III. Rapidly Reconsidering

Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view,
who stand upon the threshold of the new.

"It's Boruto. He's missing."

It's an odd sensation, like all the air has been sucked from his lungs and replaced with cement. Breathe. He needs to breathe, but there's a weight pressing down on his diaphragm every time he tries. It's only the sound of Himawari whimpering against her mother's shoulder that drags Naruto back to himself, lets him force out: "For how long?"

"I—I don't know." She shakes her head. "I thought he'd gone to a friend's house after school, but he wasn't home for dinner. I called Ino first, and then Tenten, Choji, even Kiba and Iruka, just in case. No one had seen him. And then it got dark—" Her voice is breaking. "I didn't want to leave Himawari alone, so—Naruto, where could he be?"

There are too many possible answers to that question, and most of them make Naruto's stomach twist. He's hoping—god, is he hoping—that it's innocuous. Maybe Boruto got waylaid by the weather. Maybe he took shelter somewhere Hinata hasn't checked yet. Ichiraku's, maybe, or Kakashi-sensei's apartment. Or maybe it's worse. If he's hurt, or lost—Naruto swallows down his mounting worry—no. It's unlikely. Boruto can fend for himself better than most kids his age, and he knows the whole village back to front. More importantly, the village knows him. There's no criminal in a hundred miles suicidal enough to go after the Seventh Hokage's son.

Unless, of course, they're after him because he's the son of the Hokage.

"Start a search," he says. His voice sounds distant to his own ears, barely audible through the rush of adrenaline and worry. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Kurama roars agreement. "Shikamaru—"

"Already on it." The other man has a cell out, and is dialing without looking down. "We need to pin down who last saw him and where. Hinata, use the office phone to call Sakura at the hospital. If Boruto's injured, someone will have brought him in. Have you called anyone else?"

"I left a message at your home after that, and I spoke with Sarada. That's all."

Naruto reaches for Kurama's chakra, and the fox gives it up readily, eager to retake the battlefield. It sends out ribbons of twining scarlet energy to twine with Naruto's own, and he's just raising his hands to form a cross seal when Shikamaru stops him with a raised hand.

"You'd better not."

He just keeps from snarling outright. "Boruto's missing!"

"I know." Shikamaru scrubs a hand up and down his face, and the grimness in his eyes gives Naruto pause. "Believe me, I know. But running off half-cocked is only going to cause a panic, and if foul play is involved, it'll be twice as hard to track down whoever's involved."

He's right. Naruto knows he's right; it's Shikamaru, after all, the most brilliant strategist in all the Allied Nations. That doesn't make it any less wrenching to force his hands out of what is, by now, well-honed defensive habit, and let the turbulent storm of his chakra die down to simmering unrest. "Fine," he says. The word tastes acrid in his mouth. "Fine. But when we find them, we're coming down on the bastards like the fist of god."

A sharp, mirthless smile curves one side of Shikamaru's mouth. "Of course."

I never go back on my word. The promise steadies him. "We'll find him," he repeats, twining his fingers through Hinata's free hand. She squeezes it hard enough to break a non-jinchuriki's fingers, and nods.

Mom's told Boruto a thousand times: you can't run away from your problems.

As he darts unevenly between drunk pub-goers and off-duty ninja in the shadowed lanes of an unfamiliar (too familiar) village, all he can think is that he should have run away sooner. It's long after dark, and he never meant to stay this long.

He shouldn't have stayed in the first place. Maybe he'd been justified to break up the beatdown in the forest—past, present, or future, Boruto has a special loathing for bullies—but sticking around after that? Talking with Dad, letting himself be talked into going for ramen, and pretending like everything was okay when it wasn't?

The problem—the stupid, irrational problem—was that Naruto Uzumaki turned out against all odds to be really likeable.

He was stubborn and expressive, with a mischievous streak a mile wide and a laugh so much like Himawari's it hurt. He chattered easily, listened eagerly, sympathized readily. And Boruto could talk to him, could pour out every hurt and grievance he'd never been able to voice at home. Here was a kid who'd never heard of the heroic Seventh Hokage, who would never tell him not to be angry because the Lord Hokage works so hard to keep us safe. He wouldn't look at Boruto and see the shadow of his Dad looming over him.

One bowl of ramen became two, and then three. Indulgently, the old man at Ichiraku's didn't hurry them away. It felt like a reparation for every time Dad couldn't come home for dinner, for every time he'd sent them over to Aunt Hanabi's or Uncle Kiba's when mom got sick, for every single stupid shadow clone. It felt like vindication.

Which really should've clued him in what a colossal idiot he was being. Yeah, his dad's a flake. But this is time travel, not therapy.

It's past time to fix his mistakes.

"Watch it," slurs someone irately, staggering back as he ducks around them.

He doesn't stop to apologize, just vaults over the stone border to the forest. Abruptly the dim light winnows away to almost nothing in the shadow of the trees: it's a bit like running blindfolded. Overhead, the oak boughs trace spidery fingers against the inky dark sky.

