Well. Here you go, guys. Hopefully I won't grow to resent this story as well. This is a rewrite of Redundancy. The old story barely got anything done, so it's only a rewrite of the first few chapters.

Naruto © Masashi Kishimoto

Gonna note this now; Nagisa does not act like an adult, and this is entirely purposeful on my end. Please remember this as you read this story, because I have my reasons for writing her as I do.

Dying was supposed to be the end of everything. Or at least, everything mortal. Depending on the religion, you could get a variety of answers as to what came after death; heaven, hell, purgatory, reincarnation. They were all possible answers, though not ones that I ever dabbled with. I didn't believe in any of those things, because the idea of there being something else required me to believe that there was someone, something out there that could not be explained.

So, when my eyes shut for the last time and I died, I expected nothing. I expected to simply … disappear from existence and cease to exist. Well, not truly cease to exist, because matter cannot be destroyed. I'd be recycled into the earth after my cells died and become a multitude of different things, but never truly disappear. The Law of Conservation of Mass dictates that.

In the back of my mind, though, as much as I hate to admit it, a part of me clung to the idea of life after death. I feared becoming a nobody. All my life I'd been working to become someone well known and worthy of praise, and to have it all ripped away was a bit hard to stomach, even if I was the one who had brought upon that very action.

Maybe that's the reason why I opened my eyes after what could only be seconds after my death. The sea of people I faced was enormous, but somehow it felt like I was completely alone in this world that shouldn't have existed. I walked forward, somehow managing to find a space between the crowds that was just the right size for me to fit through. My eyes never strayed from the stark whiteness that covered the horizon. There were multiple distinct doors that I could see; none of them grew any closer no matter how long I walked.

People separated into distinct groups, each heading towards a specific door. I found myself wandering with the one I'd first found, unsure of where I was going. Time began to blur together and without a way to tell how much time had passed, I resorted to counting my steps. By then, though, I'd been walking long enough that it did little to tell me how long I'd been there for.

The steps ticked forward for awhile, until I realized that I could no longer remember my name. Next came my age, my friends, and eventually parts of my memory. Everything was flowing away and the many of the things that remained were unrecognizable without the others. I could remember words and symbols, convoluted riddles and information that I clung to with a sort of desperation that you'd see in a newborn whose mother put them down. When I attempted to breach what used to be my elementary school years, I found it shredded apart and difficult to remember.

I stopped counting my steps.

I replayed the information I had left, repeating it and drilling it into my brain, because I didn't want to forget. I repeated formulas and words in my head, burning the symbols into my brain and retreating away from the dull whiteness surrounding me. The crowds began to thin out, but it wasn't until I finished reciting how to calculate the trajectory of a moving object for probably the thousandth time that I finally realized I was alone for real this time. That feeling had lingered since I arrived, but this was the first time that I'd truly been alone.

There might have been thousands of people behind me, but I'd never know; I couldn't look back, in fear of losing track and forgetting even more, so instead I closed my eyes, drawing inward and secluding myself from the empty husk of a world that I'd been wandering, my repetition beginning once again.

Don't forget. You can't forget.

Those words became my mantra, and nothing could rip me away. Not even the warmth that surrounded me, or the awful feeling that I was being crushed. All I could do was repeat, and repeat, and repeat, unwilling to forget the things I'd spent my entire life learning. A part of me longed to look back at the memories that had been stolen away.

An inscrutable amount of time passed between when I closed my eyes and when the pressure began to become unbearable. For a second, my concentration lulled, and that was all it took for my mind to run blank and the pressure to grow. I was being squeezed, pushed, constricted; it was as if someone stuffed me in a box and proceeded to crush it.

And then, it was cold.

For the first time in however long I could breathe and the memories I'd been desperately chanting didn't disappear. My eyes cracked open, only to snap shut when a multitude of lights and colours blinded me. Instincts told me to scream, and so I did; I screamed at the top of my lungs. noticing the awfully high pitch that followed the action. Goosebumps broke out across my skin from the abrupt temperature change, and I shivered violently.

Besides being cold, it was also terribly loud in the room. I was passed from one group of hands to another until finally someone was kind enough to wrap me in something warm and hand me off again. I considered opening my eyes again, in hopes of seeing who exactly was holding me like I was a baby doll, but the prospect of being temporarily blinded stopped me.

