#scmb

Almost seven months have passed since the last death, and tensions in the desert-village are still high: threads of anxiety and a morbid excitement taught through everyone with something to lose. Sorano plucks the thread, vibrating the questions already ringing about her mind. When would the next be? Where? Who would be left in mourning? Would the collective anxiety shatter into relief, or sharpen?

Skin sticky from the pervasive and oppressive heat, she lay staring at the sandstone ceiling, scrunching the plain white bedsheets between her fingertips as she contemplates the questions surely on the mind of every Sunagakure resident. She should expect this kind of heat by now, with the many years she had lived here. She should be used to it. No one else seemed to mind it very much. Of course, they kept out of the direct sun in the middle of the day - the only time the temperature felt worth it to her - and most left their window open a crack at night, but they were born in the desert, and the desert was a part of them.

Sorano was not born here.

Aggressively, she pushes her hair up above her head, pulling out a few thick, red strands in the rough attempt to free herself from the feeling of being suffocated. Anything for any relief. But she wasn't surprised when no relief came; she was stifled by more than her hair, and more than the heat.

A dull thumping sound begins from overhead, pulling her from her intrusive thoughts. A moth bumps against her lampshade repetitively, leaving a light dusting of its precious minute scales. Beige, like everything else in the small government-appointed apartment. She slips her bare legs off the side of the bed and stands to open the window. The moth needn't be trapped like her, but it will have to find its own way out. She stretches her fingertips out into the dark night, just barely able to graze the outside wall of her building. The walls in Suna are thick, apparently to help keep the insides of the buildings cooler. It seems to her that at night they have the opposite effect, because there is a pleasant breeze brushing against her fingers which certainly doesn't make its way into her room. Even the thickness of the walls feel claustrophobic, separating her from the eddies of air dancing outside.

As usual, she can hear distant conversation from the streets below, some jovial and some argumentative. She can feel the faint buzzing thrum of their minds pushing on the periphery of her senses, but thankfully they are too few and too far to pay any notice to. A peel of laughter cuts the air, reminding her that for most there is still the opportunity for fun in the middle of the desert; for a social life with drinking and dancing and eating and singing with friends.

It does not help her to be this bitter, nor would it help her to have friends.

The floor is rough under her feet as she pads back to her bed, laying on top of her sheets once again and twisting her fingers into the pillowcase so tightly it might cut off her circulation, and biting her lip so hard it might bleed. But not quite that tight, or that hard. She is practiced at this ritual for sleep.

She is hurting herself, more than anyone she actually wants to hurt, with her resentment, but it builds inside her nonetheless. It is an uncontrollable thing, twisting and tumbling around her stomach, boiling like a wild sea in a storm and making her sick sick sick sick sick every time she is called upon by the village. Every time she catches a glimpse of furtive whispers shared between those few acknowledge she exists. Usually, holding onto it only hurts her. But the hurt is hers, and it feels like it could be power, so she holds on anyway.

❈❈❈

In the daylight Sorano walks with a very purposeful look of casual comfortability to the office of the new Boy-Kazekage. More Shinobi than usual appear to be on duty, in an effort to prevent another suspicious inexplicable death, and she supposes to put the civilian population at ease. Foolish. Not a single body had been found in the streets, and the deaths all appeared to have happened at night. Then this must be for appearances alone. There had certainly been more foreign envoys since the former scourge of the sand had taken office, so the need for apparent safety made sense. And it did seem to be working, tension visibly melted off families catching sight of this increased surveillance, full of joy to be together, and for this effort to keep them safe, even as they cast wary glances her way. Hypocritical, given the Kazekage himself was the source of that same fear only a handful of years ago.

She glances at a mother and daughter with hair almost as red as her own, catching the woman brush some dust from her daughters shoulder in a moment of casual comfortability that Sorano lost almost eight years ago. Even her own family couldn't stand to be around her after a certain point, so is it really any wonder these strangers mistrusted her? The buzz of mental energy is worse at ground level, amongst the comparative throng of the night, but if the deaths had caused even more passive aggression towards her on the part of the villagers, it has at least kept the streets, and therefore her head, clearer. Perhaps this is in part why it had been so long since the last...

