitterly.
Fair enough. “Who do you trust not to sabotage the formula?”
“Me and Yashamaru.”
Sasori immediately noticed who wasn’t mentioned on that very short list. He pinched the ridge of his nose. “Rasa, neither Grandmother nor I would sabotage the formula.”
Rasa’s face burned red as he curled one hand into a white-knuckled fist. “All right then, not you, but how do I know Chiyo didn’t deliberately sabotage the seals on Karura, and this is her way of finishing the job?” For the first time, Sasori saw the grief for the loss of his wife cross Rasa’s face.
Huh.
Sasori tapped his fingers against his wheelchair arm rest as he considered Rasa’s suspicions. “As far as the fuuinjutsu seals go, all I can say is never attribute malice to what could be attributed to neglect, ignorance, or incompetence. Grandmother has dedicated the last fifty years of her life to developing and employing subtle, creative ways to assassinate people with poisons. This is too clumsy and obvious for her. She has spent little more than a month to the study of fuuinjutsu seals that hasn’t had a medical purpose, and her expertise is nonexistent.”
“Not if she wanted to someone to believe the poisoning isn’t her work because of how clumsy it is.”
Well, fuck. Sasori couldn’t argue the logic of that, despite being certain that Chiyo wouldn’t poison Gaara. Chiyo also knew that you couldn’t kill a bijuu. A killed jinchuuriki would simply unleash the bijuu, and it would eventually regather itself. That’s what the legends all said about bijuu. In Shukaku’s particular case, he would simply be sucked back into his tea kettle, forever bound to it that he was. Rather than waste time convincing Rasa of the unlikelihood of Choyo trying to assassinate Suna’s latest jinchuuriki, Sasori used his chakra threads to snatch an unopened tub of formula. He sent chakra threads through both. “This one isn’t sabotaged,” he said, indicated the unopened tub. “Keep it secured in your gold dust – no one will be able to break through that to slip in poison.”
“I’ll need to secure the bottles in gold dust too, if a certain someone decides to use a fucking paint brush.”
“That would be wise.”
Rasa sighed. “Will you be happy now?” he asked Shukaku.
“Are you going to set me free?”
“No.”
“Then why the fuck should I be happy now?” And then, because the thousand year old One-Tails demon really was nothing more than an immature toddler, Shukaku pulled back into Gaara and left a wailing infant on top of a kitchen floor covered in shin-deep sand.
Sasori decided that Rasa simply wasn’t in the mood to discuss calling in an outside Fuuinjutsu master. But since Sasori was a kind and generous Head of Internal Affairs, he took Temari with him to meet Deidara. As little as he knew children, Sasori figured that trying to feed a screaming jinchuuriki while comforting a terrified toddler while also shoveling sand out of the kitchen would be a miserable experience once Temari emerged from the genjutsu; it was, after all, his job as the Head of Internal Affairs to ease some of Suna’s internal dumpster fires.oOoOoOo
In retrospect, introducing Temari and Deidara was Sasori’s worst idea in, Eternal Sands… years? Yeah, worst idea in years.
“They’re so adorable!” Ebizo declared happily, as Deidara and Temari rolled around on the floor, screaming, kicking, and pinching each other, because Temari was three years old and operated under the Toddler Laws of Property (if I like it, it’s mine; if I can take it from you, it’s mine), and Deidara disagreed when it came to the actual ownership of his crayons.

“Is it naptime yet?” Sasori asked Ebizo.
“Eh, probably.”
“Oh good. Wake me up in an hour.” Sasori wheeled off to his bedroom. But before he took a nap, he summoned Goukan-chan and asked her to deliver his copies of Chiyo’s fuuinjutsu seal array for Gaara, and the containment seals of Shukaku’s tea kettle, to Tsume. He decided it was simply safer for Suna’s continuing survival to beg for forgiveness than to seek permission.
(Danzo’s reply, sent via a returned Goukan-chan three hours later, was a very simple How much sand did you morons get between your ears over there in Suna to think that this mess was even going to work? What the fuck is wrong with all of you? I’m sending this to Jiraiya, and if he can’t fix it, I’m having Inuzuka Natsumi bring Uzumaki Mito back from the dead just to knock that sand out of your heads.
… Danzo was the third person to imply Natsumi could bring back the dead. Once was happenstance, twice was coincidence, and thrice was enemy action. So, on one hand, the implications in Danzo’s letter was ominous. But on the other hand, if nothing else, a zombie jinchuuriki who was also a legendary Fuuinjutsu master was bound to make some sort of improvements. And if Uzumaki Mito couldn’t and Suna was ultimately doomed, at least Sasori could get a new job and a new home with Orochimaru’s employer.)

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Two days later, Sasori was putting on his second prosthetic when Deidara bumbled into their shared bedroom. “Sasori-nii,” because Deidara still felt uncomfortable referencing Sasori as his father in speech, as if he half-expected Sasori to change his mind about the adoption and toss him outside of Suna’s gates to make his own way back to Iwa, “did we have raw mushrooms for breakfast?”
The right prosthetic clicked into place and Sasori pulled his trousers leg down. “Grandmother didn’t slip anything into the omelet that wouldn’t belong – I already checked. Why?”
Deidara waved his coloring book towards the kitchen. “Because I’m seeing purple toads again.”
Sasori placed his left prosthetic, and double-checked to make sure that the toxic syringes hidden in his shins were loaded, and followed Deidara to the kitchen with Mother’s Kuro Gaki trailing behind.
“Yo,” said the rather large purple and black harlequin toad, raising a webbed limb in greeting. He was seated in the middle of the newly-acquired kitchen table, which sat on top of an also newly-acquired throw-rug to hide the patch of cooled volcanic obsidian.
Sasori studied and catalogued it. “Atelopus barbotine, certainly nonnative to Suna, Deidara. Level of toxicity is dependent on their diet of poisonous insects. And–”
Deidara whacked the toad with his rolled-up coloring book.
“Ouch! Rude, dude, totally rude.” The toad slapped Deidara across the face, and Deidara flailed and attempted to whack it with his coloring book again.
Sasori yanked Deidara back with his chakra threads. “And is also a summon creature. Would you slap one of my wolverines?”
“Wolverines have teeth and they bite,” Deidara replied, self-consciously rubbing his arm that had been nipped in warning when he had ambushed one of Sasori’s wolverines for a hug during their trip from Iwa to Suna. “Toads don’t have teeth.”
“I can still take you over my knee,” said the toad, his bulbous eyes narrowing in warning.
“I take it you’re one of Jiraiya’s,” Sasori said.
“Yes. And he wants a word with you.”
“When?”
“Now.” And then the toad’s mouth rolled open and a human hand clawed through. Deidara immediately jumped forward and slammed a fist onto the hand. It flinched for a moment, and then snagged Deidara by his collar before the rest of the human managed to pull himself out of a toad that was four times too small for the human to fit.
“Ah, Akasuna no Sasori,” boomed the man brightly as he stood so tall that his wild hair nearly brushed the ceiling. He had a lot of white hair and a powerful diaphragm. “I am the Great Toad Sage and Fuuinjutsu Master extraordinaire, Jiraiya!”
“You’re creepier than that weird dude with the really really really really big snake, yeah,” Deidara declared, crossing his arms in front of himself as he continued to dangle.
Jiraiya’s boisterous expression froze. “Snake dude?”
“We might’ve run into Orochimaru,” Sasori replied blandly, not wanting to discuss anything related to Konoha’s most notorious missing nin with said missing nin’s old teammate.
“Really.” Jiraiya’s face went flat and his eyes glittered cold and hard. “Any particular reason?”
“None that is more pressing than having to explain to my Kazekage why you’re here, unannounced.”
“I’m not unannounced. I announced myself loud and clear!” Well, that part certainly couldn’t be challenged.
Between their duties, Sasori hadn’t had a chance to have a private meeting with the Kazekage to explain that he had already sent copies of the Gaara’s seal to Konoha. This was unfortunate timing. “You’re here for Gaara’s seal.”
Jiraiya clicked his tongue as he dropped Deidara, who scampered to Sasori’s side and pressed himself against Sasori’s leg. “Messy, messy, messy. Couldn’t have done a worse job if you guys tried.” He crossed his arms in front of himself as Deidara eyed the toad with suspicious awe. “Danzo told me he once explained to you a problem with an inflexible seal.”
“Yes.” Sasori gently pried Deidara away from his leg. “Go color in your bedroom, Deidara, we have adult things to discuss.”
“Boooooring,” Deidara replied. He gathered up the crayons that the toad had scattered upon his arrival, pointed two fingers at his eyes and then jabbed them at the toad, blew a raspberry, and then retreated.
Once Sasori heard the bedroom door click shut (he really needed to getting around to clearing out the storage room), Jiraiya dismissed his summon, and leaned against the kitchen wall with his arms crossed. Sasori decided to sit. “Does placing the seal directly over the abdomen of the pregnant mother also effect its flexibility, or is it just the seal itself?”
Jiraiya nearly slid over sideways in his shock. “It wasn’t placed directly on the jinchuuriki? Danzo is right – you lot really do have nothing but sand between your ears!”
Sasori privately agreed with Danzo’s evaluation of Rasa and Chiyo, but it irked him to be included with said lot of morons. What had been done to Gaara was inefficient, clumsy, and very ugly, and Sasori would’ve murdered Rasa to stop him from doing it and made himself Kazekage-regent if he hadn’t been in Iwa at the time. “Jiraiya-san, you can lambast my grandmother for what she did all you want – in private, but please be diplomatic when talking to the Kazekage. A man is never so dangerous as when he’s desperate or his pride is on the line, and we’re dealing with both.” For all of Rasa’s faults, Sasori could see that the man truly cared for his children and Suna, and was willing to do right with what he could.
(Distantly, Sasori wondered if the reason the Kazekage hadn’t chosen his own son was because he knew what a burden being a jinchuuriki was, and wouldn’t assign caring for that burden to anyone but himself. It was shockingly selfless of Rasa, given his pride. Or selfish, as one could also argue that Rasa had set himself up to be admired by his people as the selfless, long-suffering father. But Sasori was trying to feed the white wolf, which meant trying to reframe Rasa’s actions in a more charitable light.)
Jiraiya rubbed a meaty hand over his face. “Kid. Kid. I already came here expecting that I may not be able to work miracles, but then you just pulled the metaphorical rug right out from beneath me. Let me express my shock and outrage while I can, okay?”
“With me, that’s fine. Tsume recommended you as the best fuuinjutsu expert. The Kazekage isn’t going to trust, but I trust Tsume, and if she thinks you’re worthy of trust, then I will trust you.” Trust was like friendship – it needed to be reciprocating. Jiraiya would know the dangers he was facing when he came to Suna alone – purple toad not withstanding – and the volatile situation of using powerful fuuinjutsu in the middle of a paranoid, foreign Hidden Village that had been forcefully allied to Konoha after the Second Shinobi War.
Jiraiya cocked his head to the side and considered Sasori for a long, hard minute. “I’m aware of your reputation, and the general reputation that Suna has for outsiders. I know the risks.”
Sasori shrugged. “I trust Tsume. She trusts you. That’s good enough for me.”
“But can I trust you?” Jiraiya was both brave and stupid, knowing that his actions could very well hurt him, but doing them anyway.

“The Hokage was your sensei, yes?” When Jiraiya nodded with clear suspicion telegraphed in his expression and body language, Sasori continued. “By way of such a relationship, I believe it’s safe to assume that you know Uchiha Kagami.” The nod that came was slower, and the expression on Jiraiya’s face – it was morphing into something that was a mix of curiosity and surprise. “Then, if nothing else, trust that I am terrified of losing the good will and respect that Kagami has for me. I do not want to receive his anger and disappointment.”
Jiraiya cringed in sympathy. “Subjected you to a bunch of Dad Jokes too, did he?”
Sasori nearly slumped in the kitchen chair. Finally, someone who understood the misery of such! “Seven hours across two days. And that was Kagami in a good mood.”
“Did he ever tell you any of the inappropriate limericks?”
Sasori flinched. “No.”
“Probably because you were just a kid at the time. You would definitely be subjected to them now. Trust me, it’s very uncomfortable, and I’m saying that as a, uh, man of the flesh. Although I did promise Danzo and Tsume to be better behaved in that regard during my visit here.”
“If the inappropriate limericks is the worst with Kagami’s bad mood, I would consider myself blessed.” Sasori willed his hands to remain steady as he remembered the black wolf sliding effortlessly into Kagami’s skin, and how Kagami had never displayed such in the eternity Sasori had spent on that road trip. He had never been able to share the terror he had felt in that moment, and how he never wanted that perilous, ravenous black wolf turned against Sasori. “I have seen his evolved Sharingan.”
That startled Jiraiya, as if he was finally connecting two or more dots at the same time. “You. You were there when Kagami confronted Minato.”
Sasori had no doubt that Jiraiya’s student would’ve told him all about being on the receiving end of such. “I was there.”
Jiraiya crossed the kitchen. He flipped a chair around backwards and seated himself in it, crossing his arms over the chair back. “Fascinating,” he muttered. “I’ve always known Kagami to be like a kind, thoughtful uncle, but Minato once told me he would sooner face a bijuu naked than ever cross Kagami like that again.”
Sasori wondered if it would be appropriate to ask if Namikaze had been naked during the October Attack, and then decided that it was best to leave the dead some dignity.
“So, then, let’s do this. Let’s go see the Kazekage-sama.” Jiraiya stood.
Sasori held his hand up, palm out, proud of how steady his fingers were. “Before we even begin, what does Konoha want?”
Jiraiya reseated himself. “We feel that it’s in the best interests of everyone all around that the next time you idiots seal the Ichibi that you use my sealing array, and not this slipshod crap yanked off of a storage scroll’s seal.”
… seriously, Grandmother? What the flying fuck? “And what else?”
“Nothing else. That’s it.”
Sasori pinched the bridge of his nose. “Eternal Sands, none of you get it. Absolutely none of you. You can’t give Suna something for nothing or for so little.”
“Why on earth not? Suna is Konoha’s ally, we want to help. Who doesn’t like freebies?”
“It’s humiliating.”
“How?” Jiraiya was genuinely confused. “How is giving a gift to someone we want to continue keeping a peace treaty with humiliating versus making demands for something in return, like holding hostages? We don’t want mindless destruction and lost lives in Suna any more than we had wanted the same in Konoha. Look, Suna bitches when we make demands, and then bitches when we don’t. That’s the problem with Sunagakure – you guys aren’t happy with anything. Please, explain this to me.”
Sasori hadn’t expected to give a well-traveled shinobi like Jiraiya a crash-course in the cultural norms of Wind. “A thousand years of culture and history, and you think I can just explain it to you?” Of course, being well-traveled didn’t mean anything if you didn’t study the differences and tried to understand.
“You’re a genius. I’m a classroom dunce. Give me the short version that I can understand before I wander off in pursuit of a shiny object.”
Sasori wondered if he could get away with throttling a legendary Sannin, and then he wondered how a buffoon like Jiraiya managed to get lumped in with the intellectual powerhouses of Tsunade and Orochimaru. A shiver rippled up and down his spine at the suspicion that Jiraiya most likely used his loud buffoonery to disguise an intellect that matched his teammates while disarming and distracting those around him. “So, like you’re Tsume?”
Jiraiya grinned. “Yeah, exactly.”
Sasori tapped his fingers against the tabletop, gathering his thoughts together. “Wind is a country with very little resources, scraped together through sheer tenacity and pride. Sometimes, pride is all we have when we fight each other for those precious resources. An exchange between the conqueror and the defeated is about recognition of that pride. It…” Sasori paused, pulling back from ancient history. “There are always strings attached to gifts. Always. We expect it. It says you may not have the resources now, but we recognize that tenacity, and we know that you will eventually have resources, and we will come to collect when the time is right. And you don’t want to pay that particular piper when he’s due, because interest accumulates. When your people give Suna things like gifts, we wait and we wait and we wait for that price to eventually materialize. Or feel insulted and slighted with the gift. Or both.
“It took far too long for me to realize, in the company of Team Chaos, that other countries, other cultures, sometimes give without expectations. And that’s because you guys are so flush in resources that you bandy it around like it’s nothing, and therefore you don’t recognize how hard we fight for what we have.” Sasori shut Jiraiya’s mouth with chakra strings before the man could butt in.
“It’s belittling,” Sasori hissed. “In Wind, when you gift without expectation and you don’t have a relationship that makes it appropriate – like a father to his children, or a wife to her husband – you are essentially saying that we have nothing of value to return like for like. When Konoha says, ‘Here, have a present, because we want to honor our treaty,’ what Suna – what the Kazekage – hears is, ‘Oh, poor, weak little Suna, got a booboo again from playing around with the big boys? Here’s a kiss to make it feel better, now run along and play.’”
Jiraiya crossed his arms in front of himself. “Team Chaos?” he asked. Sasori didn’t elaborate and chose to remain silent. “I see,” he said, slowly. “You not only find such condescending, but also insulting, because it implies that Suna is poor and useless with nothing to offer, all while waiting with bated breath for the other shoe to drop.”
“Exactly!”
“Hmm.” Jiraiya screwed his face up and thought hard; Sasori was half-concerned that the man was either severely constipated or going to burst a blood vessel in his forehead. “So, can’t offer this solution even with some stipulations. I need to demand a payment that allows Suna to save face.”
Sasori felt tension bleed away from his shoulders. “Yes. And there’s one more thing you need to know – specifically – about Rasa.”
Jiraiya’s eyes narrowed; Sasori ignored the spike of killing intent. “What about your Kazekage?”
“His mother was a tribal daughter of the Saboten tribe, and he prides himself on that heritage.” When it was clear that had no significance to Jiraiya, Sasori added, “I know you’ve visited the Suna Autumn Bazaars. Can’t miss the Sabuten tribe – they’re the biggest sellers of rugs, perfumes, and pottery there.”
The look of dawning horror as the killing intent increased was gratifying. “Oh hell – you mean to tell me…! Hot damn. I’m going to have to haggle. Seriously, can’t you people just be happy for once? Why the hell does everything have to be a battle?”oOoOoOo
Sasori had to admit that Rasa had a way of commanding attention and respect, even when standing in his kitchen with his Kazekage’s office robes covered with a lilac-colored apron decorated with frolicking chickens while wearing spit-up on his apron-covered shoulder and a whining eighteen-month-old toddler clinging to his knee about how he really really really needed mouse pancakes, which tasted so much better than normal pancakes.
Jiraiya, for such a large man with meaty hands, was actually gracefully gentle while holding a half-naked Gaara as he studied the glowing seal on Gaara’s abdomen, swatting absentmindedly at the occasional stream of sand. “So, you’re telling me that I need to include a modification to a modification on this seal that allows for the Ichibi to go for walkies once a week while still being attached long-distance to his tea kettle?”
“Yes, you shit-bag,” replied Shukaku. Gaara’s eyes were yellow with black sclera again. “If I’m going to be stuck in this meat prison, I want some leisure time outside.”
Jiraiya looked at Rasa for verification.
“Shukaku,” Rasa said, turning back to the kitchen stove to make mouse-shaped pancakes (which, as far as Sasori could tell, was basically one big pancake with two smaller ones attached at nine and three o’clock for ears), “and I have come to a truce. A shaky one, but a truce nonetheless. He’s bored with the tea kettle and said he’d play nice if he’s allowed some freedom.”
Sasori eyed Gaara/Shukaku. “I thought Tsume said not to negotiate with terrorists or toddlers.”
“Shut up before I rip off your feet!”
Sasori raised an eyebrow at that. “Been there, done that.”
“Fine. I’ll fucking rip off your arms instead.”
“You,” Jiraiya said, swatting away another stream of sand, “really aren’t inspiring confidence in anyone for more freedom.” Temari, seated close by, trembled with wide-eyed fear, but bravely bit her lip to keep quiet.
Rasa removed agave syrup from a cupboard. “It’s an improvement, believe it or not. The Ichibi is no longer threatening to crush people into a bloody pulp.”
“What’s a little maiming between friends? You’ll get better, Board Boy.”
Put like that, Sasori decided that Shukaku was currently feeling amiable towards his human captors. Remembering some of the stories that Bunpuku had shared about the Sage of the Six Paths and his nine, uh, non-human children, Sasori said, “Humans can’t regrow limbs like starfish. We don’t regenerate limbs.”
“Whadya mean? You didn’t have feet when you were sitting in that wheeled chair, and you fucking had them before. And now you’re back to having them. How is that not regrowing limbs?”
Rasa flipped the pancake. “Prosthetics, fake feet,” he replied. “Sasori is a clever little cheat, like that.”
“Tell me about it. Did a lot of that with his fucking board game.”
“I did not cheat at sentan. Bunpuku just wasn’t as good at strategy as I am.”
“I can regrow limbs. Hah! Proof of my magnificent superiority!”
Jiraiya rested Gaara/Shukaku on his folded knees as he pulled out a roll of drafting paper and a grafting pencil. Amidst Temari and Kankurou eating their pancakes, spilling their tea, and dripping agave syrup on the table and floor, Jiraiya worked out a sealing array from the recesses of his brain. It was fascinating to watch him draw out Gaara’s original seal, and then sketch other fuuinjutsu seals into place. Some he crossed out after considering the entire array, as if deciding that such weren’t appropriate or feasible. Sasori sat on his hands and bit his tongue to prevent questions (Rasa wouldn’t be pleased with the unfair exchange of information when he was still in a Mood). After breakfast, Yashamaru grabbed Temari and Kankurou, snagged a diaper bag because Kankurou wasn’t potty-trained yet, and took them out of the house with promises to fetch Deidara for a playdate.
“We never did discuss what Konoha wants from Suna for doing this,” Rasa said as he released the formula and bottle from its gold shielding.
“Formula, formula, formula. I’m sick and tired of that shit. I want sake, dumb ass.”
Even Jiraiya froze in mid-drafting. “You’re a little young for that,” he told Shukaku.
“Shut the fuck up! I am a thousand year old demon! Bow to me, you clod of filth!”
Rasa pinched the bridge of his nose. “I am not contributing to the delinquency of youth.”
“Tell them, Board Boy! Bunpuku used to let me have drinks! And I want cookies, too.”
Largely to keep the One Tail’s temper tantrum from flipping the sentan board and game pieces. Sasori, on the other hand, always felt that the alcohol that Bunpuku poured into the tea kettle made the demonic chakra feel even more oppressive. Instead, Sasori delighted in regaling Shukaku with graphic medical terms on all the terrible damage that alcohol would have to such a young liver, and the dangers of cirrhosis, and how this would impair his young jinchuuriki. “Furthermore, cookies would be a choking hazard to Gaara. He’s too young for solids right now.”
Shukaku snarled about how this was proof that the Bijuu were superior beings, just by way of how they didn’t have puny mortal flesh that would be effected by booze or choking on cookies.
Jiraiya smudged his cheek with graphite as he scratched his chin in thought. “Then why on earth would you even drink alcohol? If you don’t have internal organs, how do you consume it?”
“The same way he keeps eating Sasori’s cookies. The physics alone boggle the mind,” Rasa commented as he removed the small infant from Jiraiya’s lap, fending off a spear of sand that tried to take out his eye, and then stuffed the bottle nipple into Shukaku’s mouth, effectively stopping the complaints. The swirling sand collapsed, leaving a small mess on Rasa’s kitchen floor, as the eyes morphed back into green. With a pointed glare from his Kazekage, Sasori sighed and grabbed the kitchen broom and dustpan. Rasa seated himself in Sasori’s abandoned chair, cradling Gaara in the crook of his elbow. “So, what does Konoha want?”
Jiraiya set his pencil aside and rolled his work up so Rasa and Sasori couldn’t look more closely at it. He took a deep breath to prepare himself, squared his shoulders, and launched into Wind’s national sport: haggling. “One,” Jiraiya began, his voice booming and loud, “Suna isn’t permitted to seal the bijuu ever again until you morons learn to do this correctly. I’ll get into the requirements for that a little while.” Rasa’s eyes narrowed dangerously. A thread of gold wove through Sasori’s pile, scattering the neat little sand pile Sasori was making. Sasori whacked the gold with the broom, confident that Rasa wouldn’t snap it in retaliation. (Sasori was wrong. After glaring at Rasa, Sasori simply secured the broken wooden shaft with chakra threads. Rasa can replace his own damn broom on his own damn time.) “Two, Konoha wants ten new poisons, five nonlethal, and all with corresponding, effective antidotes. And,” Jiraiya added, as Rasa’s expression turned thunderous, “an actual truth serum!”
(Sasori hated haggling. He really hated haggling, which probably made his poor mother’s soul bawl with heartbreak in whatever constituted as the afterlife. He simply didn’t have the patience nor the time to dance around what everyone ultimately wanted, and simply went for the metaphorical throat.)
Rasa’s killing intent flared, but his gold dust continued to weave lazily around the floor, like a flickering cat’s tail, disturbing Sasori’s sweeping once again. “A truth serum? Are you out of your mind? Why on earth would we give Konoha a truth serum when you already have mind readers?”
“I can’t read minds,” Jiraiya replied imperiously.
“Five poisons and antidotes, all lethal. No truth serum. Suna can’t provide something that doesn’t exist, you moron.”
“Don’t insult me, Kazekage-sama. I bet you assholes do have a truth serum, you’re just too selfish to share it. Nine poisons and antidotes, four lethal. And the truth serum.”
“You idiots would accidentally kill yourself on lethal poisons before the antidote could even be administered, but if you feel like weeding out the weak and the dumb, far be it from me to stand in your way. Seven poisons and antidotes, three lethal. No truth serum, it doesn’t exist.”
Huh, those small spots of sand weren’t moving because they were adhered in place with the drips of agave syrup. Sasori fetched a wet rag to wipe up the stickiness.
“And that is precisely what someone hiding truth serum would say, but I’m onto you, you wily goat. Eight poisons and antidotes, four lethal, all antidotes to be administered in injectable and aerosolized forms, and the truth serum.”
“Aerosolized? Do you want my first-born son as well, you greedy glutton? You flatter me to assume that Suna has such miracle workers. Eight poisons and antidotes, three lethal, with the antidotes to the lethal aerosolized. No truth serum.”
Jiraiya slammed a heavy fist into the kitchen table. “Your first-born son isn’t potty trained and is sticky, you don’t get to throw him in like a bonus. I’m getting that truth serum out of you, one way or another. Twelve poisons, half lethal and half not, all with aerosolized and injectable antidotes!”
Rasa flushed as Sasori resumed sweeping. “Absolutely not! That many new poisons and antidotes in two different forms would tie up our Poison Masters for years!” Eh, Sasori could do it in three weeks on his leisure time, and Rasa knew that, but the man was having fun for probably the first time since the Ichibi was sealed, so Sasori finished his sweeping and binned the sand without offering any input. He then filled the sink with soapy water for the dishes. Huh, apparently Rasa wore the current apron because it was the only one available in the kitchen.
“If you’re too tied up with R&D for the poison and antidotes, you guys will be too busy to go around sealing things with slapdash sloppy work, so I’m perfectly fine with a deal that keeps you lot out of trouble for the next few years. By the way, back to one, I will require two Puppet Masters to learn fuuinjutsu so you morons never flub up like this again.”
“You are out of your mind, you hedgehog idiot, if you think I’ll just hand over two master puppeteers away from their craft. I’ll find you a jounin with decent literacy skills. Nine poisons, four lethal, with aerosolized antidotes. No fucking truth serum.”
“Fuuinjutsu is an art. Suna puppeteers are artists with their puppets and their fighting skills, it needs to be someone who can think fluidly. Surely you have one puppet master – other than Sasori – with at least an eye for artistical shape.” Jiraiya yanked open his scroll long enough to indicate the graceful, sweeping fuuinjutsu characters on his seals, and then snapped it shut. “And if the puppet master is, oh, legal age, shaped like so,” Jiraiya traced an hourglass shape in the air with his hands as his eyes gleamed, “and is skilled in ardah, that would be a bonus.”
“Fine, one puppet master!” Rasa snarled as Sasori untied Rasa’s apron and slipped it off him. Rasa didn’t move his gaze away from Jiraiya as he shifted himself and Gaara around so Sasori could free the apron. “I will be sure to find the meanest, ugliest Master Puppeteer with decent handwriting.” Lilac and frolicking chickens stained with spit-up were so not Sasori’s style, but neither was soaking his clothes with soapy dish water. Sasori draped one of Tsume’s supplied burp clothes over Rasa’s shoulder now that he wasn’t protected by the apron. “Eight poisons, four lethal, all with antidotes, the lethal antidotes will be aerosolized and injectable. Do you want me to throw my soul in with the deal while I’m at it?”
“Your soul would probably be even more toxic than any of the lethal poisons you can concoct, so hell no. Give me my truth serum!”
Sasori scrubbed at the sticky agave syrup on Temari’s plate.
Rasa grit his teeth. “I will also give you a hypnotic that loosens the victim’s tongue and inhibits judgement, making them less likely to lie. It’s still not a fucking truth serum, and you are delusional if you think they truly exist.”
Jiraiya paused, thought a moment, as if he wanted to argue, and then sniffed. “Well, I suppose that if that’s the best that Suna can offer, I can accept it in place of an actual truth serum.” He cleared his throat. “You drive a hard bargain, you bastard.”
“My parents were married,” Rasa declared pointedly, since Jiraiya was an orphan whose teenaged kunoichi mother had gotten pregnant out of wedlock and died before Jiraiya was Academy-age. Then, as if sensing Sasori’s silent, judgmental awe at Rasa’s blatant lie of his own legitimate birth, Rasa scattered gold dust all over the freshly washed dishes before Sasori could dry them.
“Bastard,” Sasori told Rasa, using his chakra threads to pluck the gold dust off as Rasa set the bottle aside and settled Gaara against his shoulder for burping.
The front door slammed open and a singed Yashamaru, his clothes still smoking, bustled in with three toddlers clinging and angry with each other. “You!” He pointed at Sasori. “Your gremlin blew up the swing set! And you!” He pointed at Rasa. “Your gremlins are responsible for egging him on!”
“Where did he get a blast tag?” Sasori asked, wiping his hands dry on Rasa’s apron.
“He didn’t. He just planted his hands against the swing set and channeled his chakra into it.” Yashamaru glared at Deidara. “I barely got him out of the blast range.”
Deidara giggled. There was a laceration from flying shrapnel on his face that was still dripping blood. “Boom,” he whispered with a manic gleam in his eyes, raising both hands over his head.oOoOoOo
By the time Suna managed to rebuild itself from an angry Ichibi’s destruction, life settled into a somewhat consistent pattern for Sasori as he spent his time overseeing the prosthetics for Iwa, teaching mednin how to use chakra threads so they could build a reputation of revolutionizing medicine, creating poisons and their antidotes, tinkering around with Jiraiya’s truth serum (while it was true that Rasa said such a thing didn’t exist, Sasori rarely found true challenges in the field of poisons anymore), working through whatever dumpster fire landed in his lap in regards to Internal Affairs, raising a young son who had a particular talent for using his explosive kekkai genkai to make “pretty, pretty explosions”, and (fuck that bastard, and Sasori wasn’t sure whether he was referring to Rasa or Jiraiya in his sour thoughts) learning Fuuinjutsu, which was even more time-consuming.
Jiraiya had simply sighed when Rasa told him and Sasori which Master Puppeteer Rasa had selected to be taught to not flub up again. After two more assassination attempts at Gaara (the first attempt was by a Suna chuunin who tried to kill Gaara through his bedroom window with a well-placed arrow shot from a roofline – Shukaku’s sand shield around Gaara’s body had protected him from being skewed, and the would-be assassin had been smeared into a bloody paste before Rasa could get to him; the second attempt had been a nomadic Academy student, her hands shaking as she had broken an ampule of poison under Gaara’s nose while leaning over to coo at him during Rasa’s monthly inspection of the Academy – Shukaku’s rampage through the Academy after crushing that child now meant that classes were being held in the Administration building while the Academy was being rebuilt, which meant that Sasori’s HR staff were happily distracted from their more important duties to help with childminding), Rasa decided he simply couldn’t trust anyone other than Sasori with the ability to know something that could potentially worsen Gaara’s seal.
“Guess you found me the meanest puppet master with decent handwriting after all, Kazekage-sama. Well, at least you’re easy on the eyes,” Jiraiya told Sasori. And then to Rasa, “Can he do ardah?”
“Sasori is very lovely to look at,” Rasa agreed with a bland voice while his foot rocked the cradle next to his desk as Gaara slumbered peacefully without any rampaging Ichibi taking advantage of the gaps in his jinchuuriki’s seals. The room was dark, given the shield of gold dust that covered the glass window to prevent any further assassination attempts, and the two oil lamps and one candle probably made Rasa cranky from squinting through his pile of paperwork. “Much like the sand viper is lovely to look as it glides through the sand before it strikes. But ardah is strictly limited to the more feminine sex.”
“I need to see your handwriting,” Jiraiya said to Sasori. Sasori snatched one of Rasa’s memos from his desk, and wrote his name on the blank back of it. Jiraiya studied the smooth loops and graceful angles, angling the paper to the candle on Rasa’s desk. “Not bad, kid. Based on your puppets, poisons, and prosthetics, I would’ve pegged you more on the technical side of things.”
“Art is my true love,” Sasori replied with complete honesty, though he had very little time to engage in such leisurely activities as painting or reading poetry. He made a point to let Deidara stay up late once a week on a non-school night to enjoy the sunset and emerging stars. Being the end of the day and so young, Deidara was usually too sleepy to complain about being bored or restless in his mindless pursuit of finding new and creative ways to use his kekkai genkai, now that he didn’t have to worry about attracting the Tsuchikage’s attention.
(For some odd reason, Deidara held a particular vendetta against potatoes, using them as a common source of miniature bombs… Potatoes were now banned from Sasori’s household.)
At least Deidara was becoming a little more comfortable with his new home village, frequently leaving their house to explore and play with neighboring children. Aside from the explosions, Sasori was learning that Deidara was a child who vacillated between thoughtful silence (usually followed by some mischief), or a constant stream of chatter and questions. As long as he was loud, Sasori knew where Deidara was, and Fumiko was correct – a quiet child was a dangerous child looking for trouble of some sort. Deidara hadn’t appreciated the bells that Sasori sewed into his clothes, but wore the clothes anyway since he was tired of the sunburns and hated the feeling of sun block smeared on his skin.
Jiraiya hadn’t completely worked out the corrections on Gaara’s seal, since it needed to be linked to Shukaku’s tea kettle, which apparently required “more research” on Jiraiya’s part. Frankly, Sasori had no idea why lurking around hot springs and onsens would qualify as research, but Tsume trusted Jiraiya, so he was simply going to have to trust that Jiraiya knew what he was doing, even when part of him wanted to lecture Jiraiya on sexual harassment. Sasori never thought he’d see the day that there was even a bigger casual flirt bumbling through an unsuspecting world than Rasa. (Sasori decided that the day he would witness Jiraiya and Rasa flirting with each other would be the day he’d jab out his own eyeballs and live as a blind hermit somewhere in the desert.)
“Got a private place we can do the tutoring?” Jiraiya asked.
Sasori’s private place was his workshop.
Jiraiya took in everything with a sweeping glance of his eyes – the tools, the puppet parts, the personal prosthetics that Sasori was always tinkering with, the materials for his poisons all tucked away in a clear glass curio cabinet that Chiyo had placed a barrier tag on to prevent Deidara from exploding or breaking into it. At this last, Jiraiya stalked across the room while Sasori cleared a space on his workbench to stoop and peer a little closer at the characters on Chiyo’s barrier tag. He braced the large oil-canvass wrapped scroll that was slung across his back as he stooped.
“Rudimentary, but it does the trick,” Jiraiya said after his inspection. “Your grandmother’s work?”
Sasori used his chakra threads to move the tabletop wood lathe to a corner of the room. “Most of my grandmother’s fuuinjutsu skills are limited to blast and storage tags, and medical seals. That is the only barrier seal she knows.” Sasori had never been learned anything other than storage and containment seals, and the latter was self-taught from Shukaku’s tea kettle.
Jiraiya grunted. Since Sasori was seated on the only form of seating in the room (a tall three-legged stool), he grabbed the wheelchair that Sasori had recently changed the wheels on to better move over and through sand on those days he couldn’t wear his prosthetics, and pushed it to the opposite side of the workbench from Sasori. Jiraiya sat and removed the scroll from his back in a single movement. He rested the scroll in his lap and knitted his fingers together. “Before we start, I think now is the time to return to something you told me a month ago. Something about how you had a run-in with Orochimaru?”
Sasori still didn’t want to discuss a notorious missing-nin with said missing-nin’s teammate, but he also recognized he was caught like a worm on a hook and couldn’t avoid this conversation. “I was in Iwa for two months, working out a trade agreement for prosthetics. In that time, Rasa sealed the Ichibi in Gaara, and I accidentally adopted a child.” Jiraiya’s eyebrows rose at the admission of Deidara’s adoption. “While Deidara and I were traveling back to Suna, Orochimaru introduced himself.”
Jiraiya settled back against the wheelchair. He barely fit, given that it was meant for someone of Sasori’s more compact (petite, Komushi declared distantly) size, and his bulk seemed to overflow it. “He approached you right after you accidentally adopted a child with a kekkai genkai that the Tsuchikage wouldn’t have allowed to leave had he known? And Orochimaru just let you both get away?”
Ah. Knowing what he did about Orochimaru’s experiments that resulted in Yamato, Sasori could now see where Jiraiya’s concern had been. (Not Sasori and his own history with Komushi. That was good.)
“Actually, Orochimaru approached me on behalf of his new employer.”
Jiraiya, a man who was always trying to dispel his restless energy through talking with his hands, jiggling his leg, tapping or tracing things with his fingers, thoughts openly displayed across his face… went very still. A thrill zipped up and down Sasori’s spine – damn that fight-and-flight response – but he forced his body to remain relaxed and loose. The silence stretched them between them dangerously.
Sasori chose to break the silence as the hair on the back of his neck rose on end and a chill wormed its way into his bones. “Jiraiya, I’m feeling rather alarmed with your reaction.”
Jiraiya’s eyes glittered. The memory of Namikaze Minato, still sharp despite six years and a thousand kilometers away in the mountains of Waterfall, briefly superimposed itself over Jiraiya’s face.
(Namikaze’s face was as still and as cold as carved granite. “What kind of puppet?” His voice was gentle and deadly at the same time, like velvet-wrapped steel.)
The pressure that surrounded him – it wasn’t killing intent as Sasori knew and understood it. It was like Kagami staring into Namikaze’s eyes with his evolved Sharingan, or Danzo, on a bench inquiring after a foreign nin who had perused the brain scans of Konoha’s greatest tracker – the weight of a ruthless predator calculating whether you better off simply not existing.
“Jiraiya,” Sasori said again, careful to keep his voice bland, “I get the feeling you’re trying to decide if I’m too dangerous to live, or not.”
“It’s a puzzle piece,” Jiraiya replied, his voice flat, his black eyes like a void in which everything was sucked into, never to be seen again. “Puzzle pieces after puzzle pieces span your life, Sasori-kun.” He ticked off each puzzle piece with his fingers. “One piece: your puppet, Komushi. Another piece: your link to Tsume. A third piece: Tsume’s son, Yamato. A fourth piece: your ease around the Ichibi. A fifth piece: Orochimaru making an appearance right after Gaara’s sealing. A sixth piece: your son. And in the middle of this puzzle,” he leaned forward, sliding his hands flat against the workshop bench, as if reaching towards Sasori, “is yourself, and how you tend to be situated in all the right places at all the right times. Why should I not suspect the worst?”
Sasori sighed; he had grossly misjudged when he initially thought Jiraiya was unconcerned with Sasori’s history with Komushi. “If you’re going to kill me, do me the favor of bringing Komushi to Kagami.”
Jiraiya’s head slowly tilted, white locks of hair brushing against the red markings on his face. “Why should I?”
Sasori didn’t know if that was in reference to killing Sasori, or bringing Komushi to Kagami. “Because Kagami promised to free Komushi’s soul after I died.” It would also have the added bonus of Jiraiya being on the receiving end of Kagami’s black wolf in having to explain what happened to Sasori.
“You are more concerned for your dead friend than your own son?”
“You wouldn’t hurt a child,” Sasori replied with firm certainty. “Tsume wouldn’t trust you otherwise.”
Jiraiya leaned forward on his arms, leaving his hands flat as he pushed his face closer to Sasori. Muscles bunching like a stalking jaguar, reading itself for an ambush. “Explain the puzzle pieces to me.”
Sasori willed his body to remain loose. His hands remained steady. “Anything I say to you could easily be construed as cleverly worded justifications and excuses to hide deceit. You are simply too close to Orochimaru to not look for hidden meanings.”
“You do seem the type. But,” a vicious smile slashed across Jiraiya’s face, “Tsume trusts you.”
“Kagami once told me that Tsume has a rather frightening habit of collecting misanthropic little murder-vipers like they’re a box of abandoned kittens, so I know you don’t trust me just because Tsume trusts me. You see qualities in me that everyone but Tsume also sees that makes me a very interesting target for Orochimaru’s employer.” Sasori deliberately paused. “Which tells me that you know more about this employer than I do.”
“Nothing gets past you, kiddo. Clever, creative, ambitious, flexible morals.” Jiraiya leaned backwards, steepling his fingers as he kept his elbows resting on the table. Sasori found it easier to breathe with the increased distance between them. “You have a startling resemblance to my old teammate, and I’m not going to apologize for seeing such. Explain the puzzle pieces to me, because from my perspective, there’s a lot of intercepting strings connecting you to so many things, and you, the puppet master, stand in the middle. Too many strings for all these things to be mere coincidences. The last thing I want to do is teach fuuinjutsu to a miniature reincarnation of Orochimaru, for good reason.”
Sasori laughed bitterly. “Story of my life.” But there was something every dangerous Konoha shinobi who turned their suspicion on Sasori had in common, and that was how the black wolf could be quieted if you could sensibly alleviate their suspicion. “May I share a letter with you, before I explain the puzzle pieces?”
Jiraiya shrugged. “If you think it would help, sure.”
“It’s located in the cabinet with all of my poisons. Will you trust that I won’t grab a poison?”
“Sure, kid. Because if something happens to me, you’ll have to explain it to Tsume and Kagami, wouldn’t you? Can’t lie to her.”
“She can probably smell exactly what’s going on from here,” Sasori said as he sent chakra threads to the cabinet. Despite how casual Sasori’s statement was, Jiraiya’s fingers tightened in their steeple – Jiraiya clearly had a very good idea on how strong Tsume’s olfaction was. Sasori retrieved the letter that the Kazekage had sent the Hokage years ago. Since some poisons could be absorbed topically from paper, Sasori used his chakra threads to hold the letter open and aloft for Jiraiya to read it so he wouldn’t have to touch it.
Hokage-sama, what would you have done if you could see the destination that your apprentice’s path was taking him?