He has a penlight in his satchel, but he doesn't reach for it. There's a surety in the pulse pounding in his ears, and he worries that it might vanish if he stops to contemplate it. Besides, if he squints his eyes just right and looks past the hint of moonlight, he can almost glimpse a different sort of glow. A guiding light.

I should've said something before I left.

He brushes off the thought, but not before it pricks at him reproachfully. If it were Denki, Inojin, or Shikadai going home to an empty house, he'd drag them to supper and beg Mom for a sleepover. At the very least he'd be able to honestly promise to hang out again soon. But he'd ditched Naruto without the slightest word of explanation, and that was the farthest thing from cool. He hadn't missed the loneliness shadowed in Naruto's eyes. No one would miss me if I never went home.

Wish I'd had time for a proper goodbye, he thinks ruefully. It all happened so fast. Iruka showed up, thirty years younger but still unmistakable, and the weight of Boruto's screw-up came plummeting down in an instant. Stupid, stupid, he'd gotten caught up in the conversation and forgot to be on guard for familiar faces. The flare of recognition, then confusion in the chunin's eye set off every alarm bell he had, and well-trained instinct was spamming the flight button on his fight-or-flight panel. So he hid his face and ran, and it was probably for the best. It is for the best.

I don't exist in this time, Boruto repeats to himself like a mantra. I don't exist.

Neither does that Naruto—the kid he'd ditched in the ramen shop. That's not his dad, just a shadow of the person he was years ago. Trying to get some weird absolution from him—it's messed up. Like a horror movie, where Boruto is the ghost haunting the castle, never realizing the person he's really waiting for died overseas centuries ago.

A sudden brightening of the light drags him out of his fit of self-loathing long enough to squint in confusion through the trees. For a moment he thinks it must be his imagination. But no: streaming through gnarled branches, casting shadows from roots and jutting stones, dazzling his night-dilated pupils, it's too clear to be anything but real. He rushes forward with his pulse in his throat, pushing through the brambles to see it clearly.

The spiral blazes in the darkness like a single star.

If this is one huge ongoing technique, if it's a genjutsu or actual time distortion, this has got to be the lodestone at the center of it. Which is... unsettling, a bit. Boruto's handful of chakra was maybe a tenth of the energy spent creating a single clone. At most it might have activated a basic storage seal. More to the point, it was the kind of trick you saw in crappy summer movies to open hidden compartments in ruined ancient temples. Compared the power it would (theoretically) take to deconstruct the fabric of time, it was a thimble in an ocean.

If this thing is still active, it's not being powered by Boruto. It's siphoning energy from someone—or something—else. And that source must be unimaginably huge.

On the bright side, the seal shows no signs of fading. Hopefully that means he's not stranded yet. On the other hand, autoprogrammed time travel lodes kind of freak him the hell out. Whoever designed this thing had an agenda, and probably didn't intend for an eleven-year-old kid to activate it by accident. (So how did he? Why would it? Who would design a seal like that, and leave it alone in the pits of an empty forest?)

No, he's stalling. He's scared of what might happen if he tries again.

Can't get worse, he tells himself. This is also a lie—it can definitely get worse. What if he goes back another twenty years? What if he goes back a hundred, ends up caught in the middle of the clan wars? Forget screwing up his own birth, he could screw up the founding of the entire village. In that scenario, the best option would be to make himself scarce, spend the rest of his life in hiding while events continued normally.

But that would mean never seeing Mom again, or Himawari. It would mean never going home. And he's not going to give that up without even trying.

He takes a breath, reaches out, and presses his hand to the spiral.

Sarada wishes she'd brought a thicker jacket. The cutting wind has gentled since the afternoon, but the setting sun snatched away what little warmth was left in the air. Now it's still blustery and twice as cold, leaching away the sensation in her fingertips. She wraps her hands around the back of her neck, where body heat radiates warmest, but there's nothing she can do about her exposed face and toes.

She wouldn't even have to be here if it weren't for stupid Boruto Uzumaki.

Mom called her straight from the hospital—she never does that—and started asking questions about Boruto with barely a greeting. When did you last see him? Who was he with? How was he acting? Talk about bizarre. Mom ought to know by now that Sarada and Boruto aren't friends. So what if their parent used to be teammates? After the fourth time Sarada left Boruto tied to a tree with razor wire (totally justified revenge, incidentally), they'd stopped insisting on playdates. By now, the only interaction they had was at school and awkward holiday gatherings.

Not to mention Ms Uzumaki had called around sunset, sounding worried. One weird call, Sarada could explain as Boruto being his usual chronically irresponsible self. But two?

"Last I saw him was at school," she repeated, for the umpteenth time. "No, I don't know where he went after. Shikadai might. Mom, what-?"

"Sorry, sweetie, I have to run." Even by usual hospital standards, Mom sounded harried. "Just stay home, okay? And call me if Boruto comes by."

