I do not own Naruto.
This fanfic is dedicated to all my fans at Fifty Days! I hope you love this as much as I do!

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TAG
—you're it

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It was raining, when Hatake Kakashi pulled up outside the Yamanaka Household.

It was a nice house, he mused, with white-washed walls and clean windows, but it bore the unmistakeable signs of having housed a high school party — there was paint across the windows, and glow sticks trodden into the pavement. Bottles and plastic cups littered the floor, and a birthday banner hung across the top of the door, with the words HAPPY BIRTHDAY, KARIN! written across it in block italics; someone with a permanent marker had gone a bit crazy with the smiley faces, he figured, but, all in all, it seemed as if it had been a surprise party, thrown while the parents were out of town.

And still were out of town. He knew for a fact that Kurenai had been attempting to get a hold of the parents for the past fifteen minutes, but to no avail — obviously, they'd decided to have a little bit of alone time, or something similar, and had switched off any means of contact. A shame, really.

They would be the last to know of their daughter's death.

He stepped gingerly over a puddle of something disgusting, pushing one hand into the pocket of his trench coat, the other balancing two coffees in polystyrene cups, before stepping inside the house. The entire place reeked of sweat, mingled with the sweet scent of something like decay — or perhaps the metallic undertone of blood — and so, with the hand already in his pocket and still balancing the two drinks, he pulled out a handkerchief, pressing it against his nose, before taking the stairs two at a time. He turned the corner, headed to the bedroom at the far left, and pushed open the door.

The entire room was pink.

Pink curtains, pink walls, pink sheets on her pink bed — there were a few teddies, bunched at the foot of the bed, and these were all in varying shades of pink. He crossed the room, heading over to the dead girl's desk — there was make-up sprawled across the wood; a lipstick stain and some spilt blusher, he figured, but nothing of any importance — he let his gaze travel upwards, to the notice-board above it, where various different bits and bobs had been pinned into the wood, with pink drawing pins. He found his gaze drawn to one photograph in particular, placed directly in the middle of the board — it had been a picture of four girls, he knew that much, but all of their faces had been scribbled across; all but one, in fact.

He found himself gazing at lilac eyes, dark hair and a shy smile.

One of them had blonde hair, and he figured it must be Ino; it would make sense, after all. Judging from the clothes littering the floor, and the amount of make-up on the desk, she didn't seem like the type of person who would rather be behind the camera, than in front of it; and he wondered why she'd cross out her own face. He tugged the photograph from the board, looking about the room as he folded the paper in half, before slipping it into his pocket.

Without really thinking, he found himself opening her wardrobe door.

He let out a low whistle.

"…how many shoes does a girl need, honestly?"

Sat next to the dead body, Sarutobi Asuma flashed him a grin, cigarette clamped firmly between his lips, "Long time since you've been a girl's bedroom, Kakashi?"

"Not as long as you'd think, Asuma," Kakashi replied, with a winning smile — sadly hidden behind his polo-neck jumper, pulled high over the bottom of his face — before crossing the room and crouching beside the dead body, which had been covered by a sheet, handing his friend and colleague one of the two coffee cups, "Show me what've we got, then."

"I don't think you'll like it," the other replied, as he pulled back the sheet; and, almost immediately, Kakashi recoiled, pressing his hand against his mouth, the other hand shaking slightly as he clutched his drink — Asuma merely shrugged, as if to say he did warn him, before taking a swig of his drink.

She lay with her arms spread wide by her sides, her eyes staring blankly up at the ceiling — sky blue, he noted, just like her father's —; her lips were painted red, pulled into a grimace, as if she'd only just managed to stop herself from crying out. She hadn't wanted to give her killer the satisfaction of hearing her beg for mercy — or she had been too shocked, he thought, to realise she was going to die. Her hair, bright as the sun, was stained red with blood; her killer had slashed once at her chest, cutting shallowly through her skimpy dress, before slashing once again at her neck; still, for a girl whose throat had been slashed, there was very little blood spatter.

In fact, she should have thrashed and spun and fought — there should have been blood all up the walls, across the carpet, on her face; everywhere. Instead, it had simply dribbled down her neck, staining her dress, splashing across her face — it pooled beneath her, but that was all.

That was when Kakashi noticed the nails crudely hammered into the palms of her hands — two ragged, jagged holes, where she had pulled at them, attempting to free herself, and he had to turn away.

"…take a few photographs, and then we'll send her down to Anko," he spoke, his voice blank, void of any emotion, "I'll work on getting in contact with her parents and getting statements from the witnesses."

Asuma nodded once, taking another drag of his cigarette before standing, tossing it absently out the window — he watched as the ashes burnt amber, before fizzling into nothing, underneath the film of rain.

