...

8, [Dai]

Slowly, as if to not disrupt a fragile dream, Dai slipped into the new Academy uniform. His last had been worn down to rags. He tiptoed gingerly in front of the spruce mirror, pinching self consciously at his nose. Like a garlic bulb, his father used to mock him. Yet here in the Nara estate, amongst the overgrown greenery, roaming deer, and laid back shinobi, his father seemed like nothing but a distant nightmare.

Outside his new room, Shikaro drums her fingers on the smooth wooden floors. She was annoyed, in her own quiet way, that Haha-eu had adopted a "stray". Dai couldn't blame her— he, too, was still in shock from yesterday. After bringing him back to her home, the Nara matriarch had announced that he would be an addition to their guest suites "for the foreseeable future, mou!"

Dai shuddered. What did she want from him? Nothing was free, especially kindness.

"Are you ready yet?" Shikaro grated from her position, sprawled lazily across the floor like an irritated cat.

"Coming, Nara-san." Dai demurred, scurrying out to meet the Nara heiress.

Akimichi Chousei awaited on the bench right outside the property gates, beaming at their arrival.

"Shika-chan," Chousei smiled, her eyes more appraising than friendly. "Who is this?"

Dai spared Shikaro the pain of introducing him. "Maito Dai." He bowed.

The Akimichi weren't haughty, so he wasn't surprised when Chousei returned it. "Chousei Akimichi. Nice to meet you."

Trailing behind the two clan heiresses as they walked to the Academy, Dai drifted off into his own thoughts. Konoha was still defrosting from a particularly cold winter— he remembered nights under aloof stars and nipping chills— but the Sun was strong and steady today.

"Look, Shika-chan!" As they breached the Academy gates, Chousei burst out in giggles. Dai followed her pointed finger to the courtyard center, where a dark-clad figure stood.

"What is it?" Shikaro drawled.

"Sakumo-kun," Chousei giggled again, nudging her companion with a shoulder. Shikaro rolled her eyes, but her darkening blush gave her away.

"It's ok, Shika-chan. Everybody likes Sakumo-kun." Chousei teased, offering her friend a stick of dango. Dai stared with slight horror at the dripping syrup, wondering how the girl managed to procure it. "Even Jiraiya-kun!"

Sure enough, the rivalry reared its playful head as the two boys squared off in a flurry of punches and kicks. Dai watched their fluid movements with mild wonder.

"Always so flashy, those two."

"Tsunade-chan." Chousei smiled. The blonde heiress, decked out in expensive silks and half a dozen high-profile clan kids, graced Dai with a sideways glance and his companions a sweeping look. Shikaro turned to greet the Shodai's granddaughter, but just as she opened as mouth—

"My radiant Shikaro-chan!"

The dark-haired girl visibly cringed as Mr. Sparkles, the school oddball, twirled out of Tsunade's formation and bowed before the Nara heiress, one hand over his heart. Shikaro rolled her eyes, let out an aggravated sigh, and strolled away, cool recollected.

"Sorry, Hitaro-kun! We have no interest in joining Tsunade-chan's entourage." Chousei drove her point home with a particularly sharp chomp on a rice cracker. She then ran to catch up with Shikaro, leaving Dai awkwardly standing besides the crestfallen Hyuuga heir, who perked up within seconds after the departure of his affections.

"Don't worry, Shikaro-chan! I will try again tomorrow to win your favor!"

Tsunade regarded the retreating figure of the Nara heiress with slight contempt, flicking a blonde braid over her shoulder. "Simmer down, Hitaro. Let's go."

A few moments after the Elite Entourage passed by, Dai shook his head in mild disbelief. Clan kids. Just as strange as their families.

"As a former homeless person, Maito-san, would you have accepted a coat made from 24 skinned cats?"

After a weekend of mindless taijutsu training, I did not expect Kato to replace me with an extremely ugly child, who seemed both mortified and embarrassed by the blonde's attempts at small talk. Ignoring my classmates' stares (they still weren't over the whole ANBU arrest thing), I marched over to my desk, my Kato. Hopefully, our newfound friendship wouldn't be jeopardized by my outburst.

Swallowing my fear, I greeted him. "Kato-kun. You should be in the Intermediate class, not here chatting with..."