Attempting to begin my repetitions made my head hurt, and reluctantly I found myself relaxing in the arms of this giant stranger with a soft voice. The language she spoke was vaguely familiar, but I was exhausted from what had to have been an eternity of repeating the same things over and over again, and before long, I found myself falling asleep, my brain too scattered to think about all the memories that I'd lose from this simple action.

I barely remember the months following my birth into this new world. I'd figured out I'd been reborn pretty quickly, and it didn't take much longer for me to realize that I shouldn't have remembered anything about my previous life. The science part of me was a bit annoyed at the idea, simply because I'd refused to accept rebirth as being possible for so long and I hated being proved wrong.

The thought of this being hell came as well, but that didn't make me feel any bit better; if anything, it made me feel worse, because it just reaffirmed that I'd been so fundamentally wrong for all those years. And fuck that.

The first truly clear memory I have of my infant days can't be more than two months after my birth. By then, my eyesight is a bit better, and I coo up at the person hovering above me. Brown hair frames his face — in my old world, he'd be what people described as a 'pretty boy' —, falling freely over his eyes, and his expression is one of curiosity. "Ohayou," he greets softly in response to my childish babbling. I blink up at him, reaching a chubby fist for the locks of hair that are right outside my reach. A toothpick sticks out of his mouth for some reason.

It's pretty easy to figure out that he is my older brother, and a rush of happiness fills my body, eliciting a giggle that I have little control over. Although my memory of my past family is long gone, I know that I was an only child; the loneliness is something that I'll never forget, even if I wanted to. It was something I managed to keep, on accident. I'd been too panicked to realize what I was forcing myself to remember, I'd simply snatched up whatever was remaining.

Thankfully, the days after that blur together once again, leaving me blissfully ignorant of the days before I was potty trained. No longer did I have hypersensitive ears, much to my delight, and my eyesight had matured enough that I wasn't half blind. The itching that had plagued me became nothing more than an irritating nuance.

My life as a young toddler was boring, as to be expected. I don't remember it very well; the lack of proper stimulation just made it completely pointless, and my brain did not like to spend more than an hour on the complicated memories of calculus and physics I'd retained from my former life, leading me to reluctantly retreat into my own imagination, laced with the plots of games and tv shows from my past life that I'd somehow managed to retain despite never willingly repeating them to myself while in the white world.

My mother was kind enough to read to me, but the books were simply picture books that were nothing in comparison to the story lines I had at my disposal. I didn't speak much, but I'd managed to pick up the language — which I figured out to be Japanese not very long after my birth — far too quickly for a toddler. My mother had been startled, and soon afterwards had lead to my voluntary silence. I think she was more bothered by that than anything, but she didn't stop attempting to pull responses from me. Our one sided conversations were … nice, if not a bit weird, but it was nice to have someone care so much.

While she was kind, though, she definitely had some … strange habits, to put it nicely. It was as if she was always on edge; always expecting something awful to happen. She tended to relax when my brother was home, but the stiffness of her shoulders never truly went away.

She'd been especially stiff that day. At least — or maybe unfortunately would be a better word — I remembered it well enough. It was the start of the "memory" days, as I'd call it; the time when days no longer flowed into one big, disgusting mess that made it impossible to tell what was what.

That date was October 10th.

I don't remember how I woke up, but I do remember choking. Something malicious and ugly had slipped down my throat, filling my body with something awful that made it impossible for me to so much as breathe. For a brief moment, the terror reminded me of that time when my memories had flown away, and I fell back into the rhythmic pattern that I'd been neglecting.

It didn't help, and I found myself dying and choking, too afraid to scream in case it came in and slaughtered me. Memories became an insignificant little chip that I couldn't bring myself to care about, and for a second I forgot I was even alive. Time seemed to freeze in place.

The door slamming open helped break apart the freeze, and in an instant the terror was flushed away, replaced with a type of euphoria that made my heart relax and muscles untense. My mother rushed to my side, babbling my name and something else that I didn't process. The brief happiness died away, leaving me feeling empty.

