Disclaimer: I do not own Naruto. Beta'd by drowsyivy and UmbreonGurl.

"The soul is vast and life small."

— Fernando Pessoa, "Excerpts from Two Odes"

This story begins with a garden and the spring sun beating down on the brim of my wide straw hat.

This story begins with a garden and a highly offensive vegetable. This story is probably not as humorous as it sounds, but that is in fact, how it all begins.

The hat's not strictly necessary per se, given that white hair doesn't retain heat nearly as much as black hair does, and somehow, the sun is not nearly so harsh as I remember it being.

But then, I don't have anything to compare it to. For all that I know, I dreamed of once having black hair and tanned skin, dreamed of the other languages I used to speak, of summer afternoons sparing with an aging man whose only words I remember are an occasional "good" and "again," of tea with tapioca pearls, dreamed of the late nights and keyboards and long drives falling asleep against a wide shoulder.

I'd traded black hair for white, a younger sister for an older brother, Cantonese for this new language and the old world for the new.

Maybe it was all a distant dream.

I frown as the wide leaves scratch at my short arms. It's warm enough to wear short sleeves, and while I haven't forgotten how irritating it is to have an arm covered in zucchini hair, I wasn't about to put on a long sleeved shirt and sweat through it while working outside either.

A bean beetle lands on my nose.

I pull it off my face and squish it between my fingers and flick it away as I continue twisting the errant zucchini. "Come on!" I grouse at it.

It...refuses to budge. "Come on!" I mutter at it darkly under my breath. "If you don't, I swear to the seven hells—"

It pops free unexpectedly, and I nearly go tumbling backwards.

Luckily, a quick application of chakra to my feet sticks me to the ground quite well. I wobble back and forth like an unstable spinning top. I glare with much misbegotten anger at the offending yellow vegetable in my hands. "You should be glad Saku-nii likes zucchini pancakes, or else." I plop it into my wicker basket with a sigh. "Or else I'd toss you into the trash, no regrets."

For one thing, I find zucchini unbearable unless baked into bread, and for another, this one has particularly offended me.

"Talking to your plants again, Tsuta-chan?" Niisan throws his arms around my shoulders from behind, hands clasped loosely together. "Silly little goose."

"Niisan!" I point at the basket on the ground. "Your zucchini nearly made me fall over in the dirt again."

He laughs, infectious and warm, into my neck. "Thank you for loving me so much," he gasps between breaths. He manages to pull himself together for just long enough to shake a disapproving finger at the vegetable basket. "Don't do that again, zucchini." When he's doing this, he looks like an exact miniature of our mom. "Or Hatake Tsutako will have you for dinner."

We stare at each other, matching grins on our faces, before bursting into helpless laughter.

I sit down in the black dirt. "I'm gonna have it for dinner anyway."

"Oops. My bad." Niisan comes to join me. "Your good behavior won't save you. We're gonna eat you for dinner just the same."

And that's a promise.

Later that evening finds me shredding the zucchini with a metal grater into a plastic tub as Niisan mixes flour and water to make pancake batter.

I call them pancakes, but really, they're much thinner and flatter than pancakes, probably more the asiatic version of savory crepes than anything else.

Still, that doesn't quite have the same ring to it, so pancake will have to do.

It's comforting to do this.

Slide slide slide, and the white flesh of the zucchini is revealed, each strip perfectly round and perfectly the same as all the others.

It probably helps that I take vindictive pleasure in seeing the zucchini disappear into shredded zucchini as well.

"Tsuta-chan," Niisan begins, "how did the graduation exam go?" There's a hesitant edge to his question, as if he's almost afraid to ask.

I don't know why this would be exactly. There'd never been any reason to think I wouldn't pass. I'm Hatake Tsutako, daughter of Konoha's White Wolf and a well respected and terrifying Jounin, younger sister of a genin who's so close to a chunin promotion at age eleven that he could probably smell the newness of his future flak jacket and the second youngest member of a ninja clan.

It would quite frankly, be embarrassing if I didn't pass the Academy Graduation Exam.

I shrug. "It went well. Why do you ask?" I'd been handed a forehead protector, now all that remains is to see if I can defend the right to wear one in front of my jounin sensei tomorrow.

