Hey Guys! Author here. I was a horrible person and didn't cross post a bunch of chapters, so now we have some rapid updates.

That being said, previous chapters are now ALSO updated, so it may be best to reread a bit to catch up with any changes. Nothing all that major, I promise! Thanks for waiting, enjoy the rest of the chapter guys!

PS: If anyone would like to potentially help me as a beta, I would be super thankful. Send me a PM if you're interested.

It's bittersweet, the apartment Shikaku-sensei presents me.

It's perfect. Small, comfortable. Beautiful view, wooden floors, a small wet-bath for a bathroom. It's mine now. All mine, 7 years to late, several years to soon. I try to think back to my dreams of before, of the house I wanted and the life I wanted to live. (The memories come, crystal clear in a way they never had before my death. But what I want from the memories doesn't come, so I tuck that away to.)

Sensei gives me all the information about my new apartment in neatly done packets of paperwork. A signature here or there to make things official. Things go downhill, when Sensei says my name slowly. Deliberately.

It sets the mood for the next few minutes of my life very well.

When Shikaku brings up the fact that Yasu has inherited from his deceased parents, the little boys eyes dim. He can practically see the boy recoil into himself. The child's face is blank. But his shoulders shake the tiniest bit, his skin a shade more pale.

Shikaku thinks back to Nonou, and their talk. All genius aside, Shikaku remembers the woman giving him details of a little boy, who in the dead of the night made horrible, terrible cries. Of a boy who would whisper for his father when he slept, and could be seen waking up with tear stains on his face.

Shikaku thinks back to a report written the very day after the war was declared ended. Of a coroner's report on how long the victim had been dead before it was reported. Of crime-scene pictures, and a boy in blood stained pajamas.

I don't want the house. I never want to step inside ever again. All I can think of is blood on tile, and a cold lap.

I am trying, very, very hard to keep it all together.

Sensei takes me to the bank first. To file all the paperwork and transfer money into my new shinobi-grade account. He had already made arrangements and lined up a buyer incase I wanted to sell the house, and given that the potential buyer was a member of his clan, he could make the sale and pay me immediately. The clan member would make normal payments back into the clan's funds apparently. The entire time, I have to focus very hard on all the information given to me. Sensei, with his scarred face set in a frown, makes sure things go quickly, with all files ready and compiled for easy access.

Sitting in the bank, letting Sensei do the hard work of talking with the bank-person, I wallow in my thoughts. In under an hour, I inherited a house and sold it away. I can't bring myself to feel anything but deep sorrow. Distantly, I know I'm so grateful for Sensei in this moment, but I'm so, so tired.

With the addition of all the liquid assets of my parents, I have a number. A number to sum up all the worth my parents, my fucking familyhad in this harsh, mortal world.

20,242,983 yen.

Twenty million, two hundred forty two thousand, nine hundred eighty-three yen.

The money feels dirty. Blood soaked bills with ghosts lurking in the ink.

"I…" The second my voice breaks into the room, two sets of eyes are on me. I shallow. "I would like a second account please." I look at Sensei. His dark eyes are hard. But I know he understands. He turns back, and quickly puts into motion the splitting of the money.

Any future payments from missions in one account, my p-...my-...the rest of the money in another.

I suddenly feel nauseous. I duck down in my chair, head resting on my knees. After a beat, a large hand gently hits my back. I flinch, couldn't help it, but gently, oh so gently, the hand comes back and rubs circles.

It feels nice. It...helps.

If I cry, so silent and still with my head hidden, nobody says anything. By time Sensei stops, and we leave the building, my eyes are rimmed red.

But they are dry, and neither of us mention anything about the many, many heavy topics lingering in the air.

Stepping outside, into the air that rushes across my skin, I take one deep, long breath. It's cold, evening drawing near. Things have moved fast, far to fast. This one second, this one moment….I take it for me. The cool air in my lungs is refreshing. I focus on that.

Sensei is beside me, tall and relaxed in posture. When I'm ready, I turn, expectantly.

Shikaku Nara looks like he wants to say sorry, but he doesn't. I'm a ninja now, and we have things to get done. "You need proper clothes." Is all he says before he turns and walks in long strides away from me. I follow.

I pay no attention to the name of the shop we go to. (I can't remember how I used to feel about clothes shopping.) The inside looks as one would expect from a clothing store, but as I touch the first shirt we pass, I can feel the thickness of the cloth. Rough, but strong. Sturdy. Sniffling my still slightly runny nose, I nod. Nice.

"Any preferences?" Sensei asks. I shrug, but my mind takes off, clicking away as I think of pros and cons of a dozen different styles.