"Maito Dai," Kato gave the boy in question a slow nod, sunshine hair sweeping before vibrant eyes. "Don't be jealous, Ryu-chan. I came here to greet you. Maito-san is not social nor confident enough to interact with your classmates, so he situated himself at our former desk."

I shoved aside my rising embarrassment at the new revelation. The child sitting before me will be Maito Gai's father, Dai. But why is he here? The drafts had already ended, and homeless children usually do not find themselves recruited into the Academy. "In that case, I should introduce myself. Hello Maito-san, I am Hisoru Ryuto."

"Hello, Hisoru-san." My gut twisted as I saw his mistrust at my respect. I had spent enough time with orphans over the past two years to recognize signs of child abuse, and judging by his permanently dirtied hands and worn face, Dai, like Kato had so bluntly pointed out, had spent some time on the streets as well.

"Did you start your taijutsu training, Ryu-chan?" Kato reached out, dispelling my thoughts with a warm hand on my bandaged arm.

"Yeah. I'm starting with the Academy katas." I grinned, wincing when a sharp pain flared up my right arm. I may have slightly overworked myself, but mastering eight basic katas came at a cost.

Kato's expression brightened. "You better hurry!"

I shared his grin, but couldn't help but to hear a hint of warning inside his encouragement.

A mere five years after the Shodai's death, the Senju compound was reduced to a husk of its former self. Shikae surveyed the sprawling estate, nostalgia coiling around her as she recalled the feasts and rowdy celebrations. Most of the residential buildings had been torn down and replaced with pockets of wildflowers and oak, save the main hall, which had been converted into a museum. Shikae breached its wooden sliding doors, ignoring visions of laughing armor-clad shinobi and tussling children.

"...and the Senju shall no longer be a separate entity from Konohagakure. I wish for my kin to become one with Konoha's community, shinobi and civilian. The clan funds shall be used to turn our home into a public space and relocate my family throughout Konoha."

Shikae recited quietly. Here in his former home, she could almost hear Hashirama's baritone, steady and hopeful. Most of the Senju had willingly obeyed the Shodai's wish, but the Nidaime had been livid, which probably explained why he—

Crying. Loud, ugly sobs. A young girl, by the pitch.

"Mou, who could it be?" Shikae hummed as she wove through glass displays and murals, following the source of the sound deeper into the labyrinth of history. In the center of a room lined with scrolls and books, half-curled over the feet of the Shodai's painted terracotta statue, was none but Senju Tsunade.

"Don't cry, Tsunade-chan." At her coo, Mito's granddaughter bolted upright, whirling around in a flurry of tears and snot, which had unfortunately soaked the front of her expensive silk robes. A vain little creature was she, but also quite—

"I'm not sad!" Tsunade shouts, voice hoarse from sobs. Prideful.

"I never said you were sad, mou." Shikae said, inclining her head innocently. The Senju heiress reddened. "You should be careful where you cry, Tsunade-chan. One of your friends might find you."

The blonde shot Shikae a scathing glare as she angrily wipes away all traces of her grief with a single stroke of a wide emerald silk sleeve. "They won't. You should be careful, Nara-sama." Shikae suppressed a bristle at the mocking in her tone. "We do not take well to intruders."

Unlike Mito, Shikae does not get angry. However, her expression darkened as her sunny exterior cracked. Unfazed by her sudden change in demeanor, Tsunade marched out— the child never quite liked Shikae, even before her grandfather's death and grandmother's depression. Watching her leave, Shikae's ire faded. She suspected that Tsunade's "crying over grandpa's statue" episodes were a common occurrence, and made a mental note to speak with Mito later.

However, she did not come disturbing the Senju grounds to resolve its heiress's grief. Shikae was after the archives, or, more specifically, Mamushi. During the dissolution of the Senju clan, it was decided that all unclassified information, including unwanted personal notes and diaries, would be made available to the public— hence the archive room. The Shodai's statue and the mid-level genjutsu tethered to it was enough to deter any visitors with ill intentions. Not that it was necessary— the Senju park was avoided by both shinobi and civilians alike.

There was no particular order to the volumes that surrounded her, but Shikae picked out the aged deer leather notebooks with ease. Waterproof, lightweight, and hardy, Mamushi had favored them. After fishing out four, Shikae plopped them and herself unceremoniously on the floor. A quick scan revealed no chakra signatures nearby. She drew a small storage scroll from her thigh pouch and unsealed its contents with a small pulse of chakra. Miko's notes sprang forth, and Shikae felt a tiny flicker of nervousness as she began flipping through the notes simultaneously.