Do with Sasori as you will should he survive.

~ Third Kazekage
Jiraiya raised his eyebrows at the letter. “The Third Kazekage actually reached out to Hiruzen-sensei about you?”
It was dangerous to keep the Third Kazekage’s letter, but Sasori did so anyway, as a physical reminder to himself on how he could never return to his previous path, no matter how tempting Rasa made it look.
“You weren’t the first to see my resemblance to Orochimaru. Your Hokage sicced Kagami and Tsume on me. I spent a miserable long four weeks in the company of a man who practices kintsugi on the human soul, and a fearless woman who decided that what I needed was to be loved and protected. Komushi…” Sasori felt the glimmer of Komushi’s soul, comfortably ensconced within his own, though they were physically separated by a single wall between Sasori’s workshop and his bedroom, where Komushi sat on the bed. But the short distance and the physical barrier couldn’t dim Komushi’s bright soul. “Komushi died in this room. Pricked his finger on a poisoned blow dart that I had been making for him. It was accidental, it was stupid.”

Komushi knew what the blow darts did, and he knew Sasori’s poisons. Sasori still wondered, all these years after, why his best friend would make such a careless mistake. “I was not in a good place, emotionally, when it happened. I was struggling with my grandmother’s deceit and the news of my parents’ death. Six years, Jiraiya – they had been dead for six years before my grandmother finally admitted that they had been killed – I only learned of it a year before Komushi died. Komushi was the only person in this entire world whom I trusted, and he was just gone. One moment we were having coffee, and then a few hours later, he was a corpse on a cold slab of stone. I had no one else in my life. I couldn’t let him go.”
(Bring him back. Bring him back.)

(“I will be the wind beneath your wings.”)

“So, you’re saying that you turned your best friend’s corpse into a puppet because of grief?”
How many times had Sasori explained this to different Konoha nin over the years? Why was it that they always wanted to know, but Suna never did? Konoha nin, Sasori decided, were mostly talk and little action. But fuck all if they weren’t effective at both. “I assure you, my mind was more like Sakumo’s when I saw Komushi’s body, and much less than Orochimaru’s.”
That admission visibly startled Jiraiya. “Huh.” It didn’t ease the cold pressure that surrounded Sasori though.
“Komushi’s final wish, according to my grandmother, was that I didn’t blame myself. Unfortunately, that wish remains unfulfilled to this very day.”
“Do you regret turning your friend into a puppet?”
Did Sasori regret the continuing presence of his best friend’s soul in the last six years? No. Was it safe to admit such to Jiraiya? Also no. But was Sasori still wracked with guilt for condemning his best friend to this plane, instead of allowing him to know peace? Yes. And was he selfless enough to let his friend go, despite the guilt? Absolutely not. “I trapped my best friend’s soul in that puppet, instead of allowing his funeral pyre the next morning. I condemned him. In the end, I am a terrible friend.”

“Well, if nothing else, you have self-awareness,” Jiraiya grumbled.
“I am self-aware enough to know how extremely selfish I am,” Sasori replied. “I have many regrets.” Let Jiraiya decide if that was in reference to condemning Komushi’s soul or turning him into a puppet, or both. “I had spent a year, immersing myself in hatred and fantasies of vengeance against the man who killed my parents, Jiraiya. And then I did what I did to Komushi. And it was shortly after that the Kazekage tried to have me killed, because I was a rabid dog and there is no cure for rabies.”
“The arsenic,” Jiraiya guessed.
“I certainly thought so. My teammates were tasked to kill me off, though they likely wouldn’t have succeeded. Whether fortunate or not, the arsenic finished them off before they could get to me. Kiri sabotaged the oasis.” Sasori indicated the letter, still floating with his chakra threads. “Because of the Kazekage’s letter, Hokage sent Team Sakumo for the exchange, knowing that Tsume wouldn’t see a rabid dog.”
“Like that would’ve stopped her. I’ve seen Tsume take on rabid dogs,” Jiraiya replied, his voice flat. “The fact that they’re foaming at the mouth and their brains are already half-melted hasn’t stopped her. She needs to get a rabies booster every odd year for a reason.”
That was… okay, yeah. Sasori wasn’t surprised. “I rehabilitated in Konoha for six months after we finally made it back – Tsume allowed me to stay with her during that time. The first time I met Yamato, I startled him, and he would’ve skewered me if it weren’t for Tsume’s well-timed kawarimi. He made my mother’s puppet sprout branches.” He put the letter back with his chakra threads, and brought his first personal prosthetic to the worktable; he had outgrown them three years ago. “You’re an author,” he said, remembering Tsume’s delight in reading Tale of a Gutsy Shinobi to Yamato. She had promised in one of their letters between Iwa and Suna to send a copy to Sasori for Deidara, but she probably either forgot or hadn’t found a copy yet. “I think you’d appreciate the symbolism.” He slid his fingers under the prosthetic’s silicone skin and worked it back to reveal the ironwood bones wrapped with threads of silk. “I fashioned my new bones from those tree limbs that sprouted from my mother’s puppet.”
Jiraiya leaned forward to look, his face melting into wonder. “Ooooh, that is clever – made yourself puppet legs from your mother’s puppet the same way she made your legs in the womb.”
“Tsume told me about Yamato being Orochimaru’s experiment – the only one to live.” Sasori pinned Jiraiya with his eyes. “She took a child with an unstable, extremely dangerous kekkai genkai, and she made him her son. Did you know she whacked the Ichibi over the nose with a rolled-up comic book when she saw Gaara in Shukaku’s forehead?”
The surrounding pressure of that cold killing intent ebbed backwards slightly. “Okay, first – that doesn’t surprise me. Scuttlebutt has it that when the Kyuubi attacked, Tsume was in the shower, and she was trying to run after that thing wrapped in a shower curtain to clobber him into submission with a loofah. Second, how the hell did she get to Suna when the Ichibi was running rampant?”
“Twenty-seven seconds, Jiraiya. Between me sending our wolverine summon to her, and her being reverse-summoned back. That’s how long it took for her to answer the call. Wearing just a bathrobe.”
The pressure ebbed back a little more. “Girl’s got a bad habit of jumping bijuu while wearing next to nothing, doesn’t she.”
Sasori rubbed his forehead and sighed. “Her blouse was unbuttoned and completely open because she paused in breastfeeding Hana to jump Waterfall’s jinchuuriki.”
Jiraiya burst into hearty laughter at that, and the pressure completely disappeared. “Only Tsume would have the courage to take on a bijuu while half-naked.”
There was a fine line between courage and stupidity, and sometimes, Sasori still wasn’t sure where that line was when it came to Tsume.
“I swore to Tsume to never tell anyone about her son, Yamato. I suppose you don’t count, for the simple fact that you already know everything. You are the first person I’ve ever said anything about Yamato’s kekkai genkai to, because Tsume doesn’t want word to reach Orochimaru. I will not endanger her or her son.” That was three puzzle pieces addressed. Sasori put his prosthetic leg back where he had stored it. He still used his old prosthetics as samples of Suna prosthetics. “As for my ease around the Ichibi, I knew his previous jinchuuriki. He was a kind, lonely old man named Bunpuku. I first met him copying the containment seals off of Shukaku’s tea kettle so I could apply them to a puppet I was crafting. Remember, I am the grandson and heir to Suna’s Poison Queen. I thought demonic chakra was like any other toxic substance – something to build an immunity to if I could expose myself.”
Jiraiya dropped his hands in his lap, looking relaxed and loose. “And did you?”
“I returned regularly for one year to play sentan with Bunpuku. I was always terrified – Shukaku was loud, cruel, constantly leaking his demonic chakra. I forced myself to learn how to compartmentalize and think through the fear. I have since realized that unless you have a very specific brain injury, there is no immunity to demonic chakra. I spent a year trying to build that immunity – a year of Shukaku in a good mood. After Bunpuku’s death – that was Shukaku in a bad mood. There is a distinct difference between those two moods. After my medical leave in Konoha, I went back to visiting Shukaku, because, well… Fumiko told me that Uzumaki Mito had said that the key to taking the bijuu is love. I’m not sure how to love such a creature, but I knew he was lonely, so I figured I could at least offer companionship.” Sasori pointedly shoved his index finger against the workbench. “When I asked Tsume to come, Shukaku was in a good mood. He’s been in a good mood this entire time.”
Jiraiya’s eyebrows shot upward. “Are you serious?”
“Suna has been damn lucky so far. I saw Konoha a week after the Kyuubi’s attack. That demon had been in a bad mood. A bijuu is a good mood isn’t quite as terrifying as Tsume’s gouka inugami, Namikaze Minato when he’s trying to kill a dragon, Uchiha Kagami when he’s stopping Namikaze from killing a dragon, or a bijuu in a bad mood.”
Jiraiya’s jaw flexed, like he wanted to say something, as he crossed his arms in front of himself. “So having seen the Ichibi in a good mood and a bad mood, on a scale of being the absolute worst thing you’ve ever seen to a pocket full of sunshine, his good mood ranks…” Jiraiya counted backwards silently. “…fifth on the scale of the worst?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me about Orochimaru and his employer.”
“They probably don’t offer dental,” Sasori said immediately, still feeling a little put out that people would prioritize world peace over good oral health. What was the point about enjoying world peace if your teeth rotted and fell out?
Jiraiya’s expression went flat. “Dental.”
“And their sexual harassment policy is do not sexually harass Konan upon fear of dying by extreme prejudice.”
Somehow, Jiraiya’s expression became even more flat. “Konan.”
“Why no one else in their employment falls under that policy is unknown to me.”
“What else do they offer?”

“A well-stocked lab, no limits on my art or scientific endeavors, a generous monthly stipend so long as I fulfill certain mission obligations, and the opportunity to achieve world peace. I also didn’t get an answer about the paternity leave.”
Jiraiya pinched the bridge of his nose. “Paternity leave.”
Sasori supposed that of all the things he had expected to hear about this meeting with Orochimaru, Sasori’s HR background and knowledge of Internal Affairs wasn’t expected to be the focal point. “I told Orochimaru that I had just adopted a new son, reminded him that bonding with new children is very important, and that he had written the paper on the importance of skin-to-skin-bonding.”
Jiraiya, still pinching the bridge of his nose, winced. “Deidara is a little old for that.”
“Orochimaru said the same thing. He also automatically assumed that Deidara is an acquisition for science. I didn’t even want Deidara to begin with. I fed him once, and he’s been following me around ever since. The Tsuchikage was so delighted that I was keeping Deidara from blowing up and burning down other orphanages that he actually sent money to the Kazekage to hire me for a D rank babysitting mission while I was in Iwa.”
Jiraiya’s hand dropped down as his head tilted back so he could stare at the ceiling. “You don’t say.”
“After bringing Deidara back for the third time I attempted to return to Suna, the Tsuchikage told me to keep him and tried to give me a bill of sale. I reminded him that a bill of sale for another human being violates international human rights, and that I would rather sign adoption papers.”
Jiraiya’s exaggerated sigh was both tired and amused. “So it’s not so much that you adopted a son but a child nabbed a father the same way Tsume nabs the occasional murder-viper.”
Sasori’s hands dropped limp on the workshop bench as horrified realization struck him. “Gods of earth and sky,” he whispered. Jiraiya lifted his head to look at him. “I adopted a mini-Tsume.” Everything suddenly made so much sense, from Deidara fearlessly giggling at a gigantic snake summon (high through he was after consuming a mild hallucinogenic mushroom), to him smacking Jiraiya’s toad summon and hand, to exploding a playground because Temari had egged him on. He briefly wondered if he should get a brain scan on Deidara to see if he had a fully-functioning amygdala.
“Thinking about taking that job offer?” Jiraiya asked, his voice dry.
Sasori had visions of Deidara as an adult, just as crass and reckless as Tsume, with no functional sense of self-preservation, armed with his kekkai genkai and happily exploding random things. “It’s looking a little more tempting, right now.”
“Even despite the lack of dental?”
“Dental is important,” Sasori told Jiraiya firmly. “And so is paternity leave. I have been trying to talk Rasa into offering paternity leave and extending the maternity leave in order to encourage more shinobi and kunoichi to develop their families. Few ninja are willing to take time off because it impacts their careers and financial stability. I did get Rasa to agree to an early childcare center with overnight stays so kunoichi don’t have to put their careers on hold, and we’re currently interviewing ninja who retired from their injuries but haven’t been able to find meaningful employment yet.”
Jiraiya studied Sasori long and hard, and then moved the forgotten oil canvass wrapped scroll from his lap to the surface of the workshop bench. “Yeah, I’m not worried about you joining the dark side, no matter how much world peace or dental Akatsuki may offer you.”
“Akatsuki will be back,” Sasori said, causing Jiraiya to freeze as he started to unwrap the scroll. “Orochimaru said that the offer of employment is ordinarily a one-time deal for which refusals results in death, but they expected me to take time to consider all angles and realize how very little I want to remain in Suna. Which means that someone will be back to see if I have reconsidered.”
“And do you?” Jiraiya asked as he finished unwrapping the scroll. “Do you want to remain in Suna?”
Sasori snorted. “And leave Rasa unsupervised to run Sunagakure? You’re currently dealing with the mess the man made in my three-month absence. My summon is a wolverine, Jiraiya. Suna may not be much compared to potential world peace and the best dental money can buy, but it’s my home territory.”
“What are the odds of you refusing their job offer?” This time, Jiraiya was no-nonsense in vocal and facial expression.
Sasori considered such, and then sighed. “Well, I’ve already died once and it didn’t stick. I’ll just have to take my chances.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Fuuinjutsu was fascinating. Sasori took to it like a lizard took to a warm rock in the sun, soaking up everything that Jiraiya deemed to teach him, though it was just a scratch on the surface (Jiraiya refused to let Sasori read his scroll even once in its entirety – the bastard knew that Sasori had a damn good memory, but only Sasori’s grandmother truly understood it to be eidetic that captured with the same strength as a Sharingan). Within the graceful strokes of seals charged with chakra ink was the ability to manipulate space, time, thermodynamics, chakra natures, gravity, life, and death. Seals could create strong barriers or unbreakable chains. Fuuinjutsu could cross a thousand kilometers in a heartbeat. Fuuinjutsu could bind the bijuu.
Fuuinjutsu bent natural law over and made it its bitch.
“Can fuuinjutsu manipulate luck?” Sasori asked suddenly as he practiced some seals (flawlessly) with a graphite pencil.
Jiraiya, who had been scribbling notes (“just some ideas for my new novel, kid”) in a notebook while his leg restlessly jiggled, looked up. “Not that I’m aware of.”
“But is it possible?”
“I suppose that would depend on your definition of luck and the nebulous concept of fate, for what is luck but a random chance that brings you good fortune that defies what your fate should’ve been?”
Sasori squinted at the large man. “I can’t figure out how Tsume gets into and out of trouble the way she does. If you told me that someone had slapped a fuuinjutsu seal on her that gives both good and bad luck, I’d believe you.”
Jiraiya’s eyes slid away from Sasori as his leg stopped jiggling. “Yeah, that would explain so much on how she manages to survive despite the numerous situations she’s been in during her life, wouldn’t it?”
Sasori studied Jiraiya’s stillness, the subtle shifts of his muscles as he gripped his pencil, the quickening of the pulse in Jiraiya’s throat. “She does have a seal,” Sasori said, leaning back in his chair. “Eternal Sands. And here I thought she was just a child that the sadistic, capricious gods heavily favored instead.” And then a memory flashed through his mind. “‘Me,’” he whispered in realization. “That’s what she was going to say before Namikaze whisked her away. She said Orochimaru’s human experiments didn’t start with children. They started with seals and me.”
Jiraiya was very still, and his eyes dark and cold.
Rage coursed through Sasori. “What did Orochimaru do to Tsume?”
Jiraiya spun his pencil between his fingertips. “Sasori.” His voice was low, rumbling like a distant avalanche. “There are some questions that should never be asked, and cannot be answered.” He swiftly held up his other hand, index finger raised stiffly. “Don’t.” The warning in his eyes made the hair on the back of Sasori’s neck stand on end. “You cannot pursue that curiosity, for Tsume’s own well-being. She never should’ve implied an existence of a seal in the first place.”
Words clawed at Sasori’s throat as he thought of Sakumo’s clouded gaze, and fear smashed itself into rage. “Is her seal rigid, like Sakumo’s was?”
Jiraiya set his pencil in the center of his notebook, and closed the pages. “This is your one freebie, kid, and only because I know how much you care about her – Tsume’s seal is not rigid, and it cannot harm her directly. She has full control of it because of my addition.”
Sasori bit his tongue to prevent further questions.oOoOoOo
It became unfortunately clear that it wasn’t just Sasori’s lessons that kept Jiraiya returning to Suna when Sasori entered his home and found Chiyo, giggling and beaming like a teenager, as Jiraiya leaned close and whispered charming nothings in her ear.
Sasori stared. He blinked. He walked out of the kitchen, back out the front door, took a deep breath of the hot air as the sun beat down on him, muttered a Kai with a flare of his chakra, and then returned. It… it wasn’t a genjutsu. Jiraiya and Chiyo stared back at him, still seated uncomfortably close at the kitchen table – a very large, hairy lump side-by-side with a teeny-tiny shriveled-up hag – with bundles of fresh poison plants arranged artfully on the kitchen table. Each bundle was tied together with brightly-colored satin ribbons of white, orange, yellow, blue, purple, and silver. Pink and white oleander. A rainbow array of foxglove. Podded castor beans. Intense blue wolfsbane. Rosary peas. Mistletoe. Blooming branches of the strychnine tree. To still be fresh meant these plants had been delivered, given how many couldn’t be successfully grown in Suna’s greenhouses.
And in his grandmother’s hair was a bright red ribbon – the same red as Sasori’s hair – that Jiraiya was playfully tugging.

The idea that Jiraiya and Rasa could potentially flirt with each other had been appalling, and had thankfully never happened (at least as far as Sasori had to personally witness). But this? Jiraiya bringing his grandmother flowers and smiling and laughing and charming that wrinkled old prune who had displayed all the sexuality of a rock Sasori’s entire life?