"Mom?" I weakly wrapped my arms around her neck when she picked me up, forgoing my usual silence. "What's wrong?"

The clothes she wore were both familiar and not, and for some reason they made a horrible dread appear in my chest. My body began to shake, and I stuffed my head into the stiff vest she was wearing, trying to breathe over the thickness of the air. We made a quick detour to my closet, and she quickly reached in for the backpack stuffed in there. I'd never noticed it before.

"Nagisa-chan," she mutters lowly as she made her ways through the halls. "Can you do me a favour?"

I raise my head to look up at her, and she takes my silence as a yes. "Do exactly what I tell you. Alright?"

I simply rest my head back against her, dipping it into a very small nod, basking in the tiny amount of comfort the action brings me. The air is stifling, and each breath takes two times as much effort as it should. It's like I'm breathing through a straw.

Outside … is chaos. The air becomes heavier, more solemn, and I gasp, choking on it. An awful, deafening roar beats into my skull. My mother simply presses her lips to my head, whispering a small apology before we're flying.

On the horizon is a monster. A massive, red, destructive monster with power that was practically rolling off it, seeping into the air and clogging it up. For a moment I forget to breathe, barely able to choke back a scream when I recognize it.

I spare a frantic glance back at my mother, but she simply keeps her eyes locked ahead of her. Another figure lands beside her, easily slipping into the run, and he shoots a glance over his shoulder, at the destruction.

"Sorry, Hiroki-kun," she replies. It doesn't sound very energetic. "I'm just — I'm heading to bunker 5."

Her hold on me tightens and I squeeze my eyes shut, ignoring the glint on her forehead. Hiroki says something that I don't understand, before he disappears — likely back into the haze of … whatever. Ninja, I guess.

Ninja.

Mom lands with just barely a jolt, and I crack my eyes open, staring miserably at the people crowding ahead of us. She moves over to one of the elderly women.

"Please —" she starts off, her voice frantic, "Ma'm; will you — my child …"

The older woman turns, her eyes going wide as she sees me, and immediately her aged face softens. I stare back at her, clutching the fabric of my mother's flak vest between a small fist. A few words are exchanged. I'm set on the ground, and my mother kneels, turning me around so she can slip the backpack onto my back. She turns me around, and I take in her appearance.

High cheekbnes. Dark brown hair and a startlingly bright shade of green eyes that make my dull blue ones look ugly in comparison. And on her forehead, standing out clear as day —

Is a Leaf Village headband.

My bottom lip wobbles. I shoot another look at the horizon; at the monster rampaging in the distance, and realize that my mother … isn't coming back. More than likely, my brother is somewhere in there as well; either dead, or soon to be dead.

The backpack is ten times heavier than it should be.

"Please — don't leave," I beg, and my mother's eyes light up. A small, sad smile sweeps across her face, and I feel an awful sense of loneliness (that feeling that I'd never really, truly been able to forget) burn my stomach. It makes me wish I'd spoken to her more, rather than stayed silent. "Mom —"

She pulls me forward, holding my cheeks in her hands and pressing a kiss to my forehead. I resist the urge to bring my hand up and touch the spot, instead blinking back tears that I swear are mirrored in my mother's eyes.

"I'm sorry, Nagisa-chan," she says. "I love you."

I swallow back a lump, words fleeing from my tongue and leaving me empty. It's like I'm a newborn again; sucking up all the words, all the information — but being unable to force my lips and tongue to cooperate. To repeat those things.

"I — I love you too," I reply. "Will you …"

I never finish the sentence.

The same ninja from earlier drops out of nowhere, starling the living hell out of me, and my mother gets to her feet, giving me one last smile before she turns to the older woman and bows low, thanking her profusely and apologizing for the trouble.

And then … she's gone, along with the male ninja. I stare at the spot she took up, my eyes lingering for a few seconds before turning to look at the grandma. She offers me a small, yet sad smile, and holds out her hand. "Let's go, child."

It's a blur after that. The bunker is crowded, but a civilian child and an elderly woman aren't going to be turned away. When we're in, though, I see the woman's eyes search the crowd, and shrink in on myself.

She likely, hopefully has some family in here. It's not fair for me to keep her from them; I may be a child — at least in terms of appearance —, but I definitely don't need to be coddled.