And Kakashi decided it was a very sad thing indeed when such a pretty girl died such a horrible death.

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03:04:41

He spotted the girl from the photograph almost immediately.

She was stood furthest away, arms wrapped around her body, stood beside a blonde boy — who Kakashi recognised as Naruto, a boy who often found himself in and out of police custody, through a series of mistakes . He'd offered her his jacket, and it lay awkwardly across her shoulders; his face was grim; an expression, Kakashi decided, which didn't really suit Naruto at all. In fact, it looked odd — far too odd — on him; he crossed over to them, offering the girl a comforting smile, before holding the photograph up.

"Do you recognise this photograph?"

She nodded once, biting her lip. "But why are the f—faces—"

He cut her off, with a short, sharp nod. "That's what we want to know, actually. Were you a close friend of Yamanaka Ino's?"

She seemed to hesitate, as she considered the question. "…I was a friend of her… her b—boyfriend…" She trailed off, and Kakashi couldn't help but feel sorry for her. He offered her a smile.

"What's your name?"

"H—Hyuuga Hinata."

Ah. He should have been able to tell, really, from her eyes.

"Well, Hinata — would you mind answering a few questions, for me?"

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03:00:09

It was raining, when I finally left the party.

My hair stuck to my forehead, soaking my blouse — already stained pink with blood, I realised, and I didn't quite want to touch it — and my skirt clung to my legs; I was thankful for my tights, otherwise I was quite certain I'd have been the coldest person there. I hugged my arms around my body, biting my lip, gazing down at the pavement below — tracing the cracks with my eyes, I wanted to just stand there; stand there until the events of the night had disappeared, and my body had finally stopped shaking. Stand there until the lump in my throat vanished and I thought I wasn't going to cry. Stand there until time rewound, back to before the nightmare.

Stand there until the world stopped moving.

I couldn't close my eyes; the image of my broken friend, of Ino, sprawled across the floor, wrists bloody, eyes wide in fright, would forever be burnt within my mind. I couldn't think of anything else — nothing at all. I could only think of the pain; of how much she must have suffered — of how she must have screamed out, because… because… there was no way she couldn't have. If Ino had suffered in silence… The thought was enough to make me gag. It was too horrifying, too awful, to be true.

I'd been the first one up there; the lights had been off, but Ino had told me she was going to go and lie down, so it wasn't really something I found at all that strange, and I'd stepped forwards, and I slipped — slipped — in Ino's blood, and, oh God, oh God, it had been horrible. I'd called out, my voice shaky, wobbling awfully — going all high at the end, something I haven't done since I was in middle-school; and I called out Ino's name again, this time stuttering, my voice failing me midway through the words I wanted to scream. I pulled myself to my feet then.

I—

I let out a barely-stifled sob.

A jacket fell over my shoulders, and I looked up, blinking back tears; the boy I'd spoken to at the party — Naruto, I think his name was — smiled gently back at me, his eyes betraying his true feelings; how scared he was. And if even he, who'd seemed so sure and so confident when he'd spoken to me, was scared, then I… I didn't know what to feel. But he placed a hand on my shoulder anyway, despite his true feelings, with a sheepish smile, and shrugged. "I thought you might need someone," he said, tentatively, as if unsure of whether his words could really make anything better, "To talk to — and I figured, if you wanted me to, I could be that someone. Just for tonight."

I couldn't really say anything, so I just threw my arms around his body, pressed my head against his chest, and let myself cry, listening to the sound of his heartbeat. Frantic, but controlled, as if he were trying to fight the fear. I felt so vulnerable, in those few seconds — my normal awkwardness had vanished. If it had been under any other circumstances, I would have blushed beetroot red, and no doubt fainted — but it just seemed right, after everything that had happened. It seemed right, clinging to this boy I barely knew. I wondered what my heartbeat sounded like — I wondered if my heart had broken into a million little pieces, and I wondered if I'd ever, after seeing such a terrible thing, be whole again.

What I couldn't know — not at that moment — was that life would never be the same again.

It would be—

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21:36:11

—pandemonium.

That was the only word for it, I mused, as I gazed at the mass of writhing bodies around me; perched on the edge of a leather sofa, I clutched my drink — orange juice, no alcohol — to my chest, pale eyes watching the people around me. I spotted Kiba in the middle of the dancefloor, drink held high above his head, the amber liquid sloshing onto the floor around him; his expression was one of complete ecstasy, as he moved barely in time with the music, jumping up and down. He looked so happy, I couldn't help but smile myself.