“No,” he told Jiraiya firmly. “That is my grandmother!”
Far from being intimidated or ashamed of himself, Jiraiya turned a charming smile on Chiyo, who blushed and beamed once again. “I like mature women,” Jiraiya said in a low, silky voice as his hand slowly drew away from Chiyo, the red ribbon trailing between his fingers suggestively.
Sasori yanked them apart with his chakra threads. “Absolutely not!”
Chiyo huffed a glare, which lacked its usual bite with the blush still coloring her cheeks. “Boy, do you have any idea how rare it is to receive the charming attention from a handsome man around here who isn’t intimidated by my reputation?”
“A well-earned reputation that I’ve always admired,” Jiraiya added with a wag of his bushy eyebrows.
Chiyo giggled.
She giggled.
The woman who had taught Sasori how to manipulate corpses before he had even graduated the Academy, who had sternly guided his hands through his first autopsies, who had brought him along on multiple assassinations and taught him how to be ruthless and relentless in battle… she giggled.
Chiyo yanked Sasori back with her own chakra threads when he attempted to cram the foxglove down Jiraiya’s throat.
“Oh for crying out loud!” She sat Sasori down harshly in a kitchen chair. “It’s not like I hatched your father out of an egg!
After all the education I’ve given you over these years, you know how babies are made! I may be old, but I’m not as dried up as the desert.”
Jiraiya laughed, loud and booming with his head tossed back. “The wolverine really does suit you, kid!”oOoOoOo
Tsume stubbornly refused to commiserate in Sasori’s misery of watching Jiraiya make smooth attempts at seducing his grandmother, and his grandmother eagerly welcoming the smooth attempts. Tsume’s letter reminded Sasori that, yes, Jiraiya may be young enough to be Chiyo’s son, but he was also old enough to be Sasori’s father. While the age gap might be a little uncomfortable (“A little?” Sasori demanded with a huff; alas, the letter couldn’t reply) both parties were mature enough (“That’s a stretch,” Sasori grumbled, thinking about Jiraiya in general, as well as his grandmother in light of her behaviors) to engage in any sort of relationship they felt comfortable with. And then Tsume had the audacity to remind Sasori that Kagami and Fumiko had flirted shamelessly with each other during their road trip.
Sasori felt there was a world of difference between a married couple still passionately in love with each other, and his grandmother flirting with a man half her age. Especially when both seemed sadistically delighted with how their behaviors clearly made him squirm*. Yes, he was clinically aware that his grandmother had sex at least once, which resulted in the successful conception and pregnancy of his father. Yes, he was clinically aware of how scandalized most of Suna had been at the time, given that Chiyo had been unmarried and having a fling with four different men at the same time, and would never admit to who the father was (Sasori suspected that Chiyo didn’t know, and frankly didn’t care). Yes, he was clinically aware that even geriatric people had a sex drive.
But being clinically aware and therefore emotionally detached was entirely different from witnessing what was happening in his own house.
“You get used to it,” Ebizo told Sasori over a cup of coffee in the same café years ago that Sasori had shared his final cup with Komushi.
Sasori contemplated drowning himself in his coffee. It would be a hell of a lot warmer than drowning in Lake Kogan. “I don’t want to.” Alas, the caffeine would probably keep his heart beating.
“Sister dear has always had a weakness for handsome fellows who are attracted despite her poisons and don’t mind her being so short.”
Sasori contemplated drowning Ebizo in his coffee.
“I’m sure she’s using appropriate protection,” Ebizo continued blithely. “While pregnancy isn’t a risk at her age, Chiyo is aware that STDs don’t care about age.”
Sasori decided that he would much rather discuss Chiyo’s sex life with Danzo than with his great-uncle.
“If it bothers you so much, you can always move out.”
“Wouldn’t work. You know the moment I do that, Grandmother is going to camp out in the living room and claim I have a filial responsibility for providing shelter in her golden years.”
Ebizo thought about that for a moment, his bushy eyebrows twitching. “Yeah, you’re probably right. Best thing you can do about it is just forget about the affair then.”
An eidetic memory was a fucking curse.oOoOoOo
In the two months after Jiraiya’s tutelage had finished, Sasori hunted down every scrap of possible fuuinjutsu seals in Suna, from the scant few in the hospital such as those used to slow bleeding during surgery and to maintain a medically-induced coma, to the ancient and deteriorating security seals in the Suna Cliffs designed to protect Suna whenever a sand storm swept over them, to the forbidden siren seal that the Third Kazekage locked away during the Second War (Sasori was Head of Internal Affairs – no files were locked or forbidden to him; especially when Rasa was busy taking Shukaku for his once weekly walks in the sand dunes and allowing the bijuu to freely decimate the sparse flora and fauna, undoubtedly turning local rare species into endangered species on the brink of extinct).
Sasori played with them, testing out separate elements to understand what each part meant, using inanimate objects, snakes, desert rats, and lizards to explore. He determined that the siren seal should never be used on human beings, but was great for baiting traps, especially when it came to easily collecting his favored venomous snakes. He strengthened the seals in the Suna Cliffs. He added a barrier seal to his workshop that locked out anyone under the age of ten and freely allowed him and Chiyo to enter unimpeded. He added seals on Gaara’s bottles and formula to neutralize poisons. He added a heating seal to his coffee mug so his coffee would never go cold. He added seals to his prosthetics to always keep sand and gold dust out. He wasn’t always successful in his endeavors – the seals he attempted to add to Chiyo’s knitting needles so her yarn would never tangle was a complete flop. But, eh, he’d figure it out eventually.
Fuuinjutsu was truly the perfect marriage between science and art, Sasori decided with glee as he managed to successfully etch a seal on a stone in Grandmother’s outdoor herb garden that improved moisture retention in the surrounding soil, thinking about all the ways he could use this to improve local food growth in Suna. They used their gray water from washing and showers to water individual herb and vegetable gardens to supplement their food supplies, and their black water for fertilizer production. With his fuuinjutsu seals, Sasori had Grand Plans to expand this far and wide.
“You are drunk on power,” Rasa complained when Sasori’s chair, sealed to only allow Sasori to sit in it, immediately dumped Rasa’s ass on the floor.
“I am not,” Sasori said. (If he cackled after he successfully added a seal to the filing cabinets to prevent anyone from misfiling, with their attempt flying out of their hands and scattering all over the room, well, only Menpu was present to witness, and she completely supported Sasori in their quest for Organization and Efficiency.)

(Sasori was not drunk on power, he was bored out of his fucking mind, benched from field missions and Village-bound with occasional childminding for Rasa, as he wasn’t allowed to leave Suna until Rasa could trust more people – the Kazekage duties meant that Rasa couldn’t devote full-time parenting and safety to Gaara, even when the assassination attempts against Gaara had even started filtering in from undercover foreign shinobi, and frankly, Yashamaru wasn’t as powerful as Sasori was. Thankfully, none of the assassination attempts had been linked back to Konoha, but Rasa was only convinced that meant that Konoha was simply better at disguising their attempts than anyone else. Sasori simply sighed, took Gaara for an overnight stay, and reminded Rasa that chronic sleep deprivation increased paranoia and possible hallucinations/delusions, and Rasa really needed to get his own sleep.)oOoOoOo
Sasori was nineteen years old when Akatsuki finally followed up with him.
“You know,” he said, not looking over his shoulder at a woman swathed in the long black coat decorated in red clouds as her paper wings set her in the sand, “your follow up on job interviews is remarkably slow. Do you have any idea how long I’ve been waiting to hear back on that dental? I despise waiting.” He finished changing the diaper, snapped the onesie closed, and then slipped on the pants and sandals. “There, now you have a dry bottom, Shukaku,” he said. “Feel better?”
“Immensely. Why do you puny flesh bags have so many leaking holes?” Before Sasori could answer him with a dense lecture of human physiology and anatomy, Gaara’s little body twisted around, and the jinchuuriki dashed away on a tidal wave of sand with barely a look at the newcomer.
Confident that Shukaku wouldn’t wander off too far, Sasori tucked the dirty diaper into the diaper bag, and turned to face the woman. “Are the facial piercings part of the required uniform?” he asked.
She was twisted slightly away from Sasori, watching Gaara/Shukaku as he continued to ride the tidal waves of sand, sending columns of chiindii dancing across the dunes. “He is quite young.”
Sasori snorted as he sat comfortably in the sand. He leaned back, fingers digging for balance, and tilted his face to the warm sun without turning his gaze away from her.
“Don’t let Shukaku hear you say that, or he will regale you a thousand years of the history he’s lived while your mud monkey ancestors were crawling their way out of the primordial soup.”
She turned her eyes upon him. They were a startling amber color, more orange than gold, which was a beautiful contrast against her blue hair. Truly complimentary colors. “You seem comfortable in Suna.”
“Suna has its monsoons and its draughts, and little in between.”
The woman was silent for a moment, as if looking for any metaphorical meaning, as her paper wings backwards and absorbed through her clothes into her skin. “Our employer feels that you have had more than enough time to come to any decision on joining our organization.”
“Dental?” Sasori asked again
“I’m afraid I cannot discuss any benefits without any agreement.”
Sasori noted the beading drops of sweat starting to form on the woman’s forehead. More fool her to wear black in this environment. “Orochimaru at least tried to make it look better than what I have in Suna.”
“He’s already told you what Akatsuki has to offer: funding, freedom, and pursuit of a higher purpose. What do you have here, Sasori-kun? You have laws and restrains that you must abide by, the threat of your own life hanging in the balance should you cross the Kazekage wrong or pursue science and art to your heart’s desires, still beholden to people who openly tug your strings.” She sighed, as if she were tired on Sasori’s behalf. “Have you forgotten that the Third tried to kill you? That the Fourth consigned his own son to be both prison and prisoner before he was even born? How your grandmother lied to you for so long? You have so few friends because your trust has been completely betrayed over and over. It seems the only person you truly trust in the whole world is a brain-injured fool who has thoughtlessly led you into peril repeatedly.”
Sasori leaned forward, running his hands through the sand, drawing intricate loops and swirls like he was raking the zen garden that Sekka maintained for stress relief (which Shukaku delighted in constantly disrupting every chance he could get, and then claimed he was merely giving Sekka more opportunities to destress). “You know a lot of details in my life.” Few of which were truly secret. Even the details of the Third Kazekage’s assassination attempt could be uncovered with the right digging through Konoha’s archives or carefully coached words from the Hokage’s guards or anyone the Third Kazekage may have confided in (thankfully, none of them being Rasa). “You certainly are aware of how I am a cautious man. Though you offer me a more direct path to power and knowledge, it is also a more dangerous path.”

“Your interest in fuuinjutsu is very telling in these last few months, as is how limited your materials to learn and explore. Akatsuki can offer you knowledge beyond your wildest imagination.”
“My imagination isn’t exactly wild,” Sasori replied, his voice dry. His curiosity, on the other hand…
“We have such rare tomes and scrolls from the fallen Uzushio to expand your repertoire of fuuinjutsu. Orochimaru has even volunteered to help you extend your knowledge. He has also proven to be very creative with his seals, and has expressed interest in partnering with you. Here, you are stifled, chained to a desk, not even unleashed long enough to remind the world how dangerous you truly are. You are a warrior, reduced to petsitting for a monster and wiping the ass of someone else’s child that could kill you if you swiped the wrong way.”
Shukaku cackled in the background when he emerged from one sand dune, triumphantly holding a thrashing diamondback viper as it thrashed in Gaara’s human hands. A whip of sand kept its venomous mouth pinned shut.
“I do find myself appreciating the subtle beauty and unending possibilities of fuuinjutsu, more so than my poisons recently,” Sasori murmured, still stroking the sand. The thought of partnering with Orochimaru – the opportunity to work with someone incredibly intelligent, who would challenge Sasori and help him broaden his horizons… It was extremely tempting. There were so few scientists that Sasori admired, and he had never had the opportunity to work side-by-side with one. (Orochimaru, he was pretty sure, wouldn’t shamelessly flirt with his grandmother… Jiraiya was still sending his grandmother flowers, even if she claimed it was only because they were toxic.)
The sand was almost blistering hot as he burrowed trenches through it. He loved feeling so warm – no shivers, no seeping cold that wormed its way through his muscles and settled marrow-deep in his bones. “And I admit that the opportunity to exercise my skills in the battle field have been lackluster.”
The only one in Suna who could truly challenge Sasori was Rasa, and Rasa didn’t dare cross that path because he feared that Sasori would defeat him. Sasori felt stagnated with so few actual challenges in his life.
“You were shaped to be a weapon, to kill – whether with blades or poisons. Is this boredom the life you want?”
“No. My mind is constantly looking for stimulation, of which there’s been little, as of late.”
He had built his prosthetics to withstand battle, and hadn’t even had the opportunity to push the limits of his own creation and see how well they held. He made puppets for the purpose of fighting, and wasn’t given a chance to use them. He didn’t have the opportunity to use fuuinjutsu on the fly in a battle.
“You are still ruthless and deadly. You were painting the desert sands red at the age of ten with the blood of your fallen enemies, and then you raised their corpses as puppets to kill even more. I was warned against ever accepting a cup of tea from you.”
Sasori kept weaving his fingers through the sand as a cold, hard pit formed in his belly. An eidetic memory was both a blessing and a curse. In this case, it was a blessing because Sasori knew he had only once said that precise combination with three people, all of whom were supposed to be dead – except for the one whom only Tsume was certain wasn’t. And Tsume had never given Sasori any reason to doubt her sincerity in all the years he had known her. “Is that why you chose to approach me in the middle of the desert? To escape the normal bounds of human hospitality in which I’d offer you a cup of tea?”
“You serve no true purpose here living where trust has been broken; the only thing you’re killing is time.”
Sasori turned his eyes upon Shukaku/Gaara, who had torn the snake apart with his bare hands and left it writhing on the sands, bleeding out, and was now imitating a desert toad with the jumping away. He seemed rather enthralled with his shadow. Sasori took a quick evaluation of what he had – no puppets, one Ichibi in a good mood, and himself, with no poisons on hand because Rasa would find that suspicious if someone attempted to assassinate Gaara with poison while on his weekly walkie, and Sasori had deliberately divested himself of any poisons and allowed Rasa to inspect his prosthetics. He hadn’t brought any chakra ink…
Then he evaluated what he faced – someone who was employed with the likes of Orochimaru, so likely similar in power. Jiraiya had never given him any information on what to expect with Akatsuki. This was someone who had confidently approached Sasori while the jinchuuriki was present, either because she sought both, or felt comfortable in taking on both.
Someone whose organization dealt with rejection of offered employment with death. An organization which had been in close contact with someone who had hurt Tsume, had deliberately targeted the vulnerable unborn child that Tsume had loved and wanted from the moment he was conceived. Someone who had betrayed Tsume.
And as tempting as it was to work with the likes of Orochimaru, Sasori could never side with anyone who had hurt and betrayed Tsume. He was aware that with his curiosity and thirst for knowledge that it would be too easy to return to the path he had been treading before he lost his feet, and the only thing holding him back was his loyalty to a very small, very select number of people whose esteem he held in high regard.
(He really should be careful about complaining about boredom. The gods seemed to take it as a challenge.)
“Have you ever heard about kintsugi?” he asked the woman. Explaining kintsugi would take less time than explaining two wolves.
She shifted her feet to face him fully. She kept her expression blank and her eyes flat. “No.”
“It’s an art and a craft.” The perfect blend in Sasori’s world. “The artist takes perfectly suitable pottery vessels, and shatters them. They break something perfectly serviceable and render it useless. The artist then painstakingly puts the pieces back together with gold – a precious, valuable metal worth far more than an unbroken pottery vessel. The gold veins highlights the trauma inflicted on that once perfectly intact pottery vessel, honors the shape that it once was, and in doing so, only increases the value of that which had once been broken and would’ve been useless.”
“Ah.” A small, genuine smile crossed the woman’s face. “Just like our goal for world peace. We want to bring the broken shards back together and make it more valuable.”
That hadn’t been where Sasori was leading, but he could work with it. “In the hands of an unskilled artist, the attempt remains useless, and becomes a waste of gold. My relationship with Suna is like kintsugi.” He couldn’t alert anyone to how his love and protection of Tsume was going to keep him from straying from his path, and not for his sense of territory for Suna.
The woman tensed – it was hidden well within the heavy, draping fabric of her cloak, but he could see the tightening tension in her eyebrows and lips. “And how skilled has the artist been with your relationship with Suna?”
Sasori’s answering reply was to grab ahold of her with the chakra threads he had snaked hidden below the sand.
She exploded into paper, her skin and cloak unfolding like a deck of cards as she shunshinned backwards. His strings had attached to the papers, and Sasori saw the fuuinjutsu seals on some of the papers just before they glowed. He threw himself backwards as they detonated, controlling his skid across the sand as a cloud of such billowed after him. He shielded his eyes – internal chakra threads forming a gossamer veil to prevent temporary blindness or corneal damage from the sand.
“Fuck! My snacks!”
Shukaku/Gaara threw himself into the sand cloud, and Gaara had to use his chakra threads to fend off a storm of paper-senbon. Several slipped through his threads of defense and sliced his right cheek, the lobe of his left ear, and his raised arms to shield his neck and eyes. It was followed by a wave of flat papers, stiff as wood. Sasori ducked and weaved through the wave, shunshinning out of reach, and they followed him like a cloud of angry wasps. Spotting one in the wave with an explosion seal, he attached a chakra thread to it and triggered the seal with a spike of chakra, igniting a fiery storm that incinerated the surrounding papers. He dropped his chakra threads to feed the fiery storm an uncontrolled blast of fuuton jutsu. The blood dripping off his face itched.
“Stop getting sand all over my snacks, you asshole!” Shukaku/Gaara shrieked at Sasori with a butterscotch cookie half-crammed into his mouth and the open diaper bag at his feet.
Sasori blasted the Akatsuki woman with a fuuton tunnel that sent her flying backwards across the dune, the miniature sand storm shredding more papers. Dozens more peeled away from her, as if she was made entirely of paper – she righted herself in midair with her paper wings that unfolded seamlessly. Feather-shaped papers ripped from her wings and sped after Sasori – he caught and shredded more with his chakra threads spinning like a halo all around him. One such feather slipped past his defenses and successfully slapped over his nostrils and mouth, blocking air supply.
Sasori ripped it free with a chakra thread and shredded it.
He forced chakra through his prosthetic feet to stand over the sand, instead of in it, stabilizing his footing and reducing the slog through it. But if the woman could control her paper with her thoughts and intentions, even improved footing in the sand would do little to help him.
She hovered ten meters away, ignoring Shukaku’s outraged yells about disturbing his weekly outing as more papers continued to peel away from her body, while her actual mass remained undisturbed. Kekkai genkai? he wondered distantly. Sasori’s fingertips glimmered blue as he spun a gossamer web around himself to catch any papers aimed at his blind spots.

“I like you, Akasuna no Sasori,” the woman said; her voice was calm and her breath was even, as if their brief skirmish was negligible. “You are kind to the Suna Academy children, the Kazekage’s children, and your own son.” Something gentle crossed her features – it was a melancholic contemplation. “Few would adopt an orphaned child, let alone one from an enemy Village, and give him a better life. Fewer still would set aside their fear to provide care and affection to something like a jinchuuriki. I truly do not want to kill you, especially after how closely I’ve watched you this last year. I’ve never before met someone whose kindness and ruthlessness is so well-married. We could use someone with your philosophy in our organization, and I’m perfectly willing to bring your son with us, and help keep him safe.”
Sasori slapped a hand over his cheek and healed the laceration before more blood could drip off his chin and itch his skin more, and because getting sand in open wounds stung like a bitch when it had to be cleaned out. “A relationship built off of trust cannot exist between me and the people who would force me into something I want no part of.”
“Damn it all, I got fucking sand in my diaper again. Board Boy, I need my butt changed!”
“Oh? It cannot?” Her eyebrows rose across her face like elegant sweeps of a pen. “You were forced to lose your feet, by Konoha. You were forced to travel with Konoha shinobi. You were forced to travel with a dragon.” A chill zipped up and down Sasori’s spine. “And yet you trust Konoha, which is as dark and as toxic as your poisons. We are patient; we can work with establishing and building trust.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you.” Sasori healed his earlobe.
“I’m afraid that you have no choice. Your ten chakra threads cannot effectively defend against my thousands of papers. And when you channel chakra through your fingertips to form the chakra threads, you cannot use any ninjutsu through your hands, either.”
“Fine. I’ll do it myself, and I’ll be so shitty at it you’ll never let me change my diaper again.”
“Who said I can only use ten threads?” Sasori asked, raising one hand in the air as the woman launched another paper assault. One thread jutted from each fingertip, and then each split apart like an unraveled rope. Hundreds of glimmering chakra threads sliced through the onslaught, shredding and igniting the thousands of assaulting papers.
With his other hand, he formed single seals and summoned fuuton jutsu to form miniature chiindii that blew the remaining papers away. The slamming wind and sand forced the woman back.
“I fucking hate being ignored.” Shukaku/Gaara, tangled in trying to remove his clothes, threw himself on the ground and threw a tantum.
The woman started to fly straight upward to avoid the ferocious column of sand that shot upwards at her from Shukaku’s temper tantrum, and then she jerked to a stop when a chakra thread finally succeeded in sliding through layers and layers of chakra-bright paper and burrowed into her skull. The column of sand snagged a leg, and she screamed brutally over the sound of crunching bones.
“Butt out, Shukaku!” Sasori yelled. “She’s mine!” If she was killed, who would come swarming to Suna for retaliation? Besides, dead men tell no tales, and Sasori wanted to know more about the so-not-dead Uchiha Obito.
“Fuck you!” With the snide pettiness of someone who had decided that if he couldn’t have this shiny plaything, then no one could, Shukaku whipped the woman back and forth twice, and then flung her spinning through the air, her body quickly fading in the distance. “This is my playtime, you shitstain. Your petty little squabble got fucking sand on my cookie and in my diaper. I want another hour.”
Sasori was miffed and annoyed. He had just revealed his trump card, didn’t get the opportunity to really test out his prosthetics (they did hold up nicely to remain on top of the sand, so there was that at least) and now there was a powerful woman with full knowledge of how he could use his chakra threads flung out of his reach and most likely crawling (or flying) back to Akatsuki. He had wanted to capture her and use his new truth serum on her to find out what she knew about Uchiha Obito and why Obito had shared so much information about Sasori, and that opportunity had slipped away like sand through his fingers because Shukaku was being a brat.
“Soooo, whatcha plan to tell that asshole, Rasa?” Shukaku asked as he chugged on a bottle filled with water. He gnawed on the nipple.
“Stop chewing holes in the nipples,” Sasori told Shukaku impatiently as he trudged through the sand over to him and the diaper bag. “I’ll just tell him it was an assassination attempt against you, once again.” He wasn’t going to be able to remove the bloodstains on his clothes from his facial wounds before anyone saw such, and he didn’t want Shukaku/Gaara blamed for losing his temper and attacking Sasori. He plopped down on the sand and concentrated on healing his arms.
Shukaku grinned, his yellow eyes blazing, as he bit the tip of the silicone nipple and spat it at Sasori. “But it wasn’t, for once,” he sang. “So whatcha going to fucking buy my silence with?”
Sasori glowered. “I don’t haggle.”
“I want butterscotch cookies every day.”
“No,” Sasori said firmly. “The International Board of Pediatric Specialists have determined that children under the age of two should have no added sugar in their diet. Those butterscotch cookies are a special treat, only.”
“Phooey. I’m a thousand year old mighty chakra beast. I will destroy the International Board of Pediatric Specialists. They can’t fucking tell me what to fucking eat or not eat.”
Sasori tuned out the thousand year old demon with the attitude of a toddler as he ranted at length on how no one should tell him how much alcohol or sugar he could have (none and very little, per Rasa’s repeated arguments with Shukaku), or how much destruction he was allowed, and being limited to wearing a human meat suit was an insulting downgrade from his superior form.oOoOoOo
Years passed. Letters and gifts were exchanged. Rasa eventually allowed Sasori the occasional leave from Suna to visit Konoha, because Rasa preferred to let Sasori off his leash for small periods of time to Tsume’s random visits to Suna by way of reverse-summoning herself with the wolverines. (At least Kakashi was a good sparing opponent. Unfortunately, sparing with Kakashi also meant frequent meetings with Guy, who challenged Sasori’s sanity almost as much as his taijutsu challenged Sasori’s prosthetics.) Rasa had tried to outright ban Tsume, but Gaara and Shukaku were in agreement when they pitched a fit because Tsume swore to withhold butterscotch cookies for the length of her ban, and somehow, she made better cookies than Sasori or Rasa, no matter how faithfully they followed Tsume’s recipe. (Sasori suspected that the level of humidity in Konoha made the difference. Rasa believed that Tsume was withholding a secret ingredient, no matter that Chiyo’s molecular investigation into Tsume’s cookies proved otherwise.)

Deidara joined forced with Gaara and Shukaku, because his godmother was a generous woman who had taught him how to make playdough that he could channel his kekkai genkai through and could always be trusted to bring a brand-new set of crayons. (With the advent of exploding playdough bombs, Deidara seemed to have given up his vendetta against potatoes.)
Sasori could see how the relationship between Konoha and Suna started to sour once Rasa realized how much sway Tsume inevitably held over Suna’s jinchuuriki. It was as if Sasori’s warning to treat Gaara like his human son and not as a living weapon to be controlled and aimed for wholesale slaughter lest Tsume nab the child and raise him herself had warped in Rasa’s brain. Somehow, Rasa decided that Tsume was slowly undermining Rasa’s authority and control through hugs and butterscotch cookies so she could eventually lure the jinchuuriki and Ichibi to Konoha permanently.
Short of chopping off Rasa’s feet and throwing him at a hormonal Tsume to go on a thousand kilometer road trip with Kagami drilling the concept of feeding two wolves into Rasa’s stubborn brain, Sasori had no idea how he could convince Rasa that Tsume (and ultimately Konoha) didn’t want the Ichibi. All Tsume really wanted was for a child facing a culture full of fear and hatred to be given a home full of love and nourishing encouragement, that Gaara wouldn’t grow up with a spiteful, bitter vessel who matched his bijuu rage for resentful rage.
It said something, Sasori thought bitterly, that Tsume understood the need to stay away (once he had explained it multiple times, and ultimately promised that he would give Gaara the same love and affection and protection that he gave Deidara), and so she did. It took over a year to convince her, but Tsume only visited Suna thereafter on Hokage-sanctioned missions.

But Rasa and most of the Suna Council couldn’t understand.
The antagonistic distance that spanned between Rasa and Sasori only grew, the two of them connected with a shaky bridge of knowing each other wanted Suna to survive and thrive.oOoOoOo
As Gaara grew and his own chakra levels and cognition with him, the more control he was able to exert over Shukaku’s frequent appearances and manifestations. By the time he was three years old, he had enough self-awareness to realize that most people in Suna avoided him, and those who didn’t openly showed fear and/or hatred. Deidara, with all the self-preservation of his godmother, neither feared nor hated Gaara, and was, in fact, reckless and stupid enough to hit or pinch Gaara when feeling impatient. Even when Gaara/Shukaku physically retaliated with whips of sand. Deidara also had a habit of squishing Gaara’s cheeks whenever he thought Gaara did something adorable, ruffling Gaara’s hair, and even bracing Gaara’s arms and guiding him through learning how to throw kunai. (Neither were particularly good, but that was what practice was for.)
But Temari and Kankurou never physically struck Gaara. Nor did they physically touch Gaara in general. Rasa, Sasori, Deidara, Yashamaru, Sekka, and Chiyo were the only people in Suna who would physically touch Gaara; Yashamaru, Sasori and Deidara were also the only people who went out of their way to give Gaara physical affection, and it was obvious how touch-starved the young boy was in his ongoing isolation to avoid assassination attempts. The only time Grandmother had ever been physically affectionate with Sasori was when he saw Komushi’s corpse. She was only slightly more physically affectionate with Deidara than with Sasori at the same age, but at least she treated all of the Kazekage’s children the same way she treated her great-grandson.

(It was Deidara who successfully managed to break Gaara’s initial habit of swearing, picked up easily from Shukaku, simply by washing Gaara’s mouth out with soap every time he swore, the same way that Chiyo had washed out Deidara’s mouth with soap. A rampaging knee-high Shukaku who was foaming soap bubbles at the mouth had actually been more hilarious than funny, and Deidara had laughed until he cried, too entertained to realize how close he had been to being crushed to death with sand before Rasa managed to subdue Shukaku. Gaara promised to never swear again, and Deidara had been assigned fertilizer duty for a month for triggering the rampage. This meant that Sasori – making sure that Deidara didn’t get sick with diphtheria or E. coli – was also stuck on fertilizer duty that month and had consequently threatened to figure out how to slap Shukaku with a fuuinjutsu seal that prevented him from swearing. Shukaku reluctantly agreed to censor his swearing. It was… not much of an improvement.
And despite his intimate experience with what soap tastes like, Gaara didn’t let that stop him from becoming a faithful shadow to Deidara. They adored each other, with Deidara happily assuming the role of an older brother who got to bully and pamper Gaara to his heart’s delight.)
Once Gaara was successfully potty-trained, Rasa’s touching was minimum and often limited to restraining Shukaku when he was feeling irritated enough to leak unbidden through Gaara’s seals.
It was maddening to witness how Rasa showered his fatherly affection on his two older children, but held back with Gaara, and how this emotional absence dug at Gaara’s self-esteem. So Sasori stepped up to the plate to make up for Rasa’s deficiencies, because that’s just what he did, time after time, as Suna’s Head of Internal Affairs.
It… it wasn’t a difficult responsibility to take on, given Deidara’s self-appointed role as Gaara’s other big brother.

