Eight

Onto the Son

Shino's mornings had been running on routine since they came to Amegakure.

The times he gets up usually varies from day to day. If he's working that night he'll get up around three in the afternoon; Kiba and Akamaru would be snacking in the kitchen and Sakura would already be out on whatever orders Tenshi-sama had for her. If he went overtime he would get the next day off, and he spent those hours mutating his kikai generations in the living room while Kiba sketched seals and theories in the Archives and Akamaru skulked in overhang shadows. Every now and again, an insect would then wander in with one of Sakura's updates about the area in the village she'd be frequenting.

It was reminiscent of their Kumo days—these prison cells masquerading as homes.

Water dripped from his face as he braced himself against the sink in the upstairs bathroom. Routine was what kept his mind running in the absence of Pack anchoring him down; routine shackled his thoughts to work, to healing, to experimenting, to figuring out how he was going to live in the second foreign country he had no choice but to call home within the last few years.

(Kiba's throat cut open and weeping.)

He raised his head, eye meeting eye in the mirror.

It hasn't been long since everything started. Three years since their tongues burned, two years since their necks branded, one year since leaving Kumo. He was sixteen now, and he didn't think he could grow any more weary. Every day his bones felt like they were lined with lead even though every day he ran medical chakra down to his marrow to make sure they really weren't. Sunrise to sunset and all through the night it was the same, keeping Pack close as their pulses lulled him to sleep because one of the only things he could hold tight was the fact the people he loved most were still alive.

And he'd keep them alive. No matter the cost.

(Torune's blood crusting under his fingernails.)

Wanted dead by their own Kage as genin, pursued by one of their own councilmen throughout their chuunin career, Orochimaru in the far distance, rumors clinging to their backs, the Akatsuki looming—

Scarred fingers trembled against the edges of the sink.

Who sends ANBU into the Forest of Death to murder their own? Who hires mercenaries to attack shinobi on a C-rank mission? Who sends an operative to lead a team to the middle of enemy territory and leave them to die?

Who makes someone kill their own cousin in cold blood?

"Shut up. Get it together," he growled. His reflection bore an ugly sneer, and the faucet kept running. "Why are you falling apart now? Why are you letting this get the best of you? Pack needs you, but Pack doesn't need you worthless."

He swallowed past the dryness in his throat and covered his face with a hand. In the minute darkness he forced his breathing to even and didn't think about how close his vision was to blurring. His panic attacks were less frequent than they were when he was younger and there was little now that could bring him to his knees in a haze of phantom screams and blinding rage, but...

("S'me... one... ha... d... to...")

Shino's hand slumped back to the edge of the sink where his water-splashed glasses lay, and he shut off the faucet and headed straight for the hospital.

It was almost time for his shift.

:: ::

Deidara wandered almost aimlessly across the hospital's dark tiled hallways, flecks of crusted blood on his neck and one of his pant legs torn at the knee. He was far from any serious injuries and could've waved off his sprained ankle with a cap full of painkillers and a twelve hour nap, but Leader's words were simmering at the back of his head.