But he wasn't the only one losing himself, to the smell of alcohol, cigarettes and pure, unadulterated teenage lust. Everyone was dancing — everyone was screaming, laughing, joking — everyone was living in the moment. Sweat dripped down naked flesh — scantily clad girls swung their hips in time to the pounding rhythm, as boys with slicked back hair and fresh shirts moved closer, underneath the neon, flashing lights. The music only just managed to drown out the dull undertone of voices, shouting to be heard above the noise; the entire room was cramped, with people packed so close into one another, that they could feel the other's body heat.

Drinks were being thrown in the air, liquid raining down on the people below; teenagers were sprawled across every surface I could see — sat across the kitchen table was Tenten, one arm looped around a stranger's neck, her thigh pressed against his body. In the middle of the dancefloor, Ino and Karin were dancing together, snaking their bodies in time to the drumbeats, all flesh and sweat and smiles — every male eye was on them, watching as they dipped forwards for a drunken, clumsy kiss, in time to the whoops of adolescent boys. Ino threw her bottle in the air. It smashed upon the ground behind them, glass littering the floor, sparkling like pretty neon jewels, underneath the light. The atmosphere was wild.

The party was in full swing.

In all fairness, it looked like nothing but mess, to me; there was no control, only chaos. It hurt my eyes, my head, and I refused to drink anything alcoholic, not in this wild and clumsy atmosphere — who even knew what could happen. No, with my button-up blouse and my black pencil skirt, just to the knee, coupled with faded black tights, I didn't really fit in at all. But no one was looking at me, so that was fine — I didn't need to fit in. I was comfortable being me, the outsider at the party, always looking in.

Who knew that, later on, I would be wishing I was anyone else?

After all, I was only there to act as the designated driver, for Kiba and Ino — if they hadn't asked, I wouldn't have turned up. It was Karin's birthday and I didn't really know the girl; I hadn't been invited, not really, and had been the only one out of the three of us to actually give her a present — at which, Karin had smiled, wrapped her arms around me and proceeded to tell me she loved me, the scent of alcohol already lingering about her, before spinning away in a dizzy haze of red; red dress, red hair, red lips, red eyes — red, red, red as blood.

Looking at all that red — at the short skirts and tight tops, designed to show as much of the bust as possible —, I realised I didn't suit parties.

I was too quiet, too shy; I tended to sit in the corner, with my drink, while others twirled and danced and flirted — and that was exactly what I did, after being greeted by Karin; I bid Kiba and Ino farewell, not that they really noticed, as they were already flinging themselves into the crowd, and wandered away to find myself a sofa and a corner. I've never really dressed well for parties, either — I don't have any clothes which suit parties, and I she always looked out of place; dressed too neatly for a party. Dressed like a librarian, Kiba said — which had stung a little bit, but he'd ruffled my hair and said it was a look he liked, and so I passed it off as a roundabout compliment, instead of an insult.

And I don't dance, which is one of the only things you can really do at a party.

I hated dancing — which was why I was perched on the sofa, drink in hand, watching the bodies move together in chaotic synchronisation, instead of dancing myself.

"Looks like fun, right?" A voice called above the noise, and I swung my head to the left, blinking at the newcomer — messy blonde hair, the colour of a candle flame, and gentle blue eyes, he waved a hand in greeting, gesturing sheepishly to the seat next to me, "Mind if I sit there?"

I shook my head, returning his smile with a nervous one of my own, "…go ahead."

He sat down, and I took that moment to look at him properly. He was sunny, with a sunny smile and sunny blonde hair and sunny blue eyes — he seemed to radiate a sort of glow, as he sat next to me, drink in hand; and with his faded blue t-shirt, and his baggy denim jeans, he looked gangly — awkwardly tall, awkwardly sat, awkwardly smiling. He was all bones, I thought, and a little bit scrawny, but he would blossom — he would grow into himself, as all boys do, and he'd be quite handsome. But, almost like me, he didn't quite suit the party — there was just something out-of-place about him.

I didn't quite understand it.

And I'd never really spotted him around school. Absently, I wondered who he was and where he'd come from, with his pretty, pretty smile and his pretty, pretty eyes.

He caught my stare and offered me his hand. "How come you're not up and dancing, like the rest of them, huh?"

"I guess I'm just not like the rest of them," I shrugged, my smile turning sheepish, a light blush flashing across my cheeks — oh, how embarrassing; what a ridiculously cheesy thing to say. I pressed my hands against my cheeks, willing my blush to go away, refusing to meet the other's eyes. "And, uhm — I can't dance."

The boy laughed, "Is that so?"

I nodded.

He stuck his hand out then, a gentle grin adorning his features. "The name's Uzumaki Naruto, and I guess I'm not like the rest of them either. What's your name?"

"My… my name's Hinata," I replied, as I took his hand. "It's a… it's a pleasure to meet you."