The thick soles of her oh-so-practical shoes slap with a dull thud against stone steps as she climbs towards the thick wooden doors of her keepers office. She is quite sure he doesn't see himself as her keeper. Perhaps he thinks himself benevolent, embracing this outsider in a way his father never did. Too little, too late. She is to meet her teammates outside before they enter to receive their next mission. Her next mission would be more apt. She is only called upon when absolutely necessary, so in reality the task is hers, and her companions will join as back-up and support. To keep tabs on the liability is more like it. As Sorano understands it, it is unusual to receive missions directly from the Kazekage, but it is the norm to her. She needs to be monitored - perhaps well meaning, perhaps malicious, but either way it is another watchful eye to keep her in line. As far as anyone knows she has never stepped over, or even near the line, it's simply not an option available to her. The line is unnecessary ball and chain around her ankle. Around her throat.

Two pairs of feet come into view above the top of the stairs, close together and angled towards each other, but just far enough away from where Sorano will emerge to know that it is purposeful. She hears their clandestine whispers, and digs her fingernails into her palms as hard as she can, taking a sharp breath of relief at the outlet for her anger, grounding herself with the pain. Plastering a deliberately mild expression on her face she rounds the last few steps and stands a few feet away. The tall man and woman before her have been on her team for two years, but she can count on one hand the number of times they have spoken to her outside of work. She knows from what they think are secret smiling glances, from the way they mirror each others stance, and better yet from her intrusions into their minds, that they are a couple, or at least something akin to it. There is little need to bother themselves forming a bond with her, when every mission gives them time as good as alone.

"Good morning, Goro, Jun." Sorano says curtly, her lips curling into something like a smile because she knows they will never use her given name, and they do not like her to use theirs. Far too familiar.

Goro nods. Jun sneers.

"Morning, Hōraku." Goro is also curt, but it is an acknowledgement, at least.

If she is entirely honest with herself, she hasn't given them, or anyone else in Suna, a fair chance in some time. In years. Earlier efforts to integrate fully or better yet to make a connection have fallen flat shortly after beginning, if they haven't imploded... But they hadn't given her a fair chance either, and in this case she is quite sure that two wrongs do make a right.

"Squad 18, please enter." A flat, almost breathy voice cuts through the tension and Jun pushes the door open, leading the way into the domed office. Many round windows reveal bright and searing light outside, but the room itself is dark and calm, with a lingering scent of sandalwood. For the leader of one of the Five Great Nations, the Kazekage keeps his workplace simple and unassuming. There are a few plants, mostly succulents that can handle the heat, a few shelves stacked with papers and books, and a large wooden desk sitting on top of a small rug. The pleasant scent is the only thing that has changed since she first set foot in here, more than ten years ago.

She would do so much with the space, if it were hers.

Standing side by side with Goro and Jun it is all she can do not to glare at the boy sitting before her. It isn't his fault she's in this situation, but knowing she's here to be used by a child tastes bitter, regardless of how accomplished he is. She is reminded again that just a few years ago he two received fearful glances in the streets, and moreso than her. Now he is the golden boy. The reformed monster. What it is they want her to reform about herself she doesn't know.

"Thank you all for coming, Goro, Jun, Sorano." The Kazekage speaks so softly, it is clear he has never had to raise his voice to command attention. Is it because he used to be so feared, or because he is now so respected? Whichever it is, she envies him both.

"Of course, Kazekage-sama!" Jun speaks lightly, rocking forward on her toes. She looks so pleased and girlish in the moment that despite being half a foot taller than Sorano, she seems small.

The Kazekage smiles slightly, "We have a B-rank mission requiring your talents as a squad." He pauses, and Goro's brows shoot up, just for a moment. The Kazekage spots it the same moment Sorano does. "You may feel a B-rank mission is below you, and in usual circumstances you would be correct. But this is no reflection of the importance of your task, I simply do not expect a need for combat."

As suspected, the mission was for the foreigner.

“We have received intelligence that a high-profile mob boss from the Land of Rivers will be travelling through the southern borders of the Land of Wind a few days from now. You are to ensure that does not happen.” She inclines her head slightly, waiting for him to continue. “This request comes from myself, rather than the Land of Rivers. It will strengthen our relationship to rid them of their problem.”