"But-"

"And keep your weapons close. Just in case."

And then Mom hung up, leaving Sarada to stare in utter bewilderment at the phone receiver for about thirty seconds. Mom was tense. Six-hour-surgery-on-thirty-minutes'-sleep tense, not just your garden variety weariness. She wanted Sarada armed. And she was absolutely, definitely, keeping Sarada out of the loop. This called for an emergency investigation. And if there was one reliable source for Academy-related gossip...

"Chocho," she said, without waiting for a greeting. "Do you know what's going on with Boruto?"

Unnervingly, Chocho hadn't heard anything (though she demanded to hear the details as soon as Sarada unearthed them). Which... a lot of things could be said about Boruto, but quiet was never among them. If he was pulling a stunt bad enough to upset Mom, the whole village ought to know about it by now. That was worrying- enough that Sarada pulled out the list of phone numbers Mom kept by the fridge and dialed the Nara residence.

Shikadai answered halfway through the first ring. "Hello?"

"Hey, it's Sarada Uchiha," she began. The awkwardness of the situation was catching up with her; unlike with Chocho, she'd never spoken much with Shikadai outside of class. She knew him only peripherally, as Boruto's friend and Chocho's childhood playmate. Certainly they weren't in the habit of gossiping about classmates. "I was just wondering if you'd heard anything about Boruto."

There was a static-filled sigh. "You got interrogated, too, huh? Yeah. He's missing."

She nearly choked. "What? Your dad told you?"

"No." A faint sound of irritation. "The old man pulled rank on me, said it wasn't my business. But come on. They wouldn't be making this big a fuss if he'd just taken the head off the Hokage mountain again. They're worried because they don't know where he is, and they think he's been kidnapped."

True. As the vaunted son of the Seventh Hokage, Boruto had barely gotten a slap on the wrist for landing a train-sized crater into the base of the upper village. Paradoxically, her stomach twisted. "You don't know where he is, then."

"If I did, I'd have told them," answered the boy laconically. "You think I'd lie to my dad?"

She knew for a fact that Shikadai would lie to his dad in a heartbeat if Boruto asked him to. Oh, he'd grumble about it, complain about troublesome best friends (which he and Boruto definitely are; no accounting for taste), and do his best to convince Boruto not to be stupid. But when it came down to it, under all the grousing he had a loyal streak to rival Sarada's own. It was probably just as well that Boruto was too simple to think of abusing their friendship.

But just then, his voice had been sharp. Not with deceit—he was nearly as good a liar as Inojin when he put the effort in—but with worry. "You're going out to look for him, aren't you? Where? I'll come along."

There was silence from the other end of the line.

"What?" she demanded, growing annoyed. "The sooner that idiot is back where he belongs, the sooner we can all get back to our regularly scheduled incompetence. Besides, someone has to tell him what a brat he's being."

"...Around the forest," admitted Shikadai. "I called Inojin and Denki. We were going to check it out, see if he fell off a building and dented his skull or something."

"Got it. I'll be there in five."

"Wait, Sarada." There was an aggravated pause so long she nearly hung up on him. Then he sighed, a rush of noisy static. "You shouldn't. If there really are kidnappers in the city, they might be after a bloodline. You're an Uchiha; you should stay clear."

"I'm not going unarmed, obviously," she snapped. "I've got chakra flares, blades, explosive tags and razor wire, and it's not as though I'm going out alone."

"Yeah, well, Boruto isn't exactly defenseless either," muttered Shikadai with unusual acerbity. "He had a bag full of pointy objects, and it doesn't seem like that helped him much."

"I'm better than Boruto," she said, because it was true. "Anyway, who's to say they're after a dojutsu? Boruto hasn't awakened his Byakugan yet, if he even has one. Maybe they just want leverage. Which means their next logical target after Himawari would be you. Your dad's the head strategist and your mom's the Kazekage's sister. Two birds with one stone."

Not to mention Sarada's parents would be less likely to negotiate with kidnappers, and more likely to flip, go nuts, and stab everyone involved. She loved her mom, she really did. But she was also keenly aware how relentlessly terrifying Mom could be in a fury. And Dad—well, Sarada had met him all of twice in her life. She was almost entirely certain he'd come to help if she got kidnapped. But Sasuke Uchiha, retired international terrorist, didn't really have a reputation of calmly seeking bloodless solutions, and "help" was a word with variable connotations.

"Ugh," said Shikadai, and she recognized it smugly as the sound of capitulation. "Fine. Five minutes. If you're not at the gates in seven, I'm calling your mom."

"Give me eight, and I'll pick up Chocho on the way."

He'd answered with a sigh, which she'd figured was as good as agreement.

Long story long, that was how Sarada ended up wandering the dark woods at this ungodly hour in much colder weather than anticipated. The best-laid plans, as they say. She's tempted to backtrack and find Chocho, who's searching the eastern half of the woods while the boys check the streets around the perimeter. Her exuberance would be a nice distraction from the cold, and Sarada wouldn't have to keep jerking around at every unexpected rustle of the branches.