One evening, while Gaara was staying overnight with Sasori (most nights were spent divided between Sasori and Yashamaru’s home, as if Yashamaru and Sasori had some sort of awkward shared custody over Suna’s jinchuuriki), Gaara spent over an hour just sitting on Sasori’s lap and clinging to his torso while sucking his thumb. Sasori listened to the distant jangle of Deidara’s bells as he did whatever he did in the main living area of their home – from the sounds of it, Deidara was imitating a herd of wild camels trying to outrun a hungry pack of jackals – and carved the shell of a new puppet – a toxin-breathing salamander that Chiyo glared at every time she saw it, as if she were personally affronted by Sasori making anything that remotely resembled Hanzo. Sasori decided to add wings and call the salamander a dragon.
After an hour, Gaara’s thumb popped out of his mouth. “Do you hate me, Sasori-nii?” he asked, since he had determined when he was only a year and a half old that he could call Sasori whatever Deidara called him. Thanks to the constant presence of Shukaku in Gaara’s mind, he had an extensive vocabulary for a three year old.
“Of course not,” Sasori replied, not looking up from the glide of his chisel.
Gaara’s voice was almost too soft to hear over the chisel and the bells/stomping of Deidara’s feet. “Are you scared of me?”
“No.”
It was Shukaku’s voice that came next – still too raspy, too deep to realistically emerge from Gaara’s tiny body and thin vocal cords, as if his demonic chakra warped Gaara’s vocal cords. “Ah, but you fear me, Board Boy.”
Sasori didn’t even pause with his chipping. “Only a brain-damaged Inuzuka wouldn’t fear you, Shukaku, and I have medical records in Konoha that indicate how free of any brain damage I have. I haven’t yet done an MRI or DNA test on Deidara to determine why he has no self-preservation.” Sasori was half-convinced that Deidara had some Inuzuka ancestry somewhere gumming things up.
“So that ducking means you fear both of us.”
This was evidently something that weighed on both Shukaku and Gaara. Sasori put his tools down and pushed his wheelchair back from the table. He still wore his prosthetics, but it was easier for Gaara to just sit in his lap when he was in the wheelchair than when Sasori was seated on his three-legged stool. “What’s this really about, Shukaku?”
Golden eyes surrounded by black sclera glowed with demonic chakra that was tightly contained. Shukaku knew that the moment he unleashed his sand in Sasori’s workshop that Sasori would withhold cookies for a week. “Humans. You ducking fear what you don’t understand. You hate what you fear. If you fear us, then you hate us. Ding-dong Rasa fears and hates us, so why not you?”
Charitably, Sasori suspected that Rasa feared and hated the creature that caused his wife to die. It was a blow that Rasa had never emotionally recovered from, as he still eschewed any lovers three years after Kurara’s death. He truly had underestimated how much Rasa had cared. At least when Yashamaru looked at Gaara and saw Kurara, he also saw the love that Kurara had for her child, and how she had wanted the best for him even when condemning Gaara to the life and role as a jinchuuriki.
“Shukaku, Gaara, look around.” Sasori waved his arms to take in the entirety of his workshop. “My entire life has been dedicated to understanding that which I don’t understand, and not because I fear what I don’t understand.
Sometimes,” he added, as he heard a soft hum from Komushi, “sometimes something is beyond my understanding – will likely always be beyond my understanding, like the human soul. Komushi, before he died, said: the human soul is something both beautiful and eternal. It’s not ours to understand, but only to appreciate for its splendor. For you, Shukaku, while I wouldn’t exactly call you beautiful—”
“Ducking plebian.”
“—you are eternal. You are not mine to understand, but I can certainly appreciate you for your magnificence. Yes; I do fear you for your bad moods, but that’s just a natural, healthy response in a human being with a sense of self-preservation. Your good moods aren’t exactly an enjoyable little frolic in a park, but I like to think I matter to you enough that you wouldn’t kill me without a good reason. But it’s a very human thing, a normal response, to feel fear when faced with such raw power. If you ever betray my trust and maliciously hurt the few people I care about, then yes, I would probably hate you for that, but it would be for something you did, and not for who you are. And I certainly wouldn’t hate Gaara as an extension of hating you. As stuck together as you both are, you’re still separate entities.”
After a thoughtful pause, it was Gaara who spoke. “How do I make others not scared of me?” His breath hitched. “How do I make Temari-nee and Kankurou-nii and… and Otou-san not scared anymore?”
Sasori didn’t want to be the one to tell a three-year-old that his relationship with his father was likely the same sort of relationship that Tsume had with her grandmother after her brain injury – a relationship where the guardian reluctantly provided the most basic physical needs while stewing with bitterness and resentment.
Was there any good time to explain something like that? At this age, Gaara was just as likely to internalize it and assume a responsibility of blame that was never his to bear. All Sasori could do was be a voice louder than Rasa’s. “You must feed both wolves, and encourage others to feed both wolves.” Gaara’s face scrunched up in a frown, and looked around, as if wondering where the wolves were. Sasori then told Gaara and Shukaku the parable of two wolves, as Kagami had shared with him years ago.oOoOoOo
Sasori was just a few months shy of his twenty-third birthday when Suna finally decided to host their first International Chuunin Exam after Gaara’s birth. Rasa successfully wrangled a promise out of Shukaku to behave himself during the Exam while foreign Shinobi visited their Village, with judicious application of rum-flavored candies (neither Rasa, nor Sasori, had gotten around to explaining to Shukaku that rum-flavored and actual rum were two different things, but as long as Shukaku was under the assumption that hard candies meant hard liquor was involved, he was happy with the arrangement. Rasa and Sasori were shinobi enough to not dissuade Shukaku from this deception, even if it required more frequent visits to the dentist). It was a continuing battle with Wind’s Daimyo to keep missions localized to Suna despite their improving reputation, and Rasa had planned on using the opportunity to showcase not only Suna’s skills to visiting foreign dignitaries, but also to give their promising young genin students the advantage of the Exam being on local grounds.
With so many foreign Villages interested in learning more about Suna’s jinchuuriki, more teams than usual signed up. With so many foreign Village teams being present, more foreign dignitaries and future clients would be present. And with Shukaku so agreeable and Gaara in better control these days, it would also highlight to foreigners how in control Suna was of their jinchuuriki. (Whether this would decrease or increase ongoing assassination attempts remained to be seen.) Rasa felt it was a win-win-win.
With so many puppets in play with the world watching the stage, Sasori stretched out his threads and made everyone dance to his tune as he planned the Chuunin exam while Rasa took full credit. The International Chuunin Exam was standardized into three stages. The first: intel gathering. Sasori created a scavenger hunt of clues throughout Suna (carefully ensuring that foreigners were prevented from entering sensitive areas with carefully applied fuuinjutsu seals, like their aqueduct and the Administration Building) for evaluating how well the teams performed intel gathering – Rasa made sure that it was in the “average expected levels of intelligence, you genius brute.” The clues would eventually reveal which individual the genin teams were to kidnap.

The second: field survival. Once the genin teams had successfully figured out who they were to kidnap, their hostage (carefully selected jounin and special-jounin from different Villages who would be acting as civilian hostages) would be taken somewhere into the desert, and defended against the rescuer (another carefully selected jounin and special-jounin, who was expected to only cause minimum injuries during the rescue).

The third: the one-on-one tournaments to showcase individual skills.
Teams who were unable to succeed with their scavenger hunt of clues and kidnap their targets within five days would be eliminated. Teams who couldn’t keep themselves alive and relatively healthy for five days in the desert without the intercession of their hostage would be eliminated. The rescuer and the hostage would serve as exam proctors who ultimately decided which individual from each team showcased the judgement and skill level of someone who was Chuunin-ready, and those who passed muster would go on to the third stage.
Genin sensei would be serving as exam judges, but to prevent bias, all judges would be assigned to teams of different villages. When this was first introduced to the other Kage of the Great Shinobi Villages, the Mizukage and Hokage were in full support. The Tsuchikage and Raikage were not, both loudly protesting that bias was inherent in all things, and this would be easy for two colluding judges to simply eliminate the most skilled genin from foreign villages to prevent them from moving onto the third stage. Rasa sternly put his foot down and said that’s a risk every foreign genin team experiences at every International Chuunin Exam, but if the other Kage felt the teams had failed due to bias, they could lodge a complaint for review and re-evaluation. There would be a three week-long period between the second and third stages, the gap between second and third stages slightly shorter than standard, which was plenty of time for a re-evaluation. The opportunity that allowed foreign teams practically unfettered access to the Suna desert was a rare one, and there were a subsequent many foreign genin teams that signed up in advance. The way that Sasori had set up each stage meant there would be less death than usual for Exam participants, and therefore more were expected to reach the Third Stage.
Timing for hosting the International Chuunin Exam in Suna was a tricky thing, since the Exams took place every six months, during the summer or the winter, and summers were hard enough for seasoned shinobi to survive in the sand dunes, much less a wet-behind-the-ears Genin team; it was also why Kumo never hosted any Exams that took place during the winter. It took some finagling on calendars, but Rasa successfully had the Exam scheduled for the first and second stages to commence just before the Suna Autumn Bazaar, with the third exam scheduled for after the Bazaar’s end. With as many people entering the exams, there was expected to be a decently-sized number that successfully progressed to the Third Stage. Since a lot of filthy rich foreigners loved to hit up the Bazaar, they would be within easy travel distance to Suna for the expected three days of tournaments, which Rasa planned to exploit for Suna’s benefits by drawing in so much concentrated wealth. There were already plans for nomadic tribes to set up camps and booths on the outside of Suna during the tournaments, looking for more sales and trade. It was the perfect set-up for festivals and entertainment.

Sasori was seated on a bench at the playground just a few days before the Exam was set to start, taking the late morning as a rare opportunity to relax before things got busy. Only the Kazekage’s children and his son were playing – mostly because the other children had taken one look at Deidara (who had a reputation of being even more destructive with playground equipment than Gaara) and vamoosed. Sasori stretched out on the bench, arms languidly covered the expanse of the curving back, and his legs crossed at the knees as he watched Temari and Kankurou brawl over the best swing (one shaded by the ancient fig tree), Deidara spun on the merry-go-round like he wasn’t going to barf all over the ground after he was done like he had all the other times preciously, and Gaara kicked a small ball.
The ball wasn’t going as far as Gaara wanted. Frustrated, he smacked the ball with an arm wrapped in sand (the other reason the playground was empty of other children) and sent it blurring through the air.
Uchiha Shisui caught it with a stinging slap of rubber meeting skin. “And he scores! Dang, kid, you pack quite the punch!” He spun the ball on his fingertip, grinning brightly, as he stepped past the iron-wrought fence that wrapped around the playground and onto the hard-packed dirt. “Want to try again?” he tossed the ball back to Gaara, who caught and hugged the ball close, unsure of what to do with a stranger openly smiling at him.
“SHISUI-NII!” Deidara used the force of the spinning merry-go-round to hurl himself through the air, looking green around the eyes.
“Deidara-nii!” Shisui caught Deidara with his chakra strings, and held Deidara out of reach as he promptly puked all over the ground. “Most people are happy to see me,” Shisui said, eyeballing Deidara while struggling to hide his smile, “not sick of seeing me.”
Sasori snorted. “Your Bingo Book entry would say otherwise, Shunshin no Shisui,” he said, sliding across the bench to make room.
“Aren’t you supposed to be in class?” Shisui asked Deidara, trying and failing spectacularly to look like an adult instead of a fourteen-year-old boy who had recently entered the sweaty, spotty age of puberty. He reeked of stale body odor and rank feet as he plopped down on the bench next to Sasori.
“Nah, classes are on hold because of the incoming invasion,” Deidara said, swiping at his damp chin. He kicked his feet in mid-air, still dangling. “I have to show you my latest invention!” he gushed.
“It’s a gas!”
“I thought you preferred bombs.”
“Yeah, and I combined it with a gas, too!”
Sasori ruffled Shisui’s hair, every bit as fluffy and as wild as his uncle/grandfather’s. “I didn’t know you were coming.”
“Hey, I’ve been jounin for two years, so I get to be one of the Konoha examiners,” Shisui said brightly. “I think I’m supposed to be a hostage for one of the Kusa teams, since they’re one of the few without a history of who bloodline theft like the other Villages. Oh, Itachi, over here!”
A trio of three genin cautiously entered the playground. Well, two of them did; the third seemed to take it as a signal to launch herself at Sasori with a happy squeal. “Sasori-nii!” Inuzuka Hana tackled him in a tight hug, too much like her mother when it came to showing affection, but her hair more closely resembling her sire. Sasori welcomed the hug, since there were so few people he trusted not to stab him in the neck if he hugged back. She didn’t have the correct hair to weaponize, but she smelled so similar to Tsume that Sasori happily took a deep sniff.
“Mama will be around soon,” she said.
Sasori ruffled her hair. “Congrats on your Academy graduation,” he told Hana, as Gaara shyly approached them, hugging his rubber ball close to his chest. “A little early to be participating in the Chuunin exams though, isn’t it?”
Hana shook her head. “I’ve been a genin for almost a year, now, Sasori-nii. Pencil-Dick was pushing for our team to enter six months ago, but Mama refused to let me go that early. Anyway, this is both an attempt at the Chuunin Exams, and an escort mission with Aunt Natsumi. We had to leave Konoha early because she sleeps a lot.”
At 99 years old, Inuzuka Natsumi was the oldest known shinobi, retired or otherwise, on the known Continent, and to showcase his (reluctant) good will to Konoha, Rasa had requested that the Hokage allow Natsumi to come to Suna for the Chuunin Exam to make an opening speech on the difference between how young shinobi had been raised and trained in the Warring Era, versus now, so he could highlight the importance of Hidden Villages and make some clever remarks on how much more superior the Internation Chuunin Exam was compared to throwing young meat shields into a battle to survive or die. Sasori hadn’t read Rasa’s opening speech yet.
“Who’s keeping her out of trouble right now?”
“Mama is. Aunt Natsumi got into a scuffle with the Mizukage at the last oasis before Mama could sit on her, so now they’re running damage control and issuing formal apologies. Well, Mama is; Aunt Natsumi is just sulking.”
Sasori raised an eyebrow at that. “I do hope the oasis wasn’t harmed in that scuffle.”
“Nooooo.” Hana grinned. “It’s just that the beluga whale doesn’t feel like leaving, and reverse summoned himself back after Aunt Natsumi had dismissed him. The Kazekage isn’t sure how a saltwater aquatic mammal is surviving in a freshwater oasis though.”
Because beluga whales used estuaries, a transition zone between freshwater and saltwater, to feed and raise their young, and therefore much more likely to adapt to freshwater, especially a hardy summon animal. But Sasori wasn’t going to explain that to Rasa, because these weren’t Sasori’s monkeys, nor his circus. This was clearly a matter for External Affairs, which was squarely the responsibility of the Kazekage and his Council.
Deidara had a minor blow-up (literally – there was now a smoking crater in the middle of the playground) over learning that the currently-present Konoha genin team had been allowed to graduate early while he was still stuck at the Academy. Shisui and Hana talked Gaara into building sand castles in the sand box (why there was a sand box when they were surrounded by sand, Sasori had never understood). Temari and Kankurou, with the experienced air of those who had learned it was best not to build sand castles with someone who wields sand like a deadly weapon when cranky, talked Hana, Itachi, and their third genin teammate – a second or third cousin to Danzo, named Shimura Takumi, who didn’t have any of Danzo’s impressively stoic coldness – into playing a game of ninja tag. Deidara decided he didn’t want to be left out, so Sasori repaired the smoking crater with a douton jutsu that was typically used to bury bodies.
Deidara wasn’t allowed to use his glitter playdough bombs in ninja tag at the Academy. He was delighted to know it wasn’t off-limits in their game (as long as they contained no gas, Shisui said sternly).
Gaara, upset with the glitter and playdough splattering all over his four story tall sand castle with a working drawbridge and miniature sand cannons that shot pebbles, sent a (relatively mild) wave of sand after Deidara to smother him.
Shisui distracted Gaara by insisting that Gaara should have the control to remove the sand from the glitter, and then they would dump it down Deidara’s shirt. Since everyone, including Sasori, was now covered in glitter (no amount of irritated brushing was going to remove it from his hair and clothes, and frankly, as long as Deidara was still wielding such, it was a waste of time to use his chakra threads to remove the glitter), Sasori decided that this was one of those squabbles between children that they needed to work on without adult intervention. Naturally, as many things do when children lack adult intervention and hands-off supervision, it rapidly deteriorated.
And that was how Tsume, Rasa, and the Mizukage found Sasori, still lounging on his bench and quietly watching a mix of eight Konoha and Suna children engage in an all-out brawl where people were bruised, scraped, covered in glitter and sand, dodging each other between miniature small columns of chiindii that only mildly electrocuted whoever was caught in such, attempting to beat each other black and blue with the chains that had been removed from the dismantled swing, and tossing each other onto the spinning merry-go-round that would then fling the victim away if they didn’t manage to catch their balance or stick with chakra.
“Seriously?” Rasa asked, surveilling the extensive damage. The slides had been twisted and the jungle gym was half-buried in sand. Kankurou was stringing Takumi up from the crossbars with his admittedly shaky chakra threads while Takumi kept upsetting Kankurou’s footing with small spikes of erupting douton spears that were blunted at the tip. Temari was hastily eating Deidara’s playdough supply to reduce his bomb-making materials. Gaara was laughing as he chased a blurred Shisui with multiple moving chiindii columns. Both of their hair was standing on end from the chiindii columns’ electrical discharges.
“The playdough is a little high in salt and Temari might be constipated tomorrow, but it isn’t poisoned,” Sasori assured his Kazekage, choosing to pretend that he was in complete control of the chaos. Deidara spun the swing’s chains at Itachi, who only managed to stay out of reach thanks to his spinning Sharingan. Hana kept throwing paint balls at both of them, occasionally pelting Temari, as she also dodged the chiindii. “Where’s Aunt Natsumi?”
“With your grandmother,” Tsume replied. Sasori found himself horrified. How much of Suna would survive if those two were left unsupervised?
“This is remarkably free of blood for an Academy exercise,” the Mizukage declared, his pink eyes wide. (Because, yeah, only Kiri’s Academy was even more brutal than Suna’s before Sasori succeeded in his overhaul.)
“You are all repairing the playground tomorrow,” Rasa told Sasori, looking peeved with not presenting the Mizukage a better impression of Suna’s children.

Shisui cackled as he was caught in the largest column of chiindii and was spun high into the air. With a puff of chakra, Shisui released his dragonfly puppet from the small sealing scroll that had been hanging from his hip (and discharging the static electricity at the same time with a minor lightning bolt that struck the ground outside of the playground), and steered it – with a speed that was encouraged with his glowing green chakra threads – through and around the chiindii columns. Hana tossed three paint balls in the air that Shisui caught, and then pelted Gaara with. Temari spun on her heel and formed a small cyclone of wind that collided with Gaara’s sand and swamped Hana, burying her up to her waist. Hana dropped her paint balls and scrubbed at her eyes.
“Stop,” Sasori told her as he shunshinned to Hana’s side. “That’s a good way to scratch your cornea and cause eye damage.” Glitter in one’s hair and bloody scratches were one thing; potential eye injuries were serious, however. He pushed her eyelids back and pinned them in place with one hand as chakra threads from the other hand plucked the granules from her tearing eyes.
Tsume cupped her hands around her mouth. “SNACK TIME!” she yelled. “I HAVE DRINKS, BUTTERSCOTCH COOKIES, AND MUFFINS! LINE UP, EVERYONE.”
With shrieks of delight, six children – coated in paint and glitter and sand – hurried to her side. Shisui remained in the air atop of his dragonfly, hovering against all reason. He caught the raisin muffin and two cookies that Tsume tossed to him.
“Gimmee, woman,” Shukaku snarled as he shoved Takumi aside with a sand-wrapped clawed arm that was almost as large as Gaara’s body.
Tsume sternly thumped Shukaku, and Rasa’s expression momentarily darkened. “That’s rude! Back of the line and wait your turn.”
Sasori released his grip on Hana’s eyelids as she pulled herself free of the sand to join the line for snacks, allowing a sulking Shukaku to slip in in front of her.
Once the prepubescent (minus Shisui) murder-gremlins had been fed and watered, they broke into small groups with their snacks. Gaara and Shisui dug through the sand to find Gaara’s missing ball, Temari told Deidara he really needed to add better flavoring to his playdough as they and Kankurou settled under the shade of the fig tree that had, miraculously, survived the playground battle, and Hana, Takumi, and Itachi gathered in a small circle to discuss how they could improve the use of their current environment to their advantage during the Exam.
“All I’ve got left,” Tsume told Sasori as he joined the adults, “is two muffins. They cleaned me out.”
“Pass, I don’t like muffins,” Sasori told her, especially since the only muffins Tsume made were raisin muffins.
“Here, want one?” Tsume held one of the two raisin muffins out to the Mizukage. And then, as he reached out to accept the muffin, she pulled it back slightly. “Wait, are you allergic to anything? I don’t want to feed you a raisin muffin if you’re, like, allergic to raisins or gluten.”
The Mizukage plucked the muffin out of Tsume’s hand. “Who on earth would be allergic to something as ridiculous as raisins?” he asked, his voice dripping in disdain.
Rather than looking at Sasori, Tsume immediately offered the last raisin muffin to Rasa. He studied it suspiciously as he accepted the muffin, and then took a bite.
Chewing and swallowing, the Mizukage sized Sasori up. “You’re looking decidedly more sane than the last time I saw you,” Karatachi Yagura told Sasori, who refused to let the memory of their only previous meeting diminish his secret delight in not being the shortest male adult present, for once. “Less drooly, less cross-eyed, and less prone to be talking to a puppet only you could hear.”
Not true; Sakumo seemed to hear Komushi just fine whenever they ran into each other in Konoha. Sakumo carrying on a public conversation with Komushi had somehow managed to worsen Sakumo’s reputation for being unhinged, but Sasori appreciated his friend conversing with someone who wasn’t Sasori. “And you’re looking…” Sasori allowed his eyes to roam up and down Yagura’s diminutive height. “… a little more scared,” indicating the scar with the stitch markings that started just below Yagura’s left eye and stretched all the way to his jaw.
“Glad to see you got your feet back, too.” Yagura took another bite of his raisin muffin.
“Wait – you two met before?” Tsume asked, pointing back and forth.
Yagura nearly choked on his mouthful of muffin. “How did you forget?” he asked. He was a full head shorter than Tsume and her ridiculous hedgehog hair, but he still managed to look down his nose at her. That… that took impressive skill, Sasori thought. “You were there with your hellspawn and naked breasts when my team and I met Sasori!”
Rasa paused in his perusal of a raisin he had removed from his muffin for closer inspection to eye Tsume. “To be fair,” he said pointedly, no doubt remembering the time she had decided to calm a squalling Gaara as a wetnurse, “we have all seen Tsume’s naked breasts. I’m sure she’s done it so many times she’s lost track of who she’s flashed.”
“Oh, shut up, I was nursing at the time,” Tsume told Rasa.
“She did nurse me back to health,” Sasori added, his voice bland.

“You nursed a twelve-year-old?” Rasa demanded, looking half-shocked and half-intrigued. Yagura was aghast and clearly contemplating the wisdom of consuming a home-baked good from a woman with questionable boundaries when it came to body fluids.
Tsume squawked indignantly. “I did not! Sasori had hypothermia, I provided body warmth! I nursed him back to health, I didn’t breastfeed him!”
“Tsume wasn’t wearing clothes when providing body warmth,” Sasori added, voice still as bland as Konoha General’s hospital food.
“I had underwear on! Shisui, Shisui, back me up on this!” Tsume flagged her kinsman down, waving her hands around so wildly that she managed to clobber Yagura in the chin, sending him stumbling back into Sasori. “Sasori had hypothermia and we were both wearing underwear that time after Hana was born, right?”
Shisui looked at the adults, and then smiled. “I can neither confirm nor deny anyth—awk!” Tsume grabbed Shisui’s collar and twisted it, shaking him lightly.
“You little troll! You were there when it happened!”
Shisui managed to shunshin free of his shirt. “I mean, if I were present, which I can’t exactly confirm given that an unsanctioned escort in Waterfall during the Third War would certainly not have a three-year-old tagalong, I would comfortably say that given how Aunt Tsume was still bleeding after having given birth just previously, she was most likely wearing underwear.”
Yagura tossed his half-eaten muffin over his shoulder. “Oh please, I saw you at the same time that my team and I met Sasori, and you weren’t any more normal than the rest of your group.” He turned to Sasori. “After everything I’ve seen in the last two days, I completely understand how your kidnappers drove you round the bend and back. I apologize for not believing you at the time.”

“I was perfectly normal before I became a hostage to their chaos,” Sasori said, outright ignoring how close he had been to unwittingly following Orochimaru’s footsteps in moral decline.
“No, seriously.” Tsume scratched her head sheepishly. “I don’t ever remember meeting you before the oasis, Mizukage-sama.”
Yagura sighed. “Waterfall?” he asked. When Tsume scrunched up her face to remember, he added, “Gouka inugami?” After a moment, as Tsume tried to recall which of the times she had summoned the gouka inugami when Yagura would’ve been present, he added, “Big blue guy with big sword petting the gouka inugami?” He waved his staff to demonstrate shielding his gaze from her chest. “Breastfeeding and burping your infant while you all claimed to be noncombatants and that Sasori wasn’t your hostage and that he was just stressed at the time?”
“Oooooooh. Oh yeah, now I remember! Sorry, my memory was even more deplorable than normal, what with the hormones and the sleep deprivation from round-the-clock breastfeeding.”
Rasa held up one raisin that he pried free from the muffin. “How do you get the raisins so plump?”
“Soak them in rum before I add them to the dough.”
At the sound of rum-soaked raisins, Shukaku/Gaara instantly pounced on Yagura’s discarded muffin and jammed the entire thing in his mouth.
Yagura eyed him. “Where are your manners?”
“Duck off, Yertle! I’m making up for decades of being deprived and stuck in a ducking tea pot.” Shukaku/Gaara blew a messy raspberry all over Yagura, leaving a spray of saliva and wet raisin crumbs on the Mizukage robes. And then he scampered off to build another sand castle with Shisui.
“I’m assuming he means Yertle the Turtle that’s stuck inside of you,” Tsume told Yagura, who winced at Tsume’s blatant admission of the Three-Tails. “By the way, Aunt Natsumi has more questions on the Isabu. Oh, and lots of questions for the Ichibi,” she added to Rasa.
“No,” Yagura told Tsume, turning his back on her and pointedly walking away.
“Duck no,” Rasa agreed, finishing his raisin muffin. And then, to Sasori, “I’d tell you to keep these Konoha treehuggers out of trouble, but you’ll probably get dragged into all of it against your will.”
Sasori sighed. “Story of my life.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Sasori was twenty-three years old when someone dared to threaten Gaara’s precious people.
It didn’t even have an auspicious start. A wooden box with no note was anonymously deposited on the doorstep of Sasori’s home. Deidara found it when he returned home from spending a leisurely afternoon in the greenhouses with Chiyo, learning more about different poisons. Knowing full well that a wooden box was most likely a booby trap, Deidara opened it right in the middle of the kitchen anyway without inspecting for any traps. Sasori was teaching Gaara how to make rice balls, since Rasa was out of the country on a Five Kage Summit to discuss the next three years of International Chuunin Exams and which of the minor Hidden Villages would get to host two of them, and thus Gaara and Deidara were rooming together in Rasa’s absence. Kankurou and Temari stayed with their uncle Yashamaru.
“Uh, that’s morbid. Also, I think it’s Temari-nii’s,” Deidara added, his hands on his hips as he stared into the depths of the wooden box.
Sasori, sticky grains of rice stuck to his fingers, instantly retrieved the box from the kitchen table with his chakra threads. Both he and Gaara saw what was stored inside at the same time – nestled in the dry straw were two fingers; left hand, pinky and ring, the nails painted the sparkly purple that Temari had talked Deidara into painting on her finger and toenails yesterday morning when Sasori and Deidara went to Yashamaru’s to get Gaara and an overnight bag. The fingers had been cleanly severed at the distal metacarpal joint, the skin blotched and gray with the blood congealing on the straw.
Sand grains rustled over the box as Gaara’s eyes narrowed. Sasori carefully pulled out the note from beneath the two fingers, and read it out loud. “Send the jinchuuriki to the Asase Peaks alone. If we see anyone accompanying him, we will kill the girl. Be here by Sunday at sunset, or we will kill the girl.” Sunday at sunset was only thirty hours away.

“Someone hurt Temari,” Gaara whispered. The darkness in the young five-year-old’s voice made the hair on the back of Sasori’s neck stand on end, especially given the lack of any bleed-through from Shukaku. “Someone hurt my sister.” Gaara and his siblings didn’t always have the best relationship – there was a certain amount of fear that was still generated no matter how Shukaku’s volatility had improved in the last two years – but Gaara considered them his people, as they were some of the few who would smile, laugh, and play with him. And although Temari and Kankurou often flinched and were clearly wary of Gaara when he was anything less than cheerful – they were just children who, unlike Deidara, had a healthy sense of their own mortality –Gaara had taken the parable of feeding two wolves to heart as much as any average three-year-old who still thought literally could, and had spent the last two years trying encourage his siblings to love him.
“This is something we can’t charge recklessly into, Gaara,” Sasori said, keeping his voice even and free of any emotion.
“I’m going,” Gaara said, rage bristling his voice. “You can’t stop me.”
“Not alone,” Sasori told Gaara as he walked to the refrigerator with the box. He stumbled as sand wrapped around his prosthetic ankles.
“No.” Gaara’s voice was a whiplash of anger. “They will kill Temari!” And then Shukaku finally bled through. “We can destroy those ducking putrid bags of worthless flesh without your assistance, Board Boy.”
“Can either of you surgically reattach Temari’s fingers?” Sasori snapped impatiently. “Which of you can match me in my medical skills or knowledge?” When Gaara/Shukaku were silent and the sand started tightening dangerously around Sasori’s ankles, he knew he had to speak more quickly before they destroyed his prosthetic feet in an attempt to prevent him from following after – not that losing his current feet would slow him down, given that he had two spare sets. “The Asase Peaks are thirty kilometers away. Temari is probably terrified and injured in more than just the loss of her fingers. Even if she isn’t, once you rescue her, you still have to bring her home. Through the heat and the sand, which will only increase her risk of infection and shock. There’s also the dangers of dehydration, because blood loss increases thirst, and we don’t know how the kidnappers are treating her. If you love your sister, Gaara, let me help you.” The sand stilled, but remained in place. “I have to put Temari’s fingers on ice to improve successful reattachment.”
Deidara spoke up. “I’ll pack your medkit and supplies, Sasori-nii.”
“You’re not coming,” Sasori told him. Deidara’s chest swelled with indignation, because Temari and Kankurou were as much his friends and childhood companions as Gaara was, and he was every bit protective of them as he was of Gaara. “I need you to go get Grandmother, and then both of you go to Yashamaru’s – find out if Kankurou and Yashamaru are fine. It’s possible that they’re either dead or captured themselves. If they’re still present and healthy, they’ll need extra protection to ensure no one tries to get to them while Gaara and I are rescuing Temari. Be quiet and discreet – we have no way of knowing if we’re being watched by anyone who can contact whoever is holding Temari hostage.”
The sand pulled away from Sasori’s ankles. The sand had crushed his ankle joints, and he stumbled slightly as he finished walking to the fridge and retrieved a block of ice from the freezer. He dropped it in the box, and then painted a fuuinjutsu seal on the inside of the box lid to maintain stasis of the ice. As he swiftly worked on the seal, Gaara reluctantly assisted Deidara in packing a single bag that contained Sasori’s medkit, a half dozen bladders that they filled with water, the rice balls that Gaara and Sasori had already made, ration bars, and a spare set of clothes too small for Deidara and only slightly too large for Temari. Once the bag was packed, Sasori dropped a map on the kitchen table, and Deidara left to get to Chiyo.

“I can remain hidden,” Sasori told Gaara as he used his chakra threads to fetch a spare set of prosthetic legs. “But we,” he indicated Gaara and himself, “know that this is a trap that Temari is the bait for. Whether whoever is responsible is trying to capture Shukaku or trying to kill you, we have to assume they have every intention of subduing or destroying you. If they succeed, Temari’s life will be forfeit. They timed this so your father was out of the country, and they will anticipate at the very least that I will be following along, regardless of what the note says.” Unless they had anticipated Gaara flat-out disabling or killing Sasori to keep him from following after. “We have to consider multiple contingencies for all possible scenarios.”
Gaara stared at the map. “What if they’ve already killed Temari?” he asked as his thin shoulders hunched.
Sasori waited until Gaara raised his green eyes to meet his own. “Then we will turn the desert sands red with their blood,” he vowed.