"Ah." He ruffles my hair with a floury hand. "Well, Mom and Dad weren't there to congratulate you, and I was out too, so…" He trails off. "I'm sure there were other people there, weren't there?"

I think back to when I'd stepped out of the Academy doors that mid afternoon. "There were more people there than normal…" I shrug again and go back to shredding my zucchini. "But I don't like people, Niisan."

I can't tell him that I'd rather no one congratulate me, because that isn't true.

If Mom and Dad were there to pick me up and ask how the exam had went, I'd certainly be overjoyed.

But elite Jounin are in high demand right now, with border tensions at all time high.

As a family of patriots, as someone who wasn't in danger of failing the exams and being held back another year, I'm sure it's no big deal. When the expectation is that you'd graduate, the actual graduation isn't a surprise.

He makes an offended noise. "What am I, then, to you? Chopped liver?"

I stick my tongue out at him while I pass him the tub of shredded zucchini before climbing onto the step stool to wash the grater. "No. You're week old dog food."

He gasps a hand over his heart. "What did I do in my last life to deserve a little sister with such a sharp tongue?"

"What did I do in my last life to deserve an older brother who compares himself to liver?" So dramatic, silly Niisan.

I'd likely died young last time. From what I remember, my little sister hadn't been much more than a teenager when she'd squeezed my hand one last time at my hospital deathbed.

But then, I don't remember it well.

All I know is that I don't like hospitals.

The zucchini and batter concoction safely sizzling in the flat bottomed pan, we end up sitting on the kitchen floor together, looking at the table — covered in zucchini skin — and the counter — covered in a mix of flour and batter — and the floor — covered in some mixture of all four items.

Almost at the exact same moment, we groan, hands over our eyes.

"Time to clean up?" I ask him.

"Time to clean up," he agrees, climbing slowly to his feet to grab a broom while I reach into the cabinet under the sink to grab a dust pan.

That night I practice my kata in the dojo against the wooden training dummy, running through all the barehand techniques I remember, one form bleeding into the next, and the next, and the next as I switch from the basic Academy style, to the beginner Hatake Style, to the intermediate style Dad had just taught me, to the bastard style Mom taught me, to what I remember from my past life.

The muscle memory isn't there, for these aren't the same muscles. It's more like an itch. I know it's there, but I can't quite get the motions right. I'd spent too many years on it to forget it so easily, spent years practicing barehanded, being told to get up when I was knocked down — again — before even being allowed to touch a pole much less a sword, that I couldn't just forget it all.

I'd done so much, worked so hard for the right to pick up a sword for the first time.

In the beginning, it had frustrated me. I'd been trying to fight before I learned how to master my control of this child's body. I hadn't the muscles, hadn't the reflexes, and it had been a bitter feeling to start all the way at the bottom again. I didn't want to start at the bottom and work my way back up.

But the backslide was inevitable.

Again. I hear the trace of the Cantonese accent lingering, the rhythm not quite right. Again.

And I'd already spent one childhood being knocked down.

I got back up.

Again.

And again.

And again.

And somewhere between climbing to my feet, muscles aching, one time and the next, I grew into this child's body.

I grew into the chakra pumping through each muscle like blood.

I grew into a new name, a new group of people, a new world.

I grew like my namesake, ivy winding up any available surface, always towards the sun.

Katas finished, I pick up a practice tanto from the rack by the door of the dojo and take to the empty floor space.

Not old enough yet for a full katana or even a wakizashi and definitely not skilled enough for a sharpened tanto without Mom or Dad here to spot me, I make do with the blunted practice blade.

It doesn't have the same heft or cut through the air the same way, but I'm in love with the thrill of it all the same.

It's the same mental space, the same footwork, the same way the world blurs all around, until it's only me and the blade.

I'm sure there were other people there, weren't there?

I falter.

I brush away the sweat stinging at my eyes, before setting the tanto back onto the rack.

It's sweet how my brother worries.

It's sweet how he's always fighting against our conflicting schedules, fighting to come home whenever our parents are called away like they are tonight even though I am self-sufficient enough to see to myself. If I were truly seven years old, maybe this would be harder, but though I have to stand on a stool to reach the sink, I am far from lost.