No, she has to focus. The sooner they track down Boruto or a clue about his disappearance, the sooner they can all go home. It's more efficient with them split up. Inojin and Shikadai have the advantage of stealth in the alleys, while Sarada and Chocho are heavy hitters who can deal with trouble in the forest. And Denki... well, he's not useless, exactly. But he's scurrying after the other boys, which is probably for the best.

Sarada slides one hand into her satchel, just to reassure herself that the chakra flares are where she left them. Inojin had distributed three to each of them before they split up. If any of them finds Boruto, or gets ambushed, they'll be able to send out an SOS.

At least when Mom chews her out for leaving the house, she'll be able to honestly say they took good safety precautions.

Ha. Like that'll help.

She trips over a broken root for the third time and swears under her breath. She's been blinking into Sharingan every few minutes to look around, but it's enough of a drain on her chakra that even a few seconds can leave her winded. The rest of the time, she's got her hands full just trying not to walk into trees. It makes sense not to use a flashlight and risk drawing attention, but at this rate she won't find Boruto unless she steps on him.

Oh, whatever. It's not like a few more seconds will wipe out her chakra. She focuses briefly, and when she looks up she can actually see: the shadows shift into high contrast, and the outline of the knotted earth stretches around her with heightened clarity. This is totally not the intended use of the Sharingan, but the same mechanic that allows her to see techniques vividly enough to copy them does a bangup job of mimicking night vision. Obviously the Byakugan would be more useful, but she's working with what she's got.

She's scanning the treetops for enemies when a blaze of light startles her out of the Sharingan and leaves her blinking in the dark again.

What was that?

It's gone as soon as it's there, like the flash of a camera. She almost wonders if it was her vision whiting out from chakra exhaustion—no, she would know if she was that tired, and she's not—but it couldn't be one of Inojin's chakra flares either. Did Chocho mistake one of her flash tags for a chakra flare and set that off instead?

She might be in trouble, then. Sarada pulls out a kunai and steps toward the light, relying on her memory of the land to sidestep the roots. Nobody, but nobody goes after Chocho on Sarada's watch, not without getting a beating for their trouble.

A branch snaps with an echoing crack.

She swivels, one hand on her kunai and the other holding a chakra flare. "Who's there? Show yourself!" She reaches for the Sharingan, but she's off-balance and her control isn't steady—her vision flickers in, out, in and out again.

"I'm sorry!" yelps the voice, and it's oddly... familiar? "I'm not an enemy, I'm just lost, just hold your fire or whatever—"

No, wait. Sarada doesn't need a Sharingan to identify that voice, and her eyes straining against the darkness can pick out the faintest outline of a leonine head, a figure too short to be adult, barely taller than her, making his way gingerly between the trees. That's a voice she's known since she was a kid.

She swallows. "Boruto?"

In the five minutes since the blond kid absconded, the atmosphere at Ichiraku's has gone from tense to downright unpleasant.

"I told you, I don't know his name!" growls Naruto. He's upset and snowballing towards angry if the look on his face is anything to go by. Iruka's line of questioning isn't winning him any favors with the kid. "He never said it, and I never asked!"

"Why not?" That was the wrong question to ask. Naruto's eyes snap to his.

"He never asked who I was, and jeez, whaddaya care anyway? He's just some kid! The village is full of 'em. And you already ran him off, so go nag someone else!" The boy gestures sourly at his empty bowl on the countertop. "What, is it against the rules to eat ramen now? Either give me detention or go away."

Iruka can feel Teuchi giving him a disappointed look from behind the counter. Yes, he's aware he's adding insult to injury after inadvertently scaring off Naruto's new friend. But he's meant to keep an eye on his students and make note of anything unusual. He's quite certain that if there were another whisker-faced blond boy in the city, everyone would know about him. By criminal association, at the very least.

For a boy like that to appear and suddenly begin making friends with a lonely, outcast jinchuriki—well, Iruka's a ninja. His career is built on healthy suspicion.

"It's my job to look after my students, Naruto."

Naruto gives an immense snort of disbelief and shoves his bowl back to Teuchi along with a wrinkled clump of bills. "Oh yeah? I didn't see you when I was getting my butt kicked today. Maybe I was distracted by the guy who was helping."

Iruka knows—he knows Naruto is bullied. Still, the reminder feels like a kick in the solar plexus. He can't be everywhere, and if Naruto would just tell the teachers when there were issues he might be able to intervene. (Or maybe not. The Academy does have an old policy of letting the kids settle their own disputes. They claim it builds character, teaches them how to handle themselves outside a sparring circle.) Whoever said teaching was a rewarding job was a filthy liar.

"Can you think of any reason he might look so much like you?" he asks relentlessly. Naruto's trying to make him feel guilty. He's succeeding, too, but Iruka's not so easily put off his questioning. Not until he's sure Naruto is safe. "Surely you noticed?"