Sasori summoned a wolverine to henge into himself, and then henged himself into a squirrel that hid under Gaara’s cloak. He sent the wolverine out to follow after Chiyo and Deidara, and tucked himself in the folds of Gaara’s checkered blue and white shemagh that Gaara left hanging loose around his neck. Gaara shouldered a gourd of chakra-soaked sand larger than his own body and their pack, made light by the multiple storage scrolls that Sasori had packed everything in (including Komushi and his latest puppet – the winged fire-breathing salamander named Hinote), and he walked to the Village entrance, trying not to look like he was hurrying. Sasori shrunk down his chakra until he blended with the chakra-infused sand that Gaara was carting. He couldn’t speak human words with a squirrel’s vocal cords, so he had to remain silent.
Two guards stopped him, both looking nervous to do so. “Ah, Gaara-sama,” said the first, “you know you aren’t permitted to leave the Village without an escort. Where’s Sasori-san?”
Gaara held out the message that Sasori had penned. It simply read, Gaara and I are camping in the desert tonight. I’ve gone ahead; Gaara is following after separately to work on his tracking and sensor skills. Rather than signing it, Sasori had added his stylized red scorpion, infused with his chakra, to prevent anyone from accusing Gaara of forging Sasori’s signature.
The guards still argued with each other on whether to accept it.
“But Gaara-sama has never left the Village without an escort before,” declared the first guard suspiciously, eyeing both the message and the child. “And wouldn’t Sasori-san have told us ahead of time? Kazekage-sama left explicit orders not to let Gaara out.”
“Look, even if the letter is fake, neither of us can reasonably stop him. We’ll be lucky to have just a few broken bones, and not smeared into a bloody paste!” (The last assassination attempt on Gaara had, admittedly, been a very public mess four months ago. Which might be why this latest attempt was trying to lure Gaara out of the Village. It was very clear to Sasori that Konoha had the right idea with keeping Uzumaki Kushina’s status as their Nine-Tails jinchuuriki so secret that even Tsume hadn’t been aware during Kushina’s lifetime.)
“The Kazekage is just as likely to be deadly if he learns we deliberately disobeyed him.”
“It’s not the first time Sasori-san has left the Village with Gaara-sama when the Kazekage was gone.”
“It is the first time Sasori-san hasn’t physically accompanied Gaara-sama.”
Sasori could feel his own growing impatience with the delay as easily he could feel Gaara’s.

“Wait!” Yashamaru appeared at Gaara’s side, almost breathless in his rush. Gaara immediately shoved the message into Yashamaru’s hands. Yashamaru dropped to one knee as he read the message, and then his smile – the same easygoing smile that he always wore even when Shukaku bled through or Gaara lost control of his sand when his mood was bad – spread across his face. He patted Gaara’s shoulder – the same shoulder that Sasori was sitting on and could be felt. “That’s tonight?” Yashamaru asked, as if he had known about this overnight camping trip all along. “Man, I thought it was tomorrow night. I made all these extra lamb kebobs for our dinner.”
“Today is Friday,” Gaara said, well-used to playing along with Deidara’s shenanigans.
“Oh boy. I really lost track of the week, didn’t I, Gaara? Well, glad I made that mistake, because I didn’t get to give you a goodbye hug, then. Here.” He clasped Gaara close and whispered softly into Gaara’s neck, so only he and Sasori heard. “They grabbed Temari when she was playing with Megumi. Chiyo found Megumi clubbed unconscious, but alive. Kankurou is unharmed.” Then he rifled Gaara’s hair. “Who packed, you or Sasori?”
“I did, but Sasori-nee supervised before he went ahead. He wants me to get used to carrying supplies.”
“We didn’t see Sasori-san,” the first guard put in, his eyes narrowing suspiciously.
Yashamaru snorted in disdain as he rose. “Of course not. He probably scaled the walls with his chakra threads to increase the difficulty of Gaara’s tracking.”
“And he’s sending Gaara out with just a few hours of daylight for tracking?”
“Sasori promised he’d remain in a five kilometer radius,” Yashamaru said lightly. And then to Gaara, “Well, better get going if you hope to find him before he finds you instead. You know how much Sasori hates waiting.”
Gaara pushed past the guards, who were careful about angling away so they wouldn’t touch him or his gourd of sand, and didn’t look back as he broke into a run. Gaara ran east for twenty minutes, the sand barely stirring beneath his feet, until he was out of human sight, and then turned north towards the Asase Peaks. He stopped once it was too dark to see, the night air swiftly chilling around them though the sand radiated warmth.
Sasori jumped free from beneath Gaara’s shemagh and released his henge. His hands were cramping from holding a henge that had paws. “We’re about twenty kilometers away,” Gaara said, looking up at the slivered moon that left too little light to navigate the desert at night.
“We have time. Take a seat, we need to talk about a planned approach.” Gaara set down the gourd of sand with a loud thump, and then reclined against the gourd. Sasori spun out a halo of gossamer threads around them in a two hundred meter radius. Nothing other than the normal desert night fauna was present within his radius. Then he dipped the threads into the ground, burrowing through meters of sand – no one hidden underground within his range. He drew the threads back. “Sensor nin are rare, but we can’t assume their rarity means one isn’t present.”
Gaara was silent, twisting his fingers in his lap as the desert sand stirred and spiked in restless circles – far too much like his father and grandfather with the casual display and release of his Magnetic Release kekkai genkai. It was the combination with Shukaku that had made his control of it so volatile and reactive. (Sasori, with red hair only a shade lighter than Gaara’s, with the affection and time he gave Gaara even in public, had been accused once of having an affair with Karura that resulted in her getting pregnant with Gaara, and the Elder had deliberately waited until a Council meeting that contained all of the Elders, Sasori, and Rasa to make the accusation. Rasa and Chiyo had laughed so hard that Rasa fell out of his chair and tears of mirth dripped down Chiyo’s face, and Yashamaru, in the world’s flattest voice, said he was the family member that Sasori slept with, not his sister. The Elder’s death from being strangled with Sasori’s chakra threads was listed as “suicide by Internal Affairs*”).
Sasori considered Gaara, and then his gourd – both shadowed and barely visible. He spun chakra threads around them to light their little area with lightning-blue. “Gaara, I know your control over your sand is good enough that you can cover yourself with an impregnable shield of such, but could you cover me with it, also?” It would be a tremendous risk; if Gaara lost control, Sasori would be crushed within the sand shield.
Gaara’s fingers twisted faster. “I… I don’t know.”
“I have two different ideas on how we can rescue Temari, but it all depends on your level of skill that we can use to confuse a sensor nin. The first is that I henge into you, push my chakra down to minimize the signature, you wrap me in a shield of your chakra-infused sand, and then hide yourself in the gourd.” Sasori pointed. “You’ll fit inside of it. It’s very likely that if Temari is still alive, they’re keeping her drugged. Whoever is doing this is going to attempt subduing you – Shukaku is too closely linked and too powerful for them otherwise.”
“And if they are powerful?” Gaara asked.
“If they are that powerful, I doubt they would’ve kidnapped Temari to draw you away by yourself from Suna. Anyone strong enough to take on an unsubdued bijuu is strong enough to kill me, and they would’ve done that to get to you instead of using Temari as bait.”
Gaara nodded to show his understanding. His eyes shown with unshed tears of concern for his sister.
“They’re either going to use fuuinjutsu or poison. If it’s fuuinjutsu, it’s better that they waste their attempt on me, leaving you and Shukaku free to rain death and destruction down on everyone. If it’s poison, well, I’m immune to a lot of different poisons, and what I’m not immune to I can use my chakra threads internally to remove the molecules.” Sasori was probably the only Puppeteer in the entire world capable of doing such on the molecular level. After he had shown Grandmother how to use chakra threads to knit broken bones back together, she tested his chakra control, and found he was in the 99th percentile, which put him in the same category as Senju Tsunade. Even Grandmother, who had successfully rediscovered and mastered Monzaemon Chikamatsu’s White Secret Technique, has a control that was in the 95th percentile and she couldn’t do the internal chakra threads to the extent that Sasori could. “What this means is that I will be the distraction. I will take out as many as I can, but the moment they realize that I’m not you, you will focus first on removing Temari from beyond danger. Her fingers weren’t removed postmortem, so until I confirm she’s dead, we will assume that she’s still alive. Some poisons can put a person into a coma that mimics death.” Sasori didn’t want Gaara jumping to immediate conclusions if his sister was in such a state and Sasori wasn’t present to talk Gaara down.
“What about you?” Gaara’s eyes glimmered with a combination of fear and anger as his fingers twisted his tunic. “What if they do kill you?”
Sasori allowed the lightning-blue color from his threads to highlight the wicked smile that curved across his face. “You needn’t worry about me, Gaara.”
Gaara forced his fingers to still. “And the second plan?”

“If you cannot cloak me with your sand, then you will approach them just before dawn, spilling Shukaku’s demonic chakra like a leaking sieve. It’s toxic and corrosive, and will serve well to distract any sensor from noticing me while I circle around. I grab Temari, and get the hell out of Shukaku’s range. I will reverse summon Temari to Tsume, and then I’ll go back for you. We,” he pointed at both of them, “are going to come out of this as the winners regardless of what happens, do you understand, Gaara and Shukaku?” Sasori placed his hands on Gaara’s shoulders. “Shukaku, you have my blessing to unleash all the bloodthirsty havoc you so desire, as long as it doesn’t effect Gaara, Temari, or myself.”
Gaara’s green eyes flashed yellow. “Total destruction and annihilation on the duckheads?”
Sasori matched Shukaku’s voice. “Saturate the desert sands.”
“My chakra will just burn the blood before it has a chance to soak the sand.”
“Fine then, turn the desert sand into molten glass.”
“Board Boy, you’re my second favorite human being. I think I like you even more than my own father.”
“High praise indeed.”
“Not really. First of all, he wasn’t ducking human. Second of all, good ol’ Daddy was more like make love, not war; stop chewing on the fathead; don’t make fun of your slug sister, junk like that. The man was ducking vegan and wouldn’t let me eat meat. The fathead and I told him if you didn’t want us to eat meat, why the duck did you shape us after carnivores and omnivores? Blah blah blah, having no actual digestive tract was a ducking stupid excuse. He didn’t even give me cookies.”
“I’m not sure cookies were invented a thousand years ago.”
“I bet they were, and he just never gave me any.”oOoOoOo
Gaara’s control over his sand shield couldn’t extend to cover Sasori from head to foot the way he could himself. So Plan B it was. Goukan-chan was briefly summoned so she was made aware of the part she would play. Goukan-chan wouldn’t be able to situate herself within Shukaku’s corrosive demonic chakra, so the timing of grabbing Temari, summoning Goukan-chan, and sending both off needed to be precise. Sasori gave Goukan-chan the box containing the ice and Temari’s fingers, and dismissed her so she could notify Tsume of what was happening. Tsume didn't need the unexpected surprise of a maimed Academy child dumped in her lap, lest Sasori find an enranged, overprotective Inuzuka mother reverse-summoning herself into the middle of their battle.
Neither Gaara or Sasori could sleep – Gaara was too worried and buoyed by Shukaku’s energy, and Sasori was too taut with growing anticipation, and thus they were already awake for twenty hours when they moved in on the Asase Peaks. Gaara summoned a kilometer-large sandstorm that Shukaku filled with his demonic chakra. It blazed like a forest fire in Sasori’s senses and scraped against his skin as he flew a hundred meters high in the air on Hinote’s back, careful to stay within the fringes of the storm even though the corrosive chakra felt like he had plunged into a vat of acid. Shukaku had enough control to keep his chakra from physically eating away at Sasori’s body, but human chakra didn’t mix well with demonic chakra when there wasn’t any fuuinjutsu to allow both to safely mix.
The Asase Peaks was a single double-peaked mountain that rose from the desert. It was worn ragged by eons of the constant desert wind and shifting sands, and someone – hundreds of years ago – had once carved an impressive fortress out of the rocks. Supporting pillars and rooms of the fortress were shattered in the same battle that had destroyed whatever tribe had successfully carved the fortress, and much of it lay in ruins at the foot of the Peaks. Giant broken walls and rounded pillars were half-covered in drifting sand; the remains of the fortress carved into the mountain looked like it had been cleaved in half by a rampaging god, with open rooms and broken stairs leading inward to where caverns and other rooms had been carved and hollowed out.
None of this was visible in the dark, regardless of the sandstorm that Sasori masked himself within. It was all in his memory, as he had fled to these Peaks twelve years prior with Komushi’s corpse, and had hidden himself deep within the caves beneath the fortress ruins, where the underground aquifer still existed.
Never thought we’d return together like this, Sasori told Komushi, who rode behind Sasori and was lashed securely with chakra threads woven around their waists together.
When I told you I was going to be the wind beneath your wings, I never thought you’d make a dragon puppet to fly on.

It’s a winged salamander.

How is that not a fire-breathing dragon?

Not for the first time, Sasori asked himself if it was a sign of insanity to hold a conversation with your dead puppet friend.
Nah.
It was nice when incorporeal voices were agreeable. Sometimes, Sasori thought it was a real shame that the only other person who could hear Komushi was someone who had lost all mental well-being years ago.
Just before the edges of the sandstorm reached the fortress ruins, it split, opening wide at the center and reaching around the Peaks like a crescent. The split in the storm revealed Gaara in the center, the gourd and pack still firmly on his back. Sasori angled Hinote to follow the left split of the storm. He pushed to the edges to peer downward – on a slab of wall, flat on the ground, he saw a fire where a small lump rested. One adult stood over the lump, and seven more stood in a line on the opposite side, facing Gaara. He could hear shouting, but couldn’t make out words through the roaring rustle of wind and sand. Sasori dropped down low, landing on the slope of the peaks beyond the group. He hid himself and his puppets behind cracked pillars and broken blocks. He slipped a hand down his vest and retrieve the cannister of sleeping gas. It was heavier than air, and would drift down the slopes. He had already given Gaara the antidote so it wouldn’t affect him.
Whatever had been shouted to Gaara must’ve been understood, especially when the adult standing next to the lump crouched down. Firelight glinted off the kunai as it hovered just above the lump – Temari, Sasori concluded, wrapped too tightly in fabric to run away, or to perhaps disguise that she was already dead. Death for the perpetrators was already guaranteed, but Sasori had some poisons that would make those deaths very slow and exceedingly horrific if Shukaku left anything for Sasori to use the poisons on. He saw the fabric knots of forehead protectors in the backs of their heads, but had no idea what Hidden Village affiliation they had, if any; they could be missing nin doing this as a bid for power.
The windstorm started to abate, although the demonic chakra was still present, still burning. Sweat drenched Sasori’s hair and forehead. He silently pried the rubber stopper off the sleeping gas, deliberately sliced the pad of his thumb open on the sharp edge of the mouth, and set the canister down. The abating wind blew towards Gaara. Sasori threaded a handful of chakra threads under sand swifter than the movement of the wind, and latched on to Temari.
She was alive – her chakra was the sluggish flow of sleep, and he didn’t take the time to probe further to see if it was from a head injury like her little friend, a sleeping agent, or natural sleep. If it were the former two, the sleeping agent Sasori had just unleashed would only exacerbate her condition.
“Pull back the Ichibi!” one of the perpetrators – female, young, per her voice – yelled. “And then put these on or we will kill your sister!” She threw a set of handcuffs through the air, glinting metallic-silver in the firelight. Sasori caught a blur of fuuinjutsu etchings in the metal before they sailed out of his range of vision – chakra suppressors. Expensive and hard to come by, typically used by only very skilled mercenaries with deep pockets, Mizu Hunter Nin, and ANBU from the Five Great Hidden Villages. None of them reacted to Sasori’s presence or chakra threads as Gaara pulled Shukaku’s chakra within himself. No sensors present, then.
The moment Sasori saw the kunai-holding hand dip from the effects of the sleeping agent, Sasori yanked Temari backwards through the air and flashed one-handed through the summon hand seals. Goukan-chan appeared with a loud puff of chakra-smoke just as the kunai-wielding kidnapper collapsed, unconscious. The sounds immediately attracted the attention of the other adults – the sleeping agent too low to the ground to affect them since they were standing – half-whirling so they didn’t expose their backs to Gaara.
In the light of the campfire, seven unmarked Konoha leaf spirals made Sasori freeze.

Just for a split second, but enough that Sasori’s plan immediately aborted.
“Change of plans!” he yelled at Goukan-chan. He threw himself and Temari behind the stone slab, the sound of weapons striking the stone ringing in his ears. “Attack and destroy, but leave the sleeping nin alive for questioning. Tell Gaara first!” He lashed Temari’s unconscious body to Hinote with chakra threads and then sent them spiraling high overhead, his chakra string stretched to the limits. He and Komushi leapt around the stone wall. Komushi ducked the wave of kunai and Sasori simply covered his face with a sleeved arm and ignored the burn of the massive fireball that struck him – it was nothing compared to the burn of corrosive demonic chakra. (He did smother his burning hair and smoldering clothes, the stench of such not even briefly overriding the metallic odor of blood as Gaara wrapped a tidal wave of sand around two people and crushed them into bloody pulp.)
Komushi gutted a third person, blades spinning in the firelight, and blocked a fourth as they engaged in a flurry of striking limbs and flashing blades. Sasori ducked and weaved through weapons and more fireballs as he snatched a fifth around her throat with a chakra thread and tightened it like a noose. The Konoha nin clawed at her throat, unable to break the chakra thread, as Sasori dangled her in the air. Face purpled in the firelight and legs kicked helplessly as Sasori smashed a vial of poison into the face of the sixth, the acid eating away at flesh and mucous membranes with the added components swiftly paralyzing the diaphragm. A shrill scream ripped through the air as two arms of demonic chakra formed around Gaara’s arms and wrapped around the seventh, burning him alive in Shukaku’s unleashed chakra. Komushi succeeded in sinking his blades through the ribcage, piercing the head of the fourth Konoha nin, and Goukan-chan’s teeth tore out the throat of the gutted third person.
Sasori’s dangling Konoha nin went slack, and he snapped her neck before dropping the corpse on the ground. He secured the Konoha nin, still asleep from the gas he had released earlier, with ropes. The nin was androgynous with the smooth skin and delicate features, and Sasori had no problem with brazenly feeling up the nin to confirm biologic sex – male. He tied the nin’s wrists behind his back, tied the ankles, and then folded the nin in half to secure wrists to ankles and added even more ropes and knots. He removed hidden weapons and blast tags, but found no poisons. Then he slapped a fuuinjutsu chakra suppression tag on the nin’s forehead.
Gaara was silent and Shukaku quietly withdrawn as he stepped onto the slab and into the firelight. The chakra restraining cuffs dangled loose from Gaara’s hands. “I’ll take those,” Sasori said. He inspected the fuuinjutsu seals etched into the metal – Suna only had two pairs, and the seals weren’t quite the same. He stuck them in his pocket. “To the winners go the spoils,” Sasori said.
“Why would Konoha hurt Temari?” Gaara asked, removing the forehead protector from the nin who died from Sasori’s poison. Other than the captured nin, it was the only forehead protector that wasn’t saturated in blood or burned to ash.
Goukan-chan hissed. “What?” Her vision was too poor to make out the forehead protector details in the darkness.
“They’re Konoha nin,” Sasori replied, cold rage leaking through the edges of his words. He lowered Hinote to the ground, and gently cradled Temari in his arms. “Is there anyone else around, lying in wait or disguise?” He could trust Goukan-chan’s nose. She assured him that the closest people to their location were in Suna, although there was a nomadic tribe at the oasis fifty kilometers east of them. “Go get the box with Temari’s fingers,” he told Goukan-chan, and allowed himself a moment of sadness after her dismissal. It fit well with his simmering rage. If Konoha was truly behind this… he would have to sever ties with the summon he shared with Tsume.
Kidnapping and dismembering a small child was something Tsume would never agree to, but Sasori would
never force Tsume to choose between Konoha and him – he was a selfish person, but he loved and valued her too much to hurt her like that. He would let Tsume go, and hold the memory of their friendship free of the bitter betrayal that was clawing at his heart. It would be even more painful than letting Yashamaru go, or even Komushi’s death, but he would do what he had to do, for Suna.
Sasori seated himself crosslegged on the ground as he freed Temari from the cloak she had been bundled and tied up in. The layers of fabric across her face had prevented any significant exposure to the sleeping agent he used, as her breathing remained slow and steady, though it whistled and dragged through her swollen, bruised neck – she had been choked unconscious at least once. Airway was always first in triage – he healed her swollen esophagus and tissues that narrowed her airway. Her breathing eased. Then he checked her system for any poisons, and found only a trace of the sleeping agent.

He then moved on to Temari’s head. One of her captors had cleaned the blood on her face but missed the underside of her chin. Her orbital sockets and eyelids were bruised, giving her a startling appearance to a tanuki, and her roughly-textured blond hair was matted with blood. Even unconscious, her face was tense with pain.
There was a swollen lump, the surface clotted and scabbed, at Temari’s crown. The meninges wrapping her delicate brain were swollen with multiple hematomas pressing against the hemispheres. In response to the trauma, there was an increased extracellular potassium that caused an ongoing neuronal depolarization. Concussions and subsequent brain trauma were tricky things to heal – the disruption of neurotransmitters, ionic shifts, altered cerebral blood flow, all of which was further enhanced by the swelling in an enclosed space where swelling had no choice but to press upon the brain.
Gaara pressed himself against Sasori’s side and grabbed Temari’s limp right hand, his breath stuttering as he tried not to cry. The first thing Sasori focused on was healing the injured blood and lymphatic vessels to improve circulation. This isolated the hematomas, and he stimulated Temari’s immune system slightly to increase the white blood cells that would break down the trapped blood. Then he decreased the inflammation of the meninges, which decreased the pressure on her brain. With the decreased pressure, neurotransmitters and neuronal depolarization would improve. As the healing progressed, Temari remained unconscious, but the pain in her face bled away.
It was now dawn, brilliant colors painting the desert and ruined fortress in shades of gold and orange while the broken blocks, slabs of rock, and pillars threw deep, dark shadows. As Sasori grabbed Temari’s left hand to inspect the amputation, Goukan-chan returned. She did not return alone.
Kakashi was probably one of the last people Sasori expected, and certainly not in full ANBU uniform at that, holding the wooden box that held Temari’s fingers – Sasori recognized him only because of that telltale Hatake white chakra he felt through his chakra threads as they sunk into Kakashi to hold him still. Kakashi still swayed, slightly off-kilter from the effects of being reverse-summoned.
Sand instantly swamped Kakashi as Shukaku’s killing intent bore down, suffocating even to Sasori despite it not being aimed at him. “Ducking Konoha!” Shukaku roared from Gaara’s mouth.
“Tsume’s son,” Sasori said calmly, dropping Temari’s hand to capture Gaara’s raised wrist. He hissed as the demonic chakra burnt his hand, but held tightly. “Don’t crush him.”
“Aunt Tsume couldn’t come,” Kakashi said, his voice muffled behind the grinning leer of his ANBU mask. His single Sharingan glowed, as red as the painted markings of his mask, but he didn’t react to the sand capturing his legs or Shukaku’s crushing Killing Intent – Shukaku was in a bad mood, but was – most likely for Sasori and Temari’s sakes, seated as close as they were – restrained. “She’s handling some, ah, traumatized teenaged girls and said it didn’t feel right to leave them alone with a bunch of men to come, and she apologizes for not being here for Temari. Sorry about not coming sooner, but I had to make sure my team was in a place I felt comfortable leaving.”
“Gaara,” Sasori kept his voice calm – the burning in his hand had been even worse than when he had been flying through the sandstorm. “I can’t reattach Temari’s fingers if you injure me, and I cannot allow you to hurt Tsume’s son.” And then to Kakashi, “Tsume doesn’t have to apologize. I can make three guesses as to why the girls are traumatized and why Tsume doesn’t want to leave them alone with their male rescuers, and I’d be correct with the first one.” And since he hadn’t expected Goukan-chan to bring any of his Konoha allies, he couldn’t exactly accuse Kakashi of being late.
“Aah. You would be.”
With a growl, Shukaku pulled back the demonic chakra, although his killing intent bore down still. “Your people ducking did this, you ding dong!” With the hand that Sasori wasn’t holding, he pointed at the corpses littered around them.
Sasori allowed Kakashi to turn his head slightly side to side, the Sharingan capturing and processing every detail with the same speed that Sasori’s brain did. Perhaps even more quickly; Sasori had never tested it. “Konoha forehead protectors in appearance, but the dye of the fabric and the metal composition isn’t the same – I can see that with the Sharingan, let alone smell the differences. Also, the humans themselves don’t smell of Konoha.”
“So, not Konoha nin,” Sasori said, more for Gaara’s benefit than his own as his burnt hand glowed green with the Mystic Palm, healing the damages from Shukaku’s chakra. It was only dermal deep.
“No. They’re shinobi who would want you to think it was Konoha.”
“I knew it!” Goukan-chan declared, which was probably why she had decided to bring along a Konoha friend without permission from Sasori.
With that, Sasori released Kakashi from the chakra thread. Kakashi stumbled forward through the knee-high sand. He grunted as he gently set the box within reach. He removed his mask from his face, hooking it to his belt. His uncovered Sharingan spun for a moment before he closed that eye. Clotted lacerations crisscrossed his bare arms and shoulders; the right shoulder was swollen and reddened, and he moved gingerly.
“You look terrible,” Sasori said.
“Yeah, well, at least I still have all my hair. There are better ways of stopping a fireball than with your face, Sasori.”
“If they don’t smell like Konoha, what do they smell like?” Sasori picked up Temari’s hand and unwrapped the dirty, bloody bandages that covered her entire hand.

“I’m…” Kakashi hesitated with a frown as he glanced at the bodies again, Sharingan eye still closed. “They’re not from the Continent or Northern Seas, which means that they’re from one of the southern or eastern islands, one whose denizens I’ve never met, much less traveled to.”
“If they were from the Land of Swamps they would’ve utilized poison to subdue Temari, instead of clubbing her over the head,” Sasori said. “Their hair and skin are too light to be from O’uzu Island.”

“I’ve never met anyone from the Lands of Sky, Claws, Valley, or Sand. I’ve been to the Land of Forest, and I remember the scents of the neighboring countries enough to know that these aren’t from any of those countries. They don’t smell like the people I’ve met from the Land of Moon.”
“We left one alive. We can get more information out of him.”
“Maa. Let me just remove that cyanide capsule from the false tooth then.”
Sasori thanked any gods listening to him for Kakashi’s Inuzuka nose as he inspected Temari’s hand. She must’ve regained consciousness long enough to put up a fight, because her swollen hand and wrist was covered with defensive wounds – he burned away the bacteria already starting to infect her wounds before he repaired the severed tendons and muscles, the fractured bones, and the lacerations.
“How much trouble are you going to get into for leaving an active ANBU mission?”
“For this? With someone actively trying to sabotage the trust and treaty between Konoha and Suna? None, whatsoever, although I promised my team I would return in approximately thirty minutes. They’re in a safe area, and Aunt Tsume will know if anyone is coming after them to retrieve the girls. She swore to unleash hell if that happens. Shisui can keep Aunt Tsume from going overboard…” After a long moment of both Kakashi and Sasori thinking of who, exactly, Shisui was, Kakashi quickly amended his statement. “Well, he'll keep her from burning down the world, at least.”
With the cyanide capsule fished out of the enemy nin’s mouth and crushed beneath Kakashi’s heel, Kakashi carefully approached Gaara, Sasori, and Temari. He repositioned the box in front of Gaara, and then sat, hunched and tired, in front of them. Goukan-chan immediately cradled her head in Kakashi’s lap. He scratched her ears. “How are you holding up, Gaara?” Kakashi asked.