"Well then, Hinata," Naruto squeezed my hand once, before tugging me to my feet; I stumbled, blinking, and fell against his chest — oh God, how embarrassing — at that point, my blush returned tenfold, and I turned tomato red, pushing away from him instantly. He merely chuckled, before swinging me towards him again — and this time, I managed to keep my balance, steadying myself with one hand against his chest —, this time pressing a hand against my back, to hold me in place. "Dance with me?"

"But… I can't d—dance—"

"Neither can I," he shrugged, "I guess I sort of just flail my arms and hope I'm dancing, not just punching people around me. But we can fail at dancing together, right?"

I blinked.

Pandemonium, I thought, but I nodded anyway.

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23:43:54

On the dancefloor, I bumped into Ino.

She was a mess; sweat dripped down her forehead, glistening beneath the neon lights, following her neck down to the curve of her body — her mascara dripped down her face, streaks of black upon a tanned background, and her hair had slipped out of its band. It fell down her shoulders, tangled, the humid air about her making the blonde locks curl and frizz. The bottom of her dress — a little black thing, too tight, too clingy — kept hitching upwards, but she didn't really mind; she was too far gone — as Kiba would have put it, I realised, the other girl was shitfaced.

"…'nata," she greeted, her voice slurred, as she slapped a hand against my back. "…didn't think you danced."

"I don't," I replied, with a small smile, "Not normally. But… but N—Naruto wanted to, so I thought…"

I trailed off.

Ino was ignoring me, choosing instead to stare at her phone — the screen lit up dimly in the darkness, and the girl was straining to read the words; but her reaction was obvious. And, because of her reaction, I found myself trying to read the message she'd received, but she hid her phone before I could even catch a glimpse of the words. Her lips pulled downwards into a frown, and, even in her drunken state, the worry was obvious in her eyes — her eyes flashed towards Naruto, then me, then her phone, and she held up a hand. She was shaking — whether from the amount of alcohol in her system or something else, I didn't know.

"I've… I'm goin' upstairs, 'kay, Hinata? I need to lie down, for a little while — come and get me, when you wan'… when you wan' to go."

The blonde didn't wait for a reply, pushing her way through the clingy, crowd of bodies, all grinding and bumping and swaying — and she suddenly looked so small, so awkward, as she glanced back over her shoulder, offering me a little smile. She was no longer perfect Ino — her make-up was smudged, the cracks were showing in her mask, and her painted face was peeling away; her walls were being knocked down, one by one, and she was shaking — shaking. At that moment, I realised Ino was scared.

But Ino turned away, before I could say a thing, and disappeared into the throng of sweat and bodies.

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"…your friend looked pretty out of it, Hinata," Naruto spoke, peering down at me, his voice laced with concern and — and something else. I couldn't quite place it. It was almost as though he'd seen how scared Ino was.

As if he knew something.

I narrowed my eyes, brow furrowing — because I swore I saw someone walking swiftly after Ino; someone with dark hair and darker eyes; with pale skin, dressed in a black shirt, which only made his skin look paler. He glanced back, briefly, over his shoulder at me, and I felt my heart almost stop.

Uchiha Sasuke.

"…Hinata? Did you hear what I said?"

I nodded absently, but I wasn't really listening — because, very clearly, I saw Uchiha Sasuke taking the stairs two at a time, following my friend — following Ino — to her room.

Following a girl who would die, in only ten minutes, to her death.

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23:45:19

That was the last time I saw her alive.

That was the last time anyone saw Ino alive.

And that was the moment everything went to hell.

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03:21:48

Kakashi listened patiently as the girl told her story, making notes in a pocket-sized pad he kept in his coat. As far as he knew, she would have been the last person to speak to Ino — which, with anyone else, would have automatically made her a suspect; but she was so quiet, so meek, he couldn't bring himself to believe it. He doubted she would lift a weapon even in self defence, but he couldn't cross her off completely — after all, it was the quiet ones you had to look out for.

"We're almost done, Hinata, and then you can go home," he spoke, before glancing across at Naruto. "You, though — you're staying here."

He looked as if he wanted to protest, but instead shrugged.

Kakashi turned back to Hinata. "Did you see anyone else speak with Ino, before she went upstairs?"

"…just… just one person."

He nodded for her to continue.

"Uchiha Sasuke."

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23:53:49

Blood.

Beautiful, beautiful — it spilled beneath his fingertips, dripped across the floor, stained her skin red, red, red.

So beautiful.

He pressed the knife against her throat, dragging sideways; and he didn't stop, didn't wait, to see her die. No, then he stood, crossed the room, gazed at the photographs; had to resist the urge to press a blood-stained finger against pale skin and lilac eyes. Instead, his eyes moved downwards, searching for a pen — he saw one, picked it up, and scribbled across the photograph. He got rid of the imperfections.