I'm almost afraid that I'm holding him back.

And if I'm holding him back from his full potential, how do I square that circle?

I am someone who was never meant to be given life, someone whose name was never meant to be. Hatake Tsutako.

On my way to bed from the dojo, I pause by his door. "Niisan? Can I ask you something?"

He pushes whatever he was reading intently away and swings around to offer me a smile. "Of course, goose. Ask me anything you want."

"Doesn't your sensei get upset with you when you keep asking to come home?"

He freezes, a...something on his face that wasn't there before.

Outside, a moth pounds its wings on the window glass, as though begging to come inside and get fried to a crisp on the electric light.

"No, not at all. Why do you ask?"

Lying Niisan. I frown at him. "You're not fooling anyone."

"Such a sharp pair of gardening shears you are," he singsongs back at me.

I whack his shoulder lightly. "I am not a pair of gardening shears."

But for the moment, he's succeeded in distracting me.

Sensei surveys us all with his hands on his hips. He likely recognizes that most of us will either fail the next portion of the graduation exam or else be dead within the year.

The statistics don't lie. They're there for anyone to look at.

And I come from a position of self awareness.

I hadn't chosen this career path with my eyes blinded by pride, after all. No, Mom and Dad had sat me down like they'd sat down with Niisan four years before, and explained in detail what the shinobi life would entail.

Death. Murder. Deceit. War. Seduction.

It isn't a profession for the faint of heart. It isn't a profession for the honorable soul.

I have neither.

If it was just the physical thrill of the katas I loved, I didn't have to choose this route. I'm sure they would've taught me anyway, humored me with all sorts of esoteric forms of martial arts, some impractical but exhilarating and very pretty skills.

I could have spent another life as a casual martial artist, a weekend enthusiast passing through the forms without the intent to kill, with only a ceremonially sharpened sword, a performer for cultural celebrations, children's birthday parties, talent shows.

But the weight of memory toppled the scales. What I want and what I need to survive doesn't allow for a casual future, for safety and happiness placed in the hands of others — they'd drop it; they'd drop it every time. I don't have the time, patience, or heart to let anyone drop my future when they weren't paying attention.

My brother is Hatake Sakumo for god's sake.

This isn't some game. I could trace the rise and fall, the story beats that reduced my brilliant brother to merely a footnote of some cosmic tragedy which gripped my nephew's life.

And I could tear it apart with my bare hands.

The god of this world is some man sitting in his office making up our lives so he could sell the story for money. What an unfortunate god to have.

"Team Four: Dan Kato, Hatake Tsutako, Yuuhei Shinku." Sensei pauses, takes a deep breath and continues. "Lead by Elder Utatane Koharu."

This won't be an easy test then.

I can imagine Elder Utatane sparing the time for a genin team as a favor to Mom, who worked with her closely several years back, considering they still keep in touch, but I can't imagine this would be easy.

The Sandaime himself had taken a team last year.

This generation's Team Seven, the future Sannin. Their legend was already growing even though, at the moment, they're just rookie genin.

Any team with the Shodai's granddaughter would have that effect.

As a team, we follow Elder Utatane out, the boys whispering together without me.

This doesn't bother me much.

Like I told Saku-nii, I don't really...like people. Not people my age, not too many people who aren't my age either.

And the fact that I clearly didn't care to spend any extra time with my classmates, in turn, led them to for the most part, leave me to my own devices. Which suits me just fine.

I much prefer the quiet of my garden, where the effort I put in shows visible signs of reciprocation.

Unexpectedly, we enter the Tower and follow her up two flights of stairs to her office.

She takes a seat and gestures for us to do the same.

She's prepared seating and time and space for us already. Well, it's not as if I didn't know that.

Utatane Koharu isn't someone who does anything by halves after all.

"Since we're here," she folds her hands together before her, "let's introduce ourselves, shall we? I am Utatane Koharu. I will be your jounin-sensei. If you want to know any other information about me, that will be up to you to discover."

So, not someone who's going to waste time on frivolities.