Goro frowns slightly before speaking low, “So this is entirely pro-bono?”

“If that’s how you would like to think of it.”

Jun jumps in, “It doesn’t matter much what it’s for Goro, an order is an order.”

Sorano can't help but agree with Jun, knowing better than most that realistically they have no choice, but of course Jun would jump at the chance to show the Kazekage how well behaved she is. Sorano is a hypocrite in both her mind and her actions, because she says nothing.

“No, you deserve an explanation,” the Kazekage murmurs, and Sorano feels a small amount of warmth towards him for shutting down Jun’s boot-licking, “it is pro-bono. However, there are many benefits to the village. Allowing him to travel through our land unhindered may appear weak, and as I said, this will strengthen relations between us and our neighbours. You should not underestimate the value in that, simply because it is a smaller land.”

Satisfied, or perhaps mollified, Goro nods.

“He is due in five days. Your squad should leave tomorrow to ensure there is room for incorrect intel. You will receive a packet with a full briefing this evening.” He gives another small, almost tentative smile, before looking back down at his papers and flipping a page. He doesn’t dismiss us, but the effect is the same.

Sorano turns on her heel and leaves the room behind her comrades. Colleagues? They are about to walk down the stairs when Jun looks back, just for a moment, and Sorano, blank-faced, raises her hand in something like a wave.

“We’ll meet by the gate at midday tomorrow.” Jun says sharply, snaps her head forward once more and side by side, she leaves with Goro.

❈❈❈

Sorano's room feels like a trap, about to spring any second. The staticness and stagnation it reflects in her is the trap, and if anything were to spring it would be a breath of fresh air. Her building is unusually busy, a party for someone or others birthday on the floor below her, and although the thick walls dampen the sound to a low thud like that of the moth, the mental noise is too much toomuchtoomuch!

Quick as a slap she takes a knife from her kitchen draw, slicing the blade across her thump deep enough for the blood to flow steadily. It wouldn't do to truly injure herself before a mission but oh, oh relief. She heaves a sigh, flopping back limply on a hard wooden chair and letting her eyes flutter closed as she focuses on the sweet throbbing in her wounded digit. The buzz still intrudes on her, but it is manageable now, lesser than the pain.

Picking up the light brown envelope from where she cast it on the desk a few hours ago, she unwinds the fastening, wrapping the soft white string around her thumb as she does so, stemming the blood flow and increasing the pang. Her skin below the makeshift tourniquet is almost as white as the twine was before the blood soaked through, a hard contrast from the peachy tan of the rest of her hand.

Distraction and first-aid in place, she must read the report and prepare for the mission. Goro and Jun can probably go without, and likely will, since combat isn't expected, but for the lonely woman a strong understanding of her target is essential. Ideally she would have had the chance to watch him and write the report herself, but either he is too unpredictable, or the village leaders think she is, so the task was assigned to someone else.

It quickly becomes clear that while the mission will be a difficult one, the target himself is nothing extraordinary. Not a shinobi, but skilled in combat nonetheless, he has been causing issues at the Katabami gold mine and neighbouring villages since the death of Kurosuki Raiga a few years ago. No matter the tyranny of having such a skilled, albeit deranged, ninja at the head of their operations, the protection he offered must be missed by the locals now that multiple gangs are running rampant. Better the devil you know. At only thirty-three years old, Aoyama Kenta has been making a name for himself as a brutal, inhumane, greedy, mob boss interested only in profit and hedonism, with a single exception of his infant son.

How touching.

Sorano could work with that.

She flicks through the pages a few more times, savouring the smooth surface of the paper under her fingertips and seeking out any minute bumps. She already knows she hasn't missed anything of importance: she is meticulous, and she must be to show the people in Sunagakure she is worth keeping around, to keep their already probing minds from looking any further.

Almost seven months have passed since she last stretched her Kekkai Genkai to the depths of its abilities, but she has been sure to keep it limber.