Only her.

Only her.

"Tag," he whispered, moving so close his lips almost brushed against the photograph. "You're it."

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03:19:36

Across town, Uchiha Sasuke stayed sat upon the park bench, eyes closed as he listened to the bustle of Konoha City around him. He listened to the pulse of the nighttime traffic; listened to the sound of loud, booming voices — drunken idiots, loitering outside clubs and pubs, waiting for a taxi home or for the night to end. He listened to the sound of his own heartbeat, hammering away too quickly. He sat still as a statue, calming his breathing, waiting until he was entirely sure he wouldn't panic — wouldn't run and run and run, until he could run no further — before opening his eyes.

Then he pushed his blood-stained hands into his pockets and headed towards his home.

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PROLOGUE:—
and the game begins

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"…Yamanaka Ino was a prized, intelligent student, as well as a bright, intellectual, beautiful young woman," the Headmistress spoke, leaning forwards slightly, face grim and sorrowful as she gazed at the unsmiling sea of teenage faces below. "Here at Konoha Academy, we have watched as she has blossomed into a truly brilliant student. She will be sorely missed, by all her friends here — by everyone."

It was difficult to know what to say, when it came to Ino. After all, she hadn't been loved by everyone. There had been those who hadn't known her, and never would know her; there had been those who she'd abandoned; ex-boyfriends, ex-friends, the whole bunch. The real deal, I guess. She was a cheerleader, Miss Popular on the outside, a little girl in the middle; sure, she might arrive late at a party she was supposed to be hosting, just so all the eyes are on her, and sure she might have been the life of every party, but she wasn't that girl all the time. Sometimes, she missed her daddy. Sometimes, she cried at romantic comedies. Sometimes, she was just like you or me. But the Headmistress didn't know that; at least, I don't think she did. She was singing the praise of an all-too normal girl.

I hadn't been Ino's best friend, but I don't think she would have liked it, had she been there to hear it.

Not that I really cared all too much, at that moment. I was too busy fighting the urge to burst into tears. My fists were trembling. My eyes, so wide, were unblinking, watering ever so slightly; but I knew that if I closed them, I'd burst into tears. I sort of wanted to cry, though. Just not in front of everyone. Not when people could see.

Not now.

I sat prim and straight-backed, hard-faced, trying not to cry — but it hurt, so much; more than I thought it would, and I hadn't even known Ino particularly well. I'd only known her through Kiba, and we hadn't really spoken — just enough to get to know each other, I suppose. She used to tease me and ruffle my hair; she was the only person who could call me cute, other than Kiba, and I wouldn't blush. I glanced briefly to the left, gazing at Kiba; he had been silent all through the memorial assembly, but his fists were clenched so tightly that his nails were biting into the palms of his hands, and he was shaking so violently, that I wanted to hold him — wanted to place a hand on his shoulder and pull him close, and tell him that everything would be alright, but I was certain that if I did so, he would just push me away.

In front of me, Haruno Sakura was outright sobbing.

"Let us share a moment of silence and send our prayers to Ino, cruelly ripped away from us by a misguided soul. A moment of silence, students, if you please."

The Headmistress bowed her head.

I waited a moment, before doing the same thing — only then did I cry, lost in my own thoughts, as the images of the night before flashed through my mind. Only then did I cry, listening to the sound of my own heartbeat, realising what a fragile sound it was indeed, and how easily it could be snuffed out, as tears dripped down my cheeks and onto my clenched fists; splattering across my skin, like droplets of blood — like rain. Only then did I cry, and my tears mingled with the tears of Inuzuka Kiba, who — head dropped, eyes closed — only chose that moment to let go; chose that moment to break completely, and I longed to comfort him. Only then did I cry, but whether they were tears of relief, that it wasn't me dead — that it wasn't me everyone was crying for — or tears of sorrow, tears of fear, I didn't know.

I still don't know.

We sat in silence, all of us, for precisely three minutes; and then, row by row, we were dismissed. I walked with Kiba, wandering along behind Sakura a decent distance away — close enough to overhear the girl's cries, but far enough away so that I couldn't quite comfort her; and, as selfish as it was, I didn't want to comfort her. Sakura needed this, this moment of grief. And I needed the silence. What could I say, anyway? I had, after all, barely known Ino, but Ino had been Sakura's best friend — there was nothing I could say to make that better, and trying would only make it worse. Sakura was a headstrong, brave girl — she wouldn't want me meddling, as nice as the thought behind it might be.

She would grieve in her own time.

Besides, I had Kiba to think about.