"Obaa-san," I start, slipping my hand from her grip. "It's OK. I'll be fine by myself."

She looks slightly startled when I speak. "Nonsense … your mother —"

"I'll be OK," I repeat. "Thanks."

And then, I disappear into the crowds. I have to take care not to get stepped on — I'm still a bit wobbly on my feet, and I'm only reaching a lot of people's kneecaps — but when I somehow manage to reach the back part, against the wall, I sink down and drop my head to my knees.

Hours pass; hell, it could've been days and I wouldn't have noticed. The fox, the headband; it's all familiar. Too familiar.

I shouldn't have remembered it; just like all those other story lines I'd somehow managed to retain, despite never actually repeating them while in the white world.

… Or at least, I don't think I did. I was there for so long that everything just — it's blurred. I barely remember it. I shouldn't remember it.

And yet, I do.

I piece together the details that remain. The Nine Tailed Fox is the beginning; the start of the show … series? Manga? It's not fake anymore; calling it a cartoon feels wrong. But … this doesn't feel right, either.

After the Nine Tails, there's the Chuunin Exams; the catalyst for the hell that becomes of the series. What had started it … Orochimaru, right? When he'd bitten Sasuke's shoulder and left the curse seal there, leading him to ultimately abandon the village in search for power.

Excluding all the small details and jumping into the huge, main points, then comes a war; the war that brings all the four (five? How many are there?) shinobi nations together for the first time in forever. Hadn't quite a few main canon characters died in that?

Either way, that's in the not-so-far future. With the raging thing outside, and my age, that means I'm right in the main timeline, plus one and nine months. Not a part of Rookie Nine, but rather the graduating class ahead of them. Probably.

… It could be worse, I suppose. I could be an infant and therefor a part of the Rookie Nine. Either way, my life is doomed to be short lived, but at least I have the chance to live an extra not-quite-two-years before I die.

All that assuming I become a ninja, that is. It's the complete opposite of my past life; my previous life had been mundane, boring, and immensely lonely. Filled with empty promises and high expectations that I'd been expected to fulfill.

And I did fulfill them, in the end.

I shake that thought away. Do I want to become a ninja? Do I want to risk my life? As an orphan, I doubt I'll get much of a chance to go to the Academy; there are a lot of orphans, and if the village took them all on as ninja, well …

There'd be no space for clan kids. For kids who have families willing to pay for it.

Despite the sea of bodies surrounding me, the loneliness that I'd been fighting back since my rebirth into this world quickly approaches, fanning out across me and swallowing me whole. I remove my bag from my back and hug it tightly, wishing — but not expecting — for my mother to come back.

This has to be hell; it must be my punishment for my last life. To be trapped in a world where I'm doomed to die an early, and likely violent, death. Where I know, for a fact, that I'll never truly be safe. My first option is become a shinobi and live my life fighting for the village. Taking that path, I know that I'll likely not live past eighteen; the same age I'd died in my last life.

But my other option? My other option is to simply stay helpless. As a ninja — I can try to change something. The Chaos Theory immediately jumps to mind, and I quickly latch onto that train of thought, in hopes of ignoring the earlier feelings.

I'm not naive enough to think that just my birth is enough to change anything drastic. I mean, I'm an orphan. But my foreknowledge, however scarce it may be, immediately gives me an advantage.

I could befriend Naruto. If I become a ninja, I could attempt to stop Orochimaru from attacking Sasuke. I could become powerful, become someone useful and capable.

In hindsight, I realize that there's nothing too major I can do, sans fucking up the plot entirely. But still, the fact that I have the chance, the opportunity to make a difference in this world …

It's a goal I'd like to pursue.

Numb is probably the best way to describe how I feel when I'm pulled out from the bunker. The grandma from earlier is gone, and it's young girl, no older than thirteen, who lifts me off the ground somewhat awkwardly and carries me out. The destruction is incredible, even in our area (which I'm guessing is one of the better ones). The girl carries me over to a taller man who has the same headband as my mother did. I stare blankly at him as he writes something down.

"How old?"

The girl looks down at me awkwardly, and I hold up two fingers, because I'll die before letting these people know I've actually just turned one back in January. He grunts, but jots it down. "Name?"