She lays back on her bed and closes her eyes, letting sight and touch and smell fade away and instead seeking that painful buzzing static of minds. The buzz grows louder and somehow as she embraces it it becomes her whole, the sound of synapses firing all around her, fuzzy, iridescent, shapeless forms moving in and out of her minds eye. They thrum with life energy, a melting pot between chakra and mental signatures, bright and loud and beautiful in their joy, or their despair. She feel where there is a greater depth of emotion, and although she wants to go looking in many directions, following all those threads of thought and chemical signatures, she focuses inwards. The rest becomes a far-away tinnitus-like buzz around her as she finds the mind she is listening for, and attunes to it. This is a rich well of emotion, one she has been working on and cultivating for months. His thoughts sound as a despairing violin, his mind's iridescence closer to that of an oil spill.

It isn't quite the workout or the challenge she would usually chose, as her upstairs neighbour has no genjutsu training to speak of - or any shinobi training for that matter - but he was so dispassionate about everything save for his disgust for his foreign neighbour before she started work on him, and just look at the range of his feeling now. Beautiful.

Through many solitary nights in her apartment, listening to his mind as she was now, she has come to know the man well. Much better than he knows, or cares to know her. People like comfortability, and easy paths through life. Assuming the new neighbour from another village, still just a small girl but holding a power you won’t bother to understand, is a threat, is easy. Certainly it’s easier than welcoming her into a frightening new home when her mother and her siblings disappeared. Than accepting that as a child, she will only become as much of a threat as everyone makes her. Him and many others have taken the easy route.

He is in his late forties, not particularly notable for anything - he works in a weapon manufacturing workshop in the village. He also spends most nights alone in his apartment, and apart from proximity to Sorano, he was perfect content with that. Passing through life like a ghost. He was friendly with many, friends with few, but he didn't mind. He was passive in his own lack of life force. But she had helped him the last few months, to make something of himself. To long for more and to really feel something.

She doesn't always, or even usually, take this length of time with her work, but for the vitriol he has spat at her, for the daily discomfort he has caused, she considers it her return gift to him.

As she listened from the back corner of his mind, he pours himself an over-full glass of sake. It is quickly downed, topped up, downed again, and the remainder of the bottle poured to half fill his cup. He looks at the floor, for a short moment boring venomous holes at the wood and plaster separating him from his secret tormentor, but quickly his eyes fill with tears blurring his vision, and his mind is scattered into misery. It shines brightly to Sorano.

She is about to push a little further, to leave a little calling card to help the story she wishes for to play out, but as soon as she does she realises she will barely have to, it would be heavy handed, even if enjoyable. The probing, parasitic vine she planted, tended, and loved, has done it's job so well, tearing apart the tree it wrapped around and thriving on the remains of its trunk.

--There's nothing here for me. What am a doing drinking alone every night? Nothing I haven't done before. All I've ever done, what's the fucking point?--

Slowly, oh so slowly, she edges into his mind. He must not know she is here, but with his lack of training there was never really a risk of that. With a voice like honey, just under the surface for him to find on his own, she leaves the spark. Would anyone even notice?

--No one would even notice. What do I mean to anyone? What do I mean to the village? Nothing...--

With a finality that certainly brings him relief he stands, and like a whip she comes back to herself, following one floor behind up the stairs to the roof. The sky is a dark inky blue, unmuddied by clouds, and with a waning moon. It will be gone tomorrow night. His silhouette is only visible because the stars cannot be seen behind where he stands, up on the precipice of the building, arms out and eyes closed with his back to the drop.

Guessing that she only has seconds she makes her way over to him, silent as any member of the ANBU. As she raises her hand, hovering it just over his chest, she sees the culmination of her work. Abject despair giving way to joy that he has finally decided on a way out. His brows unknit and a serene smile spreads across his face as only one content with their imminent death can.

This is perfect.

At the height of his relief, she gives him a firm push, and for a brief moment in the second it takes him to fall they are united in ecstasy.

It only takes two days for news of the murder to arrive to Jun and Goro.

Two days of silence. Two days where Sorano's mental energy was her own. Away from the prying eyes of the village, without whispers and sideways glances and the constant unending buzz of their minds. Two days where the only company were teammates who would rather keep their distance anyway.