Gaara and Kakashi had never met; they knew about each other through Sasori and Tsume telling each other, and the gentle familiarity of Kakashi addressing the boy who could’ve crushed Kakashi’s legs in a heartbeat only seemed to unravel Gaara.
Gaara burst into tears – angry, sad, frustrated – and the sand whipped around them like choppy waves on a stormy sea. He looked every bit of an overwhelmed five year old child. “They hurt my sister!”
Kakashi was stiff as he gingerly pulled Gaara into a right-armed hug – Sasori wasn’t sure if it was because Kakashi was in pain from his own battle, or wary of Gaara’s abilities. But Kakashi had years of being a big brother to the dangerous, traumatized children that Tsume had fostered and adopted over the years whom Sasori met and interacted with whenever he was in Konoha, and he rubbed small circles against Gaara’s back. “It’s not your fault, Gaara. I’m sure that if you had been there, you would’ve done everything you could to protect your sister. I bet they would never have survived to even touch her.”
“I don’t want anyone to ever hurt her again!”
“Then you’ll just have to help your sister learn how to defend herself, since you can’t stay with her everywhere she goes. I bet you’ll do a great job.”
Gaara scrubbed at his face and forced the tears to stop. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll do that.”
Sasori removed Temari’s ring finger from the box. He carefully lined it up with the stump, and used his chakra threads to knit severed tendons and muscles into place before he reattached and healed the blood vessels, then the skin. His chakra levels were starting to get low. He did the same with her pinky finger, and then allowed himself to relax. Temari remained unconscious, and he decided to let her remain such so her body could shift into a healing sleep. “We didn’t bring any stasis scrolls for storing bodies,” he told Kakashi. He hadn’t expected to need bringing back anyone to autopsy.
Still keeping one arm around Gaara, Kakashi shifted Goukan-chan to remove two black scrolls from his hip pouch. He wordlessly tossed them to Sasori, wincing slightly from the movement.
Sasori let them hit the ground. “Seriously though, you really do look like death warmed over. I saved enough chakra to heal you.”
“I’ll be fine,” Kakashi said.
Sasori shifted and scooted closer, and then clamped a glowing green hand on Kakashi’s swollen right shoulder. “Whoever put your humerus back into the socket after you dislocated it did a poopy job, Kakashi.”
Kakashi pouted. “I think I did an outstanding job, all things considering.”
Sasori lifted his glowing green hand long enough to lightly slap the back of Kakashi’s head.
“Oh, my head feels better now. That’s the nicest head slap I’ve ever received.”
“You also have a bipolar clavicular dislocation. There is no way you should be lifting that arm at all. Fine, my butt.”
“I’m sure it’s a fine butt,” Kakashi replied with far too much cheer, “but we’re talking about me. Could you explain what a mentally-ill clavicle injury is in layman’s terms?”
Sasori slapped him upside the head again, this time without the Mystic Palm. “Stop discussing anyone’s backsides in front of the kids. Gaara, move to the other side. I need full access to Kakashi’s stupidity.” Gaara obeyed, and burrowed himself into Goukan-chan’s side as he rubbed his tear-swollen eyes. “Your clavicle bone was forcefully dislocated from both joints that it’s attached to – the shoulder and the sternum. It’s called bipolar because both ends have been dislocated. The bone is just floating there, and it’s interfering with your breathing.”
“Aah.”
A glance at Gaara indicated he had already fallen asleep, so Sasori felt comfortable with swearing. “It’s also a bitch to repair.”
“It’s a bitch to experience.”
Sasori used his chakra threads to knit the hairline fractures that marred the clavicle, reduced the inflamed tissues around it, and then slid the bone into place. Without the use of the chakra threads, this injury would’ve required surgery to be repaired, and Kakashi would’ve been out of commission for at least two months, and that was if he actually followed up for medical treatment. Which, frankly, the man could use that level of downtime, but Sasori knew that a bored, restless Kakashi was a Kakashi looking for trouble. Sasori wasn’t sure if that was just the Inuzuka genes, or Kakashi’s borderline self-destruction because his quest for self-forgiveness had, thus far, been unsuccessful. Sasori reattached the torn ligaments and tendons, and then healed the partially torn rotator cuff, surprised that it hadn’t been ripped apart entirely from whatever blow had dislocated Kakashi’s humerus and clavicle. He left the remaining affected muscles swollen and inflamed, just so Kakashi would remember not to overuse the arm.
Kakashi studied Gaara. Goukan-chan snored in Kakashi’s lap. His voice was soft. “Thank you.”
“You need to take better care of yourself. You’re underweight again, Kakashi.”
“Well, you know what they say, no rest for the wicked.”
“You should probably return to Tsume and the rest of your team.”
“Aah, I probably should, but Goukan-chan needs to rest also before she can reverse-summon me back. I don’t particularly care to get stuck forever between dimensions because she doesn’t have enough chakra to complete the process.” Kakashi used one of the kunai littering the ground around them to bloody his thumb so he could summon Pakkun. Goukan-chan, Gaara, and Temari didn’t stir.
Pakkun looked around them, eyed Kakashi, and then turned very judgmental eyes on Sasori. “What did you two do?”
“For once,” Kakashi said brightly, “I’m innocent. Anyway, will you please let Aunt Tsume and my team know that given the complications Sasori is dealing with and how I need more information about the complications, Goukan-chan needs to rest a little more before I can return to them and explain – should be later today, though. Yamato is in charge during my absence.”
Pakkun scratched behind his ear. “All right then.” He held his paw up to Sasori. “You may touch my toe beans for healing Kakashi.”
Sasori did, still unsure of the significance of this ritual despite being allowed to touch Pakkun’s paw pads twice before over the years. After Pakkun dismissed himself, Sasori laughed softly and said, “Shisui, Yamato, and yourself. That means there’s only one other ANBU member whose name you haven’t spilled.”
“I didn’t mention Itachi? He’ll feel put out to be forgotten.”
“Really, Kakashi, I thought Konoha ANBU identities were supposed to be secret.”
Kakashi shrugged, his shoulders moving more easily with the healing Sasori had done. “Maybe I want you to know that, whatever else anyone does while wearing Konoha’s forehead protectors, whether they are truly Konoha or not, you can trust ANBU Team Ro.”
Sasori trailed his eyes over the corpses, which were already attracting flies. The air stank with the odor of burnt hair and flesh, the opened entrails with their spilled contents of the nin Komushi had gutted, and the splattered blood.
He knew he could trust Kakashi, Yamato, and Shisui – he didn’t know enough about Itachi, although he was Shisui’s adored cousin, Kagami and Fumiko’s eldest grandson, and Hana’s old genin teammate. “What would happen if your Hokage ever ordered your team to do something like this to Suna? To commit sabotage?”
Kakashi also looked at the surrounding carnage. “I very much doubt that the Hokage would do that so long as our treaty is in place, and especially with my team – sabotage isn’t our specialty – but if he did… I’d just rat him out to Aunt Tsume.”
“And what in the Eternal Sands could Tsume do to stop your Hokage after he arrests you for sedition and treason?”
Kakashi’s Sharingan eye was closed, and the other – dark gray, just like Tsume’s – was solemn. “Sasori, you are Aunt Tsume’s. So is Deidara. To some extent, she’s also laid claim on Gaara. Tsume’s territory as Alpha thus includes Suna, and neither you nor Tsume seem to have consciously realized it yet. And like it or not, your territory includes Konoha, because of Tsume and Shisui and the prosthetics department.”
Sasori winced, knowing precisely how Rasa would feel about that if he ever found out. “I don’t want her to have to choose between Konoha and Suna.” If Sasori couldn’t extract the truth from the captured nin of where they had come from and why they tried to disguise their origins with Konoha’s forehead protectors, this was going to cause irreparable damage to Rasa’s precarious trust with the Konoha-Suna treaty. The fact that Sasori believed that Temari’s kidnappers weren’t Konoha was simply because Kakashi told him based on his olfaction, and Rasa would never accept that explanation.
“There is no choice between one or the other, Sasori. She’s decided on both.”
Sasori rubbed his temples as a throbbing pain started building from his tension and exhaustion. “How can she not choose? We’re in two different geographical countries and have entirely different cultures. I will always side with Suna over Konoha.”
“That’s because you know Konoha can take care of herself, but Suna needs you. And she can’t choose between Suna and Konoha the same way she can’t choose between her children, Sasori. Sorry, but Suna is stuck with Tsume.”
Sasori turned his face to the warm sunshine. It wasn’t brutally hot yet, being early morning, but the light and warmth was pleasant, even as the odors of death worsened. “I’m not sorry in the least,” he said finally. Shadows passed overhead from the flying vultures. Sasori continued to hold Temari as Kakashi carefully extracted himself free of Goukan-chan and stored the corpses away in the black scrolls, after removing the spiral leafed forehead protectors. After he finished, Kakashi inspected the scattered weapons. “Standard to this Continent,” he concluded. And then he divided the weapons up between him and Sasori, keeping half of the senbon, shuriken, and kunai for himself.
The fire had burned out mid-way through Sasori healing Temari’s head injury, and Kakashi, with the point of one kunai, sifted through the ashes and charcoal. Wood wasn’t plentiful in Suna when it came to fire sources; most nomadic tribes preferred to pack along and use coal that was mined throughout Wind, since it burned longer for less amount. “This wood was harvested from the Country of Tea.” Kakashi unearthed packs that had been hidden beneath sand at the foot of a broken pillar thirty meters away from the slab Sasori rested on, and found more wood in one of the storage scrolls. Kakashi spread out the contents of the bags, and froze mid-way through his search. He removed a forehead protector with a symbol that Sasori had never seen before. It looked like a cane tilted at an acute right angle with a short line protruding from the curve of the cane and two more lines from the shaft.
“Where is it from?” Sasori asked as Kakashi turned the forehead protector in his hands.
“Sky, I think,” Kakashi replied. “My dad… I vaguely recall him saying something years ago – I must’ve been two or three years old at the time – that he had teamed up with the Sannin when the Land of Sky attacked during the Second War, and how Konohagakure had destroyed the Hidden Village.”
Sasori rubbed his eyes. The exhaustion of being awake for so long and the exposure to Shukaku’s chakra was tugging at him. “Please tell me Sky didn’t decide to take the piss out on Suna because of Konoha and our treaty with you.”
“This is just conjecture, Sasori, but if that’s the case, I suspect Sky likely wanted to get their hands on Gaara because they know what an unleashed bijuu can do, and Suna, by way of geography, has the closest bijuu to both Soragakure and Konoha without it actually being the Nine Tails. And the jinchuuriki of the Nine Tails is a closely guarded secret.”
Not that guarded, given how all the adults in Konoha was aware that it was Uzumaki Naruto, and Tsume had happily spilled the beans to Sasori when she found Kushina’s child a year and a half ago in her barn, eating dog food, and promptly claimed ownership like the ferocious mother bear queen alpha bitch she was.

Well, at least now they had proof – outside of Kakashi’s nose – that Konoha didn’t have anything to do with this latest debacle, but Sasori knew that Rasa would find some way to pin some of the blame on Konoha, even if it was just to blame Konoha for simply not finishing the job over twenty years ago when they supposedly wiped out Soragakure during the Second War.
Sasori used his chakra threads to pluck the Konoha forehead protector off of the Sora nin’s forehead, and replace it with the Sora forehead protector. There, that felt appropriate. “I’ll have to keep this man locked up tight in Suna for Rasa to question when he returns from the Summit. What can you tell me about these?” He fished the chakra cuffs out of his [ocket and tossed them to Kakashi.
Kakashi opened his Sharingan to study the fuuinjutsu seals. “These are not standard. See this seal, here?” He angled the cuffs for Sasori’s inspection. Sasori didn’t recognize it. “It’s a siphon. Most chakra cuffs seal the wearer’s chakra, preventing them from actively using it. These not only seal, but they drain. And this seal here,” he pointed at another that Sasori didn’t recognize, “directs the siphoned chakra to a linked vessel.”
Sasori cringed. “Between whatever vessel those cuffs were linked to, and Shukaku’s tea kettle, it would’ve eventually ripped Shukaku out of Gaara.” And likely have killed Gaara in the process. Who knows what would happen to Shukaku, being caught and pulled between two different vessels.
“Most likely. Were I you, Sasori, I would destroy these.”
“I will, right after I show them to Rasa. Is there anything in the packs that would be the vessel?”
Kakashi inspected everything, including what was packed away in the storage scrolls (more weapons; a set of forehead protectors with Kumo’s three clouds, and a set of forehead protectors with Kiri’s four water waves – they all were the wrong colors in cloth and metal, per Kakashi’s Sharingan, with the metal being the same as those used for the Sora forehead protectors, and most likely created in the Land of Sky from local materials; vegetables and fruits that weren’t indigenous to Wind, Lightning, or Water; camping supplies; more wood with bark that Sasori didn’t recognize; caskets of water; medicine; clothes), but nothing that indicated a vessel. “I wonder if the seal wouldn’t siphon off the chakra until they were closer to the vessel. They probably intended to remove Gaara from the country, entirely. Is there anyone else from the Land of Sky within your range of olfaction?”
Kakashi didn’t even hesitate to yank his mask down, his face fully facing Sasori. It would be a rather nice face, Sasori thought as Kakashi tilted his nose in the air and took several deep breaths with his eyes closed, were it not for the injuries. Kakashi’s nose was straight and his jaw would’ve been perfectly symmetrical, if it wasn’t swollen and bruised spectacularly on the left side. The bruising was livid and therefore older than Kakashi’s injured shoulder. Without the mask, beneath the bruising, he could see the resemblance to the White Fang, and wondered if Kakashi had started covering his face in order to distance himself from his father.
“None within a four hundred kilometer radius,” Kakashi concluded. His natural eye, the Sharingan remaining closed, was heavy as he looked at Sasori.
(Sasori understood the significance of Kakashi baring his face – he was aiming for complete honesty and trust. Sasori thought this flash of friendship was utterly, breathlessly beautiful. One that couldn’t be captured in any media or art – it simply existed, didn’t require any explanation or understanding, and needed to be treasured for what it was.)
“I do believe,” Sasori’s voice was blend of sincerity and sarcasm, “that I’m one of the few who’s seen your face without knowing what your naked butt looks like. I feel honored.”
Kakashi smiled; the left side didn’t rise as high as the right side because of the bruising. Aaawww, Kakashi had dimples. “You should be. I think you’re the only one in the entire world.”
Sasori stood, carefully placed Temari on the back of Hinote, and then crossed the distance between him and Kakashi. He dropped to a crouch and placed a green palm against Kakashi’s jaw, healing the inflamed tissues and hematomas. “It’s unlikely that you’ll ever hear this from Rasa, but thank you, Kakashi. Thank you for everything.”
“I didn’t do it for it for the Kazekage, Sasori. I did it…” Kakashi’s adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. There was vulnerability in his expression, making him look so much younger than his actual age. Kakashi was only nineteen years old, Sasori thought – still a teenager. “…I did it for my friend. The friend who told me that probably the only way I can heal from their loss is by being the kind of person Obito and Rin would want to remain friends with. You opened up to me, so…” So Kakashi opened up to Sasori, because true friendship was reciprocal.
(Definitely nailed it!)

Sasori leaned forward, pressing his forehead against Kakashi’s. “I can’t speak for the dead, but I know you’re certainly the kind of person I want to remain friends with. It hurt to suspect Konoha was behind this, because it meant that I would lose Tsume, you, and everyone else.” The friendship he had with Kakashi was as awkward as it was genuine, and Sasori attributed it to the fact that they had both prodigal geniuses in their own way, able to understand the world around them, but not necessarily the people living in said world. But they were both willing to navigate that awkwardness, to share something rare and genuine that endured despite the distance of time and geography. Their love was the yellow sort of love that Tsume had once written about – yellow like dandelions that stubbornly persisted on thriving in even the poorest of soils and worst of conditions. And even if that love did whither away – the yellow would turn to silver that blew where the wind would take it, plant itself once again, and flourish once again against all odds.
In Sasori’s opinion, yellow love was the best sort of love, because of its timeless persistence. Few things were immortal in this life.
“Maa.” Kakashi grinned. “I already told you, if Konoha ever tried something like this, you’re still stuck with us.”
“You said I was stuck with Tsume.”
“We’re kind of a package deal. A buy-one, get thirty or forty for free.”

(Kakashi, declared Komushi firmly, is also the wind beneath your wings, Sasori.)
“I’m pretty sure I don’t have thirty friends in the entire world, much less Konoha.” Sasori’s hand slid from Kakashi’s jaw to the back of his neck, and he pulled Kakashi into a hug. Sasori liked to think that his parents would’ve approved of Kakashi. “But I don’t need thirty friends when I have you and Tsume. Two wonderful friendships are worth more than thirty distant friendships.”
Kakashi pressed his forehead against Sasori’s shoulder. “Quality over quantity, eh?”
“Quality. Quality above all else, always. Come. We need to get to Suna before it gets too hot.” Sasori released Kakashi. They both moved Goukan-chan and Gaara, with only Goukan-chan briefly stirring awake, to the back of Hinote. After they hydrated themselves, Sasori stabbed the Sora nin in the left buttock with a senbon tainted with a mild paralytic in anticipation of the sleeping gas of wearing off within the next hour. He kept the senbon imbedded because Sasori, even when he was a good friend to Kakashi, was still “petty and vindictive,” Kakashi declared lightly.
“I could do much worse; at least it’s also not the hallucinogenic that will inflict the man with horrible hallucinations while he’s paralyzed,” Sasori replied.
“Aah, good to know that you’re just petty right now, instead of actually being vindictive.”
“Exactly.”
Kakashi nodded, and looked toward Temari. “You’d be justified, either way.”
Kakashi repacked everything as Sasori directed Komushi to piggyback the Sora nin, and they set off in an easy run for Suna.

“I am going to have to tell the Hokage about this,” Kakashi told Sasori as they bound across the desert sands. “He’s not only going to want to know about Sorakagure currently existing, but also how they masqueraded as Konoha nin and attempted to capture Suna’s jinchuuriki.”
“Don’t hold anything back, Kakashi. I’ll even send Hokage-sama a written report on what we manage to extract from the Sora nin.”
“That won’t endear the Kazekage towards you.”
“I’ll just tell Rasa that we can word it in such a way to blame Konoha for letting enough Sora nin survive that they felt comfortable or desperate enough to attempt dragging Suna into their pissing match.”
“I’ll, uh, inform Hokage-sama such so he doesn’t feel as insulted when he winds up reading the report. You know, I get the feeling that Rasa is even more petty than you, and I don’t even know the man except by his reputation and from what others have said.”
Sasori grinned, but it wasn’t with amusement. “Haggling and pettiness: Wind’s national sports.”

Kakashi kept one of the Sora forehead protectors to show people in Konoha who had been part of the fighting forces against Sora nin during the Second War to confirm its origin.oOoOoOo
After Rasa returned from the Summit and Sasori gave him all the intel he had successfully extracted from the captured Sora nin, Sasori found himself unceremoniously shipped off to the Land of Sky in a joint venture with Konoha nin, but that’s a story for another time.**
Author's notes

Okay, so when I was first figuring out the subplot on Temari’s kidnapping as a way for enemies to successfully capture Gaara, I didn’t originally plan for the involvement of the Land of Sky or Kakashi. But this turned out better, ultimately, for the overall theme of the story, which is about love and forgiveness in our relationships, whether that relationship is with ourselves or with other people, with lovers, friends, friends turned into puppets, family, or demonic chakra constructs glued to a tea kettle who can only be reasonably brought to heel via unhealthy amounts of sugar.
However, I did want to include the rough points of what the original subplot was, because, well, I had worked it out, and didn’t want to waste all that time and effort.oOoOoOo[scene, when Shukaku/Gaara and Sasori are discussing Plan A and Plan B]Shukaku: I think you’re overthinking things, Board Boy. I go in, I slaughter all who dared to cross me, and then we rescue Temari and return home to delicious, fresh-baked cookies. I mean, what’s the worst that can happen?Sasori: don’t say it.Shukaku: it’s not like those morons have a ducking dragon that’ll be fighting me.Sasori: I told you not to say that. You just jinxed us.Shukaku: I told ya, I ducking killed the last dragon five hundred years ago.Sasori: I was drowned by a supposedly extinct suiton dragon over twelve years ago, you blooming dolt!Shukaku: bah. What are the odds of getting drowned by another dragon, much less in a desert? It’s not like we’re flush with water.[scene change: Sasori and Shukaku ambush the enemy camp. Enemy camp UNLEASHES fuuton dragon. Fuuton dragon manages to summon MIGHTY WIND STORM. It is SUPEREFFECTIVE in blowing away all of Shukaku’s sand. Impressive fight scenes take place probably exceeding this author's actual skill. Readers pretend it's all very impressive. Sasori also nearly gets smothered by the sand, which is pretty darn close to being drowned.]Sasori: *desperately channels his inner Tsume with Talk no Jutsu, Nessie-style* Soooo, are you all alone? You’re looking rather ravishing, my dear. I know a very handsome raiton dragon who would love to have the chance to court you.Fuuton dragon: really now.Sasori: now, I know it’s not exactly ideal, what with you being an almost-immortal fuuton dragon and them being immortal raiton dragon summons, but I got the down-low on my friend who helped hook up her suiton dragon friend with a raiton dragon summon, and bada bing, bada boom, there are now a dozen frolicking half-breed demi-summon dragon babies running around and causing mayhem on the local populace.Fuuton dragon: what if I’m interested in a suiton dragon instead of a raiton dragon?Sasori: ah, well, they’re only babies right now. I understand you’d have to wait a century or two before they’re old enough to reach sexual maturity. Seriously though, three raiton dragons were competing for the honor of this suiton dragon. You, my dear, are so magnificent and so beautiful, that you’ll have a dozen suitors, easy.Fuuton dragon: well, at least your offer sure beats being at the beck and call of these idiots. *slaughters the enemy nin trying to capture Gaara, and frees/heals Temari*Shukaku: what.Sasori: hey, it worked once before.Shukaku:
once… ONCE BEFORE? I can’t believe you not only took away my ducking kill, but you’re going to breed even more ducking dragons? Do you have any idea how hard it was to destroy their species? What is wrong with you?Sasori: there is nothing wrong with me. I’m perfectly normal. Also, you’re not allowed to kill any of the dragons.Shukaku: this is horse apples and you know it!Sasori: make love, not war. Wouldn’t it be nice to have some friends your own size that you can, like, play with?[scene change: Rasa returns from the Kage Summit, walks into the Kazekage Tower, immediately walks out, and goes right to where Sasori is doing paperwork in his office.]Rasa: why… why is there an orgy of bizarre humanoid creatures in the Kazekage Tower?Sasori: Your sex dungeon was the only room large enough for our new fuuton dragon to have some privacy.Rasa: WHERE DID YOU GET AN EXTINCT FUUTON DRAGON?Sasori: I collect them. Call me… the Queen of Dragons. Between the suiton dragon I’m graciously allowing Konoha to host and the fuuton dragon I discovered, I officially have two more than everyone else in the entire world. Natsumi’s dragon summon doesn’t count. Mine are mortal.Rasa: wait… what suiton dragon? Why did you let Konoha keep the suiton dragon that you found, and why am I just now hearing about this?Sasori: your father said our aquifer couldn’t support a suiton dragon, and I felt that the camels would spit too much if Nessie ate them.Rasa: what is wrong with you?Shukaku: see, I ducking asked that question first. I cannot believe I have anything in common with you, ya ducking ding-dong.Sasori: on the bright side, this one didn’t succeed in drowning me.Rasa: a situation I will gladly rectify.Sasori: by the way, Temari kinda got kidnapped by the people I got the fuuton dragon from, and her fingers were lopped off, but she’s all better right now.Rasa: … what the fuck. I WAS GONE FOR LIKE FIVE MINUTES. You need adult supervision. >:(Shukaku: hey, I was there the entire time.Rasa: I said ADULT supervision.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Sasori was twenty-six years old was he given his very first genin team, shortly after Menpu graduated from ultra-competent secretary to ultra-competent Assistant Head of Internal Affairs who finally had the courage to tell Rasa to fuck off when situations required such. While Sasori had done the occasional week-long survival mission, piggybacking off of teams to get a feel of the new dynamics that he and Rasa enacted in the Academy and team living arrangements (thus resulting in one memorable instance where he got caught in one of Tsume’s wolf-traps and proved not to be nearly as intimidating to Suna genin and their jounin sensei when he was dangling upside-down from an ankle while Tsume laughed too hard to really apologize), this was the first opportunity Sasori was given to act as an actual sensei.
It was both thrilling, to be hands-on in shaping malleable little human beings, and a little frightening to be so responsible for them. The fact that one of them was Deidara and the other was Temari might have gotten Sasori and Rasa accused of nepotism by anyone brave enough to dare, but Sasori’s standards were exacting. However, he reminded himself that he wasn’t his own Jounin sensei, that it was okay to know that your teammates were going to fail, that it was okay to expect them to make mistakes and to learn from such (it was his job, as the Jounin sensei, to ensure that his students survived said mistakes), and that genuine attempts at trying – even if the attempt led to failure – should be encouraged, and not punished harshly.

They were stuck with Gaara as the third teammate, who wasn’t even a genin, given that Shukaku didn’t like the other Academy students any more than they had liked the jinchuuriki, and Rasa told Sasori that since Sasori had rewritten the Academy education, he fully expected Gaara to learn as much, if not more, than other Academy students. While Gaara wouldn’t officially be considered a genin for another three years, he was stuck with Sasori’s genin students by way of being homeschooled by Sasori. Kankurou was expected to join in the next two years, after his own Academy graduation, and would eventually form Suna’s first-ever four-student Genin team.
“No good deed goes unpunished, eh?” Sasori asked Rasa when he was informed of this.
“No, this comes from being too damn competent at your own job,” Rasa replied, a sour expression twisting his face. It also meant that Sasori would be stepping back from his responsibilities as Head of Internal Affairs, only being called in on the worst of the dumpster fires, and Rasa was going to have to deal more frequently with Menpu, who was too old and too happily married for Rasa to successfully flirt his way into her good graces.
Deidara was eleven years old, Temari was ten years old, and Gaara was seven years old. Deidara remained his happy-go-lucky, stupidly fearless self, and Temari – who used to be the most no-nonsense of her siblings – should have no problem sitting (metaphorically or literally) on Deidara to prevent his more harebrained stunts. Unfortunately, Temari liked explosions almost as much as Deidara. Gaara, always eager to follow Deidara with the mindlessness of a lemming following its brethren off a cliff, and Shukaku, who eagerly used a thousand years of knowledge to encourage Sasori’s ruthless little murder-gremlins, only fed into the shenanigans.
Sasori wasn’t sure if Temari’s personality change – something that had always been cautious but had warped to an impatient recklessness after her kidnapping – was related to the trauma of the kidnapping and temporary loss of her fingers, or an unfortunately permanent effect of the brain injury she incurred. One thing was for certain, though; Temari had no intention of ever becoming a damsel in distress who needed rescue. Temari figured that if she just ruthlessly slaughtered anyone who came after her, there would be no survivors to successfully kidnap her in the future. It ultimately led to an early graduation from the Academy, since Rasa felt that allowing Temari to stay until she turned the minimum age of eleven would decrease the number of students willing to remain enrolled. The fact that Gaara had played a role in her rescue had also warmed her to him in ways nothing before had – she treated Gaara with the same easy going physical affection and lack of fear that Deidara did.
Suna’s Genin Team Seven (and wasn’t that a riot and a half; when Sasori demanded an explanation for that particular number being assigned, Rasa only shrugged and said it was either that or Team Four, and it hardly seemed fortuitous to name Suna’s future demolition team after death) spent more time out of Suna than inside of Suna. Upon receiving the third D rank that would take them out of Suna – Sasori had no idea that any mission that put them outside of Suna’s walls could be considered D rank – Sasori ushered his three students out of Rasa’s office, firmly shut the door, and plastered a privacy fuuinjutsu seal across the frame so nothing said within Rasa’s office could be heard outside of it.
Rasa sat behind his desk, his face firm, his hands folded on top of the desk, and his gold dust lazily snaking across the floor.
“What’s this really about, Rasa?” Sasori asked evenly. Although the seal would prevent sound from escaping, he didn’t think Rasa would respond if Sasori raised his voice.
“You’ll have to be more specific,” Rasa replied, his voice flat.
Sasori crossed the room and sat in the chair. He made a show of getting comfortable despite how the wooden chair had never been such, and reclined casually backwards with one leg drawn across the other. “Why are you doing to this to your own son?”
Rasa leaned back, mirroring Sasori. “Again, you’ll have to be more specific.”
“You deliberately set this specific genin team up – two overpowered genin and me; all of us have a healthy amount of respect and care for Gaara, and very little fear of what he’d do to us personally when he loses control – which means this team is largely for Gaara. But it’s at odd with the frequency in which you send us packing.”
Rasa was silent for an uncomfortable minute. His gold dust remained calm. “Are you sure that it’s about Gaara and not about you, Sasori? It could just as easily be understood that this is my way of swamping you with a responsibility that will keep you too occupied and too out of the way to interfere with my rulership of Suna.”
“I have considered it, but it was Gaara you looked at when you gave us this assignment to us, not me.”
Rasa sighed. “I know I have not been a good father to Gaara.”
Sasori said nothing. He had chosen the route of diplomacy and not expressed his opinions of such over the years. That wasn’t going to change now.