Earlier, Shikae had noticed something alarming in the scar tissue of the botched seal on Dai's stomach. She was no Fuuinjutsu master, but she was a master of deconstructing the world around her into excruciating details and recalling them years later with complete clarity and confidence. It was no coincidence, then, that Miko's designs for her chakra-siphoning seal had reminded her of something— or rather, someone.

Mamushi was left-handed. Miko was not. Mamushi's triple inlaid circles were evenly spaced. Mito's were staggered, or, at least they were until she began taking inspiration from a certain Senju sagess.

There was no better way to confirm her suspicions than from Mamushi's old notes. Now that Shikae had physical evidence, however, there remained no question. As the jonin flipped through Mamushi's notes, lightly tracing over small characteristics of her sealing and writing style, there was no doubt that Miko had plagiarized from her old friend.

But how?

Even if the archives were open to the public, why would Miko seek out Mamushi's notes? Sure, Mamushi wasn't too shabby with ink and paper, but she was nowhere near Mito's level. It's not as if she even did much sealing in these notes, anyways. There were sparse day to day accounts, a few doodles here and there, and some strangely positioned numbers—

Ah.

The numbers served as a way to link several pages. Each set, when held together against a strong light, overlapped to form something interesting.

Shikae leafed through Mamushi's real notes, becoming increasingly unsettled as ideas began to form— she recognized the basic seal for chakra extraction from a live source, signified by the strong vertical strokes of ink through an equally steadily drawn circle. Mito used those all the time. But the chakra allocation and chakra partitioning for... maximum compression? Why would anyone...

With a start, Shikae recalled what Mamushi had been researching before her death. Realization broke like a crumbling dam and crashed upon her, awakening a sense of urgency she hasn't felt since she held Mito's crumbled body in the battle of the valley of the end.

The bubbly Nara's masked thinned. "Shit."

In some ways, I was glad to have been given a second chance at life, cruel and strange as it may be. For one, I had never been able to run through the forest, unhindered by barely functioning lungs, before I inhabited Orochi— my new body. I mentally reprimanded myself for the mistake. Even after all these years, I still had trouble connecting my mind and flesh. A coping mechanism, perhaps, like these long jogs.

As I ran, feeling my muscles sing under the warm golden Sun, I couldn't help but to smile. Most Academy students detested endurance training, but I relished in the sheer feeling of being able-bodied and alive. Others may express themselves in beautiful words or brush strokes, but I am unfortunately fortunate enough to understand the wonders of an able body.

Running was a form of meditation. I needed some kind of outlet, after all. My late adoptive mother had always joked that I learned to run before I walked. After her and Daisuke's...death, I ran myself until I was exhausted in order to fall asleep every night. At the Orphanage, I spent my days running and dodging through the streets with my friends. And now, after Miko's untimely demise, I ran.

Was it guilt? Her life was not mine to take, but I wasn't the one who ended it, was I not? Or was it her own incompetence? But without my stupid curiosity and misplaced bravery, she never would've been tempted, would she?

My jog sped to a sprint.

Yet some good came out of her death. Mamushi. Now that my initial infatuation faded, I fell into a pit of uneasy confusion. She was a missing-nin, despite Mito's somewhat nostalgic descriptions. Why send her child to Konoha then? How was I brought here? How did my late adoptive parents even know her?

I needed answers. Perhaps Daisuke and Taka would have some.

"Mito-chan."

Konoha's resident seals mistress felt Shikae's agitation before the curly-haired woman even appeared. Her shadow, which quivered out of one of Mito's bookshelves, had been abnormally shaky.

"Shikae," The redhead rose from her dais, which doubled as both a bed and desk. "I was just meaning to go find you. We need to discuss—"

"Mamushi." The named spilled forth from their lips simultaneously.

AN: I lied. I bit off more than I could chew in my final term. I hope all of you have been doing well, though. I'm excited for the next chapter of my post-high school life, but between my summer job and projects, I probably won't have time to do much with this story. Drop a review to tell me how you've been, eh? Do all the disparate plot lines make sense? I promise they'll all come together soon. Let me know what you think about the pacing and characterization while you're at it.