Usually, she felt freer, more grounded, when she was on a mission - when she has a purpose and her talents are appreciated instead of only feared - but this mission had been different. She couldn't be sure whether Jun and Goro felt it themselves, although given how carefully they watched her they would have to be fools not to notice the tension in her shoulders. It was only a matter of time of course, until word was sent. She had been foolish. Careless. So unlike her methodical choices in years gone by. The death of her neighbour, seemingly out of the blue, would never go unnoticed by her jailors.

Perhaps, in some secret corner of her mind, she wanted to be caught this time.

To be known for what she was truly capable of, even if she was the only one who knew what a relief it had been for the small and bitter man. For the world to see her work. Certainly the two days she waited kept her on a knifes edge of indecision; would she return to the village and face her death, smiling in the face of the boy who should have faced the same repercussion himself? Would she slip away in the night, perhaps plant a memory of her death at the hands of their target, to keep the village off her back?

In the end, when the falcon arrived with a scroll attached to its leg, the choice was made for her. She had waited too long.

The bird alights with astounding grace on Goro's arm, looking much smaller compared to the hulking brunette man. Sorano had fantastised about being rid of the pair of Suna-nin many times, but never before had she been faced so directly with his size and strength, or with Jun's fierce pursuit of a target. They had always been on her side, however unwillingly.

Sorano begins to climb the tree she was sitting at the base of, and watches the bird fly home through the light morning rain. She should have stopped it there: it's arrival back in Suna unharmed and without its scroll sent a clear message. But to do so would have given her away before she could climb to an advantage...

Jun peers around Goro's shoulder to get a look at the message, her blonde hair a stark contrast with his tan muscles.

The moment Goro’s eyes flick over the tiny scroll, his entire body stiffens. His expression cracks into confusion, then rage. Jun’s reaction is slower, more deliberate. A thin, satisfied smile unfurls across her lips, and when she looks up, her eyes are gleaming with vindication.

It's just as well that Sorano has the high ground now.

"It was you..." in just a few words, Goro's voice waivers between disbelief and crackling fury.

"It was always you." Jun's voice on the other hand is firm, sure, and almost delighted at this revelation.

Sorano flicks her long red hair over her shoulder, cracking a smile herself, "and what of it? I wouldn't be the first killer your village embraced. Whatever did that demon-brat have to do to have you all forgive him?" She casts a pointed glance at Jun before inspecting her fingernails, voice dripping in faux-curiosity. "I hope it wasn't the very thing you've been wishing for every night since you first set eyes on him."

A flash of blonde and silver. Jun springs upwards so fast her figure blurs, kunai aiming straight for Sorano's throat.

Exactly as planned.

Sorano releases her chakra hold on the branch at the last second. Gravity takes her but she’s already twisting, upside down now, her hand locking around the smaller woman’s bare ankle in a vice grip just as she soars by. A quick, vicious tug, and Jun is hurtling back towards the earth, slamming into the ground with all the momentum she had launched herself up with.

A split second later boots are thundering up the tree trunk as Goro joins the fray.

Sorano spins away, feigning a retreat as her hands dance through a rapid set of hand signs.

Tori, Ni, Ushi.

A low, wheezing moan rises from the ground below, where Jun had fallen.

Eyes still on Sorano - he has always had a singular focus - Goro swears and drops to the ground, landing hard in the mud. But Jun is already half way back to where Sorano stands. It's just too easy... How many times has Goro seen her use this exact genjutsu to bait their common targets? And yet, he won't risk Jun. Too easy by far.

Sorano's grin sharpens.

"Bitch," Goro spits.

She shrugs and lets herself fall, landing light as a shadow. Jun mirrors her, but her boots sink slightly into the softened dirt, too enraged to focus on proper chakra control. Sloppy.

The hulking man and wild-eyed kunoichi come at Sorano at once.

She ducks low, twisting on the balls of her feet below their attacks and they just barely miss hitting each other while the murderess is already setting up her next strike. Her movements are fluid, weaving a figure-of-eight around them, leading them in violent dance. Their attempts to land a blow only fuel their mistakes: Jun overextends in her eagerness; Goro's bulk slows his recovery from each missed swing. Sorano takes each opportunity, striking hard with surgical precision at ribs, collarbones, noses.

Sharp impacts. Fleeting, but effective.