"I want to go to her locker," the other announced, startling me from my thoughts.

"…w—what?"

"Her locker," Kiba replied, with a frown, his voice shaking only once. "I want something to… She has a picture of us, together. I gave it to her. I'd like it back."

I nodded, before gently slipping my hand through Kiba's, squeezing tightly, trying to show him that I understood; he didn't respond, and his hand felt so limp, so cold, that I felt close to tears just holding it. Instead of crying, though, I began to walk, pulling him along after me — and it felt awfully weird. Usually, it was the opposite way around; Kiba would be the one running ahead, grinning back over his shoulder at me, waving for me to hurry up — but, this time… I glanced back over my shoulder only once, and saw that his eyes were distant, trained on the ground in front of him. I wondered if there was anything I could say.

But words, as easily as they can come sometimes, are difficult, tricky things — and I couldn't think of the right things to say, so I simply pulled him along in silence, heading quickly towards Ino's locker.

When I finally slowed to a halt, he looked up.

"Is this it," he asked, and I nodded; without saying anything else, he took a step forwards, the combination easy for him to remember — but he frowned, hesitating for a second. "That's… that's odd."

"What…?"

"The locker — it's not opening."

"Is it," I blinked, taking a step forwards for a closer look, before continuing, "Is it jammed?"

Kiba frowned, before pressing his shoulder against the metal — then, with a sharp tug backwards, he thrust his full weight against the door, as quickly and as hard as possible. There was a loud clanging noise and I glanced sheepishly around, hoping that no teachers had heard — I really didn't want to explain why we were trying to break into a dead girl's locker, especially with the police investigation still going on. There was another clang, and this time a whoop of triumph — the door sprang open, and I turned around just in time to see ripped shreds of newspaper flutter to the floor, like confetti or snow.

I shared a puzzled glance with Kiba.

All of Ino's books had vanished — everything of hers was gone. Instead, the locker was filled entirely up with newspaper, some of it ripped to such tiny sizes that the words weren't distinguishable; on others, entire words had been ripped out, bold and black and jagged, striking my heart and making my blood run cold. Murder. Death. Kill. Dead. Beside me, I saw Kiba reach into the locker, expression blank, pulling out something that made my heart almost stop, right then and there.

A photograph.

Of me.

Eight years old, bright-eyed, smiling — my hair pulled back from my face by a lilac Alice band, my blouse buttoned up to my neck as it always was then — and three words written across my smiling face, in block, red letters.

TAG — YOU'RE IT.

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I pressed my hands against my mouth, eyes wide with something like fear, as I gazed at the photograph opposite me; we'd retreated to a nearby empty classroom, and Kiba had almost instantly slung his arm around my shoulder, pushing my face against his chest and holding me close. That was what I needed, really — some comfort. But my eyes kept straying to the photo, where he'd dropped it on the table, and the big, jagged words.

Tag.

Like it was a game.

Like a girl dying — like Ino dying — was a game.

"…a sick joke," I heard Kiba whisper, and I realised he had to be just as shaken as I was; because his on-off girlfriend had been murdered, and now this? His childhood friend, sweet and shy Hyuuga Hinata, next on this list — being it? No, he had to be shaken up — I could feel him trembling. "A sick fucking joke."

And then came the fear.

What if it wasn't a joke?

What if I was… if I was next?

I stared over his shoulder, gazing blankly at the wall opposite, dazed and confused; because, if it wasn't a joke, then what did it mean? Did it mean I was next — that I too would end up cut up and broken, bleeding out onto the floor, dying in some dirty ditch? That the next memorial day would be for me, and that the flowers, held clutched to the chests of so many highschoolers, would be thrown by my graveside? That it would be my family crying — that my family would be the ones everyone looked at with pity in their eyes? And, if it didn't mean I was next, then…

What did it mean?

"K—Kiba, we need to t—tell someone—"

But my voice caught in her throat.

And panic — raw, unadulterated panic — threatened to overwhelm me. Then and there, I felt like a rabbit caught in headlights; in fact, I finally understood that phrase, for perhaps the first, but not the last, time in my life. I wanted to run away, but I couldn't; I tried to wrench my gaze away, but I couldn't. I felt frozen to the spot, arms wrapped around Kiba, eyes trained on the door opposite — and my mouth dropped open and I thought I might shout out, except no words came. No sound came. There was nothing. I was stuck where I was, and Kiba was oblivious to the eyes watching us.

He was oblivious to the figure stood by the door.

I squeezed my eyes shut.

Go away!

When I opened them again, the stranger was gone. All that was left was the smudged fingerprints upon the glass door, and the sound of my heart hammering, as I wondered who on earth he was — and what he'd wanted.