I casually raise a fist, ready to tick off fingers. "Blue maybe?" Hmm. "Dark and neutral colors, I think for the most part." One finger goes up. "No shorts." Second finger. "Sleeves aren't a necessity." Another finger. I chew on my cheek. Hmmmmm….a fourth and final finger goes up. "Black sandals would be nice."
I go over the list once more in my head. "Yeah," I mutter, "that's it for now." Sensei quirks an eyebrow, a tug at his lips.

"Alright." And then we're off.

"First, you need a set of mesh shirts." Sensei says, leading me back to a further corner of the store. Ah, the fish-net stuff. Cool. I reach out, but the second my fingers touch the material, I frown.

"Hey sensei," I ask, "what's this made of?"

"A very light-weight fabric. It breathes exceptionally well, and doesn't irritate the skin when worn long periods of time." He starts, pushing through the racks looking for something. "The fishnet looking pattern comes from the weaving of specially designed metal wires."

I rub the fabric. "Woah."

"This is a favorite of shinobi," he continues, "due to the protection it provides. Well it's true it can be easily repaired should it be cut, which happens frequently if one is involved in regular combat, having it is more useful than not. Not only does it allow for extra resistance again blades attacks, reducing potential damage, but it can also completely deflect attacks." He inspects a shirt in what looks to be my size. "If a kunai or shuriken, even a sword, is not properly maintained or thrown, the material can resist being cut either changing the directory of the attack, or sliding it off completely by breaking the attacks inertia."

A few shirts are put into my arms, and Sensei points to a changing room. "It's not especially useful against, say, other shinobi most of the time. But it's success against bandits, and any shinobi arrogant enough not to maintain their discipline, is very useful. A dull blade, a sloppy attack." He turns now, to stare at me in the eyes before I can grab the curtain.

"Any chance, any opening, every single slip-up an enemy makes. We must make use of it all." The Nara man closes the curtain for me, "It needs to be skin tight," is the last thing he says and I listen to his footsteps go back deeper into the store.

I look at the shirts in my hand. I can feel the bumps of the fabric covered steel, and the softer mesh in the spaces between. Even clothing, in this world, is crafted with function in mind. That being said, ninja's clearly have an aesthetic going on. It's all very anime, which is ironic.

I start trying on shirts. I envy Sensei's ability to accurately judge sizes without much effort.

(Sensei seems to have no qualms about opening the curtains partway to throw other articles of clothing at me. I yelp the first time, and I can hear a low, growly chuckle. Sensei is very fast at finding clothes, apparently.)

After a time, that mostly consists of Sensei throwing clothes at me, and me tossing some back with my thoughts, Sensei and I have found a good collection of shinobi-appropriate clothes. And if they were all in one style, and color theme for the most part? Well, nobody was gonna say jack-shit about that, or they would be hypocrites.

A half-sleeve mesh shirt, a tuckable soft blue sleeveless shirt. Grey pants, and black sandals. My favorite outfit, of which we end up with a few sets.

Full sleeve mesh, full sleeve grey shirt in an extra thick material, and darker, thicker pants. A solid set for colder weather.

I also get a wonderfully heavy hooded jacket in dark blue. It's technically heavier due to the layers of mesh armor hidden inside, but I mostly like it because the feeling of the heavy jacket is both calming and just plain nice. Maybe I should get a weighted blanket…. Hmm. A solid thought.

Sensei gives me the wad of money when he deems us done, and I get the pleasure of counting out bills and paying myself. I don't wear any of it out, and Sensei, being the smart Nara he is, seals it all up in a storage scroll he has instead of having to carry bags. I admit, I was very excited to see it in action.

I may or may not have thrown up words all over him the second he started sealing it up. "How does it work? Will you need it back after we're done? How do you make them? What are the limitations? Do you need specific seals for what you plan on storing?"

The scared man looks at me, saying nothing until he finishes. "Interested in seals?" I nod vigorously. "It works due to a chakra. No, you can keep this one. A seal-maker makes them. No, most storage seals are pretty generic in their ability to store most things."

Ug. "Well, those aren't satisfying answers."

Sensei snorts, in what sounds suspiciously like a chuckle. I look up, trying to search his face. I see nothing, but his dark eyes shine.

I follow him, a long winding path, that eventually leads to a mostly empty stretch of road on the edge of some trees.
"Now." Sensei has a very commanding voice. I like it. "Tomorrow, I will be assessing your teammate." I straighten my spine immediately. "His skills, weapons preferences, how he thinks. What he wants." He looks at me over my shoulder. "You will go through the same the following day. Itachi's father will let him know tonight. I am letting you know now. Take the time you have to prepare. Same time, same place. You remember the details?"