"Nagisa," I reply softly, leaning my head against the teenage girl's shoulder. "… Mom is gone."

"Orphan, then." He nods, and my carrier fidgets uncomfortably. "Those kids over there are, too." He motions at a group of three kids, all older than me. The girl walks me over, and when she places me down I notice she too is wearing a Leaf Village Headband.

They stop by one more bunker, which adds an additional 3 children to our group of four. One of them is about my age, and the girl takes him off another child's hands as we begin to walk. We're ushered off to the orphanage by the male shinobi, and the girl trots behind somewhat awkwardly, as if she's unsure what to do. She resorts to carrying me as well as the other boy when I'm unable to keep up, and my backpack dangles off one of my arms.

The woman who answers the door is tall and sinewy, reminding me of a dancer without the grace. Unlike my mother's face, hers is round, without the prominent cheekbones and small nose. I shut my eyes, willing those thoughts away. The last thing I need to do is go crying and make the matron dislike me.

I'm handed off along with some papers. She places me down, and then takes the other boy. The other children follow, discarding their shoes at the entryway, and I follow their lead, not bothering to look back at the adults. The building is tall and bare and I'm met with none of the warmth that I associate with a home. The walls are plain, paint chipping and children crowding the halls and rooms. It's obvious that this orphanage in particular is horribly overcrowded.

I stand nervously, my bag dangling from my arm. I'm unsure what to do with it. An older child approaches, and I meet her eyes with only a small amount of nervousness.

"Hi," she greets. "I'm Midori. What's your name?"

I shuffle my feet uncomfortably. "Nagisa."

She nods, giving me a small smile. "It's nice to meet you."

"Midori-chan, please bring Nagisa-chan to the third bedroom," the woman requests, after the ninja have gone on their way. "Also …" she looks down at the paper. "Souta-kun?"

The other toddler looks up from the floor, his cheeks puffy and eyes swollen from tears. The matron looks back at the paper, avoiding his gaze. "Midori-chan, please bring Souta-kun as well. They'll share the remaining bed."

My nose scrunches up at the notion of sharing a bed with a toddler. He's just going to end up slobbering everywhere and kicking me in the face. Midori goes over to the boy, hefting him to his feet with a small amount of effort.

"Hi, Souta-kun," she greets, looking only a little bit uncomfortable when he removes his hand from his mouth and holds onto her hand with it. "This is Nagisa-chan."

He blinks at me. I blink back.

A few seconds pass. Midori looks at the both of us nervously, before she cuts in with, "Well … I guess we should get going. Follow me?"

She offers her free hand to me, but I simply clutch the straps of my bag, silently rejecting the offer. She leads us slowly through the halls and then up the stairs before stopping before a door. "This is the bedroom you guys'll stay in."

Three bunk beds are crammed into the room, all of which are empty at the moment, and I can't help but feel incredibly claustrophobic. The house I'd lived in with my mother hadn't been huge, but to me it was more than large enough.

A pang of loneliness hits and I swallow back a lump, forcing myself not to shed the tears that are already forming. Instead I ask, somewhat shakily, "Are you staying?"

"Oh — no, I'm in a different bedroom," Midori replies, releasing Souta's hand. "Since I'm eight, I stay with the older kids. I'm in the academy." She grins as she says that, practically radiating pride. "Do you want to be a ninja, Nagisa-chan? Those are people who protect the village."

She speaks quickly, but I pick out quite a few key words and am able to put together the rest of the sentence on my own. Then I look down at my feet, wiggling my toes. "Yeah," I reply, softly, after a few seconds. "Like mom."

'And my brother,' I mentally tack on.

Still, twelve years isn't a lot of time to prepare for what's going to happen. My mind whirls, quickly doing a few calculation to find out how much time I'll actually have to train if I become a ninja. Considering that I'm an orphan, it's likely that I'm not going to get any training in the ninja arts until I enter the academy … that's, what, three years from now? Four?

"Um … Midori?" I ask timidly, not bothering to tack on a suffix to her name. Despite the vast amount of vocabulary I picked up from my mother and brother (on the rare occasions he was around), I still struggle a bit. "How old do I gotta be?"