"Well, duh," snaps Naruto, rolling his eyes with all the annoyance of a ten-year-old scorned. "It's kinda obvious. So what? It's a coincidence."

He says this last word carefully, like he's quoting someone who said it to him. Reciting an old argument without being entirely convinced by it.

"Is that what he told you?"

This is, apparently, the last straw. Naruto leaps from his seat, bristling like an angry cat. "Just lemme alone, okay? What do you even care?" He turns to Teuchi, growls "Keep the change, old man," and storms out of the stand, leaving the curtain panel billowing in his wake.

Iruka sighs and drops his face to his hands. "Can I get a beer with that ramen?"

"This isn't a bar, Iruka," the old man informs him, wiping his hands on a stained apron as he uncrumples Naruto's bills on the side of the counter. He clicks his tongue ruefully. "That Naruto. He says 'keep the change', but he's ninety ryo short."

"I'll cover it," sighs the chunin, reaching for his wallet. Figures he'd end up paying for Naruto's meal even when the kid's furious at him. He can't do much for the kid, apparently can't even keep track of who's bullying him when, but his wallet can stand to sponsor a few extra bowls of ramen. "I don't suppose you got a decent look at the doppelganger kid?"

"Sure I did."

Iruka stares. "You did?"

"They were here for hours before you showed up," Teuchi informs him. His voice is perfectly even, without even a hint of accusation, but somehow Iruka still feels like he's being lectured. "They're both good kids. Not often you see Naruto take to someone like that."

'Not often someone took to Naruto like that' was probably closer to the truth. More to the point: if they'd been here for hours, then the kid isn't skittish around everyone. Just around Iruka, a chunin in uniform. "Think you could give a description of him? What he looks like, how he talks, what you remember about their conversation?"

The old man eyes him inscrutably for a long moment. "'Course I could," he grunts. "I'm a law-abiding citizen. If a village ninja asks me for a report, I'll have to give one. Is that what's going on here?"

Dammit. Iruka sighs, shaking his head. "No. Just me asking you to keep an eye out for the kid, okay? If it comes to that, I'll let you know."

Teuchi nods appraisingly. "You're a good man, Iruka Umino."

"I'm glad someone thinks so," he mutters. "You sure you don't have any alcohol around?"

"I'll see what I can find."

"Boruto?" Sarada asks warily, squinting into the darkness.

"You—wait, you know my—" The boy falters uncertainly. There's a pause, almost insultingly long, before he says slowly: "Sarada? Is that you?"

"Well, obviously!"

"Ohthankgod," he says all in a rush, and his voice actually breaks in relief. "I thought I might—I thought—that doesn't matter now. Wow. I've never been so happy to see anyone in my life, and it's you. That's so weird. Wait, what are you doing in the woods?"

"Looking for you, of course," she says, narrowing her eyes. "A better question is what you're doing here. You do know your parents are worried sick, right? Now half the council is convinced you've been kidnapped. You're in for it when we get back."

"Worried?" he echoes. "Wait, what time is it? What day is it? How long was I missing?"

"Long enough. It's, what, ten-thirty? And you've been totally MIA since the afternoon. Your dad's the Hokage, Boruto. You can't just goof off and do whatever you want."

He laughs. Which, what? "Oh, man. I thought it was way longer. So it's the same for both? And you know who I am, so—wait, is Himawari okay?"

He's finally gone nuts. That's the only explanation. "Boruto, what are you talking about? Your sister's fine. It's you everyone's in a panic about, because you've been missing all day. This would be a great time to explain why, since you don't look much like an abductee right now."

Unless he's drugged, or an imposter. But an enemy shinobi would probably put more effort into feigning basic sanity. No, this brand of crazy is all Boruto.

"Huh? Nah, not kidnapped. That's good though." He shakes his head.

Then winces immediately thereafter, his hand jerking to his head in an eerily familiar motion. Like when Mom comes home with a migraine, only Boruto's hand isn't shielded in a green haze of healing chakra. That reaction to motion, his lack of basic coherence, even going missing for hours on end. "Did you... hit your head?"

"Uh, kinda?" He shrugs. "Long story. Really, really long. You would not believe me."

And that is one more non sequitur than her limited tolerance can handle. She reaches into her bag, pulls out a chakra flare, and tears it in two. A pulse of low-density chakra buzzes through her body, expanding outwards like a ripple in a pond. Theoretically, it should be tangible all the way around the forest before it fades, alerting Inojin's crew, Chocho, and all the other ninja in the area. Inojin will get here the fastest, and he can conjure an eagle to get Boruto to a doctor.

"Boruto, stay where you are," she orders him. "Stand still, okay? Help is coming."

God. She's stuck in a forest in dead of night, worried out of her mind, so of course it's all Boruto Uzumaki's fault.