But two against one makes a decisive hit near impossible. Goro at least will tire, but not fast enough to escape them, and Sunagakure with them.

Rain-damp earth churns to a thick, clagging mud beneath their frantic feet. Clinging and slowing and suffocating movement. Sorano feels the drag on her boots, the increased pull of each step, beyond what sore muscles should be inflicting. Goro and Jun must feel it too.

She surges her chakra to her feet once more, repelling the mud from her boots just as she pivots into a roundhouse kick.

Jun's head snaps violently sideways, brown earth splashed across her face. She stumbles, momentarily blinded, and jumps away to the edge of her clearing while she drags her sleeve across her eyes.

Now is Sorano's moment.

Jun's arsenal of jutsu are most effective at mid-range like this, and Sorano has always been a risk taker.

Spinning back to Goro she swipes an exaggerated right hook at his head, leaving her body wide open. She flashes him a sharp, knowing grin, and the confused horror on his face is almost enough to distract her as his knee makes brutal contact with her stomach.

Pain explodes through her ribs and her breath is ripped away, but she doesn't resist. She allows herself to be taken by it. She invites it. It is precisely the bait she needed.

Through the blinding ache she watches Jun's hands for movement. For the hand signs for her signature jutsu.

And there is it!

"Katon!"

A wall of heat detonates in the clearing. Blistering. Searing. Flame swallows up all the oxygen on it's way towards the pair grappling in the mud, the fireball rushing like a hungry wave.

Sorano moves only at the last possible second. Her foot whips out in a ruthless arc, sending Goro crashing into the ground. He can't scramble up fast enough. The fire is too quick.

Almost too quick for her! She shoots lightning into her legs she dashes away for an aching burst of speed, a streak of red motion dull in contrast with the inferno. Fire licks at her heels and she escapes the flame at the last second with the acrid scent of her own singed hair following.

Goro isn't so lucky.

His scream splits the air open with more impact even than the fireball had moments before. It is unearthly and raw, clawing at Sorano's spine like some primal, desperate animal. For a moment he writhes, flames devouring him, arms flailing as his synapses fire all at once in every possible way to try to escape. But almost as quickly as it began the movement stops, his body seizing up, and the screams go quiet.

The scent of roasting flesh thickens the air. Her stomach tightens, instinctively recoiling.. Not purely disgust. Not purely hunger. Just… something. A bodily reaction, nothing more.

Then a new sound rises. Soft at first, then breaking. Then wretched.

Jun drops to her knees and the fight leaves her, staring across the scorched earth at the burning ruin of her partner. Her breath hitches with each choking wail and her body shakes. No longer with rage, or righteousness, but with something smaller and much more broken.

Sorano straightens with a hiss, and with burning lungs and aching muscles she crosses the clearing. The air feels too thick to breathe, cloying and heavy with smoke and, sickeningly, caramelised flesh. The rain too hisses, as it meets the dying embers across the ground, but does nothing to cleanse the scent.

Jun doesn't move, even when Sorano crouches beside her. With a gentle finger under her chin, the rogue shinobi tilts the small woman's head up, and she doesn't resist. Tears track through the mud and blood smeared across her face, lips trembling and eyes unfocussed.

He only suffered as much as any shinobi should expect. Only as much as he had inflicted on others. She can't keep the sneer from her lips, but she hums softly, low under hear breath and almost lost in the rain. A gentle lullaby to sooth these last few moments for her opponent, who surely would not have afforded her the same kindness.

In one clean motion, the fugitive's kunai slices across Jun's throat.

The trembling stills.

Sorano sits at the base of her tree, closing her eyes and turning her face up to catch the rain as she hears the last few gargling breaths fade.

She takes a breath, letting her muscles go slack.

She is free.

❈❈❈

Sorano spends the next five days strung as taught as a bowstring, the arrow knocked and ready but despite the ache coiling in muscles, unable to loose.

By day, she moves fretfully through the forests in the land of rivers, unable to stay still in case Suna-nin come looking for the former Squad 17, too afraid to go beyond the lands boarders in case the might of Konoha, or an ambitious bounty hunter, should find her. How long until bingo books would include her face?