Midori hums, looking up at the ceiling for a moment. "There are early tests you can take as young as four," she holds up four fingers as she says this, "but we orphans aren't allowed to take those. So when you turn six you can."

So six. That gives me just under eight years — eight years to learn enough to survive the hell that'll go down. The calculations come easily (for the first time in awhile, I'm thankful for the eternity of repetitions in the white world); eight years is equal to 96 months. 96 months is equal to 2,922.2222 days (2,922.2222 times twenty four hours a day —). 70,133.3328 hours.

Of course, I won't be able to spend every single hour over the next eight years training. I'll have to factor in sleeping, eating, eventually the academy —

"Um … Nagisa-chan?" Midori's soft voice effectively derails my thoughts, and I resist the urge to stomp my foot. "Are you OK?"

I nod, despite my irritation. "I'm tired," I reply. "Which is mine?"

'And Souta's' goes unspoken. We're assigned the only available bed, and when Midori exits the room Souta follows after her like a lost kitten. He leaves the door wide open, so I quickly cross the room and close it, barely making it back to the bed before I drop to the floor, my head cradled in my hands. It wouldn't be worth finishing the calculations just yet; I need to get my schedule down, first. Figure out how much I sleep and how much time I spend eating. If I observe it for a week, that should be enough time to get a realistic number, right?

My head pounds and I crawl over to my bed, pushing back the covers and hiding beneath them. There's no clock in the room, but I'm not willing to go all the way downstairs to check, leading me to reluctantly decide that the test week will start tomorrow, rather than today. I repeat the number — 70,133.3328, 70,133.3328, 70,133.3328 … — over in my head, willing myself not to forget, and the action makes my entire body feel hollow inside. In the back of my mind, I make a note to ask for a piece of paper and something to write on.

I wasn't expecting my test week to be interrupted on the last day. When I'd woken up, I was happier than I'd been the last few days. Keeping track of how long I'd spent doing various actions through the week was exhausting; I'd gotten a notebook from one of the older kids, but my handwriting is so unsteady and awful that the numbers barely resemble anything legible.

The current tally is added up, with 474 minutes — 7.9 hours; it was better to round that up to 8 — for meals, three hours of napping a day — what can I say; my mood has been utter shit — and an average of 10 hours of sleep a night — 60 hours so far; another ten tonight would be 70 but it's better to just multiply 10 by 30 to get an even 300 hours a month since multiplying by 4 would assume an average of 28 days a month instead of thirty —, leading to a grand total of 96 hours per week on average, not counting today's nap and meal time.

All I needed was to finish off today and I'd be able to finish the stupid calculations. As I sat down at the table for breakfast, shooting a look at the clock on the wall as I did so, the caretaker — the woman who'd met us at the door when we first arrived; her name is Mitsuko — entered the room with a strange look on her face.

"Nagisa-chan," she calls out, her eyes locked on me. I look up, blinking, and she beckons me over with her hand. Somewhat irritated I comply, moving as quick as I could in hopes to get this over with so I could finish this meal and get the number down already. She leads me out of the room and towards the entrance, and I follow in confusion. "Today is your lucky day."

I stare at her in response, frowning. When we enter the front room I notice someone slouched down in the waiting room chairs, his arms settled in his lap and eyes staring distantly at the wall.

I freeze in place. He feels familiar, but it isn't until he turns to look at me that I realize why.

"B-Brother?" I stammer, my voice cracking. "You're OK?"

He gets up, a guilty smile crossing his lips as he crouches own in front of me. "Yeah," he replies. "Sorry I was gone for so long."

I blink rapidly, tears burning my eyes, and practically throw myself at him, my tiny arms wrapping desperately around him. He stiffens momentarily but relaxes soon afterwards, patting my head softly as I bawl.

"I — I thought you're gone," I sob, my words muffled by his vest. "Like mom."

I pull away, looking up at his face and taking in the details. I'd never properly examined him before, but now that I do, I notice the headband that covers the top of his head like a bandanna. Brown hair pokes out from the sides, reaching to the bottom of his chin, and some curls at the base of his neck.