“I am…” Rasa’s voice trailed off as a spasm of grief crossed his face. Sasori had enough ears around town to know that despite Rasa’s shameless flirtation, he remained celibate since before Gaara’s birth. “…incapable of separating Gaara from Shukaku, and what happened to Karura. I’ve tried, but I can’t let it go.”
Sasori could say nothing about that without coming across as a hypocrite, given how many years it took for the pain of Komushi’s abrupt death to finally start easing. Still, it was Rasa’s own damn fault for what happened. If he had waited for Gaara to be born, Karura would’ve survived… Or she would’ve been killed by Shukaku, like so many others had in that time before Sasori’s return, before Tsume talked some sense into Shukaku and Jiraiya stabilized Gaara’s seal. But they would never know.
“Why do you think I’ve never stopped you from taking care of Gaara, of being the father to him what I never could?” Rasa asked. The gold dust continued to stir gently across the floor. Sasori didn’t know if he should trust how peaceful it seemed.
“I’ve aways assumed it was because I was one of the few people in Suna who could get Shukaku to calm down, and that you trusted me enough to protect Gaara from assassination attempts.”
Rasa snorted. “I already knew that by the time he was six months old that Shukaku would make sure that Gaara would never be successfully assassinated – not with the amount of freedom he bartered.” It was a much better deal than being stuck by himself in a tea kettle in the ass-end of Suna’s underground crypts with only occasional visits from Sasori. “Years ago, you told me that Gaara was my son, and that I was to address, love, and raise him as such. I have always acknowledged and called Gaara my son; I always will, but I cannot love and raise him as I should. I cannot find it in myself to love Gaara enough to overcome Karura’s loss.” The gold sand’s languid journey remained unchanged. This was something that Rasa had evidently come to terms with long ago. “I know that my emotional distance and neglect is painful for Gaara. I know it’s as insidious and as damaging as physical abuse. I also know that Gaara deserves better than that. I love him enough to know that I cannot give him what he needs, and that is why I am eternally grateful that Gaara has you and Yashamaru to make up the difference.”
Sasori organized his thoughts, and then said, “Yashamaru and I will never stop being there for Gaara, but you know there’s a world of difference between our love, and what Gaara craves from you.”
“I know, Sasori. I know. But I feel that if Gaara isn’t here to see the daily difference with how I treat Kankurou and Temari, it will lessen the hurt. And if Gaara ever asks – you have my permission to tell him why. Perhaps what Gaara needs is that honesty.”
Sasori didn’t think it would make any difference; whether Gaara was three years old, sitting on Sasori’s lap and asking how he could make his father less scared of him – asking, in his own way, how he could be loved and cared for by his father the way that Sasori loved and cared for him – or whether Gaara was seven years old, being sent to a distant part of Wind on a mission to procure rare minerals, Gaara was going to internalize that the reason Rasa couldn’t love him was because of Gaara himself. Perhaps, as an adult, Gaara could conceptualize that this issue was Rasa’s, but it wasn’t something a child like Gaara could understand.oOoOoOo
When Sasori wrote Kakashi a letter asking for some advice on what Namikaze Minato would’ve done with such overpowered genin, after they blow the top off the mine for easy access to the rare minerals and incurred the ingratitude of the local miners, Kakashi’s response was a book on puppy training, a clicker, and a bag of milk bones. It wasn’t the emphatic support that Sasori had been hoping for. It was also the same book on puppy training that Kagami had given Sasori years before. Since he was pretty sure it was also exactly what Tsume would’ve also sent Sasori, he never sent her a letter requesting advice.
(Five years in the future, when Kakashi wrote Sasori a letter of how he floundered with his own team of genin – a “pink-haired monstrous civilian whose left hook is in direct proportion to her complete lack of self-esteem”, the “miniature Minato in looks, miniature Kushina in behavior, and miniature Tsume in his complete lack of self-preservation, and believe me, as an Inuzuka son, THAT says way too much in itself; I should’ve known what I was getting into, Tsume’s been raising him for the last eight and a half years”, and “the reincarnation of Pencil-Dick Uchiha, he grades my grammar on all of our mission reports, Sasori, seriously, and demands exact citations with all of my lessons. Who does that with their Jounin sensei???” – Sasori’s reply simply read, Neener neener neener, because while Sasori’s viciousness may have receded mildly over the years, his pettiness only grew.
But, being a Jounin sensei himself, Sasori felt it was only befitting that he give the Konoha Team Seven some advice. To Naruto, he wrote a letter that outlined while Naruto may be able to survive the shenanigans he gets himself into because of his heritage, he needs to think about the probability of survival for his teammates; he also connected Gaara and Naruto as jinchuuriki penpals, because Gaara could share the ways he learned how to protect his teammates without holding them back due to their lack-of-tailed-beast strength. To Sasuke, he wrote a letter about how no one likes smartasses and it’s a good way to alienate his teammates; he encouraged Sasuke to instead dazzle the others with his intelligence the same way Fumiko had dazzled Sasori. He didn’t write a letter to Sakura; he instead wrote a letter to Anko requesting that she kindly teach self-esteem to Haruna Sakura.
Which, in retrospect, wasn’t his greatest idea, considering how he didn’t dwell on how the Mitarashi Clan has its own idea of what constitutes as kindness. The Mitarashi Clan probably also threw their family members into piranha-infested waters to learn how to swim, but were also willing to rescue their kin if it looked like they were floundering. Still, Sasori adored Anko for her general bloodthirsty sadism, so it couldn’t possibly be as bad as Kakashi complained about in length after Anko swooped in and took the pink-haired civilian-born genin under her questionable wing.)
Since Sasori was pretty sure that milk bones and a clicker wasn’t how Namikaze had trained his genin team, he sent a letter to Jiraiya. Surely the man who had formed the Fourth Hokage in his genin years had some advice to give.
Jiraiya sent Sasori an autographed limited edition set of Ichi Ichi books and wrote that genin teams were hell; Sasori needed to make sure he engaged in plenty of “self-care” and “destressing”.
Sasori read the books in the desperate hope that maybe there was some insightful philosophy buried deep in the sop, was deeply disappointed in how trashy it was compared to Jiraiya’s earlier work on a romance between a cursed sailor and an infatuated Whirlpool siren, and sent a letter to Sarutobi Hiruzen complaining about his Konoha nin. And then he sent Jiraiya a lengthy critique of the books, pointing out all the plot holes, an in-depth review of the characters Sasori did or didn’t like as well as their inconsistencies, how terrible Jiraiya was in keeping track of his world’s history and timelines, with each error citated by page number, and also how many of the sex positions weren’t physically possible without being double-jointed.
The Hokage sent Sasori a formal apology, blamed whatever it was in the local atmosphere to produce crazy geniuses, with an emphasis on crazy, and some calming essential oils to apply to Sasori’s wrists whenever he had to read a letter from any Konoha nin. (Which, okay, the lavender was nice and provided enough of a placebo effect that Sasori didn’t feel like hunting down Kakashi and Jiraiya and throttling some sense into them whenever he received a letter from them.)
Jiraiya replied back that his publishers echoed the same criticism on the sex and characterization as Sasori (and really, they should’ve caught the timeline inconsistencies, that’s why they got a portion of Jiraiya’s royalties), but his lucrative bank account would say otherwise in regards to what his fans thought. Also, would Sasori mind being a beta reader for his draft on the next book? Say yes, and he would give Sasori the editors’ portion of the royalties.
Sasori replied that he would accept payment in the form of more fuuinjutsu lessons.
(Sasori did agree to provide illustrations for a set fee, as long as he wasn’t credited as the artist. Apparently, telling Kakashi who was the illustrator wasn’t actually crediting Sasori, but the written raving review from Kakashi after the latest published book was both an ego boost and an embarrassment. Sasori was unsure of how he felt about being praised for beautiful, yet surprisingly tasteful, smut, but okay. His artistry skills were rarely praised and Deidara spent more time arguing with Sasori on what should qualify as art the older he got, so Sasori simply decided he was going to value someone’s appreciation.)
In his desperation, Sasori also sent a letter to Maito Gai, since he was the only man Sasori knew who could rally his allies, raise their spirits, and foster cooperation in a way that defied all reason.
(The lavender oil did nothing for Sasori, no matter how much he desperately huffed it and tried to make sense of what the hell Springtime of Youth even meant. Sasori would probably miss whatever brain neurons he destroyed with that much exposure to lavender oil… Four years in the future, when Sasori learned of Maito Gai’s new genin team, he sent the three students sympathy cards and ear plugs.)
Honestly, after fourteen years of exposure to the nonsense and insanity of Konoha nin, Sasori really shouldn’t have been surprised with any of the responses he received. And yet, somehow, he was. Because every time he expected the Konoha nin to reach their limits of nonsense, they boldly ventured into hitherto unknown horizons.
Ultimately, Sasori told his genin duo and homeschooled Academy student that they were all going to have to learn how to control their destructive tendencies as a team, and how to better channel such into something favorable for Suna. It was, of course, easier said than done. The bright side of spending so much time out of Suna and traveled the Continent, was that there was a certain level of anonymity for Gaara, which certainly decreased the amount of assassination and kidnapping attempts. It also exposed Gaara to people who had no reason to know why they should fear and hate him.
On one hand, it worried Sasori to leave Rasa without any decent supervision; he could only hope that the years he spent as Head of Internal Affairs had sunk some sense through Rasa’s thick skill, and that Menpu, Chiyo, and Ebizo could keep things from getting too bad. On the other hand, without the influence of Suna’s culture permeating everything, Sasori successfully implemented lessons to his three students on how to feed both wolves equally. It also allowed Sasori to act as a goodwill ambassador on behalf of Suna, to raise the esteem of their skills in the eyes of the world. He could accept little missions on behalf of Suna in tiny, rural villages that struggled to request mission from the Greater Villages. It proved to be a good outlet for his fuuinjutsu and medical skills, and his students learned nonlethal ways of dismantling small gangs and taking down inconvenient bandits. It wasn’t glamorous work, and it was rarely challenging, but there was something satisfying in helping those who were powerless and often forgotten.oOoOoOo
Six months of roaming the Continent, the Suna Team Seven was in the Land of Tea when Sasori received word from Tsume on the funeral for Uchiha Kagami. Despite pushing his team hard (unfortunately, Sasori had to mind the speed and stamina of youthful genin and Academy student; at least early summer travel was easier than any travel during the winter), Sasori arrived the evening of the funeral, missing the actual memorial ceremony that was held publicly that morning.
“They’re holding a private funeral reception at the Uchiha Compound right now,” Tsume told Sasori. “But it’s really formal and stuffy. I don’t think even you would fit in. Also, they frown on outsiders for that sort of thing. That’s why the Uchiha Clan held the public memorial earlier today.”
“Are Fumiko and Shisui at the private reception?”
“Yup. It’s at Fumiko’s house. She’s smelling really overwhelmed right now.”
Sasori trailed his gaze over his team – they were half-slumped on Tsume’s couch, barely having the energy to eat the popcorn Tsume provided. “How was the memorial?” Komushi was snuggled between Gaara and Kiba. Kiba had a lot more energy than Suna Team Seven, and therefore had more energy to scarf down even more popcorn, going so far as to steal a handful from Gaara without getting his hand slapped with a whip of sand.
Tsume’s face fell. “I guess it was all right. For a celebration of life, it didn’t feel like Kagami at all. Felt kinda soulless, if you know what I mean. Everyone talked about how great Kagami was, but in generic terms. Most of them didn’t really know him, know him. It was all just so passive, you know? It wasn’t like when the Inuzuka Clan hold a celebration of life, where we talk about actual memories and how the person we’re saying goodbye to made a difference in our lives. Kagami… Kagami knew we were going to miss him, but he would’ve wanted us to share the good memories.”
Sasori’s gaze fell upon Komushi once more – felt Komushi’s dimming brightness – and thought of promises made that could never be kept, but not for lack of trying. He knew that more than one goodbye needed to be made, and how such had been a long time in coming. “I understand.” He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Tsume’s forehead. “You, me, Kakashi, Shisui, Fumiko. Let’s meet up at midnight at Nessie’s reservoir. Bring good booze – we’ll talk, laugh, share, and remember the way Kagami would’ve wanted us to. I’ll pass the word on to Fumiko and Shisui.” They were remaining members of Team Chaos-and-Minato, minus Hana, who was honestly too young to be drinking – and what memories did a newborn have? Even Sasori’s eidetic memory didn’t recall the earliest portion of his life.
“Going to send a summon to Fumiko and Shisui?”
“This kind of invitation is best presented in person, don’t you think?”
Tsume grinned. “Storming the castle, eh?”
“Pencil-Dick is hardly a dragon, no matter how competent he is with exhaling fire.”
Sasori made two stops on his way to the Uchiha Compound. The first stop was a ceramics shop, where he perused the displays of kintsugi vases. Many were large, bold, and elaborate, but he found a small, simple, shallow bowl – just slightly larger than a soup bowl, really – with a deep red glaze that reminded Sasori of the growing red Sharingan, interlaced with spider-thin threads of gold. It was elegant and understated, and spoke to Sasori in a way that none of the other pieces did. (Jiraiya’s fees for Sasori’s illustrations were generous, and Sasori still had plenty of money remaining after buying the bowl.)
From the ceramics shop Sasori went to the Yamanaka Flower Shop. Sasori couldn’t say that he didn’t expect a seven-year-old girl to be a decent salesclerk, but hey, he had been skillfully assassinating people at the age of eight, so how hard could customer service be?
Her name was Ino, and she was appalled with how Sasori wanted a memorial ikebana arrangement that centered around a lotus flower. “Moribana-style I get, but a lotus is hardly appropriate for a funeral or a memorial,” Ino said peevishly, her small hands on her hips.
“I found enlightenment because of Kagami-san,” Sasori replied. “If it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t be where I’m at. His wife would appreciate the symbolism of it.”
Ino grumbled and kicked at the floor, but the lotus centered in the bowl after filling it with water was, she grudgingly admitted, beautiful. She did put her foot down on the sunflower, insisting that it absolutely wouldn’t fit well with the lotus. She admitted to not being as familiar with Uchiha Kagami as her father had been, and she dragged Yamanaka Inochi in from the green house to help her find a better supporting arrangement to go with the Sasori’s chosen lotus flower.
“Are you sure I can’t offer you some white hemlock or oleander instead?’” Inochi asked, his eyes narrowed suspiciously.
“I’m giving them to Shimura-Uchiha Fumiko,” Sasori replied. “Not making it into a salad to consume later.”
Grumbling, Inochi gathered a selection of smaller flower blooms and explained their meaning. Sasori selected purple forget-me-nots for Sasori’s affection, respect, and how he would always cherish his memories of Kagami; white chamomile with their bright yellow centers for Kagami’s patience despite adversity (especially for his own health); purple hydrangea petals interposed between the other blooms for Sasori’s gratitude for everything Kagami had done, and the paternal friendship he had offered to a lonely, bitter twelve-year-old who would’ve walked the path of no return even without feet if Kagami hadn’t helped intervene.
Sasori used his chakra threads to delicately position the blooms into something he found aesthetically pleasing.
“It’s not bad,” Ino decided. “It’s… it’s actually really beautiful.”
Sasori braced the blooms and prevented them from shifting out of place with chakra threads as he carried his gift to his final destination. The Uchiha guard – two teenaged boys and an older man – attempted to prevent Sasori from entering the compound. “I’m here to give the gift of memory to Kagami’s widow.” Sasori indicated his ikebana arrangement.
“So?” The youngest of the three glowered. “You had your chance at the public memorial.”
“A little hard to make it in time on short notice when one must travel a far distance,” Sasori replied, pointedly not pointing at his Suna forehead protector, which was only half-hidden beneath his crimson hair. His Suna Jounin uniform was already a tell in and of itself. “I am Head of Internal Affairs in Suna, and I only became such because of Kagami’s personal influence in my life.”
“You could be the Kazekage himself,” said the eldest Uchiha, “we don’t care. This is a private reception for the Clan.”
Sasori clicked his tongue. “Hard way it is, then.” He sliced his thumb bloody, and summoned Goukan-chan. The three guardsmen tensed at the sight of his wolverine, especially when she stood on her two back legs, her head coming equal to Sasori’s shoulder. “They won’t let me see Fumiko,” he told his summon, making sure that he whined.
Goukan squinted at the guards. “I can take them.” And while she did just that, her thick fur protecting her from hurled fire balls, Sasori gracefully dodged and weaved between the attacks – all without disturbing his artful arrangement – and shunshinned through the Uchiha Compound until he came to a small house with a large gathering of people that filled the house and spilled to the outside. The people glared at him, multiple Sharingan activating at his presence. Sasori stood still and wondered if he should wait for Goukan-chan.
“Wait – Sasori?” Shisui pushed himself through the crowd. His eyes were reddened from crying, but he brightened like a sunflower drinking in the overhead sun, although the edges of his smile were brittle. “Wow, you made it!” He threw an arm around Sasori – at the age of seventeen, he towered over Sasori by a full head, and still hadn’t finished growing like the weed he was, and that was just proof that life wasn’t fair – and shamelessly dragged Sasori through the crowd and into the house. He dipped his head low to whisper against the shell of Sasori’s ear. “Man, I am so glad to see a friendly face around here. I never thought I’d see the day where my Papa, even when he’s dead, would be more lively than this bunch.”
“You, me, Tsume, Kakashi, and your Nana, midnight at Nessie’s reservoir,” Sasori whispered back, obscuring his mouth with the raised Ikabana flower arrangement so a stray Sharingan couldn’t lipread his message. “Bring good booze, not cheap rotgut. We’re going to have a better time remembering Kagami than this. Pass it on to your Nana for me.”
“Will do. I’ll make sure she comes.” Shisui successfully drew Sasori through the house without being stopped, and out the back to the small garden that was nothing like how it had been in Kagami and Fumiko’s previous home, leaving those whom they passed to whisper their outrage with each other. The small garden was dimly lit with the multiple paper lanterns, casting deep shadows where Fumiko and her daughter, Mikoto sat, side by side on the swing seat that Kagami had talked Sasori into building for them to “commemorate our new home” after the entire Uchiha Clan had been sequestered to the distant grounds where they build their Compound after the Kyuubi’s rampage. Sasori was never told why from Kagami and Fumiko, but scuttlebutt indicated that a large public opinion felt that the Uchiha Clan had been behind the Kyuubi’s attack.
Which, based on Tsume’s insistence of Uchiha Obito’s involvement, wasn’t too far from the truth, even if Obito had done so independently of the rest of the Uchiha Clan.
Fumiko and Kagami’s seven-year-old grandson, Sasuke, was curled up on Mikoto’s lap, his tear-streaked face almost cherub-like in his sleep, but he held Fumiko’s navy-blue kimono sleeve in a death grip. Fumiko looked aged in her grief, her dark eyes distant and the night’s shadows deepening the lines on her face.
Uchiha Fugaku snagged Sasori’s elbow and hissed at him. His grip was painfully tight, but Sasori didn’t fight against it. “You are not welcome here.” The cutting glare he sent Shisui with his glowing Sharingan eyes made Shisui tense. Sasori kept his body languid and loose.
“It’s fine, Fugaku,” Fumiko said. “I’m sure Sasori traveled far for this, and Kagami would’ve felt honored by his efforts. Kagami…” Fumiko’s eyes glimmered with tears for a moment as she took a deep breath, “Kagami always said that Sasori was the one who took his lessons as Head of Internal Affairs the furthest. Sasori deserves to have this moment.” Mikoto silently nodded her agreement and support of Fumiko. After a tense moment, Fugaku reluctantly released Sasori’s elbow.
Sasori stepped forward and stopped in front of Fumiko. The confrontation with the Head of the Uchiha Clan silenced the wave of whispers that had followed Shisui’s push-through, and Sasori felt the weight of dozens of eyes silently watching and judging. He ignored their attention as he handed Fumiko the Ikebana arrangement – the gold veins glittered in the lamp light – and then he steepled his fingers and bowed deeply, displaying the back of his neck. He held the pose two heart beats longer than it would normally be held, and then straightened. Fumiko’s eyes glittered with a flash of amusement. “I thank you,” he told Fumiko softly, “for the memories and experiences I have with your husband, and with you, too. Kagami was truly the best of us.”
Fumiko’s chin trembled as a single tear trekked down her face. She fingered the rim of the kintsugi bowl. “You remembered.”
“Always.” Sasori tilted his head and considered Fumiko, and the stories they had shared together during their cross-country road trip – the last time Kagami left Konoha. “He fed both wolves well.”
“He did, indeed.”
“Kagami was the warmth every child felt in this Village, and in others.” Sasori bowed deeply again, and then straightened. “I will never stop speaking the name of Uchiha Kagami.” Fumiko covered her mouth and shuddered with a silent sob as more tears fell. Knowing full well that everyone who watched would disapprove, but not caring in the least, because he was Akasuna no Sasori and she was Shimura-Uchiha Fumiko, Sasori dropped to one knee and gently wrapped his arms around Fumiko’s shaking shoulders. “Kagami,” he whispered in her ear, “may not have changed the world, but he was the stone in the water that sent many ripples.”

Fumiko hugged Sasori back, her strength almost taking away Sasori’s breath. “Thank you for being a part of our lives.”
“It was only a small part.”
“Our lives are but a sum of many small parts. Like pieces of a puzzle. And that puzzle remains incomplete from even a single missing piece, Sasori.” Fumiko pulled away from the hug to brush his hair back, hooking some of it behind Sasori’s ears. He really needed to get another haircut soon. “Every little piece has value.”
Sasori rose to his feet, gave Mikoto and Fugaku bows without exposing the back of his neck or steepling his fingers, pointedly thanked them for allowing him the honor of paying his respects, and then departed. (He did not apologize to the bruised and bleeding guards who had attempted to bar his entrance when he left the compound. They didn’t deserve it.)oOoOoOo
When Sasori, Tsume, and Komushi arrived at the eastern shorelines of Nessie’s reservoir, Kakashi was already present, feeding a small bonfire from where he was seated on a large fallen tree that had long ago lost its bark and limbs to time and weather. Nessie sat beside Kakashi in her humanoid form, wearing a tent-dress that had certainly seen better days. Sasori was surprised to see that it had remained in Nessie’s possession. Either that, or Kakashi had brought it along from wherever Tsume had stored it.
“It’s been a while,” Sasori told Nessie as he and Komushi settled on the damp ground across from them. Nessie chirp-clicked a reply that only she understood. She seemed to be doing rather well for herself, having regrown her eye and limb from protecting Konoha’s children from a rampaging Kyuubi. Sasori wondered if her self-regeneration was from nature chakra or from her lizard-like constitution. He wondered what Orochimaru would’ve created if he had experimented with Nessie’s DNA.
“Bah, I don’t want a wet butt,” Tsume declared. She handed the storage scroll with the sake cup set and bottles of sake that she had packed into it to Sasori, and didn’t hesitate as she flashed through a set of a hand seals that raised four douton lumps out of the earth, manipulated them until they formed seats.
“Is it comfortable?” Sasori asked.
Tsume sat, and then shifted a little. “Still damp, but I think it’s a little easier on the knees.”
Sasori moved from the ground to one of the douton seats. They were a little more comfortable than the actual ground. “Not bad,” he told Tsume. She grinned and accepted the storage scroll back from him.
“I brought sweet plum wine,” Kakashi said, pointing at the bottle that was pinned upright between his feet. “Fumiko prefers it over sake.” They only had to wait three minutes before Shisui breathlessly arrived in a silent shunshin, his arms wrapped around Fumiko’s torso. She laughed when they came to a halt at the fire.
“Wow, what a trip,” she declared. She pressed the palm of her hand against Shisui’s jaw. “Just think of how fast we could’ve traveled Waterfall if you had that speed back then.”
Tsume pointed an accusing finger. “He’d’ve left us in the dust and found so much trouble to get into!”
“I,” said Shisui pointedly, “didn’t go off to fight a suiton dragon with flaming hellspawn on the Continent’s largest lake while in the middle of a rainstorm, Auntie.”
Tsume released the contents of her storage scroll. “You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?”
“Would any of you stumbled across Nessie if the Hokage hadn’t said what he said to Kagami before you all left for Waterfall?” Kakashi asked.
Sasori shrugged as he accepted the sake bottle from Tsume and twisted the cap off. Tsume held out the cups, and Sasori poured. “I can’t say it was a fun road trip at times, but it was certainly memorable. It took a while, but I regret very little about that trip.” Tsume snuck a sip out of Kakashi’s cup before she handed it to Kakashi. Shisui sprawled next to the fire, and Fumiko sat on one of the empty douton seats.
Sasori fetched the sweet plum wine from Kakashi with his chakra threads and poured into a sake cup for Fumiko. She toasted Sasori after accepting it, and sipped slowly.
“I brought awamori,” Shisui said, pulling the bottle out of his vest. “But I’d like to start with the sake first, thanks.”
Memories flowed with the drinks. Each time a cup was filled, some alcohol was spilled on the ground for Kagami’s spirit.
“I admit,” Sasori said, feeling a little buzzed after four cups of sake, “that I had mentally dubbed all of us,” he twirled his finger to indicate everyone present, “as Team Chaos.” Tsume burst into laughter and Fumiko grinned. “Sometimes it was Team Chaos-With-Dad-Jokes, and sometimes it was Team-Chaos-with-a-footless-Suna-nin. By the time we reached Konoha, everyone,” he shook his finger at Kakashi, “were official members of Team Chaos. So this is as much a reunion for the remaining members of Team Chaos as it is a celebration of Kagami’s memory.”
“Can’t say we’ve lived the moniker down over the years,” Kakashi said, sipping his sake through his mask. “Did Aunt Tsume ever tell you about the time she threw herself off a twenty-five hundred meter cliff? She even made it all the way down to the bottom, without flying.”
No, no, she hadn’t. Shisui also seemed surprised to hear about this, given how he choked on his wine. Sasori and Shisui eyed Tsume, who hunched sheepishly. “What were you thinking at the time?” Sasori asked. “Were you even thinking?”
“Uh, I’m pretty sure I was thinking something important. Oh yeah, I was trying to save my teammate! An enemy dropped her over the side of that cliff.”
Shisui narrowed his eyes. “How did you even survive, Auntie?”
“Not sure, but I managed to break every bone in my hand again mid-way down when a boulder dropped on us. I definitely remember that part.”
“Do you remember what Papa said what the definition of courage is?” Shisui continued.
Tsume wracked her brain for a moment. Her face was red from the alcohol, having imbibed more than Sasori or Kakashi. “Uuuuuhhhh…”
“He said the definition of courage was knowing something was going to hurt, but doing it anyway.”
Tsume brightened. “Oh yeah!”
“Papa also said that the definition of stupidity is knowing something was going to hurt, but doing it anyway.”
Tsume saluted the fire with her sake cup, now sloshing with vanilla-scented awamori. “And that is why life is hard!”
“So, seven hours of dad jokes.” Shisui rolled on his back and cushioned his head with his hands. With the curl in his dark hair and the fire-reflected onyx of his eyes, Sasori thought that this was probably what Kagami looked like in his youth. “I know it was probably hellish for you, Sasori–”
“Worse than death by Nessie,” Sasori cut in. Nessie, who had been making faces with every sip of alcohol but not inclined to stop, flashed a smile that still held far too many razor-sharp, too-large-to-be-realistic teeth.
“—but if you had to pick, which one was your favorite?”
That one was easy. Sasori snickered as he answered. “Don’t trust atoms. They make up everything.”
“I still don’t get it,” Tsume grumbled.
Kakashi snorted. “That’s because you forgot half of your biochemistry from the mednin courses, Aunt Tsume.”
Fumiko volunteered very little during their drunken recall, but her eyes sparkled with a cheerful remembrance, as if she was soaking in everything that was shared. Fireflies flew around them, beyond the light of the fire. They danced over the water of Nessie’s reservoir, which sparkled with gentle wind as the light from the half-moon and stars twinkled above them. Somewhere below the surface of the water were Nessie’s offspring.
Shisui and Kakashi also shared examples of Kagami’s discipline on unruly ranks. “It’s now standard,” Kakashi said, hiccupping slightly, “that ANBU and Jounin have to henge themselves as either Tora the cat, or the Fire Daimyo’s wife, for genin team to capture as a D rank, with the pay coming from their pockets as a fine for misbehavior. Kagami’s been making this punishment work for the last twenty years, and not a single genin team seems to have caught on. The Assistant Head of Internal Affairs carries on the tradition because he likes how humiliating it is. He said it’s ‘good character building’.”
“How many times have you two been stuck as Tora the cat or the Fire Daimyo’s wife?” Sasori asked.
Unfortunately, neither Shisui nor Kakashi were drunk enough to admit to their frequency.
It was four o’clock in the morning when the bonfire dwindled and Sasori finally shared the promise that Kagami had made – that if anything happened to Sasori, he would release Komushi’s soul at dawn after Sasori’s death.
“Kagami would’ve crossed the ends of the world to do that,” Fumiko said.
Kakashi tilted his head. “I’ll do it for you, now that Kagami is gone.”
Tsume leaned sideways and threw her arms around Sasori. “And if Kakashi can’t, I will.”
Sasori reached over and traced Komushi’s lacquered cheek. Sasori had aged through the years – he was now a young adult, fully grown and at the height of his adulthood. Komushi had remained unchanged; he was still a fourteen-year-old boy that had been through many battles and repairs. Still trapped… What would Komushi be like now, had he lived? Would he and Sasori grown even more close together in their friendship? Would their friendship have become a passionate love affair? Or would they have grown apart, drifting away from each other while walking their own paths? Either way, Sasori was sure their friendship would’ve persevered through the years, through their lifetime, like yellow dandelions.
(It’s time for you to put both feet in the living world, Komushi told Sasori. Time to really start living, for both of us. As long as you’re holding on to me, you’re only living half a life.)
“I thank you both, but no. This night is meant for Kagami’s memory. I’m…” He took a deep breath and steadied himself. “When you love someone,” he turned his gaze from Komushi’s poison dart frog-green eyes to the glowing embers of the bonfire and pressed his cheek against Tsume’s wild hair (her caltrop jabbed Sasori’s cheek), “you have to let them go when they’re ready. Come dawn, Komushi will be joining Kagami in the Pure Lands. Komushi is ready.” Sasori didn’t know if he was – if he ever would be – but it was time to honor Komushi’s final wishes.
Fumiko’s breath hitched. “In Whirlpool, they had a legend of death, of how souls cannot pass over the River of Life into the Pure Lands alone.”
Sasori smiled. “If that’s the case, if Kagami has already passed over, Komushi will wait for me, I’m sure.”
Fumiko pressed her hand against her mouth to quiet a sob. And then, “I’m sure Kagami is waiting for someone. He’d cross with Komushi because of his promise. Komushi was still a child, and he would wait for a child, I know he would.”
Although they had other obligations in the morning – Tsume with a meeting for a mission with the Hokage at eight, Shisui with a shift at the Uchiha Police Station at seven, Fumiko with the self-imposed schedule of packing what she needed so she could leave Konoha by noon, they all chose to stay.
“Why are you leaving?” Tsume asked Fumiko.
“Kagami made me swear to go forth to a rural island in Mist to live six months with the natives and gather stories of their history the day after his private funeral reception. Kagami said he always loved how dedicated I was to history, and I’ve been putting off this invitation for over a year because of his declining health… He said that if he didn’t make me promise it, I would just linger here in Konoha, clinging to the memory of our love. He said that even though I’m the most alive when I dwell on the past, our shared past and the grief wasn’t what he wanted to see me buried in. He knows I would’ve stayed for Mikoto and our grandchildren if he didn’t make me formally swear to do this.”
“I’d love to read your research after your return,” Sasori told Fumiko, handing out cups of fresh water to reduce the dehydration that would contribute to an uncomfortable hangover.
“Yeah,” Shisui whispered, his gaze heavy as he stared at the ashes, his shoulders slumped like the weight of the world was crushing him from above, “it’s definitely for the best to get away.” He flashed Fumiko a smile that was bright, supportive, and incredibly fake.
“What about Kagami’s will and estate?” Tsume asked.
Shisui answered for Fumiko. “Aunt Mikoto is taking care of it. Papa said she’s the executor of his estate. Send me a souvenir, Nana?”
She smiled at Shisui. “Always, my Moon Princess.”
Kakashi laughed as Shisui squawked in protest, sounding too much like the male version of Tsume. Sasori trailed a chakra thread over to Shisui, and fished under his high Uchiha collar before snagging and lifting the necklace with the mountain lion claws. “You kept the gaudy purple beads after all these years?”
Shisui tugged the necklace free of Sasori’s chakra threads. “I like purple!” he declared defensively. “It’s a fine color! Also, you have to admit they’re quite sparkly.” He grinned and played with the beads in his fingers.
Tsume elbowed Sasori. “Shisui’s guardian summon is the crow.”
“Of course they are,” Sasori replied. “A clever, intelligent bird with the memory of an elephant and the eye for shiny things like a magpie.” After a moment of his thoughts to wade through the syrup of the booze haze and sleep deprivation, he added, “To be honest, I’m actually surprised it’s a crow and not a magpie. I remember your sparkly tiara.”
“Hey, that tiara was magnificent,” Shisui insisted. “I even crowned you with it for your bravery for going through Aunt Tsume’s wound care. Even Papa thought you were braver than him. Hey, hey, are you still haunted by the itch of your ghost toe?”
Sasori immediately began scratching his left thumb as the itch of his phantom left toe roared to attention. “Oh, fuck off.” The scratching of his left thumb didn’t help this time.
Shisui gasped. “Nana! Sasori-nii swore in front of me!”
Fumiko grinned and drank her fresh water. “If you’re old enough to be bringing women home for a brief dalliance of the flesh, you can’t claim innocent ears anymore, sweetie.”
Kakashi gathered more wood as the sky lightened. When the rising sun threw colors of bronze and peach across the horizon and scattered clouds in the sky, Shisui relit the bonfire with a Grand Fireball. Sasori stripped Komushi of his poisons so no one else would find their souls unexpectedly released from this earthly plane. He hugged Komushi for several long minutes, silently telling his best friend goodbye.
(Hey now, Sasori. I’m leaving you in the best of hands. You haven’t been alone for years. It’s taken a while, but you’ve finally realized that you got more people in your life than just me.
I know, Sasori told that bright warmth in his mind. Thank you for being the wind beneath my wings all these years.
I will always be the wind beneath your winds, my friend. Just because I won’t be there where you can see and feel me doesn’t mean I’m leaving you behind entirely.)