She is restless, feverish, and every snapped twig or rustle of leaves sends her into the canopy, gaze snapping over her shoulder as she expects sharp steel, or cruel chakra, and certainly death. And yet, if Suna has sent a hunter, they have yet to strike.

At night, she steals sleep in two or three hour shifts, bound into the highest branches to keep her safe from detection and from falling, but feeling like a trapped bird. The knots bite her skin, and bark digs into her spine, but sleep does find her.

Though, as the first few weeks pass, she realises the imminent attack isn't coming, a new fear creeps insidiously into her mind. If there truly isn't a soul around, why can she feel the thrum of a conscious mind?

Why can she not locate its source amongst the trees?

If she is being watched, why can she not find the culprit?

She hopes it is simply paranoia, and lack of sleep. The Omowabashigan has been known to lie to it's users, even though she has been lucky so far.

In spite of the tingle at the edge of her mental periphery, as time goes on with no attack, and no sign of another person, she begins to relax. She is practiced at silencing the buzz, so even though this time she is sure it's her mind playing tricks, a tightly squeezed thumb, or a quick, sharp slice across her palm does the trick.

She knows she will be a target, but she must be one who the village deems safe enough to wait for. They will take her when she shows her face, rather than scour the forests in search of her. Well, even if it stings to be underestimated - to have her prowess that they used time and time again ignored - being left to her own devices suits her just fine.

❈❈❈

Weeks turn to months.

She finds a rhythm, a routine, that belongs to her. She finds a life.

❈❈❈

Sorano's arms quiver as she oh-so-slowly lowers her body back to the ground in what felt like her thousandth push up of the morning. The grass in the clearing she has appointed as her personal gym is still damp with dew - even though she craves the summer heat but at least has the good sense to complete her daily workout before the sun creeps over the treetops. A tall blade tickles her nose and her core aches deliciously as she fights a sneeze.

With the last of her energy, she springs back to standing and reaches tall towards the sun, spine clicking as vertebrae decompress and muscle fibres throbbing as the stretch long. This is been how she begins every day, now. On her own time. Crunches until her core aches. Kicks until the trees break.

She can't remember the last time her body has felt as sharp as her mind, under her total control and thrumming with sensation. Perhaps she never has felt like this, even as she took control of the lives of others. The staggering soreness of her muscles grounds her in the here and now and finally she can notice the feeling of her breath. The blue of the sky. The glowing warmth of the sun kissing her skin.

By midday, Sorano is walking to the edge of the forest where she has made her tentative makeshift home. She savours the ache of muscles unwinding their knots as she heads towards the nearby civilian village for market day. The heat prickles at salt lingering on her skin and she pushes threadbare sleeves up over her shoulders to catch the sun. The distant scent of rain is carried on a light breeze, promising change on the horizon and the corners of her lips curl. The world outside of Suna has such beautiful variety.

She knows the way without thinking, now. The dirt-packed pathways are warm beneath her feet, heat soaking through the soles of her black sandals as she follows the scent of wood smoke and bubbling broth from the villagers homes, the distant murmur of midday bartering and further off, the clang of a blacksmith's hammer.

The mental energy here is light, and as her familiarity has grown she almost welcomes it: the villagers are too few, and their lives too peaceful, to cause the kind of itch she felt in Suna. She has been here enough now to recognise a few faces, not by name, but by their routines, and they seem to know hers, in turn.

She is an outsider, but an outsider who returns.

When she first visited, stony faced and squeezing her fists so tight her bones clicked, they eyed her warily. Too much muscle, and too much grace in her movements, and she had felt their wordless thoughts like an animal curiosity. Now, they mostly leave her be, occasionally making small talk as she purchases supplies with funds they never ask the source of.

At the meagre market she scans the familiar stalls built of bamboo-leaf baskets and faded awnings in the front of more permeant shops. Her fingers hover over dried fruit, salted fish, and bundles of herbs with twine. The shopkeeper, a round woman with a kind face weathered as much by the sun as by her many years, squints at Sorano through the bright light.

"You're late today." The woman remarks, the mirth in her voice making her younger by a decade.

Sorano quirks a brow, pausing in her inspection of the goods available, "I didn't realise I was on a schedule."