Himawari is sleeping with her face pressed into Naruto's chest, and that is quite possibly the only thing preventing him from giving into the temptation to go chasing after his son. If he's hurt, if he's being drugged or threatened or restrained, he—he's not sure what he'd do. Which should be immensely worrying. Naruto's spent his entire life working to end bloodshed and vengeance, but there's an eerily convincing part of his mind telling him just how easy it would be to rip the perpetrators limb from limb.

He thinks reproachfully at Kurama, but the fox only snorts and flicks a tail. No way. You can't blame me for your own bloodlust, kid. I'm a reformed character.

In some ways it was easier when Kurama was growling threats all the time. Logic is a lot harder to tune out.

Luckily, Naruto gets an excuse not to answer. The three recon and sensory shinobi crowded around a map of the village on a folding desk all make startled noises at the same time, and one of them murmurs to Shikamaru. The strategist looks up sharply. "Lord Hokage! We've got a signal."

"A chakra flare in the forest," says the sensor, running his fingers through his hair. "It's half a klick east from Boruto's last reported location. Kamui's working on the coordinates now—we should send in a squad to investigate."

"I'll go," Naruto says, lurching from his chair. "I'll be there in thirty seconds. Someone hold Himawari—"

He shoves his daughter into the arms of the nearest ANBU. The man looks as startled as if he'd been handed a live explosive, but wisely chooses not to object. Himawari, ever fearless of strangers, latches onto his neck and begins to snore; the agent pats her head with a look of deep trepidation. In any other situation, Naruto would find it both hilarious and charming. Right now, his mind is a rush of worry.

(Hinata's Byakugan is activated again, and she's looking towards the forest. There's no way she can see anything- it's way past her scope- but Naruto knows the feeling.)

"I'm coming too," she says. Her voice is so steely that some of the sensors edge away, paling. The entire office is, as Neji would have said, well within the range of her divination. "I don't need coordinates to find them."

Naruto loves this woman so much.

Shikamaru looks like he wants to argue, but he only rubs the bridge of his nose tiredly. "I'll stay here. Keep your comms on in case we get new—"

The rest of his words are inaudible, whipped away by the wind whistling in Naruto's ears. He's going to find his son.

The last few minutes have been a haze of confusion and panic for Boruto, but one thing is finally starting to break through the fog.

He's back. He's in his own time, just hours from when he left, and Sarada's there glowering at him like nothing's changed at all. He'd had to fight the urge to tackle her in a hug when she told him Himawari was okay, and considering it's Sarada Uchiha, prickly as a hedgehog even when she's not literally equipped with pointy objects, that's saying a lot.

It was seeing her that finally dispelled the last niggling thread of doubt he'd had when the seal on the tree flashed and faded to dark. A thousand possibilities occurred to him at once, from bad to worse. What if he'd turned off the sealing mechanism and was stuck in Dad's childhood? What if he'd ended up stranded somewhere else entirely? He'd stumbled through the woods, desperate to get to the end of them and find a landmark, something to tell him exactly how bad he'd screwed himself over, but apparently (impossibly) he hadn't. He's so relieved he feels giddy, weightless.

Sarada, however, seems rather less reassured by him.

"I'm fine," he insists, even as she levels him with a dangerously sharp look. "I just—yeah, look, you're right. I fell out of a tree—" Did he ever. "—and hit my head—" Not technically untrue. "—and I must have passed out or something, it's no big deal."

Okay, that was a lie. But he doesn't think she'd react well to the unabridged time travel sequence of events; more likely, she'd knock him out herself and drag him to the T&I division to get checked for brain damage or mind control. Heck, she's jumpy as it is, her voice all tight and strained. If she were anyone other than Sarada Uchiha, he'd suspect her of being worried.

Not in a million years. "I just wanna get home," he tries, without hope. "I've got a migraine to last a decade."

Predictably, she ignores him.

A shout from above distracts them both. Three eagles dive into the clearing and splash into puddles of viridian ink: Inojin, obviously, and the short figure with the flashlight is Denki. Which means the one crouching on the ground must be...

"Shikadai!" Boruto says, grinning despite himself. Maybe cooler heads can prevail. "Tell Sarada I'm fine. She's being totally unreasonable—ow!"

Denki accidentally shines the flashlight in his eyes, effectively screwing his night vision to hell and back. Boruto winces and covers his face.

"Unreasonable, huh?"

"It's not a damn concussion!" He blinks experimentally, but all he can see now is a blanket of darkness speckled with gray-green dots. "You try staring into a flashlight, see how you like it!"

"Boruto?" That's Shikadai's voice from the left. He pulls out a second flashlight, directing the beam carefully to the ground at their feet. "It's good to see you, man. You feeling okay?"

He sounds strange: odd, tired, but unexpectedly happy. Is that what Shikadai sounds like when he's relieved? He almost laughs at the thought. Then a second thought hits him with a less fun punchline: his friends sound relieved because he'd worried them.