He's dressed in standard ninja gear as far as I know, as to be expected, but for some reason I can't shake the feeling that I'm missing something here. He looks familiar, but he's my brother; it'd be absurd if I didn't recognize him. It's only been a few months.

"So then … Shiranui-san?" Mitsuko says. "I just need you to sign some more things, and you can take her."

Shiranui … why does that sound so familiar? Shiranui, Shiranui …

"Nagisa-chan, why don't you go get your things? Midori-chan can help you." I look up at her voice, and after receiving a pat of approval from my brother I move towards the stairs, looking over my shoulder at the two of them as I go. The Matron calls Midori in, and, after a few seconds, the older girl walks beside me as we ascend the stairs.

Shiranui, Shiranui … what am I missing?

The image of a wide arena comes to mind, the stands towering overhead and crowds roaring. Two distinct figures — Naruto was a given, and the other one … Neji? — stare each other down, the proctor the only thing between them. The senbon clicks in his mouth, and he spares a glance up at the Kage box before looking back at the two boys.

"Are you excited, Nagisa-chan?" I look up at Midori, whose smile looks somewhat hollow. It's weird to see her without Souta trailing behind her. He's taken a liking to her in the past six days. "It must be nice to see your brother again."

I look down, wordlessly nodding. Midori hands me my backpack, helping me fold the few shirts and single pair of pants my mother had stuffed in my bag whenever it was she put it together. Six days isn't a very long time, and other than those few clothing items the only thing I have to pack is a notebook; the one I'd asked in the beginning. Midori zips it up, and then helps me slip it on.

"Um … Midori?" I start. She turns to look at me, and I swallow dryly before finishing, "Good luck with your test."

Her face lights up, but the hollow look from before still remains. "Thanks, Nagisa-chan." She takes me by the hand and leads me back downstairs. "Maybe I'll see you there before I graduate."

I nod again, ignoring the too tight hold on my hand in favour on focusing on not tripping. I mull over the memory, trying to place it and the awful feeling that I've forgotten something.

I release Midori's hand, toddling over to my brother and latching onto his leg. He grunts, simply looking down at me before returning to whatever he's doing up there. Midori stares at me silently before smiling lightly and turning around, heading back into the kitchen. A few seconds later Mitsuko nods, looking over the counter at me. "Well then," she starts, "you're free to go, Nagisa-chan."

"Uh … alright," I agree, somewhat unsure. My brother glances down at me as well, his senbon — it is a senbon, right? — clacking against his teeth. He's young, probably eighteen at most, and dressed in standard ninja uniform — there's nothing out of the ordinary; nothing to explain the feeling I have.

The feeling that I'm missing something — that I'm looking right past something obvious.

"You do remember me — right?" He poses the question almost hesitantly, unlatching me from his leg and crouching to my level again. "I'm Genma, your big brother."

The missing piece snaps into place and suddenly I understand.

'Oh.' I stare blankly at him, not even blinking. 'I know who he is now.'

I nod, and his lips curve up, the senbon following the motion. I glance at it curiously, raising my arms up to him. "What's that?"

Genma picks me up effortlessly after I put my shoes on. "A senbon," he replies. "They're a ninja weapon."

I wrap my arms around his neck and he adjusts my position. We exit the orphanage, but rather than taking the streets like I did with when I arrived, Genma shoots off the ground, exactly like mom did on that day. He lands on one of the roofs and before I can protest he continues across them. I simply hide my face in his neck.

When we stop moving I look up. We're in the middle of an apartment complex, right in front of a door that reads '104' on the name plate. Genma searches his pocket for a moment before he removes a key and slips it into the door's lock. I watch wordlessly.

"Welcome home," he says, his voice even, without any trace of emotion. I blink rapidly, resisting the urge to cry, and search his face in hopes of seeing some kind of emotion.

His eyes flicker up to me, and I see it. Swirling in his eyes are traces of sadness, longing — even anguish. They're gone almost immediately, and I wordlessly nod, simply resting my head on his shoulder.

The apartment is small, but not empty. There are two couches and a table in the living room, which is connected to a small kitchen equipped with a stove and rice cooker. There are a few other things that I can't remember the name of, and Genma sets me down on one of the couches after we remove our shoes. "Do you need anything?"