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His lip was bleeding.

He hadn't noticed it before, as he stood in the alleyway, his knuckles cut and bruised, but his lip was bleeding — he pressed a finger against the cut, moving his hand away and gazing down at the little bit of red. It seemed darker against the pale of his hand. Dark eyes moved upwards, glancing at the person sprawled across the floor, and, with a grunt of irritation, anger, frustration, rage, he kicked outwards at the other, listening eagerly as they let out a yelp of pain — and then he was kicking and kicking and kicking, until the shouts grew quieter and quieter.

Then he turned away, tucked his bloodied hands in his pockets, and disappeared into the bustle of the city.

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"I should, uhm… I should head back to my l—locker," I said, finally, barely managing to keep myself from stammering, my heart was beating so hard, and my head was throbbing so much; I pulled away from Kiba, offering him a little, tentative smile. "Don't worry, I'll be… I'll be fine."

He seemed uncertain; his hand lingered on my shoulder. Obviously, the photograph and the words on it were still fresh in his mind.

"I promise," I reassured him.

He nodded once, squeezed my shoulder tightly, and then turned to leave the room, ducking around desks and chairs. I waited until I heard the door swing shut, before moving over to the desk, picking up the photograph; I stared hard at the picture, at my smiling, younger self, and wondered where on earth it had come from, and why it was in Ino's locker — then, on a spur of the moment whim, I turned it over, staring at the back. My heart froze and the world suddenly seemed to spin around me; because the back of the photograph was splattered with something crimson red — something which felt sticky beneath my touch, so much so that I wondered why I hadn't felt it before.

Blood.

The photograph slipped from my fingers and I let it fall.

If there was blood, then… then maybe the threat, written across my young face, wasn't so empty after all? I stood there for a moment longer, before sucking in a deep breath, crouching to pick up the photograph; not wanting to really look at it, I folded it in half, tucked it into my pocket — it never really occurred to me that it might have been evidence — before straightening, walking over to the door. My fingers closed around the handle — I pulled it open, just in time to walk face-first into a male chest, my head bumping against muscle. Instinctively, the other's hands reached out for me, before I could fall backwards — and I saw that his knuckles were split.

I glanced upwards.

I think my heart stopped again, and my knees went all weak and wobbly — too many frights, I figured, for one day. When I was younger, I used to faint a lot; I only just managed to stop myself from doing it then, the colour seeping from my features. Uchiha Sasuke stared down at me, an eyebrow perfectly arched, his body between me and the exit.

Absently, I wondered if my day could get any worse.

"You're Hyuuga Hinata, right?" Sasuke said.

I nodded.

"Then you might want to sit down — I don't exactly have good news."

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I'd have felt rude if I'd just left, so I sat down at one of the empty desks, wondering what on earth Uchiha Sasuke could have to say to me — never once had we spoken in our lives. In fact, he was the complete opposite of me, cool and aloof and beautiful, although I'm sure he'd have preferred being called handsome. He walked past me in the corridors. In fact, I don't think he's ever even looked at me before.

So, when he asked me to sit down, I was pretty surprised, to the point where I did it almost instantly.

He stayed where he was, for a moment, before crossing the room, sitting in front of me; he was even prettier up close, with sculpted features, and a long, aristocratic nose. His skin was pale, like parchment, but not too much so — it was as if he rarely went out in the sunlight, but I was certain he did; I'd seen him, a few times before, walking about with Kiba, although I'd never seen him directly talking to my friend. It was more as if they were acquaintances, and felt as if they had to meet up, at least once in a while. He was watching me with an eyebrow raised, because, let's face it, I was staring, and I felt my cheeks heat up.

I found myself frozen in place, as he reached forwards, brushing his thumb against my cheek; for a few seconds, he simply traced my cheek, moving his fingers downwards, brushing against my lips — and my eyes widened, my skin flushed bright red, and I snapped backwards.

"W—what're you doing?"

He shrugged, a smirk adorning his features, "…You're prettier up close."

"Y—you…" I stammered, unable to think of the right words, struggling helplessly. "You can't just… touch people like that!"

His smirk seemed to get wider, "Why? You liked it."

Once again, I found myself lost for words, gazing speechlessly at him — how one boy could so easily leave me floundering for words, I couldn't quite understand. I'd never even spoken to Sasuke before, yet he was brushing his fingers against my cheek so easily, as if it meant nothing to him. I couldn't quite understand it, but, then again, I didn't understand him. I blinked, unable to think of a single word to say, and so instead settling for gazing at my hands, clasped in my lap, waiting for him to continue.