"My head is killing me, but I'm fine," he mutters. "Sorry. Didn't mean to freak you guys out."

"No harm, no foul," says Shikadai bracingly. "Just glad you're all right."

"Well, it is Boruto," murmurs Inojin, sliding his scroll and brush back into his satchel. A few crimson doves flutter up through the branches of the clearing. "He might be concussed, and who would know the difference?"

"Wow, thanks. Happy to see you too."

(And that's not even sarcasm, though he'd never admit it. God, he missed these guys.)

Chocho bounds into the clearing with more enthusiasm than stealth. She sees him and throws her hands in the air. "Oh, come on! Aren't you at least a little bit kidnapped?"

"You don't have to sound so disappointed about it."

"A girl needs her beauty sleep," she informs him. "And I was promised a rescue mission. If you're fine, what's the point? No excitement, no thrills, just a lot of missed sleep for nothing." She shrugs knowingly. "I said you'd be fine. These guys just like to worry over nothing."

"I wasn't worried," Sarada retorts. "And given he was stupid enough to fall off a tree and hit his head hard enough to pass out, I think I'd be totally vindicated if I were."

Oof. He can already tell he's going to be hearing about this for years.

There's something nagging at him, tucked in the back of his mind. Something he's forgotten, something important. Something... that's shining through the branches of the trees, a moving source of light casting everything in a warm fiery glow. Not something, someone, springing down from the upper canopy, wreathed in a flickering gold chakra, and a second figure dressed in pale lavender, dashing towards him—

"Mom," he says, even as she's throwing her arms around him. There's a lump in his throat, choking him so he can barely speak, but he forces the words out anyway. "Mom. Sorry I wasn't home for dinner. I— I didn't mean to make you worry."

Over her shoulder, he can see Dad, cloaked in Kurama's chakra, looking ten times older and wearier than usual. His eyes are locked on Boruto hugging Mom, but he doesn't move forward. Just stands helplessly, locked in place. There's a question there, but it's one he doesn't know how to answer.

Boruto looks away.

There's a knock at the door to the Hokage's office, and Hiruzen doesn't need to hear the familiar polite cough to guess that it's probably Iruka Umino. There are only so many people who'd have the self-assurance to bother the Hokage at this time of night, but the good manners to wait for an invitation in.

(Both foolish concerns, since Hiruzen has always permitted visitors at any hour. Not that anyone tends to listen when he points this out.)

"Iruka!" He smiles widely. He's always had a soft spot for the orphans of the village, and Iruka had been a more frequent visitor to the Hokage's office in his childhood than many of his Academy instructors would have preferred. Stubborn, willful, and good to the core; yes, Iruka has always had the makings of a great teacher. "Come in, come in."

The chunin ducks inside, looking a bit apprehensive. "Sorry to interrupt. I- I wasn't sure who to report to."

Oho. Hiruzen raises an eyebrow. "Not Academy business, I take it?"

"It's about Naruto." Not an uncommon phrase, these days. Usually, though, it arrives accompanied by an ocean of weariness and dismay, shortly followed by an exhaustive recounting of the day's complaints, disasters, unexplained explosions, and so on. But Iruka doesn't appear irate; only uncertain, and perhaps slightly worried. "I found him in the village this afternoon- ah, not that I was looking for him-"

He falters into silence again.

"I understand you've taken the boy as something of a special charge," prompts Hiruzen. "I was pleased to hear it."

"Are you sure—" Iruka shakes his head, begins again. "Do you know if it's possible—does Naruto have relatives? Are there other Uzumaki in the village?"

Ah. Hiruzen sets down his pipe.

"I would certainly be surprised to discover so," he says mildly. "I was acquainted with Naruto's parents before they passed away." Iruka fails to hide a startled blink, as though the idea of Naruto having parents had never occurred to him. "They had no other children, nor— to my knowledge— any surviving kin. Why do you ask?"

"I— this afternoon— I saw a boy with Naruto," begins Iruka, fumbling for words. "I was surprised, of course. Naruto doesn't have many friends among the other children." A delicate understatement, but Hiruzen doesn't bother to point this out. "But the two of them- they looked nearly identical."

"Identical?"

Worrying indeed. Another Uzumaki might have been accounted for. Whirlpool had scattered to the far reaches of the globe, but a nation so strong couldn't be stamped out over the course of a decade or two. In nearly every nation, there are families with red hair and clouded origins, taking the headband of whatever village offers them shelter. But Naruto takes after his father a great deal, and Minato, Hiruzen knows for certain, was an orphan.

"They could have been brothers," Iruka continues, visibly perplexed. "Naruto can't produce any kind of clone, or I'd have wondered- even down to the marks on his face- it would be easier to list the differences than the similarities. When he saw me, he ran. I think he must have had some training, a few years in an Academy. A normal kid wouldn't have been capable of that reaction time."

