Eight

The Weak Never Forgive

When Sakura closed the office door behind them, Konan saw the trembling fingers in her right hand. The hand—it was a large hand, larger than the little chubby ones that used to cling to her side—had small scars that crossed over her knuckles and calloused skin that poked into sight from the skin under her joints. They were working hands, swordswoman hands, wrought from endless hours of fighting and training and killing.

The trembling only continued for a moment longer before they flexed and curled into a tight fist.

Konan's eyes softened. "Sakura."

The teen's shoulders stiffened as she turned her head. "Yes, ma'am?"

"Let me look at you."

Little Sakura would have smiled and spun sharply on her heel with the best approximation of a soldier as she could mimic. But this older Sakura didn't know what to do with herself, her spine going rigid as she slowly turned until they were face to face, though not quite eye to eye. Up so close and away from Nagato's intimidating air, Konan could clearly see the dark bags beneath those big green eyes. The swipes of blue ink along her left cheekbone were almost harsh against the tan cold of her skin, and the pink scars that peeked up the right side of her jawline were ragged, rippling things that stretched down her neck and disappeared under her shirt.

She was sure Kisame had a shirt the same color.

Konan reached up to cup one of Sakura's cheeks, her thumb brushing away a few pink strands of hair.

Sakura flinched, her glacial gaze staring straight ahead. Never meeting amber eyes. Never trailing to the woman's face. Instead, they were frozen and unfocused and chilling and defiant.

Mera bichara bacha.

"You look tired," God's Angel murmured.

"Main theek hoon," the girl replied almost instantly. The Amek dialect was rough on her tongue from the years it wasn't used, the eight years it hadn't needed to be used, and her mouth clicked shut quickly after. Her jaw tensed. "Leader-sama said you were handling everything. What do I need to know?"

Konan drew her hand back and Sakura finally met her eyes.

You look so, so tired.

Konan started her walk down the hall. "Come."

Sakura followed. Immediately, she matched the pace but lagged half a step behind the woman who, by all intents and purposes, had been the other person besides her father to raise her. God and his Angel were revered by the people; to walk shoulder to shoulder and assume equal standing was one of the higher disrespects. The Akatsuki were elevated in this village, yes, but just because Sakura had the designation didn't mean she earned it.

(When she was younger she wanted to wear the same pretty cloaks Dad always did. Now she could barely look at them.)

The halls in God's Pillar were empty and gray as they wound the sharp turns and descended the floors on metal stairs, and the only light that lit the space were strips of neon red and white that ran parallel along the ceiling.

"Tell me about your team," Konan said.

"... Ma'am?"

"I would like to hear your thoughts before I meet them myself." Her heels touched the ground rhythmically, but not a sound echoed. "You brought them to Ame, after all. You must trust them a great deal."

Konan could only imagine what life in Konoha was like for her. Sakura was a bright child—always had been—and that meant that she would have known to hide the Hoshigaki in her from the very beginning. While Kisame had not been directly correlated with the Akatsuki back then, his name was still well-known for his reputation as one of the Seven Swordsman.