I guess we sat in silence for too long, because finally he stretched, reaching across, placing his thumb on my chin and tilting my head upwards. Dark eyes searched my features, and I felt uncomfortable — so uncomfortable, I couldn't quite understand, as if there were something more to the person sat in front of me. Something I couldn't see, but could feel, lingering in the air like static electricity. It made my heartbeat thump all that quicker. Made my breathing shallow, ragged, uncertain.

His lips tugged into that deadly smirk again.

"Hyuuga Hinata, you're in a lot of danger," he spoke, then, and his words frightened and attracted me in equal measure; although, the second half probably accounted to the tone of his voice — low, dangerous, thrilling.

His fingers never left my face, but his smirk disappeared and his expression turned deadly serious.

"You got the invitation, didn't you?"

My fingers brushed across the photograph in my pocket. I wondered whether I should show it to him, but instead I simply nodded mutely — I assumed that had been the invitation, but his words were scaring me. It was too much. I was in too deep. Already, only a day had passed, and my entire world had been single-handedly thrown upside down. Uchiha Sasuke, for a few seconds, looked as if he might understand.

Then he pressed his index finger against my lips.

"Tag," he whispered. "You're it."

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I couldn't stay in that room, not for any longer. As soon as he whispered the words, the colour drained from my face and I couldn't hear anything, because of the frantic beating of my heart; he was watching me carefully. Judging my reaction, I think. I don't know — I was too busy feeling terrified out of my mind to really analyse his actions, and so I threw myself to my feet, pushed my chair backwards, and fled the room.

I barely heard him call my name after me.

I didn't run, although I wanted to; the moment I'd turned the corner of the corridor, I managed to control myself, clutching my arms to my body as I walked up the corridor. I passed a classroom — the teacher frowned at me, but didn't attempt to stop me, as I made my way to my locker. Upon reaching my locker, I found my spirits jump, ever so slightly, and a nervous smile flickered across my face — Naruto waved at me, leaning on the locker next to mine, as I neared him. His smile was wide. He looked so happy, that I managed to forget all about Sasuke.

The only reminder of his words, in fact, was the photograph in my pocket.

"Hey, Hinata!"

"H—hello, Naruto," I replied, grinding to a halt beside my locker, biting my lip as I smiled sheepishly at him. "It's nice to see you again."

"I can definitely say the same about you," Naruto grinned, waggling his eyebrows at me, and I couldn't help it — I giggled, raising my hand to cover my mouth, my childhood habits winning me over; my mother had always said it was more polite to laugh in such a way, and I continued doing it ever since. His expression sobered up, however, and he placed a hand on my shoulder. "You're feeling better, right?"

It was sweet. He was worried.

But his words brought back everything Sasuke had said, and I only just managed to nod my head, pulling away from his hand and turning to my locker. I could barely remember the combination — but, upon remembering it, I wished I hadn't.

My locker was filled with those photographs. They slipped onto the floor, fluttered to the ground like butterflies — they made my heart freeze, my head hurt. Each one of my face, eight years old, each with the same three words scrawled across my features; I really couldn't help myself, then. I placed both of my hands on my face, and let out a muffled sob, as, distantly, I saw Naruto bend down, scooping up one of the photographs, and he looked confused and frightened. A little bit lost, really. That made me realise, I think, that I needed Sasuke, because, with him, I'd felt at least as if he knew what he was doing. As if he understood. As if, I guess, he could protect me. The photographs reminded me that I would come to need him, because he knew something.

He was, after all, the last one to have seen Ino.

Things were moving so fast, I couldn't keep up.

It never occurred to me, not then, not once, that Sasuke could have been the killer.

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Sasuke ran a hand through his hair, staring absently at the desk in front of him, at the chair where she'd sat. His expression was carefully blank. He glanced down at his hands — at the fingertips, so rough and callous, that had felt so smooth brushing against her skin. He wondered, absently, why she'd been picked. Why he'd been picked.

Why they'd both been picked.

It was a game of Cat and Mouse, he knew that much.

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It was a game of Cat and Mouse, even back then — I was just too scared, too frightened, to see that. If I'd truly been looking, I would have noticed. It was a game — nothing more than a game, to that murderer — and he had an entire school full of people who didn't know they were playing. People like me. Like Ino.

It was a game of Cat and Mouse, and we were the mice.

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Author's Note:

Hey, guys! It's Briony here, with a new Sasuke & Hinata fic, with a whole bunch of side pairings, like you wouldn't even believe. This is Tag, the idea those of you who voted at my profile picked; and I hope you've enjoyed this prologue! There'll be loads more to come. So, just a few little things to keep you wanting more; what does Sasuke want with Hinata? Is Naruto all he seems to be? And who is this person, so obsessed with poor Hinata?

I hope you enjoyed this chapter!

Please review!

briony, x