I mirror her posture and wait for someone else to begin. From what I've learned of my sensei so far, she's meticulous, practical, thinks ahead, not frivolous…

A kunoichi. Someone who appreciates my mom's special brand of cutthroat crazy.

I don't expect her to use the bell test, given that the Sandaime had used that test just the year before, but I don't expect no test either.

In the stretching silence, one of my teammates finally decides to speak up. "Um, I'm Kato Dan...I was assigned to Team Four this morning...I have a little sister…" Finally, his uncertainty at what sorts of information he's supposed to share trails off into silence.

Well, he didn't last long.

"Yuuhi Shinku." My other teammate grouses. He crosses his arms and slumps further down into his seat.

I sit in silence, my right leg crossed over my left, my hands folded over my knee, perfectly assured.

"Well?" Utatane-sensei asks. "Aren't you going to introduce yourself?"

"We all know each other's names. And beyond that…" I glance once to the right — there's Dan. I glance once to the left — there's Shinku. "For example, I know that Shinku fell asleep during the chakra theory exam last week, and that Dan goes to pick his younger sister up from her classroom door every day after the Academy lets out."

I mean, I've been in a class with both of them for two years already. "And we weren't doing proper introductions anyway."

I expect her to know everything about me, because her desk speaks of someone who never procrastinates. There's barely anything on it.

You don't get to be a council elder by your mid twenties unless you have the work ethic to back it up. The position isn't like Hokage, which the Nidaime passed on in the space of two sentences in a warzone.

No, only grit opens the door to that position.

Thus, she's already read our files, knows our names, ages, birthdates, heights, weights, skills, family members, friends...anything else the academy chunin sensei's felt like putting in the file. Major personality quirks would be in there too.

She'd expect this of me, probably. Maybe she'd also know how much I hate zucchini.

The boys look at each other, look back at me. "How did you know that?"

It would be hard to not know a thing about them unless I really was a block of stone. I barely blink, voice perfectly flat. "I have eyes."

They...don't have much to say to this.

And thus ends our...team introduction.

Utatane-sensei claps her hands together. "Well, now that we're introduced, it's time to proceed onto your real test."

"Our real test?" Dan asks. Good God. His voice actually quavers.

I continue staring straight ahead.

"You may have passed the Academy Graduation Exam, but since I'll be investing my time into your education, I might as well see if it's worthwhile for me." Utatane-Sensei's smile borders on slightly sadistic. "Which means that I get to test you."

We reconvene outside the Tower.

We might not be friends, them and I, and they're only banding together right now because they can't really see making small talk with me, but none of us want to fail and get booted either back to the Academy or worse, the Genin Corps, so we form a huddle around the scroll Utatane-sensei had slide across the table.

Fetch me this. She'd said. And if you can bring it here by sundown you pass.

"Let's see what this is, shall we?" I have no idea what it is, how far away it is, how hard it would be to fetch "this" but I do know that if it has a scent, I could summon Kyogi to try and track it for us.

He's getting on in years, having been a puppy Dad picked out at the Inuzuka Kennels back a month before I was born, and he likes to spend most of the time lazing around and napping in his patch of sun, but he'd still help if I called for him.

"Yeah, let's get this show on the road." Shinku shoves his hands in his pockets and waits for me to pull apart the ribbon.

"But what if we can't find it?" I get the feeling that Dan will continue to wear on my patience.

And my patience wasn't particularly expansive to begin with.

"Then we go back to the Academy. Or to the Genin Corps." Those are the two alternatives. I won't settle for either.

Genin Corps is synonymous with wartime fodder.

To go where I want to go, and to do what I want to do, I couldn't accept that.

I wouldn't accept that.

"Well, let's get on with it then." Shinku stands there, his hands balled to fists in his pockets and scowls mightily. "Or we'll never be able to pass."

It's noon already. The sun beats down on us, hot and heavy.

I unfurl the scroll.

It's blank.

I resist the urge to curse.

A.N. So this idea took hold a very long time ago, but only recently did I actually organize this into an actual first chapter. I'm quite proud of how this turned out.

As always, let me know what you think! I love hearing your thoughts.

~Tavina