Sasori used his chakra threads to place Komushi’s puppet body in the bonfire, and felt a lightness he never expected as he watched his work and the last physical remains of his best friend depart from this world. Kakashi and Nessie stayed while the others drifted away, each to their own obligations. Fumiko and Shisui hugged Sasori goodbye and murmured sweet partings to him, and Tsume planted a firm kiss on Sasori’s forehead after she shoved his forehead protector out of the way.
Kakashi moved from his log and managed to squeeze his (admittedly scrawny) ass next to Sasori’s on the douton seat. He draped an arm across Sasori’s shoulder “You once told me that Komushi’s last wish was that you didn’t blame yourself. Did you manage to finally respect it?”
Sasori cradled his head on Kakashi’s shoulder. Being awake for twenty-four hours was always rough, and the added alcohol wasn’t helping. “Yes.” He would always wonder how Komushi managed to make such a simple, novice error that led to his death, and the grief was still present, but at least the clawing agony of such had improved. An eidetic memory was both a blessing and a curse – a blessing, this time, because of the weight of many good memories over the years pressed against the remembrance of Komushi’s curled body on that cold slab of stone. “It’s taken years, but yes. I no longer blame myself.”
“Aah. Then perhaps there’s hope for me.”
Sasori wrapped an arm around Kakashi’s torso. “That’s something that Kagami told me during that road trip, Kakashi. Broken things will never be the same, but pieces can be reassembled, and they become even more valuable because of their brokenness. It’s called kintsugi. Do yourself a favor, and look into it.”
“Maa. I’d rather you just explained it to me. I prefer my reading to have illustrations these days.”
Sasori snorted. “Yes, kintsugi illustration is rather bereft of smut.”oOoOoOo
Suna Team Seven left Konoha two days later and made their way north the Land of Waterfall. It wasn’t difficult to receive sanctions to enter Waterfall when Sasori told them about his plans to teach his team about the geography and topography of glaciers and the Continent’s largest freshwater lake. Two weeks after that, Tsume sent a letter via their shared wolverine summon to inform Sasori of Shisui’s unexpected suicide. Sasori held a private wake in Shisui’s memory, overlooking a calm Lake Kogan as the sun shined overhead from the clear blue sky. He was stunned and numb with the news, trying to process what had led Shisui to make such a choice. Then he thought of Shisui at the bonfire, his shoulders slumped like the weight of the world was crushing down on him. I had seen it, he realized breathlessly. But he was so selfishly wrapped up with the dead, that he hadn’t reached out to the living.
Kagami, Sasori realized, with an internal flinch that felt like a punch to the unguarded gut, would’ve been so disappointed.
What do I do, Komushi? Sasori asked. There was no brightness in the back of his mind, no whisper of his friend’s voice.
But a slight breeze stirred Sasori’s hair. He knew that meant – he needed to live.
Over a bonfire that night, Sasori told his students how a three-year-old Shisui had manifested both his Sharingan and his chakra threads for the first time, and held Sasori’s dead body above the raging waves of Lake Kogan. He described the towering waves, the water sprout that sent them spiraling high over the waves, and the beauty of the bioluminescent worms when he awoke. He told them how Shisui dreamed big, and believed so hard, that those dreams somehow managed to make reality come true.
“Then why did he kill himself?” Gaara asked, voicing the question that had haunted Sasori the moment he had read Tsume’s letter.
Sasori stared into the burning embers of the bonfire, wondering why there wasn’t a single shade of Sharingan-red to be seen. “I suppose, Gaara, that not all dreams are pleasant – many dreams are nightmares and are, by their very nature, just as capable of becoming reality in place of a pleasant dream.”
The memories Sasori shared of that child who had become a remarkable young man but would now never reach the peak that Kagami had once said Sasori was expected to reach must’ve dug at Deidara’s well-hidden insecurities. Deidara was the only one of Sasori’s three students who had the control to meet the qualifications to manifest chakra threads. His chakra was, by the very nature of his kekkai genkai, too volatile to do much more than explode things, but Sasori was slowly working with Deidara to help control such.
“Have you… have you ever been disappointed that I can’t be more like Shisui-nii?” Deidara asked, pressing himself into Sasori as if he could melt and meld into Sasori’s flesh as the sun rose over Lake Kogan. Gaara and Temari were still asleep, and at least Sasori was sober for this latest twenty-four hours of wakefulness.
Sasori laughed and shook his head. He felt his chest burn with affection for this orphaned misfit who tenaciously refused to be ignored, and had wormed his way into Sasori’s life and heart even more thoroughly than Komushi or Tsume had. “Deidara, Shisui will probably always be my greatest Puppet student, but you? You are my son. My legacy. You have your own path to walk, and I eagerly look forward to seeing where your footsteps take you, no matter how far away you may travel from me.”
Deidara tapped his foot against Sasori’s prosthetic. “Even if I wind up with no feet like you?”
Sasori ruffled Deidara’s blond hair, as smooth and as soft as cornsilk. “Cheeky little brat. If you lose your feet, I’ll drag your footless carcass along your path the same way Tsume dragged mine. And I’ll probably be dodging every landmine you throw down in front of us.”
Deidara sniffed imperiously. “Art is a bang, yeah. It’s meant to come together in a brief moment, a single flash, the pinnacle of its worth. Not all of us have memories of a steel trap, and the bigger the bang, the bigger the lasting impression.”
What is a life of eight years together but a single drop in the wide ocean of human history, Sasori wondered. He thought of Komushi’s marvelous amusement with Deidara over the years. In a blink of an eye, this four-year-old dumpster-diving street urchin with no existing self-preservation who had decided that Sasori was his the moment he had received a meat bun and a cookie, had become a twelve-year-old world-traveling Suna genin on the cusp of puberty… with still no existing self-preservation. The days, Chiyo had once told Sasori when Deidara was six years old, are long, but the years are short. Sasori finally understood what she meant.
“In this moment, I think you’re right.”
Deidara jerked in surprise, his eyes going wide. “You mean it?”
“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Its value is unique to each individual. Art brings meaning to our human lives, and the impression it leaves – whether that impression lasts forever, or is there briefly like the incandescent bloom of a firework exploding overhead– is what life is often about. So, yes. I’ll say you’re right.” Then, because his son was an obnoxious pre-teen whose lack of self-preservation combined with an unhealthy ego could lead to an early grave for either Sasori or Deidara, Sasori ruffled Deidara’s hair. “And like your art, my admission of you being right is only going to last a moment.”
Deidara squawked. “What?”
“Aaannnnnd the moment is gone. I hope you basked in it, Urchin.”
“No fair!”oOoOoOo
A month later, after Suna Team Seven returned to Suna and while Sasori was sorting through the few dumpster fires on his desk that were outside of Menpu’s comfort level or expertise, Rasa marched unannounced into Sasori’s office. He tossed a glossy new entry for the Bingo book on top of the open report Sasori was reviewing of a shinobi and a kunoichi who both got drunk at a bar, fucked each other while drunk, and then filed allegations against each other the next morning for sexual assault because neither had been sober enough to consent. Booze may have gotten these two fucktards into their mess, but it was sure looking pretty tempting to Sasori right now.
Sasori stared into Uchiha Itachi’s picture on the Bingo book entry. His brain froze. “What.”
“You’re probably the only one – aside from myself, of course – in Suna with the skills to take down Uchiha Itachi and collect the bounty. Notify the other Suna nin that Uchiha is flee-on-sight.”
Sasori blinked. “What.” His brain couldn’t comprehend what he was reading in the Bingo Book entry. “What happened?”
“Apparently Uchiha Itachi went cuckoo and slaughtered most of the Uchiha Clan.”
Was this because of Shisui’s suicide? Had it been enough to tip the reserved, taciturn Itachi into raving madness the way Sakumo had been shoved into such from an inflexible seal? … was an inflexible seal the cause of Itachi’s madness? “…most?”
“For whatever reason, he either retained enough of a moral code or sanity to leave alive everyone the same age or younger as his little brother. Apparently, Uchiha Sasuke is the oldest living Uchiha. There’s only twenty-three of them left out of a clan with over two hundred, and scuttlebutt has it that the other Konoha clans are fighting over who gets to assume control and guardianship, since the ages range from newborn to seven years old. Hey, can we get in on the claims of guardianship?”
Sasori stared Rasa, who was studying Itachi’s picture. “What.”
“Uchiha Shisui was your apprentice. Good ol’ dad even let you claim him officially. That gives us more right to the remaining Uchiha than that bug clan, the Aburame, right?”
Sasori leaned back in his chair. “Have you lost your mind?” After a moment, “Have I lost my mind? What did Grandmother feed me this morning?” Maybe Chiyo slipped him a new hallucinogenic. It wouldn’t the first time this year Chiyo decided to test a new concoction on Sasori without first obtaining informed consent from him. (Grandmother, Sasori thought irritably, was the perfect example of how some old dogs never learned new tricks.)
“I’m just saying that it might be nice for Suna to have her own doujutsu, and you have a particular magic when it comes to adopting orphans with kekkai genkai from another country.”
“Deidara was a once-in-a-life time chance, Rasa. After the Tsuchikage realized what Deidara had and the courts refused to reverse the adoption and return Deidara, he forced the Earth Daimyo to ban any more international adoptions.”
The civilian international human right investigators who had practically attached themselves to Sasori and Deidara’s shadows for six weeks to investigate claims that Sasori was a poor father had only reinforced Sasori’s future plans to assassinate the Tsuchikage. It was the first, and to date, only time in Sasori’s life that Rasa had acted respectful and encouraging of Sasori, happily united with the enemy of his enemy to screw over the Tsuchikage, who was constantly late on payments for the prosthetics trade agreement. “And scuttlebutt is wrong. Fumiko is still an Uchiha, and she’s been in Water country for the last six weeks. There’s no way she’s going to let anyone try to take control of her husband’s kin, or her grandson. That would be almost as bad as coming between Tsume and her children.”
“Really?” Rasa pulled away from Sasori’s desk, his gold dust trailing after him. “That bad, eh? Well, sucks to be Konoha.”
(The next day, after Sasori’s brain had successfully managed to resume its normal function following the shock Rasa had given him, he bullied Rasa into sending the Hokage an official statement diplomatically sympathizing with this latest tragedy while offering Suna’s “full support.” And then Sasori sent a more private letter to both Tsume and Fumiko, using his wolverine summons. Neither had returned a reply before Team Seven left Suna.)oOoOoOo
Sasori had twenty-nine years old when he ran into a dead man in a random farmer’s market in the Country of Stone, in the middle of a cold, drizzling autumn rain. He had taken a minor vacation from Suna just to escape Rasa’s continuing bitterness that was frequently directed at Konoha, especially when it was only being fed by a jealous Council that Sasori’s grandmother and great-uncle were the lone dissenting voices on. He left behind his Team Seven four-person-and-one-tailed-beast squad to the tender mercies of Grandmother’s Bootcamp of Poison Tolerance – Chiyo finally signed that informed consent he had been pestering her about for years.
“I see that the rumors of your demise have been greatly exaggerated,” he greeted Shisui, since this meeting had to be deliberate. There was no way Shisui’s Inuzuka nose wouldn’t have noticed Sasori and avoided him if Shisui didn’t want this meeting to happen. Sasori kept his emotions tightly contained and controlled while his mind whirled with far too many questions.
Shisui looked older than his young years indicated from clear lines of stress as he smiled tiredly down at Sasori, his right eye socket hidden behind a well-worn leather eye patch. Somehow the brat had managed to gain another five centimeters of height from the last time they met. Sasori felt like a midget. “Well, look at that, Sasori-nii. I guess you don’t get to be the only one who died and lived to tell about it.” Shisui’s left eye was the same warm shade of dark brown just like his mother’s and Oyubi’s, and not the original onyx that had matched Kagami’s. Sasori reached upward and traced the outline of Shisui’s eyepatch with his fingertips. “Does it make me look rakish?” Shisui asked, running a long-fingered hand through his dripping wet shoulder-length curls. Despite their sodden state, Shisui’s hair was glossy and soft beneath the gloomy afternoon drizzle, though the weather was perfectly suited to the hard set of Shisui’s mouth.
“You have become quite the handsome young man, but you’ll always be a brilliant little menace to me.” Sasori slid the small storage scroll from his pocket that Fumiko had given him two years ago, with the directions of you’ll know what to do with it when the time comes. “Until this moment, I’ve always wondered why Fumiko gave this to me. Here.”
Shisui sniffed. “Nana isn’t giving me cheese, is she?” he asked suspiciously, not reaching for it.
Because of course this monstrous little savant could probably still smell Fumiko’s scent clinging to the scroll, even after two years, because she had sealed it with blood so that only someone with Uchiha blood or Sasori could open it. However, Sasori was aware of what it contained, based off of Kagami’s will; his estate hadn’t been settled before the Uchiha Massacre occurred. He had asked why this wasn’t instead given to Kagami’s grandson – Sasuke – but Fumiko insisted that Sasori needed to follow her instructions. “Shisui…” His voice trailed off for a moment as he gathered his thoughts. “Shisui, you saw me dead. You held my limp body above the waves. You personally how painful that sort of loss is, and you also know I don’t deal well with the loss of my loved ones.”“Fourteen years,” Shisui replied, his voice too soft for anyone to overhear. Few wanted to linger in the drizzling rain, though – they paid very little attention to the two adults as they rushed to make their purchases at the covered stalls. “Fourteen years you kept Komushi close, because you couldn’t stand the thought of letting him go.”
“Exactly. And for three years I’ve lived with the reality of you being dead from suicide, and thinking that I could’ve changed that if I had only said something, only reached out to you, at the bonfire.” Tsume, with her nose, must’ve known the truth, and she had also said nothing. Fumiko, having given him the scroll for safekeeping, had also known the truth. And neither had said anything to Sasori. After this, his little vacation would be in Konoha to find out why.
Shisui shook his head. “I’m sorry, Sasori-nii. I’m sorry for the burden you’ve carried and the pain I caused, but the snowball rolling down the hill had turned into an avalanche by then, and the things that followed…” He swallowed as Oyubi’s eye flashed, and then briefly morphed into a regular Sharingan, and then spun even further than that, into a shape that was nothing at all like Kagami’s. Shisui held Sasori’s gaze for a brief moment, and then the Sharingan faded into dark brown. “This was a path from which there wasn’t any turning away from.” His shoulders hunched – weighed down by the crushing burden of secrets.
“I know the weight and burden of secrets – I could’ve been there for you in any capacity. I know that two horses working together can safely pull more than just one.”
“Aw man, don’t guilt me with Juubi on top of all of this.”
“That… that wasn’t what I meant. I’m getting off track here. Anyway, if this,” Sasori indicated the small storage scroll, still carefully kept tucked close to his body to prevent the rain from wetting it, “was stuffed with your Nana’s cheese, you would deserve it for what you put me through. But it’s not. She gave it to me two years ago, and said I would know what to do with it. Seeing you here and now, I know she wanted me to give this to you. Which means that she knew you were alive, and she also said nothing to me.” The knowledge of burned.
Shisui studied Sasori’s face for a moment. “I told them not to say anything. Please don’t be angry with them,” he whispered before he took the scroll, broke the seal and released what was stored.
The sight of Kagami’s chisa katana, the hilt wrapped in ray skin dyed a midnight blue and the saya a little more cracked and water-damaged from Sasori’s brief drowning in Lake Kogan took Shisui’s breath away. Shisui’s body went taut as his chin dropped to his chest, and his single visible eye glimmered, and then a tear ran down his cheek. “Oh,” he whispered. “I think Nana’s cheese would’ve hurt less.”
“Kagami had always meant for you to have this blade,” Sasori told Shisui as he drew him into a hug. Sasori’s head fit just fine under the pointed slope of Shisui’s chin. He could smell the salt in Shisui’s tears as the drops of them blended in with the soft rain.
“I miss home,” Shisui blubbered softly, clutching at Sasori like he was a drowning man desperate for a breath of air. “I hate this. I just want to go home, but I know I can’t.”
“Home, Shisui, is people.” Of which there were very few of the Uchiha people remaining after the Massacre. But that was better left unsaid. “Your Papa lives in your heart, and wherever you go, you will always carry a piece of home with you.”
“It’s not the same.”
“I know,” Sasori whispered into the fabric of Shisui’s cloak. “I know.”oOoOoOo
Sasori was thirty-two years old when Suna invaded Konoha.
Sasori didn’t know what he was more put out by – the lack of any autograph from Orochimaru, how easily Rasa and the Council supporters had allowed themselves to be manipulated by Orochimaru, or being robbed of the satisfaction of finally throttling Rasa to death with his chakra threads. Twelve years he had tolerated the man as his Kazekage, and he didn’t even get to kill Rasa himself.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

You know, Kakashi thought, ducking kunai, poisoned senbon, Deidara’s stray bombs, and various ninjutsu attacks, weaving in between attacking Oto and Suna non-loyalists and the Konoha nin who were fighting back against the invasion, all while trying to protect and evacuate the sleeping civilians who were limp
meat suits throughout the stadium, if someone is going to orchestrate a coup, the very least they should do is show up for it.
“Hah! Fourteen!” Gai roared as he slammed another Suna non-loyalist into the wall, rendering her unconscious. The wall crumbled from the impact.
The Suna loyalist who had been fending off the non-loyalist, wearing a white linen banner over his uniform that read, with bright red letters, “WE STAND WITH THE HEAD OF INTERNAL AFFAIRS AND KONOHA” with a stylized but rather ominous black scorpion drawn beneath the kanji, flashed Gai a thumb’s up. “Thanks for using non-lethal attacks!” And then he stabbed an Oto nin through the skull. Konoha had only agreed to use non-lethal but incapacitating attacks against the Suna non-loyalists, after the Third Hokage was presented with a rather reasonable argument that the new Suna leadership should be allowed to rehabilitate the Suna nin who were blindly following the orders of their desperate leader.
(The argument had been presented with brightly-colored pie charts and graphs to help summarize the statistical data and history of why the current Kazekage had been desperate, and the proposed plans to improve Suna under new leadership, which included an assassination of the Wind Daimyo. Kakashi had been impressed, but not at all surprised, by the well-organized data. He did have to admit there was a certain grace to how well-centered and balanced the graphs were in the presentation, as well as the complimentary colors of the pie charts.)
“And where is your esteemed leader?” Gai asked the loyalist, scattering an attacking group of Oto nin out of the stadium’s bleachers with a Blooming Lotus spin-kick.
“He said that you can’t rush art.”
“Bah! What art?” Deidara asked, flouncing past them with an armful of bombs that he was happy to hand out to loyalists and Konoha nin alike. The air was filled with a variety of fluttering bird bombs. “Art is supposed to be rushed! It’s supposed to be glorious and messy and completely honest!” (Most of the bombs didn’t go off when he handed them over. There might be a few people in need of hand reattachments, but meh, Konoha had a really nice prosthetics department.)
“Hah! My rival, he uses excuses as you do!”
“Maa, Gai, that wasn’t an excuse. I think that is his reason for running late.”
“How far away is he?”
Kakashi electrocuted two Suna non-loyalists, leaving them limp and in atrial afib, but at least they weren’t in cardiac arrest. Yet. Kakashi made a mental note to alert medics to their location once the stadium was cleared. “Not far, actually. He got held up by one of Orochimaru’s snakes. One that’s about the size of the Hokage Tower.”
At the mention of Hokage, both Gai and Kakashi briefly glanced towards the purple square barrier, where their esteemed leader was currently trapped with the man who had been masquerading as the Fourth Kazekage.
A gouka inugami, its paws leaving a trail of molten lava, launched over their heads and attacked an Oto nin, who didn’t even have the chance to scream before his soul was consumed. Deidara cackled and attempted to hug the gouka inugami. He singed the ends of his hair and also burnt his thick flak jacket, and then gave the gouka inugami a couple of bombs. It ate one, and then burped a minor explosion at an Oto nin.
“STAY AWAY FROM THE SUNA NIN!” Kakashi’s darling aunt screamed at another gouka inugami, whacking it away from a Suna non-loyalist with the wiffle bat in her right hand with four more tucked under her left arm.
“BAD BOY!” She shook a loose Oto headband at it. “MUSIC SYMBOLS. ATTACK THE MUSIC SYMBOLS.” To the gouka inugami’s credit, it did sit and study the forehead protector. The cement flooring of the stadium started glowing and melting around its body.
“I hate those things,” someone muttered, right after shunshinning to Kakashi’s side. Kakashi whirled around (caught sight of the man’s own apron-banner with his Sharingan, which read, I AM THE HEAD OF INTERNAL AFFAIRS) and planted his back against the back of the new arrival, deftly deflecting another barrage of poisoned senbon. Kakashi’s nose stung from the unique stench of arrested human decay, formaldehyde and tanning agents, lacquer, and a blend of poisons, the latter which always varied every time the two of them met.

“You are late for your own coup, Sasori,” Kakashi said in mild greeting just as Kuro Gaki scuttled past, manipulated with a single chakra string imbedded in the thorax, and struck an incoming Suna non-loyalist with a blow dart laced with a simple paralytic. “If there’s a handbook for coups, I think that might be the first rule.”
“Pity, I know, but it took a little longer than I had anticipated to deal with the decomposition of Rasa’s corpse.” It always amazed Kakashi how calm and controlled Sasori seemed, especially during battle. If Kakashi hadn’t seen Sasori so discombobulated and ruffled the first time they met – with Sasori vomiting all over Kakashi’s shoes after Minato-sensei dumped his bitter footless ass in Waterfall – Kakashi would’ve thought Sasori was too inhuman and too other to feel emotions like the rest of humanity. It was, after all, a commonly shared opinion by many other Konoha (and doubtlessly Suna) shinobi.
However, Kakashi could smell emotions just like his aunt, and knew that Sasori felt and internalized far too much to be any more emotionally healthy than the rest of Tsume’s misfit children.
“Were you successful?” Kakashi flung a wind blade jutsu across the stadium and beheaded the Oto nin who had been trying to sneak up on an overwhelmed Genma.
A tornado of gold dust surrounded him and Sasori just after the question, rising upward to build momentum, and then exploded outward – a wave that bisected surrounding Oto nin while harmlessly passing over Konoha and Suna nin. Several civilians, still yet to be awoken and evacuated, were coated with a protective gold barrier.
“Of course.” Sasori’s voice was sleepy, as if he were bored, and did nothing to reveal the mixed odors of satisfaction and anger emanating above the blood, gore, poison, exploding clay, and snake. “Did you have any doubts?”
Thank any and all the gods that Sasori was on Konoha’s side. Kakashi shuddered with the idea of Sasori being an enemy.
“Sasori, I would’ve called you an imposter and stabbed you if you hadn’t succeeded.” This wasn’t the most unusual conversation that Kakashi has ever held with an ally/teammate in the midst of battle – that particular dubious honor was, contrary to popular belief, with Shisui, and not with Gai. Discussing the reason for being late to one’s own coup was at least on topic, compared to Shisui and Kakashi’s rather violent argument (with the violence directed at their enemies) on which crime-fighting planetary magical heroine was better. (To this day, Kakashi still maintained it was the Jupiter Princess.)
In the distance, Kakashi could see Sasuke and Sakura working in tandem, with Sasuke electrocuting and flambéing his enemies with impunity, and Sakura playing whack-a-mole the enemy with her gigantic meteorite hammer. The hammer was causing more property destruction than death, but eh. His darling little murder-gremlin genin were as adorable as they were scary, and seemed to be in no immediate danger of getting killed.
“I have no doubts your nose was well-aware of my success in the midst of my work, anyway.”
Kakashi planted his hand on top of Sasori (smug that despite Sasori wearing his specialized agility prosthetics that were designed for greater shock absorption and spring, Kakashi was still taller, because he was going to lord his height over Sasori as long as the other man defaulted to being the elder of the two) and pushed him down as he ducked at the same time. A thrown body of the Suna non-loyalist flew overhead, courtesy of Tsume’s fang-over-fang collision. “But did you honestly need another puppet? I thought you could only fight with ten at a time.”
Sasori snapped his fingers. The ten single chakra threads unraveled. Somehow, the odor of satisfaction grew even more. As if this had been a signal they were waiting for, multiple Suna loyalists immediately opened various storage scrolls that had been hanging from their belts, releasing multiple puppets throughout the stadium. A hundred chakra threads crisscrossed the air and found purchase. “Your Hokage did say that the Suna loyalists would need an army to make up for our smaller number. I had to borrow from the rest of the Puppet Brigade, since I only had sixty puppets of my own.”
“Ah.” Kakashi didn’t know why Sasori always complained about the rate of Konoha turning out insane geniuses. He thought Sasori should look into a mirror more often. “So that’s why you told him you already had an army on stand-by. I was wondering why only Kankurou was using puppets.”
“The Brigade will just have to make due with Oto corpses.”
“Sasori!” Tsume landed beside her boys, immediately twisting so her back was pressed against Kakashi’s and Sasori’s.
They seamlessly angled sideways so she could easily slot herself between them – an oasis of love and trust in the sea of chaos and betrayal. “Fumiko said she needs an Oto nin alive to interview on the founding of Oto. She declared it history in the making and wanted to be the first to write about it.” Tsume threw her wiffle bat across the stadium stands, clobbering a Suna non-loyalist unconscious.
“On it.” In the distance, an Oto nin screamed as Kuroari stuffed him inside its barrel chest. “Where is my jinchuuriki? He’s supposed to be helping.”
“I SAID MUSIC NOTES YOU BLOCKHEAD! Gaara and Naruto are currently on the west side of Konoha, beating up a double-headed snake summon because it squashed the local ramen stand. Naruto is pissed.” Tsume stuffed a wiffle bat into Sasori’s belt. “Just bop the inugami on the nose if it lunges at you,” she told him with a firm pat to the shoulder.
“My dear rival’s aunt! Your hell hounds are truly our glorious Will of Fire in flesh and form!” Gai darted past them, a sparkling green blur that led a trio of gouka inugami onward on a Quest To Defeat The Great Enemies of Konoha. Multiple shinobi, allies and enemies alike, scattered. Kakashi wasn’t sure if it because of the gouka inugami, or just Gai being Gai. “FORWARD HO, MY COMRADES! YOUR BRIMSTONE AND SULFUR TRULY REPRESENT OUR WILL OF FIRE.”
Nope. It was all Gai and his ability to dazzle even the gouka inugami with his green lycra.
Deidara cackled and threw Gai a bomb. Gai barely dodged it before it exploded, and then yelled at Deidara, “8 out of 10! How delightfully explosive, my fine friend, but you should’ve thrown it a little more to the left!” Gai gave Deidara a thumb’s up of approval. “Like the bursting blossoms of the Sakura tree, your youth is impressively dazzling!”
“I’m still not convinced that Gai is human,” Danzo grumbled as he skidded past the back-to-back-to-back trio. Tsume tossed him a wiffle bat, which he caught and singlehandedly crushed the skull of an Oto nin in one smooth movement.
Hana springboarded off of Danzo’s back, sailing overhead to the stadium floor below. “The Academy is secure!” she yelled at Tsume. And then, as she hit the stadium floor, “You’re late, Sasori-nii!”
Satisfaction briefly gave way to irritation. “None of you are ever going to let me live that down, are you?”
Tsume laughed. “After all those years of you bitching about how much you hate waiting? This is your coup, Sasori. The least you could do is arrive before it even starts.” She planted a quick kiss on Sasori’s cheek, and then on Kakashi’s. “Lots of love to both of you, feel free to get into loads of trouble instead of trying to stay out of it, catch ya later!” She sprinted off to yell at more gouka inugami, weaving through the maze of chakra threads. “THAT WAS A HYUUGA.” She clobbered it with another wiffle bat. “SPIT HIM OUT. NOW.”
“I had no idea that the gouka inugami could regurgitate souls,” Kakashi said conversationally. He and Sasori spun around, Kakashi to release a Chidori beast (two more gouka inugami chased after it, eager to play) that crackled as it leapt on a sprouting summoned snake from the center of the stadium floor before it could try eating Hana, and Sasori to smother two Suna non-loyalists to blackout within a tornado of gold dust. Saaaay, chiindii could create generate lots of electricity and gold was a great conductor of such – Kakashi wondered what would happen if he combined his chidori with Sasori’s gold dust. It would be glorious.
“That’s a relief should they ever actually consume my soul,” Sasori muttered. “I’m not actually sure beating them off with a wiffle bat would save me.”
“You know, they aren’t that bad if you’re not scared of them.” And since there was no fear in Sasori’s scent, Kakashi knew that Sasori had none, no matter how much he complained about Tsume’s gouka inugami. Now, how to introduce Kakashi’s glorious plan to Sasori? Should he say something, or just throw a fistful of lightning into a gold chiindii?
(“I JUST PUT HIS SOUL BACK AFTER TELLING THE OTHER ONE NOT TO DO THAT. SPIT HIM OUT. I am so sorry, Hizashi, really. They’re normally much better behaved than this. Here, I got an extra wiffle bat. Just bean them over the nose.”)
“I prefer to think of my fear as a tool for self-preservation. Yamato and I seem to be the only two of Tsume’s many misfits who has anything remotely resembling such.”
Kakashi snatched the wiffle bat out of Sasori’s belt to slap a gouka inugami away as it lunged at Sasori. Ah, there was the brief flare of fear. “Bad boy,” he told the gouka inugami, mildly. “You know, I was wondering why she bought these in bulk and demanded that the Hokage require each genin to be armed with one.” He stuffed it back into Sasori’s belt. “Maa, self-preservation is overrated.”
Sasori made a disgusted noise in the back of his throat as he spewed a lungful of paralytic fumes into the face of Suna non-loyalist who had lunged, screaming Traitor! at him. “You’re an Inuzuka son. Your opinion has been rejected for the nonsense that it is.” Then he freed the wiffle bat to knock another Suna non-loyalist unconscious. “Nice. Not as lethal as an aluminum bat.” Unless you were Danzo. Kakashi could honestly say that he had once seen Danzo weaponize a head of cabbage, and not for choking someone to death with it. “Where is the Hokage and his wayward apprentice-cum-villain?”
Kakashi pointed at the purple barrier. “Stuck together up there. Any idea on how to take the barrier out?”
Sasori grinned as they spun around again, deflecting more attacks, killing more Oto nin, and incapacitating more Suna non-loyalists. They leaned their backs against each other for a brief moment to catch their breath and to take stock of their surroundings. They had cleared most of the enemies close by; other Konoha nin and Suna loyalists had finally removed all civilians.
Kakashi allowed himself to bask in the satisfaction and trust of his comrade.

Sasori whistled, long and low, which turned into a series of bird-chirps. “Oh, I’ve got a friend who can manage it. I do want an autograph before Orochimaru is killed, though.” The sound of his call was pitched to echo through the stadium.
“Seriously?” Kakashi asked, just as a gigantic mass of blue loomed over the side of the stadium, aquamarine eyes glowing like two spotlights.
Scattered killing intent was instantly smothered beneath the heavy weight of Nessie’s nature chakra. “You brought a dragon into your coup?”
“Seeing as how she owes me a favor for killing me? It’s never wise to owe a debt to Akasuna no Sasori. I have waited years to cash in that favor.”
Kakashi felt a chill run down his spine that had nothing at all to do with the sonic boom and flash of eye-blinding light when Nessie’s tail struck the purple barrier, and everything to do with remembering the few favors he owed Sasori. “You never do anything by half, do you?”
“As a wise man once told me, go big or go home. And I intend to go big, and to return home. Oddly enough, dragons were involved that time a wise man told me such.”

YEARS LATER IN THE FUTURE
Sasori: seriously, Obito? This is your Omelet of World Peace? It contains an alien moon princess who is not Shisui, and a Juubi that is even more lethal than a samurai demi-summon horse, and they are going to destroy the world. Which, I guess you could loosely claim is world peace, since there won’t be any living creature left to do any fighting, whether it’s a fungus infecting a tree or two humans squabbling over the last butterscotch cookie.Obito: uh, my bad?Sasori: there is a fucking goddess and the fucking ten-tailed demon. What were you thinking?Obito: okay, I mucked it all up. Puberty and resentment and PTSD from captivity is such a bitch. You know, Stockholm Syndrome is not actually a laughing matter. But the dragons and gouka inugami bombarding the White Zetsus are all on you and Tsume. I’m not taking any blame for them.Sasori: as Head of Internal Affairs for this entire world, I am deeply disappointed in you. This is the epitome of Work Place Violence, ruthless manipulation, and I’m sure I could dredge up an entire list of violations against human rights given half a breath.Obito: shinobi. It’s what we do.Zombie!Minato: … Sasori, you just aren’t normal.Sasori: I’m the only normal one here! You’re dead, and you still came back.Obito: yeah, and so were you. You’re just mad because you’re just not special at this point, Sasori.Sasori: THAT’S NOT THE FUCKING POINT.
Zombie!Minato: dying and coming back seems to be an uncomfortable theme in this story. By the way, Orochimaru’s over there if you still want his autograph.Sasori: where the hell am I going to find a pen and a piece of paper for an autograph at the end of the world? Huh. Maybe some blood on this sealing scroll could work in a pinch… Or I can shake his hand, collect the skin cells that transfer, and grow them in a lab in order to create a miniature clone for my shrine. Oh dear, so many choices, so little time.Obito: dude. Seriously? You’re still fanboying after all these years despite the shit Orochimaru has done, but I get called on the carpet? I am totally judging you right now, Sasori.Sasori: shut up. If I die in this war, then I’m going to die without regrets.