"Uh …" I shrug. "Water?"

I dangle my feet over the edge of the couch, curling my toes silently. Genma returns a few seconds later with a mug in hand, and I notice with amusement that it is almost wider than my face. It's only half full, and I slip one hand through the handle and take a sip from it. I set it between my thighs when I finish, and Genma watches me from the other couch.

I stare back, and when he doesn't say anything I pick up one of the pillows on my couch and toss it at him. He catches it effortlessly, and for some stupid reason I'm amazed. When he doesn't say anything I resign myself to breaking the silence. "Stop it."

"Hm?"

I glare, dropping my gaze to my mug. "Looking at me. Stop it."

He shrugs, getting up from his couch and moving to mine. "Alright," he agrees, dropping the pillows back on the couch. "Are you hungry?"

"… Uh-huh," I respond, picking my mug back up and putting it on the floor so that I can turn around and clamber onto the back of the couch. "Make me food?"

"What do you want?"

I hum in thought. "Uh … I don't know," I admit. "Eggs?"

"Eggs?" He repeats, and I nod. "What kind of eggs?"

I frown. "Tamagoyaki."

He shrugs, but agrees. I watch him for a few seconds longer before climbing over the back of the sofa and pushing off. I land with a thump and wince, getting to my feet. The table is tall, and I huff, using the wooden support on the chair to get up. My hands scramble for something to grab onto, sliding uselessly against the flat surface, and before I can try again a pair of hands slip underneath my arms and lift me up.

"Better?" Genma asks, an amused smile stretched across his lips. I nod, and he pats my head before returning to cooking. I rest my cheek against the surface of the table, humming quietly. It's a lot nicer here than the orphanage.

… The orphanage.

My head shoots up and I press my hands to my cheeks, blinking quickly as I scour my brain for any trace of the numbers I'd been calculating less than an hour ago. To my horror, a few of them have been forgotten about, and I swallow back a whimper.

At the very least, I remember the first number — 70,133.3328 hours —, but that doesn't have the past six days factored into it … does it?

No … it's alright, I reassure myself as I feel panic growing in my throat. It's only six days. That's not a big deal; the original number was a broad guess, since I don't know when everything actually goes bad. It's alright. It's no big deal.

"What's not a big deal?" My head shoots up as Genma sets down the plate of tamagoyaki in the middle of the table and another plate and a tiny fork in front of me. He uses a pair of serving chopsticks to put some on my plate before settling down on the other chair across from me. I sit up on my knees, balancing on my elbows so that I can actually see what I'm doing.

"Huh?" I reply, reaching for the fork. I mutter a quick, "Itadakimasu," before stabbing one of the pieces and taking a bite from it. I chew, but don't really notice it; it's just … instinct. My mind is elsewhere, attempting to salvage the bits and numbers from earlier, but it's ultimately worthless.

Genma doesn't take any of it. Something flashes in his eyes again — they're shaped exactly like mom's, I notice painfully — and I stare down at my plate, dropping my fork. The entire scene is wrong without her.

"Can I go to bed?" I ask, gloomily, feeling sick to my stomach all of a sudden. "Sorry … I didn't feel good." I pause. "No … um. Don't feel good," I correct. My voice sounds distant; disconnected.

"It's barely nine in the morning," he points out with a frown. I shrug. He stares at me for a moment before he sighs in agreement. "Alright" he says, after a small pause. "That's fine."

He leaves the dishes on the table, and I slip out of my seat, wordlessly offering my arms to him in expectation. He grants my wishes, thankfully, and I bury my head against his shoulder, breathing in deeply.

It's not mom, but it's familiar at least.

A/N: I think I like this setup more, but I'm not sure. Up to you guys? Also it's like 1am so if those calculations are, like, dramatically wrong, please point it out! I'm happy to fix it.

Also, I'm still kind of figuring out some details of this story. For example, Nagisa refers to the old woman as "obaa-san" when speaking to her, rather than "old lady", because she's still feeling somewhat disconnected from the language and because she's still very young. I'm still deciding on whether or not I should use some of those terms or not, so maybe tell me what your opinion is? I'm really on the fence about it.

Thanks for reading. Any comments, or questions are appreciated! Even if it's something simple.