"Training Ground 34, 6am." A pleased nod.

"Good." Sensei looks away, hands shoved in his pockets. The tips of his pony-tail flicker in the wind. "It's getting late." He starts slowly. "Your apartment doesn't come with a stocked kitchen, or much of anything regarding basic necessities. It would be wise for you to take care of this tomorrow, but I know it's a daunting task. I have arranged for someone to help you, they will be at your apartment in the morning."

"Smart. Sounds good." I almost smile, but Sensei isn't. The heavy topics that were lurking seem to be coming back. I clench my fists.

"You're…..former home was sealed. Left alone almost entirely untouched. If there….is anything inside that you can remember, or want," no...nonnonononoIdon'twanttogoback I can take you to retrieve them. Anything remaining by tomorrow morning will be taken care of by the new owner." bloodstained tiles, cold lap, nononononoit'snotsafe

I can feel my self-shaking. Sensei kneels down, saying something about not having to, about a million other options we have. I look forward, but it's not his dark eyes I see.

the click of a camera

Mom's laughing somewhere in the distance-ican'trememberhersmilewhycan'tiremember-

Dad cooking up a storm, knife work sharp and smooth-whyishislapcold?Dad'slapis alwayswarmitscoldnononono-

two boxes of letters, one saved, one returned

my own laughter, something soft in my hands, I'm howling and Dad howls back

imalonealonealonealonealonesontleavemeimsorryimsorrydontforgetme-

I force my chest to move, lungs filling in one sharp, shuddering breath.

i don't want to forget you to

"Yes. I need something." Sensei looks sorrowful, panicked. A floundering man with hands hovering, hesitant to reach out and touch- "May we please go there now? I need something.
I need something.
"

I can feel something wet on my cheeks….I wonder what it is?...

Sensei tries to convince me not to go in, to let him fetch what I want. I say nothing. My fists are clenched tight. I lead the way. I can read the handle easily, it feels...small, in my hands.

The air is dusty, stale. The house is dark, only the dying light peeking through curtains illuminating my way. I struggle to move my legs, but I have to, and so I do. With stiff strides, I walk past the kitchen. (there is a knife missing in that kitchen, but I dare not look) The door to my parents room is closed.

I feel small.

The door feels heavy.

It opens all the same.

My throat is tight, and I'm shaking, but I walk into the room where I once curled up when I had nightmares. The bed is made, untouched. There is a messy desk in the far corner by the closet. The second I see it, I focus on solely that. (I don't want to see anything else in the room. I don't want to look but I have something to find.)
I start opening drawers, moving papers. I find a thick, leather bound album. I turn, and in the closet, I find two boxes. I stubbornly place the album on top, and pick them up.

I turn, and forcefully walk past Sensei into the hall. I'm done here. The still open front door is calling me.

I start to pass the kitchen.

My foot hits something, and on reflex I look down.

It's a small, ragged looking stuffed wolf.

My arms are weak, and I collapse onto the floor, dropping what I came for in order to snatch up the still soft toy. It smells like dust. I can't hold it anymore, and I let it all go.

Shikaku can't stop his new student, the fragile glass boy placed into his care, from walking into the house. The boy moves like a Suna puppet on strings, one goal, one purpose.

When he runs into a stuffed toy on the ground, Shikaku watches as his student breaks.

A little boy, in a house of dust and ghosts, clutching at a little stuffed animal for dear life, sobbing desperately, brokenly, in the near darkness.

The sound rings in his ears, vicious and mocking, and Shikaku can do nothing.

The boy cries, face buried in soft, synthetic fur.

The boxes and a photo album are quietly sealed away. Shaking hands reach, hesitant. The boy twitches violently away, curling up in the throws of a sorrow rooted so deep down that Shikaku fears it is endless.

It takes Shikaku an agonizing 8 minutes, and 26 seconds to be able to touch the boy. Another minute and 17 seconds before he can bring the boy into his arms. He sweeps out of a house that he suddenly hates so much it makes him sick. He thinks of his own son at home. He wasn't ready for this. His student is so young.

His shoulder is wet by the time he opens an apartment door, and helps a sniffling little boy into a bed. The child never lets go of the little wolf, falls asleep clutching it. Shikaku runs his hands through blue hair in soothing motions, until there is only the sound of a sleeping child in the room, and his own breath.

He unpacks clothes, and nothing more. The storage scroll is placed on the table, awaiting the only person in the world who has any right to decide what to do with the remaining contents.

Shikaku goes home.

He falls asleep, son curled up in his arms, his own head in the lap of his wife, who runs her finger through his hair in soothing motions.