The woman huffs a small laugh, "You're not the only observant one here. You're a creature of habit, always here before the noon bell for market."

Had Soano been lax? She doesn't think so, but it wouldn't do to let her guard down, even around civilians. "Maybe I wanted to keep you on her toes."

The shopkeepers eyes crinkle and she juts her elbow in the direction of the back of the building, where large wooden crates are stacked tall in the grass. "I'll take 50 ryō off today if you help me carry these inside."

Sorano hesitates, biting her lip, but only for a moment. There's no threat in the woman, simply someone wanting to make use of her strength. She lifts the first two crates with ease, following the woman as she bustles inside and instructs her to set them by the shelves in a a small storage room behind the counter. It smells of dried herbs inside, comforting like the scent of her mothers hair had been...

Once all the crates are inside the shopkeeper nods and sticks her hand out, "Fumi. Thanks for the help."

Sorano grasps Fumi's hand in her own, "Sorano. Any time."

"Don't be late again, Sorano!"

She nods over her shoulder as she exits the small wooden building, and shuts the door behind her.

❈❈❈

The air crackles with potential. Sorano can feel pent up electricity raising her long hair and tickling over her arms, roiling clouds overhead matching a pent up energy within her. The scent of rain, so delicate this morning, now fills her nostrils. The first drop lands on her shoulder, cold against her sun-glossed skin.

Then another.

Then a dozen, fat and heavy and dotting on the earth in quickening bursts which quickly fill the canvas in a rich dark brown of freshly wet mud. The first jagged crack of lightning splits the sky in light and the afterimage lingers in her vision until a rumble rolls across the sky and through her bones. her pulse thrums in response.

Her boots leave the mud, finding the bark of a tree. Hand over hand, she scales the tallest tree she can find, moving with a practices ease and savouring every pang in her sore muscles that keep her tied to her body. Rain thrashes her skin and soaks through her clothes. It won't be easy to dry them tonight in her small tent, but she welcomes it nonetheless.

The wind howls through the canopy as she pulls herself onto the highest branch which she is sure will hold her weight. She can see the world stretching out beneath her, the tops of trees a mirror to the heavy clouds overhead.

Lightning strikes again, closer this time and illuminating the world in an eerie, flickering white.

The storm-chaser turns her head to the sky and closes her eyes.

Breathes in the crackling storm.

The static hum of the rain overtakes the hum in the back of her mind.

No thoughts of her own. No thoughts of anyone else. No one waiting for her to obey.

Only the roar of thunder rattling her ribs. Fresh, ion-heavy air. A rush of wind that lifts her damp hair. She is weightless.

❈❈❈

She finds shelter as the lightning eases, slipping into the small tent she's made into a semi-permanent home. It's nothing like her apartment in Suna: instead of thick oppressive walls that trap and surround her, and do nothing to drown out the static of the village throng, there is only thin canvas separating her from freedom, and it amplifies the sound of the rain dancing above.

Stripping from her sodden clothes, she bundles herself into a blanket and begins to chew on the last of the jerky she dried last week. The fresh vegetables from today will have to wait - there would be no fire to cook in this weather.

As the rain lessens, she feels it again - that distant hum, pressing at the edge of her mind. A consciousness lingering beyond the trees and whispering against her senses in a language she can't understand.

It is unlike any mind she's felt before, its presence vast, unfathomable. Alien...

It is other.

Yet, she has never seen this watcher. There has been no evidence of anyone else moving through the trees. Surely then, it is simply her mind playing tricks on her... Has she used her Omowabashigan too much? Given it too much control? In those first weeks it had seemed the only way to ensure Suna's retribution didn't find her. But it's been months now, months of telling herself she is just keeping her mind sharp. The line is too thin, too easy to cross. What if she already has?

For a moment, the sound of the rain warps, stretching and folding in on itself as an echo bouncing in her mind. Her breath hitches. She's gone too deep. Not real. This isn't real.

She presses her finger tips deep into her thigh, rhythmically plucking at a knot in the muscle like the string of a guitar until an electric buzzing pain snaps through her nerves, bringing her back into her body. The world rights itself, and the spiralling calms. A reminder that she is real, she is here, and she is alone.

But that strange hum lingers, a little further, a little softer.