Hiruzen nods absently, mind churning. Yes, something is afoot in his village, and he'd very much like to know what. Or perhaps more importantly, who. "I will make arrangements. Thank you for telling me, Iruka, and if you don't mind, please keep this news to yourself." It's a redundant order, since Iruka could hardly discuss it without violating the jinchuriki decree; but all the same, it seems an important point to stress. "Should you have any more concerns, you're always welcome in my office."

Obligingly, the younger man nods. "Sir? Naruto- he's not in danger, is he?"

The honest answer is probably constantly. From the demon sealed within him, from the vitriol of the villagers around him, from the ambitions of other nations and innumerable competing political forces within the village. Who in the world, save perhaps Iruka alone, has only Naruto Uzumaki's best interests at heart?

"I'll make arrangements," repeats the Hokage. "You've been very helpful."

Iruka nods, looking reassured, and closes the door behind him. In the ensuing silence Hiruzen taps his desk with his pipe once more. Yes, he knows just the man for this task, if he can be persuaded.

"Spider." No sooner has he spoken the word than the agent appears, kneeling in the corner as if she's been there all along. "Send a message to Kakashi, would you? Tell him I have a mission for him."

After Mom and Dad show up in the forest, the next few hours are a bit of a blur.

Boruto explains his alibi again and again, increasingly dizzy with tiredness. He knows he should tell someone the truth, but Mom's already worn herself thin with worrying, and he doesn't want to throw time travel into the mix on top of everything. It's easier this way, and he's got a bump on the head to match his story, so what does it matter? The seal had faded when he came back to his own time, and nothing changed. It's completely fine.

His friends get lectured for irresponsibility—apparently they'd been disobeying direct orders by going out and searching the village when there might have been kidnappers on the loose—and sent home with escorts from the chunin guard. Mom carries Boruto all the way to the headquarters. She's barely let him go since she first saw him, and he feels nauseatingly guilty with how worried she's been.

Himawari's at HQ. She wakes up when they arrive, probably hearing Mom's voice. When she sees Boruto she tackles him around the middle- maybe it's a hug, maybe it's revenge. Hard to tell with her.

When Sarada's mom shows up to check his head, Himawari's situated herself firmly at his side and refuses to budge.

"That's certainly a nasty bump on the head." Sakura Uchiha draws back her hand, still wreathed in a soft green glow of healing chakra. "But from the look of it, I'd say it's a glancing hit. There's no damage to the bone of the skull itself, and it doesn't even seem like the soft tissue was ruptured. You said it knocked you out?"

"Uh, I don't remember?" Boruto lies nervously. "I guess it must've, right?"

The pink-haired woman frowns, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Well, your pressure points are undamaged. There are techniques that would render you temporarily unconscious and leave almost no mark, but I can't imagine why an assailant would revive you after several hours and let you return home safely."

He shrugs, and tries his best to look easily-assailed. Mom is holding his hand in an uncomfortably tight grip, and he wonders if she even realizes it.

"You do have accelerated healing," Sakura continues slowly. "So I suppose it's possible that the worst of the damage mended over the last few hours. Your older records don't indicate this level of rapid recuperation, but you haven't suffered any serious injuries in the last few years. It's possible your bloodline is manifesting in full." She sighs. "Unfortunately, we don't have a model for comparison. Your father isn't exactly a representative sample."

(Boruto has a sudden, vivid recollection of Naruto, grubby-faced and spitting into his palm to scrub off the dried blood from a faded cut. He hadn't noticed then, but sitting here in the tidy clinic, plastered with Himawari's well-intentioned bandaids, it strikes a discordant note.)

"Tell me about it," he mutters.

As soon as they'd gotten back to headquarters, Dad had vanished off with Shikadai's dad to brief everyone on the resolved situation. Par for course, right? And of course the Hokage had to take the lead in stuff like this.

"On the bright side, you should be fine with a bit of rest," she says bracingly. "We've bandaged the injury with antibacterial cream, but if you feel dizzy, feverish, nauseous, or at all out of the ordinary, make sure you let your mom know. The last thing you want is an infected cut on your head."

"Gotcha." Then, catching Mom's eye, he amends, "Yes ma'am, I mean."

"Good kid," Sakura says approvingly. "Watch yourself, okay? Your mom and dad worry about you."

Safe in bed back at home, Boruto stares at his ceiling. Himawari had been narrowly persuaded not to sneak into his room for a sleepover; Mom had to play the recovering-from-injury card before she finally relented and let herself be tucked in, promising all the while that she'd be up to see him first thing in the morning.

It would all be perfect if his brain would just stop thinking.

It's a whole tangle of mixed-up in his head from all the time travel and lying. He's happy to be home, really happy, and not even the guilt of upsetting his friends and hiding the truth can put a damper on that. The real thing bothering him isn't even Dad, who still hasn't come home even past midnight—it's Boruto's fault this time, so he can't complain.

I wonder if I can go back.

He rolls over and pulls his pillow over his head, ignoring the stab of pain this elicits. Sarada's right. He really is an idiot.